Manus Xingue (21 page)

The big frame of Sergeant Mick McCoy of US Special Forces blocks the doorway frame.

‘Freeze, you sons-of-a-bitch!’ orders McCoy, covering the two SAS Troopers, ‘and raise your hands!’

The two SAS troopers raise their hands. Dublin turns around slowly and then grins, recognising an old drinking companion he served with in both Iraqi wars. ‘Mick McCoy - how she cutting?’ Dublin asks. ‘I could sure use a drop of the hard stuff, Michael.’

McCoy carefully hands Dublin a hip-flask, never taking his eyes off the tricky Irishman. As Dublin reaches for the flask, he feels Dublin’s sleeve to see if it is damp and takes a quick look at the two SAS troopers’ boots! Dublin drains the full flask and begins to hand it back – but drops it! McCoy instinctively begins to pick it up, stopping himself just in time. ‘Pick it up, Frank,’ orders McCoy, ‘you are one tricky Irish Mick!’

‘What’s up, Michael – what’s going on?’ Dublin enquires.

‘I have to take both of you back,’ announces McCoy. ‘Orders are orders – we are to treat everyone in this area as hostiles.’

Sgt McCoy takes the two SAS troopers’ weapons and motions them out of the hut where three other armed US soldiers are waiting.

McCoy runs his hands over Dublin and Lacy’s uniforms, feeling again for dampness. Dublin winks at Lacy. The two SAS men are searched. Dublin winces as McCoy touches the bandaging around his abdomen. McCoy apologises but knows exactly where to find Dublin’s small, hidden, specialised knife, which the Irishman had re-hidden while pretending to scratch his upper arm.

‘How’s the Major?’ asks Dublin, showing no concern at the situation.

‘Mad as hell at you, Frank, for lifting his Havanas.’

‘Not me,’ answers Dublin. ‘It was this thieving Cockney faggot.’ Dublin nods over to Lacy. The four American soldiers regard the grinning Lacy disapprovingly for a moment. That moment was enough for Dublin to move his small hidden revolver from his bandaged stomach to his left pocket.

‘You know what Cockneys are like, Michael,’ continues Dublin, ‘after your last visit to Soho!’

With Dublin and Lacy walking in front carrying only their kit, the group moves off. Reaching the Americans’ position, Sgt McCoy leaves the guarded Dublin and Lacy and reports to Major Bodeen.

‘I located the SAS troopers, Sir, in Chevez’s hut. They are now here, disarmed. They claim to have been in the hut since last night – there are only two left. Sergeant Kane and Corporal Edwards are dead – Frank Dublin is wounded.’

‘Well, son of a gun!’ responds Major Bodeen. ‘That Irish Mick, Dublin, is one tricky bastard – did you see their Marpari tracker?’

‘No Sir, but our Marpari tracker,’ answers McCoy, ‘circled the hut – he found no fresh tracks leaving, or returning. It looks like the SAS boys never left the hut. Sir. They could be telling the truth – they carried no waterproofs!’

‘Typical British army–always short on equipment,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Now McCoy, it rained heavily this morning. They could have left the hut, found the body of Manus Xingue, seen the co-ordinates and then high-tailed it back to the hut – letting the heavy rain wipe out their tracks.’

‘You could be right, Sir,’ answers Sgt McCoy, ‘but their uniforms and boots were bone dry. I checked myself – they just did not have enough time to dry their gear. Do we have to kill them, Sir? It is possible they never met up with Manus Xingue’

‘Goddamn, McCoy!’ exclaims Major Bodeen. ‘I liked Sergeant Kane, and Edwards. It’s a shame they died but you know how tricky these Limey SAS boys are! Besides, I only take orders. Find anything else in the hut, Sergeant?’

‘Only a strong smell of cigar smoke, Sir,’ answers Sgt McCoy.

‘Mother….fuckers!’ swears the Major. ‘Goddamn, thieving, Limey sons-of-bitches! Stealing US Army property is the British soldiers’ favourite pastime.’ The Major cools down. ‘Well, I guess the British Army’s expenditure wouldn’t keep our PXs open for a week! Hell, it don’t matter none. Orders from the very top – no British survivors – understand? They are not to make it back to base!’

‘One more thing, Sir,’ says McCoy. ‘They killed Chevez.’

‘Goddamn - that peasant’s not worth a hundred cents of stale hog-shit. Now I have to give them the million dollars – for a spell anyway.’ Major Bodeen takes a hip-flask from his pocket and pops a tablet into the flask. ‘This should make the wild colonial boy, Dublin, a little tamer. Bring him to me alone – I want a quiet word.’

Major Bodeen greets Dublin warmly. ‘Hello Frank. Sorry to hear about the deaths of your two comrades; I knew them both from our Gulf days. Well done – Chevez was one sneaky mother.’

Dublin hands Bodeen two self-sealing plastic envelopes, one containing the dog-tags of the missing US soldiers and the other the shrivelled left ear of Chevez. Bodeen hands Dublin his hip-flask.

‘I promised your CO, Captain Price-Palmer, cash on delivery.’

‘Aren’t you going to check Chevez’s DNA for confirmation, Sir?’ Dublin asks, taking a long pull from the hip-flask.

‘No Sireee,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Your word is good enough for me, Frank.’ The major turns and calls out…. ‘Lieutenant Dupree, bring that hold-all over here.’ In that brief moment, when the Major’s eyes are diverted, Dublin spits out the drink!

Standing a few yards away, Lacy notices this and knows something is wrong for Dublin to reject a drink. Lt Dupree hands Dublin the hold-all. Dublin opens it. ‘One million dollars cash, as agreed,’ assures the Major. Dublin checks the money and closes the hold-all.

‘When will our share of the Iraq money be ready?’ Dublin asks.

‘As soon as we get back to base, Frank - it’s sitting there waiting for you,’ replies Bodeen. ‘You just got to pick it up – it’s all in a weapons crate – we’ll even fly you back to Belize.’

‘I want to call Captain Price-Palmer on your CT set – tell him the money is ready,’ requests Dublin.

‘Too risky, Frank. I still have a patrol out - don’t want to alert the Brazilians that we are here. It would be a crying shame to have to take off leaving my boys behind.

‘Does your buddy know, about our deal?’ Major Bodeen enquires.

‘Nothing,’ answers Dublin, ‘and he is not my buddy – he’s a rookie – he is not even in 21 squadron.’

‘Where is the Marpari tracker we sent you, Frank?’ the Major asks. ‘Disappeared - as soon as we entered Kier Verde country!’ answers Dublin.

Bodeen smiles. ‘Did you find another tracker along the way?’

‘No need,’ answers Dublin, ‘Sgt Kane and me are decent trackers.’

‘Ok, Frank, join your friend.’

As Dublin walks towards Lacy, Major Bodeen calls over Lt Dupree, the intelligence officer, who has been watching and listening to the conversation. ‘What do you think, Dupree?’ Bodeen asks. ‘Dublin lied about the Marpari – does he know the bigger picture?’

‘We have photographic proof from the heli-gimble camera,’ says Lt Dupree. ‘Manus Xingue was with the Limeys after they crossed the Japari River. Mind you, Sir, Manus Xingue could have fooled the Limeys just like he did Lt Peterson – we now know Manus Xingue killed the Marpari tracker we sent to meet the SAS boys! But Dublin suspects something,’ continues Lt Dupree; ‘he spat out the drink you gave him!’

‘Hell,’ answers the Major, ‘that’s going to make your job a lot trickier!’

‘I will place Sgt McCoy, our wrestling champion, behind Dublin in the chopper!’ Dupree answers, ‘and climb to a high altitude! However there is a possibility Manus Xingue did not show the Limeys Lt Peterson’s dog-tags.’

‘We can’t take that chance,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Just make sure Frank Dublin doesn’t get back to base–and Lieutenant – make sure the million does not leave with Dublin!’

Dublin returns to Lacy, who senses something is wrong. ‘What’s up Frank?’ he asks.

‘Something’s going on,’ replies Dublin. ‘I was slipped a Mickey Finn in the drink by the Major.’

‘What do we do now, Frank?’ the worried Lacy asks.

‘A penny to a pinch of snuff,’ replies Dublin, ‘if they separate us, they intend to kill us both, for sure!’

Lacy is shocked and for once speechless at the sudden turn of events.

‘Just watch points and leave everything it to me.’ says Dublin.

Fifty metres away, Major Bodeen speaks to Lt Dupree and Sergeant McCoy. ‘I want Manus Xingue’s body bagged and taken back to base for definite identification.’ Bodeen and Dupree then walk over to Dublin and Lacy.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ says the Major, ‘but I will have to split you two boys up on the way back, just to even the load in the chopper.’

Dublin and Lacy exchange knowing looks!’

Sergeant Jed Hogger approaches. ‘Sir, the wild Indian called Manus Xingue we found dead on the trail - has up and high tailed it!’

Dublin and Lacy do not hear this information!

‘Goddamn it - we need that son-of-a-bitch dead,’ swears Bodeen, who hurries away to the scene with Dupree.

Reaching the spot where Manus Xingue once lay, Major Bodeen shouts his orders. ‘Sgt Hogger, take a Marpari tracker and one of your men – I want that wild Indian back – dead! – and Sergeant – I want a DNA sample from him.’

‘Is it worth the trouble, Sir?’ Dupree asks. ‘We are pushing our luck just being here. Besides, wild Indians don’t have use for paper money.’

‘He could tell someone else - who has!’ Major Bodeen replies.

‘He won’t have time, Sir.’ Dupree answers. ‘As soon as I’m back at base I could get a chopper and fly to the co-ordinates, pick up the money and be back at base in six hours!’

‘Ok Lieutenant – do that,’ says the Major, ‘but I still want that son-of-a-bitch Manus Xingue dead! Now leave with C Platoon – take Dublin with you – don’t underestimate him! We’ll take care of Lacy, his rookie buddy, while we wait for the incoming patrol and Sgt Hogger.’

Dublin speaks urgently to Lacy, looking him straight in the eyes.

‘Are you sure we are square – no more grudges?’

To Jack Lacy, those brutal days of Selection, the life-threatening ordeal of interrogation at the cruel hands of the man standing before him, now seemed a long time ago.

‘Make your bloody mind up, sharpish - you Cockney twat!’ Dublin urges. ‘We don’t have much time!’

‘We are square, Frank,’ Lacy answers.

‘Good,’ replies Dublin, opening the hold-all and showing the one million dollars to the ex-marine.

‘Get this in your Bergen a bit lively,’ orders Dublin, refilling the hold-all with rations. ‘This is your chance – make a break for it,’ continues Dublin.

Lacy looks horrified. ‘What - on my tod, without a weapon!’ he protests.

Dublin hands Lacy his entrenching tool. ‘It has a sharp edge - best I can do.’

‘What about you?’ Lacy asks.

‘I have to go back to base for reasons of my own,’ answers Dublin. ‘I am a gambler – there’s a ten-to-one chance the money is back at Base! Just make sure you get this money back to Price-Palmer – your share will be a third. Get going – head west as the crow flies.’

‘There’s a man-eating cat out there!’ Lacy exclaims.

‘Look, travel at the hottest time of the day – most predators lie low then – sleep up a tree. You’ll soon reach the trail where I shot the anaconda. Dig Jim’s body up – take his weapon and ammo – continue west – you’ll reach a small town called Villas Santos – after you’ve crossed the Rio Negro.’

Jack Lacy looks horrified. ‘Fuck me gently – the Sergeant’s body will be reels of cotton – covered in crawling maggots!’

‘Look, I tried to take your life once,’ admits Dublin. ‘I’m now giving you a fighting chance to save it!’

Lacy has a last request. He knows this request will go down ‘like the Titanic’. ‘Frank, can I have your sovereigns – your escape belt?’

‘Why, you useless Cockney ponce,’ answers Dublin, ‘what will you need my sovereigns for?’

‘I can’t spend any of the million, can I, in Villa Santos – to get out.’

Dublin studies Lacy for a moment and grins – takes off his escape belt and hands it to Lacy.

‘Listen,’ whispers Dublin urgently, ‘I want you to take the co-ordinates back to Price-Palmer – tell him I changed the zero to a six – it will buy him some time to get the money out – you won’t be forgotten if we pull the big one off.’

The conversation ceases when Major Bodeen, Lt Dupree and several armed soldiers arrive.

‘We are ready to take off, Frank,’ announces Bodeen. ‘We have a strict schedule.’ Dublin holds out his battered right hand – Lacy shakes it gently. The Irishman palms a small piece of blood-covered paper into Lacy’s mitt. Dublin turns and heads for the helicopter, closely followed by Lt Dupree and several armed men. Lacy watches and waits his chance – then runs into the jungle – when all eyes are on the tricky Dublin.

The extremely fit, young ex-marine tears through the jungle, blindly, until the advice of Sergeant Jim Kane echoes in his brain – ‘noise in the jungle only attracts unwanted attention!’ Lacy stops; the only sound he can hear now is his rapidly beating heart and gasping lungs. It’s only then that he looks at the small piece of paper Dublin palmed him. It is the co-ordinates of the buried money – red-stained. ‘Typical, thick Paddy,’ muses Lacy to himself, ‘had to write it down!’

The co-ordinates do not excite or impress Lacy much. ‘Carpe Diem’ is Lacy’s motto; besides, he has a million in cash already in his possession. Lacy places the co-ordinates of the thirty-eight million dollars buried in a desolate riverbank in his pocket. He then begins to count a large wad of money as a battle rages in his ex-marine mind. Should he be sensible with his money or adopt the ‘Jolly Jack Tar ashore’ attitude, so close to his nature? Should he, for example, spend his share of the money wisely on strong lager with rum chasers and a tour of the world’s whorehouses or should he squander it on a small gaff and jam-jar for himself and his bit of Jack and Danny, the ever tolerant and patient Sally?

Rubbing his stubbled chin, he ponders the quandary. He could keep all the money and enjoy both options – he was a tea-leaf after all! However, these thoughts are fleeting – suddenly the jungle floor seems to have come to life – looking down at his feet – the ground is moving! A quick check of the jungle floor brings Lacy quickly back to reality and his hostile environment.