The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller (33 page)

And he was right. I’ve had many lovers, but only one friend. He didn’t understand me. Not really. But he didn’t judge me, either. In his eyes I had done nothing wrong. Whenever I was with him, I could lay down my burden. I felt the loss more sharply than any failed infatuation.

But he betrayed you.

Was it betrayal later that night, when I sobbed on his shoulder, called out for my missing girl, my dead child, mourning to the heavens, cursing all existence and the fates who gave me life?

“It’s not your fault,” he said. His hand on my ear guided my tearless eyes to his shoulder.

“You must think I’m a wuss to go on like this.” I tried to free myself, but he held me tight.

“We have all sinned.” He talked over my head at the waves. “We are all human. We are all guilty.” He stroked my hair. “Sometimes I wonder how I’ll ever cope.”

I pulled away. “Since when do you have guilt?”

He didn’t look at me. “Since always. It’s just taken a while for me to know that’s what it was.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” I asked.

He drank his beer. “I once poisoned a river. Killed thirty thousand people.” He held out his open palms and laughed. Or tried to. “In the jungle, no one cares.”

I sat up. He let me. I slapped at the tear stains on his shirt. They weren’t mine. I said, “Sorry, man.”

He blew his nose on his shirt. “It’ll wash out.”

“So,” I said, “what happened to mister sociopath, I don’t have a conscience, I make ’smores out of dissidents’ testicles? Since when did you go all gooey?”

“Gooey,” he said. “Is that what I am?” He looked at the full moon. He reached for another beer. Cracked it open, poured the entire can down his throat. Dropped his head to his chest.

When he looked up, he held a clove of garlic between thumb and forefinger. He rubbed it in one eye and grinned. “Just fucking with you, man.”

I turned away. “Christ, you’re an asshole.”

He laughed. “Dude… Don’t take it so seriously.”

In spite of myself, I found myself grinning too. “That’s the Pitt I know and love.”

“What was that?” Aurora gasped from the backseat. She huddled in a blanket against the severe cold.

“What was what?” I said.

“That sound. Listen.”

A clunking noise from the engine. A grinding sound. The engine sputtered and went silent. Victor coasted to a halt. He reached over and removed a flashlight from the glove box. Gave it to me. He said, “Come on.”

We stepped out onto the salt. Victor hefted a metal toolbox from under the seat. Lifted the hood and propped it open, immersed himself in the innards of the jeep.

I looked down at the engine. I was lost. I’m one of those overeducated morons American universities churn out every year, men without any discernible ability or skill, except perhaps for drinking beer, doing drugs and licking pussy.

“Well?” I said at last.

Victor pointed. I looked. I shook my head. “So?”

“So?” he said. “Somebody sabotaged the engine. And I have a pretty good idea who it was, too.”

“Manuel.”

“Who do you think?” He threw a heavy wrench on the ground.

The moon hung high in the sky, taunting us with its glimmer of reflected warmth. I pulled my woolen hat down over my ears, crossed my arms and hugged myself.

“Now what do we do?” I asked.

“We wait.”

I peered at my watch. It was many hours before dawn. The danger of freezing to death was real. Insulated by the jeep, and warmed by the heater, we had passed the night without too much discomfort. Until now.

I got into the backseat and closed the door. “Share that blanket with me?” I asked Aurora.

“Sure.”

She snuggled close. She laid her head on my chest. I pulled the blanket up to cover us both. She shivered.

“We could both die here,” I said.

“I’ll be seeing Sven soon, then.”

I stroked her hair, pulling it away from her face. I lifted the flap of her woolen Andean hat to expose an earlobe.

“And if we live?”

She nuzzled closer. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

She got back into the jeep after taking a piss. I could hear her urine splashing against the hard-packed salt. The rustle of her pants. The zipper of her jacket. She closed the door, cuddled next to me under the blanket. Somehow she looked different. Then I realized what it was.

“Is that lipstick?” I asked.

“What? No.”

I rubbed my thumb against her lower lip, and she flinched. I held my hand up to the window. The moonlight showed a darkened smudge.

“OK, so it is,” she said. “What about it?”

“I just think it’s strange, that’s all,” I said. “Why would you wear lipstick out here in the
altiplano?”

I knew exactly why. She wanted to play, we could play. But by my rules, not hers.

She shrugged. “No reason.”

“Where did you get it?” I asked her. “You travel with lipstick in your pocket?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then who gave it to you?”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“I’m just asking,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “Helena did. The Swiss-German girl. She gave me one of hers.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would you want to wear lipstick in a place like this?”

She frowned. “Well, why not?”

“Lip balm, maybe,” I said. “Against exposure. But lipstick?” I looked at my thumb again. “Much less red lipstick?”

“Goddammit!” she said, and sat up straight. “Because I wanted you to kiss me, alright?”

“Try to keep it down back there, will you?” Victor said from the front seat, where he’d curled up in his jacket to try to keep warm. Fritz had given him a new sweater, some hefty mittens and a down parka.

“You wanted me to what?” I asked, feigning astonishment.

She sat back against her seat. “Well I
did,
anyway.”

“No, no, no,” I said. “That’s…fine. It’s just, that’s…the last thing I was expecting, is all.”

“Forget about it,” she said. She tucked her chin to her chest. “Never mind.”

I took her chin in my hand. She looked up at me. Sorrowful green eyes of another human being. Someone other than me.
Other people exist,
I thought.
Not just me. What an amazing thing.

“I didn’t say no,” I said, and kissed her cold lips.

She didn’t respond. I pulled away. She kissed me back. Wrapped her arms around my neck and licked my teeth. All of a sudden, she jerked back, as though stung.

“Was that alright?” I asked.

She hugged her arms to her chest. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“OK…”
Talk about hot and cold.
“Well,” I said, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

She pursed her lips. “Sven’s been dead for less than two days. And here I am snogging you.”

“But Sven’s not coming back,” I said. “Not any more than my Liliana is ever coming back. When is enough, enough?”

She said, “But you still mourn.”

I slumped back in my seat. “Touché.”

“But when is it enough?” she asked. She sat on her knees and faced me. “It’s like you said. We could freeze to death. Weeks from now the native salt traders with their llamas will come across this jeep with three human popsicles inside. Right now could be all we have.”

“You’re right,” I said. “So what do we do about it?”

She straddled me, her crotch warm against my thigh. Put her arms around me. Touched her cold nose to mine. “Maybe death is a reminder for us to live.”

She inhaled my tongue. She was the best kisser I had ever met. My cock throbbed in my pants. Guilt twisted my guts. I pushed her away.

“What is it?” she asked.

“What about Kate?”

She ground herself against my leg. “What about her?”

Victor could hear everything. If we survived, he would tell Kate about it. But did it matter? Kate had made her position clear. Carrying a torch for a woman, much less an American woman, was a fool’s errand. And if we froze to death here in the Salar, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

“Nothing,” I said, and pulled her down on the seat next to me.

Afterward, neither of us could sleep. Aurora took out her camera and showed me pictures.

Sven and me in Buenos Aires. Sven and me in Rio de Janeiro. Sven and me in Bogotá. Sven and me in bed. Oops. She grinned and bit a fingernail. Fast-forwarded through a few shots.

He was a tall, blond Swede. In each successive photo his hair grew longer. Didn’t want to cut his hair, she explained.

“What’s this?” I asked.

The motorcyclist filled the frame.

“I’d forgotten,” she said. “Motorcycle dude. Yeah.”

I took the camera from her hands. Zoomed in. The man sat astride the bike, face hidden beneath the smoked visor. Yellow hair trickled from underneath the helmet. At the throat, partly obscured by the leather jacket, the point of a shark tooth stabbed upward.

“Crap,” I said.

“What?” She pressed her breasts against my shoulder.

“I didn’t know better, I’d say this was Pitt.”

Dawn crept over the mountains. My fingers and toes tingled with the cold. Victor got out of the car and started doing jumping jacks. Frozen air blasted us through the open door. I shook Aurora awake.

“Sven honey, not yet, I’m so tired.”

“Just me, I’m afraid.”

She sat up, looked around her. Kissed me on the lips. She put her arms around my neck and squeezed me tight. Trembled. Her breath was hot on my neck. She smacked her lips, licking away tears.

“Pawn to Queen Six,” Victor muttered outside. “Right on schedule.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

His mutter grew into a shout. “Ahoy! Over here!”

Aurora and I pushed each other away, jumped out of opposite sides of the vehicle. Another jeep moved on the distant horizon, heading north, back to La Paz. We joined Victor in his desperate calisthenics, throwing our hands and feet in the air. Victor climbed on top of our jeep and waved his handkerchief.

“We’re off the tourist track,” I said. “They’ll never see us.”

“Victor!” Aurora said. “What about your gun?”

“Shit,” he said, “you’re right.” He fumbled under his jacket, drew his six-shooter. Pointed it at the heavens.
Bang.
Nothing. Emptied the cylinder,
bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.
The jeep continued to move across the horizon, not getting any bigger. He took the box of ammunition from his jacket pocket. He slid new bullets into the weapon. His fingers were obviously stiff.

“What about the flare gun?” I said.

They both said, “What flare gun?”

“This flare gun,” I said. I drew the heavy-caliber pistol from my jacket, put my finger in my ear and pulled the trigger.

A flare hissed skyward and exploded. Flashing bits of metal cascaded down in a haze of red smoke. The jeep slowed, turned in profile. Was it coming toward us, or going away?

I reloaded the two spares, fired them both, until the sky lit up like a battle zone. Our jumping jacks became hysterical, raw recruits on speed.

Panting, I rested my hands on my knees to catch my breath, the cold, thin air stabbing my lungs. The jeep was bigger than before. I sat on the fender, rubbed my ungloved hands together.

“Manuel gave you flares,” Victor said. He climbed down off the roof. “Good one.”

“Looks like he sabotaged the jeep, but didn’t want us to die,” I said.

Victor frowned. “Interesting move.”

We waited for the jeep to arrive. Victor put the gun away. We were out of breath, but warmed by the exercise. The horizon on the Salar is as far away as it is at sea. It took time for the jeep to reach us. As it got closer, I could tell from the expensive foreign-made backpacks strapped to the roof it was a tourist jeep. It slowed to a stop, tires crunching on the salt.

The driver lowered the window. “You alright there, mate?” he called in a New Zealand accent.

Aurora whooped. “We are very glad to see you!”

“Broke down last night,” I said. “Any idea how to fix an engine?”

He grunted and swung open his door. “Let’s have us a look-see, now, eh?”

The eight tourists in the back stared at us. Fear? Or boredom? Maybe they were just cold. They got out and walked around, stretching, beating their arms with their mittened hands. Four young backpackers chattering in Dutch amused themselves by taking humorous photos. A white-haired couple got carefully from the jeep, clucking at each other in French, as though afraid any sudden move might break a hip. Two overweight Japanese men clambered from the back, lit cigarettes.

The tour guide bent over the engine block. “The bloody hell happened to your face, mate?” he demanded of Victor.

“Fell down some stairs.”

“Stairs?” The guide straightened, looked around us at the vast emptiness of the Salar. He winked. “Missus, eh? Say no more.”

The verdict was soon in coming. “You’ve had some bloody gremlins at work here, mate. Mucked up the works big time.”

Victor picked up the wrench, looked over the man’s shoulder. He pointed the tool at the engine. “It looks as though someone deliberately damaged the—the thing here. How you say in English?”

The guide said, “Who rented you this piece of shit, anyway?”

Those were his last words. Victor smashed the wrench across the back of the man’s head. The guide fell to his knees, slid across the grill of the jeep and landed face down on the salt.

A bellowing bull sounded her charge. The white-haired Frenchwoman pounded her chest with her fists, expelling a primal growl of surprise and anger.

I knelt down to where the man lay. Put my fingers to his neck. “He’s dead.” I looked at Victor. “You killed him.”

“I know. Queen takes pawn.”

“Have you lost your mind?” I said. “This isn’t a game, man. This is real life.”

He shrugged. “We need the jeep.”

“You’re going to tell me he was CIA, too?”

Aurora beat her fists against Victor’s back. “You couldn’t have just asked him for it?”

The tourists approached us in a herd, a stampede of Gore-Tex and Lycra. The two Japanese men broke off and headed for their jeep.

Victor’s face was grim. “You didn’t see the pile of bodies at the ashram?”