Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

Then Forester was borne down the corridor and into the open courtyard and he winced as the sun struck his eyes. Once in the ambulance he had to wait a long time before anything else happened and he closed his eyes, feigning sleep, because the soldier on guard kept peering at him. Slowly he brought his hand up under the coverlet towards the pillow and eventually touched the butt of a gun.

Good old McGruder, he thought; the Marines to the rescue. He hooked his finger in the trigger guard and gradually brought the gun down to his side, where he thrust it into the waistband of his pyjamas at the small of his back where it could not be seen when he was transferred to another bed. He smiled to himself; at other times lying on a hard piece of metal might be thought extremely uncomfortable, but he found the touch of the gun very comforting.

And what McGruder had said was comforting, too. The tape would hold him together and the stimulant would give him strength to move. Not that he thought he needed it; his strength had returned rapidly once he had eaten, but no doubt the doctor knew best.

Rohde was pushed into the ambulance and Forester looked across at the stretcher. He was unconscious and there was a hump under the coverlet where his legs were. His face was pale and covered with small beads of sweat and he breathed stertorously.

Two soldiers climbed into the ambulance and the doors were slammed, and after a few minutes it moved off. Forester kept his eyes closed at first — he wanted the soldiers to believe that the hypothetical sedative was taking effect. But after a while he decided that these rank and file would probably not know anything about a sedative being given to him, so he risked opening his eyes and turned his head to look out of the window.

He could not see much because of the restricted angle of view, but presently the ambulance stopped and he saw a wrought-iron gate and through the bars a large board. It depicted an eagle flying over a snow-capped mountain, and round this emblem in a scroll and written in ornate letters were the words: ESQUADRON OCTAVO.

He closed his eyes in pain. They had drawn the wrong straw; this was the communist squadron.

McGruder watched the ambulance leave the courtyard followed by the staff car. Then he went into his office, stripped off his white coat and put on his jacket. He took his car keys from a drawer and went round to the hospital garage, where he got a shock. Lounging outside the big doors was a soldier in a sloppy uniform — but there was nothing sloppy about the rifle he was holding, nor about the gleaming bayonet.

He walked over and barked authoritatively, ‘Let me pass.’

The soldier looked at him through half-closed eyes and shook his head, then spat on the ground. McGruder got mad and tried to push his way past but found the tip of the bayonet pricking his throat. The soldier said, ‘You see the sergeant — if he says you can take a car, then you take a car.’

McGruder backed away, rubbing his throat. He turned on his heel and went to look for the sergeant, but got nowhere with him. The sergeant was a sympathetic man when away from his officers and his broad Indian face was sorrowful. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I just obey orders — and my orders are that no one leaves the mission until I get contrary orders.’

‘And when will that be?’ demanded McGruder.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ he said with the fatalism of one to whom officers were a race apart and their doings incomprehensible.

McGruder snorted and withdrew to his office, where he picked up the telephone. Apparently it was still dead, but when he snapped, ‘Get me Colonel Coello at the military airfield,’ it suddenly came to life and he was put through — not to Coello, but to some underling.

It took him over fifteen minutes before he got through to Coello and by then he was breathing hard with ill-suppressed rage. He said aggressively, ‘McGruder here. What’s all this about closing down San Antonio Mission?’

Coello was suave. ‘But the mission is not closed, Doctor; anyone can enter.’

‘But I can’t leave,’ said McGruder. ‘I have work to do.’

‘Then do it,’ said Coello. ‘Your work is in the mission, Doctor; stick to your job — like the cobbler. Do not interfere in things which do not concern you.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you mean,’ snarled McGruder with a profanity he had not used since his Marine days. ‘I have to pick up a consignment of drugs at the railroad depot in Altemiros. I need them and the Cordilleran Air Force is stopping me getting them — that’s how I see it. You’re not going to look very good when this comes out, Colonel.’

‘But you should have said this earlier,’ said Coello soothingly. ‘I will send one of the airfield vehicles to pick them up for you. As you know, the Cordilleran Air Force is always ready to help your mission. I hear you run a very good hospital, Doctor McGruder. We are short of good hospitals in this country.’

McGruder heard the cynical amusement in the voice. He said irascibly, ‘All right,’ and banged the phone down. Mopping his brow he thought that it was indeed fortunate there was a consignment of drugs waiting in Altemiros. He paused, wondering what to do next, then he drew a sheet of blank paper from a drawer and began writing.

Half an hour later he had the gist of Forester’s story on paper. He folded the sheets, sealed them in an envelope and put the envelope into his pocket. All the while he was conscious of the soldier posted just outside the window who was keeping direct surveillance of him. He went out into the corridor to find another soldier lounging outside the office door whom he ignored, carrying on down towards the wards and the operating theatre. The soldier stared after him with incurious eyes and drifted down the corridor after him.

McGruder looked for Sánchez, his second-in-command, and found him in one of the wards. Sánchez looked at his face and raised his eyebrows. ‘What is happening, Doctor?’

‘The local military have gone berserk,’ said McGruder unhappily. ‘And I seem to be mixed up in it — they won’t let me leave the mission.’

‘They won’t let anyone leave the mission,’ said Sánchez. ‘I tried.’

‘I must get to Altemiros,’ said McGruder. ‘Will you help me? I know I’m usually non-political, but this is different. There’s murder going on across the mountains.’

‘Eight Squadron came to the airfield two days ago — I have heard strange stories about Eight Squadron,’ said Sánchez reflectively. ‘You may be non-political, Doctor McGruder, but I am not. Of course I will help you.’

McGruder turned and saw the soldier gazing blankly at him from the entrance of the ward. ‘Let’s go into your office,’ he said.

They went to the office and McGruder switched on an X-ray viewer and pointed out the salient features of an X-ray plate to Sánchez. He left the door open and the soldier leaned on the opposite wall of the corridor, solemnly picking his teeth. ‘This is what I want you to do,’ said McGruder in a low voice.

Fifteen minutes later he went to find the sergeant and spoke to him forthrightly. ‘What are your orders concerning the mission?’ he demanded.

The sergeant said, ‘Not to let anyone leave — and to watch you, Doctor McGruder.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I seem to have noticed that I’ve been watched,’ said McGruder with heavy irony. ‘Now, I’m going to do an operation. Old Pedro must have his kidneys seen to or he will die. I can’t have any of your men in the operating theatre, spitting all over the floor; we have enough trouble attaining asepsis as it is.’

‘We all know you norteamericanos are very clean,’ acknowledged the sergeant. He frowned. ‘This room — how many doors?’