The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller

by J. M. Porup

  “If your grace wishes to ride the train, he must first pay.”

  I fished a hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and shoved it in his hand. “A private room. First or second class, doesn’t matter. Keep the change.”

  His eyes widened. He held it to the light, creased it, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. Satisfied, he slid it into his shoe, and escorted me through the train to the second-class carriage. He opened the door to an empty compartment.

  “No first class?” I said.

  “So sorry, sir. It is all full. Your grace knows how it is.”

  I nodded. “Very well.”

  The conductor held out his hand, expecting a tip. After a hundred-dollar bill? What an asshole. I ignored it. I shut the door, slouched back into the seat and looked up into the barrel of a gun.

  THIRTEEN

  With his free hand, the man lifted his red cap and scratched his bald spot. “Right on time, Horse. Glad you could make it.”

  The gun was small. Big enough, though. An automatic of some kind. He pointed it at my chest. His hand did not waver. I folded my hands on my stomach, settled myself into the worn fabric of the seat.

  “Always happy to oblige,” I said.

  He grinned. He pulled the cap low over his eyes. I glanced out the window. The train was passing through the outer reaches of Cuzco’s shantytowns. The snow-topped Andes surrounded us on all sides.

  He said, “Open the window.”

  “Why?”

  “Do it.”

  I stood. He nodded. I went to the window. I unclicked the latch at the top, slid it down. The stench of the passing slums filled the compartment.

  “Now take your clothes off.”

  I crossed my arms. “Go fuck yourself.”

  Red Cap rested the gun on his knee. His eyes narrowed. “Take them off or I will shoot you.”

  Infallible logic, that. I took off my jacket, the sweater. I reached up to my shirt, but he stopped me with a jerk of the gun.

  “All of the buttons, if you please?”

  “So you are CIA, then,” I said, but got no reply.

  I unbuttoned the shirt, took it off, dropped it on the seat. I unsnapped my jeans, stepped out of them. I was left wearing an oversize T-shirt I’d stolen from Alex that read “World’s Greatest Lover,” my old rug-burned tightie-whities—I couldn’t bring myself to steal Alex’s underwear—and flip-flops.

  “All of it.”

  The remainder went on the floor. I stood there naked. I wondered what he thought of my body scar.

  He didn’t even blink. “Now pick everything up. Flip-flops, too.”

  I hugged my clothes to my chest.

  “Now throw everything out the window.”

  “Then what am I going to wear?”

  He aimed the gun at my crotch.

  “Do it.”

  I took Lili’s picture from my shirt pocket, and shoved the wad of clothing out the window. The wind snatched it from my hands, flung it into the brush. We had entered the altiplano desert outside of Cuzco. Perhaps some wandering llama herder would find Alex’s T-shirt and get lucky.

  “Now the glasses.”

  “But I can’t see without my glasses.”

  “You can’t see without a head, either.”

  My glasses joined the rest.

  “The piece of paper, too.”

  “It’s a photo of my daughter,” I said.

  He cocked the gun. “I said, throw it out.”

  “Go ahead and kill me then,” I said. “This photo is all I have left of her.”

  Red Cap considered that for a moment. “Let’s see it.”

  I showed it to him.

  He grunted. “Alright,” he said at last. He aimed the gun at my ankles. “Now take it out.”

  I covered myself with my free hand. “It already is out, asshole.”

  He sighed. “Under your seat.”

  I crouched down. A small backpack nestled there. I looked back at him.

  “Put them on.”

  The bag contained a clean pair of jeans my size, plus hiking boots, woolen socks, long underwear, a flannel shirt, a heavy sweater, a jacket, woolen hat, even mittens.

  The wind blew through the open window, chilling the compartment. I got dressed. Everything fit. I wondered how he knew my size. When I finished, I sat back in the seat. For the first time since I had been knocked out in my apartment in Lima, I felt warm again.

  He held out a small plastic case.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Contacts. Put them in.”

  I slid the plastic lenses against my eyeballs. Blinked. “How did you know my prescription?”

  “Little birdie told me.”

  I studied Red Cap. He was middle forties. Wore shiny new hiking boots, an expensive blue Gore-Tex jacket, zip-up travel pants and a purple scarf. No flab lingered on his muscular frame.

  “So where do they teach you to kill?” I asked. “Langley? The CIA parking lot?”

  “I’m not CIA.”

  “Really. Then what are you?”

  A grin tugged at his cheek. “All will be explained. But not here. Not now.”

  I sat forward. The gun tracked the movement. “Doesn’t have anything to do with lithium, does it? A land grab? Steal the altiplano from the Bolivians?” I waved a hand: earth to dude. His face was a stone. “Hello? This ringing any bells?”

  But he said nothing.

  We stared at each other. I made clown faces, stretching my face in obscene contortions. But the stone, as the Zen masters might say, just was.

  Hours passed. The train trundled across the high plateau, gaining altitude. The highest pass was five thousand meters. It got colder in the compartment, the bitter freeze of the equatorial mountains.

  “Mind I shut the window?”

  He shook his head. “Put your coat on.”

  “But it’s cold.”

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” He grinned. “That’s the whole point.”

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” Not believing a word I said.

  “Comfort makes you stupid. Pain keeps you sharp. Know what I mean?”

  My body scar itched. “Yes,” I admitted. “I do.”

  He crossed his legs and sat back in his seat. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

  Even with the coat I shivered. I was feeling plenty sharp. A little bit of comfort would not have hurt in the least. The sun burned high in the sky, its warmth unfelt. A nice hot bath would be nice. Wrong way! Go back! I covered my face with my hands.

  Giving Lili her bath was my favorite part of the day. Singing her to sleep in my arms, telling her that she was safe, telling her that I would always be there for her.

  Lies, all of it.

  I blew my nose on my sleeve. The train began to descend. Red Cap kept the gun in his lap, pointed at me. He had not moved since I entered the compartment. I had had enough of this shit. I stood and stretched, yawning. Gestured to the door.

  “Gotta use the bathroom, you don’t mind if I—”

  “Sit down.”

  I hesitated.

  “Now.”

  “You want me to piss all over the floor?”

  “If you have to.”

  I sat down again. My bladder filled, for real this time. The altitude’s a diuretic. The train descended toward the Bolivian border.

  A knock at the door made us both sit up straight. Red Cap put the gun in his pocket, but kept it aimed at me. He jerked his head toward the window. I slid over, away from the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Comida, bebida, snacks!”

  Red Cap stood and unlocked the door with his free hand. He sat back, the gun hand still in his pocket.

  A greasy Asian face, bubbling with pimples, poked its broad slash of a smile through the doorway. A wooden tray hung from his shoulders. Glass bottles of yellow Inca Kola, bags of potato chips and cigarettes protruded outward from his belly.

  “What can I get ya?” His accent wa
s crude Lima slang. Another escaped inmate from the city’s million-strong Chinatown.

  Red Cap held up two fingers. “Water.”

  “Fuck you,” I said. By now I had to piss, and bad.

  “Don’t want some crunchy, tasty plátano? I got it frito?” The slitted eyes narrowed, the smile pushing the boundaries of good taste.

  “Just the water.”

  “Long train voyage, sir.” He lifted himself up on his toes. “Nothing else I get ya?”

  Red Cap craned his neck to look at the man. He blinked. “That’s all, thanks.”

  “Pack of Hamiltons,” I added.

  “And the smokes.”

  The man took two bottles of water from his tray, held them out to Red Cap. He tossed the pack of cigarettes to me. Red Cap caught them in midair.

  “Keep the change.”

  Mister Pimples took the rumpled piece of play money. “Very kind, sir. Oh so kind.” He put the money in his pocket. “Let me help you with that window, sir. So very cold in here, no?”

  He folded the wooden tray up against his chest. Straps held his wares in place. He sidestepped through the narrow doorway. A small side table protruded from the outside wall. He leaned over the table, reached for the window. His jacket rode up on my side, revealing a snub-nosed revolver tucked into his pants. My eyes widened. I jumped up, made for the door. An enormous firecracker went off next to my ear.

  The Chinaman made a sound, a sort of chuckle-groan, and tipped sideways. In one hand he held the revolver. He fell against the table. The impact tore it from the wall. One side of the man’s head was missing. Potato chips, bottles of Inca Kola scattered across the floor. Mister Pimples had burst.

  Red Cap turned his gun to me. “Now we move.”

  Screams came from adjacent compartments. Doors opened, voices raised in argument. Red Cap flipped the dead man’s gun out the window, then prodded me into the hallway. He locked the door from the inside, slid it shut. He pointed the gun at my back.

  “This man just killed the Chinese vendor,” he shouted in Spanish, then in English at the faces peering out of their doors. “He is under arrest. Please stay in your rooms until the investigation is complete.”

  “It’s a lie,” I shouted. “He’s the—”

  The side of my head burst in a flower of pain. Red Cap shoved me in the back. I stumbled ahead, eyes closed, one hand on my scalp, the other held out in front of me.

  We came to the back of the car, crossed over into the next. I looked down between the cars. We were going at least eighty clicks an hour. Could I jump? Would I survive? A sharp poke in the kidney jolted me into action. I swung open the door into the third-class carriage. The gun disappeared into his jacket pocket.

  Rows of seats faced each other across tables piled high with guidebooks, maps and snacks. We went from carriage to carriage, past platoons of flirting backpackers in travel gear, digital cameras recording every mundane detail of their trip.

  As we moved through the train, the descent became more pronounced. Outside the windows, llamas grazed. Brown-faced women grimaced at the train as it passed.

  At the end of the final passenger carriage, we came to the locomotive. We could go no farther. Backpackers murmured, pointed at us. Outside, new shantytowns appeared, collections of rusty lean-tos, children playing in the desert dust. The train slowed.

  “That’s them!” someone shouted.

  The conductor strode down the aisle toward us. It was the same prick who’d shown me my seat. Two train guards followed him. They drew their guns. A campesino in a green poncho trailed behind. The man from the bus.

  Whoa. So the campesino was the spy? Then who the hell was this dude in the baseball cap?

  “Between the cars,” he ordered.

  “But I—”

  “Do it, Gaia damn it!”

  I tugged open the door between the carriage and the locomotive. I stepped across the gap, clung to the chains that led to the locked engineer’s compartment. Red Cap stepped after me. The small town grew in size as we neared the center. Juliaca. Not three meters from me, street vendors lined the dusty roadside. Hanging from every beam, orange-brown leathery things that looked like roadkill. Llama fetuses. I remembered the time Kate and I had eaten one together. Revolting. An aphrodisiac, or so claimed the local witch doctors.

  “When I say jump, you jump!”

  I swallowed. The train slowed further. We were going maybe twenty clicks an hour now.

  “Aye aye, cap’n!” I shouted, and touched my forelock.

  The train guards stood on the other side of the glass door. One of them aimed his gun upward at an angle, fired. The glass shattered. A warning shot. The next one wouldn’t miss.

  Red Cap shouted, “Now!”

  I leaped as far from the train as I could. Landed in something soft and wet. Red Cap landed a few feet to one side. I found myself wrist-deep in llama dung. I shook the shit off my hands. The train squealed, slowed to a stop. I turned to Red Cap, pulled back my fist, but swarms of hands grabbed me from behind. Red Cap lifted his chin and smiled.

  “Just as we planned,” a male voice said.

  Hands held me tight. They hustled me through a gap in the fence that divided the train tracks from the town. The men behind me broke into a jog, forcing me along in front of them. A white van stood next to a nearby stall; llama fetuses hung from wooden beams. The back doors of the van popped open. One hand forced my head down, the others shoved me inside, through a tumble of wild-eyed llama abortions.

  “I gotta take a piss,” I said, but they ignored me.

  It was dark in the van. My eyes adjusted. Six Buddhist monks surrounded me. They sat in lotus position, ankles on knees. Their shaved heads glowed dimly in the darkness. Two wore glasses. All wore the orange-and-scarlet gown of Tibet. Around the back of the van hung more llama fetuses, like Christmas decorations. Black fabric taped to the windows let in a thin sheen of light.

  The van rocked as someone yanked open the driver-side door. Red Cap got in behind the wheel. The van roared and shot forward, throwing me back on my hands. There was gunfire in the distance, a great hubbub, shouting. The van picked up speed. All I could hear was the high-pitched whine of the underpowered motor.

  Glass shattered onto the floor. A limp hand fell across my face. I looked up into an eyeless socket. The monk next to me was toast. I pushed the body off me. It tottered and fell into the lap of an adjacent monk. Blood poured from the dead man’s ear. Something pricked my palm. I picked a blade of glass from my hand. Sunlight poked in through a small hole in the cloth that covered the rear window.

  An older monk, darker than the others, said something in a language I didn’t understand or recognize. The monk at his side produced a large black handgun from the inner folds of his robe. He swung the barrel of the gun against the glass. The window shattered. The glass caved out and fell into the road. He peeled away the black cloth, scraped the gun barrel along the edge of the window. Small shards fell into the vehicle.

  He peered out the window, searching for pursuers, but found none. He sat back, resumed his lotus position, closed his eyes. I considered grabbing for the weapon, going berserk, but there were five of them left, and one of me. I rested my shoulder against the side of the van and tried to relax. Tried to ignore the rapidly cooling body next to me.

  Potholes made this impossible. The van bucked and pitched along the cratered road for hours, nudging my new dead friend against me every time we hit a bump in the road. Blood soaked into my underwear. Chunks of brain quivered like jelly against my boots. My bladder felt like it was going to explode. I thought about letting go a stream right there. Outside, seagulls cawed. Seagulls? The ocean? No. The lake.

  The van ended its violent pounding against my skull. Red Cap got out and opened the rear doors. Two monks helped me to my feet.

  We stood on the shores of Lake Titicaca. The view was the same as the photo in Volcanic Volunteers’ brochure. The same photo as Kate’s postcard. The sun peered over the tops o
f the western mountains. Isla del Sol hulked in the middle of the lake. I fought to catch my breath. I had been too long in the smoggy wasteland below. At four thousand meters the air is for saints, not sinners like me.

  The monk in the passenger seat shifted over behind the wheel. Red Cap leaned back in through the window.

  “Ditch the van,” he said. “No one finds it. Not a trace. Not now. We’re too close.”

  He slapped the side of the vehicle and the driver spun the wheels in reverse, did a three-point turn, and was gone.

  We walked down to the water. A monk in a boat held an empty palm to the sky. The others returned the gesture, waded in to their knees and climbed into the boat.

  “The water’s cold,” I said. “Can’t you get it any closer?”

  In answer, the monks manhandled me into the lake, and marched me through frigid water up to our thighs. I seized the opportunity and emptied my bladder into my pants. The long stream of hot piss kept the brass monkeys at bay.

  Four wooden benches had been laid across the width of the boat. Two outboard motors pointed their blades in the air. A monk on shore untied the rope that held the craft to a small jetty, then ran into the water, robes flying, and clambered in to join us.

  Oars appeared. Two monks pulled us into deeper water. The outboard motors splashed astern. A pull of the chains, and they growled and hissed, darted forward, nearly knocking us off our seats. I held on to the wooden plank with both hands. We headed toward Isla del Sol. After a few minutes, though, we veered to the left, back to the Peruvian shore.

  “Where are we going?” I shouted. The cold lake water sprayed up on both sides. No one answered me.

  The sun began to set. Shadow advanced toward us across the lake. In the east, still wrapped in sunlight, a tour group disembarked from the reed islands, near the Bolivian shore. Our boat hopped and skipped across the light waves. We sped west into shadow, into the darkness, back toward Peru.

  Several dozen wooden houses lined the strand. Lights shone in every window. Children ran and shouted. Small boats lay beached on the sand. On the rocks higher up, green fishing nets dried in the cool air. To either side the beach petered out into a solid rock wall. A mountain loomed snowy above us. Our boat slowed. The pilot cut the motor. A monk vaulted over the side, trailing the rope. His robes floated in the freezing water. The others jumped after him, and together they heaved the boat onto the beach. Red Cap strode ahead and alone into the village. He disappeared around a corner.