Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  He put down the telephone and grinned. ‘I have a strong-minded secretary—but efficient.’ He became serious. ‘If we want helicopters and fast boats to be used in the way we want them used I’ll have to tell Harry and Charlie the reason. No chopper jockey or boat skipper will do what we want without their bosses’ say-so—we may have to skirt the law. So Harry and Charlie have to know. They’ll keep their mouths shut, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘It’s my skin you’re protecting. Just so you don’t take action before you have Debbie safe.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Have you got the clothing Jim wants?’

  ‘All packed.’

  ‘Then let’s go downtown.’

  Houston.

  Not so much a city as a frame of mind—a tribute to the dynamism of American technology. Too far from the sea? Bring the sea fifty miles to the city and make Houston the third biggest port in the United States. Want to produce gasoline? Build seven refineries and produce a flood of fifteen billion gallons a year. Want to go to the moon? Spend ten years, forty billion dollars, and make Houston the nerve centre of the operation. Want to play baseball when it is too hot and steamy to move? Put a roof over a stadium which holds 52,000 people and cool it to a constant 74° F.—cool for Houston—using 7000 tons of air-conditioning machinery. The grass in the stadium won’t grow? For Christ’s sake, man; design a special plastic grass.

  The latest proposal was to roof over the entire business quarter of the city—much simpler than to air-condition individual buildings.

  Houston—Baghdad-on-the-Bayou. I hated the place.

  We went downtown in Billy’s car which he drove with the casual ease which comes to Americans by second nature, through the air they breathe—conditioned, of course. We went from his house to his office in the Cunningham Building without once taking a breath of the nasty, polluted, natural stuff outside. Billy’s secretary, I was interested to note, was a middle-aged lady with a face like a prune. As we passed through the outer office she said quickly, ‘Mr Pearson and Mr Alvarez—eleven o’clock—Petroleum Club.’

  Without breaking stride Billy said, ‘Right. Find Cousin Jim—might be in security.’ We went into his office and he picked up a telephone and stabbed a button. ‘Pop, we’re in and ready to go.’ He listened for a moment and his expression changed. ‘Oh, God, no!’ Pause. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Okay.’

  He put down the telephone. ‘Jack had a heart attack an hour ago. He’s being taken to the Texas Medical Center. Frank is with him and Pop is going there now. Of all the times…’

  ‘Because of the times,’ I said. ‘It probably wouldn’t have happened if Debbie hadn’t been kidnapped. He wasn’t looking too good last night.’

  He nodded. ‘That leaves you, me and Jim to plan and execute this operation. Not enough—I’ll draft a couple more.’

  Jim came in and Billy told him about Jack. ‘Tough,’ said Jim. ‘Poor old guy.’

  ‘Well, let’s get to it,’ said Billy. ‘Tom’s outfit is in that grip there.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jim frowned. ‘I’ve been worrying about something. What happens if they strip Tom? His bugged clothes might be going one way and Tom in another direction.’

  ‘That’s a chance we have to take,’ said Billy.

  Jim smiled. ‘Not so. I’ve got something, if Tom will go for it.’ He produced a capsule of plastic, about an inch long, three-eighths of an inch in diameter, and with rounded ends. ‘You have to swallow it.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s a transponder—it returns a signal when interrogated by a pulsed transmitter; not a powerful signal but good enough to get a direction finder on it. It goes into action when the gastric juices work on it, so you swallow it at the last minute.’

  Billy inspected it critically. ‘Looks like one of those pills they blow down a horse’s throat through a tube.’

  Jim laughed. ‘That’s all right if the horse doesn’t blow first. How about it, Tom?’

  I looked at it distastefully. ‘All right—if I have to. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I have a pipeline into the CIA. I borrowed it.’

  ‘Borrowed!’ said Billy, grimacing. ‘Anyone going to use it afterwards?’

  Jim said, ‘It’s good for thirty-six to forty-eight hours before peristalsis gets rid of it.’

  ‘Just don’t crap too much, that’s all,’ said Billy. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I had the contents of the second letter checked for fingerprints. Result negative. No dice, Billy.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Billy. ‘I have things to do. Tom, why don’t you go along with Jim and watch him ruin your coat and pants? I’m going out to round up some transport.’

  So I went with Jim to the security section in the Cunningham Building which meant having my photograph taken in colour by a Polaroid camera and wearing a plastic lapel badge with my name, signature and aforesaid photograph. Jim wore one too, as did everybody else.

  I was introduced to an electronics genius called Ramon Rodriguez who displayed and discussed his wares, all miracles of micro-miniaturization. ‘Do you wear dentures, Mr Mangan?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A pity.’ He opened a box and displayed a fine set of false gnashers. ‘These are good; they’ll transmit anything you sayrange over a mile. If you keep your mouth a little open they’ll also catch what the guy you’re talking to is saying—those two front top incisors are microphones.’ He put them away.

  ‘We’ll put a bug in the car you’ll be driving,’ said Jim.

  ‘Two,’ said Rodriguez. ‘Know anything about bugs, Mr Mangan?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘There are many kinds. Most fall into one of two categories—active and passive. The active bugs are working all the time, sending out a signal saying, “Here I am! Here I am!” The passive bugs only transmit when asked by a coded impulse, like the dohickey Mr Cunningham showed me this morning.’

  Jim chuckled. ‘The pill.’

  ‘That’s to economize on power where space is limited. Those bugs send out an unmodulated signal, either steady or pulsed. When it comes to modulation, a voice transmission, it becomes a little harder. You’ll be wired up with every kind of bug we have.’

  Rodriguez put a familiar-looking box on the bench. ‘Pack of cigarettes; genuine except for those two in the back right corner. Don’t try to light those or the sparks will fly.’ Something metallic went next to the cigarette pack. ‘Stick-pin for your necktie—will pick up a conversation and transmit it a quarter-mile. Belt to hold up your pants—bug in buckle, but will transmit a mile because we have more room to play with. Try to face the man you’re talking with, Mr Mangan.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  Two identical objects joined the growing heaps. ‘These go in the heels of your shoes. This one sends a steady signal so we can get a direction finder on it. But this one has a pressure transducer—every time you take a pace it sends out a beep. If you’re being hustled along on foot we’ll know it—we might even be able to calculate how fast. And if it stops we know you’re static—if you’re not in an automobile, that is. Now, this is important. You know the rhythm of shave-and-a-haircut?’

  I smiled and knocked it out with my knuckles on the bench.

  ‘Good. If you’re being taken for a ride tap it out once for a car, twice for a boat, three times for an airplane. Repeat at five minute intervals. Got that?’

  I repeated his instructions. ‘Just tap it out with my heel? Which one?’

  ‘The right heel.’ Rodriguez picked up my jacket and trousers. ‘I’m giving you two antennae—one in your coat sewn into the back seam, the other in your pants. Don’t worry; they won’t show. And there’ll be a few other things—I’ll give you a new billfold and there’ll be the coins in your pockets—anything I can cook up between now and Thursday. You don’t have to know about them, just be glad they’re there.’

  The Cunninghams were going to a great deal of trouble and it occurred to me that if
they had all this stuff ready to hand then they were probably up to their necks in industrial espionage. I wondered if they had used it on me in the course of their admitted investigations.

  Rodriguez looked at his watch. ‘I have to make a phone call. I won’t be long, Mr Cunningham.’ He walked away into his office.

  Jim said, ‘That man once said he could make a working microphone out of three carpenter’s nails, a foot of copper wire, and a power cell. I bet he couldn’t. I lost.‘ He laughed. ‘He even made his own power cell from a stack of pennies and nickels, a piece of blotting paper and some vinegar.’

  ‘He seems a good man.’

  ‘The best,’ said Jim, and added casually, ‘Ex-CIA.’

  I looked longingly at the packet of cigarettes on the bench. I had run out and I knew Jim did not smoke. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I said. I remembered there was a stand in the lobby of the Cunningham Building which sold cigarettes among other things, so I went down in the elevator to street level.

  There was a short line waiting for service but I bought two packets of cigarettes within minutes. As I turned, opening one of them, I bumped heavily into a man. ‘Watch it, buster!’ he said nastily, and walked past me.

  I shrugged and headed towards the elevator. In a climate like that of Houston anyone was entitled to be shorttempered. I stood waiting for the elevator and looked at the half-opened packet in my hand while absently rubbing my thigh. The health warning on the side of the packet shimmered strangely.

  ‘You okay, mister?’ The elevator starter was looking at me oddly.

  I said distinctly, ‘I’m perfectly all right.’

  ‘Hey!’ He grabbed my arm as I swayed. Everything was swimming and my legs felt like putty. Slowly and majestically I toppled forward like a falling tree, and yelled ‘Timber!’ at the top of my voice. Oddly enough, not a sound passed my lips.

  The next thing I knew was that I was being turned over. I looked at the ceiling and heard someone say, ‘Just fell down right there.’ Someone else said, ‘A drunk, I guess.’ And again: ‘At this time of day!’

  I tried to speak. My brain worked all right in a somewhat crazy manner—but there seemed to be interference with the connection to my voice box. I experimented with ‘Mary had a little lamb’, but nothing came through. It was weird.

  From a distance a man said, ‘I’m a doctor—let me through.’ He bent over me and I stared up at him, past a big nose and into his eyes, yellow flecks in green irises. He felt my pulse then put his hand over my heart. ‘This man is having a heart attack,’ he said. ‘He must be taken to hospital immediately.’ He looked up. ‘Someone help me—my car is outside.’

  I was lifted bodily and carried to the entrance, shouting loudly that this was no bloody heart attack and this was no bloody doctor, either. My brain told me I was shouting loudly but not a sound did I hear from my lips, and neither could I move a muscle. They put me on the back seat of a limousine and off we went. The man in the front passenger seat twisted around and took my limp arm. I saw the flash of glass and felt the prick of a needle, and soon the bright world began to go grey.

  Just before I passed out I reflected that all the Cunninghams’ organization and the painstaking work of Ramon Rodriguez was going for nothing. The kidnappers had jumped the gun.

  FOURTEEN

  It was dark when I woke up. I was lying on my back and staring into blackness and feeling no pain, at least not much. When I stirred I found that I was naked—lying on a bed and covered by a thin sheet—and my left thigh ached a little. I turned my head and saw a rectangular patch of dim light which, when I propped myself up on one elbow, appeared to be a window.

  I tossed aside the sheet, swung my legs out of bed, and tentatively stood up. I seemed to be in no immediate danger of falling so I took a step towards the window, and then another. The window was covered with a coarse-fibred cloth which I drew aside. There was nothing much to see outside, just the darker patches of trees silhouetted against a dark sky. From the west came the faint loom of the setting moon. There were noises, though; the chirping of cicadas and the distant, deeper croaking of bull-frogs.

  There were bars on the window.

  The breeze which blew through the unglazed window was warm and smelled of damp and rotting vegetation. Even so, I shivered as I made my way back to the bed, and I was glad to lie down again. That brief journey had taken the strength out of me; maybe I could have lasted two seconds with Mohammed Ali, but I doubted it. I pulled the sheet over my body and went back to sleep.

  When next I woke I felt better. Perhaps it was because of the sunlight slanting through the room, making a yellow patch at the bottom of the bed. The window was now uncurtained and next to the bed a tray was laid on a table which contained a pitcher of orange juice, an empty glass, a pile of thick-cut bread slices, a pot of butter and a crude wooden spatula with which to spread it.

  The orange juice went down well and my spirits rose when I saw the pot of honey which had been hidden behind the pitcher. I breakfasted stickily, sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheet draped around me, and doing an inventory of the room. Against one wall was another table holding a basin and a water jug together with a piece of kitchen soap. And there was a chair with clothing draped over it—not mine. And that, apart from the bed and the bedside table, was all.

  After breakfast I washed, but first looked through the uncurtained window. There was nothing much to see—just trees baking under a hot sun. The air was humid and dank and smelled of vegetable corruption.

  After washing I turned to the clothing—a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt with the words HOUSTON COUGARS emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of dirty white sneakers. As I was putting on the jeans I examined the bruise on the outside of my thigh; it was livid and there seemed to be a small pin hole in the middle of it. It did not hurt much so I put on the jeans, then the shirt, and sat on the bed to put on the shoes. And there I was—dressed and almost in my right mind.

  I might have hammered on the door then, demanding in highfalutin terms to be released, and what the devil is the meaning of this, sir? I refrained. My captors would see me in their own time and I needed to think. There is a manoeuvre in rugby football known as ‘selling the dummy’, a feint in which the ball goes in an unexpected direction. The Cunningham family had been sold the dummy and I would bet that Billy Cunningham would be spitting bullets.

  I mentally reviewed the contents of the first and second ransom letters. The object of the first was to get me to Houston. The second was so detailed and elaborate that no one thought it would be the dummy we were being sold. It was a fake all the way through.

  One thing was certain: the Cunninghams would be incensed beyond measure. To kidnap a Cunningham was bad enough, but to add a double-cross was to add insult to injury. Right at that moment the Cunningham Building would be like a nest of disturbed rattlesnakes; all hell would be breaking loose and, perhaps, this time they would bring in the police. Not that it would help me, I thought glumly, or Debbie.

  Which brought me to Debbie. Was she here or not? And where the devil was here? There was a frustrating lack of information. I went to the window again and looked out through the bars and again saw nothing but trees. I tested the bars; steel set firmly in concrete, and immoveable.

  I turned at a metallic noise at the door. The first man to enter held a shotgun pointing at my belly. He was dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt open almost to the waist, and had a lined grim face. He took one pace inside the room and then stepped sideways, keeping the gun on me. ‘On the bed.’ The barrel of the gun jerked fractionally.

  I backed away and sidled sideways like a crab to the bed. The muzzle of that gun looked like an army cannon.

  Another man came into the room and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a lightweight business suit and could have been anybody. He had hair, two eyes and a mouth, with a nose in the middle—a face-shaped face. He was nobody I had seen before or, if I had, I had not noticed him. He was my mo
st forgettable character.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Mangan. I hope you had a quiet night and slept well.’

  English—not American, I thought. I said, ‘Where’s my wife?’

  ‘First things first.’ He gestured sideways. ‘This man is armed with an automatic shotgun loaded with buckshot. Anything that will kill a deer will kill a man—men die more easily. At ten feet he couldn’t miss; he could put five rounds into you in five seconds. I think you’d be chopped in half.’

  ‘Two seconds,’ said the shotgunner flatly and objectively.

  I was wrong about him being English; at the back of those perfectly modulated tones was the flavour of something I could not pin down. I repeated, ‘Where’s my wife?’

  ‘She’s quite safe,’ he said reassuringly.

  ‘Where? Here?’

  He shrugged. ‘No harm in you knowing. Yes, she’s here.’

  ‘Prove it. I want to see her.’

  He laughed. ‘My dear Mr Mangan, you are in no position to make demands. Although…’ He was pensive for a moment. ‘Yes, my dear chap, that might be a good idea. You shall see her as soon as we have finished our initial conversation. I trust you are fit and well. No ill effects from the curious treatment we were forced to administer?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said shortly.

  He produced a small cylinder from his pocket and held it up; it looked like a shotgun cartridge. ‘It was one of these that did the trick. Issued to NATO soldiers for use in nervegas attacks. You put one end against the arm or leg—so—and push. A spring-loaded plunger forces a hypodermic needle right through the clothing and into the flesh, then injects atropine. I admit that the needle going through clothing is not hygienic; there’s a small risk of tetanus—but that is preferable to heart failure from nerve gas, so the risk is acceptable. I don’t think you even felt the prick of the needle.’