The Spanish Hawk (1969) (14 page)

Fletcher glanced again at the Americans. “Was that also your opinion?”

Hutchins shrugged. “We have to take the long view.”

It was as much as to say that they preferred Conrad Denning to Clayton Rodgers. Perhaps Rodgers had been getting a shade too independent, a little too big for his boots. So he had had to be replaced by a more reliable man. And Colonel Vincent, of course, was only too ready to leap on to any bandwagon that happened to be around. An agile man, the Colonel.

King took a step towards Denning. “You damned traitor!” His right hand made a move for the pistol.

“Hold it there,” Brogan said.

There was a stubby revolver in Brogan’s hand. Hutchins was holding another. One was pointing at King, one at Lawrence.

King stopped. Lawrence had hardly begun to move. They both looked angry. Fletcher remembered how ruthless they had been with the two Leopards and he was pretty sure that neither of them would have hesitated to kill Denning if it had not been for the revolvers in the hands of the C.I.A. men. He had betrayed them, and they would find that hard to forgive.

Denning himself was perfectly cool. He turned to Vincent and said: “Perhaps you would be good enough to disarm them, Colonel. They are very hot-headed.”

Vincent, with the cigar still stuck in his mouth, got up quickly and relieved Lawrence and King of their weapons. He unloaded the pistols, dropped the magazines in his pocket, and laid the guns on a coffee table. He moved on to Fletcher.

“You won’t find anything on me,” Fletcher said.

Vincent smiled. “Nevertheless …”

He did a quick frisking and found nothing. Then he returned to his armchair and continued smoking the cigar.

“What do you intend doing with us?” King asked, staring at Denning with hatred.

Denning looked at him reflectively. Then he said: “I think you will have to come with us.”

“Where?”

“To Jamestown. We shall be leaving shortly.” Fletcher got the impression that he was simply waiting for Leonora to return, though he could not be sure of that. “There I am afraid it will be necessary to put you under restraint.”

“You mean throw us in gaol?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“You will eventually come up for trial. It will all be done according to the law.”

King looked as though he would have liked to spit. “And what are we being charged with?”

“Oh, that is no difficulty. I am sure we can think of something. Treason perhaps. Plotting against the State. Even murder. The choice is wide enough.”

“You bet it is.”

Fletcher wondered whether he was included with King and Lawrence. It was not a happy thought, for if there was a trial there could be little doubt about the verdict or even
the sentence. Denning, having taken over the Presidency, would not be slow to remove as many enemies as possible; and those who had been his closest allies in the revolutionary cause would now be his bitterest opponents.

He became aware that Denning was looking at him.

“Don’t you wish you had accepted that offer of two thousand dollars for leaving the island?”

Fletcher glanced at Hutchins. “Would I have got it?”

“Oh, sure,” Hutchins said. “It was an honest to God offer. But I’m afraid it’s not on any more.”

“I didn’t think it would be.”

“Now,” Denning said, “you’ll just have to go without any payment; at your own expense.”

Fletcher’s heart gave a leap. “You mean you’re letting me go?”

“Why not? You have committed no offence as far as I am aware. After all, photography is not a crime.”

“Or murder?”

Denning dismissed the suggestion with a flutter of the hand. “We know you have not murdered anyone. We know very well who did the killing on the occasion in question. Why, then, should we detain you?”

“Why, indeed.”

“I imagine you are not going to make a fuss about going?”

“It would be rather foolish to do that.”

“I’m glad you see it in that light. Frankly, I think it would be by far the best way out of the situation.”

“I suppose you might say it would be, since you failed to get rid of me the other way.”

“The other way? Oh, you’re referring to that bit of shooting while you were on board my boat.”

“And the underwater explosion while I was down by the wreck. I nearly got caught by that. It was really very nasty, I can tell you. But why should that bother you?”

“Now there,” Denning said, “you must believe me when I assure you I would not have had that happen if I could have prevented it. But things had gone too far. I simply couldn’t call off the operation.”

Fletcher did not believe him. But it made no difference. The main thing was that he was alive and they were going to let him go. He was sorry for King and Lawrence, but they had known what they were doing; they had known that there was always the possibility of being caught, and that if they were they would have to face the consequences. He, on the other hand, had never really been one of them; he had been dragooned into the business. Now he was out of it, and he would be glad to go.

He thought of Leonora and felt a pang, because for a while he certainly had believed that something was building up between them and he had hoped it might go on building; but all of that had come tumbling down and he would just have to forget about it. She was in league with Denning and she must have known very well what was going to happen to him even as she stood on the board-walk and watched the boat leaving harbour. Damn her.

But then he thought again, and there was something that did not quite fit. Denning had said that she had taken the Ford and gone to meet the boat. Yet why should she do that if she had not been expecting them to come back? So maybe she had not known after all. Maybe she had not been working with Denning and the C.I.A. Maybe she was entirely innocent of any betrayal.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt like
buying that. He wanted to believe it, he really did want to believe it, because it threw such a different light on her conduct; and until he had proof that he was wrong he damned well was going to believe it. And of course it explained why Denning was waiting for her: he was waiting so that he could have her arrested the same as King and Lawrence had been arrested; so that she could be thrown in gaol and brought to trial also.

When he had reached that conclusion he began trying to think of a way to prevent its happening. But he had still not come up with any reasonable plan when he heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside and then the slam of the car door, and he guessed that Leonora had arrived. He saw Denning stiffen and knew that he was aware of it, too. And if it came to that, he doubted if there was anyone in the room who was not aware of it. He heard her feet on the gravel and then on the terrace, and he could tell that she was running. Then the front door opened and slammed behind her and she was in the hall. He had to stop her now or it would be too late.

He started moving towards the door with a vague intention of heading her off and telling her to turn round, run back to the car and get to hell out of there. It would have been hopeless anyway, because to get her to do that would have taken a lot of explanation and persuasion, and there was just not the time available. But in the event he failed to get even as far as the door, because Brogan jumped up and got between it and him and rammed the muzzle of the revolver into his stomach.

“Stop right there,” Brogan said.

Fletcher stopped right there. He had no doubt whatever that Brogan was prepared to use the revolver, and if he
provoked him into doing so it was going to help no one, least of all John Fletcher.

A moment later the door burst open and Leonora rushed into the room. She came to an abrupt halt and stared; and it was obvious that her mind was racing, trying to catch up with the situation. It was probable that she recognised Vincent, still sitting in the armchair and placidly smoking his cigar, and it was possible that, even if she did not know them, she guessed who Hutchins and Brogan were; the revolvers were sufficient evidence that they were not there on a purely social visit. But there were details that needed filling in, and she looked at Denning for enlightenment.

“What’s going on?”

“A lot of things are going on,” Denning said. “You have perhaps heard that the President has been shot?”

“Yes. But only a short while ago. That’s why I decided to come back and not wait any longer for the boat.”

“Just as well. You would have had to wait a long time.”

Her head turned towards Fletcher. “What happened?”

“We had trouble,” Fletcher said. “There’s been a lot of treachery knocking around.”

“Treachery!” she said; and he could see that she had known nothing about it. Either that or she was putting on a good act; and he did not believe she was acting. She had not known; and he was glad about that. “What kind of treachery?”

King suddenly pointed an accusing finger at Denning. “Ask him. He can tell you.”

She stared at Denning. “What does he mean?”

Denning gave a slight shrug. “He means, my dear, that I am to be the new president.”

“You!” She could not believe it. “It’s not possible. Not you.”

“Oh, yes,” he said; “it is possible. Indeed, I might say it is inevitable.”

She seemed utterly bewildered. She glanced at Vincent, as though for confirmation; and Vincent gave a thin smile and a little nod of the head. It seemed to get through to her then. She looked again at Denning and spoke without raising her voice.

“You bastard!” she said. “You filthy, low-down, stinking bastard! My God, you make me sick!”

Denning frowned. The girl’s contemptuous words had got through to him and touched a nerve. His voice had lost some of its urbanity when he said:

“Let’s not have any histrionics; we are dealing with realities. You’ve been floating around in the clouds long enough; now it’s time to come down to earth. This island is never going to be another Cuba; it’s not going Red and you’d better accept the fact.” His glance took in King and Lawrence. “All of you.”

They said nothing; merely stared back at him with hatred in their eyes.

“And now,” Denning said briskly, “we have no more time to waste. We must be moving. There’s a lot to do.”

Colonel Vincent stubbed out his cigar in a convenient ash-tray and stood up. “I am ready.”

“Let’s go, then.”

One of the servants appeared in the hall as they were going out. Denning snapped a curt order and the man retired hurriedly after giving one frightened glance at the guns Hutchins and Brogan were carrying. The light from the terrace was shining across the gravelled space below, revealing the Ford in which Leonora had arrived, and the
Citroën and the Chrysler backed up against the low perimeter wall. They went down the steps and walked across to them, Hutchins and Brogan keeping close to King and Lawrence to make sure they did not attempt to break away.

“Leave the Ford,” Denning said. “We’ll use the other two cars.”

Brogan directed King to get into the front passenger seat of the Chrysler, while Hutchins and Lawrence climbed into the back. Brogan pocketed his revolver and got in behind the wheel. At the same time the others were piling into the Citroën, Vincent in the driving seat with Fletcher beside him; Denning and the girl in the back.

That was when the three men came over the wall. They must have been watching from the shadows and had probably guessed something of what was going on, if not all. Fletcher caught sight of them at the same moment as Brogan and Hutchins must have done. He saw the doors of the Chrysler swing open and Brogan step out on one side and Hutchins on the other. Brogan had his revolver in his hand again, and Hutchins had never put his away. Not that the weapons were going to be any use to them, because the men who had come over the wall were carrying submachine-guns and they were not waiting for anyone else to start the shooting; they started it themselves.

Hutchins and Brogan were so close to the blast of the guns that they seemed to be blown backwards. Fletcher ducked below the dashboard then and lost sight of them, because he had seen the third man coming towards the Citroën holding his own submachine-gun at the ready. And suddenly Vincent’s nerve cracked; he opened the car door and made a run for it. Fletcher lost sight of him also, but he
heard the brief stutter of the gun and guessed that Vincent had not got very far.

Everything went very quiet after that, and a few seconds later he lifted his head cautiously and saw Vincent lying face downward on the gravel about ten yards away. The man who had shot him was standing over him and looking down. And then he rolled the body over with his foot and looked at the face, and gave a short, sharp laugh and turned away.

King was getting out of the Chrysler, stepping carefully over Brogan’s body. He walked over to the Citroen and looked in and said:

“Better go back to the house now. Looks like there’s been a change of plan.”

They were all big men; so big that the submachine-guns in their hands looked like toys. One of them was coffee-coloured and pock-marked, and he had a dirty rag of a bandage on his right forearm. The blood had run down on to his hand and had not been washed off but had simply been allowed to dry on the skin. The other two were as black as coal, and they all looked tired and dusty and as hard as rocks. Fletcher did not need to be told where they had come from or what they had been doing; nobody did. He wondered which one had shot the President, or whether each of them had put a bullet or two into the tyrant, sharing the blood between them like the assassins of Julius Caesar.

They sat on the chairs in Denning’s drawing-room and their eyes looked dull with fatigue. None of the servants had put in an appearance, though they must have heard the
shooting; they were keeping their heads down, and Fletcher did not blame them. King had explained briefly to the three men just what the situation was. They had looked at Denning with death in their faces, but he had stared back at them coldly, without flinching, faintly contemptuous.

King said to him: “You will come with us now.”

“For what purpose?” Denning asked. “To be killed? I would rather be shot here.”

“To be tried.”

“It is the same thing.”

King shrugged. “You may think so.”

He did not discuss the matter further, but turned to Fletcher. “What will you do?”

“My plans haven’t changed. I shall still leave the island.”

“That may not be so easy now. If you went to Jamestown and tried to board an airliner or a ship I think you would be arrested. Who is there to vouch for you now?”

Fletcher appreciated the difficulty. The warrant for his arrest still stood, and now there were other incidents in which he had been involved. There could be little doubt that if he attempted to leave the island by the regular means he would inevitably end up in gaol.

“What do you suggest?”

“You could join us,” King said.

There was little attraction in that alternative. Joining King and his comrades would mean taking to the hills, the guerrilla hideouts; it would mean being on the run, hunted by the security forces, winkled out of one foxhole after another; it would mean living rough and being always in danger. And for what? An ideal in which he had no belief.

“No,” he said; “I don’t think that’s the game for me. There must be some way of getting off the island.”

“There’s the boat,” King said.

Fletcher glanced at Denning, who gave a sardonic laugh. “If you are asking my permission, take it. It’s hardly likely that I shall ever have need of it again. Charon’s boat is the only one I shall use.”

Fletcher shook his head. “I should never find my way back to it.”

“That’s true,” King admitted. “You would need a guide.” He seemed to think about it; then he said: “Very well; I will take you back to the boat.”

“I’ll go with you,” Leonora said.

Fletcher and King looked at her, but neither of them made any remark.

They travelled the first part of the journey in the Ford. King said it would bring them closer to the boat before they had to go on foot. None of them was going back to the house; when King had seen Fletcher safely to the boat he would make his own way to join up with the other party at a prearranged rendezvous. What Leonora proposed doing neither of them knew. She had packed a duffle-bag but had given no hint regarding her plans; perhaps had not even made up her own mind. Fletcher had abandoned his suitcase and had brought only the canvas holdall. They had all eaten a hurried meal before leaving and had brought some extra provisions with them. King said there were some reserve cans of petrol in the boat and still a useful amount in the tanks.

“You’ll have enough. All you have to do is head west and you’re bound to hit land pretty soon.”

Fletcher was not so sure about that; there was a lot more water than land and it would be rough navigation at best. But he preferred to take that risk rather than the risk of going with the guerrillas or trying to get away by the orthodox method; the police in Jamestown were likely to be very vigilant, and anyone who might have had any connection with the assassination of President Rodgers or the killing of Colonel Vincent was not going to find it easy to slip through their fingers.

The boat was in the place where it had been left and there was no indication that anyone had tampered with it. They had left the Ford some four miles back and Fletcher knew that he would never have found the way without King. There was a thin sliver of moon, but by the time they reached the boat it was low in the sky. There was just enough light to reveal where the controls were.

“You think you can handle it?” King asked.

“I think so,” Fletcher said. He had had some lessons from Joby in boat-handling and he had seen Lawrence working this one. It was simple enough.

“Okay then,” King said. “She’s all yours.”

He was referring to the boat, but Fletcher was looking at the girl. Leonora had not stepped on board; she was standing a few yards away with the duffle-bag slung over her right shoulder.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked.

She turned her head and looked at King, as though seeking his advice.

King said: “You please yourself. If you want to go with him, you go.”

“Don’t you want me to stay with you? Isn’t that what you really want?”

“Sure, that’s what I want. Nothing I want more. You know that. But it’s for you to choose.”

Fletcher waited, not saying anything. She took a step towards the boat and he thought she had decided to go with him, and his heart leaped. But then she stopped.

“You see how it is, John. I can’t leave him now. I owe him that much. You must understand.”

“I understand,” Fletcher said. “I love you, but I understand. You have to do what you have to do.”

He began tinkering with the controls. The engine came to life. King cast off the mooring-rope.

“Goodbye,” King said.

Fletcher had the boat moving then. He took it out into the middle of the creek and headed for the sea, not looking back. He had come to where the creek widened out when he slowed and turned the boat and went back. They were still standing where he had left them, almost as though they had expected him to return. He brought the boat in close to the bank and stopped the engine and threw the rope to King. He picked up his holdall and tossed it on to the bank and jumped after it.

“You changed your mind,” King said. He sounded unsurprised. He might have been anticipating it.

“Yes, I changed my mind. I’m coming with you.”

“Why?”

“I got to feeling lonely,” Fletcher said. “There’s an awful lot of sea out there and I’m no navigator. A man needs friends.”

King nodded. “That’s true.”

“Maybe more than friends,” Leonora said.

Her voice was husky and it sounded like a promise of some kind. Fletcher had a feeling she was glad he had come back, and he knew that he himself was.

“Maybe so,” he said. “Maybe so at that.”

They had been travelling for about an hour with King in the lead, followed by Leonora, and Fletcher bringing up the rear, when the girl slowed down to allow him to draw level with her.

“What was that you said just before you started the boat?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to remember.”

Fletcher cast his mind back a little. “I said you have to do what you have to do.”

“No, not that. There was something else. I’m sure there was something else.”

“I said I love you.”

“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “I thought that was what you said.”

She went on ahead again, but a little later she was back at his side. “If it’s of any interest to you,” she said, “I love you, too.”

“It is of interest,” Fletcher said.