I said, “Well, that’s one way of keeping prisoners in line, take away their oxygen.”
We found the sun low in the west, hot and red, when we descended to the pavement and could look around. It was a small airport, but a sizable jet was parked near the terminal and we could see people at the gates waiting for the word to board, too many people for Belinda’s peace of mind.
“Oh, God, I can’t go through that crowded building looking like this, I haven’t been out of my clothes for a week, I’m a disaster area!” she protested.
But a car had come onto the field and was approaching our little plane, a block-long black Cadillac limousine, polished until it shone like a diamond, transportation deluxe. However, the windows were dark, at least from the outside, and when we’d been ushered into the capacious rear, the uniformed chauffeur pushed a button and both doors clicked softly. I didn’t even bother to confirm that we were locked in.
But if it was a jail cell on wheels, it was certainly a luxurious one. Unfortunately, my first reaction to the plushy interior was to remember that I needed a shave and a bath, and a clean shirt wouldn’t hurt a bit. Maybe Belinda’s dainty concern for her appearance was rubbing off on me. Palomino had got into the front seat. A glass partition prevented me from hearing what he said to the driver, but the car began to move. No officials had come near us; apparently no representatives of El Viejo had to worry about foolish formalities like customs and immigration.
Cuzco turned out to be a city of very narrow streets full of shabby pedestrians moving in all directions and yielding the right of way only reluctantly to the vehicles, which were not very numerous. The long Cadillac had to proceed slowly because it was a close fit in many places and could only barely make it around the comers, like a semi maneuvering in a New York alley. I wondered how many kidnap victims had had the privilege of riding in the most conspicuous car in town. I hadn’t taken Palomino’s pronouncement that Cuzco was a wholly owned subsidiary of El Viejo's operation too seriously. Naturally, since it would make us easier to manage, he’d do his best to trade on the image of all-powerful South American drug lords presented in the U.S. press and make us believe we were completely surrounded by enemies. However, the spectacular Cadillac indicated, at least, that he felt no need to keep a low profile here, even though he was transporting a couple of unwilling guests.
Reaching the center of the city, we passed a couple of churches or cathedrals that would have rated a second look if we’d been in the mood for religious architecture. The chauffeur squeezed us through some particularly narrow lanes; at last he started to turn into an alley leading to the rear of a massive old building that looked like a hotel, but stopped when he found it completely blocked by a tour bus that was just discharging passengers.
"Hey, there’s Grace; that’s our tour!" Belinda said quickly.
Palomino was already speaking to the driver, who was backing us out of there; but I saw white-haired Annie and dowdy Mrs. Gloria Priestly and lean husband Herman. I also saw, sharply dressed in yellow slacks and a white sport shirt, Roger Ackerman, who’d ordered me killed (join the club, Roge, old boy), and beside Ackerman I saw a slim young woman with ragged light hair who glanced casually at the retreating Cadillac but could not, of course, see us behind the dark window glass; it was like one of those dreams where you can see everybody but you’re not really there, so nobody can see you. Ruth wore her short blue denim skirt and one of her short-sleeved knitted shirts, this one striped red and white. As the movement of the Cadillac cut off my view of the narrow alley she was allowing Ackerman to escort her toward the door of the hotel.
Palomino had picked up a microphone, and his voice reached us from hidden speakers: “An unfortunate delay,” he said. “We must wait. I suggest that you serve yourselves with drinks; the bar is in front of you. But do not drink too much. Don Gregorio Vasquez Stussman is expecting you for dinner, and you will find much refreshment there.”
Chapter 26
“I don’t believe this!” Belinda said.
“I don’t believe it, either,” I said. “I didn’t know there was a civilized woman alive who could leave a bathroom in such a mess.”
She laughed. "Whatever gave you the idea I was civilized, darling? Oh, God, look at my hair! Well, at least it’s clean for a change.”
She’d spent the best part of an hour scrubbing and shampooing herself and just soaking in the big bathtub. Now, wrapped in a long, white terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel management, she was tackling the coiffure problem in front of the dresser mirror, yielding me the bathroom at last only because we’d been given a deadline and time was running out on us.
“What don’t you believe?”
I asked my question through the open bathroom door as I leaned forward to operate my safety razor more accurately. Aside from sporting a heavier crop of whiskers, the face that confronted me in the mirror didn’t seem to have changed significantly since I’d last shaved it, certainly not for the better.
“All this,” Belinda said. “First the old fart has Palomino pump us Ml of sleepyjuice and fly us off into the lousy jungle and dump us on a bunch of nutty ecofreaks he’s paying to beat or squeeze or bum some information out of me, except that Palomino grabbed the wrong girl and I don’t have any. So this doddering character—El Viejo, the Old One, for God’s sake!—lets us sit there a month or two all wrapped in duct tape and eating boiled goat while he’s making up his senile mind; and then, bingo, he has the freaks massacred and us hauled out of there and given the VIP treatment: a limousine, a hotel suite with our own best clothes from our own suitcases laid out on the beds all pressed and pretty, and a formal invitation to dinner, if you please! Bring that hair dryer over here, will you, darling, and plug it in for me; I don’t seem to have got it all dry in back. ” When I’d done as she’d asked, she looked up at me. “You look kind of dumb, half-lathered or whatever that goop is. I thought all men used electric mowers these days.”
I said, “This way I don’t have to worry about what kind of oddball juice they have when I’m traveling in oddball places. Mr. Gillette does a pretty good job of making his blades available just about everywhere.”
She licked her lips, not yet lipsticked, but full and rosy nevertheless. "Do you want to make love to me?" she asked. “Just a quickie, to make up for all the times we couldn’t on those damn little cots?”
I grinned. “There you go again. Nothing but sex, sex, sex. You know you don’t really want to; you’re just making seductive noises because you think you ought to.”
“No, because I’m scared,” she admitted readily enough. “And do you know what really scares me, stupid me? Not being tortured or raped or killed, but getting all dolled up in chiffon and nylons and then getting all messed up again; it was humiliating enough in jeans. What do you think the old creep is up to with this crazy dress-up charade? Why is he going to all the trouble of cleaning us up and giving us our own clothes back?”
“Our own clothes is easy,” I said, returning to my razor and speaking between gingerly strokes of the blade. "If Vasquez just wanted us decently dressed for the occasion, whatever it may be, he could have bought me a new suit and you the latest evening gown from Paris, but all that would have proved was that he had plenty of money, which we already knew. He’s showing his power. He’s showing us that wherever Roger Ackerman, your revered leader—”
“Ex-leader.”
“Vasquez is demonstrating that wherever your former leader, a U.S. government operative of some standing, stashed those suitcases in or around that hotel in Iguassu Falls after he’d sent you and Morton off to give me a nice swim in the Parana River, El Viejo's people were right there watching, ready to produce the hidden luggage for their leader anytime it was wanted. As for what else he has in mind, beyond confusing us thoroughly, I have no idea.”
That wasn’t quite true. I felt reasonably sure that surrounding us with luxury, after subjecting us to a week of hardship, was intended as an apology of sorts from Vasquez;
and when men with unlimited power start apologizing to you and being very nice to you, you know damned well they want something from you and will squash you flat if they don’t get it. In any case, I didn’t believe for a minute that it was just by coincidence that we’d been held prisoner precisely long enough for a certain tour to reach Cuzco.
Clearly Vasquez had been waiting for Mark Steiner’s young widow to get here before having us flown here. Why he wanted us all together, I couldn’t guess, but whatever he intended, it seemed to be something he couldn’t do—or at least couldn’t do so easily—in Buenos Aires, Argentina, or Santiago, Chile, or even Lima, Peru, the preceding stops on the tour’s sight-seeing schedule. Apparently, it could only be done, or at least it could best be done, here in Cuzco, at eleven thousand feet, a fairly high elevation for an aging gent who, if I remembered correctly, was just about to celebrate his seventieth birthday.
I recalled that Mark Steiner had hoped to attend the celebration—not too closely, say at three or four hundred yards— with a rifle in his hands and me assisting him as a sort of big-game guide. Well, it has been called the biggest, or at least the most dangerous, game on earth; and if it was, Gregorio Vasquez was certainly a trophy specimen. I closed the bathroom door—after a week of togetherness I felt I was entitled to privacy for my bath—and started the water running in the tub.
“Just put it right over there,” I heard Belinda say when I opened the door at last.
I hadn’t heard the knock. Belinda was admitting a waiter with a tray holding two hollow-stemmed glasses and an ice bucket from which protruded the neck of an aristocratic-looking bottle. He set the tray on the cocktail table by the window and turned. For a moment, seeing the ice bucket and the familiar costume of white shirt and black pants, I’d thought it was Armando, but it was another dark-faced man I didn’t recognize. Well, I was a big boy now. I could solve my problems all by myself without outside help. I hoped.
“With Don Gregorio’s compliments,” the man said to Belinda. “Do you wish me to open it, señora?”
“Sure, pop the cork,” Belinda said.
After doing the honors skillfully, the man withdrew. I lifted the glass he had given me.
“To happy landings.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me of that damn little plane and those crazy mountains.” She glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table. “Better drink up and get dressed, darling, it’s almost seven o’clock. El Viejo must be running on Yankee time. I thought they never had dinner before ten p.m. in this part of the world.”
Now she was dressed the way I’d seen her at our tour’s get-together party in Rio de Janeiro, in gray-blue chiffon with pale nylons and silver sandals; and she’d managed to fix her blond hair very attractively, even though it hadn’t had any professional attention recently. She was really quite a pretty woman, and I guess a world filled with nothing but skinny dames would really be kind of dull. Dressing myself, I found that my old blue-and-white seersucker suit had been expertly pressed, and my white wash-and-wear shirt had been ironed for the first time in its life. The dress shoes I’d brought along for such formal emergencies had been polished to a blinding shine. They had the same hidden features as my everyday shoes, and I checked and found that the armorer’s handiwork had not been disturbed, which worried me a little, since it was sloppy security for a bunch of pros. On the other hand, maybe they knew all about the hidden knives and figured they’d just let me think I was putting something over on them: how much damage could I do with a couple of little blades I couldn’t even reach without removing, and half dismantling, my shoes? I was tying my necktie when somebody knocked on the door.
“Coming,” I said. Belinda was making some nervous adjustments to her chiffon draperies. I waited while she fussed with herself; but at last I said, “Let’s not keep the don waiting.”
She gave the dress a final smoothing and threw me a bleak look. “I’ve got this weird feeling. . . . I guess I’m just hoping, after getting all dressed up like this, I don’t wind up getting blood all over it,” she said, and I knew she was remembering the sprawling, sodden bodies in the hut. Suddenly she stepped close and hugged me tightly, her body soft and warm under the filmy dress. “No, damn you, don’t kiss me, you’ll smear me. Anyway, I offered you a chance at something better than a kiss and you blew it. Now let’s get the hell out there and sing for our suppers.”
Palomino was waiting in the corridor. He indicated the direction and walked behind us. I knew he had a gun, he’d displayed one on the plane, but it occurred to me that I didn’t particularly want to escape. I’d done all right so far, just paddling dong with the current. Indications were that I was getting closer to El Viejo all the time, and I found that I was really curious about what he had in store for us after these elaborate preliminaries.
“No, señora, proceed to the front door, if you please.” Palomino’s voice checked Belinda, making her way through the lobby ahead of me, as she started to turn toward the sign indicating the dining room. Palomino continued smoothly, “When the streets are crowded, vehicles must come to the rear of the hotel, but it is not so crowded now. Please to step outside and enter the car that awaits us.”
The big, ornate hotel doors opened right onto a narrow street; you could see why tour buses and limousines were sent around to the rear during rush hour, whatever that might mean in Cuzco. The long black Cadillac was parked in front with two wheels on the sidewalk to leave some room for traffic to pass. It was still broad daylight, and I didn’t notice that the town was noticeably less packed with pedestrian humanity than before, but perhaps there were somewhat fewer vehicles.
I helped Belinda into the backseat of the car and followed her inside, noting that there wasn’t as much legroom as before because the jump seats had been set up; apparently more passengers were expected. Palomino didn’t get in; he left our door open and waited beside the car. Presently, four people emerged from the hotel. I knew two of them. Ackerman was behind, being led by a dark-faced gent in black. In front, with another black-clad escort, was Ruth Steiner in a blue linen dress I recognized; she’d worn it the night Belinda had first displayed her chiffon. The man beside Ruth tried to help her into the Cadillac, but she shrugged off his hand and started to get in unassisted—and stopped abruptly, seeing me.
“Matt!”
“Please to get in, lady.” That was her escort, getting impatient after a second or two and reaching for her arm again.
“Hi, Ruth,” I said. “Join the party.”
I held out my hand to help her, moving over to give her room beside me—to hell with the jump seat—aware of Belinda, on the other side of me, watching us knowingly. I guessed that she had some theories about me; and something had certainly made me fairly uninterested in the sexy lady with whom I’d just spent a week in fairly confined circumstances. I realized now that something had been started between Ruth Steiner and me one night in Buenos Aires—or maybe earlier, perhaps even back when I slugged her with a shotgun—and that I was enough of a one-woman man not to be very susceptible to other female stimuli until it was finished, one way or another. I felt Ruth squeeze my fingers tightly before releasing them, settling herself beside me.
On the sidewalk, Roger Ackerman was doing the standard Hollywood-hero bit. They always feel they have to prove something by resisting the irresistible. Palomino had moved in to help the other two men in black, but even though they were three against one, Mr. Ackerman was not, by God, going to let any goddamn greasers push him around—but of course they did, shoving him into the Cadillac and slamming the door on him. I heard the locks click. The two I didn’t know went back into the hotel. Palomino got into the front seat of the limousine and spoke to the driver. The big car started to move in its smooth and silent way.
Ackerman pulled himself off our feet and onto one of the jump seats. He started to straighten his tie and smooth his disheveled hair—and stopped, becoming aware at last of who sat facing him.
“You!” he said, staring. “
But you’re dead!”
Chapter 27
A paved highway took us out of town, but we soon turned off onto a winding gravel road and started climbing. At the top of the grade Palomino ordered the car brought to a halt; his voice reached us through the intercom.
“Perhaps the ladies would like to see the animals.”
The rear windows slid down silently. A group of Indians with broad brown faces, wearing bulky colorful costumes, moved toward us accompanied by over a dozen llamas. They were handsome beasts. The big ones were about the size of small cow ponies but more slenderly built; they had a proud, alert, independent look, posing with their heads held high on rather long necks. The little ones, leggy and very fuzzy, were being carried around like puppies by the Indian kids.
“Oh, God, aren’t they cute!” Belinda exclaimed, reaching out to pat one that was held up to her. “Can I give the little girl something?”
“It is expected,” Palomino’s electrified voice said.
“For Christ’s sake, did you kidnap us just to show us a roadside zoo?” Ackerman asked irritably.
Clearly being in the hands of a polite and considerate kidnapper bothered him. Maybe he was afraid that we were remembering that this wasn’t the way he ran his abductions; and feeling my chest still very sore, and seeing a small scab on Ruth’s lip, I did find the thought coming to mind. Belinda slipped some local currency to the kid at her window and gave the baby llama a final pat on the nose. The window glass slid back up and the car started to move once more,
but we did not resume the recrimination session that had been interrupted, perhaps because everything had been said.
Ruth had, of course, expressed conventional dismay at Ackerman’s perfidy. She’d pointed out that he’d sworn I’d be safe if she cooperated with him, but judging by his surprise at seeing me alive, he’d ignored that promise. Ackerman had acted very shocked at the accusation; he’d protested that she’d misunderstood his reaction completely. He’d merely heard from official sources the disturbing news that a male Caucasian body, naked and battered beyond recognition, had been taken out of the Parana River far downstream from the Iguassu Falls; it had not yet been identified. He, Ackerman, had assumed that the body was mine and that I’d panicked and tried to get away from Dennis and Belinda and had fallen into the river accidentally. Or perhaps Dennis, with a personal grievance, had exceeded his instructions, but there had certainly been no termination order from him, Ackerman. . . . At this point Belinda had called him a liar, describing what had actually happened at the river and why; this had led to an acrimonious exchange, which she’d brought to a conventional close by telling him he couldn’t fire her since she’d already quit. Then Ackerman had turned his attention to me. When we stopped for the llamas, he’d been telling me, in effect, that I was certainly going to be made to pay for my brutal assassination of a fine young agent with a promising career ahead of him who’d merely tried to murder me. . . .
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