"Good. I want you to fax me the note. I'll call the service desk and get the fax number downstairs. Are you at home?"
"Yes," she said.
"I'll call you in a minute. Wait for my call."
I got the hotel fax number and called her back with it.
Then I went down to the reception desk and waited until the fax came in. The clerk pulled it out of the machine and walked over to me, scanning it as he approached.
"Interesting reading?" I asked him.
He handed it to me like it was a leper's diaper. "I am so sorry, senor. Please forgive me. I did not mean to be discourteous."
"Forget it," I said.
The fax had the same typeface as the other two. But there was something different about it.
YOU FILTHY WHORE.
WE ARE READY TO COLLECT OUR MONEY. PAY NOW OR YOUR SON OF A WHORE HUSBAND DIES. WE WILL CALL YOU TOMORROW.
ATLACATL.
The note was closer in tone to the first ransom note she showed me in my office in New York. Now I knew what was going on. The second note was written by someone else. Somebody who had knowledge of the first note. Somebody who picked up the money that I let get away. The first guy had Roderick. The second guy had the payment.
And I was looking more like an asshole every day.
***
There was a group of people waiting in the hotel lobby to get into the restaurant for dinner. I walked past them on my way toward the front entrance to meet my driver. Broadbent and Lightener had called and left a message asking me to eat with them. As I crossed the lobby, I saw a woman get up from a sofa and stand blocking my path.
It was Sister Angela.
At first I didn't recognize her because she was wearing a dress. A long dark dress. Her face was pale. I couldn't make out the look in her eyes. They were dull, glassy, bloodshot. It looked like she had been crying.
She just stood without moving or saying anything.
Then she finally got out the words. "You're a bad man. You're a terrible person. You're evil."
She stood there and pounded on my chest with the sides of her clenched hands. "You're horrible."
"I hate you," she sobbed. "I hate you so much." Tears formed in her eyes and made them glisten. She kept pounding on my chest with those little hands like a child.
I stood there and didn't say anything.
I was a foot taller than her and weighed a hundred pounds more than her.
But it still hurt.
CHAPTER XXVI
At dinner, I told Broadbent and Lightener what I'd picked up so far. I didn't tell them what I thought. They both sat quietly, taking notes. From time to time, Lightener would smooth down his dark slicked hair or his mustache. Occasionally he'd ask a question. They didn't seem overly impressed. Lightener suggested I go to a lunch meeting of the Salvadoran-American Chamber of Commerce the next day at the Camino Real. He said I'd meet a man by the name of Warren who might have information on Roderick.
After they dropped me back at the hotel, I called the Czarina.
"Don't do anything," I told her. "Just take the information and stall them."
She seemed hesitant. "What if something happens to my husband?"
"Do it my way."
"As you wish," she said finally.
It was a risk, I knew. But I reasoned this way. If the rumor was true, Roderick was dead already. If he was still alive, they weren't going to kill him now. And the odds were he wasn't going to die in the next couple of days. It was like Pascal's wager, only with a more immediate payoff.
Just after I hung up on Mrs. Roderick, the phone rang. I thought she was calling me back to ask another question, but it was Gene Black calling from the precinct.
"You're not working banker's hours, Lieutenant," I said. It was ten PM in El Salvador, so it was eleven PM in New York.
"Hell, I'm still on duty from yesterday. I tell you, retirement's starting to look better and better."
"You get your shooter?"
"Almost as good," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I know who he is. The only problem is finding him."
"Why?"
"He doesn't exist anymore."
"Why not?" I asked.
"He used to be a CIA agent in good standing. Now he's been disavowed. The Agency has no idea where the hell he is or what identity he's taken. He's gone out of their control. All they know is that he's not who he used to be or where he's supposed to be and probably never will be again."
"That a fact?" I said. It was going to take some time to digest that one. "What about the license plate I gave you?"
"No luck. We couldn't match it with anything. Too many possibles."
"Thanks anyway. Take care."
"Wait, Rogan," Black said. "Before you hang up...”
“Yeah?"
"We tracked down the owner of the Town Car that guy was killed in. Turns out he was some kind of Colonel in the Salvadoran army. That a surprise to you?"
"Why?"
"Because the dead guy was a Colonel in the Salvadoran army too."
"Yeah, so?"
"Well, I got something else that might surprise you," Black said.
"What's that?"
"The owner of the car in question, one Colonel Aviles, was whacked with one slug to the back of the head in his apartment in the Galleria the day after you left New York. It looks like that Town Car was bad luck all around. What do you make of that?"
I was surprised. Another promising avenue leading to a dead end. "Christ," I said.
"And by a curious coincidence, you just happen to be in El Salvador as we speak. May I ask you a dumb question? What the fuck is going on?"
"I'll tell you when I see you," I said.
"And when, pray tell, is that going to be?"
"When I pull a guy out of a hole in the ground."
***
At eight-thirty the next morning I decided to play a hunch. Usually my hunches didn't work at the Meadowlands, but this time I felt lucky.
I put in a call to the Metrobank in Miami.
The operator answered.
"I want to talk to Mr. Lightener."
"I'm sorry, Sir. Mr. Lightener is not currently available. He's out of the country."
"Is he in El Salvador?"
"I'm sorry, Sir. We're not allowed to say where he is."
"Thanks anyway, Sugar," I said. "Your lack of assistance has been invaluable."
And to tell you the truth, it was more than invaluable.
CHAPTER XXVII
Marta frowned. The lady didn't like being woken at the crack of dawn, which in her case was ten in the morning. She swept into the sunlit living room still wearing her nightgown. It was a flimsy white job with a lot of lace. She rubbed her eyes as she walked up to me. Her wild red hair was even wilder when it was uncombed.
"Why do you come around so early?" she said.
"I have a few unanswered questions."
"Always questions." She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "Why do you think I can answer your questions?"
"You talk to a lot of people. You just might pick up some information in the course of your conversations."
She shrugged. "Very well. You can try to ask me some questions. But I am not sure I can help you."
I watched her closely. It was probably too early in the morning for her to be devious. "Did your father have any connections with the military or the CIA?"
Her eyes went up and to the left as she thought. She didn't answer right away. "I can not think of any connection. You know, there are many parts of his business he does not tell me about."
"This doesn't necessarily have to do with his business," I said. "It could be personal or even not directly connected to the business."
"Please?"
"What I mean is, did he talk to anybody that would make you suspicious?"
She stared at me. Finally she said, "I can not think so early in the morning. I must have coffee."
She called fo
r a pot of coffee and said, "Come on. Let us sit outside on the patio. It is so much more pleasant."
She led me through a set of large sliding glass doors to a sitting area looking out over the lawn. It was still cool outside. In the distance a gardener in a wide-brimmed straw hat was hunched over, trimming the lawn with a machete. You could hear the rhythmic swoosh, swoosh as his blade sliced through the grass and you could smell the freshly-cut grass.
"Did your father have any contact with anybody in the army or the CIA?" I repeated.
Marta waited while the maid put the tray with coffee and cups on a small table and then said, "I do not think so. He was totally concerned with his business. Anything else did not interest him." The coffee was in a French press. She pushed the knob on top down slowly until all the grounds were at the bottom of the pot. She poured two cups and took a sip of coffee. "He did have some conversations with a man from your United States drug agency. He told me he was helping this man."
"The DEA? The Drug Enforcement Administration?"
She nodded. "Yes. I believe so."
"Do you know what they talked about?"
She shook her head. "I didn't know and I didn't care. It was a matter of indifference to me. I don't take drugs and therefore I had no interest. You could talk to Antonio. He worked closely every day with our father. He might be able to give you more information." She glanced up at me. "Do you think the drug agency kidnapped him?"
"No," I said. "He was probably working with them. Maybe trying to stop drug smuggling. That may have been why he was taken."
She sniffed. "You do not know my father. He would not do anything to help someone unless he made money from it. He was not interested in charity."
"Maybe they were paying him," I said.
That seemed to intrigue her. She screwed up her face in contemplation. "What would my father know about drugs?"
I told her the story Hoag had told me about her father's part in the combination to restrict the export of Balsamo de Peru and the connection with El Ciego. Then I told her about McInerny's report on the coke smuggling in the barrels of Balsamo. Then I tied the package together for her with a neat red ribbon.
Her eyes widened, but I wasn't sure if it was because of the story or the caffeine. "I have heard people talking of this, but I never believed it before," she said.
"You can believe it. I think your father's kidnapping was tied in with this coke business. Either he was running cocaine or he was trying to stop it. So it comes down to a simple question of good or evil. Was your father a good man or a bad man?"
Few children have had so direct a question put to them. She had to stop and consider. I could see she was struggling with the answer. It must have been an illuminating moment for her. She lit up a Gaulois and puffed on it hard a couple of times. Finally she narrowed her eyes and said, "I do not think I want to answer your question."
"Why the reticence all of a sudden?" I said. "You never missed a chance to badmouth your father before."
"This is different. This is serious. This may be a crime. If he does not come back alive, I do not want to be the one to blacken his name forever."
"Don't concern yourself," I said. "You’ve already answered my question."
Her eyes censured me. "You are always so ready to think the worst of everyone. You think everyone is bad."
This broad was extending the range and extent of my cynicism a little too far. I shook my head. "Oh, no, sweetheart,” I said. "You got it wrong. The world is ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths percent pure. For starters, I think your mother is a good person. I believe her."
She stood up and put her hands on her hips. "You think you are so smart, but you do not know anything. You are tall and handsome and stupid. You do not even know why my mother hired you, do you?"
This was going to be good.
"Why don't you tell me."
"Yes, I will tell you," she said softly, drawing in her breath. "You think my mother is so pure. You think she cries because she loves my father and misses him. But the real reason she wants him back alive is so that she can persuade him to change his testament."
"His will?"
"Yes, that's right. His will."
That got my attention. I leaned forward. "Sit down," I said.
She sat down.
"How does his will read?" I said.
She smiled. It was an unpleasant smile. "You would like to know this," she said. "My father made a new testament several months ago. He made many changes. He left almost all of his money to his filthy concubine. He left the business to Antonio. And he gave very little, almost nothing, to me and my mother." Her smile had disappeared. "So now you know why my mother wants him back."
I looked deep into those lovely eyes.
"And now I know why you hate him so much,” I said.
***
I took a cab to Hoag's place. I didn't want to use Lightener's driver. There was no telling what kind of goodies the driver was passing back to the employer who put bread on his table.
Hoag walked down the front steps to meet me. Apparently he felt secure enough on that quiet tree-lined street to venture out of his house. He towered over his uniformed bodyguards like a sequoia over the pines. He was wearing the same kind of pale blue guayabera with white embroidery that he wore the last time I saw him.
He grabbed me in a giant bear-hug.
"Senor Rogan," he said in his booming middle-European accent. "What a pleasant surprise to see you so soon. Now you can carry the gift to the young lady in Miami that I spoke to you about."
"Sure thing. There's just a little information I need and then I'll be your personal package service."
"Wonderful, wonderful," he said. He wrapped his large paw around my shoulder. "I said that you would not be here long, didn't I. Come inside. Be my guest."
He took me into the house, then out to the patio where we sat the last time. The same little old Nina served us the same old Turkish coffee. I had an overpowering sense of having done this before, maybe because I had.
"What do you know about a man named Lightener?" I said.
Hoag nodded and stroked his walrus mustache. "Very rich and very powerful. But do not get on his bad side. He will show you no mercy."
"What about his background?"
"He is a Northamerican. He worked for your CIA for many years. Then he married a girl from one of the fourteen families and took the family wealth and made it much larger. Some people say his business methods are not honest."
"Does he have any connection with Balsamo de Peru?"
Hoag nodded. "His company exports Balsamo."
"What's his connection with a bank in Miami called Metrobank?"
He smiled. "You are very good, Senor Rogan. Most people do not know this. It is not officially published anywhere, but Lightener is an owner of this Metrobank."
"What are the odds that the bank is washing money from drug smuggling?" I said.
Hoag leaned toward me. He lowered his voice. "One hears things. The odds may be good." He leaned back in his seat. "What does this have to do with Balsamo?"
"What if I said there was an operation to transship cocaine from Colombia in barrels of Balsamo? Would..."
Hoag let out a low whistle. "I have heard that some military officers were carrying out such a plan. But what does this have to do with Senor Lightener?"
"That's what I'm going to find out." I looked at him. "Do you know Lightener's girlfriend?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"Where does she live?"
"Why do you ask this question?"
"You should know as well as anyone," I said. "Always follow the snatch."
CHAPTER XVIII
It was a couple of minutes after noon when I got to the Camino Real. I asked at the front desk for the Salvadoran- American Chamber of Commerce luncheon. A bellhop showed me the way to a large conference room with a wall of picture windows that opened out onto the garden in front. Beyond the flowers and the lawn you could see the tr
affic on the main thoroughfare. The midday sun shone in through the big windows and covered the room with a blazing light that made the air-conditioning struggle overtime. The air- conditioning was losing the battle. The meeting hadn't started yet. Men in dark suits were standing in small groups drinking and talking and nodding in agreement. There wasn't a female in sight.
I asked around for the man named Warren that Lightener had referred me to, but the answer I got was that he hadn't arrived yet. So I decided it was time for a cold one. I took the Suprema and wandered about the room, searching for someone I knew. Nobody looked familiar. Lightener and Broadbent weren't there. The men standing around the tables and the bar were fairly evenly divided between gringos and Salvadorans.
About twelve-twenty a man on the dais called the meeting to order. I sat down at the nearest table next to a clean-shaven balding man of about fifty with bad teeth and deep wrinkles around his eyes. He said hello so I returned the greeting. We shook hands. He said he was the controller of a paint manufacturer. I told him I was a tourist, here to enjoy the waters.
The speeches started. It was the usual flow of hot air having to do with the joys of free enterprise and the amity between the United States and El Salvador. My mind kept drifting off to the connection between Lightener and the ex-military officers and Roderick's kidnapping. I couldn't see the relationship.
What if Lightener was in competition with the officers? He'd want to shut down their operation any way he could. Suppose he sent me in to locate them? Once he knew who they were, he could have had the top guys knocked off in New York. But who the hell kidnapped Roderick? And did it have anything to do with this coke business?
The waiter appeared at my shoulder and asked if I wanted the chicken or the fish. I'd eaten so much chicken on this trip that it would have almost been second-nature to want to screw a rooster. I ordered the fish. The waiter took a step back to his station and wrote down the orders. He double-checked his pad, then he nodded to himself and went out to the kitchen.
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