by Jack Treby
Nacho was holding a rolled up piece of paper in his lap. He unravelled it to reveal a glossy full–colour poster. Dick had seen it before, on the walls of the PRD building. It was a less than flattering propaganda piece with a badly doctored mug shot of yours truly.
‘Where d’you get that?’ Dick asked.
‘My cousin. He get one.’
Nacho’s cousin was an Azulito foot soldier. What interest the young Escoria would have in any of the political candidates was beyond Dick. The Azulitos had always existed outside of the orthodox political system.
‘The Big Men,’ Nacho continued. ‘They are – how you say? – distribute them. To Azulito people. You give me money?’
‘Hang on, kid. Distributing them? These posters?’
Nacho nodded. ‘The leaders, they give special orders. Everyone must support the PRD.’
Dick’s mouth dropped ever so slightly. ‘You’re having a laugh.’ He knew the Azulitos had been disrupting the odd electoral rally. Several meetings of the Partido Socialista Independencia – the official government party – had been disrupted and a dozen or so people had died. But that was all part of the ongoing war between the military and the Azulitos. The men in blue would never get involved in politics directly. It wasn’t their style.
‘Is true,’ Nacho insisted. ‘Come straight from the Big Men. They say: support the PRD. Put up posters. Burn down opposition. Force people to vote.’
Dick was silent for a moment. ‘Starting when?’ he asked.
‘Already. Today. You give me money?’
‘Let me just get this straight.’ A smile was beginning to form on Dick’s rounded face. ‘The Azulitos, who’ve been at war with the government for the last few weeks, are now coming out in support of a government funded opposition party?’
Nacho grinned. ‘They support the foreign man, he is best.’
Dick shook his head. The Azulitos engaged in legitimate political activity. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’
‘Is true. The Big Men, they say they have control over him. Your friend Malone, they think he win the election. Then he do everything they say.’
‘Win the election? You must be joking!’
‘Azulitos, they are superstitious,’ Nacho explained. ‘They think the dead, they have power over the living. Is crazy. They say the dead can control anyone.’
Dick roared with laughter. ‘My God, they’ve really flipped their lid. I know the Azulitos have been upsetting the odd rally, but backing the PRD...that’s ridiculous. I mean, Christ, there’s only a few days left until polling.’
‘They are serious. They have money and everything.’
That at least was true. Dick remembered the Azulito leader referring to “substantial reserves”. But surely they didn’t think they could buy the election, at this late stage? And what could the Azulitos possibly gain by supporting the PRD? It wasn’t exactly a credible opposition. If they wanted the government to lose the election, they would be better off putting their weight behind Antonio Fracaso.
‘You go tell Malone?’
Dick nodded. ‘I’m meant to be meeting him this evening. He’s on his way back from Hermosa.’ The journalist rocked with laughter. ‘Man, he’s going to love this!’
The green and white van was parked in the back lot of the Central Police Headquarters. Lolita had been led up from the bowels of the building into the open air for the first time in a number of weeks. She squinted at the harsh sunlight. A sour–faced constable unlocked the back of the vehicle and bundled her inside, chaining her wrist to a handle on one of the walls. She sat herself down on a bare metal seat as another policeman – a sergeant – closed up the back and moved around to the cab. A minute later, the engine fired and the van moved away.
Lolita bounced up and down in excitement. She was out of that cell at long last and free from the unwanted attentions of Chief Inspector Lopez. Admittedly, she was only being driven to another prison – and the remand centre in Aislado was every bit as bad as Lopez had suggested – but there would be other women to talk to there and a prison yard to walk around. It would be a paradise in comparison to that cramped police cell. Lolita grinned happily.
The constable on the opposite bench was staring at her, baffled by her inappropriate good cheer. She winked at him and his brow furrowed further.
At that moment, the van hit a pothole and they both flew up into the air. Lolita laughed as she thumped back onto the metal seat. The handcuffs cut into her wrist but she didn’t care. Nothing could dampen her spirits now.
The grim–faced constable glared at her resentfully. He was nursing a rather large red bump on his forehead.
Ten minutes passed and the vehicle began to slow. ‘Roadblock up ahead,’ the sergeant called back from the cab.
The guard stifled a yawn.
He was less sluggish when the doors of the van were yanked open a couple of minutes later. He reached for his rifle, but then saw the gun held to the head of the sergeant who had been at the wheel. The driver had not unlocked the back door of his own volition. A small band of armed men had taken control of the vehicle. They were wearing masks and carrying automatic rifles.
The constable put up no resistance. The keys at his waist were purloined and Lolita was unchained.
‘It’s all right, señorita,’ one of the gunmen reassured her. ‘We’re not here to hurt you.’ He was a solid, muscular fellow; a Hispanic, not an Escoria.
‘You are rescuing me?’ she asked, uncertainly.
He nodded, offering a hand to help her down from the back of the van. ‘Around here,’ he said.
A large tree–trunk was obstructing the road, some fifty yards beyond a steep curve in the track. It was the ideal place for an ambush.
The officers were quickly locked away in the back of the police van and the vehicle was driven off to the side of the road. The tree trunk was pulled away – just as a ramshackle yellow bus filled with screaming schoolchildren came by, blaring its horn – and Lolita was escorted to a small open–backed truck hidden out of sight among the bushes.
‘In here,’ the man said, gesturing to the front cabin. ‘Don’t worry. You’re safe with us.’
Antonio Fracaso had thought of everything.
The other gunmen jumped into the trailer and ducked down out of sight beneath a large tarpaulin. The truck then did an about turn and Lolita Corazón found herself heading back the way she had come, absolutely none the wiser.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Two pairs of narrow, black eyes glared suspiciously at Dick Carter as he ascended the steps leading up to the Central Police Headquarters. Admittedly, Dick had always been rather tall, but several years living in Guatemala had darkened his skin to the point where he was considerably less conspicuous than most foreigners. It was usually only his Bermuda shorts or light blue eyes that attracted attention. Nevertheless, the security guards were staring at him and Dick didn’t feel they were doing so out of friendly curiosity. It was possible they knew who he was.
Not everybody had to show identification before entering the double doors. There was no need. You couldn’t get anywhere inside the headquarters without first presenting yourself at the front desk. If the desk sergeant didn’t like you – and the man rarely seemed to like anyone – then you wouldn’t get in at all.
The policemen demanded to see some ID. Dick, as ever, was happy to oblige. The men frowned as they examined his Guatemalan identity card. He showed them his press pass for good measure and reluctantly the officers stepped aside.
In the entrance hall, the desk sergeant was busily opening a pile of mail. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the post had only just been delivered. Mail tends to arrive at any time in San Doloroso. Nobody ever complains about it. People are just grateful it arrives at all.
Dick slouched across to the desk and waited patiently for the desk sergeant to show him some attention. Two minutes passed. The man had pulled a calendar out of an envelope and was examining a succession of risqu�
� photographs which accompanied each month. He obviously had no intention of looking up. Dick leaned forward to take a closer look at the calendar. His head protruded over the desk and finally the sergeant glanced up at him.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, speaking in Spanish and using the disrespectful familiar form of the verb.
Dick pulled his hands out of his pockets. ‘If you’re not too busy,’ he replied, in perfect Escoria.
The sergeant was unimpressed. ‘What do you want?’
Dick scratched an ear–hole. ‘I want to speak to Inspector Lopez.’ Lopez was his best chance at re–establishing contact with the Azulitos. He needed to find out what the organisation was playing at, suddenly supporting the PRD. The only people who could explain it were the Azulitos themselves. Nacho’s cousin was too low ranking to arrange an interview, however, and in any case the journalist didn’t want to compromise his best source. Lopez’s brother was higher placed; and the inspector had acted on behalf of the Azulitos before. Dick tried to make the request sound casual, as if Lopez was an old friend.
The desk sergeant was having none of it. He laughed humourlessly. ‘Chief Inspector Lopez is a very busy man,’ he said, returning his gaze to the considerable charms of Señorita Noviembre.
‘It won’t take a minute,’ Dick insisted. ‘We’ve met before. He knows who I am.’
The sergeant was adamant. ‘I’m not disturbing him.’ If the fellow had been speaking in English, he would probably have added: ‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’ Dick pulled out his wallet and produced a two hundred Cambur note. This is the largest denomination there is; worth approximately fifty–four American dollars. The sergeant regarded the note without apparent interest. For a moment, Dick thought the offer might have been a mistake. If the man arrested him for attempted bribery, he would be in real trouble. But he had not misjudged the situation.
The desk sergeant slid a hand across to the television monitor on his desk and flicked a switch to turn off the internal surveillance camera. He pocketed the two hundred note, wound back the tape recorder and began recording again. ‘A glitch in the system. That video never works properly.’ The proprieties taken care of, the sergeant picked up a telephone and phoned through to Inspector Lopez. The sergeant spoke briefly but without enthusiasm, before looking up at Dick. ‘I’m sorry, sir. The inspector is very busy. Perhaps you could call back some other time.’
Dick leaned forward. ‘Tell the inspector it’s Dick Carter. And if he won’t speak to me now, I’ll go and speak to his brother.’
The sergeant relayed the information and replaced the receiver. ‘He’ll be down in a minute. But I don’t think he’s very happy.’ Sure enough, a minute later, Lopez appeared at the desk and he did not look happy. The sergeant tactfully withdrew into a back office.
Lopez glared at Dick for a moment, then he leaned over the desk and switched off the recording devices. That done, he pulled a knife from a pocket next to his right thigh and held it up against the journalist’s throat.
‘You listen, Sunny, and you listen good. I can kill you here and now and nobody would bat an eyelid. You do not come here and threaten me!’
Dick raised his hands cautiously. ‘Hey, look, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to have a quick chat.’
‘You think I’ve got time to waste talking to scum like you?’
‘I need to find out...do you mind?’ Dick gently pushed the knife from his throat, then leaned in closely. ‘I want to find out what your Azulito friends are playing at.’
The inspector flicked his eyes nervously towards the back office. The door was firmly closed.
‘You have no business being here!’ Lopez hissed. ‘I’m not telling you anything.’
‘Look, mate, I just want to arrange a meeting, like before. Have a quick natter. I didn’t print anything bad about them last time. I just printed what the guy told me.’
‘And then told the army everything else.’
Dick shook his head. ‘I’d never betray a source, you know that. Sure, the army pulled me in. They often do. But I didn’t tell them anything they couldn’t already read about in the newspapers. Look, if it’s a problem, we can do it off the record. I just want to know why the Azulitos are coming out in favour of the PRD. I mean, what do they care about politics?’ It made no sense for the men in blue to suddenly begin campaigning on behalf of the Partido Revolucionario Democrático. Admittedly, they couldn’t know that its leader was intending to stand down before the election took place, but acting on behalf of the PRD only served to help the provisional government. Every vote cast for me was one less cast for Antonio Fracaso. And since the Azulitos would never help the government to win an election, there was obviously something else going on.
‘Look, son, I’ll make this simple for you,’ Inspector Lopez growled. ‘Nobody in the Azulito organisation wants to talk to you. Nobody wants to let out any secrets. The only thing that anyone wants to do right now is to slit your throat from here to here.’ Lopez helpfully demonstrated this statement by slashing his knife millimetres from Dick’s slender neck. ‘So I suggest, Sunny Jim, that you leave here right now, before I really lose my temper.’
Dick held up his hands in surrender. ‘All right, you win.’ He pulled back and made his way across to the door. The two policemen outside were standing to attention. He turned back to the inspector. ‘But I’ll find out one way or another.’
‘You just try it, Sunny,’ Lopez growled. ‘You just try.’
~ ~ ~
A horn sounded in the driveway, alerting me to the arrival of the taxi. It was a little earlier than I had expected.
I was sitting quietly at a small table in the drawing room, trying to make sense of one of Juan Federico’s books. I wasn’t having much luck. It was a biography of Simón Doloroso, the charismatic revolutionary leader who had led the country to independence in the early nineteenth century. I took a sip of pineapple juice from a glass and put the book down.
My body was still aching from the journey back from Hermosa. There had been one particularly nasty pothole that had sent my entire body sprawling through the air. Why on earth colectivos couldn’t be fitted with seat belts was a mystery to me. People in San Doloroso had a very casual attitude to health and safety.
Dick and I had met up the previous evening for a drink and a chat. We had swapped news of the Azulito posters but he had no more idea what was going on than I did. The men in blue were behaving very strangely indeed. Dick promised to find out more as soon as he could. We had tentatively scheduled to meet up again this evening, but it looked like the engagement would now have to be postponed.
A coded message had come through from Alberto Viscoso. I would be going into hiding this afternoon.
A manservant knocked and entered the drawing room. ‘Your taxi is here, sir,’ he intoned in a deep, unnecessarily loud voice. I arched my back and rose unsteadily to my feet.
A small bag had already been packed in readiness. I grabbed hold of it now. It was scarcely bigger than a handbag. Anything larger would have looked suspicious. As far as the servant was concerned, I was just going for another drink at the Intercontinental Hotel.
I took a deep breath, finished off the pineapple juice and strode out into the driveway.
Viscoso had been as good as his word. The time had come for me to make my escape.
~ ~ ~
Charlotte McBride lifted herself out of the water and slid her legs onto the emerald green tiles that surrounded the general’s Olympic–sized swimming pool. She paused for a moment to recover her breath, then retrieved a towel from the nearby sun lounger and began to rub herself down.
Charlotte was enjoying every minute of her current good–fortune. After the unfortunate events surrounding the death of her lover, she had quickly retreated into the protective cocoon of a new and powerful relationship. General Malvado was a very different man from Juan Federico, but what he lacked in good humour h
e made up for in charisma. He was a powerful and energetic lover. Charlotte could have done without the armed guards, the Rottweilers and the barbed wire surrounding his immodest country estate, but there was a limousine on standby twenty–four hours a day and unlimited credit at all the most exclusive department stores in town, so there was little reason to complain.
Once she had dried herself down, she made her way through the tennis courts back over to the terrace at the rear of the hacienda. There were hammocks strewn from the coconut trees on either side of the main building. She would lie out in one later and enjoy the evening sunshine. But first, she would get herself something to drink.
There was a pitcher of orange juice on the terrace. Malvado was sitting there sipping from a narrow glass and discussing business with Alberto Viscoso. The two men rose as she approached. ‘You are looking as radiant as ever, señorita,’ Viscoso fawned, his eyes locked lasciviously on her pink and white bikini.
Charlotte smiled, frostily. She put her arms around General Malvado and gave him a lingering kiss.
‘Sit down, my dear,’ he instructed, pulling back. ‘We were discussing some important matters.’
‘Sorry. Was I interrupting?’ Charlotte seated herself opposite the two men. She adjusted her shoulder straps and poured herself a glass of orange.
‘I was just informing the general that your young journalist friend Patrick Malone has disappeared.’
She frowned. ‘He’s not exactly my friend.’
‘He’s living on your estate,’ Malvado pointed out.
‘Well, yes,’ Charlotte conceded, ‘but that was your idea.’
‘He left the house at four o’clock this afternoon,’ Viscoso continued. ‘He was meant to be driving to the Intercontinental Hotel. Unfortunately, he never arrived.’ The civil servant was acting for all the world as if he were surprised by this sudden turn of events.