High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Say yesterday morning,’ suggested O’Hara. ‘That would be about the time we took off from San Croce.’

  Forester groaned in exasperation. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why did they go to all this trouble, make all these preparations, and then clear out? One thing’s sure: Grivas expected a reception committee—and where the hell is it?’

  O’Hara said to Rohde, ‘We are thinking of staying here tonight. What do you think?’

  ‘It is better here than at the mine,’ said Rohde. ‘We have lost a lot of height. I would say that we are at an altitude of about four thousand metres here—or maybe a little more. That will not harm us for one night; it will be better to stay here in shelter than to stay in the open tonight, even if it is lower down the mountain.’ He contracted his brows. ‘But I suggest we keep a watch.’

  Forester nodded. ‘We’ll take it in turns.’

  Miss Ponsky and Benedetta were busy on the pressure stoves making hot soup. Armstrong had already got the heater going and Willis was sorting out cans of food. He called O’Hara over. ‘I thought we’d better take something with us when we leave,’ he said. ‘It might come in useful.’

  ‘A good idea,’ said O’Hara.

  Willis grinned. ‘That’s all very well, but I can’t read Spanish. I have to go by the pictures on the labels. Someone had better check on these when I’ve got them sorted out.’

  Forester and Rohde went on down the road to pick a good spot for a sentry, and when Forester came back he said, ‘Rohde’s taking the first watch. We’ve got a good place where we can see bits of road a good two miles away. And if they come up at night they’re sure to have their lights on.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got six able-bodied men, so if we leave here early tomorrow, that means two-hour watches. That’s not too bad—it gives us all enough sleep.’

  After they had eaten Benedetta took some food down to Rohde and O’Hara found himself next to Armstrong. ‘You said you were a historian. I suppose you’re over here to check up on the Incas,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Armstrong. ‘They’re not my line of country at all. My line is medieval history.’

  ‘Oh,’ said O’Hara blankly.

  ‘I don’t know anything about the Incas and I don’t particularly want to,’ said Armstrong frankly. He smiled gently. ‘For the past ten years I’ve never had a real holiday. I’d go on holiday like a normal man—perhaps to France or Italy—and then I’d see something interesting. I’d do a bit of investigating—and before I’d know it I’d be hard at work.’

  He produced a pipe and peered dubiously into his tobacco pouch. ‘This year I decided to come to South America for a holiday. All there is here is pre-European and modern history—no medieval history at all. Clever of me, wasn’t it?’

  O’Hara smiled, suspecting that Armstrong was indulging in a bit of gentle leg-pulling. ‘And what’s your line, Doctor Willis?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m a physicist,’ said Willis. ‘I’m interested in cosmic rays at high altitudes. I’m not getting very far with it, though.’

  They were certainly a mixed lot, thought O’Hara, looking across at Miss Ponsky as she talked animatedly to Aguillar. Now there was a sight—a New England spinster schoolmarm lecturing a statesman. She would certainly have plenty to tell her pupils when she arrived back at the little schoolhouse.

  ‘What was this place, anyway?’ asked Willis.

  ‘Living quarters for the mine up on top,’ said O’Hara. ‘That’s what Rohde tells me.’

  Willis nodded. ‘They had their workshops down here, too,’ he said. ‘All the machinery has gone, of course, but there are still a few bits and pieces left.’ He shivered. ‘I can’t say I’d like to work in a place like this.’

  O’Hara looked about the hut. ‘Neither would I.’ He caught sight of an electric conduit tube running down a wall. ‘Where did their electricity supply come from, I wonder?’

  ‘They had their own plant; there’s the remains of it out back. The generator has gone—they must have salvaged it when the mine closed down. They scavenged most everything, I guess; there’s precious little left.’

  Armstrong drew the last of the smoke from his failing pipe with a disconsolate gurgle. ‘Well, that’s the last of the tobacco until we get back to civilization,’ he said as he knocked out the dottle. ‘Tell me, Captain; what are you doing in this part of the world?’

  ‘Oh, I fly aeroplanes from anywhere to anywhere,’ said O’Hara. Not any more I don’t, he thought. As far as Filson was concerned, he was finished. Filson would never forgive a pilot who wrote off one of his aircraft, no matter what the reason. I’ve lost my job, he thought. It was a lousy job but it had kept him going, and now he’d lost it.

  The girl came back and he crossed over to her. ‘Anything doing down the road?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Miguel says everything is quiet.’

  ‘He’s quite a character,’ said O’Hara. ‘He certainly knows a lot about these mountains—and he knows a bit about medicine too.’

  ‘He was born near here,’ Benedetta said. ‘And he was a medical student until—’ She stopped.

  ‘Until what?’ prompted O’Hara.

  ‘Until the revolution.’ She looked at her hands. ‘All his family were killed—that is why he hates Lopez. That is why he works with my uncle—he knows that my uncle will ruin Lopez.’

  ‘I thought he had a chip on his shoulder,’ said O’Hara.

  She sighed. ‘It is a great pity about Miguel; he was going to do so much. He was very interested in the soroche, you know; he intended to study it as soon as he had taken his degree. But when the revolution came he had to leave the country and he had no money so he could not continue his studies. He worked in the Argentine for a while, and then he met my uncle. He saved my uncle’s life.’

  ‘Oh?’ O’Hara raised his eyebrows.

  ‘In the beginning Lopez knew that he was not safe while my uncle was alive. He knew that my uncle would organize an opposition—underground, you know. So wherever my uncle went he was in danger from the murderers hired by Lopez—even in the Argentine. There were several attempts to kill him, and it was one of these times that Miguel saved his life.’

  O’Hara said, ‘Your uncle must have felt like another Trotsky. Joe Stalin had him bumped off in Mexico.’

  ‘That is right,’ she said with a grimace of distaste. ‘But they were communists, both of them. Anyway, Miguel stayed with us after that. He said that all he wanted was food to eat and a bed to sleep in, and he would help my uncle come back to Cordillera. And here we are.’

  Yes, thought O’Hara; marooned up a bloody mountain with God knows what waiting at the bottom.

  Presently Armstrong went out to relieve Rohde. Miss Ponsky came across to talk to O’Hara. ‘I’m sorry I behaved so stupidly in the airplane,’ she said crossly. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  O’Hara thought there was no need to apologize for being half frightened to death; he had been bloody scared himself. But he couldn’t say that—he couldn’t even mention the word fear to her. That would be unforgivable; no one likes to be reminded of a lapse of that nature—not even a maiden lady getting on in years. He smiled and said diplomatically, ‘Not everyone would have come through an experience like that as well as you have, Miss Ponsky.’

  She was mollified and he knew that she had been in fear of a rebuff. She was the kind of person who would bite on a sore tooth, not letting it alone. She smiled and said, ‘Well now, Captain O’Hara—what do you think of all this talk about communists?’

  ‘I think they’re capable of anything,’ said O’Hara grimly.

  ‘I’m going to put in a report to the State Department when I get back,’ she said. ‘You ought to hear what Señor Aguillar has been telling me about General Lopez. I think the State Department should help Señor Aguillar against General Lopez and the communists.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ said O’Hara. ‘But perhaps y
our State Department doesn’t believe in interfering in Cordilleran affairs.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Miss Ponsky with acerbity. ‘We’re supposed to be fighting the communists, aren’t we? Besides, Señor Aguillar assures me that he’ll hold elections as soon as General Lopez is kicked out. He’s a real democrat just like you and me.’

  O’Hara wondered what would happen if another South American state did go communist. Cuban agents were filtering all through Latin America like woodworms in a piece of furniture. He tried to think of the strategic importance of Cordillera—it was on the Pacific coast and it straddled the Andes, a gun pointing to the heart of the continent. He thought the Americans would be very upset if Cordillera went communist.

  Rohde came back and talked for a few minutes with Aguillar, then he crossed to O’Hara and said in a low voice, ‘Señor Aguillar would like to speak to you.’ He gestured to Forester and the three of them went to where Aguillar was resting in a bunk.

  He had brightened considerably and was looking quite spry. His eyes were lively and no longer filmed with weariness, and there was a strength and authority in his voice that O’Hara had not heard before. He realized that this was a strong man; maybe not too strong in the body because he was becoming old and his body was wearing out, but he had a strong mind. O’Hara suspected that if the old man had not had a strong will, the body would have crumpled under the strain it had undergone.

  Aguillar said, ‘First I must thank you gentlemen for all you have done, and I am truly sorry that I have brought this calamity upon you.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It is the innocent bystander who always suffers in the clash of our Latin politics. I am sorry that this should have happened and that you should see my country in this sad light.’

  ‘What else could we do?’ asked Forester. ‘We’re all in the same boat.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way,’ said Aguillar. ‘Because of what may come next. What happens if we meet up with the communists who should be here and are not?’

  ‘Before we come to that there’s something I’d like to query,’ said O’Hara. Aguillar raised his eyebrows and motioned him to continue, so O’Hara said deliberately, ‘How do we know they are communists? Señorita Aguillar tells me that Lopez has tried to liquidate you several times. How do you know he hasn’t got wind of your return and is having another crack at you?’

  Aguillar shook his head. ‘Lopez has—in your English idiom—shot his bolt. I know. Do not forget that I am a practical politician and give me credit for knowing my own work. Lopez forgot about me several years ago and is only interested in how he can safely relinquish the reins of power and retire. As for the communists—for years I have watched them work in my country, undermining the government and wooing the people. They have not got far with the people, or they would have disposed of Lopez by now. I am their only danger and I am sure that our situation is their work.’

  Forester said casually, ‘Grivas was trying to make a clenched fist salute when he died.’

  ‘All right,’ said O’Hara. ‘But why all this rigmarole of Grivas in the first place? Why not just put a time bomb in the Dakota—that would have done the job very easily.’

  Aguillar smiled. ‘Señor O’Hara, in my life as a politician I have had four bombs thrown at me and every one was defective. Our politics out here are emotional and emotion does not make for careful workmanship, even of bombs. And I am sure that even communism cannot make any difference to the native characteristics of my people. They wanted to make very sure of me and so they chose the unfortunate Grivas as their instrument. Would you have called Grivas an emotional man?’

  ‘I should think he was,’ said O’Hara, thinking of Grivas’s exultation even in death. ‘And he was pretty slipshod too.’

  Aguillar spread his hands, certain he had made his point. But he drove it home. ‘Grivas would be happy to be given such work; it would appeal to his sense of drama—and my people have a great sense of drama. As for being—er—slipshod, Grivas bungled the first part of the operation by stupidly killing himself, and the others have bungled the rest of it by not being here to meet us.’

  O’Hara rubbed his chin. As Aguillar drew the picture it made a weird kind of sense.

  Aguillar said, ‘Now, my friends, we come to the next point. Supposing, on the way down this mountain, we meet these men—these communists? What happens then?’ He regarded O’Hara and Forester with bright eyes. ‘It is not your fight—you are not Cordillerans—and I am interested to know what you would do. Would you give this dago politician into the hands of his enemies or…’

  ‘Would we fight?’ finished Forester.

  ‘It is my fight,’ said O’Hara bluntly. ‘I’m not a Cordilleran, but Grivas pulled a gun on me and made me crash my plane. I didn’t like that, and I didn’t like the sight of the Coughlins. Anyway, I don’t like the sight of communists, and I think that, all in all, this is my fight.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Forester.

  Aguillar raised his hand. ‘But it is not as easy as that, is it? There are others to take into account. Would it be fair on Miss—er—Ponsky, for instance? Now what I propose is this. Miguel, my niece and I will withdraw into another cabin while you talk it over—and I will abide by your joint decision.’

  Forester looked speculatively at Peabody, who was just leaving the hut. He glanced at O’Hara, then said, ‘I think we should leave the question of fighting until there’s something to fight. It’s possible that we might just walk out of here.’

  Aguillar had seen Forester’s look at Peabody. He smiled sardonically. ‘I see that you are a politician yourself, Señor Forester.’ He made a gesture of resignation. ‘Very well, we will leave the problem for the moment—but I think we will have to return to it.’

  ‘It’s a pity we had to come down the mountain,’ said Forester. ‘There’s sure to be an air search, and it might have been better to stay by the Dakota.’

  ‘We could not have lived up there,’ said Rohde.

  ‘I know, but it’s a pity all the same.’

  ‘I don’t think it makes much difference,’ said O’Hara. ‘The wreck will be difficult to spot from the air—it’s right at the foot of a cliff.’ He hesitated. ‘And I don’t know about an air search—not yet, anyway.’

  Forester jerked his head. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Andes Airlift isn’t noted for its efficiency and Filson, my boss, isn’t good at paperwork. This flight didn’t even have a number—I remember wondering about it just before we took off. It’s on the cards that San Croce control haven’t bothered to notify Santillana to expect us.’ As he saw Forester’s expression he added, The whole set-up is shoestring and sealing-wax—it’s only a small field.’

  ‘But surely your boss will get worried when he doesn’t hear from you?’

  ‘He’ll worry,’ agreed O’Hara. ‘He told me to phone him from Santillana—but he won’t worry too much at first. There have been times when I haven’t phoned through on his say-so and had a rocket for losing cargo. But I don’t think he’ll worry about losing the plane for a couple of days at least.’

  Forester blew out his cheeks. ‘Wow—what a Rube Goldberg organization. Now I really feel lost.’

  Rohde said, ‘We must depend on our own efforts. I think we can be sure of that.’

  ‘We flew off course too,’ said O’Hara. ‘They’ll start the search north of here—when they start.’

  Rohde looked at Aguillar whose eyes were closed. ‘There is nothing we can do now,’ he said. ‘But we must sleep. It will be a hard day tomorrow.’

  III

  Again O’Hara did not sleep very well, but at least he was resting on a mattress instead of a hard floor, with a full belly. Peabody was on watch and O’Hara was due to relieve him at two o’clock; he was glad when the time came.

  He donned his leather jacket and took the vicuna coat that Forester had given him. He suspected that he would be glad of it during the next two hours. Forester was awake
and waved lazily as he went out, although he did not speak.

  The night air was thin and cold and O’Hara shivered as he set off down the road. As Rohde had said, the conditions for survival were better here than up by the airstrip, but it was still pretty dicey. He was aware that his heart was thumping and that his respiration rate was up. It would be much better when they got down to the quebrada, as Rohde called the lateral valley to which they were heading.

  He reached the corner where he had to leave the road and headed towards the looming outcrop of rock which Rohde had picked as a vantage point. Peabody should have been perched on top of the rock and should have heard him coming, but there was no sign of his presence.

  O’Hara called softly, ‘Peabody!’

  There was silence.

  Cautiously he circled the outcrop to get it silhouetted against the night sky. There was a lump on top of the rock which he could not quite make out. He began to climb the rock and as he reached the top he heard a muffled snore. He shook Peabody and his foot clinked on a bottle—Peabody was drunk.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ he said and started to slap Peabody’s face, but without appreciable result. Peabody muttered in his drunken stupor but did not recover consciousness. ‘I ought to let you die of exposure,’ whispered O’Hara viciously, but he knew he could not do that. He also knew that he could not hope to carry Peabody back to the camp by himself. He would have to get help.

  He stared down the mountainside but all was quiet, so he climbed down the rock and headed back up the road. Forester was still awake and looked up inquiringly as O’Hara entered the hut. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, suddenly alert.

  ‘Peabody’s passed out,’ said O’Hara. ‘I’ll need help to bring him up.’

  ‘Damn this altitude,’ said Forester, putting on his shoes.

  ‘It wasn’t the altitude,’ O’Hara said coldly. ‘The bastard’s dead drunk.’