The Candidate (15 page)

He glanced at his watch and continued the drive, heading downhill on the winding freeway into a broad and increasingly parched valley. It traced the flow of a meandering brown river heading towards the town of Puerto Barrios on the edge of the sparkling blue Caribbean Sea. Mike left his car in the town, trusting a local hotel owner to look after it in exchange for some much-needed US dollars. From Puerto Barrios he would have to continue by boat, since Livingston was not reachable by road. It was separate from the rest of country, kept apart by the sea and the thick, green forests of the coast.

The ferry to the city gave a hint of this world apart. It was filled with black-skinned men and women, many speaking thickly accented English. It was bewilderingly like being transported out of Guatemala and into Africa. An old man, his ancient black face wrinkled to an almost unimaginable degree, smiled at him and edged forward, nudging other passengers out of the way on the tightly packed boat. He reached out a hand and for a moment Mike thought he was going to beg for something. Then with an inner surge of embarrassment he understood the man was just trying to be friendly.

“Heading to Livingston then, huh?” he asked. “Welcome to Garifuna country.”

Mike looked puzzled at the unfamiliar words. The man frowned. “Garifuna!” he said. “Do you know where you are?”

Mike shrugged apologetically and the man burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. The man passed a few unintelligible remarks to a few of his fellow passengers who shared his mirth. Then he turned back to Mike.

“We’re a bit different from other Guatemalans. You’ve noticed that,
Americano
?” he said with a twinkle in his eye. Mike looked at the boat full of black men, women and children and felt suitably ridiculous.

“We are Garifuna. Our ancestors were slaves and Indians from the Islands. We ended up here. This is our own little country,” the old man continued and pointed to the coast out to the left of the boat.

“
Yanquis,
” he chuckled, in Spanish now. “They never understand where they are going.”

* * *

MIKE AWOKE the next morning in a fog of jetlag and fatigue. He had stumbled off the ferry and into the center of the ramshackle town where he found the Hotel La Plancha, a rundown old colonial building with half a dozen bungalows-for-hire in the back.

He quickly collapsed into a bed and awoke only now with the realization it was already past noon. He struggled to his feet, suddenly aware that a host of mosquitoes feasted on his bare arms as he slept and left a dense patina of red welts. He resisted the powerful urge to scratch them and attempted to gather his thoughts. He felt a world away from the campaign now. He could scarcely believe he was sweating. He had known nothing but cold for so long. But he knew that his sense of distance was an illusion. He still worked for the campaign and he must remain focused. He had one distinct mission here. Find the man Christine wired the money to and explore any possible link to the mystery shooter back in Iowa. Then get out and home, so they could prepare a defense should anyone else follow his trail.

He pulled on his clothes and walked out of the door, shielding his eyes from the sudden light and began to walk into the center of town.

The air was already thick and hot. Not even a breath of air blew in off a sea that was so flat it looked like a lake. Mike walked down streets populated with just a few pedestrians. He attracted a few stares at the sight of his white skin, but more often he was flashed a broad smile. A couple of young boys followed him briefly, tugging at his shirt sleeves and talking in a language he could not understand nor even place, a mix of vowels that sprang from Africa long ago.

The Western Union outlet was easy to find. It stood on the north side of a faded, colonial-era market square. As he walked into the building the kids following him stopped at the glass door, peering and pointing but not daring to follow. The see-through barrier was the gap between their home and the First World. They had no need to cross it. Mike welcomed a blast of air conditioning and walked up to the counter. He was the only customer and a young Latino woman snapped to attention at seeing him, straightened her back and hastily folded her gossip magazine.

“
Señor?
” she said.

Mike began his cover story. He spoke in Spanish and purposefully mangled the words like a harmless visiting American businessman would.

“Sorry to trouble you, but I am trying to track down a money order and speak to the recipient. We think there may have been a mistake. Can you find him for me?”

The woman smiled pleasantly.

“Of course,
señor.
Do you have the order details?”

Mike handed over a photocopy of the money order and returned her smile. The woman carefully unfolded the paper and spread it flat and typed into her computer. Then, suddenly, she stopped. She looked up at him, a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

“I have to get my manager,
señor,
” she said.

Mike opened his mouth to protest but she got up and walked out to the back office. Mike felt a stab of fear in his stomach, a feeling that only deepened when a tall, mustached-man burst in noisily from the back office. Mike glimpsed the woman cowering in the shadows behind him. The man, Latino like the woman, came around to the front of the desk. He grabbed Mike by the elbow.

“Go! Out of here!” he snapped.

Mike pulled free of his grip.

“What the fuck?” he said loudly. But the man did not hesitate or pull back. He pushed his face forward directly into Mike’s face. Mike caught a whiff of his hot breath.

The man stared furiously at Mike. “Out!” he said in English. “You have no business here. Go home!”

Mike backed away and the man followed him, stood in the doorway, his hands resting on his hips and still glaring. Mike had no idea what was going on and he sensed suddenly that groups of people were looking at him. He felt confused and then also scared and vulnerable. This was the last thing he expected. He turned slowly and walked away as the manager shut the door and hung up a red “closed“ sign in the window. Mike walked firmly forward, unwilling to give the impression that he was aimless. He just needed to sit somewhere and gather his thoughts.

Eventually he found his way back to the hotel. He sat on his bed and pulled the mosquito net over him to create a feeling of safety behind its white threads. He felt at a loss. He knew it was a name on the money order that had triggered such a response. Either Christine’s or Rodrigo Estrada Carillo’s. One of those two was famous enough in these parts to get people seriously scared. Mike closed his eyes. He felt suddenly lost. What was he doing here? He joined to work on a campaign. To work for Hodges and make a difference, to bring people into his cause, to get people out to vote, to convince them they could make their lives better. But here he was, thousands of miles away, running up against a mystery he did not understand. He felt like he was Alice after going through the looking glass, entering a weird world where the oddest things seemed important, and the day-to-day events of back home disappeared altogether. He closed his eyes, still feeling the disembodying effects of jet lag, and lay on the mattress while his head throbbed and his heart sank.

* * *

MIKE DID not know when he drifted off, but it was still daylight and as he opened his eyes he saw it was now dusk. His room was caught in a dusty half-light and he blinked a few times as his eyes slowly adjusted to the unfamiliar shadows.

Then one of them moved.

Mike sat up slowly, trying not to make a noise. A dark figure crouched over his suitcase, rifling quietly through his belongings. It seemed like a man, tall and thin. He was pulling the clothes out and checking the pockets. Mike’s wallet and passport already lay on the ground next to him.

Then the figure stopped. Perhaps he heard the change in Mike’s breathing from sleep to wakefulness. Either way, the man slowly stood up and turned around. It was still dark and Mike couldn’t make out the man’s features. But Mike knew one thing: the man was not afraid of being caught. Mike needed to act.

“Hey!” he shouted and jumped out of bed. The figure stood his ground. Mike decided to run for the door. He darted forward and ducked his head down as the man strode after him. Mike reached for the doorknob and yanked it open. Suddenly the darkness of the room was bathed in golden light from a lamp outside on the bungalow’s porch. For a moment it was bright as day and Mike lunged forward. But he never made it. An explosion of pain detonated in the back of his head, followed by a brief shower of stars spraying in front of his eyes. Then he was aware of falling, tumbling down, and his knees buckled underneath him like a drunk. Then the world went dark.

* * *

THE POLICEMAN stood behind Mike and painfully prodded the bloodied bump on the back of his head with a finger. Mike yelped and angrily jerked his head away. The officer shrugged nonchalantly and went back to his seat and put his booted feet up on the desk.

Mike read his nametag: Zaragosa. The man stared back with indifference and disgust, like Mike was something that he found on the bottom of his shoe.

“We don’t like this sort of trouble here in Livingston,” Zaragosa said. “It disturbs the peace.”

Mike rubbed a hand over the swelling bump on his crown. He could not believe what was happening. He had woken up collapsed on the floor of his hotel room and discovered his cash and his copy of the money order were both missing. The hotel manager fussed over his wound and told him to leave town and go to the hospital, but Mike refused. He felt more shaken than hurt and that led him to anger. He marched straight to the local police station and demanded to see the commander.

“But I have been attacked and robbed!” Mike said. “And I want to know what you are going to do about it.”

Zaragosa examined his finger nails with feigned fascination. “Sir,” he said with disdain. “Perhaps some people do not like Yankees like you coming around here and sticking their noses into other people’s affairs.”

Mike gasped. He did not want to come across as the outraged, blustering American, but he was furious. “There was a crime. You are the police. I want you to investigate it.”

Zaragosa chuckled to himself. He sat up straight and shuffled the papers on his desk. “Yes, indeed. I will investigate. You can be sure of it.” Then he stood up and gestured to the door. “Please leave. So we can immediately start our investigation.”

Mike burned with humiliation. But he knew he had no choice. He stomped out of the police station and back to his hotel. But when he got to his bungalow, he found his hotel room locked. The manager stood in front of the door; Mike’s luggage was packed and beside it.

“I’m sorry,
señor
” the man said with what seemed like genuine emotion. “But we have made a mistake and your room was double-booked. The hotel is full tonight.”

The man spoke quickly and held his hands in front of him, refusing to meet Mike’s stunned stare. “If you rush, you can make the last ferry out of Livingston. Perhaps that would be best?” he suggested.

Mike felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him and his head began to throb, the pain collecting where he had been struck. “What’s going on?” he asked.

The manager paused. He weighed something in his mind and his eyes darted from one side to another. He let out a long, deep sigh.

“
Señor,
General Carillo is a very big man around here. His name means a lot to people and the army has much power in this country. With such people it is best not to enquire into their business. That is why you must leave. Even the police here are his friends.”

Mike understood at last. Carillo was a General. A powerful man. But the manager continued. “You do not need to wonder who robbed you,
señor.
You just reported their own crime to them.”

Mike stood statue-still. He felt so out of his depth.

The manager rested a hand on Mike’s shoulder. His voice was soft and full of pity. “
Amigo,
I am sure I can find room for you for tonight. But in the morning, you must leave. Okay?”

Mike agreed. He had no choice.

CHAPTER 11

DEE SETTLED INTO the comfortable back seat of the town car headed to her Manchester hotel. She inhaled the sweet smell of the black leather and sank her flesh into its soft embrace. She was tired. She did not want to think about how little she had slept over the past three days as they prepped for the just finished debate. It was not more than five or six hours in total and she felt the strain now. It was a dull ache deep in her bones. She stretched out and closed her eyes. Her whole career built to this point; races won and lost, candidates picked and spurned, contacts made and worked. Girlfriends shed or shunned. Her personal life reduced to an addendum to her work. All of it to get a shot at the big one. She would not let her body fail her now, just as she was on the cusp.

And, my God, what a candidate she had. She allowed herself a smile. Hodges was magnificent in the debate. He came across as the firm, decent honorable soldier, desperate only to serve his country. All of it was in sharp contrast to Stanton, who went on the offensive, jabbing and prodding him. She labeled him a negative campaigner with no experience of politics. But it served to diminish herself and make Hodges look above the fray. As long as he, himself, did not hit back, he looked – incredibly – the bigger candidate.