Atlanta Extreme (2 page)

“Colonel Curtis isn't here? He's not in Belize?”

“No, he is in Guatemala, in the jungle, near the border of El Salvador and Masagua, where our rebel army trains. He wishes you to see the operation before you pass judgment on him.”

“And you are convinced that I haven't already passed judgment?”

“I am satisfied with our interview. It is enough. We will leave at first light.”

Without looking at him Laurene Catocamez turned and walked from the bar. Her hips swung beneath her jet-black hair, and her breasts vibrated tautly, braless, beneath the white blouse as she pushed through the double doors and disappeared.

It was a moment before Hawker realized that before leaving, she had taken the key to his room.…

two

Hawker gave it five minutes, finished his beer, paid the bill. The bartender was a solicitous little man with an earring and a gold tooth. He felt called upon to offer something in return for Hawker's Belizean-dollar tip.

“Your lady very boss, mon. Very boss. She get mad at you, sir? She walk out?”

“She's not my lady—man.”

“Not nosy, sir, not nosy. Just trying to help. You need the womans, sir, I be the one to see. I get you fine, clean womans, sir. Very young, very cheap. What you say, sir?”

“I say, why is it that people are trying to supply me with women lately? Do I look that hard-up?”

“Don't understand, sir. Talk plain to old Sam. I get you fine, clean young womans if you want, sir.”

Hawker patted the counter. “Not right now, thanks, Sam. Maybe another time.”

On the bar's big-screen television Flipper was squeaking and splashing, trying to tell Chip to follow. The satellite dish reception was bad, and it appeared to be snowing on the dolphin, which, in TV land, was king of the sea. No one in the bar was watching, anyway. At a table across the room three Englishmen sat over gin and tonics, discussing their respective banana crops. In the corner, sitting alone, was a huge, bearish black man with a thick black beard and mustache. He was reading a magazine. Near a window that overlooked the fluorescent green of the Caribbean sea, a group of Americans talked of the dangers and demands of their scuba-diving holiday on Ambergris Cay. They talked loudly so that everyone in the bar could hear.

“That damn barracuda was six feet long, no shit, a fucking six-footer, and he came right up to us. Frankie started to panic, but I grabbed his arm and settled him down. Gave him the take-it-easy signal. 'Cudas won't bother you unless you're wearing something shiny, but Frankie really lost his cool when he saw it. Of course, the only place where he's logged any real diving time is Lake Erie. I try to make it down to Florida at least a couple of times a year, so I know how 'cudas act. You have to respect them, but hell, there's no real reason to be afraid of them. A fucking six-footer, no shit.…”

There were three women at the table and five men. The women, Hawker noted, seemed to be bored by the ongoing macho routine of the men. One of the women was rather pretty in a stocky, blue-eyed Midwestern way, and she smiled at Hawker. Hawker smiled in return and hurried out.

It was a strange mixture of people in a strange country. Belize had the feel of a mud-lot carnival: cheap, gaudy, raw. The country used to be known as British Honduras, a colony of the crown for nearly one hundred and twenty years. But then, in 1981, the United Kingdom granted the country its independence. The local government changed the country's name to Belize while, at the same time, begging the British not to withdraw their troops. The people of Belize knew—as did everyone else—that the Gautemalan army would march in the day after Her Majesty's forces sailed out. The British agreed to stay. As James Hawker trotted down the steps, through the lobby of the hotel and outside, he wondered why the British cared. From what he had seen the people of Belize were lazy, dirty, and undependable. Belize City itself was nothing more than a massive slum built around four or five international banks. In the open markets of the city flies swarmed around squawling black babies while their parents, apparently unconcerned, laughed and danced to American hits on their ghetto blasters. On almost every corner of every block, Rastafarians, in their greasy dreadlocks, hustled drugs: “You want buy good ganjah, mon? Five ounces or five tons, mon, whatever you want. You do the white train, mon? I got good snort; good cocaine. Set you down right nice and easy.…” The most memorable thing about Belize City was its smell. The city smelled of rotting fruit, bad fish, and the raw sewage that flowed out Haulover Creek, the river that ran past the crowded stilt shacks in the center of town.

Most people came to Belize for the scuba diving off Ambergris Cay or the fishing off the Turneffe Islands. Hawker had come because Colonel Wellington Curtis considered it a country neutral to his cause. His cause was to help the rebels overthrow the government of Masagua, a tiny banana republic wedged in between the troubled nations of Guatemala and El Salvador. Hawker's friend and aide, Jacob Montgomery Hayes, had arranged the meeting after first listing the reasons why Curtis's operation needed to be stopped. Thy Estes had accompanied Hayes, visiting Hawker at his seaside retreat in Venezuela. It was a pleasant reunion for all of them. Hawker hadn't seen Hayes since he had gone renegade (in the opinion of the CIA) and escaped to Ireland. He hadn't seen Thy Estes since he enlisted her aid to help him escape from Belfast, two CIA agents hot on his tail. So at first their meeting had a party atmosphere. Champagne for the senator, American beer for Hawker, and freshly pressed mango juice for Hayes the vegetarian.

But it wasn't long before Hayes got down to business. Hayes was stocky, aesthetic, early sixties, balding; a pipe smoker who was part business tycoon, part Zen Buddhist, part field biologist, part philosopher; an exacting, quiet man whom Hawker admired very much. It seemed like a long, long time ago that Hayes, a billionaire, had offered to finance Hawker on his vigilante operations. Since those days the two men had grown to be much more than just financier and employee. They had become close friends. So Hawker listened quietly as Hayes described Curtis, his operation, and why the operation had to be destroyed.

Hayes began, saying, “Colonel Wellington Curtis—he's an honorary colonel in the Georgia militia, by the way, not a real colonel—is a true Southern aristocrat. His family landed at Jamestown before the Pilgrims. They spread through Virginia and into Georgia. They were plantation owners, slave owners; moneyed people who controlled the counties in which they lived and sometimes even the states in which they lived. They fought with distinction in the Civil War and afterward helped rebuild the South through their support of the Democratic Party. The fortune of the Curtis family has dwindled since those times, but even so, Wellington Curtis is a very wealthy man. Most of his wealth was inherited, but he is still an impressive individual, a brilliant historian who has written two classic books on military history:
War Craft
, which is about naval warfare, and
The Killing Tree
, which concerns the Civil War.” From a leather briefcase Hayes took two thick volumes and put them on the table. “You may want to read them, James.”

Hawker nodded but did not pick up the books. Hayes continued. “About ten years ago Curtis became interested in the conflicts of Central America. It is my understanding that he became interested while doing research for a book he was writing on revolutions. The conflicts of Central America became an absolute passion with him, and before long, he began donating money to the rebel cause in Masagua, a tiny country, which, like Nicaragua, has fallen under Soviet control. Curtis hates communism, just as you and I do. He wrote a brilliant treatise entitled “Lies of the Workers,” which every major New York magazine refused to publish. Curtis finally published it and circulated it himself—”

“Wait a minute, Jake,” Hawker said, interrupting. “This is the guy you want me to stop? It sounds like we ought to join him, if you ask me.”

“Up to this point I think you're right, James,” Hayes said calmly, tapping his pipe into an ashtray. “I agree. Much of what Curtis has done is admirable. But in the last two years he has changed, changed drastically. Back in Atlanta he was known as a fine man, a decent man, a humanitarian man. Politically he is ultra–right wing, but even his adversaries on the left admired him for his honesty and sense of fair play. But three years ago Wellington Curtis decided that sending money and mercenaries to Masagua wasn't enough. He decided that in order to really contribute he would have to go there, himself. He decided he would appoint himself general of his little army and take full control of the rebel movement. Apparently he did rather well during the first year there. Brilliant historians aren't always brilliant military leaders in the field. But he was. He and his men fought bravely and honorably, and he made the Moscow-backed regulars of Masagua look foolish more than once. But then something happened. I don't know what. Maybe a year in the jungle fighting for survival is a little too much for someone from a cultured background to stand. At any rate Curtis's methods began to change. And his ideas, his … philosophies became unsound. In Masagua gruesome stories of his troops beheading babies, torturing women, and raping little boys and girls began to filter out of the jungle. Rather than refuting the news stories, Curtis cut down on his contact with the outside world. He refused to do any more interviews and warned that any journalists found within his camp would be executed on sight.”

“You can't really blame him for that,” Hawker said wryly.

Hayes smiled and continued. “Even so, a photograph of Colonel Curtis appeared in
Time
magazine two months ago. I don't know how it was smuggled out, but it was a startling photograph to see, if one had known Curtis before he left Atlanta—and I did. The photo showed Curtis, who is now in his early fifties, wearing nothing but a breechcloth, a gun belt, and camouflage paint. In his left hand he was holding the severed head of a small girl. In his right hand was a knife.” Hayes took a sip of his mango juice, then returned it to the table. “James, in my opinion Colonel Wellington Curtis has gone quite insane.”

Hawker thought for a moment. “I have no ill will for the people of Masagua, Jake, but what does your story have to do with you or me or Thy? Didn't we agree when we started as … partners that there was more than enough corruption in the United States to take care of? So far every one of our operations has taken place back home. Are you sure you want me to get involved in Central America?”

Hayes shook his head. “I'm quite sure I don't want you to get involved in the problems of Central America, James. Unfortunately Colonel Curtis's unsound methods are not just being used in Masagua. They are being used in the United States, too—Georgia, to be specific. I'll explain.

“When Curtis first got involved with the rebel cause in Masagua, he drew on his personal wealth to finance his operation, but to a greater extent he drew on the wealth of friends who agreed with his political views. When these weird rumors about him began appearing in the news, his friends were curious, but they were sure that Curtis would return and refute the stories. But Curtis didn't return. Instead he withdrew. He has spent the last two years in the jungle without making any public contact with his friends in the United States.

“Finally his friends got together and sent out an appeal for Curtis to return to the United States and set the record straight. His reply—sent through two aides—was so obscene, so offensive to his friends, and so strongly worded that the news media couldn't even use it. His friends abandoned him, leaving Curtis without sufficient funds to continue. So Curtis has devised a new way to solicit funds.

“One year ago he sent his two most trusted mercenaries, Shawn Pendleton and Greg Warren, back to the United States. Pendleton and Warren go by the ranks of captain in Colonel Curtis's little army, but they are really nothing more than hired thugs. They belonged to the Hell's Angels for a while and smuggled drugs; each was arrested for armed robbery and assault in the early seventies, but the charges were dropped on a technicality. These are the men Curtis is using to solicit funds for the rebel cause. And the way they solicit funds is not pretty. They have put together two squads of men. With those men they tour Georgia. At first they simply described the colonel's cause and asked for donations. But the money didn't come fast enough, so Curtis had them revise their methods. The two hit squads—and that's what they are—began to use brutal methods to get money. Blackmail, extortion, terrorism, and, in last three instances, murder. They are absolute fanatics, and they will stop at nothing.” Hayes finished his fruit juice as Thy Estes, the beautiful redheaded United States senator reached out and took Hawker's hand.

“They've done terrible things, James,” she said. “I know you admire what Curtis has done in Central America, but he's gotten way out of hand. There is no official way to stop him. In Georgia the people are so terrified of his hit squads that they refuse to testify. And, of course, in Masagua we have no influence at all. Will you help? Will you go to Atlanta and try to infiltrate one of the two terrorist groups and put a stop to their bloody work?”

Hawker shrugged. “Have you forgotten, senator? The CIA wants my head on a platter. They have already come damn close to catching me twice.” Hawker gave the woman a look that only she would understand. “In fact, I seem to remember spending a long cold night in a barn outside of Belfast, hiding from two of their agents. Don't you?”

Her smile had a glint of wickedness in it. “I don't remember it being
that
cold, Mr. Hawker—but that's not the point.”

“Oh?”

“That's right, dear. The point is, I spoke with a Mr. Rehfuss of the Central Intelligence Agency—”

“You talked to Jerry?” Hawker said, leaning forward.