Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  The cabos were the government troops. The name, an abbreviation for caballeros, or horse soldiers, had originally referred to the mounted police. It had passed into general usage as a synonym for gentlemen, which was ludicrous when applied to the military arm of the current regime. But the title stuck, and among the rebels it was another word for butchers.

  The afternoon was a torment for Helen. She had thought the night before was bad, when they were under attack, but at least then she had been busy. Now there was nothing to do except change an occasional bandage, get a drink of water for a thirsty patient and listen. She listened so hard that she felt her eardrums should have burst from the strain, but she heard only the usual camp sounds, the birds in the trees and the ominous, larger silence.

  She was sitting on an overturned box, staring into an empty cup, when Theresa sat on the ground next to her and handed her a banana.

  Helen shook her head.

  “Take it,” Theresa said. “Maybe you’ll want it later. If you get any skinnier even Rafaela’s clothes won’t fit you anymore.”

  Rafaela was the smallest of the women, and she’d been supplying most of Helen’s things. Helen accepted the piece of fruit, peeled it and took a bite.

  “The waiting is a brujata, no?” Theresa asked, using the peasant word for a bad dream, a nightmare cooked up by a bruja, or evil witch.

  “Yes,” Helen replied.

  “Now you really know what it is like to be one of us,” Theresa commented. “If you can stand this, the rest is easy.”

  “What can they be doing out there?” Helen asked rhetorically.

  “Taking care,” Theresa said. “Matteo is very careful, very...” She tapped her temple with her forefinger.

  “Smart,” Helen supplied. Theresa’s English came and went in spurts; at times she could wax eloquent, at others the simplest words failed her.

  “Si´. Inteligente,” she agreed. “We’d all be dead if Olmos had been in charge from the beginning. He was fearless himself, but foolish, too quick to act.”

  “Where do you think he is?” Helen said to her.

  “Olmos?”

  “Yes.”

  “In hell,” Theresa replied. “He betrayed his friends; he is a Judas. There’s no place on earth for him now.”

  So Matteo wasn’t the only one who’d figured out the source of the previous night’s attack.

  “I feel responsible,” Helen confessed, alluding to her role in Olmos’s defection, which continued to haunt her despite Matteo’s dismissal of it.

  “Nah,” Theresa said, waving her hand, agreeing with Matteo. “Those two were like a couple of roosters in a henhouse; one had to give up and go away or they would have killed each other.”

  “They almost did.”

  Helen and Theresa both froze as they heard the distant roar of a tremendous explosion. It sounded like a powder magazine had gone up—or a cache of incendiary rockets.

  Helen threw her arms around Theresa’s neck. “They did it!” she yelped, elated. Outside she could hear the sound of cheering as the rest of the camp shared her joy.

  Theresa nodded. “So far, so good,” she said. “They still have to get back, and every cabo left alive in the jungle will be looking for them now.”

  “They won’t move until it’s dark,” Helen guessed aloud.

  “You’re learning,” Theresa said approvingly. “Come on, help me get the food ready for tonight. It will help to pass the time.”

  It did. Helen worked at Theresa’s side, secure in the knowledge that Matteo had accomplished his objective, hopeful that she would see him in a few hours. Her good spirits were deflated only slightly by the presence of Alma, who kept surveying “the gringa” with a curiously triumphant look that made Helen extremely nervous. Anything that made Alma happy, especially where it concerned Helen, was surely open to question, but Helen tried not to let it bother her. Matteo had survived the trickiest part of his mission, and fate would not be so cruel as to let something happen to him now. This was a routine trip for him, she told herself; he did this sort of thing all the time. So she doled out the evening meal, watching the light fade as darkness fell, hoping that the genius that always seemed to protect him would not fail him in this.

  Another two hours passed, and Helen was reduced to taking inventory of the depleted stock of black market medicines, desperate for something to do. She was on her hands and knees in front of the wooden cupboard where the medicines were stored, dictating its contents to Theresa, when they both heard a shout go up outside.

  Theresa’s pad and pencil fell to the floor as Helen tripped over her on her way out. Theresa followed, and both women stopped when they saw Matteo and his companions making their way through the camp toward her tent.

  Helen was motionless in the entrance, her eyes fixed on Matteo’s face. People called to him and slapped him on the back as he passed, but he held Helen’s gaze and never looked away. A silence fell as he stopped in front of her, and she reminded herself to behave with restraint, as befitted the jefe’s woman.

  “Hi,” he said, smiling into her eyes.

  “Hello,” she whispered, twisting her hands together to keep from touching him.

  In the next moment she was whisked off her feet as he bent and swept her up in his arms, spinning her round and round. Whistles and catcalls erupted among the onlookers as he ducked his head and kissed her. Then another sound began, the insistent beating of many hands against hard objects, as if the rebels were drumming a signal. The beating fell into a pattern, rhythmic, insistent, and increased in volume until Helen could hardly make herself heard.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, pulling away from Matteo and turning her head.

  “It means that they approve,” he replied, grinning.

  “Of me?” she said.

  “Of you and me. It’s what they do instead of clapping.”

  He strode past Theresa’s tent with Helen in his arms and carried her through the entrance to her own. Behind them the sound fell away to a babble of voices as the people discussed their reprieve, thanks to Matteo’s latest exploit.

  “Tell everybody I don’t want to be disturbed,” Matteo called over his shoulder to one of the men who had gone with him. “For anything.” As he set Helen on her feet he added, “They’ll all be too busy celebrating tonight to care what I’m doing anyway.”

  As she watched he began to strip off his filthy shirt, glancing around for the tin tub she’d been using for bathing. He found it and set it on a chest, at waist level.

  “The nest wasn’t even guarded,” he said to her, as she got water for him and he dipped into it. “They were so confident they were all off eating dinner, if you can believe it, when we got there. Martin and I just tossed the grenades and ran like hell; they never even got close to us. Those cabos will have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.”

  He was exhilarated, on an adrenaline high from the experience, as he’d been when they had escaped from the airport police. After he had washed his upper body and his face, he started to rub the bar of soap over his damp hair.Then he winced when he encountered the wound on his forehead, just at the hairline.

  “Let me do that,” Helen said. She peeled away the sodden bandage Theresa had applied and tilted his head back over the basin to wet his hair. She worked the lather into his hair, creating a wealth of creamy suds, and gently washed the cut, which was already scabbing.

  “You heal fast, jefe” she said, smiling.

  “Good thing, too,” he answered dryly, and she shook her head. He would never change.

  “Your hair is beautiful,” she murmured as she poured clear water over it to rinse it, noticing how it gleamed wetly in the lamplight, shining with vitality.

  “Your touch is beautiful,” he answered, reaching back to capture her hands. He pulled her around in front of him and forgot his ablutions, taking her in his arms and kissing her. The water from his hair ran down Helen’s face, but she didn’t care. She kissed him back in helpless, thoug
htless response, wondering if it would always be this way with him; one embrace and resistance was impossible.

  He backed her against the standing chest, then took the full tub and tossed it, with its contents, out the back of the tent. He returned and unbuttoned the pair of shorts she was wearing, letting them fall to the floor. Her eyes widened as his hands went to his belt and she realized what he was going to do.

  “Matteo, wait,” she said, as he freed himself from his pants and lifted her.

  “I can’t wait,” he muttered, and entered her standing.

  Helen closed her eyes, all thought fading as he moved her, adjusting her position, and she moaned, clutching him tighter. It was fast and explosive; she gasped and then went limp as he shuddered within her, then carried her to the cot, where they collapsed, replete.

  There was a long silence and then she said, “Did you think about me when you left camp today?” She needed to hear that she was important to him, as he had become everything to her.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I was afraid to go.”

  She sat up to look at him. “You were?”

  He nodded. “Afraid I wouldn’t see you again. I have something to lose now.”

  “I don’t like to think I’m weakening you,” Helen said quietly.

  He shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, you make me stronger. You make me remember what I’m fighting for, a place where people can grow up to be like you. We grow up hard in this country; the women become like Alma, and the men . . . well, like Olmos, and I guess me too.”

  “You’re nothing like him, nothing,” Helen said fiercely, putting her arms around his neck and settling against his chest.

  “Oh, yes, I am,” he said tersely. “More than you know.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Olmos,” Helen said, not liking the trend of the conversation. “Let’s talk about us.”

  “What about us?” he asked, absently caressing her arm with the palm of his hand. “Our sexual adventures? Now that I’ve taught you to overcome your maidenly reserve, that is.”

  It was a long moment before he realized that she wasn’t going to answer him. He looked down at her to see that she was blushing, her face and neck stained pink.

  “You’re making fun of me,” she finally said.

  “What?” he responded, half laughing.

  “You think I’m a prude.”

  He stared at her, his mouth open. He cleared his throat. “Sweetheart, you are talking to the man who just had you, still dressed, standing up, in a tent in the middle of a jungle. No, Helen, I don’t think you’re a prude.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her sexual confidence was still too new, too shaky; the subject could not be treated lightly. Registering her miserable expression, he realized that what she needed more than anything was reassurance.

  He turned her on her back and kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her mouth. He was careful this time, gentle, as he had been with her in the beginning. By the time he got up to remove the rest of their clothes she was watching him avidly, anxious for his return.

  When the cycle began again, he brought her along slowly, caressing her with lingering tenderness, finally teasing her until she was clawing at him, begging for release. When he entered her she surged up to meet him, enclosing him in the vise of her legs, taking from him as much as she gave, until they reached the peak together.

  Afterwards Matteo held her as she dozed, unable to sleep himself. Finally he got up and pulled on his pants, covering Helen with his shirt and then leaving the tent.

  The night was gorgeous, cooler than it had been for a long time, with a hint of the zinflora, the fresh wind that swept through the Puerta Lindan mountains in the spring. He could hear guitar and harmonica music coming from many of the tents as he walked through the camp. His people were having a good time, enjoying a few hours’ respite, aware that they would be moving again at dawn to avoid the patrols.

  The sky was spangled with stars, and he looked up at them, wishing for a cigarette. He had quit smoking over a year ago, but now he remembered how good it had been to sit under the moon and let the smoke fill his lungs, helping him to plan and to think.

  One of his friends passed and he called out, “¿Ricardo, tienes un cigarrillo?”

  Ricardo tossed him half a pack and told him to keep the rest. Matteo walked to the charred stump of a tree destroyed by the previous night’s attack and sat on it. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, grimacing at the harshness of the blend. Nothing could beat American cigarettes. This was like smoking cactus leaves, but he continued, watching the tip glow as he dragged and then exhaled.

  He had to get Helen out of Puerta Linda. He’d broken every promise he’d made to himself. He’d made love to her when he vowed he wouldn’t, and tonight he’d forgotten to protect her again, so eager to have her that all precautions fled his mind. But he could still save her life and that he intended to do.

  It was not going to be easy to arrange her departure, or to live with her absence once she was gone. He didn’t know how he was going to get along without her now. The worst had happened; she had become necessary to him. He thought about her constantly, dreamed of her when he slept, and every time he saw her he wanted to get so deep inside of her that neither could tell where one left off and the other began.

  In short, he was in love.

  He was too old for this, Matteo reflected, blowing a stream of smoke into the night air. This should have happened to him when he was seventeen, when boys are often hit by the “thunderbolt,” as the Sicilians put it, the wild desire for a woman that would not quit until it was satisfied. But this was worse than such an infatuation, which dissipated with familiarity. No amount of contact satiated him; he needed Helen all the time.

  He bent forward and looked at the ground, tapping ashes onto the grass. It was no good telling himself that he had lost perspective; he knew it and didn’t care. Always before, even as a young man, he’d been able to put his goals before everything else and keep women in what he’d thought of as their proper place: at the end of the list. Maybe this relationship was different because at the beginning of it their positions had been reversed. He’d never been dependent on anyone in his adult life, and Helen had taken care of him. But he couldn’t dismiss what he felt that easily; it was much more than gratitude, far more intense than the closeness one feels for a friend who has been good to him. She was a part of him, and all the old songs, which he’d once thought of as corny and exaggerated, made sense to him now.

  Matteo looked up and nodded as a couple passed, intent on each other. He was thinking selfishly, he knew, worrying about how much he would miss her after she left, instead of concentrating on the need for her safety. But he had no idea how he would get along without her sweetness to neutralize the difficulty of his days, her passion to fill the emptiness of his nights. He didn’t know why her generous nature hadn’t been blunted by the selfishness of her family, the isolation of her upbringing, but it had endured to transform his life. While nine roses die in the cold, an old native saying went, one will survive; and Helen was the survivor, the flower in the crannied wall surmounting all odds to seek the sun.

  He finished the cigarette and stood, lighting another one. He reached his decision and went to Alma’s tent, ducking inside the flap as he spotted her inside, alone.

  Alma saw him in the doorway and her stomach lurched. He still affected her that way, like a punch in the diaphragm, and she composed her features deliberately as he came to stand beside her.

  He was wearing only his fatigue pants, and she noted, as always, the spare beauty of his torso, the patrician cast of his face. She looked away, afraid that her expression would betray her.

  When she glanced back, he was still waiting, his cigarette smoldering untouched between his fingers. His hair was mussed, and he looked tired, but relaxed. Well used and well loved.

  “So, your American lady is treating you well, is she?” Alma asked, to fill the silence. If he had not
been so preoccupied, so intent on his reason for coming to her, he might have noticed that her smile was not quite steady.

  When he made no reply she went on. “Maybe she wasn’t your mistress when she arrived, but she is now. ¿No es verdad, Matteo?”

  He sighed and said, “I didn’t come here to fence with you. I want you to contact your brother to get Helen across the border into Playa del Sol.”

  “Oh, is that the reason for the cigarettes? This was a difficult decision, to let the gringa go.”

  “Can you help me or not?”

  “I can help you. If you can get her to Tres Luces by dawn on Wednesday, I’ll tell him to meet you there and pick her up. If I leave first thing in the morning, I can get to San Jacinta in time to give him the message.”

  “You’re sure you know where he is?”

  She nodded. “He’s hiding out in the Cabeza hills with some distant relatives, untraceable by the police. He has the chopper there and they have a phone. My mother is afraid her house is being watched since he deserted, but I can go to another friend in town, a doctor who will let me call from his office.”

  Tres Luces was a tabletop mesa about five miles distant, with a flat, open area suitable for a landing. “Are you certain you can set this up?” he asked Alma. “I don’t want to bring her all the way there for nothing. We’d have to go on foot through the jungle and the cabos could be anywhere.”

  “I’m certain. I discussed the possibility of it with my brother before I left.”

  “And can he be trusted?”

  “As I can be trusted,” she replied, lifting her chin.

  “All right,” Matteo said. “You leave at dawn.” He paused and looked at her closely, his gaze intent, measuring.

  “Don’t fail me in this, Alma. I’m counting on you.”

  She inclined her head. “Si, mi jefe,” she answered, her tone tinged with irony. “For old times’ sake.”

  He turned to go, tossing his cigarette on the earthen floor.

  “And Matteo,” she called after him.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder.

  “If you get lonely when she’s gone, you know where to find me.”