Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  Mercedes wondered again about coca. Drug barons were rich beyond words, though many Colombians starved or died of neglect. Father Govia had once told her that the cocaine criminals had more money than the government, and more power, but that hard-working people of God were the real soul of Colombia.

  Mercedes was also troubled by the way Branko treated the house staff. When she challenged him on it, he looked at her with eyes that seemed to eviscerate.

  “You’re smart and beautiful, Mercedes,” Selena had once told her. “But you have disastrous taste in men.”

  “This is business,” she replied. “Stop it.”

  Selena was correct. The lawyer Thomas had been incredibly insensitive and hurtful. Marco was no better, a farm equipment wholesaler who had lost his business and her respect to gambling. There were others. Each seemed right at the time. Mercedes didn’t want to think about them or her dismal record. There was a lot she didn’t know about Montello. A lot, she guessed, she didn’t care to know. She wouldn’t think about that either. It was just business, after all. And there was Buenos Aires. Beautiful Buenos Aires.

  THIRTEEN

  It was the first time Mercedes had flown on a private jet and Branko had made certain it would be unforgettable. They toasted with fine wine, and at thirty thousand feet Mercedes marveled at the pristine snow-capped mountains that moved slowly beneath them.

  Buenos Aires was big and noisy and Mercedes was still giddy from the wine when they reached their hotel near the spectacular Colon Theater on Avenida de Julio. They were shown to a huge suite trimmed in Brazilian teak and decorated with matching splashes of sensuous red and tangerine. Windows that were curtained in pale gold brocade ran twelve feet high and sparkled with the lights of a dozen ships moored in the Rio de la Plata.

  Mercedes was intoxicated by the excitement. “It’s stunning,” she exclaimed, running to glass doors that led to an expansive marble balcony. She sucked in the night air and held her breath when she spotted her first glistening star. Her eyes were clamped shut when Branko came and stood beside her.

  “The wish has to be kept secret,” he said.

  She kept her eyes shut tight. “Normally yes…but not this wish.”

  Mercedes suddenly thrust herself at him. “It’s my wish that you dance with me, Branko, the tango if you please.” Mercedes arched her back, expecting Branko to wrap his arms around her.

  He laughed softly instead. “A man doesn’t have time to learn the tango.” Gently, Branko pushed her away, oblivious to her disappointment. Silence.

  It might have been the wine, laced with anger, that caused her to say what she said next. Mercedes wasn’t sure, but she instantly regretted it. “A real man would dance with me,” she slurred.

  The slap stung her face, caused her eyes to fill with tears. Backwards she stumbled, bringing a hand to her burning cheek. Stunned.

  “That was a mistake,” Montello hissed.

  Dizzy and confused, Mercedes swayed, a loud ringing in her ears. She tried to swallow but it stuck in her throat. Oxygen suddenly seemed too thick to breathe. Montello showed no sign of remorse. “How dare you?” she stammered. “Don’t you ever–”

  In a flash, Branko grabbed her throat, choking off her scream. His face was a mask of rage. “No. Don’t…you…ever…” He shook her, fingers tightening vice-like around her neck.

  Her universe imploded, jagged shards of light stabbed at her, thunder replaced the ringing in her ears. Mercedes fought for breath, her brain and heart struggled for blood as tiny white specks flashed before her eyes. Night and the black shroud of unconsciousness melded into one. She clutched at his hands, desperate to tear them free. Tears soaked her face as she collapsed to her knees, unable to scream. Montello had lost his mind. Tighter he squeezed, moaning like a wounded animal.

  She tasted blood and then blackness overtook her.

  He didn’t kill her.

  Mercedes awoke in a bed, still dressed, her throat swollen and painful. She coughed with the sound of coarse sandpaper. Her pillow was soaked. She was alone.

  Had it actually happened? She brought a hand to her throat, felt a shooting pain lodge beneath her jaw. Carefully she sat up, eyeing herself in the mirror at the foot of the bed. Tears came to her eyes when she saw the bruising. Her mind stumbled backward and, reliving the moment, a loud gasp escaped her parched lips. Mercedes took five long breaths and then lowered her feet to the floor. After another moment she walked from the bedroom and moved robot-like into the suite. Sunlight coated everything and caused her to squint.

  There was something on the coffee table, appearing at first as a red clump until she was able to focus. Roses. Too many to count. Mercedes walked to them and slowly removed the card. She read it twice, bile rising in her throat, causing a painful cough that echoed dryly through the suite. She dropped the card on the floor and for a full five minutes Mercedes wept. All her dreams had been destroyed. There’d be no restaurant in her future. She’d been stupid to think there would be. She had no intention of allowing this man to become her business partner. Not now. Mercedes permitted herself a few moments more to compose herself before returning to the bedroom and throwing her suitcase on the bed. She considered what to do after that. She didn’t know how long he would be gone but recalled him saying something about a business meeting in the morning. The afternoon was set aside for sightseeing and a little shopping. Mercedes dreaded his return.

  Her purse was on the bed. She snatched it up and checked its contents. Her passport had been removed. She swore. There was no telling what Branko would do if she simply left. It frightened her to think about it.

  Mercedes froze at the sound of the door being unlocked. She prayed it was housekeeping. Footsteps moved towards the bedroom, causing her to back up, to want to hide. A man’s form suddenly darkened the doorway.

  “I regret what happened,” Montello said flatly. “I’ve ruined your visit.”

  Mercedes might have laughed under different circumstances. He stood there. Steely eyed in his summer-weight tan suit, hands at his sides, waiting for her to speak. Mercedes sensed his intention. To dominate her, make her feel vulnerable, under his control. It riled her. “It would be better if I returned home,” she replied curtly, moving to the bed to collect her things. “I’ll find my own way to the airport.”

  Montello then reached into his pocket. “I had no wish to harm you,” he replied as though he hadn’t been listening. “But you are still my guest here.” He withdrew a passport, flipped through its pages, and then returned it to his pocket.

  Guest or prisoner? Mercedes wondered. “I’ll go to the embassy,” she said, anger lacing her voice. “Acquire temporary travel documents.”

  “Very well,” Montello responded smugly. “Give the ambassador my best. We’re old friends.”

  Mercedes realized she was beaten. To hide her disappointment she spun on her heel and disappeared into the bathroom. When she heard him leave, she turned on the water, removed her clothing, and stepped into the steaming shower. For a full ten minutes she stood there, barely moving, except to rub the sting of salty tears from her tired eyes. She toweled herself dry, feeling a thankful measure of rejuvenation. In the mirror, she stared at the bruise on her throat. He hadn’t killed her, Mercedes reasoned. He could have. Maybe she could put what happened behind her. Why should her dream of owning DeMarco’s be crushed by a singular act of madness? Montello regretted what he had done. Mercedes felt her own regret, for pushing a button in him which she had no intention of ever pushing again. She spent luxurious moments combing her long wet hair and then wrapped it tightly in a thick white towel. The bedroom was bathed in sunlight as she stepped to the window, hugging herself through the softness of her robe. It was still possible, she thought. If anything, she was stronger now. Not weak or vulnerable. When she was a youngster at the orphanage one of the nuns had given her an exam to test her intelligence. “One in ten thousand,” the dear old nun had told her afterward.

  “Am I smart?” Merce
des had asked at the time.

  “Too smart for your own good,” she had replied.

  Standing at the window, Mercedes wondered whether that was a curse or a blessing.

  That night, at a magnificent restaurant he had picked, her soup was cold as she watched him eat. The roast beef was superb, he declared, jabbering on then about a new collection of fine books he was acquiring, oblivious to her disgust.

  Branko stopped eating. “Your food is getting cold.”

  In a reflex she couldn’t control, Mercedes’ hand went to the spot on her throat where a bluish-purple bruise was thankfully hidden behind a silk scarf. “I’m not hungry,” she replied. “I think I might be coming down with something.”

  Branko reached across the table to place the back of his hand against her forehead, causing her to flinch.

  “You do feel warm,” he said, unaffected by her start. “I’ll call for the car. Take you back to the hotel for a good night’s rest. I have some business to attend to.”

  With that, Branko motioned for the waiter and requested the check.

  Twenty minutes later, back at the hotel, Montello poured her a brandy, placed it on the coffee table next to the roses and left her alone in the suite. Mercedes watched him leave. With all her strength and despite herself, she hurled the snifter, smashing it into a thousand pieces against the closed door.

  One in ten thousand, she thought again as she stared at the broken glass.

  Two days later.

  At Montello’s estate, Mercedes parked in the shade of a long narrow two-storey garage which housed his exotic cars. She noted immediately that his favourite, a shiny black Italian sports model, was missing. She exhaled in relief and stepped onto pavement, breathing in the potent scent of tropical flowers which sprang up from giant ceramic pots lining the driveway. Mercedes stood a moment, pushing aside the feeling that she should get back in the car and drive away. She’d awakened that morning troubled. The residue of a disturbing dream, she thought, though she remembered none. Anxiety picked at her, a fearful nervousness which she fought to deflect by taking deep measured breaths as she sat on the edge of her bed. Control returned and then a restorative calm which she was grateful for.

  Someone called her name.

  Nestor, Montello’s round-faced groundskeeper, waved at her from his gardening shed, his omnipresent smile warming as always. They had shared something unspoken from her first visit to the huge manicured estate. Nestor had proudly toured her through its countless gardens, pointing out the more unusual species of flowers and plants. His daughter had just been hired for the household staff. He had beamed when he told her. Nestor was a kind man who on several occasions had left freshly cut flowers on the front seat of her car. Mercedes’ face brightened whenever she saw him. She waved back.

  After entering the grand house, Mercedes made her way up the winding staircase that led to the second floor. Montello had made it easy for her to accept invitations to spend the night. The guest suite was located within the east wing of the mansion, with its marble foyer and a tall arched door which opened upon a large sitting area and separate sleeping quarters. Mercedes walked quickly into the suite and with barely a look around made her way to the bedroom. She eyed her lucky ring which she’d carelessly forgotten on the night table next to the bed. Thankful, she scooped it up, turned, and left. She walked back downstairs, her jeweled firefly safely returned to her finger.

  The house was quiet except for muted sounds coming from the kitchen. Mercedes strode along the hallway towards the front door, and as her sandals swept along gleaming hardwood she wondered how long Montello’s housekeepers had toiled on their knees, with as much grimace as polish in the mirror finish.

  The thought vanished as Mercedes suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. She looked twice. Strangely, the door to Montello’s study was ajar. Sunlight from the room bled into the hallway, Montello’s sacred heart hemorrhaging the lifeblood of his sanctuary.

  Mercedes looked both ways along the hallway. Recklessness had always been her companion but never her friend. She moved to the wall, held her breath, and for a full minute she listened.

  Was it a hunger for retribution which pushed her towards the door? Perhaps, she thought. Mercedes decided it didn’t matter. As her mind screamed for retreat, she leaned into the room.

  Montello’s study was empty.

  She stepped cautiously through the door, her heart pounding, as if the intrusion would sound an alarm to be rapidly dealt with by an army of sneering armed men. Mercedes stepped farther in and stopped. Amazed, she breathed deeply and took in her surroundings. The oak-paneled room was filled with beautiful works of art. There were sculptures, the largest of which filled an entire corner of the room, a piece that looked vaguely familiar. With shock, it finally struck her. It was a Bernini normally kept in a church near the Vatican. Awestruck, Mercedes allowed her eyes to roam the walls. Fine paintings were hung with gilded frames. Towering bookcases were filled with beautiful tomes. Exotic furniture fashioned in rich leather and rare wood seemed choreographed before a glass wall which revealed the estate’s magnificent grounds. She understood why Montello spent so much time in this place. It was dizzying to her, though at the same time, he seemed a plundering invader surrounded by such beauty.

  She moved farther in, shuddering at the thought of what Montello would do if he found her here. Still, this invasion of his privacy brought a thin smile to her lips as she gathered her courage and approached his ornate desk. She quickly scanned its surface, and seeing nothing of interest she turned to face his collection of books. There had to be a thousand fine volumes, snuggly aligned row upon row until they reached well above her head. Between two of the tall bookcases was an empty space about three feet in width. In that space hung a painting. Strange, Mercedes thought, as she stepped closer. Such an unusual place to hang a beautiful piece of art. It also looked vaguely familiar to her, something she had seen before. Then it occurred to her. It was that day a month or so ago – over dinner – when Montello had retrieved an old art catalogue to check some date or fact relevant to what he was talking about, which was iconic art, she now recalled.

  He satisfied his curiosity and then excused himself to take a phone call. While she waited for him to return she had lingered over the old book, sipping her wine, flipping through it until she stopped at one page in particular. She remembered now. Daddi. Bernardo Daddi was the artist’s name. There was something on the page that had grabbed her attention at the time. A moment later she remembered. Then a thought occurred to her.

  Mercedes searched quickly. Her watch said two. If Montello was taking lunch off the estate he’d be back soon. Rapidly she moved from one end of the bookshelves to the other, sweeping her hand across their spines, eyes darting high and low, excitedly.

  Then she saw it. High up on the top shelf, tucked into a corner and nearly invisible. Mercedes reached for it. Damn! It was much too high for her. Frantically now she searched for something to stand on. The chair behind his desk would work, so Mercedes maneuvered it into position as fast as she could and climbed on it. Then she pulled the old catalogue from its place on the highest shelf, and with her throat tightening with anticipation, she opened it.

  Bernardo Daddi. 1280 to 1348. She searched through photographs of his work and the biographical notes until she found what she was looking for. A picture of the actual painting hung before her. Saint Ursula, martyred by the strike of an arrow during her pilgrimage to Rome. Three vessels arriving at Cologne. Beneath the photograph three tiny numbers had been neatly handwritten. Strange, Mercedes thought, until she remembered Montello’s frequent complaints about his poor memory for numbers. She knew now what they meant. She committed the numbers to memory, replaced the catalogue and climbed down from the chair, which she quickly restored to its original position behind the desk. Then Mercedes stepped to the painting and placed her fingers behind its frame. Gently she pulled, until it swung back, revealing a wall safe. She would have smiled except at that ins
tant, Mercedes froze at a sound in the hallway. Voices came next – tense loud voices. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but the tone and timbre she recognized immediately as Hernan Suarez, Montello’s pock-faced assistant. She quickly shoved the chair aside and ducked beneath Montello’s desk.

  A moment later the voices quieted, followed by a footstep at the doorway, the wheeze of breathing followed by a low curse. It was Suarez, probably still fuming at whomever he had scolded for leaving the door ajar.

  Mercedes had stupidly neglected to close the door after entering the study. She winced at her mistake and realized now that Suarez would want to satisfy himself that his master’s study was undisturbed.

  Footsteps, closer now.

  Mercedes held her breath and at that second realized her second shocking error, the one that would likely end her life. In her rush, she’d forgotten to push the painting back into position against the wall. Suarez would see the safe and realize he had stumbled upon a serious breach of security. Then he’d summon the guards and search the house – beginning with the study.

  She felt like bolting, but what chance would that offer? Panic wasn’t an option. Instead she waited helplessly for him to grab the telephone. Seconds passed in terror. Then a full minute. Nothing. He was going to engage in the search himself, Mercedes thought, though that wasn’t how Suarez normally operated. Suarez usually retreated to the background whenever she was in Montello’s presence, but she had seen enough of him to know he was fond of barking orders to his cadre of armed men.

  Still no sign of alarm. Then she heard his muffled voice. A dose of adrenalin shot through her – she’d been discovered and was being ordered to show herself. Sweating and defeated, she was about to crawl out from beneath the desk – to surrender and hope for the best. Then, more muffled words, and a second later came a raspy mechanical reply. It quickly occurred to her that Suarez was never without his radio and was now checking in with his men. From the sound of his conversation he suspected nothing was amiss in Montello’s study, and a few seconds later Mercedes heard him walk out of the room and gently close the door behind him.