by Bacon Thorn
The transfer of Maximillio’s body to the jeep was accomplished quickly, and with Yuma in the front beside him, Hebrano got the vehicle moving.
During the hour’s ride to the mission, over the clatter and noise of the motor, Hebrano told Navarre and Yuma in a raised voice how he had left his church in Chihuahua heavy with dread over Navarre’s fate. He had learned of the police net the sheriff had placed around the city and he had departed the morning after the night Navarre rescued Yuma from the police. Before that happened, he had been with his bishop when Yuma spoke with Father Higinio. The bishop had promised to call Lazlo Peñas the following day and tell him about the discovery of Raldon’s body and the apparent missing status of an American who had been working with the dead man. Then, Hebrano explained that he had headed out for Sisiqichuc, some eighty-five miles—as the crow flies—from where he had started. After innumerable stops at small desert villages to listen to confessions and give blessings, he had halted to pass the time of day and exchange news with a backcountry freighter, an arriero, resting his mule team. He purchased a few tinware items and some salt from the leathery, talkative muleskinner and cut across southwest for the trail to the mission. Then, strangely, not fifteen miles from his destination, he encountered Navarre and Yuma watching over a dead man. An act of God? Blind chance? Who was to know? Fabian had mused on a famous quote from Albert Einstein: “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
When the trio finally arrived at Mission Sisiqichuc, Hebrano turned Navarre and Yuma over to his able assistant, Father Hector Gonzales, instructing him to get them fresh clothes to wear after they bathed, then fed in preparation for flight by small plane to El Paso, the nearest US sanctuary. While they were changing, he would arrange for the burial of Maximillio.
Hebrano joined the pair while they ate a hasty meal in the dining room of the priests’ quarters and explained that several years earlier a short and narrow airstrip had been laboriously gouged out of the soil of the high valley floor, and there were two hangared aircraft, aging but reliable, available for use. One of the planes, a six-year-old single-engine Cessna piloted by young Father Martin Lagunas, would be ready to take off with them as soon as they were transported to the tiny airfield.
“What about you?” Navarre asked as Hebrano escorted them to his jeep and got behind the wheel.
“Don’t worry about me. This place has survived worse tyrants than Nuños since Father Geronimo de Figueroa founded the mission in 1639. Also, don’t worry about Maximillio. We will bury him tomorrow at the foot of the mountains, where he will have a long view of the desert he loved. As for your entry into the states without papers, I’ll take care of that by radio. We have friends in El Paso.”
Five minutes after they climbed into the waiting Cessna and it swept into the heights, Navarre and Yuma gazed down at the tiny figure of Hebrano and at the isolated mission’s white buildings, so insignificant in the towering presence of the mountains, tinged now on their peaks with a rim of gold from the sun slowly dropping behind them to the west.
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Chapter XIV
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“This is a picture of Calderón Sanchez. He was a lot younger then, back in the early seventies. Does he look like Nuños?”
Navarre accepted the snapshot, a passport-type black-and-white photo, from Lazlo Peñas and studied it. Pictured was a scowling, truculent man in his midtwenties with short black hair and a hunted expression on his dark face. The large portrait on the wall behind the desk in Rodriguez’s library at the farm instantly appeared in Navarre’s mind.
“No question about it,” he said, nodding his head. “Angrier looking then, same mustache. He was not as heavy. Fatter now. More cynical and confident. And older, of course. But why do you need me to identify Nuños? Surely you must have photos of him.”
“We do. But I wanted to have your corroboration. The next photo is a stab in the dark. Does this man look familiar at all?”
Navarre examined the second photo carefully. It was a glossy picture of a slender man in a business suit admiring a woman seated across from him at a table with the ocean as their background. “No, I’ve never seen him, but I’ve got a hunch the woman’s Maria Montrero. Am I right?”
“Yes, Jaime Chivaro and Maria Montrero, taken at a beach resort on the West Coast about three years ago. I’d hoped for some direct connection between Chivaro and Nuños or anybody else in the Ring of Gold, but that’s shooting for the stars.” Peñas laughed at himself. “Isn’t it a true fact,” he said, “that even when we get tripe in the soup, we hunger for a bigger piece. You’ve been immensely helpful. You’ve identified Nuños as Calderón Sanchez, and that is a big prize.”
Peñas opened the fingers of his right hand and looked at his empty palm as if something was missing, then said, “One moment we had him and the next . . . poof! He was gone. That was years ago, before I got started in police work. My predecessors thought his disappearance was arranged by the Soviets who had trained him. As an agitator in the late seventies, the Russky was still backing a violent front organization for social and land reform in Mexico. Later when his Communist connections fizzled out, Sanchez was active in a counterfeiting scheme, the white slavery business, and drugs, where he made his money.
“We’ve had a hunch that Nuños and Sanchez might be the same man. But we’ve never been able to prove it. No fingerprints of Sanchez to match with Nuños. We’ve kept a file on Nuños through the years. We know a lot about him. Murdered his way into the job of sheriff, but we can’t prove it. One of the drug overlords of the Ring of Gold, we’re sure. Worth billions.”
“What I don’t understand,” Navarre said, “is what prompted Nuños and the Ring of Gold to plan the assassination of the president. Even though Felipe Calderón may be more diligent about cleaning out the drug vipers than any of his predecessors, they are inviting a lot of attention and trouble if they attempt to kill him.”
Peñas frowned deeply, but did not seem to be offended by Navarre’s criticism of Mexico’s historical inaction against drug distribution. He said evenly, “You’ve been gone from Mexico for two years. So you can’t really know how extensive, in that short period, the drug trade has become. It’s everywhere, and the fact that our informers have convinced me that the Ring of Gold approved Nuños’s plan, whatever it is, to assassinate the president is proof of their intent. The narcos are far more aggressive now and arrogant with the millions they make. Life is cheap to them, and they glory in the power all that money gives them. They are convinced that Calderón is probably the most dangerous foe to organized drug crime in twenty years, and that is true. There’s another reason for the president to make a good showing. He won his election by the smallest margin in years. Only 243,000 votes separated him from his popular liberal opponent, out of forty million cast. But you probably know that.”
Navarre knew he might have been too hard by lumping Calderón with former presidents who had promised bold action against drug lords but delivered little more than hot air.
“I’m sorry if I—”
“Don’t,” Peñas interrupted. “Skepticism is valuable. It keeps the mind focused on defeating the reasons for it.”
He fell silent for a moment, then added, “You just have no idea how big the drug trade has become in Mexico. I’m not sure I do. It’s the major transfer point for the US market. I know this: the network has tentacles into every aspect of Mexican life. Few people want Calderón to succeed. He’s been threatened with death many times. But this time is the worst nightmare we’ve had. If they succeed, we might as well turn over the keys to the government to them. That’s how desperate the situation is.”
He glanced at his watch. “Time for us to go.” As Navarre rose from his chair, Peñas delayed him with a touch of his hand. “Don’t feel too badly about your friend Raldon. He operated his own way, a courageous outlier, and nothing was going to change that. He refused to share ideas until they matured in his mind. It’s a damn shame. We’d know more now an
d maybe he’d be alive if he’d talked to us before he arranged to rendezvous with you. Damn fool! We’ll never know what made him suspicious of Duelos and place himself in harm’s way.”
Navarre nodded. He had been with Peñas for two hours. From the beginning, they had been at ease with one another, and Navarre had been impressed, as now, with the man’s sensitivity and astuteness. A squat, powerfully built man in his midforties, Peñas combed his black hair straight back over his ivory forehead. His black eyes brooded from under a bony shelf upon which his eyebrows lay flat like glossy ravens’ wings. He reminded Navarre of Paul Muni portraying Benito Juárez in the classic old movie. But behind the implacable tranquility there was an unexpressed feeling of intense power. It came to the surface when his cool black eyes flashed warningly. A bulldog, Thomas thought.
Once they had gotten over the formalities, they had used carefully chosen words initially and found they liked one another. Peñas expressed his fascination with the ex-soldier/priest Hebrano. “One chido padre. I wonder what made him change his career from army olive green to the mournful black of the priesthood? You’re lucky, and so are we, that you met him a few miles from his mission and that he could arrange so quickly to fly you to safety. Who knows what might have happened if Nuños had returned before you escaped.”
“I think Hebrano was disappointed that he missed out on the action with the van in the desert. And he was deeply saddened by the death of Maximillio. I’ll never forget him; he was chido!” Thomas thought back on the “cool” mountain goat . . . impressive.
Peñas sighed. “Men and women like him are rarer than gold. You were very lucky and blessed.”
Navarre thought about Maximillio as he and Peñas drifted toward the executive jet that was waiting to take them to Mexico City. He was weary from his six-day odyssey and the swiftness of events in the hours since he and Yuma had arrived in the desert city, and jumpy from drinking too much coffee.
They were at Biggs Air Force Base as a result of his distress call to Harry Abbeglen in New York when he and Yuma alighted at El Paso International from the rattling Cessna 182. It had been their transport from the mission at Sisiqichuc across the border. Their Jesuit pilot had been a likable, flamboyant young Mexican who loved to fly and deposited them after a bumpy passage at ten at night. An earlier call from Hebrano to army authorities in the desert city alerted them to watch for the two Americans.
Yuma, in particular, had been the object of sharp curiosity from people in the airport in the threadbare but scrupulously clean clothes Hebrano had scrounged up for her at the mission. She looked like a blond Indian, with her cinnamon skin and green eyes contrasting with the moth-eaten rebozo thrown over her shoulders. Even Thomas had done a double take.
Navarre was dressed in a faded blue shirt and oversized black alpaca suit coat worn over his wrinkled khaki trousers and scuffed desert boots; he looked like a tall, dark, and handsome Indian misplaced from the hills when he talked to Harry Abbeglen at his home in New York, after awakening the chief of Alliance News Syndicate from a deep sleep.
He briefed Abbeglen on the events of the past week, hurrying over the violence in the desert, and extracted his promise to urgently contact Lazlo Peñas to arrange a meeting between them in El Paso.
Then, he and Yuma had retired to the airport coffee shop, where they sipped hot black coffee gratefully and she giggled at the scrutiny of patrons who gazed at them with obvious curiosity.
An hour later, thanks to Hebrano, an air force provost marshal captain rescued them from the coffee shop, and they were helicoptered to Biggs Air Force Base. There, they were examined and treated for minor bruises and sunburn. A new dressing for Navarre’s head wound replaced the one applied at the mission. Their desert ordeal had stripped pounds from their frames, but they were pronounced healthy and told they would gain back their lost weight quickly. The executive officer, Col. Bailey Waters, informed Navarre that Peñas was on his way by air to make contact with the American. He had congenially ordered his grateful civilian guests to bed for a few hours. They parted and met for a huge breakfast later, after resting and donning the new clothes Waters had obtained for them from the post commissary.
Navarre, feeling edgy and tired from too little sleep but at least comfortable in slacks, jacket, a soft shirt, and loafers, told his story to the sturdy policeman who said very little, except to pose a question or two, during the forty-five minutes it took for Navarre to complete his explanation.
Peñas had sat very still when Navarre concluded his narrative, then he raised his brooding eyebrows and said in a soft voice, “You are indeed very lucky, my friend.” His observation was like a whispered benediction, and for a moment Navarre was back in the bright sun and shining sand of the desert by the sentinel rocks when his lungs were filled with the morning sweetness of the sharp air and his life hung on the accuracy of his aim with his pistol. He would never forget the expression of amazement and fright on Esquivel’s face as he saw Navarre, the messenger of death, come to execute him. And that was the moment when Navarre recognized that every man dies with surprise in his eyes.
“You look like a ghost just walked over your grave.”
With an expression of apology, Navarre acknowledged that his mind had wandered, then he said awkwardly, “Yes, it was ghosts I saw, not just one.” He did not identify the flying black ghost—the sin eater whom the desert priest, Hebrano, had contemptuously named Zopilote for the everlasting stink imbedded in his feathers. Nor did he describe the chilling awe he and Yuma had felt when they saw the vulture, unrumpled and unscathed, sail out of the explosive fire that Navarre had started in the desert. The incongruity of the predator escaping harm as his wings carried him through the roaring flames, cloaked in choking smoke and the stench of the dead, seemed to have proved his immunity from harm and the contradiction of his survival. But how could Navarre have ever convinced the chief of the Federal Judicial Police of the immortality of an ordinary turkey vulture?
Peñas smiled sympathetically, glanced at the watch on his wrist, and said, “I have a nasty feeling that time is very much against us. I want to get back soon enough to see the president today. It’s time for us to go. You are coming along?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me here.”
Yuma was waiting for Navarre in a jeep parked in the shadow of the gleaming jet that was to fly Peñas and Navarre to Mexico City. She was chatting with an air force MP sergeant who was her driver. Navarre went over to her when he and Peñas arrived in another jeep and took her hand. Together they walked a few steps away from the patient sergeant. El Paso’s dry, dusty desert wind tousled her hair and plucked at the cool summer dress she wore. She looked marvelously healthy and radiant, with just a touch of lipstick to heighten the splendor of her glowing apricot complexion. Her green eyes shone with gladness, but her manner seemed subdued, as if she were holding some feelings in reserve.
“When they told me you were going back to Mexico, I couldn’t believe my ears, Thomas,” she said, disengaging her hand from his. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have waited around like a silly schoolgirl for you to remember I’m still here.”
Navarre felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He felt foolish and stammered an apology, wondering why he should be making excuses for his absence.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you. I thought you understood how important this meeting was.”
“I do understand, Thomas. It’s my turn to be sorry. I guess it’s just that I resent being left out of the end of something that threatened both of us. It brought us together. But now that it’s over, why are you going back? What can you do to help? Isn’t this a job for men like Peñas?”
“Yes, it is. He asked me to go with him. It never occurred to me to say no. Also, it appears I’m the key to the prosecution of Nuños when they catch him.”
“What about me? About us?” Yuma insisted, shooting darts from her emerald eyes. She was being unreasonable, Navarre thought.
“You’re very important to
me,” he said. “I won’t be gone long. No more than a few days, probably. I’m not sure. I thought we could meet up when I got back.”
“Well, that’s casual enough,” she said coldly. “I’m to wait while you decide how important I am in your life? I don’t think so,” she said, stepping away from him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright and hot.
“You’re angry?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve made me feel unimportant, insignificant, and disposable . . . I guess that I’ve misjudged the depth of what we shared in the desert. Oh, don’t you understand that if I have to explain to you that perhaps our meeting wasn’t an accident, that it wasn’t random, and that if what we felt only happened because we were thrown together, then there is nothing for us to go on? I’m unique. You won’t be able to get me out of your mind easily, but that’s your problem. I deserve to be treated with respect. I don’t regret this past week. I’m sure it will provide me with added depth when in the future I need to act out feelings of fear, intrigue, and romance under fire. Not a total waste. I give myself to another when and where I choose. I don’t want to make you feel obligated to me. And that’s how you’ve acted.”
Navarre was shocked, angry, and puzzled. He realized he had unintentionally offended Yuma by failing to be honest about their future. By leaving her in doubt about it. He didn’t know himself that he was going back to Mexico until Peñas asked. Then, the decision had been easy. But he still thought she was being unreasonable.
“Damn it, Yuma,” he said, “I don’t feel obligated. What happened between us was real. If I seem hesitant, it’s not because I don’t care. I do. How much, we will have to find out together. I’m still pulling myself together. We talked about that. You’re brave, intriguing, and very important to me. I’m sorry if I offended you. If I’ve said the wrong things just now, well, I’m sorry for that too. At least let’s be friends until we can discover, when I come back, how much more there is.”