Having spent much of the previous night returning by a deliberately circuitous route to the compa camp, Tomás slept through most of the daylight hours. The sun was barely above the horizon when Emelia woke him, and the distant mountains were turning purple in the fading light.
‘There’s an operations meeting,’ Emelia told him.
Tomás rubbed his eyes, yawned, and kicked aside the thin blanket. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
He left her opening the Spanish primer, and walked up to the ancient ruins, where the rest of the subcomandantes had already gathered. The large chunks of broken stone had once been part of an ancient fort, from which their ancestors had tried in vain to defy the Spanish invaders. The latter and their descendants had long since forgotten the place, but the Mayan Indians had not, and the continuity which it represented always gave Tomás a feeling of strength. Sometimes he thought he could almost smell the incense which had been burned here half a millennium before.
He found a space in the rough circle and sat down.
‘OK, Tomás,’ the Old Man said, ‘tell the others what you saw yesterday morning.’
‘Kaibiles,’ Tomás said tersely, looking round at the other seven faces in the circle. ‘About company strength – roughly a hundred men. They were concealed in the trees, so I couldn’t get an accurate count. Just below the pass, in the valley of the Chitac. You know, the old Jimón farm.’ He smiled. ‘They were waiting for some guerrillas to march over the pass singing revolutionary songs.’
‘I think we know who they were waiting for,’ the Old Man said softly.
‘Yes,’ Alicia agreed, ‘but why there?’
‘One of our people was with them,’ Tomás said. ‘I didn’t recognize him.’
‘Shit,’ Gerardo muttered, sounding sad rather than angry. They all knew the many kinds of pressure the Army could exert. ‘He probably just took them somewhere that would seem convincing,’ he added.
‘Maybe,’ the Old Man said. ‘But the important thing is that the Kaibiles know we are in the area…’
‘They could be guessing,’ someone suggested hopefully.
‘They could be, but I doubt it. And there’s something else,’ he added, looking at Tomás. ‘There were two gringos with them.’
‘Norteamericanos,’ Gerardo spat out contemptuously.
‘Maybe,’ Tomás said. ‘One of them could have been a norteamericano – he had the short hair that looks like a brush – but the other…I don’t know. But that is not the important thing. The second man, he saw me – we found each other with our field-glasses at exactly the same moment, and I don’t think he can have told anyone. There was no alarm, no one followed me, and when I was sure of that I went back. They were still deployed for the ambush.’
There was a silence while the others took this in.
‘Maybe he took you for one of the Kaibiles,’ Rosa said at last.
‘That is not funny,’ Tomás said indignantly.
‘But possible,’ the Old Man admitted. ‘There is no way we can know, so we must leave it as a mystery for the moment. What we need to decide now is where we go from here. And as I see it we have only two choices – retreat or engagement. We cannot just go to ground in this area.’
‘But can we take on the Kaibiles?’ Alicia asked doubtfully.
‘Not on ground of their choosing, no. But on ground that we have chosen – perhaps that could be a different story.’ The Old Man let his eyes drift around the circle. ‘We knew when we started this that the risks would grow greater with each day that passed.’
6
Soon after ten o’clock on Sunday morning, with the base canteen coffee still rumbling in their stomachs, Razor and Chris climbed into the jeep which Gómez had requisitioned for their trip to Chul, the nearest of the so-called ‘model villages’. Two Kaibil soldiers were accompanying them, one at the wheel and one perched precariously on the back.
Gómez had suggested the trip the previous evening, and the SAS men had decided that anything would be better than a whole day spent either sitting round the base or wandering round a hostile town. Razor had also told himself, without much conviction, that it was only fair to see the other side of the argument. If the Army really was doing something positive in the area, that would at least be some compensation for all the rest. And it might make him feel better about being in the position he was in.
Chul was about fifteen kilometres from Uspantan, but the drive, down one broad valley by paved road and up a long and narrow one by dirt track, took the best part of an hour. The village nestled in a flat fold of the foothills of the Cuchumatanes and at first sight looked remarkably like an Alpine village, with neat rows of wooden houses and well-kept fields surrounded by forested slopes. But there was something very un-Guatemalan about it, Chris thought, as the jeep descended the winding approach road. Chul looked more like a model than a real village.
A flat, triangular space with one set of football posts occupied the village centre. While Gómez went looking for the local comandante, the two Englishmen wandered out on to the thick grass, gazing around them. The whitewashed church was the only adobe building; all the houses were timber-built, as was the tall and apparently unmanned watch-tower. The streets were unpaved, a mess of mud and pebbles, but new lights had been installed.
The classic Third World sense of priorities, Chris thought. Electricity brought radios and TVs, the lure of the city and a world built around money and the hunger for things. It made the rural areas dependent on the city. A decent water supply and sewage system on the other hand…well, they might improve the health of the local people, but they would also encourage a dangerous sense of independence.
There was at least a standpipe in the village. Three women were gathered round it now, chatting with each other as they filled up identical green and white striped plastic jars. They didn’t seem bothered by the Kaibiles or the gringos, which Razor and Chris assumed had to be a good sign.
An Army officer emerged from one of the nearby houses, trailing Gómez in his wake. He was young, and wore old-fashioned circular-rimmed glasses which reminded Razor of Julie Christie’s husband in Doctor Zhivago. There was no fanaticism in this man’s eyes, though – only a sort of harassed cheerfulness. He introduced himself as Major Francisco Gramajo, shook their hands, asked the usual question about how they liked Guatemala, and took them on a tour of a building which served as both the medical centre and food distribution outlet. The villagers, he explained, received both medical help and supplies free of charge. All the men had to do in return was spend so much time each week undertaking communal duties, like road repairs, reconstruction and stints with the Civil Patrols.
He then took them on a walk round the village, greeting by name each person who crossed their path. The villagers’ response was polite enough, if somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.
‘What happened to the old village?’ Chris asked him, having glimpsed traces of several former buildings.
‘It was burned by the subversivos,’ Gramajo explained. ‘Seven, eight years ago now. The people who lived here ran away, and there was no village here for several years. Then the Government brought in new settlers, and they replanted the land’ – he gestured towards the cornfields in the distance – ‘and of course the Army was given the primary responsibility for their safety. But not all – the new settlers were only too happy to form Civil Patrols and make certain there was no chance of the subversivos returning. And, as you can see, it is working. The villagers here have a good life – enough land, food, medicine.’ He glanced at them, as if expecting agreement.
‘Looks good,’ Razor said diplomatically.
‘It is,’ Gómez agreed with a satisfied smile.
They went back to Gramajo’s office in the Army headquarters building, where a comida lunch was waiting, along with half a crate of ice-cold Gallo beer. The Indian women who served them seemed pleasant enough, but there was no disguising the reserve in their eyes. None of the four men sitting at the table ha
d any idea what these women were thinking, Razor thought. Chul seemed benign enough on the surface, but it was another occupied town. And who knew how much of the apparent placidity had been deliberately staged for their benefit. Gómez seemed as innocent of deception as ever, but then it could just as well have been staged for his benefit too.
On the drive back to Uspantan Razor decided that there was no way for a foreigner to be certain of where right and wrong lay in Guatemala – the place was too surreal, too Alice-in-Wonderlandish. In the last resort there was nothing to rely on but his own instincts, and he supposed he should have known that all along.
‘Fuck it,’ he muttered to himself, and decided to give his brain a rest, at least for the duration of the ride back to the base. Whatever else Guatemala might be, it was certainly beautiful, and he let his eyes feast on the landscape, each shade and line so vibrant in the clear mountain air.
In the adjoining seat, Chris was thinking about his partner while his eyes scanned the trees and sky for birds. He had few doubts concerning their mission in Guatemala – as far as he was concerned, it simply stank of political opportunism. But he was only along for the ride, whereas Razor was actually required to give these people something. Chris could understand why that might involve a degree of wishful thinking. No one wanted to believe they were helping the bad guys.
Having that wishful thinking slowly dissolve was no doubt a painful process – it was certainly painful to watch. But as far as Chris could see there was nothing they could do about their situation, or at least not until Razor got the chance to identify either prisoners or corpses. When that time came he could simply refuse to pick out the man the Guatemalan Army wanted, and at least keep his conscience clear on one account. Of course, a new problem might then arise – the Army could demand their continued presence until such time as Razor did identify someone as El Espíritu.
It was a no-win situation all right. Chris found himself wondering what Jamie Docherty would have done, and decided the Scot would have been just as stuck as they were.
They reached the end of the dirt track and turned west along the paved road, just as a bus rattled through in the opposite direction, trailing the usual toxic cloud of exhaust. They were only a few miles from Uspantan when Chris spotted a turkey vulture hanging almost motionless above the valley. He turned his field-glasses on the bird, which seemed to stare straight back at him before wheeling to match the speed of the jeep, and fly a course almost directly above their own. Chris pointed it out to Razor, who stared up at the vulture with an ironic smile. Its shadow, Chris realized, could be seen on the road ahead, as if they were following in its wake.
On the outskirts of Uspantan the vulture peeled away and headed back down the valley, as if it had successfully completed its task of escorting them through its territory. They drove through the town and up the steep hill to the military base, stopped for the obligatory security check at the gate, and finally pulled up outside the main barracks.
‘Siesta time,’ Chris suggested, before Gómez could suggest anything else.
‘Sounds good…’ Razor began, but the distant scream cut him off.
It was a muffled scream, but there was no mistaking the agony which had fuelled it. And as Razor caught Gómez’s reluctant eye, it sounded again.
Razor looked down at the ground for a moment, then abruptly turned on his heel and started across the grass in the direction of Colonel Cabrera’s office. Chris hurried after him. ‘Señor Wilkinson,’ Gómez pleaded. ‘Señores.’
Reaching the headquarters building, Razor ignored the tentative requests of the duty sentries and walked straight in. He didn’t bother to knock on Cabrera’s door either, simply swinging it open and marching inside. The colonel and his number two were in almost the same positions – one sitting, one standing – as they had been the day before. Watching Cabrera’s face, Razor saw sudden fear give way to anger and anger to an empty smile. ‘Senores,’ he said brightly, ‘what can…?’
‘There is someone being tortured on this base,’ Razor said flatly.
‘That is not…’ Cabrera started to say, when the faint but unmistakable sound of another scream drifted in through the open door.
‘We were assured by your Government,’ Razor went on relentlessly, ‘that this operation would be conducted with due respect for accepted standards of human rights. We will not be a party to inhumane treatment of prisoners, and I demand that whatever is going on here be stopped immediately.’
Cabrera half rose out of his chair, his face reddening.
Osorio’s face had gone white. ‘You demand?!’ he hissed. ‘This is not your country. You…’
‘Major,’ Cabrera said warningly, before Osorio could add anything else. The younger man’s anger seemed to have defused his own, or at least given him time to conceal it.
‘It is you who asked us for help,’ Razor said coldly. He was shaking inside.
‘Yes, yes,’ Cabrera agreed. ‘Please…you must understand, this is a war situation, we have to interrogate people, and sometimes…well, when their comrades’ lives are at stake, then the interrogators get carried away. I am not excusing this, simply trying to explain it. We will attend to the matter. Major,’ he said, nodding at Osorio, who gave the two Englishmen one last angry look and stalked out. ‘He will see to it,’ Cabrera said. ‘I apologize for his words. He is a patriot, you understand, and young. He finds it hard to accept direction from outsiders.’ Cabrera smiled. ‘I’m sure that you would not like Guatemalans telling your English officers how to behave in your Northern Ireland.’
‘No,’ Razor agreed. He felt certain of Cabrera’s insincerity, and no less angry, but there was nothing else to say. ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ he ground out.
‘It is my pleasure.’
The two Englishmen withdrew from the office past an ashen Gómez, and the last thing they heard was Cabrera telling the lieutenant to close the door. ‘Maybe he brought us back too soon,’ Chris wondered out loud.
Razor said nothing.
They walked back across the parade ground, hearing no screams.
‘For all I know, they’ve just put a sock in the poor bastard’s mouth,’ Razor said bitterly.
Chris shrugged. ‘You couldn’t have done any more. If they want to torture someone, it won’t be hard to find somewhere out of earshot.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Back in their room the two men stretched out on their bunks, Razor with his novel, Chris with his Walkman. He started off with U2’s Joshua Tree, but soon exchanged it for R.E.M.’s Monster – some of the lines on the former just seemed a bit too close to home. ‘A heart of darkness, a firezone…his blood still cries from the ground…where bullets rape the night of the merciful…’ It was easier to get lost in the sheer exuberance of Peter Buck’s power-chords.
The afternoon dragged by, and they went for an early supper in the deserted canteen. It was there that Gómez found them. He greeted them with a smile, but there was distress in his eyes. The world was not working the way it should, with conflict replacing the harmony he loved, and himself caught in the middle. He sat down beside them but didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was building up the courage to do so. ‘It is Sunday night,’ he said eventually, ‘and Colonel Cabrera has told me to ask you if you would like some female company.’
Razor and Chris looked at each other. ‘Thank the colonel,’ Razor told the Guatemalan, ‘but no.’
‘I understand,’ Gómez said quickly, getting to his feet. ‘You have happy marriage.’
‘Yeah,’ said Razor tersely.
They watched him leave the canteen, both feeling sorry for him.
‘This is turning into a fucking mess,’ Razor said. ‘And the temptation to just pack it in and go home is getting stronger every day.’
Chris looked at him. ‘What makes you think they’d let us go?’
Sixty-five kilometres to the south, Hajrija was sitting in the aptly named Sunset Café, watching the last throes of the day. Acr
oss Lake Atitlán the three volcanoes were starkly silhouetted against a deep-red sky, offering a vista which seemed almost too postcard-perfect to be true.
All around, fellow tourists were picking at bowls of nachos and drinking Cuba Libres, cold Gallos, even milk shakes. Between taking snaps they fended off the beautiful little Indian girls who were trying to sell them miniature dolls, parrot necklaces, purses and friendship bracelets. Hajrija already had two pocketfuls of souvenirs, all purchased for the princely sum of a dollar.
She had left Antigua late that morning on a special tourist bus. It had cost ten times the ludicrously cheap fare on the local buses, but a visit to the Mayan site of Iximche had been included in the price, and for that reason she had not resented paying the extra. The site had been interesting enough, but watching the crowded local buses on the road she had come to regret not taking one. It would have been more like travelling in Guatemala, less like travelling through it. And the wonderful views, culminating in that first breathtaking panorama of the lake as the road wound down from Sololá, would not have been any less spectacular.
The bus had arrived in Panajachel soon after noon, and after getting a room at the hotel Chris had recommended she set out to explore the ‘village’, most of which was now given over to the various functions of tourism. A lovely old church survived at the end furthest from the lake, but the kilometre-long road which ran down to the shore was lined with tour companies, restaurants and stall upon stall selling the brilliantly coloured Mayan Indian artefacts in dizzying profusion. There was too much, really, and it was all a little too touristy. Or it seemed that way until she saw the lake.
Hajrija had no trouble believing that Atitlán was the most beautiful lake in the world. The deep blue-green waters were a perfect complement to the pure blue sky, and the clouds which perched like haloes above the volcanoes seemed to have been placed there by either God or an exceptional artist. She had stood gazing at it all for a long time, simply drinking it in, and wishing Razor was there to share it with her.
Guatemala – Journey into Evil Page 10
