Читать книгу Wyatt’s Hurricane / Bahama Crisis - Desmond Bagley, Desmond Bagley - Страница 17

Causton came out of the deep shadows very slowly and stared up the street to where the little group was hurrying away, then he turned and hurried back into the hotel and across the foyer. Mrs Warmington and Julie had just come in from the kitchen bearing more sandwiches and a pot of coffee, and Papegaikos was busy stacking bottles of soda-water on top of the bar counter.

‘Wyatt and Dawson have been nabbed by the police,’ he announced. ‘Dawson was carrying a gun and the coppers didn’t like it.’ He looked across at the Greek, who dropped his eyes.

Julie put down the coffee-pot with a clatter. ‘Where have they been taken?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Causton. ‘Probably to the local lock-up – wherever that is. Do you know, Eumenides?’

‘La Place de la Libération Noire,’ said the Greek. He shook his head. ‘You won’t get them out of there.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Causton. ‘We’ll bloody well have to get them out – Wyatt had the rotor-arm of the car engine in his pocket, and now the cops have got it. The car’s useless without it.’

Mrs Warmington said in a hard voice, ‘There are other cars.’

‘That’s an idea,’ said Causton. ‘Do you have a car, Eumenides?’

‘I ‘ad,’ said Eumenides. ‘But the Army took all cars.’

‘It isn’t a matter of a car,’ said Julie abruptly. ‘It’s a matter of getting Dave and Dawson out of the hands of the police.’

‘We’ll do that, too; but a car’s a useful thing to have right now.’ Causton rubbed his cheek. ‘It’s a long way to the docks from here – a bloody long walk.’

Eumenides shrugged. ‘We wan’ a car, not a sheep.’

‘Not a what?’ demanded Causton. ‘Oh – a ship! No, I want the British Consul – he lives down there. Maybe the power of the state allied to the power of the press will be enough to get Wyatt out of the jug – I doubt if I could do it on my own.’ He looked regretfully at the sandwiches. ‘I suppose the sooner I go, the sooner we can spring Wyatt and Dawson.’

‘You’ve got time for a quick coffee,’ said Julie. ‘And you can take a pocketful of sandwiches.’

‘Thanks,’ said Causton, accepting the cup. ‘Does this place have cellars?’

‘No – no cellars,’ said Eumenides.

‘A pity,’ said Causton. He looked about the bar. ‘I think you’d better get out of here. This kind of party always leads to a lot of social disorganization and the first thing looters go for is the booze. This is one of the first places they’ll hit. I suggest you move up to the top floor for the time being; and a barricade on the stairs might be useful.’

He measured the Greek with a cold eye. ‘I trust you’ll look after the ladies while I’m gone.’

Eumenides smiled. ‘I see to ever’t’ing.’

That was no satisfactory answer but Causton had to put up with it. He finished off the hot coffee, stuffed some sandwiches into his pocket and said, ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can – with Wyatt, I hope.’

‘Don’t forget Mr Dawson,’ said Mrs Warmington.

‘I’ll try not to,’ said Causton drily. ‘Don’t leave the hotel; the party’s split up enough as it is.’

Eumenides said suddenly, ‘Rawst’orne ‘as a car – I seen it. It got them – them special signs.’ He clicked his fingers in annoyance at his lack of English.

‘Diplomatic plates?’ suggested Causton helpfully.

‘Tha’s ri’.’

‘That should come in handy. Okay, I hope to be back in two hours. Cheerio!’

He left the bar and paused before he emerged into the street, carefully looking through the glass panels. Satisfied that there was no danger, he pushed through the revolving doors and set off towards the dock area, keeping well in to the side of the pavement. He checked on his watch and was surprised to find that it was not yet ten o’clock – he had thought it much later. With a bit of luck he would be back at the Imperiale by midnight.

At first he made good time, flitting through the deserted streets like a ghost. There was not a soul in sight. As he got nearer the docks he soon became aware that he was entering what could only be a military staging area. There were many army trucks moving through the dark streets, headlights blazing, and from the distance came the tramp of marching men.

He stopped and ducked into a convenient doorway and took a folded map from his pocket, inspecting it by the carefully shaded light of his torch. It would be the devil of a job getting to Rawsthorne. Close by was the old fortress of San Juan which Serrurier had chosen to use as his arsenal – no wonder there were so many troops in the area. It was from here that his units in the Negrito were being supplied with ammunition and that accounted for the stream of trucks.

Causton looked closer at the map and tried to figure out a new route. It would add nearly an hour to his journey, but there was no help for it. As he stood there the faraway thunder of the guns tailed off and there was dead silence. He looked up and down the street and then crossed it, the leather soles of his shoes making more noise than he cared for.

He got to the other side and turned a corner, striking away from San Juan fortress and, as he hurried, he wondered what the silence of the guns presaged. He had covered many bushfire campaigns in his career – the Congo, Vietnam, Malaysia – and he had a considerable fund of experience to draw upon in making deductions.

To begin with, the guns were indubitably Favel’s – he had seen the Government artillery in a seemingly inextricable mess just outside St Pierre. Favel’s guns had been firing at something, and that something was obviously the main infantry force which Serrurier had rushed up the Negrito at the first sign of trouble. Now the guns had stopped and that meant that Favel was on the move again, pushing his own infantry forward in an assault on Serrurier’s army. That army must have been fairly battered by the barrage, while Favel’s men must be fresh and comparatively untouched. It was possible that Favel would push right through, but proof would come when next the artillery barrage began – if it was nearer it would mean Favel was winning.

He had chosen to attack at night, something he had specialized in ever since he had retreated to the mountains. His men were trained for it, and probably one of Favel’s men was equal to any two of Serrurier’s so long as he was careful to dictate the conditions of battle. But once get boxed in open country with Serrurier’s artillery and air force unleashed and he’d be hammered to pieces. He was taking a considerable risk in coming down the Negrito into the plain around Santego Bay, but he was minimizing it by clever strategy and the unbelievable luck that Serrurier had a thick-headed artillery general with no concept of logistics.

Causton was so occupied with these thoughts that he nearly ran into a police patrol head on. He stopped short and shrank into the shadows and was relieved when the squad passed him by unseen. He wanted to waste no time in futile arguments. By the time he got to Rawsthorne’s house he had evaded three more police patrols, but it took time and it was very late when he knocked on Rawsthorne’s door.