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

by J. M. Porup

  The cave. Snatches of conversation. “Two percent of what?” I asked. “You a dairy farmer?”

  “If you believe the shit you’re shoveling,” I said, “why didn’t you take out Victor years ago? You knew what he was trying to do.”

  Ambo lifted his right shoulder, let it fall. “We wanted to know his secret. How his weapon works. He wouldn’t talk. So we let him go and spied on him instead.”

  I looked from one to the other. “But this is crazy. You think he can actually do this?”

  For the first time, Hak Po looked at me. “Would Chinese government send me here, work with CIA, with Ambassador, if not believe threat real?”

  Ambo’s eyes rose from under his bushy eyebrows. “This transcends petty national interest. This is not about what’s good for China, or what’s good for the US, or even Bolivia. It’s about what’s good for everyone. The whole world. The human race.”

  “The human race?” I said. “What about all those innocent people you murdered? What about what’s good for them?”

  The door to the sauna opened. A soldier stepped into the room. He carried a red-and-white plastic tackle box marked Med Kit.

  “Not now,” Ambo barked, or tried to. Blood streamed down his chest and pooled at his toes.

  “Maybe he fix you,” Hak Po said.

  “This is too important,” Ambo said, panting for breath. “Not now.”

  “Sir, you need to stop the—”

  “I said, not now!”

  The medic’s face puckered, turned red. He about-faced and left the sauna.

  I rested my elbows on my knees. “You were explaining how murdering dozens of innocent civilians was good for mankind.”

  Ambo lit a cigarette, puffed deep. Smoke trickled between his lips. “Dozens of innocent—” He coughed. “What are you talking about?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not like you don’t do it for a living.”

  “Yes, but which ones?”

  “Isla del Sol, the ashram—”

  “That wasn’t us.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “The Dissent Suppression Unit never murders dissidents. They just go dancing among the flowers, quoting poetry and smoking pot. What a crazy idea.”

  “Victor did that murder,” Hak Po said quietly.

  “At the ashram,” Ambo added.

  “Really,” I said. “Not your undercover agent, Bill or Ted or whatever the fuck his name was?”

  “Michael planted a recording device that caught the massacre on camera. It’s been transmitting the whole time. Ever since he got there months ago. Want to watch?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Ambo plunked the laptop onto the seat next to me. Pitt ceased his pacing on the lip of the volcano. Replaced by a view of the beach, Lake Titicaca. From above the mouth of the cave.

  “Fast-forward,” Ambo said, and pressed a key.

  Monks scurry about carrying boxes, pushing wheelbarrows. Isla del Sol in the distance. The sun rises. Kate gets into a boat. Boxes of weapons are loaded in after her, followed by a host of monks. The boat pushes off from shore.

  “Is Kate involved in this?” I asked.

  Ambo held out an open palm. “Wait.”

  On screen, I straggle into the picture, gesture at the island, hop into a boat, zoom off.

  “Here we are,” Ambo said.

  The image slowed to real time. Victor gestures, shouts, the words unheard. Everyone assembles, bags at their feet.

  “There’s no sound,” I said.

  “No microphone.”

  A cauldron of food bubbles nearby. The volunteers heft building tools over their shoulders. They are swaying side to side and singing what looks like “Kumbaya.” They’ve put on monk robes over their street clothes. Fishermen and villagers hold empty food bowls in their hands. An old man hoists a little boy onto his shoulders. Everyone smiles, laughs. The fat monk waves an empty ladle. Counts heads with his finger. An empty space in line, a missing monk. Who’s missing? Where is he? It’s Michael. He joins the others in their ranks. Food is served.

  An Uzi appears in Victor’s hands. He points it at the assembled throng. The monks and volunteers step forward in unison, heads thrown back, hands in the air. Ecstasy glistens on their faces. I recognize Mister When Is The Leave-Taking.

  Fire bulges from the tip of the gun. The villagers try to flee. Volunteers and monks grab them, hold them in place. People drop as though punched. A pause. Victor changes the clip. Michael jumps up, knife in hand. Victor blasts him at point-blank range. Blood splatters Victor’s face. Michael drops. Victor empties the clip into Michael’s twitching body. He changes the clip, fires again, spraying more bullets into the corpses.

  Ambo reached around the display, pressed a button. The image fast-forwarded again.

  Victor pulls the bodies into a pile. Runs to the water, comes back without the Uzi. He’s dripping wet. He draws a handgun. Aurora and I wander onto the beach, point at the pile of bodies.

  “Enough,” I said.

  Ambo stopped the playback. He folded his hands on his lap and looked at me.

  I chewed a fingernail. “And Isla del Sol?”

  Hak Po shrugged. “Pitt need disappear. Fake death. Find look-alike. Swedish national. Spike drink, swap clothes, hotel go boom. Then Pitt go way.”

  My voice was quiet. “What was the name of the Swedish national?”

  “Does it matter?” Ambo asked.

  “What was his name?”

  His lips crinkled in annoyance. “Sven,” he said, waved a hand. “Sven something.”

  Hak Po consulted a notebook. “Sven Larrsen. Why you ask?”

  I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. Aurora and the others had followed us into the building, and were doing God knows what the other side of the sauna door. “Aurora’s boyfriend. The girl who came along for the ride.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Why didn’t you go into the ashram and arrest them ages ago?”

  Hak Po tapped a slender finger on my knee. “Peruvian authorities no cooperate. Want proof. Say, volunteering good. Say, no crime done.”

  “Since when does that stop you people from doing anything?” I said. “Conspiracy to commit first-degree Gaia-cide. Make something up.”

  Ambo’s face was ashen. Blood clotted in his wiry chest hair. “It was my fault.”

  “I do same if I you.” Hak Po patted Ambo’s knee. “I father too.”

  “Do what?” I asked. “What did you do?”

  “What if Pitt got hurt during a raid?” he asked. “I could never forgive myself.”

  “Much better the world go boom,” I agreed.

  Ambo stretched his long arms wide, as though begging my forgiveness. “How could I be sure?” he asked. “Was he a part of Victor’s group? Part of the conspiracy? Or was he just another lost soul doing yoga and building houses?”

  “What difference does that make?” I asked.

  “Without Pitt, they could do nothing. I knew this. Without his contacts and his knowledge of the mine, they could not have pulled it off.”

  “Pull what off?” I said. “What does the mine have to do with blowing up volcanoes?”

  “It has to do with destroying the lithium. Just like he did in Tibet. Tons and tons of the stuff, a year’s production.”

  “Plus distraction,” Hak Po said.

  “Exactly,” Ambo said. “While we’re all fighting a war, he’s up on the mountain blowing the world to kingdom come.”

  “But why now?” I asked. “Why didn’t Victor blow up the volcano months ago, years ago?”

  His right side shrugged again. “He was waiting. Taking samples, surveying the Salar. Calculating how to do it. Using the ashram as cover. Then he got lucky. He met Pitt.”

  “And how was that your fault?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t exactly luck that they met,” Ambo said.

  “Not exactly—you mean you sent Pitt to him? To the ashram?”

  “It was a job. Don’t you see? To find out how far along Victor’s plans
were. Michael had failed to gain Victor’s confidence. So we sent in Pitt. He managed to steal a copy of Victor’s laptop hard drive. All the data, his calculations up until then. A team of scientists back in the States analyzed the data. Guess what their report said.”

  “You already told me, dude. That his theory was correct.”

  “Yes. But that Victor himself hadn’t figured out how to do it yet.”

  “So what are you saying?” I asked. “That somehow Victor got a hold of a copy of that report?”

  “Not somehow. Pitt gave it to him. Stole it from us. Are you getting the picture?”

  I swallowed. “Holy crap. So then what happened?”

  He rested his head against the wooden wall of the sauna. “I made my second mistake. After he disappeared, I tried to talk to him.”

  “To Pitt?”

  “I organized a meeting. He pretended to still be working for us. He’s my son, don’t you see?” He pleaded with me now, palms upward. “I had to give him one more chance.”

  “So what happened?”

  Ambo gazed at me down the length of his nose, eyes half-closed. “He promised to meet me at the Hotel Finski for a beer.”

  My nostrils flared. “You mean he tried to kill you?”

  “I got there just in time to watch the hotel explode.”

  “Dude…” I said. “You screwed that pooch five ways from Friday.”

  Ambo gasped for breath in the steamy air. Sweat trickled down his face, dripped from his nose. He closed his eyes, nodded his head in agreement.

  I crossed my arms. “So then you followed me.”

  His shoulders twitched weakly. “We needed you to lead us to Pitt.”

  “You mean you thought I was part of Victor’s plot?”

  “Of course. I’m still not entirely convinced you’re not.”

  “And that’s why you tried to kill me.”

  “Kill Victor,” Hak Po corrected.

  “But if you had accidentally killed me in the process, that would have been an acceptable outcome.”

  “We weren’t really trying to kill you,” Ambo said. He avoided my gaze. “We asked the Bolivian gunners to aim to miss. Just scare you enough to show us where the bomb was. Where the rest of them went.”

  “Kate,” I said. Sat up straight. “Where did the rest of them go? Is she with them? You follow her too?”

  “Lost her and monks in La Paz,” Hak Po said. “Disappeared off map. Most impressive. Still not know how did this.”

  I said, “A family man named Fritz.”

  “Sorry?”

  I pitched the keys to our abandoned SUV into the air. They fell to the wooden floor with a clatter. Look, Manuel, here’s all that’s left.

  “World’s highest ski resort,” I said. “Assuming we’re all still alive when this is over, you need to buy the former owner a new jeep.” I turned to Ambo. “So you have no idea where Kate is?”

  Hak Po leaned forward. “No say that.”

  “So you do know.” My chest tightened. “Where is she? Is she safe?” I looked at both of them. “What’s going on?”

  Ambo bridged his fingers, rested his forehead on his thumbs. “Remember Sergio Salazar?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “Flew back to Lima. Had a little chat with him last night.”

  “A private one-on-one,” I suggested.

  “Something like that.” Ambo grimaced. “You know, it’s hard to interrogate a masochist. Torture doesn’t really work.”

  “Yuck,” I said. “What did you do?”

  “Put him on a morphine drip. Finally cracked this morning. Just a couple of hours ago.”

  I laughed. “What did you find out?”

  “Sergio has been working for Victor all along. It was his idea I send Pitt to the ashram.” A bitter laugh. “Victor played me like a champ. Played you too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Kate told Victor about you. Victor already knew about Pitt from Sergio. Victor had Sergio suggest you for the Hak Po job. Put you and Pitt together, build a guilt complex in my son…now Victor’s got access to our supercomputers and a highly trained DSU operative to run interference for him. Which, I might add, Pitt did very successfully, considering I trained him.” A wry grin. “And you’re the missing link. Pitt used that postcard of yours to get in touch with Victor. The one Kate sent you.”

  “So the whole thing’s my fault,” I said. “Anything else you want to blame me for?”

  “Don’t be like that, Horace.”

  “Like what?”

  “Look, Victor played you both. Pitt never even realized.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Ambo let out a puff of breath. “Anyway, the information Sergio gave you last week was a deliberate red herring. He wanted us running around after you instead of focusing on Pitt.”

  “So did he tell you where they are?” I asked.

  “Sergio knows these mountains as well as anyone. He was one of the original surveyors who planned the Anglo-Dutch mine. We finally got the name out of him. Mount Testimony.”

  “Testimony?”

  “Cerro Testimonio in Spanish.”

  I gestured at the laptop, where the image of Pitt had resumed its clockwork back and forth. “Where Pitt is now.”

  “Katherine too.”

  I studied the volcano’s summit. “Where? I don’t see her.”

  Ambo flapped his great hand at me. “They’re guarding Pitt’s flank. At the bottom of the mountain, watching the path that leads to the top. It’s the logical thing for them to do.”

  “But when the volcano blows, they’ll all die.”

  “There are worse things than death.” He looked at me. “You know that as well as she does.”

  “So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Why we need you, Horse.” Hak Po’s grin stretched rubber-band tight.

  Hands out: halt: stop: red light. “Need me? For what?”

  Ambo passed a hand across his forehead. “I need you to go up there and talk to him. To Pitt.”

  “Hello! The monks are guarding the path. They’ll kill me if I try. You just said so yourself.”

  “Katherine is with them. You think she’d let them kill you?”

  I thought about that.

  “OK,” I said. “But even if I made it up the mountain, what’s the point? So I can commit suicide with him? All he’s got to do is press the button. Wherever the button is.” I waved my hand at the screen. “Then everything goes boom.”

  “Exactly,” Hak Po said, and bowed his head.

  “Exactly what?”

  “What Hak Po means,” Ambo said, “is that Pitt’s been up there for the last four hours. We watched him lay the charges. The bomb is ready. Why hasn’t he pressed the button? What is he waiting for?”

  I shrugged. “For a signal. Who knows.”

  Ambo’s index finger bayoneted my forehead. “He’s waiting for you.”

  His fingernail dug into the skin just below my scalp. I swallowed. “What makes you think that?”

  The bayonet withdrew. He plucked a postcard from his jacket, dropped it in my lap. On the front was a picture of Mt. Illimani, the extinct volcano that towers over La Paz. I flipped the card over. It was speckled with Ambo’s blood. There was no “Dear Dad,” no signature, just the words:

  Horse was right about us both.

  “What did you tell him about me?” Ambo asked.

  A private room.

  Cocaine and pisco spread on the table. Brown-skinned girls in matching blue lingerie writhed on our laps.

  “Best not grow old,” I said, my finger moist.

  “Why’s that, bro?” He tickled the girl on his lap until she contorted in a mass of giggles.

  I reached around a warm tittie for my glass of pisco. I drank long and slow. “Wind up like your dad.”

  “How’s that?”

  “An old man with a heavy conscience.”

  “Nothing,” I said
. I tossed the postcard to the side. “Why don’t you ram a missile down his throat? You just said you’ve been watching him for hours.”

  “Not as simple as that,” Ambo said. “Suppose we hit the payload? Suppose we set off the chain reaction? We can’t take that chance.”

  “Or send in commandoes in a helicopter? I got to think up everything for you guys?”

  “Pitt sees us coming he’ll blow the mountain before we even get close.”

  I swore. Why was I getting so worked up about this? Here I had my chance: one little red button. One push and the world and the pain go away.

  “Then why didn’t you take him out in the desert before he even got to the mountain?” I asked. “Why didn’t you guard all the likely volcanoes in the region? You could have picked him up anytime.”

  “First of all, we only found out about all this from Sergio three hours ago. The full extent of the conspiracy. Second, there are twenty active and semi-active volcanoes in the Salar. Seventeen have weak spots Victor could exploit. The Salar covers thousands of square kilometers. Finding one man in that space, even with all our satellites and drones looking for him, is a needle in a haystack. If it weren’t for Sergio, we wouldn’t have found him at all.”

  “But why me? What about his wife? Go get Janine up here. Have her talk to him.”

  Ambo hung his head. “Janine has disappeared. The kids too. No note. Nothing. For all we know, she’s part of the conspiracy.”

  Something nagged at me. What was it? Images flashed through my brain. La Paz, the witches’ market, Aurora, that woman, the photo.

  The motorcyclist.

  “Or maybe,” I suggested, “you knew where he was all along, and did nothing.”

  Instead of the violence I’d hoped for, Ambo sighed and lowered his chin into his palm. “Are you a father, Horace?” he asked. He ran a fingertip across his lower lip.

  “That’s a low blow,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked. “Because it’s true? Because you’re a failure of a father, just like me?”

  “You knew where he was all along.”

  “He was playing a double game. After we had you released from jail, Pitt got in touch. Said he was following you, thought you were part of the conspiracy.” Ambo held out his hands, let invisible sand trickle through his fingers. “We thought he was on our side. We were wrong.”