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

by J. M. Porup

  “Bullshit. The only thing Pitt would ever do with Mother Earth is rape and kill her.”

  “Also, we offer our services. As volunteers. We construct homes for the local people.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else could there be?” Victor shoved his palms into the back pockets of his jeans, thrust his hips at me.

  I felt relieved. There was no hope. Never had been. Never would be. World without end. Amen.

  “Well, have fun then, boys. This is one wild-goose chase that is over.” I picked up Kate and threw her over my shoulder. She squawked. “Come on, girl, let’s go back to Cuzco.”

  She beat her fists against my back. “Horse, put me down!”

  I struggled to stay on my feet. “You’ve put on weight.” Either that or I had lost muscle mass.

  “I have not!” she said.

  I raised my voice. “Come on, Pitt! I’ll save you from these goody two-shoes! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  My voice boomed in the cavern. The monks went silent and stared at me. A sudden commotion made us turn.

  A long, stuttering plume of abuse trailed into the cave. The pounding pistons of the woman’s stubby legs churned out oath after guttural German oath. She waddled toward us, great with child, swatting away the bevy of monks who tried to help her. Her frizzy hair sprung wild about her head, a fluffy orange dandelion waiting only for a breath to strip her naked.

  Kate tickled me in the one spot no one knew but her. I let her go and she slid to the ground.

  “Always lovely to see you, dove,” Victor called out as the volunteering coordinator drew near. “What fortuitous happenstance brings our favorite Echo for a visit?”

  “Fortuitous happenstance, bah.” She planted her feet in front of him, stabbed his chest with her finger. “They betray us, is what.”

  He held his head to one side. “Has something happened, dear?”

  “Dumkopf. The Americans raid the office.”

  Victor raised his eyebrows. “And they let you go?”

  “I am here, aren’t I?”

  He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “Where else you suggest I go?”

  I cleared my throat. “They say hell is nice this time of year.”

  She took one look at me, and from the way she inhaled, I would have been afraid to be a little piggy. The exhalation came, made me wince. I leaned backward, away from the blow.

  “This is the one.” Her outstretched fingertip quivered. “He comes, asks questions. Where is Pitt? Then they come, take away my man.”

  Kate put an arm around Echo. “He’s with us. It’s OK.” She drew the woman’s contorted face down to her own shoulder. “Just tell us what happened.”

  Echo pushed her away. “What are you doing?” She wiped at her eyes. “Don’t you understand? They have taken Umlaut.”

  “Wait a sec,” I said. “Umlaut. Is that your boyfriend?”

  “Ja, of course.”

  “With the shrunken head?”

  I thought she was going to punch me. “His head is normal size.”

  Kate waved at me to shut up. Victor’s face was grim. He said, “Tell me what happened.”

  “We went to the embassy,” she sniffled. “Like we planned. Protesting. A few of us. It was good.” A smile. “Then we went home. But the road was blocked off. Police everywhere. Men talking in English. American English. Umlaut go crazy. Bite the grass.”

  “Bite the grass,” I said. “You mean, bite the dust?”

  “Bite the dust, whatever!” she said. “Now is not the time.”

  Victor licked his lips. “What did Umlaut do?”

  “Scheisskopf. Picked up a stone. A cobble. How do you say? Part of the road. Attacked them. Killed a little boy. A spy. We saw him on the surveillance camera.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “You killed Paco?”

  “You see?” That accusing finger again. The others glared at me.

  “He was an English student of mine,” I said. “A pickpocket. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “He was working for the American imperialist tyrants.”

  “But he was just a little kid!”

  Kate put her arm on my elbow. I sighed. What was I getting so upset for? “None of my business what my clients do with their newly acquired language abilities.”

  Victor squeezed Echo’s shoulder. “And then what happened?”

  “Two Americans tried to stop him. He killed them both with the stone. The local cops finally got him. Beat him so bad…” Her hands pressed together in prayer, her eyes red and swollen. “So bad, so bad, so bad.”

  Paco. Dead. The hell was going on? “I still don’t understand why he killed the kid,” I said.

  They ignored me. Victor kissed the woman’s temple, caressed her hair. “He was always so impatient, Umlaut.”

  “Another week or two,” she bawled. “That’s all. But no. He could not wait.”

  “Be at peace,” Kate said. “Pitt is almost ready.”

  “Oh thank Gaia,” Echo said. “A gift from Mother Earth to save us all.”

  I snorted. “‘A gift from Mother Earth’? Who, Pitt? Are you people for fucking real?”

  Again they ignored me. Victor nodded. “Our preparations are well under way.”

  “Preparations for what?” I asked.

  The three of them huddled together in silence. Echo’s shoulders shuddered and heaved, went slack. Victor crooked a finger at a nearby monk.

  “Take care of this one,” he said to the man. “She has suffered much for Gaia.”

  I snapped my fingers in his face. “Hello? Earth to cult leader? Pitt or no Pitt?”

  The monk nodded, draped Echo’s arm around his neck, and led her away.

  Victor sat on the edge of his desk, stared at me with a grin. “You ask where Pitt is. He is here. With us.”

  I looked around the cavern. “Can I talk to him?”

  Victor crossed one arm over the other, perched his head on a long forefinger. “He’s with us here in spirit.”

  “Fuck this spirit crap,” I said. “Where’s the flesh?”

  He hid a grin with his hand. “Pitt said you’d never believe me.”

  My God. Was it possible? “What have you done to him?”

  “I promise you will see him soon.” Victor put the flat of his palm on Kate’s navel. She sat on his thigh. “Why don’t you get some dinner in him, babe? He looks hungry.”

  “And where do you get off calling her ‘babe’?”

  He nuzzled her neck. “Did you not tell him?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Kate pulled away. “Victor, please—”

  Victor patted her butt. “She’s my wife.”

  “Your what?”

  “We’ve been married now six months and more.”

  I turned to her.

  “You didn’t come.” She shrugged, a tiny, frightened bird, fluttering its wings.

  “You and him?”

  “Why not?” Her face sagged, gray with sadness. She put her arms around his neck, pressed her face against his chest. “He’s a good man. We’re happy together.”

  In that moment, what little hope for love or life I had left was extinguished, replaced with a burning hatred of the world and all things in it. I ground my teeth. I clenched my fists. My breath came fast and hard.

  I said, “You kidnap me. You brainwash Pitt. And now you steal my wife?”

  My left hook connected with Victor’s elegantly upturned nose. There was a gooey sound of cartilage snapping. He fell onto the desk. Kate jumped sideways, her mouth open, but no sound came out. I grabbed Victor by his tweedy lapels, threw him onto the floor. I fell to my knees and punched his face, alternating fists. I cut my knuckle on a jagged tooth. I broke at least one finger. He didn’t fight back. The pain drove me on. Wanting more. Kate screamed, pounded my shoulders with the flats of her palms.

  A sea of orange and scarlet filled my peripheral vision. Hands dragged me to my feet
. I kicked at the air, connected with a gun barrel. Automatic gunfire roared in the cave, plumes of flame spouting over my head. My ears rang. Stalactites crashed to the floor. I stood still. Metal clacked on empty palms. A ring of monks aimed AK-47s at my chest. The wooden crates were now empty, the lids discarded.

  “What kind of fool you think I am?” I shouted. “Bunch of idiotic activists. Think that you can stop a war.”

  Monks lifted Victor to his feet. He held a white handkerchief to his nose. He tipped his head back, pinched his nostrils. His eyes were bruised. He’d look like a raccoon for some time to come.

  “Seems I erred,” he said.

  “You fucking erred, alright.” I twisted my arms, trying to break free. “You fuck with Pitt, you fuck with me!”

  “Horse, please.” Kate stroked my face with her fingertips, and I stiffened at her touch. “Just listen to what Victor has to say. Then you will see why Pitt is here. And you will want to join us, too.”

  FIFTEEN

  Victor’s voice was muffled through the bloody handkerchief. He asked, “What do you know about bat guano?”

  “Hang on a second,” I said. “Since when do Buddhist monks have crates, plural, full of AK-47s?” Strong arms held my wrists between my shoulder blades. I arched my back to ease the pain, nose in the air, head horizontal.

  “I’m explaining it to you,” he said.

  “Because of bat guano?” The words soared to the cavern’s ceiling, only to shatter into tiny echoes.

  Victor jerked his head. The monks let go of my arms, but kept a grip on my shoulders. I shook my hands to restore the circulation.

  “Humor me, Horace.”

  “What do I know about bat guano?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to know it’s not a breakfast cereal.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What is this, seventh-grade science class?”

  “Alright.” Victor pressed the handkerchief tighter to his nose. He turned to Kate. “Bring us some chai, will you, my dear? We’ll be in the alcove.”

  Kate’s face had gone white. She did not look at me. Come to think of it, she had never seen me violent before. She nodded her head, a nervous twitch. About-faced, and strode off into the shadows.

  The monks let go of me. Victor said, “Come,” and minced across the cavern to a nook about five feet high. I followed. A lantern lit the alcove.

  On the floor, a low table surrounded by bean bags. A chessboard sat ready for battle. Blood dribbled from Victor’s broken nose. He beckoned a nearby monk. “A pair of pliers. And some medical tape. Fetch.”

  The monk’s shaved head bowed, disappeared.

  I eased myself into a bean bag. “So,” I said. “Bat guano.”

  “You play chess, Horace?” Victor moved his king pawn forward two spaces.

  “No,” I said. “Can’t say I do. And what does bat guano have to do with—”

  “The key,” he said, “is to know your opponent better than he knows himself.”

  “Like, duh,” I said. Not that I ever bothered to think that far ahead, mind you.

  He reached over the board, responded with my queen knight. “To know what he’s going to do before he does it. Anticipate everything. Plan for everything.” He looked at me. “Then it doesn’t matter what happens. Every which way you win.”

  I said, “I suppose you know what I’m going to do now.”

  He wagged a finger at me. “You’re a wild card, Horace. But that also makes you predictable.”

  “Oh yeah? Did you predict this?” I swept my arm across the board, sending the pieces flying.

  He laughed. “Indeed I did. You are predictable in your wildness.”

  I frowned. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. How do you know that about me?”

  “Pitt speaks highly of you, Horace. And now you are impatient for me to elaborate on the theme of bat guano. Am I not correct?”

  “I still don’t see what bat guano has to do with Pitt becoming a born-again whatever-you-are. But go ahead.” I sat back in my bean bag. “Talk.”

  A grin peeked around Victor’s hand, his voice nasal. “You are aware,” he said, “of how Bolivia lost its coastline?”

  “Sure,” I said. “There was a war. Back in the 1880s. Over the bat guano. But what’s that got to do with me and Pitt?”

  “Thousands of years of bat droppings accumulated in the Atacama Desert. The Europeans and Americans paid big money for the stuff. So Chile declared war on Bolivia and took away her coastline. Some of Peru’s, too.”

  My applause echoed loud in the cavern. “Wonderful history lesson. Get to the point?”

  We paused as Kate approached, teapot balanced on a platter. She knelt, put three cups down in front us, poured tea in two. It smelled of cardamom and cloves. I tasted it. Brewed in milk. But it was missing the secret ingredient.

  “What,” I said. “No pisco?”

  She shook her head. Bit her lip.

  “We do not permit alcohol here,” Victor said.

  “Whoa,” I said. Touched her elbow. “How do you survive?”

  She stood without looking at me. “There are other ways of coping, Horse.”

  Victor smiled at her. “Thank you, my dear.”

  Kate marched back into the darkness of the cave.

  “No pisco,” I said. “That’s what I call doing it harsh.”

  “That is a matter of perspective.” Victor sipped his chai. “For instance, losing your coastline is harsh. Becoming a landlocked nation is harsh. How would you feel?”

  I shrugged. “Must have pissed them off.”

  “It still does,” said Victor. “Know what tomorrow is?”

  “Two days after yesterday?”

  “Maritime Day. In La Paz. At 4000m above sea level. You believe it? There will be marches, parades, speeches. President Ovejo will fire his pistol in the air, demand Chile return their land. Bolivians will wave their flags, stomp their feet and go home unhappy.”

  “They want their bat guano back.”

  Victor chuckled, blew on his tea. “Bat guano is worthless these days. What they want is a road to the sea.”

  “Hence the Bolivian navy on Lake Titicaca.”

  “If you can call it a navy.”

  I sipped my chai. Without liquor it was undrinkable. I hurled the cup at the wall. The impact splattered Victor with hot tea. I stood, stooping under the alcove’s low ceiling. “It’s been lovely. Really it has. But either you tell me where Pitt is, and what the hell is going on, or I’m walking out of here right now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Horace.”

  A bald head descended into the light, a pair of pliers glinting in his outstretched palm. Beside it, a roll of green medical tape. Victor flicked the tape at me.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Broke a finger, didn’t you?”

  The pinkie on my left hand was mashed. I had forgotten about it. “Oh. Thanks.” I unrolled a piece of tape, tore it off with my teeth. The thudding pain of broken bone made delightful background noise to this uninvited conference with Victor. I bound the injured digit to its neighbor.

  Victor weighed the pliers in his palm. He said, “Pitt is on Isla del Sol. You’ll see him tomorrow. Now sit down.”

  “What’s he doing on Isla del Sol? Hanging out with a bunch of tourists?” I finished the job on my finger.

  He shoved the pliers in his mouth. “No, actually. He’s negotiating with the CIA. To try to stop the war. Now sit.”

  The lantern light illuminated half of Victor’s face, leaving the other side in darkness. He twisted the pliers. I could hear the roots of the tooth shred as it separated from his flesh. His head jerked back. Clamped between the pliers was a broken tooth. He asked, “What do they produce at that mine?”

  “Where Pitt works?”

  He waved a hand. “The Anglo-Dutch mine. Yes.”

  I took off my woolen hat and ran my fingers through my hair. “Lithium.”

  “Foreign
ers wanted bat guano, so Bolivia lost its coastline.” He spat blood, put the pliers back in his mouth. “Now the foreigners want the lithium.”

  I shrugged. “So they’re going to take it.”

  “Precisely.” He spoke around the pliers. Another jerk, another tooth. “Ovejo’s a socialist. Ninety percent of the world’s lithium comes from the altiplano. The salt flats.” Victor mopped his lips with the crusty handkerchief, fished around in his mouth with an index finger. “The Chilean mine just across the border produces most of the world’s lithium at present. There are also small deposits in Tibet, Afghanistan and Australia, but the world’s biggest reserves are in Bolivia itself.”

  I sat down again. “So what?” I said. “Has the entire world gone manic-depressive? Is the demand really that high?”

  Victor paused, his cup halfway to his lips. Blood leaked onto his chin. “Do you not read the papers?”

  “I’ve got enough misery in my own life without reading about the rest of the world.”

  “The oil is running out. You know this.” It was not a question.

  “Sure.”

  “What happens then?”

  “We all die. And good riddance.”

  A raised index finger. “Lithium is used to make batteries for electric cars.”

  I asked, “Why can’t the Americans just buy the lithium? Wouldn’t that be cheaper?”

  “At Ovejo’s extortionate prices? Think OPEC, only ten times worse.”

  I considered that. “What’s the pretext? For war, I mean.”

  Victor shifted sideways in his bean bag until he sat next to me. He lowered his voice. His hairy knuckles caressed my forearm. “A bomb, Horace. They are going to blow up the Bolivian mine. The CIA. Make it look like the Chileans did it.”

  “Are people going to believe that?”

  “The domestic situation in La Paz is tricky. Ovejo will have to respond. Support for his policies is fading. He is a maniac for power. He will have to invade Chile just to save face.”

  “Then what?”

  Victor settled back in his bean bag. “Peru and Bolivia have a secret alliance. Peru will break the alliance. Bolivia invades Chile, Peru invades Bolivia, together the two countries divide the altiplano.”