Десмонд Бэгли - High Citadel

Coello wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. ‘Do not worry, Señor Forester; we know all about it already. We are making preparations for... er... a rescue attempt.’

I’ll bet you are, thought Forester bitterly, looking at the Sabres drawn up on the apron. He said, ‘What the hell! Then I nearly killed myself on the mountain for nothing. What a damned fool I am.’

Coello opened a folder on his desk. ‘Your name is Raymond Forester; you are South American Sales Manager for the Fairfield Machine Tool Corporation, and you were on your way to Santillana.’ He smiled as he looked down at the folder. ‘We have checked, of course; there is a Raymond Forester who works for this company, and he is sales manager in South America. The C.I.A. can be efficient in small matters, Mr Forester.’

‘Huh!’ said Forester. ‘C.I.A.? What the devil are you talking about?’

Coello waved his hand airily. ‘Espionage! Sabotage! Corruption of public officials! Undermining the will of the people! Name anything bad and you name the C.I.A. — and also yourself, Mr Forester.’

‘You’re nuts,’ said Forester disgustedly.

‘You are a meddling American,’ said Coello sharply. ‘You are a plutocratic, capitalistic lackey. One could forgive you if you were but a tool; but you do your filthy work in full awareness of its evil. You came to Cordillera to foment an imperialistic revolution, putting up that scoundrel Aguillar as a figurehead for your machinations.’

‘Who?’ said Forester. ‘You’re still nuts.’

‘Give up, Forester; stop this pretence. We know all about the Fairfield Machine Tool Corporation. It is a cover that capitalistic Wall Street has erected to hide your imperialistic American secret service. We know all about you and we know all about Addison in Santillana. He has been removed from the game — and so have you, Forester.’

Forester smiled crookedly. ‘The voice is Spanish-American, but the words come from Moscow — or is it Peking this time?’ He nodded towards the armed aircraft. ‘Who is really doing the meddling round here?’

Coello smiled. ‘I am a servant of the present government of General Lopez. I am sure he would be happy to know that Aguillar will soon be dead.’

‘But I bet you won’t tell him,’ said Forester. ‘Not if I know how you boys operate. You’ll use the threat of Aguillar to drive Lopez out as soon as it suits you.’ He tried to scratch his itching chest but was unsuccessful. ‘You jumped me and Rohde pretty fast — how did you know we were at McGruder’s hospital?’

‘I am sure you are trying to sound more stupid than you really are,’ said Coello. ‘My dear Forester, we are in radio communication with our forces on the other side of the mountains.’ He sounded suddenly bitter. ‘Inefficient though they are, they have at least kept their radio working. You were seen by the bridge. And when men come over that pass, do you think the news can be kept quiet? The whole of Altemiros knows of the mad American who has done the impossible.’

But they don’t know why I did it, thought Forester savagely; and they’ll never find out if this bastard has his way.

Coello held up a photograph. ‘We suspected that the C.I.A. might have someone with Aguillar. It was only a suspicion then, but now we know it to be a fact. This photograph was taken in Washington six months ago.’

He skimmed it over and Forester looked at it. It was a glossy picture of himself and his immediate superior talking together on the steps of a building. He flicked the photograph with his fingernail. ‘Processed in Moscow?’

Coello smiled and asked silkily, ‘Can you give me any sound reasons why you should not be shot?’

‘Not many,’ said Forester off-handedly. ‘But enough.’ He propped himself up on one elbow and tried to make it sound good. ‘You’re killing Americans on the other side of those mountains, Coello. The American government is going to demand an explanation — an investigation.’

‘So? There is an air crash — there have been many such crashes even in North America. Especially can they occur on such ill-run air lines as Andes Airlift, which, incidentally, is owned by one of your own countrymen. An obsolete aircraft with a drunken pilot — what more natural? There will be no bodies to send back to the United States, I assure you. Regrettable, isn’t it?’

‘You don’t know the facts of life,’ said Forester. ‘My government is going to be very interested. Now, don’t get me wrong; they’re not interested in air crashes as such. But I was in that airplane and they’re going to be goddam suspicious. There’ll be an official investigation — Uncle Sam will goose the I.A.T.A. into making one — and there’ll be a concurrent undercover investigation. This country will be full of operatives within a week — you can’t stop them all and you can’t hide all the evidence. The truth is going to come out and the U.S. government will be delighted to blow the lid off. Nothing would please them more.’

He coughed, sweating a little — now it had to sound really good. ‘Now, there’s a way round all that.’ He sat up on the stretcher. ‘Have you a cigarette?’

Coello’s eyes narrowed as he picked up a cigarette-box from the desk and walked round to the stretcher. He offered the open box and said, ‘Am I to understand that you’re trying to bargain for your life?’

‘You’re dead right,’ said Forester. He put a whine in his voice. ‘I’ve no hankering to wear a wooden overcoat, and I know how you boys operate on captured prisoners.’

Thoughtfully Coello flicked his lighter and lit Forester’s cigarette. ‘Well?’

Forester said, ‘Look, Colonel; supposing I was the only survivor of that crash — thrown clear by some miraculous chance. Then I could say that the crash was okay; that it was on the up-and-up. Why wouldn’t they believe me? I’m one of their bright boys.’

Coello nodded. ‘You are bright.’ He smiled. ‘What guarantee have we that you will do this for us?’

‘Guarantee? You know damn well I can’t give you one. But I tell you this, buddy-boy; you’re not the boss round here — not by a long shot. And I’m stuffed full of information about the C.I.A. — operation areas, names, faces, addresses, covers — you ask for it, I’ve got it. And if your boss ever finds out that you’ve turned down a chance like this you’re going to be in trouble. What have you got to lose? All you have to do is to put it to your boss and let him say “yes” or “no”. If anything goes wrong he’ll have to take the rap from higher up, but you’ll be in the clear.’

Coello tapped his teeth with a fingernail. ‘I think you’re playing for time, Forester.’ He thought deeply. ‘If you can give me a sensible answer to the next question I might believe you. You say you are afraid of dying. If you are so afraid, why did you risk your life in coming over the pass?’

Forester thought of Peabody and laughed outright. ‘Use your brains. I was being shot at over there by that goddam bridge. Have you ever tried to talk reasonably with someone who shoots at you if you bat an eyelid? But you’re not shooting at me, Colonel; I can talk to you. Anyway, I reckoned it was a sight safer on the mountain than down by the bridge — and I’ve proved it, haven’t I? I’m here and I’m still alive.’

‘Yes,’ said Coello pensively. ‘You are still alive.’ He went to his desk. ‘You might as well begin by proving your goodwill immediately. We sent a reconnaissance plane over to see what was happening and the pilot took these photographs. What do you make of them?’

He tossed a sheaf of glossy photographs on to the foot of the stretcher. Forester leaned over and gasped. ‘Have a heart, Colonel; I’m all bust up inside — I can’t reach.’