A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  She made a face. I wasn’t sure if she was struggling for the right words in English or just struggling with the brutal truth. “Guillermo was in love. Lindsey was-I think the term is, ‘using him.’ ”

  “Using him for what?”

  “Information.”

  “About what?”

  She started to answer, then stopped. “I care very much about Lindsey. But my job is very important to me, to my whole family.”

  “I can understand that. I’m not going to repeat anything, if that’s your concern.”

  “The best thing is for me to show you. That way, if anyone ever asks who told you, you don’t have to say it was me.”

  I assumed that by “anyone” she meant Guillermo. “Okay, show me.”

  She rose and said, “In the morning. Pack your bags tonight. I’ll pick you up at six in front of the hotel.”

  I stood silent, which she seemed to take as acceptance. She walked to the door and opened it herself.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  She hesitated, as if debating whether she should even tell me that much. “Puerto Cabezas” was all she said.

  The door closed, and she was gone.

  41

  We reached the airport at sunrise. Maria had picked me up right at 6:00 A.M. I’d thought we were going to drive, but she laughed.

  “Did you really think there are decent roads to Puerto Cabezas?”

  The choice was between two local airlines, but it really boiled down to one. I made it a policy never to travel on any airline that limited its passengers to only one carry-on iguana.

  It was just the two of us and a pilot in an old and noisy single-engine Cessna. We flew slightly north and then east, directly into the rising sun. For ninety minutes an endless green forest unfolded below us, rugged in places, rolling elsewhere. Low-hanging clouds curled around the mountains, misty wisps of white that created the illusion of snow-filled valleys. Blue lakes and crystal rivers glistened with the first streaks of daylight.

  And then I saw the ocean. Old, almost primitive-looking fishing boats bobbed peacefully on undulating seas of midnight blue. A narrow ribbon of sand stretched for miles to the north and south, not a soul in sight, not a footprint anywhere. It was practically virgin beach, the famous Mosquito Coast-La Mosquitia.

  “Our country is very beautiful, no?” Maria shouted over the whining engine.

  I nodded and smiled to myself, realizing finally why my father had come.

  Ten minutes later we landed. After the picturesque views from above, it was like falling out of bed in the middle of a tropical dream. Maria had neglected to mention the lack of a runway. Heavy rains had washed out the major part of the airstrip. I didn’t ask how that made landing in a field any safer. Once on the ground, Maria and I hopped a ride in the back of a banana truck, bounced our way down a muddy trail, and jumped off at the edge of town.

  Puerto Cabezas was the largest city on Nicaragua’s eastern shore, the largest for hundreds of miles along the entire Mosquito Coast. Buildings were old, some made of blocks and some of wood, nearly all in need of paint and basic repairs. Some of the roads were cobblestone, as in Managua, but we’d found a rutted street that was under heavy construction. Within minutes I was exhausted, the mud pulling at my boots like quicksand. Puddles were like land mines, in the sense that it was impossible to tell which one might actually be a flooded storm sewer with no grate. One careless step and I could have disappeared from the face of the earth, no one to rescue me. It was a sleepy place, especially on a Sunday morning, which added to the very palpable sense of isolation. The city was geographically remote, bordered on the east by the Atlantic Ocean and separated from the rest of the country by mountains, coastal plains, and the largest remaining rain forest in Central America. Culturally it was distinct, no shadows of Sandino and Che Guevara, so omnipresent in the west. This area was home to some seventy thousand Miskitos, the largest remaining group of indigenas, a proud and somewhat autonomous people.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “We need a boat.”

  Ankle-deep in mud, I thought she was exaggerating only slightly. As we continued down the hill and toward the dock, however, I realized that what she meant was a boat to take us offshore.

  The dirt road to the ocean was lined with shacks and grounded fishing boats that had been washed ashore some years earlier by Hurricane Mitch. The boats looked abandoned, but the laundry line and the naked little kids playing out back made me realize that they’d been converted into homes. The path grew narrower as we neared the water, and finally we broke through the thicket onto the beach.

  The sounds impressed me most. The gentle waves lapped the shore in a rhythmic, soothing whisper. Seagulls cawed overhead. The warm breeze was barely strong enough to have kept a sail from luffing, yet I could see it moving across the water, little ripples on the surface. My father had taught me how to do that, to see the wind when others couldn’t.

  “He wants three bucks.”

  Maria’s voice snapped my daydream. “What?”

  “He’ll take us where we want to go for three bucks.”

  A shirtless old man was standing beside his little wooden boat, ready to go. I dug the bills out of my money belt and gave them to Maria. Wherever we were going, a few bucks seemed reasonable.

  On the thirteenth pull the small outboard started. We headed straight east for about ten minutes, then veered north toward an eighty-foot fishing boat. From a hundred yards away I could see the rows of extra scuba tanks on deck. I’d never seen them in action, but nearly all my life I’d heard my father’s stories about the famous Miskito divers. For thousands of years sea turtles had been their favorite target. A lone diver would swim alongside the turtle, rope it, and then hold on for a rapid descent to the deep, risking digits as he clamped the turtle’s mouth shut with his bare hand and forced it to surface. If the diver could hold on long enough, an entire Indian village had food for a week. Sea turtles were a protected species nowadays, but the fishing companies had tapped in to those same skills for the harvest of lobsters.

  The old man killed his little engine, and my ears stopped humming. The waves were bigger this far out, and the small boat rocked a good bit now that we were adrift.

  “Is that a Rey’s Seafood boat?” I asked.

  “No. But it’s just like the ones we use.”

  I saw only a few people on deck. “Divers are all down, I guess?”

  “Yeah. This is where the money is. Probably about twenty-five of them scooping up lobster.”

  “They don’t use any traps at all?”

  “Some. But mostly it’s just send the divers down and stuff lobsters in a bag. They are all over the place out here.”

  “Must be quite a haul.”

  “Sure it is. These divers are Miskitos. They’re experts. Each one will bring up about forty-five pounds of whole lobster a day.”

  I watched the waves, not sure what the point of this journey was. “So is this what you brought me to see?”

  Her eyes were fixed on the dinghy a hundred yards away. A diver suddenly broke the surface and clung to the side. She handed me a pair of binoculars and said, “That is what I brought you to see.”

  I trained the binoculars on the diver. He looked exhausted, half drowned, his skin turning a strange shade of blue as he coughed up seawater. A frantic crewman finally dragged him into the dinghy.

  “Looks like he ran out of air.”

  “Of course he did. They don’t use gauges.”

  I did a double take. “That’s crazy. How long do they stay down?”

  “They come up and down as they think they need it. Some are better than others at figuring out how long is too long.”

  “With no gauges? They could drown, get the bends.”

  “Some of them do.”

  Her voice had an ominous tone. I lowered the binoculars, looked her in the eye. “So this is what Lindsey saw?”

  “Plenty of people have seen it. L
indsey was going to write a story about it.”

  “How did she find out about it?”

  “Senor Cruz. I told you, she was using him.”

  “Isn’t that a kick in the teeth? Some young American girl sweet-talks him into exposing the Achilles’ heel of the industry, then dumps him and runs off to her typewriter for her first coup ever as a wannabe journalist.”

  “That’s Lindsey.”

  “He couldn’t have been too happy about that.”

  “A lot of people weren’t happy.”

  “My father included, I imagine. Which probably made the story all the more attractive to her.”

  I looked again toward that diver lying in the boat, still coughing and trying to recover. Something wasn’t adding up. My father, the man I knew, was the last guy on earth who’d exploit these Indians.

  “Did my father know about this?”

  “You probably should talk to Lindsey about that.”

  “That’s the whole point. I don’t know where she is.”

  “I told you, people don’t want this story told. She’s in hiding.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I helped her find a place to hide.”

  “You know where Lindsey is?”

  She nodded.

  “Can you tell me how to find her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you were barely able to handle the streets of Puerto Cabezas. You’d hardly manage your way through the rain forest.”

  My eyes followed hers, till they came to rest on the thickest part of the jungle north of the city. “My sister is in there?”

  “Not far. But too far for you to find her.”

  “Why don’t you try me?”

  “Why don’t I take you?” she replied.

  I smiled wryly and said, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  In Spanish I told the old guy to take us back to shore. He shook his head firmly and said, “Veinte.” Three bucks to take us out here, twenty to bring us back. I’d seen this one coming.

  It was just a little thing, but as I handed him a twenty-dollar bill, I realized how easy it was to get yourself into trouble out here. The boat turned and pointed toward the rain forest.

  I couldn’t help but wonder, How deep was the mess that Lindsey had gotten herself into?

  42

  Matthew was no longer alone in his hole.The rain had stopped, and the standing water had finally drained away. Out of sheer exhaustion he’d finally lain flat on his back, knees bent. For perhaps as long as an hour he’d been staring at the dark thatched roof overhead. His eyes had definitely played tricks in the darkness, but the tiny sliver of light at the far corner seemed real. Without a doubt, an almost imperceptible crack of moonlight or sunlight-he didn’t know which-had broken through the thick covering. It was just bright enough to reveal a set of red, beady eyes at the other end of the hole.

  It seemed to be staring at him, whatever it was. He listened for its breathing but heard nothing. The eyes were fixed, motionless. They were surely inside the head of some creature, but it was too dark to see any part of the body. If the frozen eyes were any indication, however, the entire creature was locked in some unshakable pose. Stiffened with fright, maybe. Or poised for an attack. A primitive thought crossed his mind, as if he were suddenly inside the small brain of his visitor.

  Is that thing over there edible?

  The piercing eyes glowed brighter, and finally they blinked. A chill raced through Matthew; fear gripped his heart.

  Do anacondas have eyelids?

  He suddenly heard breathing-his own. He didn’t dare speak aloud, but silently he was talking himself out of his worst nightmare, assuring himself that it couldn’t be an anaconda, that it was too cold up here in the mountains.

  Unless Joaquin brought it here.

  It would be the ultimate execution, a wrestling match with a hungry eighteen-foot snake. Ten horrific minutes of rolling in a hole as this monster coiled around his body and squeezed the life out of him, its massive jaws locked on to his head in a desperate effort to swallow him whole.

  Matthew was shaking, and the creature seemed to sense his fright. Slowly, not more than a centimeter at a time, the eyes were creeping closer.

  It was decision time. If he burst out of the hole, he could well be shot by the guards. If he stayed put, God only knew what was in store for him.

  Carefully he sat up, drew his knees in toward his body, and planted his feet on the ground. On the mental count of three he summoned all his strength and shot straight up from the hole. His hands broke through the branches first, sending the makeshift roof splintering in all directions. A screeching noise followed him out of the hole, which only propelled him faster. He was clawing at stalks of bamboo, giant leaves, anything to get a grip and pull himself out.

  “Don’t shoot!” he shouted, fearing it would look like an escape. He rolled to the ground outside his hole, tangled in the wet remnants of the thatched roof. He was swinging wildly in self-defense, not sure where those red eyes had gone. Something was at his ankle, then at his leg, and climbing up his belly. He rolled frantically and shouted, “Don’t shoot!”

  A gun went off, and a hot, red explosion covered his torso.

  “?No se mueve!” the guard shouted.

  Matthew froze, obeying the command to stop, though his chest heaved in panicky breaths. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the daylight, and the glob of flesh beside him eventually came into focus.

  It was the biggest dead rat he’d ever seen.

  Joaquin and another guerrilla stood over him, laughing. Behind them were five others nearly falling over in hysterics.

  Matthew was fuming. “Is this your idea of a joke? Turn a rat loose in my hole?”

  Joaquin’s laughter faded. His eyes turned cold, colder than the rat’s. “Your hole?” he said, glaring.

  The others fell silent. Matthew stared back, but he couldn’t match the black intensity in Joaquin’s eyes. He suspected drugs.

  “It’s not your hole,” said Joaquin. “You have nothing here. Not even this hole. Do you understand?”

  Matthew was silent.

  “I asked you a question.”

  He still refused to answer. Joaquin raised his rifle and took aim at Matthew’s chest. “Answer me,” he said harshly. “Or you will own this hole. Forever.”

  Matthew stared down the long steel barrel. Finally he said, “I understand.”

  Joaquin jerked the rifle and fired off two quick rounds that splattered the rat beyond recognition, most of the mess landing on Matthew. Joaquin and his cronies laughed in chorus.

  “You smell better now,” he said.

  Matthew didn’t doubt it. After all that time in the hole, he felt like a human pest strip.

  Joaquin shouted to his men in Spanish. Matthew didn’t catch it all, but it had something to do with the river. And he thought he heard the name Nisho, the young Japanese widow. With the guerrillas’ reaction, he knew that he’d heard correctly. Two of them howled and started racing back to camp.

  “Nisho!” they shouted, sounding more stoned than ever. “Nishooooooo!”

  They reached the river in two groups. Three armed guerrillas led Matthew to the bank. Ten meters behind were Joaquin, another guerrilla, and Nisho.

  The makeup of the group gave Matthew concern. Joaquin, he’d decided, was just a sick sadist. Two of the guerrillas were bona fide sharpshooters, just itching for the chance to pop someone’s skull. Two others were confirmed hell-raisers who passed the boredom at camp with drugs and silly target-practice. They’d get crazy out of their minds and shoot mice with AK-47s, ant mounds with.45-caliber Lugers. Today they seemed more wired on basuco than Matthew had ever seen them. All the way to the river they’d been loud and pushing each other. It was a dangerous combination: drugs, fully loaded automatic weapons, and a bunch of dead-end teenagers with zero respect for life.

  “Stop,” Joaquin said in Spanish.

  They’d
reached a calm eddy in the river behind a huge fallen tree and a boulder as big as a house. The guerrillas positioned themselves along the bank, two on the log, two others atop the boulder.

  “You can bathe here,” said Joaquin.

  Matthew was more than ready. He started to remove his clothes, then went to the river’s edge and tested the water. The cold was just about unbearable, so he retained a layer of clothing for warmth. He waded knee-deep into the eddy, hand-washing himself without full immersion, thankful to clean off the thick layer of filth that had crusted his clothes and body.

  “You, too,” said Joaquin. He was speaking to Nisho, who had not yet moved. With some reluctance she stepped toward the river and dipped her toe in.

  “Clothes off,” said Joaquin.

  The guerrillas were watching and grinning, almost giddy with anticipation. Matthew could see the fear in Nisho’s eyes, and the direction this seemed to be taking had him worried.

  “It’s too cold,” she said.

  “Leave your clothes,” he said sternly. “Now!”

  Slowly she removed her jacket and sweater, and then her boots. She was down to a blouse and pants.

  “The rest,” he said.

  “She’ll freeze!” shouted Matthew.

  One of the sharpshooters fired a warning shot. It splashed in the water just inches from Matthew’s knee. He backed off.

  Nisho looked nearly paralyzed with fright. Her eyes darted from one gawking guerrilla to the next as her trembling hand unbuttoned her blouse. The catcalls started. The show was in full swing.

  Matthew turned his gaze toward the guerrillas. They were a repugnant group, themselves in need of bathing. The fat guy was especially disgusting, a hideous tattoo covering the entire left side of his face. The word “cerdo” came to mind-“pig.”

  “The pants,” said Joaquin.

  Matthew heard the zipper, then the hoots. The guerrillas atop the boulder were sharing a bottle of something. The fat one with the tattoo stood up and started dancing, which quickly degenerated into a vulgar pelvic thrust. The others applauded, egging him on. He jumped down from the boulder and went toward Nisho.