Night of the Jaguar (19 page)

“How do you get there without joining the dead?”

Ajax looked around for a telephone. “Journalists can go anywhere in our country. Connelly wants to stick his nose in our business? Good. He'll be my cover, hide me in plain sight all the way to Cuadra's farm.”

“And me?”

Ajax scanned her face, like a tracker cutting for sign. But what does trust look like?

 

10

1.

The Carretera Norte up to Matagalpa split the Sébaco Valley, which, this rainy time of year, stretched away in such a luxuriant green it challenged even Ajax's thesaurus reading. The valley, in the foothills of the northern mountains, stippled in the sharply angled light just after dawn, like now, drew an almost hallucinatory response from Ajax's eyes, so long accustomed to the flat dull colors of the city. He combed his mind for some synonyms but couldn't find them. In his haste to leave he hadn't packed the thesaurus.

He stole a glance at Connelly, who had blessedly dropped off to sleep almost before they'd cleared Managua. Ajax was relieved to have time to enjoy the view, and even the driving. Connelly's pickup was a dream—power steering, power brakes, power windows, the airconditioning whispering coolness in his face and the radio softly playing music with a static-less clarity he'd forgotten was possible. The truck seemed to run the gauntlet of the highway's potholes of its own accord. He felt at one with the machine in a way he only did when rolling the Python's cylinder over his palm. Through the steering wheel he could feel the miles falling away as he fled the raucous capitol, as if the alien city pushed him away from it, while the mountains in the distance drew him to them.

He picked up the wallet with his new identity, which was his disguise. Connelly, Ajax almost hated to admit, had come through in a short time. An ID from the Foreign Press Association identified him as “Martin Garcia, translator and fixer.” And, for this trip, driver.

He and Connelly would be safe as far as Matagalpa, the last stop before the war zone. After that it was wide-open country in one of the least populated regions in all of Central America. His disguise should get him through any Sandinista checkpoints on the way to Enrique's farm. But if they were stopped by the Contra? Cuadra's farm sat right in the middle of a free-fire zone often occupied by the Contra's Jorge Salazar Command—the singularly most effective combat unit in an otherwise ineffectual army. Most Contra units and their commanders would leave their bases over the border in Honduras, make a raid or quick strike, usually against soft targets, and bolt back over the border. But the Jorge Salazar Command was run by a scrappy and wily veteran called Krill, a former sergeant in the Ogre's National Guard who, while maybe not the best military mind, was widely known as the Contra who most liked to fight. It was his men who most often went after the Sandinista army rather than schoolteachers or health workers.

It wouldn't be hard answering their questions, he knew, as most of the Contra were campesinos who wouldn't know how to question someone. His survival would hang on that first impression. He'd sell the disguise in an instant or die right there on the roadside. The thought made him check the rearview mirror—in the truck bed, where he'd tied it down, was Enrique's casket. That, he knew, was the best “beard” he could have. No one really wanted to mess with a corpse bound for the boneyard.

That's when he saw the little girl in the road dead ahead.

The pickup was just rounding a curve and the girl was just, suddenly, there, like a ghost.

Ajax stomped on the brake pedal, trying to drive it through the floor. He kept his eyes on the girl. She was dressed all in white, in her first Holy Communion dress. He could see the tin can in her hands and the rope stretched across the road behind her. Ajax tried to stand up on the brake, but he could feel the road sliding away under the locked-up tires. He ripped the hand brake up and slewed the pickup sideways, the girl seeming to move from the windshield into his side window. “Goddamn STOP!!!”

“What the fuck!” Connelly awoke to find not the road in front of him but the countryside, and braced his arms on the dashboard.

And then the world did come to a stop. The pickup rocked back and forth as if it, too, was confused. The world inside the truck was silent. Somehow the radio was off.

“What the fuck?” Connelly was still straight-arming the dashboard.

Ajax looked the little girl in the eye, peeled his hands off the steering wheel, and lowered his window. She was close enough for him to reach out and pat her head. So he did.

“Para la Santa Madre.” She held up her can for a donation as cool as if the Holy Mother had stood between her and hurtling death.

In a country like Nicaragua, charity was rare enough in the city where red lights at least held up traffic long enough to beg. But in the countryside people made their own stoplights: dress a few kids in their Sunday best, give them a can, and stretch a rope across the asphalt. A charity roadblock.

“What just happened?” Connelly almost whispered.

“Charity roadblock. Give me some money.”

Connelly seemed to finally notice the girl in white, and reached into his pants for some bills. Ajax spotted the old woman sitting near the handful of huts that comprised the nameless village. There was always an abuela somewhere nearby keeping an eye on the kids, and her cut.

“Abuela!”

She waddled over while Connelly counted out a million córdobas in hundred-thousand cord notes. The bills themselves were laughable. They were older thousand-córdoba notes that had become so ravaged by inflation that the government simply had recalled them, stamped the three extra zeroes on, and reissued them. The makeover was so poorly done the bills screamed their uselessness even to counterfeiters.

“Only in Nicaragua can you make someone a millionaire every day.” Matthew handed the bills to Ajax. “Even if it is only twenty bucks.”

Ajax grunted, but took the wad and stuffed it into the girl's can. The smile she gave him was a mixture of gratitude and relief. Ajax reckoned she'd probably just made her monthly quota and could now go home.

Connelly reached into the backseat and took a bar of soap out of a boxfull he'd loaded back in Managua. He leaned across Ajax and gave it to the girl. She took it, pressed it to her nose, and inhaled until her eyes practically rolled up into her head as if in ecstasy.

“Gracias, señores.”

She took off running, handing off the can to the abuela. The old woman called another little girl over, gave her the can, and set her at her post on the road. Ajax, who had for a moment just before the near fatal accident shed his cop's skin, slid it quickly back on.

“Abuela, you move this rope and these kids either a hundred meters in front of the curve or a hundred meters back that way.”

“Yes, señor.”

“Granny, I'm policía, don't let me come back here later and find these kids in the same place.”

“Yes, compañero.”

He felt a tap and found Connelly passing another bar of soap. Ajax handed it over. Like the little girl, the old woman inhaled it as if she might snort it right up her hairy nostril. Then she smiled with genuine, toothless cheer, and ordered the kids to relocate up the road.

The horn blast of an IFA truck clambering up behind them made Ajax pull off the road while a convoy of six laden trucks passed. They were full of soldiers.

Ajax gave a sideways look at Connelly.

“What is it,
Martin
?”

“I was wondering what all that soap was for.”

“Let me guess, you thought I brought them because I'm a dirty gringo journalist.”

“Something like that.”

“Or just a dirty gringo?”

“Something like that, too.”

“Soap's for charity roadblocks; soap's even gotten me through military roadblocks. Usually after I interview some campesino or a family in the war zone. My little rule, ‘Take someone's time, leave a bar of soap behind.'”

“Why not money?”

“That, my dear Martin, would be paying for information. A mortal sin in journalism. The soap's more of a treat.”

Ajax had noticed several cartons of Reds in the back with the soap. He'd helped himself to a pack.

“Why not Marlboros?”

“You're a fucking addict. Cigarettes are for soldiers. For dirt farmers, perfumed soap is a gen-u-ine luxury.”

The last IFA truck passed. Ajax started the pickup, rolled up the windows, and waved at the old woman and kids as they rolled by. As he turned on the AC it occurred to Ajax that this gringo might not be a complete asshole.

*   *   *

The idea died a quick death thirty minutes later at an abandoned gas station just inside the hamlet of Los Nubes. Back in Managua, while Ajax had waited for Connelly to ready his disguise, he'd studied the map of their route. His attention had lingered over Los Nubes, and the gas station he'd known would be there. It had been the one stop Ajax did not want to make—too many ghosts.

“Look!” Connelly pointed to the soldiers' convoy that had stopped in the ruins of the gas station. “Pull in. Pull in!”

“Why?”

“Pull over when I tell you to!”

When Ajax didn't slow, Connelly reached for the hand brake.

“All right!” Ajax distressed the brakes again but missed the gas station. He reversed fast and slid the pickup to a halt. “You think this is funny?”

“Jesus,
Martin,
not everything is about you!” Connelly scrounged in the crew cab and came up with a carton of Marlboros. He hung a Canon 180 camera around his neck and loaded a micro tape recorder with a tape. “It's a military convoy pulled over. I'm a war reporter.”

“They're not going to tell you anything.”

“Of course they're not going to tell me anything. They've been trained not to talk to reporters and certainly not some foreigner on the side of the road. We all agree they're not going to reveal mission information, so that lets me spread some smokes around and find out what I do need to know.”

Ajax felt the ghosts crowding around him in this place. Still, he was curious about Connelly's interrogation method. “Like what?”

Connelly stuck the tape recorder in his shirt pocket. “Questions like, are they conscripts or volunteers. See that last truck? The flap's closed, so it's full of gear. A convoy of conscripts is most likely militia, but volunteers might mean a hunter-killer unit. And five trucks of specialized troops and one of gear could signal a fight in progress or one to come. If they complain about riding the trucks all day, they might be coming up from the south, so reinforcements. If they're not ass-sore they might be from the base in Pantasma moving to a new post, in which case if I ever run into them later they'll remember me for the smokes I hand out now.”

Ajax had to admit he was impressed by Connelly's interrogation style.

“Impressed,
Martin
?”

“No. Pressed for time.”

Connelly smiled and got out, slamming the door with as much pique as he could muster. He took two steps and opened the door.

“And, yes, Captain Montoya, I notice where we are, and why you wouldn't want to stop here. So sit and ruminate with your ghosts or get out and help.”

As he watched Connelly walk away he pulled out the Reds he'd caged. Ajax read the side:
MADE IN
MEXICO
. The tight-assed gringo. He lit one anyway. He watched Connelly approach the trucks and pass out cigarettes. He had to admit the closed, blank faces of the soldiers cheered and opened. Ajax lowered the power windows so he could overhear them. He rolled the tawny-colored filter between his thumb and forefinger and studied the sky; fat black clouds were rushing in from the west to match Ajax's mood.

Connelly was right, he thought. This ruined gas station held more ghosts than Ajax cared to wrestle with—more than just Jorge Salazar died here. He climbed out to retie Cuadra's coffin against the fast approaching storm; but really, he wanted to eavesdrop on the reporter.

“I know you wish these were pillows,” Connelly said, handing out butts to the soldiers in the closest truck. “Ass sore as you must be coming all this way.”

The soldiers made no definite reply, but it was clear to Ajax that they had come far, as Connelly wanted to know.

Fat drops of rain the size of small tortillas slapped onto Cuadra's coffin. The first splash took Ajax in the eye and he retreated to the truck cab.

Matthew climbed in after the rain burst drove the soldiers back under their tarps.

“I love this rain, man. You ever come up here in March or April? This whole valley is like a desert; two months of rain later, it's as lush as the Garden of Eden.”

Ajax stared out the window, recalling, as he often did when safe inside from the rain, all those years in the mountains when a deluge like this would catch him and his men far from their base, from any shelter at all.

“Tree stumps.”

“What?”

“Tree stumps!”

“I heard you.” A long, low rumble of thunder whooshed in on the wind. “It wasn't the volume I queried after but the enigmatic nature of the comment.”

“When we were in the mountains, we'd get caught in this kind of rain, there was no shelter, no ponchos, and we'd just have to sit in it until it was over. Endure it. It could drive you insane, a rain like this. We sat like tree stumps. No mind, no awareness. A tree stump. You could see it in their eyes, how far away into themselves they went, the compas, to endure it. Not easy to come back all the way after that.”

“Well, if it was as a coping mechanism, it seems a good tactic.”

“No.” Ajax cracked his own window a bit so the tormenta's wind song drowned out the radio, which he shut off. “It was a dangerous time. The compas were shut down, not paying attention to their surroundings, if the Guardia had had more balls, they'd have caught us out every time.”