Siege of Silence Page 9

  I take another sip and marshal my thoughts.

  “Sir, in one word . . . technology.”

  He is looking down at his glass, reflectively swirling his drink. I go on.

  “We rely too much on it, sir. It’s permeated and warped the thinking of our top command. They’ve neglected the simplest and most fundamental rule of war: battles are won by soldiers on the ground. We were beaten in Vietnam by an enemy comprised solely of infantry. In spite of our total air and sea domination. I’d guess that out of every ten million bullets we fired in Vietnam, only one hit a Vietcong. We were blinded to this by computers, sensors, avionics, electronics and all the other tricks in the bag. It’s been that way since World War Two. They’ve forgotten. The first rule for a Commander is to get his men into contact with the enemy on the best possible terms. That’s also the last rule. They’re trying to fight without contact. That can’t be done unless you go nuclear.”

  He nods. “Okay. Following that line what’s wrong with the rescue plan?”

  I drain my glass. “Sir, excuse the language. As I told Mr Komlosy, it’s a crock of shit. . . . “

  PEABODY

  San Carlo

  Day 3

  I hear a slight clatter and open my eyes. The room is lit by a single unshaded bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. There are no shadows. No movement. But I heard a noise. I hold my breath and listen. There’s a slight snuffling. Something catches my eye. It’s hanging over the rim of the food bucket by the door; black, thin and scaly. It twitches. I taste copper in my mouth. I can hear my heart. Is it a snake? Slowly, carefully, I push myself to my feet. The straw palliasse makes a squeaking sound under my palms. The black thing slithers into the bucket. I back up against the wall, trying to think. Whatever’s in that bucket is after remnants of the food. I look around the room for a weapon. There is only the slops bucket; half full and stinking. My eyes jerk back to the food bucket. It topples slowly on to its side and rolls a little. Something slides out. I press myself back against the wall. I’m looking into two bright eyes behind a pointed snout. It’s a rat- black- about ten inches long. It moves, disappearing behind the bucket. I try to think. I can feel pain and realize I’m clenching my fists so tight my nails are digging into my palms. The pain helps to ease the panic. Keeping my eyes fixed on the bucket, I shout, “Guard!”

  It comes out barely louder than a squeak. The bucket moves and the obscene black shape slips behind the bucket. I push myself away into a corner and scream, “Guard!! Guard!!”

  I hear the sound of the outer door, then footsteps. It’s an eternity, then the lock turns and the door opens. The guard is young; a round-faced teenager. He holds his sub-machinegun ready. He sees me crunched into the corner. I point at the bucket. The muzzle of his gun swings towards it.

  “A rat!”

  “A what?”

  The rat moves. It’s hurtling across the floor towards me. I throw myself to one side. I hit the floor feeling no pain. My hands are over my face. I twist and through my fingers see the rat concertina itself into a tiny hole in the corner where I was standing. It appears to get stuck and then like a lump of congealed black oil it oozes through trailing its tail.

  I feel the pain now where my shoulder hit the concrete. The guard is laughing uproariously. With difficulty I climb to my feet. My hands are wet from the sweat on my face. Horror is replaced by rage. I scream at him, “Shut your mouth!”

  He looks at my face and whatever he sees there stills his laughter. He covers me with the gun and moves back a step. Then with a sneer says, “Frightened by a little rat? Don’t worry, Excellency, you are too skinny. You won’t make him a good dinner.”

  I’m thinking of a retort as Fombona appears in the doorway. Still grinning the guard explains about the rat and pantomimes my hurling, my body around the room. Fombona is vastly amused. With exaggerated courtesy, he offers me his sub-machine-gun.

  “Here, pig. Take this to fight the great monster; or would you prefer a field gun?”

  It’s only a yard away. I’m tempted to hurl myself forward to try to grab it. He is watching me; daring me. Stiffly, I say, “I protest against this outrage. You will do something about the vermin in here. There are also cockroaches. Dozens of them.” I point to a dirty brown pile in the corner, the corpses of cockroaches I’ve killed over the past two days. “There are pesticides and rat poison in the Embassy stores . . . which no doubt you’ve looted.”

  He shakes his head benignly.

  “Forget it, pig. The orders are exact. Only the Cuban can agree to anything for your comfort or person.”

  “Then I demand to see him . . . immediately.”

  He shrugs. “He is not here.”

  “When is he coming?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? He’ll come when he wants.”

  “Then get word to him.”

  He gives me a scornful look. “Listen, pig, I’m not your messenger.”

  I control my anger and point at the food bucket.

  “Get that disinfected.”

  He laughs and says to the guard, “He worries about catching a disease. What about the poor little rat catching something from him?”

  They go out giggling like delinquents and the key scrapes in the lock.

  I feel crushingly alone. So alone that I would even tolerate Fombona’s company. I listen to hear if they stay in the office, but their footsteps recede and the outer door closes. I look quickly at the hole in the corner. Is there a snout there? Recessed eyes? No, it’s hyper imagination. I check the rest of the room. There are two other holes, a bit smaller but they look ominous. I have to block them; but with what?

  Another brief inventory. Apart from my shorts there is nothing, and they won’t block all three holes. Besides they are the last shred to my dignity. I look down at the palliasse. Straw and sackcloth. It’s all I have. There’s a dull ache now in my shoulder as I squat down and start tearing the palliasse apart. I don’t think about my future sleep; with those holes unblocked there will be no sleep. I tear three strips of sackcloth and roll them tightly round bundles of straw. I unpick the crude stitching and bind the bundles tight. I have made them too big. I cannot force them into the holes. It takes me half an hour to get the sizes right and the holes firmly plugged. I am sweating freely as I force the last one in, but I am pervaded by a sense of relief. I loathe rats.

  I kick the remains of the palliasse back against a wall and sit down. I rub my shoulder and wonder how long it will take a rat to chew through a plug of straw and sackcloth. A day? A week? An hour?

  When will Calderon come?

  JORGE

  San Carlo

  Day 4

  I climb out the back of the supply truck. Fombona saunters up with a young guard. They tell me about Peabody and the rat. Fombona, his eyes lit with malice, says, “He’s terrified. Turn out that light and put a dozen oversize rats in with him- he’ll babble in minutes.”

  This is an interesting development and I think about it carefully. It could be crucial to the next stage. Finally I give Fombona his orders. For a moment he’s dumbfounded, then he spits on the ground and says in disgust, “You’re wasting your time. Give me a few hours and he’ll be singing.”

  “Do what you’re told. You know your orders.”

  There is a hesitation. This one is another beast in a cage. The slightest flinch and he’ll strike. I look steadily into his eyes. After a minute he drops his gaze and turns away with a curse.

  I glance around the compound. Already the militants are losing their attentiveness. A group of them are sitting with their backs to the fence that surrounds the residence; their guns are at their feet as they smoke long cigars. The group at the gate are sitting in a circle playing cards. Fombona is getting over-confident. I’ll inform Bermudez.

  I walk slowly towards the guardhouse. A group of prisoners is led out from the chancery. Six women all attached to their suicide guards- girls who look to be in their late teens. With their short hair and scruffy clothe
s they are barely distinguishable from the male guards. Would they really blow themselves up? They look cheerful, talking loudly to each other as they walk in a slow circle. Their prisoners are morose and unkempt. One of them, a grey-haired woman, is looking at me with contempt. I turn away and walk to the guardhouse.

  I don’t unlock the cell door immediately. I put my files into a desk drawer and sit down and wait, analysing my strategy. After five minutes three guards arrive. They are carrying buckets and brooms and a shovel. They are grumbling good naturedly. I unlock the cell door and open it. A second later I’m covered in excrement and urine. Peabody is standing two metres in front of me; the bucket in his hand, a look of triumphant hatred on his face. For a slice of a second there is a searing white light in my brain and I want to kill him. I control myself, wipe my face on my sleeve and say casually, “I’m told there’s a problem with rats here.” I gesture at the guards. “They’ll put rat poison in the holes, then plaster them up.” I point at the bottom edge of the door. “There’s a gap there. They’ll put a board and make it flush with the ground. They’ll disinfect the whole room and spray it with insecticide. Your food bucket will be disinfected.” I notice the torn-up palliasse. “They’ll bring you a new palliasse and whitewash the walls.” His expression hasn’t changed.

  I say, “If it had been Fombona who opened that door you’d be dead now.”

  He throws the bucket across the room and sneers, “I’m not some common criminal. You forget who I am.”

  “I don’t. Fombona would have. I’ll be back.”

  I turn. The guards are trying very hard not to laugh. I give them all a look and they don’t have to try any more. They are poker-faced while I give them their orders. I walk out and cross the compound to the residence. The female prisoners and guards are still circling. I’m the object of curious looks. My fury is fermenting. He threw shit over me! His own shit! No greater insult on earth. I suck in a breath. The odour fouls my nostrils; seeps into my brain. He threw shit on me! Wait. Control. I indulge myself. Fury is futile. I will turn the insult back on him. Revenge is more satisfying than rage- more permanent.

  There is a guard at the entrance. He looks at me in astonishment and steps back out of nasal range. Curtly I say, “Take me to the Ambassador’s quarters.”

  I follow him through the door. The entrance hall is tidy. Bermudez has given orders that the buildings must be searched but not looted or damaged. I take little notice of the place. I’m desperate to rid myself of this filth.

  The guard opens a door and stands back. I go through into a luxuriously furnished lounge.

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  He points at a door. “Through the bedroom, comrade.”

  “Follow me!”

  I have to stop myself from running and retching. The bathroom is similar to the one at the hotel but bigger. All tiles and mirrors. I strip off my jeans and shirt and hold them out to the guard. He takes them between forefinger and thumb, distaste on his face.

  “Have them washed and dried . . . and meantime find me something about the same size to wear.”

  He goes out quickly and I turn on the shower taps. After a few seconds, a miracle- the water is hot. They probably don’t know how to turn off the boiler.

  I make it so hot it’s agony- and bliss as it washes me clean. His bottles and soaps are lined up neatly. I find shampoo and luxuriate in the lather. Three times I lather my whole body. Finally, I feel clean.

  By the washbasin is a silver-backed monogrammed hair brush. I like its heavy feel as I pull it through my hair. The guards must have been mightily impressed by Bermudez’s orders not to have looted even that. Wrapped in a towel, I go through to the bedroom. It’s curiously neutral. A large bed, springy blue carpet, modern cream-coloured furniture, but almost devoid of any personal touch. Bedrooms usually reflect the character of their occupants, and this one does. Fastidiously tidy and impersonal. No family photographs, no personal knick-knacks. Just a place to sleep.

  The guard returns. He’s carrying a clean pair of jeans, but a very dirty tee-shirt. The jeans fit loosely. I toss the tee-shirt back at him and open several drawers before I find a pile of shirts. Plain white and plain blue. I choose a blue one. Soft cotton with a button-down collar. It fits perfectly. I roll up the sleeves and look in the mirror. The combination of formal shirt and casual loose jeans looks great. I smooth down my wet hair. The lighter streaks are beginning to fade. It needs more lemon juice and sun. From the corner of my eye I catch the guard smiling.

  ‘I’ll be sleeping here tonight.”

  “But comrade, our leader has ordered . . .”

  “It doesn’t apply to me. When my clothes are dry put them in here.”

  He looks worried as I turn and walk out.

  At the guardhouse, Peabody is sitting in front of the desk. He turns and his eyes settle on the shirt.

  I say, “An immaculate fit. Compliments to your tailor.”

  He doesn’t answer. His face is impassive. I look through into the cell. It’s already clean and I see the fresh plaster in the corners. The guards are whitewashing the walls. I close the door and go behind the desk. He watches silently as I unlock the drawer and take out my files. I put them on the desk and without looking up say, “Peabody, you are all expert on the Latin mind and temperament. You know that what you did was, for a Latin, the worst insult possible short of sexually abusing his wife, mother or daughter. Understand this: if you ever try anything like that again, you will suffer more than your imagination can comprehend. Fombona is almost begging me to allow him a few uninterrupted hours with you. But he would be like a compassionate priest compared to what I would do.”

  I look up. The bastard has a small superior smile on his face.

  “I thought you didn’t use torture.”

  “I never have, but I remember what a Chinese once told me. ‘Insult me once, shame on you. Insult me twice, shame on me.’ I will accept no shame from you.”

  Airily, he waves a hand at the cell door. “Calderon, I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “What?”

  “The carrot and the stick. It won’t work. You think you’re so damned smart but I can read you. I’m not some low level moron. I see right through you. You’re transparent as glass.”

  “Yes?”

  “For sure. First you come on hard to soften me up. Then you’re pleasant. If I don’t respond you get tough again. Then soft, then tough. It’s standard technique by guys like you to confuse and disorientate. You don’t give a damn if there’s rats in there or if I get bitten half to death by bugs. Suddenly you’re Mister Nice Guy, hoping for something in return.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I find myself telling him the truth.

  “Peabody, years ago I was cutting sugar cane. All students help during the harvest. I was billeted with a peasant family. They all worked except for a very old, feeble man. He was over ninety. One night there was a party in a nearby village. All the family went except the old man and me. I was too exhausted- not used to the hard physical work. In the night I got up to take a pee - outside of course. The old man slept on a palliasse on the verandah. He must have died a few hours earlier. There were half a dozen rats on the corpse, feeding. I had to attack them with a stick before they gave up their meal. Since that night I’ve had a phobia about rats. I see that scene in nightmares. If someone locked me in a room with rats it would be torture for me. So I don’t torture you like that.” I gesture at the cell. “What I told them to do is no carrot. I don’t use that technique.”

  I study his face. Does he believe me? I sense that it’s important. He shows nothing; not a flicker.

  “So what technique do you use?”

  “There’s no real technique. I try to persuade, to enlighten even.”

  He snorts cynically.

  “And you’re going to enlighten me?”

  I open a file and select a page and start reading: “ ‘I spent thirty-three
years and four months in active service as a member of our country’s most agile military force- the Marine Corps. During that period, I spent most of my time being a high-class muscle-man for big business, for Wall Street and for the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer for capitalism . . . Thus I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank to collect revenues in . . . I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909 to 1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916.I helped make Honduras “right” for American fruit companies in 1903.’” I look up at him.

  “Ambassador . . . Excellency. Do you know who wrote those words?”

  “Sure. General Smedley D. Butler.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Don’t you have a comment?”

  He gives a bored shrug. “I guess he was unhappy with his pension.”

  I clamp down on my anger.

  “You don’t find it a damning indictment?”

  “No. So there was capitalist exploitation . . . We’re a capitalist country and it’s been Government policy to support our businessmen internationally. Sometimes in the past there have been excesses. That’s part of history. Over the decades, capitalism has become more enlightened.” He leans forward. “During those same decades communism has degenerated into mental oppression.”

  I leaf through the file and quote quietly: “ The day is not far distant when three Stars and Stripes at three equidistant points will make one territory. One at the North Pole, another at the Panama Canal and the third at the South Pole. The whole hemisphere will be ours in fact, as by virtue of our superiority of race it is already ours morally.’”

  I look up and say, “Those words were stated by none other than a President of the United States of America.”

  He nods and his lips twitch into a smile.