Meanwhile Winston would have wanted them to carry on and win.
Having gone so far his would be a wasted death if they got pipped at the last post. Krystelle drew out her lipstick and marked a cross on the sheet which covered him. ‘White magic,’ she said briefly. ‘It’s all we can do. And his is at least one soul which should rest in peace.’
Chapter Thirteen – Black Champagne
Grant again hesitated as they entered the corridor. The whole set-up had become too complicated. There had been too much evidence of television monitoring, and what chance was there of any guards topside having seen what happened or having phoned to the mainland for reinforcements? H.Q. would rate destruction of drug supplies, together with securing a list of the embassy spies as the ultimate remaining priority. And if they slipped on this angle there would be Hell to pay.
It seemed that Ferguson had left little to chance. If Rita and Mary Ferguson had actually watched the dance of Ezili and the piranha episode the place must have been riddled with T.V. cameras, not forgetting bugs in every area which might ever matter. And if so Ferguson’s thoroughness might still prove to be a winning ace.
Krystelle shook her head. ‘We’re on a winning streak ourselves, David. Take the lift and let’s get this over with.’
Another thought crossed Grant’s mind. Neither Frank nor Harry would have allowed a week to pass without tapping every contact possible. It was even worth a thought that they might, themselves, have pin-pointed the hide-out and tracked down an entrance. But if so then why not also the lift? Krystelle would feel pretty grim if they shot up their two best friends. So any question of surfacing with all guns ablaze was washed up. Frank alone had a knack of turning up in key places at key moments, and even if Harry had failed to ‘make it’ that would be all the more reason why Frank would tear St. Thomas apart to collect his own people.
And then he made up his mind. There was only one possible way out and that by sea. Krystelle could keep her head. She would let him tow her if her own strength packed in and he was good for at least three miles without difficulty, and up to five if pushed.
‘With shark and barracuda around?’ Krystelle shook her head. ‘No dice, David! I’ve had enough of fish to last me a lifetime. Much too dangerous.’
‘And if some slippery topside guard drops a bomb on the lift while we’re coming up,’ said Grant slowly. ‘They may know everything that’s going on right now. Even what we’re saying. So measure the risk and a sea exit has the shortest odds every time.’
The girl shivered. ‘Have you a shark repellant?’
He shook his head. ‘And I saw none in the lab.’
‘Yet you’re still prepared to try a three mile . . . or “maybe only one mile” . . . swim.’
Grant was becoming exasperated. ‘No alternative.’
‘So we’re trapped.’ Krystelle sounded completely factual.
‘Correct.’ Grant was rapidly getting the situation into focus. ‘And if some clever dick thinks fast enough they might, even now, do something to that sea exit to let in the ocean. After which . . .’ he raised his hands expressively, ‘they could pick us off at will while we were surfacing through the lift shaft. And incidentally,’ he added slowly, ‘I wouldn’t put it past them to have a lens even there. Ferguson’s people knew how to take care of themselves.’
The girl weighed up the pros and cons. ‘You know where the sea exit is?’
Grant nodded briefly. ‘Sort of. Jo pointed out the general direction while we were looking for Winston. You open a door, step into an airlock and then close it behind you. After that you open the outer door, slither through and close it behind you. Pressure isn’t enough to make that difficult and when you close the outside door a pump thing comes into operation which automatically empties the airlock again for the next batch.’
‘And how far from the surface?’
‘A few seconds only. Maybe fifteen feet. Jo wasn’t sure.’
‘But he himself had done it?’
‘Sure. Which is an argument against sharks. Though I admit they were only at risk for a second or two until they got into their launch. We’ve got to swim a damn sight further.’
The girl was weakening. ‘Got skin-diving rig handy?’
Grant nodded. ‘And remember that sharks are timid brutes. Hans Hass has proved that again and again. So are barracuda, and in their school down the Red Sea even tourists can snap under water flashes which make inexperienced hair curl. But everything’s in the know how.’
Krystelle looked at him steadily. ‘Then you had better know, man. I don’t like this assignment one little bit. So let’s get it over with.’
The grotto was a maze of passages, but Grant had chipped the rock at each point mentioned by Jo and had a good sense of direction. The skin-diving rig was stored, he knew, near the airlock and now that a decision had been taken he wanted action.
But in the end everything moved with a slick ease which surprised them both. Equipment was comprehensive. There were suits to fit every sort of figure and Grant selected two dark navy blue wet suits with snorkel and aqualung before cautiously opening the inside door of an airlock which could hardly have been missed, placed as it was against a smooth slab of rock at the end of a passage where the roof began to narrow and they had to stoop slightly to pass. There was a beastly moment of claustrophobia when the inner door swung closed again and Grant turned the handle which controlled exit to the sea.
They had had no experience in using the thing. Not even a word of advice from Jo, but Grant realised, almost too late, that a touch of the wheel set up a complex of machinery which made everything automatic. The outside door swung open faster than he had expected and for a second they were trapped in suction while one colossal air-bubble edged its way into the waters.
In the end it carried them with it and they surfaced like corks on to flat calm waters less than a mile from land. No boats were in sight and Grant contented himself with thanking providence for many mercies as he fixed Krystelle’s right hand into his waistband before pointing to the shore.
Clothes had been wrapped in thick polythene and Krystelle floated on her back carrying it above water level while Grant cut through the water with an easy crawl which would attract little attention. The diving suit also saved them from risk of a fleck of body tissue or blood attracting fish and he even smiled as he saw the shape of a giant barracuda twelve or more feet below him when he was less than a hundred yards from landfall.
But the fish seemed only mildly curious, and as the sea bed rose to meet them Grant revelled in the sight of hundreds of tiny fish darting among some of the most fantastic coral he had ever seen even in Australia.
Like so many things it had been worse thinking about than doing. And now it remained only to dress and find a phone.
Thirty minutes later Krystelle was connected with Bluebeard’s Hotel from a call box near a private house within minutes’ walk from Barent’s Bay and Klok Hill. She spoke freely, and Grant listening beside her admired the economy of words. ‘Hello there! Frank?’
There was a perceptible pause and then a lazy voice came over the line. ‘You okay?’
‘Sure, Frank. Harry around?’
‘Right beside me.’
‘Send a car out to collect David and me. We’ll be walking on the main road from Klok to Bethedsa. Know it?’
Grant heard a quiet chuckle. ‘You name the bit of this island we don’t know. See you?’
There was a quiet click and the girl smiled with genuine amusement. ‘Boy was that man surprised.’ She handed over the phone. ‘And now you, David?’
He did a swift calculation. It was ten ack emma local time, which meant three pip emma or so in Paris. Given luck the Admiral would be at his newest desk and Miss Sidders beginning to think about tea . . . if they weren’t already on their way to see what had happened to their pet agent. But at least it was worth a try, and if there was going to be a significant delay he would book a call for the evening. ‘Try long dis
tance,’ he said to Krystelle. ‘And ask for this number.’ He scribbled a few figures on a scrap of paper and smiled as the girl looked at him with a warmth which was new and of a different type. The warmth which came from realising that he trusted her. She knew that it was against the rules. And she knew that she could neither read it nor try to memorise. It was enough for her that he had taken her, at last, into his complete confidence. ‘Sorry, David. Codes and phone numbers are still private things. Do your own dirty work.’
He said nothing but quietly smacked her bottom as she edged past him into the sunlight. And then he tried for Paris. But the operator was officious and there was a six-hour delay.
He hesitated. It would have been nice to clean this up alone, but Paris wasn’t the only fish in the sea. Uncle Sam had a stake as well.
He thought for a moment and then asked for a number which would get top priority from any telephone supervisor in any American territory. It was a request for immediate clearance and he had used it only once before. Nor was he surprised when, with true American efficiency, he found himself speaking to a savagely modulated voice in Washington even before his cigarette had been stubbed out.
He had little to say, but each word was loaded. ‘Treble A one speaking. Contact Paris. Suggest patrol area two miles radius Sandy Bay, St. Thomas, Caribbean and arrest everyone who passes on a ship irrespective of excuses. Man every island in area and contact me at Bluebeard in thirty minutes to one hour. Maximal speed essential. Man from U.N.O. mystery now cleared up.’
The voice repeated his message and then added a brief word. ‘I can grant your request.’
This was a small and elementary double check which had been arranged several years earlier and Grant’s reply was immediate. ‘I took it for granted that you would, sir. Signing off.’
He returned to the sunshine and drew a deep breath. It was fabulous to see daylight again and to sit, once more, beside Krystelle at the edge of blue waters. She was wearing a miniskirt with crimson top. Her sandals were practical and she had combed her hair in tresses to shoulder length around her elfin little face.
Her eyes were still smiling and he saw that her lips were waiting for a kiss.
‘First,’ he said slowly. ‘We’ve made it. But it was really you who made it. And I’ve only one question to ask. Though I’ve kind of asked it before. How much of that voodoo stuff was real, and how come you were so expert?’
Her eyes again became serious. ‘I told you that night in the Beach Club when the Gods gave us hints about the future. My upbringing was complicated and I learned enough to put on an act.’
‘But was it an act?’ Grant’s voice was flat neutral.
‘Put it this way,’ said Krystelle slowly, ‘I learned an awful lot of facts about voodoo and the old Gods. Enough to make me have power if I cared to use it. But I also learned that it was sin to use it for selfish purposes, so I’ve never tried to do anything except in the way of helping others. And the night at Dorothea wasn’t an act. I was trying to find Harry. But that business in the grotto was acting all the way. I knew my lines. I knew that the U.N.O. man had a thing about voodoo as well as Zen Buddhism. And as I told you it was a certainty that some of the boys had been practising it, so the place was really a sort of humfo. Then Jo Go-Go was that sort of peculiar person who takes naturally to the occult. He was what some people call “simple” or others a psycho and it was only a guess on my part that he had been used during ceremonies. But it was a calculated guess, and there wasn’t much risk, because it was quite likely that there were several cults going on at the same time. He might have been used by one group of people without the others knowing anything about it.’
‘And these crosses,’ persisted Grant.
Krystelle shrugged her shoulders. ‘I always think ahead. First time I used the swastika because it is a very ancient symbol of power and all I was doing was to focus their attention on the unexpected for long enough to let me hypnotise them. And of course Ferguson was the one who mattered most, because he was less likely to “go under” easily. But I figured that the crosses would baffle the boys at least, and that when “atmosphere” began to build up as they slipped under control that he too would be affected. And, of course, the diamond bracelet was simply a gimmick. One doesn’t need light or things to hypnotise anyone, but with simple people it can help and I knew that flashes of light from my diamonds would hold attention while they concentrated on my crosses.’
Grant slowly lit a cigarette. The girl was too complicated for his liking and people, he knew, could get hurt for life by dabbling in the occult. ‘How about the other crosses?’
She studied her hands carefully. ‘It seems ridiculous to you that I can paint something on these small palms which could make people go mad. But that’s only because you don’t understand my people. Coloured people, black people especially, are like champagne, they burst with excitement at the slightest provocation. And when they smile, or laugh, or sing, or dance, they overflow with vitality. They don’t know any half way house, and there’s no colour grey. When they give, they give everything and they bubble over like when the cork comes out of a champagne bottle. And when you live with them they intoxicate you with something which is infectious and inside themselves. Black champagne is the most exciting force in the world and three things can make it bubble . . . fear of the Gods, the sound of drums and the sight of a beautiful woman.
‘The vèvès which I drew on my hands meant something to every single black boy in that grotto whether he played with voodoo or not. And there wasn’t one who hadn’t heard of Ezili the mother goddess who is unapproachable. So when the more susceptible amongst them automatically began to use the rocks as drums the thing snowballed with infection and it only needed the sight of myself to do the rest, which is why I wanted my clothes off. But of course Mr. Big had played right into my hands both when he allowed that and when he sacrificed Ferguson, because they all knew that that could be interpreted as a sacrifice to the sea Gods. And don’t forget that that mob of children had been brought out there to see at least two fights to the death. So they were excited and all I did was to make the black champagne flow in the right direction.’
‘And it was an act.’
‘Sure.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘What’s wrong, David?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing. I just hate to think of you ever getting hurt.’
She gently squeezed his hand. ‘You don’t get hurt using white magic. And I’ve never used the black stuff in my life. But that massacre thing was neither black nor white. I just got the breaks, and I painted on the vèvès before we started because I had a hunch that a time might come when I would need to bluff along the only lines which could help. I knew we would have to turn the tables with odds of hundreds to one against and I was just lucky that they brought me up different, that I knew how to make the champagne bubble. Though I do give myself a pat on the back for having figured the voodoo angle out in advance.’
Grant allowed her head to slide against his shoulder and then his arm dropped around her waist. He felt curiously deflated. No one alive would ever believe their story. Probably not even the Admiral.
He felt her snuggle closer against him. ‘You’re wrong, David. Harry and Frank will believe it. And anyhow,’ she added, ‘it was no more than the half-mad King Christophe of Haiti did when he marched a troop of his soldiers over the walls surrounding his citadel to crash on jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. They too, witnesses said, had been ridden by the Gods at a time when Christophe had been possessed by voodoo at its worst.’
So Krystelle hadn’t really created history, she had only imitated it! But what an imitation, sighed Grant. And what power she possessed when she chose to use it. Without her knowledge of voodoo Ferguson and his Asiatic bossman would have written finis to a life which had only now begun to be fully worth living since Krystelle had lifted a curtain and showed him the power of a passion which was unique in his experience.
At times savage a
nd demanding she could rouse him to peaks which not even Jacqueline had known. While at others, gentle and considerate, she could lull him into a contentment such as not even Maya dreamed. And with it all she could bind him with a mother love of dependence which was more than he had known from any women between Macao and Valparaiso. She was the ultimate houri and could sense his needs before he knew them himself, then having sensed she would set out to satisfy until he had been freed of every tension, lulled into a deep dream of contentment and restored in self-confidence until he felt fit to tackle anyone alive. Krystelle was tops and it looked as though she would remain there.
They heard the throb of a powerful motor in the distance and watched a cloud of dust rise along the main road. ‘Maybe it’s them,’ said Krystelle quietly. ‘But I like it here. And we’re at the end of the road. They can’t miss us.’
The car drew up with a slither of rubber against the dusty verge. Harry and Frank had wasted no time. In fact, Grant thought sourly, they hadn’t even taken time to ditch their girl friends. Two girls were easing themselves out from the back seat and one was the dusky Creole while the other was coal black with a smile which seemed to stretch from ear to ear. ‘Meet the girls,’ said Harry off-handedly, ‘Dinah and Cherry. Take a bow for David and Christine . . . or Krystelle to her friends.’
Krystelle’s eyes were suddenly wary and Grant saw that the two men were staring at the girls with a curious mixture of cynicism and interest. ‘Good to see you,’ he said briefly.
Harry looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve lost some tan.’
‘Been out of the sun,’ said Grant slowly. He felt a sense of impending drama. Why bring the girls? It didn’t make sense.
Black Champagne Page 20