by Jack Treby
‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.’ Father Leonardo sprinkled some earth onto the first coffin.
There was quite a turn out for the three men. Emilio Títere had come to say goodbye to his friend Luis. I recognised Emilio from the posters plastered around the city centre. I hadn’t met him before but we had spoken briefly on the telephone. A cluster of plain–clothes policemen surrounded him. Somehow, it didn’t seem the right moment to try to reschedule our interview.
Charlotte McBride was there too, mourning her boyfriend Juan Federico. She had foregone the traditional black robes in favour of a tasteful dark green. The dress may have been ill fitting however, as she was constantly fiddling with the shoulder straps.
When the ceremony had finished, she came over to speak to me. ‘I hear you’re taking over from Freddie,’ she said. Given the circumstances, she sounded remarkably chirpy.
‘Er...yes, I am.’
‘We should meet up and have a chat. I’ll show you around the PRD building. It’ll be your headquarters from now on.’
‘Er...right. Yes.’
‘Mine too, technically. Did you know I’m your deputy now?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The deputy leader.’
‘Oh. Right. Are you?’
Charlotte nodded mischievously. ‘Even General Malvado didn’t know that until Tuesday night.’
‘Malvado? You’ve...met the general?’
She grinned. ‘An odd sort of bloke. Got a very quiet voice. Wasn’t at all what I was expecting. Kind of sexy, though.’ She took my arm and we walked over to the second grave. ‘I was with him on Tuesday night when they chose you as Freddie’s replacement.’
‘Yes, I...I thought I saw you there, when I was locked up. But I don’t...’
‘I had to identify the body. Everybody was in a dreadful panic. It was quite an amusing evening, all told. Apart from Freddie dying, of course.’ Charlotte stopped and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I almost died when someone suggested you as a replacement.’ She beamed. ‘I don’t think I’d have been more surprised if they’d chosen the British Ambassador.’
~ ~ ~
A second, somewhat smaller funeral was being held a hundred and eighty kilometres away in the remote village of Lejano.
Dick Carter had driven Lolita up into the mountains of Sierra Sangrienta. The two of them had paid their respects to the ailing Father José and now Lolita had been reunited with her family. The funeral of Fernando Corazón was organised for midday. In San Doloroso, because of the climate, there is a legal obligation to bury the dead within forty–eight hours. The priest at Verdura had been happy to arrange it all. Lolita’s mother, Anabel, was too distraught to do anything.
There was a respectable turnout at the church. The Corazóns had not lived in the area long – given the choice, they would not have lived there at all – but they had already made a great many friends. That at least would help to comfort them in the days ahead.
Meantime, Dick’s contact in Ausente was setting about making arrangements to smuggle Lolita out of the country. Whether there would be reprisals against the girl’s family for harbouring Father José, no one could tell.
The Azulito men who had died were being buried separately. They would be treated with due reverence – Escoria are always respectful of the dead – but the funeral would be held elsewhere. Some locals had taken the seven bodies away on a cart.
Three dark figures stood waiting at the church gates. Dick noticed them as Lolita’s family gathered around the grave. The men were not locals and they were certainly not Azulitos. That meant they could only be plain–clothed policemen.
Dick cursed silently. He had brought Lolita to Lejano against his better judgement. He could hardly refuse to take her to her father’s funeral. But the village was as remote as the farmstead where her family lived and there was simply nowhere to run.
The figures waited respectfully until the service had finished. And then they moved in.
~ ~ ~
After the funeral, the bishop took my arm and led me through to the back of the church. ‘You probably want to avoid all those press people,’ he observed kindly. ‘They won’t see you going through here.’ The clergyman had expressed his thanks for my role in saving Father José. I explained that I had had little to do with it but he took this as a sign of modesty. ‘Father José has not always been the most popular of priests,’ he confessed. ‘We prefer not to draw attention to ourselves. Politics is not really the business of the church. But I prayed for his safety and I am glad that he was delivered from the forces of evil.’
‘Er...yes. Yes, so am I,’ I admitted.
Father Leonardo showed me through a wooden door. ‘It’s just along here,’ he said.
The last thing I was expecting was to be assaulted at the back of the church. By now, I should have known better. I entered the small corridor, looking back to express my thanks to Father Leonardo. Before I had time to fully turn my head I was set upon by three very large individuals in thick black clothing. A mask was forced over my head and a hand pressed hard to my mouth to stop me from crying out. I was dragged out onto the street and into a waiting vehicle.
The car journey lasted some fifteen minutes. We wove left and right and left and right and I soon lost all sense of direction. At the time, I thought this was a deliberate attempt to disorientate me. In reality, it was probably just the one–way system getting in the way as usual.
Eventually, we arrived in a deserted back street. I assume it was deserted since nobody shouted out in surprise as I was bundled out of the car. We were still in the city somewhere – I could hear the buzz of traffic and the hum of people in the distance – but we were well away from the centre of town.
I was forced up a steep flight of stairs and taken into a large, empty room. I know it was empty because at this point my mask was removed.
Having learnt my lesson somewhat, I was now fully expecting to be confronted by several angry, machete–wielding Azulitos. The truth was altogether more surprising. There was only one man in the room, aside from my escorts. He was a large, middle–aged mulatto – a man of mixed race – and though I had met him only once before I recognised him immediately. The man’s image adorned a thousand posters, almost none of which had seen the light of day. It was the leader of the opposition Antonio Fracaso.
‘I apologise for bringing you here like this,’ he said, coming forward. I stared at Fracaso, open–mouthed. ‘But it would be awkward if the two of us were seen together.’
Four of the leader’s henchmen were stood around me in a tight circle. I glanced at them nervously. If the leader of Freedom, the only truly democratic political party in the whole of San Doloroso, was responsible for my abduction, then I had no way of knowing whether or not my life might be in danger. If Fracaso knew I was standing as an opponent in the election – and it was almost certain he did – that might well give him good reason to want to hurt me.
He noted my uncertainty and gestured his men away. ‘You have nothing to worry about here. I give you my word, you will be returned unharmed to the place where you were abducted before anyone even notices you are missing. As far as anybody else is concerned, you are just involved in a long chat with the bishop.’ Fracaso sounded sincere, but I was loath to accept his assurances at face value. ‘However, before we return you to the church, I think we need to talk.’
‘Ah. Look...erm...if it’s about the PRD...’
‘We know you’ve taken the place of Juan Federico Pelele.’
‘The thing is...you see, I wasn’t actually given any choice. I was forced to sign those documents. They held a gun to my head. And they didn’t even tell me what I was signing.’
‘You were in complete ignorance,’ Fracaso agreed. ‘Yes, I am aware of that.’
‘You...?’ My mouth dropped ever so slightly. ‘How...I mean, how did you...?’
‘I have a lot of friends in high places. You are, I take it, intend
ing to resign from the PRD as soon as it becomes practical to do so.’
‘Yes! Absolutely!’ I insisted. ‘I mean, there are a few minor complications, but...’
‘That is what we need to talk about. My party and I wish you to stay exactly where you are. Under no circumstances should you consider resigning from the PRD.’
‘You...? Sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘I can only apologise for having made use of you in this manner. But in the circumstances we had no alternative.’
I stared at Fracaso in bewilderment. I honestly had no idea what he was talking about.
He repeated himself, for the sake of clarity. ‘You are now, as leader of the PRD, exactly where I and all of the Freedom Party want you to be.’
This was becoming more confusing by the minute. ‘You’re not telling me you’re being funded by the government as well?’
A flash of anger lighted in Fracaso’s eyes. ‘The Freedom Party is committed to the principle of democracy and the overthrow of the provisional government. We know you share those values. You’ve already saved the life of Father José. What we’re asking is that you help us to win this election.’
I really didn’t understand. ‘You want me to help you win the election by standing against you?’
‘Yes we do,’ Fracaso agreed. ‘We need you there as a distraction, to reassure the government.’ The man was speaking in deadly earnest. ‘General Malvado and his associates won’t allow a two–horse race. If you are there, pulling opposition votes, the government will permit these elections to take place. Doubtless there will be a great deal of intimidation and violence as polling day approaches, but nothing that we haven’t already anticipated. And then, at the last minute, you will stand down and the provisional government will be voted out of office.’
For several seconds there was silence. I didn’t quite know what to say. ‘There’s a slight...’
‘We know all about this girl Lolita. She has been arrested by the police and in all likelihood will be imprisoned for the duration of the campaign.’
I gave a start. Dick had promised to get the girl to safety.
‘I’m very sorry. I received word from Verdura shortly before you arrived. The police arrested the girl about twenty minutes ago.’ Fracaso could see I was surprised by the news. ‘It’s a necessary evil. Her incarceration is an important component of the plan. The government has been made to believe it has a very real hold over you through her.’
Viscoso’s words returned to me then. He had thought I was infatuated with the woman.
‘It might be as well to visit this girl in prison every once in a while, just to reassure them that you are genuinely concerned for her well–being. Then, come the election, we will smuggle her out and across the border into Costa Rica. At that point you can resign, throw yourself on the mercy of the British Ambassador and he can get you safely back to England.’
I was dumbstruck. Fracaso seemed to have everything worked out. Well, almost everything. ‘But there’s a murder charge hanging over my head,’ I pointed out. The case had been quietly shelved when I had been released from prison, but it would not be difficult to reopen it. ‘The British government won’t protect me if I’m formally charged. They’ll just hand me straight back.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that. When I am elected president, I can make sure any charges against you are dropped.’
I stared at him in disbelief. ‘How long have you been planning all this?’ I asked.
Fracaso smiled. ‘For the election, all my life. For this?’ He sighed. ‘There has been a certain amount of improvisation.’
‘But you couldn’t possibly have arranged for me to be selected as the leader of the PRD. Not unless –’
‘As I said, we have friends in high places.’
‘But you didn’t....I mean, the only way...’ I stopped. ‘That means you must have had my predecessor killed.’
Fracaso looked away. I had obviously hit a nerve.
‘Did you order the assassinations of Luis Cuerpo and Juan Federico?’ I demanded. What sort of man was I dealing with here, beneath all the talk of democracy and justice?
‘No, I did not,’ Fracaso affirmed. ‘The Freedom Party is absolutely opposed to political assassination.’ He moved across the room and gazed out of a window onto the street below. ‘Unfortunately, not all of my followers share this conviction. When we heard Father José had been shot, some of them...over–reacted. They took matters into their own hands.’ Fracaso turned back to face me. ‘I don’t condone what they did, but you must understand, it gave us the perfect opportunity. We had a man on the inside who was able to influence the selection of an alternative candidate, on our behalf. He chose you. And I think he may have chosen wisely.’
A man on the inside. I racked my brains, trying to think. ‘Surely not Chief Inspector Lopez?’
Fracaso laughed, unexpectedly. His teeth were a brilliant, flashing white. ‘No, not Chief Inspector Lopez.’
There was only one other possibility: the civil servant, Viscoso. Fracaso nodded.
‘Viscoso is working for the opposition?’
‘He was in the perfect position. He did a superb job, even managing to manipulate Malvado into selecting a second candidate whom he knew would never be accepted by the Electoral Commission.’
‘But Viscoso never gave me any indication...’
‘Of course not. Every room in that building is bugged by the police, by the army and probably by the Azulitos as well, for all I know. And Alberto Viscoso didn’t get where he is today by being careless.’
That much was obviously true. ‘But what’s in it for him?’ I asked. ‘I mean, why would he betray his own government?’
‘He has his reasons. I only give you his name as a gesture of trust. If any of the Junta had the slightest suspicion of him, Viscoso would be dead in the blink of an eye. He has played his role, for the time being. Now we need you to play yours. We need you to continue exactly as you are...’
‘Being a government stooge?’
‘A puppet, yes. Play up to it. Do anything you can to raise your profile and attract votes. The more successful you are, the more complacent the government will become.’
It all sounded very dubious. Three men had been murdered to elevate me to my current position. ‘And this is how you intend to get yourself elected?’
‘Yes.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t mean to be critical, but – it doesn’t really sound very democratic, does it?’
Fracaso looked down at the floor. ‘This is San Doloroso. It’s the best we can do.’
Chapter Eighteen
A human skull was propped on top of a short wooden pole. I flinched as the empty eye sockets were thrust unexpectedly in my direction. In life, the skull had belonged to Luis Manuel Brujo, a shaman from the ancient village of Antiguo. Brujo had died some fifteen years before and it was his grandson, Jorgé, who now held the skull aloft. The role of shaman had skipped a generation when Jorgé’s father had run off to Ausente to become a taxi driver. Not everybody maintains the old ways.
I was sitting amid a gaggle of poorly dressed villagers. A bonfire was blazing away in the centre of a small field that now belonged to the young shaman. Two slightly better dressed photographers were taking photographs of my reactions to the ceremony. Their large zoom lenses and bright flashing lights were an awkward intrusion into an otherwise traditional scene. It was clear, however, that the villagers were treating the affair with great seriousness. Each of them had brought along a memento of some dearly departed ancestor; a fragment of hair, a tooth or a fingernail. The second of November had a special significance for the people of San Doloroso. It was the day they came together to celebrate their dead. The perfect time for a photo opportunity.
The last thing I had wanted to do was exploit the traditions of the local community in such a crass manner; but when the Latin American celebrity gossip magazine Bienvenida had come up with the idea of hooking San Doloros
o’s newest political leader in with the national celebrations for the Day of the Dead, Dick had persuaded me to go along with it. Against my better judgement, I had been dragged out to a remote village in the middle of nowhere in a dilapidated colectivo – a minibus – to witness an authentic Escoria ceremony.
The shaman had taken a drink from a glass containing a special drug only he knew how to prepare. The glass was passed from villager to villager, each of them taking a small sip, and I was forced out of politeness to follow suit. The strange greenish concoction tasted absolutely vile – I had to stop myself from choking as the noxious liquid set about shredding the lining of my throat – but the shaman Jorgé drank at length from the glass. A similar quantity, I was reliably informed, would have killed me stone dead. Even a small sip had put me in a rather strange mood. But a lifetime of use had habituated Jorgé to the drug and now he was dancing around the fire in a state of near delirium. The intoxicating narcotic had seized control of his body. He held a clump of leaves in his free hand – the one not holding the skull of his granddad – and he rustled them ferociously above his head. His lips were pursed together and he began to whistle a haunting, macabre melody.
The villagers watched, their eyes hypnotised by the fire and by the rhythmic dancing of the slender young shaman. Many would later claim they had seen the spirits of their forefathers dancing around him. One by one, they rose up to join the shaman in his ancient dance.
At a prod from one of the photographers, I reluctantly got to my feet and joined them.
This was no ordinary healing ceremony. It was the day when the dead came back to life, when the ancestors returned to give their blessing to the living. It was an age–old ceremony, a recognition of the importance of death in life and an acknowledgement of the power of the spirit world.
The Conquistadores had tried to outlaw it. They had seen the ceremony as nothing less than devil worship. But after the arrival of the Spanish, the Escoria had acted with great cunning. They had hidden their ceremonies beneath a veil of Catholicism. The names of Catholic martyrs had been appropriated and used in place of the ancient gods; but it was the ancient gods that were being worshipped. And so the traditions survived. After independence, they had come out into the open and El Hombrito had allowed them to flourish.
