by Glen Carter
The rebel fortress wasn’t really a fortress. Milosevic of the Serbs. Now there was a fortress. Saddam. Another one. Though what good were they in the end? Jack thought. Slobodan wound up a maniacal denier before judges in The Hague, Saddam living like a rodent when American soldiers flushed him out of his spider hole. Jack himself had tried it on for size a week after they spirited Hussein away. He barely fit. Some fortress.
To Jack, this rebel “fortress” looked a bit like summer camp except for the heavy perimeter security and the fact everyone was dressed in army fatigues and saluted. The camp was well into a daily routine. Thigh-slapping jumping jacks were winding down as clusters of soldiers dispersed to Quonset huts and lean-tos which blended into the jungle. A makeshift open-air classroom was filled to capacity with students. Jack caught the odour of food being prepared in a large green tent a hundred feet from where they stood. Even though muchacho was against Marxist policy, Jack saw that a clutch of guerrilleras were doing the cooking and clearing tables. Pavel and Uri smacked their lips and headed towards the field kitchen. No one challenged them, and Jack found that curious until he realized Pavel and Uri were familiar faces around here. Raspov had mentioned the brothers freelanced their talents here. “Teaching the monkeys how to kill with a hairy little finger and such.” The two Russian brothers had taken a table with a half dozen uniforms, and after a moment of back-slapping that looked like a college reunion, steaming plates of food were hurriedly placed in front of them.
Raspov was talking animatedly with a head-shaven uniformed brute who had been studying them closely since they arrived. The soldier caught Jack’s eyes, shook his head in a gesture Jack couldn’t decipher, and then pointed in the direction of a building at the end of the compound.
The morning sun tore through cloud like fingers ripping at cotton. Groups of teenaged soldiers squatted on well-worn patches of dirt outside barracks where huge Burund trees provided cover and quiet. In one of the groups, an instructor in a tight khaki T-shirt and fatigues carefully demonstrated a small round object.
Anti-personnel Mines 101, Jack thought. “Keep this side towards enemy.” Farther on, two well-muscled youngsters circled one another. One slashed a knife inches from his opponent, while a female instructor barked commands. Jack noticed that, the deeper they moved into the camp, the harder the stares. Kids, curious about the gringo. Back home, Jack thought, they would have been playing X-Box, watching MTV, and fretting about pimples and dates. Here they were recruits to a Marxist struggle few fully understood. The next generation. Learning to kill, but becoming fodder in the conflict between stubborn angry men.
Headquarters was a long narrow building with a flat roof that blended in with hills of green and brown that rose gently for miles beyond the razor wire. Of the two dozen buildings in the enclosure, the HQ building was the largest, but still a utilitarian structure with a row of evenly spaced windows along its front, and a plain door at the head of three broad wooden steps. A banner hung above the windows with the FARC logo: a pair of crossed rifles and an open book on a Colombian map imposed on the country’s flag. Layer upon layer of righteous symbols.
Jack’s muscles ached and when he caught a whiff of himself, he realized how desperately he needed a shower. Raspov had made it clear they would be in and out as soon as they could. “A courtesy call. Let them know we’re in the neighbourhood,” he said. They’d eat and finagle a vehicle.
Commander Domingo Guzman was a tall thin man with a black beard and glasses with thick dark rims. The standard military fatigues. His office had the charm of a jail cell, the only furniture a metal desk and chair. No place for visitors to sit. The walls were bare, a few maps and propaganda posters. A cigar burned in a huge glass ashtray. Montecristo number two, Jack noted.
Guzman gave him the once over, stuffed the large torpedo in his mouth and nodded at Raspov. “So you bring us a Yankee spy, Colonel.” Guzman looked at Jack like he was something stuck on the bottom of his boot.
“Your man overreacted, Commander,” Raspov replied, no apologies. “The situation had to be diffused. I expected better from my revolutionary friends.”
Guzman ignored Raspov, more interested in Jack. “So this is what a powerful member of the gringo press looks like.”
“Media,” Jack said, smiling weakly.
Guzman didn’t realize he’d been corrected. “I’m not thinking you look so formidable,” he continued, moving so close Jack caught the smell of the man. Cheap aftershave and cigar breath. He waited for Guzman to show more of his hand.
“What will you write about me, Mr. Doyle…our struggle?”
“It’s not why we’re here,” Jack replied.
“Humour me,” Guzman insisted. “Surely you’ve made observations… have something to say that’s worthy of note.” Guzman, like a school yard bully, hands on his hips, a cocksure look on his face. He waited – but not for Jack’s lunch money.
Jack thought quickly. He didn’t want to tell Guzman there wasn’t a hope in hell they were going to win their “struggle” – and that the United States wouldn’t tolerate another communist state in the Americas. That even if they did win, there wouldn’t be enough left of Colombia to lead. He wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter which side won, they were all blood-thirsty psychopaths who murdered men, women and children. Any righteousness in their so-called “struggle” had long ago been contaminated by innocent blood and cocaine. That’s what he wanted to say, and it would have probably gotten him executed.
So he said this instead: “You’ve never been better positioned to reach a lasting peace. You control more than forty percent of the country and can now bargain from a position of strength. The government is tired, the people are tired. In Washington, Plan Colombia is seen as a dud. The moderates don’t want another Viet Nam.”
Guzman thought about this for a moment, nodded his head. “The government no longer wishes to talk peace. They are not so motivated with all that American money paying for Blackhawk helicopters and fancy weapons.”
“Do they have any choice?”
Guzman struck a match, held the flame against the end of his cigar and sucked until his face disappeared behind flame and a cloud of grey tobacco smoke. “Perhaps not,” he replied.
Jack’s ad lib may have saved his life. He let Guzman savour it. Guzman backed off to his desk without taking his eyes off Jack, and then reluctantly turned to face Raspov. “Good to see you again, my Russian friend. We have much to discuss.” Then Guzman smiled. “Can we offer breakfast, Senor Doyle? It’s not what you’re used to, but it’s a good honest effort.”
Jack got the message and left, thankful to be gone. Once outside he spotted Uri and Pavel demonstrating some kind of chokehold to a group of wide-eyed teenagers. Pavel was struggling to free himself, slapping at his brother and turning a shade of blue that brought howls of laughter from the students. Uri released him, and Pavel fell to his knees, but then in a flash of movement drove his head into his brother’s gut. They crashed to the ground, cursing at each other. No one was laughing now.
Jack surveyed the camp, out of habit began to count. Soldiers. The ratio between men and women. Number of vehicles. Number of armed vehicles. A unit of soldiers was forming up in the parade square. How many troops per patrol? What kind of weapons? Two of the soldiers carried shoulder-mounted devices. A large white board was nailed to a post off to the side that contained the silhouettes of three black helicopters with red x’s stamped on them. Lots of room for more kills. Maybe today if they were lucky.
Jack realized he was being followed. No surprise. They’d want to make sure he didn’t see anything he wasn’t supposed to. He decided to eat, and then try for a shower and a shave. His knapsack had clean clothing, which he was looking forward to.
The humidity seemed to swallow the sounds of machines and soldiers as they fell into a lazy routine beneath a blistering sun that threatened lethargic stupor before noon.
Jack was fed and watered. And smelling much better after his
turn in a makeshift shower hung behind one of the barracks. He’d smiled for the first time in days when a group of guerrilleras whooped and hollered at the sight of his nakedness. They scattered under the glare of a superior officer who stared at Jack for an uncomfortably long time before sauntering away.
Raspov, Uri and Pavel had disappeared to secure a vehicle. They planned to head higher into the mountains to the place Seth Pollard was last reported by his people in New York. Given his disappearance it was sadly possible Pollard had met a cruel and untimely fate. Jack said a silent prayer and decided to seek out shade, somewhere away from the activity. Besides, his knee ached and he needed to sit. He was making his way along a narrow earthen passageway between two barracks buildings when he felt a rough hand on his shoulder. Jack spun around to see a kid with an angry look on his face. The teenaged soldier muttered something that sounded like a warning. Jack’s Spanish was bad, but he was pretty fluent in body language, and he knew he was about to wander into a restricted area. Jack brought a finger to his lips. Our little secret, amigo.
The guard wanted to look like a hard ass, despite the pimples, but at no more than sixteen that would have been impossible. Instead he looked around, lowered his weapon, shrugged and said something that Jack understood as Fuck it. Why not?
Jack smiled at him. “Gracias.”
When they reached the end of the passageway Jack saw the reason for the boy’s reluctance. They had arrived at a small clearing with an enclosure. He was staring at a cage made of high chain-link fence and topped with razor wire. Big enough for about a dozen prisoners and a small latrine. There were half a dozen men inside, half dead by the looks of it. Jack felt sorry for them, baking like that in the midday sun. There were three guards, none of whom looked happy about Jack’s presence. They raised their weapons in protest until the kid with the pimples held up a hand. Take it easy.
The prisoners were stripped to the waist, sweat rolled down their backs. Several were badly bruised and had swollen faces. The khaki pants they wore identified them as soldiers, but Jack couldn’t tell if they were regular army or paras. They stared at Jack with pleading eyes. One of the prisoners muttered something in Jack’s direction and then fell to the ground when a guard stabbed his rifle barrel through the chain-link mesh.
Jack pointed down at him. “Agua…agua. Do they have water?” No answer. Jack looked beseechingly at the kid with the acne. His shadow shrugged and then shoved Jack towards the way they’d come.
“These men need water,” Jack said.
“You must leave!” the guard shouted. His English had obviously improved. “Now!” He grabbed Jack’s arm.
Jack slapped his hand away.
The kid leveled his rifle, followed by the click, clack of safeties.
Dread hung on the air. He’d pushed too hard and was about to pay for it. Even the birds went quiet. Then the tense silence was broken. By the clap of hands. One man’s applause and a voice not unfamiliar to Jack.
“Bravo, Jack. Bravo.”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears, and when he turned he could barely believe his eyes. “Seth?”
“I see you got my message.” Seth grinned. “Now be a mate and get me the fuck out of here.”
FIFTY-THREE
“Fifty thousand quid. Can you believe that? If only they knew, Jack boy.” Seth Pollard was trying to keep up as they walked quickly across the compound to where Uri and Pavel loaded a vehicle. Raspov watched them approach.
“You’re worth ten times that, Seth. Twenty.” Jack wasn’t slowing down. “Where’s your gear?”
“Thirty times at least,” he said, studying Jack’s profile. “But you see, none of these committed revolutionaries has ever heard of Pollard Energy.”
Jack looked at him. “Or the great Nigel Pollard, no doubt.”
“Well, that’s another issue, isn’t it?” Seth frowned. “Father does hate ransoms, doesn’t he?”
“No, Seth. He hates paying them.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Seth scratched his forehead, allowed his fingers to travel backwards through thick greasy blond hair. He wiped his hands on a khaki vest that had nearly a dozen zippered pockets and pouches.
“How is he anyway?” Jack saw the Russians had scored an old Land Rover.
“Nigel? Tanned and probably screwing his new wife in Greece.”
“Good for him. Number three?”
“Four, I believe.” Seth began to check off fingers, stopped at his thumb. “Five, actually, counting mother.”
“Don’t forget her.” Jack grinned.
The Land Rover was nearly loaded by the time Seth and Jack reached it. Raspov was stone-faced. He’d made the case for the Brit’s release, told Guzman he was part of his crew, and in turn the commandant had made it clear the Russian now owed him.
A soldier approached with a large gunny sack and handed it to Seth who immediately checked its contents. Declaring everything accounted for, he carefully placed the bag on top of the other cargo at the back of the Land Rover.
“Breathe easy, lads,” Seth said, extending a hand in the direction of Uri and Pavel. “Seth Pollard.”
“Fuck off,” they said in unison.
“Bravo,” Seth said. “We’re off then.”
Uri was driving and Pavel rode shotgun, a kerchief tied tightly around his mouth like a Mexican bandit. Jack and Raspov were in the back with Seth between them. Jack had purposely waited until they were underway before asking the question that had been on his lips since they’d liberated Seth from the rebel cage.
“Where’d you shoot the video, Seth?”
“Brilliant, wasn’t it?”
Jack glared.
“Taganga. It’s up near Santa Marta,” Seth said. “About a week ago.”
Jack had never heard of it.
Seth looked over at Raspov’s grim profile. He reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a tube of sun block, pushed it at him. No response. “Suit yourself, mate. So, anyway. I’m at this beach place eating rice with greasy chicken.” Seth stopped a moment, as if regurgitating the memory.“One of those beach restaurants, you know the ones. And I’m just sitting there eating—”
“Eating arroz con pollo,” Jack said. “I know.”
“Arroz what?”
“Never mind.”
“Right. Anyway, along the beach comes this bird. She’s all alone and driving this crowd of German drunks crazy cause she’s quite a looker. They’re screaming and yelling and so it gets me curious too. I look – and then I realize I’ve lost my mind or something.”
Jack noticed Raspov was listening intently.
“The looker gets even closer. And Jack, no shit. I don’t believe what I’m seeing.”
Jack was all ears now. “Go on,” he demanded impatiently. Seth paused, gathering his breath.
“Seth?”
“It was her, Jack,” Seth finally said. “It was definitely her.”
Jack looked grimly past Seth to the passing scenery.
“Jack, I know how fucking crazy it all sounds. And I know you’d have every reason in the world to call me bonkers – full stop. But you saw the video, right?”
Jack tried to process what his skinny British friend was saying.
“Make no mistake, mate. It was Kaitlin. Kaitlin, Jack.” Seth was sure. Would have bet everything that the woman he saw that day was Kaitlin O’Rourke. “One hundred percent, Jack. You with me, mate?”
“Yes, Seth. Now tell me the rest of it.”
It was like he said. Lunch at a beach restaurant in Taganga. Her coming closer and closer to where he was eating his greasy chicken. Wandering along, getting her feet and legs wet in the water, dodging waves. A bit spaced out, in his opinion.
“She kinda just swept on by me as I’m sitting there digesting my pollo or whatever you called it. I could have choked,” he said. “She didn’t see me. I didn’t call out. I really don’t know why.” Seth paused to taste the regret that left. “Then she disappeared.”
Jack was thinking, drumming fingers on his leg.
“You know I wasn’t going to just let her stroll away, leave me guessing about my fucking sanity. So I got up to follow her. But she’d gone. I nearly shit. Brilliant, I thought. Just brilliant.”
“What happened then?” Jack said.
“I grabbed my camera and ran after her.”
The video played again in Jack’s head. Seth provided the voice-over. “There was this car, leaving the parking lot. It had to drive right past me. So I waited.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
Pollard stopped to consider that. “I didn’t think of it. Shit. Sorry, mate.” Seth frowned. “Anyway, the car had to stop for a second for some traffic.” Seth paused a moment. “And that’s when I saw it was definitely her. Like that time we hunkered down for Milosevic, remember? Caught him and his driver coming through the gates.”
“I remember. Your e-mail was short on details.”
Seth shook his head. “Now that’s another story. Are we stopping for lunch?”
An hour later they slid to a stop in front of a dusty cafetera that advertised cerveza and American cigarettes. A Coca-Cola sign leaned against the building, completely bleached of its trademark colours. An old man with a brown leather face sat next to a screen door, watching them suspiciously as they jumped out of the jeep. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, and Jack looked twice before he realized it was a rifle propped up against the wall behind the old man’s wicker chair.
“Buenos dias,” Raspov said.
