Jack of Spies (34 page)

“Fair enough,” McColl agreed. He offered the captain his hand. “And thanks.”

Ten minutes later he was seated in a gently rocking dinghy watching his suitcase being lowered toward him. The four sailors at the oars looked about sixteen years old, the lieutenant in charge around twenty. The latter had a chart spread across his thighs, but McColl doubted there’d be light enough to read it.

They pulled away from the side of the
Glasgow
, the swish of the oars barely audible above the sound of the harbor swell. As the captain had said, the sky was clear, the mountains farther inland silhouetted against a field of stars. The air was warm, a slight breeze blowing in from the sea.

Warships were berthed on both sides of the main channel, sailors moving on the dimly lit decks, figures sometimes visible in the yellowish glow of a bridge. Up ahead, through the wide gateway leading to the inner harbor, McColl could see more ships, both civilian and military. And, beyond them, low white buildings beneath a barely discernible halo of light.

The fresh smell of the sea was now mingling with something much less attractive, an underlying reek of decay, faint at first but growing more acrid with each passing minute.

The seamen rowed on past the grim-looking fortress that commanded the entrance to the inner harbor. Two small American warships were anchored on the town side, one blazing with lights. Directly ahead of the dinghy, a pier lined with warehouses jutted out into the water, playing host to a couple of passenger steamers. “Behind that lot?” the lieutenant whispered in McColl’s ear, extending a finger toward the pier.

“Looks a good bet,” McColl agreed. The blend of nerves and excitement took him back to his childhood, walking out onto the pitch for an important game of soccer.

It was a good bet. There were no signs of life in the harbor’s innermost reaches, and the only ship at the two small jetties beyond the main pier was sitting so low in the water it might have been touching the bottom. The lieutenant steered the dinghy along a quayside wall until they found a ladder of rungs, then handed McColl the end of the rope and quietly wished him luck.

After hauling himself up the rungs, McColl hoisted up his suitcase, untied the rope, and dropped it back down. Save for a trio of railway wagons, the jetty stretched dark and empty before him. He set off quickly but slowed his pace after wedging a foot in the inlaid track and almost twisting an ankle.

There were industrial buildings to his right, but the bulk of the town was off to his left, and he followed the tracks that curved in that direction. The large building in his path turned out to be the railway station; it had apparently closed for the day, but soldiers were visible at the far end of the platform, gathered beside one simmering locomotive. Walking across the empty concourse and out the other side, he found himself opposite the American consulate, its flag still flying, windows dark and shuttered. A few doors down, a large signboard announced the Hotel Alemán, which was presumably favored by Germans. There were lights in some of the windows, and McColl was tempted to visit reception and ask after Rainer von Schön.

Tomorrow would do.

Turning left, he walked down a wide avenue—
INDEPENDENCIA
, the sign proclaimed—until he reached the inevitable square at the heart of the town. The Plaza de la Constitución boasted two impressive structures: a government building with a domed roof and a Moorish arcade at the harbor end, a church with an ornate tower and steeple at the other. The space between them contained a bandstand, several lofty coconut palms, and many stone benches. Rather to McColl’s surprise, the seats
and pathways were full of people enjoying the balmy evening air—if the locals expected Yankee retribution, they didn’t expect it till morning.

And there were still Americans in residence. At the tables outside the imposing Hotel Diligencias, one group was loudly discussing the inevitable occupation and wondering out loud how the locals would react. “They’ll just put a higher price tag on their daughters,” one said, eliciting a gale of drunken laughter.

This was obviously a hotel favored by foreigners, one of whom might be von Schön. McColl walked in and asked the desk clerk. “We do have some Germans,” the man confessed, reaching for the register. But if von Schön was using that name, he wasn’t one of them.

It was too late for scouring the town. McColl took a room for himself and hoped he wouldn’t run into the German on his way to the bathroom. On the following day, he would have to establish whether or not his adversary was actually in Veracruz. He sincerely hoped he was—if not, he’d have to tell Cumming that he’d commandeered one of His Majesty’s cruisers for a wild-goose chase.

The sky had clouded over when he got up next morning, and the gyrating fronds of the coconut palms suggested that a storm was on the way. But there was no sign of unusual activity in the square or the harbor—the people of Veracruz were going about their normal business, apparently oblivious to incoming arms shipments or associated American threats.

The Hotel Diligencias supplied hot water and a bountiful breakfast, and then he had a cable to encrypt announcing his arrival. It was past ten when he finally emerged and set off down Independencia toward the Hotel Alemán. At the hotel desk, an old man with rheumy eyes glanced at the photograph, shook his head, and reached out a hand for the pesos.

“Try with your spectacles,” McColl suggested after noticing the pair on the desk. The old man was still fumbling with these when a youth with similar features came out of a room at the rear and examined the picture over the old man’s shoulder. “He is here,” he said. “Not at this moment—he went out an hour ago. But he is staying here. His name is Schneider.”

The boy proved equally helpful when it came to finding the post office—the building was just around the corner, on the other side of the Terminal Plaza. It seemed unusually busy to McColl, but maybe Veracruzanos were overfond of writing letters. Or perhaps a harbor full of American warships was making people nervous.

His cable accepted, he went back outside. The plaza seemed full of hurrying people, all moving in different directions. As his eyes followed one group toward a gap between two warehouses, he noticed a small boat crammed with troops moving from right to left. As this craft disappeared behind a building, another came into view. They had to be heading for the large pier that he and his helpers had passed on the previous evening.

The Americans were coming ashore. And they were drawing a gamut of reactions from the townsfolk of Veracruz. Some were heading for the metaphorical hills, others for the water’s edge to get a better view.

McColl joined the latter, as least as far as the end of the northernmost warehouse. From there he could see the troops flooding up the harbor steps and forming into units on the quay. The ones in pointed hats and khaki fatigues were marines; those in white, their bell-bottoms gathered in canvas leggings, were sailors. They all seemed heavily laden, carrying bulky knapsacks or haversacks and shouldering Springfield rifles.

There was no sign of Mexican troops in the streets behind him, and the local civilians seemed more curious than angry. There was even a small group of American visitors among the
latter, and if the two nationalities were exhibiting any hostility toward each other, it was more in the manner of sporting rivals than citizens of countries at war.

All of which boded well, McColl thought. A quick and peaceful demonstration of American power and righteousness, a long-suffering “What can you expect from such people?” Mexican response, and things would soon return to normal. The Germans would be left with nothing to work with.

The troops were on the move, heading straight toward him. He backed away across the Terminal Plaza and took up position on the first street back from the waterfront. As the-marines disappeared from view behind the Hotel Terminal and railway station, two columns of sailors started toward the town center, advancing along either side of the warehouses that stood between McColl and the harbor.

He decided to keep ahead of their advance rather than risk being stranded behind it and was almost at the next street corner when a shot rang out somewhere above his head. He hardly had time to look up before a fusillade of fire broke out all around him. Looking back, he saw one of the American sailors drop to the ground, a splash of red on his virginal trousers. As two comrades stooped to pick him back up, others either dashed for cover or sprawled themselves out on the pavement, rifles searching for targets.

More firing was audible in the distance, much more, as if a thousand Mexicans had been waiting for that single shot to start their war.

As if on cue, a thin rivulet of cold sweat ran down McColl’s back.

A bullet bit into stone above his head, showering him with chips. He stood where he was for a second, stupidly looking around, then set off in a crouching run for the corner of the building. He had only ten yards to cover but ample time to imagine as many bullets thudding into his back.

He rounded the corner without thought of what lay beyond,
but luck was with him—no Mexican soldiers were advancing up the narrow street to do battle with the Americans. He soon realized that most of the would-be resisters had taken to the rooftops and upper stories. He could see guns protruding from several windows and hear the sputter of their fire on the sailors below. As he watched, one Mexican came tumbling out of a second-floor window, his head striking the cobblestones with a sickening crack.

“Discretion, et cetera,” he muttered to himself. He jogged away from the battle zone, keeping as close to the walls as he could and frequently glancing back over his shoulder. His best guess put the Plaza de la Constitución a block to his left, and the next street up should bring him back to his hotel, which seemed the obvious sanctuary.

He was halfway to the relevant corner when a group of Mexicans came around it. They weren’t wearing uniforms but all were brandishing weapons of one sort or another. And if the expression on their faces was anything to go by, they were more than a little eager to use them. As if to confirm that fact, one man raised a pistol, loosely pointed it in McColl’s direction, and casually pulled the trigger.

The bullet sang harmlessly wide, and he didn’t wait for another. Ducking between two buildings, he sprinted down the passage and into a courtyard, startling a woman who was hanging her washing and grabbing the attention of two huge dogs. The woman screamed, dropped her basket, and ran for the nearest door, but the dogs were less intimidated, inching toward him with slavering mouths and ominous growls. McColl felt like screaming himself but managed not to. Frantically looking around, he spied one fence that looked vaguely jumpable and headed straight for it, dogs in pursuit. He couldn’t remember vaulting anything since army training, but he just about cleared the top, and falling to earth in a damp pile of ill-smelling refuse only partly diminished his sense of
achievement. As he got to his feet, the dogs began barking fit to burst, but not, it seemed, at him. Through a crack in the still-quivering fence, he saw two young Mexicans backing away, their shining machetes thrust out to ward off the dripping fangs.

McColl beat a hasty retreat in the opposite direction, tracing a path through the maze of alleys until he reached a restaurant kitchen’s door. The staff looked askance and wrinkled their noses at him but gestured him on through to the front door, which, much to his relief, opened onto the empty plaza. Away to his left, toward the harbor, a machine gun was adding its familiar rattle to the single shots of rifles. At the bottom of the square, occasional puffs of smoke offered evidence of gunmen on the Hotel Oriente’s roof. The fighting hadn’t yet reached the northern end, but it was only a matter of time. As McColl watched, half a dozen men with rifles disappeared through the open door of the Parochial Church, presumably intent on manning its tower.

More surprisingly, several white guests were sitting at the tables outside the Hotel Diligencias, reading their papers and drinking aperitifs with a sangfroid that verged on the ludicrous. Every now and then, one man or other would glance toward the bottom of the square, reassure himself that nothing untoward was actually heading his way, and go back to what he was doing.

It was quite insane, but also strangely calming. Breathing a little easier, McColl worked his way around the edge of the square to the hotel entrance.

Ten minutes later he was soaking in the bath, having rigged a sheet across the window to catch any flying glass. His head was still vulnerable to the strayest of bullets, but if fate proved that malign, he would probably never know it.

He wondered whether the Americans had expected a fight and supposed that they probably hadn’t. In one way they’d
been right—McColl had seen no sign that the Mexican army was offering official resistance. But even he could have told Washington that ordinary Mexicans would put up a struggle if they could. Why did Americans always feel that they’d cornered the market in patriotism?

Von Schön would certainly be pleased—the Americans were doing his work for him. If the Yanks killed enough Mexicans, there would be nothing the British—or McColl himself—could do to prevent an alliance between Huerta and the Germans, an alliance that would deprive the navy of its oil.

Huerta might lose the civil war, but if the Americans did enough damage, even that wouldn’t matter. By then all Mexicans would be united in their loathing of Washington and its British ally, and any new leader would have to embrace the wretched Kaiser.

It was a mess all right, and not one that McColl could clear up. He dried himself, moved his mattress onto the floor, and spent the rest of the daylight hours reading, dozing, and stealing glances around the edge of his window. By four o’clock the firing was dying down, but the Mexican irregulars were still holding most of their original positions, and no American soldiers had arrived in the plaza below.

When darkness fell, he went downstairs, introduced himself to the other guests as a freelance journalist, and set himself to listen. The consensus among the foreign visitors and Mexican staff had the Americans in control of the railway station, yards, and central port area, which included the post office, customs houses, and the old Juárez Lighthouse. The municipal palace and the Hotel Oriente, whose silhouettes could be seen at the foot of the square, were still in local hands.