by Gale Borger
Evo checked out what he could of the back end of the compound, taking pictures from the high ground. He noted the drilling site quite a ways down the mountain from the village, and wrote; Runoff does not flow uphill, in his notebook. Collecting samples of dirt and standing water, he continued the narrative on his recorder.
Eventually, he skirted the perimeter and met up with Luis and Alfredo near the front gate. They were in the process of arguing loudly with security over permits and identification. Evo approached and ended the argument by producing the paperwork security demanded.
While the guards were engaged with Alfredo, Evo shoved the camera toward Luis. "Take a look at these pictures and hide the camera. I need to speak to the foreman. Can you and Luis talk to the men and start the initial inspection of the site?"
"But, Dr. Evo–"
"Just look professional and pretend."
"Okay, Boss." Luis nodded and the camera disappeared like magic. Evo headed into the foreman's trailer and the last he saw, Luis and Alfredo had donned lab coats and hard hats. Carrying clipboards, they headed toward the field workers. Smart boys.
The foreman, an affable man, didn't strike Evo as a murderer of fish or children. Ron Hansen smiled the easy smile of a man who slept well at night. An American, Ron had a hearty laugh and a shrewd mind. Evo sensed brain behind Ron's brawn, and congratulated Nunez for great perception in hiring the American. Ron waited for Evo to state his business and was very forthcoming about the operation at 151. He pulled charts and retrieved graphs which told the story of ongoing soil and water samples of the surrounding area, as well as the topography of the mountain. Evo looked on, confused that the story less than an hour up the mountain should be so different from the one seen here.
"Ron, is there perhaps another mining or drilling site between here and Puerta de la Cruz?"
Ron referred to his charts and shook his head. He circled a small area at a higher elevation than the small village. "No, no," he said thoughtfully. "There's nothing between here and there." He scratched his chin. "You know, this may mean nothing, but some of the locals spoke of the 'Devil's Eye' north of their village." He marked the approximate area on the map. "I thought it was old superstition crap, but many of the men complain that they were strongly encouraged to go there while their women, children, and elderly stayed back in the villages. They were not more forthcoming, so I just figured it was a cut-and-burn operation, not a mine or well." He tapped the map thoughtfully. "Look at this, Dr. Castillo. Nunez owns all the land north of the village, so you or I would know of any operation up there. Must just be wives' tales and rumors: nothing more."
Evo wrote down some notes and clicked on the recorder. "Ron, have you had a lot of flooding around these parts lately?"
"We've had more rain this season than we've had in the last ten."
"Have your salt pond, or re-mix ponds overflowed?"
"Nope. We build them up with sandbags when they get too deep, but for the most part, the water treatment equipment keeps up." He lowered his reading glasses and leveled a look at Evo. "Level with me now, what exactly are you looking for, Dr. Castillo?"
Evo thought hard about showing his cards. He figured he had to trust someone, and Hansen could be a strong ally. He let out a heavy breath. "Heavy metal contamination. Enough to kill anything it comes into contact with. I found over thirty graves in the village, dead animals–the works."
Hansen flopped back in his chair. "Wow. You don't pull any punches, do you?"
"I have to trust someone and you know your operation and the area."
"But heavy metal poisoning is more of a mining problem, not oil drilling. Does Chavez know about this yet, or Nunez?"
Evo leaned forward in his chair. "No one but you and I. I would like to finish my investigation before going off half-cocked. I have to make a report to Chavez as soon as I get back to Lima, so if you can keep this under your hat until then, I'd really appreciate it."
"Who am I going to tell? I don't want this getting out any more than you do, but have you ever met this Chavez character? I mean, since we're being honest here, what's your take on him?"
Evo thought before he answered. "To tell you the truth, the man beat me out of a promotion to get the job he's in, so I can't say I would be totally objective. Why do you ask?"
Ron cocked his head to one side. "Well, it's only my opinion, and you know what folks say about those, but think there's more to him than meets the eye."
"Oh? How so?"
Ron hesitated. "It's just a gut feeling I get when I talk to him. Some of the questions he asks have nothing to do with my business dealings with Nunez, and when I call him on it, he back peddles or becomes belligerent. Then there are the security people he hired."
"You do not hire and fire your own men?"
"Normally, yes, but six weeks ago I got a call from him telling me he was sending extra security. Those guards are real assholes, and they only take orders from Chavez. I just don't trust him."
"But you trust me after one introduction."
Ron barked out a laugh. "My friend, I could see right off, you are a stand-up guy. I hope someday we can work together on a project. Just be careful around that Chavez character, will you?"
"I'll watch my back, and you be careful, too. There is something going on here, I just have to figure it out. When I do I'll let you know."
"Good enough then."
Both men stood and shook hands. "Until next time, Dr. Castillo."
Evo grasped his hand warmly. "Call me Evo, and it was a pleasure meeting with you."
"And you as well."
Evo nodded and left the building. He spotted Alfredo taking water samples as Luis talked to the workers. Evo walked over to the men and helped finish up the interviews.
He asked Alfredo and the men about the Devil's Eye, but the group clammed up and dispersed.
"Wow. That certainly broke up the party fast. Come on guys, we're finished here anyway." Evo took the samples from Alfredo and led the way back to the truck.
Luis halted. "Wait one minute." He dashed around a corner.
Alfredo picked up the clipboard Luis dropped in his haste to run across the compound and Evo looked over his notes.
Luis came strolling back to the truck, followed by a guard carrying what looked like an M-13 or 16. Luis grinned at Evo and climbed into the truck. Comprehension dawned, and Evo made haste to load up and leave.
The three men packed the truck as the guard stood by, and Evo was again amazed at the dumb peasant act Luis and Alfredo put on for the guerilla. Big grins and lots of waving surrounded the three men as the vehicle sped out of the compound. Evo watched the guard pull out a cell phone before they hit the front gate. He met and held Evo's stare as he spoke into the phone.
Alfredo drove, making great time as they headed for the airport in Cumaná. It was a long trek over rough terrain, but the corporate plane was ready when they arrived.
The flight back to Lima was uneventful, and Evo made arrangements at the airport to hold the fish and the samples until the next day when their flight left for the States. He put Alfredo and Luis up at a hotel and headed for the office.
Three hours and several cups of coffee later, Evo made two copies of his written and audio notes as a matter of habit. He locked one copy in his safe and tucked the other in the side pocket of his cargo pants.
He then called Hector Chavez and gave him a verbal rundown of the trip. His description of the lagoon went without comment, but when he started on the trek through the village, Chavez stopped him cold. "What are you talking about–dead fish and dead goats? What did the villagers say?"
"There were no villagers, only a lot of graves behind the church."
"The hell you say! Castillo, did you talk to anyone else about this?"
"Only Ron Hansen, the foreman at Site 151. He's going to ask around about the village and something called 'The Devil's Eye'. I really think it's connected to the abandoned village, and the dead livestock."
&nb
sp; "What are you blathering about, Castillo? What were you thinking, telling Hansen like that? Do those two nitwits who work for you know? Well of course they do, what am I saying? What do you think is going on here, murder? Conspiracy?"
"No, nothing like that. It's just rather odd, don't you think?"
"I think you need a vacation, Castillo."
"I'm about to take one."
"I know; your secretary called. I want that report and all your notes on my desk before you leave tomorrow."
"Okay. I have most of it on tape. I'll just have Elena–"
"No, no. Just send me the tape and your notes; I'll write the report. Don't leave it for your secretary, and don't call Nunez; I'll take care of it. You go enjoy your vacation in…"
"White Bass Lake, Wisconsin. It's near Chicago."
"Oh, right. Chicago." Chavez sounded distracted. "Uh, right. You go to Chicago and have fun. I'll take care of everything. Don't worry." There was a moment of silence and Evo tried to make sense of the strange conversation. Chavez then asked, "Your assistants; you said they are with you too?"
"Yes, but of what significance is that? Do you need reports from them or something? I guess you should know; I'm taking them with me on vacation."
"Oh, good, good. Take them with you. I can see them when you get back."
Evo scratched his chin. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure. You go and leave everything to me."
"Okay, Hector, and thank you."
Chavez rang off and Evo stared at the phone. "Well that was strange." Evo thought about what Ron Hansen had said about Chavez. Why did he want to know about Luis and Alfredo? Why did he want the report and all his notes? What was his problem with Evo's secretary? Should he call Ron and run it past him? Evo shook his head. No, why create a conspiracy theory? Unless of course, there is one. Evo's stomach gave a twinge and he rubbed it. Vacation sounds pretty good about now.
At the other end, Hector Chavez stared straight ahead. The more he thought, the tighter he squeezed his fists. His face burned and his nails bit into his palms. With one sweep of an arm, everything on his desk flew across the room, slamming against the wall and shattering onto the floor. He slicked back his hair with shaky hands, calmly picked up the phone, and dialed.
5
In a Smokey Bar Somewhere in Lima
"Are you sure you can take care of them?" The oily haired man in the dark sunglasses set his drink down on the worn table.
"Sure we can, boss. We are like chameleons. We blend in. No one will know we were even there." The filthy, rough looking man made a gesture with his hand. "Smooth as silk. Those people will never see South American soil again. You can count on us."
The man in the sunglasses looked skeptically at the second man at the table who picked his nose as he chewed a toothpick.
The picker looked up at the man with the sunglasses, said, "Smooth," and nodded his head.
"When do we leave?" The first man slid his chair back.
"Hopefully, after you two take a bath," he said under his breath. "Tonight." He cleared his throat. "The flight leaves at ten."
The first man ignored the rude comment. "We can be ready."
Sunglasses slid an envelope across the table. The other man picked it up and a key dropped into his hand. He slammed his hands on the table and leveled a glare at the boss man. "What kind of bullshit is this?" The man with the toothpick kicked back his chair and stood, reaching under his jacket.
Holding up his hands, the man with the sunglasses spoke quickly. "It's a key to a locker at the airport. Everything you need is inside. Passports, money, tickets, the works. You get paid the rest upon your successful return."
Toothpick growled, "This better be legit, amigo, or we're coming after you."
Mr. Sunglasses lowered his gaze and stared him down. "You'd better do the job, amigo, or I'm coming after you–both."
"We'll do the job, have no fear." The two men chugged their drinks and slammed their glasses on the table. They turned and strode out of the bar, not bothering to look back.
Sunglasses sat back, stared after them, and thoughtfully sipped his wine. He wondered if hiring cut-rate killers was such a wise choice. They seemed so rough, uncouth, and amateurish, but they were also expendable. The paltry hundred-thou it would cost him seemed like pocket change compared to what he would make on this deal. If they got nailed for murder in the States, so what? They knew nothing of his plans, nor did they know his identity. They would spend the money foolishly, and he could have them taken out at any time. He smiled and took another sip. No, it was a good idea.
Tomas and Marco made their way through the mean streets of Lima to the hovel they shared. The door to their tiny apartment slammed shut behind them and they stared at each other. Suddenly, they both let out howls that shook the rafters. "Hooo-weee. A hundred G's and a paid vacation in the States."
"It don't get no better than this, Tomas."
Tomas straightened and sobered. "From now on I'm Tom, and you are going to be Mark. Just like real Americans. From now on we practice using our new names."
"Tom and Mark. Mark and Tom. We do sound American." Mark turned his ball cap backward, "Yo, yo. Cool, dude. What up, dawg?"
Tom said in exasperation, "What are you trying to be, some sort of rap star?"
Mark looked at Tom over the tops of his scratched sunglasses and grabbed his crotch. "What? What? You want some-a-this, bro? You wanna piece-a-me, bee-ach?"
Tom rolled his eyes skyward as if seeking divine intervention. "You are so lame; I can't believe we're related. Did your mother drop you on your head at birth or something?" Tom sighed. "I'm going to hit the shower." He sniffed his armpits. "Do you think we overdid the dirt a little?"
"Naw, I think it made us more believable." Mark sniffed his own armpits. "Whew. I am kind-of ripe though. Let me shower first, dawg." He headed for the tiny bathroom.
"Hey! I called the shower first."
"Too late, bee-ach." The door slammed behind him.
Tom slumped in a chair and stared at the envelope. He picked up the key and tapped it on the table. This was their ticket out. They might have been born in the slums, but they weren't going to die there. All they had to do was knock off a couple of losers and an egghead scientist or two. Piece of cake. Murders happen all the time in the States, right? What're a couple more?
Tom slapped the key on the table. The only problem; he and Mark had never murdered anyone. Hell, the sight of blood made him heave, and Mark, what an idiot. What the heck were they thinking? They needed a plan. That's right! A bloodless plan. Poison? Naw, we'd have to get too close. They could drop them out of a plane, or throw them in front of a bus maybe.
Tom began to pace. We could make it look like an accident, or suicide, or maybe a mob hit. That would be good, a mob hit, like Al Capone. Then they could settle down and buy an ice cream shop or something. He always did want to be an ice cream salesman.
Tom shook his head to clear it. The thought of murder made him uneasy. When the little grease ball, Ernesto had propositioned them they'd seen nothing but the money. They'd said yes before they knew what the job entailed.
He thought of his mother. Crap. Mama thought they were doing fine and going on vacation. They were already a disgrace, so what the hell did it matter if he offed some people he had never met? Screw that, he thought. He'd be a rich disgrace, that's what he'd be. He just would not think about it.
Tom picked up the key then dropped it in the envelope. The shower stopped in the bathroom and the door popped open. Mark hopped into the room and jiggled his hips. "I feel good! Bop, bodama-bop! So good, bump bump, so good, Bump bump!"
Tom brushed by him on his way to the bathroom. "Save your energy, Mr. James Brown. You're going to need it."
Mark did a little dance. "Not James, not Juan, not Paco, it's Mark–Mark, uh, whatever our last name will be. Hah! Good thing we are bilingual, eh, Tom?"
"Si, Mark. That's how we got the job. That and we both have a driver's lic
ense. Who knows, we may have to run over someone." He looked at the floor and sighed. "Let me get cleaned up and we'll go." The door closed behind him.
Mark looked at the closed door. "Humph. What's gotten into him?"
An hour later, the new and clean Mark and Tom stood in their doorway looking at the empty apartment. "So long, old life," Tom said, and closed the door.
"Hello, new life. Mark pounded his way down the stairs and out of the building.
They threw the remainder of their belongings in a dumpster and walked fifteen blocks before they found a taxi. "The old neighborhood just ain't what it used to be," Tom said, puffing from the exertion of the walk. "Taxi drivers won't even come in here."
"What are you talking about? Taxi drivers aren't stupid. They never came into this neighborhood. Someday I want to live in a neighborhood where they have taxi drivers and pizza delivery."
"We play our cards right, Mark, and we will."
Finally, a taxi pulled up and they climbed in. Mark cleared his throat. "Airport," he said in his most professional voice, and off they went.
The Lima airport proved to be an adventure in controlled chaos. With the construction finished, it was much easier to navigate, but this early in the evening had commuters and vacationers vying for position at ticket counters, baggage pick-up, and rental agencies. Tom and Mark fought their way through the crowds and sat in chairs near a bank of lockers and looked around to see if they had been followed.
Thirty minutes passed before Mark leaned close to Tom's ear and whispered, "Looks clear to me, do you see anything?" Tom shook his head and they moved in.
Inside the locker, they found two tagged bags and another large envelope containing their tickets, passports, American money, and driver's licenses tucked inside nylon wallets. They also found assorted credit cards and pictures of phony kids and relatives. They gathered their duffels, and headed for the gates.
Once on the plane, they stored their bags and took their seats. They had three transfers between Lima and Chicago, and they went over how they would get from one plane to the next.
