Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  He regarded them expressionlessly, then said, ‘Fool, I wanted them one at a time. Take that one back.’ He pointed his pen at Wyatt, who was immediately pushed back into the corridor and escorted to the cell again.

  He leaned against the wall as the key clicked in the lock and wondered what would eventually happen to him—perhaps he would join Descaix, an unlikely bedfellow. He had not heard the guns for some time and he hoped that Favel had not been beaten, because Favel was his only chance of getting clear. If Favel did not take St Pierre then he would either be shot or drowned in the cell when the waters of Santego Bay arose to engulf the town.

  He sat on the stool and pondered. The policeman who had arrested them had shown a keen interest in Manning and Fuller, the two Englishmen from the North Coast, and he wondered why so much trouble should be taken over them in the middle of a civil war. Then he recalled Causton’s questioning earlier about shipments of arms and wondered if Manning and Fuller lived in the Campo de las Perlas, the area in which Causton had said the arms had been landed. If they were involved in that, no wonder Serrurier’s police were taking an interest in their doings—and in the doings of all other English people on San Fernandez.

  Then, because he was very tired and had sat on the stool all night, he stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

  When he was aroused the first light of dawn was peering through the high window. Again he was taken down the corridor to the bleak room at the end and pushed through the doorway roughly. There was no sign of Dawson, and the policeman behind the desk was smiling. ‘Come in, Mr Wyatt. Sit down.’

  It was not an invitation but an order. Wyatt sat in the hard chair and crossed his legs. The policeman said, in English, ‘I am Sous-Inspecteur Roseau, Mr Wyatt. Do you not think my English is good? I learned it in Jamaica.’

  ‘It’s very good,’ acknowledged Wyatt.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Roseau. ‘Then there will be no misunderstandings. When did you last see Manning?’

  ‘I’ve never seen Manning.’

  ‘When did you last see Fuller?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him, either.’

  ‘But you knew where they lived; you admitted it.’

  ‘I didn’t “admit” a damned thing,’ said Wyatt evenly. ‘I told your underling that I’d heard they lived on the North Coast. I also told him that I’d never seen either of them in my life.’

  Roseau consulted a sheet of paper before him. Without looking up he asked, ‘When were you recruited into American Intelligence?’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Wyatt. ‘This is all a lot of nonsense.’

  Roseau’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Then you are in British Intelligence? You are a British spy?’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Wyatt disgustedly. ‘I’m a scientist—a meteorologist. And I don’t mind telling you something right now—if you don’t get the people out of this town within two days there’s going to be the most godawful smash-up you’ve ever seen. There’s a hurricane coming.’

  Roseau smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Mr Wyatt, we know that is your cover. We also know that you British and the Americans are working hand in hand with Favel in an attempt to overthrow the lawful government of this country.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. ‘I want to see the British consul.’

  ‘So you want to see Rawsthorne?’ enquired Roseau with a malicious smile. ‘He wanted to see you—he was here trying to get you out, together with another Englishman. It is unfortunate that, because of his official position, we cannot arrest Rawsthorne—we know he is your leader—but my government is sending a strong protest to London about his conduct. He is non persona grata.’ Roseau’s smile widened. ‘You see I have Latin, too, Mr Wyatt. Not bad for an ignorant nigger.’

  ‘Ignorant is exactly the right word,’ said Wyatt tightly.

  Roseau sighed, as a teacher sighs when faced with the obtuseness of a particularly stubborn pupil. ‘This is not the time to insult me, Wyatt. You see, your companion—your accomplice—the American agent, Dawson, has confessed. These Americans are not really so tough, you know.’

  ‘What the devil could he confess?’ asked Wyatt. ‘He’s as innocent of anything as I am.’ He moved his hand and felt a slight wetness on the palm. Turning his hand over he saw a smear of blood, and there were a few more drops spattered along the edge of the desk. He lifted his eyes and looked at Roseau with loathing.

  ‘Yes, Wyatt; he confessed,’ said Roseau. He drew a blank piece of paper from a drawer and placed in neatly before him. ‘Now,’ he said with pen poised. ‘We will begin again. When did you last see Manning?’

  ‘I’ve never seen Manning.’

  ‘When did you last see Fuller?’

  ‘I’ve never seen Fuller,’ said Wyatt monotonously.

  Roseau carefully put down his pen. He said softly, ‘Shall we see if you are more stubborn than Dawson? Or perhaps you will be less stubborn—it is more convenient for you as well as for me.’

  Wyatt was very conscious of the two policemen standing behind him near the door. They had not moved or made a sound but he knew they were there. He had known it ever since Dawson’s blood had stained his hand. He decided to take a leaf out of Rawsthorne’s book. ‘Roseau, Serrurier is going to have your hide for this.’

  Roseau blinked but said nothing.

  ‘Does he know I’m here? He’s a bad man when he’s crossed—but who should know that better than you? When I saw him yesterday he was giving Hippolyte a going over—had Hippolyte shaking in his shoes.’

  ‘You saw our President yesterday?’ Roseau’s voice was perhaps not as firm as it had been.

  Wyatt tried to act as though he was always in the habit of meeting Serrurier for afternoon drinks. ‘Of course.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Don’t you know who Dawson is—the man you’ve just beaten up? He’s the famous writer. You must have heard of Big Jim Dawson—everyone has.’

  Roseau twitched. ‘He tried to make me believe he was—’ He stopped suddenly.

  Wyatt laughed. ‘You’ve put Serrurier right in the middle,’ he said. ‘He has his hands full with Favel but that’s all right—he can handle it. He told me so himself. But he was worried about the Americans at Cap Sarrat; he doesn’t know whether they’re going to come out against him or not. Of course you know what will happen if they do. The Americans and Favel will crack Serrurier between them like a nut.’

  ‘What has this got to do with me?’ asked Roseau uncertainly.

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair and looked at Roseau with well-simulated horror. ‘Why, you fool, you’ve given the Americans the chance they’ve been waiting for. Dawson is an international figure, and he’s American. Commodore Brooks will be asking Serrurier where Dawson is in not too many hours from now, and if Serrurier can’t produce him, alive and unhurt, then Brooks is going to take violent action because he knows he’ll have world opinion behind him. Dawson is just the lever the Americans have been waiting for; they can’t take up arms just because a few Americans got mixed up in your civil war—that’s not done any more—but a potential Nobel Prizewinner, a man of Dawson’s stature, is something else again.’

  Roseau was silent and twitchy. Wyatt let him stew for a few long seconds, then said, ‘You know as well as I do that Dawson told you nothing about Manning and Fuller. I know that because he knows nothing, but you used him to try to throw a scare into me. Now let me tell you something, Sous-Inspecteur Roseau. When Commodore Brooks asks Serrurier for Dawson, Serrurier is going to turn St Pierre upside down looking for him because he knows that if he doesn’t find him, then the Americans will break in the back door and stab him in the back just when he’s at grips with Favel. And if Serrurier finds that Sous-Inspecteur Roseau has stupidly exceeded his duty by beating Dawson half to death I wouldn’t give two pins for your chances of remaining alive for five more minutes. My advice to you is to get a doctor to Dawson as fast as you can, and then to im
plore him to keep his mouth shut. How you do that is your business.’

  He almost laughed at the expression on Roseau’s face as he contemplated the enormity of his guilt. Roseau finally shut his mouth with a snap and took a deep breath. ‘Take this man to his cell,’ he ordered, and Wyatt felt a firm grip on his shoulder, a grip more welcome now than it would have been five minutes earlier. After being thrust into the cell it was a long time before he stopped shaking. Then he sat down to contemplate the sheer, copper-bottomed brilliance of the idea he had sold Roseau.

  He thought that he and Dawson were safe from Roseau. But there was still the problem of getting out before the hurricane struck and that would not be easy—not unless he could manage to work on Roseau’s fears some more. He had an idea that he would be seeing Roseau before long; the Sous-Inspecteur would remember that Wyatt had claimed acquaintance with Serrurier and he would want to know more about that.

  He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock and the sunlight was streaming through the small window. He hoped that Causton would have sense enough to get the others out of St Pierre—even by walking they could get a long way.

  The noise outside suddenly came to his attention. It had been going on ever since he had been pushed into the cell but he had been so immersed in his thoughts that it had not penetrated. Now he was aware of the racket in the square outside—the revving of heavy engines, the clatter of feet and the murmur of many men interspersed by raucous shouts—sergeants have the same brazen-voiced scream in any army; it sounded as though an army was massing in the square.

  He kicked the stool across to the window and climbed up, but the angle was wrong and he could not see the ground at all, merely the façade of the buildings on the opposite side of the square. He stood there for a long time trying to make sense of the confused sounds from below but finally gave up. He was just about to step off the stool when he heard the sudden bellow of guns from so close that the hot air seemed to quiver.

  He stood on tiptoe, desperately trying to see what was happening, and caught a glimpse of a deep red flash on the roof of the building immediately opposite. There was a slam and the front of the building caved in before his startled eyes, seeming to collapse in slow motion in a billowing cloud of dust.

  Then the blast of the explosion caught him and he was hurled in a shower of broken glass right across the cell to thud against the door. The last thing he heard before he collapsed into unconsciousness was the thump of his head against the solid wood.

  FOUR

  The drumfire of the guns jerked Causton from a deep sleep. He started violently and opened his eyes, wondering for a moment where he was and relieved to find the familiarity of his own room at the Imperiale. Eumenides, to whom he had offered a bed, was standing at the window looking out.

  Causton sat up in bed. ‘God’s teeth!’ he said, ‘those guns are near. Favel must have broken through.’ He scrambled out of bed and was momentarily disconcerted to find he was still wearing his trousers.

  Eumenides drew back from the window and looked at Causton moodily. ‘They will fight in town,’ he said. ‘Will be ver’ bad.’

  ‘It usually is,’ said Causton, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. ‘What’s happening down there?’

  ‘Many peoples—soldiers,’ said Eumenides.’Many ‘urt.’

  ‘Walking wounded? Serrurier must be in full retreat. But he’ll do his damnedest to hold the town. This is where the frightful part comes in—the street fighting.’ He wound up a clockwork dry shaver with quick efficient movements. ‘Serrurier’s police have been holding the population down; that was wise of him—he didn’t want streams of refugees impeding his army. But whether they’ll be able to do it in the middle of a battle is another thing. I have the feeling this is going to be a nasty day.’

  The Greek lit another cigarette and said nothing.

  Causton finished his shave in silence. His mind was busy with the implications of the nearness of the guns. Favel must have smashed Serrurier’s army in the Negrito and pushed on with all speed to the outskirts of St Pierre. Moving so fast, he must have neglected mopping-up operations and there were probably bits of Serrurier’s army scattered in pockets all down the Negrito; they would be disorganized now after groping about in the night, but with the daylight they might be a danger—a danger Favel might be content to ignore.

  For a greater danger confronted him. He had burst on to the plain and was hammering at the door of St Pierre in broad daylight, and Causton doubted if he was well enough equipped for a slugging match in those conditions. So far, he had depended on surprise and the sudden hammer blow of unexpected artillery against troops unused to the violence of high explosives—but Serrurier had artillery and armour and an air force. True, the armour consisted of three antiquated tanks and a dozen assorted armoured cars, the air force was patched up from converted civilian planes and Favel had been able to laugh at this display of futile modernity when still secure in the mountains. But on the plain it would be a different matter altogether. Even an old tank would be master of the battlefield, and the planes could see what they were bombing.

  Causton examined his reflection in the glass and wondered if Favel had moved fast enough to capture Serrurier’s artillery before it had got into action. If he had, he would be the luckiest commander in history because it had been sheer inefficiency on the part of the Government artillery general that had bogged it down. But luck—good and bad—was an inescapable element on the field of battle.

  He plunged his head into cold water, came up spluttering and reached for a towel. He had just finished drying himself when there was a knock on the door. He held up a warning hand to Eumenides. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me,’ called Julie.

  He relaxed. ‘Come in, Miss Marlowe.’

  Julie looked a little careworn; there were dark circles under her eyes as though she had had very little sleep and she was dishevelled. She pushed her hair back, and said, ‘That woman will drive me nuts.’

  ‘What’s La Warmington doing now?’

  ‘Right now she’s dozing, thank God. That woman’s got a nerve—she was treating me like a lady’s maid last night and got annoyed because I wouldn’t take orders. Then in the middle of the night she got weepy and nearly drove me out of my mind. I had to fill her full of luminol in the end.’

  ‘Is she asleep now?’

  ‘She’s just woken up, but she’s so dopey she doesn’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ said Causton, cocking his head as he listened to the guns. ‘It might be just as well to keep her doped until we get out of here. I hope to God Rawsthorne can make it in time.’ He looked at Julie. ‘You don’t look too good yourself.’

  ‘I’m beat,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t sleep so well myself. I was awake half the night with Mrs Warmington. I got her off to sleep and then found I couldn’t sleep myself—I was thinking about Dave and Mr Dawson. When I finally got to sleep I was woken up almost immediately by those damned guns.’ She folded her arms about herself and winced at a particularly loud explosion. ‘I’m scared—I don’t mind admitting it.’

  ‘I’m not feeling too good myself,’ said Causton drily. ‘How about you, Eumenides?’

  The Greek shrugged eloquently, gave a ferocious grin and passed his fingers across his throat. Causton laughed. ‘That about describes it.’

  Julie said, ‘Do you think it’s any good trying to get Dave out of that gaol again?’

  Causton resisted an impulse to swear. As a man who earned his living by the writing of the English language, he had always maintained that swearing and the use of foul language was the prop of an ignorant mind unable to utilize the full and noble resources of English invective. But the previous night he had been forced to use the dirtiest language he knew when he came up against the impenetrably closed mind of Sous-Inspectéur Roseau. He had quite shocked Rawsthorne, if not Roseau.

  He said, ‘There’s not much hope, I’m afraid. The walls of the
local prison may be thick, but the coppers’ heads are thicker. Maybe Favel may be able to get him out if he hurries up.’

  He put his foot up on the bed to lace his shoe. ‘I had a talk with Rawsthorne last night; he was telling me something about Wyatt’s hurricane. According to Rawsthorne, it’s not at all certain there’ll be a hurricane here at all. What do you know about that?’

  ‘I know that Dave was very disturbed about it,’ she said. ‘Especially after he saw the old man.’

  ‘What old man?’

  So Julie told of the old man who had been tying his roof down and Causton scratched his head. He said mildly, ‘For a meteorologist, Wyatt has very unscientific ways of going about his job.’

  ‘Don’t you believe him?’ asked Julie.

  ‘That’s the devil of it—I do,’ said Causton. ‘I’ll tell you something, Julie: I always depend on my intuition and it rarely lets me down. That’s why I’m here on this island right now. My editor told me I was talking nonsense—I had no real evidence things were going to blow up here—so that’s why I’m here unofficially. Yes, I believe in Wyatt’s wind, and we’ll have to do something about it bloody quickly.’

  ‘What can we do about a hurricane?’

  ‘I mean we must look after ourselves,’ said Causton. ‘Look, Julie; Wyatt’s immediate boss didn’t believe him; Commodore Brooks didn’t believe him, and Serrurier didn’t believe him. He did all he can and I don’t think we can do any better. And if you think I’m going to walk about in the middle of a civil war bearing a placard inscribed “Prepare To Meet Thy Doom” you’re mistaken.’

  Julie shook her head. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But there are sixty thousand defenceless people in St Pierre—it’s terrible.’

  ‘So is civil war,’ said Causton gravely. ‘But there’s still nothing we can do apart from saving ourselves—and that’s going to be dicey.’ He took his map from the pocket of his jacket and spread it on the bed. ‘I wish Rawsthorne had been ready to leave last night, but he said he had to go back to the consulate. I suppose even a lowly consul has to burn the codebooks or whatever it is they do when you see smoke coming from the Embassy chimney on the eve of crisis. What time is it?’