Special Deliverance

by Special Deliverance (retail) (epub)

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘According to the BBC, a lot of ’em have been hitting ship: and not exploding. Occurred to me this might be your line of work.’

  ‘No.’ Cloudsley shook his head. ‘Some other bugger’s, maybe. You wouldn’t need to drill holes, you could change the settings on a hell of a lot of bombs in a few hours’ work if you could get at ’em… Anyway, Tom — we did our job, in two nights and just the nick of time — bloody lucky. But the second night, instead of a nice, orderly withdrawal before dawn, the Argies started work exceptionally early, and there we were — stuck…’

  Strobie was absorbed in it. But Andy, listening to Cloudsley and Beale recalling the highlights of their withdrawal action, was thinking at least as much about the local crisis. It seemed distinctly posible that the SBS firefight up north might be linked — by Diaz — whose hawk eyes and predatory habits had earned him that nickname of El Carancho — with the Huyez disappearances. Which could be extremely unfortunate. He agreed with Cloudsley: the sooner they could get out of here, the better.

  He’d got back in the small hours of the morning and found Strobie waiting up for him, already half full of whiskey and primed by Señora Torres with the information that Francisca had called through on the radio and spoken to him just before he’d taken off on horseback. Strobie had been twitching with anxiety, and the first part of their talk had been acrimonious; then he’d quieted down, and they’d sat discussing it over a steady flow of whiskey until well after dawn. To start with he hadn’t intended telling the whole thing, but it had come out all the same. In fact there’s been some relief in talking about it. He’d described the conversation with Francisca and his reasons for agreeing to ride over to the estancia, and how Juan and Paco Huyez had been getting set to kill him. He described also, factually and as unemotionally as he could make it, killing Huyez with the meathook.

  Strobie’s mask of a face expressionless as ever, only the eyes reacting…

  ‘That was self-defence, wasn’t murder. Need to be able to prove it, of course… But what about Paco?’

  ‘I pressured him into telling me what had happened. He was in a mess — scared to a jelly. So it wasn’t difficult. He saw me here that day — you were right, Tom — and told his father. Juan radio’d the information to Robert at the airbase, and Robert told him he’d fix for me to visit the estancia. He didn’t say how he’d do it, just that I’d definitely be coming. I was to be locked in a store in the meathouse until Robert could get home in a few weeks’ time. Incidentally, I’d have frozen to death long before that. Juan said he might allow me a blanket, and Paco asked why bother, why not let him freeze? Oh — they both took it absolutely for granted I’d come to see Francisca, there was no thought in their heads that I might have been in the Argentine for any other purpose. They gave me the impression they knew she and I once – you know, had something going.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be any secret.’ Strobie nodded. ‘It’s had plenty of time to hatch out. We’re objects of interest to them, you know, we gringos.’

  ‘Robert had also told Juan Huyez he wouldn’t mind if they killed me. If I had an accident, Paco said. In fact his father had thought this was what Robert really wanted. In return for the favour of knocking me off Huyez would get a piece of my share of the farm — as promised years back by the old bitch? So it was an attractive proposition for them — and as I’m here clandestinely, who’d know? Obviously Robert told or asked Francisca to issue the invitation — whether she did it voluntarily, or if he had some way he could make her do it — well, to be frank, Tom, I wasted some time wondering about that, but now it doesn’t seem to make a hell of a lot of difference.’

  Francisca’s involvement wouldn’t be easy for Tom to take, and Andy had foreseen this, it had been part of the reason he hadn’t wanted to spell it all out.

  ‘So what did you do then, with Paco?’

  He looked down at his whisky. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it bloody matters!’

  He nodded. ‘What I meant was, is it necessary for me to tell you – making you an accessory after the fact?’

  ‘I’ve been an accessory after more facts than you’ve had hot dinners, boy. And I have to live here now, with the effects of whatever it is you’ve done. When you skid out of here with our chums I’m left with the remains and the stink — right?’

  ‘I — suppose…’ Of course he hadn’t meant ‘the remains and the stink’ quite literally. He’d meant he didn’t want to have to guess this way or that when splinters of truth began emerging from the wound; which in the long run was inevitable.

  ‘I couldn’t leave him walking around, Tom. He’d already done enough harm. Including trying to murder me. Now he’d seen me kill his father.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You won’t want detail. All I need tell you is — well, when hey find him they’ll conclude he went off his head and murdered his father, then did away with himself.’ Andy met the old man’s stare — one wide-open eye, the other hooded… ‘From the way Paco did it, Tom, nobody’ll ever doubt he died mad.’

  The working eye closed now: a slow blink… ‘My bloody oath.’ He’d whispered it. Raising his glass, swigging whisky: a gesture like a toast… He muttered, ‘There’ve been times, boy, I thought you might be — well, a wee bit soft-centred. For your own good. I thought it was what she saw when she went over to bloody Robert. Wouldn’t want to offend you, Andy—’

  ‘You won’t, don’t worry.’

  He’d felt the same. After she’d thrown him over he’d become more than ever conscious of it. Thinking now, ironically, It’s an ill wind… Strobie said, half to himself, ‘And there wasn’t a damn thing else you could’ve done. Except get knocked off yourself, or caught — and leave me and your chums in the soup…’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  ‘Thanking me?’

  ‘For seeing straight. I suppose you always did.’

  ‘Bloody hope so… But let’s see what we’ve got here…’

  Practicalities. What evidence existed or did not exist, who else might know or suspect he’d been over there. How Francisca might react when she heard what had happened; what Robert might do when he heard… If he was tied up in his naval duties he might either send her down, or hand the problems over to Diaz. That was quite a large question on its own, whether either of them would want her father to know about it: whether the fact they’d conspired to murder — private, family murder — would be something to be withheld from a specialist in State-sponsored murder. But the Diaz/MacEwan guidelines would surely — they agreed — hang on politics and self-interest, not ethics.

  It had been broad daylight when Andy had finally gone to get some sleep. He’d stopped at the bedroom door: ‘I’ll have to decide what to do for the rest of this waiting period, Tom, won’t I? I mean, wait here, or what… ? Now she knows I’m here, and that I know about her…’ Another thought seemed to clarify itself: ‘I think she will spill it all to her father.’

  ‘Not sure I agree.’ Strobie was thinking clearly, unaffected by having drunk at least one whole bottle on his own. ‘But what we’ll do, Andy, is we’ll move you out to one of the puestos down south. You can stay out of sight there until your chums show up.’

  *

  Cloudsley finished, ‘So Tony put the thing down on Diaz land. About six miles northeast of the Sandrini corner, it turned out.’ He glanced at Beale. ‘Having done a fantastic job, I may say. They’ll find it, but with luck not for a while, conditions being as they are, and in any case it won’t lead them this way, Tom. The line of flight was nearer eastward, and also it’s where it got to before it ran out of gas — which they’ll know… But Andy, look — I don’t know if you caught on — about your brother?’

  ‘Would have been him trying to take off?‘

  ‘Most likely. Almost certainly. I’d guess that plane’s guns weren’t armed, so he’d have reckoned on the napalm as his only effective weapon, and to use it on us he
had to get airborne.’ Cloudsley frowned. ‘As I explained before, we weren’t there to kill anyone — let alone him. For what it’s worth’ — his glance took in Beale again — ‘we’re sorry.’

  They weren’t to know that Robert had tried to have him killed. He wondered whether Francisca, when she heard, would see the joke.

  Beale muttered, ‘Geoff gone to sleep in the tub, d’you reckon?’

  A more important consideration than Francisca’s appreciation of black humour was that other one — whether she’d tell her father that Andrés MacEwan had been holed-up at Strobie’s. Because if she did, here at Tom Strobie’s was where the hunt would start. He could imagine it happening: helos landing out there in the yard, Diaz-type troops running from them, battering on doors…

  ‘Tom — when we pull out tonight — what about you?’

  ‘I’ll be on my own again. Take an extra glass or two.’

  ‘If Diaz’s thugs arrive and put the screws on your people — Torres and his wife, and Félix, and plenty of others must have seen us?’

  The Halloween mask showed nothing. Even the eyes in it were calm. Strobie said, ‘None of ’em’d tell the bastards anything. They’re idiotic enough to be fond of me… Be a good chap, see how the stew’s doing?’

  Anyone could give way under torture: most people would and the threat of it enough. He gave the stew a stir: it smelt good and it seemed to be hot all the way through. He thought some of Strobie’s quiet confidence might arise from his devoion to Francisca. Even now, after last night. Knowing she’d been ready to cut Andy MacEwan’s throat but not believing she’d do the same to old Tom? Maybe not daring to believe it. You had to have something, and he didn’t have much else. Didn’t, for instance, have any other place to go, any other way he’d want to live or reason to want to go on living if he couldn’t continue exactly as he was now.

  He went back to the others. Cloudsley’s quick glance round revealing the man’s anxiety, impatience to be on the move… I’d say it’s about ready, Tom.’

  *

  They’d eaten it all, Cloudsley was in the bath and the other two had turned in, when Señora Torres came to summon Strobie to the radio. A call from BA — from Señora MacEwan…

  It rocked the old man, for a moment. Behind him, Andy felt his hackles rise.

  ‘I’ll be right along. Thank you.’ He pushed the door shut, looked round at Andy. ‘Now what…’ That headshake, like a twitch… ‘Come over with me. You can listen in.’

  There was a spare set of headphones. He leant against the wall with a hand up to hold them in place — the spring had gone, probably about forty years ago — while Tom sat at the desk and used the speaker and its two-way switch.

  ‘Hello? Francisca?’

  ‘Tom, my dear, how are you?’

  Her voice was surprisingly clear. And warm, affectionate. It made his skin crawl. The same voice; and behind it — Christ… Strobie, however, had his head in the noose, he was talking to the Francisca he’d known and loved for years now like a favourite daughter and maybe a little more than that, too… ‘—got through to me from BA? How long did it take you, a week?’

  That soft laugh… ‘They let me use an official line, the naval link. Quite quick, I’m pampered, you see… Tom, have you heard about all this trouble?’

  ‘I heard your mayordomo and his kid have left home. She called me, this morning, thought the boy might be here, which he is not.’

  ‘She called me too, they had it transferred from the base so she came on navlink too. She’d been trying to get through to Roberto, and there’s some upset there; they wouldn’t let her speak to him. She was in a panic, doesn’t know which way to turn; so I said I’d get on to Roberto and have him contact her, but it was the same for me, Tom! No outside calls; I shouldn’t have been connected, I was told. I said I was connected because I’m privileged to use navlink, perhaps you didn’t understand me, I am Señora MacEwan and I wish to speak to my husband, your commanding officer! I regret, señora, this person says, it is not possible, we have — I think he said a “war situation” here, an emergency, blah, blah… I told him, don’t bullshit me, if you won’t connect me with my husband I’ll telephone my father, Rear-Admiral Diaz, you can explain yourself to him… You hearing this, Tom?’

  Strobie grunted. ‘Sounds rum…’

  ‘So then this man — an NCO, I believe — says please señora, I only carry out my orders, but I will see if Lieutenant Rodriguez is available, he may be able to assist… So I wait, and finally I hear this Rodriguez person stuttering and stammering. I tell him, I don’t want apologies or excuses, I want to speak to my husband, what the hell’s going on anyway? He tells me first that Roberto is “not available”, then that he is not on the base all and he can’t tell me where he is, then — in strict confidence, he says — that Admiral Diaz is on his way there, flying from Mar del Plata via Comodoro Rivadavia, coming to “take charge”, he says. Take charge of what, I ask, what’s happening, for God’s sake? He says then, “It is a matter of grave emergency, señora, and I am not at liberty to say more”! So — finally — I tell him, kindly inform Admiral Diaz on his arrival that his daughter is waiting at his own residence in Buenos Aires and would like to hear from him at his earliest convenience… And that’s all I know, Tom, I’m just waiting… Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Nothing at all. But then, I wouldn’t. As you know, I live in this little hole—’

  ‘Might there be some connection with the Huyez affair? Whatever that’s about?’

  ‘I can’t imagine what connection—’

  ‘The way this Rodriguez spoke — I mean just guessing, from his manner — well, Roberto might be — I don’t know, sick, or—’

  ‘He may have been sent off on some special duty… But guessing’s no use, girl, just wait and—’

  ‘You see, I spoke to him only yesterday. He called to tell me he was leaving in two days. Going to the war zone. He had one final day in which he was expecting to be very busy, some kind of finale for his pilots, he was calling me while he had the time to spare. So you see, whatever this is it was unexpected, he didn’t know about it then!’

  ‘Like his move being brought forward? If they’d decided to rush his squadron to the Malvinas?’

  ‘You’re trying to comfort me, Tom, I know. But — honest truth, it sounded more like — disaster…’

  They heard her sigh. Andy wondering whether she’d regard it as a disaster if her darling Roberto had broken his neck, or been fried in napalm. Because if Robert was dead, and she was the woman he now knew her to be, and through Robert’s death now half-owner of the estancia — his own partner, for God’s sake…

  ‘Please God I’ll soon hear from my father. I’ll let you know, Tom… But meanwhile — Tom, a favour? Could you help Señora Huyez? She’s alone, in a bad state of panic, without her husband and unable to contact her patrón – she sounds desperate… So — could you look in there, Tom?’

  The pleading tone was the same one she’d turned on last evening. And Strobie was reacting as she’d have known he would — despite his aversion to showing his face in public.

  ‘Yes. I’ll take a run over there. Snowing a bit, I’ll use the pickup… But in the longer term, wouldn’t it be best for you to come yourself?’

  ‘I may have to, I know. Depending on what my father tells me. For the time being I have to stay here, of course, until I do hear from him… Tom, if you hear any news—’

  ‘That’s not likely. But I’m sure it can’t be as bad as—’

  ‘Then what’s this “matter of grave emergency”?

  She’d snapped that at him.

  Strobie said, ‘I wouldn’t try to explain it. Except — grave emergency in the Malvinas, maybe… Francisca, did you call through to us here last night?’

  Silence. Strobie glanced at Andy. Then her voice came guardedly, ‘Why on earth, Tom, should I have—’

  ‘Apparently Señora Torres took a call from someone who claimed to be Señora Mac
Ewan and wanted to talk to Andrés MacEwan.’

  ‘To — Andy?’

  Another pause… Then: ‘But that’s crazy. Surely he’s in England?’

  ‘But if you’d had some reason to think he might be here — and surely you’d be the first to know, any time he did contemplate—’

  ‘I think someone was playing a stupid joke. A hoax, Tom. Someone who knows about — you know, the old days?’

  ‘Apparently the caller sounded like you, but she was pretending to be speaking from Estancia La Madrugada. Señora Torres was sure you couldn’t be there without us knowing it, so she — had her doubts. Rightly — it couldn’t have been you — which is why I didn’t mention it before.‘

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of. I think they just rang off.’ He’d glanced at Andy again. ‘I don’t know, some silly hoax or—’

  ‘I was going to say — someone trying to make trouble, Tom. It would be best if nobody heard about it, don’t you agree? You know how fond I am of Andy, and you can’t be the only one who knows it, we do have enemies and — it’s Roberto I have in mind, Tom. If it was rumoured I’d had reason to think Andy might be there… D’you see?’

  ‘Roberto mighn’t be very pleased, you mean.’

  ‘So let’s not mention it, to anyone? Would you ask the same of Señora Torres, too?’

  Finishing the call, Strobie looked at Andy. ‘What did you make of that?’

  He put the antique headphones down. ‘What counts is she’s going to keep her mouth shut about me being here. Counting on you to give her the benefit of whatever doubts… Anyway, she may not tell Daddy.’

  Strobie had lurched over to the window. Leaning there, staring out at the driving snow. He swung round.

  ‘But he’s still coming. Not here, necessarily, but… Andy, look. In this weather he can’t do much. So you lot ought to get on the move while you can. And, she’s given me a good reason to be on the road — visiting the Huyez woman. I’ll pack you four in the pickup behind a load of fodder — and drop that off at my southeast puesto on the way back. That’s real too, they’ll be needing it. All right?’