Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “Don’t presume on our past relationship to instruct me,” Matteo said dismissively. “I can handle my own people.”

  “Can you handle Olmos? Already he’s stirring up the men about her.”

  “Olmos is always stirring up something. If I worried about him every time he got going, I wouldn’t have a minute to do anything else.” He paused, adopting a more placating tone. “Alma, this woman has been a great friend to me. I want you to help her, try to teach her...”

  Alma spat on the dirt floor of the tent. She wasn’t buying it. As far as she was concerned there was only one kind of relationship a young, pretty woman could have with a man like Matteo Montega, and she fired back nastily, “Why, certainly. Of course! Nothing’s too good for my leader’s yellow haired yanqui whore.”

  Matteo crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Alma’s upper arms with such strength that she would later find the imprint of his fingers stamped on her bruised flesh. But she did not flinch. Her mettle was legendary; not once had he seen her cry.

  “I have never hit a woman in my life,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, “but unless you want to be the first I suggest you guard your tongue. That ‘gringa’ saved my life. You have no idea what she’s gone through for me, and if you ever speak that way about her again you will regret it.”

  Alma stared back at him defiantly, channeling her true feelings into a cleansing, burning rebellion. She was deeply infatuated with him, and more than that, her former claim to his bed had given her a status that had been humiliating to lose. But Matteo could see only the malice, which disgusted him, not the helpless, painful jealousy that inspired it.

  “Now get out of my sight,” he concluded, “and if I hear that you are giving her any trouble of any kind, you will answer to me. Do you understand?”

  No response.

  He shook her, not gently. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she replied sullenly, wrenching away from him.

  He let her go, turning his back on her, and didn’t look around until he was sure she was gone.

  Matteo exhaled sharply, combing his damp hair with his fingers. It had been a long, trying day, and the scene with Alma was just what he needed to complete it.

  Why had he ever slept with that woman? he wondered irritably. He had always known better, but she’d caught him at a weak moment with her seductive body. Then he had let it continue too long, because it was easy and because he had wanted to delay dealing with the turmoil of ending it. He detested final scenes, filled with recriminations, and as anticipated, Alma had provided a beauty. She had attached an importance to the relationship that he never felt, and now she would make sure Helen found out about their past involvement.

  He realized that the idea of it bothered him. Alma was clever, and once she gathered, as she eventually would, that he had told her the truth, she would find some way to make Helen feel inferior because he had slept with Alma and not with her.

  Neither woman could know that the exact opposite was the truth; he had slept with Alma because he regarded her as a convenience and refused Helen because he regarded her as a treasure.

  Matteo kicked a clod of dirt, fragmenting it into a dozen pieces. Why was Alma still around? He had sent her home to visit her mother and thought she would be there. Now he could add her viciousness to his list of problems. And he knew from experience that Alma was not to be discounted.

  She had a crude, streetwise intelligence, and since Matteo’s dissolution of their affair had been forming an uneasy alliance with the equally crafty Olmos. Through his own carelessness, Matteo had made an enemy of Alma, sending her into the waiting arms of the man who coveted his position. Like two rogue wolves on the edge of the pack, they circled the leader, waiting for the right moment to lunge at his throat for the kill, each with different reasons for wanting to bring him down.

  Matteo shook his head. How would he ever be able to concentrate on liberating his country with all of this peripheral intrigue going on?

  He stepped outside the tent and looked up at the night sky, seeing by the descending arc of the moon that it was very late. He hoped Helen had gone to sleep. It was odd how often he found himself thinking of her; she had become such an integral part of his life that he no longer considered himself alone, and that frightened him. He didn’t want her looking to him, depending on him, but somehow it had happened. And what was worse, he dreaded cutting her loose; he understood with a sinking feeling of resignation that didn’t want to let her go.

  But he had to do it. Alma and Olmos and the others had chosen this life; Helen had been catapulted into it by a trick of fate that brought an injured fugitive to her door. And being Helen, she had not been able to turn him away. Now it was up to him to return the favor and make sure that she got home and put all of this behind her forever.

  But could she do it? He didn’t need her to tell him that she was in love with him; her inexperience made her as transparent as rainwater. Like Bucephalus, who, when broken to the bit by Alexander, would never after abide another rider, Helen was a thoroughbred, in mind as well as pedigree. She wouldn’t turn easily from him to another man; he very much doubted she would be able to do it at all. He hadn’t completed the cruel circle by sleeping with her, and for that he gave himself some credit. But to a woman like Helen, who lived in her head, her thoughts and feelings were just as important, perhaps more important, then her physical functions. Emotionally she was no longer a virgin and he was totally to blame.

  Matteo walked slowly through the camp, his mind working furiously. There was a raid on a government installation planned for the following night, and he would have to leave Helen alone for several hours. He knew that his people wouldn’t do anything to hurt her while he was gone because they would fear his retribution when he returned. But what if he didn’t return? He might be killed on this foray, as he had almost been killed on the last one. And he was well aware that he was Helen’s only protection from Olmos’s brutality and Alma’s vengeance.

  He shook himself slightly, dismissing such thoughts. He would have to survive in order to take care of her, and survive he would. After all, he should have been dead several times already; judging by appearances, he was immortal. His lips curved in a small smile as he entered the camper, thinking that like his historical hero Alexander his real father must have been a god.

  He found Helen fast asleep, with several strands of her damp hair, fine as angel’s breath, caught between her lips. He removed them, gently putting them behind her ear, and she stirred. He waited until she settled down again before getting a pillow from the closet and putting it under her head.

  Such niceties would have to be forsaken soon. They would have to move after the raid, because the government soldiers, alerted to their presence in the area, would be combing the jungle for them. And their new quarters were sure to be more primitive.

  Matteo pulled a chair in front of the camper’s door and sat in it, draping his legs over the edge of Helen’s bed. No one would be able to get to her except through him, and secure in that knowledge, he slept.

  * * * *

  When Helen awoke the next morning she could tell by the quality of the light filtering through the camper’s thin curtains that it was very early. Still, she could hear the sounds of people stirring around her: low voices, metal pots clanging, and, close by, the unmistakable click-whirr, click-whirr, of bullets being inserted into a metal chamber. She sat up and saw Matteo asleep in the chair, his arms folded, his head turned to one side and his chin resting on his shoulder.

  She studied him, wondering what time he had finally returned the night before, noting the blue shadows of exhaustion staining the skin beneath his eyes. He had never had a chance to recover fully from his recent illness, and the signs were there if you looked for them. But even they could not diminish his beauty in her eyes. When she had first seen him she’d noted objectively that he was handsome, as one might notice that a building was gracefully proportioned or a flower symmetrical. But
now that she knew him, she had almost forgotten that initial impression; it was so totally supplanted by her feeling for the whole man: body, mind, and soul. So she examined him anew, seeing the broad forehead and straight, narrow nose, the firm mouth with its full lower lip and thinner upper one, the flesh redder than hers, a bequest of his heritage. The long silky lashes that lay on his cheeks like wisps of black lace were the only effeminate aspect of his features. He had shaved off his beard at Esteban’s, and his olive skin, already tan, had darkened with exposure to the sun. Now, enhanced by the shadow of his beard and the dark glossy wings of his hair, it looked bronzed. Helen leaned forward, her attention caught by a ridge of scar tissue on the edge of his jaw. As if he could feel her eyes on him his lids lifted and he looked at her.

  “Hi,” she said, and he smiled.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting up and stretching.

  “Much better. How about you? That chair doesn’t look very comfortable.”

  Matteo stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, it’ll do in a pinch.” He peered at her more closely. “The burn is fading; I think you’re starting a tan.”

  Helen smiled ruefully. “That would be a first.”

  “Well, Puerta Linda is your place for firsts. First motor vehicle theft, first car chase by police, first suntan. Would you like some breakfast?”

  “I guess so.”

  “They’ll have something going at the cookhouse,” he said. “I’ll bring it back for you.”

  She noticed that he didn’t ask her to go with him; he was trying to minimize her exposure to the rest of the people.

  “Okay.”

  Helen watched him go out and then looked through the window to follow his progress across the grounds. He stopped several times to speak to some of his comrades, then disappeared into a hut near the spot where they had first entered the camp. When he emerged minutes later, he was carrying a plate and was accompanied by a middle aged woman whom Helen had seen in the crowd the night before. She sat on the couch and waited for them to arrive, wondering about Matteo’s companion.

  Her presence was explained soon after Matteo came through the door and handed Helen her breakfast, which consisted of an omelet, a corn cake and a cup of black coffee.

  “This is Theresa Aquino,” he said to Helen, indicating the woman who stood, unsmiling, at his side. “She is the only person in the camp who speaks English besides me. I’ll be busy today and she’ll look after you.”

  So this is to be my babysitter, Helen thought. Well, at least she would be able to talk to Theresa, ask her questions.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Matteo said. He obviously wanted to get on with his plans, and Helen nodded. Theresa, clearly a draftee, followed him out the door with her eyes and then looked back at Helen.

  “I’m Helen,” Helen said, extending her hand.

  Theresa took it briefly, meeting Helen’s eyes for a second and then looking away.

  Helen cleared her throat. “I’m so glad you speak English,” she began brightly. “How did you learn?”

  “My father was overseer on an American coffee plantation,” Theresa answered, in accented but precise English.

  “Oh, I see. Well, did Matteo tell you anything about me?”

  “He told me only what I was to do,” Theresa replied. “Keep you with me and keep you out of trouble.”

  Helen sighed. That was certainly clear enough.

  “Do you have some work I could help you with?” Helen asked, trying again.

  Theresa’s dark eyes suggested that the question was humorous.

  “You want to help me?” she said, an unmistakable note of irony in her tone.

  “Yes, why not? I have nothing to do, and it will pass the time.”

  Theresa pointed at the food Matteo had brought. “Eat. You’ll need it. We cook for the whole camp, and they eat plenty before a raid.”

  Before a raid? Helen thought, going cold at the word despite the stifling heat. So that was why Matteo was so busy. She forced down the breakfast while Theresa watched, and then followed her back to the cookhouse.

  She was not quite the center of attention she had been the night before but still received a number of curious glances. During the long, hot morning she helped to clean up after breakfast and get ready for lunch. The men came in groups, talking together, and the women in twos, whispering, staring at Helen and then giggling at remarks they made to each other. Helen ignored them, doing whatever Theresa told her to do, and managed pretty well until early afternoon, when Alma entered the hut alone, stopping short when she caught sight of Helen dishing out the stew.

  She sauntered up to the table, accepting a plate from Helen and a glass from Theresa. She stared at Helen for a few seconds and then said something in Spanish to Theresa, who glanced quickly at Helen, then remembered that she didn’t understand. Alma paused a moment longer and then added a one liner to the woman behind her, who grinned hugely and winked.

  Helen continued to dish out the food, waiting until the women were seated at a table away from her to ask, “What did she say?”

  Theresa didn’t respond at first, devoting her attention to assembling a stack of plates on the counter before her.

  Helen prodded, “You might as well tell me.”

  Theresa shrugged. “Alma said that Matteo must be getting tired of you already. When she was in his bed he never had her doling out rations.”

  Helen didn’t answer, her worst suspicions confirmed.

  “She was Matteo’s woman before you,” Theresa added unnecessarily.

  “What was the rest of it?” Helen said quietly.

  “What?”

  “She said something else, when that other woman smiled.”

  Theresa hesitated again, and Helen waited patiently until she said, “Alma says she was always too busy keeping Matteo satisfied to find time for kitchen work.”

  Helen coughed. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?” she asked.

  “In the barrel, there,” Theresa said, indicating a large wooden storage tank that looked like a beer keg and was tapped the same way. Helen filled a dented metal cup and drank it dry, wondering why this information should hit her so hard.

  She’d always known that Matteo must have had his share of women. Alma’s reaction to Helen’s arrival had certainly indicated that she’d been one of them. But it was the way these people accepted the orderly progression, Alma yesterday, Helen today, someone else tomorrow, that bothered her. Not to mention that in her case it wasn’t even true. To look at Alma and know that Matteo had given to her what he had denied to Helen was almost more than she could bear.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of heat and the cloying smell of food. By the time darkness fell and they were cleaning up, Helen’s feet were burning and she had a case of dishpan hands that would defy any lotion on the American market. She glanced over at Theresa, who was wiping down the counter, having put in what was for her an ordinary day.

  “Theresa, how did you get involved with Matteo, with this group?”

  The older woman looked at her, pushing back an errant strand of coarse, graying hair. Helen could tell that she was examining her to see if she really wanted a serious answer. Seemingly satisfied, Theresa said, “When I was a young woman my father was accused of stealing by his employer. He denied the charges but was pronounced guilty without a trial and shot.”

  Helen was speechless, sorry she’d asked.

  “It’s not the sort of thing you forget,” Theresa went on. “When I saw that Matteo and the other people here were working to do something about a government that permits that kind of injustice, I joined with them. I’m getting old and can’t do much, but I can cook. I’ve cooked all my life for my family, and I can cook now for my friends.”

  Helen considered that and then said, “Theresa, what is going to happen tonight?”

  Theresa’s face went carefully blank. “You’d better ask Matteo about that. It’s not for me to say.” />
  And he won’t tell me any more than you will, Helen thought.

  They walked to the door of the hut and Theresa said flatly, “You worked hard today and you can tell Matteo I said so.”

  Helen had to suppress a smile. She felt like asking Theresa for a note that she could present to Matteo, like a report card from the teacher.

  “Thank you, Theresa,” she said warmly. “I know the others resent me, and it’s nice that you were willing to give me a chance.”

  “It was Matteo’s idea,” Theresa responded, and then they both laughed.

  “Good night,” Helen said, walking back to the camper.

  “Good night,” Theresa answered, turning off for her tent.

  When Helen pulled open the door of the motor home, Matteo turned at the sound. She stopped in her tracks, frozen at the sight of him.

  He was dressed, like the other men, in camouflage fatigues, combat boots and a dark knit hat to cover his hair. His face was smeared with blacking and he had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. A belt loaded with ammunition was draped across his chest, and a pistol and a knife were sheathed at his waist. He was a walking arsenal.

  Helen recovered her powers of locomotion and walked to the couch, sitting carefully, as if she might break. She wanted to say something but no words made it to her lips.

  “Don’t look like that, Helen,” Matteo said evenly. “You knew this was what I did.”

  “Of course,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know it would be so real, so much like...”

  “Like what?” he said.

  “Like war. But it is war.” She closed her eyes. “Don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I mean.”

  “This is what I wanted to spare you,” he said simply, and then looked up as there was a quick knock, followed by the opening of the door. Vicente Olmos entered, glancing at Helen and then saying something to Matteo. Matteo answered dismissively, and Olmos paused to smile at Helen before he left. She felt as if he had touched her.