‘Perhaps that would be best,’ agreed Hippolyte unwillingly. ‘Could you tell me at least the … er … subject-matter of your communication?’
‘I could not,’ said Rawsthorne severely. ‘It’s a Matter of State.’
‘All right,’ said Hippolyte. ‘I will ask the President. If you would wait here …’ His voice tailed off and he backed out of the room.
Wyatt glanced at Rawsthorne. ‘Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?’
Rawsthorne mopped his brow. ‘If this gets back to Whitehall I’ll be out of a job – but it’s the only way to handle Hippolyte. The man’s in a muck sweat – you saw that. He’s afraid to break in on Serrurier and he’s even more afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t. That’s the trouble with the tyranny of one-man rule; the dictator surrounds himself with bags of jelly like Hippolyte.’
‘Do you think he’ll see us?’
‘I should think so,’ said Rawsthorne. ‘I think I’ve roused his curiosity.’
Hippolyte came back fifteen minutes later. ‘The President will see you. Please come this way.’
They followed him along an ornate corridor for what seemed a full half mile before he stopped outside a door. ‘The President is naturally … disturbed about the present critical situation,’ he said. ‘Please do not take it amiss if he is a little … er … short-tempered, let us say.’
Rawsthorne guessed that Hippolyte had recently felt the edge of Serrurier’s temper and decided to twist the knife. ‘He’ll be even more short-tempered when I tell him how we were treated on our arrival here,’ he said shortly. ‘Never have I heard of the official representative of a foreign power being searched like a common criminal.’
Hippolyte’s sweat-shiny face paled to a dirty grey and he began to say something, but Rawsthorne ignored him, pushed open the door and walked into the room with Wyatt close behind. It was a huge room, sparsely furnished, but in the same over-ornate style as the rest of the palace. A trestle-table had been set up at the far end round which a number of uniformed men were grouped. An argument seemed to be in progress, for a small man with his back to them pounded on the table and shouted, ‘You will find them, General; find them and smash them.’
Rawsthorne said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘That’s Serrurier – with the Army Staff – Deruelles, Lescuyer, Rocambeau.’
One of the soldiers muttered something to Serrurier and he swung round. ‘Ah, Rawsthorne, you wanted to tell me something?’
‘Come on,’ said Rawsthorne, and strode up the length of the room.
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.’
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