Wyatt’s Hurricane / Bahama Crisis. Desmond Bagley

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      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 found Hippolyte plucking pleadingly at his coat, and glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne bleakly. ‘We’ve delivered our message as well as we’re able.’

      He walked with steady dignity down the long room, and after a moment’s hesitation Wyatt followed, hearing Serrurier’s hysterical scream as he left. ‘Do you understand, Mr British Scientist? We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez!’

      Outside, Hippolyte became vindictive. He considered Rawsthorne had made a fool of him and he feared the retribution of Serrurier. He called a squad of soldiers and Wyatt and Rawsthorne found themselves brutally hustled from the palace to be literally thrown out of the front door.

      Rawsthorne examined a tear in his coat. ‘I thought it might be like that,’ he said. ‘But we had to try.’

      ‘He’s mad,’ said Wyatt blankly. ‘He’s stark staring, raving mad.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Rawsthorne calmly. ‘Didn’t you know? Lord Acton once said that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Serrurier is thoroughly corrupted in the worst possible way – that’s why everyone is so afraid of him. I was beginning to wonder if we’d get out of there.’

      Wyatt shook his head as though to clear cobwebs out of his brain. ‘He said, “We do not have hurricanes in San Fernandez,” as though he has forbidden them by presidential decree.’ There was a baffled look on his face.

      ‘Let’s get away from here,’ said Rawsthorne with an eye on the surrounding soldiers. ‘Where’s the car?’

      ‘Over there,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll take you back to your place – then I must call at the Imperiale.’

      There was a low rumble in the distance coming from the mountains. Rawsthorne cocked his head on one side. ‘Thunder,’ he said. ‘Is your hurricane upon us already?’

      Wyatt looked up at the moon floating in the cloudless sky. ‘That’s not thunder,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Serrurier has found Favel – or vice versa.’ He looked at Rawsthorne. ‘That’s gunfire.’

       THREE

      It was quite late in the evening when Wyatt pulled up his car outside the Imperiale. He had had a rough time; the street lighting had failed or been deliberately extinguished (he thought that perhaps the power-station staff had decamped) and three times he had been halted by the suspicious police, his being one of the few cars on the move in the quiet city. There was a sporadic crackle of rifle fire, sometimes isolated shots and sometimes minor fusillades, echoing through the streets. The police and the soldiers were nervous and likely to shoot at anything that moved. And behind everything was the steady rumble of artillery fire from the mountains, now sounding very distinctly on the heavy night air.

      His thoughts were confused as he got out of the car. He did not know whether he would be glad or sorry to find Julie at the Imperiale. If she had gone to Cap Sarrat Base then all decision was taken out of his hands, but if she was still in the hotel then he would have to make the awkward choice. Cap Sarrat, in his opinion, was not safe, but neither was getting mixed up in a civil war between shooting armies. Could he, on an unsupported hunch, honestly advise anyone – and especially Julie – not to go to Cap Sarrat?

      He looked up at the darkened hotel and shrugged mentally – he would soon find out what he had to do. He was about to lock the car when he paused in thought, then he opened up the engine and removed the rotor-arm of the distributor. At least the car would be there when he needed it.

      The foyer of the Imperiale was in darkness, but he saw a faint glow from the American Bar. He walked across and halted as a chair clattered behind him. He whirled, and said, ‘Who’s that?’ There was a faint scrape of sound and a shadow flitted across a window; then a door banged and there was silence.

      He waited a few seconds, then went on. A voice called from the American Bar, ‘Who’s that out there?’

      ‘Wyatt.’

      Julie rushed into his arms as he stepped into the bar. ‘Oh, Dave, I’m glad you’re here. Have you brought transport from the Base?’

      ‘I’ve got transport,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not come directly from the Base. Someone was supposed to pick you up, I know that.’

      ‘They came,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t here – none of us were.’

      He became aware he was in the centre of a small group. Dawson was there, and Papegaikos of the Maraca Club and a middle-aged woman whom he did not know. Behind, at the bar, the bar-tender clanged the cash register open.

      ‘I was here,’ said the woman. ‘I was asleep in my room and nobody came to wake me.’ She spoke aggressively in an affronted tone.

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