Passage by Night (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  'Why don't you cut the polite conversation and get to the point?' Manning said.

  'I intend to.' Rojas moved after the sergeant. 'Tell me, what was the excuse you gave Captain Melos for wanting to come to San Juan? To take a few photographs, wasn't it?'

  'You know damn well why I came.'

  Rojas chuckled, the sound re-echoing eerily between the stone walls. 'But of course I do. How stupid of me.'

  The sergeant halted outside an iron-bound door and unlocked it quickly. He took a flashlight from his pocket, handed it to Rojas and stood to one side.

  'After you, my friend,' Rojas said.

  Manning moved cautiously into the darkness. It was bitterly cold and water splashed over his shoes. As Rojas flicked on the flashlight, a large rat scampered across to a corner and disappeared into a hole.

  There was a slight groan from the other side of the room and the beam swung across the wall and came to rest upon a man on a narrow bed. His clothing was soiled and torn and he lay in his own filth, so weak that he could barely move his head.

  'The man you were looking for, Senor Manning,' Rojas said simply. 'Juan Garcia.'

  Manning looked down at Garcia and felt suddenly sick. Only the eyes moved and the skin was shrivelled and white like that of a corpse. There was dried blood on his face and his mouth was terribly swollen.

  'Juan, can you hear me?' Rojas said in Spanish. 'Senor Manning would like to ask you a few questions.'

  The mouth opened like a gaping wound, red-raw, already festering, and a moan of animal pain emerged.

  Rojas turned to Manning and sighed, 'I'm sorry, Senor Manning. He would appear to have lost his tongue.'

  And then he started to laugh, his body shaking, and the sound rebounded between the narrow walls and echoed along the corridor into the darkness. Even the guards look scared and fingered their submachine guns uneasily as Manning stumbled outside. Rojas nodded to the sergeant who locked the cell and they retraced their steps.

  When they returned to the guardroom, Lieutenant Motilina was standing by the window drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. Rojas dropped into a chair on the other side of the table from the door and took off his hat.

  'The coffee smells good.' Motilina snapped his fingers and one of the soldiers hurriedly poured coffee into another cup and brought it across.

  'The old man and the girl, they are upstairs?'

  'In the waiting room outside your office.'

  'I'll deal with them shortly,' Rojas said.

  'First, I would like a few words with Senor Manning.'

  'Any other orders, Colonel?'

  Rojas nodded. 'The man in the vaults, Juan Garcia. He has served his purpose. Take him outside and shoot him. Leave two men here with me.'

  There was no trace of emotion on Motilina's face. He clicked his heels smartly, saluted and gave the necessary orders. As the door closed, Rojas pointed to the chair in front of him and Manning sat down.

  Rojas produced another of his long black cheroots and lit it carefully.

  Manning said, 'Before we go any further, let's get one thing straight. The old man and the girl had no idea what I really came here for. I sold them a bill of goods about being a photographer looking for a story for an American magazine and they fell for it.'

  'They are still guilty of a serious crime against the state.' Rojas dropped his match into the lieutenant's cup with a faint hiss. 'However, they are not important. You are. There are one or two questions I should like you to answer.'

  'You're wasting your time.'

  'I don't think so. I am already extremely well informed about you and your associates. But there are things you could tell me. This CIA man, Morrison, who briefed you for your mission. He must have given you useful contacts. People on the island you could go to in case of need?'

  'Try Kurt Viner,' Manning said. 'He might be able to help you. I can't.'

  'For technical reasons which should be sufficiently obvious, his message was rather brief. I'm relying on you to fill in the gaps.'

  Manning shrugged. 'As I said before, you're wasting your time.'

  He was suddenly conscious of the black eyes staring at him unwinkingly. They were cold and hard and full of purpose. Rojas raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

  Immediately, the two soldiers at the door rushed forward and pinioned Manning's arms behind the chair.

  'I think it is perhaps time you realized I mean business,' Rojas said.

  He inhaled deeply on his cigar, leaned forward and touched the glowing end to Manning's right cheek. Manning squirmed, trying to turn his face sideways, but the soldiers leaned their weight against the chair, pushing him hard against the table.

  He breathed deeply and tried to hang on. Rojas had stopped smiling. His eyes were fixed and staring, his face wet with sweat and the great fleshy mouth trembled slightly.

  And then the agony was too much to bear and Manning cried out and pushed with all his strength against the table. One of the soldiers slipped to one knee, losing his grip, and the chair went over backwards. Manning got to his feet, swung a wild punch at the man on the floor and lunged for the door. As he touched the handle, the other soldier moved fast and swung the butt of his machine gun into the small of his back.

  Manning crouched on the floor against the wall, waves of pain flooding through his body, and struggled for breath. Faintly through the roaring he was aware that Rojas was laughing.

  'Stubborn people, the English,' he said in Spanish, 'but he will learn. Bring him upstairs.'

  Manning had grazed his head against the wall in falling and blood trickled into his eye. He brushed it away with one hand and the soldiers jerked him roughly to his feet and followed Rojas through the door.

  They mounted the stone steps and turned along a flagged corridor. Outside a door at the far end, a sentry was standing and he opened it quickly.

  Anna and her father were sitting on a wooden bench against the wall. Rojas walked past them, opened another door, went in and closed it behind him. One of the soldiers gave Manning a push forward and they stationed themselves by the door.

  Manning's brain was still not functioning properly. He staggered against the wall, almost losing his balance and leaned against the whitewashed stonework.

  'Are you all right, Harry?' Anna asked anxiously.

  'Only just. They're a pretty rough crowd.'

  The blood from the graze on his forehead trickled down the whitewashed wall, a vivid splash of colour, and he slumped to the bench and managed a tired grin.

  Papa Melos looked angry. 'They'd better remember we're British citizens, that's all. They can't hold us here indefinitely. We've done nothing wrong.'

  'That kind of talk went out with the last of the gunboats,' Manning said. 'The British Government doesn't mean a thing to this bunch.'

  'We'll see about that.'

  Anna folded her handkerchief into a pad and dabbed at the blood on Manning's forehead. He smiled. 'Worried?'

  'Not as much as I should be.'

  He took one of her hands and said awkwardly, 'I'm sorry, Anna. I got you into this mess and right now, I can't see any way out.'

  'Not your fault, son,' Papa Melos cut in. 'We knew what we were doing.'

  Before Manning could reply, the door to the colonel's office opened and a small, seedy-looking clerk in a rumpled gabardine suit appeared.

  He jerked his head. 'Inside, all of you.' They got to their feet and moved past him, and the guards followed.

  The room was panelled in sapele wood and simply furnished with a plain desk and a carpet that covered the floor wall-to-wall. Rojas was standing by the window and he turned, his face serious, and sat behind his desk. He leafed through some papers then looked up at Manning.

  'I asked you a question a short time ago. At that time you seemed unwilling to cooperate.'

  'I still am,' Manning said flatly.

  Rojas picked up a pen, wrote something on a pad in front of him and put the pen down again.

  He turne
d to Papa Melos. 'I have considered your offence most carefully and am prepared to believe you were the unwitting tool of this man. Under the circumstances, I have decided to be lenient. You and your daughter will be released, the boat will be confiscated.'

  A shudder seemed to pass through the old man's body and his head moved slightly from side-to-side as if he found difficulty in understanding what Rojas had said. Anna moved forward quickly.

  'But this is monstrous. We have done nothing! Nothing!'

  Rojas arched his eyebrows in surprise. 'Is it nothing to bring an American spy into our country? The agent of an unfriendly nation?'

  She flinched, the shock of it like a physical blow. Slowly she turned and looked at Manning. 'Harry?'

  There was nothing he could say and Rojas laughed harshly. 'So you believed his story, my dear. How very unfortunate.'

  She rushed forward, grabbing Manning by the shirt and cried desperately, 'It isn't true, Harry. It can't be. The boat's all we've got. All we've got left in the world. Tell him it isn't true!'

  'I'm sorry, Anna,' he said.

  She slapped him across the face with all her strength and then again with the other hand. He didn't defend himself and Rojas barked an order. The two soldiers moved in quickly and pulled her away. One of them pushed her out through the door, the other shoved Papa Melos after her. The old man moved like an automaton, his feet dragging across the floor, and Rojas laughed.

  'Surprising how little it takes to break a man.'

  'For God's sake, give them the boat and let them go,' Manning said.

  'To salve your conscience?' Rojas shook his head.

  'A man must be prepared to pay for his mistakes.'

  'But what will they do? How will they get home?'

  'That's their problem.' Rojas smiled gently. 'The girl's attractive enough. She should be able to think of something.' The telephone on his desk rang and he picked it up and nodded to the two soldiers who had returned. 'Take him outside. I'll deal with him later.'

  The little clerk worked at his desk in one corner, his pen scratching monotonously across the paper and Manning sat on a bench against the wall and waited. There was a bad pain in the small of the back and he touched it gently with his fingertips and winced.

  He thought of Anna and her father, wondering what would happen to them, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't even help himself. The two guards stood stolidly on each side of the door and the clerk continued to write, and gradually the shadows lengthened as the sun went down.

  One of the soldiers switched on the light, and soon after, the door opened and Rojas came out. He was carrying his hat and cane and when he saw Manning, he smiled.

  'I knew there was something. Take Senor Manning to the Special Section. Tell Cienaga to put him in the Hole. I'll deal with him personally tomorrow.'

  'But there is already a prisoner in the Hole, Colonel,' the little clerk said.

  Rojas frowned. 'Who is it?'

  The clerk glanced furtively at Manning and then whispered into his chief's ear. Rojas laughed harshly and placed the panama on his head, pulling the brim down over his eyes.

  'Put them together by all means. The situation, while ironic, is full of possibilities.' He opened the door and turned. 'Till tomorrow, Manning. Think about what I said.'

  They pulled Manning to his feet and took him out into the corridor and along to the far end. There was a stone staircase built into the wall and at the top, an iron grille. The guard on the other side glanced out and then unlocked it. They walked along a broad passage past several cell doors and came to another iron gate. Again, a guard inspected them before opening it.

  They walked along a dark section of passage and emerged onto a long gallery. Chicken wire had been fastened across the pillars from floor to ceiling, but far below, Manning could see the main hall of the fortress.

  The roof arched to a centre point supported by great oaken beams black with age, which lifted from a narrow stone ledge at each end of the great hall. On the other side he could see a similar gallery, but without the chicken wire.

  They reached the end of the gallery and paused outside another iron gate. The soldier who unlocked it looked enquiringly at Manning and then opened a door on the left and called, 'Cienaga! They've brought you another one.'

  The man who emerged from the room was short and squat with a great breadth of shoulder and arms so long that the fingertips almost reached the level of his knees. His face was one of the most brutal Manning had ever seen, long, greasy hair hanging to shoulder-length on either side. At some time in the past, his nose had been smashed so badly that it was now almost flat, and tiny black eyes glittered malevolently.

  He carried a bunch of keys and hitched at his pants as he came forward. 'And what have we here?'

  'Englishman,' one of the guards said. 'Colonel Rojas wants you to put him in the Hole with the other one. Says he'll be up to deal with him tomorrow.'

  'Englishman, eh?' Cienaga sucked in his breath sharply and spat full in Manning's face. 'Pig.'

  Something snapped inside Manning at the feel of the cold slime on his cheek. All his pent-up rage and fury erupted in one beautiful punch that swung all the way from the waist and connected with the side of the Cuban's jaw.

  Both soldiers moved a split second later. One gun butt thudded into his back, the other glanced from the side of his head. There was a moment of searing pain and then darkness flooded in on him.

  12

  Enter Comrade Orlov

  He drifted up from a deep pit of darkness into a place of shadows. He was lying on an iron cot from which the mattress had been removed and the springs dug painfully into his back.

  It was almost dark outside and a shaft of grey light drifted in through a narrow slot in the stone wall, giving definition to the room but no more. It was bitterly cold and he pushed himself up and swung his legs to the floor. Immediately, he was conscious of the pain and touched the side of his head gently and found clotted blood.

  'Who's there?' he said sharply.

  'Ah, English?' the other said, speaking with a slight accent that Manning couldn't place. 'How interesting.'

  'Isn't it just?' Manning said. 'And who the hell might you be?'

  The man moved across and sat beside him. 'Sergei Orlov, Major, 31st Regiment of Engineers.'

  'A Russian?' Manning said in amazement.

  'Georgian,' Orlov corrected. 'There's a difference, you know.'

  'So I've heard.' Manning held out his hand. 'I'm Harry Manning. We may differ in politics, but it certainly looks as if we're in one hell of a spot together. Where are we exactly?'

  'They call this cell the Hole,' Orlov said. 'It's rather unpleasant. Set in the thickness of the fortress walls. If you think it's cold now, wait until the small hours of the morning. No food, no lights, no mattress.'

  'A sort of preliminary softening-up?'

  The Russian nodded. 'I'm afraid so. Pity you can't see how elegant it all is. You'll have to wait till dawn for that pleasure.'

  Manning's hand instinctively went to his breast pocket and found his lighter. 'Surprised they didn't take this,' he said and flicked it on.

  The face that leapt out of the darkness at him was wedge-shaped, the skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones. The eyes were black and flecked with amber and seemed constantly to change colour in the flickering light. The mobile mouth and dark fringe of beard both combined to give an extraordinary impression of vitality.

  'They probably forgot to search you in the excitement of beating you up,' he said. 'I don't suppose you happen to have a cigarette to go with the light?'

  Manning tried his other pocket and found his leather case. There were half a dozen cigarettes in it and he took one himself and gave another to the Russian. He moved into the centre of the room, flicked the lighter again and held it above his head.

  The cell was perhaps fifteen feet square with rough stone walls and a flagged floor. The long narrow slot in the wall which was the window measured no
more than nine inches across. The two iron cots were the only furniture and the wooden door was plated with steel. There was a small grille and he peered through into the dark corridor.

  'Seems quiet enough.'

  'Until someone breaks down and starts screaming.'

  'And then I suppose our friend Cienaga goes in and beats hell out of them.'

  Orlov shook his head. 'He never enters a cell without an armed guard, and on the night shift he is on his own.'

  'So the poor devils just scream themselves into the ground?'

  'He likes it that way. Often goes along to the cell and watches them through the grille.'

  Manning turned from the door and held the lighter high above his head. It was then he noticed a couple of stout oak beams running from wall to wall about ten feet above the ground. At spaced intervals along their length steel hooks jutted out.

  'I wonder what that little lot's for?'

  'One can imagine,' Orlov said. 'I must say I prefer to be elsewhere when Colonel Rojas demonstrates.'

  Manning slipped his lighter into his pocket and sat down again. 'What in hell are you doing here, anyway?'

  'About three months ago, I was motoring to a staff conference along the coast road in Camaguey Province, when the car skidded over the cliffs into the sea. I managed to get clear and tried to swim for the shore. There was a strong tide running and I was carried out to sea.'

  'What happened then?'

  'A fishing boat picked me up and brought me here. When Rojas got in touch with Havana and informed them I was still alive, they told him to keep quiet about it and to hang on to me.'

  'But I don't understand?'

  'I'm a missile engineer. A scientist in uniform. That's why they sent me to Cuba in the first place.'

  'I get the idea,' Manning said. 'If they can't keep the missiles, at least they'll have an expert in constructing the damned things?'

  'Exactly,' Orlov said. 'But I'm afraid Colonel Rojas and I don't see eye-to-eye on the matter.'

  'You know, somehow I don't think Moscow would be very pleased about this,' Manning said.