Isvik (20 page)

There were some Indians camped by a stream in a meadow of coarse grass below the sepulchre hill with its rows of necropolistic apertures. The whole hill had the appearance almost of a skull, the apertures like teeth exposed in a grin and black with decay. Ward got out and walked across to the Indians. They had been drinking chica and swayed as they stood up. A lorry rolled past us along the road, its crumbling body bright with painted pictures plastered over with dust. And behind it were two Indians riding a mule, brown ponchos draped over their shoulders, straw hats jammed on their heads and held with leather thongs under the chin.

‘Straight on,' Ward said as he got back into the driving seat. ‘Just over a kilometre there's a track to the left with an arched entrance gate.'

We were almost there and I wondered how he would behave when he was face-to-face with Gómez, what he would say. And Iris Sunderby, was she really with him in the Hacienda Lucinda?

We reached the gateway and turned in under the adobe arch with the name Hda LUCINDA plaster-embossed in large letters. A long driveway, with a lake on one side and flat, flowered meadows on the other, the dark shapes of cattle grazing. ‘He's part Sicilian, part Irish,' Ward reminded me. ‘Just remember that. And part God knows what else,' he muttered.

His words emphasised the racial element in the picture my imagination had formed of him. Angel of Death. The Disappeareds. A killer who was the son of an Argentinian playboy and a nightclub singer from somewhere near Catania. Christ! What sort of monster would he prove to be?

A few minutes and I was shaking his hand, completely dumbfounded by the physical perfection of the man, his elegance, his charm. There was a virility about him that showed in his every movement. He was like a Greek god, except that his hair was black and the nose had a slight curve to it that gave his broad, open features a somewhat predatory look.

He met us in the hacienda courtyard dressed in white shirt, white jodhpurs and black riding boots. He had a riding crop in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He didn't ask us our names. He just stood there, a moment of shocked surprise as we got out of the Toyota. ‘Yes?' He seemed at a loss for words, and Ward made no attempt to help him. Then he was smiling, coming towards us with the charm turned on. ‘What can I do for you?' He spoke in English with only the trace of an accent.

‘You are Mario Ángel Gómez?' Ward's voice was flat as though he were carrying out an official enquiry.

‘Connor-Gómez. Yes. What do you want?'

‘Señora Sunderby.'

There was a momentary hesitation, so that I half expected him to say she wasn't there. ‘You wish to see her?'

‘No. Ah've come to collect her.'

‘You have come to collect her?' He was staring at Ward, his eyes gone hard, almost black in the sunlight. ‘Why?' The broad, open face was no longer smiling. ‘Who are you?'

‘Ah think ye know that already. Ye know who we are, when we arrived in Lima, also that we left the capital drivin' north up the Pan-Americana.'

‘You have come up from the coast then? How was the road?'

Ward told him about the two diversions below Chilete and the need to switch to the old road that ran along the lip of the gorge. He said nothing about the road being blocked behind us, or the man he had flushed out of the mist-shrouded mountainside and forced over the edge into the gorge below.

‘Your name is Ward. Correct?'

‘Iain Ward.' He nodded.

‘And you are here about the boat, is it? The boat for this expedition. Are you the man who put up the money to buy it?'

‘Ye know damn well Ah am.'

Nobody said anything for a moment, the two of them standing there, summing each other up. The silence was broken by the clip-clop of hooves as a horse was led from its stable at the far side of the courtyard by an Indian. ‘And your name?' Gómez had turned to me, and when I told him, he nodded. ‘You're the wood expert, right? So now we have all the crew of the boat gathered here, except for the Norwegian, and I believe there is an Australian expected. Also we need a cook.'

‘Ye have agreed then?'

‘Agreed?'

‘To act as navigator.'

Gómez hesitated. ‘Per'aps.'

‘So ye know the exact location of this vessel her husband saw. And ye have seen it yerself, from the air?'

He didn't answer that. Instead he said, ‘How did you know where to find me?'

‘Look, laddie, Ah'm askin' the questions. Just ye tell me now, have ye seen that old wooden ship down there in the ice, or no'?'

‘And I asked you a question, Mr Ward.' It was said with studied politeness. ‘How did you know where to find me?'

There was a moment of silence, the two of them facing up to each other, a clash of wills. To my surprise it was Ward who backed off. ‘Rodriguez,' he said.

‘Ah yes.' Gómez hesitated. ‘You have met him, of course.'

‘Aye. In Mexico City. Ah'm sure he will have told ye that on the phone.'

‘And you have read his book, I suppose?'

‘Of course.'

Silence again. Horse and Indian had now stopped close behind Gómez.

‘There are many inaccuracies.' He shrugged. ‘But what can you expect from a man like Rodriguez. It is sad to have to make a living by grubbing around in the dirt of a national calamity.' He gave another shrug. ‘It is all –' he hesitated – ‘what I think you call water under the bridge, eh? It is a long time ago and what matters now is the future. Always one must look to the future.'

‘Aye. So let us talk about that old ship.' Ward glanced at the house, a low, one-storey building sprawled across the end of the rectangular courtyard. ‘Can we go in?' He nodded towards the open door. ‘We could dae with a clean-up. It's been a long drive. A little tiresome at times, too.'

‘There was no need for you to come.' Gómez looked at his wristwatch, which was of heavy gold. The watch, and a gold signet ring on his little finger, glinted in the sun. ‘This is the time I normally ride round the hacienda. We produce alfalfa, rice, cattle, and with mainly Indian labour it is necessary to oversee everything.'

Ward waited, saying nothing, and in the end Gómez said, ‘Very well, come into the house.' The tone of his voice was distinctly unwelcoming. ‘But when you have had a wash I must ask you to leave.'

‘No harm in yer askin', laddie.'

They stared at each other, and I wondered why Ward had thickened his native Glaswegian accent.

‘The normal courtesy would have been to phone ahead for an appointment.'

Ward nodded. ‘O' course. Then ye could have prepared yersel'.' And he added, ‘Now we are here, perhaps ye will send someone to inform Señora Sunderby.'

‘No.' The frostiness of his tone had hardened. ‘She is my guest here. And at the moment she is resting.' There was a pause, and then he said, ‘I have no doubt she will be joining you at Punta Arenas, as arranged – when she is ready.
Alors
.' He gestured towards the front entrance to the house. ‘The cloakroom is the first door on the right.' And he added, as he led the way, ‘You both look as though you could do with some sleep, so while you are refreshing yourselves I will telephone to a hotel in Cajamarca where I know the owner will look after you very well.'

Ward thanked him, but said it would not be necessary. ‘As soon as Ah've talked wi' Iris Sunderby we'll be on our way.' He was moving towards the house then, but suddenly he checked. ‘Och, Ah almost forgot. Ah've a wee present fur ye.' And he turned back to the Toyota, reaching in to the rear seat and coming out with the blasting plunger. He held it out to Gómez. ‘Well, take it, man. It's yers.'

For a second, it seemed, Gómez's eyes changed, a glimmer of some wild emotion mirrored in his features. But it was so fleeting I couldn't be sure. ‘Not mine,' he said, staring hard at Ward.

‘No, no, o' course not. A present. Ah told ye.' There was a long, awkward silence. Finally Ward said, so quietly I hardly heard him, ‘Ah think we understan' each other now.' He chuckled softly to himself. ‘Call it a souvenir, shall we?' He thrust it into the man's hands and strode past him, making for the open doorway set in the centre of the long white portico that ran the length of the house.

Gómez said something to the Indian, then hurried after him. A moment later the two of them had disappeared into the house, leaving me standing there in the sunshine, feeling suddenly weak at the knees. God! I was tired.

The horse was led back to its stable and I walked to the far end of the house, where there was a lawn of coarse-bladed grass, brown with the heat, some exotic-looking flowers in a stony border, and cushioned garden chairs standing bright in the dappled shade of what looked like a cherry tree. I adjusted one of them to the reclining position, lay back in it and closed my eyes.

I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed that a girl was kissing me open-mouthed, the touch of her tongue light as a butterfly, and her hand caressing, and I woke suddenly to find I was thoroughly roused. There was a figure sitting in the chair beside me. Her face was in shadow against a shaft of sunlight, framed by hair that gleamed a brilliant black.

I sat up and she withdrew her hand.

It was Iris Sunderby. I could see her now that my eyes were in the shadow of a branch. Her lips were parted and her breath was coming in quick gasps as though she had been running, the breasts, looking naked under the light silk wrap, rising and falling. But it was her eyes that startled me. They were wide and very intent, the pupils dilated, and an expression of most extraordinary expectancy on her face. She wasn't looking at me. She was staring straight past me, sitting very still, as though waiting for somebody to come out of the house.

‘What is it?' I asked.

But she didn't seem to hear me. I repeated the question, louder this time. There was still no response, no change of expression. It was as though she were in some sort of a trance, a pallid undertone to the sun-dark skin, the nostrils of that straight nose slightly flared; even the jaw seemed to have lost some of its determined thrust. ‘Are you all right?' I asked.

‘Yes.' She said it in a long, sighing breath, still staring, almost avidly, at the side of the house.

I turned then, for I could hear voices. There were open sliding glass windows at the side of the house and in the dim interior I could just make out two figures standing. Ward's voice was saying something about long distance aircraft, Gómez answering him more audibly, ‘It's not possible. Not now.' They had moved towards the windows. ‘Things are not the same. I am no longer a serving officer in the
Fuerza Aérea
. Why don't you get your people …'

I could see them quite clearly now. They were not looking at us. They were facing each other, Ward saying, ‘We have nothin' that could make it there and back.'

‘The Hercules. You have the Hercules at your Mount Pleasant base on the Malvinas.' And when Ward said it hadn't the range, Gómez replied sharply, ‘But I think it has. It flies regularly to South Georgia and back for a mail drop to your garrison there. That is eighteen hundred miles the round flight. It is slightly less than that from the Malvinas to the region of the Weddell Sea where this ship is locked in the ice. So no problem. That cargo plane of yours has a range of three thousand, six hundred sea miles. That is with minimum payload.'

‘They would need a bigger margin than that to mount a search down there at the bottom of the world. It's not exactly a Mediterranean climate.'

‘Then why not refuel in the air? That is how I arrange it.'

‘Aye.' There was silence then and I thought I saw him shake his head. ‘No, we'll do it my way.' He turned to face the glass of the sliding windows and his mouth suddenly opened with surprise. ‘Ah thought ye said she was restin' in her room.'

‘
¿Qué?
' Gómez showed clearly then, peering over his shoulder, staring straight at us. Then he moved, brushing past Ward, and at that moment Iris Sunderby reached out, seizing me by the shoulder and letting out a scream as she fell to the ground, pulling me down on top of her. I finished up with a hand on her breast and my face within inches of hers. Her eyes still had that dazed, almost glazed look, but beginning to focus now, though not on me, on Gómez, and she was screaming all the time.

Suddenly she stopped, and there was a look on her face … I can only describe it as naked lust. It was as though she were in a sexual frenzy, completely transported by the excitement of her passion. Her lips stretched in a rictus smile, a satisfied look on her face, like that of a child who's got at the strawberries and cream, and Gómez was the cause of it.

A hand fastened like an iron clamp on my shoulder and I was flung off her, Ward bending down and shouting at her, ‘Ye silly, stupid bitch!' His voice was thick with fury. And then he slapped her, twice on the face. ‘Come on! Pull yersel' together, fur Christ's sake!'

I was lying on the grass, seeing it all from a low angle, Gómez moving in and Ward turning on him. ‘Ye fuckin' shit! What is it? What have ye doped her with? Coke, I suppose.' He stretched out his dummy hand, and the metal fingers clawed at the man's arm. ‘How did she take it – orally, or did she snort it?' The fingers were clamped tight and he was shaking Gómez back and forth, his features livid with anger. ‘Or did ye inject it?' He was jabbing at the man with the clenched fist of his other hand, and Gómez, taken by surprise, was trying to hold him off. ‘If it's crack Ah'll fuckin' kill ye, man.'

Gómez shook his head violently. ‘Is not crack. I don't have any crack. I think perhaps it is the cocaine I keep for medical purposes, pure, straight cocaine. The best. I don't mix it with anything.'

‘How did ye give it to her?'

‘No, I don't give it to her. She must have got it from the room where I keep my guns. There is a box with all the things necessary in case of accidents. Cocaine is for anaesthetising against pain.'