The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller (27 page)

He said, “What kind of friend?”

“A friend. I told you. I think he might be here.” I nodded at the bodies.

“The kind of friend who bombs hotels? Suicide bomber, maybe?”

“Hijo de puta,”
I swore. “I saw the fire on the island. My friend was staying here. Let me find the body.”

A soldier fished through my pockets, looking for my ID.

“Pasaporte,”
the corporal said crisply.

“No tengo.”

“No passport?” He plucked the cigarette from his lips, blew smoke in my face and grinned, gold teeth glittering in the early morning light. “Then you are an illegal immigrant to Bolivia.”

“I crossed the lake this morning. In a boat.” I pleaded with the platoon of thin conscripts. “I just got here.” I gestured to the corpses on the ground. “I saw the explosion. I was so worried, I must have left my passport at the hotel.”

“And where is your hotel?”

“In Puno,” I lied. “In Peru.”

The corporal sucked on the stub of his cigarette, dropped it to the ground. The cinder flickered in the cold breeze. Smoke trickled upward toward my nose, died.

“My brother went to your country. He was an illegal. They put him in jail. They raped him in the ass. Your black people. Then they deported him. Now he has AIDS.” He spat. “Why should we not do the same to you?”

I clenched my buttocks, wondering how to avoid an unwanted party in my pants.

“I have committed a grave crime against the Republic of Bolivia,” I said. “While there is nothing I can do to make this right, perhaps as the smallest token of my sorrow, you will accept the two hundred US dollars in my left front trouser pocket as an on-the-spot fine.”

The soldier holding my arms relaxed his grip, but did not let go. The corporal pushed his pockmarked face close to mine, the tobacco stench masking the reek of death surrounding us. I thought about asking him for a cigarette, but decided against it.

“You try to bribe me, gringo? In my country, bribery is illegal.”

I avoided his eyes. “In mine too, corporal. I would never think of something so base as to offer a bribe to an upright, outstanding exemplar of Bolivian
machismo
such as yourself.” I angled my head toward the sky off my left shoulder, spoke to the soldiers behind me. “I mean no offense to the great people of Bolivia. I merely wish to ascertain if my friend be alive or dead. If what little I have can atone for my breaking of your sacred law, then I hope such a pitiful sum be sufficient that you forgive my atrocity.”

The man behind me snickered. “He talks funny.”

The corporal held my gaze. Then he clapped me on the shoulder and laughed. “We don’t want your money, gringo.” He jerked his chin at the man behind me. “Let him go.”

I took a deep breath and rubbed my wrists. “Thank you, sir,” I said, looking around at the blankets stretched out on the ground, wondering which, if any, of the lumps was Pitt. “If I can just—”

The corporal blocked my path again. He grinned. “Private Gonzalez here needs to see a dentist.” The private in question smiled broadly, offering his black teeth into evidence. “The army does not pay privates much money. Perhaps you could help him out?”

“Of course,” I said. I took the money from my pocket. It was all I had left from raiding the hostel’s cash box. While crossing the lake in the boat, I had transferred my stash from its hiding place to my pocket, thinking I might need some money when I got to the island. I hadn’t realized I would need it so soon. “How much does that cost?”

The corporal took the money from my hand. “I think forty dollars ought to be about right, don’t you?”

I nodded vehemently, my chin banging against my collarbone. “That seems fair.”

His boots crunched on burnt grass as he indicated another conscript. “Huevito here is nineteen years old and has five kids. They all need shoes. Ten dollars a pair, no?”

Private Huevo and I nodded enthusiastically at each other.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Ten dollars each for these other gentlemen, who have been of such great assistance to your grace this day,” —the money was duly handed out— “and a little something for my wife back in La Paz.”

He handed me a five-dollar bill. “Your contrition has been noted and accepted. You have twenty-four hours to leave the country.”

The men grinned at me. I cleared my throat. I said, “Permit me to inspect the bodies?”

The corporal scowled. “Make it quick.”

One by one I peeled back the blankets, the fabric sticking to charred faces. In addition to the old woman, I saw the skinless skulls of two blond-haired guys, neither of them Pitt, a Bolivian child, five broad-shouldered Argentinians wearing rugby jerseys, and two overweight white women in their fifties.

Only one body was left.

I knelt, took hold of the edge of the blanket. I held my face to the sky, felt the sun warm on my cheek. I breathed in deep, held it, fighting the nausea, and yanked back the wool covering.

A blackened, eyeless face stared up at me. Clumps of blond hair clung to the top of the skull. Burned deep into the flesh below the neck, a shark-tooth necklace.

Nineteen

The gravel crunched underfoot. I dropped myself from one step to another, not paying attention to where I was going, so long as it was down.

Now what?

Pitt was dead. I had my soccer-mom closure. Motherfucking bullshit. Nothing was closed. Only a million unanswered questions that no longer mattered.
I came all this way to find you, Pitt, and you had to go and die on me before I could hear it from your lips. Maybe then I might have believed in this touchy-feely ashram bullshit.

But Pitt was dead and his secret along with him. Ambo had tricked him into showing up
—You want to talk? Sure, let’s talk!—
and killed him. Plus a bunch of other innocent people. I wondered what excuse he’d give the press. Bolivian Terrorists Attack Tourist Watering Hole? Some bullshit. Did Bolivia even have terrorists? Whatever. In a week or two it would all be forgotten.

What was Pitt’s secret? It made me crazy. What did he want me to know? Or maybe this was it: death heals all wounds. There was no peace on earth and never would be. But I hoped that whatever was left of him, his consciousness—his soul, if he had one—had reached a cease-fire with existence.

But my war was just beginning. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Horse. Fuck Gaia. I owed Pitt a debt. A life for a life. For a brief moment in time I had believed that redemption was possible. Taunting me with that momentary glimpse of Eden… I imagined my hands around Ambo’s throat, squeezing the air out of him. Watching him suffer. Watching him die.

Gentlemen of the jury, the facts are simple: Ambo ordered the execution of his own son, Pitt. Had his own wife murdered. Of course he did. Why would Pitt kill his own mother? Ambo framed me for that crime.

What’s more, Ambo let me out of jail to help find Pitt. And they’d found him, although without my aid. What were Ambo’s plans for me now? The only logical answer: he would kill me. Or try to.

But what about Kate? I could go to her. Woo her. Try to build a life again.

Right…now who was kidding who? She’d said goodbye. I was pretty sure she meant it.

What if she didn’t? What if there was a chance? She still had some feelings for me, that was clear. Or why had she seduced me on the beach?

I was unsure of myself, for the first time in a long while. Even if I could persuade her to leave Victor and come back to me—by no means a likely outcome—she was a reminder of my sin. Our shared sin. I couldn’t look at her without seeing our dead child’s face. I didn’t deserve to be happy. But if she had found peace, maybe she could teach me how. Maybe we could build on that. Make some kind of life together.

We could run. Go to Brazil. Learn some Portuguese. I frowned. But too much happiness was possible in Brazil. The beach? Not for me. Sun, sand and threesomes with the golden girls of Rio? Not my style. To be so close to happiness might give me a heart attack.

More to the point, if Ambo was trying to kill me, it didn’t matter where we went. He would find us. He would kill us both. I didn’t care too much what happened to me. But I didn’t want anything to happen to Kate.

No. It was time to go back to Lima. Confront Ambo. Demand the truth. Then kill him. Kill or be killed. The law of the jungle. The law of Lima. It had come to that. I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. I entered my verdict: the defendant is guilty on all charges, Your Honor.

First step was the ashram. Victor and Echo and the rest. If I could catch them before they left. They were my logical allies. Play along with their plan to stop the war—as if that was going to make any difference. I would need their help to get back down to Lima. I flexed my fingers. They itched. I got a hard-on just thinking about Ambo’s throat. No Viagra necessary.

I squeezed the air in front of me, wishing his neck was between my hands. I could almost smell his dying breath. I was so absorbed in this daydream I nearly stepped on her. My blonde bundle of joy. She looked at me, as though expecting a greeting. Her eyes were red but the tears had stopped. She’d braided her hair, two long cords of yellow down each side.

She asked, “You find your friend?”

I grunted. Stepped around her. Clomped my way down the stairs.

A timid voice said to my back, “I ask, you find your friend?”

“The fuck you care,” I said, not bothering to stop.

I heard her stand up. “Where you going?”

“Get off this island.”

“They won’t let you.”

“Got a boat,” I called over my shoulder.

“Can I come?” she asked.

I didn’t turn. “No.”

Booted feet danced on the gravel beside me. “I’m serious,” she said. “Take me with you.”

“So am I.”

She panted for breath, trying to keep up. “My name’s Aurora. I’m coming whether you want me to or not.”

I turned to confront her. She crunched to a halt on the stair above me. I said, “Fuck off already, will you?”

She slapped me across the face. Hit hard for a girl. Her thumb grazed my broken nose. I saw white. Ground my teeth together, clenched my fists. Opened my eyes. She stared at me, her face wide with fear. But she did not flinch. Did not back down. I tensed my arm to strike.

She said, “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone. Remember?”

She held up her open palms to block my blow. Maybe she was right. Damn, she
was
right. There was plenty of grief to go around. I lowered my fists.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But you can’t come with. What I’ve got to do is dangerous.”

“And what’s that?”

I lifted my shoulders, let them drop. “Find the bastards who did this. Make them hurt. Kill them if I can.”

She pulled at her braids. Blood seeped from the roots. “You mean you know who did this?”

“Assassins for the CIA,” I said. “Call themselves the Dissent Suppression Unit.” I nodded up the hill. “They did it to keep my friend from talking.” I added, “They’re probably out there somewhere, waiting for me. To kill me. Which is why you can’t come along.”

She grabbed my arm. “I’m not asking.”

“If you come, the Americans will kill you too,” I said. “I’ve got enough dead people on my conscience already. I don’t need any more.”

“Sven and I were going to get married. Have babies. You understand? We’ve known each other since kindergarten. If I hadn’t picked a fight he’d still be alive. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?” I asked. “I mean, how could you have known?”

“That’s not the point!” she screamed at me. Her face turned purple. “You are such an asshole, you know that?”

I nodded. Vigorously. “Yes. I do.”

She ducked her head, frowned at her boots. Her lips puckered. “I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get off this island. And if that means I get killed, I don’t care. But I’ve got to do something. And you’re the only something I see happening around here.”

Every general needs cannon fodder,
I thought. I didn’t much like the idea. I didn’t want her along. But if I said no she’d cause a major scene, and getting off the island was going to be a lot harder than getting onto it. Plus, if she stopped a bullet somewhere between here and my hands around Ambo’s throat, I wouldn’t complain. She could be my Swedish body armor. Then maybe I’d survive long enough to see Kate again.

I said, “You get killed, it’s not my fault. Got it?”

She tugged on her braids, spoke to the ground. Spat the words like bullets. “Let’s go kill the fuckers.”

When we got back to the beach, the police did not want to let us off the island. No surprise there. Neither, for that matter, did the English girls. Two conscripts with AK-47s stood guarding the boat.

“Who’s the tart?” the Liverpudlian asked.

“My fiancée,” I growled. “Wanna make something of it?”

The girl stroked Aurora’s cheek. “She’s cute. Wanna party?”

I had to pry Aurora’s fingers from the girl’s hair.

Darting away from the amused if sluggish police contingent, we humped back up the hill, in search of a boat. We descended to the Hotel Pelicano, on the water’s edge, and, I am ashamed to say, stole their boat. Given the ruckus on the island, I was amazed there was no one guarding it. Unlike my little aluminum dinghy, this was a proper speedboat, with twin 110-horsepower engines and a computerized navigational system, which seemed like complete overkill on a land-locked lake at four thousand meters. That is, until they started shooting at us.

Gunshots splashed the water off our bow. A puff of smoke hissed upward from a gun turret; a whistling sound; and a shell exploded in the water not ten meters away, soaking us with spray, nearly swamping us.

“Grab the gun!” I shouted.

“What gun?”

“Shit!” I’d left it in the other boat.

I crouched low, opened the throttle, and we shot across the lake, bouncing off the low waves. More shells splashed around us, but the speedboat outpaced them, until the destroyer receded to a dot on the horizon.

But they wouldn’t be far behind us.

“You did this,” Victor said. He pointed the gun at my head.

Fresh bruises littered his face. Wet strands of combover hung at his shoulder. His sweater was torn down the front. The gun twitched and bobbed in his hand. He looked like a homicidal raccoon with a bad case of the DTs.