"We got him alive. Also one of his men. We spotted him with the helicopter, floating downriver on a life raft."
"And-was there gold?"
"No. As I say, it was a fiction, an incentive. But it worked."
"And what was your incentive in all this, comrade?"
"To present you with a gift beyond imagining, Comandante. A lot of my men died to get it. Shall we spend our time together examining my motives or may I get back to burying my dead?"
"No one is questioning your motives, Niño." Arriaga gave his vinegary smile as he exercised the prerogative of nullifying what he himself had just said. "What do you propose?"
He listened as El Niño explained his plan. "Good," he said. "Very good. I will communicate this to Presidente Gonzalo personally."
The mention of the name had great shock value; in another time and place it would be like uttering the sacred Tetragrammaton, YHWH. Arriaga was known to be one of the few Senderista cadres in direct contact with Abimael Guzman. Arriaga had never before spoken the name in his presence. It was both a compliment and a way of reminding him of Arriaga's significance.
"My communications equipment is temporarily out of order. But my own phone is at your service, of course."
Arriaga stared coldly. Guzman had not been seen in over ten years. It was said that Guzman's whereabouts were unknown-even to Guzman. To propose one's own phone to communicate with Sendero's founder and supreme commander was… a lapse of judgment.
"I will remain here while the plan is executed," said Arriaga.
"Good," El Niño lied.
"Do you have room for my men? This pathetic old man seems to have destroyed most of your infrastructure." It pleased Arriaga to use a word like "infrastructure" instead of "buildings."
"He was lucky. One of their bombs hit the chemical shed. That's what made the fire. My own house is at your disposal, Comandante."
Arriaga stood and stared at "The Execution of Maximilian." "The men in the firing squad, they're dressed up like penguins."
"Well, yes, you could put it that way."
Arriaga turned to him. "I do put it that way, comrade."
Diatri paddled the inflatable Zodiac out of the current, hugging the riverbank, watching with suspicion the logs that floated past him to see if they blinked. The light was fading and he seemed to remember that crocodiles mostly like to eat at night. He paddled until he thought he recognized a small muddy island on the map and put in to shore and set out on foot.
He told himself over and over that the animals, reptiles, birds, monkeys, bats and unspecified things shrieking in his ears were more scared of him than he was of them, though he knew this to be extremely false. Large insects swarmed in and out of his flashlight beam. Eyes the size of bicycle reflectors flashed at him. He kept touching the compass around his neck to make sure it was there. Rivulets of bug juice and sweat ran into his eyes and stung.
He marched in a southwesterly direction for two hours until he smelled smoke. He stopped to get his bearings, blood pounding in his ears. He saw the glow of light off to the south. He took a step forward and felt it, just below his kneecap.
"How do you feel, billonario?"
The face came into focus just as it had months ago on the wall of the cabin on the island.
"Now I see you're still alive, worse."
"You were asking for The Wall Street Journal. When I heard that, I knew you were going to make it. Here, drink some orange juice. Morphine makes you thirsty."
Charley gulped. It was cold and sweet. It tasted wonderful.
"Why did you do it, billonario?"
"Your dope killed someone I loved," said Charley.
"No no," said El Niño dismissively. "Not that. The Manet. The Baudelaire 'Absinthe Drinker.' How could you have done that?"
"You know how Eskimos hunt polar bear? They take a piece of sharp whalebone and bend it inside a chunk of seal fat and freeze it. The bear eats the fat, the bone straightens, the bear chokes."
"Yes," he said with barely controlled anger. "But you can replace seal fat."
"You can replace art."
"It's criminal, what you did!"
"Criminal, you say." Charley laughed. "Well, now." If the bone had not pierced through the bear's throat, perhaps he could at least make it stick in his craw. "The painting's a fake."
"No."
"A copy. You don't think I'd float down into your sewer with the real McCoy? That's back home in the vault."
"You're lying. I had a look before you blew it up. That wasn't a copy."
"Well, now, you won't ever really know, will you?"
El Niño walked toward the door. "Tell me, billonario. All this effort and expense-just for the granddaughter?"
"My way of dealing with grief."
"I still don't understand. No one forced her to inhale cocaine. You're a Catholic. You believe in the consequences of free will. What's the problem?"
"You are the problem."
"What's your understanding of me, billonario?"
"I'm not trying to understand you, son. I'm just trying to kill you."
"But all this effort, you must have done some biographical research."
"I lifted up the rock. You were underneath."
"Do you feel well enough to move? There's something I want to show you."
Charley was on a narrow bed on wheels. El Niño pushed him out into a damp, cement corridor. A man opened a door. It was dark inside, but the air was less humid. Charley heard an electric fan somewhere. He wondered if this was the room where he would die. He wasn't afraid. Was it the morphine? He said a Hail Mary. He'd been sure he was about to die a half dozen times in his life and each time he'd turned to a woman.
"Leave us," he heard El Niño tell his man. Alone in the dark, Charley waited for the fatal bullet or knife thrust. Instead he saw a spotlight brighten gradually on a canvas in front of him.
The Hapsburg emperor stood between his two faithful Mexican generals, Miramon and Mejia. He was wearing a sombrero. The muzzles of the executioners' guns seemed to touch the victims' chests. White smoke poured out. A crowd of spectators peered over the top of the enclosure.
"Do you know what Renoir said when he first saw this? 'A pure Goya, and yet Manet has never been more himself!'"
Charley stared up at the painting. He lost himself in it for a moment. "You rob museums on the side?"
El Niño smiled. "I use a service. A Belgian. He calls himself a 'deaccessionizer.' Rupert Bendinck, do you know him? He has a lot of North American clients."
"No. I pay for mine."
"Oh, believe me, billonario, I paid for this. What do you think? It's magnificent, eh?"
"It's lit wrong."
"You're very blasé. I'm giving you a private viewing of one of the greatest works of art of the nineteenth century. Alas," he sighed, "no longer open to the public. It was in the Stadtische Kunsthalle in Mannheim. Well, anyway, it was wasted on the Germans. Becker, that's German, isn't it? No offense."
"None taken."
"I suppose the Germans wanted it because it's anti-French, or anti-Napoleonic, which to them amounts to the same. You know the story? Louis Napoleon flattered the Austrian Archduke Maximilian into thinking that a nation of Indians and half-castes would accept a Hapsburg for their emperor. Metternich's comment when he heard about the scheme was: 'What a lot of cannon shots it will take to put an emperor in Mexico and what a lot it will take to keep him there.' As soon as your Civil War was over, Secretary Seward complained to Napoleon about the Monroe Doctrine. It was more than that, actually. He threatened him with war. So much for old friends, eh? So Napoleon, lacking his uncle's determination-lacking everything of his uncle, as a matter of fact-withdrew his troops and left poor Max to face Benito Juarez and the brown hordes, with only his two Quislings there, Miramon and Mejia. Max sent his wife, the lovely Carlota, to persuade the Pope to send his troops to intervene. The Pope declined. It was too much for Carlota. She went mad right there in the Vatican. She was the fi
rst woman to spend a night there. Do you think she and the Pope…? Manet's comment on the entire sordid affair was to paint the execution in the manner of Goya's 'Third of May, 1808,' in which the first-and true-Napoleon's troops are in the process of slaughtering a bunch of Spanish peons-and to dress the Mexican firing squad in French uniforms! Bravo, eh? He tried to distribute a lithograph of it. Napoleon censored it. There's the power of art for you, billonario."
"It's still lit wrong," said Charley.
El Niño went on, borne on the current of his passion. "I first saw it as a child. Papa took us to Europe on a Grand Tour. He was worried that his children were turning out insufficiently plutocratic. My sister and I were always hanging out in the kitchen with the servants. In Europe we stayed with Papa's faded noble friends. He thought that would do it, seeing the splendor that was once the Old World. We stayed in these freezing-cold castles that had been in their families since the Bronze Age. You know the kind. They still lived in them but they couldn't afford to heat them. So where did my sister and I spend our time? In the kitchens, with the servants, where it was warm." He grinned. "My father was proud of being descended directly from the Pizarros. Proud of being a Pizarro! My God. When my bad attitude matured into political consciousness, he comforted himself that I was the result of a regressive, Inca gene that one of our ancestors had brought into the bloodline one night rolling around in the mud out by the stables. The truth, really, is that Papa was a greater influence on me than Karl Marx or Mao or Presidente Gonzalo."
"The plan is to bore me to death, is that it?"
"You were an orphan by fate, billonario. I'm one by choice. Is your Catholicism a leftover sentimentality from the Mexican nuns, or does it provide you with the father you never had?"
"It provides a place for people like you."
El Niño laughed. "Ah yes. But surely it's still easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for billionaire defense contractors? Do you think I do this just for money?"
"No. Being godfather to all those crack babies must give you a fine sense of accomplishment."
"The suffering of the innocents runs through history. Look at your own religion. Every male child in Galilee slaughtered by Herod's soldiers to make way for Gentle Jesus. Look at your own country. What about the baby sitting in the ruin of Hiroshima, screaming for its mother? The little Vietnamese girl running down the road after being napalmed by Uncle Sam's F-4 Phantoms? The crack babies are casualties of a war, billonario."
"War," said Charley. "What do you know about war?"
"I know that I'm winning one against your country."
"I thought your problem was with your daddy."
El Niño smiled. "My problem has matured. My problem is with history. Do you know who Atahuallpa was?"
"Yes."
"Then maybe you'll grasp the concept, Atahuallpa's Revenge. You have to admit, it makes Montezuma's Revenge seem insignificant by comparison. An amoeba that gives you diarrhea is nothing next to an alkaloid that makes people kill themselves and each other for it."
"As I recall, it wasn't the United States that killed Atahuallpa."
"No, but the United States has long since become the conquistador of record in our own hemisphere." He started for the door.
Charley said, "Son, you're obviously educated, intelligent. Do you honestly believe all this bullshit? Or did you just work it out this way on paper to get you through the nights?"
El Niño looked at him, then at "The Execution of Maximilian." "That gets me through the nights. If I were what you think I am, then we would be sitting in a house outside Medellin decorated by Liberace, and I would be showing you a nude with big tits by-at best-Botero."
He summoned his man back into the room. They wheeled Charley down the corridor. He felt a needle go into his arm and went under.
42
Diatri pounded on his leg. It had gone to sleep. The wire that stretched across his shin disappeared into some bushes about ten feet away. It was tight, and that was a problem. Some booby traps were rigged to go off if pressure was relaxed. He reviewed the traps he was familiar with: bouncing Bettys, friction fuses, rat traps, frag wires. He shone his light at the wire again and all he saw was bushes. It was probably a rat trap wired to a shotgun shell, but it was well worth waiting until light to establish that for a fact. He checked his watch for the two hundredth time and saw that a whole three minutes had gone by since he last checked. Two more hours to sunrise. The numbness came humming up his leg. He checked his watch again. The trick-he remembered this from boot camp-was not to lock your leg. His leg wasn't locked. So why was it numb? Maybe some snake had bitten him and the numbness was… for Christ's sake, Diatri, relax, it's not a snake. Yeah? So what's all that slithering going on down there? Look, if it was a snake, you'd feel it. I don't know, they got, they got some small snakes here, these palm vipers. Will you stop with the snakes? It doesn't have to be a snake. It could be a spider. They have some extremely horrible spiders down here. It's not a spider. It's asleep, all right? They have frogs, you know, that are poisonous. Frank, frogs don't bite. Look, the Super Bowl is on back home. Why don't you play Super Bowl? There's the toss, San Francisco will receive. What time is it? Don't look at the watch. The kick is high! What was that? Diatri shone his light. Something skittered away. This was no good. He felt for his nail clippers. No nail clippers. Terrific. Wonderful. Now the leg was starting to itch. Great.
Denver won. Diatri figured that would take longer.
The sky turned a faint blue and the forest awoke in a mad avian chatter. He saw monkeys in the trees above him. One took an interest in him and swung down to a low branch above him.
"Have you got a pair of nail clippers?" Diatri asked the monkey.
The monkey dropped to the ground.
"Shoo!" said Diatri. "Get out of here." The monkey cocked his head and stared, came closer. "No, no, go away!" The monkey stopped two feet away. Weren't they supposed to be scared of human beings? Diatri made a face. He growled. "Arrrrr!" The monkey made a face. Great, Diatri thought.
The monkey reached for the wire. "No!" said Diatri. The monkey withdrew its hand and scowled. "Wire bad," said Diatri. "Wire bad. Bad wire! No!"
The monkey walked over to where the wire disappeared into the bushes. "Yo, hey, Bonzo! No!" Great, killed by a monkey. Diatri fished in his pocket, took out a disposable cigarette lighter. The bushes were rustling. He held it underneath the wire and spun the striker wheel. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Bonzo had disappeared. Jesus. He put the lighter inside his armpit, which was about the temperature of the sun anyway. He held it clamped there as sweat poured off him. Then he held it under the wire. A tiny blue ball of flame, barely enough to warm a cold mosquito, appeared. Come on, come on. The wire glowed red, then white. Come on. The blue ball of flame died. The wire cooled. Shit!
He looked up. Bonzo handed him the apparatus. It was a rat trap with a hole drilled through for a twelve-gauge shell. A nail was soldered to the bow as a firing pin. It was a live shell. The nail was against the primer. Why hadn't it gone off?
Bonzo made a face and lumbered off into the bushes. Diatri fainted.
"How are you feeling this morning?"
"Fine." His hands hurt badly. He had some blueness underneath the bandage on the wrist.
"Good. I have something to show you."
"It's a little early for art."
El Niño considered. "Similar theme. This you would call a 'performance piece.'" Two men helped Charley up and out of the building.
Charley blinked in the morning sun. They were in the large field in front of the white house. He noted with satisfaction the extent of the damage. The jungle was still smoking off to one side, where the chemical shed had been.
"You're amused?"
"Looks like you had some trouble here."
"Nothing serious. We will be back to full operational capacity in a couple of weeks. But that was good ether you blew up. Expensive."
"How about that."
Charley knew he was being led to his execution. He was not afraid, and this fact pleased him.
They came to an open shed at the far end of the field. Charley saw three wooden tubs with hoses running in and out. Men were standing around expectantly. They looked at him and grinned to each other. Charley was aware of one group of men standing to one side, apart, somehow, from the rest. They were not grinning and bantering with the others.
"Good morning, comrades," El Niño said. "This is Mr. Becker, from the United States. He has traveled a long way to be with us this morning. Let us show our appreciation." The men laughed and applauded.
"You see." El Niño grinned. "Typical Latin hospitality."
A group of men appeared, dragging a man covered with a hood. They brought him to the edge of one of the tubs. El Niño gave a signal and they pulled off his hood.
"And this is Mr. Felix Velez, a friend of Mr. Becker's."
He had been severely beaten. One eye was swollen over and closed. He could barely stand. The worst was his hands. The fingers were grotesquely bent.
"Felix!"
Felix's face contorted into a smile. "Boss," he said.
Charley said to El Niño, "All right, you've made your point. I concede. You win."
"That's very accommodating of you, billonario."
"Whatever you want. Anything."
"Anything? And from the man who has everything."
"Including me. You can keep me."
"Billonario, for someone who's made so much money, you're a terrible negotiator."
"You want the painting?"
"But you destroyed the painting."
"I told you, it was a copy. I can have the real one here by tomorrow. By tonight."
"Delivered by the United States Air Force."
"No, no tricks. My own plane. I'm your collateral. Whatever happens, you keep me."
El Niño whispered, "You see that man over there? Do you know what he thinks of my Manet? He thinks the soldiers look like penguins. He's the number three Sendero cadre. So I told him, 'Yes, they look just like penguins.' What can you do with people like that? I ask you."
Wet Work Page 26
