It sent a chill through her. “And Cain is your leader?” she asked.
“Comrade Cain.”
“And I’m going to meet him, correct?”
“Enough questions,” the woman said, jamming a sandaled foot down on the gas pedal as they swerved around a broken-down taxi with a driver gesturing wildly to a man in uniform. Some sort of accident.
The car sped away from the city center, onto rough streets, then higher onto dirt roads, into one of the largest slums Maggie had ever seen. She’d seen a few, grew up in one in Guayaquil. But at least fifty thousand people lived in Ciudad Bolívar. Houses built anywhere they’d fit, out of anything available. And people, dogs, pigs, noise, smells. Chaos. Life on the side of a mountain, connected by crooked stairways, dotted by haphazard, intermittent lights.
“Where are we headed?” Maggie said.
“She does ask a lot of questions,” the boy said to the woman driver in Quechua.
“She’s a norteamericana,” the woman replied. “They think they own the world. But she’ll learn. She’ll learn.”
~~~
High in the hills, the woman in the fedora turned around in her seat, facing Maggie, as she reversed up a narrow dirt road etched out of a steep slope overlooking the city. The car shuddered back toward a large shanty made of cinderblock, plywood, and tin. There was nothing to the left side of the car, just a stark drop-off, and the quivering lights of Bogotá through pollution and mist.
The woman stomped the brakes, twisted the car key, got out, and stood on the ledge where the land fell away. The boy in the passenger seat rolled his window down and climbed out with the gun in one hand. There was no room to open his door.
“Well?” the woman barked at Maggie, hands on her ample hips. “What are you waiting for?”
Maggie eased the door open with a pang, got out onto no more than a foot of dirt cliff. She looked down at a vegetation-lush precipice to corrugated roofs below lit by vaporous moonlight. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she stepped carefully around to the rear of the car, clinging to the fender. The icy thin air only added to the precariousness.
“What did she expect?” the woman said to the boy in Quechua. “A handrail?”
“I thought norteamericanos lived in skyscrapers,” the boy replied, the 45-caliber pistol dangling from his hand.
“They live in mansions, Gabby,” the woman said, spitting over the side. “Come on, princess,” she said to Maggie, switching to Spanish, nodding at the shack at the end of the road. The boy climbed on the bumper and sat on the trunk of the car, presumably to stand guard.
Maggie gazed out over Bogotá, the lights of the capital furry down below. The air was pungent with the smell of burning trash. Dogs barked in the distance.
A flashlight beam came bouncing out of the shack. A young woman walked behind it, the light in one hand and an automatic rifle over her shoulder. She wore a coarse black-alpaca jacket. Long dark hair fell over her shoulders. Even in near-darkness, it was clear she was striking. She had huge eyes and a white smile to match, which looked odd considering the circumstances.
The young woman showed Maggie and the Indian woman into a house that smelled of the wet earth it was built on and fresh sewage underneath. Here and there, hillside appeared in the gaps in the makeshift floor, but the shack was more substantial than most, with separate rooms and some cinderblock construction to keep it from blowing away.
Maggie was led into a lopsided room where a kerosene lamp on a table cast wavering light onto a poster of Chairman Mao. A stocky man with his back to her stood at a cracked dirty window someone had purloined from an old house that gave out onto a million-dollar view of Bogotá. He wore a loose camouflage jacket over blue nylon shorts and Teva sport sandals. The backs of his legs were scratched and mosquito bitten. He turned around.
He was in his mid-thirties, with frizzy dark hair that needed cutting. Intense brown eyes laid in wait behind gold-framed glasses and a fleshy scowl more than suggested an acute lack of patience. His fair skin was mottled by rosacea or some similar ailment and filmed with moisture, even though the room was cold.
From another room the cry of a baby startled Maggie.
“Can’t you do something about him, Yalu?” the man snapped at the pretty woman. She huffed, disappeared into a side room where the infant was picked up, indulged, cooed.
“Are you Cain?” Maggie asked.
“It’s Comrade Cain,” he said. “And no, I’m not. I’m Comrade Abraham. Second in command.”
Another biblical name. Like the Shining Path. Cain was ex-Shining Path, so he’d obviously adopted some of its conventions. “And where is Cain?” Maggie asked. “Comrade Cain? And while we’re on the subject, I’ll need to see Beltran as well.”
“All in good time,” he said, while the fedora woman stood back and leaned against an unfinished wall, crossing her arms over her bosomy chest. She shut her eyes and grew still, appearing to rest. Abraham went to the table. A map was spread out alongside papers, a little red book, and a blue-steel snub-nosed revolver. He pulled back the single high-backed wooden chair and dragged it to the center of the room. He twisted it around to face Maggie.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“It’s not a request.”
Maggie took a steadying breath through her nose and sat, knees together, placing her knapsack on the floor by her feet. Comrade Abraham stood directly behind her. The fedora woman watched her through slitted eyes, arms still crossed.
“What happened to Jack Warren?” Comrade Abraham asked Maggie. “Your companion?” Abraham spoke with an Italian lilt that made Maggie take him for an Argentine. From the next room, they could hear Yalu coaxing the baby back to sleep.
“He was delayed,” Maggie said. “Shaken down by passport control for a payoff. He’s on his way, so I’m told.”
“Where are your papers?”
“Ask her,” Maggie said, indicating the fedora woman.
“I’ve got her passport,” she said.
“Well, Beatriz, give it here,” Abraham said.
Beatriz didn’t warrant a “comrade,” it seemed. She pushed herself off the wall, sauntered over, handed Maggie’s passport, along with a malevolent look, to Abraham, then returned to her spot on the wall.
Comrade Abraham flipped pages, standing behind Maggie. “Alice Mendes. San Antonio, Texas.” She could feel his breath on her neck and smell the spices of what he had last eaten. “You work for Commerce Oil.”
“I’m actually an accountant for Five Fortunes Petroleum, a subsidiary of Commerce Oil.”
“They sent a bean counter. A paper pusher. A woman.” It was as if he were insulted.
“A certified CPA. With degrees in math and computer science. Here to do the transfers, once we verify that Comrade Cain hands Beltran over in good shape—before we pay two million dollars. Where are they, by the way?”
“When your boss didn’t show up, we took precautions.”
Maggie let out an exasperated sigh. “Meaning Comrade Cain took off?”
“We don’t like irregularities.”
They’d already ditched the meeting down in the plaza. Now this. “What part of this do you call regular to begin with?” she said. “Holding hostages for ransom? People get delayed. It’s part of everyday life in the regular world.”
“An accountant with an oil company telling us how to do things. A woman. You don’t impress men with guns, eating tree roots and living in the jungle. Fighting to save our planet. While you cook the books for some American conglomerate destroying it. Hiding shady deals your oil company wants done.”
“Like paying ransom for someone you kidnapped?”
“An act you are ultimately responsible for.”
“Perhaps we should just call it business and get on with it.”
“This is why you Americans will ultimately fail, you know. You base your so-called free market on lies, corruption, and criminal payoffs. Yet you call it business. Free ente
rprise.”
“You might have a point, there,” Maggie said. “But I notice you aren’t turning your nose up at two million pavos.”
“Cosecha Severa will take your money if it furthers our cause.”
Yes, they would. And it was her ace in the hole. A little ragtag paramilitary group wouldn’t let two million U.S. slip away. Not even if the operation hit a snag. They were nervous and had backed off, but they wouldn’t run. And they’d have to treat her reasonably well. “Are we going to discuss Marxist philosophy all night or am I going to meet Cain and Beltran at some point, make the transfer, and get this over with?”
“Comrade Cain.” She heard Abraham flip a page in her passport. “When did you travel to France?”
Verifying her identity. “Three years ago. I believe it was April. Yes, April.”
He turned another page.
“Italy?”
“A year or two before that. No, two years. September. Came back in October.”
There was a pause. Comrade Abraham went over to the table, picked up the revolver, returned to stand behind Maggie. Her neck prickled when she heard the hammer ratchet back. When he pressed the barrel against the soft flesh of her neck, her nerves shot through the roof of her mouth. She told herself it was an act. They were playing tough. That was all.
“Why did you come here alone?” he said.
She sucked in what was meant to be a calming breath. “My partner Jack Warren was stopped at the airport. A bribe. A little bite. It’s been taken care of.”
“It better not be more than that.”
“If it was, I’d be pretty foolish to let your people drive me up here, wouldn’t I? An accountant? A woman? Alone? Especially with the way Beatriz drives.”
“You don’t see why all of this would make us suspicious?”
“Absolutely,” she stammered. “But it was simple extortion by minor public officials. I had to pay off the passport-control agent myself. It’s not that uncommon, is it? Perhaps we should have factored that into the schedule.” Her joke fell flat.
“Do you know what I think?”
“I suspect you’re going to tell me.”
“I think your partner better call us soon.”
She steadied herself as the barrel of the pistol pressed into the vertebrae of her neck. “He will.”
“Just as long as we understand each other,” Comrade Abraham said. “But if I find out you’re lying to us, or trying to trick us, do you know what will happen to you, Alice Mendes? Do you know what your fancy degrees will get you then?”
Maggie swallowed hard. “Why would I want to lie or try to trick people like you? That would be insanity.”
“Yes,” he said, pulling the gun away. “It most certainly would. But there are more than a few people who want to bring down Comrade Cain. My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Maggie gulped. “Understood.”
“So we wait,” Abraham said.
-16-
The door to the interrogation room opened.
John Rae looked up from the table he’d been seated at for some hours now and saw a tall well-built Latin man in his 40s, high cheekbones, wearing a white shirt, dark green tie done up to the top button. A shrewd look in his deep-set eyes. A higher-ranking official of some sort, didn’t have to wear a uniform. Thick dark hair combed back, movie-star fashion. A lady-killer. Holding a manila file folder in his hand.
Overhead, a fluorescent light sizzled. It did that every few minutes. John Rae had used its pattern to judge time as they’d taken his wristwatch. It was past midnight. The beginnings of fatigue told him as well, as did the pressure on his bladder. No one had offered him anything yet, least of all a bio break, and he knew from experience this could be the start of a lengthy incarceration. If he didn’t comply, things would worsen: moved to a grimy cell somewhere where he’d hear the cries of people helping the authorities with their inquiries.
He didn’t really mind, as long as he didn’t get kicked around too bad.
Things would go according to plan.
The room was nondescript, small, windowless, stuffy with the odor of his confined sweat. The walls were painted a light green meant to induce calmness, but a long time ago.
They were upstairs in a large building in Bogotá. The van ride from the airport had taken approximately a half-hour. Although he’d been hooded when he was brought in the back way, John Rae felt the big city around him. Traffic noises bouncing off concrete.
“Jack Warren?” his interrogator said, reading from the file folder. But it was an act. He’d reviewed the file. He had a firm but patient voice. Confident. Didn’t need a guard in the room with him.
“Yes sir,” John Rae said, getting up, pushing his chair back with a screech, rushing round to shake hands, a gesture that wouldn’t be returned of course. He was the frightened American tourist, wondering what this was all about, eager to set things right. When the handshake was refused, he said, “And who might you be?”
The handsome man ignored that. He smelled of expensive cologne. “Sit down.” He spoke English well.
John Rae returned to his seat, sat on the edge of it. “So what seems to be the problem?”
His interrogator cracked an amused smile as he sat down opposite John Rae and crossed his legs. “Are we really going to start all the way back there—you pretending that you have no idea why you were detained?” He had the arrogant air of a senior intelligence officer well-versed with interrogation. Some ex-DAS guy probably, a Colombian agency disbanded due to – ah – irregularities.
“Where would y’all like me to start?” John Rae said.
The man tossed the file folder on the table. The corner of John Rae’s passport stuck out. “Well, why don’t we start with your real name?”
“What makes you think my real name isn’t on my passport?”
“Please.” He smiled. “Because it’s a forgery. A very good one, yes, but a fake all the same. Of course, a man with a U.S. intelligence agency would have nothing less.”
“Is that what I am? A secret agent. Like Jason Bourne? Wow. I only wish my life was that exciting. I work for Five Fortunes, an oil company.”
“This is starting to get a little tedious.”
John Rae sat back in his chair. It wouldn’t do any good to play this hand any more. It would only piss him off. “You know, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“You weren’t stopped just for the fun of it.” The man gave John Rae a piercing look. “We knew an operative was coming to Colombia to meet Comrade Cain.”
“Comrade Cain?” See how much he knew.
Ladykiller exhaled impatiently. “We were tipped off. Notified. Informed.”
“Why was I supposed to meet this Comrade Cain?”
“Ostensibly to make an exchange for a hostage being held by a terrorist organization. Cosecha Severa. It translates to something like ‘Harvest of Death’ in English. Comrade Cain is the leader. The hostage’s name is Armand Beltran. He’s the oil minister of Ecuador.”
Yeah, this guy knew plenty. “Ostensibly,” John Rae said. “Your English is a whole lot better than mine. And I’m supposed to be a native speaker.”
Ladykiller gave a shrug.
“But from what I remember, the word means ‘supposedly’,” John Rae said. “‘On the surface.’”
Ladykiller pointed at him now. “Yes, that is correct.”
“So what am I really doing?” John Rae said. “If I’m ostensibly doing all this other stuff.”
“You’re not really interested in Beltran,” Ladykiller said as he sat back, one ankle over his knee, a relaxed chat with John Rae that was anything but. “A corrupt oil minister that an American oil company you pretend to work for wants to protect. No—it’s Comrade Cain you’re after. You were planning on taking him prisoner.” He raised his eyebrows.
John Rae pursed his lips. Not many people knew that angle. He could count them on half of the fingers of one hand. And if Maggie hadn’t taken off
, left town, the way he had urged her to, had stuck around to see the op through, she could be in the shit. It was a good thing John Rae had sent his people an alert when he was nabbed at the airport. They knew what to do, but Maggie couldn’t take the heat for it. He needed to get hold of the embassy. He sat back, folded his hands behind his head. “So what am I being charged with? Ostensibly?”
“All in good time.”
“I think this is when you call the U.S. Consulate,” John Rae said.
“And tell them what? That I have an individual with a forged passport posing as a U.S. citizen?”
“We both know I’m a U.S citizen, amigo.”
“Do we? You could be Canadian. Irish. English. How do I know where you’re from? I’m not a native speaker.”
“When presented with a passport of the United States and a person of suspicion, you are required to contact the embassy. Standard diplomatic regulations between the United States and Colombia.”
His interrogator consulted his watch. “Within twenty-four hours—give or take a few days.” He looked back at John Rae. “And you just got here, amigo.”
Yeah, the fun was yet to come.
Well, that was OK. As long as Maggie wasn’t jeopardized.
~~~
Maggie watched Comrade Abraham pace the floor of the Bogotá safe house, back and forth, in the pall of the camping light on the table under the poster of Chairman Mao. Night winds picked up on the mountainside, blowing needles of cold air through the crack in the dirt-smeared window overlooking the city. Abraham pulled a cell phone from his shorts and stepped outside, slamming the door that caught the wind, and Maggie could hear him having another heated discussion out there. Beatriz, in her fedora, was still leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her hard features faded beyond the lantern’s reach as she watched Maggie with a tired frown. She had Maggie’s backpack, with the MacBook inside, by her feet. No computer use, Abraham had said, until Jack Warren showed up and they went to meet Cain.
Gabby was still posted outside in the car. Yalu, Abraham’s wife, tended to the baby in the next room. Maggie sat on the only chair. For all intents and purposes, she was a hostage.
The Cain File Page 15
