Suarez wasted his money and much of his sobriety in the wood-and-corrugated-iron dives that lined the sides of the roads, looking for someone who might be useful or at least somewhere that had the right mood. He wandered through seriously dangerous neighborhoods, ignoring the rude, challenging stares of the local toughs. At some point he realized that his mind was a little clouded, and he splashed water on his face but refused to admit that he was in no condition to drive. He got the barmen talking, asking them about different towns and the countryside. Then he’d inquire about company, asking if they knew anyone who could get him something special for a party. Two ignored him, one threw him out, and the other went on and on and forgot the original question. The loud music made conversation difficult. His fellow customers were solitary visitors of an age similar to his, groups of men and the odd woman, who was always accompanied. The spaces were dark, sordid, and lit by fairy lights, with maybe a karaoke screen hanging from a wall, some mirrors, or a few colored spotlights sweeping the dance floor, which was almost always empty. In one of them, a curvy dancer in a skirt halfway down her thigh and a top that left most of her breasts exposed was sitting on top of a drunk, sweaty local several decades older than her. She waited for him to go to the bathroom before she gave Suarez a rather unsubtle look as she ran her palms underneath her tights, giving him a peek of her underwear. He left his drink unfinished and got out of the bar as fast as he could. He knew the type: it turned her on to goad her man into fights. He couldn’t afford to make a scene. He sat in the car and waited for the attendant to come over. The attendant was an old man whose life consisted of sitting in front of the bar and watching the cars for fifty cents apiece. But this one looked at him differently. He leaned on the window.
“You got it, didn’t you?”
Suarez was beginning to forget his Portuguese. “Here you go, old man. Two reais. Thanks.”
The decrepit attendant didn’t take the money. He just held his gaze, arousing Suarez’s curiosity.
“You didn’t like the mina?”
“I’m not Argentinian. And I don’t like getting into fights over nothing.”
“It’s dangerous around here, my friend. You could get hurt.”
The two of them sized each other up in silence. The music was still playing loudly, and the dust in the parking lot bounced along with the bass. Suarez was uncomfortable. He felt drunk and wasn’t certain of his reflexes. Keeping his eyes locked on the old man’s, he felt for his hand and closed it around the coins. “Thank you.”
But the old man grabbed his wrist. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing you can help me with.”
“You’ve been wandering around all night. I saw you asking the others—try me.”
“I’m not looking for anything. I don’t want girls or boys or to party. I’m fine for tonight.”
But the old man wouldn’t let go; instead he squeezed harder. Suarez felt in his jacket for the Taser.
The attendant appeared to read his mind and let go. He tried to smile, unsuccessfully. “Try me. I can help you.”
Suarez sighed and took a chance. “Colônia Liberdade.”
The cadaverous face broke into an amused smile. The music from the bar pounded into their skulls. “Hah! Hahaha. See, man? I can help you. What do you want from the fortress?”
“Information.”
“A few people around here work there. They’re strange people. Cleaning, gardening. How did you know to come here?”
“I didn’t. I was fishing.”
“And how can I help you?”
“I need someone who knows it from the inside. Give me good news, and I’ll give you a good handful of reais.”
Red, green, yellow, and blue light slipped through the gaps in the planks that made up the wall of the bar, giving his contact’s face a strange hue. The effect grew more ghostly as he bared his gums. “Oh, I’ll help you, man. I’ll help you—you’ll see.”
Ethan had breakfast at a traditional café where tourists mingled with office workers having quick midmorning coffees. He was trying to outline his strategy. All his work had been for nothing. He’d run out of time and contacts, and he didn’t think that Suarez was doing anything useful at the other end of the continent. He knew that every move he made increased the danger he was in, and he tried to decide what to do as he flipped through a newspaper. It brought some worrying news: the police had found the deputy chief, or rather his mutilated body. After the scandal kicked up by the press, they seemed to be working quickly to bury a death for which they were partly responsible. But Ethan knew what it meant for him. The Mara were cleaning house. He went back to his apartment to have a shower, intending to move to another city or farther still. He had to find Suarez so they could plot their next moves together.
Lost in these thoughts at the entrance to his compound, he quickly became annoyed when the guard didn’t lift the barrier. Irritated that he’d fallen asleep, Ethan looked for him through the window, but the boy, who said hello to him every day, didn’t move from his seat. Before Ethan could call out, the boy leaned forward in the window and gestured discreetly to Ethan not to make a sound. He was clearly agitated and continued the mime act by shaking his head several times with harrowed, pleading eyes. Ethan, who had been exhausted just a moment before, felt the adrenaline begin to flow in his chest and his pulse accelerate. He knew what was happening. For a moment, nothing could be heard other than the chirping of tropical birds. In the shade of the buildings, the two men silently communicated with each other. Ethan took a deep breath and nodded toward his apartment while the boy, upset but pleased to have been understood, nodded gravely. Ethan thought he saw tears glinting in his eyes. Without answering, he put his hand to his chest in thanks and reversed out, trying not to rev the engine. He turned the car around, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to go back. He’d have to make do with the clothes and money he had on him. Fortunately, he always kept his passport with him.
The bar was decorated with framed black-and-white photographs from the fifties. Over time, they had grown speckled with damp and complicated formations of petrified mold. These were accompanied by pages from magazines and newspapers, the ones from the seventies in saturated colors. There were also photos of customers, the older ones developed traditionally while the latest ones were printouts. It was a form of fame apparently available to anyone who wanted it. Thanks to the obstinacy of the original owner, now deceased, the bar had never been refurbished, and after many years of decline, the trend for nostalgia had made it popular again. The regulars were now joined by young people huddled around devices and traditional dishes, drinking fashionable liqueurs like Jägermeister.
At one of the tables, which had old-fashioned metal legs and imitation marble surfaces lending the place even more authenticity, Suarez was sharing a beer with a small, sun-wizened old man in overalls that identified him as a gardener. Suarez had been asking questions and buying beers for quite a while. This was their third attempt to meet, not because his informant was reluctant but because he’d intentionally missed the first two appointments at the two other places they’d set so he could watch for any signs of betrayal. It was difficult for him to delay like that, but Suarez was now sure that the man was clean. When they finally did meet, it hadn’t been difficult for him to earn his trust. The man didn’t like his employers at the colony. He’d worked for them for years, well over a decade, and set about complaining almost immediately. The beer made him even more talkative.
“So they have their own security system?”
“Oh my, the system! They have their own police, with dogs and uniforms.”
“They go on patrol?”
“Why? Nothing ever happens there, but if there’s a problem, they handle it themselves. The real police don’t get involved. Of course not! I’ve never seen them there, and it’s not for want of trying.”
“What do you mean? They don’t let them in?”
“It’s like the tree, the tree that fell down. It
was . . . over ten years ago. I remember because I hadn’t been there very long, but there was a storm. Oh my, the storm! One of the worst I’ve ever seen, with lots of thunder and lightning. The sky turned white, and the lightning hit some swings behind one of the houses, in the back lot. I don’t know why the boy was there, whether he’d run away from his parents or they’d lost sight of him. Oh, the boy! You should have seen what it did to him: all twisted and black, and there was a terrible smell, like chicken but sweeter. Very strong, horrible.”
“What about the police?”
“The police came to investigate, but they wouldn’t let them in. Take that, police! Hahahahaha!” The man broke into a cackle as though he were the one to have defied the authorities. “Oh, the police! They made them stay outside—can you believe it? They let the ambulance in to take the boy away, but they wouldn’t let the police accompany it. They argued for a long time at the door—I saw them—and then they called for more cars on the radio. They weren’t happy about not being let in! But the men at the gate stood there. They wouldn’t get out of the way, and in the end the ambulance left, and the police left with it. They stayed for as long as they could, but then they had to go. You should have seen their faces! Hahahaha!”
“So when do you see the private police?”
“Oh! Almost never. I don’t know where they come from, but I’ve heard an alarm go off when a branch falls or a group of kids tries to jump over the wall, and then they come running. Oh, they’re scary! Those big barking dogs and the poor kids . . . once they get frightened off, they don’t come back.”
“They have an alarm all around the perimeter?”
“What else? And television cameras. And I’m pretty sure that they’re the kind that see in the night because they move when I leave.”
Suarez was listening carefully, leaning back in his chair as he mulled over what to do next. The gardener, emboldened, went on chattering.
“But the gardens are great, the best you’ll see. And then there’s the store. They have their own store! I don’t know what it sells, cheeses and food from Europe. They’re very strange; they never meet up with anyone, but you’d never guess it. They speak Portuguese! Ha! Portuguese! To order around the gardeners. They speak it very well! But they don’t like it . . .” The gardener suddenly went quiet.
Suarez realized that something had happened. Without turning around, he asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s them—it’s them.” The gardener blinked nervously, and his hand started to shake. But from where the old man was sitting, he couldn’t see the entrance, so he couldn’t have seen anyone come in.
“Where are they?”
“It’s them—it’s them. They’re coming. They don’t like us to talk. They’re coming—they’re coming.”
The poor man started to hyperventilate. Suarez turned around, following his line of sight. A side window with net curtains looked out onto the field that served as the bar’s parking lot. His own car was there, but now two large SUVs were parking. Suarez turned to his companion, who was scared like a small child about to be punished.
“It’s them. They’re coming to the bar.”
“Don’t look at them; look at me. Look at me!” He grabbed the man’s wrist to get his attention. “That’s better. Who are they?”
“They’re from the colony. Some men from the colony.”
“Why are you scared? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t know. They don’t like us talking to strangers. Oh! Now what do I do?”
“Look at me. You’re not doing anything wrong. Do those cars belong to their security? The ones you told me about?”
“Yes, oh dear, that’s them.”
“Fine. Listen: you haven’t done anything; there’s no reason to worry. I’m going to go to the bathroom, and when I come out, I’ll leave. You have every right to drink a beer; there’s nothing they can object to. They haven’t seen us together, and they won’t. OK?”
The gardener didn’t answer. Suarez stood up while the vehicles parked. He squeezed the gardener’s forearm to get his attention again. “OK?”
The gardener nodded dubiously. Suarez walked to the bathrooms, which were behind the storage area, at the back. He locked the door behind him and sought out a window. He had no idea how they’d tracked him down, but however it was, his informant’s face had told him everything he needed to know. They were after him, and he could no longer trust his anonymity to protect him. He was concerned by how frightened the man had been. Suarez climbed up onto the toilet to get to the tank above. It was an old-fashioned cistern with a pull flush, a large porcelain basin about half a meter below the ceiling connected to the bowl by twisted lead pipes. He stood on the seat to push himself up and drop the telephone inside. It disappeared with a splash. Next he pulled back the plastic curtain and slid the translucent window open. Bars. The window was completely blocked by bars.
Ethan took a rest at a gas station. His situation seemed hopeless. Deciding to play his last card, he dialed a number, and a familiar voice answered.
“It’s my good friend Ethan! My, this is a surprise. Not necessarily a nice one, but definitely a surprise. Don’t get me wrong; you know that I like you, but whenever we speak, it seems as though you’re determined to bring me bad news.”
“Hi, Adrian. Don’t worry; I understand. I’m calling because I need your help.”
“I’m all ears.”
“How much time do I have?”
Calvo chuckled. “What kind of a question is that? That’s always for God to decide—you’re no different.”
“The girl was taken out of Central America by a truck driver. I don’t know where. He was given the job by a law firm called Smit and Betancourt, but it’s disappeared, and I’d bet that if you go through the records, you’ll find that they’ve managed to erase the name of the founding partner. I don’t think there’s any way to track them. There was a possible link, an assistant called Marlon Figueroa, but he’s dead. They see to every detail.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it might be the only information you don’t have.”
“Why don’t you come here? Or we could meet for lunch? If you have new information, I’d be delighted to help you again. I can pick you up if you like—where are you?”
Calvo didn’t seem surprised, doubtful, or confused. He didn’t even sound curious.
Ethan gulped and felt his throat tighten. “Are you going to sell me out?”
“Hahaha! I would never do a thing like that. That’s not who I am, my friend.”
“This morning, someone was waiting for me at my apartment. Do you know where it is? The Mara don’t search for people; that’s not what they do. We talked about this, remember? Someone must have led them to it.”
He could hear Calvo breathing calmly on the other end of the line.
“I’m asking you to do me one last favor. How long do I have?”
The silence stretched on. The tension was electric.
Calvo cleared his throat and said, “Wait.”
Ethan heard some footsteps on the carpet and a door closing. Then the voice returned.
“I don’t know why I hold you in such high esteem. I think it’s because you’re so straightforward. You can’t be this blunt, not in this line of work. You should have searched your car. You must have suspected that it had a tracking device. Why didn’t you think of that, detective?”
Ethan felt deeply stupid. “I don’t know.”
“I think that you’re concentrating hard on just a few very specific things. That’s good, very good. But you neglect others. I am, however, very impressed with how you dealt with the kidnappers—well done. I don’t know how you did it.”
“How long have you known?”
“My God, Ethan . . . you’re like a bull in a china shop. Ever since my friends on the force asked me to take a look at your massacre. You know how it is: for delicate questions like th
at, you can never have too many eyes.”
“Are you going to hunt me down, Adrian?”
“Let’s do two things. First, pretend that this conversation never happened. We can’t meet in person, or I’ll have to hand you in. Don’t worry about the GPS; they only asked for the address, and now they have it. The battery ran out a few days ago, and we didn’t replace it. I don’t know where you are, and I don’t want to know.”
“How long do I have?”
“Not long at all. Head straight for the airport; don’t delay. I don’t know whether you’ll make it. They’re probably watching the roads. I warned you. In places like this where everything happens in the shadows, things only get really dangerous when they come out into the light. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a dead man. It’s just a matter of time.”
Suarez knew he had to act fast and, making sure that he couldn’t be seen, slipped from the bathroom to the storeroom, which was shielded by the kitchen. It was a run-down space with metal shelves and two cold chambers with a door for deliveries at the back. That was what he was looking for. Before crossing the room to head outside, he checked his gun and the Taser. Night was falling. There was only a thin strip of blue left, and it was rapidly being eaten up by the darkness. On the other side of the restaurant, which took up an entire block, he would try to creep past a few one-story houses and make it to a taxi rank he’d noticed earlier. There was no way he could get the car back; it was parked to the side. He’d have to wait for his pursuers to give up or move on. He ruled out going back to the hotel until he could work out what had given him away. He was lost in these considerations when he felt something like a burning needle run through his right shoulder, immobilizing his arm with a piercing, sharp, throbbing pain. He hadn’t felt this sensation for a long time, since he was a young man. It was followed by a bang that sounded like a firecracker, a shot from an old-fashioned, low-caliber weapon. Suarez felt himself thrown forward. He fell and pushed himself into a roll, ignoring the pain, and got up to run. He quickly looked back behind him before ducking between two houses and saw the youthful, gloating face of a young man dressed like his great-grandfather. It was like something out of a practical joke or a nightmare, but the pain in his shoulder was a forceful reminder that this was really happening. The danger was very real.
Shadows Across America Page 31
