SS Glasgow Castle 35 Chapter Thirty Four

I concentrated on sitting upright in what I imagined was a military manner, on looking p.i.s.sed off instead of frightened, and on the constable's broad neck. It featured a couple of interesting warts, which let me brood a little on how any magnificent specimen of the human race could be felled by a single out-of-order cell. It didn't work for long: I remembered that this country was presently run by an air force lieutenant with a submachine gun on his desk etc., and had to clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking.

No one spoke; I felt the Superintendent's eyes examine me at regular intervals. He was old, and I was old enough to know old people are much smarter than they appear. Experience has taught them the world doesn't care, so they play dumb while thinking private thoughts. I would have preferred a young superintendent.

It wasn't a long drive. The jungle thinned to something that might be called a forest, although it still didn't look as if it might contain helpful dwarves, kind-hearted witches, and s.e.xy Snow Whites. We pa.s.sed a lane with a signpost that said Fort Metal Cross 1/2 mile - I felt my heart jump when I realized this had to be where Avery showed up after escaping from the Swallow. Then we rounded a consecutive bend and suddenly Dixcove lay revealed in front and below: a small, rusty brown town squeezed into a clearing at the base of a small bay.

On the left, the fort's white walls rose atop a large cliff overgrown with gra.s.s and shrubs; I could see the black snouts of the cannon poking out of the embrasures. There was a tiny island with two slender palm trees right in the middle of the bay, maybe two hundred yards from the sh.o.r.e. Small waves splashed against the half-submerged rocks that ringed the island, dappling the water with foam.
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The constable drove down the incline very slowly, and I got a good view of everything. Not everyone was black; I saw several white tourists, all with the quietly alert air of satisfied predators on the prowl. Then the Land Rover turned into a side street adjoining the town market - most of the wooden stalls were empty - and stopped behind another Land Rover, in front of a low white building with the word POLICE painted over the entrance in very big blue capital letters. A policeman lounged about on a small wooden bench to the side of the entrance; he sprang up and saluted very smartly when we got out of the car. Mr. Boswell had clout with his men. He had clout with me too. He scared me, saintly white hair notwithstanding.

I said:

"I don't know what you hope to achieve by bringing me here. I'm not going to answer any of your questions because regardless of what you might think, you don't have the right to ask me any. In fact, you'd do well to just drive me back to my vehicle right now before things get really complicated."

"We'll see," said Superintendent Boswell.

He said something very quietly in a native tongue, and both constables said 'ya.s.sa' and hurriedly went into the building. We followed them in and I found myself in a large whitewashed room with a couple of benches against the entrance wall, a couple of desks in the middle of the floor marking the boundary of the public section. There was a typewriter on one desk and – to my great surprise – a computer monitor on the other. A ma.s.sive wooden door left ajar led to the back of the building; I could hear the constables moving around in there, making suspicious clanking noises.

Superintendent Boswell said:

"Please follow me." He went through to the back, and I obeyed – I followed him. I mean - what could I do? Start running? Freeze right there and end up being physically a.s.sisted by the constables? I suspected a real army major would have known how to deal with this situation. I felt a wave of hopelessness and then another one of anger. My sungla.s.ses slid down my nose again and I jerked them off my face as I went through the doorway.

Beyond it lay a short corridor with entrances to a couple of rooms on the left and a heavily barred window on the right: it afforded the view of a whitewashed wall studded with broken gla.s.s on the top. There was an exceptionally ma.s.sive door at the far end. It had to lead to the jail; it was sheathed in metal and had a small square window, far too small for anyone to squeeze through, yet incongruously crisscrossed with a couple of short metal bars.

Superintendent Boswell entered the closer of the two rooms, beckoning me to follow. It had the standard setup: desk with two chairs on either side. The desk featured another computer monitor and a telephone. If everything was in working order, all he had to do was plug in the modem, click his mouse a couple of times, and I would be screwed. What was worse, I couldn't think of anything that would get me out of that s.h.i.+t. Kross? Kross would probably return to the Toyota, and drive away thirty percent richer. It only made sense.

I sat down in the chair fronting the desk without waiting to be asked. Superintendent Boswell made his way around and settled into his with a weary sigh. He looked at me with new appreciation now that my gla.s.ses were off, and I gave him the most unpleasant stare I could manage. It had no effect. Most likely he was used to getting glares from the criminals he met through his job. I said:

"Could I get something to drink?"

He nodded, and said something in the native lingo to the open doorway - I hadn't shut the door when I followed him in. He didn't raise his voice, yet seconds later the two constables came bustling in. They were carrying rifles, and I came close to p.i.s.sing myself in the second it took me to work out they didn't mean to use them on me, at least not yet. The guns were fairly ancient, bolt-action pieces with oddly blunt business ends; I recalled dimly I'd seen rifles like that in a movie about World War II.

The superintendent issued instructions in a soft voice, and the constables nodded while taking clips of cartridges out of a cabinet by the door and stuffing them into the tops of their thick knee-high socks. They clearly thought they might use those rifles in the near future. They both went out; one came back without the gun, but with a tinkling pitcher of ice and water and two heavy gla.s.ses. He left after the superintendent had unlocked a drawer and handed him a cellular phone, which made me realize that I hadn't seen a radio in the Land Rover. Maybe things weren't completely hopeless yet, and I could bulls.h.i.+t my way through somehow.

I heard a Land Rover being started up outside and wondered briefly where it was headed, but it wasn't really a mystery - the two constables were going to wait for Kross by the Toyota. He'd emerge from the bush to see two rifles pointed at him. But maybe he wouldn't. He was smart. He was a real major. I felt the first twinge of hope since my traffic-directing activities had been brutally terminated.

Superintendent Boswell finished pouring, carefully measuring out a cube of ice into each gla.s.s, and slid one a couple of inches in my direction. I decided I'd let him kick off the conversation. I sipped on my water; it was very good, much better than the warm Volvic I'd been imbibing over the past day.

From where I sat, I could see the fort through the barred window. Its gleaming white walls seemed unreal.; the fort looked too new, as if the slaves had just finished building it yesterday instead of several centuries ago. I noticed that the dark grey cliff on which it stood was pink at the base, where the occasional glimmer of white hinted at the foam and spray kicked up by the pulsating sea. I could feel him watching from the other side of the desk, watching me watch. I kept sipping the water until my gla.s.s was empty. I put it back on the desk.

He didn't refill it. Instead, he opened another drawer, made mysterious rustling noises, and eventually pulled out a big, folded piece of paper - I noticed it was slightly yellowed with age. He unfolded it and slid it over to me, still without saying a word.

It was a Wanted poster. It featured eight male mug shots arranged in two rows: five white faces, two black, one dusky East Indian. The headline, set in an obscure, blocky typeface said that the owners of the featured faces were WANTED FOR TREASON, ARMED ROBBERY, AND MURDER.

Kross was in the top row, second from left. He was wearing a uniform, and I could make out the crown on his epaulette.

At least he hadn't lied when he said he was a major.