Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Helen thought she would be far too nervous to sleep, but it wasn’t long before the drone of the motor and the comforting presence of Matteo beside her had lulled her into slumber. She woke to find herself curled up in his arms, her head on his shoulder and one hand draped loosely over his muscular thigh. He was calling her name.

  “What is it?” she said, sitting up and stretching.

  “You have to fill out your landing card. The stewardess just distributed them.”

  She searched his eyes, concerned.

  “It’s all right. Just use the information on the papers I gave you and everything will be fine.”

  Helen did as he directed, listing her name, address, age, and the purpose of her visit to comply with the documents in her purse. She handed hers in when the stewardess collected them and then glanced at Matteo when the pilot announced that they had begun their descent to San Jacinta.

  “You’re doing fine,” Matteo said.

  Helen didn’t answer, wondering what conditions were like in Puerta Lindan jails. Every scene in Midnight Express flashed across her mind. That was Turkey, she reminded herself. Puerta Linda had to be a little more advanced, a little more civilized.

  She changed her opinion as soon as they stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac. She looked around apprehensively, instantly wishing that she were back in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  Soldiers in green fatigues were everywhere, all carrying machine guns, riding three and four in a jeep or walking in incessant parade to and from the reception terminal. Barbed wire fences surrounded the open area leading to the debarkation building, and marksmen were perched in gun turrets at strategic places all along the route.

  “Welcome to Puerta Lindan democracy,” Matteo said sarcastically into her ear.

  “Oh my God, Matteo,” she responded, clutching his arm. “This is awful.”

  “This is what I want to change,” he answered simply.

  Helen tried not to gawk as they walked with measured pace to the long white building at the end of the paved lane. The humidity was crushing, stealing the breath from her lungs and causing her clothes to cling damply to her skin. The sky was overcast, threatening rain as they entered the reception area and got in line.

  “Here we go,” Matteo whispered. “Courage.”

  “Matteo, I’m frightened,” she answered. There was no doubt in her mind that those military men in mirrored sunglasses, carrying Israeli Uzis and American M-16s, meant business.

  He embraced her and held her close for a couple of seconds, kissing her hair.

  “So am I,” he answered. “I always am, and I’ve never been caught yet. Take a deep breath, Helen, and try to calm down. I didn’t bring you this far to let anything happen to you. You believe me, don’t you?”

  Helen nodded, looking up at him. Strangely enough, she did.

  “I just keep thinking that all of these people must have seen your picture,” she said, putting her lips directly to his ear.

  She thought of the price on Matteo’s head and her heart sank. In a poverty stricken country like Puerta Linda, a reward could be a pretty powerful motive.

  They were moving closer to the desk, and just as Helen was telling herself not to panic and to leave everything to Matteo, a dispute arose in front of them. A woman who had traveled on the plane with them was led away, screaming and crying, between two soldiers.

  Helen stared out the terminal window at the palm trees swaying in the breeze. She couldn’t look at Matteo because she didn’t want him to see the terror in her eyes.

  They were next. After she placed her papers on the table before the official examining them, Helen shoved her hands in her pockets to conceal their trembling.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell, from Dallas, Texas,” the man said in a heavy accent. “You will be staying here for five days?”

  “That’s right,” Helen replied, staring straight ahead. Why was he asking her that? It was written on her card.

  The man looked up at Matteo. “Mr. Caldwell?”

  Here it comes, Helen thought.

  “Yes?” Matteo said, drawing out the word, making it two syllables, as an American would.

  Good boy, Helen told him silently.

  “The stamp on your passport expires in two weeks,” the official said. “Make sure you have it renewed.”

  “Thanks, I’ll just do that,” Matteo replied, and Helen saw him shove a wad of folded bills across the counter when he took back his passport.

  “Bienvenida a Puerta Linda,” the man said. “Welcome to Puerta Linda.”

  Matteo nodded and took Helen’s arm, steering her toward the door. They had almost made it when another voice interrupted their progress, calling, “Mr. Caldwell.”

  Matteo stopped in his tracks, and Helen went rigid. A uniformed official appeared at Matteo’s side and said in stilted English, “Come with me, please.”

  Matteo looked at Helen, telling her without words that they should comply. The official led them to a small side office while Helen mentally recited the first line of every prayer she knew. Once inside the room the man shut the door, breathed a sigh of relief and started to babble in rapid, excited Spanish.

  Helen looked from one to the other. If she and Matteo were about to get arrested, every film she had ever seen had been wrong.

  Matteo saw her confused glance and held up his hand for the other man to stop talking.

  “He’s a friend,” Matteo said to Helen, “sympathetic to our cause. He works at the airport and saw me arrive. He says that one of the top government officials, who might recognize me because he used to work with my father, is here on an inspection tour. We have to get out another way so we don’t pass him.”

  Helen sagged against Matteo, who hugged her for a brief, encouraging moment. She smiled at their companion.

  “Gracias,” she said. It was almost the only Spanish word she knew.

  “De nada, senorita valiente, amiga linda del jefe,” he responded, bowing graciously.

  “What did he say?” Helen asked.

  “He said, ‘You’re welcome, brave lady, beautiful friend of my leader.”

  “How lovely,” Helen murmured, inexplicably near tears. The strain was proving to be almost too much; she felt close to collapse.

  Perhaps reading her expression, Matteo said something to their rescuer, and he gestured for them to follow him.

  “He has a car out back,” Matteo explained as they hurried in his wake.

  “Matteo, I don’t like this. He recognized you; someone else might.”

  Matteo shook his head. “No, he knew I was coming, and he was watching for me. My men told him what I would look like, what I would be wearing. Calmate niña, it’s almost over.”

  Their ally led them to an old Fiat parked by the service door they used to exit the building and handed Matteo the keys. Matteo thanked him and the man hurried back inside as Matteo opened the passenger door and hustled Helen into the car. He ran around to the other side and jumped in, starting the motor as he pulled his door closed.

  “Now we just have to get through the check at the exit gate,” Matteo said grimly, glancing in the rearview mirror as he pulled into one of the moving lanes of traffic. “There’s a pistol in the glove compartment. Get it out and give it to me.”

  Helen complied, handing over the weapon and staring ahead at the wooden booth as a light rain began to fall. Matteo slowed the car, pulling into line and rolling down his window. A uniformed soldier accepted their papers without comment and, after examining them for several seconds, peered into the car at its occupants .

  Helen hoped that the sound of her teeth chattering was not audible. The gun was concealed under Matteo’s seat; if he decided to search the car it was all over.

  The guard asked Matteo a couple of questions, but his tone sounded routine, and Matteo answered briefly. The man handed their papers back through the window, eyeing Matteo closely as he did so. Then he seemed to come to a decision and waved the car o
n.

  Matteo lost no time, gunning the motor as the guard lifted the crossbar to let them through. Then, as they passed the booth, Helen saw one of the other soldiers speak urgently to the man who had stopped them. He whirled and shouted something after the car, and Matteo cursed violently under his breath. He floored the gas pedal, and the Fiat lurched forward as the guard dashed through the door of the booth and leveled his rifle at the fleeing car.

  “Get down!” Matteo shouted, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her onto the seat. She soon heard the whine of near misses, and then the explosion of a hit as a bullet cracked the rear glass and sailed over her prone body to exit through the front window.

  “Don’t move,” Matteo yelled as she cowered on the floor, her hands over her head, and he yanked down his window to fire back at his antagonist. Helen could hear the sound of other gunfire and knew that some of the soldier’s comrades were joining the attack. Bullets whizzed around the little car, and ricocheted from its metalwork, as Matteo pushed it at merciless speed through the exit lane of the airport and toward downtown San Jacinta.

  Helen was flung from side to side on the floor as he made turn after turn, evidently trying to lose the pursuers he had picked up at the exit turnstile. There was unrelieved tension for several minutes as he raced pellmell through the old city, and the Fiat’s well used transmission was strained to the limit from the frequent downshifting. The smell of burning rubber and leaking transmission fluid soon filled the air, but Matteo drove on, maneuvering the car with fierce concentration until he finally said, glancing in both mirrors and then looking at Helen, “I think we lost them.”

  Helen unfolded herself from the floor of the car and fell back in her seat. “What happened?” she asked shakily, in a voice that sounded several octaves higher than normal.

  “The guard’s buddy recognized me,” he answered. “The first guy was a little suspicious, but when the second came in he nailed me.” He shot Helen an intent glance and added, “You look a little pale.”

  “Is that all you can say?” she replied, staring at him. “Does this sort of thing happen to you all the time?”

  “Not all the time,” he answered mildly. “Now and then.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her, saying, “Wet this from the canteen and wipe your face.”

  Helen took the handkerchief, marveling that he seemed more concerned about her faintness than their recent narrow escape. Not to mention that they were fleeing from the airport police in a rapidly expiring car and would soon have no other means of transportation.

  “We’ve got to ditch this car,” he said, as if reading her mind. “It’s on its way out, and besides, the police will have a description by now.” He slowed down to drive through the busy, crowded downtown streets, turning into a narrow lane flanked by rows of stores. He guided the little car into a parking space and left it there, signaling for Helen to get out on her side and follow him. When she reached him he took her hand and they strolled along the street, blending in with the other window shopping young couples.

  “They’ll be able to trace us here when they find the car,” Helen said, looking around for policemen, unused to the role of fugitive. “One of the passing citizens is sure to notice the bullet holes in the glass.”

  “We’ll be long gone by then, Dick Tracy,” Matteo replied, grinning at her.

  “Oh, really?” Helen replied, amazed at his nonchalance. “How are we getting out of here?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They continued to walk, and Helen realized that he was scrutinizing the racks of motorbikes parked along the street. Suddenly he halted and said, “Wait for me at the corner.”

  Helen went ahead, turning when she reached her destination. She watched as he walked one of the bikes out to the road and jumped on, kicking the motor into life. He idled for a moment and then glided up to her, saying, “Hop on.”

  “Matt!” Helen said, shocked. “You aren’t going to steal this!”

  He met her gaze, deadpan. “No, Helen, I’m going to find the owner and tell him I’m taking it, so he can call the police.”

  She looked around furtively. “What if the owner comes back?” she said.

  “Well, maybe if we stand here debating about it long enough, he will,” Matteo said impatiently, pointing to the space behind him. “Get on. The idiot left the keys in the ignition—he deserves to walk.”

  Helen hesitated, looking unhappy.

  “Look, Miss Abe Lincoln, you just defrauded the Puerta Lindan government by entering the country under false pretenses and you’re aiding and abetting a wanted man. I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”

  Helen climbed on behind him, winding her arms around his lean waist. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her neck, relieving the wet heat for a moment, and she wished that she were doing this with Matteo under other circumstances, when she might have been able to enjoy the ride.

  “Okay?” he said, turning his head.

  “Okay,” she confirmed, and he took off with a surge of power, negotiating the streets with controlled efficiency, making his way out of town. When they stopped at a light Helen said into his ear, “Where are we going?”

  “A friend of mine has a taberna in the hills. We can rest there and try to think what to do.”

  “About what?” Helen said.

  “About you,” he answered, and then roared off as the light changed.

  Helen hung on as he rode steadily toward the outskirts of San Jacinta, climbing all the way. Spanish street signs and shops with names like Bodega Escorial and Mendeja—Zapatos Para Toda La Familia passed in a blur as the rain, which had stopped, began to fall again. It was a soaking mist that penetrated Helen’s thin clothing and returned Matteo’s hair to the ringlets that the stylist had managed to eliminate. They were driving into the setting sun and darkness was falling with the swiftness of equatorial night.

  Helen pressed her cheek to the curve of Matteo’s damp spine and imagined that they were traveling together through the tropical paradise Puerta Linda might have been, without the ominous presence of the soldiers and the constant threat of civil strife. The palms and jacaranda trees lining the streets of the capital bent slightly under the weight of the prevailing wind as they skirted the thinning traffic and left the city, following a winding trail that moved upward through overhanging cliffs. After a while Helen could see the gleam of the ocean below, and Matteo turned on the bike’s single headlight. The air grew cooler with the height, and the road they were traveling was no longer paved. The bike kicked up a spray of loose dust, which covered them both and adhered to their wet skin and clothing. Helen knew she had never been filthier in her life, or in greater danger, but she couldn’t seem to muster much concern about either condition. She was exhausted, and the hibiscus and oleander growing in profusion along the high stone walls they passed intoxicated her with their heavy perfume. She lingered in a dream state in which the feel of Matteo’s strong body under her hands, the heady fragrance of the wild blooms and the enclosing darkness merged to convince her that everything would be all right. Matteo could perform miracles; hadn’t she seen him do it? He would get both of them out of this and she was not going to be afraid.

  Helen’s eyes were closed, her head slumped against Matteo’s back, when the bike ground to a halt and he dropped the kickstand. She sat up groggily, and he took one look at her and lifted her bodily off the motorcycle. He shushed her feeble protest that she could walk. She caught only the barest glimpse of whitewashed walls and a handmade wooden sign over the door that Matteo carried her through before she put her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes again. It was so much easier just to let him handle everything, and after all, this was his country and he was used to such adventures.

  She was aware of the low murmur of Spanish, and then felt the sweet comfort of a soft bed receive her weight. She meant to protest the loss of Matteo’s arms, but found she was too tired. When he let her go she fell f
ully asleep immediately, and she didn’t feel him cover her with a light blanket or hear him leave the room.

  * * * *

  When Helen awoke she didn’t know where she was. It took her a moment to remember the trip into the hills from San Jacinta and her arrival at their destination. She sat up and looked around her, taking in the rustic room with oak beams overhead and the darkness outside the single window. It must have been the middle of the night. The furniture was spare and mismatched: the bed on which she lay, covered with a faded patchwork quilt; a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, both cracked; and a cane chair by the window, some of the latticework missing from its seat. The window itself was bare, and the only covering on the floor was a rag rug made from bits of yarn, a washed out riot of dulled colors like the quilt.

  Helen listened carefully and could hear the faint thrum of music from the floor below. She remembered Matteo saying something about a taberna. Was that a restaurant or hotel? It seemed as though it was both. If so, some of the patrons downstairs must be keeping late hours. And she was in one of the rooms to let on the second floor.

  The first order of business was to find Matteo. She got up, putting aside the sheet draping her legs, and went to the door, opening it a crack. The music got louder, but the hallway was almost dark, illuminated by a single electric bulb. Helen felt her way along it to the stairwell and was about to descend when a door on her left opened abruptly. A large woman in a sunny yellow peasant blouse and a lipstick red skirt confronted her, clapping her hands together with obvious delight.

  “Ah, la senorita de Matteo” she exclaimed, beaming at Helen. Her shining black hair was scraped back into a severe bun, which did nothing to detract from the bright good humor of her expression. Gleaming gold hoops dangled from her ears and a hand-embroidered apron was tied about her ample waist.

  “¿Tiene usted hambre?” she asked Helen, and when Helen indicated that she didn’t understand, the woman mimed the use of a knife and fork.

  Helen nodded. She was, in fact, famished, but locating Matteo was of even greater interest than food at the moment. She tried desperately to remember the phrase for “where is” that the Costa Rican maid had taught her and finally came up with it.