Десмонд Бэгли: Wyatt's Hurricane

‘We’ve got to get it out of her,’ said Wyatt. ‘But how?’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Dawson savagely. ‘You’re an English gentleman — you wouldn’t know how to handle her kind. Now, me — I’m an eighteen-carat diamond-studded American son-of-a-bitch — I’ll get it out of her even if I have to beat her brains in.’

He walked back to her and said in a deceptively conciliatory manner, ‘Now, Mrs Warmington; you’ll tell me where Julie Marlowe and Mr Rawsthorne are, won’t you?’

‘I’ll do no such thing. I don’t like people tattling and telling lies about me.’

Dawson’s voice hardened. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Sure. You’re Big Jim Dawson. You’ll get me out of here, won’t you?’ Her voice broke pathetically into a wail. ‘I want to go back to the States.’

He said dangerously, ‘So you’ll know my reputation. I’m supposed to be a bad bastard. You’ve got one chance to get back to the States quick. Tell me where Rawsthorne is or I’ll have you held here pending the enquiry into the disappearance of the British consul. There’s sure to be an enquiry — the British are conservative, they don’t like losing officials, even minor ones.’

‘On top of the hill,’ she said sullenly. ‘There’s a gully up there.’

‘Point it out.’ His eyes followed the direction of her wavering hand, then he looked back at her. ‘You’ve come out of this hurricane pretty well,’ he said grimly. ‘Someone must have been looking after you. You should be thankful, not spiteful.’

He went back to Wyatt. ‘I’ve got it. There’s a gully up there somewhere.’ He waved his hand. ‘Over in that direction.’

Without a word Wyatt left at a run and started to climb the hill. Dawson grinned and moved after him at a slower, more economical pace. He heard a noise in the air and looked up to see a helicopter coming over the brow of the hill like a huge grasshopper. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Here comes the Navy — they’ve come back.’

But Wyatt was far ahead, climbing the hill as though his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

Causton stood on the concrete apron near the ruined control tower of the airfield on Cap Sarrat Base and watched the helicopters come in from the sea in a straggling and wavering line. Commodore Brooks had been quick off his mark — the aircraft carrier under his command must have been idling just on the outskirts of Mabel and he had sent off his helicopters immediately the weather was fit for flying. And this was only the first wave. Planes would soon pour into San Fernandez, bringing much-needed medical aid.

He looked across at the small group of officers surrounding Favel and grinned. The Yanks were due for a surprise — but perhaps not just yet.

Favel had been quite clear about it. ‘I am going to occupy Cap Sarrat Base,’ he said. ‘Even if only with a token force. This is essential.’

So a platoon of men had made the dangerous trip across the flooded mouth of the Negrito and here they were, waiting for the Americans. It all hinged on the original treaty of 1906 in which Favel had found a loophole. ‘The position is simple, Mr Causton,’ he said. ‘The treaty states that if the American forces voluntarily give up the Base and it is thereafter claimed by the government of San Fernandez, then the treaty is abrogated.’

Causton raised his eyebrows. ‘It’ll look a pretty shabby gesture,’ he said. ‘The Americans come in to bring you unstinting aid, and you reciprocate by taking the Base.’

‘The Americans will bring us nothing they do not owe already,’ said Favel drily. ‘They have rented eight square miles of valuable real estate for sixty years at a pittance, on a lease forced at a time when they occupied San Fernandez as though it were an enemy country.’ He shook his head seriously. ‘I do not want to take the Base away from them, Mr Causton. But I think I will be in a position to negotiate another, more equitable lease.’

Causton took a notebook from his pocket and refreshed his memory. ‘One thousand, six hundred and ninety-three dollars a year. I think it’s worth more than that, and I think you ought to get it.’

Favel grinned cheerfully. ‘You forgot the twelve cents, Mr Causton. I think the International Court at The Hague will give us just judgement. I would like you to be at the Base as an independent witness to the fact that the San Fernandan government has assumed control of Cap Sarrat.’

So now he was watching the first helicopter touch down on the territory of the sovereign government of San Fernandez. He watched men climb out and saw the gleam of gold on a flat cap. ‘My God, I wonder if that’s Brooks,’ he murmured, and began to walk across the apron. He saw Favel move forward and watched the two men meet.

‘Welcome back to Cap Sarrat,’ said Favel, offering his hand. ‘I am Julio Favel.’

‘Brooks — Commodore in the United States Navy.’

The two men shook hands and Causton wondered if Brooks knew about the flaw in the treaty. If he did, he showed no awareness of his changed position, nor did he evince any surprise as he flicked his eyes upwards at the sodden green and gold flag of San Fernandez which hung limply from an improvised mast on the control tower. He said, ‘What do you need most, Mr Favel, and where do you need it? Anything we’ve got, you just have to ask for it.’

Favel shook his head sadly. ‘We need everything — but first, doctors, medical supplies, food and blankets. After that we would like some kind of large-scale temporary housing — even tents would do.’

Brooks indicated the helicopters landing on the runways. ‘These boys are going to check the airfield to see if it’s safe for operation. We’ll set up a temporary control tower over there. When that’s done the big planes can start to move in — they’re already waiting for a signal in Miami and Puerto Rico. In the meantime, we have five choppers full of medics. Where do you want them to go?’

‘Up the Negrito. They will have plenty of work.’

Brooks raised his eyebrows. ‘The Negrito? Then you got your people out of St Pierre.’

‘With the help of your Mr Wyatt. That is a very forceful and persuasive young man.’

They began to move away. ‘Yes,’ said Brooks. ‘I wish I had...’ His voice was lost to Causton as they walked up the runway.

Dawson caught up with Wyatt when he was nearly at the top of the hill. ‘Take it easy,’ he gasped. ‘You’ll bust a gut.’

Wyatt kept silent, reserving his breath to power his legs which were working like pistons. They reached the crest and he looked around, his chest heaving and the muscles of his legs sore with the effort he had made. ‘I don’t... see... a gully.’

Dawson looked over the other side towards the sea and saw a line of welcome blue sky on the horizon. He turned back. ‘Suppose they had come up from the coast — where would they go from here?’

Wyatt shook his head in irritation. ‘I don’t know.’

‘My inclination would be to edge in towards St Pierre,’ said Dawson. ‘So I wouldn’t have so far to go home when it was all over.’ He pointed to the left. ‘That way. Let’s have a look.’

They walked a little way along the crest of the hill, and Wyatt said, ‘That’s it — I suppose you’d call that a gully.’

Dawson looked down at the cleft cut into the hillside. ‘It’s our best bet so far,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down.’

They climbed down into the ravine and looked about. Pools of water lay trapped among the rocks, and Wyatt said, ‘There’d be quite a bit of water coming down here during the hurricane. That’s what Mrs Warmington meant when she talked of a river on the top of a hill.’ He filled his lungs with air. ‘Julie!’ he shouted. ‘Julie! Rawsthorne!’