by Donn Taylor
The name struck Sledge like a blow in the face. For a moment, pain surged through his old wounds as it had in the first weeks after the ambush. But deeper pain stabbed his heart. He’d thought he had grieved himself numb over Alita, the only person with whom he’d ever known tenderness, but now grief sprang up as powerfully as ever. For a fleeting moment he knew there was something he had to remember, something lost somewhere in the haze of pain and anesthesia. Then it was gone in a surge of the deep, flaming anger he thought he had buried long ago.
Spinner’s malignant grin broadened. “I thought that would interest you. You get another crack at the man who shot you up and killed your sweetheart.” He shifted subjects abruptly. “By the way, it isn’t clear who paid your medical bills. I don’t suppose you’d like to say...”
Sledge said nothing. Brinkman had taken good care of him, all things considered. When his thoughts returned to Spinner’s proposition, Sledge realized that the white heat of anger had made him reconsider. But not anger alone. If he survived this fool’s errand, the four hundred thousand would finance the training required for his life as New Sledge.
He sighed. “If I do take the job, exactly what do you want me to do?”
“Find the two women.” Spinner’s jaw tightened. “And if they’re alive, bring them out. Your job is done when you deliver them to my home office in New Orleans.”
Sledge remained cautious. “You’d be smart to offer Contreras another million or so. This job will cost plenty beyond what you pay me. I’ll have to buy information and then mount two operations, one to divert the guerrillas and another to extract the women. They may be dead already, or they could be killed during the escape. In the end, you may get nothing but disaster for your money.”
Spinner snorted. “That’s my worry. You’ll be paid in any case. Half in advance and the rest upon delivery, with an extra hundred thousand if you kill Diego Contreras.”
Sledge allowed an unpleasant grin to show. “I’m surprised a philanthropist like you would suggest such a thing. Besides, you’ve spent years being a cheerleader for the guerrillas. Why the sudden change?”
Now Spinner looked unpleasant. “Contreras cheated me out of three million dollars. As I said, nobody double-crosses me and gets by with it. You’ll do well to remember that.”
Sledge made a point of changing the subject. “You’ll give me information on the two women?”
The billionaire handed him two black-and-white photographs and a page of typewritten notes. The photos showed attractive blondes who could have passed for either Dutch or Norwegian. They looked enough alike to be sisters. Neither was beautiful, but both radiated a lively energy Sledge found surprising. He’d expected Spinner’s daughter to be slack, but both women seemed equally alive.
The name Jocelyn Spinner was written in a masculine hand on the back of one photo. Sledge wondered why she was using her maiden name, but he decided not to ask. On the back of the other picture he read the name Kristin Halvorsen. He examined the two faces again, but found no clue as to the character or motives of either woman.
Another worry nagged at the back of his mind. He had the feeling Spinner was withholding something, but he couldn’t guess what it might be.
Spinner interrupted his thoughts. “We’ve done what we can for now. I have to go back downtown before people get curious.”
He stood, and Sledge rose with him. The two gunmen also stood. At a glance from Spinner, the cheerful one headed out through the front door. Sledge followed him, with Spinner and the surly gunman trailing behind.
Spinner paused in the doorway. “One of my executives will contact you tomorrow.” He turned on his heel and left.
The remaining gunman stopped in front of Sledge and sneered.
The anger and frustration of the evening boiled up in Sledge like a thermometer in a blast furnace. Almost before he thought, his right hand ripped upward with his full weight behind it. The heel of his palm struck the gunman’s jaw. The man toppled through the doorway and lay still on the sidewalk.
Spinner’s face reddened as he surveyed the fallen bodyguard. He threw a furious glance at Sledge. “You’ve broken his jaw. Did you have to do that?”
Sledge gave him a hard look. “Of course not,” he said. “That was optional.”
It looked like Old Sledge was back in business. And the prospect of vital action should, for a while, push back his brooding consciousness of the world’s emptiness.
2
Colombia
In a bare hut high in the Andes, Kristin Halvorsen looked into the black eyes of Diego Contreras and wished she’d never agreed to switch identities with Jocelyn Spinner. If she hadn’t, then Jocelyn would be suffering this third life-threatening interview. And she, Kristin, could rest with relative safety in the rat-infested hovel that had been their prison for the last two weeks.
Without the identity switch, though, she wouldn’t even be in Colombia. For Steve Spinner had been adamant. Forcing Jocelyn to travel as a lowly reporter rather than a rich heiress was part of his incredibly cruel plan to humiliate his daughter. And for Kristin the choice proved simple: no identity change, no story about the massacre. Traveling on false passports was illegal, but it gave her the chance at a blockbuster story that would catapult her into journalistic stardom.
Now she had the story, if she lived to tell it. And, of course, if she could find her way back to the place where she’d hidden the evidence.
She didn’t know exactly where she was now. She and Jocelyn had been brought here blindfolded, but they couldn’t be much more than twenty miles from the scene of their capture. The frigid air that made her shiver even with her jacket collar turned up told her they’d been taken much higher into the Andes. And she hated this grubby village of a dozen huts that served as a guerrilla headquarters.
The elevation had to be quite high, for her short walk through the village left her out of breath. Her nausea didn’t help either. Even in the fresh, cold air of this mountain valley, her guards, reeking of garlic and unwashed bodies, made her want to retch. Armed with AK-47s, they stood behind her now in this bare room. Seated in a lumpy, rough-hewn chair, she faced Diego Contreras across an unpainted wooden table.
Contreras gave her an intimidating glance, followed by a smile that went no farther than his lips. “How is your journalist companion today, Miss Spinner?”
So he was trying the good-cop routine today. He certainly should, after the way he’d threatened her last time.
“Well enough for someone who’s being held prisoner.” She returned the guerrilla’s stare and rested her arms on the table. “When will you return us to my father?”
“I have great admiration for your father.” Contreras leaned back in his chair with a gesture of relaxation that seemed too deliberate. “For his daughter, too. You have shown us courage. I thought your journalist friend would have some spunk, yet she goes into hysterics whenever we question her.”
Thank goodness for that. If both of us answered, we might get our stories crossed.
Kristin fixed her gaze on her captor. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She tried not to blink, determined not to show the terror that constricted her heart. The dark, heavily bearded man across from her, his fatigue sleeves rolled up to show the thickly matted black hair of his forearms, looked like a comic-opera parody of Fidel Castro. But the evidence she’d discovered showed him deadly as a cobra. Her hope of staying alive lay in his not knowing she possessed that evidence.
“Good breeding will out,” Contreras quoted, now seemingly affable. “Your friend may be a good journalist, but your father gave you something more valuable. Genes that give you courage. Your friend goes to pieces over nothing.”
“It must have been the sight of so much blood.”
The guerrilla’s black eyes flared. His body stiffened.
Blast! Why did I have to mention blood?
She’d known there was something odd about the blood, yet she’d blundered onto the
subject in a way that could cost her life.
Nothing to do now but brazen her way through. “I wasn’t ready for it, either. I’d been told that automatic weapons had savage effects, but I was shocked when we stumbled onto the bodies.” She shook her head in feigned unbelief. “I’d heard how brutal the right-wing death squads were. But I didn’t believe it until I saw their handiwork.”
Contreras’s bodily tension eased a cautious fraction. “Tell me again how you happened to find the atrocity.”
“Again?” She made a disdainful face. “Well...As I told you, we thought we’d seen every kind of bird in the area. Then this new one flew by, all yellow and orange. My friend and I followed it and got separated from the rest of our party.” Kristin hoped she could lie better than Contreras. At least she was consistent.
“We were trying to photograph the bird when we found the bodies. Then your men grabbed us. They smashed our cameras.” She feigned exasperation. “Now we can’t prove we discovered a new bird.”
“My men thought you were photographing them and their equipment.” Contreras turned his palms upward. “They were liberating that area from the paramilitaries, the scum who committed the massacre several weeks ago and murdered the men whose bodies you found. My soldiers are trained to protect military secrets. I’m not surprised they thought you were spies.”
What a liar! Kristin hoped her face didn’t show her disbelief. “Since you know we’re not spies, you’ll release us soon?”
“As soon as it is safe.” Contreras’s smile again stopped short of his eyes. “First, my guerrillas must finish clearing the area of paramilitaries. Then we will send you home.”
“Why do we remain under guard?”
“For your protection. You’ve seen what the death squads can do. We must return you safely to your father—a great man, as I have said.”
Kristin’s journalistic instincts got the better of her. “When did you know him?”
Contreras’s eyes flickered for an instant. “I met him during the eighties in Managua while our brothers there fought for social justice. Your father and I were helping them, but your country worked against us.” His eyes darkened. “He has told you of this struggle, of course?”
“Only vaguely.” Kristin felt the hot breath of danger and searched for a safe answer. “My father tried to interest me in politics, but I disappointed him. I turned out to be a spoiled brat.”
“And a very beautiful one you are.” He shook his finger at her. “Don’t worry your pretty head about politics or military operations. When my men have made the area safe, we will send you home.” He stood, signaling the end of the interview.
“One more thing.” She also stood. “There were six other members of our bird-watching group. What happened to them?”
Contreras’s eyes flickered again. “I have no knowledge of them.” Suddenly gracious, he again showed his mirthless smile. “Remember. Be patient and don’t worry about politics. Soon we will send you back to your father.”
The stench of garlic again enveloped Kristin. A rough hand on her shoulder turned her toward the door. Her heart pounding, she responded with a show of docility.
Outside, she shivered in the cold as a wave of despair swept over her. For a moment she wanted to pray to her parents’ God for protection. She bit her lip and suppressed the impulse. She’d long since left those childish myths behind. Human action and nothing more had caused this situation, and only human action could get her out of it. That was the way things were in this world, and she’d better make the best of it.
Walking between her guards, she tried to evaluate her interrogation by Contreras. Did he really believe she thought automatic weapons caused the blood on those bodies? She hoped so, but even a junior-grade journalist could see there were no entry or exit wounds. She thought she knew why the dead men’s eyes had pin-pointed pupils.
But where did all the blood come from?
The guards stopped at the door of her hovel. When Kristin entered, Jocelyn threw her arms around her and cried, “Thank heavens you’re back!”
“It wasn’t too bad.” Kristin pulled Jocelyn close and whispered in her ear. “Your hysterics act worked. He thinks you’re a nitwit. Keep it up.”
“How did you make out?” Jocelyn whispered.
“OK, I think.” Kristin hoped she was right. “He still thinks we blame the paramilitaries, and he says he’ll send us home soon. But he’s got something up his sleeve.”
“Do you really think he’ll let us go?”
“I don’t know. He lies about so many things. Last time, he complained about primitive communications, but he had a satellite phone clipped on his belt. He could call your father in five minutes if he wanted to.”
“So, what are we going to do?” Jocelyn sounded desperate.
“Wait for some kind of break, I guess.” Kristin sighed. “And try not to say something that’ll get us killed.”
****
As Contreras watched the girl’s departure, a uniformed guerrilla entered by another door. “She knows more than she admits, Comandante. It is safer to kill them both.”
“We must take the long view, Tomás,” Contreras gazed at the wall above his deputy’s head. “After we have formed the new government in Bogotá, we will need men like her father to influence public opinion among the gringos. He has supported our cause in the past. When we return his daughter and pay back his money, he will see that the kidnapping was necessary to conceal our plans and our weapon of terror.”
“But if she suspects...”
“If I thought she did, I would kill them both and say they were ambushed by paramilitaries while my men were returning them to her father.” His jaw muscles worked back and forth. “But she does not suspect, so we can take the long view. Only the truth about the Chozadolor massacre can harm us. Once we have seized power, it will make no difference if she knows about our weapon.”
Contreras looked beyond the walls of the hut. “Two short weeks from now the entire world will know. And stand in awe.”
3
Houston, Texas
Two hectic days after meeting Steve Spinner, Sledge took the afternoon flight out of Houston for Bogotá. He’d never have gotten it all done without Roger Brinkman. In truth, the success of this mission depended not only on Brinkman’s information-gathering network, but on the older man’s ability to make no-questions-asked arrangements in the twilight world of international espionage.
In contrast with the tranquil blue Caribbean that slipped silently beneath the aircraft, Sledge’s mood grew increasingly grim. The bravado he’d shown Steve Spinner wouldn’t help him here. He’d taken the job partly for a chance at revenge on Diego Contreras and partly to finance his transition to a placid life. But in the heat of anger, he hadn’t counted the cost. Even the best intelligence could not eliminate his risks. He’d be on his own, without the immense back-up resources he’d had in Special Ops. And he might end up in worse shape than he had last time.
Dead, for instance.
Nearing Bogotá, Sledge watched the declining sun’s soft play on the majestic peaks of the Cordillera Oriental, the most easterly of Colombia’s three Andean ranges. From up here, everything looked peaceful. But on foot down there, he’d be dwarfed by every rugged crag, each step advancing him into the vicious world of guerrilla warfare.
With an effort, he willed himself into the proper frame of mind for combat. No room for books or soft-music CDs here. Deliberately, he squeezed the last drop of emotion out of his psyche. Machine-like, then, he focused on specific tasks he had to accomplish to complete his mission and come back alive.
In Bogotá’s El Dorado Airport, police and a drug-sniffing dog gave him and his one light bag the once-over before clearing him for entry. He was supposed to be met, but no one in the terminal’s milling crowds seemed to have that mission.
“Señor Sledge?” The speaker blended into the crowd so perfectly that Sledge had passed him over. Now he wondered why. The man was a well-muscle
d, square-jawed mestizo with an incandescent smile and a three-inch scar on his left cheek. In his late twenties, Sledge guessed, a bit taller than six feet, and perhaps two hundred pounds in weight. Impressive. Score one for Brinkman’s judgment.
“I’m Sledge,” he said.
The man replied in English. “There was no mistaking you, señor. You’re the only passenger who weighs more than the airplane.” The smile broadened. “I am Raúl. I will drive you to meet Señor Ramirez.” As he guided Sledge to the exit he added, “It is good that you watch the crowd. But the two big fellows waiting outside are ours—to guard us to our destination.”
Sledge laughed. “Glad you told me. I like to avoid misunderstandings.”
The two guards convoyed them to Raúl’s car and then followed in their own. Bogotá’s familiar darkened streets revived poignant memories. Sledge and Alita had driven those same streets together. But soft memories had no place in his present mission. He thrust them aside and asked, “Where will our meeting take place?”
“At the office of Señor Ramirez.”
Silence. Raúl’s eyes remained focused on the road.
Sledge tried again. “I’ve never met the gentleman. Can you tell me something about him?”
A shrewd glance. “I can tell you much, señor, but you must understand that I am prejudiced.”
“How’s that?”
Raúl’s teeth gleamed. “Señor Ramirez is my father, and I am a sheep off the old black.”
Sledge tried not to look surprised. Brinkman had warned that the Ramirez crowd performed well but had odd habits of speech. The second half of that description had now been confirmed.
Even the “performed well” had a questionable codicil: “You think they’re nowhere around,” Brinkman said. “Then they turn up with the problem solved by some wild method no one else could imagine.” Regardless, Sledge would have to work with them.
Raúl continued. “Señor Ramirez is one of seven men who defeated a guerrilla coup against our government in the seventies. He grew up near the place you will be working. His contacts are good, and he has information for you. Without that, your job would be harder than passing a camel through the eye of a noodle.”