The Annihilators (25 page)

I said, “Miss Matson is an old friend and fellow journalist, that’s all. She got in touch with me in Santa Rosalia when she saw my name on a publicity release…”

“And followed you here to Copalque for old times’ sake, no doubt! And is now trying to use her position as a reporter to locate our revolutionary headquarters for you—and Ricardo Jimenez, the man you have come to kill!” He didn’t wait for my response, but turned slightly to address the others: “As I have demonstrated, whether knowingly or unknowingly, you have allowed yourselves to become involved in criminal counterrevolutionary activities. For this you could be put to death, all of you. However, since it is possible that you were merely unwitting pawns of this man and his vicious agency, you will not be executed if certain fines are paid.” Sanchez stared at them bleakly for a moment, and went on: “The penalty for your offenses against the revolution is one million dollars to be paid into our treasury by Señor James Putnam, since we know he has adequate funds available. How he chooses to be reimbursed by the rest of you is his concern, not ours.”

There was a long silence. I could hardly keep from bursting out laughing; it was a ridiculous anticlimax. He’d had me scared for a while. Fanatics frighten me, and I’d thought him the genuine, dedicated, patriotic, revolutionary article. But old
bandidos
die hard; and his master, Lupe of the Mountain, was still as much outlaw as liberator, just as I’d warned Ricardo. Old Million-Buck Montano; and how much of the ransom would really go to the revolutionary cause?

Looking back, I understood better some of the things that had happened on this trip. It was clear that, somehow, Frances had let Sanchez or Montano or a go-between know that there was a very wealthy individual taking the tour; or perhaps all the conspicuous jewelry had led them to inquire about Jim Putnam. It had probably not seemed important to Frances at the time. She’d always been reasonably well off herself, and other people’s money didn’t impress her. Smuggling Ricardo into the country and keeping an eye on me, according to instructions, had presumably been her major concerns. Under duress, she’d cooperated with the revolutionaries to this extent; but I was willing to bet that kidnaping and extortion had not been in the original bargain she’d made with them.

My guess was that the night she’d come to my cottage bruised and half-hysterical had been the night she’d learned that our whole party was to be held for ransom. She’d been slapped down so humiliatingly, not as she’d claimed for reacting arrogantly to Lupe’s insulting comments, but for protesting against the betrayal that was now being required of her…

“A million dollars?” That was the irrepressible Miss Tolson. “You’ve got to be out of your mind! After I pay for this trip I’ll have exactly three hundred in the bank until my next…” She fell silent abruptly as Barbera took a step in her direction.

“Well, Señor Putnam?” Sanchez said. “I believe your finances are handled by the Putnam Management Corporation, a Chicago firm. Will you be sensible and write them voluntarily, or do you insist on being coerced?” Deliberately, Sanchez pulled the 9 mm pistol out of its army-type holster. “Need I remind you that you are very vulnerable, señor? It would be a pity if your pretty wife, such a healthy and attractive young lady, were to spend the rest of her life limping badly as the result of a bullet-smashed knee.”

Whoever started this kneecapping business—I’ve heard he was an IRA Irishman—should have patented it and got rich; it’s getting as popular as the Frisbee. Gloria Jean started to speak quickly, obviously to plead with her husband, but checked herself and stood stiff and silent. Putnam tightened the arm he’d placed about her shoulders; and spoke to Sanchez.

“It will take time. A week, ten days, maybe more. Chicago is a long ways off, and we don’t keep a million dollars in the ready cash. You’ll probably want it in particular kinds of currency, anyway.”

“We have the time. And you are—how do you put it?—stalling, señor. Perhaps this will persuade you that I am serious about this matter!”

He lifted the pistol, and I saw Putnam pull his wife to him and turn sharply to interpose his body between her and the weapon; but Sanchez wheeled and fired twice. Beside me, Miranda gave a surprised little gasp as the bullets struck. She slumped to the ground. I went to my knees beside her, seeing the two small reddening holes just below the washed-out stencil that gave the name and unit of the previous owner of her worn military coverall. Her faded blue eyes looked up at me, hurting, knowing, dying.

She licked her lips and started to speak, but I never heard her last words, if any. My chunky watchdog, who’d been told what to do if I moved, went into action. Something exploded against my head and I went out, not really knowing whether I’d been shot or clubbed.

I awoke in a shadowed place remembering sunshine. The change was startling enough to make me sit up abruptly, very much afraid that it was my vision that was clouded, not my surroundings.

The movement sent agony through my head, but the view was reassuring. I was in a shallow cave of sorts—a man-made cave for a change, I realized after a moment. It was a small stone chamber with a high wedge-shaped ceiling; another of the Melmec corbeled-arch jobs. There was a similarly shaped doorway with sunlight outside. I was not alone in the place.

“Careful, you got a bad knock on the head.” I was aware of the big yellow boots and the flounced yellow skirt; then Gloria Jean Putnam was kneeling beside me, dabbing at the side of my neck. Something had changed about her and after a moment I realized what it was: the patriotic liberation movement had relieved her of her necklace and silver bracelets; they’d also taken her concha belt, leaving her shirt hanging loose outside her skirt. All done with the highest ideological motives, no doubt, I reflected grimly. Gloria Jean said, “The scalp cut isn’t serious, it’s almost stopped bleeding, but you could have a bit of concussion.”

I tried to speak but my mouth was too dry. I licked my lips and got something out: “Where?…”

“You’re in our cell, cell number four, in the Labal Detention Center, formerly known as the Nunnery. The ventilation is swell, but the facilities are kind of lousy and I think we’ve got a couple of good-sized lizards for company.” The girl’s voice was humorously resigned. “Just in case you’re wondering, we got you because nobody else wanted you, and Jim was too softhearted to leave you lying there. You’re not very popular right now, Sam Felton, or whatever your real name is.”

I tried to assimilate all that, finding it a bit puzzling in view of the fact that softheartedness was not a characteristic I would have attributed to James Wallace Putnam.

I remembered something. “Miranda?” I whispered.

“I’m sorry, your friend is dead.”

“I know, but…”

“Jim and some of the others are burying her right now, under military escort.” She licked her lips, studying my face. “Mr. Felton, or whoever you are?”

“Yes?”

“I understand how you feel. But please don’t get Jim mixed up in any wild get-even schemes.”

“Forty percent,” I said.

“What?”

“You read the papers. Down here in Latin America holding people for ransom is the great local sport, like drug-smuggling around Florida. And how many of those kidnaped are never seen again, alive, even if the money is paid? Somebody told me that the hostage-recovery rate is about forty percent. I wouldn’t have put it that high myself.”

The girl licked her lips again. “You mean you think they might actually kill us?”

“The killing’s already started. My bet is that Miranda was shot deliberately, not only as an object lesson, but because she was the most dangerous of us in one respect: She was the one who could really blacken the name of the liberation movement, with her press connections, by letting the whole world know about their little sideline in kidnaping for money. Which seems to indicate that it’s unlikely the rest of us will be turned loose to talk once Lupe has his million bucks. Unknown bandits from the hills did the dastardly deed; and anybody who says different is simply parroting the foul slanders invented by the Rael dictatorship to discredit the revolution.” I shook my head. “At the moment we’re being preserved because they may need Jim’s further cooperation; but in the long run… well, even if Frances is right and the
cenote
wasn’t used as a depository for dead bodies before, there’s always a first time. It’s a nice deep pool. So I think a little enterprise on our part is indicated, Mrs. Putnam, risky though it may be…”

A shadow darkened the doorway. “What’s risky?” Jim Putnam asked. “Here, grab one of these mattress pads, honey, before I lose my grip on it. I think that corner back there, don’t you? We’re going to wish we had a mosquito bar like at the hotel before we’re through… Incidentally, they’ve gone through our bags and grabbed all the rest of the jewelry, the larcenous bastards—your cameras, too, Felton—but thank God they didn’t steal the ‘Off.’”

“We have our luggage?” I asked. “Here?”

Putnam nodded. “Yes, your bag’s outside. Apparently we’re all checked out of the hotel and our tour bus was seen taking us away—well, a load of people unidentifiable behind all that dark glass—in a totally different direction. But at least they’re providing a roof and something to sleep on; they may even break down and feed us occasionally before they shoot us. After the money gets here, of course.” He looked at me hard. “That’s why I hauled you in here; I thought we’d better talk the situation over. Maybe it would even be a good idea if you moved in with us.”

“And maybe not,” I said.

He frowned and nodded. “On second thought, you could be right. In that case we’d better get our talking done right now.” Stripped of his metallic adornments, like his wife, he looked like a lean, dark stranger. There was more animation in his face than I’d seen on the trip so far. He squatted beside me. “Okay, we’d better make it quick, Sam. We don’t want them thinking we’re holding a council of war in here, even if we are. Let’s have your thoughts on getting away. Is that what you were telling Glory was risky?”

I looked at him for a moment and spoke carefully: “Getting away is no problem, amigo. Hell, it’s only fifteen-some miles back to the hotel, with a passable road all the way. Even if they take away all the Jeeps, we can walk it. It’s not as if we were on a desert island, or as if they’d dropped us by helicopter a hundred miles out in the jungle.”

He was studying me, frowning. “But—”

I said, “You’re worrying about the wrong thing. To hell with getting away. That will take care of itself, once certain preliminaries are disposed of.”

Gloria Jean was puzzled. “I don’t understand, Sam. What preliminaries?”

I waited and saw what I’d been waiting for. Jim Putnam’s dark face broke into a crooked smile; not a very nice crooked smile.

“Where have you been all my life, friend?” he asked softly. “I could have used a few characters like you in a certain war, not to mention at a certain court-martial.”

“Hell, they turned you loose, didn’t they?” I said deliberately. “What did you expect, daddy, a medal?”

He looked a little startled; then he grinned ruefully, the first time I could recall seeing him smile. He said, “Well, actually I did, kind of. We’d performed very well, militarily speaking. I was naive back in those days. As company commander, I thought my job was to bring my company back alive and to hell with the enemy. I didn’t realize I was supposed to bring the enemy back alive and to hell with my company.”

I said, “So the dead Vietnamese lady had a baby under her garment instead of the grenade somebody thought she had when they blasted her. And there was a sentimental war correspondent handy.”

He made a face. “Well, not quite like that, but something like that.” After a moment he went on, “I’d seen too damn many men in my outfit hesitate and die—good men—but they’d been ordered to be careful. There had been too much adverse publicity back home… Well, you remember. I was sick of it. Hell, it was a war, wasn’t it, not a Sunday turkey-shoot in the park? So I gave the orders. I told them, when in doubt, shoot, shoot
now
, and I’d take full responsibility for any mistakes. And I did.” He frowned at me. “Why the hell am I telling you this?”

I said, “Because it looks as if we might have a little work to do together, and each of us wants to know that he’s not going to lose his life because the other guy got all tangled up in tender humanitarian principles at the wrong moment. What the hell is that?” There was a lot of noise outside.

“Just a minute, I’ll look,” Putnam said. He moved out of the door of the stone chamber; after a moment he returned to us. “Sanchez is heading out with the Jeeps and drivers; he’s left that slimy young bastard Barbera with half a dozen uniformed men to hold the fort.”

I said, “I’ll be glad when they settle down to a routine so we know what we have to deal with.”

Putnam nodded and started to speak, but Gloria Jean interrupted. “I wish you two would let me know what you’re talking about. Even though I’m positive I’m not going to like it.”

Putnam hesitated and said reluctantly, “What Sam means, honey, is that getting away from here is no problem—once Sanchez and his men are dead.”

She got quite pale. “But… but that’s a horrible idea! You can’t just set out to slaughter—”

“Can’t you?” I asked harshly. “I can. And if we were to take a vote on it, how do you think Miranda would have cast her ballot?” I looked at Putnam. “Tell me what you’d need, Jim.”

“Me?”

But the surprised note in his voice didn’t ring quite true; he’d done some thinking about it already. There was an odd gleam in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. The man was coming back to life.

“Who the hell else?” I asked. “I’m the lone-wolf type; I couldn’t handle an operation like this. Who’s the gallant leader of men around here, anyway? It’s your baby, Captain Putnam, sir. Now, assuming you had a few moderately competent guys to work with, what would you want to put into their hands, of the stuff you’ve seen out there. Minimum.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Minimum? three of the Ml6s and three or four of the grenades those characters have pinned all over them. That’s assuming surprise, good planning, and lots of luck. And also assuming that Sanchez doesn’t come back with a whole revolutionary regiment, in which case all bets are off. I’d like more, but it can be done with that. Any sidearms you can pick up in addition will be greatly appreciated.”