Throughout the night, however, Riley was tempted many times to visit Carmen’s room. Once, he even went to the hallway and had his knuckles just inches from the door, but ended up backing out at the last second.
He missed her more than he could handle, and he didn’t know exactly what had happened for her to distance herself from him that way. It was killing him inside. He didn’t really believe the explanation she’d given that night on the Pingarrón, and he was convinced that whatever the real reason was, it could be addressed one way or another. But at the same time, he knew that nothing he said or did would change things. As hard as it was to accept, when dealing with her, the only thing he could do was get out of her way and let her make the first move. Any demand or urging from him would only ruin everything right away.
He finally went back to his room after a final look at her door. He closed his silently, then took the half-empty bottle of gin off the bureau, ready to enjoy the unconsciousness waiting for him at the bottom.
He couldn’t have imagined that just a few hours later voices in the hallway would wake him up in the worst possible way.
“Ouvrez la porte!” a voice shouted over the others, followed by several thumps somewhere at the end of the hallway. “Ouvrez la porte immédiatement!”
Eyes closed, Riley muttered a curse. When he got up in the morning, he thought irritatedly, he was going to have it out with the hotel clerk for allowing such a scene in the middle of the night.
“Ouvrez la porte. C’est la police!” the voice said.
That made Riley open his eyes. What the hell’s going on? And more importantly, do those cops have to do whatever the hell they’re doing at this hour? He just wanted whoever wasn’t opening their door to do so and let him go back to sleep. He looked at the clock. Five in the morning. He closed his eyes again and tried to ignore the commotion.
But he couldn’t. A few seconds later the bangs came to his door and were immediately followed by the predictable call: “Ouvrez la porte! Immédiatment!”
That was too much.
He shook his head, sat up, and stood. Could there be a fire? he asked himself. It didn’t smell like smoke, but that would be the only explanation.
“Yeah, okay,” he murmured, mouth dry, in response to another bang.
Then he remembered he was completely naked, so he decided to take his pants off the chair. If it did happen to be a fire, it’d be better not to have to escape from it with his balls hanging loose.
He walked over and shouted, “Hold on!” Then started putting a leg in when he realized he was stepping on an envelope.
Ignoring the fists on the door, he bent down to pick it up and opened it. He took out a sheet of yellow paper folded in three, with an urgent red stamp on the front.
The heading said Société Télégraphique du Congo Belge and it was from Matadi—a telegram that a bellhop must have put under his door that very night. With growing alarm, he read the body of the typewritten message.
VAN DYCK KILLED. STOP. WE INTERROGATED IN POLICE STATION. STOP. SEARCH OUT FOR YOU. STOP. DETAINED SOON. STOP. FLEE LÉOPOLDVILLE. STOP. GOOD LUCK.
JULIE.
Only one word formed on Riley’s lips, but it described the situation pretty well. “Shit.”
Just then the door came off its hinges and fell to one side. A group of uniformed men entered in a rush and pounced on him, grabbing his hands and shoving him against the wall.
Strangely, his first thought was that it would have been a good idea to finish putting on his pants.
40
The door of the cell closed with a dry metallic clink that seemed to foreshadow their fate.
The dim dawn light came through a small barred window. The concentrated stench of urine and sweat in the dark, suffocating space was overwhelming. There were no fewer than twenty men in there, nearly all of them seminude natives, huddled together, snoozing on benches or the cement floor, all in a space no bigger than the hotel room Riley had been dragged from a half hour ago.
Barefoot, wearing only the pants he had the good sense to put on, he leaned with one hand on the bars and the other rubbing his temple, trying to clear his thoughts and rid himself of the hangover threatening to make his head explode.
Standing next to him, wearing a shirt, long underwear, and boots, Jack still had the confused look of someone who didn’t know where the truck that just ran him over came from. “Can you explain to me what the hell’s going on here?” he blurted with noteworthy self-control, suppressing the rant on the tip of his tongue.
Instead of answering, Riley took Julie’s wrinkled telegram from his pocket and discreetly passed it to him.
Jack had to read it a couple of times in the dim light from the little window to be sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. “Van Dyck dead?” he asked, terribly confused.
“Murdered,” Riley said.
“The guy was alive and kicking when we left his office.”
“Yeah.”
“So?” Jack seemed more indignant than annoyed. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Riley rubbed his temples hard. “That’s a good question, my friend,” he said, then paused. “Seems to me they pinned it on us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” he said, nearly whispering. “The guy talked with us after we roughed him up a little and he’s killed the same day.”
“How do you know it was the same day?”
“Well, they must know we took the train here the next day, so we’re suspects because it was probably the same day.”
“Yeah, could be. But I’m asking why they killed him. Because of what he told us? It wasn’t a big secret,” Jack said. “Even Verhoeven had more information than him. It doesn’t make sense to kill him for telling us such a small thing.”
“It does,” Riley replied, “if what they wanted was for us to end up here.” He nodded toward the bars.
Jack needed a few seconds to process the idea. But all he could do was blabber. “How . . . ? Why the hell . . . ? But who . . . ?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Riley answered. “But it couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone wanted to get us out of the way and shut up Van Dyck. Two birds with one stone.”
“But we didn’t actually do it,” Jack insisted. “The police can’t prove—”
“I’m not so sure,” Riley interrupted. “Whoever did it must have planted evidence that pointed to us.”
Jack slapped the bars. “Shit,” he muttered. “But listen,” he added as if he’d thought of something interesting. “If they wanted to get rid of us, why isn’t Hudgens here? And Carmen? I didn’t see either of them taken from the hotel. The commander should at least be as suspect as us, right?”
“Maybe they were able to get away during the raid.”
Jack nodded and went back to reading the short telegram. “It only mentions they were interrogated,” he said, analyzing the content. “That means they’re free. If not, it would have mentioned they were detained.”
“Seems that way.”
“Well, that’s some good news,” he said.
“I guess.”
Jack look at Riley, confused. “What’s going on?” he asked after a moment.
Riley shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t mess around, Alex. What’s going on?”
Riley looked at his friend a little while, deciding whether or not to answer. “It’s all very strange.”
Jack started to smile. “You don’t say?”
“Too many coincidences. It’s like we’re following some kind of script. Shortly after refusing to go upriver with Hudgens, we get arrested on suspicion of murder and Hudgens doesn’t. It’s like . . .” He left the phrase hanging, unable to finish.
Jack’s bushy eyebrows arched in surprise. “Are you suggesting Hudgens had something to do with this?”
Riley sighed, tired, unable to say yes or no. “We brought him here,” he murmured quietly. “And all his tracks have been conveniently disapp
earing behind him. No one besides you and I know his plans.”
“And Carmen,” Jack reminded him.
“Exactly. And we don’t know where she is.”
“That sounds too twisted, even for you. You suspect Carmen?”
“Huh?” Riley was surprised by the question. “No, you didn’t understand me. What worries me is what’s happened to her. Right now she’s the only one besides us who knows about Hudgens’s plans to go upriver.”
Jack grew solemn. “I don’t like what you’re suggesting one bit, Alex.”
“And if Hudgens’s idea to go after Klein,” Riley continued, “wasn’t an ONI order? If we’re here in the Congo despite ONI’s orders? Or worse.” He paused a moment, uncertain whether or not he should say what he was thinking. “And if the ONI orders are to get rid of us because we don’t want to cooperate completely?”
Jack looked at his captain with growing disbelief. “I swear to God you lost me. Why the hell would Hudgens want to come here if he weren’t following orders? And why would the ONI want to get rid of us? We work for them. Shit. You’re getting paranoid.”
“Maybe. But nothing that’s happening seems to make sense, and that might explain a few things.”
Jack took a few seconds to think over his friend’s words. Finally, he shook his head vigorously. “Fuck, Alex. You’re saying more stupid stuff than usual. I think the gin I smell on your breath is doing the talking.”
Riley shrugged. He had to admit that hearing himself say those things out loud made them seem more ridiculous. “I’m sure you’re right,” he agreed. “I think this country’s making me lose it.”
They spent many hours in that suffocating cell. Then, as evening fell, a large, ruddy man wearing a clean, starched police uniform came up to them.
“Bonjour, messieurs,” the policeman said, even though it was already late afternoon. “I’m Commissar Blanchard. I think you requested to speak with me.”
“Commissar,” Riley said. “You’ve made a grave error. I don’t know why you’ve detained us, but—”
“You’re suspected of killing Monsieur Van Dyck,” he interrupted.
“We haven’t killed anyone,” Jack insisted.
“I don’t know what made you think that,” Riley added. “But it must be a misunderstanding. We’re just merchants who—”
The commissar raised a hand to cut him off. “You’ll have to explain that to the judge,” he said brusquely. “I’m just following orders from Matadi to detain you.”
“And when can we see the judge?”
“If you’re lucky, Monday.”
“Monday?” Jack asked. “But today’s Thursday!”
“If you’re lucky,” the commissar repeated, “and if you don’t give me any problems over the weekend.” He looked at them intently. “Know what I mean?”
Of course they did. Clearer than water.
“I’m an American citizen,” Riley said, “and I’d like to speak with my embassy.”
“Of course, of course,” the commissar said. “Monday.”
“And a lawyer?” Jack asked. “We have a right to a lawyer, no?”
“Certainly,” Blanchard said with a nod.
“And can we see him now?”
The commissar paused, and before he opened his mouth, they already knew what he was going to say. “Monday.”
41
When Commissar Blanchard showed up first thing Monday morning as he’d promised, he was making a disgusted face and wrinkling his nose at the stench of urine and sweat coming from the cell.
Whether in the US, Spain, or Congo, Riley thought, Monday is always goddamn Monday.
“Well?” Blanchard asked somewhat jokingly as he approached the cell while Riley and Jack watched through the bars. “How was your weekend?”
The two sailors, sitting on the floor in the far end of the cell, were dirty, haggard, and half-dressed. They looked more like two particularly unkempt castaways rescued from the ocean. “Customer service could frankly be improved,” Riley responded in the same tone. “And the beds are a little hard,” he added, patting the cement. “But other than that, good. Thank you.”
“Are you bringing us breakfast?” Jack asked. “I want a waffle with strawberry jam and chocolate shavings.” He mimed sprinkling them over a plate. “Oh, and no cream please, I’m on a diet.”
“Good, good,” the commissar said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and smiling. “I’m glad you’re in a pleasant mood, because I don’t have great news.”
The image of Carmen injured and locked up made Riley stand. “What news?” he asked, heart in a knot.
“It appears you have to face murder charges.”
Paradoxically, Riley heaved a sigh of relief.
“We already told you we didn’t kill anyone,” Jack said, also standing up.
“You’ll have to explain that to the judge,” the commissar said calmly. “Though with the amount of evidence against you . . .” He shook his head. “If I were you, I’d clear your calendars for the next twenty or thirty years.”
“Evidence?” Jack asked, slightly excited. “What evidence? How can there be evidence of something we didn’t do?”
Blanchard smiled condescendingly. It was clearly not the first time he’d heard such arguments from a culprit. “If you’re innocent”—he couldn’t help but smile—“justice will do its work and you have nothing to worry about.”
“We were framed,” Riley said, trying to seem reasonable. “Someone’s trying to implicate us with false evidence. You should investigate.”
Blanchard tutted as if disappointed at their lack of originality. “I understand,” he murmured, though he really didn’t. “In that case you should be glad to know you’ll be in front of the judge soon and you can explain this plot hatched against you.” He signaled the two officers guarding the door behind him. “Meanwhile, my helpers will take you to the showers so you can clean up before being transferred to the courts. We leave in a half hour.”
Then he turned and headed for the exit.
He stopped at the threshold, however, like he’d forgotten something. “Oh, and don’t try any funny business,” he said, turning and pointing at them. “Don’t look for more problems than you already have. Vous comprenez?”
Punctual, Blanchard came back a half hour later, and after ordering their hands and feet handcuffed, he had Jack and Riley escorted out of the cell by a guard.
Once they were outside the station, a small blue police van with barred windows and the words “Force Publique” written in large, chipped letters pulled up and stopped.
“Up,” the commissar said, opening the back door.
Despite some difficulty due to their bonds, the two sailors got in the vehicle and sat on a bench while one of the policemen hooked them up to a large chain fixed to the metal floor.
Another prisoner, a large young black man with bloodstains on his clothing, whose face showed marks of being thoroughly beaten, sat on the other end of the bench, his gaze lost in the ceiling like he was praying.
“It will be a short trip,” Blanchard said. “See you at the courts.” Then he slammed the door, bolted it, and put on a padlock.
The van began moving immediately, and it wasn’t until then they decided to speak, since their voices were now masked by the engine noise.
“We have to get out of here,” Riley said.
“Get out?” Jack said mockingly. “From the police van? Oh, of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that?”
“It’ll be harder at court.”
Jack lifted his handcuffed hands until the chain attached to the floor stretched with the sound of links clinking. “Did you forget about this?”
“One of us will have to play dead and when they come close, take advantage of the opportunity.”
“Like we did in the Belchite church?”
“More or less.”
“It won’t work,” Jack said.
“We don’t have a choice.”
“Maybe not,
” Jack said. “Don’t forget we’re not alone.”
“You mean Hudgens?” Riley asked.
“He might be the only one who can pull some strings and get us out of this mess, which, now that I think about it, is his fault.”
“We’ll see,” Riley said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem very convinced.”
Riley raised his hands as high as the chain allowed. “It might be his fault we’re still here.”
“Still going with that crazy idea?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re paranoid.”
Riley had been thinking it over in the cell the whole weekend without being able to shake it completely. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But it was pretty fortunate that he wasn’t at the hotel during the raid, and he disappeared with my fiancée.”
“I think she was your ex-fiancée.”
Riley stared at his friend, and when he was about to correct him, he just added, “Someone took out Van Dyck and made it look like we did it. So unless someone wants to save our asses, I’m afraid we’re going to spend some time in the care of a Congolese prison.”
Jack shrugged. “Look on the bright side.”
“What bright side?”
“They don’t seem to have the death penalty. As long as we stay in one piece we’ll be able to get out of this somehow,” he added, forcing a smile. “We’ve been through worse.”
Riley had no choice but to agree. That was nothing compared to what they’d endured a few months before. And still . . .
The van stopped abruptly, making Jack and Riley lose their balance and fall off the long bench.
“Mother . . . ,” Jack said, sitting up amid the clinking of chains. “Are they trying to kill us? Learn to drive!”
“Seems we’ve arrived already,” Riley said. “It really was a short ride.”
Over the van’s asthmatic motor they heard several voices from outside. There was angry arguing in French followed by a couple of blows to the vehicle. Riley imagined the driver had almost hit a little old lady who then hit the van with her cane out of spite.
As he was recreating the scene in his mind, the latch of the back door slid noisily, and the silhouette of a familiar figure appeared in the opening.
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 26