By sundown they had their plan. The prisoner was still inside building No. 2. During the afternoon, guards had come in and out, but Black had stayed put. Everything pointed to a night hit — and there would be no better time than 0300, when everybody concerned should be in the deepest trough of sleep.
At 0130 two men would swim out and place a charge of explosive on one of the ship’s propellers, with a timer set to detonate at 0300. At 0230 four men would work their way round right-handed, overland, to cross the road and come in on the buildings, taking with them a couple of made-up door charges in case they had to blast their way into the gaol-house. By 0255 they’d be in position for an assault on the building, but they’d wait for the ship to go up, and then give it a few seconds to see if the explosion would flush anybody from the buildings. If anyone ran out, they’d drop them, and then go in. Having lifted their quarry, they’d make their way back to the boat cache, but one of them would create a diversion by running off along the airfield road and putting down some rounds towards the strip, as if the rescue party were fighting a battle in that direction. Then, with most of the locals distracted by the fire on shipboard, they’d slip out to sea in the Geminis for a rendezvous with the Endeavor at pre-arranged coordinates.
At 1730 Merv called Tony on the satcom.
‘All set,’ he reported. ‘We’ve got it hacked. We’ll go in at zero-three-zero-zero local, if that suits.’
‘That’ll suit just fine,’ Tony answered. ‘I’ll pass the word along.’
‘Thanks. And maybe you can ask our cabbies to be at the rendezvous by zero-four-three-zero.’
‘Your cabbies?’
‘Our cab-drivers.’
‘OK. They’ll be there. Happy landings.’
SIXTEEN
Down in the jungle we were almost on the equator, so the dawn came up quickly, with none of the long-drawn-out twilight we’re used to in the far north. At 0600 we suddenly felt we were under attack from a deafening chorus of insects. It started in the tree canopy with a kind of moaning twang from what we called the stand-to beetle, and spread down to the crickets and other creatures at lower levels. All at once the clearing was bright as day, and we only had a few minutes to settle the details of our OP, as well as get the aerial aloft.
Murdo and I moved a few yards along the top of the rampart until we found a spot where some branches which still carried dying leaves formed a natural screen. Behind them we shifted lumps of wood and kicked away earth to make a comfortable hollow. As soon as we were settled, Sparky went climbing with his wire, aligning it east to west, with the east end ten feet higher. The standing trees gave us overhead cover, and by the time it was full daylight, we were well set. Unless somebody came walking along the top of the mound — which seemed highly unlikely, because the heap of trees and roots was so rough — we’d be perfectly safe. All the same, I reckoned we were too close to the enemy to risk any cooking, so we had a cold breakfast of corned-beef hash and lemonade out of our water bottles.
As I expected, the locals were up early. Soon after 6 a.m. people came out of the buildings and began moving about. We arranged the stags so that two of us were watching the compound all the time. Most of the earliest activity occurred at the far end; evidently the cookhouse had been set up in the right-hand end of the unfinished block. We soon realized that at least some of the people present were native Indians — tiny, grey-skinned people, wearing nothing but grass skirts. There were also some Colombian guards in DPM fatigues; we couldn’t tell the exact number, as they kept disappearing and reappearing, but we guessed there were about ten in all.
It was at 6.30 that a door opened towards our end of the accommodation block and out came a man who was manifestly neither Indian nor Colombian — a carrot-haired, freckled fellow in a dirty white T-shirt and jeans, carrying a towel.
‘Jesus!’ I whispered to Murdo. ‘One of the players.’
Murdo’s hair and moustache were dark red, but this guy was practically orange. He slouched off to a door at the far end of the block: the ablutions or shit-house, for sure. As he returned a few minutes later, the door of his room opened again, and out came Farrell.
I went into momentary shock. Somehow I’d made up my mind that he was on board the ship, knocking hell out of Black. Not at all. Here he was, stretching and looking round.
‘Don’t move,’ I breathed. ‘This is the fucker I’ve been after.’
So, for the second time, I had a perfect chance to drop him. My mind flashed back to the scene outside the barn in Ulster. Now, as then, I had only to pull the trigger. But if I fired now, Farrell’s mates would surely panic and try to kill their hostages. Even if we dropped all the players, the guards were on hand to carry out whatever orders they’d been given.
Farrell appeared to be looking straight at us, but in fact he was only getting his bearings, and after a moment he too moved off for a piss, with that characteristic dip on the left foot. I let my breath out and turned to Murdo with a shake of my head. Close on Farrell’s heels came a third player, shorter than him, also dark-haired. I recognized him immediately from the restaurant in Bogotá. At about seven o’clock all three moved off in a bunch towards the far end of the compound, heading for the cookhouse.
It was Murdo who drew my attention to the end door of the accommodation block, the left-hand one as we looked across. Like the others it was made of metal, but this one was fastened with a hasp and padlock. ‘I bet that’s where they are,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the only secure room in the place.’
Ten minutes later two of the guards came strolling along. They looked a slovenly pair. They carried submachine-guns that could have been Uzis, or the American version, Ingrams. At the door one produced a key and undid the padlock while the other covered him. The door opened, and out came a handcuffed man also wearing DPMs. For a few seconds I stared in consternation. Who was this? Had we made a mega cock-up and come chasing after the wrong hostage? Had the toads got their wires crossed? Then I clicked. With a jolt I saw that this scruffy character was the DA. He looked filthy and dishevelled and utterly different from when I’d last seen him.
I felt my temper rising as he was taken off under close escort to the ablution area, and then brought back. Where the hell was Luisa? In some other cell, I supposed. As the DA came back towards us I could see that his face was pale and drawn. He looked as though he’d shed ten kilos.
The subsequent events of that day were few and far between. At 8 a.m. a man brought the DA some food in what looked like a couple of mess-tins. At the same time construction work started up on the new building. Cement mixers began churning, and files of Indians portered stuff around. We could also see action in the laboratory, and a glint of bright blue from the stack of drums confirmed my diagnosis that they contained ether.
Not long after work had started, a single shot cracked out from the jungle near the far end of the compound.
‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘They’ve topped somebody.’ I didn’t think it could be one of ours; the DA was certainly inside the gaol-block, and we presumed Luisa was too. We speculated intensely for a few minutes. Could it have been a punishment shooting — the PIRA extending their home methods to the jungle? All was made clear when a commotion broke out in the cookhouse area, and four or five Indians came into view dragging some heavy animal. There was a lot of jabbering and shouting as they pulleyed it up with ropes and hung it on the scaffolding, where they started to skin and butcher it; although we had a fair view of it, we couldn’t make out what the hell it was. From its thick brown coat it could have been a bear, but it looked more like a king-sized beaver. Not until we’d left the jungle altogether did I discover that it must have been a capybara, the biggest rodent in the world.