Читать книгу Wyatt’s Hurricane - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 10

That evening Wyatt drove the fifteen miles round Santego Bay to St Pierre, the capital city of San Fernandez. It was not much of a capital, but then, it was not much of an island. As he drove in the fading light he passed the familiar banana and pineapple plantations and the equally familiar natives by the roadside, the men dingy in dirty cotton shirts and blue jeans, the women bright in flowered dresses and flaming headscarves, and all laughing and chattering as usual, white teeth and gleaming black faces shining in the light of the setting sun. As usual, he wondered why they always seemed to be so happy.

They had little to be happy about. Most were ground down by a cruel poverty made endemic by over-population and the misuse of the soil. At one time, in the eighteenth century, San Fernandez had been rich with sugar and coffee, a prize to be fought over by the embattled colonizing powers of Europe. But at an opportune moment, when their masters were otherwise occupied, the slaves had risen and had taken command of their own destinies.

That may have been a good thing – and it may not. True, the slaves were free, but a series of bloody civil wars engendered by ruthless men battling for power drained the economic strength of San Fernandez and population pressure did the rest, leaving an ignorant peasantry eking out a miserable living by farming on postage-stamp plots and doing most of their trade by barter. Wyatt had heard that some of the people in the central hills had never seen a piece of money in their lives.

Things had seemed to improve in the early part of the twentieth century. A stable government had encouraged foreign investment and bananas and pineapples replaced coffee, while the sugar acreage increased enormously. Those were the good days. True, the pay on the American-owned plantations was small, but it was regular and the flow of money to the island was enlivening. It was then that the Hotel Imperiale was built and St Pierre expanded beyond the confines of the Old City.

But San Fernandez seemed to be trapped in the cycle of its own history. After the Second World War came Serrurier, self-styled Black Star of the Antilles, who took power in bloody revolution and kept it by equally bloody government, ruling by his one-way courts, by assassination and by the power of the army. He had no opponents – he had killed them all – and there was but one power on the island – the black fist of Serrurier.

And still the people could laugh.

St Pierre was a shabby town of jerry-built brick, corrugated iron and peeling walls, with an overriding smell that pervaded the whole place compounded of rotting fruit, decaying fish, human and animal ordure, and worse. The stench was everywhere, sometimes eddying strongly in the grimmer parts of town and even evident in the lounge of the Imperiale, that dilapidated evidence of better times.

As Wyatt peered across the badly lit room he knew by the dimness that the town electricity plant was giving trouble again and it was only when Julie waved that he distinguished her in the gloom. He walked across to find her sitting at a table with a man, and he felt a sudden unreasonable depression which lightened when he heard the warmth in her voice.

‘Hello, Dave. I am glad to see you again. This is John Causton – he’s staying here too. He was on my flight from Miami to San Juan and we bumped into each other here as well,’

Wyatt stood uncertainly, waiting for Julie to make her excuses to Causton, but she said nothing, so he drew up another chair and sat down.

Causton said, ‘Miss Marlowe has been telling me all about you – and there’s one thing that puzzles me. What’s an Englishman doing working for the United States Navy?’

Wyatt glanced at Julie, then sized up Causton before answering. He was a short, stocky man with a square face, hair greying at the temples and shrewd brown eyes. He was English himself by his accent, but one could have been fooled by his Palm Beach suit.

‘To begin with, I’m not English,’ said Wyatt deliberately. ‘I’m a West Indian – we’re not all black, you know. I was born on St Kitts, spent my early years on Grenada and was educated in England. As for the United States Navy, I don’t work for them, I work with them – there’s a bit of a difference there. I’m on loan from the Meteorological Office.’

Causton smiled pleasantly. ‘That explains it.’

Wyatt looked at Julie. ‘What about a drink before dinner?’

‘That is a good idea. What goes down well in San Fernandez?’

‘Perhaps Mr Wyatt will show us how to make the wine of the country – Planter’s Punch,’ said Causton. His eyes twinkled.

‘Oh, yes – do,’ exclaimed Julie. ‘I’ve always wanted to drink Planter’s Punch in the proper surroundings.’

‘I think it’s an overrated drink, myself,’ said Wyatt. ‘I prefer Scotch. But if you want Planter’s Punch, you shall have it.’ He called a waiter and gave the order in the bastard French that was the island patois, and soon the ingredients were on the table.

Causton produced a notebook from his breast pocket. ‘I’ll take notes, if I may. It may come in useful.’

‘No need,’ said Wyatt. ‘There’s a little rhyme for it which, once learned, is never forgotten. It goes like this:

One of sour,

Two of sweet,

Three of strong

And four of weak.

‘It doesn’t quite scan, but it’s near enough. The sour is the juice of fresh limes, the sweet is sugar syrup, the strong is rum – Martinique rum is best – and the weak is iced water. The rhyme gives the proportions.’

As he spoke he was busy measuring the ingredients and mixing them in the big silver bowl in the middle of the table. His hands worked mechanically and he was watching Julie. She had not changed apart from becoming more attractive, but perhaps that was merely because absence had made the heart fonder. He glanced at Causton and wondered where he came in.

‘If you go down to Martinique,’ he said, ‘you can mix your own Planter’s Punch in any bar. There’s so much rum in Martinique that they don’t charge you for it – only for the limes and the syrup.’

Causton sniffed. ‘Smells interesting.’

Wyatt smiled. ‘Rum does pong a bit.’

‘Why have we never done this before, Dave?’ asked Julie. She looked interestedly at the bowl.

‘I’ve never been asked before.’ Wyatt gave one final stir. ‘That’s it. Some people put a lot of salad in it like a fruit cup, but 1 don’t like drinks I have to eat.’ He lifted out a dipperful. Julie?’

She held out her glass and he filled it. He filled the other glasses then said, ‘Welcome to the Caribbean, Mr Causton.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ said Julie. ‘So smooth.’

‘Smooth and powerful,’ said Wyatt. ‘You wouldn’t need many of these to be biting the leg of the table.’

‘This should get the evening off to a good start,’ said Julie. ‘Even the Maraca Club should look good.’ She turned to Causton. ‘Now there’s an idea – why don’t you come with us?’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Causton. ‘I was wondering what to do with myself tonight. I was hoping that Mr Wyatt, as an old island hand, could give me a few pointers on sightseeing on San Fernandez.’

Wyatt looked blankly at Julie, then said politely, ‘I’d be happy to.’ He felt depressed. He had hoped that he had been the attraction on San Fernandez, but apparently Julie was playing the field. But why the hell had she to come to San Fernandez to do it?

It turned out that Causton was foreign correspondent for a big London daily and over dinner he entertained them with a hilarious account of some of his experiences. Then they went on to the Maraca, which was the best in the way of a night-club that St Pierre had to offer. It was run by a Greek, Eumenides Papegaikos, who provided an exiguous South American atmosphere with the minimum of service at the highest price he could charge; but apart from the Officers’ Club at Cap Sarrat Base it was the only substitute for a civilized evening, and one did get bored with the Base.

As they entered the smoke-filled, dimly-lit room someone waved, and Wyatt waved back as he recognized Hansen, who was whooping it up with his crew. At the far end of the room a loud-voiced American was bellowing, and even at that distance it was easy to hear that he was retailing, blow by blow, his current exploits as a game fisherman. They found a table, and as Causton ordered drinks in perfect and fluent French which the waiter could not understand, Wyatt claimed Julie for a dance.

They had always danced well together but this time there seemed to be a stiffness and a tension between them. It was not the fault of the orchestra, poor though it was, for while the tune was weird, the rhythm was perfect. They danced in silence for a while, then Julie looked up and said softly, ‘Hello, Dave. Seen any good hurricanes lately?’

‘See one, you’ve seen them all,’ he said lightly. ‘And you?’

‘About the same. One flight is very like another. Same places, same air, same passengers. I sometimes swear that the air traveller is a different breed from the rest of us common humanity; like Dawson – that man over there.’

Wyatt listened to the raucous voice spinning its interminable fishing yarn. ‘You know him?’

‘Don’t you?’ she said in surprise. ‘That’s Dawson, the writer – Big Jim Dawson. Everyone’s heard of him. He’s one of the regulars on my flight, and a damn’ nuisance he is, too.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Wyatt. Julie was right – there could not have been a corner of the world where the name of Big Jim Dawson was not known. He was supposed to be a pretty good writer, although Wyatt did not feel himself equipped to judge; at any rate, the critics appeared to think so.

He looked down at Julie and said, ‘You don’t appear to find Causton a nuisance.’

‘I like him. He’s one of these polite, imperturbable Englishmen we’re always reading about – you know, the quiet kind with hidden depths.’

‘Is he one of your regulars?’

‘I met him for the first time on my last flight. I certainly didn’t expect to find him here in San Fernandez.’

‘You certainly went out of your way to make him feel at home,’

‘That was just hospitality – looking after a stranger in a strange land.’ Julie looked up with a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Why, Mr Wyatt, I do believe you’re jealous.’

‘I might be,’ said Wyatt bluntly. ‘If I had anything to be jealous about.’

Julie dropped her eyes and went a little pale. They danced in stiff silence until the melody was finished, then turned to go back to their table, but Julie was whirled away by the exuberant Hansen. ‘Julie Marlowe! What are you doing in this dump? I’m stealing her, Davy Boy, but I’ll return her intact.’ He swept her on to the floor in a caricatured rumba, and Wyatt returned glumly to Causton.

‘Powerful stuff,’ said Causton, holding a bottle to the light. He waved it. ‘Have one?’

Wyatt nodded. He watched Causton fill his glass, and said abruptly, ‘Here on business?’

‘Good lord, no!’ said Causton. ‘I was due for a week’s holiday, and since I was in New York, I decided to come down here.’

Wyatt glanced at Causton’s shrewd eyes and wondered how far that was true. He said, ‘There’s not much here for a holiday; you’d have been better off in the Bermudas.’

‘Maybe,’ said Causton non-committally. ‘Tell me something about San Fernandez. Does it have a history?’

Wyatt smiled sourly. ‘The same as any other Caribbean island – but a bit more so. First it was Spanish, then English, and finally French. The French made the deepest impression – you can see that in the language – although you do find the natives referring to St Pierre and San Pedro and Peter’s Port, and the language is the most mixed-up you’ve heard.’

Causton nodded ruefully, thinking of his recent difficulties with the waiter.

Wyatt said, ‘When Toussaint and Cristophe threw the French out of Haiti at the beginning of the 1800s, the locals here did the same, though it hasn’t had the same publicity.’

‘Um,’ said Causton. ‘How did an American base get here?’

‘That happened at the turn of this century,’ said Wyatt. ‘Round about the time the Americans were flexing their muscles. They found they were strong enough to make the Monroe Doctrine stick, and they’d just got over a couple of wars which proved it. There was a lot of talk about “Manifest Destiny” and the Yanks thought they had a big brotherly right to supervise other people’s business in this part of the world. San Fernandez was in pretty much of a mess in 1905 with riots and bloody revolution, so the Marines were sent ashore. The island was American administered until 1917 and then the Americans pulled out – but they hung on to Cap Sarrat.’

‘Didn’t something of the sort happen in Haiti as well?’

‘It’s happened in most of the islands – Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic’

Causton grinned. ‘It’s happened more than once in the Dominican Republic.’ He sipped his drink. ‘I suppose Cap Sarrat is held under some kind of treaty?’

‘I suppose you could call it that,’ agreed Wyatt. ‘The Americans leased the Cap in 1906 for one thousand gold dollars a year – not a bad sum for those days – but depreciation doesn’t work in favour of San Fernandez. President Serrurier now gets $1693.’ Wyatt paused. ‘And twelve cents,’ he added as an afterthought.

Causton chuckled. ‘Not a bad bit of trading on the part of the Americans – a bit sharp, though.’

‘They did the same in Cuba with Guantanamo Base,’ said Wyatt. ‘Castro gets twice as much – but I think he’d rather have Guantanamo and no Americans.’

‘I’ll bet he would.’

‘The Navy is trying to build up Cap Sarrat as a substitute for Guantanamo in case Castro gets uppity and takes it from them. I suppose there is a possibility that it might happen.’

‘There is,’ said Causton. ‘I don’t think he could just take it by force, but a bit of moral blackmail might do it, given the right political circumstances.’

‘Anyway, here is Cap Sarrat,’ said Wyatt. ‘But it’s not nearly as good as Guantanamo. The anchorage in Santego Bay is shallow – all it will take is a light cruiser – and the base facilities will take twenty years and a couple of hundred million dollars to even approach Guantanamo. It’s very well equipped as an air base, though; that’s why we use it as a hurricane research centre.’

‘Miss Marlowe was telling me about that –’ began Causton, but he was interrupted by the return of Hansen and Julie and he took the opportunity of asking Julie to dance.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me to have a drink?’ demanded Hansen.

‘Help yourself,’ said Wyatt. He saw Schelling come into the room with another officer. ‘Tell me, Harry; how did Schelling come to make Commander in your Navy?’

‘Dunno,’ said Hansen, sitting down. ‘Must be because he’s a good meteorologist, because he’s an officer like a bull’s got tits.’

‘Not so good, eh?’

‘Hell, one thing an officer’s got to do is to lead men, and Schelling couldn’t be a Den Mother for a troop of Girl Scouts. He must have got through on the specialist side.’

‘Let me tell you something,’ said Wyatt, and told Hansen about his conversation that morning with Schelling. He ended up by saying, ‘He thinks that meteorology is an exact science and that what the textbooks say is so. People like that frighten me.’

Hansen laughed. ‘Dave, you’ve come across a type of officer that’s not uncommon in the good old USN. The Pentagon is swarming with them. He goes by the book for one reason and one reason only – because if he goes by the book he can never be proved wrong, and an officer who is never wrong is regarded as a good, safe man to have around.’

‘Safe!’ Wyatt almost lost his voice. ‘In his job he’s about as safe as a rattlesnake.The man has lives in his hands.’

‘Most Navy officers have men’s lives in their hands at one time or another,’ said Hansen. ‘Look, Dave, let me tell you the way to handle guys like Schelling. He’s got a closed mind, and you can’t go through him – he’s too solid. So you go round him.’

‘It’s a bit difficult for me,’ said Wyatt. ‘I have no status. I’m not a Navy man – I’m not even an American. He’s the chap who reports to the Weather Bureau, and he’s the chap they’ll believe.’

‘You’re getting pretty steamed up about this, aren’t you? What’s on your mind?’

‘I’m damned if I know,’ admitted Wyatt. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a funny feeling that things are going to go wrong.’

‘You’re worried about Mabel?’

‘I think it’s Mabel – I’m not too sure.’

‘I was worried about Mabel when I was rumbling about in her guts,’ said Hansen. ‘But I’m pretty relaxed about her now.’

Wyatt said, ‘Harry, I was born out here and I’ve seen some pretty funny things. I remember once, when I was a kid, we had news that a hurricane was coming but that we’d be all right, it would miss Grenada by two hundred miles. So nobody worried except the people up in the hills, who never got the warning anyway. There’s a lot of Carib Indian in those people and they’ve had their roots down in the Caribbean for thousands of years. They battened down the hatches and dug themselves in. When that hurricane came up to Grenada it made a right-angle swerve and pretty near sank the island. Now how did those hill people know the hurricane was going to swerve like that?’

‘They had a funny feeling,’ said Hansen. ‘And they had the sense to act on it. It’s happened to me. I was once flying in a cloud when I got that feeling, so I pushed the stick forward a bit and lost some height. Damned if a civilian ship – one of those corporation planes – didn’t occupy the air space I’d been in. He missed me by a gnat’s whisker.’

Wyatt shrugged. ‘As a scientist I’m supposed to go by the things I can measure, not by feelings. I can’t show my feelings to Schelling.’

‘To hell with Schelling,’ said Hansen. ‘Dave, I don’t think there’s a competent research scientist alive who hasn’t gone ahead on a hunch. I still say you should bypass Schelling. What about seeing the Commodore?’

‘I’ll see how Mabel behaves tomorrow,’ said Wyatt. ‘I want to see if she’s a really bad girl.’

‘Don’t forget your feelings about her,’ said Hansen.

Julie’s cool voice spoke from behind Wyatt. ‘Do you really have feelings for this bad girl, Mabel?’

Hansen laughed and began to get up, but Julie waved him down. ‘I’m having my feet danced off, and I haven’t had a drink yet. Let’s sit this one out.’ She looked at Wyatt. ‘Who’s Mabel?’

Hansen chuckled. ‘One of Dave’s girls. He’s got a string of them. Dave, remember Isobel last year? You certainly had fun and games with her.’

Wyatt said, ‘She roughed you up a bit, if I remember rightly.’

‘Ah, but I escaped from her clutches.’

Causton snapped his fingers and said with sudden perception, ‘You’re talking about hurricanes, aren’t you?’

Julie said with asperity, ‘Why must they give girls’ names to hurricanes?’

‘They’re easy to remember,’ said Wyatt with a straight face. ‘And so hard to forget. I believe the Association of Women’s Clubs of America put in an objection to the Weather Bureau, but they were overruled. One round won in the battle of the sexes.’

‘I’d be interested to see your work,’ said Causton. ‘From a professional point of view, that is.’

‘I thought you were on holiday.’

‘Newspapermen are never really on holiday – and news is where you find it.’

Wyatt discovered that he rather liked Causton. He said, ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t come up to the Base.’

Hansen grinned. ‘Schelling won’t object; he’s a sucker for publicity – of the right kind.’

‘I’d try not to write any unkind words,’ said Causton. ‘When could I come?’

‘What about tomorrow at eleven?’ said Wyatt. He turned to Julie. ‘Are you interested in my hurricanes? Why don’t you come too?’ He spoke impersonally.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said, equally impersonally.

‘That’s fixed, then,’ said Causton. ‘I’ll bring Miss Marlowe with me – I’m hiring a car.’ He turned to Hansen. ‘Do you have any trouble with the island government at the Base?’

Hansen’s eyes sharpened momentarily, then he said lazily, ‘In what way?’

‘I gather that Americans aren’t entirely popular here. I also understand that Serrurier is a rough lad who plays rough games and he’s not too particular about the methods he uses. In fact, some of the stories I’ve heard give me the creeps – and I’m not a particularly shivery man.’

Hansen said shortly, ‘We don’t interfere with them and they don’t interfere with us – it’s a sort of unspoken agreement. The boys on the Base are pretty firmly disciplined about it. There have been a few incidents and the Commodore cracked down hard.’

‘What kind of –’ Causton began, but a booming voice drowned his question. ‘Say, weren’t you the hostess on my plane to Puerto Rico?’

Wyatt looked up, shadowed by the bull-like figure of Dawson. He glanced at Julie, whose face was transformed by a bright, professional smile. ‘That’s right, Mr Dawson.’

‘I didn’t expect to find you here,’ roared Dawson. He seemed incapable of speaking in a normal, quiet tone, but that could have been because he was a little drunk. ‘What say you an’ me have a drink?’ He gestured largely. ‘Let’s all have a drink.’

Causton said quietly, ‘I’m in the chair, Mr Dawson. Will you have a drink with me?’

Dawson bent and looked at Causton, squinting slightly. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

‘I believe we met – in London.’

Dawson straightened and moved around so he could get a good view of Causton. He pondered rather stupidly for a moment, then snapped his fingers. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I know you. You are one of those smart-aleck reporters who roasted me when The Fire Game was published in England. I never forget a face, you know. You were one of the guys who came an’ drank my liquor, then stuck a knife in my back.’

‘I don’t believe I had a drink that morning,’ observed Causton equably.

Dawson exhaled noisily. ‘I don’t think I will have a drink with you, Mr Whatever-your-name-is. I’m particular of the company I keep.’ He swayed on his feet and his eyes flickered towards Julie. ‘Not like some people.’

Both Wyatt and Hansen came to their feet, but Causton said sharply, ‘Sit down, you two; don’t be damn’ fools.’

‘Aw, to hell with it,’ mumbled Dawson, passing a big hand over his face. He blundered away, knocking over a chair and heading for the lavatories.

‘Not a nice man,’ said Causton wryly. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

Wyatt picked up the fallen chair. ‘I thought you were a foreign correspondent?’

‘I am,’ said Causton. ‘But I was in London a couple of years ago when half the staff was down with influenza, and I helped out on local stuff for a while.’ He smiled. ‘I’m not a literary critic, so I wrote a story on the man, not the writer. Dawson didn’t like it one little bit.’

‘I don’t like Dawson one little bit,’ said Hansen. ‘He sure is the Ugly American.’

‘The funny thing about him is that he’s a good writer,’ said Causton. ‘I like his stuff, anyway; and I’m told that his critical reputation is very high. The trouble is that he thinks that the mantle of Papa Hemingway has fallen on his shoulders – but I don’t think it’s a very good fit.’

Wyatt looked at Julie. ‘How much of a nuisance was he?’ he asked softly.

‘Air hostesses are taught to look after themselves,’ she said lightly, but he noticed she did not smile.

The incident seemed to cast a pall over the evening. Julie did not want to dance any more so they left quite early. After taking Julie and Causton back to the Imperiale, Wyatt gave Hansen a lift back to the Base.

They were held up almost immediately in the Place de la Libération Noire. A convoy of military trucks rumbled across their path followed by a battalion of marching infantry. The troops were sweating under their heavy packs and their black faces shone like shoe-leather in the street lighting.

Hansen said, ‘The natives are restless tonight; those boys are in war trim. Something must be happening.’

Wyatt looked around. The big square, usually crowded even at this time of night, was bare except for groups of police and the unmistakable plainclothes men of Serrurier’s security force. The cheerful babble of sound that pervaded this quarter was replaced by the tramp of marching men. All the cafés were closed and shuttered and the square looked dark and grim.

‘Something’s up,’ he agreed. ‘We had this before – six months ago. I never did find out why.’

‘Serrurier always was a nervous type,’ said Hansen. ‘Frightened of shadows. They say he hasn’t been out of the Presidential Palace for over a year.’

‘He’s probably having another nightmare,’ said Wyatt.

The column of marching men came to an end and he let in the clutch and drove round the square, past the impossibly heroic bronze statue of Serrurier and on to the road that led to the Base. All the way to Cap Sarrat he thought of Julie and the way she had behaved.

He also thought a little of Mabel.