She spoke Spanish to the soldiers. “Watch him closely. He could be an escaped criminal.” I was amused that she seemed to assume I spoke no Spanish. It was like the Japanese businessmen. So many people seemed to underestimate me.
She picked up the telephone handset and pushed some buttons. After a short pause she spoke into the phone, repeating what I had just said. She listened for a moment, said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
She switched back to English. “Would you allow these men to search you for weapons?”
Since my gun and knife were in an Orange County evidence locker, I held my arms out to the side. “Sure.”
The corporal stepped forward and frisked me. He said, “Nothing,” and stepped back.
The woman stood and gestured toward the corridor. “This way, if you would.”
The consul general was a small, clean-shaven man in a beige guayabera shirt. He had the cheekbones of an Indian and the eyes of a shark. He didn’t rise behind his desk when I was escorted into his corner office. He looked up at me, then down at a paper in his hand, which he read silently for nearly a minute before he sighed grandly—presumably to indicate the enormous burden that he carried for his people—laid the paper on the desk, looked up at me again, and said, “Yes?”
I told him who I was and that I had been working for Valentín Vega. I told him why. I mentioned the two men who had followed me and tried to kill me. Then I told him about the home invasion and my arrest. I explained that it seemed possible Vega had planned to murder the congressman or else intimidate him into withdrawing his opposition to the URNG, using me as a scapegoat for the crime.
I said, “I’m guessing you want to get rid of Valentín Vega and get the URNG out of the way, but Vega’s disappeared, so that just got a lot more difficult. I’m also guessing you didn’t like it when I went to work for Vega, so you told your guys to follow me around and try to scare me off and kill me and so forth. As you can see, I’m very hard to kill, but it still offends me when people try to do it. Normally, I’d return the favor and come after you. But I think Vega set me up to take the fall for the Montes home invasion, so in this case our interests are the same. Why don’t we stop stepping on each other’s toes and work on this together?”
He stared at me with a puzzled expression. “These two men you describe, who claim they disappear people, they are not associated with my government. Those days are far behind us now, and the evil men responsible for such atrocities are being brought to justice even as we speak.”
I said, “Maybe I got it wrong. I did say it was only a guess on my part. But I assume Valentín Vega is of interest to you?”
“We are interested in him, certainly. He claims he is merely a politician now, and there are some in my government who find it convenient to forget his crimes during our civil war, but many others believe he bears the same guilt as the junta and should be brought to justice.”
“I would like to help with that.”
“In what way?”
I said, “While I understand and certainly believe you when you say the two men that I mentioned are not your associates, I still assume your consulate makes it your business to know the whereabouts of prominent Guatemalan citizens when they visit this country. Only in order to protect them and serve them, naturally.”
He nodded. “Naturally.”
“So may I assume you have some idea where Valentín Vega is at this moment? And may I assume that it would be in your nation’s interest if I were to find him and bring him to justice for his role in this terrible attack on Congressman Montes’s wife?”
The consul general aimed his shark black eyes at me, saying nothing.
“Of course,” I continued, “if you did assist me in locating Vega, and if I was successful in bringing him to justice, you would have the thanks of the American people, who would otherwise be outraged that such a criminal might enter our country from yours and treat a member of our government so shamefully. At least I believe that would be the reaction should the press learn what I know about this situation.”
He continued to stare at me for a few more seconds; then he said, “Thank you for your visit.” He picked up the paper and began to read again, and the sergeant put his hand on my shoulder, so I left the room.
Teru was waiting near the front doors of the office building when I emerged.
“So?” he said. “Did you get a clue?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
We walked a block to where he had parked the Porsche. We got in and drove to Newport. It took nearly an hour because rush-hour traffic had begun. We reached the gates at El Nido and stopped, waiting as they swung open. My cell phone rang. I put it to my ear and said, “Hello.”
I recognized the consulate receptionist’s voice. She said, “12 Calle 9A 2-21, Zona 1, Vista Hermosa 1. That’s in Guatemala City. Do you have all that?”
“Yes,” I said, “Thank you very much,” but she was already off the line.
34
Simon stood on the lawn beside the driveway when we rolled up. He held his hands behind his back, the image of a proper butler. Teru parked, and Simon came forward to open the car door on my side, holding it as I unfolded myself from the Porsche.
I said, “How long have you been standing here?”
“Approximately one minute.”
I turned to Teru. “Did you phone him before we left the consulate?”
“Nope,” said Teru.
“Then how did he know we were coming?”
Teru shrugged.
I looked at Simon. “How did you know we were coming?”
Simon said, “One does strive to be prepared.”
I shook my head. “You guys would make me nervous if you weren’t on my side.”
“If we were not on your side, anxiety would be wise,” replied Simon.
Teru smiled.
I said, “I don’t suppose you have another M11 handy? The OCSD kept mine.”
“Enquires have been made; however, I regret to say a replacement sidearm will not be available until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
Shaking my head, I walked toward the guesthouse. Teru and Simon fell in alongside me.
Simon said, “The authorities executed a warrant to search your residence last night.”
“Teru already told me they searched my computer. Did they seem interested in anything else?”
“Unfortunately I was not allowed to observe their activities within the house; however, I was able to stand outside the residence and prepare an inventory of the items they removed. In addition to your computer, they removed some articles of clothing, which I took to be your soiled laundry.”
I nodded. “Looking to match fibers from the Montes’s house.”
We were at the front door. I opened it and went inside. The place had been thoroughly tossed. Books from the shelves stood in piles on the floor. Contents of the kitchen cabinets were on the countertop. Sofa and chair pillows had been upturned.
I went straight across the living room to a burled-walnut Edwardian armoire in the corner. The mirrored door hung open. They had removed the stereo system from inside the armoire, stacking the components in front of it along with my collection of vinyl LPs. I moved some of the LPs out of the way, and dropped to the floor, and twisted my shoulder to reach into the space beneath the lower-most shelf. I pressed on the bottom right corner of the armoire’s back and heard a click as the panel came away. It was a relief to reach a little farther in and find the plastic baggie still there. I pulled it out.
The baggie contained seven passports, seven driver’s licenses, and seven pairs of credit cards in seven different names. Also five thousand dollars in used twenties and fifties.
Teru whistled. “Simon’s not the only one who plans ahead.”
I removed two passports, two matching driver’s licenses, four credit cards, and all of the cash. I replaced the baggie in the compartment and pressed the panel closed.
Simon said, “Guatemala?”
> I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.
He shrugged slightly. “An elementary deduction.”
Teru said, “You know it’s a bail violation just to leave Orange County, much less the country. If they catch you at the border, you’ll lose that million five bail money, and they’ll detain you until the trial. Could be months from now. Even a year or more. And of course they’ll add possession of the forged passports. That’s a federal crime. It carries ten years, I think. No, wait. You’ll be carrying it in the commission of a crime, so they’ll tack on another five.”
“Thanks, counselor.”
“Glad to help.”
There was the sound of a cell phone ringing. Simon removed it from his inside jacket pocket and examined the screen. “Miss Soto appears to be at the front gate.”
“You have the gate cameras linked to your phone?”
“Indeed, I do.”
I shook my head again. “Can you let her in from here?”
“Of course.”
“Then kindly do so, my good man.”
Simon touched his cell phone’s screen, then replaced the phone in his pocket.
We went outside. Simon and Teru walked with me as far as the edge of the gravel drive, then Simon headed toward the main house as Teru got in his Porsche and drove toward the gate. I saw him wave at Olivia as he passed her on his way out.
I stood and watched her park. She got out and walked right up and threw her arms around me. “Oh, thank God,” she said.
“Hey,” I said, tentatively returning her embrace. “What’s all this?”
She clung to me tightly, pressing her cheek against my chest. “I thought they might hold you in that terrible place for months.”
“Teru got me out.”
She pushed back, still holding on to me, and looked up at my face. “What are you going to do?”
“Well, I was thinking about dinner in a little while.”
“Be serious.”
Very gently, I pushed her away. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She stepped back and turned toward the harbor. Watching as a sloop with a black hull ghosted past the estate, she said, “You could tell me if you did it, you know. I’d never repeat a word. I don’t care about Doña Elena. I only care about you.”
I might have laughed if she hadn’t been playing it so straight. I said, “Is that so?”
She lifted her chin. “I like you, Malcolm. I like you a lot. Don’t you like me?”
“Sure I do. You’re lovely and smart. What’s not to like? But it would be nice to know why you really came over here.”
“I came because I care!” She flung her arms around me again. “Don’t you see? I had to make sure you’re okay.”
“No.” I pushed her away again. “I mean what’s the real reason?”
Her eyes went wide. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Not completely.”
“But… but why not?”
“You’re too gorgeous, Olivia. You could have any man you want. And hanging around with Doña Elena and the congressman, you probably meet millionaire producers and corporate executives and national politicians every day. So I’ve been wondering, why would a girl like you throw herself at a chauffeur? It’s obvious you want something from me. What is it?”
“You really think I’m that shallow?”
“I think you’re too interested in the Toledo case. I think you’ve been after inside information from the moment I met you. I think you’ve got some kind of skin in the game. I just don’t know what.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You… you…”
I said, “Look. Save the outraged act, and don’t bother pretending to have hurt feelings. You have an angle. That’s okay. Everybody does. So why not save us both a lot of time and just tell me what you want?”
She swung hard at me, but I caught her wrist before the slap connected. I pulled her close and tight and said, “Were you with Castro and the other men at Doña Elena’s house?”
“Let me go!”
I said, “You say you care so much about me. Would you tell me if you were the woman Doña Elena saw that night? Would you confess that to the cops and tell them I wasn’t there to keep me out of jail?”
Her dark eyes flashed with fury. “It was not me, Malcolm. Now are you going to let go, or should I scream for help?”
I released her wrist. Without a pause she spun on her heel, marched to her car, and got in. Her back tires spewed gravel as she sped toward the front gate.
When the gates had closed behind her, I went inside the guesthouse, ate dinner, and got into bed. It seemed like hours before I went to sleep. Maybe it was because I skipped the Scotch, or maybe it was because I couldn’t make up my mind about which side Olivia was on.
35
The next morning Teru dropped me at a rental-car agency in Huntington Beach. Teru drove fast on detours through backstreets and did some doubling back to check for tails, but if the police were there when we left El Nido, he lost them along the way. It’s hard to keep up with a well-driven Porsche on surface streets in a Crown Victoria.
Using a driver’s license and Visa card in the name of Michael Cullen, I rented a white Toyota Corolla. I hadn’t wanted to tip off the police surveillance by leaving El Nido with luggage, so as soon as I had the car, I drove to a department store and used the Cullen credit card to buy a pair of blue jeans, three shirts, some underwear and socks, and a soft-sided bag to carry it all. I stopped at a pharmacy and picked up a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some other things, and then I headed south on the 5.
It was about noon when I entered Tijuana. The Mexican customs light flashed green at the San Ysidro border crossing, so I didn’t have to stop. Ten minutes later, after traveling past the traffic circles on Padre Kino and following Cuauhtemoc Norte to the airport entrance, I parked on the third level of the garage and walked into General Abelardo L. Rodríguez International Airport.
I took AeroMexico flight 177 to Mexico City on a Boeing 737. We arrived at 10:50 that night. I had a leathery steak and a cold potato at Sanborns, which is always open in the airport, and then I sacked out in a sagging chrome-and-leather seat at my departure gate. At 7:45 in the morning, the gate attendants arrived, and at 8:45 I was sitting in an economy-class aisle seat of a Brazilian-made Embraer 195 as we pushed back from the Jetway.
Two hours later I landed in Guatemala City.
At the taxi stand outside La Aurora International Airport, I took a piece of paper out of my pocket. On it I had written the address the address the consulate receptionist had given me on the phone. I got into a cab and read the address to the driver. He nodded, and soon we were in Zone 1, which is the central part of the city, where all the oldest buildings are.
I had always thought the city was a study in contrasts. Poverty was the primary theme, with block after block of rudimentary concrete and corrugated-steel structures. But here and there an office building rose to fifteen or twenty stories, and colonial architecture stood in other places like jaded members of a royal family enduring the unwashed presence of their downtrodden subjects.
There was far less Spanish influence than I was used to seeing in other Mexican or Central or South American cities. That was to be expected, since Guatemala City, or “Guate” as the locals called it, had been only a tiny village until the late 1700s, when the Spanish government arrived after earthquakes had destroyed the original capital of that part of their empire. The Spaniards had enjoyed only a few decades to leave their mark before their reign ended. Meanwhile, great cathedrals and grand government buildings had already been standing for two centuries in places like Guadalajara, Mexico, and Bogotá, Colombia.
Still, for such a small, impoverished country, Guate could be something of a surprise. There was a sense of energy about the town. People on the sidewalks all seemed to have someplace to go. Traffic was a disaster, of course. Drivers went everywhere at top speed. They obviously viewed stoplights as mere suggestions. White stripes for traffic l
anes and stop signs were ignored altogether. But my driver seemed to take it all in stride, so I relaxed and enjoyed the trip across town.
We followed Avenida La Reforma for fifteen or twenty blocks, a nice broad boulevard with lots of trees. It ended at a large traffic circle around a monument to some Guatemalan hero. From there, the driver took a series of smaller streets. I saw a large stadium on the right, called Cuidad Olimpica, or Olympic City, and a few blocks farther, a railroad museum on the left. After that, the neighborhood started to get older, with more and more colonial Spanish influence.
At 9A Calle, the cabbie took a right, and two blocks farther along he pulled to the curb. I looked out to see a small restaurant between a dentist’s office and a shoe store.
“This is it?” I asked in Spanish.
He nodded, “The address you gave me is the restaurant there, yes.”
I paid him in quetzals, the Guatemalan currency named after the national bird. I got out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around. Across the street was a city block shaded by trees. A sign said Columbus Park. In the center of the block rose a limestone monument, and around it were dozens of ficus trees. Underneath the trees I saw old men sitting on benches and in folding chairs. Some of them had set up folding tables to play dominoes. It reminded me of the old men at the benevolence society in Pico-Union. It was a peaceful scene, and somewhat unexpected, since Guatemala City was the murder capital of the world.
Turning toward the address I had been given, I saw a hand-painted sign above the door to the restaurant, black letters against a red background—El Pollo Gordo. The Fat Chicken. On either side of the entrance were seven or eight small tables, surrounded by the kind of cheap white plastic chairs you can buy anywhere for four or five dollars. On the tables were logos for the local beer companies: Victoria, Brahva, and Gallo. Somehow I doubted I would find Valentín Vega inside, but as Simon might have said, one never knew.
I went in. There were six tables along the right wall and a counter on the left, facing the kitchen, which was right there in the same room. In the back a very fat woman sat in a little booth, surrounded by thick glass. Although the crime was bad in Guatemala, bulletproof glass for a restaurant cashier surprised me.
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