The Spanish Hawk (1969) (12 page)

Fletcher picked up the binoculars and trained them on the launch. He saw that a man had climbed on to the roof of the cabin and was lying down with what appeared to be a submachine-gun in his hands. Things were beginning to look very unpleasant indeed. He put the binoculars down and glanced at King; there was an automatic pistol in King’s hand, but if it came to a shooting match the odds were on the submachine-gun.

Suddenly the engine gave a cough and really came to life, and it was one of the most welcome sounds Fletcher had heard in quite some time. There was a swirl of water at the stern and the boat began to move.

“Well, thanks be for that,” King muttered. “Thanks be for that.”

But the launch was still overhauling them and the gap was shrinking with each second that passed. Suddenly the man who was lying on the cabin-top, apparently judging the range to be short enough, let go with the submachine-gun. Bullets flicked the surface of the water just astern of the boat, flinging up little fountains of spray.

“Get down,” King shouted.

He could have saved his breath; the man with the submachine-gun had done all the persuading that was needed. Fletcher dropped quickly to the bottom of the cockpit and was joined there by King. Only Lawrence, who was steering, remained on his feet; he had to keep the boat under control. King got up on to his knees and did some work with the pistol, but he might as well have thrown the gun itself for all the effect it was likely to have; there was not one chance in a million of hitting anyone in the launch.

By now the boat was gathering speed and the launch was no longer gaining on it. Gradually they began to draw away from the pursuer.

“Good boy, Lawrence,” King said. “That’s the way. Keep her going.”

The man with the submachine-gun was still firing in short bursts, but he was in little better situation than King for accurate shooting; at the speed it was moving the launch provided a very unstable platform, and with the range beginning to open again the chances of scoring a telling hit were rapidly fading.

There came a lull. Fletcher raised his head and peered over the stern. He could see the man doing something with the gun, probably changing the magazine. The distance between the boats was looking much healthier and it was apparent that theirs was the faster of the two. Barring
accidents, like a breakdown of the engine, it looked as though they were going to make it.

Another sudden burst of fire made him duck his head again; the man on the cabin-top had obviously got the new magazine fixed and there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks even if the range had increased. King had evidently come to the conclusion that pistol work was useless and had stowed the automatic away. Fletcher looked at him and grinned.

“They won’t catch us now. This is a fast boat.”

Perhaps he ought to have been touching wood again. At that moment there was another, longer burst of fire from the submachine-gun, as though the operator had decided to give it one last try, and some splinters of wood were chipped off the stern of the boat. Lawrence gave a cry of pain and staggered sideways, dragging at the wheel as he fell, so that the boat heeled sharply over and came round in a wide sweep to starboard. A little more and it might have made a complete turn if King had not realised the danger and grabbed the wheel to bring it back on course.

The submachine-gun was still firing spasmodically, but it stopped abruptly and Fletcher guessed that the second magazine had been emptied. He peered over the stern and saw that the involuntary manoeuvre of the boat had lost them some of their lead. But already the gap was widening again.

He went to help Lawrence, who was sitting on the bottom of the cockpit with his back propped up against the side. Apparently he had been hit in the left arm; he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and there was blood dripping from the area of the bicep muscle. The entire lower arm was in a mess, but it probably looked worse than it was.

The submachine-gun really seemed to have gone out of business this time. He glanced again across the gap of water and saw that the launch had slipped even further astern; it was no longer in the hunt and they could forget about any more danger from the gun. He felt considerable relief at that; it was the first time in his life that he had been shot at, and he had not enjoyed the experience. He hoped it would be the last time also, but in the circumstances he would not have been prepared to lay a very heavy bet on that particular horse.

He turned again to Lawrence. “How bad is it?”

Lawrence looked pretty sick, but he managed a grin. Or it might have been a grimace; it was hard to tell.

“I’ll live,” he said.

“I hope we all shall,” Fletcher said. But he was afraid it might be tough going.

They took the boat into a small creek on the northern side of the island. King knew the place and he said it would be safe enough there. It was pretty secluded and not easy to get at; there was no road leading to it.

“We shall have to make it back to the house the best way we can.”

It had been obvious that it would not be safe to return to their starting point; they would almost certainly have found the police waiting for them. So they had headed north and then west, keeping well out to sea until the time had come to turn south and make a dash for the coast. There had always been the possibility that, warned by radio, another boat might have been sent out to intercept them, or even a helicopter; but in the event there had been nothing to give them any cause for alarm. They had seen other boats—yachts and motor-launches—but none that had appeared to be attempting any interception, and the trip had been without further incident.

Fletcher had put a dressing on Lawrence’s arm, using bandages from the boat’s first-aid kit, and had succeeded in stemming the flow of blood. It seemed that the bullet had passed completely through the flesh without touching a
bone. He had made a sling for the arm and Lawrence seemed to be reasonably comfortable, though he was obviously in some pain.

None of them was happy with the way things had gone. They had all smelled the odour of treachery and it was not the kind of odour that anyone liked. The question that arose and was discussed at some length on the way back was: who had betrayed them?

It was Fletcher who touched on the nub of the matter. “Who knew about this operation? The three of us and Conrad Denning and Leonora. That’s five. Who else?”

“No one else,” King said, not looking round, just gripping the wheel hard and staring straight ahead past the bows of the boat.

“We don’t know that,” Lawrence objected. “Not for certain. There could have been someone else.”

“How could there have been?” Fletcher asked.

“Someone else could have been told.”

“Well, that’s precisely what we’re talking about, isn’t it? Who told someone else? Did you? Did Matthew? Did I?”

None of them had spoken about it to anyone; they were adamant on that.

“So who does that leave?”

It left two people—Denning and the girl.

They were all silent, thinking about it; then King said slowly: “I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t.”

“How do you know she wouldn’t?”

“I know her. I’ve known her since way back.”

Lawrence said thoughtfully: “I wonder. Do we ever know anybody? Like really know them.”

“She wouldn’t,” King said; and he still was not
looking round; it was as though he was afraid to meet their eyes.

Fletcher could see how it was: King did not want to believe that Leonora would betray them. And if it came to that, he himself did not want to believe it, either. But the logic was too strong; it all added up; and the more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. She could have been feeding information to the C.I.A. all along. She was an American, so what more likely? She might even be a C.I.A. agent herself.

“I was the one who invited her here,” King said. Which was true, but proved nothing. “So why would she do it?”

“People do a lotta things for money,” Lawrence said. “It’s got a strong, strong pull, that old money.”

“She doesn’t want money.”

“Ain’t nobody don’t want money,” Lawrence said.

“I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”

“So why didn’t she come with us? Like last time when we went for the camera. She came then.”

“There was no need for her to come.”

“There was no need then, but she came.”

“It’s not proof.”

“Oh, sure it’s not proof. But you just think back a while. Who knew about that other boat coming from Cuba? Who knew about the pictures in
Freedom
? And other things; other times when the cops moved in.”

“She was never the only one who knew.”

“But she did know, and she knew about us today.”

Fletcher was silent. He wished he could have said something in the girl’s defence, but it would only have been an attempt to fool himself. He remembered what she had said
to him when they had talked the thing over on Denning’s terrace. She had said: “Are you suggesting I might have been the informer?” He had denied it, but he had had his doubts even then. Now he knew. And he knew, too, that what really hurt was the realisation that she had been willing to betray him as well as the others. He remembered the way she had snuggled up to him in the back of the Ford and had gone to sleep with her head resting against his shoulder; and the way she had stood on the board-walk watching the boat move out that morning. He had begun to think she really had some feeling for him, the same as he had for her. And now this. It hurt; it hurt right down to the bone.

“Damn her!” King burst out suddenly. “Damn her! Damn her!” He beat his hand on the wheel as though it were the object of his anger; and Fletcher knew just how he was feeling. He knew that King also had accepted the bitter fact, and that it was the same with him, because he loved her too; you could bet your life he did.

“So what do we do about it?”

“We go back. She’ll be there.”

“And then?”

“We’ll see,” King said grimly. “We’ll see.”

It was a hard journey back to Denning’s place on foot. Lawrence was not in the best of condition for travelling; his arm was still giving him pain, and he was forced to stop and rest from time to time in order to recover his strength. At first there was not even a road, and when they did at last come to one it meandered tantalisingly, seldom taking
them for long in exactly the right direction; rough and dusty, undulating as a switchback, and fiendishly hard on the feet.

They had one piece of good fortune: an ancient lorry overtook them and stopped a short distance ahead. When they came up with it they found a skinny bone-bag of a driver leaning out of the cab and grinning at them.

“Hey, you wanna lift?”

On the other side of him was a woman fat enough to have made two of him, who was probably his wife.

“Thanks,” King said. “It’d be better than walking.”

The man looked at Lawrence. “You had an accident?”

“That’s right,” Lawrence said. “An accident.”

“He broke his arm,” King said.

The woman leaned across, squeezing the man up against the door, so that she could get a view of Lawrence.

“Man, you look sick. Like you need a doctor.”

“I’m okay,” Lawrence said.

“Don’t look like you’re okay; not to me, it don’t. You bin bleedin’ some.”

It had taken no great powers of observation to discover that fact; the bandage on Lawrence’s arm was dark with blood that had soaked through. He was sweating heavily and there was a kind of scum round his mouth; his breathing sounded laboured.

“I’m okay,” he said again.

“Well, if you say so.” The woman was unconvinced, but she was not going to argue about it.

“Where you heading?” the driver asked.

“Your way,” King said.

The man nodded, his eyes keen and shrewd. “You bin in trouble mebbe?”

“A little. Does it bother you?”

The man shook his head, twisting the cords in the scraggy neck. “Don’t bother me none. Jest so long as you don’t bring none of that trouble with you.”

“It’s all behind us,” King said.

Fletcher thought it was an optimistic statement. There could be quite a bag of trouble lying ahead. The skinny driver seemed to think so too, and for a moment there was a flicker of doubt in his eye, as though he might have been about to change his mind and cancel the offer of a lift. But then he made a gesture with his hand towards the back of the lorry.

“Okay. Climb up.”

There were some crates and fruit trays and empty sacks in the back, which seemed to indicate that the man was making a return journey from an expedition to market in Jamestown or one of the seaside holiday resorts. King and Fletcher helped Lawrence climb on board and then followed him. The lorry had tall slatted sides which swayed crazily as it went over the pot-holes, and the engine hammered away relentlessly, complaining in a whining low gear on all the steeper gradients. They sat on the sacks with their legs stretched out and backs resting against the cab, watching the dust-clouds raised by the wheels like daylight phantoms which slowly disintegrated and vanished in the distance.

“You think she’ll go down to meet the boat?” King said; revealing the subject that was occupying his mind.

“She’ll have to go,” Fletcher said. “How would she explain it to Denning if she didn’t? But that doesn’t mean she’ll expect to see the boat come in.”

“How long do you think she’ll wait?”

“Long enough to make it look right. Then she’ll go back
and report to Denning. No boat. She could be back already. It’s getting late.”

“He won’t like it. We’re his link-men, me and Lawrence. We keep him in touch. If he were to lose us it’d be hard for him to find replacements he could trust.”

“How long has it been going on?” Fletcher asked. “I mean this co-ordinating arrangement.”

“Three years. Maybe getting on for four.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“His.”

“And you trusted him?”

“Not at first. You don’t trust a man like that straight off. You wait until you find out if he’s to be trusted.”

“How long did that take?”

“A year maybe. Been going good ever since.”

“But there have been setbacks?”

“Oh, sure. Bound to be setbacks.”

“When did Leonora join you?”

“Could be twelve months back.”

“As long as that? Didn’t it ever strike you as strange that she should hang on all that time, occupying herself with your revolutionary activities? Didn’t you ever ask yourself why she took such an interest in something that didn’t really concern her?”

King looked slightly embarrassed. “Maybe I did.”

“And what answer did you come up with?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Fletcher got the idea that King had not bothered too much with the answer. As long as Leonora was there, that had been enough for him. And perhaps she had given him enough encouragement sexually to keep him on the string. And had used the same method with Denning? He wondered
just how far a dedicated C.I.A. agent would be prepared to go in the line of duty, and again he felt a stab of jealousy; even though he knew now what she was, how treacherous she could be, he could still feel jealous; it was illogical, but it was a fact. And she must have been clever; keeping both King and Denning nibbling at the same bait would have required no little skill, considerable discretion. High marks for Leonora. Some girl. Some bloody girl.

The shaking of the lorry was doing Lawrence no good at all; now and then he groaned a little. Even though it was long past its zenith, the sun was still hot, and he was sweating.

“How much further is it to Denning’s house?” Fletcher asked.

“Five or six miles,” King said. “Nearer in a straight line.”

“But we don’t travel in a straight line.”

“No. Need wings for that.”

The lorry came to a halt after about half an hour. Fletcher and King stood up and looked over the side. The driver was leaning out of his cab.

“This here’s where I turn off. I got a place down there.” He pointed to a rough track branching off to the right and overhung with trees. “Be out of your way, likely.”

“Yes,” King said, “it would. We’ll get down here.”

The woman thrust her head out. “You like some refreshment? You welcome. You look like you could all use a long cool drink.”

King seemed about to refuse, but he glanced at Lawrence and must have seen how sick Lawrence was looking, and he hesitated.

“How far is it to your place?”

“Quarter of a mile,” the skinny man said. “Mebbe more. It’s outa your way.” He seemed to be trying to put them off.

“You welcome,” the woman said again.

Fletcher was not at all sure the man would have gone along with that; not all the way. But he did not contradict her.

“Well,” King said, “maybe a long cool drink wouldn’t be so bad at that.”

The woman’s head and then the man’s disappeared. King and Fletcher sat down and the lorry got under way again, bumping off the road on to the track which would have been better suited to mules than to wheeled vehicles. The lorry stayed in low gear for the rest of the way, and they could hear the springs creaking and the boards complaining, so that it seemed as though the whole thing were about to break up into its component parts. But no doubt it had done that particular run a good many times, and maybe even worse runs, and it had not broken up yet, so it could have been that it was stronger than it looked in spite of its age; and after a few minutes of this bumpy progress it came again to a halt and they were there.

It was not much in the style of Denning’s house. It was not very big; there was just the one storey; and it was built on sloping ground, so that one end had had to be propped up on stilts. It was made of rough planks that had never had a lick of paint or a plane on them from the moment when they had been sawn from the log, and the way they had warped showed that they had been used green. The roof was of corrugated-iron, rusting in places, and there was a veranda at the front end with steps leading up to it. There were some citrus trees and bananas, and patches of
ground under rough cultivation, and there were half a dozen goats and some chickens scratching around.

Six children, ranging in age from maybe fourteen down to four, came running to meet the lorry, yelling with excitement and then falling suddenly silent when they caught sight of the three strangers. The man and the woman got out of the cab, and King and Fletcher helped Lawrence to get down from the back. The children stood bunched together, staring at them with wide eyes, as though they had been visitors from outer space.

Fletcher spoke to the woman. “Your family?”

She smiled proudly, nodding. “Every last one.”

“Nice,” Fletcher said. “Very nice.”

It seemed to gratify her; she really beamed this time. “You like kids?”