Part 12

He got to his knees, started to crawl deeper into the plowed field, putting another few yards between himself and the road. He crawled into a clump of weeds. The dew on their leaves brushed against his face. "It's water," he said, and he licked the dew from the weeds. The thirst remained.

Fire. Build a fire and attract a watchman, a farmer, another bus rolling along the deserted road. No, don't build a fire. Cane burns like oil. Remember what poor old Fielding said? No fire. You'll be roasted alive. Find water. It's a sugar field. Must be an irrigation ditch around. Find the ditch.

More ground gained by crawling. Then the sleep of exhaustion, no dreams only sleep until the thirst becomes stronger than the exhaustion and then more crawling until ... God! there is a ditch. Hear it, smell it. Must be water, couldn't be this much mulepiss. Now drink your fill and bathe your face and get your head away from the top of the ditch before you fall asleep again and drown in two inches of it. It has a name. It's water.

This time Hall rolled over on his back when he felt that sleep was overtaking him.

There were a million bugs on the mud walls of the ditch. They crawled on Hall's hands, on his face, and one column of intrepid bugs slithered into his mouth and got caught in his throat and he was sick. He moved away from the mess, tried to sit up. He could see a mound of rocks near the road. With all his remaining strength, he started to crawl toward the mound.

It took him two hours to negotiate the twenty yards between the ditch and the rocks. He lost count of the number of times he collapsed to his face and fell asleep on the journey. All he knew was that when he woke up, he had to get to the rocks. He could sit on the rocks and wait for a truck or a bus to pass by. Then he could hail the driver.

But when he reached the fence, he saw that the mound was on the other side of the road. Fall asleep in the middle of the road and the next truck that rolls along crushes you like a roach. _Putas y maricones! Maricones y putas!_ Blood will run in the streets of the city when I get up, the brown blood, the black blood, the blue blood. _Arriba Espana_ in a pig's eye. You mean _Deutschland Erwache_, senor, and come a little closer, you with the yoke and the five arrows on your cap, come a little closer and get your filthy head bashed in. God, when I get up I'll kill them I'll kill them if these chills ever go away I'll kill them I'll kill all the baby killers when these chills go away oh God look at the baby killers marching through Burgos with the holy men shaking holy water on their lousy heads. Whores and faggots! Faggots and whores! I'm getting up!

* * * * *

He was asleep when the army lorry roared by and then stopped down the road, brakes screeching, rubber biting into macadam.

The sergeant's brandy did no good. Neither did the fresh water they poured on his face, the brandy they rubbed into his wrists. All this they had to tell him later.

He remembered nothing about the lorry. The bus he remembered; the driver, the flowered-cretonne slip cover on the driver's seat, the farmer, joining the kid in _No Pasaran_. He remembered jumping from the bus, crawling for water, giving up the ghost when the bugs crawled into his throat. And the rocks. There was that mound of rocks.

Now there was a narrow bed in a small room. A man's room, obviously a man's room. Desk, lounging chair, worn grass rug. For some reason Fernando Souza was sitting in the lounging chair. Another man was standing near the bed, looking down at Hall, his fingers pressed to Hall's pulse.

"Is that you, Souza?" Hall asked, and the night clerk of the Bolivar left the chair and joined the doctor.

"You will be well now," Souza said.

"The pulse is coming back," the doctor said, to Souza. He let go of Hall's wrist. When he went to the desk, Hall could see the military trousers beneath his white coat.

"Can you talk, Don Mateo?" Souza asked.

"I think so. Where am I? What day is it?"

The doctor went to the door. He held a whispered conversation with a soldier who was waiting on the other side of the door. Then he took Souza's chair. "Such cursing," he laughed. "When they brought you in, Senor Hall, you had no pulse, you had the temperature of cold beer, and your heart had just about three beats left. You were biologically more dead than alive. But I swear, before I gave you the first ampule of adrenalin, the curses were pouring out of your lips like the waves of the ocean. How do you feel now?"

"Very tired."

"Are you hungry?"

"I don't know."

"You'll be able to eat soon. I've been feeding you through a needle for seven hours. How would you like a steak?"

"What time is it?"

"Five o'clock," Souza said. "I've been here with you all afternoon, Don Mateo."

"What's this 'Don' business?"

Souza smiled. "I am glad to see that you are making jokes, _companero_."

"Where in hell are we?"

Souza and the doctor took turns in telling the story. The soldiers had picked him up in the road some ninety miles from San Hermano. More dead than alive, they put him in the lorry and rushed him to their garrison. There, while the commandant examined his papers, the doctor, Captain Dorado, moved him into the commandant's room and gave him his first shot of adrenalin.

"Was it a heart attack?" Hall asked.

"No," the doctor said. "You were drugged."

Hall listened to the doctor's technical description of the drug which had felled him. He had heard of it before. It worked like an overdose of insulin. Burned up the sugar, then the energy in the body, and then blew the fuses. Something like that, anyway. Another hour without adrenalin and it would have been curtains. That second pot of coffee and the soft laughter in the kitchen. Damn their eyes, that's where it happened. Then eight hours of lying in the commandant's bed, cursing, sleeping, getting needles of adrenalin, needles of energy, needles of the stuff that makes pulses beat to the right measure.

"Are we tiring you?"

"No, Captain. I'd like something to eat, though."

"I ordered some hot broth."

"Thank you. I'm glad you're here, Fernando."

"The commandant called me," Souza said. "He found your address through Pan American Airways."

"Oh." The letter. It had gone to Pan Am for forwarding. Then it was still safe.

"I will return in a few minutes," the doctor said. "I want to see about your broth."

Souza waited until the doctor was out of the room before he spoke. "Providence was with you," he said. "The commandant here is a Tabio man. He called me at once to find out who you were. Another man might have called your Embassy first."

"Have they called the Embassy yet?"

"Not yet, _companero_."

"What happened to the men the _maricon_ met at the pier?"

"We have them under sharp eyes. They went first to Jorge Davila's home. Then they went to the country. They are in Bocas del Sur at the estate of Gamburdo's brother, the cattle raiser. The _maricon_ left them there. He is now in San Hermano with Ansaldo. They were to be with Don Anibal this afternoon."

"And the girl?"

"With Ansaldo."

"When are you going back to the Bolivar?"

"In an hour."

"Tell her that I telephoned to say that I would be out of the city tonight. I was to see her for dinner. What about the priests from the boat? Are they all really priests?"

"Who knows? Perhaps I shall know more when I return to the city."

"How long will I be on my back?" Hall asked. "Did the doctor say?"

"Not long. You have recovered from the drug, he says. Now you need food and another day's rest."

The doctor returned followed by a soldier who carried a small tray. "Hot soup," he said. "And after the soup, some rich beef stew. But first, some brandy. Three glasses, corporal. We'll drink to the memory of Lazarus." He helped Hall sit up in bed, propped some pillows behind his back. Only when he sat up did Hall notice that a large signed photograph of Anibal Tabio hung over the commandant's desk.

"Let's rather drink to the health of Anibal Tabio," Hall proposed.

Souza and the doctor watched with approval as Hall ate the soup and the stew, and then sipped mate through a silver straw. "He's going to be well in a matter of hours," the doctor said. "Well enough to start cursing again. It is a shame that I do not know English. But your Spanish curses were enough for me."

"What was I cursing?" Hall asked.

"What didn't you curse, senor? Franco, _putas, maricones_, Hitler, Gamburdo, the Cross and Sword ..."

"God! Who heard me?"

The doctor smiled. "Be tranquil," he said. "Just the commandant and myself, and one of the soldiers. But you don't have to worry about the soldier. He is the son of a miner in the north."

"The soldier," Souza said, "is reliable. I have already seen him."

"You are among friends," the doctor said. "Souza has told us about you."

"I owe my life to you," Hall said.

"From what I have learned," the doctor laughed, "you are not an easy man to kill."

"When can I get out of bed?"

"Tomorrow. That is just as well, senor. The garrison tailor is cleaning your suit now. Would you like more mate?"

"Could I have another brandy?"

"Of course. But then you must sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping."

"I am prepared for that." The doctor called for the corporal, ordered him to prepare a hypodermic syringe. "You must get some sleep, senor," he said.

In the morning, the doctor pronounced Hall well enough to leave the commandant's bed. Hall's clothes, the suit cleaned and freshly pressed, the shirt washed and ironed, the shoes polished to a glow, were laid out on a chair near the bed. "We do things thoroughly in the army," the doctor said.

"I see."

"The commandant would like to join you for breakfast."

"In the officers' mess?"

"No. Here."

"Please tell him that I would be honored."

"Good. Can you dress yourself?"

"I'm all right, thanks to you, Captain. I feel as if I'd had a week's rest on some quiet beach."

"I'll get the commandant, then. The corporal will show you the way to the washroom. I've laid out my razor and shaving things for you."

It was good to stand on steadied legs again, good to walk erect like a man. The razor had a nice edge. It sliced through the stems of the two-day beard without snagging. For some reason, the efficiency of the razor delighted Hall beyond measure. He studied the results of the shave in the wall mirror, then looked for signs of his illness. Two days were lost, he thought, two days of which he could account for but a few hours. The doctor could fill in most of the second day. The first night was something Hall himself could remember. It was like a bad dream one longs to forget, but he could remember the bus, the field, the ditch, the rock pile. He could remember staggering, crawling, getting sick, passing out and crawling and passing out again. But there were at least ten hours that remained a total blank; that portion of the day between the time he blacked out in the cafe near the Spanish line's pier and the moment he became aware of the kid in the bus.

An enlisted man was cleaning up the commandant's room when Hall returned. "The major will be here in five minutes," he told Hall. "And in the meanwhile, he sent you these." He handed Hall a flat tin of American cigarettes.

Hall offered one of the cigarettes to the soldier. He sat down in the leather chair near the desk, looked at the inscription on Tabio's photograph. "To my dear Diego, my comrade in prison and in freedom--Anibal."

"The commandant is a close friend of Don Anibal's," the soldier said. "I think I hear him coming now." The soldier stepped out of the room.

A moment later someone rapped gently on the door.

"Come in," Hall shouted.

The door opened. In the doorway, a man in uniform, his hat carried correctly under his left arm, paused, made a soft salute. "Major Diego Segador," he said. "We are honored to have you as our guest." He shook hands with Hall, sat down in the desk chair facing the portrait of Tabio.

"I am grateful to you for--everything," Hall said.

"It was nothing," Segador said. "After Souza spoke to me about you, I was sorry we could not do more."

"What more could you have done?"

The major's lips parted over his long teeth in a mirthless smile. "We could have killed the _cabron_ who drugged you, _companero_."

"You know who did it?"

"It could have been anyone in that cafe. What's the matter with Delgado? Didn't he know it is owned by a dirty Falangist?" Color rose to the major's dark cheeks. He was a man of Hall's own years, shorter, but with a pair of powerful hands capable of hiding the hands of a man twice his size. The hands were gripping the arms of his chair now, the knuckles white as the major fought to control his rage. Hall knew the feeling, sensed the fires that burned in the major's head. He called me _companero_ a moment ago, he thought, he knows what I'm after.

"Pepe is all right," Hall said.

"He should have more brains." The major opened the locked middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a sealed brown envelope. "Your papers," he said. "Please examine them and see if everything is present."

Hall tore open the envelope, shook the contents to the desk. Passport, wallet, not more than fifty pesos missing, a book of travelers' checks, some sheets of blank paper, a small leather address book, wrist watch, the Bock cigarettes. Except for the fifty pesos, everything else which belonged in the wallet was there, money, pictures, cards, the letter from Havana.

"Nothing is missing," Hall said. He took the letter from its envelope and counted the pages.

"I'm sorry I had to read your love letter," Segador said. "But it was necessary."

"I know," Hall said. "But it is not a love letter."

The massive face of the major reflected his surprise. "Not a love letter?" he asked. "Ah, here's the coffee. Come in, corporal. Set the trays down on the desk."

Hall waited until the corporal left. "It is not a love letter," he repeated. "I would like very much to interpret it for you. I think it might explain why I was drugged."

"Before you start," the major said, "there are two things that you should know. The first is that Souza has given me a fairly good idea of why you came to our country. The second is that for your own sake, and for ours, I had to notify your Embassy that we had picked you up drunk in a village cafe last night."

"Drunk?"

"I'm sorry, _companero_. I mean no disrespect, but your Embassy is not very much in sympathy with many things a man like yourself is willing to die defending. Under the circumstances, you can spare yourself some unnecessary trouble if you say merely that you were drunk. If you stick to this story, you can help yourself and, to be very frank, you can help Don Anibal."

"You are his friend, aren't you?"

The major got to his feet. "His friend?" He undid his tie, then took his shirt off. His torso was a mass of old and, for the main part, improperly sewn scars. Mementoes of bullets, steel whips, knives. "My republicanism is more than skin deep, my friend."

"Then I can tell you everything." Hall dipped into the tin of American cigarettes. "It started in San Juan," he began, "or rather it really started in Geneva, when I met Don Anibal for the first time. But it was in San Juan that I read that Dr. Ansaldo was on his way to San Hermano to treat Don Anibal. And if I may jump to the end of my story first, this love letter seems to confirm what I suspected about Ansaldo. Do you see what it says here about the doctor who treated Carlos?"

For an hour, Hall told Segador of what he had learned and experienced since arriving in the country. The major interrupted with questions frequently, made notes in a small black notebook. "Please," he said, when Hall finished his account, "I am going to repeat the important parts of the story to you. Correct me if I am wrong or if I leave anything out."

He recited the story back to Hall, then consulted his watch. "The Press Secretary of your Embassy is due to call for you in a few minutes," he said. "Please remember your story. You were drunk."

"Was I with a _puta_?" Hall asked.

The major grinned. "No," he said, "that I did not think necessary. Although if it were, I assure you I would tell your Embassy that you were with the mangiest _puta_ in six provinces."

"What do we do now?"

"It is hard to say. In the meanwhile, I think there is something you need." He took a large automatic out of his desk, slipped a clip of bullets into its grip, and handed the gun and a small box of cartridges to Hall. "If we could only prove to Don Anibal before it is too late that Ansaldo ..."

"How?"

"We must find a way. In the meanwhile, stay alive for the next few days. I have friends. They will watch for your safety. Souza, others. They will bring you my messages. And be careful in cafes."

_Chapter nine_

The American Embassy sent a well-dressed young attache to call for Hall in the morning. He arrived in a low-slung yellow sedan, introduced himself as Orville Smith, snubbed everyone in sight, and relaxed only when he and Hall were well out of sight of the camp. "They said that you sure hung one on," he said pleasantly and, Hall realized, with even a touch of admiration.

"Must have been something I ate," Hall answered.

"Glad you turned up intact, old man. Might have led to some amusing complications. If the major had called five minutes later, this would have appeared on the front page of _El Imparcial_ this morning."

He gave Hall a galley proof of a news story. _Missing American Writer Believed Victim of Communists._ Missing since yesterday ... last seen leaving hotel ... On Wednesday, at American Embassy party, Hall had discussed Red threats to his safety, told publisher of _Imparcial_ that giant Red assassin had followed him day before ... Embassy officials described Hall as author of book on experiences on _H.M.S. Revenger_ ... The missing American failed to phone or keep appointment made with publisher of _Imparcial_ in connection with Soviet threats ... Feared abducted and killed.

"What do you make of it?" Hall asked.

"Politics. They take their politics seriously down here. Was it true that you were followed?"

"Yes. But not by the Reds. By the fascists."

"Are there any fascists down here?" This in a tone of detached amusement.

"A few. How well do you know Fernandez?"

"Quite well. He's one of the few gentlemen in San Hermano. Comes from an old Spanish aristocratic family. Did you really have an appointment with him?"

"It wasn't definite. He told me he had heard of some Red plot to bump me off. I just kidded him along."

"Mr. Fernandez is really very well informed," Smith said. "He has a crack staff of reporters, and the information that they pick up shouldn't be ignored."

"Yeah," Hall said. "I hear he's good. Matter of fact, I heard _Imparcial_ is getting the Cabot Prize this year."

It was like a shaft driven into Smith's armor. "No!" he exclaimed. "Who told you?"

"Some _puta_," Hall said, dryly. "In bed." He watched the blood rushing to Orville Smith's head. "You'd be surprised at what a gal who sleeps around can pick up."

"She was pulling your leg, Hall."

Hall grinned. "Please, Mr. Smith," he said. "Gentlemen don't discuss such things." Smith grew redder.

"Not to change the subject," Hall said, "but what's cooking in town? In politics, for example. Doesn't the Congress open today?"

"Not really. They have the ceremonial opening this afternoon. According to tradition, the President speaks to the entire Congress. Then they settle down to a week of reviewing last year's business. The first working session really starts in about ten days."

"And today I guess Gamburdo is speaking instead of Tabio."

"Oh, beyond a doubt. Tabio is really on his last legs, old man. I suppose I should feel sorry about the old coot, but then you learn things in my game."

"About Tabio?"

"Oh, yes. We had information that in his address to the Congress, Tabio was planning to call for the nationalization of all the mines in the country."

"But why?"

"Oh," Smith said, "because he was being forced into it, I guess. I've met Tabio and he's not as bad as his enemies make him out to be. But what are you going to do when you are elected by a Popular Front majority? The Communist Senators and Deputies are all from the mining provinces up north. They've been hollering for the nationalization of the mines for twenty years. Now they're strong enough to put the squeeze on Tabio."

"But isn't Gamburdo in the Popular Front?"

"Gamburdo is different," Smith said. "He has different ideas, and he can't be pressured by the bolos."

"I'm doing a story on Gamburdo for a magazine back in the States. You get around. Tell me more about Gamburdo. I've got him down as the coming man on the continent. Am I half cocked, or is he really hot?"

Orville Smith discussed Gamburdo, Tabio, the political scene. He talked about the politicos, about their ideas, about the gossip which followed them in their careers. Carefully prodded by Hall, he spoke fluently for nearly two hours. It was a very revealing monologue. It told Hall how Orville Smith had spent his three years in San Hermano. Week-end parties at the estates of wealthy Spanish planters. Dinners, cocktails, high masses, weddings, fishing trips with the Vardienos and the Fernandezes and the Gamburdos. Info straight from the horse's mouth.

Tabio the tool and or agent of bolshevism. The better element. How social legislation would push taxes up and cut down returns on American investments. Vardieno gives lovely parties on his island. No, not many lately. No oil for the boats, hard enough to get it for his narrow-gauge Diesel locomotives. Fine lad, young Quinones; made the golf team at Princeton. The Vardieno girl in the Press Bureau? That would be the one who went to finishing school in the States. She just started in at the Bureau for some experience. Cross and Sword? Oh, I know the pinkos back home would call it fascist. It's not, really. Conservative, for free enterprise and private ownership. All the better-element folks belong or support it. Do I know any labor leaders? No, never met one. Did I ever spend a week-end in a small village hotel? No, thank you, the roaches are bigger than sparrows in the sticks.

Hall thought about the art of diplomacy. You take a kid from the FFV's and at an early age you wrap him in cellophane and send him off to some nice, prophylactic boarding school, well-heeled white Gentiles only, thank you, High Episcopalians preferred, and only nice clean thoughts, none of them less than a century old, are gently swished against the cellophane until some of them seep through by osmosis. He meets only the sons of the better element and outside of an adolescent clap he picks up on one wild week-end with some of the boys in New York he has no real problem until he's eased out of prep and then he has an idea he wants to go to Harvard but the family prevails and he does time at Princeton, nearly makes varsity football but a high tackle in a practice scrimmage changes his mind, and then he is ready for his place on the board of the mill but someone--a nice girl of fine breeding, no doubt--puts another idea in his head. So he goes to Georgetown, fills out a lot of nasty forms, and then, _voila!_, the young monsieur arrives in Paris as Third Secretary and dreamily sends that first letter home to the folks: Hello Folks, here I am in Gay Paree learning how to be an Ambassador.