Night of the Jaguar

by Joe Gannon

  And now the ghost of the boy with the long eyelashes had set Ajax free with the same knife. Maybe the ghost meant to save Ajax so he could persecute him in his own way. Maybe the ghost thought even a pain-filled death at the hands of the Contra was too good for him. Too quick. Whatever the ghost’s reasons, Ajax rolled onto his belly, determined to make his way slowly through Krill’s camp. As he did, a line of poetry came to him:

  And Jaguar ruled the Kingdom of Death, undiscerning and blind.

  16

  1.

  Matthew Connelly stood in the graveyard at Enrique’s finca doing the math. There were different kinds of math. There was, for example, the Mystery of Life math, like the first time he’d gone to New York City. For three days, every time he’d tried to cross a street, the very moment he’d lifted his foot off the curb, the light had changed from WALK to DON’T WALK. What was the equation to figure that message? More importantly, there was Imponderable Life Math. Like, I should be dead but the Contra didn’t kill me and now I’m sitting on a scoop that might get me killed. Then there was simple arithmetic. Fractions. Addition and subtraction. Like, five hundred thousand dollars minus two hundred fifty thousand dollars equals two piles of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. He’d found one of those piles, he was sure of it. But that kind of arithmetic led to Mystery Math, like, then where the hell is the rest of it? Or, even, should I get on a plane and get the hell out of town? But he could solve that equation: he would never leave such a story. It was too huge.

  It was the scoop of a lifetime.

  2.

  Ajax knelt at the bank of a stream and looked at himself flowing by in the water. His face was neither as cut nor as bruised as he had expected. But his nose looked broken and he’d not realized that. He gingerly touched it and the pain awoke his whole body, which had operated on some inner power since he’d left Krill’s camp. When was that? He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t be sure how many men he had killed either. Some of them? All of them? Not even if he’d gotten Krill or One-eye. He had just moved from man to man on his belly, more of a slither than a crawl. He’d clapped one hand on the mouth, the other drove The Needle in through the jugular, out through the larynx. Each bloody death making no more noise than a sigh and a gurgle. Then on to the next. And the next.

  There had been no sentries in the camp, just a listening post at the outer edge. That had been his last stop. One of them had been asleep. He’d killed the other so swiftly that one had not wakened. Then he’d clapped his hand over the sleeping one’s mouth. His eyes had snapped open and Ajax could tell he’d thought he’d been busted for sleeping on guard duty. Ajax had waited until the reality had registered in those eyes, and then put him to sleep forever.

  Then Ajax had slithered into the night.

  When dawn came he’d finally stood up, and known he did not have to hurry back to Enrique’s finca. There were too few left to give chase. He had faced south and started walking. He did not return the way he had come.

  Now he was parched, and his ribs and tailbone ached. He stuck his head into the water to drink and soak. Then he took stock. The sun slanted late through the trees; he had maybe three hours of light left. His clothes were torn. But it was his hands that caught his eye. His hands and even his forearms were caked in blood. He soaked them in the stream, then drew The Needle and soaked it as well. He remembered the cleaning power of a stream bed and used the pebbles and soil to scrub himself and his knife.

  He watched the flakes of blood re-liquefy and disappear in the flowing water.

  Then he heard the footfall. He crouched low, almost snarled, and had thought to throw The Needle point-first before he saw it was Epimenio. Ajax wasn’t sure what he looked like. He recognized his own reflection in the water, but that wasn’t the same as knowing how he was doing. By the horrified look on Epimenio’s face, he assumed he was not doing well.

  “Señor Martin.”

  “Captain Montoya. No need to lie anymore.”

  Epimenio sat down hard on the ground. He sank his head in his hands, then used his hands to pull up great clumps of turf from the ground. “If I did not lie, he would not be dead.”

  “Connelly? Connelly’s dead?”

  “No, Captain. Don Enrique.”

  “What? Connelly’s not dead?”

  “He’s at the house. He came yesterday.”

  Ajax bounded across the stream and knelt beside the tormented campesino. “Epimenio, you’re sure Connelly’s alive?”

  “Yes, señor, he is at the house right now.”

  “Thank God. I did not want his death on my hands.” Ajax looked at his hands, still wet from the stream, and grunted at the damnable irony. “Wait, then what lie are you talking about and whose death?”

  “Don Enrique.”

  “The Contra didn’t kill him.”

  “I know. I know. I know.”

  As he watched Epimenio’s face the phrase the wretched of the earth floated into Ajax’s mind. The campesino seemed to embody a wretchedness found only among the most powerless of the world. Still, his cop’s instinct told him Epimenio had reached the point of confession.

  “Explain it to me.”

  Epimenio sighed and seemed to relax. His fists unclenched, his shoulders sagged, and his jaw dropped a little. All signs, Ajax knew, of impending admission.

  “Don Enrique told me not to tell anyone, not doña Gloria, don Mateo, no one. He had never spoken to me that way before, like he was ordering a servant.”

  “What was the secret?”

  “The jaguar cub you saw me bury. When we were out hunting its mother, we heard a plane in the sky.”

  “The airstrip—you told me about that.”

  “But that night, we heard men’s voices. Enrique insisted we get closer. We snuck up near to them. I knew it was a bad idea. We listened for a while and then we snuck back down. Don Enrique seemed angry. He insisted we leave that night for home.”

  “What were they talking about? Did you hear?”

  “Some. I didn’t understand much, but I think it was about money. They spoke about ‘fifties.’ I asked don Enrique, but he told me never to ask him nor tell anyone.”

  “Fifties? How is that money? It’s not a córdoba note. Were they talking about American money? Fifty-dollar bills?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. Enrique wouldn’t talk about it. I didn’t understand the talk. I thought it was maybe about a bank, or someone’s house. All I heard was cincuenta.”

  “Casa Cincuenta? House Fifty?”

  “I think.”

  There is a phrase for a certain state of mind: reeling. Until that moment, whenever Ajax had heard that word he pictured a person stumbling backward, arms pinwheeling from some shock. But now he had a different image: a fishing pole with a long line out in the water and an angler spooling the line in very fast. The angler feeling the weight at the end of the line, but not knowing what it would bring up. The fisherman was reeling. And what Ajax saw emerge finally from the water was not a fish, not a log, not an old boot or discarded trash.

  It was a face.

  The face of the man who had killed Enrique Cuadra.

  Ajax tried to calm his pounding heart, tried to speak calmly. He took Epimenio’s shoulders in his hands and looked at him very closely.

  “Were they Nicaraguans? These men you heard?”

  “I don’t think so. Their accents were not Matagalpan. Don Enrique said they were Cuban.”

  “Cuban? You’re sure?”

  “That’s what he said and what he made me promise not to tell. I never knew any Cubans. Not until I met your friend in Managua.”

  “Friend? What friend?”

  “The lady doctor.”

  “Lady doctor? Marta? Doctor Marta Jimenez? In the morgue?”

  “Yes, she has the same accent.”

  “Son of a bitch. Son of the great shit-eating puta of all putas.”

  “Captain?”

  “She’s not Cuban.”

  3.
<
br />   As soon as Ajax emerged from the bush, Matthew raced from Enrique’s house and lifted him right off the ground in a bear hug.

  “You’re alive!”

  Ajax contorted in pain, every muscle and bone screeching.

  “Let go of me, Connelly. We’re leaving.”

  “What?”

  “We’re leaving. For Managua. Now.”

  “Yes, Matthew. So glad you are alive, too.”

  Ajax went straight to Matthew’s truck and retrieved the Python.

  “You have a gun? In my truck!”

  Ajax checked the six rounds, and then fitted the holster to his hip. He did not think of the boy he had murdered for it. But he had an inkling that he might kill with it one more time.

  “Give me your keys, Connelly, and get in.”

  “Ajax, listen for a second. I think I know why Enrique was killed.”

  “So do I. Why and by who. Give me your keys and get in.”

  “We can’t leave without Amelia.”

  Amelia. Ajax had to think for a moment. It was not that the past few days were hazy. Rather, Epimenio’s revelation seemed to have erased the past few years.

  “Amelia,” Ajax repeated. He knew that name.

  “Senator Teal’s aide.”

  “I know who she is, Connelly. Where is she?”

  “With Father Jerome getting the family she’s taking out. They’ll be back soon.”

  “Too late. You wait for her. Now gimme your keys.”

  “You’re not taking…”

  Before Connelly said more, Ajax had him in an armlock jacked up against his truck and fished the keys from his pocket. Fished. Reeled. Ajax was going to reel it all in now.

  “You stay and see Amelia gets back safe. I’ll leave your truck at your house.”

  “You can’t travel by yourself, Martin. What about the Contra?”

  “They didn’t kill Enrique.” But I know who did. He didn’t say it out loud, this was private business. Nicaraguan business, and Connelly was no longer a part of it.

  4.

  Captain Ajax Montoya stood in a bucket of water. That’s what had made him look at the calendar. He’d arrived home late yesterday from the long drive with only one memory of it: stopping for gas and realizing Krill still had his wallet. If Krill was still alive. He’d bartered the last of Connelly’s stash of Reds and soap for fuel. When he’d walked into his house, a rank smell had assaulted his nose. It had taken a moment for him to realize he was the source of it. He’d sat in a chair to get his boots off and woken up there twelve hours later. That was a pain in the ass, but it had been at least forty years since he’d last slept. He awoke around midday, reeking of sweat and blood, his civvies saturated in it. He’d tried to take a shower but there’d been no water. That’s when he’d started to think, No water so it must be … But realized he didn’t know the day or the date. So he’d checked the calendar: five days he’d been gone. Five? It wasn’t possible. That was too few. Or too many.

  He’d stripped and gotten into the plastic tub he kept filled for days the water was off. He’d washed slowly and carefully, spoiling the rest of the water; he wouldn’t need it anymore.

  He dressed in his cleanest uniform, strapped on the Python, and decided to take Matthew’s truck. He considered taking Gladys as well. But Gladys was a rookie and if things went down anything like he thought they might, it was best to keep her clear of it.

  He drove off, knowing both where he was going and how to get there. Managua was a warren of unnamed streets, so everyone used the same landmarks. The Hotel InterContinental. The Metro Centro. The military hospital. The Cabrera cinema.

  And Casa Cincuenta.

  House Fifty. Headquarters of the Dirección General de Seguridad del Estado. The DGSE. State Security. It was known as Casa Fifty because of the huge numbers painted on the outside wall. As he pulled to a stop, Ajax tried to remember why or how it had gotten the name. He couldn’t, and it didn’t matter. He drew the Python, half cocked it, and rolled the fully loaded cylinder over his palm to ponder his next move.

  Then he stopped.

  Strange, but it just didn’t feel right. He’d always used the Python to help him think. But maybe, he reckoned, that was it: he didn’t need to think anymore. He’d figured it out. Why it had all gone wrong. How it did. And who’d done it.

  He holstered the Python and watched the two guards at the entrance as they checked cars passing through. He knew the layout and routine well from his time in DGSE. It would be easier getting in the gate on foot and still easier if he was unarmed. He had handcuffs on one side of his belt, the Python on the other, The Needle hidden in his boot, and Connelly’s micro tape recorder in his shirt pocket. He hadn’t decided what he would do yet, but was leaning toward the handcuffs. That night in Krill’s camp still hung on him like a smell. The boy with the long eyelashes had given him his life back. No, that wasn’t it. It was the ghost of that boy who had given him his life back. Why? To surrender it in some OK Corral shootout inside the DGSE?

  “No. Cuff him and perp-walk the shit-eater right out the door.”

  He slid the Python under the seat and walked to the guard gate. He nodded at the two street guards and handed his police ID to the lone but heavily armed compa inside, who monitored a closed-circuit video of the street from inside a concrete booth.

  “Buenos compañero. Captain Ajax Montoya to see Comandante Malhora.”

  He’d hardly got the words out when the black, hulking Russian phone in the guard booth rang. The compa snatched it up mid-ring. He listened for a heartbeat, then thrust the receiver through the window.

  “For you.”

  Ajax listened: “He’s expecting you.” It must be one of the Conquistadores. He handed the phone back as the metal gate rolled open just enough for him to slip through. He knew the camera covered the street, but thought he’d parked in a blind spot.

  The Conquistadores waited at the heavy, bombproof front door. Ajax took his time walking in and studied the interior courtyard. He spotted the Land Cruiser with smoke-blacked windows he’d noticed in Matagalpa. So he’d been followed. Heat shimmered off the hood, like they’d just gotten back. So they hadn’t followed him home yesterday.

  As he walked on, the pressure of The Needle in his boot reassured him.

  “You donkeys enjoy your vacation in Matagalpa?”

  “Not as much as you did.”

  So they knew about Amelia.

  5.

  Sub-comandante Vladimir Malhora sat behind a desk not much smaller than Connelly’s truck. In his soft, clean hand he held a cigar not much shorter than the blade strapped to Ajax’s leg. His uniform was immaculately pressed, the insignia on it perfectly placed. His boots shone like black mirrors. He barked orders into a phone. Ajax suspected there was no one on the other end. While he waited for Malhora’s theatrics to conclude, he let himself imagine how the comandante would look after a week in the same cell as El Gordo Sangroso. He smiled at the thought, which was what he needed to be doing right now, smiling.

  Malhora hung up the phone, took his sweet time lighting his cigar, and then dismissed the Conquistadores with a wave.

  “Ajax. Would you like a cigar? Cuban.”

  “No.”

  “How about a Marlboro Red? Made in America.”

  “No.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it? The Communists make the best cigars and the capitalists the best cigarettes.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It’s not funny. The word you’re looking for is ironic.”

  “Ironic. Yes.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers. “Ajax, why have we never been friends?”

  “I don’t know.” Ajax looked around the office, Malhora’s throne room, as if it held the answer. “Maybe because you are the kind of man I despise most: you’re vain, greedy, and deep down, a coward.”

  Malhora smiled and drew deeply on his cigar. “There are only a handful of people in this entire country who could dare spea
k to me that way.”

  “If everyone spoke to you that way you’d be a better person. And we’d have a better country.”

  Malhora knocked a head of ash off the cigar into a jade ashtray. “Ajax, you have always thought you were special. The great hero. No one can tell you anything, but what are you really? A drunk? A killer? Hmm? That’s right, we know. We’ve been monitoring Contra radio chatter. You scared them out of their boots. They think you are the Angel of Death. But what are you, really?”

  Ajax took the handcuffs out of his pocket and hung them from his belt. “Get to your point.”

  “What you are, Ajax, is a child. A Boy Scout. You speak like a Nicaraguan but you think like an American. An American fool.” Malhora made six-shooters with his hands. “Pow. Pow. Pow. Everything is a cowboy Western. White hats and black hats. It’s always made you unreliable, that’s why there was no place for you after the Triumph. You’re a liberal bourgeois, not a comrade. Now, tell me what you think you know.”

  Malhora took another long pull on the cigar. Ajax wandered over to the portrait of Sandino hanging from the wall. It was an excellent oil painting done from the iconic photograph of the diminutive rebel general in his ten-gallon Stetson. Ajax saw it all clearly—as clearly as when Epimenio told him the men at the airstrip had Cuban accents, just like Marta. But she was Colombian.

  “You’re running drugs out of a secret airstrip in the mountains of Matagalpa. Cocaine probably. Enrique Cuadra came upon it by accident while hunting a jaguar. But the men you use for it are blowhards like you, can’t keep their mouths shut, don’t know about light and noise discipline. Cuadra heard them talking, recognized their accents as Colombian. He put two and two together and decided to do something about it. You found out and killed him before he could tell Matthew Connelly.”

  “And what if that is true? So what?”

  Ajax turned from the portrait of the past to the face of the present. There was a cockiness to Malhora that hinted at a hole card.

  “You murdered a citizen of the republic. A good man who gave three sons to the revolution.” He slid the handcuffs off his belt. “I’m going to put these on you and take you to jail, or I will kill you where you sit. There is no third option.”