The village was truly in the middle of nowhere. The steep footpath had been scratched from the ocher soil and rocky foothills. The nearest drivable road was two miles away, and given its inhospitable condition—ten miles of potholes and rocks—the distance might as well have been two hundred. One-room mud huts with thatched roofs appeared randomly arranged in the midst of a thick and unforgiving jungle threatening to swallow them. Pigs, chickens, and malnourished dogs roamed the dirt roads with barefoot children. There were no sewers or piped-in water. No home had a sink, a bathroom, or electricity. There were no streetlights. No phones. A one-acre patch of land dug into the hillside produced corn, beans, chilies, squash, pumpkins, and gourds.
Jenkins took a seat at the back of the crowd, conscious of his height, and folded his legs underneath him, waiting—for what exactly, he did not know. After ten minutes, his knees, sore and bruised from banging beneath the dashboard of the Jeep on the potholed road, ached from a lack of circulation. His ass hurt just thinking about the ride home. As if to spite him, the rain started again, permeating every hole, every rip, every seam in his clothes. He pulled the hood tight around his face, seeing the world in front of him through a small slit. The crowd appeared unfazed. It was as if an electric current of anticipation ran through them, like a crowd awaiting the start of a sporting event or a critically acclaimed Broadway play.
Then a hushed silence fell over them, leaving only the distant howl of a dog, and their necks craned to see. Jenkins rose up over the rows of heads but initially saw nothing that could have drawn the crowd’s interest.
And then he saw him.
He was lifted onto a large, flat stone and stood as if floating above them.
A boy.
He was just a boy—barefoot, soft angelic features, and a mop of dark hair.
Jenkins watched as he closed his eyes, stretched out his arms, and tilted back his head as if drinking the water falling from the leaves. His shirt, a white smock, caught the breeze and rippled like a sail.
“Levante sus ojos y mire del lugar donde usted es.” (Raise your eyes and look from the place where you are.)
The crowd looked up as if in obedience to his command.
“Let the villages rejoice. Let the people of Mexico sing for joy; let them shout from the mountaintops. The Lord will march out like a mighty man; like a warrior he will stir up his zeal; with a shout he will raise the battle cry, and he will triumph over his enemies.”
Jenkins pulled the poncho from his head. Those around him had closed their eyes, becoming rigid, silent statues, though their lips moved slightly. Prayer. They were praying. It was astonishing.
The words flowed from the boy like a stream over rocks, rolling over the crowd to where Charles Jenkins sat.
“For a long time I have kept silent; I have been quiet and held myself back. But now I cry out. I will lay waste the mountains and the hills and dry up all their vegetation; I will turn rivers into islands and dry up the pools. I will lead the blind by ways they have not known; along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do.”
The words were somehow familiar, but from where? It came to him as the boy continued speaking. What he thought he had forgotten in the Baptist churches had only lain dormant. The boy was reciting scripture, though it did not appear that way, not at all. He spoke the words as if saying them for the first time, as if they were his own. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. The crowd barely moved; tears of joy streamed down their faces.
My God, he thought.
The boy paused and fixed his eyes upon them with such intensity that those sitting in the front appeared to fall backward. His voice hardened. The words no longer flowed but stabbed at the crowd like the point of a blade. “We are Mexicans. Our ancestors called this land their home before others invaded it and took what was rightfully Mexico’s. We are the descendants of a great race of warriors, a proud people.”
A murmur of unrest swept through the crowd.
“We are Aztecs, Toltecs, Zapotecs, and Mixtecs. We lived free and independent for thousands of years. We built great civilizations. We relied on no one. We sought no help. We gave generously, but still they came for more. We did not ask for war, but war came to us. Hear me now. There can be no true Mexico unless it is a free Mexico.”
And so it was true. Jenkins had hoped not. But it was true. This was the vortex of the unrest.
“There can be no true Mexico so long as we rely upon those in power, those who seek to keep the Mexican people in bondage, to elevate themselves to positions of power, to live in splendid mansions. Those who seek to destroy Mexico, to enslave her people, cannot be allowed to stay. Those who rape Mexico, steal her land and her treasures, cannot be allowed ever to come again. Only when the people of Mexico are truly independent will a nation flourish. Only then will we be again a proud race with honor.”
The crowd stood suddenly around him, shouting its agreement, surging toward the rock. Jenkins lost sight of the boy, then watched as the crowd raised him overhead and he danced on their shoulders to the beating of drums. It was surreal, like a theatrical production unfolding on a stage or the back lot of a Hollywood studio. But these were not actors, and this was no play. This was real. This was happening.
Thunder clapped from an angry sky, a blast that shook the jungle with such ferocity that the ground trembled and the sky opened. The rain fell into the canopy in great sheets, running from the leaves like water from spigots. The crowd dispersed quickly to the huts or melted back into the surrounding jungle from which they came.
Charles Jenkins stood in the rain, alone.
“I filed a report after each visit,” Jenkins said. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I never intended for it to happen.”
Sloane could see the pain in Charles Jenkins’s eyes, a lifetime of agony and guilt. They were the same, he and Jenkins. They had spent much of their life not knowing who they were, and uncertain they wanted to find out. “What happened that morning wasn’t your fault,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his chin, thinking of Melda, and the young police officer with the newborn son, and the night security guard at his building—a new grandparent—and Peter Ho and his family.
He thought of Joe Branick.
He thought of the women and children in that village.
He thought of his mother.
The immensity of the loss—and the pain it brought—weighed on him so heavily he felt it suffocating him.
“I convinced them that the threat was real, that you were real,” Jenkins said.
“No.” Sloane shook his head. “I convinced you.” He looked up at him. “I convinced you because it was what I was taught to do, what I understood I had been born to do. Neither of us could control what happened. We were both too young, too trusting. What I don’t understand is, why now? Why, after so many years, did Joe Branick dig this up again? He had the file. Why wait thirty years to expose Robert Peak?”
“Because Joe wasn’t trying to expose Robert Peak, David. He was trying to save his life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No matter what he might have thought of Robert Peak when he learned the truth, when he confronted Peak and learned that the man he had served for much of his life was a murderer, Joe loved his country and would not want to see it suffer.”
“So why did he need me?”
“Because you’re the only one left who knows el Profeta’s identity.”
87
The White House,
Washington, D.C.
THE SOLARIUM ON the third floor of the White House had been used as a classroom to teach the children of presidents. It had also been used as a type of family room for gatherings over the holidays. Robert Peak’s children were grown when he took office. He and his wife had used part of the budget given every president to decorate the White House to meet the family’s particular tastes to turn the solarium into a den that was part family roo
m and part monument to Robert Peak. The dark oak-paneled walls displayed photographs of a man and family at work and at play, and Robert Peak was at the center of it all—the son of an honored statesman who rose to become president of the United States. Leaded-glass cabinets contained hardback books, souvenirs, mementos, and accolades collected during his distinguished political career. They were displayed among the family photographs, all illuminated under the glow of soft lights. The only other light came from an antique table lamp—as if the room were kept purposefully dim so as not to cast further light that might reveal the secrets in Robert Peak’s closet and otherwise disrupt his neatly crafted image.
Sloane sat in the muted light, the file open in his lap, reading the reports that Charles Jenkins had filed, the reports that had convinced Robert Peak to send Talon Force into the mountains to kill. Over the six months that Jenkins visited the village, the language of his reports describing the gatherings had become more ardent and persuasive. They started out with blatant cynicism, became cautious contemplation, and ended with conviction. Sloane reread one of the entries:
The events I have witnessed must not be dismissed out of hand. The atmosphere surrounding these gatherings is one that I can only describe as electric—similar to witness accounts of paranormal events. This child does not just recite scripture; it pours from him like water from a faucet, as if written by him . . . or for him. The crowds that gather to hear him do not merely listen to his words. They absorb them, hypnotized by his very presence.
Sloane thought of the jurors and felt them even then, yearning to hear more about what he had to say.
The child’s “sermons,” as those in the region refer to them, have become increasingly disturbing. Though he continues to promote Mexican cultural ideals, the message he delivers is clearly antigovernment rhetoric. He advocates a return to the traditional principles upon which the Mexican revolution was fought—greater freedoms for the poor and indigenous, distribution of large land tracts to those who farm them, nationalization of Mexico’s banks and natural resources, and government-subsidized housing and medical care. He has become increasingly critical of the Mexican government in power and the historical intervention of the United States into Mexico’s political affairs. While not expressly advocating violence, he has, on more than one occasion, incited those present to a fevered response . . .
The influence of Marxist rebels who would seek to turn Mexico into another Vietnam cannot be disregarded. With the size of the crowds growing exponentially, it is likely that the boy’s message will spread from the jungles and find a ready and more sophisticated audience in the students, laborers, and unions causing unrest in Mexico’s cities. Should this occur, the child’s message, delivered as I have witnessed, could have incalculable ramifications on the stability of the government in power.
The door to the room opened.
Robert Peak walked in, dressed casually in blue jeans, a cashmere sweater, and slippers. Ignoring Sloane, he walked to a glass cart near the window, pulled the top off a crystal decanter, and poured brandy into a wide-mouthed glass.
“What I did,” he said, his back to Sloane, “I did because it was in the best interest of this country. Our armed forces were on worldwide alert, with the Middle East threatening to explode. Our fleets in the Indian Ocean and Persian Gulf were in danger of being put in maximum peril.”
Peak turned from the window to face him. His casual demeanor and arrogance could not hide what his body revealed. His famous blue eyes appeared more tired than radiant, with dark bags beneath them. His skin sagged, and his cheeks were flushed from high blood pressure.
Sloane’s bitterness and anger, deeply rooted, bloomed at the man’s arrogance, and he felt it like a great ulcer in his being. He put the file aside and stood. “What you did,” he said, his voice no louder than a whisper, “was slaughter innocent women and children.”
Peak bit his lower lip, then continued. “I gave the order because the consequence of not giving it outweighed the consequence of giving it.”
“You gave the order to save your political career.”
“Innocent women and children could have died if a revolution broke out.”
“Innocent women and children did die.”
“There are times when a few must be sacrificed for the good of the country, for the good of the many. It’s not my rule. I didn’t make it. It was my job not to allow anything to come between us and access to Mexico’s oil. I did my job. ”
Sloane heard himself uttering similar words to Emily Scott’s mother, and he felt ashamed.
Peak circled behind a wingback chair, holding it as if to steady his balance. “I cannot change what happened thirty years ago, Mr. Sloane.”
“No, I assure you, you can’t. But you could have changed what happened this week.”
“You don’t know the things I know, the things I knew back then. You don’t sit in my chair. You have no right to judge me.”
“You’re wrong,” Sloane said. “Tonight I do sit in your chair. And tonight I do judge you.”
Peak brought his hands to his mouth, bowing his head as if in thoughtful prayer. “These negotiations are bigger than what happened between us. We have an opportunity to reduce and potentially end this country’s dependence on Middle East oil and all of the problems associated with it. It’s a good deal.”
“There is no deal, Mr. Peak. Your past has finally caught up to you, and this time you can’t run, and your father can’t save you. You can’t give an order and save yourself. He’s outsmarted you. You’re committed. You’ve pissed off OPEC, and if you don’t get the oil companies back into Mexico they’ll hang you. You can’t back out. You have to be at that summit or you’ll be out of office. And right now that’s the least of your problems.”
Peak swallowed the last of the brandy. “The security for this will be the highest ever. There is no way that man gets within a mile of the White House.”
“If you believed that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Peak’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing cork. “And you know who this person is, el Profeta?”
Sloane did not answer.
“You want something for it.”
“Not much, really. Not given what’s at stake. You took my life. I’m going to take yours. There are times when a few must be sacrificed for the good of the country, for the good of the many. It’s not my rule, either, Mr. Peak. You have my terms.”
Peak shook his head. “I won’t do it.”
Sloane turned and walked toward the door. “Then you’ll be dead by noon tomorrow.”
88
AT 10 A.M. THE ROSE GARDEN warmed under a brilliant morning sun. Secret Service officers took up positions along the rooftops of nearby buildings and swarmed over the White House grounds with dogs trained to detect chemicals used in explosives. Workers set up chairs and put the finishing touches on an elevated platform on which the dignitaries would stand. Cars parked within six blocks were towed; manhole covers were sealed with torches. Press credentials for the estimated 250 journalists were meticulously scrutinized.
Across town, Miguel Ibarón emerged from a secured lobby in a classified hotel and hobbled down a concrete walk toward a waiting car. Despite not having slept, he felt alert and calm. As he sat back against the leather, memories flooded him, a lifetime coming and going. He thought of that moment, thirty years earlier, when he separated the dense foliage and returned to find them all slaughtered, and how he had vowed that day, upon their blood, that he would live long enough to exact revenge on the man who had done it.
Today was that day.
Today Robert Peak would die.
He had kept his word.
Sensing the passage of time, Ibarón shook the memories and looked at his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since they left the hotel—sufficient time to arrive at the White House, even with the anticipated security checks. He looked out the window, but the scenery did not look familiar. He leaned forward, pressed the in
tercom, and spoke to the wall of glass that separated him from his driver.
“Why is it taking so long?”
The driver did not respond.
Ibarón depressed the button again. “Driver, why is it taking so long?”
No answer.
He tapped gently with the handle of his cane.
The driver did not acknowledge him. The limousine merged onto a different highway.
Ibarón freed himself from his seat belt and rapped on the glass with greater force. Still it brought no response. He reached for the door handle; it could not be unlocked from the inside. He flipped the switch to lower the window. The glass did not move. He felt the rush of anxiety.
What was this?
He beat the gold handle on the glass. It flexed but did not break.
“Where are we?” he demanded. “Answer me! I am expected at the ceremony. They will look for me.”
The intercom clicked. “You are not expected at the ceremony,” the driver said, his voice calm and impassive. “And they will not look for you.”
“I demand that you take me to the White House.”
“You are in no position to make demands.”
A pain gripped his chest, restricting his breathing. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, thoughts rushing through his head. He thought of Ruíz and his concern because the CIA had made inquiries into the Mexican Liberation Front. Someone had been looking for him. But who? This man Joe Branick? Why? Who was he? How could he have possibly known he was el Profeta?
He began to cough, a spasmodic wheezing that took away his breath and left him sucking for air and spitting phlegm into his handkerchief. When he looked up he noticed the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“They will search for the limousine,” he said, calmly wiping his mouth. “The ceremony will not go forward without me. They will find and punish you, whoever you are.”
The Jury Master Page 35
