The Laughing Falcon (50 page)

She had not expected to be called upon so abruptly. “Well, Mr. Cardinal here was hired by the U.S. government as an undercover agent, and he should get a ton of medals. I’m fine, in excellent shape, obviously; so is Gloria-May. She doesn’t want it known where she is. She — how can I put it? — well, obviously she’s hiding, her life has been threatened.” She added brightly, “She was in cheerful spirits when I last saw her.”

She was being looked at with uncomprehending expressions; reporters who had recovered from shock were scribbling furiously as she and Slack recounted Elmer’s drug-addled threats and admissions. “I can’t get this straight,” said CNN’s Monique Delgado. “Was Halcón here or not?”

“No immediate comment on that one,” Slack said.

Creeley asked, “He get paid off?”

The house shook as six agents burst in, brandishing weapons, searching among the crowd in confusion until they recognized Maggie and Slack. A female agent drew Maggie off to a corner. She tried to fend her off, to return to Slack’s side, then was astonished to see a clean-cut young man pointing a pistol at him.

Reporters complained as they were herded toward the door, the photographers still frantically busy with their cameras.

Slack was looking at the gun with a bemused expression, sipping at his
guaro
. “You going to read me my rights, Theodore?”

“That man saved my life at least three times in twenty-four hours.” Maggie shouted this, for the ears of the last reporters being pushed out the door. “He saved
all
our lives!”

Now framed in the doorway was the grizzled bulk of Hamilton Bakerfield, looking around, his eyes settling on Maggie. “How are you feeling, Miss Schneider?”

“Damned angry. Tell that man to put his gun away.”

“What’s with the blood on you, Sawchuk?”

“I took one in the ass for the free world.”

“Is what I’m assuming right? You gave Johnny four million dollars and threw in Gloria-May Walker as a tip?”

“Tell Theodore children shouldn’t play with guns.”

“He’s going to escort you out. He’s going to put you on a flying machine. When we get where we’re going, we’re going to talk. If I don’t like what I hear I’m going to turn you over to the local civilian authority until I can get an extradition order to haul your sorry ass to Leavenworth.”

Blossoms from bedside bouquets filled Maggie’s room with sweet competing fragrances. To the grandest was pinned a card with at least a hundred names from her hometown. “You’re the pride of Lake Lenore.” Her parents had presented it to her last night during a brief, teary reunion while her interrogators took a break. Beverley and Woodrow were in a room down the hall: the Canadian Embassy had arranged their accommodations, a charming San José hostelry.

Shedding her pyjamas, Maggie turned on the spout of the lion’s paw tub. The smell of Bakerfield’s cigars still clung to her skin: the ordeal had ended at three a.m. While her bath filled,
she clicked on the set: on Canal Siete, a panel of experts was debating the events of last night, smiling Ticos who seemed to be taking pleasure from the seduction of a U.S. presidential aspirant’s wife by their new national hero. As best she could make out, Glo and Halcón were still on the lam.

She had not had contact with Slack since they were spirited separately to San José. As she had feared, his unabashed generosity and his
je ne sais quoi
attitude to Glo’s elopement with the thief had embroiled him in a cauldron of trouble. But given the circumstances — and her unyielding support — Maggie was confident the authorities would soon release him.

As she soaked in the tub, she played back Slack’s confession of last night, and excoriated herself — his shy courting ought to have been met by more than stunned silence. No man had ever proclaimed his love to Maggie before — or even a “fairly heavy thing.” How could he hold such feelings for her after knowing her so briefly?

As she towelled herself, she tuned to CNN in time to catch footage of last night’s bizarre press conference. Here was Slack, calmly tilting his glass of
guaro
, a gun pointed at him. That, said Monique Delgado, was her last image of this “unusual key player, who continues to be held for questioning.” Operación Libertad had remained ominously silent all day, and no sightings had been made of “the mysterious Elmer Jericho.”

The White House was speaking in cautious tones: many questions were yet to be clarified. Democrats were calling for a senate inquiry and Republicans were in a quandary — some were distancing themselves from the senator, others standing by him, prepared to accept his firm denials of wrongdoing. The FBI was mum: inquiries were being undertaken.

Highlights were shown of a hastily arranged press briefing in Walker’s hotel suite. The makeup person had not been able to hide the lines of tension that marred his handsome face, but his voice held firm: “Let me make this abundantly clear, I deeply love my wife. I have absolutely no connection with this
character Elmer Jericho. He is a drug addict, a thief, and a fugitive. Why would any sane man believe such a scoundrel?” Glo had been brainwashed and placed in a trance, or possibly even drugged. Ms. Schneider and Mr. Cardinal were victims of a sleaze artist. His lawyers had been instructed to commence proceedings against Jacques Cardinal for slander and the theft of four million dollars.

Maggie turned off the set in disgust and went to her parents’ room.

Beverley had had the night to absorb Maggie’s tale of her adventures, physical and romantic, and was now ready with words of advice. “It sounds to me like you backed the wrong horse, young lady, falling for a fleece artist instead of that gorgeous big redhead; he’s a very gracious man.”

“Mom, I didn’t plan it that way.”

“And him rescuing you life and limb. He cross-examined us about you; he was interested from the start. He may be a bit older than you, but you’re no babe in the woodpile, either.”

Beverley had almost relinquished hope for Maggie’s chances, and here was Galahad riding to the rescue on his painful bottom.

“I suppose he has faults,” Beverley said. “To hear him, you’d think all life is doomed on earth — but you’re probably just the antidote he needs.”

“He sure shoots a mean game of pool,” said Woodrow, as if that was enough. Slack had wooed them with gratifying results, buying them dinners, escorting them about Quepos and Manuel Antonio. But she could see the renewed glow of affection in their eyes, and was forced to consider again the irony of feckless love: sometimes the arrows stick to the target; sometimes they simply wound.

Maggie’s debriefing resumed that afternoon in the presence of a scowling Hamilton Bakerfield, monitoring a portable recorder,
and Paula d’Annunzio, from the U.S. Justice Department, a straight-laced lawyer with a penchant for law enforcement jargon. Had Maggie, she asked, any idea where “the perpetrator” may have taken Mrs. Walker?

“I have answered that question at least five times, Ms. d’Annunzio. They could be in Tuscaloosa as far as I know.”

“Do you still take the view that Gloria-May Walker’s departure was a voluntary act?”

“She practically danced out.”

“She seemed under a spell?”

“There is a deep attraction, and it’s real.”

“You’re not aware if he threatened her.”

Maggie rebelled, and spoke with high energy: “It’s futile to try to claim that money back. A divorce judge would grant her that much. God, the man conspired to
kill
her.”

Bakerfield interrupted: “Yeah, but the money was given to Johnny Diego by Slack Cardinal, no questions asked.”

“Mr. Bakerfield, that was an arrangement that you and Senator Walker authorized.”

“That’s an issue of interpretation,” d’Annunzio said. “You told us earlier that Jacques Cardinal and Johnny Diego seemed on friendly terms.”

“They weren’t in cahoots, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Your account, Ms. Schneider, suggests that they planned to meet and split the proceeds.”

“Halcón offered, Slack declined.”

“But on the basis of what you tell us, there is reason to believe they have a private agenda. You are not aware of what ongoing discussions took place between these two men.”

Maggie abruptly gained her feet, in a temper at the innuendoes cast by the machine-like Paula D’Annunzio. “Why aren’t you arresting Chuck Walker? He reeks of guilt.”

“It won’t stand up, Ms. Schneider. Without Mr. Jericho, all we have is vague hearsay, inadmissible as evidence.”

“Where’s Elmer Jericho? Do you have him hidden?”

“I’m not here to lie to you, Ms. Schneider. We haven’t found any trace of him.”

Maggie turned on Bakerfield. “You let him fly away. He had a plane waiting, and no one bothered to try to intercept him. Who gave the order to frame Slack Cardinal?”

“Cool down, Ms. Schneider,” Bakerfield said. “We’re only trying to get to the nub of this. Okay, let’s go to the beginning and fill in some detail.”

Maggie sighed and retook her seat.

Got back late to Villas Bongo, now it’s the morning after. Some hasty transcribing of quotes from Benito Madrigal while my meeting with him is fresh. (I now own a laptop!) Lots of people in the visiting room at the Psiquiatrico hospital. He was lucid (but still insisted Halcón and Glo had conspired to steal the ransom money), seemed to be enjoying his fame, proud he had stood up to Walker’s Rangers long enough for Slack and me to escape under his covering fire. “Now the world knows the truth.” He wants to run for president again
.

“Jacques Cardinal, he is a marked man. Senator Walker’s hired assassins are unvanquished yet, despite the blow for liberty that we have rung across the nation.” A greater threat comes from influential leaders in San José. “They fear his power. On every street and country lane, the nation is in revolt. The revolution is rumbling at the gates of the palaces of imperialism.” Benito is a compelling speaker, and quite a few patients, visitors, even staff, gathered around. Some applauded
.

He also believes there’ll be an international cover-up: the truth will be twisted. Benito is being proved right on that point, so I’m reaffirming my pledge, I won’t leave this country until Slack is freed; I owe him that, and much, much more …

Incidentally, though I went on a little charter all the way to San José and back yesterday, I had no fear of flying at all
.

Morning sunshine caressed the placid ocean waters by the tropical villa where Maggie had been ensconced for the last ten days. Seduced by thoughts of a swim before the heat of the day, she closed her laptop – bought yesterday in San José during a shopping spree motivated by visions of the hefty advances promised by a New York agent.

She tried on her new, ultra-revealing bikini. The view in the mirror did little damage to the eyes. A few weeks ago, she might not have had the courage to wear it, but a more confident persona had taken up inner residence. “Go for it,” Glo had said, and why not?

Gloria-May had done so with typical verve, audaciously throwing her former life to the wind. Two weeks had passed since she and Halcón faded into the night, and though a few Ticos claimed to have seen them (visions akin to sightings of the Virgin Mary), it would appear they had fled the country. Nor was there a sign of Halcón’s merry band. And no word from Frank Sierra.

She plucked a towel from a rack, wrapped it around her, and swept out onto the flagstone walk that connected the poolside restaurant to the dozen elegant villas. All but a few were deserted — Costa Rica had not enjoyed favourable press of late. The embassy had offered Maggie a furnished apartment in San José, but her substantial bargaining power (she was a luminary; her sprawl over a chair was splashed across the cover
of Maclean’s)
had earned her this hideout: Villas Bongo, nestled into a remote Pacific cove in the Nicoya Peninsula. She couldn’t escape the U.S. Justice Department, however – Paula d’Annunzio was coming by today; Maggie had refused to talk to her by phone.

Beverley and Woodrow were also here, in the neighbouring unit. Their relationship had continued to spring new growth in this hothouse climate, and they were preparing to return to Lake Lenore, work the farm, take pressure off the boys and in-laws.

The only other guests in the restaurant were three medical students on spring break who had arrived last night. One of the men offered her yesterday’s
Miami Herald
, and after pouring a coffee she studied the front page. Demonstrations were continuing outside the Costa Rican National Assembly; five hundred protesters had marched to the Casa Presidencial. Slack Cardinal had become a martyr for aiding Halcón, who was also growing in myth each day.

Maggie found it unimaginable, except as political farce, that Slack was still in detention; she had raised her own storm of protest when authorities refused to let her visit him in jail. Aiding in the escape of a felon and conspiracy to steal the ransom: those were the charges, the official theory being that Slack had again confused his roles, had crossed over to the enemy. Frank Sierra, surprisingly, had escaped arrest, despite his role as usher for the departing couple. It puzzled her that the detective had not returned her calls to his office in San José.

A third-page feature piece detailed the slippage in electoral support for Chester Walker, who, despite everything, had resumed his campaign. Though his rallies in New Hampshire were large — he was maintaining his hardcore support — most were attending only out of curiosity. He was a fighter, he told his cheering fans; he had never given up in battle. “Wherever you are, Gloria-May, I love you and pray for you.” Maggie supposed he had no choice but to continue this burlesque: to retire from the campaign might seem an admission of guilt.

The FBI seemed to be plodding along at the pace of a moose in a slough in making out a case against him, though sources at the Justice Department had hinted that indictments were being drawn up. Essential proof was lacking, which only an account from Elmer Jericho could supply. He could be on Jupiter or Betelgeuse as far as anyone knew.

As she leaned over the table, her towel slipped from around her waist. She looked up to see three pairs of eyes locked upon her.