by Sandra Brown
Key stayed off the main roads, driving at a breathtaking speed down one alley and up another, dodging heaps of garbage and warfare debris, unpredictably switching directions like a crazed animated character in a video game.
“Did I hurt you?” He gave Lara a swift glance.
“Of course you hurt me. You hit me.”
“If you’d kept your butt where I’d told you to keep it, it wouldn’t have happened.” He swerved to avoid colliding with a youth on a bicycle. “Jumping up and hollering like that. Jesus Christ!” He banged his fist on the steering wheel. “You were a prime target for whoever was outside that door. I didn’t have time to ask you nicely to duck. I knocked you down to save your life.”
“From a goat?”
“I didn’t know it was a goat and neither did you.”
“I thought it was Emilio.”
“And what if it had been? Were you hoping he’d kill me?”
“I was trying to keep you from killing him.”
“I’ve got more self-control than that.”
“Do you?”
He stopped the jeep so suddenly that she was pitched forward. “Yes, I do. And you, better than anybody, ought to know that.” His eyes held hers for several telling seconds.
Finally she turned away.
Key whipped his head around. “Well, padre, what do you think of the day so far?”
Father Geraldo lowered a flask from his mouth and wiped it with the back of his hand. “It’s a shame we had to leave the goat. It would have fed several families.”
Key looked ready to throttle him, but the priest’s droll comment struck Lara as funny, and she began to laugh. Father Geraldo laughed too. Eventually Key acknowledged the macabre humor of the moment with a taut smile.
“Ah, hell.” He sighed, throwing back his head and gazing up at the patch of sky visible above the two buildings between which they were parked. “A goddamn goat.”
Once their laughter subsided, he turned to Lara and touched her lower lip. He winced with regret when his fingertip picked up a bead of fresh blood. “It was reflex. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s nothing.” She dabbed the cut with the tip of her tongue and tasted not only her blood but the slightly salty spot where his fingertip had been. “I don’t want to stop the search now.”
“ ‘Now’?”
“It’s incredible to me that the credenza was spared. Either it’s a miracle, or Emilio is alive and has recently been in that office setting things right. Those were his eyeglasses. I’d swear to it. He’s been there recently.”
“Well, he won’t be back today. If he was lurking around somewhere, we surely scared the hell out of him.”
He was probably right, Lara thought. Emilio was her best chance of gleaning information—if he was indeed still alive and if she could coax him out of hiding. She intended to return to the embassy later, with or without Key and Father Geraldo, and stay through the night if necessary in order to make contact with her husband’s former aide. Key would have a litany of objections against that strategy, so she decided to postpone telling him her intentions for as long as possible.
There were, however, other avenues she could explore in the meantime. “Father Geraldo, wouldn’t Ashley’s death be a matter of public record?”
“Perhaps. Before the revolt, this nation made stabs at being civilized. If the records haven’t been destroyed, they would be on file at city hall.”
“What kind of red tape would you have to cut through to get to them?” Key asked.
“I won’t know until I try.”
“If it’s known what you’re looking for, we’d just as well raise a red flag.”
The priest thought about the dilemma for a moment. “I’ll tell them I’m looking for the records of someone named Portales. Portales, Porter. If the death certificates are filed alphabetically, Ashley’s name should be in the same volume.”
“Volume? Aren’t they computerized?” Key asked.
“Not in Montesangre,” Father Geraldo replied with a rum-induced smile.
It turned out to be remarkably simple. After the incident at the pillaged embassy, they almost didn’t trust their good fortune.
Not quite half an hour after Father Geraldo had left them in the jeep, parked on a side street a couple of blocks from the courthouse, he returned, walking jauntily and wearing a happy grin. “God has blessed us,” he told them as he climbed into the backseat.
Although he’d been gone only a short while, to Lara it had seemed like an eternity. She feared that no records would be found and that this errand would produce no new information. Key, pretending to take a siesta beneath his straw hat, had kept careful watch, fearing that they would attract attention.
Ciudad Central was a city in turmoil, but a fair amount of commerce was still being conducted. People moved from place to place in the lumbering city buses, in private cars, on bicycle, and on foot. For all the movement, however, one didn’t get a sense of bustling activity.
The pervasive mood was one of wariness. People didn’t collect in clusters to chat, lest their reason for gathering be misinterpreted by the soldiers in the military vehicles that imperiously sped along the thoroughfares. Children were kept near their nervous, cautious mothers. Shopkeepers transacted business without engaging their customers in lengthy conversations.
Lara and Key were relieved to see Father Geraldo return. “You found out where Ashley’s buried?” Lara asked eagerly.
“No, but there was a death certificate. It was signed by Dr. Tomás Soto Quiñones.”
“Let’s go,” Lara told Key, motioning for him to start the jeep.
“Hold on. This Soto,” he said, turning to Father Geraldo, “who’s side is he on?”
Lara was impatient to follow up on the clue. “It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
“He’s a doctor. So am I. That takes precedence over political affiliations. He’ll extend me a professional courtesy.”
“Will you grow up?” Key said with exasperation. “For all you know he’s El Corazón’s brother-in-law or a spy for Escávez. Either way, if we go barging in there and say the wrong thing, we’re screwed.”
“Excuse me.” Addressing Key, Father Geraldo played peacemaker. “In my work, I’ve crossed paths with Dr. Soto several times. I’ve never known him to profess allegiance to any particular faction. He treats the wounded of all sides, much as I do.”
“See? Now can we go?”
Key ignored Lara. “Even if he’s sympathetic, he’d be risking his neck to help us. The potential danger could make him reluctant to talk. He might outright refuse. Worst-case scenario is that he’ll sic El Corazón’s death squads on us.”
“I’m willing to take the chance,” Lara said adamantly.
“You’re not the only one involved.”
“If you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.”
Key tried to intimidate her with his stare. When she held her ground, he turned to Father Geraldo. “What’s your gut instinct on el doctor?”
Indecision flitted in the priest’s dark eyes. Finally he said, “Whether or not he consents to help us, I think we can trust him to secrecy.”
Lara agreed.
“Okay, you two,” Key said softly. “Have it your way, but we’re going to go about it my way.”
Lara and Key waited in the doctor’s cramped hospital office while Father Geraldo once again acted as their mouthpiece. Even though Key had closed the blinds against the afternoon sun, the room, without air-conditioning, was stifling. Lara’s bodice clung to her damp skin. Perspiration had formed a dark wedge in the center of Key’s shirt. He frequently used his sleeve to wipe his sweating forehead. They didn’t waste either oxygen or energy on conversation.
Silence was also an added precaution. They didn’t want their voices to attract anyone on the hospital staff to the doctor’s private office. Explaining their presence there could prove tricky.
The waiting became in
terminable. Lara folded her arms beneath her head and laid it on the doctor’s desk. They’d been there over two hours. What was taking so long? Her imagination began to run wild: They’d been discovered. Armed troops had been summoned and were taking up positions around the hospital. Key was probably right; Dr. Soto used his medical profession as a cover. He was actually a spy. He’d seen through Father Geraldo’s ruse, tortured him into telling the truth and—
The instant she heard the approaching Spanish-speaking voices, she sat up. Key had heard them, too. He moved into position behind the door and signaled her to remain quiet and out of sight until the doctor was inside the room.
Her heart beat hard against her ribs. A trickle of sweat slid between her breasts. The doorknob turned and Dr. Tomás Soto Quiñones preceded the priest into his office. He reached for the light switch and flipped it on. “It was a routine birth, but these things can take—”
He spotted Lara and looked at her quizzically.
“Forgive me, Doctor,” Father Geraldo said humbly as he ushered the doctor across the threshold. Still in Spanish, he explained, “I’ve been less than truthful. I do wish to discuss with you a soup kitchen for the starving. Perhaps at a later time?”
Key reached around them and closed the door, posting himself between it and the dumbfounded physician.
Father Geraldo apologized to Lara and Key for the delay. “He agreed to see me as soon as he delivered a baby. The labor stalled and took longer than he had estimated.”
“You’re Americans?” the doctor exclaimed in flawless English. “How did you get across the border? Please tell me what is going on.” Uneasily he glanced at Key’s stern visage and at the pistol tucked into his belt. He gaped at the priest, then at Lara, who was now standing at the edge of his desk. “Who are you?”
“My name is Dr. Lara Mallory.” Although it hadn’t bled for hours, her lip felt like it had an anvil attached. “Three years ago, I was living in Montesangre with my husband, Ambassador Randall Porter.”
“Yes, of course,” he said as recognition dawned. “Your picture was in the newspapers. Your husband was kidnapped and executed. Such a tragedy. Senseless violence.”
“Yes.”
“The medical community has continued to mourn the ambassador’s death. Since diplomatic relations with the United States were suspended, it has been difficult to obtain pharmaceuticals and medical supplies.”
“As a physician, I can appreciate your problem.” She took several steps forward. “Dr. Soto, I’ll personally see to it that you’ll receive an abundance of supplies if you’ll help me now.”
The doctor glanced over his shoulder at Key, gave the priest another inquisitive look, then turned back to Lara. “Help you in what way?”
“Help me locate my daughter’s grave.”
Dr. Soto regarded her in stunned surprise, but he said nothing.
“When my husband was taken, she was killed in the gunfire. She was buried here. My government, and several Montesangren regimes, have ignored my repeated requests to have her remains exhumed and sent to the United States. I’m here to do it myself. But I don’t know where she’s buried.”
Far down the corridor, rubber-soled shoes were squeaking on the vinyl floors. The clatter of metal servers and china announced that the dinner carts had arrived. But in this cubbyhole office next to the emergency exit door there was nothing but silence.
Finally the doctor cleared his throat. “You have my deepest sympathy. You’re to be admired for undertaking such a dangerous mission. But I am at a complete loss. How would I know where your daughter is buried?”
“You signed her death certificate.” Lara moved closer to him. Key tensed and reached for his weapon, but her quick glance ordered him not to interfere. “Do you remember the incident?”
“Naturally.”
“Her name was Ashley Ann Porter. She died on March fourth of that year, just hours before the revolution was officially declared.”
“I remember distinctly when your daughter was killed and your husband taken captive. You, too, were injured.”
“Then you must remember signing Ashley’s death certificate and releasing her body for burial.”
Sweat had popped out over his face. He was a stout man, solidly built, shorter than she. His face was square, with a broad, flat nose indicative of some Indian blood in his lineage. His hands looked too large and blunt to perform surgery, although Father Geraldo had said that he was well respected as a surgeon.
“Regrettably, I do not remember signing such a document.”
She uttered a despairing cry. “You must!”
“Please understand,” he said hastily, “those hours and days following the ambassador’s abduction were the most turbulent in this country’s history. There were hundreds of casualties. Our president and his family barely escaped with their lives. Anyone who had served his administration in any capacity was publicly executed. The streets ran with blood.”
Lara had read the newspaper accounts from her hospital bed in Miami. She didn’t doubt the accuracy of the doctor’s description of the chaos.
Speaking for the first time since the doctor’s arrival, Key was more skeptical. “You don’t remember one little Anglo girl among all those other corpses?”
Soto shook his bald head. “I am sorry, señor. I know it comes as a disappointment.”
Lara took several deep breaths to fortify herself, then extended her right hand to him. “Thank you, Dr. Soto. I apologize for the theatrical way in which we approached you.”
“I understand the necessity for caution. Your husband was unpopular with the rebels who are now in power.”
“My husband represented the United States, and they had taken a position that favored President Escávez. Randall was only doing his job.”
“I understand,” Soto said quietly. “Nevertheless, I can almost guarantee that the families and friends of men who were tortured and killed by Escávez’s henchmen will not be so generous in their thinking.”
“Can we trust you to keep your mouth shut about this?” Key asked abruptly.
“Por supuesto. I would not betray you.”
“If you do, you’ll regret it.”
Father Geraldo stepped between them. “I think we’d better leave Dr. Soto to his duties.”
“Yes,” Lara agreed. “There’s no point in involving you further.”
Father Geraldo gave the doctor his blessing and asked forgiveness for tricking him. Dr. Soto assured the priest that he understood. As Lara moved toward the door, Soto laid a hand on her arm. “I am sorry, Señora Porter. I wish I could have been of more help. Buena suerte.”
“Muchas gracias.”
Replacing the scarf over her head, she followed Father Geraldo from the doctor’s office. Key brought up the rear as the priest led them out the way they had come in, through a wing of the hospital that had been closed because the unstable government could no longer afford to keep it open. He knew the layout of the hospital very well, having spent years visiting sick parishioners there.
They emerged undetected. Lara was surprised to see that darkness had fallen while they’d been inside. Not that she cared whether it was daylight or dark. She could barely muster the energy to place one foot in front of the other and probably would have stopped dead in her tracks if Key hadn’t herded her along.
After having her hopes raised by the discovery of Ashley’s death certificate, the outcome of her meeting with Dr. Soto was a crushing disappointment. Fate had trampled her, and she lacked the initiative to continue.
She still planned to return to the embassy in the hopes of finding Emilio Sánchez Perón. First, however, she must rest. Rest would boost her morale. She knew that once she’d slept several hours, reviewed her options, and charted another course of action, she’d feel much more optimistic.
That was the pep talk she gave herself as she trudged toward the jeep.
She never made it that far. Key dragged her behind a dumpster at the rear of the ho
spital. “Pst! Padre!”
Father Geraldo turned. “What is it?”
“There’s no reason for the cloak-and-dagger act,” Lara complained. “No one spotted us.”
Key motioned Father Geraldo closer. “What time will Soto be leaving the hospital?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Why?”
“Our doctor friend is lying.”
“But I’ve known him—”
“Trust me on this, padre,” Key interrupted. “You might be a good judge when it comes to saints, but I know sinners. He’s lying.”
“How?” Lara asked
“I don’t know, but I want to find out. He said he didn’t remember your daughter. That’s bullshit,” Key declared. “That ambush made headlines all over the world. I was in Chad when it happened and it made the front pages there. It started a revolution, yes. Bodies passed through the city morgue like shit through a greased goose, yes. He might have been up to his armpits in corpses, but no way could he forget signing a death certificate for a U.S. ambassador’s daughter killed in a bloody shootout. No way, José.”
It was amazing how instinctively and completely Lara trusted Key. With the dark scruffy beard, he looked like the meanest of desperadoes, a man who attracted danger and thrived on it. His startling blue eyes moved like quicksilver as they surveyed the surrounding buildings. They didn’t miss the smallest movement. His voice was quiet, urgent, compelling, and convincing.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
Her unqualified trust must have silently communicated itself to him, because his alert eyes stopped their surveillance and fell on her.
“We wait.”
At the sound of the fatal click, Dr. Soto came to a sudden standstill. Key thrust the barrel of the Beretta behind the doctor’s ear and yanked his left arm behind his back, shoving his hand up between his shoulder blades.
“If you make a peep, you’re history.” His voice was a hiss in the darkness, so low it could have been mistaken for the rustle of leaves stirred by the faint breeze. “Walk.”
The doctor didn’t argue. He moved toward the jeep that rolled out from the deep shadows of the alleyway. Behind the wheel sat Father Geraldo, looking both excited and apprehensive. Lara was balanced on the edge of the backseat, gripping the seat in front of her, watching as Key approached with their hostage.
