Dillinger - Jack Higgins [20]
There were two bunks, but Rivera had the place to himself. A small table had been pulled down from the wall and the remains of the meal were on it.
'Come in, Jordan.'
He obviously intended a master and servant relationship and the dropping of the 'senor' was merely the first step. Dillinger leaned against the door and took out a packet of Artistas. The Mexican poured cognac into a glass, held it up to the light and sipped a little.
'So I'm Jordan again?' Dillinger said.
'I should have thought that the sensible thing for everyone concerned,' Rivera said. 'Your true identity is of no consequence to anyone but me.'
'Fallon knows.'
'Fallon will do exactly as he is told.'
'And that chief of police, Santos?'
Rivera smiled faintly. 'He has the money. I have his silence.'
'The money was mine,' Dillinger said.
'And from whom did you appropriate it? Let us concentrate on the future, not the past,' Rivera said. 'I needed a man to take charge of a rather difficult mining operation. A hard man to keep those Indians of mine in order. A man who is capable of using a gun if necessary. I should have thought you and your experience would fit the bill admirably.'
'Has it occurred to you that I might have other plans?'
'Hermosa is twenty miles from the nearest railway and there is a train only once a fortnight. The roads, I am afraid, are the worst in Mexico. However, we are linked to civilization by an excellent telegraph line and Santos did assign you to my care. If you misbehave, Santos is prepared to fill the last part of our bargain.'
'And what is that?'
'To turn you over to the American authorities at a border crossing - under your real name, of course.'
Dillinger dropped his cigarette into Rivera's brandy glass.
Anger flared in Rivera's eyes. 'Do your work, that's all I want from you. Do it well and we shall get along. Do it badly ...'
Dillinger opened the door and went out. In a way, he'd won. In the end it had been the Mexican who had lost his temper.
The second-class coach was crowded, mostly peasant farmers going to market, and the great heat, heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies, was not the way Dillinger liked to travel.
He spotted Fallon in a corner by the door, playing patience with a pack of greasy cards. Fallon looked up, his face wrinkling in disgust. 'It's enough to turn your stomach in here, Mr Dillinger.'
'Which explains the second-class tickets,' Dillinger said. 'He wants us to know exactly where we stand.' He pulled his two suitcases from under the table. 'Let's get out of here. There's plenty of room in the first-class end. Another thing, it's Jordan, not Dillinger. Remember that.'
'I'll try,' Fallon said.
They went into the first empty compartment they came to. Fallon produced two bottles of beer from his canvas grip, and sprawled in the corner by the window.
'This is more like it. What do we do if the conductor comes?'
'What do you think?'
Fallon opened one of the bottles and passed it across. 'What did Rivera want?'
'Mainly to let me know who's boss.'
'He must be the great original bastard of all time.'
Dillinger tried the beer. It was warm and flat, but better than nothing. He put the bottle on the floor, lit a cigarette and placed his feet on the opposite seat.
'How come Rivera survived the revolution? I thought men like him were marched straight to the nearest wall.'
'I guess some did, some didn't. Some fish always escape the net.'
Dillinger awakened with a start. The train had begun the cautious descent of a narrow canyon, the coaches lurching together as the engineer applied the brake. Dillinger's watch said 4 a.m. He got up quietly and went past the sleeping Fallon into the corridor.
He stood by the window and shivered slightly as the cold mountain air was sucked in. The sky was very clear, hard white stars scattering towards the horizon, and a faint luminosity was beginning to touch the great peaks that towered on either side. A moment later the canyon broadened and he could see the lights of a station.
He heard Fallon