Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

‘None,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’m a civilian scientist sent by the British Government. My work is with the weather.’

  The policeman smiled. ‘Or perhaps you are an American spy?’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Your friend is American. We must search him, too.’

  Hands were laid on Dawson and he struggled. ‘Take your filthy hands off me, you goddam black bastard,’ he shouted. The words meant nothing to the man searching him, but the tone of voice certainly did. A revolver jumped into his hand as though by magic and Dawson found himself staring into the muzzle.

  ‘You damn’ fool,’ said Wyatt. ‘Keep still and let them search you. They’ll turn us loose when they don’t find anything.’

  He almost regretted saying that when the policeman searching Dawson gave a cry of triumph and pulled an automatic from a holster concealed beneath Dawson’s jacket. His senior said, ‘Ah, we have armed Americans wandering the streets of St Pierre at a time like this. You will come with me—both of you.’

  ‘Now, look here—‘ began Wyatt, and stopped as he felt the muzzle of a gun poke into the small of his back. He bit his lip as the senior policeman waved them forward. ‘You bloody fool!’ he raged at Dawson. ‘Why the hell were you carrying a gun? Now we’re going to land in one of Serrurier’s gaols.’

  II

  Causton came out of the deep shadows very slowly and stared up the street to where the little group was hurrying away, then he turned and hurried back into the hotel and across the foyer. Mrs Warmington and Julie had just come in from the kitchen bearing more sandwiches and a pot of coffee, and Papegaikos was busy stacking bottles of soda-water on top of the bar counter.

  ‘Wyatt and Dawson have been nabbed by the police,’ he announced. ‘Dawson was carrying a gun and the coppers didn’t like it.’ He looked across at the Greek, who dropped his eyes.

  Julie put down the coffee-pot with a clatter. ‘Where have they been taken?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Causton. ‘Probably to the local lock-up—wherever that is. Do you know, Eumenides?’

  ‘La Place de la Libération Noire,’ said the Greek. He shook his head. ‘You won’t get them out of there.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Causton. ‘We’ll bloody well have to get them out—Wyatt had the rotor-arm of the car engine in his pocket, and now the cops have got it. The car’s useless without it.’

  Mrs Warmington said in a hard voice, ‘There are other cars.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Causton. ‘Do you have a car, Eumenides?’

  ‘I ‘ad,’ said Eumenides. ‘But the Army took all cars.’

  ‘It isn’t a matter of a car,’ said Julie abruptly. ‘It’s a matter of getting Dave and Dawson out of the hands of the police.’

  ‘We’ll do that, too; but a car’s a useful thing to have right now.’ Causton rubbed his cheek. ‘It’s a long way to the docks from here—a bloody long walk.’

  Eumenides shrugged. ‘We wan’ a car, not a sheep.’

  ‘Not a what?’ demanded Causton. ‘Oh—a ship! No, I want the British Consul—he lives down there. Maybe the power of the state allied to the power of the press will be enough to get Wyatt out of the jug—I doubt if I could do it on my own.’ He looked regretfully at the sandwiches. ‘I suppose the sooner I go, the sooner we can spring Wyatt and Dawson.’

  ‘You’ve got time for a quick coffee,’ said Julie. ‘And you can take a pocketful of sandwiches.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Causton, accepting the cup. ‘Does this place have cellars?’

  ‘No—no cellars,’ said Eumenides.

  ‘A pity,’ said Causton. He looked about the bar. ‘I think you’d better get out of here. This kind of party always leads to a lot of social disorganization and the first thing looters go for is the booze. This is one of the first places they’ll hit. I suggest you move up to the top floor for the time being; and a barricade on the stairs might be useful.’

  He measured the Greek with a cold eye. ‘I trust you’ll look after the ladies while I’m gone.’

  Eumenides smiled. ‘I see to ever’t’ing.’

  That was no satisfactory answer but Causton had to put up with it. He finished off the hot coffee, stuffed some sandwiches into his pocket and said, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can—with Wyatt, I hope.’

  ‘Don’t forget Mr Dawson,’ said Mrs Warmington.

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ said Causton drily. ‘Don’t leave the hotel; the party’s split up enough as it is.’

  Eumenides said suddenly, ‘Rawst’orne ‘as a car—I seen it. It got them—them special signs.’ He clicked his fingers in annoyance at his lack of English.

  ‘Diplomatic plates?’ suggested Causton helpfully.

  ‘Tha’s ri’.’

  ‘That should come in handy. Okay, I hope to be back in two hours. Cheerio!’

  He left the bar and paused before he emerged into the street, carefully looking through the glass panels. Satisfied that there was no danger, he pushed through the revolving doors and set off towards the dock area, keeping well in to the side of the pavement. He checked on his watch and was surprised to find that it was not yet ten o’clock—he had thought it much later. With a bit of luck he would be back at the Imperiale by midnight.

  At first he made good time, flitting through the deserted streets like a ghost. There was not a soul in sight. As he got nearer the docks he soon became aware that he was entering what could only be a military staging area. There were many army trucks moving through the dark streets, headlights blazing, and from the distance came the tramp of marching men.

  He stopped and ducked into a convenient doorway and took a folded map from his pocket, inspecting it by the carefully shaded light of his torch. It would be the devil of a job getting to Rawsthorne. Close by was the old fortress of San Juan which Serrurier had chosen to use as his arsenal—no wonder there were so many troops in the area. It was from here that his units in the Negrito were being supplied with ammunition and that accounted for the stream of trucks.

  Causton looked closer at the map and tried to figure out a new route. It would add nearly an hour to his journey, but there was no help for it. As he stood there the faraway thunder of the guns tailed off and there was dead silence. He looked up and down the street and then crossed it, the leather soles of his shoes making more noise than he cared for.

  He got to the other side and turned a corner, striking away from San Juan fortress and, as he hurried, he wondered what the silence of the guns presaged. He had covered many bushfire campaigns in his career—the Congo, Vietnam, Malaysia—and he had a considerable fund of experience to draw upon in making deductions.

  To begin with, the guns were indubitably Favel’s—he had seen the Government artillery in a seemingly inextricable mess just outside St Pierre. Favel’s guns had been firing at something, and that something was obviously the main infantry force which Serrurier had rushed up the Negrito at the first sign of trouble. Now the guns had stopped and that meant that Favel was on the move again, pushing his own infantry forward in an assault on Serrurier’s army. That army must have been fairly battered by the barrage, while Favel’s men must be fresh and comparatively untouched. It was possible that Favel would push right through, but proof would come when next the artillery barrage began—if it was nearer it would mean Favel was winning.

  He had chosen to attack at night, something he had specialized in ever since he had retreated to the mountains. His men were trained for it, and probably one of Favel’s men was equal to any two of Serrurier’s so long as he was careful to dictate the conditions of battle. But once get boxed in open country with Serrurier’s artillery and air force unleashed and he’d be hammered to pieces. He was taking a considerable risk in coming down the Negrito into the plain around Santego Bay, but he was minimizing it by clever strategy and the unbelievable luck that Serrurier had a thick-headed artillery general with no concept of logistics.

  Causton was so occupied with these thoughts that he nearly ran into a p
olice patrol head on. He stopped short and shrank into the shadows and was relieved when the squad passed him by unseen. He wanted to waste no time in futile arguments. By the time he got to Rawsthorne’s house he had evaded three more police patrols, but it took time and it was very late when he knocked on Rawsthorne’s door.

  III

  James Fowler Dawson was a successful writer. Not only was he accepted by the critics as a man to be watched as a future Nobel Prizewinner, but his books sold in enormous numbers to the public and he had made a lot of money and was looking forward to making a lot more. Because he liked making money he was very careful of the image he presented to his public, an image superbly tailored to his personality and presented to the world by his press agents.

  His first novel, Tarpon, was published in the year that Hemingway died. At the time he was a freelance writer concocting articles for the American sporting magazines on the glory of rainbow trout and what it feels like to have a grizzly in your sights. He had but average success at this and so was a hungry writer. When Tarpon hit the top of the best-seller lists no one was more surprised than Dawson. But knowing the fickleness of public taste he sought for ways to consolidate his success and decided that good writing was not enough—he must also be a public personality.

  So he assumed the mantle that had fallen from Hemingway—he would be a man’s man. He shot elephant and lion in Africa; he game-fished in the Caribbean and off the Seychelles; he climbed a mountain in Alaska; he flew his own plane and, like Hemingway, was involved in a spectacular smash; and it was curious that there were always photographers on hand to record these events.

  But he was no Hemingway. The lions he killed were poor terrified beasts imprisoned in a closing ring of beaters, and he had never killed one with a single shot. In his assault on the Alaskan mountain he was practically carried up by skilled and well-paid mountaineers, and he heartily disliked flying his plane because he was frightened of it and only flew when necessary to mend his image. But game-fishing he had actually come to like and he was not at all bad at it. And, despite everything else, he remained a good writer, although he was always afraid of losing steam and failing with his next book.

  While his image was shiny, while his name made head-lines in the world press, while the money poured into his bank, he was reasonably happy. It was good to be well-known in the world’s capitals, to be met at airports by pressmen and photographers, to be asked his opinion of world events. He had never yet been in a situation where the mere mention of his name had not got him out of trouble, and thus he was unperturbed at being put into a cell with Wyatt. He had been in gaol before—the world had chuckled many times at the escapades of Big Jim Dawson—but never for more than a few hours. A nominal fine, a donation to the Police Orphans’ Fund, a gracious apology and the name of Jim Dawson soon set him free. He had no reason to think it was going to be different this time.

  ‘I could do with a drink,’ he said grumpily. ‘Those bastards took my flask.’

  Wyatt examined the cell. It was in an old building and there was none of the modernity of serried steel bars; but the walls were of thick and solid stone and the window was small and set high in the wall. By pulling up a stool and standing on it he could barely see outside, and he was a fairly tall man. He looked at the dim shapes of the buildings across the square and judged that the cell was on the second floor of the building in which the Poste de Police was housed.

  He stepped down from the stool and said, ‘Why the hell were you carrying a gun?’

  ‘I always carry a gun,’ said Dawson. ‘A man in my position meets trouble, you know. There are always cranks who don’t like what I write, and the boys who want to prove they’re tougher than I am. I’ve got a licence for it, too. I got a batch of threatening letters a couple of years ago and there were some funny things happening round my place so I got the gun.’

  ‘I don’t know that that was a good idea, even in the States,’ said Wyatt. ‘But it certainly got us into trouble here. Your gun licence won’t cut any ice.’

  ‘Getting out will be easy,’ said Dawson angrily. ‘All I have to do is to wait until I can see someone bigger than one of those junior grade cops, tell him who I am, and we’ll both be sprung.’

  Wyatt stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Sure I’m serious. Hell, man; everyone knows me. The Government of this tin-pot banana republic isn’t going to get in bad with Uncle Sam by keeping me in gaol. The fact that I’ve been picked up will make world headlines, and this Serrurier character isn’t going to let bad change to worse.’

  Wyatt took a deep breath. ‘You don’t know Serrurier,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like Americans in the first place and he won’t give a damn who you are—if he’s heard of you, that is, which I doubt.’

  Dawson seemed troubled by the heresy Wyatt had uttered. ‘Not heard of me? Of course he’ll have heard of me.’

  ‘You heard those guns,’ said Wyatt. ‘Serrurier is fighting for his life—do you understand that? If Favel wins, Serrurier is going to be very dead. Right now he doesn’t give a damn about keeping in with Uncle Sam or anyone else—he just doesn’t have the time. And, like a doctor, he buries his mistakes, so if he’s informed about us there’ll probably be a shooting party in the basement with us as guests; that’s why I hope to God no one tells him. And I hope his boys don’t have any initiative.’

  ‘But there’ll have to be a trial,’ said Dawson. ‘I’ll have my lawyer.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Wyatt. ‘Where have you been living—on the moon? Serrurier has had twenty thousand people executed in the last seven years without trial. They just disappeared. Start praying that we don’t join them.’

  ‘Now that’s nonsense,’ said Dawson firmly. ‘I’ve been coming to San Fernandez for the last five years—it makes a swell fishing base—and I’ve heard nothing of this. And I’ve met a lot of government officials and a nicer bunch of boys you couldn’t wish to meet. Of course they’re black, but I think none the less of them for that.’

  ‘Very broad-minded of you,’ said Wyatt sarcastically. ‘Can you name any of these “nice boys”? That information might come in useful.’

  ‘Sure; the best of the lot was the Minister for Island Affairs—a guy called Descaix. He’s a—‘

  ‘Oh, no!’ groaned Wyatt, sitting on the stool and putting his head in his hands.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Wyatt looked up. ‘Now, listen, Dawson; I’ll try to get this over in words of one syllable. Your nice boy, Descaix, was the boss of Serrurier’s secret police. Serrurier said, “Do it,” and Descaix did it, and in the end it added up to a nice pile of murders. But Descaix slipped—one of his murders didn’t pan out and the man came back to life, the man responsible for all those guns popping off up in the hills. Favel.’

  He tapped Dawson on the knee. ‘Serrurier didn’t like that, so what do you think happened to Descaix?’

  Dawson was looking unhappy. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Neither would anyone else,’ said Wyatt. ‘Descaix’s gone, vanished as though he never existed—expunged. My own idea is that he’s occupying a hole in the ground up in the Tour Rambeau.’

  ‘But he was such a nice, friendly guy,’ said Dawson. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t see how I could have missed it. I’m a writer—I’m supposed to know something about people. I even went fishing with Descaix—surely you get to know a man you fish with?’

  ‘Why should you?’ asked Wyatt. ‘People like Descaix have neatly compartmented minds. If you or I killed a man it would stay with us the rest of our lives—it would leave a mark. But Descaix has a man killed and he’s forgotten about it as soon as he’s given the order. It doesn’t worry his conscience one little bit, so it doesn’t show—there’s no mark.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Dawson with awe. ‘I’ve been fishing with a mass murderer.’

  ‘You won’t fish with him ever again,’ said Wyatt brutally. ‘You might not fish with anyone
ever again if we don’t get out of here.’

  Dawson gave way to petulant rage. ‘What the hell is the American Government doing? We have a base here—why wasn’t this island cleaned up long ago?’

  ‘You make me sick,’ said Wyatt. ‘You don’t know what’s going on right in front of your nose, and when your nose gets bitten you scream to your Government for help. The American Government policy on this island is “hands off”, and rightly so. If they interfere here in the same way they did in the Dominican Republic they’d totally wreck their diplomatic relations with the rest of the hemisphere and the Russians would laugh fit to burst. Anyway, it’s best this way. You can’t hand freedom to people on a plate—they’ve got to take it. Favel knows that—he’s busy taking his freedom right now.’

  He looked at Dawson who was sitting huddled on the bed, strangely shrunken. ‘You were trying to take the car, weren’t you? There was no policeman trying to drive it away at all. But you were.’

  Dawson nodded. ‘I went upstairs and heard you and Causton talking about the hurricane. I got scared and figured I’d better get out.’

  ‘And you were going to leave the rest of us?’

  Dawson nodded miserably.

  Wyatt stretched out his legs. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand it. You’re Dawson—“Big Jim” Dawson—the man who’s supposed to be able to outshoot, out-fight, out-fly any other man on earth. What’s happened to you?’

  Dawson lay on the bed and turned to the wall. ‘Go to hell!’ he said in a muffled voice.

  IV

  The police came for them at four o’clock in the morning, hustling them out of the cell and along a corridor. The office into which they were shown was bare and bleak, the archetype of all such offices anywhere in the world. The policeman at the desk was also archetypal; his cold, impersonal eyes and level stare could be duplicated in any police office in New York, London or Tokyo, and the fact that his complexion was dark coffee did not make any difference.