Текст книги "Red Jungle"

Автор книги: Kent Harrington

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

EIGHTEEN

Carl hasn’t sent me the money,” Russell said. “He will,” Mahler said. “It takes time to sell these things.” “I’m quitting the newspaper. I’m going to work for De La Madrid’s campaign full-time,” Russell said. “Why would you do that?” Mahler said. “He’s going to lose. Any fool can see that.”

There was heavy static on the line. Russell could barely hear Mahler, who’d called from Tres Rios to ask for more money.

“Why the fuck should you care? You told me you don’t give a shit about politics,” Russell said.

“I don’t,” Mahler said. “That’s true.”

The fact was, Russell was going to be fired. His boss, having discovered that Russell had lied about giving up Beatrice, had told London about their affair. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before he would be either sent back to New York or London or fired altogether. He didn’t intend to leave Guatemala without Beatrice. He was in love, and it was impossible to think of leaving without her.

He knew that in order to have her he would need a great deal of money. He had to be able to offer her something better than what she had here. He had to be able to offer her a fine place for her children and a future worth having. If he had money, he could ask her to leave Carlos; without it, how could he? He was counting on finding the Red Jaguar now, not for the thrill of the search, but as a way of having Beatrice.

“Tell that little motherfucker I need ten thousand dollars, and soon,” Russell said. “I owe that Frenchman another payment.”

“All right,” Mahler said. “I’ll tell him.”

“I’m not joking, Gustav.” He felt a new urgency, a violent need for money. He had never felt like this before. He knew he was capable of anything. He felt himself going over the edge.

“All right, I’ll tell him,” Mahler said again.

“He’s got the fucking snake; I want my money.”

Mahler didn’t answer him this time. There was just the static of their phone connection.

“We need food, and I have to pay these men I’ve hired,” Mahler said after a moment.

“How much more have you cleared?” Russell asked.

“Another two hundred square meters. Maybe a little bit more. It’s been raining so hard, it makes it difficult.”

Russell calculated that they’d cleared almost a football field now, and they’d found nothing. He’d tapped out his credit cards and had no idea where he was going to get more cash to live on, much less give to Mahler.

“Do we have anything but a hole in the jungle? Have you any more reason to believe the fucking thing is actually in there?”

“You have to have faith,” Mahler said.

“Faith costs money, amigo. So far, we’re working on a very expensive soccer field.”

“The American girl has come with her students. They’re building houses,” Mahler said.

“I know that. I said she could come,” Russell said.

“The students are a nuisance. They ask a lot of questions,” Mahler said. “About what we’re doing out there, why I come and go.”

“Tough shit. She’s my friend and I own the place.”

“Someone might talk. That would be very bad if others were to start looking, too. . . . If. . . .”

They lost their cell connection. Russell held the phone for a moment and then angrily threw it down on the car seat next to him.

“Talk about what? Our soccer field?” he said aloud to himself. He was angry because he had to make the Frenchman a payment the following week, and he didn’t have it. He was angry because Carlos was undoubtedly going to win the election and take the country further down a financial rat hole. He was angry because he was sure that right-thinking people could, at the very least, prop the country up and keep it from becoming another Argentina.

He parked his car in front of Jake’s, one of Guatemala City’s trendy new restaurants. A white-jacketed valet gave him a ticket, then jumped into the driver’s seat and pulled away. The restaurant had been built in one of General Ubico’s palatial homes—in his day, Ubico had been the United Fruit Company’s man. The United Fruit Company’s lawyers happened to be Allen and John Foster Dulles, who also just happened to head the CIA and the State Department at that time. The line between the United Fruit Company and the government of the United States of America became very blurred.

The house was all green marble and high ceilings; Russell remembered the house from childhood. He remembered coming here for parties with his mother.

He walked through the restaurant’s garden and looked for Carlos. Selva had called him at the paper and said that he thought they should meet. He told Russell he wanted to outline his economic plan for the country. Afraid not to, Russell had agreed to have lunch with him. What else could he have done, he’d thought when he’d put down the phone.

Carlos was sitting in a beautiful room off the garden. A waiter led Russell to the table. Unlike in the States, the smoking section had the best tables, as everyone here smoked. The windows onto the garden were wide open, offering a view of the considerable rose garden, from which the country had been ruled during Ubico’s time.

The sky was parched blue, no clouds yet. It was hard to believe it was raining at Tres Rios, Russell thought. It was very hot. Several ceiling fans turned the hot air, not doing much good.

Carlos, in uniform, stood up. They shook hands. There was a white table cloth and flowers. It was all very civilized, Russell thought as he sat down. Did he know? Was this meeting about Beatrice? Did Carlos invite him here to tell him he was a dead man?

Carlos took off his coat and laid it on the chair next to him. They talked about the weather for a moment. The heat was truly stifling. The marble floors seemed to radiate it.

“Have you gotten used to it? Our weather?” Carlos asked, sitting back down.

“Not really,” Russell said. “It’s so different than the winters back home.”

“Yes, very. I went to school in New York. In the Sixties,” Carlos said.

“I know,” Russell said. He’d read everything he could about Carlos’s career.

“Of course. You’ve been doing research on me.”

“Columbia University, a degree in political science. Graduated 1983, came back here and entered the military academy,” Russell said.

“It was difficult for me to come back. Most of my fellow officers had gone straight through, but the Americans wanted a different kind of army. They wanted people who had studied abroad.”

“You graduated with honors and then went to the School of the Americas for further training. Twelve months. Then some more at the US Army’s jungle warfare school in Panama. You came home, then went to some kind of war college in Italy. The war broke out here before you could finish, and you came home again. They sent you into the field as a second lieutenant,” Russell said.

“Very good. Yes. I wanted to finish, and I didn’t want to leave Italy to go to war in Central America.” Carlos smiled. “I had a girlfriend in Italy, and didn’t want to get my balls shot off. If you’d have seen her, you would understand.”

“I can’t blame you. It’s better with balls,” Russell said. The waiter appeared. They hadn’t had a chance to look at the menu.

Carlos ordered a steak. Russell took a moment to peruse the menu, then ordered a salad.

“Are you a vegetarian? Your generation seems to have taken it up. My wife is. It’s excruciating watching her eat sometimes. What she calls eating, anyway.”

He’d thought it would be hard hearing Carlos talk about Beatrice, but it wasn’t, surprisingly; it was almost a relief.

“No, not really. I’m just not very hungry. I can never eat when it’s like this. The heat puts me off.”

“Your mother was a Guatemalan,” Carlos said. Russell looked up, surprised. He knew he shouldn’t have been, but he felt naked nonetheless, as if the General had called him a name. He didn’t understand this feeling of guilt about his mother.

“Yes,” Russell said. He wanted to look away.

“I knew her,” Carlos said. “She was very beautiful. You come from a famous family. Why didn’t you mention it when we first met?”

“Is it really important?”

“Of course it is. Everything is different when you’re one of us. You know that.” He looked at Russell, and they made eye contact. The general took a piece of bread out of the basket in front of them.

There it was. A simple statement. He had been trying to run away from the truth, and the general had simply stated the obvious.

“Did you know your mother was my sister’s best friend?” Selva said.

“Look, I don’t care,” Russell said.

Carlos looked at him and continued buttering his bread. He did it carefully and accurately, the butter very soft in the heat, the ice under it melting away quickly.

“I’ve been told by my sister to look out for you,” Carlos said, ignoring his rudeness. “This is off the record and has absolutely nothing to do with the article I want you to write or with anything else. I made my sister a promise that I would look after you. It can be dangerous for journalists here. You won’t have to worry now.”

“It won’t influence what I write,” he said quickly.

“I don’t expect it to.”

The two men looked at each other again. There was something else. Russell tried to see it in the general’s dark eyes, in his perfectly ironed white shirt, in the black military tie.

“Your aunt and my sister are still close, the three of them grew up together. But you must know that. Your aunt Carmen is very hurt that you haven’t gone to visit her more often,” Carlos said. “My sister told me to tell you that.”

Russell didn’t know what to say. This was the last thing he’d expected from Selva. He picked up his ice water and drained it, then caught a waiter and ordered a glass of white wine. He needed a drink. Were they to be friends because of his mother?

“All right, I’ll go see my aunt,” Russell said.

“Why do you run away from your blood family?” Carlos looked at him.

It was an expression he’d never seen on the general’s face before. It was truly the expression of a man who didn’t understand. Family, to Latins, was everything. The country itself was a kind of family to them. He tried to find his hate for Carlos, but it was gone. It wasn’t there. He reminded himself that he wanted to steal the man’s wife, and it wasn’t there even then.

“My mother died when I was very young,” he said. “After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to come here. Not for a long time. I held it against the place. Can you understand that?”

“You are part of this country. Your great grandfather owned most of the Costa Sur. He pioneered the coffee business. These are things that you can’t escape. You’re a Guatemalan by birthright. Your cousin was president of the country during the war. You’re one of us,” Selva said.

“Okay,” Russell said. “Okay.” He put his hands up, sat back in the chair and smiled. It was a relief to hear it. He was one of them. Okay, he thought. He gave up.

“I told my sister I would invite you to Tilapa for Semana Santa. You must come. Everyone is going to be there,” Selva said. “Your aunt is coming, too. You remember Tilapa, don’t you? It hasn’t really changed.”

“Yes, I remember it,” he said.

“I bought your mother’s house there,” Carlos said. “Your mother had wonderful taste.”

They had lunch. They talked about the coffee crisis and the balance of payments issue. Since September 11, the U.S. had blocked cash transmittals from illegal Guatemalan immigrants working in the States, as part of the crackdown on wire transfers. The illegals in the States didn’t have social security numbers, and could no longer easily wire money back to their families in Guatemala. Those dollars, over the years, had grown into a very important source of foreign exchange. They both agreed the Americans had to come up with a solution, that it was only making matters worse.

“I suggest you go to Washington and tell them to back off on this. They’ll have to allow illegals without social security numbers to wire money,” Russell said. “It’s imperative.” He found himself more and more stepping into the role of adviser instead of dispassionate journalist. He saw the general was listening to him carefully.

“And the privatization of the telephone company?” Selva asked.

“You have to do it. You should do it with the electric company too,” he said. “It will create more jobs in the long run. And it will stop the corruption and lack of productivity.”

“It’s not a popular idea,” Selva said. “The unions don’t want it.”

“Of course it isn’t. Half the journalists in the country have been on the telephone company’s payroll. Why would they want to see it privatized? The company is a den of thieves. It needs to be cleaned up.”

“Antonio can’t win,” Selva said, changing the subject.

“I know that,” Russell said.

“There is a rumor that you are going to go work for him.”

“I am,” he said. “I’m quitting the paper . . . after I finish your profile piece.”

“Why don’t you come work for me?”

“Because I don’t support your economic policies,” he said. “There’s something I have to ask you. In your capacity as head of Guatemalan intelligence services. For the record, and for the article.”

“All right,” Carlos said.

“Am I being followed?”

“I can’t answer that on the record,” Selva said.

“Can you answer it off the record?” He wanted to say, as a favor, but stopped himself.

“No, because then you would be in danger. And I would have an angry sister. And I can’t have that.”

“I see.”

“I knew you would. I told you it’s a dangerous country for journalists,” Carlos said. “Will you come to Tilapa? We would love to have you.”

“I’ve been very busy. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to hurt your aunt. I told her you would come. It doesn’t matter in the least that you’ll be working for Antonio, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your aunt is supporting him too, for God’s sake! She’s practically a Communist,” Carlos said, and laughed.

They drank port after the meal. It had gotten cloudy; the garden, which had been bathed in blazing light, its flowers beautiful in full sun, was now quieter. The corners of the big garden had become shaded. The waiters started to close the windows in anticipation of the rain.

They finished their drinks and left together. Carlos stood up and put on his hat and coat. He caught everyone’s attention as they left. He was going to be president; it was on everyone’s face. He had great power as chief of the intelligence services, but he would have even more soon. People looked at Russell differently too, as if he were a rock star.

Two bodyguards in mufti were waiting for the general in the garden. They had been there all along, watching over them unseen. They had been trained by the Americans, and were much more professional than the run-of-the-mill type. One was an American, probably an active duty Ranger or Delta Force soldier. The embassy didn’t want to lose their man before the election, Russell imagined. It was a clear sign the Americans were supporting Carlos.

They walked together out to the patio, the bodyguards trailing after them. Russell was a little high from the wine and the port. Carlos was talking about Ubico. He had met him at Russell’s grandfather’s plantation as a child, he said.

“Ubico liked to dress like those soldiers in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical,” Carlos said. They stopped at the fountain, the bodyguards in front of them and to the side. The American looked at Russell, then looked quickly away. Carlos had led him toward the fountain. It was a large one, and it was making a pleasant noise.

“I want to trade you something. Can we do that? Off the record?” Carlos put his well-shined shoe on the edge of the stone fountain and lit a cigarette. “Maybe you’ll understand the importance of family then, and we can be friends.” He inhaled and threw the spent match in the water.

“What is it I have that you want?” Russell asked.

“I want you to have an open mind about these human rights issues I’ve been accused of, in the press.” The general looked into the water. He turned around and put his hand on Russell’s shoulder. “An open mind is all I ask, Russell. . . . Now I’m going to tell you something. You have a friend, an American girl named Katherine Barkley.”

“Yes?”

“There are people here that don’t like her. She should leave the country as soon as possible. It’s no longer safe here for her. Do you understand?”

Carlos turned and smiled at two businessmen who were leaving the restaurant. Carlos, with the formality singular to Latin men of a certain class, motioned them over and introduced Russell to them, not as Russell Price but as Isabella Cruz’s son. It was the first time it had happened since he’d been back.

“One last thing, Russell,” Carlos said when the men had left. His guards were anxious to leave before it rained. The temperature was dropping quickly, and it was almost cool now. “I expect, when I’m president, that your project out at Tres Rios will not be bothered by the ministry of culture. However, I’ll expect to share in whatever you and that lunatic German find out there.” And then, as the first rain drops were falling, Carlos was escorted from the garden.

NINETEEN

He’d called Katherine and left a message on her cell. She called him back almost immediately.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“You don’t care.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m working.”

“I want you to come back to the city,” he said. “Now.”

“No. Why should I? I think it’s over,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Please.” She hung up.

He didn’t know what to do. A bus honked and pulled around him. He moved his jeep closer to the curb. A street urchin who’d been doing magic tricks in the intersection approached and tapped his windshield. He ignored the kid’s painted clown face, the eyes big, the nose orange. Small raindrops started to hit the windshield, exploding against the dusty glass. They were going to kill Katherine and anyone with her. It wouldn’t matter how many students were in the car with her; he knew how they worked. They would all die.

He picked up his phone and dialed Carlos’s cell number. He looked out on the street as he heard Carlos’s voice ask him, in Spanish, to please leave a message. She’s innocent. What had Katherine done to deserve this? She’d only built houses for poor people, for God’s sake!

Outside, on the street, people were beginning to run for cover as the rain suddenly began to pour down. An explosion of rain hit his windshield, and everything in sight seemed to melt and blur. The young boy stood by his window waiting for money, staring in at him, his glue sniffer’s eyes red, his white painted face hideous. The paint on his face had started to run, so that Russell could see streaks of brown skin underneath the white. He dug in his wallet while rolling down his windshield. He could hear the rain hitting a long row of ragged store awnings across the street. The boy reached for the worn bill with filthy wet fingers.

“Gracias, Señor! May god bless you,” he said, unfazed by the rain.

“It’s me,” Russell said. He had called Beatrice at home in the city. “I have to talk to Carlos. It’s important. Is he there?” He had dialed her number despite his promise never to call her at home. “I’m sorry; it’s an emergency.” He could hear the maids in the background, and a child crying. “Beatrice, is he there? Is Carlos there? I have to speak to him.”

“No,” she said finally. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the city. Where is he?”

“At the office . . . I think. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain later. Give me the number.”

“I can’t.”

He was stunned.

“Beatrice! For God’s sake, give me the number!”

“He said I wasn’t to give that number out. Ever.”

“Beatrice. Do I have to beg you?”

“He’ll know if I gave it to you. He’ll know,” she said.

“I don’t care if he knows or not. I have to speak to him now, damn it.”

She hung up. For a moment, all he could hear was the beating of the rain on the top of his jeep in a sick unison with his own heart. Everything outside was obscured, otherworldly, the traffic, buildings, and pedestrians melded into a loose wet fabric, roughly laced together by the rain’s great tension.

He drove a block in fear and desperation. He’d wanted to ask Carlos to send some men to protect Katherine immediately. He was going to beg him. He would write whatever Carlos wanted him to write about him.

The avenue spilled him out onto La Reforma, in front of a hulking gray statue of Ubico on his marble stallion, crowded with pigeons. He was trapped by the traffic, which swept him into one of the massive circular roundabouts. He saw the U.S. embassy on the corner, its roof bristling with communications equipment, its huge white satellite dishes pointed at the dark sky. He instinctively moved towards the building, catching a break in the traffic. He pulled back onto La Reforma and drove toward the embassy like a madman.

He knew from experience that in the afternoon the embassy was quieter. Guatemalans, soliciting visas for the United States, were only allowed access in the morning, and at a special door. The main entrance to the embassy was protected by two checkpoints. What had once been, in the mid 20th century, a home away from home for Americans, designed for their convenience, was now in the twenty-first century a fortress, designed to keep everyone at bay. Manned by Marines, the embassy had turned into a stronghold housing the DEA, FBI, CIA, NSA and their support staff. Ironically, the smallest contingent was State Department workers. The CIA delegation had gotten so big that it had spilled out and taken over its own building nearby.

Since 9/11, parking anywhere near the embassy had been forbidden. Traffic cops in black ponchos were out in force, making sure no car stopped anywhere near the building. Russell drove along for several blocks, then parked. He ran back towards the embassy pelted by the rain, feeling stupid, and yet hoping that someone inside could stop Katherine’s murder. Like a child running home, he made his way towards the cold, menacing building.

The first checkpoint was a simple guard shack, the second a larger guard house, with a metal detector. The Guatemalan guard asked him for his ID and made him empty his pockets as another policeman ran a metal detector over him. He was stopped again and made to sign a piece of paper giving his full name and address in the country and his business at the embassy.

As he filled out the form, a group of young DEA agents he recognized, beefy, collegiate and boisterous, moved through the checkpoints, skirting the metal detectors without being challenged, simply holding up their ID’s. They were armed and all carried police knives, their metal clips tucked into the front of their jean pockets.

Russell handed back the form and rushed finally up the marble stairs and into the lobby. The embassy’s enormous lobby was empty. There were two doors leading into the interior of the building. When he’d been here before, there had always been elaborate plans made so that when he arrived he was met by whomever he had an appointment to see. Now, unannounced, he realized that the lobby was as far as he was going to be allowed to go without dealing with the Marine guards. The Marines manned a booth that controlled the lobby, which they’d turned into a kind of no man’s land. The white shaved head of a Marine wearing a bullet proof vest acknowledged him with a suspicious nod from the other side of the glass of the guard booth. Russell could see stacks of bulletproof vests lying on shelves and stacks of helmets on the floor.

“I’d like to speak to someone,” Russell said, trying to act calm. He was wet. His jacket was soaked, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You can speak to the duty officer,” the young soldier said.

“No, I need to speak to someone inside. Someone from State.” The young man looked at him stupidly, as if Russell were speaking a foreign language, or were mentally deficient. “From the ambassador’s office.” He searched for the state department’s press relations woman’s name, but had forgotten it.

“What’s your business?” The soldier picked up the phone, said something quickly into it, and then looked at him again through the thick glass. Instinctively, Russell’s hope began to retreat.

“It’s. . . .” He searched for the right thing to say. “I just need to speak to an embassy official,” he said, repeating himself. “As soon as possible.”

“You have to have an appointment,” the Marine told him. “Yes, I realize that, but certainly there’s someone on duty who can speak to an American citizen with an emergency.”

“No, not without an appointment.”

“I’m a reporter. I have a press credential.” He felt for his credential, but they’d taken everything from him at the guard shack—his wallet, cell phone, everything. He moved his hands foolishly over his pockets. An older Marine officer, in his thirties, stepped into the lobby and approached him.

“Can I help you, sir? I’m the duty officer.” Exasperated and realizing he’d been a fool to expect help from the embassy, Russell looked blankly at the duty officer. Disdain scrolled across the officer’s face.

“I want to see someone in the embassy. Any embassy official will do,” Russell said. He tried to sound calm and sensible.

“You’ll have to make an appointment,” the officer said. He gave him a quick courteous smile that said “Fuck off.”

“I would categorize this as an emergency,” Russell said. The duty officer shot a glance at the soldier in the booth and stepped closer.

“Are you reporting a threat to the embassy?”

“No! I’m not.”

“Well then, you’ll have to make an appointment. You can use the phone on the wall. You’ll be connected to someone upstairs. They’ll make the arrangements.”

“I’m here to report an intended crime against an American citizen,” he said. The officer looked at him, stiff-jawed.

“Why not tell the Guatemalan police? That’s what they’re for.”

“I don’t think they’d be much help in this case,” Russell said.

“Well. I can understand that,” the officer said with a smirk. “I wouldn’t call them either.” The man glanced up at the booth and smiled at the young soldier.

“I’ve met the ambassador, Mrs. Stamp. I work for the Financial Times; I’m a reporter. I have a credential if you’d like to see it. And I’m an American citizen,” Russell said. He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice now; he could feel his face getting red with anger.

“Tell that to the operator on that phone on the wall,” the duty officer said. “She’ll be glad to help you, sir.”

For a moment Russell was about to give the name of the man he knew from gossip in the office was probably the CIA’s station chief in the country, but he realized that it wouldn’t make any difference. Why would the CIA help Katherine? he thought, looking in the duty officer’s steely blue eyes. She was no one of consequence. And even if the spooks decided to help, by the time they masticated the problem—as they most certainly would—she would be dead. He went to the house phone hanging on the wall anyway, and lifted the receiver.

“I’d like to see an embassy official,” he said when the operator came on. “It’s an emergency.”

“Certainly, sir. You can come in next Tuesday at ten,” she said happily. “Is that a good time for you?” Russell hung up the phone and walked quickly through the lobby.

Katherine called him back as he drove to his office.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I hung up.”

“Go to Tres Rios. I want to see you. Tonight. I’ll meet you there tonight.”

“Are you still seeing her?”

“No. It’s over,” he said.

“All right. I will . . . I love you . . . you prick,” she said.