The Spanish Hawk (1969) (10 page)

“Oh God, no!” she said.

Fletcher pulled the small torch from his pocket and switched it on. The body revealed in the beam of the torch was that of a man lying face downward; but it was certainly not King. This man was wearing uniform.

“A cop!” Leonora said. “So where’s Matthew?”

He answered for himself, appearing like a shadow out of the darkness. “I’m here. Switch the light off, John. You want to bring everybody running?”

Fletcher switched off the torch and put it back in his pocket. “What’s been going on?”

“The cop came snooping round. I had to deal with him. I’ve been looking for any pals he might have had. There’s a car down the road. One man in it. Asleep.”

“Did you kill this one?” Fletcher asked.

“Don’t think so. Just put him to sleep too. We better be moving.”

“You don’t think he may wake up and follow us?”

“When he wakes,” King said, “he’ll be in no state to follow anybody for quite a while. I used a rock.”

“Maybe you used it a bit too hard.”

“Maybe I did,” King said. But it didn’t seem to be bothering him. He picked up the holdall. “I’ll carry this.”

Fletcher was not sorry to be relieved of it; the suitcase was load enough. He led the way up the slope of the low ridge and down the other side, and a few minutes later they had passed through the belt of palm-trees and were on the beach.

“You took your time,” Lawrence said. “Began to think I’d have to come looking for you.”

“We had some trouble,” Leonora said.

“Uh-huh! There’s always trouble.” Lawrence sounded unperturbed. “You get what you went for?”

“Yes,” Fletcher said.

“That’s okay, then. Everything’s fine.”

Fletcher was not sure he would have agreed. He was still worried about Joby and Paulina and the kids. He hoped the police would not harass them, but there was no telling about that. Perhaps they should have given Joby a bump on the head to prove that he had tried; but it would have taken more than that to convince the police, and they were going to be pretty angry when they found the man King had smacked with a rock; especially if the man was dead. They would not like that at all.

As the boat headed northward on the return trip he sat and pondered gloomily on the situation. He had really got
himself into something now; and he could see no way out of it; no way at all.

“You’re very silent,” Leonora said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Plenty of things,” he said; “but most especially that I’m in the devil’s own mess and it looks like staying that way.”

“All life’s a mess. We just have to make the best of it.”

“And what’s the best of this? You’d better tell me, because I’m damned if I can work it out for myself.”

She leaned towards him in the darkness, and he felt the soft pressure of her lips.

“That?” he asked.

“It could be,” she said. “It just could be.”

It was still dark when they slipped the boat into its place between the other boats and made the rope fast to the post on the board-walk. The car was where they had left it and there was not a soul about at that hour in the morning. Leonora had the keys, but she handed them to King.

“You can drive, Matthew. I’m tired.”

He took the keys without a word and unlocked the car. Fletcher stowed his luggage in the boot and heard Lawrence ask Leonora whether she would like to ride in the front. She said no; he could; she would rather sit in the back. She climbed in, and Fletcher got in on the other side. And then King started the engine and they were on their way.

A little while later she had snuggled up close to him
and he had his arm round her. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and it was not much longer before she was asleep. It was nice having her there like that; it was snug and warm and cosy, and he liked it that way. When he came to think about it, it seemed to be just about the nicest part of the whole damned business.

“You’d all better get some sleep now,” Denning said. “You’ve had a busy night and I imagine you’re tired.”

He had already been up and dressed when they arrived back at the house, and they had had breakfast together. Over breakfast they had given a report on the success of the operation. Denning had listened with interest, putting in a question now and then. On the whole he seemed to be very well satisfied with the way things had gone, merely remarking that the incident involving the policeman was unfortunate, but something that could not be helped.

“It was only to be expected that they would keep a watch on the place. But no matter; you have the camera now, and there is nothing to prevent you taking a new set of photographs.”

“When?” Fletcher asked.

Denning thought about it for a moment; then said: “Tomorrow.”

“Why not today?” King said. “Why not this afternoon?”

Denning shook his head. “No. I think it will be better to leave it until tomorrow.”

“That will be Saturday.”

“It doesn’t matter. What difference does it make what day of the week it is?”

King shrugged. “No difference, I guess. Okay, so it’s tomorrow.”

“I have to go into Jamestown this morning,” Denning said. “We can talk over the final arrangements when I get back. Is that all right?”

Nobody raised any objections. Fletcher reflected that he was probably the only one who had any; and he objected to the entire scheme. But he had become resigned to it; all he wanted now was to get it over and done with.

“What about the aqualung?”

“I’ll pick one up in Jamestown,” Denning said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

It was nice to know there was something he didn’t have to worry about. There were plenty of things that were worrying the life out of him.

“Don’t you think it’s time I was told what this is all about?” he said. “I’m involved now, and I’d say I have a right to know what it is I’m involved in.”

He received unexpected support from Leonora. “I agree.” She looked at Denning. “What harm can it do? He’s not going to the police; not when they want him on a murder charge. You yourself said he’s with us now; so I say he ought to know what he’s with us for.”

Denning appeared uncertain, but finally he seemed to come to the conclusion that she was right. “Very well; you tell him. But wait until you’ve had that sleep. It’ll keep until then.”

Fletcher was on the balcony outside his bedroom when Denning drove away. He watched the Aston Martin until it was out of sight, then undressed and got into bed. But tired though he was, he found it impossible to sleep. His brain was too active; it was like a piece of clockwork that had been fully wound up and was going to take a long time to run down. After a couple of hours he gave it up. He shaved, had a shower, put on a shirt and a pair of cotton slacks, and went downstairs.

He found Leonora reclining on a long canvas chair on the terrace and reading a book.

“You too?” he said.

She put the book down and looked up at him. She was wearing sun-glasses with enormous frames.

“Me too?”

“Unable to sleep.”

“It’s the wrong time of day. Besides, I had some sleep in the car.”

“So I recall.” He pulled up another chair and sat down beside her. “Maybe you’d like to tell me now.”

“About what goes on?”

“Yes.”

She put a finger to her chin and seemed to think about it. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”

“How about the beginning?”

“Yes; but where was the beginning? You could go back years and years. You were right, of course; it is political.”

“And Denning is trying to get into power?”

“Oh, no; it’s not like that. Frankly, I don’t think he cares two cents about that side of it. I suppose if things go right he might have some government post if he wants it;
but I’m sure that’s not what he’s working for. What he’s doing is more disinterested; you could even say altruistic.”

“And what is he doing?”

“He’s the co-ordinator.”

“I don’t understand,” Fletcher said. “The co-ordinator of what?”

“Of the resistance groups, freedom fighters, guerrillas, revolutionaries—call them what you like. They’re scattered around the island; some in the mountains, some in the towns, some in the villages or on the estates. The groups vary in size; some are quite large, others very small; and the only link between them is here; this is the nerve-centre, where all the strategy is planned and—well—co-ordinated.”

“And they come here?”

“The leaders do occasionally, but as seldom as possible. There are safer ways of contacting them.”

“And Denning gets away with this? The police don’t suspect him?”

“Why should they? He’s very careful. To all outward appearances he’s just a successful lawyer doing his job and enjoying the good things of life. Nobody would connect him with the revolutionary movement.”

Fletcher let it sink in. He was not entirely surprised; he had suspected it must be something like this. But what he was not altogether convinced about was Denning’s disinterestedness, his altruism; it did not fit in with his own impression of the man; he would have said that Denning was very much interested in grasping power for himself and that this was the way he was going about it. To him the guerrillas were probably no more than a means to an end. But he did not put this suggestion to the girl; there was no
point in arguing about Denning’s motives. And Denning himself might eventually discover that he had miscalculated; he might find the tool he had used turning in his hand. If the revolutionaries ever did seize power they might choose an altogether different kind of leader and thrust the elegant, wealthy lawyer aside.

“And how,” he asked, “did you become involved?”

“I came to write a story.”

“No kidding?”

She smiled. “No kidding. It’s like I told you; I’m a journalist. Freelance at present.”

“And you just decided that this was a good place to come and find a story? Just like that?”

She must have been aware of his disbelief; it would hardly have been possible not to be.

“There was a bit more to it than that.”

“Tell me,” he said. “We’re not pressed for time.”

She eased up the sun-glasses with her finger and scratched the bridge of her nose; then lowered them again. He preferred her without the glasses; they covered too much of her face, and he liked to see it all.

“All right,” she said; “it was because of Matthew.”

He was not sure he liked the sound of that. “In what way?”

“We went to the same university back in the States. Not one of the classy places; not one you’ll ever have heard of. Redmond, in Illinois. He was there on some kind of grant. We got to be friendly; had a mutual interest in politics; were both leftish.”

“You mean communist?”

“No; I wouldn’t say that. One can be left without being Red. Anyway, when he came back home we used to write
to each other. Then he suggested I should come and do a magazine feature on the island’s political set-up. He said he could introduce me to some interesting people. Which, of course, he could.”

“So you came; and instead of writing a story you took a hand in the card-game?”

“Roughly speaking, yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know.” She sounded genuinely puzzled by her own motives. “It just seemed to happen that way.”

Fletcher found himself looking at her legs. She was wearing a pair of shorts which ended just about where her thighs began, and the legs were a deep golden brown. Reluctantly he dragged his gaze away from this enchanting prospect.

“Are you in love with him?” he asked.

“With Matthew?” She sounded lazily amused. “No; it’s nothing like that.”

“He could be in love with you.”

She shook her head. “No; he’s dedicated to the cause.”

“Nobody is ever that dedicated.”

“Perhaps not. Would it bother you if he was in love with me?” There was still that faintly amused note in her voice.

“No,” Fletcher said. “It would only bother me if you were in love with him.”

She gave him a long, probing look through the monster sun-glasses. “Perhaps,” she said, “we’d better not pursue that line of inquiry any further at this particular moment in time. It doesn’t really have any bearing on the subject we were discussing, does it?”

“Perhaps not. So we’ll just leave it on the table for the present. Now tell me about the Spanish Hawk.”

“The Spanish Hawk?”

“The
Halcón
Español.
The boat that was sunk. The boat with five dead men in it. Where does that fit into the picture? Why is everybody so interested in it?”

“Perhaps if I tell you where it came from you’ll begin to guess. It came from Cuba.”

Fletcher did begin to guess. But the fact that the boat had come from Cuba still left a lot to be explained.

“And the men in it?”

“Three Cubans. Two from this island.”

Fletcher nodded. Ideas were taking form in his mind.

“And who killed them? Who sank the boat?”

“We can only make conjectures about that. The President’s agents, undoubtedly; or the C.I.A. A combination of forces, possibly. What is reasonably certain is that the C.I.A., even if they took no active part, were pretty deeply involved in the affair.”

“Now,” Fletcher said, “you must give me some reasons. Why was this boat with these three Cubans and two islanders on board in this area?”

“It was heading for the island, of course, in order to put the men ashore.”

“Secretly?”

“Yes. By night.”

“Ah! And for what purpose were they going ashore? To give aid to the revolutionary movement, perhaps?”

“Naturally. The men from Cuba were experts in various aspects of guerrilla tactics. One of them was Carlos Maria Galeano.”

She paused, as though expecting some remark.

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Fletcher asked.

“Carlos Maria Galeano was one of Castro’s lieutenants in the revolution, and a close friend.”

“I see.”

“That’s why the C.I.A. wouldn’t want the affair made public. Because of possible reaction in Cuba.”

“I don’t quite get that. I should have said they wouldn’t give a damn about reactions in Cuba.”

“And there you’d be wrong. Don’t you know that it’s the policy of the present United States Government to do its best to patch up relations with Cuba? Now what effect do you imagine the revelation that Galeano and two other important Cubans had been murdered by the C.I.A., or at their instigation, would have on any possible détente between the two countries? It would be disastrous. Now do you see how important those photographs are?”

“But surely the Cuban Government will get to know about what happened anyway. It’s bound to leak out.”

“Possibly. But they may choose to ignore such vague reports; to gloss the thing over. After all, it’s to their advantage as well to improve relations with the States. But if photographs and a full account of the incident were to be published, it would hardly be possible for them to ignore the matter, would it?”

“I don’t see why that should bother President Rodgers. What does he stand to lose?”

“Anything that bothers the C.I.A. bothers Clayton Rodgers. He’s on their pay-roll.”

“Ah, of course.”

“It’s my opinion—and here I’m only guessing, mind—that in this instance the C.I.A. rather over-reached themselves
and are in trouble back home. So they’ll do their damnedest to cover up what may have been a blunder from the diplomatic point of view. Hence the attempt to bribe you to clear out.”

“I was a fool not to accept the offer.”

“Maybe you were. Frankly, I think you’re lucky to be still alive and kicking. I don’t know why they bothered with trying to buy you off; I’d have expected them just to eliminate you. They’re not noted for being squeamish when they see an obstacle in their way.”

“Perhaps it had something to do with my nationality. The U.K. and the U.S. are supposed to be allies, aren’t they? Nato and all that.”

Her smile was a trifle grim. “If I were you, John, I wouldn’t rely too heavily on that consideration to hold them in check. You’re safer with us, believe you me.”

It might have been so, but he did not feel safe; there were too many people looking for him and ready to do him an injury.

“It’s a funny thing,” she said, “but if you hadn’t taken those photos we might never have known what happened to the boat. All we knew until then was that it failed to arrive at the rendezvous. And even then we might still have known nothing if you hadn’t trusted the film to Dharam Singh, and if he hadn’t spotted the chance of a bit of quick profit by selling the prints.”

“Yes,” Fletcher said, “that was a daft thing to do—letting him have the film, I mean. I should have known he would hang on to some copies. I suppose it was the editor of
Freedom
who let you know about them?”

“Yes. Actually, he didn’t know the inside story, but he thought he recognised some of the dead men and he made
a pretty shrewd guess at what had happened. He was very excited about it, poor devil.”

“Why poor devil?”

“Didn’t you know? He’s dead. They shot him. Resisting arrest. Anyway, before that happened Matthew went along to the place and had a look at the pictures, and of course he saw at once what they were.”

“He was lucky not to be there when the police raided the press. Where was it?”

“In a cellar in Jamestown, under a laundry. But Matthew was well clear before the police moved in.”

“Why didn’t he bring away some copies of the photographs?”

“At that time there was only the one set. They hadn’t got to work on them.”

Fletcher was silent for a while, chewing it over. Then he said: “What I don’t understand is why the guerrillas should be so keen to publish the photographs. What can they hope to gain by it?”

“Nothing directly, perhaps. But anything that might embarrass Clayton Rodgers is grist to their mill. And besides, they’re not exactly keen on the idea of any reconciliation between Havana and Washington. You have to remember also that two of their top men were killed. That in itself would be enough to make them pretty bitter; they wouldn’t need any more logical reason.”