Zacari and Kipu followed the path of cashew trees through the booby-trapped perimeter and stepped out of the forest into the compound.
They stood for a moment surveying the damage. Smoke rose lazily from many places. The fire had been a great one. Kipu pointed to the burned-out Range Rover and the blackened human legs sticking out from underneath.
They crossed the large field toward the white house and came upon a dead guariba. Its flesh had been disturbed, Zacari saw, leaning over to inspect it. Kipu licked his lips and said they should take it back with them.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs leading to the veranda, Zacari heard the sound of his sister crying.
A moment later, El Niño appeared on the porch. He looked very bad. Some of his hair was burned away and there was dried blood from his ears and nose. He stared at them with a fierce look. He held a pistol.
Zacari held up a hand in greeting and said, "My father sends you his respect."
El Niño did not answer.
Zacari said, "He says to tell you that the kurinku in the great canoe was not pistaco."
El Niño stared as though the fire was still burning within him.
Zacari held out his upturned palm, revealing one of the gold-and-black things. "He sends me to ask you for more of these. They are good for the tsugki who lives in the stone the kurinku gave to us."
El Niño stared at the battery in Zacari's palm. He raised his pistol and shot Zacari in the face.
Kipu threw his spear, but suddenly many shots were being fired and the ground next to him was bursting with dust. He ran toward the edge of the forest. The bullet hit him in the leg before he reached it, but he dove into the bushes before the men running after him could catch him.
The natives had all fled into their canoes. Diatri and the others stood on the half-burned hulk of the Esmeralda. One of the SEALs held up a line with some pennants on it. "Commander?"
Diatri and the commander inspected it. "What is it?" Diatri asked.
"This is a code pennant, this is 'S,' this is 'Q,' this is 'I.'"
"So?"
"It's the international signal code. It means: 'You should stop or heave to or I will open fire on you.'"
Diatri sighed. "Looks like they didn't listen."
He made his way into the ship. She was partially heeled over on her side, making it like a walk through the fun house at the carnival. The top deck was gone. The main salon had the sour stink of burned leather. They'd stripped almost everything off her; it looked like they'd been working on pulling up the carpet when they ran off. He continued down another flight of stairs to the cabins. The passageway was dark. He turned on his flashlight, holding it away from his body as he'd been trained. On either side of the passageway were framed front pages of newspapers from the day after the Titanic sank. Diatri thought that was a strange thing to have on your boat. He made his way aft, to the master cabin.
It was stripped of everything, sheets, blankets, wall sconces, mattress, clothes. Somewhere in the jungle they were wearing cashmere blazers and ascots and whatever else rich people wear. Bermuda shorts? That would be a sight, Diatri thought, natives sitting around the fire arguing over how to make a really dry martini.
They'd torn the radio and intercom system out of the bedside table. Diatri peered into the gaping hole and saw a dead cricket on its back. Diatri reached in and removed him. Big little guy. How had he gotten in there?
He opened the drawer. There was a book inside: History of the Conquest of Peru, by William H. Prescott. He flipped through the pages. Mr. Becker-it was funny, but that's how he thought of him, as "Mr. Becker," maybe because he was rich-had underlined a lot. He came to a page that was almost all underlined and read:
"When the sentence was communicated to the Inca, he was greatly overcome by it. 'What have I done, or my children, that I should meet such a fate? And from your hands, too,' said he, addressing Pizarro; 'you, who have shared my treasures, who have received nothing but benefits from my hands!'"
"An eyewitness assures us that Pizarro was visibly affected, as he turned away from the Inca."
"When Atahuallpa was bound to the stake, with the fagots that were to kindle his funeral pile lying around him, Father Valverde, holding up the cross, besought him to embrace it and be baptized, promising that, by so doing, the painful death to which he had been sentenced should be commuted for the milder form of the garrote-a mode of punishment by strangulation, used for criminals in Spain."
"The unhappy monarch asked if this were really so, and, on its being confirmed by Pizarro, he consented to abjure his own religion, and receive baptism."
"Atahuallpa expressed a desire that his remains might be transported to Quito, the place of his birth, to be preserved with those of his maternal ancestors. Then turning to Pizarro, as a last request, he implored him to take compassion on his young children, and receive them under his protection. Was there no other one in that dark company who stood grimly around him, to whom he could look for the protection of his offspring? Perhaps he thought there was no other so competent to afford it, and that the wishes so solemnly expressed in that hour might meet with respect even from his Conqueror. Then, recovering his stoical bearing, which for a moment had been shaken, he submitted himself calmly to his fate,-while the Spaniards, gathering around, muttered their credos for the salvation of his soul! Thus by the death of a vile malefactor perished the last of the Incas!"
Next to the bottom of the paragraph, Mr. Becker had written "Disgraceful!"
Diatri heard a sound. He crept forward along the dark passageway, gun drawn, toward the source of the noise. At the head of the passageway he found the wine cellar. The bottles were gone. He shone his light down. The native looked up at him and smiled. He was smashed. A giant bottle of wine, the kind they name after Abyssinian kings was lying across his chest. It was the biggest bottle of wine Diatri had ever seen. The native sang:
"Ay, Pepito, yo te ruego,
Si, si, si, si es que aun me quieres
Como yo te quiero. Ven hacia me,
Pepito de mi corazon…"
He carried him, still singing, out onto the deck. The JUNC leader began to interrogate him in Spanish. "Where are the gringos?"
"Ay, Pepito, yo te ruego… "
Diatri said in Spanish, "You're not going to get anything out of him."
The JUNC leader shook him. "Where are the gringos?"
"Hey," said Diatri. "Easy. He doesn't know anything."
"Stay out of this, Diatri," the JUNC leader shot back. The native stopped singing. He looked confused. They were all wearing Peruvian military uniforms. Why were they speaking English?
Diatri said, "I said, let him alone."
"Fuck off, Diatri. This isn't your business."
"You touch him again I'll make it your business."
"Stand down, both of you!" The commander.
Diatri stormed off forward. He went to the bridge.
There was rubble all over, shot-out windows, splinters of wood, pieces of metal, chunks of fiberglass. Everything useful had been stripped by the natives.
He saw a piece of chart sticking out from underneath-it looked like a stone slab. He saw the brackets on the rear bulkhead-it had come off the wall. He tried to lift it. Too heavy. One of the SEALs was standing watch on the bow. Diatri shouted. "Give me a hand with this, would you?"
The SEAL lifted it easily and leaned it against the remains of the cabinet. These SEALs, they were in extremely good shape.
It was an old stone of some kind, with figures engraved into it in a way that made them seem raised. A giant with one eye was hurling large rocks at some people in a sort of rowboat. The rocks were landing near them, lifting the boat up on the waves they created. Diatri stared more closely. Something was wrong with the giant's eye. It was like he was crying. The guy who seemed to be in charge of the rowboat was gesturing at the giant with a kind of Va fangool!
Diatri examined the chart that had been underneath. There were other things:
a V-shaped stick of plastique, it looked like a box of computer chips, and a small black box with switches and a red button. The SEAL left. The SOLIC commander appeared in the doorway a few moments later, while Diatri was spreading the chart out on the deck.
It was a Defense Hydrographic Agency navigational chart. He saw "Yenan" written in red felt-tip ink over a spot west of the river. The commander peered over his shoulder.
"Yenan?" said Diatri.
"It's a town in China," said the commander. "Shaanxi province. It's where Mao and Zhou Enlai ended the Long March. It's a holy place, like Concord or Lexington. It was their headquarters from '36 to '47. They launched the final phase of the revolution from there."
"So this guy is into Chinese?"
The commander said, "The only real Maoists left are in Peru."
"Sendero."
The commander nodded. He saw the V-shaped stick. "Don't move," he said. He picked it up carefully, then the box of chips and the black box. He examined the stick and said, "It's not armed."
"What is that?"
"HMX. These are nitro-chip primers. Thirty grains of nitroglycerin in silicon. The computer chip inside is coded not to accept any radio signals except one coming from this"-he held out the detonator box.
"This is powerful?"
"Yes," said the commander. "Very powerful. Four million psi."
A shot. They ran out onto the deck. The native was lying dead from a bullet hole in his forehead. The JUNC leader was bolstering his sidearm.
"What the fuck happened? What the fuck happened?"
"He figured out who we were, thanks to you, Diatri. You spoke English in front of him and he figured out who we were."
Diatri lunged. The SEALs pulled him off.
"You fucking asshole, you killed him!"
"My orders are to leave the area undetected. You killed him, Diatri, not me."
"You fuck!"
"Diatri!" The commander took him by the shoulder and walked him forward. He was a strong man, the commander. He took him back to the bridge.
Diatri hit the chart table with his fist.
"It shouldn't have happened," said the commander.
"Oh, great."
"But it did happen. So what are you going to do about it? You're going to do nothing. When we get back, I will report this… crime. Be assured of that. Now you get yourself organized, mister. Is that understood?" The commander left.
Diatri stayed on the bridge, watching the river run past the ship. Her bow was pointed into the current. It seemed as if she were still moving upriver. He stood there watching the river. I hear you're going to Congressional Relations… Congratulations. Should have known. They were just keeping him happy until this was over.
"We've been ordered back." It was the commander.
"You told them?"
"The mission is scrubbed."
"We didn't find any bodies. They could be at this, this Maotown, alive, for all we know."
"The mission is over, Frank. Get moving."
"Wait a minute. These are-these are citizens. You're going to leave them?"
"Orders, Diatri. Do you understand?"
"No. I don't."
"Let's go, Frank."
"Fuck it. You go."
The commander said, "If necessary, I will have you carried back."
Diatri looked at him. "I would not advise you to try that, Commander."
They stared at each other. The commander took a step forward, Diatri put his hand on his pistol. The commander pushed past him and picked up the stick of HMX.
"All right, listen up. You take the primer, you insert the primer in the explosive. The explosive is malleable. These are the safeties, there are six. They must all be switched off or it will not detonate. This is the selector switch. The positions match the numbers on the nitro-chip primers. This is the test light here; if that's lit, you have power. This is the det button."
Diatri nodded. "Okay."
"This is a twelve-hundred-grain stick. The blast radius would be about a hundred meters. Do not be inside it."
"Okay."
"There's an inflatable life raft on deck."
"Yeah, I saw."
The commander started to leave. He said, "You are going to die, you understand that?"
Diatri stared.
"Do you want me to give a message to anyone?"
"Actually, that would be very helpful," said Diatri. He tore off two pieces of the chart and scribbled the same thing on both. "I leave it all to you. Frank." He folded them and on one wrote the name and address of his first ex-wife, and the other's on the second. He handed them to the commander. "Obliged."
The commander nodded. Diatri thought: This should be interesting. He said, "Could you do one other thing for me?"
The commander nodded.
"There's this priest, a Father Rebeta, at St. Mary's on West Thirty-ninth Street, right down by the Hudson River. Could you tell him… tell him that he should quit smoking."
The commander turned to leave. The seaplanes' propellers were turning. Diatri said, "Just tell him that I said hello. Tell him that."
41
He was in his private cable car eyeball-to-eagle-high over the Alps. She was skiing down a long, steep slope beneath him, her scarf trailing behind her. It was a stunning day, cool sparkling air, bright sun. Flawless. He was having coffee, settling down with The Wall Street Journal. He looked down. She waved up at him, he waved back. There was an explosion. The ridge of snow above her began to fall in slow motion. He tried to open the cable-car window to yell at her, to warn her. He pounded on it but it wouldn't open. He was yelling. Margaret looked up from her needlepoint and said, "Hush now, Charley." The wall of snow overtook her. She disappeared. All he saw of her was the scarf. He ran at the cable-car door and put his shoulder into it. It gave and he fell. An eagle flew by with a cigar in its mouth, scowling. He reached for the eagle and missed and went into the snow, bracing for impact, but kept going and broke through into clear blue sky. The snowbank was really a cloud. He fell. He yanked the ripcord. Nothing happened. He looked down at his hand and saw he was holding a watch fob and chain. He fell and fell. He saw the blue planet loom beneath, with hurricane-whorl eyes and typhoon mouth. The mouth bared wide, revealing rows of snowcapped teeth. His feet were starting to catch fire from the heat of reentry. Damnit, Margaret had forgotten to pack his ceramic shoes!
The blue planet turned into a face. The face said, "Tranquilo, billonario."
He was buried in snow up to his neck. No… no… it was a clean sheet that stretched before him, sloping gently upward at his feet.
He heard, "Otra inyeccion." He felt the cool alcohol rub on the inside of his arm, the prick of the needle, a warm river flow into his arm and chest.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"A sus ordenes, billonario."
"Do you have The Wall Street Journal!" Someone laughed. Why was that funny?
Charley reached for the phone to tell Miss Farrell to bring in The Wall Street Journal. They felt very heavy for hands.
"Your hands were cut, billonario. They were full of gold splinters. You should be happy."
He held them up. Something metallic tugged at his right wrist. It looked like a heavy-gauge fishing leader.
"Rest, billonario. We have a busy day tomorrow." The lights went out.
Charley murmured, "Just orange juice and black coffee, thanks."
Kipu's body lay in front of the stone, where he had died from his wound after telling what had happened at Yenan. Kagkui, his mother, held his head and rocked it as she spoke to his spirit. The shaman blew tobacco smoke over the body so that his soul could leave his body without being seen.
Eladio sat at a distance, cross-legged, grinding achiote pods into a wet, red dust with his thumb against the sacred yuka stone from the stomach of a panther. He painted himself and went into the forest to sing the anen songs and fast while the men rubbed darts on the backs of frogs and dipped arrow tips in the fang milk of the jararaca.
Reynoso knocked, put his head in. "He wants to see you."
El Niño stood. Soledad was curled up fetally on the bed facing away from him, still holding her cheek where he had struck her. She had not moved since it happened. He sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair. She stared past him. He said, "They betrayed me, don't you see? They let the pistacos kill my men. If I had not killed Zacari, my men would have killed me out of anger. They would have killed you. It was necessary. Tomorrow I will send a gift to your father to make peace."
Soledad stared away. He left. Outside the room, he said to Reynoso, "Watch her."
He went downstairs to the basement room. Arriaga's men were huddled by the door. They stared at him with the usual suspicion, making him feel like an unworthy visitor in his own house. Arriaga required members of his personal bodyguard to prove their loyalty to him by killing with their hands a member of their family. He knocked and went in.
Arriaga's back was to him. He was looking at the painting.
"Goya," he said.
"Manet. 'The Execution of Maximilian.' But you're very observant. It was inspired by Goya's 'Third of May,' in the Prado."
Arriaga turned slowly in the chair to face him. "I have not come to discuss art with you, comrade."
"No, of course."
"You told your men there was gold on board the boat?"
My men. "My purpose was to take the American alive, with the yacht. The propaganda value is… impossible to estimate. The men were very agitated after the air attack. They only wanted to sink it. I reasoned that if they thought there was gold on board they would take a lighter touch."
Arriaga stared. He had learned not to fill Arriaga's conversational vacuums. Finally Arriaga said, "And?"
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