He had no scruples at all about the extent of the sacrifices he asked from her or the others. Though “asking” was putting it nicely. Everything was a means to an end. So long as the outcome was good, it was worth it. This kind of commitment was necessary to be able to carry out the missions the women were sent on. Men of power were easily seduced. That was clear. It would be an oversight not to make use of this advantage. However, it did have its dangers, not all the women came out of the struggle unscathed, either mentally or physically.
On the other hand, not fighting wasn’t a guarantee that you would not be abused sexually or maybe even worse.
The mercenaries that were employed by many of the targets viewed the women of the nearby villages and towns as their own personal stock of sexual playthings. They kidnapped the women, abused them, and if the women were lucky, they let them go. Many of the victims ended up in a ditch somewhere or floating down the rivers. The inevitability of the abuse was what convinced many of the women to join the resistance, and to go to these extreme lengths to rid the country of the brutes that ravaged them.
Jesus needed Tonal’s seductive powers for the assassination of Ortiz. She was exactly what he would not be able to resist. The idea of making her a kindred spirit had also been Jesus’. Only beauty would not keep Ortiz interested long enough to be able to force the advantage. Bait and assassin in one, was an ideal combination. And that he had found in Tonal.
He regretted that Dulce had to accompany Tonal, but it was imperative. A male servant would not be acceptable, not for Ortiz. Insanely jealous as the man was reputed to be, it would be an immediate death sentence at best. Besides Ortiz wouldn’t trust Tonal, not with another male companion. A gay male companion was even worse. Ortiz was extremely homophobic. So, a woman had been the only choice. The solution they had chosen for the escape bothered Jesus in than he could not be sure that Dulce would make it. Tonal would, but Dulce only maybe. But that was the nature of the revolution. You took risks, for the greater cause.
Initially Jesus didn’t have a high opinion of Tonal. Sure, her talents would come in handy. But she seemed unstable, especially after prolonged stays in the compound. The memory of the situation twenty-three years earlier was still fresh in his mind. She seemed better in control, but appearances can be deceptive.
In all his years as the leader of the revolution Jesus had seen it all. He had been hunted, wounded, started a family, lost everyone dear to him. Violence was nothing new to him—his history was drenched in it. He didn’t however dwell on the agony and he left the morning to others.
Except that one day each year. The one day he allowed himself to remember.
She found him in the jungle that day. Had probably followed him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he was angry. This was his personal time. No one was allowed to disturb his peace and his sadness.
She just stood there.
He turned around and went back to what he was doing. The box of pictures was open next to him, the light of the fire just enough to be able to make out the features of the woman or the children on them.
‘You’re not leaving, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Then sit.’
She sat down next to Jesus, near enough to be able to see the photos if he handed them to her, but far enough not to encroach too far into his personal space.
She had never seen the big man look so fragile, so unlike the proud leader that inspired so many people to put their lives on the line for him and for the cause. In the compound he was the stable foundation for everyone. If doubts arose, they were quashed by his total commitment to the cause and the charisma that he effused. Everyone wanted to be like him and to please him. She also acknowledged that he was a master manipulator. He had to be. The revolution was not a project with quick results. Something like this took stamina, perseverance and total commitment. Jesus had the ability and the charm to keep the revolutionaries together, to inspire people to keep following their goal, even when it was extremely difficult. To never give up, no matter what. And when necessary, he had the resolve and the guts to do the dirty work, to order and then implement the executions. To sentence people to death, and to live with the consequences. It took a very special man to make a lot of his decisions and still be able to keep looking people in the eye.
He was a strong man, he had to be.
Here he was himself. For one night every year, he let the image fall and wept for those he had lost. For the people he had killed. Those that had died for him, those that had suffered. And most of all, for his family and his personal loss.
He let his emotions overwhelm him. He needed this to stay sane the rest of the year.
Looking down at the photos, he remembered.
The woman smiling back at him was immortalised in her prime. Not even thirty years old. A beauty in his mind with dark warm eyes and jet-black hair flowing down over her back.
He handed the photo to Tonal. She took it in silence and looked at the picture.
‘Mercedes’ her name.
‘A long time ago in a better life.’ He said. ‘She was my wife.’ Silence.
‘These were my children.’ Handing her a new photo of two smiling faces. Round, dark features, framed with the same jet-black hair that Mercedes had.
‘They were four and six when they died.’ Tears streamed down his cheeks.
‘How?’
‘They were murdered. Before my eyes.’ His voice faltered.
‘The revolution had just started. I had known Julio and his family for many years, they had helped us as a family, given me a job in the business. I was the manager of the ranch, taking care of the sales of the crops, managing the more than fifty staff and so on.’ Reminiscing helped him to get through the night.
‘Julio’s parents had been captured, along with many others who were on the premises at the time of the raid. I was in the city, for business. Mercedes and the children were in our apartment on the estate, they were taken with the others. The trials were a mockery. The executions of the Julio’s family public and televised. The rest including the children were killed the following night. They mowed them all down with a machine gun, after they raped the women in front of their own children. Mercedes, they shot while she was trying to protect the little ones. Her body fell on top of those she had so vehemently tried to save.’ He sobbed at the memory, handing more photos to her as he spoke.
‘We watched from a distance, there was nothing we could do, nothing. I watched my family die.’
Silence.
‘That was when I decided that I would join the resistance, and that I wouldn’t rest until the country had been liberated from the bastards that did this to their citizens.’
He had reached the last photo, one of the whole family, in happier days. In it he cradled his daughter in his big arms, his wife laughing at the small boy who squirmed in her grip. Posing for photos was not prominent in the little boy’s idea of fun. ‘That was when I decided that I wouldn’t allow myself to fall into self-pity. I would put away the grief and get to work. One day every year—toda—on the anniversary of their death, I allow myself the grief and the sorrow. Then I cry, so that I can forget for the rest of the year.’
There was no need to say anything. It was a monologue. Jesus would talk, and she would listen. Nod when appropriate and show the feeling and sympathy in her eyes and her body language.
It was the first time he had shared his pain with anyone. It felt good.
He had expected to feel her presence as an intrusion, but it felt warm and comforting. The fact that she remained silent was probably debit to that. She was just there. And he was grateful for it, for her presence.
They stayed awake all night. Jesus talked, she listened. She spoke when an answer was required. They created a bond that night that he had not deemed possible. She was so much more intelligent and emphatic than he had imagined. So much more rooted in life. He knew she had experienced a lot, Julio had indicated as much. But she nev
er pushed her experiences in the conversations. It was his night and her feelings spoke from the few remarks that she made.
He was grateful for her company.
When he finally fell asleep totally exhausted, he felt better than in previous years.
Waking up with the first rays of sunlight he found he was alone again. She had stayed and tended the fire until the early hours of the morning, now she left him to get his act back together and return to the compound as the steadfast and unflappable leader.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Dulce and I played out the scenes and our story. She the servant, bordering on slave, me the jet-set bitch.
We had moved to the enormous villa that I had rented for the scam. It was, as to be expected for the role, filled with every kind of comfort that a spoiled rich person could wish for. The grounds were secured behind a high wall, patrolled and defended by a ragtag bunch of gangsters. Hired guns. As long as I paid them more than they thought they could steal—and scared their socks off—they would “protect” me. As a fall-back there were two Partisans under cover in the villa, one as a servant, the other among the guards.
There was almost no contact with the compound. We had expected Ortiz to investigate us as soon as we were in his line of sight. So that meant we had no trips back, and no regular news.
For me it also meant no changing. That turned out to be more of a challenge than I had expected. Changing had been such an integral part of my life in the jungle—happening at whim—that I really came to miss it. The hunting, prowling and just the enjoyment of the sounds and smells around me had sustained me more than I knew. During the months in the compound, I had managed to slip away every now and then. For the assassinations and other targets, I’d needed to be the feline. Now there was no possibility. Disappearing for a while would be suspicious. So, I stayed in my human form.
It cost me though. The tension started building and I was becoming short tempered. Actually, that was quite good for the authenticity of the role, but nevertheless it was dangerous. I wished that it would start. That we could finally move forward.
We were nearly there. Ortiz had started to show interest in me. He had looked me up on the Internet, followed me on the cloud. The flags that the revolutionaries had set on the information showed that he was taking notice. I had been to a few exhibitions that Ortiz was supporting in his attempt at character improvement. He desperately craved acceptance as one of the new rich, as a man of standing and culture. This was something he couldn’t buy or achieve through terror. Not the real acceptance by the ancient upper class. In his grandeur he imagined himself to be a sophisticated man, not the murdering psycho degenerate that he really was. Arts and music were his favourite way of showing his wealth and pretending importance, aside from of the mercenaries of course. He regularly hosted art exhibitions in his office buildings in the country’s capitol. Heavily guarded naturally, and not always attended by Ortiz himself, but slowly his was “the place to be” if you were jet-set people.
When I gate crashed the Salvador Dali exhibition, he wasn’t anywhere near. News of my attendance had however reached him, probably visually supported at that, the exhibition was televised. This was a risk, hopefully no one from my past would pick up the streams. But it was a necessary risk. The result was that I received an invitation for the next exhibition. He was still absent, but once again he was aware that I had been there. Flowers were delivered to my door the next day, together with an invitation to have lunch in his penthouse.
I declined, played hard to get. He wasn’t put off. Just the opposite. His people followed me everywhere, keeping him informed about what I did. I upheld my image of a jet-set bitch, tyrannising my staff and being the diva wherever I went.
My own fame started to precede me. I was shown to the best places in restaurants. Maître-d’s shuddered when I walked in. Cooks whimpered in the kitchen.
Invariably I attracted a large crowd of admirers. Typical Latino men who thought the world revolved around them, that they were God’s gift to women. My snide remarks and sometimes outright hostility soon brought them down a few notches. But there were always a few who were suckers for pain and didn’t know when to stop.
My bodyguards usually made short work of them. I had no scruples about that, these were spoilt rich kids who had no idea of the suffering around them, and if they did, they couldn’t care less. I saw it as a piece of their much-needed education. Let them hurt for a change.
Ortiz watched at a distance. Probably laughing at the stupid men who sought my attention, instantly recognising that I was not interested in a no-body.
He invited me to dinner. This time I went.
For the occasion he had booked the whole restaurant; a hot trendy French cuisine establishment. There were no other guests, just Ortiz and myself. The place was however crawling with bodyguards and of course the restaurant staff, all of them scared stiff of their influential guests.
The meal was exceptional; the company wasn’t.
As expected he was arrogant, egotistical and narcissistic, and only remotely interested in who I was and what I did. Mind you, it turned out that his research had the whole story so there was not much I could tell him that he didn’t already know.
‘You don’t seem to be bothered my dear, that I had you so thoroughly investigated.’ He commented.
‘Why should I be?’ I said between sips of the extremely expensive champagne, ‘It’s no more that I would expect from a man of your standing. And besides I returned the favour.’
He laughed. ‘You investigated me?’
‘Naturally. I don’t dine with just anyone who sends an invitation, however nicely they ask.’
‘And what did you think about what you found?’
‘I’m here aren’t I?’
The rest of the evening was filled with nonsense, Ortiz trying to show his knowledge of art, his interest in travelling, and me nodding and only occasionally adding anything from my side.
After the coffee and liqueur, he escorted me to the door.
‘You will excuse me, my dear.’ His tone was soft and friendly, belying his dangerous aura and the look in his eyes. ‘There is some business that I have to take care of tonight.’ He kissed my hand. ‘Until we meet again.’
It was to be expected that he would combine business with pleasure. He didn’t come to town often, probably too dangerous and much too great a hassle. I definitely didn’t mind. I had endured more than my quota of the obnoxious man for one evening.
His chauffeur drove me home.
In the week that followed, he invited me to a private screening of a film that was yet to premier, to the opening of yet another Art exhibition and to lunch. Each time the conversation was almost exclusively about him. What he did, how he did it. What he wanted out of life.
Slowly his guard dropped an inch or two, and he started to confide more of the violent side of his persona with me. He would talk animatedly about hunts he had been on, the prey both animal and human, the end result had always been the same. How he had gained his image as the reincarnation of Vlad Teppes, also known as Vlad the Impaler—the origin of the Dracula myths. He revelled in the fear that he wrought on the villagers within his vast pseudo kingdom. The psycho was leaking at the seams of the art lover.
All through his narratives I smiled, laughed with him and generally encouraged him to continue his monologues. Wetting my lips after each gory tale, showing a heightened interest in the bloody parts, I convinced him that we were soul-mates. Both extremely violent, both taking pleasure from the suffering of the inconsequential victims. Occasionally, I would add a bloody tale of my own. Making sure that parts of the tale would be traceable. He would no doubt check them out.
‘Soon, my dear’ he commented when he once again escorted me to the waiting car, ‘you will come to my home and I will introduce you to the ultimate killers. If you are lucky, you will be able to see them at work. My cats are sensational.’
‘Don’t make me wait too long
’ I crooned. ‘I will be looking forward to it.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Back at the villa, I took a long shower. It wouldn’t be long now. I was getting under his skin. He was hooked. I could see it in his eyes. He viewed me as a new trophy, a new conquest. But more than that he saw the psycho in me, a kindred spirit.
Dulce had accompanied me to all the meetings with Ortiz, as was expected of a maidservant. During the visits she had been with the other servants, near—but invisible. Just in case her mistress needed her. Back here at the villa, the role was slightly more relaxed. For the outside world we kept up appearances, with me screaming at her at regular intervals. But in the privacy of my rooms—which were swept daily for listening devices—we could discuss the progress and next steps. Dulce provided valuable information that she had gleaned from the servants, which we used to help ready our battle plans.
Getting the news to the partisans was difficult. Sometimes the deliveries were made by one of the partisans, or a visitor would arrive under the guise of a business partnership. These were generally influential businessmen that had clandestinely sided with the resistance. Their companies provided a good cover.
One such business associate; an elderly and influential lawyer, visited me in the villa. We discussed the legal sides of my business endeavours all afternoon, ate an elaborate meal prepared by my chef and laid down the strategy for the company for the next few weeks. His advanced age of seventy-nine sent him to his bed early and I decided to retire to mine as well. He would leave again tomorrow and relay important information to the partisans through his channels.
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