Jimmy spotted what he thought would be the best place to make their stand. There was a narrow alley running between the museum and one of the warehouses, which led on to a courtyard. It was a dead end, with walls on three sides and first- and second-floor windows overlooking it.
Jimmy hurried to the end of the alley. The Jeep, with Claire and the crew still gathered behind it, was about three hundred metres away. He put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Jeffers heard it immediately and waved back.
***
The leader of the gunmen was called Mendoza. He had already lost three sisters and two nephews to the plague. Before you start feeling particularly sorry for him, though, you should realize that before the plague came to Puerto Rico he was a gangster and a drug dealer. That is not to say he deserved to lose family members he loved, just that he was not a particularly nice man to start with. Even before the plague, if there was profit in it, he would happily have held hostage the daughter of a wealthy ship owner. His idea of charity was to give the sailors sixteen minutes to give the girl up, rather than fifteen.
Just as the second hand on his expensive watch — stolen from the dead wrist of a plague victim — came round to complete the sixteenth minute, the Jeep behind the gates suddenly started up, the crew crowded on to it and it took off at speed towards the factory buildings.
Mendoza and his gang — now twenty strong — immediately fired off a fusillade of shots after it, but to no effect. They sprang towards their vehicles and crashed through the gates after them.
The Jeep was built for rough terrain, not for speed: while Mendoza had had the pick of the city's abandoned sports cars, so his expensive little convoy was soon gaining ground. The Jeep turned off to the right and disappeared down an alley between two of the factory buildings. Mendoza smiled. He lived nearby and was familiar with the layout of the complex. He knew that this was a dead end; that the Jeep was trapped.
Good. He would enjoy this.
Mendoza led his cars up the alley and out into the courtyard. He saw the Jeep straight ahead — abandoned. The men — the cowards! — had clearly run away, but the girl he was after was standing in front of the vehicle, her head bowed in submission, her face hidden by a baseball cap and her skirt blowing in the cool breeze.
The cars pulled up a dozen metres short of the girl and the gangsters piled out, bristling with weapons. Mendoza signalled for them to stay back.
'She is for me!' he shouted.
All around his followers clapped and wolf-whistled as he fixed his hair and licked his lips and pretended to wipe the worst of the dirt off his clothes. He tucked his gun into his belt and swaggered forward. He had heard her voice on the radio and found it sweet and attractive; then he had glimpsed her through the gates and thought how pretty she was. He had every intention of using her to bargain his way on to the mighty ship, but there was nothing to stop him having a little fun first.
'Hey, pretty rich girl,' he said huskily, reaching out to gently lift Claire's chin, 'what about a little kiss?'
Mendoza's mouth moved towards her as the brim of Claire's baseball cap came up — but it was not Claire's face. It was a man. With a moustache.
'Kiss this,' said Benson, producing a gun from behind his skirt.
For several moments the other gangsters didn't realize what was going on, so busy were they whooping and yelling as their boss went into action, but then Benson's baseball cap fell off and they saw something they couldn't quite believe.
'Drop your weapons or I'll blow his head off!' Benson shouted.
Then they realized.
But they didn't drop their guns.
'Drop them!' Benson shouted. Sweat cascaded down his brow. He was a radio operator. The most dangerous thing he'd done in his life before this was to wire a plug. 'Tell them!' he said.
Mendoza turned his head slightly. But he didn't — or couldn't — speak, not with a gun pointing at him.
And the others hesitated.
They were survivors of the plague and had banded together to increase their chances of surviving. They were teachers and bakers and tailors and civil servants. Most of them had never picked up a gun before. They had been drunk for most of the past four days. None of them particularly liked Mendoza. He was a bully, and mean, but he was also a leader and made decisions when all they could do was argue amongst themselves.
Behind, one of their vehicles suddenly exploded in a ball of fire and they cowered down.
They looked up and saw the sailors standing at windows on every side of them, brandishing bottles of Bacardi with a piece of torn cloth wrapped around the neck. Once lit and thrown, the glass would smash and the alcohol would ignite explosively. It was a lethal mix.
'Drop your weapons and get out of here!' Jeffers shouted from a window on the left of the square courtyard. 'Now!' He pulled his arm back, threatening to throw another bomb.
It was enough.
If they'd been anything other than a drunken mob they might have put up a fight — they had much superior weapons — but they were confused and suddenly in fear for their lives. One man dropped his weapon and backed away; then he started running. Another followed, and another, and soon they were all in flight.
Benson lowered the gun and whispered huskily in Mendoza's ear. 'Are you sure you don't want that kiss?'
Mendoza shook his head violently.
'Then get the hell out of here!' Mendoza didn't need a second invitation. As he fled down the alley the crewmen, together with Jimmy and Claire, stood in the windows on three sides of the square and cheered.
26
The Pizza Incident
The next issue of the Titanic Times included a thrilling account of their adventures on the island of Puerto Rico, but was noticeably short of photographs of Mr Benson in a skirt. There were other photographs however: the funeral pyre; official documents scattered around the deserted City Hall; the Titanic, three-quarters hidden by smoke; and finally the pleasure boat they had commandeered from the harbour at Dorado and piloted back to the ship.
Claire took the first copy off the printer up to her father in the hospital that evening, but they wouldn't let her in. He was too ill. Her mother was showing the first symptoms of the plague as well, and was now sharing a room with him. On her way out of the hospital she saw Ty lying on a bed. When she tried to speak to him she was chased away.
Jimmy was busy printing off two thousand copies, with the delivery team waiting impatiently out in the corridor, when Claire returned, glum-faced. She sat at her desk and began to turn her camera over in her hands.
'Not good?'
'Not good. Ty's there as well.' She kicked at a desk leg. 'Today was incredible and the paper's fantastic, but when it's all said and done we're still on a plague ship and we're all going to die.'
'Speak for yourself.' He lifted the first bundle of papers and went to the door. 'Deck Four,' he told the first boy in line, 'and this time knock on the door and make sure there's someone in. We're wasting too many copies on empty rooms. Leave the rest in the library.'
As Jimmy returned to the printer, Claire took his photograph. 'What's that for?'
'In case something happens to you, so I'll have a picture to put in the paper. Here, take one of me.'
She handed him the camera. He took a head and shoulders shot.
'It's funny,' said Jimmy. 'Scoop told me that every newspaper keeps a collection of photos of people, so that they'll have one handy if they need it. You know what they call it? The morgue. This whole bloody ship is a morgue.'
Claire shook her head sadly. 'They're all dying up there. They're screaming and burning with fever and they just want someone to put them out of their misery. Jimmy — if I catch it, I don't want to be hanging around for days. Will you just push me overboard or something, so I can drown, or the sharks can have me?'