The Infinity Tattoo (12 page)

“Then we have the same man in two photos with what are undoubtedly very important politicians or members of the military in Honduras,” she went on. “I’d sure like to know who the other guys are,” she said indicating the unidentified men in both photos.

Jack picked up the photos once again. “Meg, you don’t suppose this man is Augusto of the emails, do you?”

“Of course!” Meg said. “That’s got to be it. Why else would Alex’s journalist colleagues include the picture in the package? If that’s true, then if this picture ever got out, it could cause severe political damage to the Honduran government. They are still trying to recover from the world’s condemnation of the coup. The last thing they need is evidence that they are consorting with members of the old death squad.”

“And someone, a journalist, gave Alex a package proving the connection,” Jack said. “Alex mailed it to me.”

“Augusto tried to find out what he did with the package and when Alex refused to tell them—”

“They killed him,” Jack said.

Meg shivered in the air-conditioned room and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. “And your commanding officer knows, or at least used to know Augusto. Do you know if he ever served in Central America?”

“Not specifically, but I know he served at SouthCom for most of his career.

“What’s SouthCom?”

“It’s an acronym for the United States Southern Command. It’s a joint military command operating out of Florida and is responsible for military operations in Latin America. Parker was there for a long time. You should see all the commendations on the wall of his office.”

“How old is Parker?” Meg said.

“I don’t know. He’s probably in his mid-fifties.”

“And you say that picture you saw was of a much younger Parker.”

“Yes, but it’s hard to say exactly how old he was.”

“But he could have been in Honduras in the eighties, right?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking that there has to be a reason why your commanding officer is mixed up in this now.”

“Okay, let’s just suppose for a minute,” Jack said, pacing in the small space of the motel room. “Based on the picture I saw, we know that Parker knew this man, who we think is Augusto, back in their youth. They are of a similar age, both in the military. They maintain contact with each other over the years. Let’s suppose that Parker was in Honduras during the late 1980s.”

“Then we have this picture of Augusto with a congressman which is very damning to the Honduran government,” Jack went on. “Alex gets a hold of this information and mails it to me. Then I come along and start digging into Alex’s disappearance, which puts me on Augusto’s radar. I get transferred rather suddenly to Luke Air Force Base under the command of Colonel Parker.”

“And so,” Jack continued “. . . what? That’s where I get stuck. I am safely out of Augusto’s hair. So all’s well that ends well.”

“Except that you still have the package, which presumably Augusto wants. And then you stumble on that photograph of Augusto and Parker as young men. Now both of them are nervous.”

Jack stared at Meg. “Here’s another thing that has been bothering me. These thugs who keep following me. Julio identified them as part of a drug cartel. If they are, who is pulling their strings?”

“Augusto? Colonel Parker? Maybe both,” she said.

“I sure don’t like the direction of these thoughts, Meg. It means that one or both of these men have some pretty strong ties to one of these cartels.”

“I’ve been reading in the news that both the Zeta and the Sinaloa Cartels have established a strong presence in Honduras,” Meg said. “With the government engulfed in a political crisis following the coup, and all the donors withdrawing their support, including security, Honduras became a paradise for these guys to move in. Maybe this Augusto was involved with one of these gangs.”

“And Colonel Parker?”

“Maybe Parker is an unwilling accomplice. Maybe Augusto has some kind of hold over him. As in blackmail,” Meg said.

“I don’t think a photo taken over thirty years ago with Parker and Augusto together is proof of anything,” he said.

“Maybe Parker is corrupt. Maybe he’s getting paid by Augusto to do his dirty work,” Meg said.

“It’s possible, I suppose. But my impression of Parker is that he is something of a pansy. I can’t see him doing anything…illegal by choice.”

“So we’re back to blackmail?” Meg asked.

Jack nodded slowly.

“Then it has to be something else, something more sinister that Augusto has on Parker that he can use for blackmail.”

“But what would Augusto have on a colonel in the United States Air Force that would make him risk his career by working with him.”

“I don’t know. Maybe, something happened in Honduras when they were both young, something involving the death squads of the 1980s.”

Jack looked at Meg for a long time. “This is all conjecture.”

Meg nodded.

“We don’t have any proof of anything.”

Meg nodded again.

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, but somehow, we have to get Augusto to call off his dogs. Is there any way you can find out if Colonel Parker was deployed to Honduras and if so, when?”

“Personnel stuff is highly confidential. The database is accessible on a strictly need-to-know basis.” Jack was silent for a moment. “There is one person I know that could maybe hack into it.”

* * *

Jack sat across from Billy Marsh at an obscure tavern in downtown Phoenix-proper, suggested by Billy. It was a dingy place with booths along one side and a bar stretching the length of the other. The walls were dark wood paneling and there were pictures of old movie stars on the walls. He and Billy sat right below Marilyn Monroe.

“Billy,” Jack began after the beer had been served and they were alone, “I want to ask a favor of you. I will totally understand if you can’t or don’t want to do it, but I need you to promise me that what gets said at this table stays here.”

“Okay,” said Billy. He regarded Jack steadily.

“I need some information from the personnel files on a certain officer. Specifically, I need to know if Colonel Richard Parker served in Honduras and if so, when.”

Billy took a sip of his beer and glanced around him, then back at Jack. “It’s funny you should be asking me that,” he said and smiled.

“Why?”

“Because Parker asked me to remove a certain photograph from a website, one that you had forwarded to him in an email.”

“Is that right?” Jack leaned back against the booth. “Did he say why?”

“He said that the photo was taken in another time and place and that it could be considered politically sensitive in today’s world, something like that.”

“Interesting. I take it you’re the one that saw to it that it was removed from the internet?”

“Yes. But what’s even more interesting is that if I’m not mistaken, that photo was taken in Honduras when Parker was young. Now you come along and ask me if I can find out if and when the Parker served in Honduras. Why would that be?”

Jack regarded his friend and colleague. “Billy, if I told you, I would have to kill you.”

“That serious, huh?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It seems I have inadvertently gotten myself mixed up in something involving the Colonel. Whatever it is, I’m having to fly blind and under the radar. I’m hoping that if I can learn enough about what I’ve gotten myself into, I can get myself back out of it.”

Billy took another sip of his beer and gazed at the hand holding the glass for a moment. “I think I can help you. Give me a day and I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, Billy. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. By the way, do you want that photograph?”

Jack smiled. “You kept a copy?”

“Of course.”

There was nothing more for them to do but wait. Meg was used to down time. It gave her the opportunity to read. She had a lot of unread books on her IPad, ready for times like this. But as she tried to bury herself in the plot of her latest novel of international intrigue, she found it difficult to read even a sentence, much less a paragraph, with Jack constantly pacing back and forth in the small room.

“Jack, stop it. You’re driving me mad.”

“I can’t help it. This waiting is driving
me
crazy.”

“Don’t you ever read?”

“Sure. Trade journals. Do you see any of those around here?”

“What about books? You know, like novels.”

“What are those?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Okay, I know what novels are, but I’ve never been interested in reading them.”

“Poor you,” Meg said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you kidding? Books are the greatest escape in the world. There is nothing like reading a story that takes you completely out of your own world and into another. Didn’t your parents read to you when you were a kid?”

“With six kids and a farm to run? They were up at sunrise, working all day. By the time they got us through our homework and into bed, it was time for them to go to bed.”

“Six kids, huh? How many boys and how many girls?”

“Five girls. And me.”

“Oh my God. I’m trying to picture it. Where were you in the pecking order? Oldest? Youngest?”

“Right in the middle.”

“So what was it like?”

“I don’t know. It just was. My older sisters gave me a lot of grief. I was short for my age until I reached my junior year of high school, and they loved to tease me about it. Then there was my younger sister, Christy. I used to fight all the time with her. As far as the two youngest were concerned, I got assigned to babysitting duty a lot. But I didn’t mind. They were sweet kids.”

“You were short?” Meg took in his well-developed six-foot frame. “That’s hard to imagine.”

“Well, I was. I would get these huge crushes on girls who looked right over my head.”

Meg laughed. “How much of an age difference between you and Christy?”

“Only eighteen months. That’s why we fought so much.”

“And your little sisters?”

“The twins were ten years younger than me. I imagine they were a surprise to my parents, even though they never said so.”

“Honestly,” she said, “I can’t imagine it, since it was just me and my father when I was growing up.”

“How old were you when your mother died?” asked Jack.

“Eight. My father never remarried. I tried to match him up at first. But he’d tell me Mom was the only woman for him. Besides, he was pretty old by the time he found his one true love and married her. He said he was too set in his ways to give marriage another go.”

“So was it lonely?”

“Not really. I was always helping my dad with his landscaping. That’s how come I know Julio so well. It’s also how I learned Spanish. Most of the crew were of Mexican descent. And I used to go exploring a lot with Nicky. You remember my friend you met that day you were fixing equipment in the shed? We were practically joined at the hip.”

“Yes, I do recall her, I might not read novels, but I can remember things!”

“Sure. My father was always warning us not to wander off. You could easily get lost on those trails. But we did it anyway, me and Nicky. We got lost plenty of times. We always carried compasses and lots of water so that we could always find our way back, and not die of thirst.”

“Even back then you were a girl scout,” Jack said. “Always prepared.”

“Yeah. And when I wasn’t out on an adventure with Nicky, I was reading. Usually adventure or exploration books. I used to fantasize about traveling to foreign places.”

“So you became a foreign correspondent. How does one go about that?”

“Well, I was always a bit of a news junkie so it seemed natural to study journalism in college. During my junior year, I started contacting New York Times’ correspondents in Africa and asked if I might be able to intern with them. I told them that I would find my own funding. I just wanted the chance to learn from their work. I ended up heading to Kenya to intern with the bureau chief in Nairobi. That’s how I got my start.”

Jack sat down on the edge of the bed where she was lounging with her IPad. “Don’t you miss it, being a journalist?”

“I sometimes miss the thrill of chasing a story, but there are a lot of things I don’t miss, like living out of a suitcase. What about you?” Meg said. “Do you ever get tired of being in the military?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I mean when I joined, I was twenty-one years old, fresh out of college. I wanted to serve my country and see the world. I seemed like the obvious way to go. And I did get to see a lot of the world. But, I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’ve outgrown it. You know, like it’s just time to move on.”

* * *

Jack’s cell phone rang on their third evening in the shabby hotel. Meg watched his conversation anxiously. He gave her a thumbs up, which she hoped meant he was talking to Billy.

Meg had a serious case of cabin fever. She missed her red rocks something fierce and longed to be digging in the rocky soil back in Sedona. Or at the very least to be out of this motel room. And she was worried about finances. Would Julio and Manny be able to hold on until she could get back? The only thing she could do was to cross her fingers and hope for the best.

The conversation was fairly brief and when Jack hung up he told her that his colleague, Billy, had come through for him.

“Colonel Richard Parker was deployed to Honduras fresh out of boot camp in August, 1985. His personnel file indicates that he had a level three in Spanish. He was stationed at Soto Cano for a period of two years, and then he was deployed back to the States.”

“That puts him there in Honduras right in the thick of things,” Meg said. “Now we need to find out how he became acquainted with Augusto.”

“Yeah, but how?”

“We need to find someone who was on the ground during that time,” Meg said. “Let me think about it.”

“Okay, but meanwhile, Billy has emailed that photo to me. Let’s have a look at it.”

They both stared at the photo on Jack’s phone. It showed three men in military fatigues sitting at a table having a beer. One of them was blond and, even sitting, looked taller than the other two.

“That’s definitely Colonel Parker,” Jack said.

“And on the left is Augusto. No question about it.” A tingle went up Meg’s spine. There was a story there, she was sure of it. If only she could think of someone who could help them dig it up.

Then it came to her.

“Isabella Mendoza,” she blurted out.

“What?” Jack said.

“That’s who we need to talk to. Isabella Mendoza. She was a journalist during the eighties, covering Central America. She wrote about the Contra War until things got too hot for her, and she had to pull out of the region. I wonder what happened to her.”

“Don’t you think that with all your connections you could track her down?”

“Yeah. Let me think who might know her,” she said grabbing her cell phone. Then she stopped. The time difference between Arizona and the east coast was three hours. It was already eleven p.m. It would have to wait until morning.

Even though they now had a plan, the restlessness she felt just wouldn’t abate. She tried reading a book, but the words seemed to have no meaning. Jack had the television on and was watching a baseball game, the volume turned low. Meg tried to get into the game, but the action was excruciatingly slow.

What was it about some men and sports, anyway? She had never understood it. Like in college, guys like that got so wrapped up in it, so emotional. During football season, they would hang out together in packs, drinking and acting like idiots. She figured if that was the only way they could express their emotions, then she didn’t want to have anything to do with them.

And now, here she was with a guy who not only watched sports, but was in the military. Could she have found anyone less suited to her tastes? But God help her, when she looked at him, she felt desire from her fingers to her toes.

She got up and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. She emerged in a T-shirt and panties. Jack glanced over at her and immediately shut the game off.

“I thought you were watching that,” she said.

“Not anymore,” he said. “Come here.” She stood by the bed and he reached for her breast, stroking it through the soft material of the T-shirt. Fire lit in her core and spiraled outward and she gasped.

He pulled her onto the bed and rolled her onto her back. When he kissed her, she gave his lower lip a little bite. His hand slid under her shirt and caressed her breast, stroking the nipple until it was taut, and sending a message straight down to her loins.

* * *

The first thing the following morning, Meg started making calls. This time, the three-hour time difference worked in her favor and offices were open. Her first contact, a foreign correspondent for the Washington Post, didn’t know anything about Isabella, nor did the second, a reporter for CBS that covered the Latin America beat. But on the third try, she got a hit. They spoke for a bit, then she ended the call.

“Any luck?” Jack said, who had only heard one side of the conversation which consisted mainly of “yes,” “no,” and “I see.”

“Manuel Estrada, who is a journalist with CNN en Espanol, says he knows someone who knows Isabella Mendoza very well. He is going to try to reach him and will call me when he knows something.”

“Great,” Jack said. “While we’re waiting, let’s go get breakfast.”

They left the motel and walked a short distance to a café. It was a bit of a hole-in-the-wall with a kitchen to one side where they could see the fry cook making up breakfast plates and sliding them under the heat lights. A half-dozen tables, each with a worn plastic tablecloth and a set of condiments in the middle, formed an “L” around the kitchen area.

They were tucking into their breakfasts when Meg’s cell phone chirped. She answered it and listened for a moment. Then she said thank you and ended the call.

“Manuel’s contact knows how to reach her. Apparently, she’s become something of a recluse these days. She won’t talk to just anyone, so he has to try to reach her first and give us an introduction. He says he’ll do that sometime in the next hour or so.”

They were returning to the hotel room when Jack whispered, “I think we might have a tail.”

“Crap, again?” Meg said.

“Yep. See the guy sitting in that blue Chevy? He hasn’t moved since we left the motel for breakfast. I think it’s high time we checked out and moved on.”

They went back to their room and quickly began to pack. Meg was just stuffing her toiletries into the pocket of her backpack when her phone rang again.

“Isabella Mendoza is in Santa Fe, New Mexico,” she explained to Jack after she’d hung up. “She was reluctant to talk to us until Manuel’s colleague mentioned Augusto. Now she is willing to meet us.”

“How long is the drive to Santa Fe?”

“Seven or eight hours, I think.”

“Okay, let’s go out the car and drive away nice and casual-like. See if he guy follows us.”

“And if he does?” Meg asked.

“We’ll think of something.”

Jack pulled the Land Cruiser onto the main commercial street and proceeded east. Meg adjusted the side mirror so that she could watch unobtrusively behind her.

“There it is,” she said. “Two cars behind us.”

Jack continued down the street changing lanes every now and then just to see what the other car would do. It maintained a steady distance behind them. When they reached the intersection to another heavily travelled road, Jack turned onto it. The Chevy followed.

“Jack,” Meg said nervously, “what are we going to do.”

“Don’t worry, Meg. We’ll lose him.” They continued driving. The street had two lanes in both directions. They passed several chain restaurants, some shopping centers, a couple of motels.

Then Jack asked Meg, “Is your seatbelt fastened?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said and gunned the engine as they were coming up on a yellow light. The Land Cruiser flew through the intersection just as the light turned red.

Meg gasped and held onto the door handle. “Shit, Jack. Are you trying to get us killed?” But even as she spoke, squealing brakes sounded behind them followed by the unmistakable sound of crunching metal.

Jack looked into the rear view mirror at the crash in the middle of the intersection. One of the cars was a blue Chevy.
Gotcha, you bastard.

* * *

Late afternoon found them proceeding up a rough gravel road with signs along the way warning that they were on private property and trespassers would be prosecuted. Finally, they reached the end of the road and the driveway leading up to the house. It was pueblo style, built low to the ground and, like all the houses in the area, painted the color of the desert. But in this case, Meg was sure that the color had been chosen for camouflage more than to comply with the zoning requirements.