High Citadel / Landslide (29 page)

Three more trucks had come up. They had not gone straight up to the mine—not yet; the enemy had indulged in a futile attempt to quench the fires of the flaming camp and that had taken some time. Knowing that the trucks were parked above the camp, he circled so as to come out upon them. His ankle was bad, the flesh soft and puffy, and
he knew he could not walk very much farther—certainly not up to the mine. It was in his mind to get himself a truck the same way he got himself a gun—by killing for it.

A crowd of men were climbing into the trucks when he got back to the road and he felt depressed but brightened a little when he saw that only two trucks were being used. The jeep was drawn up alongside and O’Hara heard the Russian giving orders in his pedantic Spanish and fretted because he was not within range. Then the jeep set off up the road and the trucks rolled after it with a crashing of gears, leaving the third parked.

He could not see whether a guard had been left so he began to prowl forward very cautiously. He did not think that there was a guard—the enemy would not think of taking such a precaution, as everyone was supposed to have been driven up to the mine. So he was very shocked when he literally fell over a sentry, who had left his post by the truck and was relieving himself among the rocks by the roadside.

The man grunted in surprise as O’Hara cannoned into him. ‘
Cuidado!
’ he said, and then looked up. O’Hara dropped both his weapons as the man opened his mouth and clamped the palm of his hand over the other’s jaw before he could shout. They strained against each other silently, O’Hara forcing back the man’s head, his fingers clawing for the vulnerable eyes. His other arm was wrapped around the man’s chest, clutching him tight.

His opponent flailed frantically with both arms and O’Hara knew that he was in no condition for a real knockdown-drag-out fight, with this man. He remembered the knife in his belt and decided to take a chance, depending on swiftness of action to kill the man before he made a noise. He released him suddenly, pushing him away, and his hand went swiftly to his waist. The man staggered and opened his mouth again and O’Hara stepped forward and drove the
knife in a straight stab into his chest just below the breast-bone, giving it an upward turn as it went in.

The man coughed in a surprised hiccuping fashion and leaned forward, toppling straight into O’Hara’s arms. As O’Hara lowered him to the ground he gave a deep sigh and died. Breathing heavily, O’Hara plucked out the knife and a gush of hot blood spurted over his hand. He stood for a moment, listening, and then picked up the sub-machine-gun from where he had dropped it. He felt a sudden shock as his finger brushed the safety-catch—it was in the off position; the sudden jar could well have fired a warning shot.

But that was past and he was beyond caring. He knew he was living from minute to minute and past possibilities and actions meant nothing to him. All that mattered was to get up to the mine as quickly as possible—to nail the Cuban and the Russian—and to find Benedetta.

He looked into the cab of the truck and opened the door. It was a big truck and from where he sat when he pulled himself into the cab he could see the dying embers of the camp. He did not see any movement there, apart from a few low flames and a curl of black smoke which was lost immediately in the mist. He turned back, looked ahead and pressed the starter.

The engine fired and he put it into gear and drove up the road, feeling a little light-headed. In a very short space of time he had killed three men, the first he had ever killed face to face, and he was preparing to go on killing for as long as was necessary. His mind had returned to the tautness he remembered from Korea before he had been shot down; all his senses were razor-sharp and his mind emptied of everything but the task ahead.

After a while he switched off the lights. It was risky, but he had to take the chance. There was the possibility that in the mist he could lose the road on one of the bends and go down the mountain out of control; but far worse was the
risk that the enemy in the trucks ahead would see him and lay an ambush.

The truck ground on and on and the wheel bucked against his hand as the jolts were transmitted from the road surface. He went as fast as he thought safe, which was really not fast at all, but at last, rounding a particularly hair-raising corner, he saw a red tail-light disappearing round the next bend. At once he slowed down, content to follow at a discreet distance. There was nothing he could do on the road—his time would come at the mine.

He put out his hand to the sub-machine-gun resting on the seat next to him and drew it closer. It felt very comforting.

He reached a bend he remembered, the final corner before the level ground at the mine. He drew into the side of the road and put on the brake, but left the engine running. Taking the gun, he dropped to the ground, wincing as he felt the weight on his bad ankle, and hobbled up the road. From ahead he could hear the roar of engines stopping one by one, and when he found a place from where he could see, he discovered the other trucks parked by the huts and in the glare of headlights he saw the movement of men.

The jeep revved up and started to move, the beams of its lights stabbing through the mist and searching along the base of the cliff where the mine tunnels had been driven. First one black cavern was illuminated and then another, and then there was a raised shout of triumph, a howl of fierce joy, as the beams swept past the third tunnel and returned almost immediately to show a low rock wall at the entrance and the white face of a man who quickly dodged back out of sight.

O’Hara wasted no time in wondering who it was. He hobbled back to his truck and put it in gear. Now was the time to enter that bleak arena.

Forester felt warm and at ease, and to him the two were synonymous. Strange that the snow is so warm and soft, he thought; and opened his eyes to see a glare of white before him. He sighed and closed his eyes again, feeling a sense of disappointment. It
was
snow, after all. He supposed he should make an effort to move and get out of this deliciously warm snow or he would die, but he decided it was not worth the effort. He just let the warmth lap him in comfort and for a second before he relapsed into unconsciousness he wondered vaguely where Rohde had got to.

The next time he opened his eyes the glare of white was still there but now he had recovered enough to see it for what it was—the brilliance of sunlight falling on the crisply laundered white counterpane that covered him. He blinked and looked again, but the glare hurt his eyes, so he closed them. He knew he should do something but what it was he could not remember, and he passed out again while struggling to keep awake long enough to remember what it was.

Vaguely, in his sleep, he was aware of the passage of time and he knew he must fight against this, that he must stop the clock, hold the moving fingers, because he had something to do that was of prime urgency. He stirred and moaned, and a nurse in a trim white uniform gently sponged the sweat from his brow.

But she did not wake him.

At last he woke fully and stared at the ceiling. That was also white, plainly whitewashed with thick wooden beams. He turned his head and found himself looking into kindly eyes. He licked dry lips and whispered, ‘What happened?’

‘
No comprendo
,’ said the nurse. ‘No talk—I bring doctor.’

She got up and his eyes moved as she went out of the room. He desperately wanted her to come back, to tell him where he was and what had happened and where to find Rohde. As he thought of Rohde it all came back to him—the night on the mountain and the frustrating attempts to find a way over the pass. Most of it he remembered, although the end bits were hazy—and he also remembered why that impossible thing had been attempted.

He tried to sit up but his muscles had no strength in them and he just lay there, breathing hard. He felt as though his body weighed a thousand pounds and as though he had been beaten all over with a rubber hose. Every muscle was loose and flabby, even the muscles of his neck, as he found when he tried to raise his head. And he felt very, very tired.

It was a long time before anyone came into the room, and then it was the nurse bearing a bowl of hot soup. She would not let him talk and he was too weak to insist, and every time he opened his mouth she ladled a spoonful of soup into it. The broth gave him new strength and he felt better, and when he had finished the bowl he said, ‘Where is the other man—
el otro hombre?
’

‘Your friend will be all right,’ she said in Spanish, and whisked out of the room before he could ask anything else.

Again it was a long time before anyone came to see him. He had no watch, but by the position of the sun he judged it was about midday. But which day? How long had he been there? He put up his hand to scratch an intolerable itching in his chest and discovered why he felt so heavy and
uncomfortable; he seemed to be wrapped in a couple of miles of adhesive tape.

A man entered the room and closed the door. He said in an American accent, ‘Well, Mr Forester, I hear you’re better.’ He was dressed in hospital white and could have been a doctor. He was elderly but still powerfully built, with a shock of white hair and the crowsfeet of frequent laughter around his eyes.

Forester relaxed. ‘Thank God—an American,’ he said. His voice was much stronger.

‘I’m McGruder—Doctor McGruder.’

‘How did you know my name?’ asked Forester.

‘The papers in your pocket,’ said McGruder. ‘You carry an American passport.’

‘Look,’ said Forester urgently. ‘You’ve got to let me out of here. I’ve got things to do. I’ve got to—’

‘You’re not leaving here for a long time,’ said McGruder abruptly. ‘And you couldn’t stand if you tried.’

Forester sagged back in bed. ‘Where is this place?’

‘San Antonio Mission,’ said McGruder,’ ‘I’m the Big White Chief here. Presbyterian, you know.’

‘Anywhere near Altemiros?’

‘Sure. Altemiros village is just down the road—almost two miles away.’

‘I want a message sent,’ said Forester rapidly. ‘Two messages—one to Ramón Sueguerra in Altemiros and one to Santillana to the—’

McGruder held up his hand. ‘Whoa up, there; you’ll have a relapse if you’re not careful. Take it easy.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Forester bitterly. ‘This is urgent.’

‘For God’s sake nothing is urgent,’ said McGruder equably. ‘He has all the time there is. What I’m interested in right now is why one man should come over an impossible pass in a blizzard carrying another man.’

‘Did Rohde carry me? How is he?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ said McGruder. ‘I’d be interested to know why he carried you.’

‘Because I was dying,’ said Forester. He looked at McGruder speculatively, sizing him up. He did not want to make a blunder—the communists had some very unexpected friends in the strangest places—but he did not think he could go wrong with a Presbyterian doctor, and McGruder
looked
all right. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I suppose I’ll have to tell you. You look okay to me.’

McGruder raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and Forester told him what was happening on the other side of the mountains, beginning with the air crash but leaving out such irrelevancies as the killing of Peabody, which, he thought, might harm his case. As he spoke McGruder’s eyebrows crawled up his scalp until they were almost lost in his hair.

When Forester finished he said, ‘Now that’s as improbable a story as I’ve ever heard. You see, Mr Forester, I don’t entirely trust you. I had a phone call from the Air Force base—there’s one quite close—and they were looking for you. Moreover, you were carrying this.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pistol. ‘I don’t like people who carry guns—it’s against my religion.’

Forester watched as McGruder skilfully worked the action and the cartridges flipped out. He said, ‘For a man who doesn’t like guns you know a bit too much about their workings.’

‘I was a Marine at Iwo Jima,’ said McGruder. ‘Now why would the Cordilleran military be interested in you?’

‘Because they’ve gone communist.’

‘Tchah!’ said McGruder disgustedly. ‘You talk like an old maid who sees burglars under every bed. Colonel Rodriguez is as communist as I am.’

Forester felt a sudden hope. Rodriguez was the commandant of Fourteenth Squadron and the friend of Aguillar. ‘Did you speak to Rodriguez?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said McGruder. ‘It was some junior officer.’ He paused. ‘Look, Forester, the military want you and I’d like you to tell me why.’

‘Is Fourteenth Squadron still at the airfield?’ countered Forester.

‘I don’t know. Rodriguez did say something about moving—but I haven’t seen him for nearly a month.’

So it was a toss-up, thought Forester disgustedly. The military were friend or foe and he had no immediate means of finding out—and it looked as though McGruder was quite prepared to hand him over. He said speculatively, ‘I suppose you try to keep your nose clean. I suppose you work in with the local authorities and you don’t interfere in local politics.’

‘Indeed I don’t,’ said McGruder. ‘I don’t want this mission closed. We have enough trouble as it is.’

‘You
think
you have trouble with Lopez, but that’s nothing to the trouble you’ll have when the commies move in,’ snapped Forester. ‘Tell me, is it against your religion to stand by and wait while your fellow human beings—some of them fellow countrymen, not that that matters—are slaughtered not fifteen miles from where you are standing?’

McGruder whitened about the nostrils and the lines deepened about his mouth. ‘I almost think you are telling the truth,’ he said slowly.

‘You’re damn right I am.’

Ignoring the profanity McGruder said, ‘You mentioned a name—Sueguerra. I know Señor Sueguerra very well. I play chess with him whenever I get into the village. He is a good man, so that is a point for you. What was the other message—to Santillana?’

‘The same message to a different man,’ said Forester patiently. ‘Bob Addison of the United States Embassy. Tell them both what I’ve told you—and tell Addison to get the lead out of his breeches fast.’

McGruder wrinkled his brow. ‘Addison? I believe I know all the Embassy staff, but I don’t recall an Addison.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ said Forester. ‘He’s an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States. We don’t advertise.’

McGruder’s eyebrows crawled up again. ‘We?’

Forester grinned weakly. ‘I’m a C.I.A. officer, too. But you’ll have to take it on trust—I don’t carry the information tattooed on my chest.’

Forester was shocked to hear that Rohde was likely to lose his leg. ‘Frostbite in a very bad open wound is not conducive to the best of health,’ said McGruder dryly. ‘I’m very sorry about this; I’ll try to save the leg, of course—it’s a pity that this should happen to so brave a man.’

McGruder now appeared to have accepted Forester’s story, although he had taken a lot of convincing and had doubts about the wisdom of the State Department. ‘They’re stupid,’ he said. ‘We don’t want open American interference down here—that’s certain to stir up anti-Americanism. It’s giving the communists a perfect opening.’

‘For God’s sake, I’m not interfering actively,’ protested Forester. ‘We knew that Aguillar was going to make his move and my job was to keep a friendly eye on him, to see that he got through safely.’ He looked at the ceiling and said bitterly, ‘I seem to have balled it up, don’t I?’

‘I don’t see that you could have done anything different,’ observed McGruder. He got up from the bedside. ‘I’ll check up on which squadron is at the airfield, and I’ll go to see Sueguerra myself.’

‘Don’t forget the Embassy.’

‘I’ll put a phone call through right away.’

But that proved to be difficult because the line was not open. McGruder sat at his desk and fumed at the unresponsive telephone. This was something that happened about once a week and always at a critical moment. At last he put down the hand-set and turned to take off his white coat, but hesitated as he heard the squeal of brakes from the courtyard. He looked through his office window and saw a military staff car pull up followed by a truck and a military ambulance. A squad of uniformed and armed men debussed from the truck under the barked orders of an N.C.O., and an officer climbed casually out of the staff car.

McGruder hastily put on the white coat again and when the officer strode into the room he was busy writing at his desk. He looked up and said, ‘Good day—er—Major. To what do I owe this honour?’

The officer clicked his heels punctiliously. ‘Major Garcia, at your service.’

The doctor leaned back in his chair and put both his hands flat on the desk. ‘I’m McGruder. What can I do for you, Major?’

Garcia flicked his glove against the side of his well-cut breeches. ‘We—the Cordilleran Air Force, that is—thought we might be of service,’ he said easily. ‘We understand that you have two badly injured men here—the men who came down from the mountain. We offer the use of our medical staff and the base hospital at the airfield.’ He waved. ‘The ambulance is waiting outside.’

McGruder swivelled his eyes to the window and saw the soldiers taking up position outside. They looked stripped for action. He flicked his gaze back to Garcia. ‘And the escort!’

Garcia smiled. ‘
No es nada
,’ he said casually. ‘I was conducting a small exercise when I got my orders, and it was as easy to bring the men along as to dismiss them and let them idle.’

McGruder did not believe a word of it. He said pleasantly, ‘Well, Major, I don’t think we need trouble the military. I
haven’t been in your hospital at the airfield, but this place of mine is well enough equipped to take care of these men. I don’t think they need to be moved.’

Garcia lost his smile. ‘But we insist,’ he said icily.

McGruder’s mobile eyebrows shot up. ‘Insist, Major Garcia? I don’t think you’re in a position to insist.’

Garcia looked meaningly at the squad of soldiers in the courtyard. ‘No?’ he asked silkily.

‘No,’ said McGruder flatly. ‘As a doctor, I say that these men are too sick to be moved. If you don’t believe me, then trot out your own doctor from that ambulance and let
him
have a look at them. I am sure he will tell you the same.’

For the first time Garcia seemed to lose his self-possession. ‘Doctor?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Er…we have brought no doctor.’

‘No doctor?’ said McGruder in surprise. He wiggled his eyebrows at Garcia. ‘I am sure you have misinterpreted your orders, Major Garcia. I don’t think your commanding officer would approve of these men leaving here unless under qualified supervision; and I certainly don’t have the time to go with you to the airfield—I am a busy man.’

Garcia hesitated and then said sullenly, ‘Your telephone—may I use it?’

‘Help yourself,’ said McGruder. ‘But it isn’t working—as usual.’

Garcia smiled thinly and spoke into the mouthpiece. He got an answer, too, which really surprised McGruder and told him of the seriousness of the position. This was not an ordinary breakdown of the telephone system—it was planned; and he guessed that the exchange was under military control.

When next Garcia spoke he came to attention and McGruder smiled humourlessly; that would be his commanding officer and it certainly wouldn’t be Rodriguez—he didn’t go in for that kind of spit-and-polish. Garcia
explained McGruder’s attitude concisely and then listened to the spate of words which followed. There was a grim smile on his face as he put down the telephone. ‘I regret to tell you, Doctor McGruder, that I must take those men.’

He stepped to the window and called his sergeant as McGruder came to his feet in anger. ‘And I say the men are too ill to be moved. One of those men is an American, Major Garcia. Are you trying to cause an international incident?’