The Five Arrows Part 62

Rivas raised his head, stared into the faces of the three men who held open the gates of the Republic. "I am willing," he said. "It might take some planning, gentlemen, but it can be done." He held out his hand to Santiago. The colonel accepted it.

"I am glad you are with us," Santiago said. "In a sense, you are the most fortunate of the four of us. You see, Rivas, if we should all get killed tonight, yours would be the most lasting memorial."

"But why me, Colonel?"

Santiago picked a heavy manila envelope up from the floor. He took out the photographs of the memoir on Franco's Spain that Rivas had written in his own hand. "You see," he said, "if we should all die tonight, the Casa de la Cultura will publish your excellent memoir--with a postscript about your heroic sacrifice."

"But how?" Rivas gasped. "Where?"

"You are surprised, Rivas? Please let me a.s.sure you that there are many of us. We are everywhere where _they_ are. _Claro?_"

"I understand." For a fleeting moment Rivas had been back with the Republic, a free man among free men. Now he was again a prisoner, but with two jailers--Franco and the Republic. Now the Republic could force the other to destroy him. "Yes," he said, "I understand." The Republic, he knew, gave him his choice of executioners or his opportunity to fight for his freedom.

"Well?"

"I am grateful," he said. "I am grateful for the chance to belong to the Republic again."

"Good. We must plan. Shall we drink on it?"

There was a decanter of Scotch whisky on Dr. More's sideboard. Santiago filled four gla.s.ses to the brim, then called for and filled a fifth gla.s.s. "It is for the other who will be with us tonight," he said.

Eduardo was getting the affidavit on Ansaldo from the exile in Marianao.

"To the Republic!"

Hall watched Rivas drink his Scotch in one greedy, hysterical gulp. He quietly filled the man's gla.s.s, shoved the bottle toward him. Rivas downed the second Scotch, reached for the bottle, then changed his mind as his hand was in mid-air.

"Paper," Rivas said. "The desk. I must draw a floor plan of the Emba.s.sy."

At eleven o'clock, Rivas let Santiago and his three friends into the Spanish Emba.s.sy through the rear door.

At ten-thirty, a large but unscheduled military parade started winding through the streets of Old Havana. No one seemed to know what the parade was about, but the soldiers in the ranks thought that it had something to do with a surprise party being given to General Jaime Lobo to celebrate his promotion in rank. It was his old regiment which had been called out at nine that night and ordered into parade formation.

At ten forty-five, the paraders were halted for some reason, and the General's runners motorcycled down along the line of march and told the bandmasters to keep on playing the liveliest of tunes. The order reached the second band in the line just as it stopped in front of the Spanish Emba.s.sy.

A crowd gathered to listen to the band and watch the parade. Santiago, Hall, Rafael and Eduardo casually detached themselves from this crowd at precisely eleven.

Rivas led them quietly up the back stairs. The blare of the bra.s.ses, the booming of the drums, the crashing of the cymbals penetrated every corner of the Emba.s.sy. "G.o.d is with us," he said. "The noise is wonderful."

Hall bit his tongue. A fat lot G.o.d had to do with it! He was crawling behind Santiago, the Swiss automatic in the right hand c.o.c.ked at his hip. Eduardo was behind him, and ahead of Rafael. "Third floor," he whispered. "We turn left at the head of the stairs and climb three steps."

Santiago pulled out his gun as they approached the third-floor landing.

He allowed Rivas to get a few steps ahead of him, to take the three steps which led to the library. "Go in with Rivas," he whispered to Hall. "You too, Eduardo."

They followed Rivas into the dark room. He was standing near a draped wall, motioning to them to follow him quietly. "Behind the drape," he said. Eduardo closed in next to him. He frisked him for hidden knives or guns. "Don't move," he said.

Santiago joined Eduardo and Hall. "Rafael is covering the door," he said. He motioned to Rivas to approach the drape. Eduardo remained at the traitor's heels, the gun in Rivas's back. Hall knew what to do. He waited until Santiago flattened himself out against the wall which paralleled the drape, then he quickly drew the cloth to one side. He found himself facing a large steel cabinet built into the wall.

"Open." Santiago's fingers twirled an imaginary dial before his nose.

"Open it, Rivas."

The frightened man who was both host and hostage raised his hand slowly, fingered the dial, dropped his hand in disgust. He dried his sopping fingers against the front of his jacket, tried again. The tumblers of the lock rose and fell; the lock remained closed. Santiago slowly released the safety catch of his pistol. "What pa.s.ses?" he asked.

"Ssh," Rivas pleaded. "I'll try it again."

"Wait." Hall held a small bottle of brandy up to Rivas's face. "Take a drink. It will steady your hands."

"Many thanks."

"Open it."

"It's coming, Colonel."

Santiago looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch; eight minutes gone. The band would not be under the window all night. He beckoned to Hall. "That white door near the window, Mateo. He says you will find the _Arribas_ in there perhaps."

"I'll try it."

"He's opened the steel door," Eduardo said.

"Keep him covered." Santiago stepped in front of Rivas, opened the door as wide as it would swing. He faced a mult.i.tude of locked steel drawers.

"Let me," Eduardo said. He changed places with Santiago. He was good at picking such picayune locks; the concentration camp on the Isle of Pines was full of native fascists whose careers ended when Eduardo jimmied open the locks that protected their secrets. He could crack them open swiftly, almost noiselessly.

"There's one," he whispered. "Two."

"He has a talent," Santiago said to Rivas.

Hall glided over to the white door of the closet. Like the others, he wore soft-soled rubber shoes. He took a small oil can from his pocket, saturated the hinges and the handle of the white door. Slowly, he opened the wooden door. A book balanced precariously on an upper shelf behind the door started to fall. He grabbed it with his left hand. A rash of invisible pimples spread over his scalp. Too much noise that time, even though the book didn't fall. He held his breath, counted to twenty. The band was still blaring, the drums pounding away. Good old G.o.d!

He ran the slim beam of the dime-store flashlight over the shelves.

_Informaciones, A.B.C._, ah, here, _Arriba_! He turned to signal to Santiago that he had found it, but the colonel had again changed places with Eduardo, was now emptying doc.u.ments from the little steel drawers to the inside of his shirt.

Rafael, standing guard at the doorway, wildly signaled Hall to get to work on the files. He pointed vigorously to the non-existent watch on his narrow wrist.

Hall dug into the _Arriba_ pile. He pulled the top of the 1938 batch to the floor, sat down in front of them. April. May. June. Not here.

Impossible! He sneaked the remainder of the brandy into his throat. Once again. April. He looked at Santiago, working calmly; light flickering over the papers in the drawers, eyes selecting the wheat from the chaff.

The problem is April. It happened in April, 1938. Easy does it. April One. April Two. Three. Four. Seven. Nine. No. No. Not yet.

Santiago was in the middle of the room, his hands crammed with papers.

He beckoned to Rafael, stuffed batches of papers into the major's shirt.

"Got the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Hall said. He forgot to whisper. He climbed to his feet, a yellowing newspaper in his hands. "Got it!"

A door opened on the floor above. "Rivas?" someone on the fourth-floor landing called.

Rafael was still in the room. Santiago held his shoulder, shook his head. Stay here, he motioned. He signaled for Rivas, handed him his own gun. He pointed to the third-floor landing, smiled at the man.

The four men in the room covered the back of Fernando Rivas as he advanced toward the landing, the warm gun gripped firmly in his sweaty hand. They watched him stick his head out of the door, say, hoa.r.s.ely, "Yes. It's all right," the gun hidden behind his thigh.