He drifted up from a deep pit of darkness into a place of shadows. He was lying on an iron cot from which the mattress had been removed and the springs dug painfully into his back.
It was almost dark outside and a shaft of grey light drifted in through a narrow slot in the stone wall, giving definition to the room but no more. It was bitterly cold and he pushed himself up and swung his legs to the floor. Immediately, he was conscious of the pain and touched the side of his head gently and found clotted blood.
'Who's there?' he said sharply.
'Ah, English?' the other said, speaking with a slight accent that Manning couldn't place. 'How interesting.'
'Isn't it just?' Manning said. 'And who the hell might you be?'
The man moved across and sat beside him. 'Sergei Orlov, Major, 31st Regiment of Engineers.'
'A Russian?' Manning said in amazement.
'Georgian,' Orlov corrected. 'There's a difference, you know.'
'So I've heard.' Manning held out his hand. 'I'm Harry Manning. We may differ in politics, but it certainly looks as if we're in one hell of a spot together. Where are we exactly?'
'They call this cell the Hole,' Orlov said. 'It's rather unpleasant. Set in the thickness of the fortress walls. If you think it's cold now, wait until the small hours of the morning. No food, no lights, no mattress.'
'A sort of preliminary softening-up?'
The Russian nodded. 'I'm afraid so. Pity you can't see how elegant it all is. You'll have to wait till dawn for that pleasure.'
Manning's hand instinctively went to his breast pocket and found his lighter. 'Surprised they didn't take this,' he said and flicked it on.
The face that leapt out of the darkness at him was wedge-shaped, the skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones. The eyes were black and flecked with amber and seemed constantly to change colour in the flickering light. The mobile mouth and dark fringe of beard both combined to give an extraordinary impression of vitality.
'They probably forgot to search you in the excitement of beating you up,' he said. 'I don't suppose you happen to have a cigarette to go with the light?'
Manning tried his other pocket and found his leather case. There were half a dozen cigarettes in it and he took one himself and gave another to the Russian. He moved into the centre of the room, flicked the lighter again and held it above his head.
The cell was perhaps fifteen feet square with rough stone walls and a flagged floor. The long narrow slot in the wall which was the window measured no more than nine inches across. The two iron cots were the only furniture and the wooden door was plated with steel. There was a small grille and he peered through into the dark corridor.
'Seems quiet enough.'
'Until someone breaks down and starts screaming.'
'And then I suppose our friend Cienaga goes in and beats hell out of them.'
Orlov shook his head. 'He never enters a cell without an armed guard, and on the night shift he is on his own.'
'So the poor devils just scream themselves into the ground?'
'He likes it that way. Often goes along to the cell and watches them through the grille.'
Manning turned from the door and held the lighter high above his head. It was then he noticed a couple of stout oak beams running from wall to wall about ten feet above the ground. At spaced intervals along their length steel hooks jutted out.
'I wonder what that little lot's for?'
'One can imagine,' Orlov said. 'I must say I prefer to be elsewhere when Colonel Rojas demonstrates.'
Manning slipped his lighter into his pocket and sat down again. 'What in hell are you doing here, anyway?'
'About three months ago, I was motoring to a staff conference along the coast road in Camaguey Province, when the car skidded over the cliffs into the sea. I managed to get clear and tried to swim for the shore. There was a strong tide running and I was carried out to sea.'
'What happened then?'
'A fishing boat picked me up and brought me here. When Rojas got in touch with Havana and informed them I was still alive, they told him to keep quiet about it and to hang on to me.'
'But I don't understand?'
'I'm a missile engineer. A scientist in uniform. That's why they sent me to Cuba in the first place.'
'I get the idea,' Manning said. 'If they can't keep the missiles, at least they'll have an expert in constructing the damned things?'
'Exactly,' Orlov said. 'But I'm afraid Colonel Rojas and I don't see eye-to-eye on the matter.'
'You know, somehow I don't think Moscow would be very pleased about this,' Manning said.
'The understatement of the age.' Orlov sighed and shook his head. 'I shall never understand why we had to become involved with these miserable people in the first place. One of Nikita's more inspired blunders.'
'I'll second that.'
'And you?' Orlov asked. 'Why are you here?'
Under the circumstances there seemed no reason to make a secret of it and Manning told him the whole story.
When he had finished, Orlov shook his head. 'Rojas is obviously determined to have his way with both of us and I should imagine his methods leave a lot to be desired.'
Manning got to his feet, went to the door and peered out into the dark corridor. He could just see the iron-barred gate that led into the gallery and light splashed under the door of Cienaga's room.
'What's the chicken wire for?'
'A prisoner jumped into the hall a couple of months ago when he was being taken for questioning. Rojas wasn't too pleased. Flogged the soldiers concerned.'
'I noticed a similar gallery on the other side of the hall. There was no wire up there.'
'That's the officers' quarters. They kept me in a room there at first. Treated me quite well until I turned awkward.'
'And this is supposed to make you see the light?'
'That's the general idea, but I'm afraid he's picked on the wrong man. My parents were killed in the war and I was a partisan fighter at fifteen. Colonel Rojas may well break his teeth on me.'
'Ever thought of getting out?'
Orlov laughed softly. 'Frequently, but it's impossible. Even if one got out of the cell there are at least four more gates to pass through, each one locked and guarded.'
'But what if one could bypass the gates?'
'I don't understand.'
Manning moved back to the bed and sat down. 'The main roof out there is held up by huge beams which are supported by a stone ledge at either end and running the full width of the hall.'
'So?'
'An active man could cross that ledge to the officers' quarters.'
'A desperate man, you mean. The ledge is perhaps nine inches wide and it's eighty feet down to those flags.'
'Would you be willing to try?'
'Certainly, but you've forgotten one small point. It would first be necessary to get out of the cell and onto the gallery. How do you suggest we accomplish this?'
'By getting Cienaga in here and relieving him of his keys.'
'But I have already told you,' Orlov said patiently. 'Cienaga never enters the cells without an armed guard and at night he is on his own. Even if we created a disturbance or started a fight to attract him, he would simply stand outside the door enjoying himself.'
'What do you think would happen to him if one of his prisoners committed suicide? One of his special prisoners?'
'Rojas would have his hide?'
'Exactly.' Manning stood up, flicked on his lighter and held it to the ceiling. 'So what would Cienaga do if he looked through that grille and saw one of us hanging from a hook up there?'
'He would come in,' the Russian answered automatically and then the implication of his words seemed to hit him and he jumped to his feet excitedly. 'By God, you've got it, Manning. As long as there was a chance of cutting the body down in time, he'd have to come in. His fear of what Rojas might do to him would drive every other thought from his head.'
'That's what I thought,' Manning said. 'I'm only worried about one thing. The noise when we jump him. He's certain to put up a fight.'
'No one will take any notice. As I said before, there are rows up here every night.'
'Okay, then,' Manning said. 'All we need now is a way of faking the thing.'
That shouldn't be too difficult. As I am smaller than you, I shall take the post of honour while you scream hysterically at the door. Let me have your belt.'
Manning gave it to him and then held up his lighter so that the Russian could work in its glow. He fastened his own belt around his waist under the armpits and then buckled Manning's through it, forming a loop which he pushed round to the back.
He grinned gaily. 'I hope to God I'm not too heavy.'
Manning grinned back. In spite of the short time they had known each other, a well-defined personality had already emerged. It was that of a brave and aggressive, physically tough man, highly intelligent and with a strong vein of humour never far below the surface. A man it was impossible not to like.
'And now your back,' he said.
Manning braced himself and Orlov climbed up quickly and then very carefully balanced on his shoulders. Manning held the lighter at arm's length and then the weight was removed from his shoulders and he turned.
Orlov had one arm around the beam and hung there as he reached for the loop of leather with his free hand. He was obviously immensely strong. He slid the loop over a hook, took a deep breath and gently lowered himself. His body swung with a slight eerie creaking and when he dropped his head to one side, the illusion was complete.
'How do I look?'
'Bloody marvellous,' Manning said. 'Now hold it like that.'
He slipped his lighter into his pocket, turned and started to batter against the door with his clenched fist. As the sound echoed along the corridor, he put his face to the grille and cried out in Spanish, 'Cienaga, for God's sake, help. He's killing himself.'
A moment later, the door at the end of the corridor was flung open and a band of yellow light cut through the darkness. As Cienaga emerged, a flashlight in his hand, Manning redoubled his efforts.
'For God's sake, hurry! He's killing himself.'
Cienaga laughed harshly. 'Killing himself, eh? That's a new one.'
As the brutal face appeared at the grille, Manning drew back slightly. A second later, the beam of the powerful flashlight pierced the darkness and settled upon the figure of the Russian. His body swayed rhythmically from side-to-side, eyes wide and staring and his tongue protruded between his teeth.
Cienaga gave a cry of dismay and the light was withdrawn. A moment later, the key rattled in the door and it was thrown open. He rushed forward into the room and Orlov reached up, grasped the beam firmly and kicked him in the face with both feet held together.
The Cuban lurched back against the wall and the flashlight fell from his hand and rolled across the floor. He started to get to his feet and Manning moved in to finish him off. He lifted his knee into the smashed and bleeding face and then the great arms fastened around him and started to squeeze.
Manning struggled desperately to free himself as the air was driven from his lungs and then Orlov arrived on the scene. He directed the flashlight onto Cienaga's face then carefully struck him under the right ear with all his force. Cienaga's eyes rolled until only the whites were showing and he released his grip. He keeled over onto his face and Orlov kicked him on the side of the head.
The key was still in the lock, the rest of the bunch hanging from it and they locked the door quickly. They stood listening for a moment or two, but nothing stirred. The gallery was dimly lit and the whole block wrapped in quiet as Manning worked his way through the bunch of keys until he found the right one. They moved outside quickly and locked the gate after them.
Only a single light illuminated the hall below and the roof was shrouded in darkness. The chicken wire presented no problem. Pulling on it between them, they forced it away from the wall, making a large enough gap for them to squeeze through.
The first beam lifted from the ledge about three feet to the left. Manning took a deep breath and stepped gingerly across. It was surprisingly easy. He waited until Orlov joined him and then turned his face to the wall, spread out his arms and started to inch his way across.
Time seemed to have no meaning as he moved steadily to the left and it was with a sense of surprise that his fingers touched the next beam. He rested a moment, waiting for Orlov. When the Russian joined him, there was sweat on his face, but he managed a grin.
'Keep moving. We haven't got all night.'
There were three more beams to bypass and Manning moved on, his breathing unnaturally loud in his ears and then a door clanged. He froze to the wall and glanced down in time to see a soldier pass through the pool of light in the hall below. He paused to light a cigarette and then disappeared through a door. Manning started to inch sideways again. A couple of minutes later, he scrambled over the balustrade and stood on the other gallery.
Orlov joined him and they paused in the shadows listening. Somewhere there was laughter as a door opened, silence as it closed again.
'I know my way about on this side of the fortress,' Orlov said. 'They've installed a service lift at the end of this corridor which goes down to the ground floor where the orderlies have their quarters. We'll stand a better chance of getting out that way. It's at the rear.'
Manning nodded and the Russian led the way along the corridor. The lift doors were new and shining and looked strangely out of place. As he pressed the button, Manning noticed with amusement that the manufacturer's plate said Made in Detroit, which proved something, though he couldn't think what.
When the lift arrived, they stepped inside quickly and started down. He was conscious of a strange, hollow feeling in his stomach as they came to a halt, but the doors opened into a large, quiet basement. There was no one about.
They moved to the door and turned into a long brightly lit corridor. Voices came from a room to their left and the door was slightly ajar. Manning caught a glimpse of soldiers sitting round a table eating and moved on quickly after Orlov.
The Russian stood listening at one of the doors farther on and opened it as Manning arrived. It looked like the quarters of half a dozen men. The beds were ranged around the room, blankets neatly folded. Submachine guns and automatic rifles stood in a rack in one corner and there was a selection of uniforms and other items of equipment in the tin lockers by each bed.
'How good is your Spanish?' Orlov asked.
'Pretty fluent.'
'Then this is the obvious way out for us.'
They dressed quickly in military greatcoats and peaked caps and took a submachine gun each. They went back into the corridor and moved on quickly, mounted several stone steps and came into a narrow corridor that opened into a small hall.
There was a tiny glass office in the entrance and a guard casually leafed through a magazine, a cigarette in his mouth. Manning and Orlov walked out casually, submachine guns slung from their shoulders. As they passed the office, Manning half-raised a hand and the guard waved carelessly in reply.
It was raining outside and they went down some stone steps into a wide courtyard and walked into the darkness. 'All the trucks come in here,' Orlov said. 'We still have to walk round to the front gate. It's the only way out.'
Manning touched his arm and pointed. A few yards away, a jeep stood outside a lighted doorway. 'The Officers' Mess,' the Russian whispered.
'Couldn't be better, Manning said. 'Less chance of being questioned.'
They moved across the wet cobbles quickly. He climbed behind the wheel and pressed the starter. As the Russian scrambled into the other seat, they moved away.
He waited for the sound to come from behind him, for the sudden cries of alarm, but all was quiet. He turned into the front yard and approached the gate. It was ridiculously easy. When they were still twenty yards away, the guard raised the swing bar. A few moments later, they were driving rapidly through the night, down into San Juan.