"Where in hell are we?"
Souza and the doctor took turns in telling the story. The soldiers had
picked him up in the road some ninety miles from San Hermano. More dead
than alive, they put him in the lorry and rushed him to their garrison.
There, while the commandant examined his papers, the doctor, Captain
Dorado, moved him into the commandant's room and gave him his first shot
of adrenalin.
"Was it a heart attack?" Hall asked.
"No," the doctor said. "You were drugged."
Hall listened to the doctor's technical description of the drug which
had felled him. He had heard of it before. It worked like an overdose of
insulin. Burned up the sugar, then the energy in the body, and then blew
the fuses. Something like that, anyway. Another hour without adrenalin
and it would have been curtains. That second pot of coffee and the soft
laughter in the kitchen. Damn their eyes, that's where it happened. Then
eight hours of lying in the commandant's bed, cursing, sleeping, getting
needles of adrenalin, needles of energy, needles of the stuff that makes
pulses beat to the right measure.
"Are we tiring you?"
"No, Captain. I'd like something to eat, though."
"I ordered some hot broth."
"Thank you. I'm glad you're here, Fernando."
"The commandant called me," Souza said. "He found your address through
Pan American Airways."
"Oh." The letter. It had gone to Pan Am for forwarding. Then it was
still safe.
"I will return in a few minutes," the doctor said. "I want to see about
your broth."
Souza waited until the doctor was out of the room before he spoke.
"Providence was with you," he said. "The commandant here is a Tabio man.
He called me at once to find out who you were. Another man might have
called your Embassy first."
"Have they called the Embassy yet?"
"Not yet, _companero_."
"What happened to the men the _maricon_ met at the pier?"
"We have them under sharp eyes. They went first to Jorge Davila's home.
Then they went to the country. They are in Bocas del Sur at the estate
of Gamburdo's brother, the cattle raiser. The _maricon_ left them there.
He is now in San Hermano with Ansaldo. They were to be with Don Anibal
this afternoon."
"And the girl?"
"With Ansaldo."
"When are you going back to the Bolivar?"
"In an hour."
"Tell her that I telephoned to say that I would be out of the city
tonight. I was to see her for dinner. What about the priests from the
boat? Are they all really priests?"
"Who knows? Perhaps I shall know more when I return to the city."
"How long will I be on my back?" Hall asked. "Did the doctor say?"
"Not long. You have recovered from the drug, he says. Now you need food
and another day's rest."
The doctor returned followed by a soldier who carried a small tray. "Hot
soup," he said. "And after the soup, some rich beef stew. But first,
some brandy. Three glasses, corporal. We'll drink to the memory of
Lazarus." He helped Hall sit up in bed, propped some pillows behind his
back. Only when he sat up did Hall notice that a large signed photograph
of Anibal Tabio hung over the commandant's desk.
"Let's rather drink to the health of Anibal Tabio," Hall proposed.
Souza and the doctor watched with approval as Hall ate the soup and the
stew, and then sipped mate through a silver straw. "He's going to be
well in a matter of hours," the doctor said. "Well enough to start
cursing again. It is a shame that I do not know English. But your
Spanish curses were enough for me."
"What was I cursing?" Hall asked.
"What didn't you curse, senor? Franco, _putas, maricones_, Hitler,
Gamburdo, the Cross and Sword ..."
"God! Who heard me?"
The doctor smiled. "Be tranquil," he said. "Just the commandant and
myself, and one of the soldiers. But you don't have to worry about the
soldier. He is the son of a miner in the north."
"The soldier," Souza said, "is reliable. I have already seen him."
"You are among friends," the doctor said. "Souza has told us about you."
"I owe my life to you," Hall said.
"From what I have learned," the doctor laughed, "you are not an easy man
to kill."
"When can I get out of bed?"
"Tomorrow. That is just as well, senor. The garrison tailor is cleaning
your suit now. Would you like more mate?"
"Could I have another brandy?"
"Of course. But then you must sleep."
"I'm tired of sleeping."
"I am prepared for that." The doctor called for the corporal, ordered
him to prepare a hypodermic syringe. "You must get some sleep, senor,"
he said.
In the morning, the doctor pronounced Hall well enough to leave the
commandant's bed. Hall's clothes, the suit cleaned and freshly pressed,
the shirt washed and ironed, the shoes polished to a glow, were laid out
on a chair near the bed. "We do things thoroughly in the army," the
doctor said.
"I see."
"The commandant would like to join you for breakfast."
"In the officers' mess?"
"No. Here."
"Please tell him that I would be honored."
"Good. Can you dress yourself?"
"I'm all right, thanks to you, Captain. I feel as if I'd had a week's
rest on some quiet beach."
"I'll get the commandant, then. The corporal will show you the way to
the washroom. I've laid out my razor and shaving things for you."
It was good to stand on steadied legs again, good to walk erect like a
man. The razor had a nice edge. It sliced through the stems of the
two-day beard without snagging. For some reason, the efficiency of the
razor delighted Hall beyond measure. He studied the results of the shave
in the wall mirror, then looked for signs of his illness. Two days were
lost, he thought, two days of which he could account for but a few
hours. The doctor could fill in most of the second day. The first night
was something Hall himself could remember. It was like a bad dream one
longs to forget, but he could remember the bus, the field, the ditch,
the rock pile. He could remember staggering, crawling, getting sick,
passing out and crawling and passing out again. But there were at least
ten hours that remained a total blank; that portion of the day between
the time he blacked out in the cafe near the Spanish line's pier and the
moment he became aware of the kid in the bus.
An enlisted man was cleaning up the commandant's room when Hall
returned. "The major will be here in five minutes," he told Hall. "And
in the meanwhile, he sent you these." He handed Hall a flat tin of
American cigarettes.
Hall offered one of the cigarettes to the soldier. He sat down in the
leather chair near the desk, looked at the inscription on Tabio's
photograph. "To my dear Diego, my comrade in prison and in
freedom--Anibal."
"The commandant is a close friend of Don Anibal's," the soldier said. "I
think I hear him coming now." The soldier stepped out of the room.
A moment later someone rapped gently on the door.
"Come in," Hall shouted.
The door opened. In the doorway, a man in uniform, his hat carried
correctly under his left arm, paused, made a soft salute. "Major Diego
Segador," he said. "We are honored to have you as our guest." He shook
hands with Hall, sat down in the desk chair facing the portrait of
Tabio.
"I am grateful to you for--everything," Hall said.
"It was nothing," Segador said. "After Souza spoke to me about you, I
was sorry we could not do more."
"What more could you have done?"
The major's lips parted over his long teeth in a mirthless smile. "We
could have killed the _cabron_ who drugged you, _companero_."
"You know who did it?"
"It could have been anyone in that cafe. What's the matter with Delgado?
Didn't he know it is owned by a dirty Falangist?" Color rose to the
major's dark cheeks. He was a man of Hall's own years, shorter, but with
a pair of powerful hands capable of hiding the hands of a man twice his
size. The hands were gripping the arms of his chair now, the knuckles
white as the major fought to control his rage. Hall knew the feeling,
sensed the fires that burned in the major's head. He called me
_companero_ a moment ago, he thought, he knows what I'm after.
"Pepe is all right," Hall said.
"He should have more brains." The major opened the locked middle drawer
of his desk, pulled out a sealed brown envelope. "Your papers," he said.
"Please examine them and see if everything is present."
Hall tore open the envelope, shook the contents to the desk. Passport,
wallet, not more than fifty pesos missing, a book of travelers' checks,
some sheets of blank paper, a small leather address book, wrist watch,
the Bock cigarettes. Except for the fifty pesos, everything else which
belonged in the wallet was there, money, pictures, cards, the letter
from Havana.
"Nothing is missing," Hall said. He took the letter from its envelope
and counted the pages.
"I'm sorry I had to read your love letter," Segador said. "But it was
necessary."
"I know," Hall said. "But it is not a love letter."
The massive face of the major reflected his surprise. "Not a love
letter?" he asked. "Ah, here's the coffee. Come in, corporal. Set the
trays down on the desk."
Hall waited until the corporal left. "It is not a love letter," he
repeated. "I would like very much to interpret it for you. I think it
might explain why I was drugged."
"Before you start," the major said, "there are two things that you
should know. The first is that Souza has given me a fairly good idea of
why you came to our country. The second is that for your own sake, and
for ours, I had to notify your Embassy that we had picked you up drunk
in a village cafe last night."
"Drunk?"
"I'm sorry, _companero_. I mean no disrespect, but your Embassy is not
very much in sympathy with many things a man like yourself is willing to
die defending. Under the circumstances, you can spare yourself some
unnecessary trouble if you say merely that you were drunk. If you stick
to this story, you can help yourself and, to be very frank, you can help
Don Anibal."
"You are his friend, aren't you?"
The major got to his feet. "His friend?" He undid his tie, then took his
shirt off. His torso was a mass of old and, for the main part,
improperly sewn scars. Mementoes of bullets, steel whips, knives. "My
republicanism is more than skin deep, my friend."
"Then I can tell you everything." Hall dipped into the tin of American
cigarettes. "It started in San Juan," he began, "or rather it really
started in Geneva, when I met Don Anibal for the first time. But it was
in San Juan that I read that Dr. Ansaldo was on his way to San Hermano
to treat Don Anibal. And if I may jump to the end of my story first,
this love letter seems to confirm what I suspected about Ansaldo. Do you
see what it says here about the doctor who treated Carlos?"
For an hour, Hall told Segador of what he had learned and experienced
since arriving in the country. The major interrupted with questions
frequently, made notes in a small black notebook. "Please," he said,
when Hall finished his account, "I am going to repeat the important
parts of the story to you. Correct me if I am wrong or if I leave
anything out."
He recited the story back to Hall, then consulted his watch. "The Press
Secretary of your Embassy is due to call for you in a few minutes," he
said. "Please remember your story. You were drunk."
"Was I with a _puta_?" Hall asked.
The major grinned. "No," he said, "that I did not think necessary.
Although if it were, I assure you I would tell your Embassy that you
were with the mangiest _puta_ in six provinces."
"What do we do now?"
"It is hard to say. In the meanwhile, I think there is something you
need." He took a large automatic out of his desk, slipped a clip of
bullets into its grip, and handed the gun and a small box of cartridges
to Hall. "If we could only prove to Don Anibal before it is too late
that Ansaldo ..."
"How?"
"We must find a way. In the meanwhile, stay alive for the next few days.
I have friends. They will watch for your safety. Souza, others. They
will bring you my messages. And be careful in cafes."
_Chapter nine_
The American Embassy sent a well-dressed young attache to call for Hall
in the morning. He arrived in a low-slung yellow sedan, introduced
himself as Orville Smith, snubbed everyone in sight, and relaxed only
when he and Hall were well out of sight of the camp. "They said that you
sure hung one on," he said pleasantly and, Hall realized, with even a
touch of admiration.
"Must have been something I ate," Hall answered.
"Glad you turned up intact, old man. Might have led to some amusing
complications. If the major had called five minutes later, this would
have appeared on the front page of _El Imparcial_ this morning."
He gave Hall a galley proof of a news story. _Missing American Writer
Believed Victim of Communists._ Missing since yesterday ... last seen
leaving hotel ... On Wednesday, at American Embassy party, Hall had
discussed Red threats to his safety, told publisher of _Imparcial_ that
giant Red assassin had followed him day before ... Embassy officials
described Hall as author of book on experiences on _H.M.S. Revenger_ ...
The missing American failed to phone or keep appointment made with
publisher of _Imparcial_ in connection with Soviet threats ... Feared
abducted and killed.
"What do you make of it?" Hall asked.
"Politics. They take their politics seriously down here. Was it true
that you were followed?"
"Yes. But not by the Reds. By the fascists."
"Are there any fascists down here?" This in a tone of detached
amusement.
"A few. How well do you know Fernandez?"
"Quite well. He's one of the few gentlemen in San Hermano. Comes from an
old Spanish aristocratic family. Did you really have an appointment with
him?"
"It wasn't definite. He told me he had heard of some Red plot to bump me
off. I just kidded him along."
"Mr. Fernandez is really very well informed," Smith said. "He has a
crack staff of reporters, and the information that they pick up
shouldn't be ignored."
"Yeah," Hall said. "I hear he's good. Matter of fact, I heard
_Imparcial_ is getting the Cabot Prize this year."
It was like a shaft driven into Smith's armor. "No!" he exclaimed. "Who
told you?"
"Some _puta_," Hall said, dryly. "In bed." He watched the blood rushing
to Orville Smith's head. "You'd be surprised at what a gal who sleeps
around can pick up."
"She was pulling your leg, Hall."
Hall grinned. "Please, Mr. Smith," he said. "Gentlemen don't discuss
such things." Smith grew redder.
"Not to change the subject," Hall said, "but what's cooking in town? In
politics, for example. Doesn't the Congress open today?"
"Not really. They have the ceremonial opening this afternoon. According
to tradition, the President speaks to the entire Congress. Then they
settle down to a week of reviewing last year's business. The first
working session really starts in about ten days."
"And today I guess Gamburdo is speaking instead of Tabio."
"Oh, beyond a doubt. Tabio is really on his last legs, old man. I
suppose I should feel sorry about the old coot, but then you learn
things in my game."
"About Tabio?"
"Oh, yes. We had information that in his address to the Congress, Tabio
was planning to call for the nationalization of all the mines in the
country."
"But why?"
"Oh," Smith said, "because he was being forced into it, I guess. I've
met Tabio and he's not as bad as his enemies make him out to be. But
what are you going to do when you are elected by a Popular Front
majority? The Communist Senators and Deputies are all from the mining
provinces up north. They've been hollering for the nationalization of
the mines for twenty years. Now they're strong enough to put the squeeze
on Tabio."
"But isn't Gamburdo in the Popular Front?"
"Gamburdo is different," Smith said. "He has different ideas, and he
can't be pressured by the bolos."
"I'm doing a story on Gamburdo for a magazine back in the States. You
get around. Tell me more about Gamburdo. I've got him down as the coming
man on the continent. Am I half cocked, or is he really hot?"
Orville Smith discussed Gamburdo, Tabio, the political scene. He talked
about the politicos, about their ideas, about the gossip which followed
them in their careers. Carefully prodded by Hall, he spoke fluently for
nearly two hours. It was a very revealing monologue. It told Hall how
Orville Smith had spent his three years in San Hermano. Week-end parties
at the estates of wealthy Spanish planters. Dinners, cocktails, high
masses, weddings, fishing trips with the Vardienos and the Fernandezes
and the Gamburdos. Info straight from the horse's mouth.
Tabio the tool and or agent of bolshevism. The better element. How
social legislation would push taxes up and cut down returns on American
investments. Vardieno gives lovely parties on his island. No, not many
lately. No oil for the boats, hard enough to get it for his narrow-gauge
Diesel locomotives. Fine lad, young Quinones; made the golf team at
Princeton. The Vardieno girl in the Press Bureau? That would be the one
who went to finishing school in the States. She just started in at the
Bureau for some experience. Cross and Sword? Oh, I know the pinkos back
home would call it fascist. It's not, really. Conservative, for free
enterprise and private ownership. All the better-element folks belong or
support it. Do I know any labor leaders? No, never met one. Did I ever
spend a week-end in a small village hotel? No, thank you, the roaches
are bigger than sparrows in the sticks.
Hall thought about the art of diplomacy. You take a kid from the FFV's
and at an early age you wrap him in cellophane and send him off to some
nice, prophylactic boarding school, well-heeled white Gentiles only,
thank you, High Episcopalians preferred, and only nice clean thoughts,
none of them less than a century old, are gently swished against the
cellophane until some of them seep through by osmosis. He meets only the
sons of the better element and outside of an adolescent clap he picks up
on one wild week-end with some of the boys in New York he has no real
problem until he's eased out of prep and then he has an idea he wants to
go to Harvard but the family prevails and he does time at Princeton,
nearly makes varsity football but a high tackle in a practice scrimmage
changes his mind, and then he is ready for his place on the board of the
mill but someone--a nice girl of fine breeding, no doubt--puts another
idea in his head. So he goes to Georgetown, fills out a lot of nasty
forms, and then, _voila!_, the young monsieur arrives in Paris as Third
Secretary and dreamily sends that first letter home to the folks: Hello
Folks, here I am in Gay Paree learning how to be an Ambassador.
And then in Paris, Hall thought, listening to Orville Smith, your young
Third Secretary naturally gravitates to his French equivalents, the
young bluebloods who were reared in French cellophane and got the same
ideas, only in French, in their own versions of Princeton and Groton.
The better element meets the better element, and he makes factual,
intelligent reports. The Popular Front falling into hands of the bolos.
This he learns at a week-end party on Flandin's yacht. The Croix de Feu
and the Cagoulards are fine, conservative forces. Only the pinkos call
them fascists, but Bertrand de Juvenal, the fledgling ambassador's pal,
knows otherwise. Sit-down strikes, forty-hour week, vacations with
pay--he puts them all down in his reports; communist, of course. Got the
lowdown on the beach at Cannes just the other day. Daladier is the man
to watch. Yes, he is in the Popular Front. But Daladier's different.
He's like Monsieur Laval, the French Calvin Coolidge. Fine force for
sensible government. There will be no war, Munich has settled that. Got
the lowdown from Flandin himself. Germany will be defeated. Spent a most
fascinating week-end with General Weygand. Marechal Petain is man of the
hour. Marechal Petain will make France another Verdun. Vichy wants to be
friends with Washington. The Marechal indignantly denies, in private,
that that was a Nazi salute you saw in the newsreels, sir, he says he
was just waving at the cameramen. But Bertrand de Juvenal does not deny,
and Laval does not deny, and Daladier weeps in his collapsed house of
cards. And then comes the transfer to San Hermano at a better rating.
Smith pointed to the suburbs of San Hermano ahead of them. "We made good
time," he said. "We'll be in the Embassy in ten minutes."
"Good going. You can drop me at the Bolivar, if you don't mind."
"Not at all, old man. But say, why don't you drop by for a spot of lunch
with the old man and the boys at the Embassy? We'd love to have you with
us and, besides, the old man will probably want to see for himself that
you're in one piece."