Wyatt’s Hurricane. Desmond Bagley
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am the British Consul,’ said Rawsthorne firmly. ‘And if I do not see M. Hippolyte immediately he will be very displeased.’ He paused, then added as though in afterthought, ‘So will President Serrurier.’
The grin disappeared from the officer’s face at the mention of Serrurier and he hesitated uncertainly. ‘Wait here,’ he said harshly and went inside the palace.
Wyatt eyed the heavily armed troops who surrounded them, and said to Rawsthorne, ‘Why Hippolyte?’
‘He’s our best bet of getting to see Serrurier. He’s big enough to have Serrurier’s ear and small enough for me to frighten – just as I frightened that insolent young pup.’
The ‘insolent young pup’ came back. ‘All right; you can see M. Hippolyte.’ He made a curt gesture to the soldiers. ‘Search them.’
Wyatt found himself pawed by ungentle black hands. He submitted to the indignity and was then roughly pushed forward through the doorway with Rawsthorne clattering at his heels. ‘I’ll make Hippolyte suffer for this,’ said Rawsthorne through his teeth. ‘I’ll give him protocol.’ He glanced up at Wyatt. ‘He speaks English so I can really get my insults home.’
‘Forget it,’ said Wyatt tightly. ‘Our object is to see Serrurier.’
Hippolyte’s office was large with a lofty ceiling and elaborate mouldings. Hippolyte himself rose to greet them from behind a beautiful eighteenth-century desk and came forward with outstretched hands. ‘Ah, Mr Rawsthorne; what brings you here at a time like this – and at such a late hour?’ His voice was pure Oxford.
Rawsthorne swallowed the insults he was itching to deliver and said stiffly, ‘I wish to see President Serrurier.’
Hippolyte’s face fell. ‘I am afraid that is impossible. You must know, Mr Rawsthorne, that you come at a most in-opportune time.’
Rawsthorne drew himself up to the most of his insignificant height and Wyatt could almost see him clothing himself in the full awe of British majesty. ‘I am here to deliver an official message from Her Britannic Majesty’s Government,’ he said pompously. ‘The message is to be delivered to President Serrurier in person. I rather think he will be somewhat annoyed if he does not get it.’
Hippolyte’s expression became less pleasant. ‘President Serrurier is … in conference. He cannot be disturbed.’
‘Am I to report back to my Government that President Serrurier does not wish to receive their message?’
Hippolyte sweated slightly. ‘I would not go so far as to say that, Mr Rawsthorne.’
‘Neither would I,’ said Rawsthorne with a pleasant smile. ‘But I would say that the President should be allowed to make up his own mind on this issue. I shouldn’t think he would like other people acting in his name – not at all. Why don’t you ask him if he’s willing to see me?’
‘Perhaps that would be best,’ agreed Hippolyte unwillingly. ‘Could you tell me at least the … er … subject-matter of your communication?’
‘I could not,’ said Rawsthorne severely. ‘It’s a Matter of State.’
‘All right,’ said Hippolyte. ‘I will ask the President. If you would wait here …’ His voice tailed off and he backed out of the room.
Wyatt glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?’
Rawsthorne mopped his brow. ‘If this gets back to Whitehall I’ll be out of a job – but it’s the only way to handle Hippolyte. The man’s in a muck sweat – you saw that. He’s afraid to break in on Serrurier and he’s even more afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t. That’s the trouble with the tyranny of one-man rule; the dictator surrounds himself with bags of jelly like Hippolyte.’
‘Do you think he’ll see us?’
‘I should think so,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think I’ve roused his curiosity.’
Hippolyte came back fifteen minutes later. ‘The President will see you. Please come this way.’
They followed him along an ornate corridor for what seemed a full half mile before he stopped outside a door. ‘The President is naturally … disturbed about the present critical situation,’ he said. ‘Please do not take it amiss if he is a little … er … short-tempered, let us say.’
Rawsthorne guessed that Hippolyte had recently felt the edge of Serrurier’s temper and decided to twist the knife. ‘He’ll be even more short-tempered when I tell him how we were treated on our arrival here,’ he said shortly. ‘Never have I heard of the official representative of a foreign power being searched like a common criminal.’
Hippolyte’s sweat-shiny face paled to a dirty grey and he began to say something, but Rawsthorne ignored him, pushed open the door and walked into the room with Wyatt close behind. It was a huge room, sparsely furnished, but in the same over-ornate style as the rest of the palace. A trestle-table had been set up at the far end round which a number of uniformed men were grouped. An argument seemed to be in progress, for a small man with his back to them pounded on the table and shouted, ‘You will find them, General; find them and smash them.’
Rawsthorne said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘That’s Serrurier – with the Army Staff – Deruelles, Lescuyer, Rocambeau.’
One of the soldiers muttered something to Serrurier and he swung round. ‘Ah, Rawsthorne, you wanted to tell me something?’
‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne, and strode up the length of the room.
Serrurier leaned on the edge of the table which was covered with maps. He was a small, almost insignificant man with hunched shoulders and hollow chest. He had brown chimpanzee eyes which seemed to plead for understanding, as though he could not comprehend why anyone should hate or even dislike him. But his voice was harsh with the timbre of a man who understood power and how to command it.
He rubbed his chin and said, ‘You come at a strange time. Who is the ti blanc?’
‘A British scientist, Your Excellency.’
Serrurier shrugged and visibly wiped Wyatt from the list of people he would care to know. ‘And what does the British Government want with me – or from me?’
‘I have been instructed to bring you something,’ said Rawsthorne.
Serrurier grunted. ‘What?’
‘Valuable information, Your Excellency. Mr Wyatt is a weather expert – he brings news of an approaching hurricane – a dangerous one.’
Serrurier’s jaw dropped. ‘You come here at this time to talk about the weather?’ he asked incredulously. ‘At a time when war is imminent you wish to waste my time with weather forecasting?’ He picked up a map from the table and crumpled it in a black fist, shaking it under Raws-thorne’s nose. ‘I thought you were bringing news of Favel. Favel! Favel – do you understand? He is all that I am interested in.’
‘Your Excellency –’ began Rawsthorne.
Serrurier said in a grating voice, ‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez – everyone knows that.’
‘You had one in 1910,’ said Wyatt.
‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,’ repeated Serrurier, staring at Wyatt. He suddenly lost his temper. ‘Hippolyte! Hippolyte, where the devil are you? Show these fools out.’
‘But Your Excellency –’ began Rawsthorne again.
‘We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,’ screamed Serrurier. ‘Are you deaf, Rawsthorne? Hippolyte, get them out of my sight.’ He leaned against the table, breathing heavily. ‘And, Hippolyte, I’ll deal with you later,’ he added menacingly.
Wyatt