“It was heading for the island, of course, in order to put the men ashore.”
“Secretly?”
“Yes. By night.”
“Ah! And for what purpose were they going ashore? To give aid to the revolutionary movement, perhaps?”
“Naturally. The men from Cuba were experts in various aspects of guerrilla tactics. One of them was Carlos Maria Galeano.”
She paused, as though expecting some remark.
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Fletcher asked.
“Carlos Maria Galeano was one of Castro’s lieutenants in the revolution, and a close friend.”
“I see.”
“That’s why the C.I.A. wouldn’t want the affair made public. Because of possible reaction in Cuba.”
“I don’t quite get that. I should have said they wouldn’t give a damn about reactions in Cuba.”
“And there you’d be wrong. Don’t you know that it’s the policy of the present United States Government to do its best to patch up relations with Cuba? Now what effect do you imagine the revelation that Galeano and two other important Cubans had been murdered by the C.I.A., or at their instigation, would have on any possible détente between the two countries? It would be disastrous. Now do you see how important those photographs are?”
“But surely the Cuban Government will get to know about what happened anyway. It’s bound to leak out.”
“Possibly. But they may choose to ignore such vague reports; to gloss the thing over. After all, it’s to their advantage as well to improve relations with the States. But if photographs and a full account of the incident were to be published, it would hardly be possible for them to ignore the matter, would it?”
“I don’t see why that should bother President Rodgers. What does he stand to lose?”
“Anything that bothers the C.I.A. bothers Clayton Rodgers. He’s on their pay-roll.”
“Ah, of course.”
“It’s my opinion — and here I’m only guessing, mind — that in this instance the C.I.A. rather over-reached themselves and are in trouble back home. So they’ll do their damnedest to cover up what may have been a blunder from the diplomatic point of view. Hence the attempt to bribe you to clear out.”
“I was a fool not to accept the offer.”
“Maybe you were. Frankly, I think you’re lucky to be still alive and kicking. I don’t know why they bothered with trying to buy you off; I’d have expected them just to eliminate you. They’re not noted for being squeamish when they see an obstacle in their way.”
“Perhaps it had something to do with my nationality. The U.K. and the U.S. are supposed to be allies, aren’t they? Nato and all that.”
Her smile was a trifle grim. “If I were you, John, I wouldn’t rely too heavily on that consideration to hold them in check. You’re safer with us, believe you me.”
It might have been so, but he did not feel safe; there were too many people looking for him and ready to do him an injury.
“It’s a funny thing,” she said, “but if you hadn’t taken those photos we might never have known what happened to the boat. All we knew until then was that it failed to arrive at the rendezvous. And even then we might still have known nothing if you hadn’t trusted the film to Dharam Singh, and if he hadn’t spotted the chance of a bit of quick profit by selling the prints.”
“Yes,” Fletcher said, “that was a daft thing to do — letting him have the film, I mean. I should have known he would hang on to some copies. I suppose it was the editor of Freedom who let you know about them?”
“Yes. Actually, he didn’t know the inside story, but he thought he recognised some of the dead men and he made a pretty shrewd guess at what had happened. He was very excited about it, poor devil.”
“Why poor devil?”
“Didn’t you know? He’s dead. They shot him. Resisting arrest. Anyway, before that happened Matthew went along to the place and had a look at the pictures, and of course he saw at once what they were.”
“He was lucky not to be there when the police raided the press. Where was it?”
“In a cellar in Jamestown, under a laundry. But Matthew was well clear before the police moved in.”
“Why didn’t he bring away some copies of the photographs?”
“At that time there was only the one set. They hadn’t got to work on them.”
Fletcher was silent for a while, chewing it over. Then he said: “What I don’t understand is why the guerrillas should be so keen to publish the photographs. What can they hope to gain by it?”
“Nothing directly, perhaps. But anything that might embarrass Clayton Rodgers is grist to their mill. And besides, they’re not exactly keen on the idea of any reconciliation between Havana and Washington. You have to remember also that two of their top men were killed. That in itself would be enough to make them pretty bitter; they wouldn’t need any more logical reason.”
“I suppose not.”
Again they were silent. The magnificent landscape stretched away on all sides; a few white clouds floated around, but no rain threatened. Somewhere a gardener was singing at his work, and the song mingled with the faint sounding of water tumbling over rocks. Fletcher reflected that Conrad Denning had it made: with all this, why should he take the risk of sticking his fingers into the revolutionary pie? Why was he not content with what he had? But some men were never content.
“Is Denning married?” he asked.
Leonora turned her head lazily. “Divorced.”
“Any children?”
“I believe the wife has custody of them.”
“Have you met her?”
“No.”
“So he has no family ties?”
“None at all, as far as I know. He’s not exactly the family man type. Too many other interests.”
“And he could lose everything.”
“How do you mean?” she asked.
“If Clayton Rodgers ever gets to hear of what his dear cousin is doing, that’ll be the end of it.”
“How should he get to hear about it?”
“How did he get to hear about the boat? How did he get to hear about the photographs? Somebody must be feeding him information; somebody who’s in the know. Somewhere in the ranks there’s an informer. Have you thought about that?”
She frowned. “Of course I’ve thought about it.”
“And have you come up with anything? How many people knew about the Spanish Hawk operation?”
“I don’t know. Quite a number, I imagine.”
“Including you?”
She looked startled. “Are you suggesting I might have been the informer?”
“No,” Fletcher said. “What motive would you have for betraying your friends?”
But the thought had crossed his mind, nevertheless; because money was always a pretty good motive in any language, if there was enough of it.
It seemed as if she had been thinking along somewhat parallel lines, for a moment or two later she said musingly: “Though if it comes to the point just about anyone can be bought if the price is right. It’s all a question of finding the right price.”
“Well, it looks as though they found the right price for someone,” Fletcher said. And he was wondering just how safe he was at Denning’s place after all; how safe he was going to be diving from Denning’s boat to take more pictures of the wreck; how safe he was anywhere with this lot. Because whoever had passed the information regarding the Halcón Español and the Freedom press might even now be passing more information — with his name mixed up in it.
“What are you thinking about now?” Leonora asked.
“Hatchet men,” Fletcher said.
Denning returned in the middle of the afternoon. He looked cheerful, like a man who feels that things are running his way. Fletcher wished that he himself had been feeling half as cheerful as Denning looked, and he felt resentful about it. Denning had the aqualung in the boot of the Aston Martin, and showed it to Fletcher.