"Let's say I managed to convince them that I didn't know what Richardson was doing. I just introduced them, took my commission, and that was that."
"And they bought it?" Welsh exclaimed. "That's a little hard to swallow."
"They didn't buy it. But maybe they made a mistake in hitting Richardson so fast. They don't have the recordings, and nobody's shown up trying to sell them yet. If Richardson had an accomplice, it's me. So they keep an eye on me and make sure I don't get out of Guatemala City. They figure sooner or later I'm going to have to make a deal with them."
"You're lucky they haven't blowtorched you."
"They call it the capucha. They stick a latex rubber hood over your head and tighten a string around the neck of the hood to shut off your air. They would have done it, no regrets at all, except they don't know how many copies of the recordings there are, and how many friends I have. I disappear, and someone might mail a package to the FBI. So what we've got is a kind of a Mexican standoff. Except in Guatemala!" Booker cackled.
Tough talk, thought Welsh, but those shaking hands gave him away. Booker was probably lighting candles every day, praying the Guatemalans didn't run out of patience.
"Your story is great," said Welsh. "But let's break down the cast of characters. 'Guats' is a little too inclusive. I've already met Lieutenant Colonel Armando Gutierrez, the star of your teaser tape."
"He's the man in charge," said Booker. "They're a bunch of military intelligence types. They work for the government, but they also work for themselves, if you know what I mean."
"Making sure their retirement plans are fully funded in case they get shitcanned by the new government?"
"That's it exactly. Damn, you're one smart guy, Rich."
"Yeah, right. Now, about the American on Scanlan's tape. The one whose voice you electronically disguised to tease me."
Booker stopped and gave that some thought, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to answer. But he gave it up. "CIA guy. Getting a little worried about the Company hanging him out to dry, blaming him for all the things that went on down here. Maybe that made him get a little closer to Gutierrez and his boys than he would've otherwise."
"I'm still waiting to hear a name."
"The Chief of Station himself."
"Thomas Kohl," said Welsh. It was just like a brick dropping onto his head.
"Very good, Rich."
Just then something dawned on Welsh, which he thought he'd better address. "Back to the teaser tape. Richardson didn't hear it, did he? The bugs transmitted to a central base station with receivers and a computer—an apartment somewhere in town. You downloaded the files, and Richardson walked into the ambush."
"Didn't happen like that," Booker said, too fast and too nervous for credibility. "You're right about the base station. I closed it out and got rid of the equipment after the kid got killed. When I heard the recordings for the first time, he was already dead. Nothing I could do."
"Whatever," said Welsh, not believing a word of it. "Just don't think you can play me like that. Before I go over the falls I'll get your name out, and you'll be right behind me."
Booker smiled grimly and massaged his stomach with both hands. "And I can't even threaten you back. One whisper that we'd met and you'd be out of the country by the time they finished working me over. I'm screwed, Rich. You got me right by the balls. It's you or nothing.''
"Yeah, and they wouldn't kill me if they found out I'd talked to you. Can't threaten me back, huh?"
"Well, maybe just a little. Can we make a deal now?"
"What do you want?"
Booker hunched over and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Keeping everything real quiet, your Senator sends the FBI down here. They put me on a plane back to the States. No DEA, and absolutely no CIA. And not a word to the Guatemalans." Booker drew back and smiled triumphantly, as if the deal was already done.
"That's it?"
"That's it. He wants me to testify, I'll testify. Of course, I'll have to have immunity—and a spot in the witness protection program."
No money, thought Welsh. Or not enough to mention right then. Booker probably had enough salted away. He just needed a way out and a new identity. "If the recordings are as good as you say, I don't see a problem."
"Being honest again, Rich, I'm afraid if I give you the stuff you'll go back home and—no fault of your own, you understand—the people there will enjoy listening to it and then forget all about me."
"There's no way I could persuade anyone to make a deal without it," Welsh said flatly. "Being honest again, Tom. Bring just your word and that story back to Washington with me? People would say you're in trouble down here, and you'll promise anything to save your ass."
"Now, Rich, I'm really going to have to think about that."
"Do it quick," Welsh said coldly. "We're not having any more face-to-face meetings in Guatemala. Give me the recordings and I'll get you out of here. Don't, and I walk off this roof, catch the next plane home, and forget I ever met you. Oh, and I want the original recordings. Nothing edited or altered. No more teasers. That's the deal."
"Not like I got a lot of choice," Booker grumbled. "Okay, Rich, it's a deal. But there's just one little problem."
"What?" Welsh said in exasperation.
"I can't get you the recordings. You're going to have to get them."
"What?" Welsh repeated in a much harsher tone.
"The Guats are on me too tight. I stashed the recordings, but now I can't get to them."
"Where are they?"
"The Army base at Santa Elena."
"Why the fuck did you put them there?"
"Couldn't stash 'em on my ranch. Couldn't even travel around with 'em to hide 'em anyplace good. Put 'em there right before Gutierrez told me he wanted to see me in Guatemala City. I figured they'd never think to look right under their noses. Haven't been back since."
And couldn't trust anyone else to go get it. The worst part of it, from Welsh's point of view, was that Booker was probably telling the truth. Any plot to kill him could be arranged just as easily for Guatemala City as Santa Elena. Oh, it was an easy investigation. He didn't have to dig anything up, just rap with people and lay back while they dropped hand grenades in his lap. "Are all the recordings hidden there?"
"Yes."
"Where exactly on the Army base."
Booker told him.
"And you figured a Senator's aide would be the perfect gringo to get on the base without a lot of heartburn?"
Booker only shrugged again and lit his fifth cigarette. Some of his old cool was back, though his hands still shook. "What do you say, Rich, we got a deal?"
"Yes," said Welsh. "But I still have to get to Santa Elena, get the stuff, and get out of the country alive."
"I know you'll fox 'em, Rich."
"You got a cell phone number? One that you're going to have for a while?"
Booker nodded, and told him the number. Welsh memorized it. "Someone will call you and ask for Mr. Martinez. You tell him he's got the wrong number, hang up, and get your ass down here to this building. The FBI will pick you up either in front or in the lobby."
Booker held out his hand. "I know you'll do it, Rich."
Welsh ignored it. "Does Scanlan know any of this?"
"No way. My business with her is private; my business with you is private. You be damn careful who you tell this to, especially in Washington. I already know you don't put nothing on paper. Drove the Guats crazy when they tossed your room. Matter of fact, why don't you relieve Maggie on stair watch. I've got to thank her before you go."
Welsh liked that about as much as Scanlan had. His last words to Booker were: "Don't fuck anything up until I'm out of the country." He walked over to Scanlan. "He wants to talk to you."
"About time," she said.
She came back over a couple of minutes later. "What did he tell you?" she asked.
But Welsh was already halfway down the stairs. "Let's get the hell out of here first."
On the bus back to the parking lot, Margaret Scanlan said, "What did you think of…?"
Welsh had cut her off with an upraised hand. "We don't want to mention that name again. But to answer your question, not much. I've met some real amoral scumbags in my time, but I think he just shot to the top of the list."
"He is a creep, isn't he? And what makes it worse is that he thinks he's the most normal and reasonable guy around." She paused for a moment. "So what did he tell you?"
Welsh just smiled and gazed out the window.
"You still don't trust me, do you?" Scanlan said.
"No," Welsh replied, still pleasantly. "What did he have to tell you?"
Now it was Scanlan's turn to smile and say nothing.
"See?" said Welsh. He offered her his hand. "No hard feelings?"
Scanlan took it and gave it an exaggerated shake. "No hard feelings."
"Anyway," said Welsh, "that was very interesting, especially since it seems we've survived it. I hope you got what you wanted in exchange for putting us together."
"I hope I did too," she replied.
"Nicely enigmatic," Welsh complimented her. "How about lunch at my hotel, instead of just dropping me off?"
"Okay."
All right, Welsh thought.
They retrieved Scanlan's car from the parking lot, and Welsh braced himself for the ride back to the hotel.
They hadn't gone a block when two marked police cars with lights flashing showed up.
"Maybe I spoke too soon," said Welsh.
"Do you think they know where we were?" Scanlan asked, her head darting back and forth from the road ahead to the rearview mirror.
"No. This is how they react to not knowing."
"What do you want to do?"
"Nothing we can do but pull over and keep our mouths shut, no matter what happens. They've been told what to do. Don't give them any excuse to exceed their orders."
Scanlan pulled over, and the two police cars pinned them in front and back. The policemen sat immobile in their vehicles. Welsh knew they were trying to make him nervous, and it was really working beautifully. He could feel the pulse pounding in his throat.
Guatemala's police were brutal and corrupt, as were many of their counterparts all over Latin America, and for many of the same reasons. They had so little training that reporting a crime to the police and expecting them to solve it was almost an act of eccentricity. They were so underpaid that choosing not to be corrupt was to literally risk their family's well-being. They were authority in a country where brutality and authority had come to have the same meaning.
Being a cop in Guatemala was having a license to do almost anything you wanted. They kept the population of street kids down by taking them out to the jungle and shooting them. Three officers of the anti-kidnap squad formed to combat the brutal rings plaguing the capital had recently been arrested on a charge of kidnapping.
Four policemen finally walked slowly up to the car. They were dressed in the khaki drill of the new, allegedly revamped police force. All were wearing mirrored sunglasses, and two carried Uzi submachineguns.
"Keep your hands on the wheel," Welsh murmured. Even if the cops didn't intend to use them, automatic weapons being brandished just increased the chance of a stupid accident.
A sergeant, obviously in charge, came up to the open passenger's window. He had a round, pockmarked Indian face that appeared indifferent to everything. The brim of his cap was pulled all the way down to the sunglasses. He slowly looked Welsh over, then said, "Out."
Welsh obeyed, very carefully. They didn't put their hands on him, but the submachineguns probably had something to do with backing him up against the side of the car. He heard Scanlan's door open, but didn't want to take his eyes off the sergeant. One of them gave Welsh a hard, thorough frisk. He was glad he'd destroyed Scanlan's flash drive right after listening to it. Sometimes paranoia was healthy.
Two of the cops began searching the vehicle, while the one who'd done the frisk kept his Uzi aimed at Welsh's belly. The sergeant did all the talking. "Papers," he said.
Welsh noticed that the Uzi selector switch was all the way forward to full-auto, and the cop's finger was curled around the trigger. One twitch and there would be five or six 9mm slugs in his guts, just another tragic weapons-handling accident. Welsh knew tensing up his stomach muscles wouldn't do any good, but he couldn't help it. He brought his wallet out very slowly, and the sergeant examined the passport and driver's license with great deliberation.
He paid particular interest to the letter from the Minister of the Interior, requesting all police agencies to extend Mr. Welsh, aide to a United States Senator, the utmost courtesy and cooperation. The sergeant read the letter carefully, mouthing the words. Then he raised his head so Welsh could see himself in the sunglasses and methodically ripped the letter into small pieces, letting them fall to the ground. "Get out of Guatemala," he said. "Gringo son of a bitch. You'll end up dead."
The other cops were waiting for the sergeant to give them a cue. But the sergeant was finished talking. Welsh had no questions.
When the cops drove off, Welsh slumped back against the car door and let out a deep breath. He looked back over his shoulder, and Scanlan was in the identical position. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah."
They got back in the car. The contents of Scanlan's bag and the glove compartment were scattered all over the inside. The seat cushions had been slashed open.
Scanlan sat staring through the windshield.
"You okay?" Welsh asked again.
She nodded.
"What did they do?" Welsh demanded.
"Felt me up a little," she said tonelessly.
Welsh felt his fists clenching. "Want me to drive?"
"No." Scanlan started the car and pulled into traffic.
She didn't say a word until they got to the hotel. Then: "I'm sorry, but I don't feel like lunch now."
"I understand."
"You're getting out of town, aren't you?"
Welsh nodded. "Seems like a good time for it. You?"
"I don't know yet," she said slowly. "But I am appreciating what you've been trying to teach me. It goes against my basic personality, but I appreciate it now."
"Most people like us, this kind of thing has no relation to anything in their experience. So they either don't deal with it the right way, or they don't deal with it at all." Welsh paused. "I admire your courage."
"But I'm still making a mistake in pursuing this."
"Who am I to say?"
Scanlan sighed. "Well. Thank you for your help."
"I don't think I was that much help to you." Welsh passed her a card. "Office, fax, e-mail. And my personal cell on the back. Call on me if you need me."
"Thanks again." Scanlan threw her arms around Welsh's neck and hugged him tightly.
She released him before he could reciprocate. Then they both stared at each other with some embarrassment. Not knowing what else to do or say, Welsh got out of the car.
Scanlan waved and drove off.
Welsh stood in front of the hotel entrance and shook his head. Not a clue. Anyone who thought they knew what was going on in another human mind was a fool.
Chapter Eighteen
"You're traveling to where!" said Alonso.
"Santa Elena," Welsh repeated.
"Why?"
"I don't figure I'm going to get any more trips down here on Uncle Sam's dollar," said Welsh. "And I'm sure as shit not going to come back on my vacation time. So before I go, I thought I ought to see the Mayan ruins at Tikal."
"Investigation is over then?"
"Yeah, I'm done," said Welsh.
"Find out anything?"
"Just like I told you at the beginning. Jack shit."
"Too bad. You said you wanted some maps?"
"Yeah, have you got any good Defense Mapping Agency topographics of the Peten region?" "Sure, you want large or small scale?"
&nb
sp; "If you've got it, 1:50,000 scale would be great. The infantry platoon commander's disease; I can't be in the woods without a map in my hand."
"Make sure you get on a tour group, though," Alonso warned.
"Is that a State Department travelers' advisory?" Welsh asked with a smile.
"Damn right," said Alonso. He had his back to Welsh as he rummaged through a file cabinet for the maps. "One thing about peace. It means there's a lot of fighting men on both sides who don't have jobs anymore, but still have weapons. There's an epidemic of highway banditry all over the country. They love setting up roadblocks and hijacking tourists in the Peten. If you're going to Tikal, hook up with a tour agency. They run buses with armed security guards. The better hotels down there will arrange it for you. Whatever you do, don't rent a jeep and drive yourself, and stay away from the fly-by-night tour vans at the airport." He handed Welsh a pile of maps. "Here you go."
"Thanks," said Welsh. "And I really appreciate all the travel advice."
"Tikal's an amazing place," said Alonso. "Reminds you that there was a real civilization here once."
"As opposed to now?"
"I've probably been here too long," Alonso admitted.
Chapter Nineteen
Welsh had made no reservations, and purchased his ticket at the Guatemala City airport just before the regular 7:00 AM flight departed. Even so, when he exited the 737 at Santa Elena, two Guatemalan Army officers were waiting to greet him.
A major and a captain. They weren't holding up a piece of cardboard that said, "Rich Welsh," yet there they were blocking his way.
Welsh stopped, dropped his bags, and waited to take his medicine, not that there was any other option open to him.
"Welcome, Mr. Welsh," the major said in perfect English. "I am Major Esteban, representing Colonel Mendes, commander of the Santa Elena garrison. This is Captain Garcia. We are at your service."
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 13