Siege of Silence Read online

  ‘Suddenly, like the end of a losing chess game, the moves click in my head. The guardsmen are scattering in disciplined groups. Guns held high and ready.

  There were only three mortar rounds. The Colonel relaxed after the third. He knew there would be no more. They were a mere persuasion to his argument. The “Gunny” and Summer are looking around them in bewilderment. Beside me the young marine whispers, “Sir, it stinks! They’re carrying PPD sub-machine-guns - Russian. The National Guard is supplied with our M3s.”

  I turn and look into young anxious eyes. He too is holding a sub-machine-gun. For a moment, rational, clear and precise, I want to take it and blow my brains out- my useless, stale, incompetent brains that have been tricked by a half educated, half-breed. I feel neither panic nor anger, but a deep, searing humiliation.

  I watch the act played out . . .

  Someone is shouting. I wrench my gaze away. It’s the “Gunny” lying on his side, one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, his face a mixture of fear and something else . . . yes, determination. He is looking at me. He shouts again. “Sir! Do we fight?”

  In an instant I scream back. “No!”

  I have not even thought. No process of logic; no considerations enter my head. The chess game is lost; why smash up the pieces?’

  A. J. Quinnell is the pseudonym of the author of ten novels including Man on Fire which was made twice into Hollywood Films - most recently directed by Tony Scott for Twentieth Century Fox in 2004, starring Denzel Washington, Christopher Walken and Dakota Fanning. The book sold more than eight million copies in paperback and was translated around the world.

  Full list of titles:

  Man on Fire

  The Mahdi

  Snap Shot

  Blood Ties

  Siege of Silence

  In the Name of the Father

  The Perfect Kill

  The Blue Ring

  Message from Hell

  Black Horn

  ‘Technically and psychologically A. J. Quinnell climbs a few more rungs with this breathless thriller’

  Observer

  ‘As spare, tense and dovetailed, if hawk-winged, a thriller as crafty Mr Quinnell has yet concocted’

  Sunday Times

  ‘An exceptional thriller . . . Here is a writer who can make characters come alive and build tension so you cannot wait to turn the page . . . a memorable novel’

  Daily Telegraph

  ‘Every once in a rare while, an unheralded book comes along that is so well written, so intelligent in its characterisation, that it demands immediate attention, Siege of Silence is such a book . . . Every sentence in Siege of Silence is believable. Quinnell has written a book you can’t put down until its very satisfying conclusion’

  Los Angeles Herald Examiner

  SIEGE OF SILENCE

  A. J. Quinnell

  First published by Orion Books Ltd in Great Britain by Hodder & Stoughton in 1986

  Copyright © 1986 A.J. Quinnell

  Published by CLLA

  The right of A.J. Quinnell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 978-1-908426-13-0

  Author’s Note

  I am not an American

  North or South

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PEABODY San Carlo

  JORGE Havana

  PEABODY San Carlo

  DAY ONE TO NIGHT TWENTY

  JORGE San Carlo Day 1

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 1

  JORGE San Carlo Day 1

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 3

  JORGE San Carlo Day 3

  SLOCUM Washington Day 3

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 3

  JORGE San Carlo Day 4

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 5

  SLOCUM Washington Day 3

  JORGE San Carlo Day 6

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 6

  SLOCUM Fort Bragg Day 10

  JORGE San Carlo Day 9

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 10

  SLOCUM Fort Bragg Day 14

  JORGE San Carlo Day 15

  PEABODY San Carlo Night 16

  JORGE San Carlo Night 16

  PEABODY San Carlo Night 16

  SLOCUM Fort Bragg Day 17

  PEABODY San Carlo Day 18

  SLOCUM USS “Nimitz” Night 20

  PEABODY San Carlo Night 19

  SLOCUM USS “Nimitz” Midnight 20

  PEABODY San Carlo Night 20

  PROLOGUE

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  As I enter the room the hostility is tangible. It radiates, and my skin prickles with the sensation. I find it agreeable.

  The room, lit by two oversized chandeliers, is full of people and odours, uniforms and medals, long dresses and diamonds, sober suits and polished shoes, tobacco, perfume, sweat, and the ever-present ambience of lust and jealousy. All the hallmarks of a diplomatic reception; and now the added aura of hatred.

  The Venezuelan Ambassador approaches, his plump body cut diagonally by a red sash, his hand outstretched, a smile stuck on his face like peeling tape.

  “Excellency, so good of you to come - an honour.”

  His handshake is damp. I utter the ritual words.

  “Thank you, Excellency. Congratulations on this auspicious day. My apologies for being late; work, you understand.”

  His head nods enthusiastically. My tardiness is welcome.

  “No matter. Your Embassy is very well represented.”

  I find this hardly surprising. Unlike most Foreign Service Officers my staff, given the prospect of free, copious champagne, would tramp barefoot across a mile of broken glass. I catch a peripheral glimpse of Dean Bowman and wife grouped with Arnold Tessler, Martin Kerr and the Argentine Military Attaché. In one hand Bowman is holding a glass of champagne and a thin smoking cigar. In the other a plate laden with open smoked salmon sandwiches. No doubt he will do his usual trick of smoking, drinking, eating and talking more or less at the same time.

  A waiter approaches with glasses on a silver tray. I take one.

  “We waited,” the Ambassador says ingratiatingly. “Would you mind?”

  “Of course.”

  I step forward and a silence works its way through the room. I am the focal point of resentful looks. Some are curious. If they expect a speech, they’re wrong. I raise my glass and glance at the Ambassador. He has stretched himself to full height and puffed out his chest. He looks ridiculous. I nod towards him. “Your Excellency.” I nod towards a cadaverous figure in the corner. “Mr Foreign Minister; ladies and gentlemen. On this the occasion of the National Day of Venezuela I would like to offer a toast to President Lusinchi.” I raise the glass high, murmur “President Lusinchi,” and take a sip amid the chorus of response. God, I hate champagne. I smell rather than see the Colombian Ambassador approach. He is marked by the twin curses of stupidity and halitosis. Quickly I move away towards the french windows. A path opens for me as though I carry the plague bacillus.

  Out on the broad portico the air is sweet with the aroma of jasmine and bougainvillaea. Plants never have halitosis. Not true. What about those stinking fruit they eat in Malaysia? Durian. Supposed to give potency. Well anyway, they stink but don’t talk.

  I envy the Venezuelan only his garden. Flagstoned paths weave through beds of plants and flowers and tall palms etched into a pattern by subtle floodlights on the high wall. A shadow materializes into the form of a guard sauntering along a path, sub-machine-gun slung over one shoulder
. It typifies the situation in San Carlo- violence in paradise- as though the luxuriant beauty of the country is a greenhouse accelerating the growth of hatred.

  Behind me I hear the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses and the braying laugh of the British Ambassador, a man invariably amused by his own jokes.

  “I’m told you prefer Scotch, Excellency.”

  I turn to find the Venezuelan Ambassador behind me. He holds out a glass and I exchange it for the champagne.

  “Do I disturb you?”

  “No, I stepped out to escape the hubbub.”

  He smiles conspiratorially. “You mean the attentions of our Colombian colleague. He can be exquisitely boring . . . as can those receptions.” A theatrical sigh. “But then we have both been diplomats long enough to bear them . . . to close our ears and merely nod at regular intervals . . . and smile when required.”

  He waits for an answer but I’m in no mood for small talk. I shrug, hoping he will go away. I’m disappointed.

  “I wanted a word with you in private, Excellency. I heard a disturbing rumour this evening.” “Oh?”

  “Yes; apparently you are considering sending home all dependents and non-essential personnel.”

  Irritation washes over me. Damn them! And damn their loose, useless mouths! He is looking concerned and my irritation grows, knowing that my face reflects it. He says apologetically:

  “You know how it is, Excellency. We are all in a fish bowl. It is always so.”

  He is right. Always so. A confidential chancery meeting in mid afternoon and by early evening the word is out to every Embassy in the city and doubtless right through the Government. It’s the blabbering wives, of course. They always tell their wives and it’s the same as writing it in the sky.

  I speak to him coldly and formally. “Understand, Excellency, I have been Ambassador here for just one week. Naturally I have had meetings with my senior officials, including those from Military Aid and Security. I have examined all aspects of the situation and have to take all options under consideration. At this time I have taken no firm decision as to repatriation. It is, therefore, as you say . . . merely a rumour.”

  “I understand. May I speak to you not as a diplomat . . . that is to say in a straightforward way?”

  “Sure.”

  There is more braying laughter from the room behind. He takes my arm.

  “Shall we walk in the garden?”

  He gently propels me down the steps on to a path. I hate people touching me. Not so gently I extricate my arm and we walk side by side between the shadowy trees.

  “You are very experienced and knowledgeable, Senor Peabody. Even your Spanish is of a quality to bring me soothing relief in a country where my language is tortured beyond belief. Permit me to say that it is rare for an American.”

  “I thought you were not going to talk as a diplomat.”

  He is unruffled. In the semi-darkness his teeth show in a smile.

  “I will, but the compliment was sincere. Now to the matter. In spite of your experience and length of service I believe I’m right in saying that this is your first posting as Chief of Mission.”

  “Correct.”

  “I, on the other hand, have been an Ambassador for over twenty years, although I now find myself in a backwater like San Carlo.” He glances at me, perhaps looking for sympathy. Not finding any he continues. “As the doyen of the diplomatic corps here I feel I have the unwritten privilege to offer advice to new Ambassadors . . . especially in matters concerning the diplomatic community.”

  I insert a warning note into my voice. “And you’re going to offer me unsolicited advice?”

  “Not really, Senor Peabody. I’m going to point out certain consequences that may arise if you do issue a repatriation order.”

  Curtly I say, “I told you it’s only under consideration.”

  “Exactly, and what I have to say may have a bearing. Such an order can have three possible consequences: first, to start a snowball effect among other Embassies, particularly as it is your Government which is propping up this regime with its aid …” He stops abruptly. “Ah! Is that it? Are you just flying a kite? To convince some of your Congressmen that the situation here is so dangerous that they must vote for the new aid package.”

  Jesus! The devious little pimp. He is watching me expectantly. I know what’s worrying him. If I give the order and the Italians follow suit, the wife of their First Secretary will be sent back to Rome, so ending her affair with this porcine idiot. I may have been here only a week but we’re all in the same fish bowl. I know what’s going on.

  “Certainly not, Senor. Whatever decision I take will be based solely on the factor of personal safety.”

  Clearly disappointed he resumes walking and talking.

  “The second effect would be to weaken morale among the locals . . . the Government and the Civil Guard . . . the business community. It would generate an even more disastrous outflow of capital. Third, such an announcement could only give encouragement to the Chamarristas.”

  We turn a corner on the path and are confronted by a patrolling guard, spectral in a paramilitary uniform. He stands to one side at semi-attention as we pass.

  “Point is,” he continues, “none of the other Chiefs of Mission have seriously considered such a move. They feel that Vargas has things under control . . . with American help of course.”

  I gesture over my shoulder with a thumb.

  “Armed guards, day and night. It’s hardly a normal situation. Besides you forget that we Americans are the prime targets. I’m aware of the consequences if I decide on repatriation. You point out that this is my first posting as Ambassador . . . but I was an officer in the Havana Embassy in January ‘59.”

  “Really? But surely there are differences?”

  “Sure, and there are disturbing similarities, as there are with Nicaragua.”

  The path turns again towards the lights of the residence and the faint sound of music.

  “Of course, Senor, and naturally with the great American aid and large covert presence here you must have more and deeper information than the rest of us.”

  There is condescension in his voice. The man really is a fool. He can’t see beyond the garden walls and his own comfort and pleasures. I’ve had enough.

  “That’s exactly right, Mr Ambassador . . . and I’ll make my decision based on that information. At that time I’ll inform you prior to the others. That’s a common courtesy. There will be no announcement . . . just a quiet and gradual withdrawal of absolutely non-essential personnel.”

  We are facing each other on the path. I am about a head taller. Having lost the point, his face, sweating slightly, carries a sullen look. He opens his mouth to argue but I’ve had enough. I lean forward to cut him off.

  “Now, Excellency, although I’ve only been here one week and I’m not the ‘doyen’, allow me to offer you some advice. Your Economic Attaché, Senor Borg, is the main supplier to the diplomatic community here of marijuana and cocaine. Again common courtesy makes it necessary for me to believe that you are unaware of this. His activity is a stain on the reputation of yourself, your Embassy and your country. I suggest you do something about it. My thanks for a pleasant evening . . . good night.”

  I walk up the path leaving him mute behind me. I feel good. I haven’t done much to improve US-Venezuelan relations but that’s the job of our Ambassador in Caracas. Let him earn his damned pittance.

  JORGE

  Havana

  I should not care about time. I’m a Latin like my father and all my forefathers. It must be the Scottish blood of my mother that makes me impatient.

  I check my watch again; just five minutes short of two hours. The woman is watching me. She smiles sympathetically then goes back to her work. She is reading through a stack of foreign newspapers and occasionally marking an item with a thick black pencil. She is a linguist, fluent in most European languages. During the night the marked passages will be translated and Fidel w
ill read them with his breakfast. She is not attractive. Her face is dominated by a large forehead and nose. Her neck is short and her shoulders box-like. But she is very intelligent. I wonder if she would trade her intelligence for beauty. But naturally. Stupid people never recognize their stupidity. Beautiful people enjoy their attraction every waking moment. But the ultimate is to be beautiful and intelligent. We are so very few. I glance across the room where Gomez from Agriculture also waits. He is patiently reading a magazine.

  Again I check my watch; exactly two hours. Abruptly I reach the decision and stand up. The woman raises her head in query.

  “Tell him I’ll be in my office -I have much work to do.”

  As I reach the door she says in puzzlement and consternation, “But. . . ?”

  Outside I brush past the security guards and enter the open lift. They look at me blankly as the doors slide shut.

  On the ground floor I am almost at the entrance when the phone on the security desk rings. I pause while the guard picks it up. Watch as he listens and see his eyes swivel towards me. Still holding the phone he points upwards with a finger.

  “He’ll see you now, Senor Calderon.”

  Going back up I consider my actions. Have I gone too far? Will he explode? People are filing out of the inner office: Moncada, Perez, Valdez and several functionaries. They seem preoccupied but they all greet me respectfully. Inside the woman is standing by the desk. She points at the open door. There is sympathy in her eyes. I go through and immediately know that I have truly gone too far. Fidel is sitting behind his huge desk. Cigar smoke and tension fill the room. His face, his whole demeanour, throws out impatience and anger. Immediately he says, “Calderon! I order you to stand by and you walk out. Impertinence! You show me no respect!”