by John Hunt
After a time spent quietly staring out over the sea and lagoon, into the jungle, and over the various construction sites, the men returned to the guest quarters. As Petur lay in bed that evening, he fell asleep rapidly, completely calm and contented, assured that all this was actually, finally, happening.
But his calm did not last. His sleep was disturbed. He dreamed again that he was climbing down a ladder inside a tall shiny cylinder. It was a recurring dream since he was eleven years old, but this time it was much worse. Clank, clank, clank, went his feet on the rungs. Above, a tiny dot of light. Below, only darkness. The scent of salt air filled his mouth and nose. Then the sinister rumble began. This time, Petur knew why he could not hear the sound of his shoes on the rungs of the ladder anymore. Against his will, he looked up. The tiny circle of light was gone. In its stead was the tumultuous flood of broiling foam barreling towards him. But it didn’t seem to be water this time. Petur closed his eyes and awaited the painful deathblow from the crashing fluid. It came. It was warm. Why had he expected it to be cold? His heart was pounding. Slowly, irregular, loud. And the pounding was calling his name.
Petur awoke with a start. Someone was rapping on his door.
“Petur, open up!” It was Onbacher. His tone was urgent.
He pulled himself up and out of bed. His pillow was wet with saliva and he was drenched in sweat. Blood rushed through his eardrums, sounding like a waterfall but in slow, deep, unsteady pulses. His belly hurt as he staggered to the door, moving from his dream world to reality.
It took a moment for Petur to figure out how to unlock the door in the dark. When it opened, Onbacher pushed his way into the room, flipping on a light switch quickly. He looked at Petur and said, “Oh, God.” To Petur’s bewilderment, he moved right past and into the bathroom. A moment later, he came out.
“Petur, did you brush your teeth tonight?”
Petur was having trouble shaking off his sleepiness and sick feeling. He leaned against the door. “What?”
“You did brush your teeth, didn’t you?” Onbacher approached Petur again. His face revealed concern.
“I brushed my teeth. What of it?” He swallowed. His mouth filled back up with saliva almost instantly. He leaned further against the door. Petur realized now that he was very sick.
Onbacher grasped Petur around the waist and led him back to his bed. He picked up the bedside phone. In a moment, Petur heard him say, “Petur Bjarnasson has been poisoned. We need an ambulance quickly.” A pause, and then, “Well, then, we need medications at least. The stuff an ambulance would have. Who here knows medicine?” Another pause. “He’ll do! Get him here, quick!” He smashed down the phone and swore.
Feeling for Petur’s pulse, he said, “Petur, someone put some poison in my toothpaste. And yours too, I’m afraid. Your heart rate is slow. It’s a nerve toxin.”
“Joseph, I need the … ” Petur rolled out of bed, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
“It’s part of the toxin, Petur,” Onbacher called. “Lots of diarrhea. It’ll make you throw up, too.” This last met with an immediate response from Petur, who vomited loudly and groaned. Onbacher gave him a few moments, then went into the bathroom and helped Petur back to the bed. A minute later, Gustaf came into the room, followed closely be a man wearing an orange jumpsuit and carrying a large plastic toolbox. The man in the jumpsuit sat beside Petur and put his hand on Petur’s wrist.
“Sir, what happened here?” the paramedic asked.
Petur, face pale and soaked with sweat, only groaned. Saliva dripped from his mouth like a rabid dog. Onbacher said, “He has been poisoned. It seems to be a nerve toxin. Do you have atropine in your box?”
The paramedic opened the box quickly. “His heart rate is only 30. You could be right. Did he have seafood for dinner?”
Gustaf answered, “No, he had a cheeseburger.”
“This was an intentional poisoning.” Onbacher said. “Someone put something in my toothpaste. I assume it was in Petur’s too.”
The paramedic pulled an intravenous catheter kit from the box, twisted a rubber tourniquet around Petur’s upper arm, and placed the line into a vein in his hand. In a moment, he had squirted the entire syringe of atropine into his bloodstream. He then began connecting leads from a portable heart monitor to his chest. The heart’s electrical rhythm came up on a screen.
“Look, he’s responding already!” Petur’s heart rate was rising quickly to over 90. A bag of fluid was connected to his IV. “We’re going to need to keep him hydrated. Might as well start now.” The paramedic went about his business.
With better blood flow to his brain, Petur came around quickly. He reached up to wipe his face. Onbacher used a towel to mop away the profuse perspiration from his face and chest.
“This is awful.” Petur’s voice was weak. “Joseph, how did you know?”
“My toothpaste tasted bitter — rather like the stuff I spray on my roses to kill the Japanese beetles. I spit it out right away.”
Petur made an effort at a smile. “I thought I just had some leftover pineapple juice in my mouth.”
“A concentrated poison can soak right through your mouth into your blood,” the paramedic added. “It’s like a nerve gas. It works quickly, and is often deadly.” He turned to Onbacher. “Mr. Bjarnasson will be okay though. I’ll stay with him tonight. He’ll be as good as new in the morning, I think. You should get some sleep.”
Onbacher nodded his thanks. “Perhaps. But with someone trying to kill us, sleep may not come easily.”
10. Conspiracy
THE NEW RED Jeep Grand Cherokee rolled along the dry dirt road, leaving a powdery cloud of dust behind. Even for Mexico, this road was narrow — wide enough for only one car at a time. On either side, the rough underbrush continuously assaulted the tires, wheels, and paint on the car doors. The constant bumps irritated the driver, but it was the high-pitched crack and scratch of the occasional branch slashing across the side of his car that caused him to swear again and again.
Juan Marcos had purchased the Jeep just a few weeks earlier, and he was very proud of it. His other cars were a source of embarrassment. He knew people laughed as he climbed into the driver’s seat and his massive weight compressed the springs and shocks of his smaller vehicles. Those cars would drive down the road at a decided slant. The Jeep, on the contrary, resisted gravity’s pull and rode relatively flat despite the extra mass behind the steering wheel. Unfortunately, since the branches had covered it with scratches now, he would need to get it repainted. He wished he had never agreed to this meeting.
It had been a three-hour drive so far, and it was a hot day. Salingas’s estate was far off the beaten path, and the little route that Marcos now drove on was the only access. He had driven over ten miles on this so-called road, which was little more than a cow path, and it was getting tiresome. Despite the springs and the shocks and the well-padded luxury-leather seats, he was feeling every bump and divot in the road. Sweat trickled down his forehead and the salt stung his eye. He rubbed it and turned up the air conditioner a notch.
Several ramshackle villages lay along the route. Perhaps ten houses were in each, if the metal-roofed, concrete block buildings could be called houses. Many of Salingas’ farm workers lived in these buildings. They spent their days planting and harvesting avocados and tomatoes and their nights drowning in cheap tequila. That was their life’s purpose.
Marcos was coming up to one of the villages now. A flatbed truck pulled out from between two buildings onto the road and turned his way. Marcos honked his horn repeatedly. The driver of the truck stopped and rapidly backed out of the way of the oncoming vehicle, an action that any worker had better do when a guest of Señor Salingas was expected.
Marcos stopped in front of the truck and rolled down his window. The hot air hit him in the face. The driver of the truck stuck his head out his own window when Marcos called loudly to him.
“How much farther to the main house?”
The man pointe
d up the road.
Marcos shouted again, angrily, “How much farther?”
The driver shook his head and called back, “Just a little ways.”
That was helpful, thought Marcos, sarcastically, as he sneered. He rolled the window back up, turned the air conditioner on to maximum, and continued on the incessant trip. It occurred to him only now that he might not even be on the right road.
“A little ways” turned into ten minutes, and then ten more. Expletives flew out of Marcos’s mouth with great vigor. He swore at the road, and the car, but mostly at Salingas. The anger only served to make him perspire more. Just when he was beginning to exhaust his supply of choice insults, he drove over the top of a small hillock and there in front of him, nestled in a small valley, stood the main house.
This place was much grander than Juan Marcos’s formidable manor. It was in the style of classical Spanish estates. Several one-story adobe wings interconnected and enclosed the main house forming a well-secured home for Salingas. Two armed guards stood near a large gated archway, through which the recently paved road led. Marcos could see another guard perched in a lookout post on top of the main building, standing professionally behind a fix-mounted fifty-caliber machine gun.
The Jeep approached the gate, and a guard, dressed in farm workers’ attire — dungarees, a short cotton shirt, and boots — held up his hand commandingly.
“Hola, Señor Marcos. Señor Salingas has been anticipating your arrival.” Marcos could not recall ever seeing the guard, who nonetheless recognized him on sight. Salingas’ men were good.
Marcos nodded as the man waved to his partner, who typed a number into a keypad to open the electronic gate.
Marcos drove through the gate and around a small circle to the front door where another man appeared immediately by his side. The man opened his door as the car rolled to a stop. As Marcos climbed out, the side of the Jeep bounced upward, just a little.
The inside of the compound was a bounty of lush vegetation. Flowery tropical plants, lemon trees, a tiny orange grove, flourishing green grass — all carefully maintained and meticulously landscaped.
The man led Marcos up the steps to the front entrance of the main house, through the door and down a long hallway to a room. The hallway was well lit from the sunlight that shined through the glass in the ceiling. The room he now entered was darker inside, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he could see several men sitting on two couches, and several others standing about. Some were smoking cigars. All had drinks. Salingas came over to him directly.
“Ah, Juan Marcos. It is good to see you, my friend!” The man approached him with arms spread widely, and hugged him. “I hope your trip was not too miserable.”
“Not at all,” Marcos lied. “It is good to get away from Tijuana now and again.”
Salingas kept an arm on Marcos’s shoulder and led him to the center of the group of men. Those sitting all stood to meet the new arrival.
“Juan Marcos, I would like you to meet Jose Esperanza. He is the chairman of the board of Banco Nationale de Mexico.” The two men shook hands. “And this is Ricardo Cruz, principal owner of Mexicali Petroleum.” The two men nodded to each other. “And Mr. Robert Tobias, founder of Energon, the large American semiconductor manufacturer. And Señor Ernesto Bolle. publisher of six major newspapers, including Tijuana’s.”
The introductions continued like this. There were four more men; the first three were prominent businessman. The last, dressed in a casual sweater, Marcos recognized immediately. He was the vice president of Mexico, Alberto Jiménez.
Juan Marcos, drug producer and cartel head, was surrounded by purportedly honest and upstanding citizens. What was Salingas up to?
“Gentlemen,” began their host, “please sit down.” They all did, but Salingas remained standing and began walking about the room. “Some of you know why I have asked you to come today. Others have no idea.”
Many of the men nodded as if they knew what it was about. Marcos, confused, sat quietly. Vice President Jimenez seemed less calm than the other men.
“Gathered today in this room are the seven most wealthy and influential people in Mexico. Also here is the vice president — the man who I believe plays a most-pivotal role in my plan. There is also a representative of the single biggest business in Mexico — the drug trade. That would be Señor Marcos.”
Marcos now was completely bewildered, though not fearful. His host walked to his side and placed his hand on Marcos’s shoulder.
He continued. “Juan Marcos has been very quiet and subdued for the past twelve months, for reasons that I understand well. His business is, shall we say, intentionally slow. The fact that he has been laying low is of great value to us, for the Americans think that he will not be a threat to them for some time from a drug trafficking standpoint. They have almost completely relaxed their surveillance.
“Yet Marcos still has his full organization intact, temporarily mothballed. He is not using it now. The Americans think it is dismantled, or in disarray. But that is not the case, is it, Señor Marcos?”
Marcos said nothing. He looked up at Salingas, confused.
“Do not worry, my friend.” Salingas slapped Marcos’s beefy shoulder. “I know you can have your whole expansive team up and operational in no time — at least, whenever you so decide.” He moved away and continued to circle the room, slowly, as he talked. The men had to turn their heads constantly to track him.
“I have met with each one of you over the past several years. We have shared concerns, and shared philosophies.” He paused for a moment. “Mexico is a wealthy land. We have outstanding natural resources. We have large reserves of oil. We have untapped, but proven, sources of enormous quantities of precious metals. The western coastal areas including Baja California are the epitome of perfect climate, yet they have been developed only to a minimal extent for tourism. Mexico has an impressive history of culture and artistry. We have adequate port cities and a more than adequate supply of workers. We have been provided many gifts — as many, indeed, as the country to our north.”
Salingas was tall and handsome. He was darker than the typical wealthy Mexican, with black hair on his head and above his lip. Something was different about his appearance and his manner of speech that Marcos could not identify precisely. He came from a different gene pool. The man stood now in the center of the room. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for effect. “My question has been, and remains, with all our resources, what keeps our country from being an international power? Why have we not succeeded?”
Most of the men were looking around the room now, as if they expected someone else to respond first, or perhaps they knew that the question was rhetorical. No one said a word.
Salingas answered his question. “The answer is: leadership. We have been floating around the outskirts of a democratic system for decades, pretending to be a republic but never getting the benefits of a free society. The people at the top have attempted and succeeded to keep just enough control and just enough wealth out of the hands of everyone else. This allows them a life of comfort but prevents Mexico as a whole from advancing. The greedy leaders use the power of government to maintain their wealth. The power of the people in the democracy has never been enough to overcome the government’s monopoly on the legal use of force.”
The banker interrupted to add to the explanation. “And we in this room are the people who need to be overcome.”
“That is right,” agreed Salingas. “It is we, and those like us, who prevent Mexico from ascending to prominence in the international community. I believe that the men in this room are some of the few who are willing to recognize the simple fact that we are at fault.”
Vice President Jiménez looked at Salingas. “Are you asking these men to give up their wealth and positions of power? Because if you are a socialist, I have no need to listen further.”
There was muffled laughter throughout the room. Jiménez looked puzzled.
“Not at all, Señor Jiménez,” Salingas replied. “I said we are at fault, but not because of our greed. Greed is natural. Greed is real. Greed is one thing we all have in common. Attempting to overcome it is a battle Don Quixote would attempt, not I.”
Ernesto Bolle, a publisher, added, “we are the leaders of this country, yet we have not taken charge except insomuch as it immediately benefits us and our own.”
Salingas nodded vigorously. “Let me paraphrase what Bolle has just said. We are the leaders, but we have not been leading!” He said this with such intensity that his face reddened. “It is time for us to lead Mexico. We need to get out and do our jobs — the jobs that God and Nature gave us.”
Jiménez again: “Just what are you saying?”
“I am saying that democracy has failed miserably in Mexico. Miserably!” He pounded his fist on the table in front of him. “Leadership by committee is no leadership at all. We need leadership again! And we, here in this room, should be the leaders. Only we can pull Mexico out of its economic morass. We have the skills, finances, power, and leadership qualities necessary. We need to use them! It is our duty.”
There was a stirring in the room. These were people who Salingas knew already agreed with him, and the feeling in the room therefore was one of complete consonance. Several conversations began among the men. For a moment, the lecture paused.
Jiménez sat quietly in his armchair. He looked deep in thought. Marcos, on the other hand, rose with effort and moved to Salingas for a quiet conversation.
“Just what are you going to ask me to do, Salingas?” he asked suspiciously.
His host laughed. “I am going to ask you to get rich! That is all.”
“I am already rich.”
“Yes, but not as rich as you were before. And your money is going to run out someday. Besides, you are a power-hungry man, dictatorial by nature. You want power. Is that not correct, Juan?”