Hemingway's Notebook (12 page)

There were too many fires, Devereaux thought. Everything about Manet’s camp was wrong. Yet he had to see Manet, to see if there was a way to use him to get himself and Rita off the island.

He had been led up the hills by Mimi, who had walked barefoot on the carpet of the forest, who had seemed—after her first fears—to relax as a child relaxes in the grip of the countryside. The forest was cool and green, and the air carried the scent of unseen flowers, of the tropical pines.

Mimi had taken him to the edge of the camp and turned back to Madeleine two miles down the hills. The hills were complex because the trails led nowhere. Some trails were wide and they stopped very soon. Others were narrow but tangled round and round and turned in on themselves. There were no reference points because the hills were irregular, without distinguishing marks, like certain ridges of low hills that run through western Pennsylvania. Devereaux felt disoriented. He could not see the lights of Madeleine from the place where Mimi left him.

He had buried everything with the dinghy except for the waterproof, which he had taped to his belly. The waterproof held the notebook, the photograph, and ten one-thousand-dollar bills. There was also a letter from Krup-Zema, the international arms dealers in Zurich, explaining everything about him.

The brown-skinned man in camouflage had been there all along. Devereaux had sensed his presence in the bushes not far from the place where Mimi left him. He had studied the camp and not moved while he waited for the guerrilla to come out of the bushes.

“Come on,” the soldier said and he pointed at the center of the camp with the tip of his M-17. It was unprofessional to use a gun as a classroom pointer but Devereaux did not think to move on the soldier’s mistake. He noted it. He noted the make of the submachine gun as well. The piece was new and was showing signs of neglect. The soldier did not keep it clean, but it was new enough not to matter yet.

He did not search Devereaux and seemed unconcerned whether Devereaux was armed.

In the encampment, there were three fires, which Devereaux thought were three too many. He had worked in Vietnam and Laos and Cambodia for the Section for five years. He knew the way a guerrilla lives who does not wish to be spotted or captured. He wondered for the first time what Manet was, besides what he appeared to be.

“You’re one of the journalists,” a large man with luminous eyes said. He came from around a tent near one of the fires. The camp was full of men and women. Some were sleeping, some were cooking, some eating. The camp was around the entrance to some kind of mine long since abandoned that was sunk into a low hill.

“Yes,” Devereaux said in English.

“We have the nun, she is well, we did not kill them,” Manet began in a careful, rumbling, prepared speech. “Are you with the
New York Times
?”

“Yes,” Devereaux said, caught in a sudden trap of wonder. He was prepared for almost anything but this. He stared at Manet.

“Do you want to see her first or do you want to know what happened first?” said Manet. He spoke carefully. “I’m glad you are with the
New York Times
. You will tell the truth about what has happened. The truth must be known soon. Very soon. Before the end begins.”

Devereaux said he wanted to see her. He didn’t know who she was. He did not know about the slaughter of the nuns two days before. He did not know that Rita Macklin, at that moment, was being led to the autopsy room in the basement of the capital to see the dead bodies of Sister Columbo’s companions.

He looked at the wan face of the nun swathed in bandages and bedclothes on a camp bed in the tent.

“My name is Devereaux,” he said in a flat voice. “I’m with the
New York Times
. What happened?”

And she began to tell him and he listened and felt Manet’s presence next to him in the small tent. He had brought no notebook or pencil and Manet had commented on that. Devereaux had tapped the side of his head with his index finger. Manet had not been so certain of him after that but the nun told of her mission, of her interview with Celezon and Colonel Ready in St. Michel for permission to go into the interior, of the ride down the coast road to Madeleine.

“I was in Madeleine,” Devereaux said. “It’s full of soldiers. How could it be your headquarters?” Devereaux looked at Manet.

“It is always the same. We have the countryside, we have Madeleine. The soldiers come and we move away. Sometimes, we fight, but mostly we move away. The soldiers wait and then they are recalled because there are not enough soldiers to maintain them all the time in the field. And then we move back again.”

“But when did the soldiers enter Madeleine in those numbers this time?”

“Three days ago,” Manet said and stared at Devereaux shrewdly. This journalist knew that matters were about to unfold. He would be useful to Manet if he could tell his story in time. There was so little time.

Sister Columbo watched the dark-skinned American with red hair while he spoke to Manet. And she broke in without thinking: “He’s right. He didn’t kill Sister Agnes and Sister Mary. It wouldn’t make any sense to kill them. Besides—”

Devereaux turned and looked at her.

“He wasn’t in Madeleine. I didn’t know that until now. Until you said the soldiers had been there for three days.”

“How do we get Sister Columbo out of here?” Devereaux said.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it is wise to move her in any case. There is a bullet very close to her spine and we have no facilities to operate on her—”

Devereaux looked at the nun. For a long moment, he thought of plans, rejected them, created new ones. But there was no way. He was trapped on the island. If he could escape Ready, it would have to be out the front door, with Rita, out of St. Michel town. And he would never be able to rescue a wounded woman in danger of death if she were moved.

“Something can be done. At least to tell the truth,” said Devereaux because that is what Manet wanted to hear. And then he saw tears in the nun’s eyes and misunderstood. “I’m sorry,” he began.

“No. That’s what I want as well. The truth. Tell the truth about the murders, about the attack, about how Manet saved my life.”

“Yes,” Devereaux lied. “I’ll get the story out. And I’ll get you out in time as well. Don’t worry about that.”

He and Manet talked outside for a long time. They sat at a small fire near the entrance of the abandoned bauxite mine and they drank wine and now and then, Manet would stop and ask Devereaux to repeat something the nun had told him and Devereaux would do so.

“It is extraordinary to have such a memory,” Manet said with a smile. “In your profession, I mean.”

Devereaux said nothing. He probed Manet without seeming to. He watched the camp life while they talked. Everyone seemed so unconcerned, as though it were family camp out in the woods. There were men with M-17s—all of them he saw were American-made M-17s—but none seemed on guard. Manet watched his eyes when Devereaux looked out at the camp and he finally spoke.

“You think we should be more on guard, Monsieur Devereaux?”

“I’ve been to other rebel camps,” he said. “In Laos, Vietnam.”

“They faced a different enemy. One with great ruthlessness and great resources.”

“You do not,” said Devereaux.

“I know my enemy.”

“Is he Colonel Ready?”

“That is one. That is not all.”

“There are Americans in Madeleine,” he said in a flat, even voice and he watched Manet’s eyes. Manet’s eyes grew larger but the calm of his face did not change.

“Journalists.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What were they doing there?”

“Watching the harbor. As though they were waiting for something.”

“Then it’s begun.”

“What?”

“The Americans. The Americans wish to destroy us. They are in league with Colonel Ready. He has had American money.”

“And you have had it,” Devereaux said. It was dangerous but Manet seemed to be taken aback by the presence of Americans in Madeleine.

“St. Michel is a threat to freedom,” Manet said. “If St. Michel becomes a socialist country, I intend to invade Miami within six months.”

Devereaux watched the impassive face and let the sarcasm fall without response. “St. Michel is a dagger pointed at the heart of Alabama,” Manet said.

“Where do your arms come from?”

“From Colonel Ready.”

Devereaux held his breath a moment.

Manet turned his lazy eyes to him across the fire and smiled. His eyes glittered in the fire. “Four months ago, we raided the barracks. The soldiers fled and we took out four cases of weapons and ammunition. What do you think of that? A gift from Colonel Ready.”

“Do the soldiers always run away?”

“No. It surprised me. We never intended to get so much. So many riches.”

“Perhaps Ready wanted you to have the arms.”

“Yes. I thought of that later. But what would be his purpose? The news of St. Michel is not very important to the world. If we rebels are armed, what does it matter to Americans? They don’t care about me, about my men, about this country. So what would be Colonel Ready’s purpose to let me arm myself so well?”

“Perhaps to permit an American invasion,” Devereaux guessed.

Manet smiled for the first time. He seemed too amused not to smile. “Will you write your guess in the newspaper? Will your editor permit this?”

“I don’t know. You know the
New York Times
.”

“Yes. I do. I read it extensively. All the time. I have read it for ten years, monsieur. And you are not a correspondent for that paper. Not in the Caribe, not in Asia. I waited a long time to see what it was you were but you didn’t tell me. Except to count my fires and to notice my weapons. So you are CIA then and you are very brave or very foolish.”

“Neither,” Devereaux said. The voice was steady and that was training. He sat very still and that was training.

“Then tell me another story, monsieur. Convince me of who you are.”

Devereaux did not speak for a moment. He could construct another lie, but Manet had already guessed.

He thought of the camp and looked across at the lazy width of it and he thought he would be shot before he got fifteen feet.

“I’m from Washington,” he began.

“And your name is not Devereaux.”

“My name is Felix Summit.”

“All right. That’s correct. You were in Madeleine three days. Mimi had sex with you two nights ago.”

“Yes.”

“And Mimi brought you to me tonight. Why did you want to see me?”

“To make an accommodation,” Devereaux said.

“It’s too late. The Americans are set to invade. Operation Angel. I know about this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Havana knows. Because I know. Because Colonel Ready knows.”

“But which one told you?”

“Who murdered the nuns?” said Manet. “Colonel Ready will betray you. Colonel Ready is not your friend.”

“But you are, right?”

“If you didn’t think that was possible, Monsieur Summit, you would not have come to my camp alone.”

Devereaux waited a moment. He let the self-delusion sink into Manet. All lies need believers and believers are those who have to believe in something. Manet was on the verge. The eyes revealed themselves now in the red glare of the fire. The eyes were worried, were desperate. The wine and Devereaux’s lies had opened them up.

“Can you stop Angel?” Manet asked.

“It’s stopped. On hold,” said Devereaux.

“Why?”

“The nuns. Something’s wrong.”

“It would not be like you.” Manet turned suspicious again. “Murdered nuns justifies an invasion.”

“But we’re not sending in marines, are we, Manet?” Devereaux guessed.

“No.” He made a face, spat into the fire. “You are sending in Gautier’s contras. Those expelled from the country. The freedom fighters.” Manet spat again. “Trained at your CIA camps in Louisiana. Trained to create civil war and kill their own people.”

“What do you create, Manet?”

“Hope,” he said, almost lyrically. And then frowned to realize it was the same word he had used in accusation against the wounded nun.

“Perhaps we can make a deal,” Devereaux said.

“What deal?”

“Uncle Sam doesn’t want to be played for a chump,” Devereaux said. He paused, trying to be certain he remembered his lies and could separate them from all the information that had suddenly been rushed at him. Manet was telling him everything as though Devereaux already knew the truth. There was too much information about too many things. “We came down here three days ago, we were waiting for Gautier, made sure everything was right—”

“And Colonel Ready crossed you.”

“Someone did. Someone killed those nuns. This isn’t the kind of attention we want.”

“No. You want a fait accompli. To send in the reporters after the fact as you did in Grenada.”

“And why did Colonel Ready let you have all those weapons?”

“To kill Gautier at the beach, I suppose.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it.”

“If Gautier fails, do we try again?” Devereaux prompted. He was going on logic, on what he would have said if he had been the CIA agent named Felix Summit who was dead on the floor in Mimi’s room.

“No.”

“Then what?”

They did not speak. The camp was quiet. The fires burned low. There were whispers in the camp and low voices. The night was full of the sounds of insects and owls and the rustle of the evening wind through the thick trees.

“Nothing,” said Manet. “We are here three years and we have not received anything from Havana. Twice we sent emissaries. They never returned. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Havana doesn’t trust you. Havana thinks you’re a CIA invention.”

“Why do they think that?”

“Perhaps it’s true,” Devereaux said.

Manet stared at him and the fire caught an emotion in his eyes that Devereaux knew was hatred.

“I hate everything you are, Monsieur Summit. I hate the United States and you cannot understand the depth of my hatred. It is not that we are poor and you are rich. It is that you are so certain of your rightness. You cannot understand that even a poor country in a lost cause can be right. If you are great, then we are wrong. The equations are bent to suit your rules.”