Saffire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Cromwell?” My tongue was thick and my voice strange in my ears. I felt an incredible thirst—and the sensation that my brain had turned into a liquid that was seeping down into my body.

  “Since I can’t understand what you said,” Amador told me, “I think I can safely set you free.”

  Amador rose again. With fogginess shrinking my vision to a small circle, I realized that he had pulled out a key. I felt a click at my wrist and then at my ankle. He scooped up both handcuffs and placed them in his trouser pockets.

  He helped me to my feet.

  The world swayed. I lurched one way, then the other.

  I tried to lift the useless pistol in my hand, but it felt chained to the floor.

  I collapsed and sat in the chair again.

  Amador stepped to me and pulled the pistol from my hand.

  I was in the vice grip of paralysis, my vision fading almost to nothing. Once, years earlier, I had been helpless, watching the woman I loved die. I would not let it happen again.

  I tilted forward on the chair. I didn’t have a hope of stopping him, but an irrational satisfaction of fighting to the end filled me. As the chair continued to tilt, I let myself fall forward, trying to knock him over.

  He stepped aside and laughed, as I fell forward onto my face. He kicked my ribs, then knelt and held the barrel of the gun to my forehead.

  “Beg,” he said.

  Rage cut through the drugged fogginess and sustained me. I did not. Nor did I turn my head aside.

  He pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber, dissipating not a burst of hot gas to propel a bullet but more mocking laughter from him.

  He dropped the pistol near my hand—

  Glass shattered, followed by a thunk and a groan. I heard Amador speak in disbelief.

  “This?”

  He fell to his knees, and I saw the knife handle in the center of his chest.

  In the dimming fog, I saw Saffire’s face first. Then the face of the Spaniard with the thin mustache who had followed me from my first days in Panama.

  The knife man.

  As I closed my eyes and gave in to the fog, I heard Saffire begin to weep as she called out to Ezequiel.

  “Tito!”

  I woke to a face that was far from beautiful.

  “Muskie.” I groaned. “Go away.”

  He stopped slapping my cheek, and I closed my eyes and tried to sink into oblivion again. Memories returned, however, so I tried to sit.

  The effort hurt and I fell back. I could see that I was in a hotel suite. In a bed. Not in a room with a murdered man.

  “Water,” I croaked.

  “I am not your maid.”

  I allowed my eyes to roll back in my head and made gagging sounds as my arms and legs went rigid and my back arched, throwing my chest off the bed.

  “Oh mercy!” Miskimon rushed away from the bed.

  I stopped shuddering. When Miskimon returned with a glass of water, I grinned as I sat up on the bed.

  “Thanks, Muskie.” I sipped on the water. “Any chance you can fluff my pillows for me?”

  “Your antics well prove that you have suffered no harm,” Miskimon said. He half turned.

  “As I assured you, young woman, all it would take was a little time.”

  That’s when I realized Saffire was in the room with us.

  Miskimon leaned in and whispered to me, “And the amount of time you took was inconsiderate, I’ll add. Poor girl was frightened.”

  Saffire sat on a chair at the foot of the bed. Her eyes were swollen from crying. I had questions, but her tito was dead. This was not the time. I put out a hand and she took it and squeezed. I could not think of any words of comfort that might help her. I met her eyes. “I’m so sorry for you.”

  “Everything is my fault.” The words escaped on a sob.

  “Miss Saffire,” Muskie said. “If you hadn’t been there, things would have been far worse. It was your bodyguard who saved Mr. Holt’s life. And Raquel’s life as well.”

  Bodyguard? I would try to make sense of that later.

  “Raquel—” Words stuck in my raspy throat, so I tried again. “She…?”

  “Is recovering in another room. With Odelia. We decided it would be better for her to wake in the hotel.”

  Saffire’s gaze had shifted to the far wall. Tears still rolled down her face.

  “Saffire.” I softened my tone. “You can’t be responsible for the bad things that other people choose to do. If you don’t agree with me on that, I’m going to get grumpy. You’ve never seen me grumpy. You don’t want to see it.”

  She sniffed and gave me a half smile that lasted so briefly it might have been my imagination, because her face immediately contorted in renewed grief.

  “Mr. Holt does talk sense,” Miskimon told her.

  Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and I felt shame that it had taken me this long to understand how unthinking it was for Miskimon and me to offer her sense. That was not what she needed.

  I rolled out of bed, ignoring the cannons of pain that detonated in my head. I moved to her chair and knelt in front of her. I held out my arms and after only a moment of hesitation, she threw herself against my chest and clung to my neck and wept with abandon.

  Over her shoulders, I could see Miskimon’s face. He gave me a smile that was beautiful in its gentleness, and then I closed my eyes and tried to absorb her grief.

  It’s what a father would do.

  January 14, 1909

  Col. Geo. W Goethals,

  Chairman, I.C.C.

  Culebra, Canal Zone

  Sir:

  I have the honor to report back to you concerning the identity of an American who died yesterday afternoon in the bullring in Panama City.

  Last evening, during an unrelated visit to Panama City, I was met by representatives of the National Police who insisted that I immediately accompany them to their headquarters. Because I have no jurisdiction within the republic, I had no choice but to accept this request.

  At the police station, I was given a brief report, which I have attached with this letter. My early speculation that the man who stepped into the bullring was drunk was proven incorrect, as a brief exam of the body had not given any indication of the smell of alcohol.

  While a search for witnesses to how the man entered the bullring has proven fruitless, I was told that it was more than likely that the man had ingested a powder that is known locally as “The Devil’s Breath”. It is derived from the Borrachero, a common tree native to Colombia. The pollen alone from this tree is said to conjure up strange dreams and native children are warned not to play beneath the branches when it blossoms. In greater portions, it renders those who intake it to a large degree of docility and memory loss. Indeed, the Spanish word Borrachero is roughly translated in English to “get-you-drunk”.

  I suggest that we send out bulletins to each Zone station and alert our own police to the dangers of this powder and warn workers to beware when entering the rougher districts of Colon or Panama City.

  It is also my duty to pass along information in regards to the identity papers belonging to the dead man, which were found only after a thorough search of his hotel suite. While he had been posing as a German tourist named Robert Waldschmidt, his real identity was Neale Braden, with an address listed in central New York. As near as I can ascertain via a series of telegrams to the N.Y.P.D., until the last few months, he was an unemployed actor, forced to vacate his apartment and depart New York because of unpaid rent.

  If requested, I will look further into the circumstances of his situation in Panama City, as to all appearances, under the name of Robert Waldschmidt, he lived an indulgent lifestyle far beyond his means.

  Also, in regards to Zone Policeman Badge No. 28, the man has resigned from his position, and accordingly, I escorted him to Colon for the noon sailing of a steamer bound for New York, and confirmed that he has indeed departed from Panama.

  Respectfully,

&
nbsp; Inspector Miskimon

  “I am going to speak frankly, Jim.” Theodore Roosevelt didn’t bother to get up from behind a massive desk. He was the only person who ever called me Jim. I did not, however, call him Teddy.

  Although I’d seen him up close many times, his physical appearance still had a mesmerizing affect. His head seemed huge, made larger in appearance by small ears and eyes set wide apart. His teeth were perfect for political cartoonists—the less kind called them hang-and-rattle teeth—and all it took on paper to suggest his face were bold pencil strokes for a set of spectacles and those white, white teeth. These were the teeth of a man who never let go once he bitten down for a good grip on whatever task he pursued.

  He and I were alone in his office. Somehow, I’d expected more of the office and of the White House. Aside from the flag and an array of photos, not much suggested the pomp of the office. Stacks of files were in disarray on the floor, along with the stuffed heads of a lion, a gazelle, and a bear.

  Roosevelt continued, “I resent the manner in which you forced me to set aside time for you. Today of all days.”

  Except for a file and the handwritten note I’d given to the Secret Service men in the foyer of the White House, the desk was clear. It hadn’t been easy, convincing one of the Secret Service to bring my note up here to the Oval Office. But a photo of me, my father, and Theodore Roosevelt standing at ease at a camp during the Spanish-American War had turned out to add enough credibility for me. That, and the phrase “national security.”

  “It was a long wait to hear back from you,” I said. “Then I decided maybe you hadn’t seen the letters I sent, so I went ahead and just showed up. Would have been here a day or two earlier, but it was a long way to travel, and you know how weather can get in the way of horses and trains. As it turns out, I did cut it close.”

  Tomorrow, he would no longer be president. Or have the power to do what I needed him to do.

  “Have you any idea of the chaos I’m facing today?” Roosevelt leaned against his massive desk, softening his earlier reprimand by appealing for me to share his exasperation. “Same kind of mess that ends up keeping me from getting all my letters, I suppose.”

  The mention of unanswered letters had probably embarrassed him, as I had intended it to. He knew well the code of ethics that he had proudly chosen to wear during his time in Medora, before any hints he’d become president. I was reminding him that he’d at one time—when he lived at the confluence of Beaver Creek and the Little Missouri—that he wanted to be one of us, and that held certain obligations.

  “Bad day for snow,” I said. “Back home, cattle would be looking for the low spots.”

  It was not a subtle reminder at all of our days together. If I had to, I’d remind him of how I was at his side as we chased down horse thieves, him a lot more scared than I was as a teenager.

  “Much more snow falls, and we’ll have to move the inauguration ceremony into the Senate Chamber.” Roosevelt settled into the role of a man sitting on the front porch with a friend, staring at the Little Missouri, having a casual conversation. “Everyone is screaming at me to cancel the parade.”

  A glance out the window showed the reason for his concern. A springtime blizzard had Washington in its jaws.

  “You’re building a canal by hauling away millions of tons of dirt every month,” I said. “Imagine how much fun reporters would have if you didn’t find a way to round up workers and wagons and keep the roads clear.”

  Roosevelt stood abruptly. He walked past where I was sitting in a cane-backed chair and opened the door to a smaller office outside, where I’d had to wait for half an hour.

  “Send a message down the chain,” he barked to the male secretary who had studiously ignored me during my entire wait. Maybe it was the cowboy hat and boots. “I don’t care how many workers and how many shovels and how many wagons we need. Get them started on the parade route to haul away snow and keep those roads clear.”

  Roosevelt marched past me again and took his position behind the desk.

  “Big Lub’s okay,” Roosevelt said. “But Helen is enough to send me into the jungles of the Amazon for a month. First time in inauguration history a president’s wife has insisted on leading the parade with her husband. And she’s turning this place into a shambles. Ordered new sets of everything. Dishes, furniture, bedding, stationery. Made it clear that no dead animals were allowed to hang on the wall. No sense of propriety. None at all.”

  Given that I knew the new First Lady’s name was Helen, I guessed “Big Lub” meant William Howard Taft. All three hundred pounds of the man, along with a pound or two of waxed and upturned mustache.

  I didn’t have a response for the president. Silence was never a bad thing, so I didn’t fill it, aware that it would send him a message.

  “I was sorry to hear about your wife,” he said. “Takes awhile to get past, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. He was referring to the circumstances of his first wife’s death, and that he’d lost his mother on the same day. I’d watched my wife choose her own death so that her baby could live.

  I let the silence build. Soon enough, he’d get to the note I’d sent ahead. Aside from my name and signature and the date—Wednesday, March 3, 1909—it had only three words: William Nelson Cromwell.

  “We’ve got ten minutes.” He tapped the file on the desk. “I’ve read the colonel’s report about your time in Panama. I’m not sure there is much to discuss.”

  “I’m wondering if a girl’s name showed up on that report. First name is Safrana. No last name.”

  He had the decency to open the file and scan through it. “No, it’s not here.”

  “She saved my life. Safrana is her Christian name. Prefers to be called Saffire.”

  After insisting I stay away from her, Saffire ordered her bodyguard—the one who’d been watching her in the administration building on my first day in Panama—to protect me as he followed me around the isthmus. He’d been the drunk in the doorway. He’d been the one with the shovel to knock out Amador, and he’d been the one, with Saffire along, to follow me to the villa.

  I found out later, after I was conscious and coherent, that he and Saffire had been standing outside the window at the villa, watching what was unfolding.

  Had the man been armed with a pistol, he would have shot Amador through the glass, but he was a knife man, afraid to make a move against a pistol that could shoot me or Raquel. The moment Amador showed that the pistol was empty, Knife Man had used the butt of his knife to break out the window, and he’d charged into the room, making quick work of Amador.

  “This Saffire sounds like a remarkable girl,” Teddy said.

  “She is.”

  He made a point of pulling out his pocket watch.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  “Don’t?”

  “We’ll take as much time as needed,” I said. “I won’t be long, but I won’t leave until our business is finished.”

  “One does not speak to the president in that manner.”

  “I’m not speaking to the president.” So I did need the reminder. “I’m speaking to a man who spent two days on horseback with me, each of us wondering if we’d get shot out of our saddles.”

  “And you’re speaking to a man who repaid that by ensuring you can keep your ranch.” His voice rumbled with power. “Am I clear?”

  “As long as I was equally clear in the note I passed along to you this morning. Wasn’t it you who said speak softly and carry a big stick?”

  If he was going to play this game, I was all in. But I already knew that those three words—William Nelson Cromwell—were a big enough stick. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent for me during the chaos of his final day in office.

  “What do you want?” Roosevelt grinned at me with those brilliantly white hang-and-rattles. A difficult man to dislike.

  “The girl’s mother was a Jamaican servant.”

  What I didn’t say was that the girl’s father was Ezequiel Sandova
l. Saffire and I were probably the only two people in Panama who hadn’t been able to figure it out. No wonder he doted on her.

  “The girl’s mother was murdered,” I continued. “If you go through that file, you’ll see the name of the man responsible. Raoul Amador.”

  Saffire’s mother, Jade, had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught overhearing the plans of the revolution. Amador, much to Ezequiel’s anguish, had taken the woman’s body to the swamps, just as he’d intended to do with Raquel.

  “Raoul Amador,” Roosevelt said. “He’s dead. I understand that from the report? Shot a man in your presence and was posthumously found guilty of murder because of gunpowder speckles on his gloves and his fingerprints on a decanter with drugged wine?”

  That was, indeed, in the report. What wasn’t there was that the evening before the bullfight, an hour before Amador confronted me at my carriage, Raquel broke off their engagement. Or that after the bullfight, Amador forced her into a civil ceremony by promising to have me executed if she did not marry him. Or that she had intended to file for divorce as soon as I was clear of the republic.

  I nodded. “Raoul Amador is also the one who tried to organize a revolution to form a government that would sell the rights to the canal to Germany.”

  “That’s in the report too,” Roosevelt said. “Messy situation. The kaiser is rattling sabers louder and louder. I’ve warned Taft that we can expect some kind of confrontation in the next few years. This country is riddled with German spies. Just proves how important it is to have the canal.”

  “Raoul Amador,” I said, “was a man who fully believed that the German navy would back up his revolution. There were coded telegrams from officials in high office in Germany to assure him of this.”