CHAPTER THIRTY
The Bluff
He was hopping up and down at the top of the church steps by the open door, a short tubby man with porcine eyes and a none-too-clean white soutane. Father Vicente, pastoral shepherd of the wretched forced labourers.
Van Rensberg’s Spanish was extremely basic and habitually only expressed abrupt commands; that of the priest attempting English was not much better.
‘Come queek, coronel,’ he said and darted back inside. The two men dismounted, ran up the steps and followed him.
The soiled cassock swept down the aisle, past the altar and on to the vestry. It was a tiny room, its main feature a wall cupboard of basic carpentry, assembled and screwed to the wall to contain his vestments. With a theatrical gesture he threw the door open and cried: ‘Mira.’
They looked. The peon was still exactly as Father Vicente had found him. No attempt had been made to release him. His wrists were firmly bound with tape in front of him; his ankles the same; a broad band of tape covered his mouth, from behind which came protesting mumbles. Seeing van Rensberg, his eyes indicated that he was terrified.
The South African leaned forward and tore away the gag without ceremony.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’
There was a babble of terrified explanation from the man, and an expressive shrug from the priest.
‘He says he not know. He says he go to sleep last night, he wake up in here. He has headache, he remember nothing more.’
The man was naked but for a pair of skimpy shorts. There was nothing for the South African to grab but the man’s upper arms, so he seized these and brought the peon to his feet.
‘Tell him he’d better start remembering,’ he shouted at the priest, who translated.
‘Major,’ said McBride quietly, ‘first things first. What about a name?’
Father Vicente caught the sense.
‘He is called Ramon.’
‘Ramon what?’
The priest shrugged. He had over a thousand parishioners; was he supposed to remember them all?
‘Which cabin does he come from?’ asked the American.
There was another rapid interchange of local Spanish. McBride could decipher written Spanish slowly, but the local San Martin patois was nothing like Castilian.
‘It is three hundred metres from here,’ said the priest.
‘Shall we go and look?’ said McBride. He produced a penknife and cut the tape from Ramon’s wrists and ankles. The intimidated worker led the major and the American across the plaza, down the main street and thence to his alley. He pointed to his door and stood back.
Van Rensberg went in, followed by McBride. There was nothing to find, save one small item which the American discovered under the bed. It was a pad of compressed cotton wool. He sniffed it and handed it to the major, who did the same.
‘Chloroform,’ said McBride. ‘He was knocked out in his sleep. Probably never felt a thing. Woke up bound hand and foot, locked in a cupboard. He’s not lying, just bewildered and terrified.’
‘So what the hell was that for?’
‘Didn’t you mention dog tags on each man, checked when they went through the gate to work?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Ramon isn’t wearing one. And it’s not here on the floor. Somewhere in there I think you have a ringer.’
It sank in. Van Rensberg strode back to the Land Rover in the square and unhooked the walkie-talkie on the dash.
‘This is an emergency,’ he told the radio operator who answered. ‘Sound th