Hurricane Gold (10 page)

He ran on and, as he rounded a bend, he came to a small square. There was an arcade around the edge and a few tatty trees stood in the middle. He saw Precious and JJ sitting in the shade of a tree and was just about to call out to them when some sixth sense told him to hold his tongue.

He looked again.

There was a familiar truck parked nearby, with its bonnet up. On its back was Mr Stone’s safe, and standing around it, peering at the engine, were the American gangsters.

James backed into the shadows and jumped as someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.

He spun round, ready to fight, but it was only Garcia.

‘It’s them,’ said James, putting a finger to his lips and shrinking deeper into the shade. ‘The people who came to the house.’

‘Do they know you?’ asked Garcia.

James shook his head.

‘None of them saw me last night,’ he said. ‘Except maybe the one I pushed out of the window. Manny, I think he was called. He may have got a look at me, I don’t know. But there’s no sign of him.’

‘Good.’

‘What will we do?’ James asked.

Garcia looked him up and down and pushed his hair back from his face.

‘Pretend you are with me,’ he said. ‘We will call their bluff. We cannot leave children with them.’

So saying, Garcia strode into the square with James tagging along behind. As they got nearer, Garcia plastered a big stupid grin on his face.

‘
Hola
,’ he said, exaggerating his accent. ‘You have a problem? Your engine, he not work, eh?’

The three men and the woman straightened and turned warily.

‘You know about engines?’ said the short, square one, his voice harsh and grating. There was a battered look about him. Like he had been in one too many fistfights.

‘
Sí
,’ said Garcia, cheerfully. ‘I know about engines. You like I fix him for you?’

‘Maybe,’ said the short man. He had a slight squint so that it was hard to tell exactly where he was looking. But now he seemed to be looking at James for the first time. James smiled back at him and he frowned, flicking his focus from one eye to the other.

‘Don’t I know you?’ he said after a while.

‘I no think so,’ said Garcia. ‘He is my cousin.’

One of the other men looked over. It was the skinny one with the big ears.

‘Whatzat?’ he said, his large Adam’s apple bobbing in his stringy neck. ‘What you sayin’, Strabo?’

‘I recognise the kid from somewhere,’ said the short one, loudly, almost shouting.

‘Sure you do,’ said his skinny friend. ‘He’s the kid we saw the local coppers nabbing in Tres Hermanas.’

‘Yeah. That’s right,’ said Strabo.

‘My name is Angel Corona,’ said James, with an attempt at a Mexican accent. It didn’t sound at all convincing to him, but he prayed that it would fool the Americans.

‘What happened to you?’ said Strabo, who had evidently bought it. ‘They let you go?’

‘I escaped in the storm,’ said James, growing more confident. ‘The jail was broken.’

‘I heard that,’ said Strabo, and he laughed. ‘Good on you, kid, you put one over on them dago flatfoots.’

James laughed now and Garcia joined in.

Precious and JJ were looking at them in complete bemusement. James took off his sunglasses for a second and winked. To the gangsters it would have appeared to be just a show of macho cockiness, but he hoped that Precious would take the hint and keep her mouth shut for once.

‘So what is wrong with your engine?’ said Garcia.

‘Damn thing keeps cutting out on us,’ said Strabo. ‘You fix her up, we’ll pay you well. And if you can get us out of this stinking place we’ll pay you even better.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ said Garcia, grinning more widely then ever. ‘Angel will help me.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ said Strabo. ‘He’s one of us, after all.’

‘Where you wanna go?’ said Garcia.

‘Back to civilisation.’

‘No problem,’ said Garcia.

Strabo glanced over at the safe on the back of the truck.

‘We’ve got us a rather precious cargo, though,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said Garcia again and he walked over to inspect the engine.

Throughout all this, the blonde woman, Mrs Glass, had been smoking a cigarette and watching. Her face showed nothing beneath the wide brim of her hat.

‘Can we trust them?’ she said finally.

‘All Mexicans care about are greenbacks,’ rasped Strabo. ‘So long as we pay him, he’s one happy greaser.’

‘We don’t want any trouble with the law,’ said Mrs Glass.

‘Who does?’ said Garcia, looking up from the engine.

Mrs Glass sniffed.

‘You cause us any trouble,’ she said to Garcia and James, ‘and I will personally shoot your eyes out and use your heads as bowling balls.
Comprende
?’

‘Sure,’ said James, imitating Garcia’s stupid grin. ‘You tough guys, huh? Bang bang, you dead.’

‘The toughest,’ said Strabo, and he put an arm around James’s shoulders.

‘I like your style, kid,’ he said. ‘You and me are going to get along just fine. Welcome to the gang.’

Part Two: One of the Gang

Regent’s Park

London

England

Dear James,

Greetings from the Danger Society. Sadly, as you will soon learn, this will be the last-ever letter from the Soc. We are no more! And you will see from my address that I have left Eton and am back home at Mandeville Mansion in Regent’s Park. But I am getting ahead of myself, as usual. As you know, I am not a big one for letter writing, but the tale must be told. At least with a letter you don’t have to put up with any of my blasted stammering.

Actually, I have no idea if you will ever get this letter. I don’t suppose the Mexican postal service is up to much. I cannot imagine what it is like out there. I picture you in a big sombrero, riding a donkey and strumming a guitar. If I remember, you are not very musical so I am glad I am not there to hear your efforts.

There has been much excitement at Eton, and you will kick yourself that you were not here to be a part of it. Actually, to be brutally honest, I think you are better off out of it, old thing. So, come along, Perry, spill the beans!

By the way, I saw your messmate Pritpal before I left (it was he that gave me your forwarding address). He was limping about the place and clutching his backside. A beastly boy named Bentinck seems to have instigated a reign of terror at your House. He has beaten Pritpal twice, if you can believe it. Once so hard with a piece of rubber tubing that he was bleeding for two days afterwards by all accounts. And what heinous crimes had he committed? Being too noisy at breakfast, and eating in the High Street, the second of which was a wholly trumped-up charge. Pritpal is the most law-abiding boy I have ever come across. I am sure in all your travels in Mexico you will not meet anyone as thoroughly nasty and brutish as Theo Bentinck.

But back to the meat of the letter. As I say, the Danger Society is no more. It all started when I allowed a new member to join, Alistair Seaton. He had been begging me all half. Fool that I am, I finally gave in. Well, the sap boasted to his older brother all about it on long leave and his brother blabbed to his parents. They were horrified to find out that their darling son, in whose mouth butter wouldn’t melt, and all that rot, was the member of a secret society dedicated to danger, risk-taking and generally breaking the law of the land. They went to the Head who stamped about the place huffing and puffing and kicking up a mighty stink. He hauled me and the rest of the chaps up before him and grilled us. I, of course, kept mum. He couldn’t crack me.

The upshot of it was, however, that I decided to shut things down for risk of being found out, but not before we had carried out one last daring exploit. An act of defiant revenge!

I really am a born fool, James. If only you had been here I am sure you would have talked me out of it and made me see sense.

It went off like this. First of all we kidnapped a flock of sheep from a field near Eton Wick. Do you kidnap a sheep? Or do I mean we rustled some sheep? Well, anyway, we borrowed some sheep. And it wasn’t really a flock, if truth be told, unless you count five sheep as a flock. I’m no farmer, so don’t ask me. Well, we shepherded them back to school and got them up into the Head’s room under cover of darkness while he was in chapel. (Gordon Latimer had magicked up a key from somewhere.)

So we installed the flock in his room, unscrewed all the light bulbs and made good our escape.

Picture the scene as the Head returned, tired and cold, from chapel. He enters the room. No light… but what’s that noise? Egads! There’s some kind of fearsome beast in here! No. There’s hundreds of them.

I imagine he must have been pretty terrified. And then, of course, pretty angry, particularly as the sheep had eaten some rather valuable furniture.

I hadn’t thought through the consequences, though. ‘Who?’ thinks the Head, ‘would be rash enough to try a stunt like this?’

Answer – Perry Mandeville.

The beaks caught me red-handed trying to brush wool off my coat back in my room. They threatened to expel every member of the Danger Society if I didn’t make some sort of confession. So I fell on my sword to protect the others. I took all the blame in return for nobody else being punished.

That, then, was the end of my illustrious career at Eton. My father is sending me as far away as he can manage, to some godforsaken place called Fettes in Scotland.

So long then. Spare a thought for your old pal Perry, but don’t shed any tears. I will endure.

Adios, amigo!

Perry

10

The Whipping Post

El Huracán stood on his balcony overlooking the main square of Lagrimas Negras and lit a cigar. A Cuban brand, El Rey Del Mundo – The King of the World. He drew in the warm smoke, filling his mouth with the taste of spices and chocolate, wood and nuts. He smiled. It tasted of success.

The King of the World
? Well, he was certainly king of this world.

From below rose a gentle hum of voices as men strolled in the evening air and chatted to friends. They all wore expensive handmade suits and some had a woman on their arm. The women were all the same, young and beautiful – their dresses shimmering in the soft glow of candlelight coming from the coloured glass globes that were placed around the square. More twinkled from the trees and among the bougainvillea or were hung from the grape vines and jasmine that clothed the mellow stone walls.

People sat at tables outside the three bars taking a drink before dinner under the stars. Soon the others would settle down to eat at one of the restaurants. Already, waiters in crisp white shirts were setting places, polishing glasses, arranging silverware, and putting champagne on ice.

A mariachi band was playing ‘La Adelita’, one of El Huracán’s favourite songs. He hummed along to it, letting out a cloud of cigar smoke and stroking his short white beard.

He sat down in a big wicker armchair and took a sip from the chilled glass of fino sherry that had been left out for him on a marble-topped side table. He looked at the tray of
antojitos
, tasty appetisers, which had been prepared for him:
tostadas
,
sopes
,
empanaditas
and
guacamole con totopos
. He picked at the
guacamole
. He wasn’t really hungry. He rarely was these days and had only a small appetite. There had been parts of his life, though, when he had been so hungry he had eaten rats and bugs to survive.

There came the sound of a cork popping and a little burst of laughter from one of the bars.

The square was a place for fun and relaxation. The men enjoying themselves down there were bank robbers, extortionists, kidnappers… Here they could feel safe and enjoy themselves to their hearts’ content. They had nothing to fear from policemen, governments or honest citizens. There
were
no honest citizens here. This was the ultimate hideout, the original den of thieves.

In the lazy, carefree atmosphere of Lagrimas Negras the men soon forgot their violent ways and they all looked forward to the evenings when they could show off their expensive clothes and enjoy the fine food and drink that El Huracán laid on.

In the centre of the square on a raised terrace stood a short stone column with two iron rings set halfway up its sides. It looked slightly out of place here, in these elegant, romantic surroundings. El Huracán had no doubt that every so often a man would stop and notice it and wonder what it was, and why El Huracán hadn’t replaced it with something more attractive – a statue or a fountain, maybe.

But El Huracán would never get rid of it. It was a reminder of dark times, a reminder of what this place had once been.

The column was a whipping post. In days gone by prisoners had been shackled to it and flogged with a bullwhip or a cane. Sometimes they would be shot and left to rot there in the sun as a warning to others. The flagstones around the base of the column were worn down from being scrubbed. So much blood had been washed down into the drains around it.

So much blood.

The imposing house where El Huracán now lived, at the head of the square, had once been the administrative block. The prison governor had lived and worked here. The buildings around the square that were now shops and restaurants had once been guardrooms and punishment cells.

Lagrimas Negras lay between Mexico’s Yucatán peninsula and the Caymans, part of the chain of Caribbean islands that sweep down from Cuba, through Jamaica, Haiti, Puerto Rico and scores of smaller islands, to Trinidad off the coast of Venezuela.

The first settlers here had been Mayans. Nobody knew for sure when they first arrived, but some time in the tenth century they had built several monumental structures, including temples, tombs, the two pyramids, a ball court and an observatory. Not much of these original buildings remained. Later settlers, with no regard for history, had dismantled them to use the stone for new structures, and in some cases had simply built on top of the old Mayan ruins.

In the seventeenth century Lagrimas Negras had become an important staging post for the slave trade, sitting as it did between the other Caribbean islands, Central America and the southern United States. A slave market was established which was later turned into a penal colony for captured runaways, troublemakers and slaves who refused to do as they were told on the plantations.

For the Mayans the island had been sacred to the god Hurakan, who had drowned the world in a great flood after the first humans had angered the gods. He had then made the world again, calling it up out of the floodwaters. The Mayan name for the island had been forgotten and it had come to be known as Lagrimas Negras – Black Tears.

Lagrimas Negras became feared throughout the slave communities. If there was one thing worse than being a slave it was being sent here.

In 1830, though, the prisoners rose up, overthrew their jailers and declared Lagrimas Negras an independent free state. There were already many Maroon settlements along the mainland coast, villages and even towns that had been created by runaway slaves. Lagrimas Negras was just one more.

They might have been left in peace if President Santa Anna hadn’t declared war on the United States in 1846. The Americans needed a naval base in the area, and, realising the strategic importance of the island, they sent in gunships. There was a brief and bloody battle. The ex-prisoners, poorly armed and badly outnumbered, didn’t stand a chance.

Only one man escaped – El Huracán’s father, Gaspar.

He stole a boat and sailed south-west to British Honduras. He moved quickly inland, deep into the heart of the rainforest, eventually settling with a family of Lacandon Indians. By the time he died at the age of ninety-seven he had ten children and thirty-eight grandchildren.

His youngest child was named Hurakan, after the God who had protected Gaspar. He grew up rarely seeing sunlight and by the time he was twelve he had learnt how to survive alone in the unforgiving jungle environment. He was restless, though, and knew from his father’s tales that there was a world outside the forest. He wanted to see the ocean and the big cites. He wanted to see fields and horses and sheep, and he wanted to see an open sky.

He left home.

That was fifty-five years ago.

Since then he had seen a lot more than he could ever have imagined.

He had worked as a guide for loggers in the jungle. He had been a sailor. He had worked on a sugar plantation in Cuba. He had fought for the Cubans against the Americans in the Spanish–American War. He had returned to Mexico and fought in the revolution, riding with Pancho Villa’s elite cavalry,
Los Dorados
, the Golden Ones. There he acquired his new name, his Spanish name, El Huracán, the Hurricane. He would come down out of the hills with his horsemen like a sudden fierce storm and destroy everything in his way.

Along the way he had been a train robber, an encyclopedia salesman, a banker, a gunrunner, a bootlegger, a farmer and a shopkeeper. He had drilled for oil and dug for gold. For a while, he had been a politician, but had decided he preferred honest crooks to the ones he found in government. He knew the most important people in Mexico, from the aristocrats and ruling classes to the peasant leaders, from the crime bosses to officers in the police and army, and he had become a very wealthy man.

He had been married four times and outlived each of his wives. His first wife had died in childbirth, his second had died of smallpox, the third was shot by one of Carranza’s soldiers and the fourth had died in a riding accident.

In 1918, at the age of fifty-two, he had finally visited the island of Lagrimas Negras to see where his father had come from. It had been abandoned. The fortified harbour was silted up. The buildings were empty and quiet, home to bats and snakes and scorpions.

He had had a vision of what he could do with this lonely place.

The Americans still claimed ownership of the island, but they had left long ago to build a larger and more useful naval base in Cuba. They were pleased to get Lagrimas Negras off their hands and sold it to El Huracán for 35,000 dollars.

He brought a loyal gang of followers out here; Mexican Indians, mostly, from the Chiapas, but also a few Maroons and some ex-revolutionaries who had fought alongside him.

He rebuilt the houses, he dredged the harbour. He installed electricity, sewers and running water. He made elegant streets and built new villas. He converted an ammunition dump into a bank. By the time he had finished Lagrimas Negras had been turned into a luxury resort, but the guests were not going to be ordinary holidaymakers.

He started to put the word around: if you were on the run, if you were in trouble, if you needed somewhere to hide, you could come to Lagrimas Negras, and you could stay there, free from harm – at a price.

Gradually criminals arrived. If they had enough money they were allowed to stay. If not, El Huracán would capture them and send them back to the Mexican police, or to the Americans, or Brazilians, or wherever they had come from.

His plan worked. His island was full of desperadoes. His bank was full of money.

He was King of the World.