Days of the Dead

by David Monnery

  He took his eyes away from the woman before her sixth sense had time to register his presence, and wondered what to do. She seemed to have the best spot, but he could hardly amble up and ask her to give him a turn. And there was no real need for him to examine the compound below – not yet at any rate. He obviously needed to talk to her, but this was neither the time nor the place, as she might well panic if he suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and for all he knew she was cradling a gun to her breast. He might not hear the shot but someone down the compound would.

  He looked at her again. She was scratching her leg, and Docherty wondered if she knew how much insects loved rotting tree-trunks. In fact she seemed generally fidgety – like most people she was probably not used to holding her body in one position for any length of time.

  It would also soon be getting dark, and he could see no sign of any night-vision equipment. She would probably be leaving soon.

  He made his way back through the forest, descended the path and started walking south along the road. As he passed the gates of the prison compound he wondered whether she was watching him through her binoculars and hoped that she’d had the sense to use some sort of veil across the glass to eliminate tell-tale reflections.

  In San Felipe he asked a friendly local about the Dutch Inn and discovered that it was an expensive hotel on the island’s southern shore. Assuming that she’d choose the shortest route back, he walked on to Aguadulce, where an open-air bar offered both a drink and an ideal observation point.

  She cycled through about forty-five minutes later, shocking him with a first sight of her face. In profile she looked stunningly like a young Isabel. It wasn’t just the features, though the arrangement of the cheek-bones, the generous lips and dark eyes were all reminiscent of his wife – it was the intense look on her face, the seriousness of purpose, which reminded him of his first hours with Isabel, caught up in the throes of war at the other end of the continent.

  He watched her cycle past the hotels and shops until she and the bicycle were just a spot in the distance. It was almost six o’clock, which gave him a couple of hours before his meeting with Shepreth.

  The shop which rented out motorbikes was only a stone’s throw away, and still open for business. A few minutes later he was cruising along the seaside road on a 250cc Yamaha, not quite Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, but close enough.

  The Dutch Inn was a beautiful old building, standing between the road and a palm-lined beach. He hadn’t yet worked out how he was going to ask for a woman whose name he didn’t know without getting shown the door, but in the end there was no need, for as he propped up the Yamaha in the rear parking lot she emerged from a back entrance with a tall drink in hand and walked across to one of the empty tables which overlooked the beach. She had changed into shorts and a red halter top.

  He walked inside, discovered to his amazement that the bar served draught Guinness, and carried a pint out to her table.

  ‘May I join you?’ he asked in Spanish.

  She gave him the surprised look of someone deep in thought, and before she could say no Docherty sat down. Up close the resemblance was still striking, though perhaps not in a purely physical way. Now it was the sorrow-filled eyes which reminded him of Isabel, gazing out through the grimly held mask of determination. This woman had seen tragedy, and logic suggested that Angel Bazua had been the man responsible.

  ‘I saw you watching Bazua’s house,’ he said softly.

  She stiffened, not knowing what to do. Should she get up and walk away? Or run?

  ‘I think we are on the same side,’ he added, and allowed himself a smile.

  She felt instinctively that he was telling the truth, but what did her instincts know? ‘Who are you?’ she asked. It was the first question that came into her head.

  ‘My name’s Jamie Docherty,’ he said without hesitation. ‘I’m British, but I’m married to an Argentinian, and we live in Chile. Do you know about the Dirty War in Argentina?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Was he going to give her a history lesson?

  ‘My wife was one of the victims. One of the luckier ones – she was tortured, but instead of killing her they sent her into exile. She still has friends from those days, and one old man who’s dying has become obsessed with the need to find out what happened to his son. He hired me to talk to the arresting officer, who now lives in Mexico City. I did that, and he claimed that only his boss would know the details of what happened to a particular prisoner. His boss is Colonel Bazua. I’m going in to talk to him tomorrow morning.’

  Carmen was getting over the shock, but was still having trouble grasping hold of what had been said. He had confirmed that it was Bazua’s house – that was the first thing. And he had said he was on the same side, which might mean nothing but could mean everything – ever since her first talk with Victoria she had felt the weight of having to do it all alone. And he was going into the prison tomorrow. There had to be some way he could find out about Marysa.

  Docherty waited and watched, knowing that it had been a shock to her, hoping that she would trust him. When she did speak it was his turn to be shocked.

  ‘I think my sister is a prisoner in that house,’ she said slowly. ‘And two other women. They all disappeared more than a year ago, five of them, and until three weeks ago everyone thought they were dead.’ She told him about the newspaper on the bus and her trip to Miami, the talks with Victoria and what she’d learned of Bazua’s drug operation from Detective Peña, the realization that she could not risk asking for help from the Colombian authorities.

  Docherty listened in silence, his sense of rage stirring deep within.

  ‘Maybe when you are in the house,’ she said, ‘you will see my sister or one of the others – I have photographs in my room – and then I will have proof to take to someone.’ She looked at him imploringly.

  ‘If they are there,’ Docherty said gently, ‘I doubt if I will be allowed to see them. If the British government hadn’t asked the Colombians to allow my visit I doubt whether I’d have got my nose in the door, and I don’t think they’ll be giving me a guided tour of the establishment. Of course I’ll keep my eyes open,’ he added, seeing her look of despair. ‘I can even ask the bastard what he does for female company. But…’ He hesitated for a moment, as the implications of her story sunk in. The presence of innocent women inside the compound would be a complicating factor if it came to direct action. And the woman she’d brought back from Miami would have precious knowledge of the layout.

  Of course he couldn’t tell the woman any of this – such a clear breach of security would give Shepreth and his people kittens.

  But if tomorrow came and went and he had nothing to tell her, then what would she do? She didn’t seem the type to just give up, but she was an amateur, so she’d either get caught watching the house and end up sharing Bazua’s bed with her sister, or she’d manage to kick up an enormous stink and focus every mother’s son’s attention on Bazua’s home from home. Even if the suits in Whitehall weren’t scared off, the bastards in the prison would be on maximum alert.

  No, he decided, they’d be better off bringing her on board.

  His watch said twenty to eight. ‘I’d like you to meet someone,’ he told her, draining the last of the Guinness.

  ‘Who?’ she asked, suspicious again.

  ‘His name’s David Shepreth, which reminds me – I still don’t know yours.’

  ‘I am Carmen Salcedo,’ she said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Shepreth works for the British government, and they don’t like Bazua because he’s flooding London with heroin and spending his profits on outfitting a fleet to retake the Malvinas…’

  She couldn’t help the smile which crossed her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It is kind of ironic,’ Docherty admitted. ‘But a friend in need…If London’s willing to shake the tree we may get the chance to catch our apples.’

  She understood what he meant immediately. ‘The enemy of
my enemy is my friend,’ she murmured.

  ‘Unless he’s a Rangers supporter,’ Docherty added. ‘Ah, never mind…My friend’s waiting for me in Aguadulce, and that splendid machine over there is waiting to transport us.’

  She looked at it doubtfully, but didn’t really need persuading. The feel of her strong young body pressing into his back was somewhat disconcerting to Docherty, yet reminding himself that he was old enough to be her father didn’t seem to make much difference. His mother had always said that men never really got past their teens – it was just that their bodies led women to believe they had.

  The look on Shepreth’s face as they walked towards his perch on the dock probably had nothing to do with her age. ‘Just tell him what you told me,’ Docherty said to her, and she did, walking along the dark beach between the two men. The stars were bright above, the ocean stretched away to the distant horizon and Aguadulce’s single thoroughfare was alive with light, noise and the smell of cooking food. Every now and then they would hear the whisper of couples elsewhere on the beach, and on one occasion the less ambivalent sound of lovemaking.

  As Carmen told her story, Docherty occasionally glanced across at Shepreth and was gratified to see what looked like genuine sympathy in the younger man’s eyes. Not that the shorts and halter top didn’t help.

  There was also a hint of uncertainty in the MI6 man’s expression, and Docherty guessed that Shepreth was having trouble deciding how much he should now tell the woman. On impulse the Scot decided to force the other man’s hand. ‘If the government OK’s direct action,’ he said bluntly, ‘then I think Carmen should talk to her friend Victoria again.’

  ‘Direct action?’ she asked, looking from one man to the other.

  ‘It’s a real possibility,’ Shepreth admitted, giving Docherty a glance that was half reproach and half gratitude. ‘But first our friend here has to beard the lion in his den.’

  The following morning Docherty slowly walked the two hundred metres which separated his hotel from the island’s military post, still wondering how he was going to present himself to Bazua. He was not expecting the Argentinian to offer him any details of Guillermo Macías’s fate, and he doubted if he’d get far beyond the front door of the prison, but with any luck this would not be the end of the business, and there was always something to learn from any confrontation.

  Anger seemed a likely tool. The official nature of the visit surely offered Docherty some protection, and if he could provoke Bazua into losing his temper the consequences might be more illuminating than dangerous. It was a theory, at any rate.

  He reached the military post, which amounted to no more than a couple of one-storey pre-fabricated buildings in a walled compound situated between the road and the sea, and was shown into the OC’s office. Captain Sonoma was outwardly polite, but there was also an air of genuine curiosity in the man’s eyes, as if he already knew more about his guest than he was supposed to. He fitted the description of one of the officers whom Carmen had seen visiting the prison, and had probably learnt about the business with Toscono from Bazua himself.

  Outside an empty jeep was now waiting, and as he climbed in Docherty took one last look round. Judging from what he’d seen so far, he put the post’s strength at no more than twenty men. There was one UH-1H Iroquois helicopter standing on the pad, apparently ready for use, and another standing off to the side, minus its engine and tail rotor. Beyond them he could see a sleek-looking patrol boat tied up at the jetty.

  Sonoma himself drove the jeep, greeting many of the locals with a smile or a gesture and keeping to a reasonable speed on the mostly empty road. He opened and closed the electronic gates with a remote control and finally came to a halt right outside the front door, where two young soldiers who hadn’t been there the previous day were standing guard. At least they were trying to make it look a little more like a prison, Docherty thought.

  He followed Sonoma in through the wide wooden doors and gained a glimpse of a courtyard beyond as he was ushered in through another doorway to the right. If he hadn’t already known of the other buildings and recreation area from the American satellite photographs, he would have remained in ignorance of their existence.

  The room he entered had the feel of a stage set. The wall coverings and curtains suggested an old-fashioned reception room, the table with its opposing chairs a setting for interrogations. They had tried to make it look like a prison visitor’s room, he realized.

  Sonoma indicated that Docherty should take the seat on the far side of the table, then sat down on an elegant-looking Spanish chair beside the door. They waited in silence for five minutes, then another five. The captain was clearly getting irritated but he made no move to find out what was causing the hold-up.

  And then the scream sounded. It was muffled by walls and distance, and there was only the one, but Docherty was pretty sure it had come from a woman.

  ‘One of the prisoners,’ Sonoma explained. ‘We have mental cases here.’

  ‘Women?’ Docherty asked in a neutral tone.

  Sonoma hesitated for only a second. ‘No, there are no women here,’ he said.

  Docherty was still deciding whether or not to let this go when Bazua walked in through the door, closely followed by two soldiers bearing automatic rifles. The fiction did not extend to the prisoner’s clothes, which looked like the usual Club Mediterranean casual wear. The Argentinian didn’t seem any older than he had in Shepreth’s photograph. There seemed to be hardly an ounce of excess fat on the bronzed limbs, his muscle tone seemed excellent for a man in his early fifties and the light brown hair, though greying at the edges, was showing no obvious sign of thinning. Prison life obviously suited him.

  He sat down and looked at Docherty, vague amusement in his eyes.

  Docherty returned the stare. It would have been nice to see some of the corruption on the surface – a hint of dissipation in the mouth, a touch of evil in the eyes – but the man just looked like a happy thug. And he was going to tell Docherty sweet fuck all.

  He owed it to Gustavo to ask.

  ‘Señor Bazua,’ he began, with at least a trace of civility. ‘I am working for a fellow-countryman of yours named Gustavo Macías,’ he went on, in a tone which suggested that as far as he was concerned this was no more than a job. ‘His son disappeared after being arrested in Rosario in November 1976, when you were the Officer Commanding the local Army base. I have spoken to the arresting officer, whose name you probably remember’ – Docherty allowed himself a slight smile – ‘and he informed me that you are in possession of the relevant records.’

  Bazua’s smile was an ad for expensive American dentistry. ‘I have never heard of any such records,’ he said. ‘And if I had, what possible reason would I have for sharing some information with an enemy of my country?’

  Docherty looked at him. ‘Common humanity?’ he asked ironically. The eyes were a give-away, he thought. They weren’t empty – they were cruel. This was not a man for whom killing meant nothing – this was a man who actually got off on it. Power was an opportunity for sadism.

  ‘You will pay for what you did to Toscono,’ the Argentinian was saying.

  Docherty grunted. ‘He was easy. A weak link in your organization, I’d say. Maybe you should employ more Colombians – they don’t seem to scare quite so easily.’ He gave Captain Sonoma a smile.

  ‘You were in the Falklands,’ Bazua said. There was a definite chill in his voice now.

  Docherty thought about saying he’d been at Goose Green, but the news that the man on the other side of the desk might have killed his son could really trip Bazua over the edge, and the Scot didn’t want to end up as the victim of a hard-to-credit accident. ‘I’ve got nothing against Argentinian soldiers,’ he said. ‘The Argentinian Army’s really brave when it comes to fastening electrodes or making people eat their own shit, but none of the real soldiers ever join the Army. As a matter of fact,’ he went on conversationally, ‘one of the twentieth century’s greatest soldiers was
an Argie.’

  Bazua just stared at him.

  ‘Che Guevara,’ Docherty explained with a smile. ‘Heard of him? Of course, he actually did some fighting, put himself at risk.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Bazua asked in a poisonous monotone.

  ‘To ask you about Guillermo Macías. You refused to tell me anything.’

  Bazua was on his feet. ‘Get me out of here,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I think it’s up to Captain Sonoma to decide when the interview is over,’ Docherty suggested.

  ‘It is over,’ Sonoma said, as Bazua disappeared through the doorway, minus his escort.

  ‘This must be one of those prisons where the accent is all on rehabilitation,’ Docherty murmured to himself.

  Captain Sonoma didn’t say a word on the drive back to Aguadulce, and when they reached Docherty’s hotel – which he hadn’t mentioned – he just sat there, staring resolutely ahead, waiting for the Scot to jump out.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Captain,’ Docherty said cheerfully. ‘I will make sure my government lets your government know how much your efforts are appreciated.’

  ‘Thank you, Señor,’ Sonoma said through gritted teeth, and let in the clutch.

  Docherty smiled to himself and went in search of a drink. At least he hadn’t been thrown off the island.

  Two hours later he was halfway up the path to El Pico, where he had arranged to meet Shepreth and Carmen. The forest had grown more patchy as he ascended, and there had already been several spectacular views of the eastern coastline below.

  He paused at the next one, as much to enjoy the view as to check that no one was following him. There had been no sign of anyone on the road, and this was the third time he’d broken his journey up the mountain, but it always paid to make sure. The three of them had chosen El Pico as a meeting place precisely because they didn’t want to be seen together.

  A young American couple in hippie-ish attire went down the path, but no one else seemed to be coming up. Docherty resumed the climb, and half an hour later he was at the summit. A German couple he had seen at breakfast that morning were standing together on one side of the flat peak, Shepreth and Carmen on the other. Docherty nodded at both couples and sat down on a convenient rock to enjoy the view.