Текст книги "January Justice"

Автор книги: Athol Dickson

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

34

Simon stood on the lawn beside the driveway when we rolled up. He held his hands behind his back, the image of a proper butler. Teru parked, and Simon came forward to open the car door on my side, holding it as I unfolded myself from the Porsche.

I said, “How long have you been standing here?”

“Approximately one minute.”

I turned to Teru. “Did you phone him before we left the consulate?”

“Nope,” said Teru.

“Then how did he know we were coming?”

Teru shrugged.

I looked at Simon. “How did you know we were coming?”

Simon said, “One does strive to be prepared.”

I shook my head. “You guys would make me nervous if you weren’t on my side.”

“If we were not on your side, anxiety would be wise,” replied Simon.

Teru smiled.

I said, “I don’t suppose you have another M11 handy? The OCSD kept mine.”

“Enquires have been made; however, I regret to say a replacement sidearm will not be available until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”

Shaking my head, I walked toward the guesthouse. Teru and Simon fell in alongside me.

Simon said, “The authorities executed a warrant to search your residence last night.”

“Teru already told me they searched my computer. Did they seem interested in anything else?”

“Unfortunately I was not allowed to observe their activities within the house; however, I was able to stand outside the residence and prepare an inventory of the items they removed. In addition to your computer, they removed some articles of clothing, which I took to be your soiled laundry.”

I nodded. “Looking to match fibers from the Montes’s house.”

We were at the front door. I opened it and went inside. The place had been thoroughly tossed. Books from the shelves stood in piles on the floor. Contents of the kitchen cabinets were on the countertop. Sofa and chair pillows had been upturned.

I went straight across the living room to a burled-walnut Edwardian armoire in the corner. The mirrored door hung open. They had removed the stereo system from inside the armoire, stacking the components in front of it along with my collection of vinyl LPs. I moved some of the LPs out of the way, and dropped to the floor, and twisted my shoulder to reach into the space beneath the lower-most shelf. I pressed on the bottom right corner of the armoire’s back and heard a click as the panel came away. It was a relief to reach a little farther in and find the plastic baggie still there. I pulled it out.

The baggie contained seven passports, seven driver’s licenses, and seven pairs of credit cards in seven different names. Also five thousand dollars in used twenties and fifties.

Teru whistled. “Simon’s not the only one who plans ahead.”

I removed two passports, two matching driver’s licenses, four credit cards, and all of the cash. I replaced the baggie in the compartment and pressed the panel closed.

Simon said, “Guatemala?”

I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.

He shrugged slightly. “An elementary deduction.”

Teru said, “You know it’s a bail violation just to leave Orange County, much less the country. If they catch you at the border, you’ll lose that million five bail money, and they’ll detain you until the trial. Could be months from now. Even a year or more. And of course they’ll add possession of the forged passports. That’s a federal crime. It carries ten years, I think. No, wait. You’ll be carrying it in the commission of a crime, so they’ll tack on another five.”

“Thanks, counselor.”

“Glad to help.”

There was the sound of a cell phone ringing. Simon removed it from his inside jacket pocket and examined the screen. “Miss Soto appears to be at the front gate.”

“You have the gate cameras linked to your phone?”

“Indeed, I do.”

I shook my head again. “Can you let her in from here?”

“Of course.”

“Then kindly do so, my good man.”

Simon touched his cell phone’s screen, then replaced the phone in his pocket.

We went outside. Simon and Teru walked with me as far as the edge of the gravel drive, then Simon headed toward the main house as Teru got in his Porsche and drove toward the gate. I saw him wave at Olivia as he passed her on his way out.

I stood and watched her park. She got out and walked right up and threw her arms around me. “Oh, thank God,” she said.

“Hey,” I said, tentatively returning her embrace. “What’s all this?”

She clung to me tightly, pressing her cheek against my chest. “I thought they might hold you in that terrible place for months.”

“Teru got me out.”

She pushed back, still holding on to me, and looked up at my face. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, I was thinking about dinner in a little while.”

“Be serious.”

Very gently, I pushed her away. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

She stepped back and turned toward the harbor. Watching as a sloop with a black hull ghosted past the estate, she said, “You could tell me if you did it, you know. I’d never repeat a word. I don’t care about Doña Elena. I only care about you.”

I might have laughed if she hadn’t been playing it so straight. I said, “Is that so?”

She lifted her chin. “I like you, Malcolm. I like you a lot. Don’t you like me?”

“Sure I do. You’re lovely and smart. What’s not to like? But it would be nice to know why you really came over here.”

“I came because I care!” She flung her arms around me again. “Don’t you see? I had to make sure you’re okay.”

“No.” I pushed her away again. “I mean what’s the real reason?”

Her eyes went wide. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Not completely.”

“But… but why not?”

“You’re too gorgeous, Olivia. You could have any man you want. And hanging around with Doña Elena and the congressman, you probably meet millionaire producers and corporate executives and national politicians every day. So I’ve been wondering, why would a girl like you throw herself at a chauffeur? It’s obvious you want something from me. What is it?”

“You really think I’m that shallow?”

“I think you’re too interested in the Toledo case. I think you’ve been after inside information from the moment I met you. I think you’ve got some kind of skin in the game. I just don’t know what.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You… you…”

I said, “Look. Save the outraged act, and don’t bother pretending to have hurt feelings. You have an angle. That’s okay. Everybody does. So why not save us both a lot of time and just tell me what you want?”

She swung hard at me, but I caught her wrist before the slap connected. I pulled her close and tight and said, “Were you with Castro and the other men at Doña Elena’s house?”

“Let me go!”

I said, “You say you care so much about me. Would you tell me if you were the woman Doña Elena saw that night? Would you confess that to the cops and tell them I wasn’t there to keep me out of jail?”

Her dark eyes flashed with fury. “It was not me, Malcolm. Now are you going to let go, or should I scream for help?”

I released her wrist. Without a pause she spun on her heel, marched to her car, and got in. Her back tires spewed gravel as she sped toward the front gate.

When the gates had closed behind her, I went inside the guesthouse, ate dinner, and got into bed. It seemed like hours before I went to sleep. Maybe it was because I skipped the Scotch, or maybe it was because I couldn’t make up my mind about which side Olivia was on.

35

The next morning Teru dropped me at a rental-car agency in Huntington Beach. Teru drove fast on detours through backstreets and did some doubling back to check for tails, but if the police were there when we left El Nido, he lost them along the way. It’s hard to keep up with a well-driven Porsche on surface streets in a Crown Victoria.

Using a driver’s license and Visa card in the name of Michael Cullen, I rented a white Toyota Corolla. I hadn’t wanted to tip off the police surveillance by leaving El Nido with luggage, so as soon as I had the car, I drove to a department store and used the Cullen credit card to buy a pair of blue jeans, three shirts, some underwear and socks, and a soft-sided bag to carry it all. I stopped at a pharmacy and picked up a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some other things, and then I headed south on the 5.

It was about noon when I entered Tijuana. The Mexican customs light flashed green at the San Ysidro border crossing, so I didn’t have to stop. Ten minutes later, after traveling past the traffic circles on Padre Kino and following Cuauhtemoc Norte to the airport entrance, I parked on the third level of the garage and walked into General Abelardo L. Rodríguez International Airport.

I took AeroMexico flight 177 to Mexico City on a Boeing 737. We arrived at 10:50 that night. I had a leathery steak and a cold potato at Sanborns, which is always open in the airport, and then I sacked out in a sagging chrome-and-leather seat at my departure gate. At 7:45 in the morning, the gate attendants arrived, and at 8:45 I was sitting in an economy-class aisle seat of a Brazilian-made Embraer 195 as we pushed back from the Jetway.

Two hours later I landed in Guatemala City.

At the taxi stand outside La Aurora International Airport, I took a piece of paper out of my pocket. On it I had written the address the address the consulate receptionist had given me on the phone. I got into a cab and read the address to the driver. He nodded, and soon we were in Zone 1, which is the central part of the city, where all the oldest buildings are.

I had always thought the city was a study in contrasts. Poverty was the primary theme, with block after block of rudimentary concrete and corrugated-steel structures. But here and there an office building rose to fifteen or twenty stories, and colonial architecture stood in other places like jaded members of a royal family enduring the unwashed presence of their downtrodden subjects.

There was far less Spanish influence than I was used to seeing in other Mexican or Central or South American cities. That was to be expected, since Guatemala City, or “Guate” as the locals called it, had been only a tiny village until the late 1700s, when the Spanish government arrived after earthquakes had destroyed the original capital of that part of their empire. The Spaniards had enjoyed only a few decades to leave their mark before their reign ended. Meanwhile, great cathedrals and grand government buildings had already been standing for two centuries in places like Guadalajara, Mexico, and Bogotá, Colombia.

Still, for such a small, impoverished country, Guate could be something of a surprise. There was a sense of energy about the town. People on the sidewalks all seemed to have someplace to go. Traffic was a disaster, of course. Drivers went everywhere at top speed. They obviously viewed stoplights as mere suggestions. White stripes for traffic lanes and stop signs were ignored altogether. But my driver seemed to take it all in stride, so I relaxed and enjoyed the trip across town.

We followed Avenida La Reforma for fifteen or twenty blocks, a nice broad boulevard with lots of trees. It ended at a large traffic circle around a monument to some Guatemalan hero. From there, the driver took a series of smaller streets. I saw a large stadium on the right, called Cuidad Olimpica, or Olympic City, and a few blocks farther, a railroad museum on the left. After that, the neighborhood started to get older, with more and more colonial Spanish influence.

At 9A Calle, the cabbie took a right, and two blocks farther along he pulled to the curb. I looked out to see a small restaurant between a dentist’s office and a shoe store.

“This is it?” I asked in Spanish.

He nodded, “The address you gave me is the restaurant there, yes.”

I paid him in quetzals, the Guatemalan currency named after the national bird. I got out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around. Across the street was a city block shaded by trees. A sign said Columbus Park. In the center of the block rose a limestone monument, and around it were dozens of ficus trees. Underneath the trees I saw old men sitting on benches and in folding chairs. Some of them had set up folding tables to play dominoes. It reminded me of the old men at the benevolence society in Pico-Union. It was a peaceful scene, and somewhat unexpected, since Guatemala City was the murder capital of the world.

Turning toward the address I had been given, I saw a hand-painted sign above the door to the restaurant, black letters against a red background—El Pollo Gordo. The Fat Chicken. On either side of the entrance were seven or eight small tables, surrounded by the kind of cheap white plastic chairs you can buy anywhere for four or five dollars. On the tables were logos for the local beer companies: Victoria, Brahva, and Gallo. Somehow I doubted I would find Valentín Vega inside, but as Simon might have said, one never knew.

I went in. There were six tables along the right wall and a counter on the left, facing the kitchen, which was right there in the same room. In the back a very fat woman sat in a little booth, surrounded by thick glass. Although the crime was bad in Guatemala, bulletproof glass for a restaurant cashier surprised me.

All the tables were empty. I didn’t want to sit at the counter, since that would put me sideways to the door, so I went to the cashier and said, “Can someone serve me outside?”

“If you want,” she said.

I went back outside and took a seat near the door, with my back to the wall. I put my bag on the sidewalk beside my chair. I folded my hands on the table and waited.

About five minutes later, a small man came out the door to stand beside my table.

“You want something?” he asked.

“Yes, please. A beer in the bottle, some grilled chicken, and some bread.”

“We do not have chicken.”

“But it is the Fat Chicken.”

He shrugged.

I said, “All right. In that case, a beef filet, very well done.”

“We have pork.”

“All right. Bring me pork, but cook it very well, okay?”

He shrugged again, then went inside.

Ten minutes later he came back out with a beer. It was room temperature. I sighed and took a drink. In half an hour, he came out with a plate. On it were three pork chops, two slices of bread, and a mound of steaming vegetables. He put the food in front of me.

I said, “I have no knife or fork.”

He turned to go back inside.

I said, “Please.”

He returned and stood beside the table. I put a pair of one hundred quetzal bills on the table, worth about twenty-five dollars. I said, “It would be a great tragedy if this excellent food became cold while I wait on a fork.”

Looking at the money, he shrugged. Then he went back inside.

He was out again in a few seconds, with a fork, a knife, and a cloth napkin. I gave him the two bills. “What is your name?” I asked.

“Ernesto.”

“My name is Malcolm, Ernesto. As you can tell from my accent, I am a visitor to your fine country. Could you recommend a good hotel nearby?”

Ernesto frowned with concentration. It seemed to cause him pain to think. Then suddenly he brightened. “La Posada Elena.”

“An excellent name. Where would I find it?”

“Why, it is right there, on the other side of the park.”

“I see. And may I ask you one favor?”

Ernesto shrugged. “You can always ask.”

“Would you please tell Valentín Vega I am waiting for him here?”

“I do not know this man.”

I nodded. “Well, some people at the Guatemalan consulate in Los Angeles, California, gave me this address for him, so maybe he will come by. I will eat this excellent food and then sit here and wait for him if that is okay.”

Ernesto shrugged, then went back inside, and I began to eat. The food was surprisingly good. I ate it leisurely and then sat back to nurse the warm beer. There was no hurry. I was there to be seen, after all.

Ernesto reappeared and took away the plate. I ordered another beer and asked him to get it from the refrigerator this time. The two hundred quetzal bills had the desired effect. He returned more quickly than before, and the beer was slightly cooler.

The street was one way, from my left toward the right. I watched the cars and trucks roar past. I watched the old men over in the park. I watched pedestrians pass by along the sidewalk. I finished the beer, picked up my bag, and went inside the restaurant, looking for a restroom.

On my way back outside, I passed Ernesto, who was sitting at the counter reading a newspaper. I asked him for a mineral water. He stood up, went into the kitchen, and came back with a clear bottle. I took it, thanked him, and went back outside to the same chair, where I dropped my bag to the sidewalk and sat down to watch the cars and trucks and old men and pedestrians.

Children started walking past, laughing and jostling each other, the boys in black slacks and white shirts, the girls in white shirts and black-and-blue plaid skirts. Most of them wore backpacks. Some carried books. I decided a school down the street must have just let them out for the day.

A man and woman passed me and went into the restaurant. It was good to know there were other customers. I would have hated to see the place go out of business.

Ernesto came outside to stand by my table again. I said, “It is a beautiful day, Ernesto, is it not?”

He squinted up toward the sky and shrugged.

I said, “Would you like a beer or something? I would be happy to buy.”

He went inside and came back out with two beers, ice cold this time. He gave one to me and sat down at the table with the other. He said, “You are American?”

“I am indeed.”

“My brother lives in Houston, Texas.” He pronounced it “Oo-stone Tay-has.”

I said, “Houston is a fine city.”

“He says it is much bigger than Guate.”

“That may be true, but size is not the most important thing. You also have to consider history. And culture. And civic pride. In all those ways, it seems to me your city is superior.”

He shrugged again. He took a drink of beer. Cars and trucks went by. Old men played dominoes. Ernesto finished his beer and went back inside. I remained where I was, waiting.

If I had been given good information about that place, I figured Valentín Vega must know I was there by that time. I wondered how the man would play it. Would he ignore me? Would he come himself to meet me? Would he send someone to meet me? Would he send someone to try to kill me? The restaurant address was my only lead, so I could only wait and see.

The shadows lengthened. Lights mounted on the wall behind me were illuminated. I remained alone, and alive.

Ernesto emerged again. He said, “Dinner?”

“What is good?”

“Pork.”

“What else?”

“Spaghetti.”

“Does it come with tomato and meat sauce?”

“Of course.”

“And the meat in the sauce is?”

“Pork.”

“Excellent.”

Two hours later, Ernesto emerged to say, “We close.”

I stood up. “Thank you very much,” I said. “The hotel is across the park?”

“Just there,” he said, pointing.

“Is it safe to walk across the park after dark?”

“No place is safe in Guate after dark.”

I gave Ernesto enough money to pay for the meals and the drinks, plus another tip of two hundred quetzals.

“If anyone should ask, Valentín Vega perhaps, would you please tell them I am at the hotel?”

Taking the money, Ernesto shrugged.

I might not be feeling suicidal anymore, but I hadn’t traveled all that way to avoid trouble, either. I picked up my bag, crossed the street, and entered the shadows of the park.

36

I overslept. Probably I would have slept much later, except for the insistent pounding on the hotel room door.

I called, “One moment,” got out of bed, and slipped into my blue jeans and a shirt. After maybe ten seconds, whoever was outside started pounding again. I called “One moment” again and sat down on the side of the bed to put on my shoes.

It wasn’t much of a hotel room. Creaking ceiling fan, no bathroom, old-fashioned washstand in the corner with one threadbare towel, and a single window overlooking Columbus Park. I had just begun to tie the laces on my second shoe when the door flew off its hinges and landed on the floor in front of me.

Four men came in after the door. They all carried guns. I wasn’t surprised to see that one of them was my new friend from the day before—Ernesto. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

I said, “Good morning.”

Ernesto gestured toward the door with his gun. “We go.”

“Sure,” I said, standing up. I had finished with my laces anyway.

Ernesto and another gunman went ahead of me, and two remained behind as we walked along the dimly lit interior hallway, then down the stairs to the street level lobby, which was only a small room with a counter in one corner. The man behind the counter didn’t bother to look up from a magazine when we walked through.

At the curb outside the door stood an old Ford Econoline van. The sliding side door was open. The men herded me straight across the sidewalk and into the van. The entire rear of the van was empty. There weren’t even any seats. Three of the men got in with me. Ernesto went around front and got into the passenger side. There was a fifth guy already behind the wheel. One of the men in back with me slammed the door closed. We all sat cross-legged on the steel deck.

The van rocked away from the curb on its old suspension like a ship tossed at sea. There were no side windows, so I couldn’t see much from where they made me sit, but that didn’t matter much, since I didn’t know the city anyway.

One of the men in back with me handed his weapon to another one and said, “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

When I did that, he pulled my wrists together and slipped a plastic twist tie around them. He didn’t notice when I flexed my wrists and held them slightly apart. As soon as he was done, I turned back around and went to work on getting my hands free. He had left me wiggle room. It was good to know they were amateurs. Once I was certain I could slip out of the restraint, I stopped trying.

We took a lot of turns. I figured they were checking for tails. After a while the driver slowed and shifted into low gear. The engine whined as we headed up a steep incline. We leveled off, turned left, then right, then left again, and then we climbed some more. About forty-five minutes after we left the hotel, the van stopped.

Ernesto got out. A few seconds later, he opened the sliding door and said, “Come.” He kept his handgun aimed at my stomach.

I got out and looked around while the others followed. We were on a level place high above the city. From there I could see that Guate was essentially in a hanging valley. On the horizon were three mountains so perfectly conical they could only be volcanoes. One of them was even spewing smoke. The mountainside below us and behind us was obscured by a dense jungle.

“Follow me,” said Ernesto.

“You know, those pork chops were pretty good,” I said. “But the spaghetti recipe needs more garlic or something. It was a little bland.”

“I will tell the cook,” he said.

I walked behind him across the level area and into a nearly invisible break in the jungle alongside the road. The three other men followed. As we stepped out of sight behind the wall of vegetation, I heard the van driving away.

We followed a trail that would have been almost impossible to find without knowing exactly where to look. It was fairly level for the first hundred yards or so, and then it began to climb. It wasn’t always easy climbing the steep path with my hands behind my back, but I managed. We had gained another quarter-mile in elevation when we came upon a building made entirely of rusting corrugated steel. I figured it had been hauled up there in sections and assembled years before by a logging company, then left behind when they moved on. The others took up positions around the building. I followed Ernesto inside.

Valentín Vega sat at a wooden table, writing on a legal pad by the light of a battery-powered lantern. He looked up when we entered. He put down his pen and stood.

“Mr. Cutter,” he said in English. “You are a long way from home.”

“No farther than you were when you hired me.”

“Why are you here?”

“You forgot to pay me.”

He stared at me a moment, then he began to chuckle. “You are correct. I did forget that completely. I am very sorry.”

I shrugged to conceal the effort of slipping off the plastic strap around my wrists. “That’s okay. Unexpected events arose, and you were in a hurry. It happens.”

His smile disappeared. “I ask again, why are you here?”

“I just told you.”

“How did you know about Ernesto’s restaurant?”

“I’m a professional sleuth, remember? That’s why you hired me.” I had my hands free by then but continued to hold them behind my back.

“I dislike speaking in clichés, Mr. Cutter, but sometimes they are most appropriate. So forgive my lack of originality when I say we have ways of making you talk.”

“Ways? Who has these ways? Him?” I nodded at Ernesto.

“Exactly,” replied Vega.

“Nah,” I said.

I set my weight on my right foot, delivered a lateral left kick to Ernesto’s ribs, and followed through to take his gun before he hit the floor. He lay clutching his chest and moaning as I covered Vega with the weapon. It was over in less than a second.

To Vega I said, “Lock your fingers behind your head and turn around.”

He did as he was told. I approached from the rear and removed his holstered Glock, I also took a knife he had slipped into the top of his right boot.

On the floor Ernesto continued to groan. I spoke to him in Spanish. “Ernesto, my friend. I am truly sorry about that. Can you breathe?”

He said, “Yes,” through gritted teeth.

“Excellent. That means your lung is not punctured, so you will be okay in a few days. Someone cracked some of my ribs only last week, and look how great I am doing now. You just stay down there on the floor and rest, okay? And Valentín, put your hands in your front pockets and call the others in.”

Vega dropped his hands to his pockets and called, “Mario, come in here. Bring the others.”

I gripped Vega by the back of his shirt and pulled him with me into a corner where I could cover the whole room from behind him. His men came in with their guns holstered. Distracted by Ernesto on the floor, they didn’t realize I was positioned to their rear until I said, “If you go for those guns, I will shoot your boss in the head.”

All three of them turned to look at me. “Vega,” I said, “Tell them to put their right hands in their pockets and then reach around and put their weapons on the floor with just the thumb and first finger of their left hands.”

They all looked at Vega. He said, “Do it.”

After they had kicked the guns into the corner where I stood, I told them, “Put your other hands in your pockets too and sit down on the floor.”

With a nod from Vega, they all did as they were told. I released Vega and told him to go across the room and sit with them. Still covering everybody with Ernesto’s gun, I stooped to pick up their weapons one by one and pitched them through the open door into the jungle. They all glared at me, watching my every move.

When I held the only gun in the room, I relaxed a little. I switched to English. “Hey, Valentín. Don’t look at me that way. I know this is awkward, but it’s not my fault. All you had to do was ask me nicely for a meeting, but were you polite? No, you sent these guys to kick in doors and tie me up and scare me with their great big guns.”

“Why are you here?”

“Always the same question. But since you’re being more polite now, I’ll tell you. I’m here for you. We’re going down the mountain in a minute, straight to the American embassy. When we get there, you’re going to tell them that the Montes’s home invasion was your idea and that I had nothing to do with it.”

I was betting Vega didn’t know the embassy security detail would probably arrest me and send me back to Los Angeles as soon as they found out I had violated my bail. And I was betting he would want to avoid a visit to the embassy as much as I did.

He said, “You must be insane.”

“That’s definitely possible. But we’re still going.”

“I have men positioned all throughout this part of the country. You will not survive the walk down to the road.”

“In that case, neither will you.”

“But even if we get there, why would your people believe a witness with a gun to his head?”

“You’ll give them details. Inside information. Things you couldn’t know unless you were in on the crime.”

“I cannot do that.”

“You’d better.”

“It is impossible. I do not know any details. We were not involved in the attack on Mrs. Montes. Also, if you force me to go there, I will surely be assassinated by the junta. Is that what you want?”

I said, “I’ll shoot you here and now if you don’t do exactly as I say. Do you believe me?”

Vega nodded. “I am certain you will shoot me.”

“Then stand up and let’s go.”

“Mr. Cutter, you must understand that this is all for nothing. I cannot clear your name. I know nothing of this home invasion, except what I learned from the television in my hotel room in California. I only know one of two things has happened. Either Fidel attempted to betray our cause for money or else the junta was behind what happened.”

“There’s a third possibility. You and Castro set me up. You sent him and Delarosa in to kill the congressman, and you played me for the patsy.”

“It is not true. I swear it. The proof is that Fidel is dead, and I am back here in the jungle, hiding from the junta again as if all our progress over the last ten years had never happened. I tell you, they are the ones behind this. They would do anything to keep the URNG from getting more political power.”

“That would be a lot easier to believe if you hadn’t left me there to face the police alone. You know I had no connection with Alejandra Delarosa. You can verify my reasons for investigating the Montes’s finances, and you can verify that I had no reason to attack the congressman or his wife. But you left town as soon as news of the attack came out. And there I was, swinging in the breeze.”

“I am sorry, but I had no choice. If I had remained there, I would probably be dead. Listen. Here is how it happened. Fidel said a couple of men approached him, claiming that they represented Congressman Montes. They told him the congressman wanted to make a private deal with us. They said the congressman had recognized his mistake and decided to shift his support to the URNG, but he needed to meet with us first to get certain assurances.