Chapter 7 – In the Enemy Camp

It was daylight when Ginger first came to, with a searing pain in his head and a huge confusion as to his surroundings. He blacked out again soon after and such short spasms of consciousness continued throughout the day. During one of these he had a vague impression of a female voice, urgent at his elbow, but there was no-one beside him when he finally regained his senses, some time in the afternoon. Rain was falling on his face as he tried to assess his position and make some sense of what had happened.

He was in a gloomy pit of sorts with a narrow opening at the top through which he must have fallen. He tried to drag himself back to a recess away from the rain and was relieved to find that his limbs, though also aching, responded. His head was still too woozy for him to stand, he discovered, clutching at a wall to prevent himself falling again. The sides were wooden, he realised, with surprise, showing that this was in all probability a man-made store of some kind, or maybe a hiding place – some wartime defensive measure perhaps. Nearby he saw a coconut, ripe and newly fallen. There was also a water bottle that he drank from gratefully. Clearly someone knew he was here.

Of course – the girl! He strained to remember the incidents of the night. Snatches of what he had heard began to filter through. He must get back to Biggles. But another attempt to stand led to a further collapse.

He gazed up at the opening, judging it to be ten or twelve feet above him. Difficult to climb out, especially in his current condition. Some plants were growing towards it, a few smashed by his descent and probably serving to break his fall. The rain, now dropping into a huge puddle, had obviously helped to revive him and he put his head out for it to continue the process. Then he sank back again. He was clearly in no shape to try to escape on his own so there was nothing for it but to wait. Whoever had hit him on the head had certainly found an effective prison. But who was it – and when would they be back?

Despite her own predicament, Worrals felt a wave of elation break over her when she witnessed Frecks' successful take-off, though her heart was in her mouth during the near collision with the jeep. As she had suspected earlier, Captain Pereira had completely underestimated them; it just had not occurred to him that they could be pilots. Hoping to keep the initiative, she spun round on the senior police official, whose intervention had been so useful to them, and pointed out, in faltering Portuguese, how Frecks' action proved how terrified she had been made by the unjustified persecution that Captain Pereira had subjected them to. Perhaps she could now board her plane in peace, since it had not yet departed.

This was always likely to be a vain effort and so it proved. Frecks' escape had, not unnaturally, convinced the official that Pereira had some cause for his actions. All the same, to Worrals' relief, he refused to allow an aircraft to be sent up in pursuit, arguing that she would soon be in international airspace. He would alert the authorities in Portugal and make a special request of their old allies, the British, in Gibraltar. The man was clearly anxious to avoid any international incident that might occur if a British woman in a tiny plane were to be attacked by the Portuguese Air Force. It would not be manly, he said.

Worrals offered up a prayer to the god of chivalry and, for once, approved of this element of male conduct.

Nevertheless, she was left in Pereira's charge for questioning, the older man being now satisfied of the captain's legitimate concerns. That was not so good, since it was now certain that he was working for da Silva.

Pereira respectfully saluted his superior and turned towards her.

'Your friend will not be free for long,' he hissed into her ear, once the older man had walked away. 'We will ensure that the information she has with her will not be delivered. Meantime you will tell us how she got it.'

She was bundled into a police car and driven away.

The afternoon was almost spent before Ginger heard signs of life above him. The rain had come so heavily that his position was becoming more and more unpleasant as the ground became saturated. At least it had stopped now.

He looked up expectantly and then recoiled in horror. Two faces leered down. One was Sam, whose presence had disturbed him so much, but the other, snarling in malevolent recognition, was the man they had called Crazy Jim. The network of this organisation was indeed efficient if it had spirited him not only away from the British police but also safely and undetected to the other side of the world.

Even in this obvious danger, Ginger found a second to puzzle. Sam had discovered him but evidently hadn't administered the blow. So who had?

Up above, the signs were ominous. They were talking in Pidgin, gloatingly. Crazy Jim produced a knife but Sam pointed to something just beside the pit. They laughed insanely and brought up Ginger's gun, which must have dropped there when he fell. No wonder he was nicknamed Crazy Jim, Ginger thought helplessly, trying to squeeze out of sight against the sides of the pit. It was hopeless, though – the Islander still had a clear shot. He held up the automatic triumphantly.

'Gun belong you,' he announced, his white teeth parted in an evil grin. 'You feller die finish quick time.'

Ginger saw him take careful aim, slowly caressing the trigger in a sadistic delight to prolong this moment of anguish.

'You feller stop,' called Ginger desperately, trying to stand and holding up a protective hand, 'or bad trouble belong you.'

Crazy Jim just grinned. The sound of a shot raged noisily about the tiny hollow, as if allied to the thunder, which rumbled overhead, and Ginger collapsed on the ground.

Although Pereira was busy, presumably in trying to do something about Frecks, he was obviously anxious that Worrals should be taken away from the airport as soon as possible, maybe to prevent his superior from having a change of heart. The car, with a grim-faced officer beside a handcuffed Worrals in the back, headed towards the airport exit. There, however, they were stopped by another police officer, with a large and elaborate moustache, in an immaculate uniform and obviously of higher rank than the two in the car, who halted immediately at his summons. It seemed that the chief wanted to keep an eye on Pereira and his doings and this officer was his chosen observer. Not only did he insist on joining them but he also directed the man beside Worrals to sit in the front, while he sat in the back with the prisoner.

'She is my responsibility,' he explained.

This new arrangement found no complaint from Worrals, who had been uneasy at the previous officer's proximity, clearly Pereira's man and sharing some of his amorous nature. The car proceeded away from Ponta Delgado and along the coast. Her new companion asked the others where Pereira planned to join them. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

Worrals had expected them to stop nearby but they had been going for almost half-an-hour when, unexpectedly, they turned off the main road and on to a very minor one which, between villages, became little more than a track. At one of these isolated points, where a thin path led off towards the ocean, they stopped. The driver and his companion lit cigarettes but didn't offer any to their colleague in the back. Worrals was concerned. Bushes all around made this a highly undesirable place for her to be, for she had no illusions about what methods Pereira might use to make her talk. A gull squalled down at them but there was no other sign of life.

From behind came the sound of another vehicle but any hopes Worrals may have held of this were dashed when an official police jeep arrived with Pereira driving. He frowned when he saw the car's fourth occupant, who now approached the captain and explained his instructions.

Worrals caught some of the ensuing argument, enough to understand that Pereira was trying to persuade the other man that his presence was unnecessary and he was free to take the jeep and return.

'Of course,' began the other, 'had I been too late to intercept the car, then . . .'

Pereira smiled. An accommodation might be made. They went off down the path towards the sea to discuss details.

Worrals was horrified. This latest arrival had been her last hope of some official police procedure being in place. Now, apparently, he was about to take a bribe and leave them. Only the wheeling gulls would be witnesses to what happened then.

These gloomy thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a shot. The two policemen were immediately alert. Moments later the man with the spotless uniform, his moustache twitching with anxiety and a gun in his hand, ran up to them with the news that Captain Pereira had been attacked by a gang. He had fired a shot to disperse them but not before the officer had been knocked on the head. They must come with him to help.

All three men disappeared from view. Worrals, squirming in her seat, wondered if she could take advantage of the situation in any way. The handcuffs impeded her but the driver's door had been left ajar. If she could only struggle over to the front . . .

She had almost completed this manoeuvre and was perched uncomfortably in an ungainly position half over the back of the front seats, when the newcomer returned, running towards the car. He gave a half-smile at her predicament.

'No need for that,' he said in English, producing a key. 'Let's have your wrists.'

Worrals obeyed, feeling in something of a daze.

'Now get in the back and keep your head down. Best you aren't seen. I'll just immobilise the jeep so they don't have the chance to follow – if they manage to free themselves, that is.'

He went over to the jeep, opened the inside door and guided it gently into a nearby ditch. Then he ran back to the police car and began to drive along the track again.

'What happened?' asked Worrals from her prone position on the back seat.

'I gave Pereira a tap on the head when he wasn't looking, then did the same to his men while they were gawking at his recumbent form. All worked very nicely. There's a hut down there, incidentally, where you would have been worked over. An isolated spot – one of our worthy captain's favourites. We thought he might bring you here.'

'And who are you?'

'Ah, the disguise must be good. I met you at Raymond's on that interesting evening.'

'Steeley Delaroy,' Worrals cried.

'The very same. Raymond thought you might need someone to keep an eye on you.'

'He didn't tell me.'

'Didn't dare. Frightened of what you might say.'

Worrals smiled wryly.

'He was probably right,' she admitted, 'but I'm very glad to see you. How did you manage it?'

'I've been following you for much of the time – in a variety of disguises.'

'You got on our bus at Furnas,' recalled Worrals. 'Frecks said she thought she'd seen you before.'

'Sat behind you, too. I also sent you the newspaper cutting via Malinda. She's not an agent, by the way. Just hates Pereira. And quite likes me after we went on a couple of dates.'

Worrals frowned.

'I don't know that I approve of that,' she said.

'Oh, she knows the score. I told her I was only here for a few weeks. She enjoyed our times together.'

'You're forgiven, then. But how did you pull all this off?'

'We had it planned as a contingency, posh uniform and all. Once I got the signal that you were in trouble, I alerted that police chief you saw. He thinks Pereira's an upstart after his job and he might be right. He was bound to rise to that particular bait and he's more than a little suspicious about Pereira's little island interrogation centre.'

The road improved as they passed through a village and became a track again. Steeley turned off and stopped before an old barn.

'Watch where you tread,' he said, once he was sure no-one was around. 'A herd of cows went by here an hour ago.'

'So I see,' said Worrals, stepping with care. There was an old lorry in the barn, piled high with produce. From the cab Steeley took a long black dress and a black hood for her head.

'I'm afraid I've widowed you,' he apologised. 'Your disguise, madam.'

Worrals put it on.

'Fancy having to wear this every day,' she commented.

'I'll need to age you a bit more, too,' he said.

She put her handbag on the seat and submitted to the treatment.

'I'll need to do your hands too,' he added, 'and if you can age your legs, it would complete the effect, not that much of them shows under that robe. I'm changing into a farmer, your brother as it happens, in case anyone asks. I am Jose and you are Jeanne, originally French, which should cover any shortcomings you might reveal in Portuguese.'

'How long till they find the car?'

'A while I hope. It's away from the main road and the locals are likely to ignore it. You don't get too close to the police in this kind of system if you're wise.'

'Nor do you question orders if you are one, it seems.'

'I banked on that. Big trouble if you disobey a superior here.'

With Steeley transformed, his moustache removed and his face now rendered weather beaten, they drove off.

'So, where now?' asked Worrals.

'Try to find a boat. Doubt if we'll be able to borrow a plane like your friend.'

'Will our hidden allies be able to help?'

'They already have to some extent. I have a plan to follow at any rate but I don't want to get in touch any more than I need. I only know a few of them and I won't ask about whom you've met. You obviously came up with something good. Did you find out the name of Mr Big?'

'Peter da Silva of Setes Cidade. Didn't your contacts know that?'

Steeley shook his head.

'Different group,' he explained. 'Mine's just anti-Salazar and pro-democracy. You've come across the separate cell that we're really interested in – and they've delivered the goods, by all accounts. My lot are aware of da Silva, though not in that vital context. We're actually heading in that direction now. I thought Ponta Delgado would be too hot for the present.'

Worrals considered.

'Any advantage in going to Setes Cidade?' she queried. 'I don't want to venture into the wolf's lair without a reason.'

'Last place they'd think of looking for you, I'd have thought.'

They were on the main road by this time and Steeley pulled out to overtake a stationary bus.

'And that's going to the very place,' he announced, checking his wing mirror. 'I'll drop you at the stop by the turn off and you can bus in. Still have money?'

'Yes. Won't the handbag be too grand?'

He tossed her an old shopping bag.

'Put it in that. So, what do you think? Might pick up something else. And they won't be expecting you to calmly arrive on the bus.'

'What about you?'

'I'll drive in separately and sell the vegetables. You say some prayers in the church to begin with – kind of thing a mourning widow would do – and then go for a sad stroll, as if you remember coming here on your honeymoon and are reliving the memories. Spend some time on the bridge between the two lakes. Someone might come and see you if I can follow up a lead. He'll mention the word Tubby, or something close to it and you respond with Wilde and take it from there. Tubby's an old friend of mine – I don't see how anyone else could make that connection. If nothing happens, make your way back to the church by sunset. That gives you about two hours. Buy some vegetables from me whatever happens.'

Worrals nodded. Steeley dropped her off just outside a village but they were well ahead of the bus now.

Not without some misgivings, she watched the back of the lorry disappear around the bend. She had little idea of what constructive action she could take in Setes Cidade and was not confident that her ragged Portuguese would serve, even for someone ostensibly French. Maybe she would not be expected to speak at all and just be regarded as a sad figure people would leave alone.

She reached the stop and sat down at the tiny shelter. The bus was soon upon her and she got on. There were about six or seven other passengers but no-one gave her a second glance and she sat quietly on her own.

A bus from the coast road arrived at the stop opposite and two local ladies crossed over to join them. The two drivers exchanged greetings and then her bus had started, a swift right turn preceding a steep climb into misty hills and then a winding descent on the other side.

Ten minutes later they arrived, stopping near to the church, which Worrals recalled from her previous visit the week before. As she entered its grounds, she saw the vehicle start off again on its journey back over the hill. No return trip by that route, then!

As bidden, she entered the church, standing watchfully over the settlement, and sank to her knees. If she had any prayers to offer, they should be for Frecks, she felt, wondering how she was faring and whether Pereira had been able to organise a pursuit. There could be no escape from that, she sighed, unless the radio signal could summon some support. Anxiety troubled her face as effectively as grief would have done and it was no feigned creature of concern, burdened with her cares, who left at length and travelled slowly towards the bridge where the lakes joined - the blue to the left, the brooding green to her right. Perhaps it was the foliage that made the difference, for it was more lavish on the green side. She gazed at this, presenting a dark picture of sombre thought, until she noticed a priest approaching from the side away from the village. He stopped as he reached her.

'You are in grief my child?' he queried.

'It is passing,' said Worrals, who didn't feel she could simulate any extreme emotion to order.

'How peaceful it is,' the priest said. 'It is a beautiful spot this, between the lakes. I often walk here. It prevents me growing tubby.'

Worrals gave a start. The conversation was in Portuguese, of course, but the word used was the appropriate translation.

'Beautiful and a little wild,' she said.

'Walk with me a little, said the priest, 'I must be seen to be offering you consolation.'

'Are you really a priest?' she queried as they turned towards the town.

'Yes, but not of here,' he replied, 'though I do visit from time to time. Such a perfect place for meditation, don't you think?'

Worrals agreed.

'How did you know I was there?' she added.

'I had a delivery of turnips, from your brother.'

'Ah,' said Worrals.

'You wish to know more of our Mr da Silva, I understand.'

'Yes.'

'We are approaching his home at this very moment.'

Of a sudden the peaceful scene seemed tinged with evil. A huge white house rose before them with Greek porticoes adorning its entrance. Her companion began offering words of solace to which she responded. Perhaps there were microphones at the gate.

They walked on.

'Where is my brother now?' Worrals asked.

'Trying to sell his vegetables in the town. Perhaps you could buy some from him. Fill up your shopping bag.'

'I wonder what secrets that house holds,' Worrals mused.

'It would be hard to find out. There are alarms and there are dogs.'

Another widow came towards them, also with a shopping bag, filled, no doubt, with some of Steeley's produce. The black garments were almost like a uniform, rendering the wearer almost nondescript, Worrals thought. That might work to her advantage.

'There may be a way, though,' murmured the priest. 'There must be secrets there that have not been discovered.'

'Were those that we have found in that house?'

'I think not. But until today I was not aware of the particular involvements of Mr da Silva. Why do you ask?'

'They may be especially alert if they know.'

'Lot of cleaning to be done in a large house like that,' he mused and then, to the widow as she passed, 'how goes it with you my daughter?'

Worrals found it hard to restrain a smile at this familiar address to someone old enough to be his mother. But she was all ears at the response.

'I am well, Father, but my sister, Maria, is not well.'

'It is fortunate she will not need to work this evening.'

'Oh, but she will. We were not permitted to clean Mr da Silva's house this morning. He was very busy so we have to go soon. But she has been in bed all day and I fear she will be worse if she has to work. And it is too much to do on my own.'

'I shall pray for her health, my child.'

'Thank you, Father. She cannot afford not to come. Mr da Silva said that if she was sick again he would find another woman to do the job.'

'Perhaps this poor widow could take her place for the evening. It would be good to be engaged in some simple tasks instead of dwelling on your grief,' he added to Worrals.

'Mr da Silva might not like it,' the woman said, doubtfully.

'He might not notice,' the priest said. 'Are you on your way to see her now?'

'Yes, father.'

'Which is her house?'

The woman indicated a small dwelling a few doors along.

'Well,' said the priest. 'I have just met Jeanne and learned of her grief. She has to buy some vegetables. Perhaps if she calls in to Maria's house in about an hour, you will know how Maria is. Then, if Maria is still too ill to work this evening, Jeanne may be able to take her place.'

She seemed happy with this and moved off, Worrals noting carefully the gateway she entered.

'Now here's a chance,' the priest murmured as they continued.

'Are priests supposed to be so active in this way?'

'You would surely not have me neglectful when there is evil in our midst. Now listen carefully. I must tell you about the house.'

'Have you been inside, then?'

'Yes, I substituted here for a while when the old priest died last year. I called on all my temporary flock. Mr da Silva has a large study at the top of the stairs on the right. He also sleeps there, which suggests that any secrets he may have will be in that room.'

'You mentioned dogs and alarms.'

'Not a worry for cleaning ladies. And his intent is to appear a normal and benign member of the community. No armed bodyguards to alert suspicion. Employs poor widows to show himself a benefactor. Attends church regularly. Friends with some of the police. A worthy member of our community.'

They had reached the church now. In the distance Worrals noted Steeley, still selling his vegetables. The priest halted.

'I must call on my Brother in Christ,' he said. 'When you have seen your brother, it would be good for you to ask for one of us to hear your confession. Many ladies in your position become concerned about their mortality – it will be a natural act. Then some prayers before you go back to Maria and her sister Josepha.' He smiled wryly. 'You will need them.'

'I don't doubt that,' assented Worrals.

It was four o'clock and the afternoon was beginning to fade. Behind Steeley's lorry the steep cliffs on the north side of the lake were bleak and forbidding, the lake itself dull and brooding. Steeley had sold most of his merchandise but still had some vegetables left. He brought more out from under a sack.

'I recommend the parsnips,' he informed, 'especially this one. It unscrews at the end and there is a tiny camera inside. You might find something good to photograph.'

He wrapped the vegetables up.

'I have a job this evening,' said Worrals, handing him the money. 'Cleaning lady at da Silva's.'

'Good work. Come back through this part of town afterwards. If I'm not here – and it would be suspicious if I stayed around – follow the directions on this piece of paper. It shows you how to get to the tunnel.'

The paper he handed her was round a plump onion.

'Tunnel?' queried Worrals, putting it in her bag.

'Pedestrians only. I'll be parked at the other end. Not very pleasant, especially at night, but it's only about a kilometre long.'

Worrals nodded and turned away.

'Good luck,' Steeley said. 'I'll come looking if you aren't here by – what time?'

'Eight o'clock,' said Worrals. 'It should only take about two hours, Josepha said.'

She called in at the Manse and the local priest accompanied her to the church.

'I am glad Father John was able to console you,' he said pleasantly. 'I was expecting your request. I am able to hear confession in French if you wish. Father John thought you might prefer that.'

She went through a boring list of mundane faults and sins for his patient hearing and expressed concern that her grief might be considered as questioning the workings of Providence. The priest absolved her gently and understandingly and prescribed some minor penances. Then, following the programme, she knelt before the altar in prayer.

'Stay as long as you like,' said the gentle voice, 'the church is always open.'

He left. Feeling something of a hypocrite, she drew the parsnip from the bag at her feet and unscrewed the base, remaining apparently rapt in meditation for the time. She knelt in prayer with the cord between her fingers and then deftly transferred it beneath her dress and tied it to a suspender. She prayed again, a mental apology to Divinity for the subterfuge and an earnest supplication for assistance and protection. Then, feeling prepared, she stood and left, noting with relief that she was still alone.

It would have been a disappointment and an anti-climax had Maria recovered enough for her duties that evening but Worrals was met with expressions of gratitude and, after a welcome cup of coffee, she and Josepha set off.

The high gates to the da Silva villa were closed but the modernity of the establishment was shown by an inter-com and they were opened by remote control when Josepha announced herself. They walked quickly along the drive to the opulent white portico, illuminated by strategic floodlights. Whatever his other activities, Peter da Silva did not seek to keep his dwelling unnoticed.

Before they reached the door, it was opened with an irritated abruptness and a sharp looking woman, severely slim and darkly clad, awaited them.

'You are late,' she snapped. 'Come in at once.'

She hardly glanced at them, to Worrals' relief. She heard Josepha's comment that they usually had to go round the back and then she was gazing on the inside splendour of the house. A spacious entrance hall gave on to a wide staircase, which led to a landing and a passageway directly ahead, off which da Silva's special room must lie.

'Shall I start upstairs?' suggested Worrals, optimistically.

'No – I do upstairs; Maria does down.'

Worrals nodded and was soon vacuuming, suspecting that the facility of electricity would not be widespread in the area. She had just finished the entrance hall to her satisfaction when a voice came from an adjacent room.

'Maria!'

It was a male voice, peremptory and abrupt. For a moment Worrals did not associate it with herself but, when it was repeated, loudly and close to hand, she remembered, with a shock, that it was addressed to her. She half turned, noting a man as hard faced as the woman – lean and hungry Shakespeare would have said and with an ugly scar across his left cheek.

'Fetch Josepha,' he ordered, then turned on his heel without giving Worrals any kind of searching glance. She had been relieved to find that Maria's facial features were not unlike her own but any close examination would have instantly discerned the difference. Evidently mere cleaning ladies did not rate much attention here, for which she was very grateful.

Moreover the command offered her the excuse she needed to ascend the stairs, which she did with as much alacrity as could be expected of a lady of her years.

She heard the phone ring as she passed da Silva's door and a smooth sophisticated voice answering. Josepha was vacuuming further down the passage and Worrals had to tap her on the shoulder to attract her attention. The widow switched the machine off and nodded at the message. She moved towards the stairs and was actually descending when da Silva burst out of his room and, all sophistication gone, roared out over the hall. Instantly Worrals, who had been lingering unseen behind him, ducked into the room.

Her first priority was a place to hide and she looked anxiously around. On one side were the usual items appropriate to a study: desk, bookcase, wooden panelling. Behind the desk a painting of an ermined nobleman adorned the wall and, further round, heavy golden curtains proclaimed a window. She might be able to slip behind those. To her left, however, was the bed, an imposing four poster, curtained and large. In seconds she was behind it.

She was none too soon. Da Silva returned and went over to the desk. He was tall and dark, fifties probably but still very fit, if the swiftness of his movements was anything to go by.

The man and woman she had already encountered came bustling in. Their master rapped out instructions. Her escape had been reported at last, she realised, and extra vigilance was being urged. They were dismissed and da Silva, after a moment's delay, his brow furrowed in thought, followed them to the door and locked it. Worrals, peering cautiously from her vantage point behind the bed, saw him go over to the portrait and press lightly at a point high up on the frame. There was a barely discernible click and the painting was revealed as being on a hinge, swinging open at his touch to expose a safe behind it. She untied the miniature camera and brought it out in readiness. It was tempting to take a snap now but, fearful of making the slightest noise, she refrained.

Da Silva brought a small box to the desk and unlocked it, taking out a folded document, which he spread out. There were four pages to it and, after looking carefully at each one, he gave an audible sigh of relief. His intercom buzzed. Someone had arrived. Clearly torn between replacing the papers and meeting the newcomer, he hesitated for a second, then strode to the door, unlocked it and, leaving, locked it behind him.

Worrals could scarcely believe her luck. Instantly she was out of her hiding place and over to the desk, camera in hand, noting carefully exactly where the papers lay. When she had photographed each one, adding the wall safe and a framed picture of da Silva and another man for good measure, she slipped quickly back to her hiding place. The key was already in the lock as she regained it.

Once more da Silva locked the door behind him. He scooped up the papers and restored them to the box, replacing this in the safe and closing it so that it appeared to be a picture once more. Then he was ready for his visitor and strode across the room to unlock and fling open the door. The figure that entered was no surprise to Worrals. It was Captain Pereira.