Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

“I have to go,” Matteo said, patting his breast pocket and looking away.

  Helen stood and grabbed his arm. “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

  He withdrew his arm firmly. “Stay here. I’ll be back before morning.”

  “And what if you don’t come back? What then?”

  “That’s a risk I always have to take. But I’m lucky. You should know that. Luck brought me to you. I’ll be back.”

  Helen watched helplessly as he yanked open the door and ran down the steps. She followed, halting as she saw him jump into a jeep that already held several other men, all armed like him and dressed for night concealment. They took off, the driver leading the way out of the camp as several other loaded jeeps fell in behind Matteo’s. Helen trailed them with her eyes until they were out of sight, and then she went back inside.

  What had she expected? she thought, as she tried to accept what had just happened. That he would stay behind and hold her hand while his men went out to risk being killed? Of course not, yet she had never let herself consider in detail what his days were like, what he had been doing the night she met him, what he would continue to do in the future. She had wanted to think that the idyll at Esteban’s taberna would last indefinitely, that her presence in Matteo’s life would somehow change it, that he would make her more important than the goals that had sustained him before he arrived at her door. And now she realized what he had been trying to tell her all along, that he couldn’t take responsibility for her because he had room in his life only for his country.

  Helen turned abruptly and went back outside where she walked past the groups of women who stood together, beginning the long vigil that would end only when the jeeps returned.

  Alma detached herself from one of them and flung something verbal at Helen. Helen kept walking, up to Theresa, startling the woman, who stared at her in concern.

  “Would you do me a favor?” Helen asked her softly.

  “What is it?”

  “Would you tell Alma that I am not sleeping with Matteo, and that I’ll be going back to the States as soon as he can arrange it. I’m no threat to her and I want her to know that.”

  Theresa looked back at her in silence, dumbfounded.

  “Please tell her for me,” Helen insisted.

  Theresa’s brow knit, and she said, “Even if this is true, why tell her? Let her steam about it; she’s been unkind enough to you.”

  Helen shook her head wearily. “It’s not fair to let her believe a lie. Can I count on you to do it?”

  Theresa shrugged. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

  Helen nodded and strode purposefully back to the camper. Once inside, she dropped onto the daybed and stared at the ceiling, feeling numb and drained. The physical labor of the day caught up with her and eventually she slept.

  Dawn light was filtering into the cabin when she heard the jeeps returning. She jumped up and ran to the window.

  At first she didn’t see Matteo, and her heart was hammering so hard she thought it would burst through her ribs. Then she saw him detach himself from the group and walk toward her. His step was tired and she noticed that most of the ammunition was gone from his belt.

  Helen went back to the couch and sat down, determined to be as self contained as the other women she had seen greeting the returning men, who acted as if they put their lives on the line every day. But of course they did. That was one small thing, among many, that she had to learn.

  Matteo entered and stopped on the threshold when he saw that she was awake.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, slipping his rifle off his shoulder and setting it on the floor.

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Fine. No casualties this time; we all got away clean.”

  “Good.”

  Their voices were restrained, polite, covering a wellspring of feeling that neither would express.

  “Your mission was a success, then,” Helen added, and his face lit up.

  “You bet. We not only got inside the compound, we were able to...”

  Helen held up her hand. “Don’t. Don’t tell me about it, please. I’d really rather not hear it.”

  He halted in mid-sentence and his expression became closed, unreadable. Helen couldn’t meet his eyes, and the hot, heavy silence lengthened between them until he finally said, “I knew it. I knew that if I brought you here, and you saw what I actually do, you’d become disillusioned with me.”

  “What do you mean?” she replied in a low, troubled voice.

  “I mean that there is nothing glamorous and wonderful about fighting. The ideals and the concepts sound good, but when you get right down to it, it’s guns and knives, and dirt and sweat, and killing the people on the other side. And that’s what has gotten to you, Helen. You like the thought of battling for freedom but you can’t face the reality of what’s involved in the battle.”

  “I know you’re doing what you have to do, what you think is right,” she answered in a subdued tone.

  “But?”

  She made a helpless gesture. “Maybe everyone here is right about me.”

  “How are they right?”

  “They all think I’m not up to it, and maybe I’m not.”

  He studied her without speaking for a long moment, and then said briskly, “We have to move the camp this morning. The government troops will be alerted to our presence in the area after the raid, and we have to relocate. You can help Theresa load the kitchen wagon. I’m afraid it will be tents from now on; we can’t take anything but the jeeps where we’ll be going. Be ready to move out in about half an hour.”

  “All right.”

  He shouldered his rifle again and said, “I’m working on a way to get you out of here, but it will take time. Just try to be patient and you’ll be home before you know it.”

  Helen dug her nails into her palms, but kept her voice even as she said, “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  He nodded and left. She shut her eyes tightly, but a tear escaped on each side and trailed down her face.

  How cold he had sounded, not like her Matteo at all. It was hard to believe that he was the same man who had caressed her so tenderly in Esteban’s room and led her through the jungle with such gentle persuasion. But she had challenged the thing he lived for, and she had lost.

  Helen went out to find Theresa and help her pack.

  * * * *

  For the rest of that day they moved, carrying everything on their backs or in wagons that could negotiate the steep mountain trails. In late afternoon they reached the new site, a clearing by a stream that afforded little more than seclusion, and by nightfall the tents and prefab buildings were all up and ready to be used. The group moved so often that they had the procedure down to a science, and Helen was amazed at the efficiency they displayed in organizing their tasks and making the site their own.

  Helen saw little of Matteo that day or the ones following, as he spent most of his time in conference with his men and she worked with Theresa. When they did speak their conversation was strained, and she longed for a return of the old closeness, when she could almost tell what he was thinking by the expression on his face. Once he took her aside to show her the tent she was to use, across the way from his, and she watched his clean profile as he taught her to drape the mosquito netting around her cot to keep away the bugs. She wanted to reach out and touch his mouth, the lips that had kissed hers so passionately, but somehow it seemed an intrusion now, a familiarity he would not want from a woman he longed to be rid of, so she held back. At night she would remember the feel and scent of his skin, the strength of his hard body next to hers in the taberna loft, and it would seem like a dream, something that had never happened but existed only in her imagination.

  With the rest of the people in the camp she was circumspect, going about her business with Theresa and following the older woman’s orders with meticulous precision. The only labor Helen had ever performed was mental, and it was almost a relief to engage in wo
rk that required no thought, only the physical exertion that exhausted her so that she could sleep at night. Such a routine was not intolerable, and Helen followed her natural inclination, which was to keep to herself and keep her mouth shut. She made no attempt to capitalize on her relationship with Matteo, as Alma had done, because it was not in her nature to do so. And as Matteo’s comrades saw her working hard and demanding no privileges, they developed a grudging respect for her that she didn’t expect and, in fact, didn’t see. She still felt very much the outsider, especially since her contact with Matteo was so limited, but she lived with the feeling, going her own way, as she had always done.

  But there was someone who was very concerned with her state of mind, concerned with everything about her, and that was Vicente Olmos. He watched Helen constantly—with an insinuating smile when Matteo was not around and with a carefully blank expression when he was. Helen felt his eyes on her and sensed the threat implicit in his stare the way a gazelle senses the presence of a leopard: subliminally, with primordial instincts untouched by thousands of years of civilization. But she said nothing to Matteo, thinking that Olmos’ deliberate intimidation of her was really aimed at his superior, and if she ignored it his ploy would fail.

  Alma proved to be another matter. Helen could tell that Theresa had spoken to her, because her attitude toward Helen had changed from outright antagonism to puzzlement, as if she couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between the pretty gringa and her former lover. When Helen and Matteo were together she observed them, saw the suppressed passion that flared between them, and wondered if Matteo had lost his mind. He wanted the American and she wanted him, but it was clear that they weren’t doing anything about it. This was so uncharacteristic of the Matteo she knew that her attention shifted to Helen, seeking answers there. But she found none, seeing only a quiet, reserved young woman who was trying her best to fit into an alien world until such time as she could leave it.

  On a sticky, moonless night several days after the move to the new camp, Helen was trying to sleep while Matteo held a meeting with his top soldiers at the other end of the grounds. Their voices carried in the stillness after everyone else had retired, and the low murmur disturbed her, contributing to her restlessness. Finally she put aside the netting surrounding her cot and stood up, lifting her gown away from her perspiring flesh. She walked to the tent exit and lifted the flap, looking out at the few stars visible in the cloudy, overcast sky.

  The humidity was thick, choking, threatening the rain that never fell but hung in the air like a pall. Heat lightning streaked the horizon and thunder rumbled distantly but ineffectively, tantalizing with the promise of the storm that might bring relief. Lifting her hair from the back of her neck, Helen remembered with amusement a teacher she’d had, a Regency buff who loved to quote Jane Austen. On the subject of a heat wave, Austen had once written that it kept her in a “continual state of inelegance.” On this evening of pitiless heat, the phrase took on a new meaning for Helen. Inelegance was the word to describe her scattered, ragtag state. She had never felt less elegant in her life. Their precipitous departure from the San Jacinta airport had caused her to leave her luggage on the plane, and she’d been making do with whatever Matteo and Theresa could scrounge up for her. On this occasion it was a thin cotton shift that became translucent when wet and was now clinging in damp patches to her body. She was glad there was no one around to see her, because at that moment she would rather have gone naked than add another ounce of clothing to the skimpy ensemble she wore. Exhibitionism was preferable to heat prostration, she thought, giggling to herself.

  Then her attention was diverted by the voices from Matteo’s tent. They were getting louder and, as she turned her head to look, two men emerged. She recognized them as the bodyguards who had kidnapped her from the supermarket parking lot. They were followed by Matteo and Olmos, who were engaged in heated discussion. Matteo said something, Olmos made an obviously sarcastic reply, and they began shouting. Helen stepped back into the folds of the tent as she continued to watch. Olmos lunged for Matteo, and the other men moved in immediately to restrain him. Matteo said something derisive in a low tone, heavy with finality, and turned his back on Olmos, returning to the meeting inside the tent. Olmos stormed off, and the bodyguards took up their position near the entrance, glancing at one another uncertainly.

  Helen returned to her bed, mulling over what she had seen. The situation between Matteo and Olmos was a ticking bomb on the verge of blowing sky high. It didn’t matter what they were arguing about; Olmos sought every opportunity to challenge Matteo’s authority, and soon Matteo would have to deal with him once and for all.

  She lay down, drawing the netting around her and turning away from the glow of the oil lamp in the corner. She listened to the far off grumbling of the thunder for a while and finally drifted into a fitful, dream troubled sleep.

  When she awoke about an hour later she thought she was still dreaming, because she heard a noise in the tent but knew that she was alone. Then she realized suddenly that she was not alone, and she sat up, watching a moving shadow out of the corner of her eye.

  “Matteo?” she said hopefully. Who else could it be, but why was he sneaking around like that? Was he trying not to wake her?

  She lost sight of the shadow and was swinging her legs over the edge of the cot to get up when she was seized roughly from behind and hauled bodily into a kneeling position. A large hand was clamped over her mouth to silence her, and as she struggled she twisted around and looked into Olmos’ amber eyes.

  Helen couldn’t scream and she couldn’t move. He was terribly strong. Holding her fast with one arm, he grabbed the top of her gown with his other hand and ripped it from neck to hem, exposing her body.

  Terrified and humiliated, Helen cowered as he held her immobilized, fumbling at his belt with his other hand.

  So this was to be his final answer to Matteo, the ultimate blow that would end the battle and give him victory: violate the precious little gringa that Matteo kept so close and valued so highly. Helen squirmed as he shifted position to crawl onto the cot, and his hand slipped from her mouth. She saw her opportunity and bit him with all the force she could muster.

  He bellowed and she dived off the cot, screaming as loud as she could. Olmos spun around, holding his injured arm, and his expression was curiously triumphant. Helen realized with horror that he had wanted her to scream and knew in an instant that the whole incident was a trap. Olmos was using her as bait to provoke a confrontation with Matteo, and he would be ready for it, while Matteo would not. Helen had played right into his hands.

  She could hear stirring from the other tents as the people, roused from sleep, got up to see what had happened. Olmos confronted Helen, breathing heavily, his golden eyes narrowed to slits as she huddled on the ground, trying to cover herself with her arms.

  Matteo burst into the tent and took in the scene at a glance. He rounded on the other man, a vein throbbing in his temple, and Helen saw the end of Olmos’ life in his face.

  “Matteo, no!” she shouted. “I’m all right, he didn’t hurt me.”

  Matteo ignored her, advancing on his former comrade, who circled away from him, a half smile on his face. Come on, he seemed to say, we’ve known from the beginning that it would come to this.

  Matteo threw the first punch, hitting Olmos so hard that Helen could hear the blow like a pistol shot. Olmos responded in kind, and they were soon locked in mortal combat, evenly matched. Matteo was faster, but Olmos was bigger, heavier, and as they rolled over and over on the dirt floor Helen prayed that they would both emerge from the contest alive.

  She looked up and saw a gathering of the other men in the entrance, looking on with solemn faces.

  “Stop it!” she yelled at them. “Can’t you do something to stop it?”

  They glanced at her, and then turned their attention back to the fight, their attitude one of resignation. They didn’t have to understand English to know what she was sayi
ng, but they had seen this coming for a long time and knew that it had to run to its logical conclusion. That she had been the catalyst was unimportant.

  Helen remembered that she was naked except for the fluttering remnants of her gown, and she crawled to the cot, pulling off the khaki muslin sheet and wrapping it around her like a sari. The two men struggled upright and then tumbled headlong, almost at her feet, and she saw Olmos reach for something shiny at his belt.

  “Matteo, be careful!” she shouted, gasping. “He has a knife!”

  Matteo grabbed the hand that held it and shook it loose, pounding Olmos’ clenched fingers on the ground until they relaxed and gave up the weapon. It skittered away as Matteo climbed on top of Olmos’ prone body and punched him repeatedly about the head and face, until his nose was streaming blood and the flesh around his eyes began to swell and discolor.

  Matteo didn’t look much better. His lower lip was cut and puffing up like a dinner pastry, and two vivid scratches on his left cheek were oozing blood and serum. Both men were drenched with sweat, their hair soaking, their faces glistening and their clothes clinging to their bodies with dampness. As Helen watched, Olmos, who was down but far from out, reached up and throttled Matteo, who pried his hands loose with an effort that left him spent and weakened. Olmos threw him off and dived for the knife, picking it up and waving it menacingly, a glitter in his catlike eyes.

  Both of Helen’s hands went to her mouth as she stared at the scene in silent revulsion. She wanted to look away but remained transfixed, like a witness to a tragic fire who can’t tear his eyes from the flames.

  Both men were on their feet now, and Olmos toyed with Matteo, lunging for him with the knife and forcing him to dance away. Olmos had the clear advantage and was prolonging it, enjoying the upper hand and taking the offensive with a cavalier attitude. He was going to win and could afford to make Matteo sweat before he stabbed him.

  But his confidence undid him. Matteo dodged and weaved, looking for an opening, and when he saw one he leaped on Olmos and felled him, putting his knee to his chest and ripping the knife from his hand.