It was a one-room place that smelled of garlic, licorice and woman. The licorice odor Wiley recognized was aguardiente. An oil lamp was burning low on a table off to the side. At the back of the room was a bed, very mussed up. There was a woman on it, sitting on the edge. She was also mussed. An extremely fat woman with large breasts down to the folds of her stomach. It wasn’t particularly warm in the room but she was perspiring.
Off to the right a man was dressing. He already had his shoes on. They were shiny even in that low light. Patent leather or plastic or a very high buff. He stepped into his trousers, tucked in and zipped up.
He was forty-some. A Colombian, mixed Spanish and Indian. Under five six, and thin, couldn’t have weighed over one-thirty.
Wiley apologized for the intrusion. He felt as though he’d come into a wrong hotel room.
The apology went unaccepted. “What do you want?” the man asked. A strong voice for his size.
“Whose car is that out there?” Wiley asked.
“I have the keys,” the man told him.
Probably, Wiley thought, the car belonged to whomever the man worked for and he’d used it to come here to this woman.
“Could you take us to Bogotá?” Wiley asked.
“I could,” the man said.
“For a thousand dollars,” Wiley said.
The woman uttered something religious at the sum. No reaction from the man. He was having trouble with his shirt cuffs, getting the links into the holes.
“Two thousand,” Lillian said.
The man smiled agreeably. “Let me finish dressing,” he said, reaching for his vest.
“Hurry,” Wiley told him, and went to the front window to keep watch with Lillian.
The fog seemed thicker than ever.
No more rifle fire coming from the other end of town. It must have just stopped. Not because anyone had given up, Wiley imagined.
He put his arm around Lillian.
“It’s going to be all right now,” he whispered to the situation. “We’ll soon be safe in Bogotá.”
There was no mistaking then what Wiley felt pressed behind his ear. Or what Lillian felt against the back of her neck. The small cold metallic circles that were the muzzles of guns.
The slight man owned the Cadillac.
He was Rico Morales—esmeraldero.
21
The cell.
Narrow like a stall with a high ceiling and a window just out of reach. The window was too small for anyone to escape through, but it was barred nevertheless. The floor of concrete had an open drain hole about eight inches in diameter that a prisoner could use for his wastes. No furniture, not a stick.
Wiley squatted on his haunches, away from the wall because it was cold and damp, as was the floor. He had thought his bare feet would eventually get used to the cold, but they got worse. Now all fifty-two bones in his feet were aching, and his soles felt like they’d turned to gelatin.
When the Captain had told him to strip, he’d presumed it was only to facilitate their search. That they hadn’t given back his clothes was uncalled for. What satisfaction for them to have him shivering? If they’d been gaping and getting their sadistic kicks, at least that would have been a reason, but no one had even looked in on him.
He had been separated from Lillian as soon as they had arrived at this place. Brought under heavy guard in the back of an army truck. It was only about an hour’s ride from where they’d been captured. The esmeraldero Rico Morales had been glad to turn them in. On the way, one of the soldiers had smirked and said they were going to Barbosa, as though that should be meaningful.
Barbosa.
Wiley remembered it was the place Argenti had mentioned about a week ago during that breakfast on the terrace with General Botero. In Wiley’s presence they had discussed the underhanded side-dealings of one of The Concession’s carriers. What was the man’s name? Ramsey. Yes, that was it. Coincidentally it seemed, this fellow Ramsey had had an accident in New York City in which he’d smashed both his knees. Argenti had told the General to be sure Ramsey got to Barbosa. Thus, Wiley had assumed it was either a convalescent center or a hospital.
This was Barbosa.
Where did they have Lillian?
Not in any of the several other cells nearby, because Wiley had called out for her over and over, loud enough. He seemed to be the only prisoner. However he was on the second floor, and probably there were other cells on the first, and that was where they had her.
In the passageway a short ways down from Wiley’s cell, a soldier stood guard. Actually, he sat—on an ordinary wood chair, tipped back, his rifle leaning against the wall within easy reach.
Wiley called to the guard, said he wanted to speak to him.
The guard ignored Wiley.
Wiley said please.
The guard picked up his rifle and came to Wiley’s cell, kept well back away from it.
“Where is the woman?” Wiley asked.
The guard grinned and lowered his head to one side, as though embarrassed.
Strange reaction, Wiley thought. “Is she downstairs?”
“No.”
“Is she all right? I mean, is she comfortable?”
The guard had to look aside.
“It’s not as bad as this for her, is it?” Wiley indicated his cell.
“No.”
Wiley hoped that was the truth.
The cell stunk.
The whole place had a peculiar heavy stench. Wiley had noticed it on the way in. A sort of shitty farm odor.
A smoke would help camouflage it.
He’d give anything for a smoke.
No harm asking.
“How about getting my cigarettes for me?”
The guard took one of his own from his pocket, lighted up. He looked as though he was about to offer one to Wiley.
“Smoke your cock,” the guard said and returned to the chair.
Wiley’s hands became fists. He called out to Lillian. Again and again, till he was yelling without allowing time between for her to answer. The soldier didn’t appear bothered. Evidently it made no difference how loud or long Wiley yelled, because no one came to complain.
Wiley gave up on it.
He sat and suffered the cold on his ass cheeks while he tried to rub some warmth into his feet. Improvising, he sat on his hands. On the palms for a while, then the backs for a while. Palms down was the most tolerable.
He had to bite down a little on his teeth to keep them from chattering.
Probably, he thought, it would be warmer in the daytime. What time was it now? He reviewed the night and tried to estimate how much time had elapsed in each sequence. He had no idea how long they were in that town in the fog. It could have been only thirty minutes, it had seemed like hours, still seemed so.
Between two and three in the morning now was his guess.
Lillian. He couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. She was in the front of his mind, like a transparent image through which he was required to view everything.
Remember, he told himself, you’re the man who married Jennifer.
That was enough to make him think.
His life had been in radical change when Lillian came into it. Was that why she’d made such an impact? Perhaps, cutting through the bullshit, he really didn’t love her all that much. Perhaps he only needed to believe he did.
Besides, what was there about her to love? She was rather spoiled, captious, definitely lethal, had a will like a wall, was neurotic in a way or two, seemed there was more than a pinch of suicidal compulsion in her. She was devious too (the twelve-thousand lie), too independent, with every intention of remaining independent. Noncommital. Not once had she said she loved him. A few times, at certain peaks, it seemed the words had been right there in her throat, and he had done everything that should have brought them out, but they hadn’t come. It was goddamn frustrating. How many times had he told her he loved her and not gotten a response? Twenty times at least, aloud. A thousand times
without saying. What a smartass she was, really. A user. A rich, one-way chick looking for temporary satisfactions. Him a temporary. It was time he came to his senses.
He hated her.
An insignificant, random thing came to mind: her disciplining her hair back from her face the way she did, with her fingers like a comb.
He loved her.
As for having gotten into this terrible spot, really, he had only himself to blame. At any time down the line he could have put his foot down harder, she would have acquiesced, but, instead, he had gone along with her. His choice. No tag-along puppy, him, no matter how it seemed.
He had killed that soldier.
No one ever did anything they didn’t want to do, he’d always told himself.
Up to the moment when he killed that soldier his existence had been on a course to that moment. Plane from Kennedy International, car to Las Hadas, jeep to Leiva, and so on. It had been unavoidable. Just as it was never meant for him to walk away from Lillian.
Life was a ride down a slippery slide of time.
Lillian had killed two, counting the Lieutenant.
What would the army do?
There would be a trial.
How do you plead?
On his hands and knees.
What hurt as much as anything was that again, oh, again, he’d come a hair away from getting everything he had ever wanted.
So close this time.
His thoughts were interrupted by a noise from outside. An animal sound, a kind of snort.
Then on the ceiling a rhomboidal shape appeared as an outside light was turned on.
More snorting, louder.
Wiley got up.
He heard men outside.
What was going on out there?
He stood beneath the window. It was about ten inches above his reach. Normally, not much of a jump, but from the cold, he felt brittle, as though any jar or sharp movement could break him.
Those snorts were increasing.
He wanted to see.
He flexed his shoulders, arms and fingers and did a couple of deep knee bends before taking the leap. He grabbed one of the bars, got hold of another and pulled himself up.
What he saw out there was a large penlike area surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. The near section of it was brightly floodlighted. The rest was in the dark, but apparently it included considerable ground.
Three soldiers were at the fence with several buckets of garbage, which they emptied over into the pen.
Hogs. About a dozen huge lard-type hogs snorted and crowded to get the garbage. That was the reason for the stench: the hog pen. It was almost directly below Wiley’s cell window.
Why the hell were they slopping hogs at this hour?
Wiley was about to give it no more attention when another soldier came into view. Pushing a wheelchair. In the wheelchair was a naked man, whose legs extended straight out because there were plaster casts on both knees.
Wiley knew that had to be Ramsey, the wayward emerald carrier.
Ramsey was strapped to the chair around his chest and arms.
There were more hogs now, close to fifty. And more coming on the run out of the darker part of the pen. They were real heavyweights of four hundred, five hundred pounds, some even larger. It was surprising how fast they could move on their stubby legs. Their snorting and grunting had become a din, as they competed for those few pails of garbage, which couldn’t possibly satisfy them.
They seemed frantic with hunger, as though they hadn’t been fed in a week. Some threw their heads up and opened their mouths in anticipation. Wiley saw their pink raw-looking snouts, their tusks and rows of teeth.
Ramsey’s mouth was taped.
One of the soldiers tore the tape away.
Ramsey’s mouth immediately opened, but his scream was lost in the cacophony of the hogs.
The soldiers used hammers on Ramsey’s casts. Only some of the plaster broke away. Evidently it was plaster bandage. One soldier went and got a pair of heavy-gauge wire clippers, and those were used roughly to cut the casts off.
Ramsey never stopped screaming.
They cut his bindings away.
The chain-link fence bulged under the pressure of the hogs. The fenceposts had to be buried deep in cement to withstand that much weight. Still, the soldiers seemed somewhat circumspect.
Ramsey writhed and flailed. With the casts off, his useless legs bent painfully out at the knees.
Three of the soldiers lifted Ramsey, who twisted and bucked and hit out at them. Meanwhile, the other soldier shoved a two-foot-high platform into place next to the fence. They climbed up on it with Ramsey, hoisted him above their heads and threw him as far out as possible into the pen.
Ramsey landed front up, arched over the hairy back of a hog.
They got to his legs first.
Their snorts and grunts were suddenly louder. They climbed all over one another and fought one another to get a piece of him.
The soldiers watched.
Wiley dropped to the floor of his cell.
He was sweating.
The coldness of the floor didn’t matter now. He slouched down, and clenched his eyes as though he could shut out what he’d already witnessed. He crawled to the open drain and retched. Nothing came up. His insides were too constricted with shock to let anything up.
He rolled over and lay there, fixed on the window.
So that was how The Concession dealt with anyone who got out of line. An example of the dread it imposed on its world of emeralds.
That was what was in store for him, Wiley thought. Maybe this was feeding night and he was the next course. They could be coming for him now.
He stood quickly and went to the window, jumped and pulled himself up again.
The soldiers were pushing the wheelchair away.
The hogs were scattered now, rooting around with their snouts and scratching with their hoofs at the spot where Ramsey had been.
No sign of the man, not a tooth, bone or hair.
That’s how ravenous the hogs were.
Non corpus delicti.
No body, no crime.
Wiley thought probably this had been Kellerman’s idea. It smacked of Belsen and Dachau. And Argenti had most certainly approved.
Wiley dropped to the floor.
The outside lights remained on.
Several times Wiley gave in to the urge to look out the window at the hog pen. Like a man on death row, if allowed, would probably not be able to resist visiting the electric chair while waiting for it to take his life.
Dawn was like a reprieve.
About ten o’clock that morning, two soldiers came for Wiley.
Perhaps, he thought, night or day didn’t make a difference. It surely wouldn’t matter to the hogs.
He expected the soldiers would bind his hands. If they bound his hands, they’d have to drag him, he decided, but since they didn’t bind him, he walked between them.
Down the stairs and, naked, out into the sunshine.
The first thing Wiley noticed was the jeep. No mistaking it, it was the one—its identification was painted over. Its spare tire was missing.
Then Wiley saw the black limousine, a stretched Lincoln, with the army insignia and four gold stars on its door.
Someone threw an army blanket around Wiley.
He was led to the limousine.
Lillian was in the back seat, huddled down.
Wiley got in.
Lillian had on only a man’s coat. She looked small.
Wiley asked if she was all right.
Without looking at Wiley she told him, “Hold me.”
He brought her into the cave of his arm.
The built-in bar was open. Silver tumblers of cognac had been poured. Wiley took one and put it to Lillian’s mouth. She sipped like a child. She put her arms around him and hugged tight, holding on for dear life.
There were cigarettes on the bar tray, Wiley noticed. He didn’t want one.
&nb
sp; General Botero came out of the headquarters building with the Captain. They stood near the limousine and talked. Wiley lowered the window a crack and found he was within hearing range.
“They were with the rebeldes,” the Captain said.
“Did it occur to you that they might be hostages?”
“They had weapons.”
“Weapons that were abandoned by the rebeldes.”
“Possibly,” the Captain said.
“You acted rashly,” the General told him.
“They killed two of my men.”
Three, Wiley mentally corrected.
“Your men had orders to kill them,” the General said.
“Yes, but …”
“Then it could have been in self-defense that they killed the two.”
“There is the jeep …”
“I myself loaned the jeep to the lady.”
The Captain called attention to the painted-out army markings.
General Botero credited that also to the rebeldes. “How many emeralds did you say were found in the spare tire?”
“Eighty-three,” the Captain replied.
A hundred and eighty-three, Wiley mentally corrected.
“I am sure they were poaching,” the Captain said.
“The woman is a rica, very wealthy. She has no need to claw around for a few emeralds. Let me tell you, Captain, it is fortunate for you that I came as soon as I received word. You might have added to your mistake. What happened to their clothing?”
“The men took the clothing as usual.”
“Get it back.”
“By now,” the Captain said, “anyone might be wearing it. But here are their passports.” He handed them to the General.
Wiley mentally added, how about my cash, nearly three thousand?
“You searched the woman I suppose,” the General said.
The Captain was reluctant to answer.
General Botero pressed him.
“Yes,” the Captain admitted.
“How many searched her?”
“Two.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“You searched her before the others.”
“No.”
General Botero looked aside to avoid the lie in the Captain’s eyes. “Are you certain, absolutely certain, that they saw nothing—you know what I mean—during the night?”
“It was impossible for the woman.”
Green Ice Page 24