The Pineapple Republic

by Jack Treby

  Outside, at the back of the hall, Nacho had concluded his business with the guard. The child had offloaded half a dozen packets of cigarettes, but at a considerable loss. It had been the only way to keep the Azulito interested. Dick would make up the difference later on. The guard returned to the emergency exit and Nacho swung his legs back across the wall, jumping down onto the far side. He would wait out of sight until the journalist had completed his reconnaissance.

  Dick had moved to the innermost edge of the window, so he could see the back end of the hall. On the platform towards the rear there was a wooden podium; and resting on top of it was a small brown object. Dick strained to see what it was. Then he blinked in astonishment.

  The beam of a torch swept abruptly across the edge of the passageway and he was forced to duck down below the frame of the window as a shaft of light hit the back of the gate. Night falls quickly in San Doloroso – the daylight had all but evaporated now – but that would not protect him from the glare of the torch. Perhaps the guard had seen a flash of movement as he swung the light around. Dick held his breath, waiting for the axe to fall, but after a long hesitation the guard lost interest and moved back into the courtyard. Dick stayed where he was, breathing rapidly, half–expecting the guard to reappear. But after five minutes, he steeled himself and crawled back onto his knees. He lifted his head and peered in through the window a second time.

  He had not been mistaken. As a journalist, Dick is always careful not to jump to conclusions. It might well have been any urn resting on top of the wooden podium. He had, after all, never seen the object confiscated by the Metropolitan Police back in October. But on this occasion, there was no doubt in his mind.

  Dick had found the ashes of Juanita Malone. And they were in the hands of the Azulitos.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The shaman clutched the top of the vase and let loose a torrent of booming Escoria. Dick struggled to follow the words. The shaman was speaking an ancient and unfamiliar form of the language. A Spanish speaker resident in Britain would probably have had the same difficulty trying to make sense of untranslated Chaucer. The few words he did manage to pick out related to the spirit world and some sort of supernatural ‘influence’. This fitted in with what little Dick knew of Escoria religious practices. An ancient ritual was being performed and the Azulitos were taking it very seriously indeed.

  There had always been a strong religious component to the Azulitos’ behaviour. Dick’s meeting with Emanuel Cabrón had only served to underline the point. Miguel Vicente Ladrón had capitalised on it when he had first established the militia. To understand the Azulitos, you needed an understanding of the pre–Hispanic religion of the Escoria. Dick racked his brains, painfully aware of his own ignorance in this respect.

  As he understood it, the Escoria believed that the spirits of the dead remained on Earth, tied forever to their own decomposing corpses. The living were nothing more than puppets, the mindless embodiment of the will of their ancestors. The closer the familial bond, the greater the influence.

  The ashes inside the vase were – almost certainly – the mortal remains of my late mother, Juanita Malone. In the eyes of the Escoria, I was the embodiment of my mother’s will. And since they now had possession of her ashes – courtesy of Chief Inspector Lopez – somehow they also had possession of me. It was nonsense, of course, but a powerful nonsense. It does not do to underestimate the convictions of native people. The Azulitos believed they had some kind of supernatural influence over my actions. And that implied that I was in some way integral to their plans. Just like everyone else in San Doloroso, the men in blue wanted to make use of me for their own ends. And since the Azulitos were currently supporting the Partido Revolucionario Democrático, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

  Dick tried to dismiss the possibility from his mind. The election was too far gone. It would never work. And even if the Azulitos did have the power to swing the vote, there were other considerations. San Doloroso already had a government in place; a government that had no intention of relinquishing power.

  At the end of the ceremony, the Azulitos abandoned the hall and scattered in every conceivable direction. Within three minutes, the building was empty. There had been no post–ritual socialising. The men in blue had learnt the value of stealth. The hall itself had only recently been acquired from a disgruntled scoutmaster, whose younger brother had been beaten up by two off–duty soldiers.

  The last person to leave was Lopez’s brother. Before shutting up, he removed the urn from the pedestal and locked it away in a cupboard at the far end of the room. The building itself was then closed up and chain locked at the front. Security was limited to prevent drawing attention to the place. Nobody outside of the Azulito organisation would have any idea of the significance of the vase.

  When at last Lopez Senior had departed, Dick slipped out through the side gate and found a quiet spot to whistle for Nacho. The boy had been waiting outside all the while.

  ‘You any good at breaking and entering?’ Dick asked.

  General Federico Hernandez Malvado was sitting at his desk, studying some last minute documentation his officials had brought him. It was eleven o’clock in the evening. Charlotte McBride was sitting up in bed, naked under the cotton sheets, waiting with some irritation for her lover to join her. Malvado was too preoccupied to notice. He was shaking his head from side to side.

  Charlotte let out a growl. She slipped out of bed and moved across to the desk. Crouching down, she slid her arms over the general’s shoulders and across his chest. ‘Are you all right, Freddie?’

  Malvado grimaced. ‘According to this report, the Azulitos are putting up posters in support of the Partido Revolucionario Democrático.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘I thought you weren’t funding the Azulitos any more.’

  ‘We’re not.’ He frowned again.

  ‘So why would they be helping you out?’ Any votes given to the PRD were votes taken away from Antonio Fracaso. That could only be to the benefit of the government.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The general sounded perplexed. He lifted up a photocopy of one of the posters, which had been included in the report, and he stared at it irritably.

  ‘It can’t do you any harm, though, can it?’ Charlotte reflected. ‘Come to bed, darling. You’ve spent far too much time poring over all these dull papers. It can wait ‘till tomorrow.’

  Malvado nodded, looking up at her. ‘But I will find out what’s going on. One way or the other.’

  Isabella Valentía handed Dick a small brown envelope. It was early on Sunday morning and there was an eerie silence in the studios of Radio Libertad.

  The station had moved offices after the bomb attack in November. The new studios were smaller, but they were not as cramped as they might have been. There were fewer people working here now. An awful lot of Isabella’s friends had been killed in the blast.

  Dick had been nursing a hangover at the Intercontinental Hotel when Isabella had phoned him. He had driven straight over to the new building, where a man on the door had shown him through to the rather limited environs of Estudio C.

  ‘This was hand delivered at seven o’clock,’ Isabella said.

  Dick opened the envelope and pulled out a cassette tape. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An Azulito broadcast. I thought you might be able to shed some light on it.’

  She took the cassette out of the box and slotted it into a machine on the mixing desk. ‘I was in early, editing a short piece for tomorrow afternoon. This was passed straight to me.’ Isabella switched on the tape recorder.

  A calm, sinister voice filled the studio. Dick recognised it at once. It was Emanuel Cabrón, the Azulito leader he had interviewed back in Entierro. The man spoke with a grim precision. His message was simple: ‘The people of San Doloroso will vote for the Partido Revolucionario Democrático.’ Dick listened in bewilderment as Cabrón fleshed out his instructions. The party leader was described in some detail – ‘th
e white man with the dazed expression’ – and the colours of the party logo were specified, so that anybody might distinguish it on the ballot paper from Antonio Fracaso’s Freedom Party. The tape ended with an explicit threat. ‘If you don’t vote for the PRD, we will know and we will find you.’

  Isabella switched off the machine and for a moment there was silence. ‘What do you make of that?’

  Dick shrugged. ‘It’s barking mad. But I can’t say I’m surprised. The Azulitos have been putting up posters all over the place, supporting the PRD.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ said Isabella. She frowned, reaching forward and retrieving the cassette. ‘I’d probably be horrified if the whole thing wasn’t so ridiculous.’

  ‘You said it, love.’ Dick chuckled. ‘I think he must have fallen off that pyramid and banged his head.’ The ceremony with the vase hinted at some kind of religious fervour underpinning this new strategy. There was certainly no rational justification that he could see. ‘Did anyone else get a tape?’

  Isabella nodded. ‘I was on the phone while you were driving over. The same recording has been received in at least half a dozen local radio stations, right across the provinces. It’s probably being broadcast throughout the entire country even as we speak.’ The Azulitos wouldn’t need to force anybody to put the tape on the air. They had friends in every town and village.

  Dick chuckled to himself. “Vote for Patrick Malone, or else...” ‘Man, this country gets crazier every day!’

  Isabella was less amused. In the last couple of months she had been imprisoned by the Metropolitan Police and seen her office reduced to rubble. Now she was looking very tired.

  ‘You should take a bit of a break, after the election,’ Dick suggested sympathetically. ‘Go down to the coast. Have a few days off.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ Isabella admitted.

  ‘El Paraíso’s nice this time of year.’ He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘You deserve it, love. You’re doing a great job.’

  She nodded. ‘Do you want a copy of the tape?’

  Dick grinned. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’ He reached into his satchel and pulled out a blank C90. ‘So what does your boss think? Is Radio Libertad going to broadcast it?’

  Isabella shook her head. ‘Not the whole thing, anyway. It’s too inflammatory. We’d be giving the Junta just the excuse they were looking for. But there’s no reason why we can’t broadcast a few extracts.’

  ~ ~ ~

  It was just after six o’clock when the motorbike arrived. I was dressed and waiting at the window. The time had finally come for me to leave the safe house and make my way to the British Embassy. I had already been fully briefed. One of Fracaso’s men had taken me through the documentation that afternoon. I would present myself to the commission and formally withdraw from the election. First of all, however, I had to get into the embassy.

  The Mexican Consulate was sending two delegates to attend the briefing. I would be smuggled into the boot of their car and would accompany the delegates, without their knowledge, into the embassy grounds. After that, I could walk up to the main house and demand admittance.

  The chauffeur employed by the Mexicans to drive them around was a local fellow who had proved eminently corruptible. Antonio Fracaso had thought of everything.

  I hopped onto the back of the motorbike and was driven to a nearby gas station. We arrived there at six forty–two pm. Once the chauffeur had picked up his officials, he pulled the car in for petrol as arranged. That was ten minutes later. The passengers wouldn’t be suspicious. It wasn’t unusual to stop for gas. The Mexican Embassy was quite a way out of town and limousines need an awful lot of fuel.

  The chauffeur got out of the car, unlocked the petrol cap and then went round the back to open up the boot. I had been dressed as a petrol station attendant. A gaggle of other attendants – all Fracaso’s men – had me surrounded at the rear of the vehicle. I slid into the boot without being seen and the lid was closed down on top of me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The British Embassy was a hive of activity. The staff were stretched to breaking point, preparing for the arrival of the Electoral Commission and assorted observers from the international community. There were rooms to prepare, tables to set up, paperwork to organise, seating arrangements to be finalised. On top of all that, a small contingent of journalists had to be entertained for two whole hours while the officials were in conference.

  Charlotte McBride had arrived early. She was a friend of the Ambassador’s wife, Louisa, and had come to the embassy to provide moral support; as well as – unofficially – to attend the briefing on behalf of her boyfriend. General Malvado had other spies, but it never hurt to have somebody close on the inside. Malvado himself was excluded from the briefing. As with the gentlemen of the press, he would have to wait to discover the commission’s verdict. In point of fact, Charlotte had barely seen him all day. He was too busy working. Something about ‘contingency plans’, he had said. He had been rather distant of late. Preoccupied with the election, no doubt.

  David Finch, the British Ambassador, was also somewhat distracted. A tall, nervous man with ginger hair, he wore a constant frown on an otherwise handsome face. Finch had no time to greet Charlotte properly. There were too many last minute arrangements to make. ‘It’s appalling,’ he complained. ‘How am I supposed to organise a meeting on this scale with only a skeleton staff?’ The embassy was an opulent former colonial building occupying a fair chunk of land in a city location, but budget cuts had reduced the human population to an absolute minimum. ‘We even had to employ some local staff to provide the buffet,’ he lamented. ‘It’s so demeaning.’

  ‘Don’t get so uptight,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s no big deal. All they need is one room with lots of chairs for a meeting and a couple of bottles of wine for afterwards.’

  Finch was not reassured. ‘I wish it was that simple. But there’s all the documentation to distribute. The press to organise. And on top of all that the air–conditioning system keeps breaking down.’

  ‘David. Everything will be fine. There’s no point getting your knickers in a twist.’ Charlotte squeezed his arm gently. ‘Just enjoy it.’

  The Ambassador stared at her blankly.

  Dick Carter had given Nacho a fair amount of money and some explicit instructions. If they couldn’t get an interview with an Azulito leader, they could at least recover the ashes of Juanita Malone, on behalf of her son.

  A distant cousin had driven the boy out to Ardiente with his older brother, as arranged. Nacho had suggested bringing Ignacio along. It was a quick job but it required an expert hand and Ignacio was much the better pick lock.

  The scout hut was empty when they arrived. The Azulitos had other things on their mind this evening. It wasn’t difficult to force a window and slip inside the building. The interior was spacious, but it was dusty and neglected. Apart from the odd religious ceremony, the building was unused.

  Silently, the two lads made their way across to the cupboard at the far end of the hall and Ignacio bent down to examine the lock. It was a standard metal padlock. The twelve-year–old was able to spring it open in less than ten seconds. He grinned and pulled the doors apart. Ignacio had had a lot of practise at this sort of thing.

  Nacho reached inside the cupboard and removed the brown vase. Remains such as these were venerated by the Escoria but to the young boy they were just another way of earning money. He stuffed the urn into Dick’s holdall and held the torch as Ignacio proceeded to re–lock the cupboard.

  With luck, no one would even notice it was missing.

  There were soldiers lining the road outside the entrance to the embassy. The avenida was a one–way street and the soldiers were stopping cars in the vicinity to check for unauthorised personnel. The press were no exception. Dick was stopped as soon as he turned into the road. He switched off the engine and wound down the window. A young soldier peered in and shone a torch over the back seat; then he demanded to see
Dick’s ID and press pass.

  Only twenty journalists had been invited to the embassy that evening. The invitations had been strictly rationed, for security reasons.

  The soldier returned Dick’s ID and he restarted the car. The iron gates of the embassy swung open and he stopped a second time to flash his pass at the British official on the gate. The man checked the invitation closely.

  ‘All right, mate,’ he said. ‘Follow the building round to the left and park down there.’ The media were being kept separate from the important people. Dick’s yellow Beetle would not be allowed to share a parking space with any of the limousines and he would be expected to enter the embassy from the rear. Journalists are invariably treated as second-class citizens.

  The meeting was scheduled to last for two hours. Stuck on the outside, there would be quite a wait before anything interesting happened. The dignitaries were only just arriving. Food had at least been provided. Dick greeted a few of his colleagues – including Daniel Parr, the veteran Daily Herald correspondent – and poured himself a glass of wine in a disposable plastic cup.

  Daniel had just returned to San Doloroso after a long convalescence in Costa Rica. He had not quite recovered from his injuries – he was making his way around on crutches now – but his determination to cover the climax of the election was admirable. It was only right that the Daily Herald should have somebody on the spot who was not actually participating in the election.

  On the opposite side of the reception area, Charlotte was talking to the Ambassador’s wife. She was dressed in a long velvet gown, split to the hip with a plunging neckline. Her hair, unusually, was long and free.