36
The kitchen staff stopped working when I came in. They stared at me, their expressions curious rather than hostile. I guessed the clientele didn’t often show their faces in here, although there’d surely be some girls on kitchen duty to help clear up after meals. Before they could open their mouths I explained I’d just dropped by to congratulate them on their fine cuisine. I started in English, with a heavy American accent.
“I tell you, I’ve eaten at plenty Mex restaurants back home, and not one served food as great as you guys.”
Their smiles flickered uncertainly. They were getting the bonhomie but not the words. I switched to Spanish, also delivered with a heavy American accent, and laid on the praise with a trowel. It worked: their postures relaxed and the smiles were wider now that they knew – or thought they knew – why I was there.
I asked them where they’d worked before. Two of the staff had been chefs in restaurants, one in Mexico City, the other in Guadalajara. They liked working here; it gave them the chance to run an establishment of their own and cook the way they wanted to without an ignorant boss looking over their shoulder. And it was a great package.
Of course it was. They wouldn’t mind having the implant when they also had the “privileges”.
“But surely,” I said ingenuously, “it’s much harder to cook for as many people as this.”
They laughed. The shorter of the two explained. He was a chubby guy with smooth, Chinese-looking features. “No, no, much easier. Nice full dining room every night, same number of people, same meal for everyone, nothing goes to waste.”
“But we’re miles from anywhere,” I protested. “What happens if you run out of food?”
“We don’t run out of food,” the taller one replied. He had a more European appearance. “Truck comes every week in time for the weekend.” He smiled. “We like to cook something special for the weekend.”
It was Tuesday.
“So on Friday you get fresh supplies.”
“Sí, Friday morning.”
“And I guess you give them the order for the following week when they leave.”
“That’s right.”
I had what I needed – at least, some of it.
I showed great interest in the walk-in frozen store, where I saw whole carcasses hanging. A third member of staff was butchering meat into cuts. He told me he’d worked for a man in Tegucigalpa before, but he was much happier here. I noticed a basket near the door which contained a neat pile of muslin sheets. From the pale brown patches I concluded they’d been used to wrap the meat, but they’d clearly been laundered and pressed and were waiting to go back.
At the end of the kitchen a young sous-chef was busy cutting up vegetables. He didn’t say anything. On the floor near him was a stack of crates. Something else that would have to go back.
I was deep in thought as I returned to my room.
I sat down on the chair by the writing desk. I would plan this like any other mission: objective, possible routes to objective, risk assessment, alternative courses of action, questions to be resolved. No need to think about size of force, transport logistics for infil and exfil, and types of weapon. Not this time. It was just me, and I’d be unarmed.
Objective. I have to do more than simply get out of here; that would just leave me in the middle of nowhere, miles from any help. I know a bit about survival, but I see no way I could survive for long in that parched landscape – Baer was right about that – and I couldn’t summon help because they took my phone. In any case merely getting outside wouldn’t help Delfina and the other girls. So the objective is simple enough. Get out of this bloody place, infiltrate the LRA camp, steal explosives or munitions of some sort, come back, and blow up the transmitter installation.
Yeah, just like that. Well, the details will have to wait until I see what’s available in that rebel camp.
Route to the objective? The only way is in the back of the vehicle that makes deliveries to the kitchen. What kind of vehicle is it? The chef said camión, but that could mean either a truck or a van. A truck would be overkill; assume it’s a van. Will it be refrigerated? This is a hot climate so either the vehicle is refrigerated or the journey’s short enough for the meat to stay cold. If it’s refrigerated I may not be in great shape when the ride’s over. Something else to check.
The two rebel soldiers are rotated once a week, so presumably that happens on a Friday, and they come and go in the van. Does one of the two do the driving? If there’s a separate driver there’ll be three of them. Can they sit three abreast in the front, or will one ride in the back? Three abreast isn’t too big a problem. One in the back is a big problem. I could take him out all right but could I do it inside a tin box without making any noise? The slightest thump or cry and the other two would come to investigate, unbuttoning their holsters. So I need to find out how many soldiers, and if there are three, whether one gets in the back.
Do they lock the doors? Van doors work from a lever on the other side of the handle. If the soldiers leave the handle unlocked I can turn the lever, open the doors, wait till the van slows down a bit, and jump. Then what? I may be able to follow the tracks on foot, stop when I’m within sight of the camp, then wait for darkness before going in. Find some explosives, get out of the camp, and wait for sunrise so I can follow the tracks back. I like the idea of going in after dark, but that's all I do like. Why? Because they’ll stop the van the moment the doors swing open to see what’s going on, and I’ll be a sitting duck in terrain like this. No, I have to stay in the van until it reaches the camp, whether the doors are locked or not.
I bit my lip. There were a hell of a lot of open questions. If I could answer most of them this Friday I could be ready to make my move the following week.
With that decided I was impatient for Friday to come around, but it was only Tuesday, so I’d simply have to bide my time.
*
Delfina came to my room at ten o’clock, as before. I closed the door behind her.
“Did you have any problems?”
“No. You were right, the girls didn’t ask where I was last night. No one talks about those things – they just understand.”
She spoke a nice clear Spanish that was easy for me to follow. Perhaps she was making allowances, having heard mine.
She sat down on the side of the bed. “I did some work today. Maria showed me how to sew part of a uniform. Maria is the supervisor. She is very patient and kind, but you know…” She lifted her chin, and for a moment I got a flash of the old Delfina, the one who initially defied Müller. “At home I was a secretary in a city bank. I typed, I filed documents, I did book-keeping, I made travel arrangements, I took phone calls. And now?” She made a throwaway gesture with one hand. “Now, I’m a seamstress.”
I grimaced. “I guess it’s better than kitchen or laundry duty.”
“I suppose so.” She put a palm down on the bed, and her voice lost some of its firmness. “Like before?”
“Exactly the same as before.”
She gave me a smile so sweet my heart melted.
When I got into bed next to her she snuggled up against me. It was unexpected, but I put an arm around her shoulders and we lay there for a while in each other’s warmth, breathing softly. After a while I said:
“Where are you from, Delfina?”
She raised her head. “Guatemala City.”
“What happened – it doesn’t upset you if I ask, does it?”
“No, I thought you would ask.” She paused a beat, as if collecting her thoughts. “I was at the bank, working late one evening. It was still light when I left and walked to the Transmetro. A small car drew up and the passenger asked me for directions. I didn’t see the man on the pavement behind me. The back door opened and he pushed me inside. Something stabbed me in the arm. I struggled but then I must have passed out.”
Had they targeted her, I wondered, or was it a random snatch? The outcome would be the same.
“Any time I woke
up they drugged me again. They were horrible men. Sometimes if I was half-awake I knew what they were doing—”
I gave her a little squeeze. “It’s okay, I understand.” It was a familiar story, just like we’d encountered in Honduras. “Were there other girls with you?”
“Yes. When I woke up again we were in a larger vehicle. We must have been travelling for a long time and making stops. It was like my life was moving in small jerks, and each time I woke up there were more of us. In the end we got out at a sort of camp. Some soldiers arrived and we had to line up. They looked us over carefully, chose me, and then they must have brought me here. I don’t know any more – they drugged me again.”
“They’ll be looking for you back in Guatemala, won’t they?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. You know there are many criminal gangs in the city and kidnapping is not unusual.” She became tense and her voice rose. “My family must be frantic – but you know, the police will probably just look at them and shrug their shoulders.”
She let out a small moan, and her body went slack against me. I felt her pain and desperation and had an urge to unburden her, take it all onto myself. But there was only one way to do that; I had to break down the invisible wall around this prison.
We said nothing more for several minutes. Then she reached up and gently touched the stubble area on the side of my head. The stitches had fallen out by now. “They did this to you, too.”
“Yeah. Told me I had cryptococcal meningitis, whatever that is. What about you?”
She nodded. “He said I should have a vaccination for Q-fever. He is a filthy liar, that man.”
I sighed. “Yeah. We’ve been deceived, both of us.”
“What are you doing here, Jim?”
“Oh, I was in Europe, looking into some companies. The trail led here. Now it seems they want me as a permanent guest.”
“People will be looking for you, too, won’t they?”
“I should think they’re moving heaven and earth by now, but what hope do they have of finding me out here?”
“I’m sorry. This should not have happened to you.”
I shook my head. It said a lot about her generous nature that, even in her dire situation, she could empathize with someone else.
“I can handle it,” I said. “It’s a lot worse for you.” I took a breath. “You know, Delfina, I’m not sure how long we can keep this up. Sooner or later Müller is going to change his mind and… make you available.”
She pulled away from me. “But we could escape, couldn’t we? Both of us?”
My mind raced. I knew I couldn’t give her even a whiff of what I had in mind. It would take just a careless word, just the tiniest hint, even a lift in her mood, and it would spread through the establishent like wildfire. In any case my plans could still come to nothing; a lot depended on what I could find out this Friday.
I played for time. “How?”
She raised her voice. “I don’t know, but you’re a soldier, aren’t you? You could find a way!”
I said nothing.
She subsided. “I’m sorry, Jim. That wasn’t fair.”
“It’s okay, I understand. We’ll just have to make the best of these nights we have together.”
Her hair brushed my cheek as she nodded. “Yes, and while it lasts it is worth every moment to me.” She ran the flat of her hand over my chest, then snuggled down again. She was ready for sleep.
I smiled and closed my eyes. I could really love this girl.
What a dope you are, Jim! You feel sorry for her and she's grateful to you, and you think that's a basis for a relationship?
Maybe not, but it would make a great start.
I banished the thought. Right now this was the only place Delfina could feel safe. It had to stay that way. At least I could give her that much. There’d be time enough if my plans did work out.
In the morning I got up early, leaving her to sleep. When I emerged from the bathroom, barefoot and still in my boxer shorts, she was already out of bed. She gave me a tiny smile, reached a hand to my face and kissed me on the cheek. Her skin was like silk.
“I will see you tomorrow night,” she said softly. Then she opened the door, looked up and down the corridor, and left the room.
I stepped over to the door and watched her go. It may have been my imagination, but I thought she was walking a little taller. I certainly was.
37
I glanced at my watch. Just after six o’clock. I threw on some clothes and went quickly down to the entrance. I wanted to see whether anyone was on duty yet.
The lobby was empty but as I approached the security door at the other end of the corridor flew open. It was the wing with, among other things, the soldiers’ accommodation, and it was a soldier’s voice I heard shouting:
“¡sal de aquí!”
A naked girl stumbled out, followed by a nightdress that had been flung at her. She picked it up and set off in my direction. Then she saw me. She lowered her eyes and, gathering the torn nightdress to her, hurried past. But I'd already seen the tear-stained face, the blotchy red defence marks on her arms, and the swelling high on her cheek. I set my jaw. Right now there was nothing I could do about it, but it was yet another score to settle.
The air was cool outside. I turned left and walked along the front of the building in the direction of the factory wing. At this time of the morning everything was quiet. At the far end I turned left and walked right down to the corner of the building. There I stopped and listened. I could hear nothing, so I rounded the corner and put my ear to the kitchen door. Again there was no sound of movement inside. The staff would have to come soon to prepare breakfast. My guess was that it wouldn’t be any earlier than this when the delivery arrived on Friday.
I shivered and rubbed my bare arms.
Jesus, it’s cold. If they deliver at this time of the morning they may not need a refrigerated van.
I turned to go back in. It had been useful. But next time I’d put on something more than a T-shirt.
*
I spent most of the day working with Baer and his assistant Tilman. To my chagrin it was like Baer had said: the population recruited for the drug trial included enough different nationalities and ethnicities to conduct a valid statistical analysis. I couldn’t see any holes in what they’d done up to now so I used the approach I’d outlined in the meeting with Müller. It was many years since the economic geography module in my degree but I had them making pie charts to show the composition of the trial cohort, whisker plots of the results and as many other graphical forms as I could remember. To do this they had to organize the data in different ways.
Baer looked pained. “There is much work to do this. Is it really necessary?”
“Absolutely,” I assured him. “There are some red-hot statisticians on that committee and we have to get it right.”
It was a curious inversion of the normal consultancy role. The danger wasn’t that they’d overrun but that they’d finish too soon. To make sure that didn’t happen I’d have to think of something else when they’d finished the present task. I studied the trial design carefully. Some of the evaluations had been conducted at two stages on the same subjects. That meant they should be doing a repeated measures analysis. Of course this would only occur to me after they’d already generated the graphs.
How long could I keep this up before someone realized I was deliberately holding things back? It was Wednesday and I couldn't make a move until Friday week. I could drag my feet over writing the actual application but there were limits even to that. Yet I had to prevent that doctored application going to the US Army.
It was hard, because I was also trying to think through the plan that had been forming in my mind. Right now I had only the barest outline, and I was trying to put up alternative courses of action, based on what could go wrong. After a while I had to abandon the effort; there was too much hanging on what I could discover on Friday morning.
*
When we sa
t down to dinner Colin entertained me with a new algorithm he’d developed, which saved half a dozen clock cycles. It was a fascinating topic – for Colin.
We’d just started the main course when he said, "What's happened to Delfina?"
My muscles tensed. "What do you mean, what's happened to her?"
"She's not on line yet. Müller usually spits them out quicker than this."
I tried to control my voice. "Perhaps he's got too fond of her to let her go."
He threw his head back and laughed. A morsel of food landed on my cheek and I quickly brushed it away.
"Müller? You're joking. You think he's got feelings?"
"You evidently don't."
"Too right, I don't. Oh, he's a clever bloke, I'll give him that, but feelings? A shark's got more feelings than him.”
I thought this was a bit rich from someone with his emotional sensitivity.
"Oh well," he said. "Think I'll have a piece of Maria tonight. Won't be much competition for her. A bit mature for my taste, too, but she's got a nice arse on her. I like ’em big in the beam. Gives you something to grab hold of.”
I sighed. "Colin, do you ever think about anything besides sex?"
“I like algorithms,” he said cheerfully, and then he caught my expression. “Oh, see what you’re saying.” He grinned. "All right for you, old son. I didn't get any before I came here. I got a lot of catching up to do."
To switch the topic I glanced round at the other tables and turned back to him. “The surgeon-guy down there, my side…”
“That’s Wayne. The one facing him is Chuck, also a surgeon. Want me to introduce you?”
I grimaced. “No thanks.”
“They’re all right, James. Only doing their job. Mustn’t hold it against them.”
Oh, but I do hold it against them, Colin. In a very big way.
“Both been here longer than me,” he said, adding with a quick laugh, “well, of course they have.”
“That’s my point. They’re the ones who do the implants, so they can’t be wired themselves. What’s keeping them here?”
The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3) Page 20
