Mercenary s-5

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘It’s an opiate, for Christ’s sake . . . How long you been chewing that stuff ?’

  Jacobs shrugged. ‘Since a while back.’

  ‘Well, at least that explains why you’ve been bouncing along like Peter fuckin’ Pan.’

  ‘It helps take my mind off the discomfort.’

  ‘That’s how it starts . . . Do you mind? If I have to place you under arrest it’s only going to complicate matters right now.’

  Jacobs looked hurt.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Harris snapped.

  The younger man did as he was told and wiped his mouth.

  Harris sighed. ‘That’s gonna be a story for the guys when I get back,’ he muttered. ‘Whenever the hell that’ll be.’

  Once again he wondered who was behind this mission that had brought him into such a hell-hole. The order had reached his small office on the second floor of the US embassy in Salvador, coming directly from the top of the FBI tree without any of the usual bureaucratic diversions. Alarmingly, he thought he had detected that familiar sinister whiff of the CIA about it. The Agency was happy enough to get the Bureau to carry out some of its dirty work and to a man of Harris’s experience this job had some obvious indicators. A search in this beaten-up and backward country, which had suffered guerrilla conflicts for decades, for the murderer of a US Special Forces colonel suggested that the victim had in some way been involved in the country’s past troubles. Harris knew there had been no official US presence in the country during its most recent conflict, which indicated that he had been employed by a covert intelligence outfit, the CIA being the most likely candidate. That particular rebellion had ended a couple of years ago and the only compar - able danger these days came from bandits, which was why the local governor had supplied Harris with just one highly trained bodyguard . . . currently out of his tree on coca leaves, along with Harris’s assistant.

  Harris got to his feet, banged out of his hat any crap it contained, put it on his head and looked out through the trees at the stretch of country that they had covered since dawn. The lush tree-canopy stretched like a rolling ocean, reaching towards a line of craggy hills that marked the horizon. He would have appreciated the landscape’s natural beauty more if he knew how much more of it he had to cross.

  He hoped that he would find out more about this mysterious scenario when he got to the damned village that they were headed for, otherwise this nightmare trip that had so far taken three days’ trek from Salvador was going to be a waste of time.

  ‘If this was such a high-priority task why wasn’t there enough in the budget to book a goddamned helicopter?’ Harris muttered to himself.

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘I was talking about flying there, but then I guess I’m the only one who isn’t . . . Since you’re so pally with our military escort here perhaps you could ask him how far we still have to go.’

  ‘Oh, less than two kilometres,’ Jacobs replied matter-of-factly, taking a close-up snapshot of a flower.

  ‘You know that for a fact?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘And when were you gonna let me know?’

  Jacobs put down his camera and shrugged while smiling politely.

  Harris nibbled his bottom lip as he adjusted his pack on his back. It hurt wherever he put it. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, facing the soldier and looking at him accusingly.

  Barely a hundred metres further on the track joined a wider one with wagon-wheel ruts in it. A kilometre later they broke out of the dense foliage to find themselves facing a hill whose slopes were covered in small mud and wood huts.The dwellings were packed tightly together, the roofs a mix of straw, corrugated metal sheets and colourful plastic tarpaulins. Hundreds of smoke spirals rose skywards. The immediate impression was of a shanty town.

  The first villagers to notice them paused long enough to register that they were foreigners and then went back to harvesting beans in the fields at either side of the track. The children reacted with more liveliness. They cheered, gathering around the two Americans as they entered the village.The kids’ grubby little hands, as filthy as their bare feet, tugged at the men’s clothes. The soldier made a useless attempt to shoo them away but soon gave up when he realised that Jacobs was enjoying the attention. Instead he approached one of the local adults in order to ask for directions.

  Jacobs tried to engage the children in conversation, asking their names and using sweets to tempt any of them who came forward. Harris didn’t mind since it kept them away from him.

  The soldier thanked the villager and beckoned Harris to follow him.

  ‘Jacobs - let’s go,’ Harris called out as the soldier headed for a narrow path between some huts.

  Jacobs dealt out the last of his sweets and hurried to catch up.

  The track wound steeply uphill between dilapidated dwellings. Some children followed but as the path became steeper they ran back down noisily, leaving the group alone.

  The path reached the summit where it levelled off and the houses gave way to a small wood where it was noticeably cooler. The small group came to a stony clearing in the centre which was occupied by a handful of goats and scrawny chickens. The soldier stopped and pointed to the far side.

  A solitary hut stood there, its wooden porch shaded by a bright green awning that flapped easily in the breeze.

  The sky had darkened and Harris decided that a cloudburst was imminent. He approached the hut.

  Clay flowerpots dotted the porch and windowsills, brightening the otherwise drab surroundings. An old Indian sat to one side of the front door on a low wooden stool. He was clearly absorbed in some task and did not look up at them.

  The soldier plonked himself down beneath a tree, his mission completed - this part of it, at least. He took a roll of magnolia leaves from a small sack and unfolded them. Inside were several maize pupusas filled with pinto beans, which he tucked into.

  The old Indian looked different from the locals they had encountered so far, as if he were not from the region. His frame was larger and he was far more powerfully built. His facial features were broad, his hands and bare feet wider. He was peeling calabazas and using his toes to hold the small pumpkin-like vegetables while he pared them with a knife. Harris realised the man was using his feet because he had only one arm. He wondered if the man had other handicaps: he appeared to be unaware of the two strangers now standing in front of him.

  Harris removed his pack, took out a waterproof folder and examined a photograph of a man. He was pretty sure the Indian wasn’t who he had come to see but he wanted to be certain.

  ‘Por favor,’ Harris said after clearing his throat, wondering if the man might be deaf.

  The Indian paused and looked up at him with hound-dog eyes, as if waiting tiredly for Harris to continue.

  ‘I’m looking for François Laporte.’

  The Indian stared at Harris blankly as though he had not understood a word.

  ‘Fran-çois La-porte?’ Harris repeated, emphasising each syllable.

  The Indian put down his knife and got to his feet. He turned his broad back on the two men, opened the front door and went inside the hut.

  Mumbled words came from inside and a moment later the Indian returned, leaving the door slightly ajar. He sat back down on his stool and picked up his knife.

  Jacobs stepped closer to Harris. Both men craned to look through the small opening but it was too dark inside to make anything out. There was movement and a second later a man stepped into the doorway.

  At first glance he appeared to be quite old, a slight stoop adding to the impression. On seeing the two men he straightened up and regarded the strangers with squinting eyes. It was more an expression of curiosity than a reaction to the light.

  Harris recognised him immediately as the man in the photograph, although his skin was darker and his features were craggier. The date of birth in the file gave the man’s age as forty-six but he looked ten years older. His face was scarred in places, old scars, and he had a weari
ness about him, as if he was ill or had been through an intense physical struggle.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the man said in a thick, distinctly French accent.

  ‘François Laporte?’

  ‘My name is Victor,’ he said.

  Harris was not put off. He knew this was his man. ‘I’m Walter Harris. And this is Tom Jacobs,’ he said with a contrived politeness intended to put possible suspects at their ease before he delivered his next sentence - which usually had the opposite effect. ‘We’re with the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

  Victor eyed the two men’s sweat-stained and muddy clothes. ‘Are you lost?’ he asked.

  Harris maintained his polite smile, noting that the man had a sense of humour. ‘I don’t believe so, no.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ Victor said wearily, showing no outward sign of surprise.

  ‘Not really,’ Harris said. ‘This is part of my patch.’

  ‘A patch,’ Victor echoed. ‘Yes . . . that’s about all this place has ever been to America.’

  ‘Aren’t you a visitor yourself ?’

  Victor looked a little annoyed. ‘I live here.’

  ‘Aren’t you French? You were born in the Dordogne - as François Laporte.’ ‘I was born in a small village called Masseube - near the Pyrenees, actually. And my name is Victor. At least your trip was not entirely wasted. You now have my name and place of birth correct.’ Victor stepped back into the hut and closed the door.

  Harris continued to smile, appreciating what he took to be the man’s bravado. ‘Mr Laporte . . . Victor,’ he called out. ‘I’ve come a long way just to ask you a few questions.’

  The door remained closed.

  Harris waited patiently, his smile fading.

  Jacobs looked at his boss. ‘What do we do now?’

  Harris ignored the question and stepped forward onto the porch. As the FBI man reached for the door the old Indian came to life. He jerked his head up and looked at Harris who froze as the Indian pointed the knife at him.

  Jacobs was unnerved. He wasn’t used to this. He glanced over at the soldier, hoping that the man might help. But the little fellow was sitting back, his eyes closed, slowly munching his food and oblivious to everything else going on.

  Harris stood his ground. If Victor’s watchdog got to his feet he would back off. ‘Did you know that Colonel Steel was dead?’ he called out. ‘He was murdered. In Washington DC.’

  The porch awning flapped gently in the breeze. Harris began to wonder if this was a waste of time. He couldn’t force Victor to talk. He had been aware that Victor might not have been at home but he hadn’t thought that he’d find him and then be ignored by the man.

  Harris looked back at Jacobs in the vain hope he might have a suggestion, but the young agent’s expression was vacant. Harris stepped back off the porch. He had no intention of giving up yet, not after the damned slog to get here. But this was beginning to look a little tricky.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Jacobs asked.

  ‘Is that all you can say? Why don’t you try coming up with a suggestion now and then instead of acting like some stupid schoolkid?’

  Jacobs wasn’t offended by the insult. ‘We could offer to pay him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pay him.’

  ‘You’re suggesting the FBI starts paying for interviews? ’

  ‘No. Just this time. We’ve come a long way. It would be a shame to go back empty-handed, that’s all.’

  ‘A shame? Are you still high?’

  There was a sudden crack of thunder so loud that it unsettled both of them. Seconds later the heavens opened up and it started to rain heavily.

  ‘This is just great,’ Harris grumbled as the downpour instantly soaked him.

  Just then the hut door opened and Victor stepped onto the porch. He looked confused. ‘Did you say Steel was dead?’ he asked.

  Harris glanced down at his feet as the ground around them flooded quickly. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You think it was me,’ Victor said, a grin livening up his face.

  ‘You haven’t been out of this country since you arrived here ten years ago,’ Harris said above the noise of the rain.

  ‘I willed it to happen. Every night before I went to bed I prayed,’ Victor said, looking up at the sky. ‘And every morning I woke up I prayed. God finally heard me. The Antichrist is dead. My wretched life is finally complete. I can die in peace.’ Victor’s eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t be joking, would you? That would be in very poor taste.’

  ‘I’m not very good at telling jokes. I certainly wouldn’t have come all this way to tell one.’

  Victor looked down at the old Indian, smiling. ‘Did you hear that, Yoinakuwa? The great beast and slayer of innocent women and children is dead.’

  The Indian held his gaze for a moment, his dour expression unchanged, and went back to peeling his vegetables.

  Victor’s smile faded as he remembered the old man’s pain and how it could never be eased even by such glad tidings.

  ‘Can we go inside?’ Harris asked. ‘We’ve come a long way.’

  Victor did not appear to hear, lost in his memories, and stepped back into the hut. Another thunderclap shook the air and the volume of the rain seemed to increase. Harris walked onto the porch, keeping an eye on the Indian.

  Jacobs was uncertain if he should follow but he took a step towards the door anyway. The Indian remained focused on the calabazas.

  Harris stepped into the doorway and looked at the interior of the hut. A fire crackled in a grate on the far side of the cramped little room. One opening led to a kitchen area and another to a bedroom. It was basic, to say the least, well lived-in and cluttered. The air inside smelt like a mixture of tobacco and mildew but it was not an entirely unpleasant odour. The room had only one window, partly covered by a grubby curtain; the lack of light added to the impression of musky dilapidation. A table stood against a wall and two old leather armchairs on either side of a crate that acted as a coffee table faced the fire. Various items adorned the walls and shelves, mostly old Indian weapons and pictures. There was something strangely cosy about the place. Perhaps it was nothing more than the atmosphere created by the crackling fire and the sound of the rain beating on the roof.

  Victor lit a twisted cheroot from the flames of the fire and blew thick smoke at the ceiling before slumping down into one of the armchairs. ‘Please, sit,’ he said.

  Harris put down his backpack and eased himself into a chair. Jacobs looked around the room as if it were a museum. He stowed his own soaked pack and sat on one of the creaky chairs while studying the knives on the wall.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Victor asked.

  ‘That would be great.’ Harris shrugged.

  ‘Yes. We should celebrate such good news. Yoinakuwa!’ Victor called out.

  A moment later the Indian stepped into the doorway.

  ‘Some wine,’ Victor said, his gaze resting on Harris who was slow to catch on. ‘Visitor’s treat.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ Harris said, digging into his pocket to produce some notes. ‘Dollars okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ Victor said. ‘Where is the Yankee dollar not welcome?’

  Harris held out several dollar bills, unsure how much to offer. Yoinakuwa took them all and walked away, closing the door behind him and muffling the drumlike noise of the rain hitting the awning.

  Harris and Jacobs exchanged glances. The younger man looked vindicated.

  ‘Did you change your name or is that our mistake?’ Harris asked Victor.

  ‘I was born François . . . François Laporte. When I found myself embroiled in the local politics here I decided it was . . . well, politically uncomfortable. “François” sounded too much like Franco . . . as in Francisco Franco, the fascist general - Spanish Civil War.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘We were in the middle of a revolution and I thought Victor was more victorious-sounding.’

/>   ‘A scientist turned revolutionary. That’s quite a switch.’

  ‘Is it? Surely scientists are revolutionaries by nature. An FBI agent turned revolutionary, now that would be fantastic. If that’s why you’re here by the way, you’re too late to join up. The revolution’s over.’

  Harris smiled politely.

  ‘So. If you have come all this way just to tell me that Steel is dead then I’m flattered,’ said Victor.

  Harris took a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘What can you tell me about Steel?’ he asked. ‘How did you know him?’

  Victor shrugged. ‘Steel worked for the CIA. Did he not?’

  ‘I’ll be honest. I don’t know who he worked for. I’ve come here to ask you some questions, that’s all. It’s just a small part of a larger investigation.’

  Victor shrugged. ‘That much was obvious, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Steel came here to help the rebellion because at the time it suited American foreign policy in the region. He was a clandestine operator. He had no papers of authority. But he had money, weapons - he could provide lots of both. He supported us, or at least gave us the impression that the United States supported us. And why should they not have? We were democratic liberals prepared to risk our lives to kick out a bunch of fascist pigs. It was a classic enough story. The Neravista government was nothing more than a corrupt, despotic dictatorship of the worst kind. They were a darkness, a blight on the land, and Neravista himself was an evil man with the blood of children on his hands.’

  Harris wanted to avoid any political stuff and paused to let the moment pass. ‘How often did you see Steel?’

  ‘He came now and then. He would appear out of the blue, without warning.’

  ‘Over how long?’

  ‘A year, maybe. You see, we believed he was our friend. Maybe he was for a time. I’m sure he began by following orders. It seemed as though the Americans supported us in the beginning. Why would they have merely pretended to? But Steel changed his mind at some point, or his bosses did. Or we were sidelined by something that became more valuable to them. I don’t know. I was not privy to that information.’

  Harris took a notepad from a pocket and opened it. He jotted down a comment before underlining his next question. ‘Did you know an Englishman named John Stratton?’