Face to the Sun (6 page)

In the morning I was awakened by the rumble of tanks and troop carriers down the main street and a scatter of cheers. The President had returned from his latest skirmish against democrats for
the sake of democracy. I reckoned that I had better lie low and cultivate Hector’s discreet neutrality. At any rate, one mission had been accomplished. The Punchao was back in time with never
a sign of its short visit to London.

Hector turned up in the blessed cool of the evening, while I was wondering if Heredia, like Marlborough, had jumped straight into the matrimonial bed without even taking his boots off. Far from
it! Hector told me that his first visit had been to his office, from which he had emerged flaming furious. Juana stammered out her story, using every trick of her cinematic youth, finally falling
on her knees in tears and begging his forgiveness. Such abject penitence was pretty rare, Hector gathered, and so all the more satisfactory. The President was completely mollified and took her into
his office to show her how the damned thing worked.

A highly skilled watchmaker had been employed by Heredia to work on the Punchao without affecting the perfection of its ornament. The object was to enable the designers of the new state emblem
to study the effect whether vertical or horizontal. To make it stand up you had to slide one of the little flashing suns; that controlled a tiny watch battery which dropped a length of fine wire to
form a third leg to the two lower rays. If the Punchao was lifted the wire automatically returned to its coil. Anyone but the guilty Juana would have had the sense to wonder, when she removed it,
how it had ever stood up.

But it would not stand up now. I must have damaged the very delicate machinery in my agitated passage from the public lavatory to another. So Heredia had ordered a car, a driver and a couple of
armed guards and sent the Punchao round to the watchmaker for examina­tion and repair.

Hector stayed on to have the hotel dinner with me, for Juana had arranged a tête-à-tête supper with the returning hero. We sat late, and during our third bottle I thought I
heard the distant crackle of machine-gun-fire; so did other guests who buried their noses in their plates. Hector was not particularly curious, saying that he supposed it was the Retadores at it
again, trying some futile stroke of terrorism to show the President that his recent consignment of American arms was not so effective in the city as it had been in the mountains.

In the morning, I looked out of my bedroom window and observed two police vans cruising slowly down the street. At intervals they would stop and interrogate individuals, especially if they
showed any sign of wanting to escape. Some were thrown roughly into the vans; to judge by their clothing, they were all poor or down from the villages. I asked at the desk what the reason was for
all this activity and was told that when one of the presidential cars had entered a narrow street in the old town the night before it had been blasted by a sudden burst of gun-fire. The driver and
two guards had been killed outright while the workshop of a watchmaker had been sacked and the proprietor shot. The attackers had escaped on foot and were believed to have reached a car outside the
city. Nobody knew why the watchmaker had been singled out. The neighbours and the local tavernas swore that, like most devoted craftsmen, he had no political opinions at all.

When I had finished breakfast I was approached by a sergeant of police who asked if I was Don Edmondo Hawkins, and politely invited me to accompany him. It was a grim spot to which he took me:
an office in the headquarters of the civil police, whitewashed and sound-proofed. An imposing civilian sat at a desk with two chairs opposite. That upon which I was ordered to sit had a bloodstain
on the back, perhaps deliberately left uncleaned.

‘You are a friend of the President’s son-in-law, are you not?’ he began. ‘Where did you first meet him?’

A nasty one, that! Hector must have been asked that question too and I could not know what he had replied.

‘At some conference at the British Museum, I believe it was,’ I answered cautiously.

‘La Presidenta states that after your arrival you paid a short visit to her at the palace.’

‘That is correct. We had been fellow travellers for so long, and it was at her invitation.’

‘She left you alone in her apartment for some time?’

‘Yes. She had some urgent business with her son-in-law. To telephone Doña Carlota perhaps.’

‘When she returned, did she appear agitated?’

‘Not agitated. One might say puzzled. But I left very soon afterwards.’

Damn the woman! What impulsive lie had she produced? I began to see why I was being questioned. But I could not have carried the news that the Punchao was to be returned to the watchmaker
because she did not then know it herself.

‘After President Heredia returned from the punitive expedition did you see Sir Hector?’

‘Not till the evening.’

Hector would have confirmed that, but it was still just possible that I could be the informer.

‘What time did you arrive at the hotel?’

‘About seven, I think.’

The hotel, if asked, would confirm that, so it was no good to put the time of arrival later. The Retadores would have had three hours to organise and carry out the raid. But even if Hector had
told me that the Punchao was at the watchmakers, how could I have let the Retadores know? I had had no visitors and had not got up from the table to telephone. The principal suspects were Juana or
Hector himself and both were untouchable.

‘And what business has brought you to Malpelo?’

‘I am an archaeologist with an interest in the cultural affinities of the Indians of Central America and, as Don Hector McMurtrie was returning to Malpelo with the Presidenta, he asked me
if I would like to accompany him. Of course I jumped at the chance.’

‘What do you know of the Punchao del Dia?’

‘I am most eager to see it and to judge for myself how closely the model corresponds to the description given by the Conquistadores.’

‘Why did Don Hector escort the Presidenta back to Malpelo?’

‘Because she was afraid of possible assassination.’

‘By whom?’

‘In London, he told me, there is an organised gang of exiles from Malpelo.’

‘Their names?’

‘He could give them to you if you don’t know them already.’

‘Thank you, Don Edmondo. I regret that I must detain you for further questioning, possibly by the President himself. You will be made as comfortable as possible.’

I asked of what crime I was suspected, and was told with a half-smile that I was suspected of communication with enemies of the state. Obviously, he thought, but dared not say, that the
President had a bee in his bonnet.

He was right in that. Dictators, in my limited experience, depend on such bees for action when evidence is lacking. Heredia had a strong gut-feeling that his wife and son-in-law had a hand in
some monkey business over the Punchao. Why had she visited it so soon after her arrival? Why had Hector accompanied her? What was the connection, if any, with that successful raid on the late
watchmaker’s shop? Well, he couldn’t jail Hector without getting hell from Juana and cabled hell from Carlota, so I was a temporary substitute for the lot of them. I did not ask to see
the British Consul since I should have had to give him more details of my dealings with Juana than I liked and invent unconvincing lies about my movements and means of support which could well lead
him to cable London for confirmation. I had no intention of mentioning the large part of my two hundred thousand which remained at the bank.

The room to which I was escorted had at least a comfortable bed and chair, a wash basin and a water closet, all quite adequate for a country inn. I did not expect a visit from Juana or Hector
until the clouds cleared away; they would be afraid of any confrontation when neither they nor I could know what story the other had confessed. Meanwhile, Juana cared only for herself and her
husband, and Hector for both the safety of the Punchao and Carlota’s allowance from her father which allowed him to indulge his hobby as well as to improve his estate. I remembered how he had
cursed the Ministry of Agriculture for not allowing him to terrace his hillsides in the common practice of the Iron Age.

I passed the day in reviving such memories. Conversation with the gaoler who brought me food and wine at the normal times was not encouraged. He was armed but not against any expected trouble
from me. He gave me the impression of being anxious of some growing disturbance in the city since the arrests of the early morning. I slept peacefully until someone dropped, as I thought, some
heavy piece of furniture not far away. This was followed by shots, running feet and a powerful explosion which left the door of my hospitable cell hanging from one hinge. I helped it the rest of
the way and ran out into the central passage where I was grabbed from behind and hurried along past several corpses including that of my last interrogator.

We arrived in the courtyard, dismal in the first grey light of dawn, and I was hurled into a police van crammed with other prisoners who, for all I knew, might be bound for the firing-squad or
the freedom of the mountains. When we had raced out through the shattered gates and round a corner where the hail of shots – most of them high – could no longer reach us, I disentangled
myself from the crush on the floor of the van and had a look at my fellow prisoners. That was what they were: a pitiable lot, half-naked, beaten, with faces pulped and yelling with pain when they
tried to move. There was no more doubt that I had been given a lift by a rescue party of Retadores. It occurred to me that when they discovered that I was a known friend of the Presidenta Juana I
might not have long to live.

The growing light was now enough to reveal a troop carrier a mile behind us and closing. If we had chosen a main road we could have raced away but we were on a track winding between outcrops of
rock into the forested hills. Soon, optimistic shots were kicking up the dust and we were told to tumble out and take cover. I grabbed a rifle belonging to the driver’s mate who had stopped
one of those random shots and dived into a cleft overlooking the track but much too close to it, hoping that the pursuers would continue to grind their way uphill. In fact, I doubt if I had any
coherent plan at all. I took to the nearest hole, obsessed by a terrifying vision of my lonely body running up the track, an unmissable target. The rest of the prisoners, who had the advantage of
knowing where they were, had become invisible. They squatted in cover as naturally as partridges.

At the same time, the carrier was ditching its load of soldiers who took open order and continued the chase. I watched two of them blow out the brains of three poor devils who could not run.
That was pitiless murder and I returned the compliment. Some Roman said that out of Africa always comes something new. It had. My General had insisted that all his civilian staff should know how to
shoot. I took to the game and earned his personal commendation.

The officer in command of the party was safely behind his men; only he could have clearly seen where my shots had come from, so I had to teach him to lead his troops from the front in future
– if he had any future.

There wasn’t an atom of soldierly courage in all this. I was angry, and certain that I was going to die. The safest place seemed to be the armoured troop carrier which was halted to my
left and a little below me. I regretted that I had not the experience to drive a tracked vehicle, but there was a chance that the driver was still in his seat. If he was, I could get at him from
behind by a possible wriggle through what might be called cover.

I reached the carrier, apparently unseen by its previous occupants who were up ahead busy searching every rock and patch of scrub, and climbed in. The driver was still there. He heard me and
turned round to see my rifle trained on him. I ordered him to drive straight ahead. Neither of us had any temptation to be a hero, so he obeyed, pushing our empty van viciously out of the way.

I gratefully admired the American troop carrier. None of the shots which hit us penetrated the armour. But there was no enthusiasm for the chase in the Heredia troops; some of the shots
presumably aimed at the carrier missed so widely that men on the far side of it, instead of searching the outcrops of rock, crouched behind them. Meanwhile, we reached the top of the ridge and were
in dead ground; beyond was the edge of the forest and I could see three or four of my fellow prisoners dodging from tree to tree until they disappeared. The driver was disinclined to go further for
shots were coming from ahead, and it was obvious that we now faced an advanced detachment of Retadores from which the raiders of the police station had started.

I ordered the driver to take off his uniform coat and his fairly white shirt which I raised, attached by the sleeves, to the barrel of my rifle. That puzzled the enemy; firing stopped and then
began again. I waved my improvised white flag, and they let us alone while we rumbled down the track which continued clear of obstructions, into the trees. There we were savagely charged, but
instead of a load of Heredistas they found only Edmond Hawkins shouting that he too had been a prisoner, terrified by what seemed a hedge of bayonets but turned out to be only four.

They thought at first that the driver had come over to them and slapped him on the back for his courage in joining the side of the people. He had the sense to keep silent and charged boldly
along what once had been a forest path. After half a mile the tracks of the carrier became so entwined by lianas and saplings that it gave up.

Meanwhile, they tied my hands and threw me on the ground. After a discussion whether to shoot me or not, assuming that I was one of Heredia’s American advisers, they decided to take me
back to their camp.

‘You’ll have to walk for the first time in your life, son of a whore,’ one of them said to me.

‘Well, I have legs.’

They were amused by my retort.

‘He has legs,’ they repeated jovially. ‘And he speaks Spanish.’