by Nick Carter
He drove directly to the airport.
"Do I have to come in with you?"
Carter shook his head.
"In that case, I'll come as a friend." Alvarado handed Carter his weapons. "Here. You'll probably feel more comfortable with your own stuff."
Carter carefully fitted himself with Wilhelmina and Hugo. Pierre took more effort in the car, but Alvarado seemed patient, close to friendly.
"Keep in touch if you learn something," Alvarado said, handing Carter an envelope that contained Carter's passport and a photo of Piet Bezeidenhout. With that, he led Carter over to a money-changing counter. "Get rid of all your Mexican money here. The exchange from peso to Belize dollars always works against you. Besides, you're not going to need pesos anymore. Not for a long time."
As Carter started toward the boarding area, Alvarado moved alongside and conversationally produced a copy of the morning newspaper.
A major front-page story told of the death of Robert Silver, a noted diamond merchant and contributor to political causes.
Carter scanned the details. "I don't see the cause of death listed."
"The cause of death was blunt force trauma, dammit, and don't play with me. I know you were there last night, Carter. I even know you let him believe you were with the diamond cartel security force. That couldn't have anything to do with his death, could it?"
The Killmaster regarded him carefully. Alvarado would not have let him get this close to leaving Mexico if he had truly meant to detain him.
"At the moment, it's a matter of honor that I tell you nothing, Alvarado. But if more than two weeks pass and you have no information, it will be a matter of honor that I tell you what I know."
Alvarado smiled. "The lady's that strong, eh, Carter?"
There was nothing to hold Carter. He went to the boarding gate for the flight departing for Belize City, Belize.
* * *
The country of Belize is a small chunk of forest and swamp in the north, jungles and mountains in the south. The yearly rainfall in the south is nearly a hundred inches. As if to make up for this, the north is frequently pounded by hurricanes.
Despite the climate and terrain, the people who come here to stay are fiercely loyal to it. It is an easy, almost idyllic life-style along the coast, more entrepreneurial toward the more temperate central areas. As a culture, it is a healthily mixed bag.
Largely an agricultural country, Belize produces mahogany, fruits and vegetables, and chicle, an essential ingredient in chewing gum. Some of the best chicleros or chicle gatherers in the world are from Belize. Not a lot to recommend it, but don't expect disparaging remarks from the people who live there. Expect instead a kind of surprised, laid-back attitude that is often a cover-up for a strong work ethic.
The Guatemalans want it, claiming it was once theirs in the first place; the Belezians want it, claiming it has its own culture and habits; the British administer it, although not conspicuously, and like the idea of still having a place in that part of the world.
The ethnic mixture in Belize is striking, with a number of Caribbean peoples, indigenous Indians, colonials, Europeans, and North Americans.
The airport was surprisingly large. Someone was expecting lots of big planes to land. Perhaps it was the optimism of a small, underdeveloped country, and perhaps there was something else going on. A number of signs gave a sense of activity. One said the new capital city in Belmopan would soon be the most beautiful and sophisticated in Central America. Another welcomed people of artistry and imagination from all over the world to the Festival of the Arts at the Belize Center for the Arts. Yet another warned newcomers that now was the time to get their Belize auto insurance.
The climate was humid and oppressive. Taking a cab from the airport, Carter gave the driver a big tip and was given an orientation tour of the city. The driver, an agreeable and handsome Carib with a mahogany complexion, told Carter he'd lived in Belize City most of his life. His license and identity photo listed him as Julius Sortero.
"Except I done some time in Chicago, boss," Julius Sortero said. "I make big money and come back here and buy into dese here taxis. I got four working for me and two, three junker cars at me house for spare parts."
The driver went to a large movable bridge spanning a creek large enough to float a huge boat. "Dis called Swing Bridge, an' it the major place in town as you can see wid your own eyes. It go over Haulover Creek, make plenty room for boats and barges to pass through. Dis the closest thing we got to a monument." But Julius Sortero also pointed out the high contrast between the ramshackle, slapdash way of life along the coast and some of the more exotic and substantial buildings and homes, reminiscent of the British colonial influence, but also reflecting modem architecture. Colors of homes and buildings ranged from the durable whitewash to bright blues, subdued orange, and sophisticated grays.
In several areas in downtown Belize City, Carter saw signs announcing that the huge arts center in nearby Belmopan was having a Festival of the Arts. James Rogan's name was connected with it.
Carter was set to check in at the Fort George Hotel, but Julius took his role as guide seriously and took him over to Regent Street and stopped in front of the Hotel Mopan. "You might suspect I get a cut of the take if I bring you here, but I do dis out of my own conviction that you don' want no tourist trap."
Carter took Julius at his word, paid him, and booked a room. He'd checked his weapons at the airport but wanted to go through them at more leisure. The room was an ideal place for it.
Armed and rigged for action, Carter set out to start bringing in useful information and find himself a rental car so that he could get going.
There were a number of adobe buildings, wooden sheds, and some attempts at stucco work in varying degrees, but when Carter found the Central Park, he began to see signs of ambitious building, major department stores, boutiques, old, colonial-style buildings, a movie theater, and several bars with a straightforward Caribbean ambience on the outside, a hybrid of reggae, Willie Nelson, and Billy Joel on the inside. A block away he saw a sign, Smith and Sons Auto Rental. After some negotiations he was given a car that sounded acceptable, but when he checked it out, he came back inside the rental office. "I want a car I can rely on," he said. "I'm willing to pay for it."
"Where you be going?" the frightened clerk asked.
"Belmopan, more or less."
"I do have a Toyota with some oomph to it."
"I'll take it," Carter said.
"Can't let you do that, not for three, four hours. It surely be back then, and we'll say you got it reserved."
Carter took himself to the Upstairs Café where he saw a number of posters and advertisements for the Belize Center for the Written and Performing Arts, some already dated, announcing that James Rogan was giving poetry readings or discussions of the classics.
He entered, looked around the well-lit room, and almost immediately the sound of a brief scuffle broke out at one of the rear tables. Carter was aware of someone leaving in a hurry. Someone who had not wanted to be seen? Carter wondered.
Carter was down the stairs immediately. The man wore a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Running shoes. Olive drab pants. Out on the street, he started running toward the Swing Bridge, Carter not far behind. Seeing that Carter was getting close, the man angled across a small park where some old people had set up a vegetable and fruit stand. The quarry put on a burst of speed as Carter began gaining, then managed to vanish in a row of dilapidated shacks. But Carter had a good idea who hadn't wanted to be seen. Abdul Samadhi.
Carter returned to the Upstairs Cafe and looked carefully at the table where Samadhi had sat. A group of four men, possibly Arabs, sat glaring at him. Carter stood at the edge of the table. "Tell your friend," he said in Arabic, "that I will wring his scrawny neck when I catch him."
The four at the table made no response.
"Did you hear me?" Carter snapped.
Sullenly, the men began to eat.
Carter grabbed on
e of the men by the arm and twisted so that he was forced off his chair onto his knees. The other three were on their feet. "Did you hear me?" Carter demanded.
The one on the floor nodded.
"You have bad manners," Carter said. "All of you."
The men returned to their meal. No one else in the cafe responded, but Carter hadn't expected any of them to know Arabic. He chose a table by himself and looked at the menu. The Upstairs Café had two menus, the bean-and-fish-oriented dishes that went with the Caribbean culture, and a more traditional American menu of hamburgers, stews, fried chicken, pies, and soft drinks.
Carter settled on the chicken and began to notice groups of men at various tables, some of them Caucasian, possibly European from their dress, some blacks, and a few Latinos. From time to time the men at the table from which Samadhi had fled looked over at Carter with cold menace.
A noisy clatter erupted downstairs. Carter guessed it was a bus, trying to start.
By the time Carter's chicken was served, a rather shaggy-looking man, tall, slightly bent at the shoulders, some gray in his longish hair, came into the room and approached one of the tables of men. He wore khakis and field boots. Wire-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose. A name patch read Unkefer, D., but there were no other insignia to show a military or civilian affiliation. "Any of you turkeys know diesel engines?"
The men regarded him in a friendly enough manner, but no one spoke.
Unkefer went to the next table and spoke in German, adding a number of colloquialisms and regionalisms when he spoke.
One of the men told Unkefer he could handle a Mercedes. Unkefer actually took a piece of chicken from the man's plate and chewed it for a moment. "The only way a guy like you would get near a Mercedes is to steal it."
The others laughed, but once again, Unkefer was forced farther afield to find someone, even stopping at Carter's table and asking him. Carter noted that Unkefer addressed him in English, and he marveled at the newcomer's ability to choose the first language of so many of the men in the room.
Carter nodded and agreed to go downstairs with Unkefer. There was a bus parked below and two men were working at it with mounting frustration.
Carter peered in, familiarizing himself with the layout and condition of the large engine. "This isn't the original engine for this bus," he said.
A tall, swarthy man standing next to Unkefer snarled. "We aren't asking for a pedigree, just a hand in getting the mother to run."
Unkefer nudged him. "Easy, man," he said. "This guy's helping us, remember?"
"Yeah, well, he don't have to go nosing around."
"Actually, it's quite an imaginative job of cannibalized parts," Carter said. "I see some English parts, some German parts, some Brazilian, er, these parts over here are clearly Russian."
"Wiseguy," the swarthy one said. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Unkefer appeared to have lost his patient cool. "Will you can it?" He moved in front of the swarthy man and pushed him aside. To Carter he said, "No offense. Thanks for your efforts."
After ten minutes of fiddling, Carter settled on checking the water-to-fuel regulator and the spark coil. At a call from Carter, the driver turned over the engine, which lugged for a few turns, cranked precariously, then caught hold.
Unkefer was delighted. "Let me buy you a beer, man. Hell, let me pay for your lunch."
Carter waved away the gesture in a friendly manner, that would not offend. "Where are you headed?"
"Right outside Belmopan."
"Ah, the arts center?"
"You know it?" Unkefer asked.
"I heard Rogan give a big reading at the university in Mexico City."
"Yeah, well, if that stuff interests you, man, you should come out and visit. All kinds of classes and stuff out there."
Carter smiled.
He returned to the restaurant, washed, and ate his chicken. In another few minutes, Unkefer appeared, rounded up all the men who had been glaring at Carter, and sent a beer over to Carter's table.
There was a connection between these people and Samadhi and the Center for the Arts. Not only that, Carter's arrival in Belize was marked. People knew he was here now. The character of the restaurant changed immediately when the groups of men were gone and loaded into the bus below. A few Belizian postal employees lingered over their meals, and clusters of tourists consulted the menus or ate the large, savory portions set before them by agreeable Carib women who worked as waitresses.
The policy at the Upstairs Cafe was for second helpings of yams, beans, potatoes, and greens. Carter suspected there could be thirds as well for those who had the room.
Calling over his waitress, Carter asked, "Do you know anything about those men who you see before?"
She looked about nervously, and lowered her voice. "Dis part of the world, dere ain't as much to be particular about as in your part of the world. People come to get jobs as chicleros, milking them chicle trees. Sometimes they be a roundup to do some felling of the mahogany trees. I hear they pay good wages. And over to Belmopan, they be pavin' roads and puttin' up buildings to make the new capital. Lots of work a man could do — if he keep his eyes open."
"What's your opinion about where that last group was going?" Carter pushed a few American dollars toward her. Nervously, she picked up the bills.
"They sure wasn't no chicleros, because men what does that, they got a pungent odor about them, being out there an' they'd say they maybe could be your construction types, lookin' to make big money in the long-term construction projects."
Carter pushed two more dollars toward her. "You say maybe. And maybe they're something else."
Her eyes rolled. "Sometimes lately, seems to me a lot come through here wantin' to play soldier."
"Where do they go? Do they stay here in Belize?" He shoved a five at her.
"Man, how do I know where dey all go? I cannot take dat fiver."
"Take it," Carter said. "It's okay."
She looked about her uneasily. "You telling me you gonna protect me from now on?"
"What do you need to be protected from?"
"Man, some folks say the ones who like to play soldier, they end up in places like Honduras or Nicaragua, learnin' a trade." There was a heavy irony lacing her voice.
"What kind of trade?"
"Man, they become magicians." She gave a nervous laugh and lowered her face toward Carter's. "You know what I mean? They learn how to take people who ask too many questions and make 'em disappear."
Carter pushed the five at her. "You've earned it," he said. He decided to walk off the effects of the heavy meal. At a magazine stand he bought a small map of the area, noticing with interest the range of periodicals and magazines. There were the omnipresent comic books in Spanish and English, there was a stack of old National Geographic magazines for a Belize dollar apiece, the international edition of Newsweek, and an entire section of Soldier of Fortune magazines, some over two years old. There was a large stack of the latest edition as well. Equally imposing were the displays of handgun — and rifle-oriented magazines, priced in Belize dollars according to their newness.
He checked his watch. He still had two hours before he could have the rental car. He made the rounds of bars and coffee shops, and saw one place where he noted guns and ammunition were sold. He was looking for traces of Samadhi. His cohorts had undoubtedly gone on that bus with Unkefer, but maybe the cocky PLO man was still in town.
When he found no trace of Samadhi, Carter walked back to the Hotel Mopan, secured his room, and settled down for a nap. It could be a long time before he had a good sleep again.
* * *
It was still light when he awakened. He showered and went down into the bar for some coffee. After two cups and a cinnamon bun, Carter felt measurably better and went out and found a dry goods store where he bought a serviceable pair of chinos, a lightweight chambray work shirt, and a flop-brimmed straw hat to wear against the ravages of the tropical sun. He went back to the car rental place
and told them he'd expect the car in half an hour. No excuses. It was time to move.
Back at the hotel, he packed, left coded messages for Zachary and Margo Huerta, checked out, and loaded his things in the car.
The rental car was a Toyota from the early 80s. Scratched and dented here and there, it nevertheless had reliable tread on the tires and a good response to the gas pedal. Carter filled the tank at a station near the Swing Bridge, put in an hour driving around, still looking for traces of Abdul Samadhi, then headed into the late afternoon sun, away from the coastal humidity and onward toward Belmopan.
The Western Highway to Belmopan was about as good a road as Carter had seen in a developing country. While not luxuriously wide in some places on a steep upgrade, nevertheless there were wide shoulders on either side and, in a few places, turnouts to allow slower traffic to pull over safely if a faster driver wanted to pass.
There were some potholes, but there were also signs that a road crew had recently been through doing some patching work. The road took Carter roughly southwest, into the foothills of the Maya Mountains and through farming country that was colorful and inviting. Carter made excellent time; darkness had just begun to set in as he noticed a sign for the cutoff to Belmopan.
Signs of civilization were apparent almost immediately, but some of them reminded Carter of real estate developments he'd seen in various desert and mountain areas. Signs and staked-out areas began to abound, a number of well-articulated foundations were dug, and yet others had been poured, with piles of equipment set nearby. A series of signs spoke of the Belmopan twenty-year plan, and another, lit by a modern mercury vapor lamp, told of the pride with which Belezians could view their new country capital.
Carter drove past a few scattered farms, a small shanty-town, and a more ambitious series of housing tracts, surrounded by a wide, well-paved ring road.
Continuing south, Carter found a business area with gas stations, a few groceries and a feed and grain store, all closed for the day. Several hundred yards away another clump of activity seemed well lit in the mountainous night, and Carter saw another gas station, a few garages, food shops, and a modest inn with hand-painted signs and numerous flowerpots filled with geraniums.