Chapter 4 - Disturbing Developments

In the event Worrals and Frecks rented the large white house for longer than a week. Some days they would spend in the village but they also came into Ponta Delgado from time to time and followed the tourist routes. Whether they were watched or not they had no way of knowing. They made no secret of their journeys, travelling by bus on each occasion and officially reporting their change of abode, aware that this would be known anyway. As Worrals pointed out, if they were being watched, it meant that Raymond's scheme to use unknown agents to do his investigations had failed, making their position an acutely precarious one. Meantime the only faces they saw regularly were unsuspicious. There were the villagers they greeted when they struggled up a steep narrow road past small houses to the store and the church. The shopkeeper was friendly and the local priest gave them a lift one day. The bus drivers smiled at them but the ticket collector further along the route would mutter morosely as he clipped their tickets. With the bothersome Captain Pereira apparently otherwise engaged, the receptionist at their hotel became cautiously friendly again when they stayed overnight in Ponta Delgado.

A long bus journey one morning took them along the south coast and inland to Furnas, which boasted thermal pools and, not far away, one of the large crater lakes on the island.

'Beautiful spot,' said Frecks, admiring the spectacle of the water with its surround of trees and hills and a distant ruin on its further side. 'Pleasant enough place for a holiday.'

'Which is what we're supposed to be having,' Worrals pointed out, side-stepping a steaming patch of ground before her. 'Watch where you tread. Furnas means furnace, I think, and it isn't called that for nothing.'

'It's beautiful but a bit grim,' decided Frecks. 'Dark green hillside with foliage reaching down to the water's edge; fire smouldering beneath our feet and puffing out steam at us; spooky old ruin, which could be a vampire's lair – all very menacing really.'

As if to brighten things up, the sun emerged for a minute. As it did, there was a momentary flash from the old church building. Worrals frowned.

'Wonder what that was,' she said. 'Look – there it goes again.'

'What do you suspect?'

'Binoculars! Someone is watching us. There, now it's clouded again. Just a brief appearance.'

'And I don't much like that cloud that's come to cover it,' said Frecks with feeling. 'There's a lot of rain up there and it's going to be tumbling down on us at any second. Let's get back.'

A drizzle began as they reached the road. There was a bus shelter there and they hesitated by it.

'Might not be much,' Worrals assessed. 'Let's go back to the town. We can buy some more postcards then.'

'More affectionate greetings for Bill? Lucky your old boy friend came along when he was needed.'

'He's doing a good job of romancing me. No-one would suspect his letters aren't genuine.'

'That's probably because they are. He using the exercise to woo you again.'

Worrals smiled faintly.

'Well, maybe,' she conceded. 'Just as long as he remembers the code at the right times.'

They were striding along the road now, around the bends that led down to Furnas. The rain, having eased to tempt them into the open, now poured down in earnest. They were on a straight stretch for about 300 yards and at the end, where the road bent to the right, was an open gate and a barn nearby.

'I'm getting soaked,' said Worrals. 'Let's duck in here for a minute.'

'I'm all for that,' Frecks agreed and they scurried towards the building. A final spiteful lash caught them just before they reached it and they gratefully sought sanctuary in the wooden structure, which, fortunately, had a sound roof.

'This is awful,' gasped Frecks. 'It's like a monsoon now.'

'Well, we were warned,' said Worrals, philosophically.

'That last surge really did for me,' Frecks continued, peeling off her raincoat. 'This is saturated.'

'So's mine. I think I'll take my stockings off too – they've been splashed pretty thoroughly. Don't want a chill.'

They lay the stockings and the coats on some nearby hay. The barn was home to some farm implements as well and also boasted an ancient and faded brown settee, on which they sat.

'My legs are cold, now,' grumbled Frecks.

'Better than wet,' Worrals assured, laughing.

'It's easing a bit,' said Frecks, getting up and going to the entrance. 'Hey,' she added, staring back up the road, 'there's a car coming. Maybe we could hitch a lift.'

Worrals joined her and gazed at the approaching vehicle and its driver. The lull in the rain gave her a clearer view between the swishes of the windscreen wiper. Frecks was about to jump out and wave when Worrals stopped her.

'Get back, you fool,' she hissed. 'Can't you see who it is?'

Frecks looked more carefully and turned a troubled eye on Worrals. He was out of uniform but, as he swept round the corner, there was no doubting the familiar features of Captain Pereira.

'Well, well,' murmured Worrals. 'He's a long way from his headquarters. Long drive on his day off.'

They returned to the settee.

'Did you guess?' Frecks asked.

'Not exactly but I did wonder what anyone observing us would do when we left. Now we know. Had we been still walking, I wonder if he'd have picked us up. And where he'd have delivered us.'

'Do we carry on to Furnas now?'

'No, I think we'll stay put. He may think we got a lift into the town and be looking for us there.'

'What about the bus?'

'We'll keep an eye open for it and hail it as it goes past. It'll probably pick us up. They're usually fairly casual about bus stops in country areas. Fortunately it'll still be light.'

'And if it doesn't stop?'

Worrals shrugged.

'Then we'll have to sneak down the hill into Furnas and find somewhere to stay the night. Or we could stay here, of course. Plenty of rain water to drink but I've only a couple of apples to eat.'

'Horrid prospect,' said Frecks, feelingly.

In the event the bus did stop for them when, having stuffed still damp stockings into handbags and resumed the slightly drier coats, they waved at the vehicle.

'Ponta Delgado dois,' said Worrals to the driver, having quickly learnt the Portuguese for two.

He laughed and made some comment, which clearly referred to their wet condition. Worrals smiled and she and Frecks took their seats a few rows behind him. They stopped at the lake for another grateful passenger, a man who Frecks thought was vaguely familiar, and as they did so a car overtook them. Worrals nudged Frecks.

'Recognise it?' she queried. 'That's our loyal shadow going past.'

'Did he see us?'

'Don't think so but he'll probably guess we're on here.'

Worrals half expected Pereira to be waiting for them when they struggled up the stairs of the hotel and it was a relief to find the receptionist on her own.

'You are very wet,' she observed, handing Worrals the keys. 'Would you like me to dry some clothes for you?'

'Thank you,' Worrals said. 'Mainly our stockings and coats. We'll get changed and bring the things through to you.'

A few minutes later, Frecks brought the damp clothes while Worrals showered.

'Thanks very much, er . . .'

'Malinda,' the other volunteered. 'These should be dry by the time you go to bed. I'll bring them up to you.'

In fact they were almost in bed when the timid tap came on the door. Worrals opened it and received the clothes. She was about to thank the woman when Malinda put her fingers to her lips and withdrew. Worrals and Frecks looked at each other, perplexed, when the door was closed. Why a routine action such as drying wet clothes should be regarded as confidential was beyond them but both heeded the receptionist's urging of caution. Worrals went to hang up her coat, automatically checking that the pockets were dry as she did so. Her hands encountered paper and she drew out a folded newspaper cutting some days old. It was from an English newspaper and told of a prisoner escaping from a court appearance. There was a photograph and, despite herself, Frecks gasped. It was the face of the man who had tried to kill Air Commodore Raymond.

'So that's why our friend Pereira has been so attentive,' Worrals whispered in Frecks' ear. 'Our friendly Melanesian must have made contact with his bosses. Quite a few of us he'll be able to describe.'

Frecks nodded.

'Especially me,' she mouthed.

Biggles arose the next day knowing nothing of ominous events in England. He gave his talk about policing to the assembled village, gathered in the communal area, suspecting that Ginger would be doing the same thing on the island. This was their ostensible reason for coming and Algy and Bertie were similarly engaged farther north. The Land Rover carried radio and he had spoken to Algy that morning. There was a mutual lack of news and he was beginning to feel a sense of futility about the task. Each village, with its simple huts, its coconut trees and its placid waters, protected from the vagaries of the ocean by the inevitable coral reef, appeared to harbour no more than a rudimentary life style bound by centuries of tradition.

They listened attentively, more from innate politeness than interest, he felt, and then it was over and refreshments were being served: the top of a coconut, severed by a bush knife so he could drink the milk that lay within. On a hot sticky day with thunder threatening, the juice was refreshing. He was picking up Pidgin again quickly but wasn't able to sustain a conversation so sat quietly sipping while the others began to go about their business again. Soon it would be time to load up the vehicle and move on. He wondered when Ginger would be back and if he had found anything.

At length he noted a canoe approaching and recognised Patrick. As the man came ashore he intercepted him and asked if he knew how long Ginger would be. The answer was unexpected and disturbing.

'Friend belong you, him gone,' Patrick said, succinctly.

'Gone!' echoed Biggles. 'When? Where?'

'Him gone quick time. Me fella no lookim this day.'

Biggles was aghast. As far as he could gather, Ginger hadn't been seen since the night before. He wrinkled his brow in perplexity, with no firm idea of what he should do. Dark clouds loomed above him and heavy rain began.

Algy replaced the receiver and turned grimly to Bertie.

'Reception could have been better but it looks as if they've got Ginger.'

'That's bad. Things hotting up down there, then.'

'Just Ginger's disappearance. No activity otherwise.'

'What does Biggles want us to do? Head on down?'

'He'll call us again in a couple of hours.'

'Wish this bally rain would stop. The roads won't be in much of a state if it carries on. And we're a fair way north. Doing no good at all as far as I can see.'

'It would have looked suspicious if we'd all gone south, bearing in mind our supposed duties.'

'Putting the enemy off the scent and all that. Not very successful, apparently. Looks like the agent hasn't contacted him but the enemy has.'

There was a pause, punctuated by the beat of the rain against the vehicle, making the pot-holed road into a series of puddles, spilling over and connecting to create a shallow stream, augmented by sudden brief cascades of water from the overhanging trees.

'Well, there's somebody who doesn't seem to mind the weather,' Algy said at length, noting a dark figure approaching them, apparently oblivious to the deluge. The man stopped and spoke some words in Pidgin.

'I think he wants a lift, old boy,' said Bertie. 'Don't blame him in this weather.'

'Which way?' Algy asked.

The man pointed ahead of them. Algy turned to Bertie.

'Might as well,' he said. 'Help pass the time till Biggles comes through again.'

Bertie nodded.

'Jump in,' Algy called to the man.

He did so, dripping on to the back seat.

'Wet for a walk,' Algy suggested, setting off.

'Less likely to be seen, though,' said the other in Standard English. Bertie, swivelling round and fixing his eyeglass, commented on the switch.

'Learnt it at school,' explained the man, 'and there might have been someone listening.'

'Would that matter?' asked Algy, warily negotiating a muddy pothole.

'It might. I thought you were due in my village today. When you didn't arrive I decided to come and look for you.'

The rain became torrential and Algy was relieved when their passenger told him to look out for a narrow track immediately to his left just around the next corner. He slowed the car to a crawl as he rounded it but even so he would never have found the opening without the expert knowledge of the newcomer. Bushes scraped against the sides of the Land Rover as they drove in and Algy fervently hoped he would not have to back out. Carefully negotiating a leafy bend, he was thankful to come upon a small clearing, bringing the vehicle to a stop beside a small and battered old truck.

Their host now reverted to Pidgin, guiding them down a slight slope into what seemed like a swamp. Wooden houses rose from this on stilts – evidently rain on this scale was not unknown here. Gratefully Algy and Bertie scrambled up the steps of the nearest building to the cover of a house. With its veranda facing away from the rain, a wooden bench, set one side of a door, remained dry and here they sat. The Islander disappeared through this door for a second and then re-emerged with a large vacuum flask.

'Tea?' he offered, handing them two tin cups.

'Yes please,' said Bertie with enthusiasm. 'Music to my ears those words, by Jove.'

The drink was accompanied by cabin bread – large and very hard crackers –and jam, which, in the circumstances, was tantamount to a feast.

'So, what name belong you?' said Algy, crunching and sipping in turns.

'John,' said their host, 'but I don't think we'll be overheard here.'

'Not with this deluge,' agreed Algy, as the rain beat down around them. 'My word, this tea's welcome.'

'I've seldom tasted better,' Bertie confirmed, raising his cup for a moment.

'So, why were you so keen to find us?' asked Algy.

'I was told to,' was the simple reply.

'Who by?'

'The government in Honiara. Special coded message on the radio among the personal notices.'

'What did it say?' asked Bertie.

'"One fella Tom Liana. Holiday belong you, him finish. You come along work quick time or no job belong you." There are many items like that each day – two others on the same broadcast – so it shouldn't have aroused suspicions. Then it went on to say that there were people coming for my job if I didn't go back to work and that informed me about you.'

'Like the messages to the French Resistance during the war,' said Bertie, approvingly. 'Jolly good idea.'

'You have radio, then,' said Algy.

'Yes. Battery, of course – no electricity up here. Still picks up some unusual frequencies.'

Algy's face registered understanding.

'So you're a kind of listening post,' he concluded.

'And mefella listen for good,' John smiled.

'Anything of interest?'

'Something big planned. And they don't like the idea of you fellers being around. They think you know more than you probably do.'

'But look here, old boy,' said Bertie. 'I thought all the main activity was supposed to be in the south.'

'It is – but their main transmitter is to the north.'

'To deflect attention from the head man,' Algy said.

John nodded.

'So how does he go about communicating with them?'

'Someone carries his orders to Auki each day and someone else brings them north. Only in an emergency will he transmit directly. He receives what they send, of course.'

'And who is he?'

John shook his head.

'We only have a code name for him,' he admitted, regretfully. 'He calls himself Prospero.'

Algy and Bertie exchanged glances.

'Can you transmit?' Algy asked.

'No, only receive. I also have to go to Auki from time to time.'

'That reminds me,' said Algy, looking at his watch, 'it's almost time for Biggles to call us up. I'd better go back to the Land Rover.'

'Don't mention me, then. There may be other listeners about. They aren't aware of us yet.'

'It's a bit late to warn him anyway with Ginger missing,' considered Algy. 'Anything else I should tell him?'

'Nothing definite. He'll know about the escape, of course.'

'Escape! What escape?'

John told them.

'You must be the only people on the island not to know. It's been on the news,' he added.

'In that case,' said Algy seriously, 'we can tell him that without compromising anyone.'

Worrals and Frecks, meanwhile, were still engaged in their sightseeing tour, aware of their likely attendants. They enjoyed the lakes - one blue, one green –in Setes Cidade and another in the midst of the island, named, ominously, the lake of fire. They spent a night in Ribiera Grande, San Miguel's second city, on the north coast with a busy Atlantic crashing against its shores with spectacular violence. Worrals wondered where one could launch a boat – little prospect among these breakers, she felt.

Between visits, they stayed at the white house by the village and continued the daily climb to the shop on the hill and the church nearby. There was less of a feeling of being watched here – the steep slope alone would have daunted all but the most enthusiastic observer.

About halfway up, there was a scattering of houses, hard against the road. They were in the midst of these when suddenly an old woman, hooded and dressed in black, the permanent garb of the Portuguese widow, came out of the lone cottage to their left and grabbed Frecks, who was nearest, by the arm, pulling her towards the humble dwelling. Frecks, half-resisting, looked back at Worrals who, unable to resist a smile, followed them to the undistinguished entrance at the back

The windows were tiny and the room they entered was dark. The woman kissed them on both cheeks and scurried further inside.

'What's all this about?' whispered Frecks.

'Search me!'

The widow came back with two tiny corn hats, which she presented to each of them with a flurry of Portuguese that Worrals only half understood. Having completed the presentations, the old lady kissed them again on the cheeks and escorted them back to the street. She waved at them from her doorway and then withdrew. An old man watching from the house opposite laughed at their bewilderment.

'The hats, always the hats,' he said in halting English. 'Every lady visitor to the village, she must give them one of her hats.'

'Very kind of her,' said Worrals doubtfully, putting hers in the shopping bag before resuming the climb.

Rain began as they reached the shop and they lingered inside until it eased. Worrals, fluent in French and with a good ear for languages, was eager to practise her Portuguese and the woman behind the counter was equally ready to chat. It was a faltering attempt at conversation but, despite her limited command of the language, Worrals persisted and the shopkeeper, pleased at her perseverance, spoke more slowly.

'Only a drizzle now,' commented Frecks and with a cheerful farewell, they set off on the return journey, glad that, with a full shopping bag each, it was downhill. As they passed the little house again, the woman appeared, waving and pointing to her head. Worrals smiled and pointed to her bag. The woman waved again and withdrew.

'Lonely, I suppose,' opined Frecks. 'Wonder how long she's been a widow.'

'She didn't say – at least I don't think she did. I'm okay in Spanish but Portuguese is very different – the pronunciation's not the same.'

'You were doing all right in the shop. Pretty good for only a few weeks.'

'I'm getting there, I think. It might be important to understand what's being said later on.'

As they started up the stairs to the house, Worrals stopped abruptly.

'One thing I did understand is that she was anxious for us not to talk about it.'

'Why?' queried Frecks. 'The old man says she gives them to everyone. We weren't being singled out.'

'I wonder.'

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. They put the shopping on the table and then examined the hats. Inside the one that had been given to Frecks was a sheet of paper, secured by sticky tape. Carefully Worrals peeled it off and read the message, quickly grasping its content. It gave a name and a place.

She looked inside her own and found a microfilm. There was no doubt. This was the contact they had come to find. She looked up at Frecks' unspoken question and nodded.

'Put the kettle on, Frecks,' she requested. 'Let's have some coffee.'