Mirrors (11 page)

“Are you from Maryland?” Manovic asked. He spoke with an east European accent.

“Yes, from Frederick.” I handed him a card.

As he read it, I noticed the skin about his eyes and nose was mottled and swollen, making me think he had recent sinus surgery. His hair was two-tone from bleaching, the older growth yellow and the newer black.

“Ah, we’re neighbors,” he exclaimed. “I live about twenty-five miles away from your office in Frederick.” His green eyes, tinted by contacts, looked animated, as if they had found a long-lost friend.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Germantown.”

My stomach twisted. The Washington, D.C. suburb with fewer than a hundred thousand residents had, in the past three days, raised its profile alarmingly—on a bottle of juice collected from Danny Rogers’ home; on a business card deposited on my door mat; on a bag of shrimp feed I noticed moments earlier; and now in voice form from a visiting scientist in remote Ecuador. The encounters defied chance alone.

“How nice,” I said. “I wish I got there more often, but my seafood business keeps me in Frederick.”

“Gentlemen,” Zot said, “I encourage you to continue your discussion, but I must attend to a delegation of Japanese visitors. I trust you’ll join us later for lunch.”

“An honor,” Muñoz said. “In the meantime, we’ll look about a bit more.”

Alistair Brubeck had
packed our duffel bag carefully. In addition to equipping it with vials to collect samples, he included swabs, tubes containing media to promote the growth of bacteria and viruses, and packing material. Muñoz and I spent the morning collecting samples from pools, fertilizers, chemicals, and other aides used to maintain the pools. We were left to our own with little interest from others.

Early that afternoon, Zot summoned us to lunch on a grassy knoll among mango trees. I set the duffle bag down and, wiping my brow, joined Muñoz in drinking a beer. Beside us, a chef grilled steaks, his corpulence suggesting he’d enjoyed the spoils of his trade for decades.

Zot approached us with a woman by his side. She was petite with long black hair highlighted red along its lower curls and wore matching red eyeliner. “My wife, Carmen,” he said.

She smiled in a fashion that tried, I suspected, to conceal teeth that needed work. “I hope you’ll enjoy the food,” she said, her accent Latin.

“But first
drinks
!” Zot blurted. “You worked hard this morning.” He left us to socialize with other guests.

I took up on his offer of a second drink, meeting a Japanese man at the cooler.

“From America?” he asked.

“Yes, and you?”

“Okinawa.”

We shook hands. He motioned to his colleagues. “Friends … all from Japan. Come to see shrimp farm.”

“What do you think of it?” I asked.

“State-of-art.”

A silver tray with hors d’oeuvres appeared, held, no less, by the visiting scientist we spoke to earlier, Anton Manovic.

“You must try one of these shrimp,” he said. “Fresh as can be.”

I took one out of courtesy but vowed not to eat it in light of the evidence that shrimp from this very farm had caused the outbreak of XK59-associated bleeding in the United States.

“Very kind of you to help Mr. Zot with his guests,” I said.

As I lifted the shrimp, my eyes darted to a generous portion of Manovic’s chest laid bare by a largely unbuttoned guayabera shirt.

Manovic smiled. “Not a problem; the least I can do.” He moved on, displaying a waddle to his gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other.

“Please, come!” Zot bellowed from the grill. “The meat is cooked.”

I ate a steak with fried plantains and corn on the cob. Sitting in a chair with a cool breeze blowing from the sea, I savored the food, the view, and the hum of easy talk.

The lunch proved
to be a protracted affair with a band playing well into the afternoon. Muñoz and I excused ourselves quietly, however, to collect more samples. Upon completing the task, we went to Zot’s office.

“May I count on your business?” he asked.

Muñoz tapped the duffle bag. “With favorable results, I should think so.”

“And what about you, Mr. Fields?” Zot asked me.

“How could I say no after eating your shrimp?”

“I may have other clients who would like to purchase your product as well,” Muñoz said.

“Oh?” Zot leaned forward. “Who are they?”

“I’d be happy to discuss them with you,” Muñoz said, “but we needn’t tie Mr. Fields up as we do so. He would like to return to El Coco to inspect Redondo’s fishing business before the day ends.”

Although I was uncomfortable with the idea of parting ways with Muñoz, he had convinced me earlier to leave the shrimp farm before he did to arrange a pickup time with Winrod.

“No problem,” Zot replied. “We’ll send Mr. Fields with our Japanese friends.”

“How will Mr. Ramírez get back?” I asked, eyeing my colleague.

“We’ll arrange a ride for him,” Zot assured me.

I thanked Zot and carried the duffle bag to a bus where the Japanese had already taken their seats. It was a noisy ride to town with a group still abuzz from liquor that had flowed freely at lunch. I received a cheer of good will as I departed at Redondo’s fish market. Redondo, cutting steaks behind a counter, came out to greet me.

“
¿Como estás, amigo?
”

I dug deep for remnants of high school Spanish. “
Bien, y usted
?”

“Where is señor Ramírez?” he asked, the first I’d heard of his English.

“At the farm. He should be back soon. In the meantime, he asked that we call Winrod to plan an evening departure.”

“I do that.” He escorted me into his shop where he called Winrod. After a brief discussion in Spanish, he said, “He arrive at midnight to collect you.” He removed his apron. “
¿Quieres una cerveza?
”

“
Si, por favor
.”

We walked to the plaza and sat at an outdoor café under a
Cinzano
umbrella and ordered beers.

“We watch pretty
señoritas
,” Redondo suggested.

There were plenty to be seen, for it appeared that the town had assembled at the plaza for sunset. Across the street, at the fountain, a bevy of girls giggled at a group of boys poised on the steps. Music from a loudspeaker blared nearby.

Night fell quickly and after downing the fourth beer of the day, I switched to mineral water as empty bottles collected on the table like bowling pins.

“I go now,” Redondo said. “I meet you and Ramírez at your hotel later to take you to air field.”

I thanked him and said goodbye, but rather than return to the forlorn hotel, I remained at the café to wait for Muñoz to arrive. Under a sputtering street lamp, I drew comfort from watching people pass. At the last light of day, a flashy jeep with a roll bar finally turned into the plaza. As it drove by, I saw Manovic in the driver’s seat with Muñoz beside him. Neither noticed me at the café.

I paid the bill and started across the plaza. As I walked, I saw the jeep come to a stop before the hotel. Oddly, the driver’s face was covered by a ski mask now and the headlights had extinguished. I called to Muñoz but he didn’t hear me through the rustling palms, or if he did, he didn’t reply because he was preoccupied with freeing his seatbelt. Suddenly, the driver bolted from the jeep and ran into the hotel, and as he disappeared, an explosion ruptured the night, shooting fiery streaks from the jeep.

“My God!” I shrieked.

I sprinted, shouting “Muñoz, Muñoz!,” oblivious to his alias. Through smoke billowing from the jeep, I saw the vehicle had flipped onto its roll bar. Parts were strewn about the ground—a shattered headlight, a door, a seat. The heat from the chassis was so intense I couldn’t approach it, yet from twenty yards, I saw Muñoz’s lifeless form charred to the frame. A severed arm lay on the street only feet away.

I looked up and down the street for help. An amorphous crowd had formed at the end of the block, yet no one stepped forth. I turned my eyes to the hotel, thinking help would surely come from there, but again, none did. Instead, a light flicked on in a second-floor window from the very room I had slept in. A masked figure appeared at the window and opened it, revealing the barrel of a rifle. I turned to run, but before I could take a second step, a shot rang out. The duffle bag beside my body jerked. Then another shot, one striking the sidewalk.

I dove behind a palm tree. My throat burned for air. In the silence, I knew I had to flee, so I dashed to the next tree. Another shot dug into the soil beside me. I took another tree, this time peeking around the trunk to find the window barren.

I rushed across the street, duffle bag in tow, and raced along a dark, narrow lane away from the plaza. Here and there, I stopped to catch my breath, but as I did, I pressed my body into doorways. When I looked back I expected to see a pursuer, but none came, so I ran again, diving behind a dumpster at one point when a truck approached. To my relief, it turned onto another street, allowing me to continue. As I ran, I passed windows through which I saw people eating dinner or putting children to bed.

My legs ached by the time I reached the outskirts of town. As I continued, the dwellings were replaced by sugar cane fields, one of which I took refuge in as I groped for my cell phone. An eternity passed before the party answered.

“Krispix, is that you?” the voice asked.

“You almost got me killed!”

“Calm down!” Glenn Bird shot back. “Where are you?”

“In a godforsaken field out of town!”

“Is Muñoz with you?”

“He’s dead!”

“
What
?”

“They blew up the jeep he was riding in and tried to shoot me, but I escaped.”

“Listen!” he commanded. “Stay on the phone; I’m going to get someone else to join us.”

Mosquitoes descended upon me, bringing thoughts of malaria, dengue, and yellow fever.

“Krispix,” Bird finally said. “Alex Winrod has joined us. Are you there, Alex?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Tell Krispix what you want him to do.”

“I’m coming,” Winrod said, “but you’re going to have to find your way to a different field from the one we landed on; they’ll be looking for you there.”

“Where do you want me to go?”

“What road did you take out of town?” he asked.

“The first one I could find!”

“Give me landmarks.”

I peered out from the edge of the field into the moonlit night. “I’m near a hill with part of its side dug out.”

“Ah, the quarry!” he said. “I know exactly where you are. You’ve got a hike ahead.”

“With a duffle bag that weighs a ton!”

He continued: “You’ll scale that hill you see, and when you reach the other side, there’ll be a valley where I’ll pick you up.” He asked what the weather was like.

“Calm wind, clear sky.”

“Good, I’ll meet you in an hour and a half.”

It took me almost that long to get to the valley. The weight of the duffle bag threw me off balance and I fell repeatedly from the treacherous footing. By the time I reached the destination, my trousers were torn and my arms bruised, but the sound of an airplane dropping from the sky was a balm as soothing as any. It was a rapid descent Winrod made, and one without lights. He taxied up to me and stopped abruptly. With both propellers still spinning, he left the pilot’s seat to appear at the rear door.

“Get in!” he shouted. “I saw a pair of headlights coming around the hill.”

In moments, we were airborne. I sat beside Winrod as he turned the airplane one way, then another to dodge thunderstorms.

“Back to Quito?” I asked.

“Nope, to Colombia.” He was quiet for a moment. “Sorry about your partner.”

An hour passed before we began our descent, and I watched the hands of the altimeter turn. After piercing a layer of clouds, we entered a pitch-black sky sequestered from the moon. Winrod banked us to one side and then leveled the airplane before the wheels touched ground. We stopped beside an immense aircraft.

“C-130
Hercules
,” Winrod said, preempting my question.

The tail at its rear had been lowered, revealing a helicopter inside. At the base of the ramp was a jeep with the insignia
United States Air Force
.