"The work is now simply dangerous," Raul replied softly but firmly. "And there are no new chapters in history."
Welsh would have cried, "Bravo!" but his mouth was full. When he was able to talk, he asked, "Then where is Guatemala today, in the context of history?"
Raul thought for a while before he spoke. "The colonial period and the Cold War froze us in time. Africa, Asia, Eastern Europe, the Americas outside the United States and Canada are today like Europe one hundred to three hundred years ago. Continuous tribal and religious wars. Corrupt dictators, greedy and selfish elites, brutalized peasants. Enormous poverty but also enormous potential. Guatemala is different only in that our wars are between classes and races: the Criollos of Spanish descent, the mixed-race Ladinos, and the Maya Indians who are the majority of our population and whom we have always repressed."
Welsh had been expecting the usual left-wing/right-wing ideological bullshit you'd get from an American historian, but that was about the neatest and most concise piece of historical analysis he'd ever heard. "But what broke Europe out of that pattern was colonialism, wasn't it?"
"Excellent," Raul said, really animated for the first time. "Yes, it allowed the European countries to direct their aggression elsewhere, and the wealth they looted led to modern industry and prosperity. That option does not exist for us today. And, I am sorry to say, contrary to the belief of the United States government, free elections do not make a democracy. Democratic institutions, which do not currently exist in Guatemala, are essential."
Welsh hadn't heard anything he totally disagreed with. "But perhaps a people who become used to standing up for their rights and demanding justice will be your first step," he said.
"Perhaps," Raul said noncommittally.
Welsh raised his glass in a toast. "To a fellow skeptic."
"Life makes them," said Raul.
"History makes them," Welsh replied.
Raul's wife Maria hadn't said a word until then, but something had obviously been rubbing away at her and she couldn't hold it in any longer. "Your pardon, Senorita Scanlan, but I have seen your story in the newspapers and on television, and I must ask you a question."
"Certainly," Scanlan replied.
"We have all of us lived through a civil war in which the two sides made war on all the rest of us. When it ended they passed an amnesty law in which they pardoned themselves of all their crimes. All Guatemalans were asked to accept this, for the sake of peace. So now why should your case be different? Because you are a North American?"
Judging by the length of time it took Scanlan to frame a reply, Welsh thought that had hit pretty close to home.
"I only want to know what happened to my brother," she said.
"We all want to know what happened to our brothers," Maria said relentlessly. She ignored the restraining hand Raul had placed on her arm. "You already know more than most."
The Monsignor tried to keep the situation from deteriorating even further. "Perhaps..."
"May we have your opinion, Mr. Welsh?" Maria asked. "You are after all an official of the U.S. government."
"Mr. Welsh is not," Raul corrected her. "He is an aide to a U.S. Senator, which is entirely different."
Maria waited until Raul was finished, and then said, "May we hear your opinion anyway?"
Later, Welsh admitted to himself that there was no way he could blame a sip of beer and two glasses of wine for his failure to mouth a few safe platitudes and then shut the hell up. But he had tried. "I understand all the good political reasons why an amnesty had to take place. Just like El Salvador, Chile, and South Africa. Realistically, you have to forgive those with the guns because they still have the guns, and you don't."
"Is this how you feel personally?" Maria asked.
"As an outsider, I would encourage anyone to forgive those who killed a member of their family. For the sake of peace. But if they killed a member of my family, I would want to see their heads mounted on sticks." Welsh didn't turn his head, but he could practically feel Margaret Scanlan's eyes on him.
Now the Monsignor weighed in. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."
"Paul to the Romans, Chapter Twelve," Welsh replied automatically. Now everyone was staring at him, so he shrugged and added, "Sunday School."
"Then what you said before was academic," said the Monsignor.
"I think Paul gave some excellent advice to the members of a tiny, persecuted minority religion in its first century of existence," Welsh replied.
"Is Christian forgiveness not also good advice today?" the Monsignor demanded.
"I speak personally, meaning no offense," said Welsh. "But I believe that the concept of unconditional forgiveness is what allows evil to flourish in the world." He flashed a glance to his right, and found himself staring straight into Margaret Scanlan's eyes.
"Then what do you believe in?" Maria asked.
"Justice, punishment, and if necessary, vengeance," said Welsh.
Raul nodded thoughtfully. "They can be very time-consuming obsessions, to the exclusion of all other good things in life."
Welsh certainly wasn't going to presume to lecture him. "I spoke personally."
"You must have faith in God's justice," said the Monsignor.
"With all respect, that is something I have yet to witness."
"His justice is not of this world, Mr. Welsh."
"That's exactly what I meant."
"Were you raised a Christian, Mr. Welsh?" the Monsignor asked.
Implying that he was obviously no longer one, Welsh thought. "Episcopalian."
The Monsignor nodded solemnly, as if everything was now explained.
That was the high-water mark of the dinnertime conversation. Just like the dinner tables of Welsh's youth, once everyone sensed that the topic of discussion had been taken too far, by mutual consent the subject matter immediately moved to the level of sports, the weather, and gardening.
For Welsh the evening headed even farther downhill. When, after dessert and coffee, he returned from a trip to the men's room, Margaret Scanlan was gone. And before he'd even had a chance to offer her a ride home, and thereby unintentionally discover where she was staying.
But the evening wasn't over yet. Welsh said his goodbyes, exchanging cards and phone numbers only with Raul and Maria, a really formidable pair.
Back at the hotel, he was just stepping out of the shower when he heard a knock at the door. Dressed in his hotel robe, Welsh took a look through the peephole. There, standing in the hallway in her evening gown, was the Guatemalan goddess he'd exchanged meaningful glances with at the reception.
Rich Welsh had sorrowfully limited experience with beautiful women stalking him back to his hotel room. And while his ego was as large as anyone else's, it didn't reach the heights of personal vanity that would regard the visit as his rightful due.
The best move might have been to just go to bed, but arrant curiosity was one of his many faults, so he did open the door.
She tried to push by him into the room, and ran into Welsh's outstretched forearm.
She pressed her breasts into his arm and purred, "Don't you understand? I want to be with you."
Her English was rudimentary, but no doubt her proficiency wasn't in the language arts. Welsh laughed, because it even sounded rehearsed. And the breasts were plastic. No doubt about that. They were like two elbows poking into his arm.
She tried to push by him again and, peeved at being thwarted, put her hands on her hips and impatiently tapped a high heel on the carpet. "What, you queer?"
Welsh chuckled again. "I've heard that all over the world. It must be on page one of the international prostitute's handbook."
"You don't have to pay," she said, as if that was what was hanging them up.
That only meant someone else was. "You can go back and tell whoever did that I didn't just fall off the turnip truck," Welsh said pleasantly. "And it didn't just back over my head."
"What?"
He'd lost
her. "Just tell them. You can leave now." She didn't move.
"You can either get out of the doorway on your own," said Welsh, "or we'll see how far I can throw you."
She stomped back down the hall, scorching the air with a loud chorus of: "Bastard! Son of a whore! Faggot!" in Spanish.
The door across the hall opened cautiously, and a businessman bursting from his underwear like an overfilled sausage peered out through the crack.
"There goes my one chance at true love," Welsh told him. "Sorry to disturb you."
The door slammed shut.
Welsh closed his, and threw the chain and dead bolt. The world's two oldest professions, prostitution and espionage, had always worked comfortably together. There were many variations on the game. A screaming outraged "husband" could appear pounding on your hotel room door, threatening a public scandal. Then friendly "officials" would show up to mediate the dispute. More guys got into really bad trouble letting Mr. Penis do their thinking than by any other way.
Personally, Welsh had no interest in sex with a woman who didn't care whether he was alive or dead, except that if he was dead it would be easier to steal his wallet. But maybe that's what turned a lot of people on.
As he went to bed, and reality gradually sunk in, his feeling of near-amusement grew much colder. Someone wanted some leverage on him. So far they'd started off light, but if they persisted, it was bound to get heavier.
When he was finally able to get to sleep, Welsh was thinking about Margaret Scanlan.
Chapter Fourteen
Welsh spent the next day interviewing the Embassy Marine detachment. He didn't learn anything new. Half the detachment hadn't even been in-country when the other Marines were killed. As for the rest, no one felt like sharing anything beside the fact that none of them had particularly like Corporal Brian Richardson.
On the way back to the hotel Welsh was giving some serious thought to how to get in touch with Margaret Scanlan without having to go through the Embassy. But that turned into the one thing he didn't need to worry about, because she was waiting for him in the hotel lobby.
She rose from her chair and blocked his way, as if he might not want to talk to her, something Welsh couldn't understand.
"It's great to see you again," he said, shaking her hand. "I'm sorry I missed you when you left the Embassy." Don't gush, you asshole, he thought, mentally slapping himself.
"Mr. Welsh, I really need to talk with you," she said quickly.
"Business?" Welsh asked, more than a little disappointed.
"Yes."
"Do you have a car?"
That threw her off stride. "Why can't we talk here?"
"Is there any way that the best international hotel in the city isn't wired for sound by someone? No, no way."
"You're kidding?"
"Want to bet your life on it?"
"No," she said, giving it some thought. "I guess I convinced myself I was being pretty careful. I have a rental car, but wouldn't a cab be better?"
"In a country like this, every cab driver works as a part-time informer for the police, some domestic or foreign intelligence service, or all of the above at the same time."
"Okay, that was lesson two. My car is in the parking garage. Is there any place in particular you'd like to go?"
Welsh thought she looked even more magnificent than the previous night. But he cautioned himself not to let his glands do any thinking for him. If past history was any guide, their common sense was extremely limited. "Lesson number three. We should go to a place neither of us has been to before. That way there's less chance someone will be there waiting for us, or show up along the way."
She gave him an amused look. "All right, lead on."
Welsh pulled his guidebook from his pocket and consulted it. "I think we can find someplace in the Zona Viva. You drive, and I'll navigate."
The Zona Viva was the several blocks surrounding the Hotel Camino Real. High-end dining, bars, and nightclubs. The places on the outer edge of the Zona were less exclusive and the prices more reasonable. Even though it was only a few blocks from the hotel, at night driving was safer than walking in Guatemala City.
As they drove, Welsh watched for a tail, but didn't see one. At night all you could make out were headlights, so it was much harder to pick out anyone following.
Scanlan said, "Now, what I wanted to talk to you about was…"
"Don't talk business in a car," Welsh interrupted. "Easiest thing in the world to bug."
"Are you being a little extreme?"
"Could very well be," Welsh admitted. But all the case studies he'd ever read on intelligence and industrial espionage proved that on a scale of relative naiveté Americans were the country bumpkins of the world, and taken advantage of accordingly.
They drove past the bar Welsh had chosen from the guidebook. From the outside it looked reasonably crowded and well lit.
A parking place miraculously opened up less than a hundred yards away.
The bar wasn't a highbrow place, or overly decorated, but it had a nice, friendly vibe. Welsh had had to back out of a few bars in the course of his travels, and it was something he'd learned to recognize.
He picked a table in a comer where he could sit with his back to a wall and watch the entrance. They were right beside a frosted-glass window that overlooked the street. A marimba band was playing loud enough to almost guarantee a private conversation.
"Do you want anything to eat?" he asked when they were seated.
Scanlan shook her head. "I'd rather talk now, if there aren't any more lessons for me to absorb."
But a waitress showed up and cut off the conversation. They ordered two bottles of Gallo, or in English, goat beer.
When she left, Welsh said, "Okay, what do you want to talk about?"
"I've had some information come into my possession," she said. "About the murder of those Marines."
"You don't say?"
"Some elements in the Army killed them."
The waitress returned with the beer. Welsh sipped from the bottle, not wanting to disturb the slumber of any bacteria in the accompanying glass. The Guatemalan Army killed her brother, so she wasn't about to be neutral where they were concerned. "Is there some proof of this?"
"I have proof," Scanlan said.
Welsh happened to glance up just in time to see two Guatemalan men in their twenties enter the bar. They looked around carefully, stared directly at him, and nudged each other. Uh-oh, Welsh thought to himself. They were between him and the exit, so there was nothing to do but wait and see what happened.
The two pushed their way through the crowd, heading directly toward the table. One was a real gorilla, only about six feet tall or a little less, but close to three hundred pounds with a power-lifter's chest and arms. Everything but the knuckles dragging the ground. The other one was shorter and leaner and less well-muscled. They were dressed in flashy leather jackets and gold chains, like successful young street thugs.
Welsh said quietly to Scanlan, "We may have to get out of here in a hurry, so be ready."
Startled, she looked over her shoulder as the two approached. They came right up to the table.
The gorilla, standing to the right of Welsh in his chair, smiled and said cheerfully, in English, "Hey, Americans! Buy us a drink."
No one had any trouble picking out Americans abroad. That didn't bother Welsh. Neither did buying a round. It was a great way to break the ice in another country. Of course, as the designated rich American, it was also a great way to assume an open-ended financial obligation for the rest of the evening. Welsh did not like being told what he had to do, but none of that had any bearing on the situation. These guys were looking for trouble. Welsh's stomach tightened up into a cold hard painful knot.
"No," he said flatly.
"What's the matter, gringo?" the big one replied. "You don't like us? We not good enough to drink with you?"
This was how the verbal portion of the event usually began. The equivalent of the
New York "You talkin' to me? From the playground on, these guys always had to ran their mouths before getting around to business. They loved it if you tried to reason with them. If you said anything at all, it only let them know how scared you were.
Welsh fought to keep all expression off his face. While the other side was still talking, he looked across the table at Scanlan, shrugged ruefully, and at the same time raised his right ass cheek from the chair and snapped off a hard kick straight onto the side of the gorilla's kneecap. Welsh felt the knee collapse; there was a loud pop and an even louder scream as the man went down.
The gorilla's friend stood shocked and immobile, as frequently happens when something you've counted on going according to plan doesn't. Launching out of the chair, Welsh grabbed his beer bottle and whipped it into the guy's face. The bottle hit but didn't break. Using the time he'd gained, Welsh grabbed the back of his chair with both hands, letting his momentum carry him forward. His opponent's hands were still up to his face when Welsh brought the heavy wooden chair down like an ax onto his head. The force of the blow shivered through Welsh's arms; the other guy lost control of his muscles and dropped like a limp sack.
Welsh pivoted and swung the chair like a baseball bat, catching the gorilla, who was still on the floor screaming and holding his kneecap, square in the face.
Now the whole bar was awake to what was going on. Welsh dropped the chair, picked their table up by the base so the top was aimed like a battering ram, and threw it right through the frosted-glass window.
He kicked the glass shards away from the new exit he'd created, then turned, thinking he'd have to grab Margaret Scanlan and drag her along. But she was up already, standing with her back to the window and emptying a can of pepper spray into the path of anyone who might be inclined to follow them. Then, before Welsh could let loose with the bellow he was readying, Scanlan was through the hole.
He was right behind her. When he hit the sidewalk he slid on the broken glass and went down on one knee before he caught himself. Welsh picked up a big piece of glass as a weapon, and found himself in the midst of a group of startled pedestrians. They immediately stampeded when he came up off the ground brandishing the glass.
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 10
