by Glen Carter
On screen, while George continued to roll, Kaitlin stopped to look at her watch. “Come on, Jack. We’ve got ten minutes with this guy. That’s it.” At that point on the tape Jack walked into the office. Kaitlin’s eyes brightened when she saw him. She smiled. “Thought you got lost,” she said.
Jack heard the sound of his own voice.
“Have I ever let you down, Ms O’Rourke?”
In the motel room, Jack winced because he knew what was coming next.
“There’s always the first time,” Kaitlin said and then disappeared off camera.
Mercedes watched in awe, speechless.
“That’s Kaitlin O’Rourke,” Jack said, studying Mercedes’ face. “And since you’re not her, it means she’s probably dead.”
FIFTY-NINE
It was part trust and part gamble. Mercedes decided it was time to take a chance. She told them almost everything, and when she was finished talking Seth added his two cents. “This Montello bloke is a real piece of work.”
Jack shook his head. He breathed deeply. This was bad. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a drug lord’s type.”
Mercedes averted her eyes. “This is not so.”
Seth opened his mouth and then shut it again. He shook his head and got up to repack his cables.
“You’re absolutely right. It is none of my business,” Jack replied. “Good looks. Money. Guy’s one of the most powerful men in Colombia. What girl wouldn’t fall for him?”
Seth was oblivious to Jack’s sarcasm. “Did you mention that he has the biggest collection of Renaissance art in Central and South America?”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck and turned away, fixing his eyes on the wall. She’d been the consort of a Colombian drug lord who was now mightily pissed and wasn’t handling it well at all. Killing her friends. Great. But how was Raspov involved? Jack walked to the bed and collapsed onto it. “An acquaintance of mine tried to kill us today. Probably to get to you. Any ideas why?”
“No,” Mercedes lied, looking away again.
Jack got up. “Then don’t you want to know who that guy was. Shooting at us?”
Mercedes didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him.
Jack continued anyway, “I’d wanna know everything about a guy shooting at me like that, a guy with two big apes. I’d wonder, what’s his bloody problem?”
“They’re your friends,” Mercedes said. “How should I know?”
Jack sat again at the foot of the bed, buried his head in his hands. “Let’s start from the beginning. First there’s the suicide bombing and Kaitlin’s disappearance.” There was a pause. “Then you on that beach back there. Seth thinks he’s seeing a ghost and he shoots that video which he e-mails to me. Raspov’s ex-KGB and I go to him in Cuba because I’m sure he can get me ‘unofficially’ into Colombia. I know I have to find Seth in order to find the woman you just saw on that tape. Turns out my Seth here led us all to you, not Kaitlin, and it’s no wonder because you could be the same person. Right, Seth?”
“Had me fooled.”
Jack continued, “After I spotted you in that crowd today, and tackled you on the beach, that’s when my ‘friend’ started shooting. He apparently wanted to get his hands on you pretty bad. Would have too had Seth not come along when he did.”
“You are kidnappers,” Mercedes said, accusation flashing in her eyes.
“If you like,” Jack said, remembering the look of fury on Raspov’s face as they sped away. “Kidnappers or saviours,” he added. Jack didn’t doubt what Dmitri had intended. Bullets for all of them. The Mendoza woman had a lot more to explain. Everything was somehow connected. Mercedes, Kaitlin and now Raspov and Montello. “So which are we? Kidnappers or saviours?”
Mercedes thought for a long time, the face of a blackjack player trying to decide whether to take another hit – go for broke. Then she began to speak, “The Russian came with his two ‘apes’ to Montello’s villa. A month ago. Maybe.” Mercedes looked at Jack, then at Seth who found a place on the floor where he sat against the wall. “I was getting in the car to leave when they came.” Mercedes remembered the way the Russian had stared at her. The look on his face. On the way home Mercedes couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been expected to acknowledge him in some way. Her driver and the bodyguard were talking in hushed tones. Had called the Russians tres verdugo. The three executioners.
“Then there was after that time. Raspov came with a soldier,” she continued. “Branko took them to his study.” Mercedes looked from Jack to Seth. End of story.
“That’s it?” Jack said. “All of it?”
She paused. “No.”
“Go on,” Jack said.
“Yes,” Seth added. “I can hardly wait.”
Mercedes went on. “The Russian – your friend – was mucho…very excited. Castro…Fidel. He talked much about him.”
“Hold on a second,” Jack interrupted, but Seth asked the obvious question. “How do you know what he talked about?”
Mercedes looked at both of them with the hint of a smile. “I was, as you say, the fly on the wall.”
Seth and Jack wiped the surprised looks from their faces and got more comfortable as Mercedes began to tell the rest of the story. Nothing could have distracted the two men, not alien spacecraft crashing through the ceiling or a chorus line of Rockettes splintering through the hotel room door.
It was the second time Mercedes had dared to enter Montello’s study. Second thoughts, second guessing. Whatever it was, it pulled her to the safe again. To confirm its contents. To bolster her courage. She couldn’t believe her bad luck when she was forced once again to hide beneath his desk.
“You heard them?”
“Si,” Mercedes said simply. “I hid under his desk. I listened.”
Jack pictured her cramped and squat beneath the desk, fearing the one twitch or spasm or panicked gasp that would give her away. The woman had grande cajones all right.
Mercedes studied Jack’s approval. She continued, “They talked about soldiers. A big attack. The president would be dead because people in the presidential palace were part of it. The soldier who came with Raspov was worried about the United States.” Mercedes paused, searching for the right words. “Montello told him the United States would not interfere. It would be taken care of.”
Jack looked at her quizzically. “Take care of it? How?”
“He did not say. That’s all.”
Seth swore under his breath. “Sounds like someone’s preparing to overthrow the Colombian government.”
“Sounds worse than that,” Jack added. He looked at Mercedes. “What else?”
“There was very much I could not hear. Then they went.”
“And you’re certain it was Raspov?”
“Yes.”
“What about the other man?”
“A soldier, I am almost sure. They sound the same. I choked on the smoke from his cigar. Once I nearly coughed.”
Jack and Seth were thinking the same man. Domingo Guzman, the commander of the rebel camp.
Mercedes continued, “The next time I saw the Russian was with you and him. I thought you were part of them. You scared me, so I ran from you.”
The bed was strewn with junk food Seth had gotten from a vending machine near the entrance to the motel. It was the best they could hope for at one a.m. in the middle of nowhere. Pollard reached for a bag of potato chips and ripped it open, held it out for the others. “Jalapeño.”
They ignored him.
Mercedes suspected the Russian had been dispatched by Montello to find her. He’d used Jack to get to her. Seth, now stuffing himself with potato chips, had spotted Mercedes on the beach that day and had taken the video, starting the chain of events. Mercedes didn’t know what to make of the girl on the videotape. The girl Jack was looking for. Maybe Mercedes wasn’t alone, after all. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake. It suddenly overwhelmed her. Mercedes brought a wad of tissues to her face.
Seth munched noisily.
“Kaitlin could have been your twin.”
Mercedes looked at him through moist, bleary eyes.
Jack shook his head.
Seth shrugged.
Jack walked to the window and peeked through the curtain. The neon sign flickered at the edge of the parking lot above the two pickup trucks. “Colcord Pipeline Services” said the sign on one of the truck’s dented doors. There was no one in sight. Jack wondered what Raspov was planning for them. Mercedes had finally revealed how she’d known them. Dmitri Raspov and the two brothers were involved in some scheme, possibly a coup d’etat. The plan had probably been sanctioned by Castro to clear the way for a friendly Marxist regime in Colombia. Jack was sure the American government would never allow that to happen – Marxists controlling the illegal cocaine trade would generate unlimited resources to fund FARC’s ideological agenda. Lots of hard currency in Castro’s pocket too. Everyone got their beak wet. Montello had told Guzman the US would not interfere. How could he be certain of that? What was his “insurance policy”?
“First things first,” Jack said, pointing a finger at Mercedes. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
Seth stopped chewing. “I’ll wager the DEA would love to have about two days of her time.”
“Good thinking,” Jack said. “And no doubt they’d love to hear about Raspov. No doubt he’s been opening new markets for Montello with the Russian mob. Think about the market potential.”
Seth nodded his agreement and then raised a single finger. “And since Raspov and Montello are mates, Dmitri is recruited to recover Montello’s property.” Seth looked at Mercedes. “No offence.”
“Si. Bien.”
Something occurred to Jack. He’d shown up on Dmitri’s doorstep with the thread Raspov could follow right to Mercedes. Seth’s mystery video. Raspov had known all along who the woman in the photograph was. It had been convenient to nurture Jack’s illusion. With Seth’s help Jack had unwittingly led him right to Montello’s “property.” Jack told them what he was thinking.
Seth was still puzzled. “Why do Montello’s dirty work? What’s in it for Raspov?”
They both looked at her.
Mercedes shrugged.
Jack suspected she was holding something back. He clenched his teeth as he thought about the possibilities. If Raspov wanted her, it was because she held value for Raspov. Besides, Montello didn’t need the Russian’s help in that regard. He had no shortage of resources.
Seth held up a finger.
Jack saw it. “What?”
“There’s something else.”
“Christ.”
Seth’s forehead wrinkled in apology. “I wasn’t sure until after the Russians showed their hand today. Now I’m sure.”
“What?”
“Your friend Raspov is quite the piece of work, Jack.” Seth appeared to be steeling himself. “The Rio Atrato massacre. Remember it? A bunch of farmers slaughtered apparently because they’d had enough of the coca. Tired of the fumigation chemicals killing their livestock. I went in to get some footage for Reuters. Not much left but aftermath – and the widows. ‘Tres Ruso–’”
“Three Russians,” Mercedes translated, eagerly.
“Yeah,” Seth replied. “Three Russians. Two as big as trees. One of the widows said they forced the women and children to drag the corpses of their men into the river and made them watch as they floated downstream.”
Mercedes was mortified by the image. Without explanation she grabbed the telephone and retreated as far as the cord would allow. With her back to Seth and Jack and huddled in a corner, she spent the next ten minutes speaking in hushed, but urgent tones. She replaced the phone, a look of relief on her face.
Jack had screwed up, big time. If it were true, it meant the Russian – the mercenary entrepreneur – had been doing the cartel’s grisly wet work for some time now. It was even possible that Montello had paid Raspov to assassinate the justice minister – Amillo – patron of the extradition treaty. As outside talent, Raspov would have provided the drug lord with arm’s-length deniability, for whatever optical value it provided. Jack turned from the window, unable to disguise his grim comprehension.
Seth detected it immediately. “What?” he said.
Comprehension vanished, replaced by gloom. “The bastards blew up that restaurant. Killed that farmer and his family. I’ve put us in grave danger by foolishly trusting a man I hardly know.”
For a long time no one spoke.
Mercedes excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she returned her face was freshly scrubbed. Her long hair was tied back tightly to reveal her beautiful face. She moved to the bed, quietly reflective – there, but not really.
She held a stranger’s moods, though Jack easily recognized regret and sadness. Her friends had been brutally murdered as a direct result of her actions. Also, she would never know the woman who might easily have been her sister.
Jack wasn’t one for self-pity, but he had plenty of it for her.
Seth excused himself. “Met one of those rig workers from 113 at the vending machines. The lads are having a bit of a do and I said I’d drop in for a cerveza. Don’t wait up.”
Mercedes watched Seth leave. After an uncomfortable moment she pulled her knees tight to her chest. “The woman in the office. The videotape.”
Jack knew what she was expecting. She’d want to know everything. He spent a moment collecting his thoughts, trying to rationalize the spectacle before him, a stranger who wasn’t a stranger, except there was a life’s worth of differences separating the two women. Things superficially evident. Mercedes the Colombian. The way she spoke and carried herself. The low-cut jeans and belly ring that glistened below her too-short top. Everything about the way her body responded to its surroundings suggested an almost reckless sexuality. Her hand gently stroked the soft folds of a pillow she was at that moment cuddling at her breasts. The way she used her tongue to moisten full red lips while her eyes searched his face for clues to his meaning. Her head tilted, hair swept back exposing her throat. None of these things seemed any more contrived than the luxurious grooming of a cat sunning itself. But they were qualities not openly displayed by Kaitlin O’Rourke, in the same way a rosebud has yet to reveal the full potential of its sensuality.
The Colombian Mercedes Mendoza was an only child. According to what she told them she’d been raised by nuns at an orphanage after the death of her parents in a car accident. She knew of no other family and was bewildered at her astounding resemblance to the woman in the video.
Jack recalled what the drunken Argus had told him. The peasant girl who had become pregnant. The desperate letter. Giving up her child. Argus had never revealed her name. If Kaitlin knew, it was likely she’d had to beg for it.
Mercedes was waiting. Jack started with Argus and Kaitlin’s Colombian mother.
“What was her name? Does she live?”
Simple questions. Astonishingly absent of answers, Jack shook his head.
Mercedes listened closely, interrupting only when she had a question. Argus?
“Fire red and stubborn as forged steel.”
“A Viking,” she said. Why had he left Kaitlin’s mother?
Jack shrugged, even though he could have easily guessed. Pairing with Argus – part boiler, part squall – promised a wretched existence. That might have been an exaggeration. In truth he was a caring, good-humoured soul who had raised a fine daughter. Jack offered a tempered assessment on both accounts.
“Kaitlin is beautiful. She received none of him.” Mercedes smiled mischievously when she realized how immodest that sounded.
Jack cocked an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “She cherished her father, was pretty protective of him. She was like that with the people she loved, but let me tell you, she had no tolerance for fools and assholes, no tolerance at all.”
Mercedes nodded. Even though she didn’t fully comprehend, Jack’s tone said everything.
Jack thought about the hooded Klansman in Mississippi whom t
hey’d managed to track down for an interview after the fire bombing of a black daycare. She’d gone toe-to-toe and called him schmuck before Jack intervened for the sake of the story, and their safety.
He also remembered the time a widow in her apartment building broke her ankle. Kaitlin made her meals and walked her dog.
Mercedes seemed pleased by that.
Jack could have continued except Mercedes curled up on the bed and was dozing off. Jack pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and slipped quietly away from the bed. As he stepped through the open door Jack stopped to think again about the last thing she had sleepily said. “Were you…”
Jack had laughed no, realizing he was embarrassed more by his answer than her question. He turned as she softly snored and studied her a moment. Then quietly he closed the door.
Schmuck, he said to himself.
SIXTY
TRINITY ORPHANAGE.
The children were half asleep, and some of them were crying, and the oldest among them was frightened. They had been roused from their beds in the darkness and told to pack their belongings quickly.
The nun told Ernesto they were going on a trip. “Help the little ones,” Sister Evangeline ordered and dashed from the room.
Without questioning he darted between the small beds with quick hands and now and then words of encouragement for the bewildered children, though Ernesto knew something was definitely wrong. “This way, Dominique,” he told the little Choco girl who was trying to stuff everything she owned into a sack no bigger than two loaves of bread. “Put the rest with Luis…he’s got room.”
Luis didn’t protest, looked proudly into Ernesto’s face and nodded as he cleared a space for the little girl’s clothing.
“Doctor Sam can go too?” the little girl pleaded, adjusting a sticky white bandage she’d stuck to the front of her stuffed animal.
“Of course. Doctor Sam takes care of you,” Ernesto told her, understanding that since her heart operation, Dominique couldn’t be separated from the small toy bear.