Soldier K: Mission to Argentina

by David Monnery

  In the back seat Isabel was, as far as he could judge, breathing more or less normally. It was time to wake her up. He took her hand and gently squeezed it. Her eyes opened, and her other hand went lazily up to brush her hair away from them. Then she saw him, and awareness came flooding back. Her shoulder began to ache. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘Calafate. Just outside. I want to get us off the street and out of sight, and I need to know if you can walk OK.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t shot in the legs.’

  He helped her out of the car, and she took a few unsteady steps. ‘I do feel weak,’ she admitted.

  ‘Eat this,’ he said, giving her a small piece of chocolate from his emergency rations. ‘It may make you buzz a bit.’

  It did, but she felt stronger. ‘Where are the others?’ she asked.

  ‘On the road to Puerto Natales. They’re going to get as close as they can, then walk across into Chile.’

  ‘And you stayed behind for me.’ It was not so much a question as an expression of surprise.

  ‘We try not to leave men behind,’ he said, ‘let alone women.’

  She gave him a strange look, and tried walking a few more paces. As long as she put no demands on her upper body there was no extra pain. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, walking round and manœuvring herself slowly into the vacant front seat.

  Docherty got in behind the wheel. ‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘That’s good. Where did you stay?’

  ‘The Hospedaje del Glaciar. On the lake. I’ll show you.’

  He started the car, and she guided him through the empty streets of the town, and down the slight slope to the lake, where several hotels seemed to be fighting for the best view. One, slightly removed from the rest, was built on a small peninsula which jutted out into the lake. It was painted white, had two storeys, and boasted a wide verandah overlooking the still waters.

  They left the Renault in the small car park behind the hotel, and rang the old-fashioned bell hanging by the front door. It all felt more than a little unreal to Docherty: less than twelve hours had passed since he had left the OP overlooking the Rio Gallegos airbase.

  A plump woman with a huge mane of black hair opened the door, and her scowl-in-waiting changed instantly to a smile when she saw Isabel.

  The two women hugged, and Docherty saw Isabel wince with pain, but she betrayed nothing. ‘Do you have a room for us for the weekend?’ she asked. ‘My fiancé and I,’ she added, introducing Docherty by the first name that came into her head – Franco. ‘He has come to stay with me in Rio Gallegos for a couple of weeks.’

  She took a deep breath, and Docherty was afraid she was in danger of collapsing. ‘We have been driving most of the night,’ he explained, ‘and Isabel is very tired. Could she lie down, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I’m exhausted,’ Isabel confirmed.

  The woman, whose name was Rosa, showed them up to one of the rooms which led out onto the verandah overlooking the lake. It was sparsely furnished but scrupulously clean.

  ‘Breakfast is at eight,’ she said, and left them.

  Isabel sat down unsteadily on the side of the bed with a heartfelt sigh of relief, and tried to bring her legs up so she could lie down. It was harder than she expected. ‘Can you help me?’ she asked Docherty.

  ‘First, I want to look at your wound,’ he said.

  ‘It feels OK,’ she said.

  ‘No arguments.’

  She relented and sat patient-like on the side of the bed.

  ‘I’ll need to take off the blouse,’ he said.

  ‘This is one of those highly ambivalent scenes, isn’t it?’ she said, as he started to peel off her blouse. ‘You take off my clothes and I wonder if your motives are purely medical.’

  Docherty smiled. ‘There’s nothing ambivalent about it at all,’ he said. ‘My motives for taking off your clothes on this occasion are purely medical. And if I start taking them off on some other occasion there won’t be any ambivalence there either,’ he added. ‘I think you’re an extraordinary woman. And very sexy too.’

  He examined the entry and exit wounds carefully, trying to be true to his words and not to get distracted by the swell of her breasts beneath the brassière.

  ‘You’re not what I expected, either,’ she said. He was not exactly good-looking, but there was something about the man that she responded to. Maybe she had finally cracked, she thought sourly.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any infection,’ he said, ‘but some hot water wouldn’t be a bad idea. If there is any,’ he added, looking round.

  ‘There is,’ she said. It was all in her never-to-be-published guide.

  He soaked a convenient flannel and did as he had said, then helped her into a horizontal position and covered her with all the blankets he could find.

  It was gone eight, and he felt ravenous. First, though, he badly needed a shower.

  Ten minutes later he was reluctantly putting the same dirty clothes back on a clean body. He would have asked her whether she wanted him to bring her any breakfast, but she was asleep again, her hand across her face as if to ward off a blow.

  Mozza woke himself with his watch alarm an hour before dawn, and spent it thawing himself out before a rekindled fire. His feet seemed no worse than the previous morning, which he supposed was the most he could have hoped for. After boiling water for tea he doused the fire, cleared up his camp-site, and sipped from the cone as the dawn lit the roof of the forest above him.

  The first hour’s walk had him following the lower tree line round the upper slopes of a wide, moorland valley. The sky was not as clear as on the previous day, but there were still large patches of blue between the floating cumulus. The stream flowed into the valley from the west, and Mozza followed it back up into the forest, climbing alongside it for about three miles, until the trees suddenly cleared and he found himself confronting a large, silver-blue lake, surrounded on all sides by snow-capped hills. Two birds that looked suspiciously like eagles were drawing lazy circles in the sky above.

  The lake stretched about six miles from east to west, between half a mile and a mile from north to south. It had an air of utter stillness, and working his way along its southern shore Mozza felt his mind settling into some sort of ease for the first time since the fire-fight at the airbase.

  Every now and then he came across evidence of past human activity: a crumbling section of fence, a burnt-out fishing lodge, wooden piles that had once supported a jetty. The land had rejected them all, sent their creators scurrying back to the comfort of cities.

  Almost halfway down the lake a narrow promontory leading out into the lake looked custom-made for fishing. Mozza cut himself a rod, attached his line, and impaled several berries from an overhanging tree on the hook. Then he cast the line and settled down to wait, keeping watchful eyes and ears on the world around him.

  He did not have long to wait. Within a minute a medium-sized trout had taken the lure and been landed. Mozza cut it open and dutifully examined the contents of its stomach to check what bait he should be using, but it hardly seemed to matter. Another trout almost leapt out onto the shore to join him.

  The temptation to cook them there and then was strong, but self-discipline prevailed. He walked on, allowing himself to dwell for the first time on the events of the night before last. He supposed Brookes and Stanley were dead, and though he could not say he had ever felt close to either of them, they had both been damn good soldiers.

  Whatever that meant, an inner voice murmured.

  He had always assumed that he could kill someone when the need arose, that when the moment came to turn the exercises and simulations and techniques into real combat he would find that switch which released him from moral inhibitions. Now he was not so sure. He had learnt silent killing techniques at Hereford like everyone else, and he was as technically adept as Stanley had been. But he was not sure whether h
e could have cut that guard’s throat the way Stanley had.

  And he was no longer sure he wanted to be able to do it. Shooting someone in self-defence was one thing; taking someone out in cold blood was another. But what did that mean? That he needed to look for another line of work? Maybe he did.

  The road ran in alternating curves along the upper slope of a huge valley. To their right, at least 20 miles away, the far slopes were bathed in light, but the sun had yet to reach the depths in between. Almost directly ahead of them, and also far distant, a town nestled at the head of either a lake or an arm of the sea. ‘Puerto Natales,’ Ben said. ‘We’re about seven miles away from El Turbio,’ he added, examining the map again. ‘Sounds like a bandit who named himself after an engine. Anyway, I think we can start looking for somewhere to turn off.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Razor said dryly, ‘but a bit on the late side.’

  Ben looked up.

  ‘About half a mile ahead,’ Razor explained. ‘You’ll see it when we round the next curve.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Ben murmured. It was not really a question.

  ‘A road block. A couple of vehicles and a few Johnny Gauchos.’

  The next curve brought it back into view. A military lorry and a jeep had been arranged in an inverted V at a particularly favourable location. On one side of the road a solid rock wall prevented the block’s circumvention; on the other was a precipitous grassy slope.

  About a dozen troops seemed to be rapidly organizing themselves at the approach of their car.

  ‘How wide do you think that gap is?’ Razor asked conversationally, his foot pressing down on the accelerator.

  Ben looked in disbelief at the fast-approaching roadblock. Two hundred yards, 150 … ‘About a foot,’ he said, ‘for Christ’s sake …’

  ‘Not the one in the middle,’ Razor said calmly, as the troops began raising their weapons, and his right hand eased down on the steering wheel.

  Ben watched the valley loom towards them, hardly noticing the bullets which made two holes in the windscreen and passed between their heads, and felt his neck almost yanked from his body as the car surfed past the outer edge of the jeep, its right-side wheels scrambling for a hold and seeming to spend an eternity in finding one.

  ‘That gap,’ Razor said calmly.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Ben said.

  The roadblock was shrinking in the rear mirror, but he did not slacken his speed. They went down one long, sweeping curve and then another.

  ‘Trees,’ Razor said.

  A quarter of a mile ahead of them the road descended into the fringes of a coniferous forest. From their bird’s-eye view they could see where logging operations had exposed a number of bald patches in the tree cover.

  ‘Time to melt into them,’ Ben said.

  They were half a mile into the forest when Razor found what he was looking for – a tight curve over a steep and already logged slope. ‘This’ll do,’ he said, slamming on the brakes, and reversing back up the hill.

  ‘Out,’ he told Ben, who dutifully obliged.

  Razor accelerated forward. The VW was going about 20 miles per hour when he slammed the clutch into neutral and hurled himself out onto the road. He rolled over several times and scrambled to his feet, just in time to see the car disappear over the edge.

  Ben was already running down the slope to his right, headed for the cover of the trees, and Razor raced after him, listening to the VW’s passage, which sounded rather like a large animal breaking through underbrush. It ended suddenly with a satisfying explosion.

  ‘I thought they were supposed to be indestructible,’ Razor said breathlessly, as he caught up with Ben some 20 yards inside the trees.

  This is far enough,’ Ben told him.

  The two men put tree trunks between themselves and the road and waited for the pursuit to catch up. It was less than half a minute behind them. A jeep jammed with troops pulled up on the bend above, and voices floated down through the clear morning air. The word ‘loco’ seemed much in evidence to Razor, but he might have been imagining it.

  Whoever was in command showed no urgent inclination to send anyone down after the VW, let alone mount a proper search. Taking one curve on two wheels had obviously implanted the possibility of such an accident in the Argentinian commander’s mind. As far as he was concerned, the SAS men were dead until proved otherwise.

  The lorry arrived, picked up all but two of the men, and continued on its way.

  The two SAS men breathed a sigh of relief. Though they were confident they could have outrun the opposition in rough country if necessary, a stroll in the sunshine was certainly more fun without armed pursuit.

  Above them the pair of soldiers left behind with the jeep talked and smoked a leisurely cigarette before reluctantly clambering over the rim of the slope and disappearing from sight. Ben gave them a minute and then went up to check that there was no radio in the jeep.

  ‘No,’ he told Razor on his return. ‘Chile, here we come,’ he added, examining the map.

  ‘More haste is a friend indeed,’ Razor said wisely.

  After eating breakfast Docherty stretched out on the bed beside Isabel, set the alarm on his watch and slept for four hours. He awoke feeling more tired than when he had gone to bed, and took another shower. Isabel was still asleep, but her face seemed more childlike, more at ease. She was about Chrissie’s size, he thought, maybe an inch taller. He took the money from her shoulder bag and went out looking for new clothes for both of them.

  Calafate looked like any tourist town out of season – half-asleep. Most of the few shops seem closed, either for the weekend or the off season, but on Calle 25 de Mayo he managed to find one selling clothes and camping equipment. The prices seemed extortionate, but he consoled himself with the thought that MI6 was paying. He bought a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, a sweater, spare socks and underwear for himself, and a couple of T-shirts and a sweater for Isabel. She already had a change of clothes, and if she wanted anything else one of them could always come back. He had only spent a quarter of the money.

  He stopped off for a hamburger and coffee at an empty café, and watched the street through the window. He had not seen a policeman or soldier since leaving the hotel, and wondered how much longer they would be safe in Calafate. He guessed the Argentinians would be concentrating their search in the immediate area of Rio Gallegos, at least until they had reason to look elsewhere. Eventually though, they would connect the woman the guard had seen to the missing Isabel, and then the hunt for her car would begin. Luckily the car park of their hotel was out of sight from any road. They would have to be doing a rigorous check of all the hotels to find it.

  He wondered how Razor and Ben were getting on and looked at his watch. It was midday – there was a good chance they would have reached the border by this time. The Cup Final was kicking off too, he realized, smiling to himself.

  He finished the coffee and paid the cheque to a friendly young woman. He liked Latin America, he decided. Mexico had not been a one-off.

  Back at the hotel he left the clothes and went out again. They needed an escape route, or preferably two – one to use in their own sweet time and one for emergencies. The tourist office was closed, but maps of the town and the province were displayed in its window. He spent ten minutes drawing rough copies and fending off offers of help from the locals.

  Then he followed the town map to the Plaza San Martin, and walked uphill to the top of the long Calle Perito Moreno. From there he had a breathtaking view of the distant Andes, and the blue-green Lago Argentina stretching away from the town towards the mountains’ feet.

  It occurred to him for the first time that one way out of Calafate was by boat.

  Isabel woke in the empty room of the Hospedaje del Glaciar and thought for one horrible moment that she was back in a cell. It was the light, she decided, or the lack of it. Her cell at the Naval Mechanical School had been dazzlingly bright with the fluorescent light on, perpetual twilight with it off. There had bee
n no real night – only nightmares.

  She climbed slowly off the bed, expecting a sharper pain than the one she received. It was healing well, she decided. There was nothing wrong with her body’s recuperative powers. By the next day there would be little more than stiffness.

  She pulled one of the curtains, and found the lake stretching away from her towards a distant line of blue hills. As she turned, the pile of bags by the door caught her attention, and she walked slowly across to investigate. He had been clothes-shopping! And for her, too. The thick sweater, a deep burgundy red, would suit her. She carried it across to the mirror and held it up in front of her.

  Christ, she looked a wreck, she thought. Her eyes were like bruises in a ghost’s face. She looked like someone who had just been shot, she thought, and laughed. It transformed her face. She was feeling good, she realized with surprise. Despite it all she was feeling good. Something somewhere had snapped. Some exorcism had taken place.

  She wondered where the Englishman was now. Docherty, that was his name. She tried it out loud: ‘Dokker-tee’. And he was a Scotsman, not an Englishman. They were touchy about such things. And she liked him.

  Christ, what was she thinking? She had known him for less than twenty-four hours, and all she knew about the man was that he thought well on his feet, killed people efficiently and seemed to possess that streak of mad gallantry which often went with being one of the most unreconstructed macho bastards on the planet.

  Just like Francisco, she thought, and she had forgiven him everything because of his beauty and his politics and his ability to be tender. Well, Mr Docherty was not beautiful, his politics were likely to be conservative-verging-on-fascist, and she would probably never know how tender he could be.

  But she did like him. There was something about him, some sadness maybe, which seemed incredibly human.

  It was probably the snoring that had woken him, Wacko thought. He was in what looked like a hospital room, and directly in front of him, seated beside the door, a guard with an automatic rifle was dozing with his mouth wide open.