Mexican Marauder (A Captain Gringo Adventure #16) Read online

  Greystoke looked blank and said, “Aboard? Of course she’s aboard.” And then, because he was, after all, paid to think fast, Greystoke turned to the little Tonk and said, “Tell the steward I want to see Indira, chop chop!”

  Joy Yin left in a hurry. She looked even nicer from the rear. The brunette English girl, Flora Manson, seemed to think fast, too. She asked Captain Gringo with a puzzled little frown, “Have I missed something? Who cares if some serving girl or other is off in a corner somewhere?”

  Captain Gringo said, “It depends on who she’s serving, and where she’s gone. Being an uncouth Yank gives me certain advantages over you spies who’ve grown up with lots of lured help. I’ve never gotten used to talking about everything from my sex life to an espionage mission in front of semi-invisible servants. That Hindu gal was serving dinner while Greystoke was outlining the plans of this mission, remember?”

  Greystoke gasped and asked, “Are you suggesting someone’s paid little Indira to listen in on my dinner conversations, Dick?”

  “Why not? Don’t you guys have British agents peeling spuds for the young Kaiser, or maybe fluffing up his pillows? If you don’t, you’re sure missing an easy bet!”

  Greystoke looked pained. He said, “Rubbish. I’ve had Indira for some time, and, dash it all, she’s a British subject!”

  Captain Gringo just grinned. He suspected he knew all too well how long and in what positions Greystoke had had the nicely stacked Anglo-Indian girl. He’d always wondered why salesmen had no sales resistance or why tinhorn gamblers never seemed to suspect anyone else in the game of cheating.

  The bubbly blonde, Phoebe said, “Pooh, who ever heard of a wog spy? Who on earth would the perishing girl be working for besides us?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and answered, “How many other countries are there? I can think of a lot of people who’d be more interested in the current Cuban situation than I am. But, hey, let’s not worry about it until we find out whether the girl’s still on board or not.”

  She wasn’t. The English steward came in wearing a white jacket and a worried expression, and told Greystoke, ‘Indira doesn’t seem to be anywhere about, sir. Nobody saw her slip ashore, but—”

  “Tell Crosby and Singh to go after her!” Greystoke cut in, as Captain Gringo slid back his chair and rose to his considerable height.

  Gaston was already rising as the big blond American said, “Let’s go, Gaston.”

  So the dapper little Frenchman nodded at their host and said, “We thank you for a most enjoyable dinner, M’sieur Greystoke.”

  They were out on deck and headed for the gangplank when Greystoke caught up with them. The Britisher caught Captain Gringo by the arm and demanded, “Hold on, Walker. Where do you think you’re going?”

  Captain Gringo said, “I don’t know. Costa Rica, I suppose. It’s about the only place there’s not a price on my head that’s easy to get to from here.”

  “Don’t be an ass! What about the mission?”

  “What mission, Greystoke? Can’t you see it’s off? I thought you went to spy school. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that you’re supposed to scrub an operation the other side knows all about?”

  Greystoke snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous! My lads will pick her up within minutes. How far can a barefoot lass in a sari get without being spotted in Central America?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and replied, “How far does she have to get? Thanks to Alexander Graham Bell, it’s not like the good old days when you and I were young, Maggie. We live in changing times. It’s almost the twentieth century, and you’re right about people chatting back and forth on those undersea cables you’re so interested in. Your serving wench had a good half-hour lead on us before you noticed she was missing. By now she could have repeated our dinner conversation to Butcher Weyler, the Mexican Secret Service, or, hell, the Tsar of All the Russians! Meanwhile, you don’t even know who she was working for. So thanks a lot, but no thanks. The mission sounded shoestring and spooky even before we knew for sure that other people we don’t know seem interested in it!”

  Gaston chimed in, “Mais oui, a soldier of fortune accepts certain risks. But suicide is not one of them, hein?”

  Greystoke shook his head and said, “I’ll not let you go. Have you two forgotten you could be arrested here in British Honduras, if I wasn’t, ah, your employer?”

  Captain Gringo hadn’t, but he said, “That would be dumb, even for you, Greystoke. If you turned us in to the British constabulary, they’d ask you lots of questions, too. I thought you professional sneaks liked to keep your business from your fellow Brits.”

  Greystoke said, “We do. We like to carry out our missions, too! Without you two along as security officers, the cable tap doesn’t stand a chance. So London and I will be very annoyed if you back out now. And what the hell—if we can’t be useful to Her Majesty, here, we may as well at least offer the local police a helping hand, eh what?”

  Captain Gringo shot Gaston a look. The Frenchman shook his head and said “Mais non. If we kill him in the middle of town, we’ll never get away from his trés fatigue fellow agents.”

  Captain Gringo nodded, but said, “That’s naked blackmail, Greystoke.”

  Greystoke smiled thinly and replied, “They taught me that at spy school too. The mission is still on, and you two are still going along to guard my people. As one of your Indian chiefs said, I have spoken.”

  “God damn it, Greystoke, I know you don’t give a shit what happens to Gaston and me. But can’t you see you’re risking those other Englishmen and two English girls as well?”

  “My lot knew they’d be called on to take risks when they volunteered for British Intelligence. There’s an outside chance Indira just jumped ship, you know.”

  “Oh, sure, she got homesick, right? Tell me something—where do you catch the streetcar to Calcutta in this banana port? Somebody planted that dame on you, Greystoke!”

  Greystoke shrugged and said, “It’s beginning to look that way. But let’s not get the wind up, Yank. For all we know, she was working for some curious friendly power.”

  “Or Spain, or Mexico, or anybody at all who doesn’t want you listening in on their private communications.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Walker.”

  Captain Gringo scowled down at the Englishman and asked, “What’s this we shit? You won’t be going up the coast with us, will you?”

  “Hardly. I have to stay here and coordinate Her Majesty’s over-all operations in this hemisphere. Naturally I mean to follow up on Indira’s mysterious dash into the night. Meanwhile, you and the others are to carry on as ordered and let me worry about minor difficulties.”

  Captain Gringo started to say he didn’t consider sailing into a trap a minor difficulty, but he saw that Greystoke was determined, and Greystoke had them by the balls. So he sighed and said, “Okay, let’s figure out how the fuck we’re going to do it without getting killed.”

  *

  Greystoke had renamed the disguised yacht Flamenco Lass. Greystoke was like that. But her name was not the problem.

  Flamenco Lass was an oil-burning auxiliary schooner, built on the bonny banks of Clyde, but obviously not to go roaming in the gloaming. She was a high-strung racing craft and she looked it. Her slim funnel was as sharply raked as her masts, and anyone could see that she had high-pressure boilers in a time and area where any kind of auxiliary power was seldom seen with sail. British Intelligence had stained her expensive new sails with some tea-colored gunk and painted her hull a nondescript shade of cow chip. But she still looked like she was making at least fifteen knots, at anchor.

  Nobody who knew these waters was going to make her out a native trading schooner. She looked as Mosquito Coast as a Gibson Girl, and as tempting a prize to any admiring Latin with a gun. Captain Gringo had noticed there were a lot of guys like that in this neighborhood, too,

  But he knew it was fruitless to argue about the figure of the pretty gringa with
Greystoke. Greystoke was like that, too. So he and Gaston followed the others aboard with their gear, and as the tide went out, so did Flamenco Lass.

  Nothing happened for a while. Nothing ever happened as long as there were British gunboats in the area, and the port of Belize was the capital of British Honduras. So as their skipper, a Royal Navy type named Boggs, who somehow managed to look like he was standing for inspection even in the battered seaman’s cap and striped shirt he wore, conned the Flamenco Lass up the coast, Captain Gringo made a tour to familiarize himself with the vessel he’d been told to guard with his life and two Maxims.

  The machine guns and their ammo were still stored in the main salon, now converted to a workshop with the diving gear and other spy stuff. Captain Gringo meant to let them stay there until they were out of sight from shore. The damnedest people poked around in the mangroves along the Mosquito Coast for turtle eggs, Spanish moss, or anything else they could sell to the highest bidder.

  There was no problem about where to mount the rear gun. There was a nice flat expanse of coaming behind the cockpit. The Maxim could be set up there, and the gun crew would be protected from the shoulders down by the cockpit bulkhead. The helm was a double wheel, running through the big boxy binnacle. The helmsman would be protected from fire astern if he manned the forward wheel, when and if.

  Finding a position for the bow gun was another matter. The yacht was built on the lines of a Bluenose schooner. Her bows came to a sharp point behind her bowsprit, which offered problems in traversing the gun and no cover from anyone shooting back. There was an ankle-high timber bulwark along the edges of the triangular foredeck. There was an almost-flush hatch cover and an anchor winch too low slung to be anything but something to trip over. In other words, there wasn’t any decent cover forward of the cabin bulkhead. A machine-gun crew up there would be fully exposed. There had to be a better way.

  Captain Gringo drifted aft, pausing to light a smoke as he leaned against the hip-high cabin roof. He heard feminine voices. There was nobody within earshot on deck. The sounds were coming from a ventilation funnel, magnified by the hornlike metal tube. He knew he was listening in on the two English girls Greystoke had insisted on sending along. Captain Gringo wasn’t usually interested in hen-party talk, so he started to move on. But then he heard the blonde say, “That big Yank is rather nice-looking, in. a brutal way. Have you made any plans regarding him, Flora?”

  The more intelligent brunette replied, “Good Lord, Phoebe, don’t you ever think of anything else? We’ve barely left port and haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  “Pooh, I know where we are. It’s where we’re going that I’m interested in. If you don’t want the big Yank, I do.”

  Captain Gringo heard an annoyed sniff, followed by, “You’re welcome to him, I’m sure. But what about you and that handsome merchant captain you seemed so fond of in Belize?”

  “Pooh, I’m still fond of him. But, as you just said, he’s in Belize. How do you think we’d better work it, Flora? I mean, it might be awkward, about the bunks and all.”

  Flora Manson made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sneer before she said, “You’re on your own, Phoebe. I’ll be damned if I can see how you’ll need my help in romancing that big brute. And I’ll be damned if I’m about to let you bed him in here, too!”

  “Oh, dear, I was afraid you’d be a spoilsport. Honestly, Flora, where can a girl, well, meet a friend in private aboard this dinky little boat?”

  “I’m sure you’ll work something out, dear. Just don’t tell me about it when you do it. It’s not that I’m a prude.

  I just don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and this is a serious business we’re on for Her Majesty, what?”

  “Pooh, you repeat the messages and I’ll take them down. You know I’m a wizard at shorthand. But, heavens, we may be out on this mission for weeks, and a girl has feelings, you know.”

  Captain Gringo shook his head wearily and started to move on. He felt a little guilty about eavesdropping, and wasn’t hearing anything that surprised him much in any case. But then the bubbly blonde asked her quieter, darker, and obviously smarter companion, “’Fess up, Flora. How do you cope with the problem? You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  Flora laughed ruefully and answered, “Hardly. You know I took this job after my husband was killed on a similar mission. I have, ah, feelings, too. But, as I said, I try to put them aside when I’m on the job.”

  Captain Gringo nodded in approval. Old Flora sounded like a smart little dame. She was prettier than dumb Phoebe, too, damn it.

  He’d heard enough. He moved on aft, smiling crookedly as he saw the humor in the situation. Wasn’t that life, for you? The dames you could have for the asking never seemed to be the ones you wanted. He wondered how he was going to deal with Phoebe when she made her inevitable pass.

  He shrugged and decided he’d deal with temptation the sensible way. By giving in to it. As the days wore on, it would help to steady his own nerves to know that if he really needed some, it was there. Meanwhile, like Flora Manson, he thought it better to keep his mind on the mission. Sooner or later, you always got laid. But once you were killed, it was for keeps.

  He joined Gaston, the helmsman, and Captain Boggs in the cockpit. Gaston was bitching about something. Gaston was always bitching about something, but as Captain Gringo picked up the threads of the conversation, he saw that Gaston was making sense.

  The dispute was over the heading. Boggs was coasting within rifle shot of the soggy, mangrove-haunted mainland shore to their left. Gaston thought this was a lousy idea. Captain Gringo agreed. He said, “You’re the master, Boggs. But if I were you, I’d be standing farther out to sea.”

  Boggs replied, in a clipped and proper manner, “You’re not me, Captain Walker. My charts show a bewildering confusion of shoals and coral keys running in line with the mainline coast. Some of the perishing reefs and islands seem to be vaguely charted, too! I say, what is one to make of a series of perishing ink dots marked ‘suspected shoal’?”

  “Worry about them a lot,” said Captain Gringo. Then he added, “Look, I know the waters to the north are badly charted. The damned coral sand shifts around a few miles with every hurricane. On the other hand, there are unmarked shoals along the mainland coast, too, and those mangrove keys have a mind of their own. Meanwhile, we’re cruising in plain view of anyone on shore.”

  “What of it? It’s my understanding the Mosquito Coast is mostly uninhabited jungle.”

  “It is, but ‘mostly’ isn’t good enough, Boggs. Aside from chicle gatherers and such, there are telegraph and telephone lines running up and down the coast these days. Anybody working for the other side can send a message from the nearest village. Meanwhile, almost nobody lives on the smaller offshore keys, and those who do don’t have telephones, see?”

  Boggs shrugged, snapped, “Two points to windward!” to his enlisted helmsman, then asked Captain Gringo, sarcastically, “Are you satisfied now?”

  Captain Gringo Shook his head and said, “No. I notice we’re sending up a plume of funnel smoke. It’s not a heavy plume. But may I ask why we’re showing off our engines at all?”

  Boggs frowned and replied. “We’re showing funnel smoke because our auxiliary power is adding a few knots to our speed, of course. Isn’t that what auxiliary power is supposed to do?”

  “Not when it doesn’t have to. Aside from telling the whole world we have steam power before we may want to use it as an ace in the hole, you’re wasting fuel we may need later. Meanwhile, the trades are blowing hard and steady from abeam, and a fore-n-aft rig like ours is meant to sail fast and forever with the wind abeam.” Boggs didn’t bother to repress a sneer as he answered, “We’ve plenty of bunker fuel, and my orders are to get you lot there as quickly as possible.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “You’re the boss. I’m sure the Mexican Navy will sell us oil if we need it to get away from them in a hurry. I’d like to borrow a
couple of your crewmen to help me shift some boxes. Is that okay with you?”

  “It depends. Just what did you have in mind, Walker?”

  “Barricade. Up in the bows. Want to have some boxes of canned goods between the machine gun position and anybody trying to sweep it off that exposed foredeck.”

  Boggs frowned and asked, “Won’t that make an awful mess? I mean, the very idea of a bullet hitting a tin of tomatoes sounds rather ghastly!”

  “Yeah. Meanwhile, said tomatoes can take a bullet with a lot less pain than living flesh. We used that dodge a lot, fighting Apache. You may lose a few pounds of food. But you live longer, even hungry. Remember, we don’t stand to lose even an ounce of grub unless somebody’s trying very hard to kill us.”

  Boggs shook his head and said, “The first green water over the bows would wash all the supplies overboard long before they could serve as a bullet shield.”

  “Not if we nail the boxes to the decking.”

  Boggs looked thunderstruck and gasped, “Nail, you say? Nail packing crates to a teakwood deck? Unthinkable! I promised to get this yacht back safe and sound and shipshape, Walker! Can’t have perishing nail holes in that expensive decking, what?”

  Gaston said, “Merde alors, let’s jump overboard and get it over with, Dick. These people most obviously have trés fatigue horns of the green.”

  Lieutenant Carmichael came up from below to make a liar of Gaston. Carmichael said he was satisfied with the way his diving gear was stored and asked if there were any other smart moves to make. That got him into the argument about a forward barricade. Carmichael said it sounded like a splendid idea and seemed as disgusted as the two soldiers of fortune when Boggs protested marring the woodwork.

  Carmichael said, “You can’t be serious, Captain Boggs! Should the other side spot us up the coast, they’ll surely drive worse things than nails into this vessel!”

  Boggs, sniffed and said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m not an unreasonable chap. I’m perfectly willing to accept minor damage to my ship if there’s no way around it. But I see no need to muck it up with deck cargo and bash the bright work full of perishing spikes before we’ve seen any sign of danger.”