by Donn Taylor
The rescued women were absolutely stunning. Both wore pastel skirts and sweaters that revealed trim figures without flaunting them. Beneath blonde hair, their blue eyes gleamed out from radiant complexions. Elena Ramirez provided a vivacious brunette contrast.
Sledge put on a thoughtful expression. “I have to admit you ladies look better without camouflage.”
They showed pained expressions and said “Thanks,” in unison. Then they exchanged amused glances, sharing that secret joke again. Sledge was sure Steve Spinner had withheld information, and now the women were holding something back, as well. Would the thing he didn’t know blow up in his face? He could not tell. He could only grit his teeth and push ahead.
His brooding didn’t spoil the delicious dinner, though. He ate with the appetite of a man who’d lived three days on supercharged candy bars. Ramón spared him the effort of conversation by launching into a monologue about the hacienda. It belonged to the Roca family, wealthy Colombian industrialists for whom Ramón had once worked. The family now had only one member, a widow. She had moved to Costa Rica and remarried, but she allowed her Colombian properties to be used in good causes.
Sledge listened half-attentively and watched other members of the group. Vickers and Javier bantered with Elena Ramirez, who punctuated their conversation with an occasional laugh.
Raúl, seated between the two blondes, was obviously enjoying himself. The journalist flirted openly with him. No telling what tricks that woman had up her sweater sleeve. It was a nicely filled sleeve, but tricks were still tricks.
After dinner, the group re-aligned for coffee in the sitting room. Sledge made a point of speaking with the rescued women but, sensing their reticence, he kept the exchanges brief. They seemed relieved when he moved on.
Just one more day and he’d be rid of them. “What will you do now?” he asked Vickers over a second coffee.
The missionary shrugged. “My work in Colombia is ended. I can’t move freely while I’m on the guerrillas’ hit list. Right now I can’t move anywhere because they took my passport. When the embassy straightens out my documents, I’ll go back to my home church and try to be useful.”
“Where is home?”
“Houston, same as you, but I’m nearer the central city. What will you do?”
Sledge looked away. “I’m not sure. Maybe train myself for something on the quiet side.”
“You’ll never be happy with it.”
“I guess not. How did you know?” Usually on his guard with church people, Sledge somehow felt free to confide in Vickers.
The missionary’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve worn a glum face ever since we landed.”
“I hoped it wasn’t that obvious.”
“I think I understand. Everyone needs a sense of...well...rightness. Different people try to find it in different ways. Your way is action doing good things. And usually risking your neck to do them.”
“I guess that’s a fair comment.” It was more than that. It was a dead-center bull’s-eye.
The missionary looked off into space. “What you’re discovering is that you can’t ever be good enough. It’s beyond the human capability to earn that sense of rightness.”
“So what must we do?”
Instead of answering, Vickers took a new tack. “The ancient Greek heroes—Achilles, Ulysses, the whole crowd of them—tried it your way. When you boil it down, they were trying to justify themselves. It didn’t work for them, either.”
“OK. We’ve read the same books. So what does it prove?” Sledge was finding an unsuspected depth in Vickers, but he felt his impatience rising.
“The Romans did a little bit better,” the missionary continued. “Cicero and Virgil had their heroes work for a cause outside themselves—the good of Rome.” He fixed his gaze on Sledge. “That’s where you are now: self-sacrifice and good deeds in a good cause. But it didn’t work for the Romans, either.”
“Then what’s the answer?”
“The Hebrews already had the answer. Surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
Vickers again avoided answering. “You’ve built a career on making Good win out over Evil, but it’s never been enough. You have to look to the source of good. To God Himself.”
Sledge frowned. “I should have known you’d end up with church talk.”
The missionary refused to be distracted. “Moses tried the Greek and Roman way. He took it upon himself to kill the Egyptian he found persecuting a Jew, and it got him forty years in the wilderness. At the burning bush he surrendered to God, and that let him lead his people out of bondage. It’s the same with all the Biblical heroes: they either assert themselves into defeat or surrender themselves into God’s victory.”
Irritated, Sledge made no reply. On the other side of the room, the brat huddled with Elena Ramirez. Their gestures showed that they were talking of something that made them angry, and their glances in his direction suggested it might be him. The other blonde—the journalist—listened in silence.
“I tried the Greek way to find justification.” Vickers spoke more to himself than to Sledge. “In Vietnam, I kept volunteering for jobs I thought would satisfy, but nothing ever did. So I kept taking more and more risks. Oh, I did good work, and the things I did needed doing. But the risks finally paid off against me. I got shot up.”
“I’m sorry,” Sledge said.
“Don’t be. It woke me up. In the hospital, I figured out there had to be another way. It took me several years to find it, but I finally surrendered, and here I am. For you, it may not be the ministry or the mission field. It may even be doing the same thing you’ve been doing, but with that added final dimension of meaning.” He sighed. “That’s the key. Without God, there can’t be a complete sense of rightness.”
Sledge stood to take his leave. “I’ll give it some thought.” But not anytime soon. He’d gotten more than he bargained for. Things that worked for Vickers wouldn’t necessarily work for him.
He confirmed tomorrow’s schedule with Ramón. They would catch an early afternoon flight to Miami with a connecting flight to New Orleans, where he would deliver the women to Steve Spinner. Though the hacienda was considered secure, Ramón would still provide an armed guard in the hallway outside the two women’s rooms.
With that, Sledge headed upstairs. Later, lying in bed, he organized his thoughts for tomorrow. Escorting the women through two flights and one taxi ride shouldn’t be difficult. Yet something in the back of his mind warned that it wouldn’t be easy. He didn’t like the women’s secret joke or the brat’s heated conversation with Elena. But he saw no substantive reason for his misgivings.
Well, then, he’d tackle the problems as they arose. His talk with Vickers crossed his mind. It had given him plenty to think about. But not now. Angrily, he thrust the unwelcome thoughts from his mind, pushed back the familiar emptiness, and fell asleep.
12
When Sledge awoke, his uneasiness remained. It persisted as a somber undertone to pleasant talk with Vickers over a delicious breakfast of Spanish omelet. While they lingered over coffee, the journalist arrived. Her nervousness started his apprehension simmering, but he found no rational basis for it.
Gracious as always, Vickers brought the woman into the conversation. “Your editor is a man to be envied. Your kidnapping will give you more stories than he can print.”
Her eyes showed fear. “I should have quite a few.” She forked an overly large bite of omelet into her mouth.
“Which story will you write first?”
She swallowed hard, and the half-chewed bite of omelet fought back. Sledge thought she might choke, but she got it down on the second try.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d rather not talk shop.”
Then we’ll get practical, Sledge thought. “We have to leave for the airport soon. Where is your friend?”
“She said something about sleeping late.” The woman looked as guilty as a child caught baptizing a kitten in the commode
.
Sledge’s apprehension boiled up into anger. No sleepy-headed brat was going to spoil this operation even if he had to drag her out of bed. He stood and pushed back his chair.
Before he could move, Raúl ran in with a distraught chambermaid. “Señor Sledge,” he said. “The señorita. She...she is gone.”
Sledge bolted from the dining room and up the stairs. The armed guard still held his post in the hallway before the women’s rooms. Grim-faced, he pointed toward an open door. Sledge plunged through it and confronted an empty room.
Well, not quite empty. The former occupant’s baggage stood near the doorway, packed and ready for transport to the airport. But there was no sign of her.
Vickers, Raúl, and the maid charged in with Ramón, who immediately took charge. He soon found there had been no forced entry, and the windows were locked from the inside. A search of the other rooms revealed nothing. The maid knew only that the señorita was not there when she came to wake her at nine. The guard said no one except the other blonde had passed through the hallway since he came on duty at six. The investigation moved to the dining room where the guard identified the “other blonde,” who still sat at the table and toyed with a half-filled coffee cup.
The guard from the previous shift joined them, eyes sleep-filled from an abrupt awakening. “No one went into the room except a chambermaid,” he said, “and no one came out except the maid and Señora Ramirez.”
Ramón’s nostrils flared. “What color was the maid’s hair?”
The guard looked puzzled. “It was black, señor. The same as your señora’s.”
“Did they carry anything?”
“Your señora carried nothing. The maid had a dust mop and a bundle when she went in, but nothing when she came out.”
“Ay, que rico.” Ramón slapped his thigh. “That wife of mine has put us in a fine kettle of fishhooks. They could be anywhere.”
Sledge turned to the other blonde. “You know the brat better than anyone. Where do you think she’s gone?”
Her hand went to her mouth. “I…I don’t know.”
Sledge glared at her. “You’re not under oath. Crank up your journalistic instincts and say what you suspect.”
“She…she wanted to find her photographs. The memory card she dropped when we photographed the massacre. She kicked it under a bush when the guerrillas came.”
Sledge stood stunned. “You couldn’t have photographed the massacre. It happened two weeks before you got here.”
The blue eyes met his in anger. “We found another one—at least twenty bodies, and blood all over…”
Sledge struggled to make sense of it. No second massacre or mass kidnapping had been reported, so where did the bodies come from? In the original massacre, all the men of Chozadolor had been taken. Those whose bodies were found had been butchered, many of them beyond recognition.
Some of the bodies were never found.
That’s what the press report said. He’d even quoted it to Steve Spinner. But why would anyone, paramilitary or guerrilla, hold back some of the captives and kill them later?
With an effort, he lowered his voice. “Tell me exactly what you saw. We need to know what your friend is dealing with.”
At his changed tone, the woman visibly relaxed. “You mean describe the bodies?” She looked up at Raúl, then back at Sledge. “They looked like they’d been jerked around in weird positions, some on top of each other and some alone. There was a lot of blood.”
“I know this is gruesome,” Sledge said softly, “but had they been shot or…” He remembered the press report. “Or cut. Chopped. Like with an axe or machete.”
She put her hands to her cheeks. “I don’t remember. I just snapped pictures with one camera while Kr—while my friend used the other one. Then the guerrillas smashed both cameras. Later, she said she’d managed to hide one memory card. That’s all I know.”
Her hands covered her eyes. Raúl placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. Weeping, she leaned against him. The others sat in silence.
“So we go to Chozadolor,” Ramón murmured. “It is only grasping at strawberries, but still we must go.”
“Not Vickers,” Sledge said. “He’s already on the guerrilla’s hit list.”
The missionary frowned. “More to the point, I have another mission.”
Sledge gestured toward the weeping blonde. “Someone needs to take this lady home. I nominate Raúl.”
The young Colombian’s face lit up. “It is my pleasure. Which passport shall I use?”
Ramón grimaced. “The real one, you idiot. Because of the Islamic terrorists, you’ll be lucky if the gringos don’t search under the bandage on your head.”
“Let them search. They will find nothing there.”
“I’ve known that for years.” Ramón cocked his head toward Sledge. “Now let Señor Sledge give you your instructions.”
The woman in question withdrew to finish packing, and Sledge told Raúl how to reach Spinner’s New Orleans offices. His conviction that Spinner had withheld information came back with a vengeance, aggravated by the brat’s unpredictable conduct. There was no telling what kind of tricks Raúl might run into.
“Walk in on Spinner without calling ahead,” Sledge instructed. “If he has no warning of your arrival, he has less chance to mess you up. This deal has smelled rotten from the beginning.” His voice took on an edge of sarcasm. “Don’t let your charming little companion use a phone, or she may spill the beans.”
Raúl flashed a confident smile. “She will be too busy companioning to think about beans.”
Only when Sledge went upstairs to change clothes did the full force of anger strike home. This was getting too much like the dream where he’d struggled through one hazardous valley to reach a hilltop, only to find that a more hazardous valley and hill lay beyond. In the metaphoric valley he’d fought through to rescue the two women, he’d risked his life repeatedly. Their rescue had cost Raúl’s crash, Mario’s wound, and the lives of more than a dozen guerrillas. Now the willfulness of one ungrateful brat was thrusting him forward into another dangerous valley—this time in an improvised operation with no prior intelligence and no certainty the next hill would be the last one.
Nor was it certain the brat would make it to Chozadolor. Diego Contreras often set roadblocks on public highways to kidnap or extort money from travelers. Heaven only knew how Elena Ramirez planned to talk her way through those. He’d like to get his hands on her as well as the brat.
But in Sledge’s business, getting angry got people killed. He forced his mind back to the task ahead. He’d wear the same uniform and boots. What equipment? Web belt with canteen and first-aid packet...binoculars...no night vision goggles this time. The mundane details calmed him. When he went back downstairs he was fully under control.
Ramón entered with four rifle-bearing, fatigue-clad men Sledge hadn’t seen before. He handed Sledge an AK-47 and four loaded magazines, then said simply, “We’d better go.”
Minutes later in a northward-bound helicopter, Sledge surveyed the grim faces of his companions. They had good reason to be grim. He’d gone into the previous operation with a detailed plan and well-rehearsed teammates. This time he had no idea what they would find at Chozadolor or what they would do when they got there.
****
Denver, Colorado
Roger Brinkman sat back in his chair, waiting for the man in front of him to brief him.
“We found plenty to arouse suspicion,” Ralph Markham said, “but never enough to indict.” His eyes restlessly studied the layout of Roger Brinkman’s office.
Brinkman was used to that. People didn’t expect offices to be located in a basement, much less two levels down. But most people didn’t have to worry about terrorist bombings.
“For a moment, forget you were a prosecutor,” Brinkman said. “What did your BCCI investigation teach you about Spinner?”
He referred to the Bank of Commerce and Credit International, shut dow
n by the United States and Britain in 1991 for illegal activities.
“That’s ancient history now.” Markham looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “We prosecuted a few of the culprits, but others were never indicted. Like Spinner. We couldn’t find evidence that would stand up in court.”
Brinkman said nothing and Markham continued. “For twenty years after its founding in 1972, BCCI got by with more fraud than most crooks ever dream of. Bank regulators never got to it because it was ‘offshore everywhere.’ Laundering drug money was only one of its illicit activities.”
“Tell me about Spinner,” Brinkman said.
“He collaborated in the political skullduggery. A group of Pakistanis and Arabians formed the bank to help Arab causes against the West. It used phony documents and false end-user certificates to buy illegal chemical and nuclear materiel.”
Markham drew a deep breath. “It also funneled money to terrorists in Central America. That’s where Spinner came in. During the eighties, he supported the communist government of Nicaragua—posed with them for propaganda photos. It didn’t bother him that the Cubans and East Germans were pouring into Nicaragua to put Soviet military bases on the North American continent.”
Brinkman cleared his throat. “I know the background. Tell me about Spinner.”
“He worked with the Cubans and East Germans, of course, and people like the Colombian guerrilla Diego Contreras. We don’t know everything they did. We do know that, through BCCI, terrorist organizations were putting money into Nicaragua. The Palestine Liberation Organization ended up owning a good chunk of Nicaragua’s airline. We think Spinner helped with the money transfers.”
“Is that the extent of it?”
“He went from there to Peru. Again, we don’t know everything he did. But the money from BCCI flooded in—for bribes and more unsavory purposes. Then the Abu Nidal terrorist organization, the ANO, came in from the Middle East to train and re-equip the Shining Path, the Maoist terrorists native to Peru. Nidal’s people converted them from small-time agrarian racketeers into sophisticated urban terrorists. BCCI and the ANO allied them with drug traffickers. The result was Colombia-style narco-terrorism.”