Frederick Forsyth - Avenger

He feasted off the last of his field rations, packing down two days' supply of vitamins and minerals, fibre, and sugar. He was able to finish off the last of his water, giving his body a reservoir for the next twenty-four hours. The big Bergen, the scrim netting, and rain cape could be abandoned. What he needed he had either brought with him or stolen the previous night. They all fit into a smaller backpack. Only the coiled rope across his shoulders would remain bulky and would have to be hidden where it would not be found.

It was past midnight when he made what was left of his encampment as invisible as possible and left it.

Using a branch to brush out the tracks left by his own feet, he worked his way slowly to his right until he was over the laborers' village rather than the airfield. It took him half a mile and cost an hour. But he timed it right. The sickle moon rose. The sweat began to soak his clothes again.

He made his way slowly and carefully down the scarp, from handhold to handhold, stump to stump, root to root, until he needed the rope. This time he had to double it and hang the loop over a smooth root where it would not snag when he pulled from below.

He rappeled the rest of the way, avoiding athletic leaps that might dislodge pebbles, but simply walking backward, pace by pace, until he arrived in the cleft between the cliffs and the rear of the church. He hoped the priest was a good sleeper; he was only a few yards from his house.

He tugged gently on one strand of the double rope. The other slipped over the stump high up the face and at last cascaded down around him. He coiled it around his shoulder and left the shadows of the church.

Latrine facilities were communal and single sex. There were no women in the labour camp. He had watched the men at their ablutions from above. The base of the latrine was a long trench covered by boards to mask the inevitable stench, or at least the worst of it. In the boards were circular holes covered by circular lids. There was no concession to modesty. Taking a deep breath, Dexter lifted one of the lids and dropped his coiled rope into the black interior. With luck, it would simply disappear forever, even if it were searched for, which was extremely unlikely.

The shacks in which the men lived and slept were small squares, little more than a police cell, but each worker had one to himself. They were in rows of fifty, facing another fifty and thus forming a street. Each group of one hundred ran outward from a main highway, and that was the residential section.

The main road led to the square, flanked by the washing units, the kitchens, and the thatch-topped dining hall tables. Avoiding the moonlight of the main square, sticking to the shadows of the buildings, Dexter returned to the church. The lock on the main door detained him for no more than a few minutes.

There was not much to it, as churches go, but for those running the labour camp it was a wise precaution to provide a safety valve in this deeply Catholic country. Dexter wondered idly how the resident priest could square his job with his creed.

He found what he wanted at the far back, behind the altar and to one side, in the vestry. Leaving the main door unlocked, he went back to the rows of huts where the workers snored away their few hours of repose.

From above, he had memorised the location of the cabin he wanted. He had seen the man emerge for his breakfast. Fifth cabin down, lefthand side, third street off the main road after the plaza. There was no lock, just a simple wooden latch. Dexter stepped inside and froze motionless to accustom his eyes to the almost complete darkness after the pale moonlight outside.

The hunched figure on the bunk snored on. Three minutes later, with complete night vision, Dexter could see the low hump under the coarse blanket. He crouched to remove something from his knapsack, then went toward the bed. The sweet odour of chloroform came up to him from the soaked pad in his hand.

The peon grunted once, tried to roll from side to side for a few seconds, then lapsed into deeper sleep. Dexter kept the pad in place to ensure hours of insensibility. When he was ready, he hefted the sleeping man over his shoulder in a fireman's lift and flitted silently back the way he had come to the church.

In the doorway of the coral stone building he stopped again and waited to hear if he had disturbed anyone, but the village slept on. When he found the vestry again, he used stout masking tape to bind the peon's feet and ankles and to cover his mouth, while leaving the nose free to breathe. As he relocked the main door, he glanced with satisfaction at the notice beside it on the blackboard. The notice was a lucky "plus."

Back in the empty shack he risked a penlight to examine the laborer's worldly possessions. They were not many. There was a portrait of the Virgin on one wall and stuck into the frame a faded photo of a smiling young woman. FiancŽe, sister, daughter? Through powerful binoculars the man had looked about Dexter's age, but he might have been younger. Those caught up in Colonel Moreno's penal system and sent to El Punto would age fast. Certainly he was of the same height and build, which was why Dexter had picked him.

No other wall decorations, just pegs on which hung two sets of work clothes, both identical-coarse cotton trousers and a shirt of the same material. On the floor were a pair of rope-soled espadrilles, stained and worn but tough and reliable. Other than that, a sombrero of plaited straw completed the work clothes. There was a canvas bag with a drawstring for carrying lunch to the plantation. Dexter snapped off his flashlight and checked his watch. Five past four.

He stripped down to boxer shorts, selected the items he wanted to take with him, wrapped them in his sweaty T-shirt, and bundled them into the lunch bag. The rest he would have to lose. This surplus was rolled into the knapsack and disposed of during a second visit to the latrines. Then he waited for the clang of the iron bar on the hanging length of railway track. It came as ever at 6:30, still dark but with a hint of pink in the east. The duty guard, standing outside the village just beyond the chain-link double gates of the farmland, was the source. All around Dexter the village began to come to life.

He avoided the run to the latrines and wash troughs and hoped no one would notice. After twenty minutes, peering through a slit in the boards of the door, he saw that his alley was empty again. Chin down, sombrero tilted forward, he scurried to the latrines, one figure in sandals, pants, and shirts among a thousand.

He crouched over an open hole while the others took their breakfast. Only when the third clang summoned the workers to the access gate did he join the line.

The five checkers sat at their tables, examined the dog tags, checked the work manifests, punched the number into the records of those admitted that morning, and to which labour gang he was assigned, and waved the labourer through to join his foreman and be led away to collect tools and start the allocated tasks.

Dexter reached the table attending to his line, offered his dog tag between forefinger and thumb, like the others, leaned forward and coughed. The checker pulled his face away sharply to one side, noted the tag number, and waved him away. The last thing the man wanted was a face full of chilli odour. The new recruit shuffled off to draw his hoe; the assigned task was weeding the avocado groves.

At 7:30, Kevin McBride breakfasted alone on the terrace. The grapefruit, eggs, toast, and plum jam would have done credit to any five-star hotel.

At 8:15, the Serb joined him. "I think it would be wise for you to pack," he said. "When you have seen what Major Van Rensberg will show you, I hope you will agree, that this mercenary has a 1 percent chance of getting here, even less of getting near me, and none of getting out again. There is no point in your staying. You may tell Mr. Devereaux that I will complete my part of our arrangement, as agreed, at the end of the month."