by Lou Cameron
“True, but we would still be alive and there is always another day to stage a take-over. The Crespo government is weak, whether they last through this crisis or not. On the other hand, Sir Basil Hakim was not bluffing when he said even the empire was afraid of him.”
“That’s crazy, El Sortilego! He’s only a businessman; and a rather shady one at that!”
“True, and his business partners include the Prince of Wales and the new young Kaiser. He’s quite mad, of course. They say he enjoys doing his own dirty work. But in a pinch he can order wars to start or stop and he knows where all our bodies are buried. Leaving aside his dramatic threats, a call from him to certain interested parties could have us in more trouble than one cares to think about. You pay me to make the future come true for you, Cipriano. Very well, pay him, or you won’t have any future at all!”
There was a long pouting silence until the would-be dictator sighed and said, “All right, you’ve never failed to give the best advice, but somebody is going to have to pay in blood for this!”
“They will, Cipriano,” El Sortilego smiled and purred. “I know where this Captain Gringo and his French friend are. Sir Basil refuses to believe they were behind our problems on the llano, but I see it all now. The American is not the renegade they say he is. He’s been working with American Intelligence to thwart our plans for their friends in the central government. We shall have to sit this crisis out, thanks to that damned Yanqui. But rest assured there will come another time, and rest assured Captain Gringo will not live to see it!”
~*~
As the sun was sinking behind a silver-bronze veil of rain in the west, H.M.S. Pandora lay at anchor just outside the three mile limit on the continental shelf of Venezuela. In the chart room off the bridge, Greystoke of British Intelligence was having his own argument with Sir Reginald Rice-Davis, Admiral of the Fleet. Around the florid-faced old man’s chosen flagship, other British warships lay at anchor, brooding on the quiet copper surface.
Admiral Rice-Davis was a Welshman busting a gut trying to be John Bull English, so it was rather hard to talk to him. He kept waddling up and down the deck with his hands behind him, muttering, “What, what, what?” for no particular reason.
Greystoke said, “We strongly advise against going in at this time, Sir Reginald. We’ve been getting some disturbingly mixed reports on the situation ashore.”
“What, what, what? Bloody nonsense!” Rice-Davis said. “Bloody Yanks are bluffing, and my jolly tars are ready to go! Jolly marines are ready, too, what, what what? Two bloody transports filled with R.M. over there abaft Cruiser Nelson. Be like taking candy from a baby, what, what, what?”
Greystoke nodded and remarked, “If it’s true the Yanks are bluffing. But you know Britain can’t really afford a war with America, and there are some disturbing indications the Yanks are serious.”
“Serious, what, what, what? Who cares if the blighters are serious or not. We whipped them in 1812, didn’t we?”
“Not exactly, Sir. It was a draw, and it damned nearly cost us the war we were having with Napoleon at the time.”
“What, what, what? We’re not having a war with Nappie, now, dash it all. Blighter died some time ago, didn’t he?”
“Yessir, and now Her Majesty’s darling little nephew, Kaiser Bill, is threatening us with a war that will make all others look like child’s play. We’re going to need the Yanks’ good will in times to come, I fear, and for some reason they get dreadfully annoyed when people shoot at them.”
“What, what, what? Nobody wants to shoot at Yanks. Came to shoot at bloody Dagoes, I did. Yanks don’t want a war, they have no right to stick their noses in Her Majesty’s business, down here. Venezuela isn’t an American colony, what, what, what? Dash it all, Venezuela’s not even a proper country! Rum, lot of fandango dancers with no more claim to this part of the coast than we have. Can’t understand the bloody Yanks getting into this perishing mess, what, what, what?”
“Whitehall never expected them to when we announced our border adjustment with Venezuela, Sir. But their President Cleveland seems to think the Monroe Doctrine was given to them as Holy Writ on the Mountain.”
Admiral Rice-Davis shrugged and said, “Who the blazes was Monroe? Sounds like a bloody Scotsman, what, what, what?”
“He was an earlier American president, Sir. For some reason he took the position that if the Yanks stayed out of European affairs, the European powers should stay out of this hemisphere.”
“Piffle and posh. Arrogant, if you ask me. Europe had colonies over here before there was any U.S. of A! I say, the bloody Yanks were British colonies, too, weren’t they?”
“Yessir. I agree the American position is rather weird, but they can be weird people. Meanwhile, if we ever need DuPont powder or Morgan bank loans, it might be a good idea to humor them a bit. I just got a cable from Whitehall: His Highness, Prince Edward, has been working sub rosa to clear this matter up peacefully, with honor to both sides. President Cleveland’s still considering a motion to put the matter up for arbitration before an international commission. Our man in Washington says he’s not too keen on it, but, on the other hand, he knows his country’s not prepared for a war with Great Britain.”
Admiral Rice-Davis smiled smugly and said, “Oh, rather, what, what, what? Naval Intelligence tells me there’s nothing opposing our landing but a perishing old monitor loaned to the Dagoes by the Yanks. Be jolly target practice, what, what, what?”
Rolling his eyes heavenward, Greystoke said patiently, “There’s a U.S. military detachment ashore, too. Our agents tell me they have orders to oppose any landing to the death.”
“Oh, rot and piffle! Send my shore patrol to arrest them before they can get in trouble, what, what, what?”
“There’s more, Sir. I confess it’s the worst news I’ve had to date. A certain so-called soldier of fortune has been seen going in and out of the U.S. Consulate in Tucupita. They call him Captain Gringo. He’s supposed to be a renegade American officer, wanted dead or alive by the U.S. Government.”
“Eh, what, what, what, dead or alive, you say? What’s the perishing blighter doing at the Yankee consulate if they want him dead or alive?”
“That’s a good question, Sir. I confess he had me fooled, too. I’ve even tangled with him a few times and I always assumed he really was a simple soldier of fortune. But, now that I reconsider, there’s been an awful lot of noise everywhere Captain Gringo has shown up. He was seen in Colombia, just before the government was overthrown. Said government was anti-American, by the way. A while back he made holy hash out of Panama and it’s no secret the Yanks are interested in events up there.”
Admiral Rice-Davis shrugged and said, “It seems obvious his tale of being a renegade is a foxy cover, what, what, what? The blighter is an obvious trouble shooter for G2.”
Greystoke nodded and said, “It’s beginning to look that way, Sir Reginald. But don’t you see, that if Captain Gringo is down here the Yanks must have something serious in mind?”
“Egad! You mean they’ve sent one bloody chap to oppose a whole British task force? Sounds ruddy wonky to me, what, what, what? Can’t stand for it. Won’t stand for it. Wouldn’t be British to be turned back by one bloody whatever!”
“The whatever is the question, Sir Reginald. I’d like you to hold off until we can get a better line on just what Captain Gringo is up to here in Venezuela. He’s only a man, after all, but he’s dashedly good at organizing guerrilla groups. I know. I hired him to raid a suspected German base one day, as a diversion, I thought. He and a handful of apparent scum went in and wrecked the place. Neither we nor the Germans have ever quite figured out how.”
Admiral Rice-Davis looked at his table map and shrugged again as Greystoke gritted his teeth and braced himself for another “what, what, what.” But Rice-Davis said, “Only one thing to do, then. You spy chaps will have to assassinate the blighter. Can’t have guerrillas getting in the way. Bloody uncivilized way to fight, and, come
hell or high water, I intend to occupy the bloody delta on bloody schedule!”
“But Sir Reginald, don’t you see that could mean a war we don’t want, and can’t afford to have? Just give me time to find out whether Washington is bluffing or not.”
“Piffle and pox! Don’t care what the Yanks intend, but if it’s any comfort, I can assure you, they most certainly are bluffing. We R.N. chaps have our agents out, too, what, what, what? Look out that ruddy porthole and tell me how many Yankee cruisers you see on the horizon! We haven’t been at all sneaky about this move, you know. Washington’s had plenty of time to place her money where her mouth is, if they mean to play at all. But they’re all talk and bluster, I tell you.”
Greystoke shrugged in resignation and said, “I wish I was as sure. If we move in, and they fire on us, what happens, Sir Reginald?”
“What, what, what? Fire on us? Fire on the Royal Navy? Unthinkable! Just isn’t done! The Yankee navy has been begging President Cleveland for more ships and guns and he says they can’t afford it. Heard it from a rather decent American flag officer, myself, at Malta this spring. They’ll never fire on us. They wouldn’t dare. Why, dash it all, a thing like that could lead to war!”
Greystoke clenched his teeth to keep from screaming in rage as he realized he was talking to a brick wall, and not a very bright one. He had to get back to his phone and cable network on shore, fast. The only good idea the old twit had was the one about shooting Captain Gringo. That might buy some time by throwing the Yanks off stride. But while stopping Captain Gringo seemed simple enough, who was going to stop Admiral Rice-Davis? He excused himself and headed for the ladder, as he ran his options through again. Maybe he wouldn’t kill Dick Walker, just yet. He’d made deals with Captain Gringo in the past and at least the Yank had a brain.
He was on his way to shore in his private launch before he snapped his fingers and murmured to himself, “That’s it. A true patriot has to learn to submerge below his principles and this is no time to be sticky about rules. Dealing with the enemy is high treason, but what’s a spot of high treason between old friends?”
Greystoke laughed, his mind made up. Captain Gringo was an enemy agent and, it would seem, an even more devious one than the world of international skullduggery believed.
But he was a smart enemy and a smart enemy was a lot safer to deal with than a stupid friend.
“I do wish I hadn’t double-crossed him a few times,” Greystoke sighed as he stared wistfully into the sunset. “It’s going to be devilishly hard to convince old Dick I want to be his friend after being his enemy so often. But how does one approach a bloody Yank getting set for a British invasion when he knows you run British Intelligence in this theatre? Let’s see, maybe we should do something nice for him before we approach him, eh? Might cheer him up if we shot a few of those Woodbine Arms agents keeping him under observation for that perishing little Turk. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be grand if we could get Sir Basil on our side, too?”
Greystoke shuddered as he considered several options. All of them were rather awesome. He lit a smoke and marveled, “I say, if the three of us ever worked on the same side, we could take over the perishing world!”
~*~
Gaston left just after dark to see if he could renegotiate their dubious deal with the Dutchman. Captain Gringo had dinner alone in the dining room and was about to go back upstairs when he saw the tall shabby Negro who’d taken them to their rooms when they checked in. The man was wearing his own clothes and looked even shabbier. Captain Gringo nodded to him and asked, “Going off duty?”
The tall Negro nodded. Captain Gringo hesitated, then said, “I hope you won’t be offended, but I have a linen suit I was going to throw away, upstairs. As a matter of fact, it’s in my waste basket. But, no offense, it’s in better shape than what you’re wearing. It could use a good laundering, but there are no holes in it. Could you use it?”
The bellhop grinned with delight and nodded, so Captain Gringo led him upstairs to his room. The little chamber maid, Camelia, was caught in the act as she was making his bed. She straightened up like he’d goosed her as Captain Gringo smiled and said, “Better late than never, right?”
“Forgive me, señor, I have so many rooms to tend and—”
“Hey, forget it, Camelia. I’m not complaining.” He took the still damp linen suit from the waste basket and handed it to the bellhop, saying, “Matter of fact, if she’d been earlier this wouldn’t be here. Sorry it’s a little damp, but it needs a soak in some suds anyway.”
The black bellhop held the suit out as he let it unfold and gasped, “El Señor is most generous. This suit is almost new, and I have never owned such clothing.”
“Let’s not blubber up about it. I told you I was going to throw it away. I’m only glad somebody can still get some use out of it.”
The bellhop left, still thanking him as Captain Gringo shut the door in his face. He turned and asked Camelia, “Am I bothering you? I could go back down to the lobby until you’ve finished here.”
The pretty mestiza dimpled prettily and said, “Oh, no, El Señor could never bother Camelia. I was so afraid when those policemen spoke so roughly to me last night. I will never be able to thank you enough for standing up for me.”
He shrugged, took a seat, and watched her finish as she smoothed the bed. Standing up wasn’t what he had in mind, as he admired her rear view, but she seemed like a shy little thing and what the hell, Bubbles might make it, later.
She’d make it, that is, if the Venezuelan big shot she was having dinner with wasn’t good looking. But so what? He’d slept alone a couple of times and it hadn’t killed him. Like most knockaround guys, Captain Gringo had learned a long time ago that it was usually a waste of time to make a pass at a waitress or a chambermaid. Any reasonably attractive woman who was willing to put out didn’t have to work that hard. And little Camelia was working like a fussy beaver. She already had his bed ready for a West Point inspection, but she kept tugging and tightening.
Her thin, black uniform skirt was long enough to suit Queen Victoria, when Camelia was standing up. Bent over like that, the hem was hiked enough to afford examination of her trim little ankles and muscular calves. In spite of the ritzy-shoddy uniform, the peon girl of course wore rope soled sandals and no stockings. Her legs were darker and hairier than those of Bubbles. Of course Bubbles shaved, all over, and … Knock it off! he warned himself silently. He knew the trouble his curious dong could get him in if he started comparing possible partners. But Camelia was taking forever to finish and the contrasts between her and his recent sex partner were obvious and intriguing.
Camelia and Bubbles were about as far apart as two women could get without one of them being ugly. Bubbles was a bold, brassy bawd who pampered her pink flesh with expensive perfumed soap and scented talcum. Camelia seemed reasonably clean, but he knew she didn’t shave under her arms or anywhere else and her only perfume would be honest female sweat. Bawdy Bubbles took her healthy orgasms like a man. Camelia was a sober and a moaner if he’d ever spotted one. The little dark mestiza was firm where Bubbles was full-fleshed. The only thing they had in common was that they both looked like great lays. But Camelia had finished and turned around, eyes downcast, so he got to his feet and reached in his pocket to tip her. She seemed to be crying, for some dumb reason, so he left the coins in his pocket and stepped over to her, asking, “What’s the matter, Camelia?”
She leaned into him, sobbing, “Oh señor, I am so frightened. I am finished for the day. Your room was the last I had to do and I confess I took my time doing all of them. Now, alas, they will expect me to go home.”
“That sounds reasonable. Where do you live, Camelia?”
“On the east end of town, señor, by the waterfront. Since my mother died, I have dwelt there alone. Is it true the English are going to bombard us with their big boom booms?”
He grimaced in sudden understanding and said, “They may only be bluffing, Camelia. El Preside
nte Cleveland and your own Joaquin Crespo have warned them not to. There are American marines as well as Venezuelan troops here to protect you.”
She leaned even closer and it seemed only natural to take her in his arms to comfort her as she sobbed, “Oh, I am afraid of the soldados, too, señor ! I hear terrible talk in the barrio. My people are not as united as you Americanos may think! Some of my people think things would be better under the Castro faction. There are others who think we would be more better as a British colony and they wish for the English to win.”
“Yeah, but most of your people are loyal to the government they elected, aren’t they?”
“Si, but in times like these nobody knows for sure who one’s friends are. I am afraid to be alone when the trouble starts. It is only with you I do not feel fear!” She leaned closer, which was close indeed, as she added, “I think I fell in love with you a little when you stood up for me before those rude police. That is why I lied for you. But I am being silly. You must know why I lied for you, no?”
Captain Gringo felt a sudden chill despite the warm little bundle of fluff in his arms. He patted her back soothingly and said, “I only did what I thought right, Camelia. But what do you mean, you lied for me?”
She snuggled her face against his chest and murmured, “Oh, you know you were here in this room last night while those Americanos were being robbed and murdered. I passed your door in the hall, twice, and heard you moving on the bed.” She giggled and added, “I thought for a moment, from the sounds, that you were being wicked. But then I saw the light under your door and knew you had to be alone. Perhaps you were tossing and turning because it was so hot, no?”
“Yeah, it was pretty hot, now that I think of it. But why did you tell the police you saw me downstairs if you knew better, Querida?”
“I did not wish them to be rude to you, too. I knew that, like me, you were the innocent bystander, but you know how the police are. When you made them leave me alone, I thought it was only just that I return the favor. After all, neither of us killed those people, did they?”