He could only hope that the suspicions of the DMI men were correct. His job, his future, depended on how skillfully he could interrogate the Americans. He had to prove the intelligence people correct. It had been arranged that way; San Sierra could not afford to have American tourists frightened away.
Raul’s stomach growled audibly as he sat down behind the desk in the manager’s office. Gas, he thought. His stomach always rumbled when he was upset, and it had been rumbling virtually nonstop all though the morning.
He knew that, as a Sierratour guide, he had a coveted job. It was an assignment he had earned as a result of his dedication to revolutionary ideals, work with his neighborhood Komiteh, and six months of fighting in Africa, where he had almost died of fright. He had been rewarded for his loyalty to the Revolution with one of the most prestigious and easiest jobs his country had to offer. He rode around the countryside in air-conditioned buses the year round, enjoyed the best food at the finest resorts. And all he had to do was be nice to the Americans.
The problem, Raul thought, was that he was not good at his job. There were too many things he could not forget.
He could not forget a childhood in a poor, dust-cloaked, and disease-ridden village. All that had changed, of course, since the Revolution. His parents were still alive, thanks to Manuel’s redistribution of food and medical facilities. And all the while the Americans had supported Sabrito. The Beach of Fire had demonstrated to him that most Americans would, if they had the power, change things in San Sierra back to the way they had been. Raul simply could not understand why such rich, fat people would want the Sierrans to be poor and sick. He hated Americans.
He especially hated the Americans who came as tourists. He had found the vast majority of them arrogant and condescending, full of stupid questions and snide remarks; they were constantly clucking their tongues at the “quaint” way of life in San Sierra; they commented on the “poverty” they saw when they knew nothing at all about real poverty and when they themselves, by virtue of their country’s policy of economic boycott, were responsible for the crude way of life they did see.
Try as hard as he might to mask them, Raul knew that his feelings showed. There had been complaints in the past; the Sierratour officials would not tell him how many, but Raul suspected that the number was considerable. He had become expendable, and he knew that was another reason why he had been given this particular job.
But then, he thought, the situation might change if he did a good job. If the Americans confessed.
The door behind him opened, and Raul swiveled in his chair to look up into the cold eyes of the tall, brown-skinned man with slicked-back hair who had given him his initial instructions.
“We’re sending them in,” the DMI agent said evenly. “You’ve studied the dossier?”
Raul patted the thin manila folder in front of him. “Yes, sir,” he replied, not daring to add that he had been up all night and that it was hard to concentrate under such conditions; he did not want to be reported as uncooperative. “Uh, are you sure it wouldn’t be better for you people to question them separately?”
“No, Raul,” the man said wearily. “We want to observe the interaction between the three of them. We’ll be monitoring the conversation and watching through the peepholes. You don’t mind doing this for us, do you?”
“No, sir,” Raul said quickly.
“Good. We want you to follow the line of questioning we’ve outlined as closely as possible. You can read the questions, if you feel the need, but we’d prefer that you try to make the interrogation sound spontaneous.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Very well,” the tall man said, stepping into the anteroom and closing the door.
The door facing the main corridor opened. Raul drew himself up in his chair and glowered in what he hoped was an appropriate manner as the woman and two men entered the office. His gaze swept over the faces of the Americans as he searched for some indication of their guilt or innocence.
He noted that Peters and the woman were gripping each other’s hand tightly. The woman looked nervous and annoyed, while Rick Peters simply looked angry; the pale eyes of the man glared balefully back at Raul. Theirs was, Raul thought, perhaps a natural reaction of innocent people suddenly detained without explanation in a foreign country while their tour group had gone on without them. His stomach growled loudly, and he cleared his throat to cover the sound.
John Finway was much more difficult to read. The lawyer’s face was drawn and pale, and his gray eyes seemed dull and sunken in their sockets. Raul looked for fear in the haggard face, but could find only disinterest. Raul found that odd, but he reminded himself that the American had been acting strange throughout the trip.
“Now look, Raul—”
“Be quiet, Mr. Peters!” Raul snapped, pleased with the ring of authority he had managed to summon up in his tone. He had been practicing lowering the pitch of his voice all through the early morning hours. “Sit down, please! All of you sit down!”
Raul observed that Finway moved like an automaton. The lawyer walked slowly, stiffly, across the office and seated himself in one of the three wooden chairs that had been set up in front of the desk. Peters and the woman hesitated and glanced uncertainly at one another, but then they too came across the room and sat down.
Raul swallowed. He was beginning to experience stage fright. His mouth was dry; he suddenly felt panicked, and he had to resist the impulse to open the folder on the desk and look at the questions—his lines—the DMI agents had written out for him. He knew that it would be a mistake to display signs of nervousness, but he felt tense and terribly insecure. Perhaps, he thought, it was not yet too late to get up, walk into the anteroom and tell the men he could not do this. The Americans were sure to see his fear, sense his vulnerability.
He was grateful when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and listened as one of the men in the other room provided him with the information that they had just confirmed and that he had been anxiously awaiting. Suddenly Raul felt his anxiety fall away from him; he knew exactly how he would proceed. His stomach had stopped growling.
There would be no farm or factory work for him, Raul thought as he slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. There would be honors in a public ceremony when it was noted how he had broken these people down. Maybe, at last, he would even be given a Party membership. Catching spies was serious business.
He stared up at the ceiling for a few moments, as if he could see all his dreams projected there. Then he suddenly shifted his gaze to John Finway and spoke in his new, deeper voice. “Did you know that the man who called himself David Swarzwalder is dead?”
Finway slowly moved his attention from the wall to Raul’s face. “No,” he said quietly, frowning. “I didn’t know, and I’m very sorry to hear it, David seemed like a very nice man. What happened, Raul?”
“It is my place to ask questions, Mr. Finway.”
“Come on, Raul, that line was old before the revolution,” Peters interjected, half rising out of his chair. “Miss Scott and I knew; we saw the ambulance taking him away. I heard the body was found by some couple looking for a place to screw. So what? What the hell does that have to do with us?”
“You will sit down, Mr. Peters,” Raul said without taking his eyes from John Finway’s face. He found that he was actually beginning to enjoy himself. There was a tingling sensation in his lower belly and groin that was almost sexual. It occurred to him that, for the first time in his life, he had real power. He could say virtually anything to these people, and they would have to sit and listen; he could order them around, and they would have to obey. “If you can’t remain silent, I will have you taken away and I’ll question you at a later date. A much later date.”
The woman pulled at Peters’ sleeve and the blond-haired man sat down, as Raul had known he would. He’d had to sit down, Raul thought. Yes, power felt very good.
“When did you last see this man, Mr. Finway?”
Raul frowned. “Are you trying to make a joke with me?”
“No,” the lawyer said in a flat voice. “God forbid I should try to get funny with you, Raul.”
“I am referring to the man who called himself David Swarzwalder. When did you last see him?”
The lawyer shifted his gaze back to the wall. “Yesterday morning, just before he left for Peleoro.”
“You did not know that David Swarzwalder did not go to Peleoro?”
“I saw him get on the bus.”
“Did you know this man before this week?”
“No.”
“You had never met?”
“No.”
“Did you know that he approached one of our people on the plane and asked if Sierratour would book the two of you into the same room?”
“Yes. He asked me if I’d share a room with him. He told me he wanted to save the extra money he’d have to pay for a single room. I told him I preferred to be alone.”
“Why do you suppose he came to you?”
“Swarzwalder said he and I were the only singles on the trip.”
“Please look at me, Mr. Finway.”
Raul saw color rise in Finway’s neck. It was the first sign of animation he’d seen in the other man. The gray eyes shifted toward him and glinted with anger.
“Anything you say, Raul,” the lawyer replied sharply, arching his eyebrows slightly. “How’s this? Would you like to see me cross my eyes? Wiggle my ears?”
He’d made a mistake, Raul thought. Finway was, after all, a strange and powerful man with many connections; he was not to be pushed too far. He could see the anger in the other man, and it frightened him. Given his freedom, Raul thought, John Finway could be very dangerous.
“Now, Mr. Finway—”
“Let me tell you something, my Sierran amigo: you and Sierratour had better have a goddamn good reason for laying this crap on this other couple and me, because I’m going to raise a stink they’ll smell all the way to the Russian bases at the South Pole. Now, I want to talk to someone who carries a hell of a lot more weight than you do.”
Raul hesitated for just a moment as his stomach started to growl. Then he felt his own anger rising. “We’ll see what kind of a stink you raise, Mr. Finway. I think there is a stink here!”
“Someone with authority, Raul.”
“In time. It so happens there are three other singles on this tour. This man lied to you. Why do you suppose he did that?”
“Your voice sounds terrible, Raul. Do you have a cold?”
“Answer my question!”
“I haven’t got the slightest idea why he lied. Maybe he liked my looks, for Christ’s sake. Look, I’m sorry Swarzwalder is dead, but I don’t see what it has to do with these people and myself. If you won’t let us see someone with authority, how about getting to the point?”
Raul wished he smoked. He had once seen an American movie where the investigator lit a cigar and blew a large, perfect smoke ring just before he destroyed a suspect with a single piece of information. He would like to pause and blow a smoke ring now, but he settled for drumming his fingers rhythmically on the desk top as he stared hard at each individual in turn, snapping his head around in tiny, birdlike jerks.
“This man indeed got on the bus for Peleoro,” Raul said at last. “But he got off almost immediately. He seemed to be in considerable pain, and he complained of having an ulcer attack. Yet his body was found at the base of a cliff down by the lake. Don’t you think it strange that a man in such terrible pain would decide to take a strenuous hike?”
Raul grinned triumphantly as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach.
Nothing happened. The eyes of Peters and the woman were riveted to his face, while Finway continued to stare absently at the wall to his left. Raul’s smile slowly faded.
“Mr. Finway?”
“Oh, you were asking me?”
“Yes, I was asking you! Don’t you find it strange that a sick man would want to walk around a lake and hike up a cliff?!”
“I don’t know, Raul. I’ve never had an ulcer attack.”
“Well, I am telling you that it is strange!” Raul shouted, hopping to his feet. “You know it’s strange!”
Raul paused, sucked in a deep breath, and bit his lower lip. He regretted his outburst and the fact that he’d jumped out of his chair. Mistakes. However, now that he was standing up, he decided to remain on his feet. He walked quickly around the desk, stopped in front of Peters and the woman. “There was a disturbance in your room yesterday morning,” he continued in a clipped voice. “Please tell me what happened.”
Peters and the woman looked at each other. Peters shrugged, and it was the woman who answered. Raul noted with satisfaction that there was a slight tremor in her voice.
“Raul, I explained it all to the desk clerk when he called. Rick and I just felt like loosening up a little. We started drinking and … I guess we got drunk and a little rowdy. We’re sorry about that, but I don’t see how—”
“Ah? Then you and your friend were having a party, Miss Scott?” Raul started to glance at John Finway, then looked back at Peters when the blond-haired man’s voice cut though the silence.
“And it isn’t all that easy getting drunk on Sierran booze, Raul. Christ, your rum is terrible. That said, I think you’d better let us the hell out of here and take us back to our group. We’ve all had enough of this chickenshit.”
Raul smiled thinly, vaguely surprised to discover that Peters’ anger and open contempt did not bother him at all. Power put you above and beyond so many things. “Chickenshit, Mr. Peters? Are you and Miss Scott lovers?”
Peters made a sound of disgust in his throat. “Of course we’re lovers, for Christ’s sake. And don’t tell me Sierratour thought we were brother and sister when they gave us our visas. You were happy to take our money, Raul, so don’t start getting puritanical on me. We fought for the revolution, too.”
“I’m aware of that. Miss Scott, how long have you known Mr. Peters?”
“My God, Raul; Rick and I have known each other for years. We met in college. We found we had the same political instincts, and we’ve been together ever since.” She frowned, hurt in her eyes. “You say you know our background, Raul. Then you must know that Rick and I believe in the same things you believe in. We fought too. Why are you treating us like this? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Raul turned, slowly walked to the one window in the office, and stared out. He could feel the muscles in his chest and stomach begin to tighten, but it was an erotic, pleasant sensation. He imagined it was how a hunter felt when, after much difficult stalking, he at last had an elusive prey in his gunsight.
“It seems odd to me that you and Mr. Peters never married, Miss Scott.”
He listened carefully to the woman’s voice. It was soft, slightly tremulous.
“Rick and I have always felt that marriage is so bourgeois, Raul. We just like our relationship the way it is. We look on our living together as a way of maintaining our revolutionary consciousness. We’ve always felt as one with your people. This kind of treatment hurts us, Raul. Please tell us what you think we’ve done.”
Raul lifted his hand and slowly traced a design on the windowpane with his fingernail. “Miss Scott? How long have you known Mr. Finway?”
Raul waited, listening in the silence. The woman’s pause was too long, he thought; far too long. But then, he’d known it would be. He abruptly wheeled and caught fear prowling like an animal across her face, clouding her eyes and shadowing her features. Peters’ large, whitish eyes remained cold, but Raul could see that mottled white patches had appeared high on his cheekbones. Only Finway appeared totally unconcerned as he continued to stare at the wall.
“Miss Scott?”
“I … I’m not sure I understand your question, Raul. John Finway’s a very famous lawyer. Obviously, I know who he is. He defended us in court years ago when the
cops tried to put Rick and me in prison. Naturally, we both recognized him right away. You remember; he was sick at the airport, and we helped him. Rick and I had hoped to resume our friendship with Mr. Finway, but he seemed very upset and distracted. We’ve respected his privacy.”
“That’s an interesting response, Miss Scott,” Raul said, his voice rising with excitement. Again he felt a tingling sensation in his groin, and he realized that he had an erection. These people were finished, he thought. He was so choked with excitement that his next words were thick and rushed, tumbling over one another. “I might even say it’s a very, very strange response in light of the fact that John Finway is your husband.”
Raul grinned malevolently as he watched Rick Peters and Alexandra Finway brace in their chairs and grow pale. For just a moment Raul thought that Peters was going to leap out of the chair and attack him, but even that prospect didn’t bother him. He did not want to be hurt, but he was confident that the DMI agents in the next room would quickly intervene if it appeared that he was going to be injured. In fact, he assumed that a physical attack on his person by a suspect he had been questioning would look good on his record, even heroic.
Raul watched with mixed emotions as the woman’s hand flicked out and gripped Peters’ wrist. The blond man slowly settled back in his chair, but his flesh retained its pasty, parchment hue.
“We simply didn’t believe that a man in such great pain would choose to go for a strenuous walk,” Raul continued. He had himself under control now, and his tone was that of a man relaxed and magnanimous in victory. “We immediately had our people in the United States begin to check all visa applications and make inquiries. One of the first things we discovered was that Mr. Swarzwalder was not who he’d said he was. The physical description of the David Swarzwalder who’d made the visa application bore no resemblance to the man who fell off a cliff. The man who died was carrying a false passport. We do not yet know who this man was, but we will certainly find out. We—”
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