Death in High Places (A Renegade Western Book 7) Page 7
Captain Gringo’s emotions were distinctly confused as that sank in. The girl had pulled a gun on him, but his shaft still tingled to the memory of her moist flesh. Liza turned and faced a corner like a naughty child as she snapped, “For God sake, put some clothes on!”
Gaston noticed for the first time and grinned as he said, “Oo la la! We did arrive at an awkward time, didn’t we?”
Captain Gringo growled a curse and tossed the gun on the rumpled bed as he wiped himself with a corner of a sheet and said, “I was making her confess. She busted in to steal something, with that derringer.”
Gaston blinked. “You, too?” Then, as the tall American slipped into his pants the Frenchman filled him in on the short savage struggle he and Liza had just had on the far side of the promenade.
Captain Gringo said, “You can turn around now, Liza. I got a name out of the girl. Do either of you remember a jeweler named Van Tassel, back in Limón?”
Liza looked blank. Then she suddenly sat down on the recently vacated bunk and started crying again. Gaston said, “She does that a lot, too; I know who Van Tassel is. He doesn’t have a shop at street level. You have to knock three times and tell him who sent you. He’s a dealer in stolen goods.”
Captain Gringo picked up his jacket, fished out a smoke, and lit up as he mused. “Hmm, that fits, partway. But it’s still crazy. Those so-called jewel thieves were supposed to be after our jewels – emeralds, to be exact.”
Gaston said, “But we don’t have any emeralds, do we?”
“No, but try it this way. Van Tassel is a Dutch name.”
“So?”
“Butcher Weyler, the soldier of fortune the Spanish hired to fight the Cuban rebels, is a Dutchman.”
Liza looked up and grasped, “Do you mean to say those people were Spanish secret agents?”
He shrugged and replied, “Could be. I don’t know about the guys you two tangled with, but I’m sure the girl was American. We know the Spanish hire people to take serious chances for them.”
“But why did she accuse you of having the emeralds, Dick?”
“Hell, she had to say something. Everybody knows Colombia is where emeralds grow, so it’s a natural straw to grasp. They knew Gaston and me are knockabout guys who know Costa Rica. She might have tossed Van Tassel at me as a bone I’d recognize, if the guy’s really a crook and not a Spanish guy. She might have been mixing fact and fiction. I was sort of twisting her arm and—”
“You call that arm twisting?” Liza cut in. Then she blushed and turned away.
Captain Gringo grinned sheepishly and said, “Let’s say I was sacrificing myself for the cause.”
He felt a little red-faced himself, right now. He still had a raging hard-on and he’d never noticed Liza’s perfume before. But, alas, he’d seen the look of utter horror on her face when she’d frozen in the doorway, staring down at his shaft. He wondered what size she found less frightening. Then he decided he’d better not think about it. For some reason the idea was making him harder than ever.
Chapter Eight
Captain Gringo married Liza Smathers in San Salvador. Only for public consumption, of course. They didn’t go through any ceremony and she’d become a bore about insisting they’d be man and wife in name only. The fake papers and .passports they’d brought along said they were Mr. and Mrs. MacUlrich, from Canada, and that they’d been married three years. Captain Gringo had to admire the artistry of British Intelligence whenever he looked at his new passport. It was not only Canadian, it was travel-worn and stamped with visas that left a perfectly logical backtrail for any customs official nosy enough to work it out. He, Liza and Gaston worked together to memorize their route from Canada to San Salvador by way of the States, Mexico, and Guatemala, with a side trip to British Honduras and back through Guatemalan customs. Naturally, there was nothing to indicate that any of them had ever been to Costa Rica, or even Nicaragua. Gaston bitched that the British Honduras ploy was needlessly complex, but Captain Gringo liked it. The sheer pointlessness of having been to a place no Colombian official could be interested in struck him as a nice red herring to waste time on. At the same time, it reinforced the idea that the three of them were British subjects, since the side trip had been to a Crown Colony.
They’d holed up a few days in Nicaragua to make sure they weren’t under observation before they made the end run to San Salvador. Meanwhile, of course, they’d changed to more conservative dress and Liza had helped Captain Gringo dye his hair back to its original color. She’d suggested another shade, but he’d explained the dangers of that, for a man. A woman could get away with lighter or darker roots for a time, thanks to her long hair. A day or so away from the dye bottle showed up around a man’s ears and going to a barber shop would be risky even if the barber wasn’t on speaking terms with the cop on the beat. The male fashions of the time dictated a weekly trim for any gent trying to look like a respectable newspaper man. So …
Liza remained puzzled by the razzle-dazzle he’d pulled, he hoped, by establishing a disguise and then reverting to his normal appearance. But it wouldn’t be her problem if he was recognized by the wrong people. Unless, of course, she was standing within pistol range of him at the time. They’d established that once they got to Bogotá, she’d go her way and he could go his. He couldn’t get another thing about her own mission out of her, and while “torturing” it out of her might be a lot of fun for both of them, he didn’t think it would be a brilliant move. He didn’t really give a damn why Greystoke was sending her to Bogotá, as long as it didn’t involve him and Gaston.
Meanwhile, as they were booking passage on a southbound Pacific steamer, Lieutenant Colonel Maldonado was having his own problems up in Bogotá. The albatross around his neck that afternoon was one Senator Vargas of the Upper House, as the private club that ran the country liked to call itself. Senator Vargas was a foppish man of fifty who boasted a family tree going back at least to the Roman province of Iberia and an awesome capacity to hold his liquor like a true grandee. If he had the brain of a gnat, Colonel Maldonado had never seen any evidence of it, but he had to be treated with kid gloves, anyway.
As Maldonado seated his guest, Vargas sniffed and said, “I just spoke to your superiors about the Eisensomething mine. I understand you’ve been obstinate again about nationalization.”
Maldonado seated himself on the other side of the desk with a pained expression and explained, “Not obstinate, Senator. Perhaps practical would be a better term. The mica pit in question is the property of the German Siemens-Krupp Combine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Colonel. How can Germans own anything on Colombian soil?”
“There is no argument that the mountain they’ve been mining belongs to us, sir. They’ve been paying quite substantial taxes on it.”
“Perhaps. But, damn it, they’ve been taking our mica out of the country.” The senator paused, frowned, and added, “By the way, what is mica?”
Maldonado managed to keep a polite expression on his face as he said, “Mica is a type of sheetrock, Senator. I believe the Germans use it as electrical insulation. They have been paying well for it and quite a few of our people are employed up there.”
“Just the same, foreigners are making off with vital Colombian minerals, no?”
Maldonado couldn’t help frowning as he replied, “Vital, sir? Colombia has no electrical industry. Should we ever have one in the future, there are immeasurable tons of the stuff up in those hills. Meanwhile, mica is of almost no use to anyone in Colombia.”
The senator looked suspicious and asked, “Why couldn’t a national company mine that silly stuff and sell it to the Germans, if they need it so badly?”
Maldonado sighed and said, “We could, of course, if we had the capital to spare and wanted to go to all the trouble. But there are political as well as economic difficulties, sir. The new Kaiser of Germany is a very truculent young man, but, up to now, Germany has been quite correct in her dealings with us. We have been getting
Mauser rifles at a very reasonable price while both the Americans and British have joined the French in refusing to sell us arms.”
“I don’t understand what those foreigners are so upset about. Have we opened any mines in England? Have we asked the French to let us dig a canal across France?”
Maldonado’s tone was soothing as he said, “I understand your position, sir. Unfortunately, the business interests in other parts of the world seem to have difficulty doing business our way. To get back to my objections to further seizures at this time, I feel that nationalizing German holdings would not only deprive us of one of our few remaining trading partners, but would delight the British at the same time.”
The senator brightened and asked, “Oh? Are the damned Brits after that mica stuff, too?”
“They have their own sources, sir. But it’s hardly a secret that Germany is rearming at a pace the British find alarming, or that British Intelligence has been trying to slow the Germans down. The Royal Navy is much larger, but the new German Kriegsmarine is more modern. Electrical gear seems to be the wave of the future and both sides are going all out to develop it. The British would do anything to stay ahead of the Germans. So if we were to shut off one of the Kaiser’s sources of supply—”
“Piffle, I said we’d sell it to them, didn’t I?”
“Forgive me, sir, the hot tempered Kaiser doesn’t think like, uh, you and I. He’s inclined to be stiff-necked and proud, even for a Prussian. I’m afraid that if we nationalized a mine partly funded by the German government, they’d tell us to do something very rude with our mica and we’d suddenly find it very difficult to get ammunition for our German guns.”
Vargas wrinkled his nose and said, “You may be right. The Germans were mere barbarians when our people were conjugating Latin verbs. But tell me, what is this mica stuff worth, on the open market?”
Maldonado shrugged and said, “Hardly enough to justify hauling it down to the port. High-grade mica, like they mine in Russia, can fetch a fair price in large sheets. It’s used as a heat-resistant glass in that form. The Germans have been blasting low-grade stuff out in almost powder form. I understand they mix it into some kind of paste for electrical insulation. Raw from the mountain it’s worth little more than a good glass sand.”
Vargas looked surprised and said, “Really? Well, perhaps we have been hasty. Who wants to own a sand mine, eh? I’ll tell you what, we’ll hold the matter in abeyance. I see little harm in allowing a military ally to play in a sandpile. You will, of course, keep an eye on those Germans and inform me at once if they should strike anything of value?”
Maldonado nodded and Vargas got to his feet, but asked as an afterthought, “Is there any chance of them finding anything more valuable than mica in those diggings?”
Maldonado checked himself and shook his head. He’d almost said that garnet was occasionally found in mica veins, but he didn’t want to confuse the poor politico. He didn’t have time to explain that garnet was only a semiprecious gemstone. He knew what the word “gem” would do to the greedy little man. The flap over that emerald strike in the American chromium mine still worried him. The Americans had been fairly quiet about it so far. Ominously quiet, for Americans. The Yanqui Company had been a big international trust, with connections in high places. But they hadn’t even tried to sue. Perhaps they were aware of the chances they’d have in a local court and, after all, it hadn’t been an important mine and the emerald vein hadn’t come near to matching the old, already nationalized Inca diggings near Muzo.
Maldonado poured himself a drink as he tried to get his mind back to the real world and sensible problems. The current government made him feel like he was a character in Alice in Wonderland. As a proud man and a patriot, Maldonado was hurt by the joke about Venezuela being a military barracks, Ecuador a convent, and Colombia a debating society.
The late President Nunez had somehow managed to hold things together with his Machiavellian politics, Jesuit powers of persuasion, and widespread family connections. But Nunez was dead and for over a year what seemed to be a band of escaped lunatics had struggled in vain to find someone who could fill the dictator’s shoes.
His country was long overdue for a revolution, Maldonado knew. The only question was where it was going to start and … which side a smart man should choose.
An aide came in with some dispatches and said, “We have two reports on that Captain Gringo you’ve been worried about, Colonel. They’re, ah, rather confusing.”
Maldonado smiled, glad to have something sensible to worry about, and asked, “In what way are you confused, Captain?”
The aide said, “One of our agents in Limón spotted three people that could have been Walker, Verrier, and an unknown woman boarding the night boat to Nicaragua, sir.”
“Could have been? What do you mean could have been? Was it Captain Gringo or wasn’t it?”
“Nobody can say, sir. The woman was unknown, as I said. The little Frenchman looks like a lot of people. The big gringo they saw getting on the steamer matched the description as to size and blondness, but … he was too blond. Our reward posters say he has light brown hair. The man boarding the boat looked – well, like a fairy. Our man in Limón said he looked like a bleached whore. The woman they got on with looked like whore, too.”
Maldonado frowned and mused, “A traveling business woman and her hair dresser? That doesn’t sound like the man I played tag with in the lowland jungles. Is that all you have to go on?”
“No, Colonel. I agree there are many tall blond men in the world. But you see, when the boat arrived in Nicaragua, three passengers were missing. A woman and two men said to have dined with her in the salon the night before.”
Maldonado reached for the box of pins on his desk. “Hmm, what does our man in Nicaragua have to say about this?”
“He didn’t meet the boat, alas, since he hadn’t gotten word from Limón in time. But when he did arrive at the waterfront, he found the crew most puzzled. All but three passengers had disembarked. Our agent was discreet, but he managed a partial description and, as I said, it was a rather flashy woman and two men. One large, and one smaller. They most definitely were nowhere to be found aboard the vessel. Yet the ship made no stops along the coast during the night. It was as if all three jumped overboard for some reason.”
“Off the Mosquito Coast? What about their luggage? Did our man get a look at it?”
“But of course, sir. The usual bags and trunks. There were no labels or other identification attached to the clothing of the missing persons. No papers or valuables. The only item of interest was a box of pistol ammunition, caliber .38. No guns. The belongings have been impounded by the authorities in Nicaragua, pending the owners ever showing up.”
Maldonado shrugged, went over to the map on the wall, and stuck a pin in it before he said, “Well, unless we’re talking about a triple suicide pact, it would seem they had a prearranged boat waiting somewhere along the way to fish them out of the water. Captain Gringo was mixed up in Nicaraguan politics a while back. So we can assume he’s somewhere near the mouth of the San Juan. He’s being cute, as usual, but I fail to see why it’s so confusing to you.”
The aide held up a message blank and said, “This just came in from Panama City, sir. A steamer trunk was delivered to the Hotel Colon.”
“So?”
“So there was no guest registered to claim it. The management assumed the trunk might have been delivered to the wrong place by mistake. They opened it to see if there was any identification inside. There wasn’t. But the trunk was filled with belts of machine-gun ammo!”
“¡Diablo!” Maldonado exclaimed, sticking another pin in his map. He stepped back, studied his new pattern, and said, “It still makes no sense, damn it!”
“Do you think that machine-gun ammo was meant to be delivered to Captain Gringo, sir?”
“If it wasn’t, we have another goddamned machine gunner on our hands in disputed territory! We know he has contacts among the
old Balboa Brigade in Panama.”
“I thought we’d cleaned them out, sir.”
“You never clean out every cockroach in the pantry. You know we’re overdo for another revolt down there, if we don’t have one here first!”
“But, sir, if Captain Gringo and his friends went north to Nicaragua…”
“I don’t think they did. I see the ruse. They boarded the night boat in Costa Rica to make us think they were going north. Then they slipped ashore again, perhaps right in Limón Harbor. His real plan is to move south through the jungles, perhaps by mule, no doubt guided by those damned Indians who seem so fond of him.”
“Then it’s Panama, sir?”
“It certainly looks that way. Fortunately, that misdirected steamer trunk gave the scheme away in time or … hmmm, did it? Writing the wrong address on one’s luggage is hardly intelligent, and if there’s one thing we’ve learned about that Yanqui renegade, the bastard is smart!”
The aide said, “A stevedore could have misunderstood, sir. Where else could they be headed for, if not Panama? Certainly not here?”
Maldonado nodded and replied, “I’d find that hard to believe, too. The man is a professional revolutionary and we’re not – Oh, Maria, Madre de Dios!”
The aide looked more confused than worried as his superior snapped, “Take this down. I want a thorough search of all baggage, boxes, anything arriving on any Colombian waterfront, starting right now!”
“That’s a lot of searching to do, sir. What are we looking for?”
“Arms, of course. Particularly machine guns. We haven’t the manpower to search every arriving tourist or sailor, but not even Captain Gringo can hide a Maxim under his coat. The man is only a man, without his favorite weapon. So we’ll know he’s in the country as soon as we see or hear automatic firearms. Meanwhile, I want a twenty-four-hour watch placed on General Rafael Reyes. We’d better watch his staff, too.”
The aide blanched and asked, “Can our section do that, Colonel?”