Hurricane Gold Page 12

‘Where’s the other guy?’ said Whatzat. ‘There was three of them.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Strabo, lowering the rifle and peering down the slope. ‘Musta made it to the trees.’

  ‘Get down there and find him,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘We don’t want any witnesses.’

  Strabo and Whatzat ran off awkwardly down the hill.

  Garcia came over to Mrs Glass. He was shaking with anger. ‘Are you crazy?’ he said.

  ‘You got a problem, Garcia?’ she replied, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Sure I got a problem. You just killed seven men in cold blood.’

  ‘They were only Mexicans.’

  ‘I am a Mexican.’

  ‘It was a typical Mexican shakedown,’ said Mrs Glass dismissively. ‘What was I supposed to do, Garcia? Let them rob us, or arrest us, or shoot us, or whatever the hell they were going to do to us? Besides, we need their truck. Now help me get these bodies out of the road.’

  Garcia picked up a dead soldier and gently laid him down next to the safe. He said a few words, then crossed himself and closed the man’s eyes.

  James spotted the skinny officer’s revolver, lying half under his body, and, while Mrs Glass was distracted, he picked it up and stuffed it inside the waistband of his trousers, under his shirt. Then he went over to comfort Precious and JJ, who were crying. Sakata was with them and it struck James that he hadn’t joined in the firefight.

  ‘They are all right,’ Sakata said without emotion and went over to help Garcia.

  Precious stopped crying, wiped her face and shouted at Mrs Glass.

  ‘Is that what you’re going to do to us? When we’re no longer any use to you? Will you shoot us in the road like dogs?’

  ‘I never killed anyone I didn’t have to,’ said Mrs Glass flatly.

  ‘What about JJ?’ said Precious. ‘You’re killing him. He needs medicine.’

  ‘It’s in the hands of God,’ said Mrs Glass.

  ‘God?’ scoffed Precious. ‘What do you know about God?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Mrs Glass and she walked off laughing.

  Twenty minutes later Strabo and Whatzat returned, having found no sign of the last soldier.

  ‘That’s not good,’ said Mrs Glass.

  ‘What can he do?’ rasped Strabo. ‘We’re miles from the nearest town. He’s on foot. We’ll be in Vera Cruz before he can tell anyone what’s happened.’

  ‘It makes me uneasy,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘There could be other patrols around. He could be picked up. We take their truck, it’s going to stick out like a sore thumb. And that damned safe.’ She threw her cigarette down and crushed it under her boot.

  ‘How about we –’ Strabo started to say something but was cut off by Mrs Glass.

  ‘Shut up, I’m trying to think.’

  Strabo immediately stopped talking. James was impressed by how much authority the woman had. These tough men were happy to have her order them about and they never seemed to question that she was in charge. He had seen her in action against the soldiers and saw what a ruthless and expert killer she was. The more he saw of the woman, the more she scared him.

  ‘We need to open the safe and get rid of it,’ she said. ‘Then we need to get rid of the truck and find some other transport.’ She turned to Garcia. ‘You know this area?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Is there any place round here we might find something we can use to get this safe open?’

  Garcia rubbed his mouth. ‘Somewhere off this road, I think there is an old oilfield. My brother was working there. It is closed down, but there could still be some tools there, drills maybe. Perhaps even some dynamite.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Garcia looked around, and then pointed towards a distant, snow-capped peak that soared above the brown hills. ‘That is Pico de Orizaba,’ he said. ‘We keep heading towards it, I think we maybe find the track to the oilfield.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘Now, let’s get to work.’

  They shifted the safe on to the new truck. Then Whatzat climbed into the cab of their old truck and released the handbrake. The truck rolled slowly down the hill and he steered it to the edge of the road. At the last moment, as it bumped over the lip, he jumped clear and watched it roll down the slope, gaining in momentum as it went. The men cheered as it careered into the trees and disappeared, leaving a trail of dust.

  ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Strabo, and he spat.

  ‘Saddle up,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘We’re out of here.’

  Precious looked at James. ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ she said miserably.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said James. ‘When we get to the oil well, we’ll make our move. JJ’s going to be all right.’

  He only wished that he were more confident than he was trying to sound.

  13

  The Devil’s Sweat

  The metal sign was rusted and it looked like someone had used it for target practice – it was peppered with holes and dents. The writing was still just about legible, though:

  MEXICOIL

  Servicios de la exploración y el perforar

  Pozo número 23. Localización Verde De Las Colinas.

  CARACTERÍSTICA PRIVADA

  Underneath was a newer sign, crudely hand-painted with an added skull and crossbones warning of danger:

  MANTIENE DEL PELIGRO HACIA FUERA. INSEGURO. CERRADO.

  The truck pulled off the main road and lumbered up a crude dirt track, winding between high rocky crags. The recent rain had created deep puddles that were unable to drain away into the heavy clay soil. The truck frequently got stuck and struggled to free itself, the spinning wheels sending up a spray of filthy water behind them.

  The track seemed to go on forever and because of the hard going and the tight bends they made very slow progress. The air was cooler and less humid than it had been down by the coast. It was too early in the year for it to get really hot, but in the middle of the day the sun could still get very strong and James and Precious did their best to keep JJ shaded. His lips were dry and cracked and his eyes were red as if he had been crying.

  At last the land opened out and they found themselves on the edge of a large saucer-shaped area that looked like it had been gouged out of the hill. It must once have been a lush, green area full of trees and shrubs and flowers, but the oil-drilling activities had stripped the fertile land away and left a brown, barren scar on the landscape. Tough, wiry weeds were growing here and there but it was mostly a dreary expanse of mud and rock. A small stream meandered its way across the wasteland between great multi-coloured pools of stagnant water. Some were green with algae, others orange from pollution and rust, still more were a horrible purple-brown colour from spilt oil that left a rainbow sheen on the surface. In the far distance they could just make out a tall wooden derrick surrounded by a few abandoned buildings.

  This was an ugly monument to Mexico’s scramble for oil and wealth. But the oil had run dry and the well had been left to rot.

  It didn’t appear to be utterly deserted, though. There was a chain across the road with a warning sign hanging from it, and to the right was a hut with a battered dark green Chevrolet sedan parked next to it. As the truck pulled to a halt two men came out of the hut. They looked surprised to see the new arrivals. One was a heavy-set man wearing a suit and hat, the other was wearing a uniform jacket with baggy white trousers and no shoes. As he stepped into the sun he pulled on a security-guard’s cap and said something in Spanish.

  A third man, also wearing a guard’s cap, peered out of a window. He looked ancient and toothless.

  Strabo and Whatzat got off the back of the truck and walked over to the hut. They soon established that they were Americans and that the man in the suit spoke English.

  ‘You are lost?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve come to view the oilfield,’ said Strabo.

  ‘The well, she is closed,’ said the man in the suit. ‘It is unsafe. There is nothing here.’ He t
ried to wave them away, but Strabo and Whatzat stayed put.

  ‘We’re from a big American drilling concern in Texas,’ said Strabo. ‘We may be interested in buying the place.’

  ‘She is not for sale. She is closed. There is no more oil here.’

  ‘We believe that might not be the case.’

  ‘No, señor, I can assure you, there is nothing.’

  ‘Can’t we at least have a look around?’ said Strabo. ‘We’ve come a long way.’

  ‘Sorry, señor. You have had a wasted trip, I am afraid.’

  ‘What’s in those buildings down there?’

  ‘There are still some tools and equipment here. That is why it is guarded. I am from a salvage firm. We will be removing everything soon.’

  ‘And you said there was nothing here,’ said Strabo, playfully punching the man in the arm and offering him a big, conspiratorial grin.

  The man was not amused. ‘Just go home, please,’ he said, his face turning aggressive.

  ‘Whatzat? What’d you say? Go where?’ said Whatzat. ‘I ain’t going nowhere till I have a look-see what you got in that hut there.’

  ‘Señor!’ said the man in the suit and he put a hand on Whatzat’s arm.

  ‘Whatzat?’ said Whatzat. ‘Can’t hear you.’

  He walked into the hut and the two Mexicans followed him in, shouting angrily.

  James could hear an argument inside, then there was a crashing noise and the man in the suit flew out of the window in a shower of glass and splintered wood. He tumbled down the slope and lay still. A moment later the two guards came out with their hands up and Whatzat prodding them from behind with his gun.

  ‘They finally saw sense,’ he said. ‘We’re free to look around.’

  Strabo checked the man in the suit. His neck was broken. He rolled him out of sight under some bushes, and then unhooked the chain across the track. The two scared guards climbed on to the back of the truck with the children and sat down with their hands on their heads.

  They started down the track. For several minutes they weaved their way between the stagnant pools of water and mounds of discarded earth and stones that had been dumped here when the central area was levelled. Finally they crossed the stream on a rickety wooden bridge and arrived at the derrick and the collection of long, low sheds, their woodwork rotting and collapsing. There was a desolate, bleak air about the place. Rusting machinery was standing abandoned, there were piles of empty oil drums and a big pile of ashes and blackened wood where something had been burnt.

  As James climbed down from the truck his foot went into a puddle and was gripped by the waterlogged slime beneath the surface. It took him some effort to tug it free and it came loose with a squelching, sucking noise, leaving his shoe encased in stinking, yellow-grey mud.

  He wiped it clean on the rear wheel of the truck as Strabo shot the padlock off the double doors of one of the huts and pulled them open. While Whatzat, Sakata and Mrs Glass went off to explore the other buildings, Strabo motioned the rest of them inside.

  This had been a storage shed. There were still some cans of paint in there and some old sacks, spilling their contents out on to the concrete floor. They were mostly full of lime and cement, which must have been used to make the foundations for the buildings and the derrick. The air smelt of chemicals and it caught in the back of James’s throat, but it was good to be out of the sun.

  Strabo found some fencing wire and tied the two guards to a wooden roof support. They seemed resigned to their fate and sat slumped against the post with sad expressions on their brown faces.

  Strabo inspected the paint cans, then clapped James on the back.

  ‘You kids can keep busy painting the truck so’s it’s not so conspicuous.’ He pulled his hunting knife from his belt and handed it to James. ‘Just in case,’ he rasped, and winked. ‘I don’t reckon they’ll try running off, but it’s best to be prepared.’

  James smiled and nodded, acting the tough.

  Whatzat called to them from outside and Strabo went out with Garcia. James walked over to the doors and watched as the gang reversed the truck up to another shed and manhandled the safe off the back and inside. A few minutes later there came the sound of hammering and drilling.

  James and Precious made sure that JJ was comfortable and took the paint over to the truck.

  ‘Why are we helping them?’ said Precious. ‘Why don’t we just pour the stinking paint into their gas tank?’

  ‘We need to keep them sweet,’ said James. ‘Until we can see our chance.’

  The paint was thick and black, designed for weatherproofing external metalwork. It left big drips and lumps all over the truck, but it very effectively covered over the army markings and the original olive-green finish.

  They worked all afternoon to the accompaniment of a relentless, dreary clank, clang, clang from the shed where they were working. They stopped when it grew too dark to see and soon afterwards Whatzat and Strabo came back out, their hands and faces streaked with grime.

  ‘Whoever designed that safe was one sadistic son of a snake,’ said Strabo.

  ‘Ah. Those tools are useless,’ said Whatzat. ‘If we had us some explosives I could get the blamed thing open in five minutes.’

  ‘We’ll take another look round in the morning,’ said Strabo. ‘For now, let’s eat.’

  Whatzat made a fire and cooked supper. Garcia and Precious sat with JJ. Sakata amused himself showing James some more ju-jitsu moves. Strabo got drunk. Mrs Glass sat by herself smoking. The moon shone down on them as it had done every other night. Insects and frogs filled the night with their racket.

  The next morning dawned dull and overcast. The sky a flat, gunmetal grey. There was no breeze and the utter stillness was oppressive. James was up before anyone else and he searched the area for anything that might be of use. Walking helped to clear his head a little and the pieces of a plan started to form in his mind.

  Hidden behind a mound he discovered a concrete bunker built into the side of the hill. There were two lurid warning signs on the door, one with a picture of an explosion, and it was locked with a heavy chain and padlock.

  As Whatzat prepared breakfast, James told him all about it, shouting to be heard and repeating himself often.

  ‘Sounds like an explosives dump,’ said Whatzat with a weaselly grin. ‘Just what we been looking for, kid.’

  James took Strabo and Whatzat over to the bunker. The men hacked the padlock and chain off and gingerly opened the door. Sure enough, there inside were crates of dynamite. Whatzat cleared everyone else away and went in alone to inspect them. He came out a little while later buzzing with nervous excitement.

  ‘We need to be careful,’ he explained, scratching his red neck. ‘They been there a while. The dynamite’s pretty unstable. Sweating. That’s probably why they left it behind. We try and use it like it is, we run the risk of blowing ourselves to hell and back.’

  ‘So whadda we do?’ said Strabo.

  ‘Whatzat?’

  ‘I said whadda we do,’ Strabo shouted.

  ‘We boil it.’

  ‘I ain’t going near the stuff,’ said Strabo, backing off with his hands up. ‘I seen what that stuff can do.’

  ‘The kid can do it,’ said Whatzat.

  Strabo and Sakata fixed up an old oil drum over a fire, well away from the buildings, and half filled it with water from the stream. Whatzat stayed at the bunker with James, supervising him.

  ‘Three sticks should do it,’ said Whatzat. ‘Bring ’em out one by one. The gunk that’s leaking out of them is nitroglycerine. It’s the devil’s sweat, Corona, more dangerous’n you can imagine. You just have to knock it and it goes off. One slip and – bang – instant sausage meat. That’s why they invented dynamite. To make the stuff safer to use. They mix it up with this chalky powder and make it into sticks. But leave it sitting around too long and the nitro starts to ooze out. So, be nice to it.’

  He gently shoved James into the bunker and retreated to a s
afe distance.

  James went over to the nearest open crate, the blood pounding in his ears. There were about twenty sticks in it, each a dull, reddish-brown colour and sticky. Encrusted with white crystals. They looked rotten and evil and deadly. If anything went wrong there wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury.

  Best not to think about that. Clear your mind. Concentrate.

  His hands were shaking.

  He wiped the sweat out of his eyes, took a deep breath and picked a stick up.

  Nothing happened.

  He went back out into the sunlight, holding the horrible thing in front of him at arm’s length.

  ‘Take it over to the fire and put it in the drum,’ Whatzat yelled at him.

  James walked slowly and carefully. He could see Strabo and Sakata hiding behind a rock. He made it without any mishap and lowered it into the boiling water.

  Feeling more confident now, he returned for the next stick and soon there were three of them bobbing in the water.

  Whatzat joined him and peered down at the boiling dynamite.

  ‘The water’ll force the rest of the nitro out,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll skim it off the surface. But don’t get too cocky. The whole lot could still go up at any moment. Learnt all about it in the army, in the war in Europe. I was in the engineers. Blowing up bridges mostly. To me, there’s no more beautiful sight than a big explosion.’

  ‘That how you damaged your hearing?’ said James, hardly bothering with a Mexican accent.

  ‘Whatzat? No. That was later. After the war I turned to blowing up safes. One time in Iowa I got the fuse wrong on some dynamite. Was too close to it when it went off. Had a ringing in my ears ever since. Drives me crazy.’

  As they worked, Whatzat told James all about dynamite. How much to use. How it was made. How it worked. How to cut a fuse. And all the while he delicately skimmed the nitroglycerine off the surface of the water and transferred it to a glass jar.

  ‘When we’ve got enough I’ll pour it into some holes we’ve drilled around the safe’s lock. Like I said, nitro detonates with percussion. That means you hit it to set it off. I’ll probably shoot at it with one of those rifles we took from the soldiers.’