by Lou Cameron
“Gotcha. If things go sour and I can’t meet you at the Flamingo, I’ll meet you later in that dive.” Then he frowned and said, “Wait, that won’t work, if I’m going to tell people I hang out in places like that.”
Gaston took his arm and led him around the corner toward the waterfront. He pointed with his chin at a corrugated iron building standing on stilts over the water and said, “That is the boathouse of my old legion buddy. His quarters are on the far side. A green houseboat tied alongside the warehouse, comprenez!”
“Right. What’s his name?”
“Who knows? Call him the Dutchman. That’s the only name I know him by.”
“Is he a Dutchman?”
“But of course not. He is French, like me. You must understand something about the French Foreign Legion, Dick. Most of the men dumb enough to join it are French, but, since they are wanted by the law, they say they are from some other country. I never asked the Dutchman, but it is my understanding he was the victim of a crime of passion in the old country.”
“The victim, you say?”
“Oui. He killed his woman in a fit of passion and the police found out about it. Fortunately, the legion accepted his droll tale of being a deserter from the German army.”
“That sounds reasonable. But what’s he doing here in South America?”
“Merde alors, he deserted as soon as he got the chance, of course. The Dutchman is a murderer, not an idiot. I think he deserted from French Guiana a few years ago. One understands that sometimes it is not wise to ask people such details, hein?”
“If you say so. But how do you know you can trust this guy? He sounds pretty wild, to me.”
“Oui, have you ever heard the stories they tell of the trés savage murderer, Captain Gringo?”
“Touché, but damn it, I never murdered any goddamn wife, and before you say it, I didn’t kill Nancy Gordon, her fucking husband did!”
“True, but would you like to explain that to any judge, Dick? One must not be hasty in judging one’s fellow soldiers of fortune, Dick. To the world at large, we are all scum. Don’t worry about the Dutchman. I know him and, more important, he knows me. Deserting the legion is no great undertaking. Getting away from me would be a problem I do not feel the Dutchman would feel up to.”
“The Dutchman’s your problem,” Captain Gringo said. “My problem’s finding the goddamn U.S. Consulate before I drown. Do you know where it is, Gaston?”
“Oui. Everything of importance is on the little high ground they manage in these parts. I, Gaston, your faithful native guide, shall conduct you to the nearest catwalk leading inland. Then, forgive me if we, how you say, split up? There is a French legation as well as others in the droll neighborhood and I find this flirting with polite society trés fatigue.”
Gaston led Captain Gringo upstream along the waterfront and while the rain seemed to be letting up it didn’t help much. They were both soaking wet. Out on the river a ship’s bell chimed and Captain Gringo glanced over to see a squat dull gray vessel at anchor between two lighters. He grimaced at the monitor and said, “They were right. It does look like a cheese box on a raft. You didn’t pick up any poop about more serious gunboats coming down from the States, did you?”
Gaston said, “Mais non. But a monitor class gunboat is trés formidable in these waters, if you ask me.”
“Nobody’s asking you, Gaston. I don’t know what the Brits have just down the coast, but H.M.S. Anything is going to laugh like hell when it meets that old Civil War tub! Look how it’s sitting in the water, for Chrissake! They’ve removed all the ballast and the top blade of the screw is sticking out of the river!”
Gaston nodded. “True, but let us be just to the so-called Venezuelan Navy. To operate in shallow waters one must have the shallow draft, non? That old gunboat was designed for open seas. There are channels in this delta where the water is only knee deep. Even with her ballast tanks pumped dry she threatens to run aground in this maze of land and water.”
“That’s the least of her problems, if she’s not a complete bluff. If they ever have to fire those turret guns they’d better be in a shallow channel! She was designed to fire smaller guns with her decks almost awash. The recoil from either of those six-inchers would flip her over on her back like a turtle!”
“Eh bien, perhaps the British are less familiar with American ordinance, Dick.”
“Oh, sure, nobody in the Royal Navy reads. Jesus, I’m an old army man and I can see from here that tub’s a bluff.”
They’d come to a dog-leg where another catwalk forked off between a pair of barn-like warehouses. Gaston pointed with his chin and said, “I shall leave you here, Petit Chapeau Rouge. If you meet any wolves on the way to Grandmother’s house don’t say I did not warn you.”
Captain Gringo said they’d meet either at the Flamingo or the Dutchman’s, depending, and stepped between the buildings.
The sky fell in on him, or, rather, six or eight guys did! Captain Gringo was borne to the wet planks by sheer weight of numbers as he tried to get his gun out without much luck. The gang was grunting and punching with the silence of serious professional thugs and the only thing that kept them from kicking the shit out of him on the way down was that there were so many of them they got in each other’s way!
Gaston had better luck as the gang concentrated on what they thought was the tougher of the two soldiers of fortune.
The gang was right about Captain Gringo being stronger, but they made an awful mistake in dismissing the small dapper Frenchman as less mean. While the main attack concentrated on Captain Gringo, a mere trio went after Gaston. Two from the front and one from the rear. As the one behind grabbed Gaston and pinned his elbows to his sides, Gaston muttered, “Merde, surely you jest!” as he sent one in front of him over the catwalk rail with a high kick many a ballet dancer would have envied! The man he’d kicked in the head bit the mud eight feet below with a soggy thud and the other boring in to punch out what he’d taken to be a helpless victim paused to reconsider while the one holding Gaston grunted, “Take him, damn it! He’s stronger than he looks!”
Gaston took advantage of the moment by reaching between the legs of the man holding him, grabbing a fistful of assorted sex organs, and twisting viciously. The man trying to hold him screamed in agony and let go as his comrade came in, swinging, to the rescue. But again Gaston’s right foot whipped up and as his boot heel connected with the thug’s breast bone the attacker sat’ down with a glazed expression. The one Gaston had by the nuts was back against the railing, pleading, “Let go, I give! I’ve had enough!”
Gaston smiled pleasantly and said, “Mais non, I, Gaston, shall say when you have had enough!”
Then, still gripping his erstwhile attacker’s crotch with his left fist, Gaston proceeded to hammer his face to raspberry jam with the other. The railing gave and as the semiconscious victim fell away Gaston let go with a shrug and turned to see how the others were making out with Captain Gringo.
The one he’d kicked the wind out of was still sitting up, making funny noises as he tried to breathe. So Gaston kicked him in the face and stepped over him as he moved into the main brawl, drawing his revolver.
One of the men piled on Captain Gringo saw him coming and shouted a warning as Gaston swung his pistol barrel down to split his skull. In the meanwhile, Captain Gringo had gotten his hands and knees under his center of gravity and was coming up, whether they wanted him to or not. Somebody yelled, “Hold him!” and another gasped, “You hold him! He’s too strong to be human!”
Gaston began to sing “Here we go gathering nuts in May” as he went into a sort of sissy-looking dance, kicking people in the head as chance warranted. Captain Gringo was up now, and while he didn’t dance as well, people flew farther when he hit them with his big and thoroughly annoyed fists. By the time they had five men on the deck or over the side the survivors were leaving in all directions. Captain Gringo dragged one of the men Gaston had kicked silly to his feet, slapped him a
couple of times, and snapped, “Who sent you, pronto, or you go over the rail!”
The man muttered something dumb about being a robber. So Captain Gringo picked him up by the front of his shirt and the crotch of his pants and threw him over the rail to land in the mud below. He turned to look for someone more sensible, but Gaston said, “Let’s get out of here before the police notice how untidy we were, hein?”
Captain Gringo glanced around, saw nobody else was out in the rain near enough to matter, and said, “Right.”
He jogged up the walk, over a bridge, and between other buildings until he noticed the catwalk was turning into a brick paved walk between showy flowering bushes of some kind. He stopped on the edge of a wide grassy expanse, turned to look for Gaston and, finding himself alone, walked on. He saw he was on higher ground and that plaza ahead had to be the main part of town. He found a peon selling fruit under an arcade and asked directions. The peon said the U.S. Consulate was the building near the church with the American flag in front of it. That made sense.
As he legged it across the plaza in the rain, Captain Gringo spotted the Stars and Stripes though there were other flags hanging damply over other stucco and tin buildings all around. It was hard to make out the pattern of a sopping wet flag, but he spotted the French and Dutch colors, the white German ensign, and, to his momentary surprise, the British Union Jack flew, or rather, drooped, a few doors down from the U.S. Consulate.
That figured, when you thought about it Tucupita was a seaport and provincial capital, so naturally most trading nations would have their consulate here. Britain wasn’t at war with Venezuela and the U.S., yet. But as an old army man Captain Gringo knew flags only flew in rainy weather during time of war or serious emergency. The various consulates had their flags out not to ruin them but as beacons for their nationals in case anyone had to run for cover when the shit hit the fan!
~*~
Everything was up to date at the U.S. Consulate. The marine guards stood at parade rest with chromed sword bayonets on their bolt action Krag rifles. Since neither of them even looked at him as he entered the doorway between them, he almost wondered what the hell they were doing there. A civilian might have really wondered, but, as an old army man, Captain Gringo knew the military mind, or what passed for a military mind in certain circles. Had he been the military attaché, here, he’d have had them on the roof behind some sandbags. The marine detachments guarding U.S. installations around the world weren’t supposed to be doormen. They were there in case the local unwashed came in a bunch to send the Yanquis up in smoke.
It was lighter inside than out in the overcast. Edison bulbs were set in the hubs of the revolving electric fans overhead. As he felt a chill from the wet air moving over his wet clothes, Captain Gringo wondered if they could switch the lights on without turning on the fans, and decided they probably couldn’t. An officious-looking girl with Hispanic features sat at a desk in the center of the foyer. She looked the soggy Captain Gringo over, dubiously, and said in Spanish, “You are tracking water on the floor tiles, señor.”
He replied in English, “There’s a lot of that going around, lately. I’m Major Marvin, sis. So if you don’t intend to mop up after me you’d better tell the boss I’m here. He’s expecting me.”
She literally leaped to her feet as she replied in perfect English, “Forgive me, I took you for a native, Major. Come with me. I have orders regarding you.”
He followed the snooty-looking she-male down a corridor, lighting a claro as he admired her rear view. He considered patting her on the bustle as she paused to open a frosted glass door for him. But he decided he’d only carry his arrogant act as high as a major’s rank rated. You’d have to be at least a bird colonel to goose girls working for the government these days. She led him into what looked like a draftsman’s office, where three men were busy at drawing tables and another was climbing out from behind a desk as the receptionist announced Captain Gringo as Major Marvin.
The department head of whatever department this was held out a hand and said, “You’re a little late, Major. But we can fix you up before lunch if I’m correct about your needs. The chief explained your problem.”
The head whatever was a few years older than Captain Gringo albeit a bit officious for anyone under sixty. The soldier of fortune looked around and asked, “Right. Just what is it you guys do here?”
The older American said, “Forgery, mostly. This is the documentation section. If anyone asks, we’re supposed to be cartographers, mapping the delta for our allies in Caracas. As you can see, our official job calls for all sorts of paper and inks of every color. My name’s Smith, if anyone asks. You can call me Smitty, Marv. But I gather you don’t want to be Marv anymore, right?”
This was too good to be true. All he needed to hear, now, was that the receptionist put out. But he noticed she’d left. So he nodded and said, “Yeah. I seem to have blown my cover as a retired army major. I take it you guys can fix me up with another American passport?”
“American, British, French, hell, Russian or Turk, if you want it. We have all sorts of blanks and rubber stamps. The idea is to use a lot of rubber stamps and smear a little grease and graphite on the pages, see?”
Captain Gringo saw how an American consulate would have all the blank U.S. papers it might need, but he was curious about the others. So he asked, “Are you sure your fake foreign stuff would stand up to a real going over by a pro?”
Smitty looked hurt and asked, “What do you think we are – amateurs? Of course our workmanship stands up under scientific scrutiny. We’re the guys who figure out the tests, so we know how to beat ’em.”
He stepped over to his desk and picked up a mock British passport, handing it to Captain Gringo as he explained: “Look at that paper. We’re not talking about some back street forgery with a jeweler’s glass and a crow quill pen, damn it. We had Whitehall’s paper chemically assayed and ran off our own, duplicating the fiber, sizing, and finish. We make our duplicate rubber stamps from photographs taken from real visas. You want us to fill this out for you?”
“Hardly. I’d have a hell of a time passing as a Lime Juicer, even if that passport passed inspection. I just want to be another American travelling under another name. I’d better drop my military cover and say I’m a reporter or something.”
Smitty shook his head and said, “Bad move. Journalist is the most common cover for a secret agent, and they know that even in the sticks. Why don’t we make you a geologist? Nobody knows how to talk to a geologist, and the job fits a guy wandering around down here. Standard of Ohio’s been prospecting for oil in Venezuela, lately. They haven’t found any, yet, but the British are drilling for oil in Trinidad, right off the coast, so this delta ought to be a good place to look for it, right?”
“Yeah, it sort of explains Whitehall’s sudden interest in this swamp, too. I like it, Smitty. Let’s make me a geologist named, oh, Rogers?”
“Richard Rogers? Catchy name. Okay, let’s have your old passport and I’ll get the boys right on it.”
Captain Gringo managed not to show his sudden dismay as he asked in a desperately casual tone, “Oh, do you need my old papers? I left them back at the hotel, but I can get them soon enough.”
Smitty glanced out the window and said, “Hell, it’s raining fire and salt. Be quicker to play it by ear.”
He picked up a blank from his desk and said, “Here, sit at my desk and fill this out. Say anything you want and I’ll go over it and edit out any traps you write yourself into. Don’t make up a phony oil company you work for, for instance. Use a real street for your home address. You’d be surprised how many guys get nailed by some bush league customs agent with a few city directories and a copy of the Wall Street Journal in his desk.”
“I can see that. But isn’t it pretty easy to check out real addresses and companies?”
“Sure, if anyone takes the trouble to write a letter and wait for a reply six or eight weeks later. No minor official’s about to s
pring for long distance cable charges unless he’s sure he’s on to something. Trust me, Marv. I’ve been in this game a while.”
Captain Gringo sat down and tried not to smile as he started to forge a new identity. He knew Smitty was no fool. Had he really been a Major Marvin on a real mission he’d have never gotten this cooperation just by walking in off the street. But people never suspected anyone they’d been introduced to by someone they already trusted.
Nancy’s introducing him to her husband had led the late diplomatic courier, Gordon, to vouch for him at the consulate. The front office accepting him as a neighbor of the Gordons’ had led in turn to these government forgers accepting him as one of their own. It was too good to be true, but what the hell, it was about time his luck changed. He’d been getting shot at by total strangers a lot, too.
It only took him a few minutes to fill out the application blank and he knew a man with any sense would quit while he was ahead. But as he handed the blank to Smitty he found himself saying, “I shouldn’t press my luck, but while I’m here, do you suppose you could run off a fake French passport for me, too?”
“Sure, parlez vous?”
“No. I never was very good at French, but I’m working with a French agent named DuVal. They probably told you about him, right?”
Smitty frowned and said, “Can’t say as they have. What’s the deal?”
“Well, he might be able to get by with the papers he has, if the Brits don’t know he’s working with Uncle Sam. I don’t know if they spotted him with me or not, but—”
“Hell, Marv. No problem. French papers are easy. Any halfway decent printer can make French money!”
Smitty reached past Captain Gringo and pulled another blank from a pigeon hole, saying, “Lessee, yeah, this is the Frog form. You want to fill it out for him or wait ‘til he can come in with you? It’s in French.”
Captain Gringo smiled and said, “He’d probably feel better doing it himself. But how do I smuggle him into a U.S. Consulate without blowing his cover, Smitty?”