The Laughing Falcon (27 page)

This was not a palace, but no dank, rat-infested cellar, either. Maggie’s ordeal could yet have a happy ending — as long as the rescue team were not headed by some cowboy charging around with six-guns blazing, bullets ricocheting everywhere. Surely their liberators would be calm and careful: they had well-developed routines for hostage-takings.

Still, she felt she might be in more danger from her rescuers than her kidnappers, though she had concerns about Zorro’s shaky state of equilibrium – especially because Halcón had returned his pistol. The other firearms had been wrapped in burlap and placed in a lock-closet under the stairway, along with valuables from the Eco-Rico looting. Zorro’s gun stayed buckled in its holster, but she often saw him fondling its grip. He was not one to live with loss of face, and had become skittish and moody after being shamed in front of his comrades.

As she stripped in the bathroom, she anxiously studied the electric shower head, a contraption jury-rigged with wires and electric tape — but the walls of the stall were wet, so others had recently tempted fate and not been electrocuted. When she turned the shower on, the lights dimmed.

On a shelf were soap, shampoo, and a clean washcloth, which Maggie put to hard use, finding heaven under the streaming hot water. The window was unshuttered, so Maggie could see Tayra outside, a doughty slave to duty, working through a hill of laundry at a concrete
pila
. At night, Tayra would be stationed between the two upstairs bedrooms; Maggie or Glo would find it impossible to slip out without awakening her. The door to the outside would be locked, anyway.

Maggie towelled her body dry and turned to the mirror to brush her hair. Revealed was a sinewy, tawny body that had lost little weight despite the rigours of the last week, though her breasts had firmed up and her thigh muscles were well-toned. She affected a supermodel pout and struck a pose for the catwalk. “You were
muy linda,”
he had said, “in the soft light playing on the waterfall.”

Wrapped in her towel, she went upstairs. She had earned a long siesta.

Maggie was awakened by the rolling sputtering song of a house wren and saw it dart above a timber bracing just outside the window, where it was welcomed with a chorus of peeps. A nest, babies! Now she knew the source of the little drippings that she had scrubbed from the orange wall. The wren took flight to a nearby lime tree, then burbled another song.

She felt refreshed – how long had she slept? For a few hours, she realized; the sun was behind the trees, soon to set, throwing rays like spears between the boughs. She had not locked her door and saw, hanging to dry beside it, her undergarments and her two sets of clothes, freshly washed and placed there by Tayra. The army fatigues were torn almost to shreds, and the knees and elbows were unravelling from her khakis also. They were still damp, but she slipped them on. She felt like Raggedy Ann.

In the kitchen, Glo was helping Tayra, demonstrating her new-found team spirit, putting the finishing touches to a fruit salad: pineapples, bananas, papaya, citrus.

Before dinner, the
colectivo —
four without Coyote – held a brief meeting at the far end of the room. After vigorous debate, a decision was reached and announced to the hostages: they would all eat in front of the television set.

“We have agreed, with one abstention,” Buho proclaimed, “that we will allow the guests of our commando to watch the six o’clock news.” Halcón shrugged, obviously the abstainer. He was prepared to let the comrades have their little victories.

Maggie settled on the sofa beside Glo and attacked her plate of fruit salad while Zorro fiddled with the dial. He could find only one channel that offered more than fuzz and swimming colours, but it was one of the major San José outlets: Canal Siete. The headline item involved a vandalism of a front-yard crèche: it had been kicked apart, a plaster Mary and baby Jesus stolen. (“This event has shocked the nation,” Buho translated. “They should be thrown in jail,” muttered Tayra.) For balance, a happier story: a poor family winning a lottery after having had to borrow money for Christmas gifts. Buho translated with appropriate feeling.

Maggie was beginning to wonder if the hostage-taking had become yesterday’s news when the Channel Seven crew cut to a taped interview with a man named Jorge Castillo, the minister of public security. Halcón began making notes.

“This is about us,” Buho explained. “Archbishop Mora has withdrawn an offer to intercede, and Minister Castillo is offering a list of five others.” Stills of these offerings were paraded.

“Priests and politicians,” said Halcón. “Not an honest man among them.” He was grouchy; he was out of cigarettes.

“He is pleading with us to make contact,” said Buho.

Maggie started as she saw herself: another still, one of the photos taken at the lodge, her mouth agape as she interviewed
Walker; then Glo filled the screen, wearing her cocktail dress and a comical come-hither look.

She complained, “Damn, I look like a cheap hooker.”

“We are asked to confirm the two ladies are safe. This request is from, they call themselves Operación Libertad, but it is coming also from … here is Benito, my uncle.” Buho sat upright.

In an old clip, Benito Madrigal was shown at a political rally. Following that came words that sounded of an urgent plea. “This is a message to us; it is Don Benito recorded from yesterday.” Buho’s words took on a high, excited pitch.
“Gracias a Dios
, he is saying he will soon be with us, and we must keep our guests safe, and … also he is saying, ‘Do not trust Archbishop Mora.’ He warns the archbishop is working for the other side. He is very sure of this.”

Maggie found the admonition to shun the archbishop odd. Apparently so did Halcón, who was frowning, still writing. During a commercial break, the four guerrillas talked spiritedly in Spanish about Benito Madrigal’s advice. They seemed encouraged if not elated by his words.

The next item caused her an odd sensation, something between déjà vu and a jolt of recognition, though she had never seen the man being interviewed: known to her as Jacques (Slack) Cardinal, her own not-so-fictitious character created out of bar chatter. He seemed not to have shaved for a week; he
looked
like a hard drinker, a tall shaggy man, loose of limb, a tousled crown of red hair peppered with grey.

“This man, he is a strong sympathizer to our cause.” The
gerente
of Mono Titi Tours listened to questions with impatient shrugs, answered in Spanish in a cantankerous voice, almost bellicose. Buho clapped. “He says Senator Walker is a dangerous fool.”

Glo was gaping at the screen with incredulity, but Halcón was laughing. “How delightful is literary irony. This is your character, Maggie, your very own Jacques Cardinal. I like this man, this ruffian, as you call him.”

Glo looked sharply at Maggie – an intense message Maggie could not decipher – then hid her consternation under laughter. “Jesus, somehow the media found some dumb donkey to take your side, Halcón.”

“Thank goodness
he’s
not on their list of go-betweens,” Maggie said, and felt a sharp nudge from Glo’s elbow.

Maggie yawned her way up to her room soon after dinner. Glo joined her a few minutes later, bolting the door behind her.

“Honey, I’m going to tell you something top secret. Maybe I should have told you earlier, but it came from bedroom talk with Chester. That real-life character of yours, Slack Cardinal, he’s not just your ordinary jungle buzzard. Chester found out he spent some years with the CIA doing undercover shit.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“He’s been hiding out here – Jacques Cardinal is a pseudonym.”

“Hiding from whom?”

“Everyone, he said. I reckon an infiltrator of terrorists makes a lot of enemies. They retired him after he screwed up big-time; he caused a messy ruckus with the French government.”

“You are talking about the Quepos
pisstank?”

“The one and only, my sunset tour guide. I was right curious about his history, and I asked him a whole lot of questions. He got as nervous as a sore-tailed cat and I promised I’d keep his secrets.”

A spy who had retired under a cloud, a former infiltrator … Maggie was having difficulty readjusting the picture; it did not want to hang properly for her.

“A ‘strong sympathizer to our cause.’ I reckon I know what’s going on, Maggie.” Glo suggested a scenario: the CIA was seeking to plant Slack Cardinal inside Comando Cinco de Mayo, or at least setting him up as an acceptable go-between. They broke off discussion when they heard Tayra coming up the stairs.

“Not a word to your pal, Halcón, okay?” Glo left to help Tayra haul up her bedding.

No, it would not be wise to mention any sunset kayak cruise, nor to hint at the subversive role Cardinal might play. All Halcón knew was that Glo had encountered Slack in a restaurant — Glo had regaled them about the kayaker quarrelling with her husband and laying low someone from their party. When Maggie reflected, she could see that Halcón would view the episode as being to Slack’s credit.

Maggie lit a candle on her writing table, then pondered: a disgraced former spy? How intriguing – but was he hiding from the world, as Glo had intimated, or from himself? I like this ruffian, Halcón had said. The captain of Cinco de Mayo might profoundly err and take the bait.

She had found a writing pad downstairs and had already begun to record her impressions of the last ten days. Dr. Fiona Wardell would go on sabbatical while she composed a truer, more electric tale. But she could barely raise her pen; she was fatigued almost beyond measure from her day of toil and her nightlong gruelling trudge.
Creative Writing 403: A bad writer has a hundred excuses not to start. A good writer has only ten
. Where to begin this twenty-first-century odyssey? Where better but the here and now …

It is December twenty-second, a pitch-dark night, and only a fluttering candle illuminates these opening words of the bizarre adventure I am living. I find it almost impossible to conceive that only eleven days ago I was pouring hot coffee into the frozen lock of my car door, my nose pinched red by the harsh winds. But now I am caressed by warm breezes that suffuse the air with the perfume of angels’ trumpets – flowers that unfurl unseen in the tropical night. From the buzzing jungle come the trilling of crickets and the moans of the Río Naranjo
.

Yet I am in a prison and my life is in danger. I must never forget that
.

The music of the night is lulling, and I am so exhausted …

On the morning of the third day of my confinement at the Darkside, I rise to birdsong and I stretch and look out the window. It is raining again, but bees and butterflies are dancing among the citrus blossoms and my wren is singing. Yesterday, during Spanish class, several capuchins came by to see the humans behind the bars: white-faced monkeys, or
cariblancos,
as Buho calls them. Glo and I tried to coax them closer, but they held back shyly in the trees
.

Tomorrow is Christmas Day, but it will surely be far from a traditional one. My memories are of skating on the pond, gifts piled high and mincemeat pie, Aunt Ruthilda in the kitchen, my mother directing traffic. But Lake Lenore seems far away, impossible and unreal …

Maggie put aside her notepad and rose from bed, pulling on panties that had probably survived their last washing — the elastic spent, one cheek hanging by a thread. Her shorts were also wearing out; someone had better provide new issue soon or she would be baring her bottom.

The morning sun was throwing barred patterns on the walls: her watch read seven-fifteen. Halcón had returned it to her after sorting through the valuables in the lock-closet. Peeking over his shoulder, she had seen the guns; Halcón’s short-wave radio was there, too, also a Polaroid camera.

Downstairs, she found Buho preparing the day’s lesson – the young man was teaching Maggie and Glo Spanish for three hours every morning, using an old textbook they had found.
Buenas tardes, señor. Donde está el baño?
He was an excellent teacher.

Glo was reclining in a tasselled hammock, reading. “ ‘The portals of success could open for you,’ ” she quoted, “ ‘but think twice about seizing the first opportunity.’ ”

“I beg your pardon?”

Glo showed her a book she had found while rummaging:
The Complete Annual Horoscopes
. She read: “ ‘Don’t give in too
quickly to the many signs of attention coming from that special person.’ That must mean Zorro.” He didn’t hear; he was still slumbering in another hammock.

Tayra was in the kitchen scrambling the last of their eggs; Maggie began squeezing oranges. The fridge had been full when they arrived, but with so many mouths to feed, supplies were running low. Maggie wondered how they planned to restock. One does not simply wander down to the nearest
pulpería
and order five kilos of rice – a buying spree would raise eyebrows and loosen tongues. Already, a local farmer had briefly engaged Coyote after catching him urinating from the bodega staircase. Coyote had explained he was a caretaker for absentee landlords.

“He speaks the common slang,” Halcón had assured her. “No one will mistake him for a member of the revolutionary elite.” At any event, the authorities were not looking here for their suspects. Maggie had sent them wandering off into the Talamanca forest.

The house looked clean-scrubbed now, the tiled floor made glossy by a second coat of wax. From the windows hung polished crystals, slowly turning in the breeze, dappling the gaudy walls with the purer colours of the spectrum.

After breakfast, Maggie and Glo sat down with Buho. Lesson three, Anna and Carlos go to a restaurant:
Te gusta la salsa picante?

The rain had relented, and Halcón was outside, playing solitaire at a concrete table. Lacking cigarettes, he had been of brittle temper, but his edginess did not translate into a lack of dexterity. His nimble hands expertly riffled the deck and he made a clean one-handed cut. His card skills, he’d told Maggie, had been sharpened in Caribbean casinos, where he had been a dealer and a croupier. Soldier of fortune, gambler, aficionado of history, of the arts — he could walk into any salon and be embraced by the most priggish of its snobs.