The prospect of rushing headlong down this raging stream was turning her knees to jelly. But the alternative of staying was more perilous; she had to trust that the kayak man knew what he was doing; he had vast expertise.
“Never shot fast water at night before, though.”
She blanched. More gunfire came, followed by Chuck Walker’s distant muffled voice through the bullhorn, demanding surrender, and she also thought she heard him call out Slack’s name.
“They must have found the Honda; they know I’m around and not going far fast. Let’s get a wiggle on.” Men were shouting now, closer to the house.
When she lay on top of him, he hooked her ankles with his feet. She extended the flashlight with one arm, wound the other around his neck, gluing her body to his, her face against his thick, sinewy neck. There was a husky smell to him, a scent of recklessness, but she was heartened by his seeming confidence.
“Viva la revolución,” he said, and pushed off against a rock into deeper water.
And suddenly they were twisting down a swift cataract, turning sideways, glancing off a stone ledge, plummeting downriver again, into a four-foot drop that nearly flipped their flimsy craft. But it did not founder, and Slack, paddling ferociously, manoeuvred them into tamer water where the river was wide and shallow.
“That was not the ultimate experience,” Slack said.
The current had slowed, the mattress bumping over submerged stones. Beneath her, Slack was resting, letting the river carry them. She continued to hug him tightly, chest to back, pelvis to buttocks.
“When we drop another few hundred feet, I’m in home waters.”
“A few hundred feet?”
“Enjoy it while it lasts; this river will be a trickle in a few years after they divert it for hydro. You care about that sort of thing? Damming up the rivers, screwing around with nature?”
“Of course I care.”
“You’re a birder, that’s what your mother told me. In ten years another fifty species will have vanished into avian history. Soon there’ll just be crows and pigeons; the Buff-Breasted Blue Warbler will be a dimming memory. I read the draft chapters you left behind at the lodge; I like your style, but I prefer the original concept. I do a bit of writing myself, poetry, mostly.”
The man was remarkably verbose, considering their circumstances – but perhaps he was just rambling to ease her tension. They were moving faster now, though the mattress insisted on drifting sideways.
“Let’s avoid that crease over there; we want the main channel. Oh, by the way, your parents are in good health, keeping up their spirits. Oops, watch this stopper.” They slipped to the side of a rock, then became wedged, but he pushed them free and they accelerated downriver. “They’re sharing a hotel room and have been seen holding hands.”
Maggie held her breath until they surged into an eddy and slowed. Slack’s gladdening information, along with his aimless chatter and indifference to the hazards of the river, began to lessen her fears. “Did you have a talk with them as I asked?”
“I just let the tropical air spin its sultry magic.” He squinted at some rapids below them. “It’s been ten years since I was last up here, but I remember a vertical just ahead.”
“What do you mean by a vertical?”
“A falls. There’ll be a hole under it; we may encounter a bit of a reversal this time of year, with the water up.”
“A reversal?”
“A backwash at the bottom that wants to suck you around in a circle, up and back. That’s why I asked if you could swim. Only the keepers are dangerous.”
“Keepers?”
“Yes, so grip me tight. Okay, we want to avoid that boil on the left; that’s a submerged rock; we’ve got to hit the chute dead centre … Hang on!”
The banks of the river closed in on them, and as they sped through the narrowing channel all thoughts were blanked by the grinding thunder of the falls. Suddenly, they were somersaulting through the air, and she was flung away from him, her legs flailing wildly. She hit the water rear first and plummeted into the deep pool hollowed by the waterfall. She was swept to a sandy bottom, then carried to the surface, but the backwash pulled her under the falls and down again – this was the dreaded keeper. She gasped for air as she rose, before being sucked under a second time to begin another cycle.
But this time Slack’s arm circled her waist. He tugged her through the powerful grip of the backwash, then kicked and vaulted her to the surface, close to a half-submerged ledge. She was shaking and gasping as he lifted her onto it and boosted himself beside her. “I should have explained – you stay down, go with the outflow. We call it getting Maytagged.”
She dared a glance over her shoulder at the waterfall — she had just survived a fifteen-foot drop into a boiling keeper. She was proud that she had not panicked and was grateful for her guide’s cool head and bravery. Though she was cold in her sopping T-shirt and ripped panties, her heart was racing with the thrill of her risk-filled ride.
“I lost the flashlight.”
“We’ll use the moon.”
It had risen above the trees and in its light she could see the air mattress being battered by the falls. She could also make out Slack: a tall brawny, greying redhead, weathered skin, rugged features. He was shaven and had recently cut his hair; the rendering was a vast improvement over the televised versions she’d seen.
“That’s the worst of it,” he said. She was shivering, and moved closer to him. He didn’t seem anxious to set off again, but bent on making conversation. “Where did we meet, Maggie?”
“We didn’t.”
“I’m an unsavoury character in your book, the Quepos town drunk. How did you come up with such a perceptive portrait?”
“From gossip I heard.” She was uncertain if she should apologize. He was also reputed to be a rowdy, but he seemed most gentle now; she hoped she had not insulted him.
“I’m not particularly handsome, and I’d like to think I’m not an arrogant snob. Otherwise, you have created a picaresque portrait of the drunken lout.”
“You’re very defensive.”
He grunted. “I have every reason to be. Heads are going to roll over this fiasco, and one of them could be mine. I ought to warn you that I’m almost as paranoid as Benito Madrigal, but in my case it’s justified. I have one reliable ally, and he’s waiting downstream. If I sound like a jabbering idiot, take it as a compliment; usually I become tongue-tied with women.”
“Well, that hardly describes you right now.”
“Maybe you’re easy to talk to.” He said this gruffly, then rose and worked his way over the rocks to the falls and pulled the mattress up the bank.
Maggie felt somewhat assured by this odd, meandering conversation that she could place faith in Slack Cardinal and comfortably pass on Halcón’s message. As he was about to step into the river, she held him back.
“I need to settle something with you, Mr. Jacques Cardinal, or whatever your real name is. What’s your role in all this? Glo told me you used to be a spy.”
He answered with a shrug but no hesitation: “I was shanghaied. It was either that or a long stretch — a political thing, seditious writings. I ran off to Cuba … It’s a long story, but I’ve been dragged back in to play Stuntman for the free world, and right now I’m not sure who I’m rooting for; I’m having trouble deciding who the good guys are.”
“You have to let everyone get away.”
“That’s the plan. I have the money.”
She was surprised by this blunt announcement and heard truth in it. “Halcón gave me a message to be passed on only to you – he doesn’t know your history or your role in this, but for some reason he trusts you. Swear to me you will tell no one else.”
“Can I tell Frank?”
“Who?”
“My main man.”
“Only him. Sloth Park in Limón at nine p.m. tomorrow – that’s what he wanted me to tell you; that’s where he’ll be.”
“Halcó
n told you that?”
“He confided in me a great deal.”
“That is remarkable.”
“We became friends. It’s hard to explain; Halcón is … well, he’s different. Glo kept a greater distance at first, but …” Maggie was unable to complete the thought, her ire at Glo welling. “I suppose she tried to put the make on you.”
“She came on like a runaway train. You two didn’t get along?”
“I took care of her; we had a sensational friendship, but … I can’t explain it. Glo is a very …”
“Lusty woman.”
“Yes.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with that. “All aboard. Couple of small adventures ahead, one we call the bucking bronco, then the loop-de-loop. After that it’s child’s play.”
Though there were no more chutes, holes, or keepers, Maggie endured a frothy whitewater journey for about a mile, clinging anxiously to Slack, two wet bodies in absurd, intimate contact. Twice they spilled as their mattress bounced off boulders, and once they became tangled in the branches of a fallen tree. They found many eddies, however, rest stops where she recounted her seven weeks as a captive: the long treks through the jungle, life at the Darkside. She was too embarrassed to admit her infatuation with Halcón, but told him of her growing attachment to his idealistic soldiers. They shared their concern over Benito Madrigal. “He insists Walker has a secret army and wants to take over the world.”
“I’d feel safer if Benito took it over.” Electric lights began to show through the trees. “All right, we want to take the left tongue at the top of these next rapids.”
They did so without spilling, and Maggie could see an old bridge silhouetted in the moonlight. They were swept down a last cataract, and here, where the river widened and slowed, a portly gentleman was sitting on a rock with a fishing pole, staring intently at Slack Cardinal and his bedraggled rider.
“Bienvenido,” he said.
– 4 –
Slack thought there might be roadblocks, so he took the wheel, he knew a back road that swung over the hills to the Savegre, and now they were twisting south and east, between hills and rocky pastures, toward the coastal plain. He could see the farms of the lower Savegre valley now, a mile away, moonlight dancing on the river, high cerros still on either side.
He was feeling on top of things, a rare burst of optimism, Plan B was still in effect despite a day’s delay and tomorrow’s detour to Limón. And one rescue was already well accomplished, Maggie Schneider beside him, dozing, wrapped in a blanket, her short hair wet and flat. She looked like a leggy bird, a graceful, long-necked heron.
The Suzuki rental didn’t have a radio, thieves in San José had popped it out, so they couldn’t catch the latest bulletins. But reporters had been at the scene, Frank had seen a parade of them pour across the bridge on the road to the Darkside.
“One presumes the first of these vehicles, a Toyota Four Runner, was occupied by Senator Walker and the small force that you have described. Ten minutes later, I counted some six vehicles, among which were two television vans, one with satellite equipment.”
These were the civilians Walker had ordered to return to the road. The colonel had brought the world along to witness his dramatic rescue of his glamorous wife, a John Wayne movie, the federal marshal stomping into a saloon for the media event of the century. Pull it off, and Chuck could start thinking about naming his cabinet. He has the right stuff, he stands up to terrorists.
Walker had taken an audacious gamble for glory, but had he thought about the consequences of failure? Frank had the answer. “He succeeds either way. If his best-laid plans go awry — indeed, if mortal tragedy befalls Gloria-May Walker — he then becomes even more the sympathetic hero.”
Slack could see that – hearts of America going out to the heroic widower. But he wondered if Chuck Walker was so ambitious and callous as not to care about his wife’s safety.
They had maybe thirty minutes yet of driving, it was already close to three a.m. They were exhausted, Maggie still napping, Frank stifling yawns. The trip to Limón would have to be made by daylight, Slack needed at least a few hours’ sack time. For this venture he would be armed, Frank had returned his .38.
They were descending into the wide valley carved out by the Savegre, a trail of dust following them. Beyond were the ubiquitous oil palm groves of the compañía, then the Costanera, the southern highway. Slack toyed with the idea of finding a phone, he wouldn’t mind calling Ham Bakerfield, ask him how it feels when someone’s jerking him off, staging a dramatic rescue for the cameras while the president’s chosen hostage-saver was looking the other way.
But how had Walker got the jump on Slack? He felt sure he hadn’t been followed. The solution was there, staring at him, but still too fuzzy around the edges.
“I’m a friendly,” Elmer had yelled, figure that one out. I’m a friendly …
The answer seemed to descend from the heavens. “Elmer,” he shouted. “Jericho is working for them.”
That woke Maggie up, she blinked, slow to catch her bearings.
Frank pounced on the idea. “Yes, of course. The friends in high places.”
The smell of overripe cheese was suddenly overwhelming, reeking of circumstantial proof. Walker’s cronies were the friends who had saved Elmer from being busted with three hundred pounds of marching powder, the friends who had removed files containing vital dirt on the Special Services veteran. Where had Elmer been hanging his helmet before he showed up in Costa Rica?
“Nicaragua,” he said. “Jericho was doing jobs for Colonel Walker’s Rangers.”
And Maggie chimed in: “Oh, my God, maybe he was.” She was looking at him thoughtfully, alert now. “Glo couldn’t figure out why his name seemed familiar. She thought Chuck may have mentioned it.”
“He’s a friendly, all right,” Slack said. I’m connected. A two-engine Piper Comanche and a Mafia pilot. Elmer had made this link during the Contra war, he’d helped the advisers run the guns-for-coke trade.
He drove in stunned silence, worrying that he’d gone overboard, old man Paranoia creating mischief again, taking over the controls. Then, as the ramifications began to hit home, he cried out, “Jesus wept! We’ve been jobbed!”
He sputtered, stumbling over his words, his tongue working faster than his brain. “It’s a work of genius — okay, evil genius — no, he’s not smart enough — maybe his campaign manager, I don’t know. Here it is: Walker knew all along exactly where Maggie and Glo were being held. Hell, he knew about the kidnapping in advance. No, strike that – he bloody planned it. Putting the snatch on his wife was a set-up from the beginning.” He banged his hands on the steering wheel. “Yes!”
“He would never …” Maggie shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, this makes sense,” said Frank, excited now, too.
“I’ve got it, here it is, this is how he was going to get elected head of the free world, a staged hostage-taking. Okay, Jericho — he was probably the colonel’s bum-boy in Managua — now he’s working for Eco-Rico, and Walker thinks, what a perfect spot for that second honeymoon he’s been planning. He owns Elmer, he got him off that coke beef. Elmer’s been up to the lodge, he knows the lay of the land. But they need a brilliant criminal mind, so they hire Johnny Diego, pay him a big advance, and he minces his way into the People’s Popular Vanguard, reinvents them as the Comando Cinco de Mayo, gets them to do the grunt work.”
“I don’t think Halcón would hire himself out that way,” Maggie said.
Slack reconsidered, she was right, Halcón was the classic private entrepreneur, he didn’t middle for others, and his distaste for Walker had seemed sincere. “Okay, maybe not, maybe Elmer doesn’t tell Halcón it’s a set-up, and so he’s been duped, too – that fits, Johnny was so leery of Elmer that he skipped out on him.”
Frank leaned forward. “Ms. Schneider, what was Senator Walker’s demeanour just before the kidnapping?”
“He was distracted, maybe a li
ttle agitated.”
“He dismissed almost his entire staff,” Slack said, “got rid of two of his bodyguards, sent them off to loll about the beach, kept two guys he hoped weren’t very heroic.”
“I am a believer,” Frank said.
Slack was convinced the scheme had been devised in whispers in a darkened backroom, Walker and a few advisers. Everyone, Slack, probably Halcón, even Ham Bakerfield, had been used. He realized grimly there was a reason Walker had pressed him into service with such enthusiasm — the fuckup could be counted on to fall on his face.
From the start, Elmer knew Slack was working undercover, the old snake-eater was a gifted actor, pretending to be dull-witted and gullible. Slack, blinded by naïveté, had believed he’d had this soft drug junkie in his pocket. That galled.
From a hill overlooking the broad coastal plain, Slack could now see the moon-flecked ocean, waves cresting on an endless beach. Soon they were immersed in the vast sea of African palms. Here was a botanical graveyard, a grove of exhausted trees, row on row of ghostly skeletons, tall and grey, forlorn in death.
John Daniels, whom everyone called Jack, came yawning from his house, alerted by the barking of his old dog, Shep, who sniffed at Slack, and, recognizing him, wagged his tail. Slack had known Jack from the early days, a trusted friend who asked few questions. His rustic cabinas, at the seaside village of Matapalo, were buried in trees at the dead end of a sand road, away from inquiring eyes.
“Two units reserved for Harry Wilder,” Jack grumbled, “late arrivals.” He looked Slack over, his wet clothes stuck to his skin, then at Frank, dozing in the car, at Maggie as she stepped out, the blanket wrapped around her. “I won’t ask,” Jack said. “Hell, I’m not even curious. You guys want some dry clothes, look in the downstairs closet.” He gave Slack the keys to two cabins.
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