by Len Deighton
‘With the working-over you’ve given me, I’m not sure I need a massage.’
Curl knew he had done everything right. ‘You’re not telling me you want out, Steve?’
‘No, John. Put me down for a fortune cookie. I should have started running the minute you came through the door.’
‘My boys have put a lot of work into this one,’ Curl said.
Steinbeck didn’t want him to go away thinking it was all settled. ‘There are many decisions still to be made, John. Some of them are technical matters, beyond my authority.’
‘We have to tread softly, Steve.’
‘Or you tread on my dreams.’
‘Or you tread on my profits.’
‘Ouch!’ Steinbeck said.
‘These MAMista tough guys are very sensitive to public opinion,’ Curl said.
‘Even more sensitive than oil companies or the CIA?’
‘At least as much. They are not about to sign some document that you take along to the International Court. Our guy has made a handshake deal. It’s been ratified by me. No one wants paperwork. See the way it is?’
‘Sure, I see the way it is. What kind of carpetbagger did you send down there anyway?’
‘Just a regular CIA field man. No one special.’
‘I hear these MAMista people are rough.’
Curl had ordered his staff to depict the MAMista as a powerful military force. That wasn’t the way he wanted to describe it to Steinbeck, but neither was this the time to start shouting paper tiger. ‘They are tough bastards but they have everything to gain by sticking to the deal. Your military hardware will be your bargaining chip. You keep control of all that material. Gunships too if you need them.’
‘I’m in the oil business, John. I don’t want my boys running a private panzer division down there.’
‘War is a growth industry, Steve.’
‘It’s an industry I’d like to see run down a little,’ said Steinbeck. ‘Meanwhile let’s keep it a government monopoly.’
Curl, hearing an edge of bitterness in Steinbeck’s voice, regretted his misplaced injection of black humour. ‘Don’t worry, Steve. What I’m really saying is that if the MAMista step out of line, you could threaten to turn your whole arsenal over to Benz.’
‘You have a complicated mind, John. Did anyone ever tell you that?’
‘Celia, my second wife, said it all the time.’ Before there was a chance for Steve to ask after his ex-wife, Curl said, ‘Would you defoliate?’
‘Take it easy, John. Defoliate is one of the last obscene words we’ve got left these days.’
‘I know you sometimes defoliate before air surveys.’
‘Someone has been telling tales out of school.’
‘If I need you to defoliate a section of jungle, no questions asked, would you do that for me?’
‘I’m not sure, John. Would this be a preliminary to a sweep against the guerrillas?’
Curl looked at him for a moment before replying. ‘It would be to wipe out the coca plantations. Cocaine. Could you do something like that without giving your PR department a seizure?’
‘We’d find a way,’ Steinbeck said.
In the sort of physical gesture that he seldom made, Curl reached out and slapped Steinbeck’s arm. ‘Thanks, Steve, I knew you’d say that.’
When they got to the massage room, Steinbeck said, ‘This is Mr Curl, the National Security Adviser to the President of the United States of America. Do you know that, Chuck?’
The masseur smiled and nodded. He knew both men. Steinbeck said, ‘I want you to put him on the slab and knock the shit out of him, Chuck. Will you do that, for me and for the President?’
‘You bet, Mr Steinbeck.’
Curl smiled grimly. He did not approve of familiarities with the club servants. It embarrassed them even more than it did Curl. As Curl stretched out on the bench he heard Steinbeck enter the next cubicle. He heard the attendant say, ‘Sorry, Mr Steinbeck. No smoking in here. That’s club rules.’
‘Rules are made to be broken,’ Steinbeck said. The attendant didn’t press the point. It cost these jokers a couple of grand a year to be a full member. It would be unreasonable not to let them break the rules now and again.
‘Yeah, rules are made to be broken,’ said Steinbeck again. ‘You ask Mr Curl … Right John?’ he yelled loudly.
Curl heard him but didn’t reply.
19
THE JUNGLE. ‘Don’t go to sleep.’
There is always mist on a jungle dawn. It sits upon the still air, drawing up the stink of the humus, blotting out the treetops and making the sky into a dirty pink smudge.
Singer awoke when dawn was no more than a promise in the eastern sky. He usually awoke before Paz did. The bindings on his wrists and ankles made it difficult for him to get a complete night’s sleep. He called, ‘Put the coffee on, comrade,’ in a passable imitation of Angel Paz’s voice. Santos – who’d been checking the sentries – already had a pot of water suspended over the fire. As if in response to Singer’s command he prodded the smouldering tinder into flame. Its glare lit up the trees and the look of surprise on Santos’ face. Singer laughed.
Inez climbed out of the nylon survival bag and shivered in the misty chill. The bag was designed to hold one person. She and Lucas shared it in cramped and intimate discomfort but they emerged happy and without insect bites, and that was more than could be said for most of the party. While Inez helped make the coffee Lucas washed and then took a tiny measure of filtered water to use for shaving. It was still dark and he shaved without a mirror, seeking the bristle with his fingertips as he’d learned to do in the army. He was extra careful not to cut the skin because of the risk of infection. He decided that this would be the last shave he’d have until Tepilo. He hated beards but it would be more practical to go unshaved. He wished, as he’d wished a thousand times, that he’d brought enough serum to give them all an anti-tetanus shot. Now he was saving what little he had, to use on whoever needed it, at the first sign of infection. Such methods worked but prevention was better than cure.
While he was shaving Angel Paz came to him with a speech that he’d rehearsed. ‘Commanding a collection like this is difficult. You know that, Lucas.’
Lucas stopped shaving long enough to look at him and nod. Paz began again. ‘We don’t have much in common, except that we are all trying to get to the other end alive and well. We might as well work together.’ Lucas continued to shave. Paz began to wonder if Lucas knew about that stupid fight he’d had with Singer. ‘If I’ve said anything to make you mad … well, let’s forget it, okay?’
The patronizing tone of Paz’s voice belied the conciliatory nature of the message, but Lucas held out his hand to accept Paz’s firm grip. ‘You’d be well advised to enlist Singer’s cooperation too,’ Lucas said. ‘So far he’s just making himself a bloody nuisance but if he really tried to make life difficult for us … There’s no telling what he might try.’
For a moment the two men stood there with nothing more to say. It had rained in the night; intermittent showers of fine rain that would no doubt continue. From nearby came the sound of men leading the mules down to the stream for a drink. They were noisy beasts – fastidious about the quality of the water they would drink – and were particularly bad-tempered in the morning. Like humans, thought Lucas. ‘We will have to cross the river,’ Paz said. ‘Today … Tomorrow at the latest. The level is rising. We dare not leave it much longer.’
‘Talk to Singer. Ask him if he’d like to try walking,’ Lucas advised.
Paz smiled a fixed smile and gave a stiff little nod. The old man would always speak to him like that: giving him orders as if he were in command. The best that could be hoped for was to avoid a confrontation. ‘Perhaps I’ll do that,’ said Paz.
In order not to be seen going directly to speak with Singer, Paz went to the fire and kicked it to make sure that it had been properly extinguished.
‘He’s an idiot,’ Inez said to Lucas a
s they watched Angel Paz going across to Singer.
Lucas was more sympathetic. ‘Being stuck with you and me … and Singer too. It’s no joke for him.’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Inez said. ‘He knows nothing of this country. If we run into trouble he’ll get us all killed.’
‘Now, now,’ Lucas said. He felt it necessary to quell the unaccountable animosity that Inez showed for Angel Paz.
‘How will we cross the river, Lucas? We have no boats and no axes to make boats. Ramón must have known …’
‘Ramón can’t be expected to think of everything, Inez.’
‘Once the rains come the river will become such a torrent even boats will get swept away.’
‘Don’t think about it till the time comes.’
Paz watched Singer being tied into place on his chair. ‘Tighter,’ he told the man fastening him into place. It was René, the one they called ‘the bullfighter’. Singer smiled. ‘Very tight,’ Paz said. René nodded but fixed the straps no tighter than they had been the previous day. Paz noticed this flagrant disobedience but decided not to make an issue of it. As he walked away a sudden burst of singing erupted. It was Singer’s bass voice, using that jokey Uncle Tom accent that they’d all begun to find maddening: ‘One more river, and dat’s de river o’ Jordan. One mo’ river; jus’ one mo’ river to cross.’ René grinned at him.
One didn’t have to understand English, or to have a sight of Angel Paz, to know that he – and his position as leader – was being mocked.
The men didn’t look at Singer, neither did they look at each other. They stood around the remains of the fire, and drained the last dregs of their coffee. They buttoned tight against the morning chill and checked their guns. The Americanos were on bad terms and Angel Paz would be furious all morning. When Angel Paz was furious he vented his anger on those around him.
As they moved out of the camp it was still not fully light. Lucas noticed that the stream was running much faster this morning and he spent a moment examining the morass of animal spoor at the most accessible part of the bank.
‘Shift your ass, Lucas,’ Paz snapped. And to those who slowed their steps and turned their heads to see the exchange, he bellowed, ‘I said, keep moving, you dummies!’
The men moved through the mist like wraiths, bent low by their equipment and seldom speaking. The scud pressed down, and the glimpses of it racing through the treetops were enough to make a marching man dizzy. Soon the mist became fine rain and the jungle changed. Jungle knives were needed to clear a narrow path through the wet undergrowth of banana and wild maize. There were many more such patches as they continued their march. In ancient times Indians had burned clearings here. They had planted and harvested crops of maize and tubers until the soil was exhausted. Then the Indians had moved on. The undergrowth their farming had left was denser than most other sorts of jungle. Angel Paz skirted it as much as possible, so that their tracks wound left and right. Lucas was beginning to fear that they had lost their way when suddenly a shout from a man at point announced that they had come again to the river. Inevitably the sight of it brought a cheerful burst of song.
The river was wide. In attempts to measure its width the men used a system they’d used before. Chosen men threw stones as far as they could. The splashes were never as far as midstream. It was very wide. The splashes and movement did not deter the water snakes that swam close to examine the intruders. Their sleek little heads zipped along the rippling brown river’s current, leaving long silent wakes. Some said they saw electric eels, dangerous and malevolent creatures of which the men were in horror. Angel Paz noted the fears. When it came to crossing the river such anxieties would add an extra dimension to his problem.
Perhaps the previous night’s rain had caused the river to swell since their last sight of it. There were fast channels in it now. Bulging muscles, rippling with sinew, belched and sucked noisily at the reeds along the bank.
Paz took a careful compass reading, then announced that they would move along the water’s edge for another hour or more. No one was sorry. The dim light and spitting rain gave the scene an atmosphere of foreboding. If the sun came out Paz hoped that it might offer a different prospect.
A mule driver asked Lucas to look at a bad-tempered animal that seemed lame, but Lucas could find nothing wrong. The mule was probably bad-tempered because it was burdened with the big Hotchkiss machine gun and ammunition boxes too. Lucas thought the mule driver was disappointed to hear the mule was fit. He was hoping it would have to be shot: he hated mules. Some men complained the Hotchkiss was a useless old antique. They said that Ramón had only given it to them because he didn’t want it. But no one said this in the presence of Novillo the machine-gunner, or Tito his number two.
As they made their way along the river it was easy to see why the mule drivers grumbled. The packs on the mules seemed to ensnare every twig, branch and creeper on the line of march. The men behind were often held up while the harness, straps and baggage were disentangled. For the mule drivers dense jungle was a torment as they scrambled around their charges getting kicked, bitten, bruised and cut. Sometimes a mule would stumble or fall. Once down, the obstinate creatures were not easily dragged to their feet again. Worse, they’d encounter a snake or another threat underfoot, and rear up in terror throwing everyone near into terrible disarray.
With Santos at the front, the men followed the curving edge of the river for five miles or more. Then Paz went to the front and urged them on to the next bend. From there it might be possible to get a clear view of the river’s course for a few miles. At that next bend his hopes were dashed. On this flat stretch of valley it meandered, disappeared behind the trees and kept its secrets.
Paz decided to use the reflected light of the water while keeping his men away from the river’s marshy bank. Two men – the eighteen-year-old twins Rafael and Rómulo – were on the flank and they had the unenviable job of following the water’s edge. They used their whistles to stay in touch with the main party, who had easier going. The twins had an arduous time. The riverbank alternated marsh with thorn and thicket so sharp that it cut through their clothing.
Rafael and Rómulo were half-caste boys recruited from a small town in the north. Unused to the rigours of this kind of country they were determined not to show the fear of snakes, of night or of magic to which some of the local blacks and Indians were prey.
The going was hard along the bank. Often the twins had to wade into the water to get round the overhanging brush. More than once they stumbled on the river-bed and went completely under the water. Soon they buckled their belts together to improvise a safety line. At least once, only a tight grip on it saved Rómulo from being swept downstream.
For everyone the river had become an adversary. The light from its surface flickered through the trees. The river mocked them. It sheltered predatory creatures. Every stream that came running down to join it was a reminder of the river’s power to reproduce itself a thousand times.
It came as a relief when the river curved again to cross their path and Angel Paz continued to its bank and declared a ten-minute rest. The twins came splashing along to join them. Both were soaked and bloody with the bites of leeches. They undressed. The leeches were hair-thin when hungry and could get through the lacehole of a boot. Now they were bloated to the girth of a finger and bright red with consumed blood. The twins wore anklets of them, wriggling red belts around their waists and great necklaces round their necks. Best the leeches liked to get between toes and fingers, sinking their heads into the soft web of flesh there. Glazed with blood the naked boys stood, arms outstretched in the stance of crucified martyrdom. Sometimes they flinched as Lucas and Santos applied the lighted tips of cheroots to the leeches. One at a time the bloated creatures fell away, spilling a few drops of blood as they contracted.
The rest of the men had their boots off and were burning the leeches off their feet and legs. The Indians were glad of an excuse to smoke. They removed the leeches with s
carcely a thought, as a town-dweller brushes his teeth or shaves. The Northerners handled them with revulsion. Now the party smelled of blood. From now onwards whenever the party stopped deleeching began. But within minutes of them coming to a halt, hundreds more of the tiny slug-like animals could be seen crawling over the ground converging on the smell of fresh blood.
‘Boots on. Strap up. Five more minutes!’ called Angel Paz. He knew that if a rest lasted longer than fifteen minutes the men grew stiff. Sometimes it had been difficult to get them going again.
‘When do we cross the river?’ Singer called. He’d been released from his chair to relieve himself. Now he was strapped back into it again. Paz made sure he was tied tightly and made uncomfortable in the hope he would choose to start walking, but so far Singer preferred to sit on his throne and be carried in regal splendour.
Paz shifted uneasily. ‘There’s always the chance we’ll come across a village with boats … Otherwise we’ll have to build boats.’
‘There is no sign of a village,’ Lucas said. He was sitting on a log with Inez. Lucas sat and rested every chance he got.
‘There is no village on this stretch,’ said Singer loudly. ‘You’d smell it for miles. I’ve got a nose for jungle villages. They stink of human excreta and other garbage. Forget any hope of running into a friendly neighbourhood ferry-boat service in this neck of the woods, sonny.’
‘We have balsa trees here,’ Lucas said. ‘Softwood: it is the only tree for making rafts quickly.’
Paz wet his lips. He hated these two men and he hated the way they assumed superiority. Even the clothes they wore annoyed him. Lucas had a wide-brimmed felt hat. An Anzac hat he called it. To Paz’s eyes it was a very unusual style of hat, and yet it had become battered and stained to make him look like a soldier while Angel Paz’s peaked guerrillero cap made him feel like some effete ski instructor. Within Paz, there had built up an enormous anger. As he saw it, he’d tried to befriend Lucas and Singer but his overtures had been rebuffed. He resolved to be avenged on them at the first chance he had. But from now on he would try to conceal his feelings; he would be as deceitful as they were. ‘Another mile or two,’ Paz said. ‘We won’t get lost.’