William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  "Yes," Welsh replied, hoping it would be good news. He had absolutely no desire to be strip-searched.

  The man stuck out his hand. "I am Roberto Esguerra, representing the Foreign Ministry. Allow me to welcome you to Guatemala."

  Welsh shook the hand. "My privilege, sir," he said in Spanish.

  "Representatives of your Embassy are awaiting you," Esguerra said. "If the Foreign Ministry can render you any assistance during your visit, please call on me."

  Welsh accepted the offered business card. "I thank you for your courtesy."

  The Customs inspector was listening so intently to the conversation that it took an elbow in the ribs from Esguerra to get him to release Welsh's bags. The kid wielded his stick of chalk like a blunt instrument.

  Exiting Customs and trying to figure out how to handle his bags without getting chalk all over his suit, Welsh was approached by an athletic North American male in his late twenties, wearing slacks, a short-sleeved madras shirt, and a khaki Banana Republic photographer's vest.

  "Mr. Welsh?" he asked, extending a credentials case. "Yes."

  "I'm Ted Alonso, one of the Embassy security officers. Welcome to Guatemala."

  Welsh checked the credentials carefully and then shook the man's hand. Now he knew what was both in and under the vest. "Nice to meet you, Ted. Call me Rich." He was a little surprised. All the Diplomatic Security Service guys he'd ever met wore polyester suits and the kinds of haircuts favored by retired military men: a bit too long for regulation, but still too short and chopped to look like a normal civilian.

  Alonso went to pick up Welsh's bags, but Welsh got there first. "I'll carry them," he said. "You keep your hands free." He grinned. "Unless you want me to carry your piece."

  Alonso looked relieved. "Finally, someone who knows the drill. Most of the time we get treated like bellboys, and we just have to swallow it."

  They headed out of the terminal.

  "So how was the flight?" Alonso asked.

  "Other than being packed into a seat with no leg-room, fed garbage, and generally treated like shit, it was fine."

  "So, in other words, a typical airline experience?" "Exactly."

  "I figured you'd want to crash," Alonso said tentatively, "and hit the Embassy tomorrow?"

  "Sounds good to me."

  "If you're hungry we can stop someplace."

  Welsh shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm just a little tired."

  They shoved their way through the mob of porters fighting for the arriving passengers' bags. Then the unlicensed "taxi" drivers who, for a very reasonable fare, would drive you not to your destination but someplace quiet, relieve you of your luggage and valuables, and if you were very lucky leave you to walk back to town in your jockstrap.

  Outside the terminal there was a chill breeze and crisp, thin, high-altitude air. A black Jeep Cherokee with another American behind the wheel was waiting at the curb. The thickness of the window glass and the obvious weight the tires were bearing told Welsh it was armored.

  Alonso took the front seat and Welsh the rear. "Rich Welsh," Alonso announced, "Mike O'Brian."

  Welsh leaned over the front seat to shake hands with the driver, a large, beefy Irishman who seemed more than a little surprised by the gesture. O'Brian was dressed the way Welsh had expected.

  "He's not one," Alonso told O'Brian.

  "So I see," the driver replied.

  "One what?" Welsh asked.

  Alonso looked at O'Brian. They both shrugged, and Alonso said, "An asshole." They both turned to check out Welsh's reaction.

  Welsh laughed loudly. "I try not to be whenever I possibly can," he said, to more laughter from the front seat. "I guess you see your share, though."

  "More than our share," said Alonso. "They expect us to do everything up to and including wiping their runny noses."

  O'Brian pulled out into traffic.

  "Remind me not to complain about my job then," said Welsh. "How did you happen to get into this line of work?"

  "I was a platoon leader in the 82nd Airborne, and then I made it to the 1st Ranger Battalion. Thought I'd give State a try. I speak Spanish, so here I am."

  You had to be very good to make it to the Ranger battalions as an officer. "West Point?" Welsh asked. He thought he recognized the ring.

  "That's right," Alonso replied.

  "Enough action for you here?"

  "I'm up to my ass in action," Alonso replied, not unhappily. Welsh had given everyone the signal to relax their language. "Narcos, professional kidnappers, organized and disorganized crime, assorted freaks, bombers, arsonists, you name it."

  Welsh thought he had Alonso pegged. A genuine American enthusiast. He'd known more than his share. Eagle Scout, class president: Give them a goal and they'd charge it like a rhino. In the military they were painfully earnest but prone to disillusionment. They loved the work, especially all the dangerous toys, and never could understand why the troops weren't as enthusiastic. But the perfect man for this kind of job. Not a lot of introspection required, just continuous and perfect attention to detail. Welsh wondered how long it would take before he burned out.

  "I suppose I ought to tell you," Welsh said. "Back at immigration I was getting eyeballed by a Guatemalan spook who liked to wear his sunglasses indoors."

  Alonso didn't seem surprised. "Local intelligence. Just checking you out. You pick up any kind of surveillance, though, be sure to let us know."

  "So what's the straight skinny on Guatemala?" Welsh inquired. Screw the Ambassador. These guys were the sources you wanted to cultivate.

  "No one in this country pays any attention to the rules," Alonso said.

  O'Brian groaned. "Don't get him started."

  Welsh smiled warily. "The rules?"

  "Sure," said Alonso. "Which countries in the world have the most successful multinational corporations?"

  If someone was about to go on a roll, you just broke their rhythm if you answered their rhetorical questions. Welsh just nodded for Alonso to go ahead.

  "U.S., Japan, and Germany, right?" said Alonso.

  Welsh kept nodding him along.

  "And what do they all have in common?"

  "I'm waiting for you to tell me," said Welsh.

  O'Brian chuckled loudly from the front seat.

  Alonso ignored him. "Everyone obeys the rules."

  "The rules?" said Welsh.

  "People wait their turn in line," said Alonso. "They stop at traffic lights, even at night when no one else is around."

  "You haven't been to New York City in a while, have you?" Welsh asked.

  O'Brian started laughing again. Alonso got a little frustrated. "I'm not saying everyone back home. I'm just saying that in successful countries most of the people follow the rules of law, the rules of business, the rules of society."

  "So no one follows the rules in Guatemala?" said Welsh. He was remembering trying to get on a Paris bus once; he'd thrown fewer elbows in a college rugby game.

  "There are no rules in Guatemala," said O'Brian.

  "There are rules," said Alonso. "Instead of only outlaws breaking them, here only suckers follow them. Or the next worst thing, someone poor who has no choice."

  They went a quarter of the way around a rotary, down the Avenida Reforma, and two blocks later pulled up in front of the Hotel Camino Real.

  O'Brian stayed with the vehicle. Alonso accompanied Welsh as he checked in. It was a well-appointed, top-quality hotel; little different from ones in the U.S., except for the extra uniformed guards. On the way up in the elevator, Alonso said, "You requested the seventh floor?"

  "A car bomb would have to be big enough to drop the whole building to get you that high," said Welsh. "But it's low enough that a hook-and-ladder can get you out. Too much angle if someone wanted to take a shot at your window from the street. But don't worry, I'll stay off the balcony and keep the drapes shut anyway."

  "I see you know your personal security measures. This is a place you want to practice every one of
them. When you first come down, you don't know what to sweat and what to ignore. So my general rule of thumb is to sweat everything. It's much safer that way."

  The room was carpeted, with hardwood furniture, an unobjectionable pastel decor, and prints of the local countryside on the walls.

  "Very nice," said Welsh. "What's the word on Guatemala City water?"

  "It's not bad, but I'd still stay away from the tap. No matter what you eat or where you eat it, you'll be a little loose for a few days, but that's just part of the local charm. Don't eat anything off the street vendors."

  Actually, it was Welsh's experience that it was better to eat mystery meat smoking hot from a street vendor than in a well-appointed restaurant where no one washed their hands, but he didn't say anything.

  Alonso handed him a piece of paper. "Phone numbers and procedures. You've got an appointment with the Ambassador at ten tomorrow morning. But if you feel like coming in earlier, we can have breakfast and I'll show you around."

  "Breakfast at the Embassy canteen?" Welsh said unenthusiastically. "Why don't you come here for the breakfast buffet and we'll charge it to the room?"

  "I'd like to, but I can't swing it."

  Welsh sighed. "Okay, the canteen it is then. What time is breakfast?"

  "I guess eight-thirty would give you a chance to get some sleep. Is that okay?"

  "Fine with me."

  "The Embassy number is on the list. Give me a call when you're ready and I'll send a car. This is a nice part of town, but be careful anyway. It's not the U.S."

  "I don't relax much overseas anyway," said Welsh.

  Chapter Ten

  Welsh woke a little before 5:00 the next morning, tried to roll over for some more sleep, and couldn't. The hotel had U.S. TV via satellite, but it was too early for anything other than the news. He cursed himself for going to bed so early. While brushing his teeth, he got the idea to go for a run.

  He spread his Guatemala City street map out on the coffee table. A little planning was in order for a jog in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Even more so than Washington, D.C.. But he needed to take a look around anyway, and running somehow seemed better than walking or taking a cab. And it was the right time of day to explore a strange town. The criminal night shift would be finishing up, and the daytime crowds not out on the streets yet. Even if anyone was watching the hotel, he could be out and back before they had time to get on the phone and arrange something.

  Deciding on a route, Welsh slipped his passport and a few quetzals into a nylon traveling wallet worn around the neck. A street map of Guatemala City went in a pocket. Since Guatemala was a country where the wearing of shorts was frowned upon, and the early morning mountain temperature was quite cool, he'd packed a pair of lightweight sports pants to run in. Not being the usual Bermuda-shorts-and-Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Yankee tourist had always paid off.

  By the time he finished stretching and reached the lobby, the sun was coming up. He took a moment to admire the hotel gardens in the soft first light. Based on the looks he was getting from the staff, Welsh guessed that his act had some real novelty. He couldn't blame them. All gringos were crazy, of course, but some were truly deranged.

  Welsh headed north at a slow pace up the Avenida Reforma, pausing at each intersection to check for vehicles that might be following him. Everything looked clear. The traffic was light. A few laborers were heading to work, and a few dedicated partyers were staggering home.

  The fronts of all the shops were protected by heavy steel security shutters. The businesses became a little less exclusive as he went north. In the doorways and alleys the street children slept on filthy slabs of yellow foam packing, huddled together in mounds for warmth and a small degree of protection.

  Welsh spotted a colorful poster attached to a utility pole, and almost tripped over a curb and face-planted onto the concrete trying to read it. No, he told himself, that couldn't have been right. He must have mistranslated it. But there was the same poster on the next block, placed too high up on a pole for a kid to reach. Sponsored by a local business association, the poster called for the physical extermination of all street children in the capital.

  Welsh was struck by a fast, perverse impulse to grab one of the posters as a souvenir, but he just as quickly abandoned the idea. It would be too hard to explain outside its own natural environment. Not to mention the fact that any civic organization publicly advocating the mass murder of juvenile beggars and thieves probably had some pretty definite views on sign theft.

  Welsh ran on. Even so early, there was a haze of pollution that left a harsh taste in the back of his throat. It was very cool, and the thin air was making it feel as if there were lit matches in his lungs.

  After he'd run a half hour, Welsh stopped to consult his map. He was careful to take a different route back to the hotel. The streets were much more crowded now. The children were up and hustling, and the sidewalk peddlers were laying out the mats on which they'd sell their goods. Welsh was provoking a few double takes as he went by, but quite a few friendly waves too.

  A couple of the street kids ran along with him for a while, half for sport, half sizing him up. Welsh gave them body language to keep their distance, and they picked right up on it like young wolf cubs sensitive to every danger. He remembered being on liberty in Rome and watching a couple of Gypsy kids just like these strip the wallet and camera bag off a tourist and vanish in about a second. The kids only lasted a block or so before falling out. Welsh hadn't missed the angry red encrusted upper lips that came from glue sniffing. It killed the pain.

  He was about twenty yards away from a crowded bus stop, debating whether to cross the street, when a group of men, poorly dressed and grinning in anticipation of a little fun, spread out to block his path. A confrontation was not in order, and the cars on the sidewalk were parked so close together that it was impossible to walk between them. Welsh side-vaulted over the trunk of a Fiat and cut a diagonal route across the street and in the opposite direction. Brakes squealed and horns blew; a little Honda had to swerve to miss him. He made the other sidewalk and picked up the pace. Two of the younger ones tried to chase him while the others yelled insults, but Welsh had a good lead and pumping adrenaline to compensate for the altitude. One block later they gave up and collapsed against a light pole. Welsh shot them the finger over his shoulder. As far as he was concerned, lifting weights was fine, but the ability to run your ass out of trouble was a priceless advantage.

  Feeling he'd pushed his luck just about far enough, he headed straight back to the hotel at the fastest pace he could manage.

  By the time he finished his shower, both the adrenaline and the cockiness had worn off. Sitting on the couch guzzling bottled water and reading the newspapers, he decided that he'd been pretty stupid. The best that could have happened was being beaten like a drum after trying to explain that it wasn't customary to carry a lot of money while jogging. The worst case, other than being dead, was ending up eating rice and beans in some tiger cage until his kidnappers discovered the true market value of a U.S. Senator's aide.

  And he hadn't even approached the periphery of those parts of Guatemala City that, according to the U.S. Government country reports, should only be ventured into both fully armed and with an extreme spirit of adventure.

  After Iraq Welsh always kept an eye out for it everywhere he went. Always looking for how near or far a society was from that moment when the invisible whistle blew and whatever social compact there was dissolved. People waking up one morning and deciding that they hated each other so much they just had to burn down everything standing. Guatemala wasn't that far away, he decided. Actually, no country was that far away, when you got down to it.

  The lobby called when his ride showed up. It was another armored black Cherokee, with two Guatemalans in it. The one in the front seat said, in halting English, "Mr. Welsh?"

  Welsh nodded, making no pretense about keeping a heavy pillar between himself and the car.

 
"Summertime," said the guard.

  That was the code word of the week, on the paper Alonso had given him. If he didn't hear the word, these were the wrong two guys, and it would probably be a good idea to start running like a bastard. Every bad guy in town had police or security credentials.

  The Embassy was only a few minutes away. Merchants were beginning to open up their shops. Practically every one was covered by a couple of private security guards in blue uniforms wielding shotguns and automatic rifles.

  The Embassy windows facing the streets were covered with steel mesh to prematurely detonate any rocket-propelled grenades fired at them. A line of Guatemalans waiting to apply for visas was already queuing in front of the visitors' entrance. The modem-day scriveners who filled out the forms for a fee were setting up their manual typewriters under umbrellas on the sidewalk.

  After the Cherokee passed through the security screen, the driver parked, and the bodyguard led Welsh through the Embassy grounds to Alonso's office.

  Welsh had to stifle a grin as he walked in. The room had a definite Army Ranger motif. There was a Ranger scroll nameplate atop the desk, and on the wall was an Airborne Ranger poster and a 1st Ranger Battalion plaque. Alonso's Ranger School diploma hung next to his West Point sheepskin. "Reminds me of Hunter Army Airfield in here," Welsh observed.

  Alonso, at his desk, smiled a little self-consciously. "Right on time," he said. "You want to look around first, or have breakfast?"

  "Breakfast," said Welsh. "I'm starving."

  In the cafeteria Alonso loaded his tray with waffles, eggs, sausage, toast, milk, and a jelly doughnut. Welsh resented people with hummingbird metabolisms. He forced himself to be content with cereal, juice, and fruit.

  They picked an empty table and Alonso immediately attacked his food. Welsh nearly laughed out loud. You could always tell an ex-infantryman. They ate faster than most people breathed. It took a long time, if ever, to break the habit.

  Alonso took a short break, eyed Welsh for a few moments, then said cheerfully, "I'll bet you're anxious to see the Ambassador and kick off your investigation."