William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  After shaking hands all around, it seemed polite to reply in his much less perfect Spanish. "Thank you very much, gentlemen. I am honored to make your acquaintance."

  "Colonel Mendes would be honored if you would accept his hospitality for the duration of your visit," the major said. "Quarters on our base have been prepared for you."

  Well, that would get him on base, but also put him under their thumb. "Thank you, Major, but I will only be here for a day or two, and I have already made hotel reservations. I plan to visit Tikal before I fly home."

  "And you will enjoy it," the major replied. "But you must join the officers of the garrison for dinner tonight."

  "It would be my privilege," Welsh said quickly.

  "Excellent," said the major. "Now, may I offer you transportation?"

  Another driver to keep an eye on him, thought Welsh. "I have a rental car waiting," he said.

  That exhausted the major's resources, so after firming up the time and directions to dinner, he and the captain took their leave.

  Then Welsh had to deal with a rental clerk in a state of high nervous agitation. His Yankee client was obviously friendly with high-ranking soldiers; the Peten region of northeast Guatemala was still frontier country, and soldiers ran the show there. When Welsh asked him to make sure the Suzuki jeep was equipped with a winch, as requested, the poor man actually ran outside to check, leaving Welsh standing at the counter wondering where the hell he'd gone.

  Welsh's hotel was a just a short drive from the airport, right on the eastern edge of Santa Elena. And that was a lakeshore town of unpaved streets that left the air filled with dust—whenever it wasn't raining. Drainage ditches lined the sides of the roads to handle the rain and sewage runoff. The lake was Peten Itza. Five hundred yards into the lake, connected by a causeway and built on an island, was the departmental capital of Flores, a smaller but less ramshackle town than Santa Elena.

  Welsh picked up his tail as soon as he left the airport. They were a little less high-tech out in the sticks; not that there was a lot of traffic, or even a lot of streets, to lose a tail in.

  The hotel was concrete and stucco; thirty-six rooms, a pool, and a restaurant. It was across the street from a cemetery, but had air-conditioning, not all that common among the area inns. But needed; it was much warmer and more humid at four hundred feet of elevation than in the five-thousand-foot mountain air of Guatemala City.

  The room was a little musty, but Welsh jacked up the air and stood in front of the vent, flapping the bottom of his polo shirt to cool himself off. There was a private bathroom with a shower, a TV, and even a minibar. But the first priority was shopping for some necessities in town.

  He jiggled the handle to make sure his door was locked, turned to his left, and ran right into Margaret Scanlan going into her room two doors down.

  Welsh was so shocked that he failed to find the power of speech for a second or two. Then, like some kind of involuntary reaction, he blurted out, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  "My sister-in-law still lives near El Remate," she said levelly. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  "Wanted to see Tikal before I left," said Welsh—he thought convincingly.

  Her expression was plainly disbelieving.

  "Your sister-in-law is in El Remate," Welsh went on, as if he was confused, "but why are you staying here?"

  "I'm going to do some shopping for her before I drive to the farm tomorrow."

  It was a standoff. Neither bought the other's story, but if they called each other on it, they'd have to do some unwanted explaining.

  "I'm also on my way to do some shopping," said Welsh. "Want to carpool?"

  "No, thanks, but are you free for dinner?"

  "The first time you make the offer, and I have to decline," he said regretfully. "I'm already committed."

  "Oh, anyone interesting?"

  "The officers of the Santa Elena garrison."

  That turned her face to stone. "Have fun."

  "It wasn't my idea; it won't be fun, but I still have to go"

  Scanlan gave him an ironic little look. "Well, if I don't see you, have a good time at Tikal." She stepped inside her room and closed the door.

  Damn, Welsh thought. Her being there could really screw things up.

  Chapter Twenty

  Though Welsh hadn't expected to, the former Marine Corps officer found the dinner that night more familiar than not.

  Besides the stuffy formality of no one wanting to do anything to annoy a commanding officer, there was the same clannishness. All the Guatemalan officers of the same units sticking together in their tight little groups.

  War had had made the Guatemalan officer corps feel indispensible, but they hadn't given much thought to the prospect of peace. Now they were just redundant public employees—the number of active-duty generals had been cut from twenty-three to eight.

  Welsh had no sympathy for them, not by any means, but recognized what made them tick. The feeling that they were protecting civilization from an enemy that was the "other." None of these officers were Indian, and it was always easier to wage war the way they did if you were convinced your enemies weren't quite human.

  More than any reading, his two tours in Iraq during the height of the Shia-Sunni civil war had opened Welsh's eyes to the fact that war the way America's armies waged it was the exception rather than the rule. If torturing and killing captives, destroying the enemy's homes and crops, and raping their women wasn't some dark instinctive part of human nature, then it wouldn't be such a bloody constant in the history of the species.

  Welsh also followed his experience in not hanging around long after dinner. The tighter these events started, the looser they ended up. The alcohol flowed, inhibitions loosened, and some hot-blooded young stud who held the United States responsible for the current state of affairs might decide that the best way to articulate his frustrations would be to tee off on the only gringo present.

  When he went over to take his leave, Welsh discovered that Colonel Mendes was already three sheets to the wind.

  "No, you cannot leave!" the colonel protested.

  "I have a very early day tomorrow," Welsh said regretfully.

  Colonel Mendes threw his arms around him. "My friend," he said, his voice filled with drunken emotion, "how good of you to join us."

  "I will not forget your hospitality," said Welsh, still stiffly wrapped up in the embrace. What the hell, it didn't sound as bad in Spanish. Someone better do something or they'd be tongue-kissing in a minute, he thought.

  Welsh finally awkwardly patted the colonel on the back, and in the process managed to push himself away without objection.

  He shook hands all the way out, and at the door heard. "Mr. Welsh, are you ready?"

  "As I said before, call me Rich." Sometimes, at events like this, the duty officer had dinner and then went back to work. It wasn't hard to find the lieutenant, since they were the only two not drinking, and offer him a lift back to the headquarters building.

  "Okay, Rich." The lieutenant was eager to practice his English. He spoke the following words one at a time, and very carefully: "Your speech was very good."

  They crossed the parking lot and got into Welsh's jeep.

  "Thanks," said Welsh. Called on to make a toast, he'd given the obligatory speech on the solidarity of men at arms. Strictly bullshit, and he'd received the usual bullshit round of applause in acknowledgement.

  "Perhaps one day your Senator will visit us to discover the truth about Guatemala for himself?" Whenever the lieutenant became stumped for a word, he lapsed into Spanish.

  "Perhaps." Welsh didn't have the heart to tell the kid that Senators generally restricted their taxpayer-funded fact-finding trips to areas vital to the national interest, like Paris, London, Hong Kong, or Tahiti.

  Welsh stopped the jeep in front of the headquarters building. "Would it be all right if I came in and used the bathroom?"

  "Of course."

  The duty sergeant wa
s hunched in front of a portable TV, totally engrossed in an episode of The Hills. It was dubbed into Spanish, but the language of babes was universal. The lieutenant waited a bit, then cleared his throat. The sergeant sprang to attention.

  The lieutenant let him stay there for a few moments, then said curtly, "Carry on."

  "Your pardon," said Welsh.

  The lieutenant pointed down the hall. "Go to the end there, turn left. On the left side."

  "Many thanks." Welsh set off down the hall. The building was nearly deserted.

  "It's hidden in the storage room right next to the men's shitter on the first floor," Booker said. "It's the only one on that floor."

  Welsh turned the comer and found the bathroom. He tried the door to the storage room, and let out his breath in relief that it was unlocked. He slipped inside and closed the door as quietly as he could. The light was a naked bulb on a chain.

  Pails, mops, and brooms stood in neat formation. One wall was filled with shelves of cleaning supplies. It was a suspended ceiling: fiber panels on metal tracks.

  "Above the panel in the left rear corner of the room," Booker said. "There's a big cast-iron pipe."

  Welsh pushed up on the panel. There was the pipe. He slid the panel aside and felt around. There was nothing there. Goddamn it.

  "The stuff's in a box," Booker said. "Magnetic key safe, like you use for your car. Attached to the pipe."

  The pipe ran upward, and Welsh couldn't reach around it. He looked around and grabbed a metal pail, turning it upside down and stepping up very gingerly so it didn't scrape on the floor.

  With the extra foot the pail gave him, he could slide his hand around the bend in the pipe. It hit something that didn't belong there. A harder yank, and the box not only came off, but hit the pipe with a distressingly loud gonging noise. Welsh froze, then brought the box down gently.

  Welsh slid the lid of the box open and removed two Centon waterproof flash drives. Big ones—32 gigabytes.

  He put the drives in his pocket and the key safe back where it had been. He replaced the ceiling panel and put the pail back. Before opening the door he pressed an ear to the floor. There were footsteps corning down the hall. Welsh turned out the light and took a step back so he'd be behind the door if anyone opened it.

  The clicking sound of leather soles on linoleum floor grew louder. Welsh concentrated on breathing quietly. His neck began to itch furiously, but he ignored it. The footsteps slowed. Standing motionless was giving him the feeling of involuntarily wobbling back and forth. Just a little vertigo, he told himself. Take it easy.

  A loud boom echoed in the room. Welsh nearly crapped himself before realizing it was only the bathroom door slamming shut one thin wall away. He took a deep breath.

  A toilet flushed loudly. Water ran in a sink. Welsh was so wired he heard the paper towel being ripped from the dispenser.

  The door, pulled open, only squeaked this time. The footsteps trailed off down the hall. Welsh prayed it hadn't been the lieutenant or sergeant. After the last sound of steps, he waited a minute that stretched on and on. Peeking suspiciously around the door wouldn't be very bright. He casually walked out.

  He passed the duty desk with a casual wave and headed for the door. The duty officer shouted, "Rich! Rich!"

  Welsh's stomach flipped over. He forced a smile onto his face before he swung around. Both the duty officer and the sergeant were leaning over the desk and motioning for him to come back. Welsh made his legs move. "Yes?" he said.

  "Rich," the lieutenant said. "Before you leave, I must ask you a question. You have been to California, yes?"

  Welsh felt as if he was having an out-of-body experience. "Yes, of course."

  "Are there really women there," the captain asked, gesturing toward the TV, "who look like that?"

  Welsh blinked his eyes twice to steady himself. That always worked with Marie back in the office in D.C.. "In Los Angeles?" he replied. "Yes, they are everywhere. The most beautiful women in the world come to Los Angeles, to be on shows like that."

  "Mother of God," breathed the sergeant.

  Welsh hoped he hadn't done the wrong thing. From the look of the sergeant, he'd probably be striking out for the border before morning.

  The lieutenant shook his head wistfully and gave Welsh a firm farewell handshake.

  Welsh thought things over outside. He climbed into the jeep and was away.

  As soon as he left the base a pair of headlights popped up behind him and stayed there all the way to the hotel.

  Welsh locked his door and drew the blinds. His first impulse was to hop back in the jeep and blow town immediately. But he remembered Alonso's warnings about bandits on the road. It wasn't the country for a long night drive through the jungle.

  Better to get a little sleep, and just before first light get on the highway west. Instead of branching north to the Maya ruins of Tikal, his cover story, keep going straight to Belize. With a little luck, a three-to-four-hour drive and he'd be across the border and home free.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The noise brought Welsh off his pillow and up on one elbow to listen, but it was dead quiet. He almost went back to sleep. Then he heard it again. The subtle scraping of a key being inserted into the lock of his door.

  He leaped out of bed. The door handle turned, and there was a muted jingling as the security chain came taut. A bent wire would be put through next to slip off the chain.

  They were coming to kill him. Welsh was shot through with a bolt of pure animal terror. The body under great stress draws large amounts of blood inward to protect its core. Welsh's chest felt frozen, and his limbs were so heavy he literally could not move them. He couldn't even get any air to breathe.

  He thought he was paralyzed, but his head was actually jerking back and forth: instinctively searching for the hole, the tree, any place to run, to just stop thinking and blindly run for.

  He was almost lost to it when the bright clear thought punched through the panic that if he didn't want to die, he would have to save himself.

  Fear is both emotional and chemical. Welsh fought it down the way he always had, with something even more powerful—anger. Standing at the foot of the bed, he clenched his fists and tensed all his muscles to force the blood back into them, channeling it into a pure rage at whoever was coming through that door.

  The chain slid off and clinked against the door as it fell. The sliver of moonlight shining through the drapes allowed Welsh to see the inside of the room. A quick visual search for available weapons told him there was nothing he could get his hands on without making a life-ending noise.

  The windows were to his right, the door to the adjoining room and the dresser were in front, and the narrow alcove leading out to his left. The bathroom was set in the alcove on the left-hand side, and the little open clothes closet a little farther down next to the door.

  Welsh heard the door open, but no light came into the room. They must have disabled the fixtures outside.

  He could think clearly now, and instantly decided on the only possible course of action. He stuffed both pillows under the sheet to approximate his form, then crept across the room and pressed his back to the wall at the comer where it angled into the alcove. He was wearing only nylon running shorts, not the most ideal combat dress. The door opened slowly; that meant they weren't coming hard and fast. Good. The door closed, and he knew they were in.

  The bathroom door opened quietly, and someone went inside. Welsh was puzzled when he didn't see even the beam of a flashlight. Another set of footsteps advanced very slowly down the alcove. So there were at least two of them.

  All Welsh had any hope of was to go down fighting. He was still shaking slightly, but the fear had coalesced into a murderous fury. He slid slowly and silently into a slight crouch to prepare himself.

  The one coming down the alcove had almost reached him. They were only feet apart, separated by the corner. Welsh held his breath. Don't hesitate, you fucker. Don't get suspicious. And don'
t wait for your friend.

  When Welsh saw the cylindrical end of what he immediately recognized as a sound suppressor slowly emerge from the alcove, he knew his opponent was about to make a mistake. Then more of the suppressor appeared. It was only a foot or so from Welsh's face; the man was staying close to the wall. Only the corner separated them. The guy was leading with his weapon, Welsh thought. Both hands were on that pistol, arms fully extended in a good tight firing position. And that was how he was creeping along, with that pistol way out in front of him. Wait, he told himself. Don't set yourself; don't shuffle and make noise getting ready. Don't move before you move.

  Now the front sight of the pistol was visible. Welsh could hear the man's breath. He was still holding his. Just a little more.

  Welsh drove himself forward. Both his outstretched hands grabbed the pistol. With all his strength he yanked the pistol back toward him, twisted at the waist, and drove his left shoulder forward into his enemy's wrists.

  The nearest forearm broke like green wood against Welsh's upper arm. The man screamed, dropped the pistol, but Welsh lost hold of it too. Welsh violently shoved the man out of the way, and was startled by the sight of his face in the darkness.

  Welsh bent over to try to recover the pistol. He heard a soft dry snap at the other end of the alcove, at the same time he felt the air pressure of a bullet pass by his hair. It was the other one. Welsh moved so fast it had to be instinct. He sprang across the alcove and hit the light switch.

  The lights came on, and the shooter down the alcove shouted and threw his hands up to his face. Welsh picked up the pistol. It was an automatic, and he couldn't count on a round being in the chamber. He held the pistol sideways close to his chest, grabbed the slide with his left hand, and pushed the entire weapon forward with his right. A cartridge ejected, and he had the pistol on target as the slide snapped home.

  It would be only too easy to miss. Welsh held the sights tight on the shooter's chest and fired deliberately. Nothing seemed to be happening; then the shooter suddenly folded at the waist and dropped to the floor. Welsh only stopped firing when the man hit the carpet and lay motionless. He had no idea how many rounds he'd fired or how many were fired at him, though he'd felt a few go by.