Desmond Bagley - Wyatt’s Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

He tapped Dawson on the knee. ‘Serrurier didn’t like that, so what do you think happened to Descaix?’

Dawson was looking unhappy. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Neither would anyone else,’ said Wyatt. ‘Descaix’s gone, vanished as though he never existed – expunged. My own idea is that he’s occupying a hole in the ground up in the Tour Rambeau.’

‘But he was such a nice, friendly guy,’ said Dawson. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I don’t see how I could have missed it. I’m a writer – I’m supposed to know something about people. I even went fishing with Descaix – surely you get to know a man you fish with?’

‘Why should you?’ asked Wyatt. ‘People like Descaix have neatly compartmented minds. If you or I killed a man it would stay with us the rest of our lives – it would leave a mark. But Descaix has a man killed and he’s forgotten about it as soon as he’s given the order. It doesn’t worry his conscience one little bit, so it doesn’t show – there’s no mark.’

‘Jesus!’ said Dawson with awe. ‘I’ve been fishing with a mass murderer.’

‘You won’t fish with him ever again,’ said Wyatt brutally. ‘You might not fish with anyone ever again if we don’t get out of here.’

Dawson gave way to petulant rage. ‘What the hell is the American Government doing? We have a base here – why wasn’t this island cleaned up long ago?’

‘You make me sick,’ said Wyatt. ‘You don’t know what’s going on right in front of your nose, and when your nose gets bitten you scream to your Government for help. The American Government policy on this island is “hands off”, and rightly so. If they interfere here in the same way they did in the Dominican Republic they’d totally wreck their diplomatic relations with the rest of the hemisphere and the Russians would laugh fit to burst. Anyway, it’s best this way. You can’t hand freedom to people on a plate – they’ve got to take it. Favel knows that – he’s busy taking his freedom right now.’

He looked at Dawson who was sitting huddled on the bed, strangely shrunken. ‘You were trying to take the car, weren’t you? There was no policeman trying to drive it away at all. But you were.’

Dawson nodded. ‘I went upstairs and heard you and Causton talking about the hurricane. I got scared and figured I’d better get out.’

‘And you were going to leave the rest of us?’

Dawson nodded miserably.

Wyatt stretched out his legs. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand it. You’re Dawson – “Big Jim” Dawson – the man who’s supposed to be able to outshoot, out-fight, out-fly any other man on earth. What’s happened to you?’

Dawson lay on the bed and turned to the wall. ‘Go to hell!’ he said in a muffled voice.

The police came for them at four o’clock in the morning, hustling them out of the cell and along a corridor. The office into which they were shown was bare and bleak, the archetype of all such offices anywhere in the world. The policeman at the desk was also archetypal; his cold, impersonal eyes and level stare could be duplicated in any police office in New York, London or Tokyo, and the fact that his complexion was dark coffee did not make any difference.

He regarded them expressionlessly, then said, ‘Fool, I wanted them one at a time. Take that one back.’ He pointed his pen at Wyatt, who was immediately pushed back into the corridor and escorted to the cell again.

He leaned against the wall as the key clicked in the lock and wondered what would eventually happen to him – perhaps he would join Descaix, an unlikely bedfellow. He had not heard the guns for some time and he hoped that Favel had not been beaten, because Favel was his only chance of getting clear. If Favel did not take St Pierre then he would either be shot or drowned in the cell when the waters of Santego Bay arose to engulf the town.

He sat on the stool and pondered. The policeman who had arrested them had shown a keen interest in Manning and Fuller, the two Englishmen from the North Coast, and he wondered why so much trouble should be taken over them in the middle of a civil war. Then he recalled Causton’s questioning earlier about shipments of arms and wondered if Manning and Fuller lived in the Campo de las Perlas, the area in which Causton had said the arms had been landed. If they were involved in that, no wonder Serrurier’s police were taking an interest in their doings – and in the doings of all other English people on San Fernandez.

Then, because he was very tired and had sat on the stool all night, he stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

When he was aroused the first light of dawn was peering through the high window. Again he was taken down the corridor to the bleak room at the end and pushed through the doorway roughly. There was no sign of Dawson, and the policeman behind the desk was smiling. ‘Come in, Mr Wyatt. Sit down.’

It was not an invitation but an order. Wyatt sat in the hard chair and crossed his legs. The policeman said, in English, ‘I am Sous-Inspecteur Roseau, Mr Wyatt. Do you not think my English is good? I learned it in Jamaica.’

‘It’s very good,’ acknowledged Wyatt.

‘I’m glad,’ said Roseau. ‘Then there will be no misunderstandings. When did you last see Manning?’

‘I’ve never seen Manning.’

‘When did you last see Fuller?’

‘I’ve never seen him, either.’

‘But you knew where they lived; you admitted it.’

‘I didn’t “admit” a damned thing,’ said Wyatt evenly. ‘I told your underling that I’d heard they lived on the North Coast. I also told him that I’d never seen either of them in my life.’

Roseau consulted a sheet of paper before him. Without looking up he asked, ‘When were you recruited into American Intelligence?’

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said Wyatt. ‘This is all a lot of nonsense.’

Roseau’s head came up with a jerk. ‘Then you are in British Intelligence? You are a British spy?’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Wyatt disgustedly. ‘I’m a scientist – a meteorologist. And I don’t mind telling you something right now – if you don’t get the people out of this town within two days there’s going to be the most godawful smash-up you’ve ever seen. There’s a hurricane coming.’

Roseau smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Mr Wyatt, we know that is your cover. We also know that you British and the Americans are working hand in hand with Favel in an attempt to overthrow the lawful government of this country.’

‘That’ll do,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. ‘I want to see the British consul.’

‘So you want to see Rawsthorne?’ enquired Roseau with a malicious smile. ‘He wanted to see you – he was here trying to get you out, together with another Englishman. It is unfortunate that, because of his official position, we cannot arrest Rawsthorne – we know he is your leader – but my government is sending a strong protest to London about his conduct. He is non persona grata .’ Roseau’s smile widened. ‘You see I have Latin, too, Mr Wyatt. Not bad for an ignorant nigger.’

‘Ignorant is exactly the right word,’ said Wyatt tightly.

Roseau sighed, as a teacher sighs when faced with the obtuseness of a particularly stubborn pupil. ‘This is not the time to insult me, Wyatt. You see, your companion – your accomplice – the American agent, Dawson, has confessed. These Americans are not really so tough, you know.’

‘What the devil could he confess?’ asked Wyatt. ‘He’s as innocent of anything as I am.’ He moved his hand and felt a slight wetness on the palm. Turning his hand over he saw a smear of blood, and there were a few more drops spattered along the edge of the desk. He lifted his eyes and looked at Roseau with loathing.