Robert Stone - A Flag for Sunrise

He was pleased to see that Mr. Soyer had stopped smiling. Mr. Soyer was several feet away now, his lip bloody and his face pale. But he held a gun in his hand that was pointed at Holliwell.

“Steady on, Miguel,” Heath said.

Holliwell immediately regretted his rashness. He watched the gun in the Cuban’s hand as the man walked toward him again. If he was not shot, he thought, he would be struck across the face with the gun, and hitting Soyer was not nearly satisfying enough to buy that. But Soyer did not hit him.

“He wants to act like a man,” the Cuban explained. “Too late, Holliwell,” he said, putting the gun away. He touched his swollen lip. “Too late for that.”

“By Christ,” Heath said disgustedly, “you’re a bloody fool, Prof. You’re asking for it, you know.” They let go of him.

“I’m not offended by his bad temper,” Soyer said. “He’s going to take a ride with me. That’s right, Holliwell,” he said. “We’re going out to the mission, you and I together, and we’ll bring in Sister Justin. Then you can explain yourself to her as you have to me.”

Soyer and Campos went out again — Campos to communicate with his force at the mission, Soyer to clean up. Mr. Heath looked morose.

“Very foolish of you, Holliwell. Mind you, he was provoking. But very foolish all the same.”

“Of course,” Holliwell said.

“You’re in luck, you know. We may get your friend out of the shit. Suppose you hadn’t run into us?”

“Then who knows,” Holliwell said.

“The evening’s business won’t be pleasant for either of you. But you’ll really be better off.”

“Maybe I should be grateful.”

“You should,” Heath said. “One day you will be.”

There was a small dry food stain on the sleeve of his dark cotton jacket. He began to chip it away with his fingernail.

“Miguel can’t help feeling the way he does, you know. He’s lived out some bad history and he’s bitter. Actually he’s not bad as these fellas go.”

“What about you?”

Heath smiled.

“Oh me. I’m just standing my lonely vigil. The watch on the Rhine.”

“This is a bit far-flung for Six, isn’t it?”

“Six? I’m not Six, Holliwell. Well, not really. Not that I mind making my services available to the British taxpayer. Or the U.S. taxpayer. But I work for Investors Security International. We in turn work for the corporations that own land here. It’s a very large investment that’s under consideration on this coast, converting to tourism and so forth. Lot of money’s been paid out. They want to know what’s going on, eh? If we can help them maintain a favorable environment for their business, we do it. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“You enjoy it so much,” Holliwell said, “it must be all right.”

“That’s exactly the way I see it. I do like my work, you know. Now and again I can right a few wrongs. Make a little dent in our far from perfect old world.”

“Tell me about your friends Buddy and Olga. Are they helping you straighten things out?”

Heath laughed silently, in the way of someone caught out in guilty pleasure.

“Oh, they’re a project of mine. My next project — after you and the sister. They’re in the way of business for me because they’ve got themselves a local partner and bought a thousand hectares just north of here. That sort of people always has money, eh, Holliwell?” He shook his head and his faded flannel blue eyes came alive slightly. “But I’d go after them on my own time, if I had to. They’ll come to grief with me, don’t worry. I won’t have people like that about, chum — not in my bailiwick. Not running free.”

“It’s an interesting life you lead.”

Heath slipped away from the desk where he had been leaning and walked toward the door to the outer office. “I was never for the quiet life,” he said. “Life in the stockbroker belt was not for the likes of me. But never mind.” He stood in the open doorway looking out; the noise of cartridge clips being loaded and the cackle of a shortwave sounded from the adjoining space. “They’ll want you shortly,” he told Holliwell.

Holliwell stayed by the desk looking down at the black unmarked telephone that rested on it.

“You see,” Heath said, “I’m the wrath of God in my tiny way. I don’t go seeking out the misguided and the perverse, not at all. Those afflicted find me. I’m the shark on the bottom of the lagoon. You have to sink a damn long way before you get to me. When you do, I’m waiting.”

“That’s very good,” Holliwell said. “But don’t you think your clients may be out of luck with their investment here?”

“Very possibly. Still, they can’t say we didn’t try, can they?”

“No, they can’t.”

“It’s a war, Holliwell. Goes on all over the world. And, I suppose, in the long run the other side will win it. When they do, like all winners, they’ll find that things aren’t the way they’d planned and it didn’t turn out quite right. Then in a thousand years it’ll all be ancient history if there’s anyone to read it.” Mr. Heath pulled a long face. “But,” he said, “am I downhearted? No! The wicked flee when no man pursueth but the righteous are bold, Holliwell.”

He stood with Soyer on the colonnaded sidewalk in front of the Municipalidad, waiting for the dispatch of a jeep to take them up the coast. Military runners went back and forth between the Guardia station and the troop formations drawn up in the darkness of the square. The only lights to be seen in town now were the headlights of military vehicles and the yellow-faced flashlights of the Guardia MP’s who were directing the traffic.

Around the plaza itself, the troops awaited their orders in an uncanny silence that was broken only by the shouted instructions of an officer or the sullen, deep-throated uno-dos-tres of a platoon sounding off by number. From time to time one could hear the rhythmic tramp of a rifle squad moving at the double, as units separated themselves from the main body of troops to take their places in one of the trucks that were parked by the dozen in front of the cathedral steps. There were mounted troops as well; Holliwell could not see them but he could hear the clatter of shod horses’ hooves on the stones of Alvarado’s single paved street. Officers in braided high-crowned caps were appearing now, exchanging abrazos in the street — and a few civilians in guayaberas who looked like heroin dealers from the Bronx. The officers and their civilian associates seemed elated. None of them paid any attention to Soyer or Holliwell.

This tight deployment of many soldiers in a small closed space made Holliwell uneasy; his uneasiness was the result of previous conditioning. For the moment the fortunes of the Guardia Nacional were Holliwell’s fortunes — he had a side at last. He was fairly certain that from somewhere in the darkness beyond the occupied square he was being watched. He thought of the girl with braided hair and of the stare she had fixed upon him. From time to time he would see the same stare quicken in the eyes of a passing Guardia private; always it would fade when he met it, to be replaced by blankness, nada —or a guilty smile.

Presently two jeeps pulled up at the sidewalk where Holliwell and Soyer waited. Campos was in the lead jeep beside the driver; the escort carried four troopers and a 7.62. When Holliwell climbed into the rear seat, Soyer walked around to the passenger side for a minute’s guarded conversation with the lieutenant, then swung in beside Holliwell.

“Your nun is in her nunnery,” Soyer told him. “Campos has the place surrounded by Guardia but they’ll wait for us in deference to your nationality.” He took an automatic rifle from the rack behind the front seat and cradled the stock on his knee.