Only A Whisper

by Gayle Wilson

  It stopped her. The government of Colombia had stepped up its efforts to loosen the control of that country by the drug syndicates, making important arrests this summer at the top of the Cali organization, but the violence was still pervasive and the flow of drugs had not diminished. And there were persistent whispers of official corruption at the highest levels.

  “You?” she suggested, injecting sarcasm. “Is that where all this is leading? You want my vote? Sorry, I’m not a citizen.”

  There was silence for a moment, and she heard his small sigh and the noises of his body shifting position. The betraying rustle of clothing. The slight creaking leather of the chair. She could even smell the faint, pleasant aroma of his cologne.

  “Three people are dead.” The dark voice spoke again, pitched more softly than before, and the amusement was definitely gone. “Three men you worked with. Three agents who were involved in that particular operation.”

  She said nothing, but she swallowed the sickness and then remembered that he could see her mouth and throat clearly. In her blind isolation she had forgotten that although his expression was hidden from her, everything but her eyes was exposed to his examination.

  “Franklin Holcomb, Jeff Reynolds, and Drew Gates.”

  “I don’t know—” she began, but the voice continued over her denial.

  “One fourth of your task force.”

  “You questioned all those men, and you still don’t have your answer?” she taunted aloud, suddenly knowing that must be true or she wouldn’t be here. Don’t play with him. Don’t play his games, her mind warned, but she knew now that none of them had told him what he wanted to know. No matter what he had done to them, none of those men had talked, and they were her team. She felt a deep sense of pnde in that realization.

  “They didn’t know his name,” he said simply.

  She realized with despair that that was probably the truth. She had been the closest to him—the man who had died in that cold Virginia bedroom—and she hadn’t known his name. She had never asked Paul.

  “Perhaps only Hardesty knows.” The dark voice echoed her thought.

  “Who’s Hardesty?” she asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said again.

  “Someone knows his name, and I want to know who.”

  “Why?” she asked, giving up the pretense. He knew too much. He was far too well-informed, and it was obvious he hadn’t bought her denials. She had wondered about the operation so long. Here, at last, was the source to answer her questions. “He’s dead. He died that night, but not before he told it all—every name, every crooked company, every account number. Despite what you’d done to him, he told it all.”

  Irrationally, she thought it was important to tell them that. They’d killed him, destroyed who and what he was, but he’d defeated them in the end. And so, defiantly, she reminded them.

  “Hardesty told you he died,” he said, his voice betraying no emotion. Uncaring that she’d pointed out to him his defeat. Uncaring that he had killed a brave man.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And you believed him?” The amusement was back.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? He died. He was dying as we talked.”

  “You believed Hardesty?”

  “He died,” she said. “If you knew—” She stopped, realizing that the man she was talking to, sharing information with, the man with the pleasantly seductive voice, knew very well what had been done to the courier. He might even have done it himself.

  “I know,” he said, and there was an echo of emotion in the richness of his tone.

  Amusement? she wondered. Anger? Before she could decide, given the agony in her head, he continued, again controlled.

  “He lived long enough give you the information. Perhaps he lived longer.”

  “Paul told me he died.”

  “Paul Hardesty has lied to more people in his lifetime than you’ve met in yours,” he said, again amused. “Proficiency in lying is probably in his job description.”

  Unwillingly, she remembered her own conviction that day that Paul was not telling the complete truth about the courier’s death. She must never reveal her feeling that Paul had lied about the way the courier had died. Given that encouragement, this man would never give up his pursuit of the person who had brought down the cartel, and more of the task force would face the situation she now found herself in. They wouldn’t know the name he sought, and they would die because of it. When he had the name, she knew it would be used to track down the family members of the man who had died that night, to hunt them down to make examples of them: This is what happens to those who betray the cartels.

  “Someone in your group knew his name, and I want to know who.”

  “I don’t know his name,” she said. It was the truth, but he wouldn’t believe her, of course. He hadn’t believed Holcomb or Reynolds or Gates, so they had died. She shivered again. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to be hurt or drugged, and she didn’t know. She had nothing to tell him. She’d never known the informant’s name, and he was dead. She didn’t want to die because of a man who had been dead for months. Dead and buried. The man she’d met that night in Virginia wouldn’t want her to die because of him.

  “Someone does. Someone knows his name.”

  “But…”

  “Yes?” he said softly, inviting her to spill her guts.

  It made no sense, and he knew everything anyway. He knew far too much. More than she had known, if he was right about Reynolds and Gates being involved, maybe as the pickup team, but if they were, and they were dead, and they hadn’t known his identity, then who did?

  “Why does it matter who he was? What can it possibly matter now?” she asked. She could no more have stopped the question than she could have stopped breathing. Her head hurt when she tried to think, and she wanted to understand what had happened that night. She’d wondered so long, and now so many people had died.

  “Did you never wonder where he got the information he gave you? How he got it?”

  “He’d memorized it.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know. We wondered. We thought…”

  “Yes?” he prompted gently.

  “You go to hell,” she said fiercely, suddenly realizing that she had been discussing the operation with him. That damned seductive voice. Question-and-answer time. Tell him what he wants. Insidiously, his voice, calm and reasoned and beautiful, had made her talk to him. She hadn’t meant to, but her head hurt, and he already knew so much. Why shouldn’t he? she thought bitterly. He was the cartel.

  “Think about it,” he suggested quietly, but again the hair lifted on her arms. She was being given a chance to see things his way, to realize he held all the cards.

  “We can talk tomorrow,” he continued, almost kindly. “You need to rest. Diego will carry you to your room.”

  “You tell Diego to leave me the hell alone. Wherever you want me to go, you just tell me. But I don’t want that bastard’s hands on me, either.”

  “Either?” the silken voice questioned. “Wishful thinking, querida?” he asked, his amusement again obvious.

  She struggled to sit up, furious with him. Furious because he was laughing at her. Furious because of his interpretation of her remark. She made it at least partway up, her feet on the floor, but suddenly the vertigo swam in her head.

  She heard his voice from a long way off. From the darkness surrounding her. Commanding. In Spanish again. There was no doubt, of course, who was in charge here. There had been no doubt from the beginning.

  She was lifted in massive arms, hard as tree trunks and about that size. Her head lolled against Diego’s shoulder, and finally she relaxed and let him carry her because there was nothing else she could do. Not now, at least. Soon, she thought. Soon I’ll think what to do. But not now. It was all too hard. It was far easier to let go into the darkness and away from the pain. Away from having to think. She wondered briefly w
hat she had told him, and then she didn’t wonder about anything.

  “MS. PHILLIPS.”

  She was dreaming. Of the whispering darkness. Lost in the cold black.

  “Ms. Phillips.”

  Only it wasn’t Virginia, and the voice calling her name…

  She opened her eyes to total blackness, but she couldn’t feel the blindfold against the movement of her lashes. She blinked slowly, still befogged by sleep and the pain in her head. The voice had been very real and very close.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  Obedient to his demand, she tried to think. She had always wanted to please people, to follow the rules, to be a good little girl, so now she tried to think to please the dark voice. What day was it? She struggled to remember. She had gone to work. She’d gone back to the apartment after work, but that had been a Friday night, so, she supposed, it must be…

  “Friday night,” she whispered. “Saturday? I don’t know what time it is.”

  “And your birthday?”

  Birthday? What the hell? Maybe he wants to send me flowers, she thought, the grogginess beginning to clear, and despite the dull ache in the back of her neck, she smiled at the idea. Right. And a diamond bracelet. And a Jag. A green Jag. British racing green.

  “August 18.”

  “The year?”

  She knew the year—1963. But—What’s it to you? she thought. Screw you.

  “I don’t remember,” she whispered, and she heard him laugh, the rich, pleasing sound coming out of the darkness across the room. Her eyes had adjusted somewhat so that she thought she could see him there, only a darker shadow against the blackness of the shade-drawn night.

  “‘Vanity, thy name is woman,’” he quoted softly, still amused.

  “When’s your birthday?” she challenged.

  “I don’t have a concussion,” he said.

  “And I do?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “By making me talk to you?”

  “It seemed wise to check on you.”

  “Because if I kick out, you won’t get any answers?”

  “I thought you didn’t have any answers.”

  “Then go away and let me sleep,” she said.

  He was in her room, she realized suddenly. He had been watching her sleep, like some kind of voyeur. He shouldn’t be here, and she didn’t buy that crap about a concussion.

  “Get out,” she ordered, but the effort was very great. The pain was less, but the lethargy remained.

  “Go back to sleep, querida,“ he ordered softly. There was no anger at her defiance, and that surprised her. She had an idea he was used to being obeyed, as Diego obeyed him. She wondered idly how high up he was. After Escobar’s death had he stepped in to fill the vacuum at the top of Medellin? Was he now the top dog in this very dog-eat-wolf world? The head wolf, maybe?

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Who was the man in Virginia?” he countered. “I’m very willing to exchange information.”

  “I told you. I don’t know who he was, and he’s dead. He’s been dead a long time.”

  There was no answer from the dark corner across the room. No sound at all. She closed her eyes and took a breath of the air-conditioned coolness. She could hear the unit running smoothly somewhere in the night beyond the windows. Suddenly she was aware that she could again smell his cologne. She wondered what it was. The men she knew evidently couldn’t afford the kind of cologne he wore. Too expensive for those who didn’t sell death and destruction to schoolchildren.

  She began to drift again, relaxed despite the dark, watching figure. Like his voice, the subtle scent was too agreeable. Too beguiling. She fought against the pleasure, but that was too much trouble also, and finally she gave up the pretense of resisting and allowed herself to be carried back into the enfolding peace of sleep. She was not aware when the watcher in the darkness gave up his vigil.

  “YOU’RE OBSESSED with her,” Diego accused.

  Because he recognized the truth of the statement, he didn’t answer.

  “What if she didn’t look like that? If she weren’t so beautiful? You know—” Diego began again and was interrupted by the authority in the deep voice.

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem. Three people are dead, and I’m no closer to the answer than I was before,” he said softly.

  “If she was involved with what happened that night…” Diego began, and then paused, unwilling to attempt that argument again. “Are you sure you really want to find all the answers? Perhaps you’ve forgotten—”

  “God, Diego, how could I forget?” The virulent bitterness in the deep voice stopped the suggestion. “How do you think I could ever forget?” He paused to bank emotions he never allowed and then continued reasonably, “I have to be sure.”

  “What about the money? The money in her account? He told you about that and it was true.”

  “The money’s not proof of anything. Evidence, perhaps, but not proof.”

  “I don’t think you want to find the proof. I think—” -“I really don’t give a damn what you think.” “You’re not thinking. Not with your brain.” “That’s enough,” he commanded sharply, and then more gently, regretting his anger with Diego. “Do you honestly think that if I believed she was the one, I would hesitate? You know, better than anyone else, you know…” The deep voice fell to a whisper, and stopped. There was silence in the room for a long time.

  He became aware that Diego’s huge hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, and he finally reached up with his own and touched the massive fingers.

  “It’s all right. We just don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle. I don’t owe them anything, and before I do what they’ve asked me to, I intend to understand it all. All of it. Everyone’s role,” he said with deadly softness, and finally Diego removed his hand.

  RAE SLEPT OFF most of the effects of the door frame connecting with the back of her head and woke with a dull headache no worse than the ones she sometimes had in the afternoon if she didn’t get her caffeine allotment. Her immediate need was for a bathroom, and she struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning. She made her way carefully to the partially open bathroom door, holding on to any furniture that conveniently came to hand. She attended to the needs of nature and then wondered if she dared shower.

  She stripped quickly, denying the fear that might make her change her mind, and stepped into the shower before the water had heated. The coldness had the desired effect as she ducked her head under the stream to help clear away the last of the cobwebs. She used the bath soap to wash her hair, not bothering to look for shampoo, hurrying before they could come in and find her naked.

  She was not intruded upon. She was surprised to find the suitcase she had packed last night sitting just inside the bedroom door. After rummaging through the clothing it held, she knew without a doubt that it had been searched. There was something very disturbing about the thought of their handling the intimate apparel in her case. Diego, perhaps, pawing through her lingerie with his ham-size fists. Or the other one. The one with the silken voice and the expensive cologne. That thought was even more frightening somehow—too intimate a contact with the enemy.

  She found that her hands were shaking as she pulled on her bra and panties, struggling a little because her body was not completely dry, the material catching against the remaining moisture. Somehow she knew she had to hurry, that this blessed privacy wouldn’t last long.

  She was dressed, however, in clean slacks and a sleeveless cotton top, towel-drying her hair when, without any warning, the door opened.

  It was the man from her apartment hallway. Diego. The one who had carried her upstairs. He gestured for her to precede him through the open door, and she dropped the damp towel on top of the mahogany dresser and then gave it a push so it fell down onto the carpet. It had seemed a shame to ruin the finish of the antique with a wet towel.

&
nbsp; The absurdity of her concern for their furniture amused her, and the humor gave her courage, so that she accompanied Diego down the stairs, finger-combing her damp hair away from her face. No wonder he’d had no trouble carrying her last night; the shoulders that moved beside her were massive, the arms bulging, the muscles clearly outlined under the silk shirt he wore.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked as they neared the bottom of the stairway.

  “He wants to see you,” Diego said.

  Like a woman in love, she thought, in Diego’s world there is only one “he.” And now, she acknowledged bitterly, probably only one in hers, too. The same “he.” The “he” of the seductive voice. The “he” who controls.

  They stopped before a door, but she couldn’t be sure it was the room she was in last night. Diego had stepped behind her and as she stood, willing herself to calmness in order to face the man who was waiting behind the closed door, he tried to slip the blindfold over her eyes.

  This time, reacting without thought, she fought its darkness. She landed two good blows with her elbow and then, turning, with the edge of her hand, using all that she had been taught, and satisfyingly heard the grunts as she connected. He lifted her against his chest and, catching her hand, twisted it behind her back. She broke the hold by kicking back hard, hitting him sharply in the shin, just as she’d been instructed in training so long ago, pleased that it had worked as well as it had then. Diego pushed her away from him, but more confident now, she attacked again, trying to remember all the tricks you were supposed to use against an opponent who was so much larger.

  Suddenly Diego gripped her wrist, turning her body around in one smooth motion. He twisted her arm high behind her back, her hand against the back of her own neck. Desperate, she tried to kick again, but he simply moved her farther away from him with upward pressure on the twisted arm. The resulting agony made her gasp, but determined, she kicked once more, connecting only with air, and was rewarded with increased leverage on her arm.

  She cried out, unable to prevent the involuntary reaction. So much for the crap about using a larger opponent’s own weight against him; she guessed they had to tell you something in all those endless classes.