The Demands of the Dead (15 page)

The office door opened like a curtain being pulled away and I was on stage. Time to perform.

Escalante followed me in and closed the door behind me. Beltran sat at the desk and Madero stood next to him. Their plan was obviously to wait. So I stood at attention and took control.

“Chief Beltran sir, I am here to give a preliminary report about what I have discovered in my investigation.”

Beltran and Madero exchanged a glance. He opened his mouth to speak, but I continued.

“I am working on three different theories, and pursuing evidence in each of these directions.

“First, and with no disrespect to the victims who were no doubt honorable officers in the line of duty, I have some evidence that Officer Diaz was involved in certain off-the-books activities that may have prompted reprisals from organized crime elements who use this area as a transshipment point and who are based in and around the Guatemalan border, including Tapachula.

“I will be going to Tapachula shortly to speak to witnesses and get information on this.

“Second, I am working on the possibility that guerrillas from out of state attacked
our
officers in Public Security in order to try to muscle in on Zapatista territory and perhaps spark a wider conflict. I will be headed out of state to follow up on this possibility.

“Last, I have extensively pursued the leads that were provided by Chief Saltillo, yourself, and of course
my own Embassy
. This has also been productive as I have been able to rule out several of the pro-Zapatista elements, though there are still several people I need to track down and talk to on these lines.

“Sir, Professor Hoffman and I believe that your feedback as the principal commander right here on the ground and in the region is fundamental to the success of the case, which is why I am checking in with you at this early stage. I am hoping that you have some advice for me, sir.”

Beltran looked at me for a long time. Then he dismissed Escalante from the room and motioned me and Madero to chairs. I continued to stand at attention, forcing Madero to do the same. Beltran came around, leaned on the desk.

“I am surprised, Mr. Brown. I was not expecting you to be so co-operative.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, sir.”

“It's just that... you have been seen with some of the civilian Zapatista supporters in San Cristobal and Hatuey.”

“Yes, sir. I was interviewing witnesses. As your department and mine wisely anticipated, I have been able to gain access that would have been more difficult for Mexican law enforcement.”

“Of course, I see that now. And where are you planning to go to pursue the out-of-state guerrilla theory?”

“Oaxaca, sir.”

“I believe the Popular Revolutionary Army is based mainly in Guerrero.”

“True, sir, but there are also bases of support in Oaxaca, and Oaxaca is the neighboring state.”

“I was concerned about your neutrality.”

“I hope I have addressed those concerns, sir.”

“And your partner? Officer Sergio Chavez?”

“We agreed to pursue the same three theories, but different leads. We are planning to meet up in a few days to compare notes.”

“So it would not surprise you to hear that he has not reported in at all?”

“No, sir. That was the plan we agreed on.”

“Fine. Anything else, Mr. Brown?”

“Just one thing, sir. I understand that two villagers were arrested last night. I am just making sure, since Chavez hasn't reported in and neither had I, these arrests had nothing to do with my investigation?”

“Of course not. Antonio and Rodolfo Garcia were arrested for cocaine trafficking. 2 kilos of cocaine were found in their ‘encampment in protest of the military base’.”

“Understood, sir. I have to say, sir, that I interviewed the Garcias myself and they did not strike me as narcotraffickers.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, especially to those who don't know the context,” Beltran said.

“Understood, sir. However, I wasn’t finished interviewing these suspected narcotraffickers about the murders. I assume they’re on their way to prison in Tuxtla now?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir. If you have a chance, perhaps you could call ahead to Cerro Hueco prison in Tuxtla and tell them that I will be seeking to interview the prisoners in a couple of days?”

“Of course, Mr. Brown.”

“Thank you, sir.” I continued to stand at attention.

“You're dismissed, Mr. Brown.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Outside the office, I turned to Madero.

“I can find my own way off the base, thanks.”

I walked away from the base into a bright, almost blinding morning sun.

The interview had gone well. Beltran had expected me to come into his office yelling about the arrest of the Zapatistas and demanding answers, at which point he would lecture me about neutrality, paint me as an American Zapatista, and begin the process of running me and Hoffman's investigation out of the country. Instead, I played the subordinate officer and stroked his ego. Distasteful, but I had found out where the Garcias were, and what they were arrested for, and for good measure, pointed the finger away from the Zapatistas of Hatuey.

I had also found out that Chavez was all but missing in action. I would worry about him later.

The cocaine charge was a sham.

The Zapatista communities were drug free. They punished transgressors. They tore up marijuana plants whenever they found them planted. They didn't allow alcohol. They probably wouldn't even know cocaine if it was up their noses, let alone elect smugglers of it to positions of authority in the community.

I would go straight to Tuxtla, and the overcrowded hellhole that was Cerro Hueco prison. I would warn Hoffman that attacks on our neutrality were being formulated in police offices. And while I was in Tuxtla, I could interview Diaz's family. Find out if they knew he may have been a paramilitary on the side, or a paramilitary's partner.

I was back on the jungle trails with my backpack, moving toward the highway where I would try to get a ride somewhere that would eventually get me to a bus station that would get me back to Tuxtla.

And my heart sank, because I was about to have to allow myself to be captured.

I had been distracted, but not so distracted that I didn't hear them on the trail. They were indigenas in their own forest, but there were a lot of them, they weren't trying to be especially quiet. The forest's concentric rings again. The birds stop singing and take flight, there are echoes of the vegetation crunching under booted feet.

They were heading uphill, toward me, and I was pretty sure they had already heard me. I also wasn't applying my scout skills very well, and had already sent out enough concentric rings to be noticed. If I dashed, or even tried to sneak, off-trail now, I would be inviting pursuit. Some of these guys were probably hunters, and I would get myself shot before I had a chance to explain. So I very slowly put my backpack down, put my hands up, and called out. “Hola! No estoy armado!” I heard them speed up, speak unfamiliar words to each other. Then I was face-to-face with four guys with bandanas over their faces, a big knife and machete each on their waists, and AK-47s pointed right at me.

The leader walked right up to me and put one of those canvas sacks over my head. The kind you carry corn or beans or gravel in. Then they tied my wrists behind my back with rope. As I'd been trained to do, I strained and flexed my wrists as much as I could while they tied, and they weren't very proficient anyway. I would be out in minutes if I wanted to be, and then I'd only have the four assault rifles to deal with.

They moved their rifles out of the way and started punching and kicking. When the first punch hit me in the ribs, I doubled over and tried to stay on my feet. Around the head, it was mostly slaps, and then blows to the body, a few footstomps and shin kicks with the rubber boots. I had definitely had worse, and more competent beatings. Small mercies.

I tasted blood but I didn't think they broke anything. I heard them going through my pack. They searched me, quickly, not thoroughly. These weren't professionals or off-duty cops like Diaz. They were locals. Probably hastily trained and armed. They were speaking a mix of Spanish and a Maya language.

I had managed to stay standing, with a sack over my head, my hands tied behind my back. I think my lip might have been bleeding but I didn't want to feel it. If I unclenched my teeth and another kick came, I could bite myself.

I considered my options. I wasn't gagged. I could speak up, cry for help, try to negotiate, or stay quiet. My feet weren't tied. My hands were working the knots. Eventually I would slip one hand through. Then I would have the rope as a weapon. That would be a good way to get shot. They hadn't shot me yet. That was a good sign.

Yelling for help probably wouldn't bring much and would probably get me killed for my trouble.

I could calmly and rationally explain that I was working for the Mexican government, that I just came from the military base, and that I knew Commander Beltran. I would save that card.

Besides, how did they happen to be here when I was here, unless Beltran had tipped them off?

If these guys were sent by Beltran for me, I was in big trouble. I could be in for a pretty rough time, followed by an unpleasant death. Or a rough time followed by release: they might try to use my life to buy Hoffman's and my silence, or get us to put in a favourable report. If, after my release, I claimed I had been blackmailed, the government could simply say I had been kidnapped by some armed group they didn't know, for all they knew it could have been the Zapatistas, so why should they care? And they could still discredit me and my objectivity. Now they'd be able to say I was psychologically affected by the kidnapping.

They searched me again. They were treating me with kid gloves. It was almost like they were afraid of me, somehow. They were talking to each other in Maya a lot.

They removed the sack. There were three of them now. They'd sent someone to go get orders on what to do with me, was my bet. They had also repositioned their bandanas so I could hardly see their faces. One of them, in a black bandana, looked up at me and stuck his rifle in my stomach.

"Let's walk", he said.

They were considerate enough to take my pack with them. They kept searching it every few minutes. They searched me every few minutes. They seemed to think I could produce a weapon from nowhere at any moment, a fear I thought I might be able to use. They had stopped talking to each other. Two were in front, one behind me. We were off the main trails now. By the sun we were headed south, I figured. It was just afternoon now, and hot. We were walking pretty fast. I slowed down once, and got jabbed with a rifle for it. They were scared. Jumpy. And, I was starting to realize, not too great with their rifles. I had a good chance of getting shot just by accident.

I needed to do something. I waited another ten minutes, and said:

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Piss in your pants, asshole,” Black Bandana said.

“Can't do that,” I said.

“Then you'll have to wait,” he replied.

They searched me again. Still no weapons, guys. The two guys who searched me had a falling out with black bandana in rapid-fire Maya. Maybe they were in favour of finishing me off.

As we walked, I got to the point where I thought I could slip one hand through the rope in one quick motion, and didn't want to risk working it further lest it fall off and they re-tie it. We reached a spot in the trail where four trees had fallen across the path. They weren't large trees, but they were newly fallen, and they made the trail pretty well impassable. Black bandana swore.

“We have to turn around.”

It seemed to me that the odds were pretty slim that trees would freshly fall across this squad's chosen path, in the absence of any wind or storm. I had guardian angels in this forest, and I would use my moment when it came.

I waited until we were in an open part of the trail, and said:

“Well, if you don't let me piss now, I am going to go in my pants.”

“Fine, asshole,” Black Bandana said. But then he spoke to one of his subordinates in Maya, who then motioned to me to follow him.

“This way is better, no?” I said, pointing to a natural gap in the woods. He shrugged and followed me, his rifle pointed.

Thirty yards later I stood in front of a tree, said unnecessarily loudly: “This is a good place to piss,” then indicated my hands behind my back and shrugged.

“I'm sorry my friend, can you help me?”

He came over.
That's it, just one more second
. He adjusted the strap of his rifle so that it was behind him, freeing his hands to work with my pants.

As he started on my button, I tore my left hand out and cupped one of his ears with it. Then, with a cupped right hand, I slapped him as hard as I could on the other ear. I stepped in behind him, pinning the rifle to his back with my hip, taking some of his stunned weight, and reached around and drew his knife from his belt, moving my other forearm across his throat and my head right next to his. I put the knife point to his temple and squeezed his throat hard between my shoulder and forearm.

“Shhhh....” I said.

I heard screaming behind me in accented Spanish. “Hands up! Get on the ground! Put your hands behind your head! Stay down, asshole!”

I led my new prisoner back to where the other two paras were lying, face down. Standing over them were a tall, wiry black man and a short, stocky indigenous man, both in military uniforms and balaclavas, both armed with M-16s.

“On your knees, my friend,” I told my prisoner, and helped him by putting my own knee on his back.

We disarmed the prisoners, took their weapons, took my own backpack, tied them to each other with their own rope, and sent them off on the trails. Then we took off in another direction, first moving fast, then slowing down and taking great care to cover our tracks. It was only after we were well away that I was able to thank, and greet my rescuers, Emi the Zapatista, and Walter Manley.

Walter had shaved his head, grown a goatee. He would never pass for Mexican up close, but from far, in a crowd, on a bus, with a balaclava on or a hat on his head, he might. His jeans and shirt and rubber boots, his slouch, his quick movements, were all Mexican, indigenous. Like a dancer, Walter could copy other people's movements. He just had no ability with languages – he couldn't speak Portuguese with his mother and, as far as I remembered, he could barely function in Spanish. Maybe he'd improved.

We made his camp in the early afternoon, and it was a good thing because I needed the rest. A true scout camp, it was almost invisible – you could walk right past it and never notice the debris hut or the fire pit, but with two minutes work we were sitting comfortably in the shade with tamales from the village and water, talking like we were in a living room.

Emi spoke first. “Senor Mark, can you explain what you are doing here, because Jhon here almost doesn't speak Spanish.”

They used codenames, obviously. So I would have to avoid using anyone's name: No Walter, no Manley, no Maria, not in front of Emi. “You still don't speak Spanish,
Jhon
?”

“Hey, how can you talk so bad about me my friend good?” Walter said in Spanish.

I switched to English. I smiled, and spoke very fast in a neutral tone so that Emi would not be able to tell anything from body language or context. “So, here's what I know. When your brother died you took his passport and came here and have been here since. You're working for these folks somehow. We all thought you were dead too. We've been trying to figure out who's behind your brother's death and I came here because of your message.”

Walter did the same as me, smiling and speaking quickly to hide the content from Emi. Not because Emi wasn't trusted. Just security culture – what Emi didn't know, he couldn't give up. Including real names or back stories like mine.

“But you are working for the cops? Why did they see you with the cops?”

“It's a long story... but I got a job solving these murders here.”

“Mark, still working both sides,” he said.

“You work the jungle, I work both sides. We've stayed alive so far.”

A moment passed in silence as we both thought about the one of us who didn't stay alive.

“I think your employer is trying to kill you,” Walter said.

“Yeah, that could be. But there's another question that's on my mind. And that's:
Jhon
, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Long story. A lot of it isn't even political, that's the truth. I'm teaching people our shit. These are Indians, but they have been displaced so many times that they don't know the bush any more. And they want to learn. So I'm teaching survival, medicinal plants, water, fire, shelter, all of that. This forest is way more alive than ours up in the States.”

“Medicinal plants? Seriously?”