“Don’t you think it’s time I was told what this is all about?” he said. “I’m involved now, and I’d say I have a right to know what it is I’m involved in.”
He received unexpected support from Leonora. “I agree.” She looked at Denning. “What harm can it do? He’s not going to the police; not when they want him on a murder charge. You yourself said he’s with us now; so I say he ought to know what he’s with us for.”
Denning appeared uncertain, but finally he seemed to come to the conclusion that she was right. “Very well; you tell him. But wait until you’ve had that sleep. It’ll keep until then.”
Fletcher was on the balcony outside his bedroom when Denning drove away. He watched the Aston Martin until it was out of sight, then undressed and got into bed. But tired though he was, he found it impossible to sleep. His brain was too active; it was like a piece of clockwork that had been fully wound up and was going to take a long time to run down. After a couple of hours he gave it up. He shaved, had a shower, put on a shirt and a pair of cotton slacks, and went downstairs.
He found Leonora reclining on a long canvas chair on the terrace and reading a book.
“You too?” he said.
She put the book down and looked up at him. She was wearing sun-glasses with enormous frames.
“Me too?”
“Unable to sleep.”
“It’s the wrong time of day. Besides, I had some sleep in the car.”
“So I recall.” He pulled up another chair and sat down beside her. “Maybe you’d like to tell me now.”
“About what goes on?”
“Yes.”
She put a finger to her chin and seemed to think about it. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”
“How about the beginning?”
“Yes; but where was the beginning? You could go back years and years. You were right, of course; it is political.”
“And Denning is trying to get into power?”
“Oh, no; it’s not like that. Frankly, I don’t think he cares two cents about that side of it. I suppose if things go right he might have some government post if he wants it; but I’m sure that’s not what he’s working for. What he’s doing is more disinterested; you could even say altruistic.”
“And what is he doing?”
“He’s the co-ordinator.”
“I don’t understand,” Fletcher said. “The co-ordinator of what?”
“Of the resistance groups, freedom fighters, guerrillas, revolutionaries — call them what you like. They’re scattered around the island; some in the mountains, some in the towns, some in the villages or on the estates. The groups vary in size; some are quite large, others very small; and the only link between them is here; this is the nerve-centre, where all the strategy is planned and — well — co-ordinated.”
“And they come here?”
“The leaders do occasionally, but as seldom as possible. There are safer ways of contacting them.”
“And Denning gets away with this? The police don’t suspect him?”
“Why should they? He’s very careful. To all outward appearances he’s just a successful lawyer doing his job and enjoying the good things of life. Nobody would connect him with the revolutionary movement.”
Fletcher let it sink in. He was not entirely surprised; he had suspected it must be something like this. But what he was not altogether convinced about was Denning’s disinterestedness, his altruism; it did not fit in with his own impression of the man; he would have said that Denning was very much interested in grasping power for himself and that this was the way he was going about it. To him the guerrillas were probably no more than a means to an end. But he did not put this suggestion to the girl; there was no point in arguing about Denning’s motives. And Denning himself might eventually discover that he had miscalculated; he might find the tool he had used turning in his hand. If the revolutionaries ever did seize power they might choose an altogether different kind of leader and thrust the elegant, wealthy lawyer aside.
“And how,” he asked, “did you become involved?”
“I came to write a story.”
“No kidding?”
She smiled. “No kidding. It’s like I told you; I’m a journalist. Freelance at present.”
“And you just decided that this was a good place to come and find a story? Just like that?”
She must have been aware of his disbelief; it would hardly have been possible not to be.
“There was a bit more to it than that.”
“Tell me,” he said. “We’re not pressed for time.”
She eased up the sun-glasses with her finger and scratched the bridge of her nose; then lowered them again. He preferred her without the glasses; they covered too much of her face, and he liked to see it all.
“All right,” she said; “it was because of Matthew.”
He was not sure he liked the sound of that. “In what way?”
“We went to the same university back in the States. Not one of the classy places; not one you’ll ever have heard of. Redmond, in Illinois. He was there on some kind of grant. We got to be friendly; had a mutual interest in politics; were both leftish.”
“You mean communist?”
“No; I wouldn’t say that. One can be left without being Red. Anyway, when he came back home we used to write to each other. Then he suggested I should come and do a magazine feature on the island’s political set-up. He said he could introduce me to some interesting people. Which, of course, he could.”
“So you came; and instead of writing a story you took a hand in the card-game?”
“Roughly speaking, yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know.” She sounded genuinely puzzled by her own motives. “It just seemed to happen that way.”
Fletcher found himself looking at her legs. She was wearing a pair of shorts which ended just about where her thighs began, and the legs were a deep golden brown. Reluctantly he dragged his gaze away from this enchanting prospect.
“Are you in love with him?” he asked.
“With Matthew?” She sounded lazily amused. “No; it’s nothing like that.”
“He could be in love with you.”
She shook her head. “No; he’s dedicated to the cause.”
“Nobody is ever that dedicated.”
“Perhaps not. Would it bother you if he was in love with me?” There was still that faintly amused note in her voice.
“No,” Fletcher said. “It would only bother me if you were in love with him.”
She gave him a long, probing look through the monster sun-glasses. “Perhaps,” she said, “we’d better not pursue that line of inquiry any further at this particular moment in time. It doesn’t really have any bearing on the subject we were discussing, does it?”
“Perhaps not. So we’ll just leave it on the table for the present. Now tell me about the Spanish Hawk.”
“The Spanish Hawk?”
“The Halcón Español. The boat that was sunk. The boat with five dead men in it. Where does that fit into the picture? Why is everybody so interested in it?”
“Perhaps if I tell you where it came from you’ll begin to guess. It came from Cuba.”
Fletcher did begin to guess. But the fact that the boat had come from Cuba still left a lot to be explained.
“And the men in it?”
“Three Cubans. Two from this island.”
Fletcher nodded. Ideas were taking form in his mind.
“And who killed them? Who sank the boat?”
“We can only make conjectures about that. The President’s agents, undoubtedly; or the C.I.A. A combination of forces, possibly. What is reasonably certain is that the C.I.A., even if they took no active part, were pretty deeply involved in the affair.”
“Now,” Fletcher said, “you must give me some reasons. Why was this boat with these three Cubans and two islanders on board in this area?”