Wyatt’s Hurricane / Bahama Crisis. Desmond Bagley
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his office. The streets were unusually quiet in the fading light and the market, usually a brawl of activity, was closed. There were no soldiers about, but many police moved about in compact squads of four. Not that they had much to do, because the entire town seemed to have gone into hiding behind locked doors and bolted shutters.
Rawsthorne’s place was also locked up solid and was only distinguishable from the others by the limp Union Jack which someone had hung from an upper window. Wyatt hammered on the door and it was a long time before a tentative voice said, ‘Who’s that?’
‘My name’s Wyatt – I’m English. Let me in.’
Bolts slid aside and the door opened a crack, then swung wider. ‘Come in, come in, man! This is no time to be on the streets.’
Wyatt had met Rawsthorne once when he visited the Base. He was a short, stout man who could have been type-cast as Pickwick, and was one of the two English merchants on San Fernandez. His official duties as British Consul gave him the minimum of trouble since there was only a scattering of British on the island, and his principal consular efforts were directed to bailing the occasional drunken seaman out of gaol and half-hearted attempts to distribute the literature on Cotswold villages and Morris dancing which was sent to him by the British Council in an effort to promote the British Way of Life.
He now put his head on one side and peered at Wyatt in the gloom of the narrow entrance. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘We met at Cap Sarrat,’ said Wyatt. ‘I work there.’
‘Of course; you’re the weatherman on loan from the Meteorological Office – I remember.’
‘I’ve got a letter from Commodore Brooks.’ Wyatt produced the envelope.
‘Come into my office,’ said Rawsthorne, and led him into a musty, Dickensian room dark with nineteenth-century furniture. A portrait of the Queen gazed across at the Duke of Edinburgh hung on the opposite wall. Rawsthorne slit open the envelope and said, ‘I wonder why Commodore Brooks didn’t telephone as he usually does.’
Wyatt smiled crookedly. ‘He trusts the security of the Base but not that of the outside telephone lines.’
‘Very wise,’ said Rawsthorne, and peered at the letter. After a while he said, ‘That’s most handsome of the Commodore to offer us the hospitality of the Base – not that there are many of us.’ He tapped the letter. ‘He tells me that you have qualms about a hurricane. My dear sir, we haven’t had a hurricane here since 1910.’
‘So everyone insists on telling me,’ said Wyatt bitterly. ‘Mr Rawsthorne, have you ever broken your arm?’
Rawsthorne was taken aback. He spluttered a little, then said, ‘As a matter of fact, I have – when I was a boy.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Nearly fifty years – but I don’t see …’
Wyatt said, ‘Does the fact that it is nearly fifty years since you broke your arm mean that you couldn’t break it again tomorrow?’
Rawsthorne was silent for a moment. ‘You have made your point, young man. I take it you are serious about this hurricane?’
‘I am,’ said Wyatt with all the conviction he could muster.
‘Commodore Brooks is a very honest man,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘He tells me here that, if you are right, the Base will not be the safest place on San Fernandez. He advises me to take that into account in any decision I might make.’ He looked at Wyatt keenly. ‘I think you had better tell me all about your hurricane.’
So Wyatt went through it again, with Rawsthorne showing a niggling appreciation of detail and asking some unexpectedly penetrating questions. When Wyatt ran dry he said, ‘So what we have is this – there is a thirty per cent chance at worst of this hurricane – so grotesquely named Mabel – coming here. That is on your figures. Then there is your over-powering conviction that it will come, and I do not think we should neglect that. No, indeed! I have a very great regard for intuition. So what do we do now, Mr Wyatt?’
‘Commodore Brooks suggested that we might see Serrurier. He thought he might accept it from a British source when he wouldn’t take it from an American.’
Rawsthorne nodded. ‘That might very well be the case.’ But he shook his head. ‘It will be difficult seeing him, you know. He is not the easiest man to see at the best of times, and in the present circumstances …’
‘We can try,’ said Wyatt stubbornly.
‘Indeed we can,’ Rawsthorne said briskly. ‘And we must.’ He looked at Wyatt with brightly intelligent eyes. ‘You are a very convincing young man, Mr Wyatt. Let us go immediately. What decisions I make regarding the safety of British nationals must inevitably depend on what Serrurier will do.’
The Presidential Palace was ringed with troops. Fully two battalions were camped in the grounds and the darkness was a-twinkle with their camp-fires. Twice the car was stopped and each time Rawsthorne talked their way through. At last they came to the final hurdle – the guard-room at the main entrance.
‘I wish to see M. Hippolyte, the Chief of Protocol,’ Rawsthorne announced to the young officer who barred their way.
‘But does M. Hippolyte want to see you?’ asked the officer insolently, teeth flashing in his black face.
‘I 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