Red Jungle (22 page)

They walked together out to the patio, the bodyguards trailing after them. Russell was a little high from the wine and the port. Carlos was talking about Ubico. He had met him at Russell’s grandfather’s plantation as a child, he said.

“Ubico liked to dress like those soldiers in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical,” Carlos said. They stopped at the fountain, the bodyguards in front of them and to the side. The American looked at Russell, then looked quickly away. Carlos had led him toward the fountain. It was a large one, and it was making a pleasant noise.

“I want to trade you something. Can we do that? Off the record?” Carlos put his well-shined shoe on the edge of the stone fountain and lit a cigarette. “Maybe you’ll understand the importance of family then, and we can be friends.” He inhaled and threw the spent match in the water.

“What is it I have that you want?” Russell asked.

“I want you to have an open mind about these human rights issues I’ve been accused of, in the press.” The general looked into the water. He turned around and put his hand on Russell’s shoulder. “An open mind is all I ask, Russell. . . . Now I’m going to tell you something. You have a friend, an American girl named Katherine Barkley.”

“Yes?”

“There are people here that don’t like her. She should leave the country as soon as possible. It’s no longer safe here for her. Do you understand?”

Carlos turned and smiled at two businessmen who were leaving the restaurant. Carlos, with the formality singular to Latin men of a certain class, motioned them over and introduced Russell to them, not as Russell Price but as Isabella Cruz’s son. It was the first time it had happened since he’d been back.

“One last thing, Russell,” Carlos said when the men had left. His guards were anxious to leave before it rained. The temperature was dropping quickly, and it was almost cool now. “I expect, when I’m president, that your project out at
Tres Rios
will not be bothered by the ministry of culture. However, I’ll expect to share in whatever you and that lunatic German find out there.” And then, as the first rain drops were falling, Carlos was escorted from the garden.

NINETEEN

He’d called Katherine and left a message on her cell. She called him back almost immediately.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“You don’t care.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m working.”

“I want you to come back to the city,” he said. “Now.”

“No. Why should I? I think it’s over,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Please.” She hung up.

He didn’t know what to do. A bus honked and pulled around him. He moved his jeep closer to the curb. A street urchin who’d been doing magic tricks in the intersection approached and tapped his windshield. He ignored the kid’s painted clown face, the eyes big, the nose orange. Small raindrops started to hit the windshield, exploding against the dusty glass.
They were going to kill Katherine and anyone with her. It wouldn’t matter how many students were in the car with her; he knew how they worked. They would all die.

He picked up his phone and dialed Carlos’s cell number. He looked out on the street as he heard Carlos’s voice ask him, in Spanish, to please leave a message.
She’s innocent. What had Katherine done to deserve this? She’d only built houses for poor people, for God’s sake!

Outside, on the street, people were beginning to run for cover as the rain suddenly began to pour down. An explosion of rain hit his windshield, and everything in sight seemed to melt and blur. The young boy stood by his window waiting for money, staring in at him, his glue sniffer’s eyes red, his white painted face hideous. The paint on his face had started to run, so that Russell could see streaks of brown skin underneath the white. He dug in his wallet while rolling down his windshield. He could hear the rain hitting a long row of ragged store awnings across the street. The boy reached for the worn bill with filthy wet fingers.

“Gracias, Señor!
May god bless you,” he said, unfazed by the rain.

“It’s me,” Russell said. He had called Beatrice at home in the city. “I have to talk to Carlos. It’s important. Is he there?” He had dialed her number despite his promise never to call her at home. “I’m sorry; it’s an emergency.” He could hear the maids in the background, and a child crying. “Beatrice, is he there? Is Carlos there? I have to speak to him.”

“No,” she said finally. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the city. Where is he?”

“At the office . . . I think. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain later. Give me the number.”

“I can’t.”

He was stunned.

“Beatrice! For God’s sake, give me the number!”

“He said I wasn’t to give that number out. Ever.”

“Beatrice. Do I have to beg you?”

“He’ll know if I gave it to you. He’ll know,” she said.

“I don’t care if he knows or not. I have to speak to him
now, damn it.”

She hung up. For a moment, all he could hear was the beating of the rain on the top of his jeep in a sick unison with his own heart. Everything outside was obscured, otherworldly, the traffic, buildings, and pedestrians melded into a loose wet fabric, roughly laced together by the rain’s great tension.

He drove a block in fear and desperation. He’d wanted to ask Carlos to send some men to protect Katherine immediately. He was going to beg him. He would write whatever Carlos wanted him to write about him.

The avenue spilled him out onto
La Reforma,
in front of a hulking gray statue of Ubico on his marble stallion, crowded with pigeons. He was trapped by the traffic, which swept him into one of the massive circular roundabouts. He saw the U.S. embassy on the corner, its roof bristling with communications equipment, its huge white satellite dishes pointed at the dark sky. He instinctively moved towards the building, catching a break in the traffic. He pulled back onto
La Reforma
and drove toward the embassy like a madman.

He knew from experience that in the afternoon the embassy was quieter. Guatemalans, soliciting visas for the United States, were only allowed access in the morning, and at a special door. The main entrance to the embassy was protected by two checkpoints. What had once been, in the mid 20th century, a home away from home for Americans, designed for their convenience, was now in the twenty-first century a fortress, designed to keep everyone at bay. Manned by Marines, the embassy had turned into a stronghold housing the DEA, FBI, CIA, NSA and their support staff. Ironically, the smallest contingent was State Department workers. The CIA delegation had gotten so big that it had spilled out and taken over its own building nearby.

Since 9/11, parking anywhere near the embassy had been forbidden. Traffic cops in black ponchos were out in force, making sure no car stopped anywhere near the building. Russell drove along for several blocks, then parked. He ran back towards the embassy pelted by the rain, feeling stupid, and yet hoping that someone inside could stop Katherine’s murder. Like a child running home, he made his way towards the cold, menacing building.

The first checkpoint was a simple guard shack, the second a larger guard house, with a metal detector. The Guatemalan guard asked him for his ID and made him empty his pockets as another policeman ran a metal detector over him. He was stopped again and made to sign a piece of paper giving his full name and address in the country and his business at the embassy.

As he filled out the form, a group of young DEA agents he recognized, beefy, collegiate and boisterous, moved through the checkpoints, skirting the metal detectors without being challenged, simply holding up their ID’s. They were armed and all carried police knives, their metal clips tucked into the front of their jean pockets.

Russell handed back the form and rushed finally up the marble stairs and into the lobby. The embassy’s enormous lobby was empty. There were two doors leading into the interior of the building. When he’d been here before, there had always been elaborate plans made so that when he arrived he was met by whomever he had an appointment to see. Now, unannounced, he realized that the lobby was as far as he was going to be allowed to go without dealing with the Marine guards. The Marines manned a booth that controlled the lobby, which they’d turned into a kind of no man’s land. The white shaved head of a Marine wearing a bullet proof vest acknowledged him with a suspicious nod from the other side of the glass of the guard booth. Russell could see stacks of bulletproof vests lying on shelves and stacks of helmets on the floor.

“I’d like to speak to someone,” Russell said, trying to act calm. He was wet. His jacket was soaked, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You can speak to the duty officer,” the young soldier said.

“No, I need to speak to someone inside. Someone from State.” The young man looked at him stupidly, as if Russell were speaking a foreign language, or were mentally deficient. “From the ambassador’s office.” He searched for the state department’s press relations woman’s name, but had forgotten it.

“What’s your business?” The soldier picked up the phone, said something quickly into it, and then looked at him again through the thick glass. Instinctively, Russell’s hope began to retreat.

“It’s. . . .” He searched for the right thing to say. “I just need to speak to an embassy official,” he said, repeating himself. “As soon as possible.”

“You have to have an appointment,” the Marine told him. “Yes, I realize that, but certainly there’s someone on duty who can speak to an American citizen with an emergency.”

“No, not without an appointment.”

“I’m a reporter. I have a press credential.” He felt for his credential, but they’d taken everything from him at the guard shack—his wallet, cell phone, everything. He moved his hands foolishly over his pockets. An older Marine officer, in his thirties, stepped into the lobby and approached him.

“Can I help you,
sir?
I’m the duty officer.” Exasperated and realizing he’d been a fool to expect help from the embassy, Russell looked blankly at the duty officer. Disdain scrolled across the officer’s face.

“I want to see someone in the embassy. Any embassy official will do,” Russell said. He tried to sound calm and sensible.

“You’ll have to make an appointment,” the officer said. He gave him a quick courteous smile that said “Fuck off.”

“I would categorize this as an emergency,” Russell said. The duty officer shot a glance at the soldier in the booth and stepped closer.

“Are you reporting a threat to the embassy?”

“No! I’m not.”

“Well then, you’ll have to make an appointment. You can use the phone on the wall. You’ll be connected to someone upstairs. They’ll make the arrangements.”

“I’m here to report an intended crime against an American citizen,” he said. The officer looked at him, stiff-jawed.

“Why not tell the Guatemalan police? That’s what they’re for.”

“I don’t think they’d be much help in this case,” Russell said.

“Well. I can understand that,” the officer said with a smirk. “I wouldn’t call them either.” The man glanced up at the booth and smiled at the young soldier.

“I’ve met the ambassador, Mrs. Stamp. I work for the
Financial Times;
I’m a reporter. I have a credential if you’d like to see it. And I’m an American citizen,” Russell said. He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice now; he could feel his face getting red with anger.

“Tell that to the operator on that phone on the wall,” the duty officer said. “She’ll be glad to help you,
sir
.”

For a moment Russell was about to give the name of the man he knew from gossip in the office was probably the CIA’s station chief in the country, but he realized that it wouldn’t make any difference.
Why would the CIA help Katherine?
he thought, looking in the duty officer’s steely blue eyes.
She was no one of consequence.
And even if the spooks decided to help, by the time they masticated the problem—as they most certainly would—she would be dead. He went to the house phone hanging on the wall anyway, and lifted the receiver.

“I’d like to see an embassy official,” he said when the operator came on. “It’s an emergency.”

“Certainly, sir. You can come in next Tuesday at ten,” she said happily. “Is that a good time for you?” Russell hung up the phone and walked quickly through the lobby.

Katherine called him back as he drove to his office.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I hung up.”

“Go to
Tres Rios
. I want to see you. Tonight. I’ll meet you there tonight.”

“Are you still seeing her?”

“No. It’s over,” he said.

“All right. I will . . . I love you . . . you prick,” she said.