The Laughing Falcon (17 page)

The guy was maybe a hundred and sixty pounds, slicked hair, glasses that were probably phony. “Think you could do that?” Slack asked him.

Borbón showed no expression. “No problem.”

“Yeah, well, you just keep out of my way.”

“I don’t plan to be in it.” A toneless voice.

“What is this joker, one of the robots they build at Langley? Little electrodes, one for stalking, one for murder?” Slack sighed. “Let’s go.”

Theodore took them around Quepos by the old road, then headed off the highway into the palm trees. The idea was to avoid detection by the media, so the meet was to be at Pueblo Real, a condo complex by the lagoon across from Damas Island. Jorge Castillo, the minister of public security, had a weekend getaway there. Castillo himself would be present, along with Senator Walker.

Most of the units were empty, the development had never taken off, too far from the beaches. Castillo’s digs were on the second floor, overlooking the pool and the weedy field that was supposed to be a golf course.

Slack walked into a blast of cold air, the conditioners roaring, he abhorred chemically treated air. Walker shook his hand, a stiff grip, his eyes raw, posture rigid. Castillo was wrapped conservatively, suit and tie, a bland mandarin with a law degree, a masters from Cornell. His grip was soft.

“Let’s just clarify our roles here,” Walker said. “Ham Bakerfield is in charge. I know a little about guerrillas and jungle warfare, and I think I know how the minds of these characters work, but I’m a little too emotionally involved, so I’ll be content to stay in close and be an adviser.”

An adviser, Walker had given himself a seat at the front table.

Ham said, “Right, senator, and, ah, of course we have to respect the fact we’re on foreign soil here, friendly soil, and Minister Castillo is essentially the man at the top.”

Ham was doing his diplomatic best. Castillo, who was known to have presidential ambitions, appeared resentful of Walker’s patently colonial attitude but he remained polite. “May I offer you gentlemen a refreshment, perhaps a coffee or juice?”

While their host went to the kitchen to give instructions to his help, Slack subsided onto an empty couch, sat back, closed his eyes. Everything was throbbing. He tried to control his shaking.

“Is he going to be able to take on this assignment? “Walker asked.

“We don’t need any foot shots, Slack,” Ham said. “We can’t afford a mistake.”

“Just give me a few days. It’ll probably take them a week to make contact, anyway. They’ll want to organize a safe set-up first.”

He opened his eyes to see Jorge Castillo leading in the maid with her tray of coffees and fresh-squeezed juice. He turned to Slack and began a florid speech in Spanish about how all Costa Ricans were enraged at this
desafortunado
event, which was a blot on the good name of the motherland, a nation long at the forefront of international peace efforts. Slack guessed he was testing his Spanish, and expressed his agreement in similar rococo fashion.

Castillo returned to English. “Do I hear a Cuban accent?”

“Spent seven years there.”

“These kidnappers might not relate well to a gringo.”

“I’m a Tico. I vote in the same elections you do.”

Castillo’s face expressed uncertainty as he redirected his gaze from the surly customer on the couch to Bakerfield and Walker. “With the greatest of respect, I am concerned that Señor Cardinal may not be the person for this task. Archbishop Mora has again volunteered. As you know he also intervened in that matter three years ago, with the Swiss women. They were ultimately released.”

“Yes, but the kidnappers got paid off, didn’t they?” said Walker. “We don’t want that, that’s surrendering to them.”

Castillo spoke firmly, “Archbishop Mora insists he will be available. He is trusted by all Costa Ricans.”

“Yes, Mr. Minister,” Bakerfield said, oiling the water. “We should definitely keep him available. But in the meantime we have a very able man here in Mr. Cardinal. He’s specially trained in these things.”

Slack slowly sat forward, stretching the ache from his arms and shoulders. He was feeling a little better, the shakes dissipating.

“I want to see a signed contract.”

“You’ll get it. Okay, Double-o-seven, this is the deal. We’re proceeding on the assumption this meeting did not take place. The press don’t know anything about your past, nobody does. We’ll bring you in after a few days, reluctantly, after we finish building the cover. You’ll be a left-leaning layabout with a kayak business, but we’ll say we need you for your jungle expertise. With luck, they’ll accept you as their contact man, the courier of money.”

“Yeah, but let’s start with the martyr of Cinco de Mayo,” Slack said. “Where is he? In the Psiquiatrico hospital, right?”

“The doctors call it paranoid schizophrenia.” That was hard work for Castillo, he retreated to Spanish: “He is on medication. Two weeks ago he wrote this letter.”

He handed Slack a clipping from
La Nación
, Madrigal’s complaint about the harsh conditions he was enduring. It seemed rational enough, except for the line, “They are trying to read my thoughts.”

“Apparently, some of his friends have taken this nonsense seriously,” Castillo said.

Slack continued in Spanish. “Don Jorge, it would help us if Madrigal were released from the hospital and placed in better circumstances. Then I will meet with him.”

Ham was looking petulant, wishing they would talk American. But Walker was following this, musing it over.

“I take Benito to them first,” Slack explained, “an offering of trust.”

They thrashed it out more, Ham liking the idea, adding decorations. Walker remained silent until the end, then spoke stiffly about his concern for his wife. “I take it we’re all agreed there’ll be no action until she’s safely removed. After that, I don’t care if you napalm them.”

Castillo looked horrified, and stuttered in protest. “Senator Walker, my friend, you understand that Costa Rican law does not allow foreign soldiers or military equipment. We have many skilled people who can help Señor Cardinal. We can solve this problem peacefully.”

“Sure,” said Walker. “Of course, we’ll do it peacefully. Whatever works.”

Slack could tell he’d rather use napalm. No small part of a presidential wannabe’s reputation was riding on the prospect of blasting a bunch of amateurs into oblivion.

The process of rehabilitating his body began that morning, the sun already high as Slack ran the sands of Espadilla. A few dozen bodies were stretched out, white sun-blocked skin, tourists, U.S. agents enjoying their off-shifts, a petite young woman stretched out on a towel who caused an Esperanza flashback. Also running the beach, a hundred yards behind him, was the shadow, Joe Borbón.

He’d had to accept Borbón as part of the deal. The signed contract said Slack was to use his “best efforts” to help free the two women under the advice and direction of Ham Bakerfield. That was vague enough, it left room for what little personal initiative he might muster.

Several surfers were sitting on their boards, riding the swells out by Final, the north end of the beach where Slack made a tight loop and headed back to the park entrance. Borbón passed him going the other way, expressionless, the wind-up man. A few naked people were on discreet display here, nudity being vaguely tolerated at Final.

Slack was in majestic pain, but pressing himself, maybe he could just burn it away fast, the need, the addiction. If only he could keep the dogs of defeat at bay, the fear of failure that continually nipped at his heels. It was a loser’s complex — can’t make a living, can’t keep a woman, can’t get it up – and it was getting worse, almost pathological, soon he, too, would be claiming they were trying to read his thoughts.

Fifty yards on, a family was attempting to body surf, three kids and their parents, probably on holiday from San José, and just as Slack was plodding past them he heard the mother cry out. Their older boy, brave for a Tico, or maybe just foolhardy in his adolescence, had caught a rip, and was fast being sucked out to sea in a current of boiling brown water. Even more foolish was the father, who – like almost every Tico Slack had met – could barely swim, and in his rescue attempt was being pulled beyond his depth, the rip catching him, too.

Slack plunged in as a wave crashed over him, swam first for the boy, who was panicking, gulping water. He pinned his arms to stop his thrashing, then swam him to the side of the rip and hauled him to shore.

By this time, the father was fifty yards out, and Slack dove in again. The man was going down when Slack finally got to him, and it was no easy task to swim while carrying him on his back. A crowd had gathered by the time he was able to lay him on the sand, and he motioned the spectators away, then gave the man mouth-to-mouth. He finally spewed out the seawater, coughing, gasping. His wife flew at Slack, and hugged him as she wept. Joe Borbón stood at the edge of the crowd, no expression.

Slack didn’t wait for further thanks. One of the U.S. agents had shouldered through the crowd, and as soon as Slack saw father and son were being well tended to, he continued his run.

That afternoon, accompanied by his faithful Cuban watchdog, Slack was ferried by chopper to the Eco-Rico Lodge. There
wasn’t much to see, all items of evidence bagged up and taken, the place temporarily shut down, abandoned but for caretakers. The bad guys had tossed all the cabins, scooping about thirty-five thousand in cash, jewellery, and Rolexes, nothing bulky. Chuck Walker thought they had even nicked a vial of Gloria-May’s expensive perfume, L’Eau d’Issey. Margaret Schneider’s so-called Jungle House had got hit, too, five hundred dollars the senator lent her after she had fallen into a typical tourist trap, she had entertained Walker with her tale of being ripped off by a silky seducer. Her writings had been strewn all over the floor, notes for a
roman de romance
, Slack should probably glance through them.

The Cinco de Mayoists had been messy but quick, they had scouted the place well. They seemed to know the layout of the grounds and the trails beyond, maybe they had had inside help.

Slack slipped away from Joe Borbón’s sight long enough to borrow a dirt bike, and raced off to survey the area, up a trail that dead-ended at a waterfall. He couldn’t figure out how the kidnappers had got up the river, but their base camp had been not far from the Savegre and three thousand feet higher.

They flew off to that camp next. There, a ridge trail fed into a few scattered campesino farms, small plots burned out of the jungle in dry season, a time of year that depressed Slack, fires raging through the helpless forest. But Mother Nature had avenged herself upon the arsonist, his shack had been razed.

The ground team was led by Yale Brittlewaite, African-American, grizzled hair and beard, retired Vietnam snake-eater. “The ridge ends another three hundred yards up, and we haven’t found any paths they could have hacked out of here, no squashed ferns, no machete cuts.”

Cinco de Mayo had shown a laudable concern for the environment – the only scrap of garbage left behind was a torn tent label, it had been traced to a break-in a month ago at the San José warehouse of Outward Bound, the wilderness trekkers. The night guard claimed to have slept through it, he
was still being questioned. Otherwise no prints anywhere, no clues,
nada
.

Slack wanted to talk to some of the locals, but Borbón tersely reminded him: no unofficial contacts. It was time to go home, face an evening of punishment, it would start with a hundred push-ups. He was determined to prove himself, even if only to the extent of his limited expectations. This morning’s deed of valour, his rescue of two lives, had spurred him on, maybe it was the new start he sought, the opening paragraph of a reformed life.

A
fter four gruelling days as a captive of the Comando Cinco de Mayo, Maggie’s terror had dissipated, supplanted by a weary malaise. Her physical discomfort was bearable, though her legs ached from the daily forced marches and her skin was pebbled with insect bites and reddened with cuts and scrapes. It had rained often, and her clothes were smeared with mud from her many slips and falls. She endured without complaint the shifting weight of an unwieldy backpack.

She was tired but not as exhausted as several of the guerrillas, who were out of wind and puffing, constantly demanding rest stops, slapping at bugs, tugging at their tight kerchiefs, grunting curses,
“Hijueputa!”

Each day they had climbed higher, and now were at a cooler altitude, in a dripping, moss-rich forest of buttressed giants, sunlight filtering through their leafy reaches. Maggie wondered if they were lost – Halcón often ordered a halt, checking the compass he wore as a pendant, frowning, muttering.

Occasionally, Coyote, in the lead with a machete, was forced to cut a path through the undergrowth, but here, beneath a canopy that starved ground cover of light, was only forest litter. Maggie had taken fixes from the sun: they were going roughly northeast, with many detours when they followed one of the
raging creeks. They would descend, then climb, dip and climb again – a zigzag path intended to make pursuit difficult.