Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  The old man ignored him, but gave the two Russian brothers the once over as he got up and led the way inside.

  The place was empty except for some worn wooden tables, none the same, and a collection of mix and match chairs. A brass fan turned lazily above their heads, pulling hot wet air towards a ceiling stained with some kind of mould. Jack couldn’t nail down the smell. The menu board said pork and chicken.

  Uri and Pavel muttered in Russian and took a seat next to a window that was cracked and clouded by age and filth.

  When the old man came over they ordered, and five minutes later heaping plates of pork and fried potatoes were brought to the table. Jack ate a small bowl of white rice, which he doused with hot sauce. Uri and Pavel looked at him eat, and snickered.

  Jack arched an eyebrow. “See who’s laughing tonight.”

  Seth continued his story. “There’s a reason the e-mail was short on facts. A pretty good reason.” He shovelled a large forkful of dripping meat into his mouth, followed by a fistful of fries, and then took a pull on his bottle to chase the bolus down. “They came for me before I had a chance. Broke down the door to my hotel room before I could complete the message. All you got was the attachment.”

  Jack noticed Raspov was as interested as he was, which wasn’t completely unusual, except it tugged at Jack in a fashion he was unable to analyze.

  Seth chewed as he talked. “Knowing she’s in Taganga is one thing,” he said, smacking his lips. “Knowing exactly where is another.”

  Jack looked straight ahead. “Kaitlin isn’t the kind of girl you can forget. We’ll ask around. Start on that beach strip where you saw her.” Seth nodded agreement.

  Jack continued, “I’ve got a disk with her picture on it and I expect they have computers in Taganga.”

  Seth shrugged.

  “Anyway we’ll print it off, spread copies around until we get a bite. There’re probably not many places someone can hide there.” It was all well and good unless Kaitlin had already flown the coop. Jack didn’t want to think about that. There was a pause. Then Jack said, “So you gonna tell me? What exactly did you do to end up in that cage?”

  Pollard shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “The day I saw Kaitlin, that morning. I’m an hour out of Taganga with Jose. You don’t know him. My fixer. Anyway, we run into this roadblock about thirty miles from town and I think: Bravo, I’ll get some video. You know, some of the routine stuff – lads on roadblock duty. That kinda thing.”

  “You should know better,” Jack said. “These guys don’t like cameras.”

  “I thought I had carte blanche. Got to know the unit commander pretty good. Guess I was wrong,” Seth continued. “Three of them had this girl, you know, in the back of one of their lorries. They didn’t want me shooting any video.” Seth seemed to be steeling himself. A moment passed. “She was just a kid. They probably killed her afterwards.”

  “Jesus.”

  Seth’s nostrils flared. “The leftist struggle my arse.”

  Jack let him speak. He knew what he needed to say.

  “I should have done something. Anything. Power of the camera… you know. The minute you flick on the sun gun, the cockroaches scatter.”

  “There was nothing you could have done.”

  Seth considered that a moment. “Anyway, they snatched me that day. It was just after I got back to the hotel from my close encounter with Kaitlin.”

  Seth stopped to stare at Raspov for a long moment. There was something familiar about the three Russians. He’d figure it out later. “The Marxists were going to tag the home office for a ransom. Then you came along. Cheers, mate.” Seth lifted his bottled water.

  “Some fixer, that Jose,” Jack said.

  “I found out it was two of his cousins in the back of the truck with that girl,” Seth simply said. “Wankers.”

  Jack was glad he’d eaten light. They were headed west along a deeply rutted road and were still a good ways from Taganga, where Seth had shot the video of Kaitlin. The gear was strapped down in the back, including the black rucksack the Russians had brought with them from the boat. Pavel had earlier removed a pistol-handled shotgun from the sack, which he now held firmly between his legs. Several boxes of shells sat at his feet.

  The Land Rover smelled of air freshener of some variety. An evergreen tree dangled from the rear-view mirror. Pavel flicked at it now and then as if to knock more scent out of it. A brown stain on the driver’s door looked to Jack like dried blood. Probably some hapless soul had tried to run a rebel roadblock. Lost his life and his ride.

  They bounced along a road running parallel to a rain-swollen river. In spots, murky water pooled in huge, muddy potholes. Flights of Blackhawks and Chachalaca erupted from low-lying bushes where the landscape widened to reveal undulating hills and much farther away mountain ridges of white, gold and brown. In other circumstances Jack would have enjoyed the vista. The region was controlled by rebels, but hit-and-run paramilitary attacks were not uncommon. Jack nervously scanned the roadsides where rightist soldiers could be nestled just beyond the tree line waiting for soft targets. A familiar edginess began to take hold, a survival instinct fired by adrenalin. It’s what kept him alive, especially in places where some fifteen-year-old combatant with a Kalashnikov had his finger on the trigger. South Africa, the Gaza Strip, Sarajevo and Kabul. Jack survived by trusting his inner voice, and sometimes he paid a price when he didn’t. He learned that lesson in the Balkans too. A cabbie had driven them into an artillery bull’s eye in Kosovo. The driver was probably drunk and definitely lost, and while Jack had a bad feeling about where they were headed, he ignored it. A shell cratered next to the car. Seth wasn’t hurt, but Jack was bloodied by a piece of shrapnel just below his third knuckle. He should have listened to that whispered warning.

  Jack rubbed the small scar on his hand as the dirt road shot into a tunnel of thick forest. Great spot for an ambush, he thought.

  Raspov pointed out the window. “Paramilitaries have been on a killing spree farther west.” He drew a hand across his throat and made a scratchy sound. “Killing villagers by the dozens because the rightists see Marxist sympathizers hiding under every rock.”

  “And if we run into them?” Jack already knew the odds of surviving that kind of a meeting.

  “If they don’t snipe us first, you tell them you’re the famous Jack Doyle doing your work. Here with your skinny cameraman to write about the demon leftists and the heroic forces marshalled to crush them.” Raspov studied two shiny domes in the front seats. “If that doesn’t satisfy them Uri and Pavel will take care of it. We’ll survive as long as they haven’t brought their gunships.”

  “Great,” Jack said.

  “Faster, Uri,” Dmitri shouted, gripping the seat in front of him. They fishtailed through a cloud of dust around a sharp bend in the road, sending Pavel into a spasm of laughter.

  “You’d better know where we’re going,” Jack shouted, with no attempt to disguise his concern.

  Raspov laughed. “We’ll find the woman if Uri doesn’t kill us first.”

  The jeep swerved to avoid a tree in the middle of the road. The three Russians whooped with childish glee as Uri spun the wheel and gunned the engine. Jack slammed into Seth.

  “Hold on to something,” Raspov screamed. “This is only the beginning!”

  Jack didn’t doubt it.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Forty-five minutes later they drove into Taganga – and straight into gridlock. The main street was a strip of wrecked pavement that separated a string of cantinas and the town’s rocky beach. Cars and people jockeyed for space. Kids and old men on rusted bicycles dodged the potholes between the cars and the people. It was all accomplished to music which blared from tinny speakers mounted on poles that ran the length of the street above the crowd.

  Jack looked at Pollard who shrugged. “Must be Saint’s Day. Every town has one. The Patron Saint of Fuck It.”

  “A special day,” Raspov said sarcastic
ally. “What a treat for us.”

  Children wearing brightly coloured costumes ran alongside the Land Rover, screaming at the top of their lungs, and twice Uri had to apply the brakes to avoid running them over. His brother beamed as though he’d never seen happy children before. Pavel then jumped from the vehicle, stomping along in time to the music, but when the children saw his smile, they screamed louder and scattered.

  The Land Rover moved slowly through the village and Seth pointed out the few landmarks.

  Here and there in the crowd stares made Jack nervous.

  “Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Trust no one,” Seth said, thumping the headrest to the beat of the local rhythm.

  They found a parking spot on the strip between two monstrous SUVs in front of a nondescript building that had wrought-iron bars on its windows and a heavy wooden door. A doorman watched them exit the vehicle. He had a leathery face and was wearing black pants and a striped gondolier’s shirt.

  “Buenos dias,” Raspov said as they approached.

  The gondolier nodded beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat and walked them to a table on the sidewalk with a view of spectators’ backs. A number turned to stare at the two Russian brothers, who snarled back at them.

  Jack watched the top of a float as it passed them, a paper mache spectacle adorned with waves of flowers in pink, green and red. Three smiling teenaged girls wearing white cotton gowns and sparkling crowns waved to the crowd at the height of the contraption. The crowd went wild, a thunder of shouts and applause rolled up and down the strip, drowning out the music. Seth was shouting, trying to get the waiter’s attention above the din. The brothers joined the cacophony while Dmitri covered his ears and scowled. Jack stood to get a better view of the float and the crowd. It was difficult because of the crush of spectators directly in front of them. “Back in a minute,” he told Seth and then strolled away.

  Raspov watched closely as Jack disappeared into the crowd.

  The music became louder as Jack walked, and as the crowd thickened, walking became more difficult. He wanted an unobstructed view of the parade so he pushed his way through a barrier of people ten deep and ended up in the street. That’s when he felt the hot wet snort of a horse against his cheek and startled backwards. People in the crowd laughed and pushed him forward again. The horse brushed against Jack’s chest and stomped off, followed by several more carrying costumed riders.

  Jack wiped his face and then quickly lost his smile. He couldn’t explain the sudden feeling, no more than he could explain the time he knew Tommy was about to be hit by a truck. Jack’s eyes scanned the heavy line of farmers and tourists on the other side of the parade route. The sun flared from behind a church bell tower, causing Jack to squint.

  He turned slightly and then bleary-eyed, he saw her.

  Mercedes was almost enjoying the parade and had been thinking about Viernes Santo, Sister Evangeline’s favourite day of the year, when she saw the Russian and his two monsters being shown to a table by the ridiculous gondolier doorman. Two gringos were with them. Now one of them was pushing his way through the crowd and into the street. He spotted her.

  They locked eyes and Mercedes froze. After a second she stumbled backwards, bumped into an elderly couple and stammered an apology. Then Mercedes ran.

  Faces blurred as she pushed her way through the crowd. Voices cursed her as she shouldered hard and stepped on feet. For a fleeting second she twisted backwards but couldn’t see him. She found no comfort in that as she ran.

  She cursed her stupidity. The parade had been too great a risk, even though she was driven crazy after a week in that hotel room. The filth, the flea-ridden bed, the bare light bulb in the bathroom, the smell she couldn’t seem to wash from her hair. Mercedes had had to get out and it seemed like an opportunity to feel human again.

  Now she’d been spotted. Mercedes dashed through an alleyway and emerged on the beach. She had no intention of leading them to her hotel, her only sanctuary. The beach stretched for at least a mile in each direction, but Taganga was surrounded by hills and escape on foot was doubtful. For a second she thought about taking one of the fishing boats that were bobbing near the shoreline. The ropes slackened and grew taut with the rise and fall of the water and Mercedes knew she’d never be able to untie one in time. Damn!

  Her feet crunched noisily along the pebbled beach as she ran, fifty yards then sixty. Suddenly a rope from a fishing boat snapped tight, creating a trip line running twenty feet to a stake on the beach. Mercedes didn’t see it in time and she went down hard, her shoulder plunging painfully into the rocks. The breath was knocked from her and a sharp pain numbed her arm. She tried to get up and run again but she was entangled in the anchor rope. Frantically she tugged at it, cursing her bad luck. He was coming. Footfalls of crunching rock, getting louder. He might have been the one who had killed Selena and Orlando. She was petrified. Closer now. Mercedes simply shut her eyes and waited. It was finally over.

  Confusion muddied Jack’s mind as he closed the distance. Twenty more yards to go. Anger carried him ten more. Jack swore.

  She was face down, not moving. Even from that angle he was sure it was Kaitlin. The same shape and colouring. Her hair was much longer. How was that possible? By the time Jack reached her he could barely stand. He collapsed to his knees and reached out to grab her.

  It was the voice inside her head that told her it didn’t have to end like this. A voice that might have been Selena’s. Except Selena would have been more specific about what to do.

  Mercedes needed no instruction. She kicked him in the chest with her free leg and sent him hard onto his back. He grunted loudly in pain and swore aloud.

  Mercedes tore at the rope entangling her leg, her hands slipping on seaweed and slime. Her attacker was moving, trying to pull himself to his knees. Mercedes screamed for help, realizing with dread that she would never be heard. Not with the parade. The beach was empty – except for Mercedes and the man who was trying to kill her. Or was he?

  He sat there gasping for breath, doubled over in pain. Both of them were breathing hard. He looked at her with eyes that were blood red. Rivers of sweat trickled down his face. Mercedes would never understand why, but she was sure he was no killer. Anger mottled his features but, underneath, she saw traces of compassion and kindness. Maybe this man didn’t want to kill her. Still, Mercedes tensed, muscles tightening to the point of pain. Their eyes locked and it was as if the man couldn’t believe what he was looking at. His first words puzzled her. “I knew you were going to do that,” he wheezed.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Seth saw Jack bolt. But he didn’t plan on telling the Russians. Problem was they were getting restless, wondering where Jack had gone.

  “Por favor.” Seth waved an arm at the waiter, and then motioned towards their empty bottles.

  Raspov looked at him suspiciously. “It’s Jack’s round.”

  “Jack’s not here.” “Maybe we’d better go look,” Raspov said.

  “Maybe he’s gotten into some trouble.”

  Pollard saw the skepticism in Dmitri’s face but ignored it, instead showed five fingers to the gondolier who disappeared inside the bar. “He’ll be right back. He does this a lot. Curious Jack and all that.” Seth knew they’d eventually tire of his bullshit.

  Raspov barked something in Russian at Uri and Pavel. The two brothers leapt from the table and darted to the sidewalk. Raspov gave Seth a murderous look as he followed them. They pushed their way to the back of the vehicle, opened the gate, and then tore into the rucksack. A second later they vanished into the crowd.

  Seth’s instincts about Raspov had been right. Now he was sure who the three Russians were. In Bellavista they’d remember too. Jack would never have known about that massacre. Pollard got there two days later and had seen the bodies, had heard the stories. When the waiter returned with their beers, Seth thrust a fistful of money at him and ran. He’d have to find Jack before the Russians did.

  Seth ran to the vehicle, hoping
to attract as little attention as possible. It was locked. He picked up a rock, stepped back, and in a gesture reminiscent of his famous cricket serve, hurled it. The back window exploded, the concussion drowned out by applause and voices from the passing parade. An eye out for police, Seth ripped open the rear gate. No one watched. No one seemed to care. Seth shoved the bags aside and climbed in. He tumbled forward until he forced his way into the front seat. No ignition key, but Seth expected none. He had other talents. A sinner on a day for saints, he thought, as he reached for the wiring beneath the steering wheel.

  FIFTY-SIX

  “What’s your name?” Jack waited, feeling foolish because he’d asked a foolish question.

  She was trying to untangle her leg, doing a poor job of it because her fingers were coated with sea slime. She looked up at him, urgency in her eyes. Or was it terror? She gulped air, coughed. “They will kill. Please help.”

  That made Jack nervous. He rubbed his ribs where she’d kicked him, and thought they might be broken. He took in a lungful of air and it hurt to breathe so laughing at the ridiculous statement was definitely out of the question. Instead he grabbed the tangled anchor rope, wheezed, “Who’s going to kill you?” The strangest words he’d ever had to say. Jack searched her face but saw nothing to explain her crazy act.

  “Senor, please!” She struggled to free herself.

  What was wrong with her? Maybe she’d hit her head or something and had been wandering around Colombia in some kind of amnesiac stupor. He’d heard about other cases. People who just disappeared only to turn up months later, blank about where they’d been.

  “You are also with them.” She scowled, tugging at the rope. “These killers – you and they.”

  He stopped working the rope. The Russians were no angels, but what the hell did she mean? Jack saw the horror in her face as she ripped at the rope. “They are killers,” she repeated, shaking. “You too are a killer.”