The Laughing Falcon (45 page)

Walker had taken an audacious gamble for glory, but had he thought about the consequences of failure? Frank had the answer. “He succeeds either way. If his best-laid plans go awry — indeed, if mortal tragedy befalls Gloria-May Walker — he then becomes even more the sympathetic hero.”

Slack could see that – hearts of America going out to the heroic widower. But he wondered if Chuck Walker was so ambitious and callous as not to care about his wife’s safety.

They had maybe thirty minutes yet of driving, it was already close to three a.m. They were exhausted, Maggie still napping, Frank stifling yawns. The trip to Limón would have to be made by daylight, Slack needed at least a few hours’ sack time. For this venture he would be armed, Frank had returned his .38.

They were descending into the wide valley carved out by the Savegre, a trail of dust following them. Beyond were the ubiquitous oil palm groves of the
compañía
, then the Costanera, the southern highway. Slack toyed with the idea of finding a phone, he wouldn’t mind calling Ham Bakerfield, ask him how it feels when someone’s jerking him off, staging a dramatic rescue for the cameras while the president’s chosen hostage-saver was looking the other way.

But how had Walker got the jump on Slack? He felt sure he hadn’t been followed. The solution was there, staring at him, but still too fuzzy around the edges.

“I’m a friendly,” Elmer had yelled, figure that one out. I’m a friendly …

The answer seemed to descend from the heavens. “Elmer,” he shouted. “Jericho is working for them.”

That woke Maggie up, she blinked, slow to catch her bearings.

Frank pounced on the idea. “Yes, of course. The friends in high places.”

The smell of overripe cheese was suddenly overwhelming, reeking of circumstantial proof. Walker’s cronies were the friends who had saved Elmer from being busted with three hundred pounds of marching powder, the friends who had removed files containing vital dirt on the Special Services veteran. Where had Elmer been hanging his helmet before he showed up in Costa Rica?

“Nicaragua,” he said. “Jericho was doing jobs for Colonel Walker’s Rangers.”

And Maggie chimed in: “Oh, my God, maybe he was.” She was looking at him thoughtfully, alert now. “Glo couldn’t figure out why his name seemed familiar. She thought Chuck may have mentioned it.”

“He’s a friendly, all right,” Slack said.
I’m connected
. A two-engine Piper Comanche and a Mafia pilot. Elmer had made this link during the Contra war, he’d helped the advisers run the guns-for-coke trade.

He drove in stunned silence, worrying that he’d gone overboard, old man Paranoia creating mischief again, taking over the controls. Then, as the ramifications began to hit home, he cried out, “Jesus
wept!
We’ve been
jobbed!”

He sputtered, stumbling over his words, his tongue working faster than his brain. “It’s a work of genius — okay, evil genius — no, he’s not smart enough — maybe his campaign manager, I don’t know. Here it is: Walker knew all along
exactly
where Maggie and Glo were being held. Hell, he knew about the kidnapping in advance. No, strike that – he bloody
planned
it. Putting the snatch on his wife was a set-up from the beginning.” He banged his hands on the steering wheel. “Yes!”

“He would never …” Maggie shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, this makes sense,” said Frank, excited now, too.

“I’ve got it, here it is, this is how he was going to get elected head of the free world, a staged hostage-taking. Okay, Jericho — he was probably the colonel’s bum-boy in Managua — now he’s working for Eco-Rico, and Walker thinks, what a perfect spot for that second honeymoon he’s been planning. He owns Elmer, he got him off that coke beef. Elmer’s been up to the lodge, he knows the lay of the land. But they need a brilliant criminal mind, so they hire Johnny Diego, pay him a big advance, and he minces his way into the People’s Popular Vanguard, reinvents them as the Comando Cinco de Mayo, gets them to do the grunt work.”

“I don’t think Halcón would hire himself out that way,” Maggie said.

Slack reconsidered, she was right, Halcón was the classic private entrepreneur, he didn’t middle for others, and his distaste for Walker had seemed sincere. “Okay, maybe not, maybe Elmer doesn’t tell Halcón it’s a set-up, and so he’s been duped, too – that fits, Johnny was so leery of Elmer that he skipped out on him.”

Frank leaned forward. “Ms. Schneider, what was Senator Walker’s demeanour just before the kidnapping?”

“He was distracted, maybe a little agitated.”

“He dismissed almost his entire staff,” Slack said, “got rid of two of his bodyguards, sent them off to loll about the beach, kept two guys he hoped weren’t very heroic.”

“I am a believer,” Frank said.

Slack was convinced the scheme had been devised in whispers in a darkened backroom, Walker and a few advisers. Everyone, Slack, probably Halcón, even Ham Bakerfield, had been used. He realized grimly there was a reason Walker had pressed him into service with such enthusiasm — the fuckup could be counted on to fall on his face.

From the start, Elmer knew Slack was working undercover, the old snake-eater was a gifted actor, pretending to be
dull-witted and gullible. Slack, blinded by naïveté, had believed he’d had this soft drug junkie in his pocket. That galled.

From a hill overlooking the broad coastal plain, Slack could now see the moon-flecked ocean, waves cresting on an endless beach. Soon they were immersed in the vast sea of African palms. Here was a botanical graveyard, a grove of exhausted trees, row on row of ghostly skeletons, tall and grey, forlorn in death.

John Daniels, whom everyone called Jack, came yawning from his house, alerted by the barking of his old dog, Shep, who sniffed at Slack, and, recognizing him, wagged his tail. Slack had known Jack from the early days, a trusted friend who asked few questions. His rustic cabinas, at the seaside village of Matapalo, were buried in trees at the dead end of a sand road, away from inquiring eyes.

“Two units reserved for Harry Wilder,” Jack grumbled, “late arrivals.” He looked Slack over, his wet clothes stuck to his skin, then at Frank, dozing in the car, at Maggie as she stepped out, the blanket wrapped around her. “I won’t ask,” Jack said. “Hell, I’m not even curious. You guys want some dry clothes, look in the downstairs closet.” He gave Slack the keys to two cabins.

“You must be doing okay, Jack, heard you bought a dish.”

“Decided to check out all the weird shit that’s going on in the real world, reminds me why I came here. I’ll switch it on.” Jack yawned again and headed back to bed, leaving his door open.

“Which cabin do you want?” Slack asked Maggie.

“Yours. I don’t want to be alone.”

They aroused Frank and led him to the nearest unit, where he mumbled his thanks and went directly to bed.

In the house, a tabletop TV offered interminable commercials and business reports. While they waited for the news,
Maggie combed through the closet and when she emerged had on shorts and a T-shirt, “Pura Vida, Costa Rica,” her nipples making peaks in the fabric. Slack tore his eyes away.

When CNN
Headline News
came on, the story of the hour was, as expected, out of peaceful little Costa Rica. A brief intro, then: “And here, on location, with some
unusual
late-breaking developments, is Latin correspondent Monique Delgado.” A brunette with a wide grin that she couldn’t seem to suppress.

“Well, Willard, I barely know where to start, but a raid took place in the dead of night upon this isolated house in the rugged hills of southern Costa Rica.” A ground-to-satellite transmission showed the area lit up, figures moving about, yellow police tape everywhere, which meant Ham’s people had finally showed up.

Monique Delgado talked rapidly, there was much to tell. Late last evening, media had been tipped by an anonymous caller to show up at this location, and arrived to find Senator Chuck Walker and a squad of “anti-terrorist militia” being fired upon while attempting to approach the house, which was later found deserted. “Except for this one man.”

Footage was shown of Benito Madrigal walking out past a front door that had been blown off its hinges. Though his hands were on his head, he was singing the national anthem, defiant to the end. Maggie was relieved to see him unharmed, and Slack gave his image a revolutionary salute. “
Qué bruto, maje.”

“No one has yet been able to explain how Benito Madrigal, supposedly under lock and key in San José, had found his way here, and was then deserted by his small band of supporters. There are many questions being asked, Willard. Allegations have been made that Senator Walker jumped the gun, apparently without the knowledge of the State Department. Some people are describing it as an embarrassing boondoggle.”

Walker, the author of that boondoggle and new holder of the title of all-around fuckup, was unavailable for comment.
No mention of Slack Cardinal or Elmer Jericho or any missing four million dollars, no hint that Maggie had escaped.

The only other interesting shot was of Ham Bakerfield pushing a camera away, most of his words bleeped, but something to do with getting these assholes, presumably meaning the press, out of here. The old man was in a rage.

Delgado concluded with a flourish: “Somewhere in this peaceful land, in this so-called Switzerland of the Americas, two brave women continue their horrific ordeal at the hands of a band of fanatics who have boasted they will stop at nothing to realize their demands. Back to you, Willard.”

“And we all continue to pray for Gloria-May and Maggie,” Willard intoned.

Slack turned off the set and led Maggie to their cabin, it was spartan, a double bed and furniture enough to satisfy the backpack tourists Jack catered to, a curtained alcove with shower and toilet. He placed the duffle bags at the foot of the bed, smoothed them out. “This may be my last and only chance to crash out on four million dollars.”

Maggie strolled about, straightening chairs, brushing off the bed, the pillows, tucking corners in.

“I’ll be taking the Suzuki tomorrow, so maybe you and Frank can get to Quepos by taxi. Don’t talk to anyone but Ham Bakerfield, he’s an honest old buzzard, so don’t be afraid to pass on our suspicions about Walker. He’ll want to pick up Elmer fast; tell him to squeeze him hard. And don’t tell him where I’ll be tomorrow night.”

“I’m not going to Quepos. I’m going with you.”

Slack thought she was joking until he saw her set expression. “As much as I’d enjoy your company, I have to say no. I’m not traipsing off to a tea party.”

She made a face — that had sounded somehow sexist. “No, you’re not dumping me now, Mr. Slack Cardinal. If you’re right about Chuck Walker, this is an incredible story and I intend to
see it through. As far as I’m concerned you rescued me, so you’re stuck with me.”

La Brava Schneider. “I’m going to have to think about it. Let’s talk in the morning when our heads are clear.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He pulled off his wet shirt. He’d found a baggy sports shirt in Jack’s closet, it would do for tomorrow.

“How did you get those scars on your back?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“They look like whip marks.”

“Ancient history.” He covered himself with a sheet and lay down on the duffle bags, groaning, all his bones sore.

Maggie took a shower, doused the lights, and stretched out on the bed. There was a long silence, and Slack assumed she had fallen asleep. But she finally said, “You don’t have to sleep on those uncomfortable bags. This is a double bed.”

“I’m fine here.”

“Honestly, there’s lots of room.”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“You scare me.”

A pillow landed on his head, she wasn’t going to insist.

Too stimulated by yesterday’s dangerous escape, disturbed by concerns over Chuck Walker’s intrigues, Maggie had been denied a sound sleep. Her attempts to nap in the Suzuki were thwarted by Slack’s continual braking and swerving around potholes. They had been travelling for five hours, since six a.m., climbing up and over the volcanic hump of Costa Rica before descending toward the eastern shore. But now progress was
sluggish behind a logging truck, its airbrakes hissing and belching down the bends and twists.

They were in cloud forest, its mists obscuring their route. Occasionally, through gaps, she glimpsed scenes of dream-like beauty, mist tangled in Cortéz trees that were exploding with masses of yellow bloom. But Slack wasn’t enjoying the scenery; he was swearing at the truck ahead, convinced bootleg loggers had pillaged its cargo from the forest. His concern for the environment seemed almost obsessive: pesticides from banana plantations were poisoning rivers flowing into the Atlantic, turtles were threatened, reefs endangered.

Her pessimistic tour guide could easily have tiptoed away this morning with the sacks of money and abandoned her to her dreams, but he had awakened her at daybreak. Before leaving, they had aroused Frank Sierra. “I’ll check in when you’re done explaining to Ham that you don’t know where I’m going, and that Maggie insisted on coming along.”

That bulge in the buttoned pocket of Slack’s shorts was a gun – it made Maggie nervous but did not dim her resolve to help Halcón and his crew escape in safety. She was unsure how she would react to seeing Glo again after the recent fracturing of their friendship.

A roadside cantina emerged from the gloom, and Slack paused there to pick up empanadas, soft drinks, and a few oranges. They continued on, then dropped beneath the fog and pulled off on a dirt driveway from where she could see the aquamarine waters of the Caribbean Sea. She felt self-conscious as they ate because he was staring at her; she often found him doing so, and in a puzzled way. But whenever she directly met his eye, he looked quickly away.

“What’s your real name? It’s not Jacques Cardinal.”

“Jacques Sawchuk. Born in New York, but my mother was French, my father Ukrainian.”

“Well, I’m pleased you’re still a Jacques — I was worried you’d be a Gaston or an Alphonse.”