Welsh finally realized that the reason he was there was so the colonel could give him a good looking-over. Colonel Gutierrez was obviously G-2; the popular name for Guatemalan intelligence was the traditional military staff designation. Welsh supposed he ought to be grateful that the interview hadn't been held at the squat concrete military intelligence headquarters with the American-supplied satellite dishes and antennas crowding the roof. It was a building that historically far more people entered than left. Alive, that is.
But Welsh was impressed. The little bastard was more subtle than he'd given him credit for. The point of the whole conversation was to let him know that the U.S. government had enough invested in Guatemala, whether an interest in stability or the trouble-free continuation of the war on drugs, that the deaths of a few Marines or an unpleasantly accusatory report from Welsh might upset the apple cart for all of a day and a half—if it was a slow news week. Then it would be back to business as usual. And if he made too much trouble, taking Welsh out in a failed mugging or rigged assassination would be the easiest of things to arrange. He'd heard there was even a special section of G-2 that specialized in killings made to look like accidents.
"I thank the colonel for his concern," Welsh replied. Then, on his way out door, he turned and said, "And if you threatened me before without my realizing it, my apologies."
Lieutenant Colonel Gutierrez, sitting calmly in his padded chair, smiled ever so slightly.
As soon as he left the building, Welsh loosened his tie and opened his collar. He needed a cold beer badly.
Climbing into the Embassy Cherokee, he gave Hernando, his stoic Guatemalan contract driver/security man/spy for whomever, some new directions.
Hernando drove him to the restaurant in Zone 10, and parked ostentatiously up on the curb. The diplomatic plates rendered them immune from the traffic laws. Welsh had been watching all day. They'd been followed by at least two cars, periodically switching off.
Welsh stood on the sidewalk for a while, just looking. The bloodstains had been washed off the concrete. There were new chairs and tables, and the bullet holes in the walls were puttied up and painted over. You wouldn't know that three Marines had died there.
He went inside and had a beer. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner; only a couple of grizzled regulars were inside. Welsh bought them a round, and they were more than happy to tell him the story as if they'd been there that day, which they probably hadn't. The proprietor looked on in horror; every retelling probably cost him business.
Welsh finished his beer and left. He would have liked a couple more, but the Ambassador's reception was that night. He was going to have to keep his wits about him and watch his mouth, and that was hard enough to do sober.
Back at the hotel he discovered that his belongings had been searched. He'd left a gap in the zippers of his luggage too small for someone to fit their hand in, and measured the gap exactly. The distance was different now, but nothing had been removed or repositioned. Not taking notes was looking like a good idea, but it wasn't just the memory work that was making his head hurt.
Chapter Thirteen
The best thing about diplomatic receptions was always the food, since for reasons of national prestige no country wanted their spread to show up badly against anyone else's. The worst thing about diplomatic receptions was the crowd. They tended to be a bit stiff, for much the same reason.
It took Welsh a while to actually get into the Embassy. Security was heavy.
He caught sight of Ted Alonso in the main banquet room, standing near the doorway to the kitchen. Alonso was resplendent in tuxedo and Motorola walkie-talkie radio. Welsh ambled over and inquired, "What time are the terrorists scheduled to arrive?"
"That's what's known in the security trade as a joke in very poor taste," Alonso replied. "Besides, didn't you hear? It's a peaceful country."
"My mistake," said Welsh.
"And how did you and Colonel Gutierrez get along?" Alonso asked.
"Just peachy. He threatened to kill me—not in so many words, of course."
"He does that a lot; he catch you staring at his wife's picture?"
Welsh was stunned speechless for a few seconds. Then he managed to blurt out, "You have got to be shitting me!"
"Oh, it's happened before," Alonso assured him calmly. "Hell, a couple of weeks ago they were in a restaurant and he pistol-whipped a guy he thought was staring at her too hard. You ought to check her out in person. Miss Guatemala runner-up. A real hammer."
"I will the next time I get a death wish. The picture was bad enough."
"They'll probably be here tonight."
"Then if you see me wearing sunglasses, you'll know why."
Alonso looked around quickly to see if anyone was listening. "That's not a bad idea. Gutierrez doesn't look like much, but he is one dangerous son of a bitch. For real."
"You mean in the bush with an M-16?" Welsh asked skeptically.
"More like knocking on your door at midnight," Alonso replied. "And no one ever sees your ass again."
"I figured that was the deal," said Welsh.
Alonso's radio crackled. He held it up to his ear, and then spoke into it. "He's right here," he said. Then, to Welsh: "The Ambassador would like to have a word with you."
"Me? What does he want?"
"No idea, but I have to get back to work anyway. Enjoy the party."
"Yeah, I can't wait for you guys to get liquored up and start shooting glasses off the bartenders' heads."
Chuckling loudly, Alonso disappeared into the kitchen.
Ambassador Marshall and his wife were preparing to mingle. Amanda Marshall was an ex-model, prominent New York socialite, and reputed plastic-surgery junkie—if you were credulous enough to believe the New York tabloids. But she did spend more of her time in Manhattan than in Guatemala City supporting her husband's official duties.
She was the sort of person who would never call Welsh Rich. "It's very nice to meet you, Richard," she said.
"My pleasure," Welsh replied, shaking the offered hand.
"I love the way they kiss your hand down here," she said.
"I'll make a point of it next time," Welsh replied.
"Please do," she said, with the kind of smile that could take a man's pants off from ten feet away.
"Easy, dear," said Big Nick. And without further ado, or an excuse-us, he threw an arm around Welsh's shoulder and dragged him out of earshot.
Welsh made a gesture of apology, and Amanda Marshall nodded sympathetically, as if she were used to it.
"Rich," Big Nick said, "I want to ask you a favor."
"And what would that be?" Welsh replied. First rule of Washington. Never agree to anything unconditionally. Unless you wanted to be sorry.
"Margaret Scanlan is here tonight."
"Scanlan? Scanlan?" Welsh knew the name, but he went into momentary brain lock and failed to make the connection.
"You know, the farmer who got killed down here? Michael Scanlan?"
"Oh, right. Right."
"She's going to want to talk to you, and I'd appreciate it if you'd give her some time."
"His wife?" Welsh asked uneasily.
"No, his sister. Lives in Chicago. Did very well for herself in commodities, I hear."
"What does she want to talk to me about?"
"She's trying to get to the bottom of this, find a little closure."
"Well, aren't the troops who did it in the slammer?"
"Yeah, but the colonel who supposedly gave the order, Dominguez, the base commander at Santa Elena—no one can find him."
"And no one's looking all that hard, I imagine," said Welsh. With the colonel unavailable, the rest of the Army command was sealed off from any blame.
"Look, just talk to her, promise you'll help, whatever. Just so she gets out of my fucking hair sometime." Big Nick stopped for breath, and his pleading took on a harder edge. "Like what am I supposed to do? The last thing I need is to start a new ruckus with the A
rmy."
Welsh didn't feel the need to contribute anything to that. Big Nick's conscience was his problem.
"So you will talk to her," said Big Nick, trying to close the deal.
"Sure," said Welsh.
"Thanks, Rich." Big Nick locked his arms around Welsh's shoulders in a sort of pseudo-macho New York hug. Then, having gotten what he wanted, released him and was gone.
It was a black-tie crowd. Welsh was one of the few wearing a suit. The diplomatic community was fully represented, and Guatemalan notables made up the rest. There were some high-ranking officers in uniform, and even a few of the playboy—polo-player types, proving that stereotypes were sometimes accurate. The women were in designer gowns, gold, pearls, and diamonds.
Then Welsh had to look more than twice, because there was one Guatemalan beauty who absolutely stood out. She couldn't have been over twenty-five, and her body was so spectacular that she was either a 1% genetic anomaly or the product of a crack surgical team. This was readily apparent because she was wearing a gown cut down to her navel in front and the top of her ass in the back. And...she seemed to be staring at him.
Certain it was a mistake, Welsh looked over his shoulder, but there was no one there. He looked back and she was still giving him the eye.
Normally Welsh would have strolled over and given it the old college try, but she couldn't have come alone. And it was Guatemala. The men tended to be dedicated practitioners of machismo like Colonel Gutierrez. Hell, she might even be his niece. The way the women were being watched, Welsh had the idea that becoming too familiar would cause the husbands or fathers to order their bodyguards to drag you outside and forcibly extract all your teeth. So he only smiled, and nodded, and made a mental note to keep an eye on her for the rest of the evening.
He reached the bar, which was packed with guests getting their pre-dinner drinks. Finally catching the bartender's eye, Welsh said, "Beer, please."
The bartender stared at him as if he were a card-carrying lunatic.
The little shit probably wouldn't have batted an eye if he'd demanded a chichi with an extra cherry and an umbrella in it. Welsh gave the bartender a Clint Eastwood narrowing of the eyes, and growled, "Cerveza, por favor."
The bartender had to rummage around to find a brew and a suitable glass, if only to keep Welsh from drinking out of the bottle.
Welsh had only gotten down a single large, refreshing swallow before a hand touched his arm and a female voice said, "Mr. Welsh?"
Welsh turned and found himself looking almost eye-to-eye with a tall woman in her mid-thirties. Her straight black hair was worn short. She was tanned, with intelligent dark eyes and strong features. Though her face had an unforced pleasantness, he could see her frankly sizing him up. He would not have described her as conventionally beautiful, but then neither was he. In contrast to his across-the-room flirtation earlier, which had been a case of pure animal sexual attraction, this was fascination. Welsh was smitten. He looked: no wedding ring. Then he set his beer back down on the bar and made a quick check to be sure his mouth wasn't hanging open.
"Mr. Welsh, I'm Margaret Scanlan."
Even that didn't take the shine off the fascination. As warmly as he could, he said, "My pleasure, Ms. Scanlan. I know about your brother. I'm very sorry."
At that she lost her smile. "Everyone is."
"And after they say they're sorry, they blow you off, right?"
Her eyes widened in surprise; then the smile made a tentative reappearance. "Right."
"What can I do for you?"
"What makes you think I want something?"
"Okay," Welsh said with a smile. "Then you can start flirting with me any time now."
She laughed at that, which was points in her favor. "All right, you got me. You can help me pry some information from our government and Guatemala's."
"I'm investigating three murders. On behalf of a U.S. Senator. And I'm having the same lack of cooperation." He didn't mention that Senator Anderson didn't really give a shit whether he found out anything or not.
"So you're saying that you're blowing me off too."
"I'm saying, hit me with a specific request, and I'll see what I can do for you. What I'm trying to tell you is that my influence is limited."
"You know, Mr. Welsh, twenty years ago when the Clinton administration forced the CIA to release all its documents on human rights abuses in Guatemala, it was a media event down here. TV even covered the documents being unloaded from the plane and driven downtown. And when the nearly six thousand documents were examined, practically everything except the punctuation marks was blacked out."
"That's how it's done," said Welsh.
"Colonel Patricio Dominguez ordered his soldiers to kill my brother. Besides being a drug runner, Dominguez was selling information to the CIA, and they knew what he did. The only reason anyone knows this is because Mr. Nordstrom of the State Department broke the rules and let it out. And for his trouble his career was destroyed."
Welsh knew that Nordstrom was currently working as an aide to the Congressman he'd given the documents to. "He did the right thing, and he paid the price. That sent a message to everyone else. For the most part, people only act in their own best interest. It's in no one's best interest to talk to you; or to me, for that matter. The trick is to find someone who feels that it's in their best interest, for whatever reason, to spill the beans."
"Have you found anyone like that?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you. And if you do, I recommend that you don't tell a living soul. At least until you get out of the country."
'This is the point when I usually get told to go home like a good girl and forget all about it."
Welsh didn't mind her tone. If he were in her shoes he'd be a little scratchy too. "I'll tell what I think is the real deal instead, and you make up your own mind. Take a look around this room. Same kind of crowd you'd see in any first-class country club back home, right? Well, these people run this country, the same way people like them run most of the countries on earth. They have their own private armies and they do whatever the hell they want. If you get in their way they don't sic their lawyers on you. They have you killed. Your brother got in someone's way. Now who do you want: the man who gave the order to kill your brother; the man who gave him the order; or the man who gave him the order? If for some reason you do manage to get close to them, they'll have you killed too. They've been doing it and getting away with it for a very long time. And the cemeteries are full of people who thought that being a U.S. citizen would protect them."
"I'm not going home until I get some satisfaction. I only had one brother and he's dead."
The line between gutsy and stupid was usually imperceptible, but Welsh still admired her. "I stand by the offer I made. Come to me with anything specific, and I'll do whatever I can for you."
She offered her hand and Welsh took it. "I'd better find my table," he said.
"You're sitting at mine," Scanlan replied. "I'll show you."
Welsh followed her, thinking that the Ambassador wasn't such a bad guy after all.
They barely had time to sit down and greet their table mates before being called up to the buffet line. Joining them was a Roman Catholic priest, Monsignor Avilla. Then Connie and Bob, two Americans whose last names, as usual, immediately floated out of Welsh's head. They ran an environmental foundation and had come down to save the place. Connie was as abrasive as any professional activist. Bob was a baby-faced guy with a ponytail and obviously the patience of Job. Welsh had always been an environmentalist, but these were the kind of tie-dyed tree-huggers that gave the other side of the issue all the ammunition they ever needed. Finally, there was Raul, a professor of history at the University, and his quiet wife Maria.
At the buffet, waiters carried their plates and loaded up on everything requested.
Welsh checked out the offerings carefully, and his eye fell on one particular pan. "Saltimbocca?" he asked the server.
"Yes, sir," was the re
ply.
"With prosciutto?" was Welsh's next question.
"From Italy," the server replied proudly.
Welsh motioned for him to pile it on, leaving just a little room on the plate for some asparagus.
On the way back to the table, the waiter nearly buckled under the weight of Welsh's plate and salad. All Welsh carried was a glass of white wine, and he was middle-class enough to feel guilty about it.
He sipped his wine until everyone else was seated, politely bowed his head while the Monsignor said grace, then picked up his fork with anticipatory relish. And just then Connie, sitting at his left, said, "You're eating veal?"
Welsh was already pissed off by her manner, not to mention the walk back from the buffet, where he came close to spilling his wine every time she tripped over her native sandals and the long skirt matching her brightly colored embroidered Maya huipiles blouse. He took a large forkful, leisurely chewed, and swallowed before replying, "In case you were wondering, there's nothing wrong with your eyesight."
She opened her mouth to educate him into submission, but Welsh didn't give her the chance. "I want the animal dead and cooked properly," he said. "I really don't care if it grew up in a bad home."
There were a few chuckles from around the table. Welsh figured she wouldn't let that one go, but Bob, who must have been used to it, quickly asked Raul the professor if he had any work in progress.
"I am currently working with the Project to Recover Historical Memory," Raul replied. He was soft-spoken to a degree mat made him seem painfully shy.
"This good work is sponsored by the Church's human rights office," the Monsignor said.
"We are interviewing the survivors of our thirty-six years of civil war," said Raul. 'To produce a comprehensive record of what occurred."
"Has the project been going on long?" Bob asked.
"Since 1995," said Raul. "Before then, compiling the modem history of Guatemala was work so dangerous that few would attempt it."
"Yes," said the Monsignor, "but now we are entering a new chapter in the history of our country."
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 9
