Chapter 24
Meanwhile, Yolanda arrived in Lima on Hacienda Chicama business. Her legal training and administrative skills impressed Mr Schultz – unaware of her bitterness about the sufferings of sugar cane croppers, her family in particular.
Anyway, she was sent to Lima to work with an eminent lawyer, a friend of the Schultz family, tasked with pulling strings within the UR party to secure the bank loan Hacienda Chicama needed to stay in business. That loan would replace the loan from Randall’s American bank and keep Hacienda Chicama out of Randall’s greedy clutches, for the time being.
John was happy to have Yolanda in Lima and wanted to see as much of her as possible. Yet, he wasn’t used to a jealous Latin lady insisting he dedicate every free moment to her. Of course, he loved her, but also defended his own space. He sighed – he hadn’t been ready to marry Lisa and still wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment.
When John received letters from his father, he’d usually shared them with Yolanda. But better keep certain things private, “Why do you want to know?” “It’s nothing important.” If she insisted, he struggled to avoid saying “Mind your own business.”
He eluded her inquisition by not telephoning her one evening he went out with his friends. Where had they gone? What had they got up to? John felt she didn’t need to know – he had a right to his private life.
In the morning, John struggled to get out of bed, and said, “Yoly, please don’t have a go at me. I’ve got a splitting headache. I’ve slept badly. I’m so tired.”
“Tired? How on earth can you be tired if you’ve slept until midday?” said Yolanda.
Ignoring her question, John rushed to the bathroom and started vomiting. He wanted to freshen up, but felt weak and sweaty, and just collapsed back into bed. Mercifully, Yolanda just sneered, gave him a break and let him sleep again.
Pedro revealed to John that Yolanda had quizzed him,
“I’m worried about John. When he was half awake, he babbled something about Mick being in prison but that he shouldn’t be there. Afterwards, when he’d freshened up, I asked him about it and he insisted he’d said no such thing,” said Yolanda. Pedro shrugged.
“Where did you and John go last night, Pedro?” asked Yolanda.
“Nowhere special – only out with some friends for a few drinks.”
“How many drinks?”
“Umm… not too many, the usual – you know, John likes Peruvian rum.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Not too late, but, hey, why don’t you ask your boyfriend? Anyway, a man has a right to go out for a drink,” said Pedro, but then smiled as he recalled:
“We bumped into some black-shirts. John punched one and then chased them away – they’re not so brave without their guns. John’s a good fighter, you know. It was great fun – strange that this morning he couldn’t remember what happened.”
Whilst John was vomiting in the bathroom again, Yolanda saw a small container with pills.
“What’s this?” she said, once he came out of the bathroom.
“Uh… that? It’s nothing. Just… some medicine.”
“Medicine, for what?”
“Err… for my headache. Yes, my headache.”
“You’re lying, John. What are these pills? And what’s really happened to Mick?”
John sat down on the bed, breathed deeply, took Yolanda’s hand, and looked into her eyes.
“There was too much drinking in Boston. I suppose it helped us forget our problems. But it became a habit,” said John, sniffling before he continued, “I guess drinking made me aggressive and I could lose control. One night in Boston, there was a scuffle in a speakeasy. A man was pushed. He fell, knocked his head and died. I was there, with Mick, but next day I couldn’t remember much. We were both taken to jail. My father got me released but Mick stayed inside, charged with manslaughter – as he was mixed up with the Irish mob, that complicated things,” said John, holding his head in his hands.
Then, John opened an envelope he’d received from his father and unfolded a Boston press report. Yolanda read the headline:
“Judge rules Mick Faughnan innocent of manslaughter. Boston police believe new suspect hiding in South America.”
Chapter 25
John should have been proud, but he wasn’t. The telegram from The Washington Post congratulated him. His latest report had been published in his name, and no longer in the name of the Buenos Aires-based correspondent for South America.
Shit, John sighed: Randall, Carlos, the American embassy, everyone would know he was The Post’s reporter in Peru. His reports had been critical of the Sánchez-Cerro regime’s undemocratic behaviour. And Carlos would be cursing himself for having spilled the beans to John.
Many in Peru had seen The Post’s reports as a beacon of truth in the sea of lies the censored Peruvian press churned out. It had been difficult to find a copy of The Post in Lima, but they’d been smuggled in nevertheless.
People had wondered how that correspondent in Buenos Aires, whom everyone thought was the author of The Post’s reports, had been able to get inside information when he didn’t even travel to Lima. And how had he managed to interview Haya and that anonymous relative of former President Leguia denouncing his inhumane treatment? The Sánchez-Cerro regime had their knives out for him. Now, John’s cover was blown.
Even worse, in the USA, the FBI would know John’s whereabouts as the prime suspect in that Boston manslaughter case. It wouldn’t take long for the FBI to file a request through Interpol and issue a warrant for John’s arrest.
John was in the eye of the storm and needed to seek refuge. Was it time to go back home to the USA, even if it meant facing justice? No, he couldn’t leave Yolanda – she’d changed his life. And she’d never leave Peru, at least not now, when her family was fighting for their livelihood and her country for its future.
John needed to go for a walk and breathe fresh air. The summer was ending but it was still hot. He walked down a shady street and arrived in a quiet square. He sat down beside a chattering fountain and ran his fingers through his hair. Then, he washed his face in the fountain.
Now he could think – pull yourself together, man. No more drinking – it’s going to kill you. And you must stay alert to elude your enemies.
He’d come to Peru to research for his doctorate, working with Professor Kemmerer. Why had Randall offered him the opportunity to work with Kemmerer? John had to accept his responsibility: he’d been Randall’s spy. He’d delivered information that Randall used dishonestly to contrive how to buy Hacienda Chicama. Had he betrayed Yolanda and his friends at Hacienda Chicama? Could he have delivered false information? No chance – he’d have been found out. He had to face it: he’d been a mere pawn, trapped in a chess game.
The following day, when John got back to Hostal Zapata for his usual dinner, Sandra was there again. Shit. Was she in trouble? She looked worried. Had they discovered someone had got into Peter’s office the other night?
“Hi Sandra, what’s up? Are you okay?”
“John, I’ve got terrible news. The FBI is after you. I’ve seen a telegram: they’re sending two officers to Lima next week and, of course, they’re asking for the embassy’s cooperation. Something about a guy who was killed in a speakeasy in Boston a couple of years ago.”
That’s all I needed, thought John, scowling, “Thanks for letting me know, Sandra.”
“But, John, what are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be okay. Come on, its late, you’d better get home – let’s find you a taxi,” said John.
When Sandra had left, John bit his nails. I’ll be okay, he’d told her – like hell he would. But he had to stay cool. Think – his every move must be carefully thought out from now onwards. And, damn it, tell Tony to take away that glass of rum and bring a Coca Cola instead.
A week later, a special visitor came to Hostal Zapata: Major Gonzalo Vargas – coming through Lima from Arequipa and heading north to Trujillo. He joined Pedro and John for dinner.
Today, Gonzalo brought good news: at long last, he’d been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. Sánchez-Cerro needed a man he could trust in Trujillo – the stronghold of Haya and APRA, and the place where an APRA rebellion could most likely begin.
After accepting congratulations, Gonzalo got serious, “And what about you Pedro? I see you haven’t learned your lesson. Not only do you confront the Piérola family, but now you’re making friends within APRA.”
“Err… who, me? Who gave you that idea?” replied Pedro.
“Pedro, don’t lie to me. I’ve been assigned to Military Intelligence in Trujillo. We’re informed about anything important that happens. Do you know a guy called Manuel Barreto?”
“Yeah, I think he’s the cousin of a friend of John’s, isn’t he, John?” How on earth did his father know this?
“Huh… that cousin wouldn’t happen to be called Yolanda Ramos, would she?”
Pedro and John gasped and looked at each other, and then at Gonzalo – he knew everything. Just where was this conversation leading?
“Pedro, be very careful with those APRA people. I’m warning you – they’ll get you into trouble.”
“But Yolanda works at Hacienda Chicama. She’s a legal adviser, or something like that, to the owner, Mr Schultz, isn’t she, John? How can she be with APRA?” John decided to stay mum.
“Pedro, listen to me and look for a different bunch of friends,” said Gonzalo.
Deeply engaged in conversation, nobody saw Carlos Medelius come in with a couple of friends for a drink. None of them observed Carlos asking Mr Zapata if he could make a telephone call from the bar. And none of them noticed, minutes later, when Carlos and his friends left, smirking, after pointing in John’s direction to the two well-built Americans who’d rushed into Hostal Zapata.
“Mr John Fitzgerald? We’re FBI agents. You’re under arrest for a charge of manslaughter in Boston, Massachusetts,” said the shorter of the two officers, as he flashed his credentials badge, whilst the other one drew his gun and aimed it at John.
Then, it all happened so quickly. With the sound of smashing glass, the taller American agent collapsed onto the floor, dropping his gun.
“Tony, what have you done, man? Are you crazy?” said Pedro – as Tony stared at his hand, holding what remained of the bottle he’d just smashed on the guy’s head.
“What are you doing with that sack?” said John – as Tony pulled a cloth sack over the other agent’s head. Damn it, let’s help, thought John, reacting quickly, “Pull the sack down to his waist. Don’t let him move.”
With the sack over his head, John and Pedro wrestled the agent to the floor, punching him unconscious.
“A rope – Tony, find a rope,” said John. “Here it is,” said Tony.
“Now, let’s tie him up,” said John. Within the sack, the shorter agent groaned. What now?
Mr Zapata rushed out, “What the hell is going on here?” Nobody answered and, guessing what had happened, tugged at his hair, “Let’s clear up this mess.”
Gonzalo cursed, but he was also in the midst of the mess. Indeed, how to clear it up. But what should he do? His instincts led him to trust John.
“Okay, I’ll get my car and we’ll bundle them inside,” said Gonzalo, used to thinking fast, “then, we’ll drive to the riverside and dump them. When they’re found, with luck, people will think they’ve been assaulted by robbers.”
“Now, what about witnesses?” said Gonzalo. They looked around. There was nobody else in the bar apart from them.
“Carlos was here earlier. He made a telephone call, but left as soon as these two foreigners arrived. I don’t think he saw anything of this,” said Zapata, pointing at the men on the floor.
Gonzalo was in control and giving instructions, “Right, we all have to agree, and stick to, the same story when the police come: none of us has seen these men come in and, most certainly, nobody has seen the men leave or be taken away. Okay? And nobody has seen me here tonight,” said Gonzalo, shaking his head – what the hell was he allowing himself to get mixed up in? Pedro… again, getting into trouble.
After a couple of minutes they heard the engine of a car outside. Pedro looked out of the window – it was his father.
Gonzalo came in and, between the four men, they bundled the American agents into the back of his car. They didn’t move. They were still unconscious.
Gonzalo jumped into the driver’s seat and Pedro sat beside him. Tony and John stayed behind to clear up the mess in the bar before the police arrived. Then, John had to get the hell out of there. Where to? He went up to his room, to pick up bare essentials and scram.
“That filthy rat, Carlos Medelius,” said Pedro, spitting out of the window, as they drove off.
“Pedro, what the hell is going on?”
“That guy Carlos, he must have called the American FBI agents to arrest John – he’s been falsely accused in the USA.”
“Carlos Medelius – is he a relative of Oscar Medelius?”
“Yeah, papa – his cousin, I think.”
“Damn it, Pedro, you are in real trouble, aren’t you? Do you know the Medelius are close to Dr Flores? Whatever you do, stay away from Flores… and from the Medelius: they’re dangerous” said Gonzalo, shaking his head as he drove off. Yes, Pedro did have an uncanny ability to get into trouble.
It was late and the city was quiet. Gonzalo drove over the old stone bridge that crossed the river Rímac from the city centre to the rougher side of town. Good, no passers-by had recognised them.
After crossing the river, Gonzalo drove along the riverbank until he found some shady trees, cloaked in darkness, with no street lights nearby. He stopped the car. There was nobody around. He motioned to Pedro to help him get one of the Americans out of the back of the car and lye him down on the ground, and then the same with the second man. They took the sack from the shorter man’s head. He was breathing but still unconscious. They took the men’s wallets, loosened their ties and ruffled their clothes. When they were found in the morning, it would look like they’d been mugged by thieves.
Minutes later, a car stopped outside the entrance to Hostal Zapata and three policemen got out, together with Carlos Medelius.
Carlos and the police found Zapata’s bar clean and tidy, with Tony preparing to close – his same nightly routine.
“There were two Americans here earlier,” said a policeman.
Tony and Mr Zapata looked at each other and shook their heads, “No, sir, we haven’t seen any Americans,” said Tony.
“Liars,” Carlos shouted, “I left just as the Americans arrived.”
“No, sir, I was probably cleaning up in the kitchen,” said Tony.
Carlos stared at Zapata, “No, I haven’t seen any Americans either… after you made that telephone call I went upstairs,” said Zapata.
“And what about the men dining at that table? There was John, Pedro and an older man – I hadn’t seen him before,” said Carlos.
“I didn’t see them when they left,” said Tony.
Before leaving with the police, with a hideous frown and in silence, Carlos wagged his finger at Tony, who knew exactly what he was thinking: I’ll get you, you son-of-a-bitch – nobody makes a fool of me.
Earlier, John had rushed upstairs to his room, with his mind shooting off in all directions: Randall – of course, this was his revenge. He would have enjoyed putting the FBI on to John’s trail. Yolanda – how could he let her know? Would he be able to see her before he escaped? Shit, man, think about yourself – you’re the one in danger.
Stumbling into his room, he grabbed a small suitcase, dithering about what to throw in. He didn’t notice the shadow behind the door,
but did feel the metal pressed against the back of his neck.
Then, the click of a gun and a voice, in English, “Raise your hands and don’t move.”
John froze and gulped – he was trapped.
“Johnny, you gotta believe me, I never wanted to do this… I had no choice.”
What the hell…? John knew this voice. It couldn’t be, could it?
“Mick… Mick, is it you, man?” John gasped. The gun was still pressed firmly against his neck.
“I… I had to do it. They’ve got my kid brother. They’d kill him if I didn’t come to Lima to look for you. They knew I was the man for the job… they knew you’d trust me” said Mick, as his voice began to break.
“Who are ‘they’?”
“The Irish mob, Johnny – my bosses. A big fish called Randall gave them a juicy contract for your head… I’m supposed to kill you… or they’ll kill my little brother… but I can’t do it, man, I just can’t do it,” said Mick, sniffling and swallowing his tears. John felt a tremble in Mick’s hand holding the gun.
“So, what are you gonna do now, Mick, if you ain’t gonna shoot me?” said John, surprised how steady his own voice was.
“Err… I thought I’d hand you over to the police… I’ll tell the mob I didn’t have a chance to kill you… that the police took you in… yeah, that’s what I’ll do. For Christ’s sake, I love you Johnny. At least you’ll be alive,” said Mick.
Yeah, I’ll be alive, but for how long? thought John.
For how long would he be alive? That was anyone’s guess under Dr Flores’ Emergency Law. John shuddered as the policemen pulled his hands behind his back and, click, click, he was handcuffed – scenes from Boston jail flooded back.
What now? Deportation was the best John could hope for, but Randall, Carlos and the Sánchez-Cerro regime wouldn’t want that – John knew too much and had raked up muck aplenty through The Washington Post. Imprisonment was more likely, but then the Sánchez-Cerro regime would have to justify some spurious charge and the USA embassy would have to reluctantly intercede on his behalf. John gasped – that only left one option: making him disappear, forever. Oh God, that’s what they’d do.
The Titans of the Pacific Page 27