Alejo’s head buzzed, and his throat tightened as he turned to stare at the cows and tall white grass whizzing by outside the van.
Gabriel was silent, then jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, veering the delivery truck off the gravel road onto a narrower dirt path under a thick canopy of lacy trees. Alejo knew where they were: Pairumani, a country estate that had belonged to Simon Patiño. Patiño had been one of the wealthiest men in the world during World War II, making his fortune through tin. This house and its gardens and lands were his retreat from his mansion in Cochabamba.
Farther along the path, a low waterfall gurgled along the edge of the road, running over mossy boulders. The tree canopy suddenly dropped away, opening up to the breathtaking sight of a spacious field under a sapphire blue sky, white fluffy stalks of wild grain waving in the gentle breeze. Towering over the crops, two stately rows of ponderous palm trees lined a neat dirt road against a backdrop of mountain peaks, right up to an ornate metal gate that was the entrance to the Pairumani estate.
Alejo raised an eyebrow at his friend, who only turned the truck towards the gate, frowning unhappily. When Alejo had visited this place once before, the fields had been dotted with various volunteer students working on experimental agricultural projects sponsored by Patiño’s charitable foundation. A few mornings a week, the caretakers of Pairumani opened its gates, with permission from the Patiño family who now lived outside Bolivia, for tourists to visit the beautiful grounds.
Now no one was in sight. The fields were empty and seemingly overgrown and abandoned; no uniformed guard waited near the gate.
Wait…there is a guard here.
Inhaling sharply, Alejo recognized those glinting eyes, malicious when they needed to be. Sauntering over to open the gate, dressed in the olive uniform of a private security guard, was Benjamin Torres.
“What have you guys done?” Alejo raised an eyebrow, bracing himself as Gabriel floored the accelerator and the truck raced inside the gate.
“Oh, no one uses this place anymore,” Gabriel shrugged. “They haven’t worked on those agricultural projects here in a couple of years, and the Patiño family isn’t scheduled to come stay here for two more months. You know the Khan—always likes to stay in style. It was either this or some dumpy hostel. Believe me, this is better.” Gabriel glanced in the rearview mirror as Benjamin shut the gate. “Looks like Benjamin is back. He made good time.”
“The guards?” Alejo was peering out the window, looking for any sign of the rest of his team.
“They’re fine,” Gabriel waved away his concern. “There were only three, and they’re tied up in a nice cozy room. We bring them food. They didn’t see our faces, so after a few more days we’ll let them go and they’ll chalk it up to armed robbery. We’ll take a few little treasures with us to make it look authentic.”
Alejo sighed and put one hand on the door, really anxious to get out of the car. His mind raced back to Wara, still handcuffed in the back of the truck, and he tried to think how he was going to get her out of this mess…again. He deserved to be here; after all, he had broken the rules and it was only fair to have to pay. Panic wanted to mess with his head, however, about Wara. Alejo tapped his foot compulsively against the floor of the truck, waiting for Gabriel to park.
Benjamin had latched the gate behind them, and he and Stalin stared solemnly at the truck as it drove slowly across the manicured lawn. Alejo’s visions of gaining the advantage through his fighting skills died down as he saw what Benjamin and Stalin gripped casually by their sides. Two silver guns with silencers, glinting in the afternoon sun.
Alejo’s shoulders tensed and he waited as Gabriel parked the truck in a cluster of a pomegranate trees. How did everything come to this?
A few months ago the Khan loaded me with presents and I was an honored guest in his house. Last Thursday, the guys and I were eating brownies in the café together, ready for another day at work.
Images of the thousands of times Alejo had prostrated himself to Allah on the ground, barefoot, filled his mind, and he found his heart repeating the prayer, You are great, Lord, You are great.
Please let me honor you, oh God.
He heard Gabriel yank the key out of the ignition and saw him reach for the door. His friend hesitated, then turned to Alejo with a pained look in his eyes. “I shot Wara back along the road, ok? In a little while, I’m going to have to take this truck out again. Ok, che? She can get out and run away.”
Alejo couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Gabriel’s skinny shoulders and pulled him into one of the manly bear hugs that only true Latino men can share, then let him go. Reaching back to rip open the tiny sliding door between the back of the truck and the cab, Alejo said, “Wara! Don’t make any noise, ok? You’re gonna be alright.” Then he pushed the little door closed and climbed out of the truck to whatever was waiting for him.
Stalin and Benjamin were standing behind the truck, weapons obviously loaded and pointed casually in Alejo’s direction. Neither of them looked particularly happy; in fact, Stalin looked downright miserable.
Alejo nodded in greeting, then looked beyond them to where Ishmael Khan was waiting, sitting on a bronze-colored bench in the center of the garden, shaded by a lilac flowering tree. The rest of the neatly-trimmed lawn was dotted with giant bushes that were trimmed to be absolutely round in form, like ridiculous sea-green pincushions.
Behind the front yard, the imposing country house rose to the sky, painted cream with an opaque golden trim, windows framed by intricate colonial plaster designs. A stone path began near the house, leading to a shimmering pond with emerald waters and a circular wooden hut with thatched roof in the center of the pool. Stately snow white swans glided on the surface of the water, skimming the scales of mammoth orange goldfish.
The Khan was calmly flipping through a book, which Alejo recognized as his Bible. Of course Ishmael had found it in Alejo’s tent. In light of Alejo disappearing with Wara, the Bible must have only given the Khan one more clue as to the reason for Alejo’s desertion.
“And the American?” Benjamin’s eyebrows were raised at Gabriel.
Gabriel waved away his concern and put one hand on his hip, crossly. “If the Khan wanted her here you should have told me beforehand, because it’s a little late now. She’s in Lake Alalay with a couple holes in her head.”
“I told you it wasn’t about her,” Benjamin said to Stalin, shooting an amused glance at Alejo. “There’s something else going on here besides just a sudden case of true love. He doesn’t seem to be too disturbed that she’s dead.”
Stalin sighed, glumly, and Alejo felt bad for him. “He wants to talk to you.” Stalin jutted his chin in the direction of the bench where the Pashto man sat, and gripped his gun tightly, still pointing it at Alejo. Then, quieter, he hissed, “How could you do this, che? Of course you know what you’ve done?”
Alejo saw Benjamin shake his head, face unreadable as usual, hand pointing the gun steady.
“So, you left the gringo couple alone?” Alejo asked calmly, meeting his eyes.
“As promised,” Benjamin’s mouth tipped up in a dry smile. “That wouldn’t have been an extremely pleasant experience for me. You’re the one who’s in trouble.”
Gabriel’s voice cheerily interrupted them. “I’m coming in a sec, guys. I’ve gotta get my gun out of the truck.”
Thank God he said he’ll let her go.
Alejo let Stalin and Benjamin frame him and walk him towards Ishmael Khan. He kept up the quick pace gladly, because every step took them farther away from the white truck that held Wara. “What about Lázaro?” he asked. “Haven’t seen him around.”
“He asked for time off,” Stalin said tightly. “He wouldn’t admit it, but this whole thing had him upset. She being his old girlfriend and all. You’re an idiot to do this to us, you know that, che?” Stalin continued, whispering, sweat trickling down his temple. “You compromised everything.”
Then he fell silent as the three of
them pulled up in front of Ishmael Khan, waiting with the Bible across one knee and a gun and silencer resting on the other.
25
crimson
WARA WAS TRYING TO MUSTER THE WILL to raise herself from sprawled on the truck floor in handcuffs to sitting, when a little window at the front of the truck slid open with a whoosh. “Don’t move, Wara,” Alejo’s voice ordered. “You’re gonna be alright.” Then, just as quickly, the little door closed again, followed by two slamming vibrations of the truck as Gabriel and Alejo apparently left it and shut the doors.
Her mouth was left hanging open, never having the chance to respond to Alejo’s hurried instructions. His words rang in her head and she let her mouth snap shut, trying to relax and not make a sound from where she lay sideways, arms twisted behind her in the cuffs. Wara could make out the sound of male voices outside, but they were muted and the sound didn’t carry well through the metal truck. She ignored the burning in her arms, watching the dented white metal door. She expected the men to come bursting in any second, this time to kill her for sure.
The truth was, at the moment the whole idea didn’t scare her as it should. Wara had just come from Noah’s funeral, where she had seen his parents weeping over his coffin; she was too numb to resist.
The voices died away, followed by a few electronic beeps. Something that sounded like rusting metal scraped painfully across both of the doors, and then a crack of daylight breached the darkened interior of the truck. Squinting, Wara made out Gabriel’s narrow face, framed by a halo of light. He climbed into the truck, pulled the door mostly closed behind him and marched towards Wara. She cringed, but Gabriel just squatted on the truck bed next to her and put a finger to his lips.
“Ssssshhhhh!” he cautioned, throwing her a warning look. Then the bombshell: “I’m letting you go.”
Immediately on his feet again, Gabriel strode to the back of the truck and grabbed a black duffel bag, which he unzipped. Wara blinked at him, wondering if he was serious. She twisted her head to follow Gabriel’s movement and then froze as she saw him yank a gun out of the bag. Hands steady, he lifted a handful of oblong bullets from one pant pocket and began stuffing them into the gun.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, then whirled the gun’s chamber shut. Gabriel bent down next to her again, glanced at the truck door, then whispered crossly, “I told them I already killed you, so don’t make any noise unless you want me—and of course, you--- to be blown away like poor Alejo is about to be.”
Wara’s head spun and unexplained panic filled her chest.
“I’ll be back pretty soon, I assume. When we come back, hide under those tarps over there if you want to live. I have to leave the door open or they might suspect.” He grabbed Wara’s wrists and unlocked her handcuffs.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered.
Gabriel looked down at her from where he stood, face slick with sweat. “Don’t thank me. Alejo is in charge, but I’m the one who put the explosives on the bus. Alejo doesn’t know how to do that stuff.”
Lifting his chin, Gabriel turned his back on her and stomped back to the door of the truck, causing the whole vehicle to sway. Wara felt sick, watching him go out of the corner of her eye. Gabriel left only a small crack of light shining into the truck, and with the doors no longer tightly sealed, she could make out the voices from outside, louder and more intense. Wara crawled at a snail’s pace over to the crack of light and pressed her nose gingerly against it, trying to judge how far away she was from the other men. The truck seemed to be parked under a bunch of trees, and through the leafy branches she could make out a group of four men standing maybe fifty feet away. She recognized the three with guns from before---Stalin, Benjamin, and Gabriel, who had just shocked her by saying he was not going to kill her. Lázaro was nowhere in sight.
Alejo, in the center of them all, was the target of all of the guns’ aim.
Sitting peacefully on a bench in the beautiful garden of Pairumani sat the older guy with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a navy cardigan sweater and pressed khaki pants, like the perfect gentleman.
What are we doing at Pairumani? Aren’t there any tourists around?
She had been here a few times on the weekend with friends, once with Noah. The little Wara could see of the pristine garden surrounding the mansion was empty, except for the small group of Muslim men.
She realized that she felt relief the Martirs were out of the country, away from all this danger. But then her joy tempered as she thought, If they kill Alejo, who will make sure these guys don’t find Nazaret’s family?
Wara blinked and everything in front of her shimmered.
God, are they really going to kill him?
Her hands shook and she kept them away from the open door, eyes glued to the scene unfolding outside. The man with the grandfather face—Ishmael—was speaking accented Spanish.
“Stalin has been trying to tell me that this was a case of youthful indiscretion, that you were attracted to this girl?”
Alejo shrugged, appearing no more concerned then if they were discussing what color to paint the foyer. “It could have been true, but that’s not what happened.” His strong voice carried across the garden. “I just didn’t think it was right to kill her when God obviously let her survive. It wasn’t what God wanted. I caused something, and I’m willing to pay the penalty for it. I had to do what’s right and try to help her.”
“Well, now that’s all useless anyway, since the end result is that she is dead and the rest of us have all been quite inconvenienced. Ah, Alejo!” Ishmael’s voice sounded sad and he stood up, walking to stand directly in front of Nazaret’s brother. Wara saw that the flash of metal in Ishmael’s hand was a gun. “You were a nephew to me, my own family! I took you in…” The older man’s voice cut off as he glanced away, dramatically. “In my life I have seen so much betrayal, so many that I could not trust. How can I stand this, that I can’t even trust you, who have been like my own nephew? You must tell me the truth, son.” Ishmael sighed audibly. “Have you really betrayed us? Have you told others about the Prism? About my work?”
“I haven’t told anyone anything the least bit useful to them at all, Ishmael,” Alejo replied calmly, as if trying to reason with the other men. “You are all like family to me. I don’t want anything to happen to any of you. All I did was try to take the girl away so you wouldn’t kill her. I simply saw a situation where I had to do what I thought was right.”
This seemed to make Ishmael very happy, and he raised both arms in the air, a smile plastered on his face. “Excellent! I don’t know why I should believe you, but I have known you since you were almost a child, Alejo. I believe you. So then, even now, we could talk, we could find a way to bring you back. You know all the ways of Islam. Allah will forgive you.”
Then Gabriel stepped forward, both hands steadying the gun Wara had seen him take from the truck. His pale face was twisted but his eyes narrowed with determination. “He’s an apostate, Ishmael. He told me himself. He can’t come back.”
The change was astonishing. Wara watched as Ishmael’s face crumpled, then darkened, until he was left glaring at Alejo with fury. Whirling around, he grabbed an object from a bench nearby and the sound of ripping pages knifed through the air.
A book.
Wara squinted to see better, then realized it was the same Arabic Bible she had seen in Alejo’s tent that night. The onion-skin pages were fluttering to the grass, torn by Ishmael’s furious hand.
“Is that necessary?” Alejo asked grimly. “You would destroy a book that even the Quran calls holy?”
Ishmael tossed the destroyed book over his shoulder and glowered at Alejo, breathing heavily. “When I heard you say you didn’t mean us any harm, I assumed that my suspicions about you leaving our religion couldn’t be true. We found this in your tent, but I told the others that it couldn’t mean anything.” The older man’s voice was hurt and angry. “I won’t believe it until I hear it from your own l
ips. Are you a Christian?”
“I believe Jesus is the son of God, the savior,” Alejo said.
Stalin looked up at the sky, as if in defeat, and Benjamin shook his head. Gabriel kept his grip tightly on his gun, staring at Alejo, pallid.
Ishmael Khan took three clipped steps forward and rammed the gun he held against Alejo’s forehead with an echoing click. “Even with this betrayal, I wanted to take you back, Alejo Martir. Say the word, and I’ll take you back again, to be one of us. Say you will leave this blasphemy, that God has a son. Say you will return to Islam and no longer follow Jesus.”
Alejo looked back at him for a moment and then loudly said, “No.”
Wara had never seen one moment pass so quickly. Alejo was on the ground seemingly before the shot even roared. Wara stared in horror at the sickly crimson mist that hung over his body, crumpled on the grass. Ishmael hadn’t even had time to lower the gun, and Alejo was gone.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” Wara looked one way, then the other, whispering frantically. She forced herself to focus on the scene outside again.
Alejo Martir was still sprawled on grass that was a deep crimson.
He was dead. She had seen a man die.
And they are coming back here, to the truck, with his body.
That next thought beat urgently against her dazed brain, and she tried to focus. Gabriel and Stalin were pulling Alejo onto a gray wool blanket. Ishmael Khan wandered off towards a more shaded part of the garden. Gabriel and Stalin began to haul the blanket slowly across the grass towards the truck. Something foul tickled the back of Wara’s throat and she choked down the urge to gag. Feeling faint, she crawled in slow motion under the canvas tarps Gabriel had pointed out and tried not to move.
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