Open Pit (24 page)

“Then these men, Cristóbal Santos Molina, Pepe Molina Domingo — cousins. One with military training. Quite advanced. But you know this! They took the hostages to a safe house. You have so many contacts in Morazán. And from there?” Hernández shrugs. “Maybe into the
mountains
.” He emphasizes his last word as if it's the most important he's pronounced so far. “You've been communicating. We'll know soon how. We are searching your house. And you've published these letters in the newspapers, signed ‘Enrique.' Your alter ego, maybe?” Here he smiles at Marta like a parent who's caught a child in a lie.

“Perhaps now you have found them other places to hide. You even convinced the daughter of one of the hostages to stay with you, this. . . ,” he consults a piece of paper in front of him, “Aida Byrd. Good for the media.”

Marta could laugh at the entire scenario he has described, except it sounds plausible, even to her.

Ten minutes later, the door opens and Hernández bursts back in. “What do you think,
Señor
Wall?”

“Great. Great.” Mitch has been enjoying himself after all. Watching Marta shrink in her skin has been enormously satisfying. “You really grilled her. She's obviously guilty.”

“You think so.” Hernández sits down on the other side of Sobero so that Mitch has to lean forward and twist in his seat to see him well.

Sobero shakes his head and Hernández nods. It seems to be the equivalent of a verbal exchange.

“Am I missing something?” says Mitch, chuckling.

Hernández hits Sobero gently in the arm and Mitch's Chief of Security extracts a cigarette from his pack, handing it to him. Both men light up. “Everyone is very concerned about terrorism these days,” says Hernández. “Washington? Oh, they are serious.”

“As they should be,” says Mitch. He doesn't see the connection.

“Absolutely. And Manuel, he does his best so that your mine will never be touched by these kinds of criminals.”

“You think Marta Ramos is a terrorist?”

Sobero shoots Mitch a look that says he should listen before speaking. These men don't talk straight. Mitch values straight talkers.

“The Americans are not satisfied with their war in Iraq — our war. We are part of it, you know?”

Mitch is vaguely aware of this. He still doesn't see the relevance.

“But they are also concerned about terrorism right here, in our hemisphere. They've started a program. Of course, we support it. We support everything they do, and, in turn, they help us.” Hernández gestures at the walls, thanking his American patrons for the surroundings. “It's a beneficial relationship. As we speak, they are flying small remote-controlled planes — drones. You've heard of these, at least?”

Mitch hasn't.

“Oh. Well. These go over our territory and all the way up to Mexico. Systematically. Imagine the resources!” Hernández sounds genuinely awed. “They say that
el famoso
Al-Qaeda might be smuggling operatives into the U.S. on the illegal migrant routes that start right here in El Salvador with the help of our very own gangs, who make such a healthy profit from that business. It is ironic, no? Our problems serving the subversives of another part of the world, and our soldiers in Iraq fighting the same subversives. It's globalization!” Hernández slaps his hands together to punctuate his observation.

Sobero nods.

Mitch shifts in his seat. “I still don't think I —”

“Today I called in a favour among the people who run this program. They owed me for some files I was able to provide them on one of our leading gang assassins who freelances in Los Angeles. A small thing, really. They shared with me the fact that they are currently analyzing some unusual photos their drones have taken of a small group of people travelling at night on an uncommon route — infrared, of course, only the best — through northern Morazán. What if I told you that the hostages will be among them? And that the Americans are prepared, as a favour to me, to resurvey this area, starting today, and to send us updated shots, at which point we will be in a position to act? We have excellent capacity.” Hernández looks at Mitch eagerly, waiting for a reaction.

But Mitch is too freaked out to deliver the expected awe. Hernández, he's just realized, is a gearhead. Geology is full of guys like him. People who love their polymer-capped chipping chisels as much as the minerals in the rocks they're bashing with them. Hernández wants to use all the fancy equipment the Americans have bought for his unit. An image of Catharine Keil's face floats across Mitch's mind, the horror she displayed during their meeting at his suggestion that she let Hernández handle the kidnapping. Then Carlos's words from last night: “. . . Maybe there are problems. Casualties.” Mitch's stomach turns. “And her?” he says, nodding towards the one-way mirror, behind which Marta is still sitting, her arms crossed now, staring down at the desk.

“What about her?”

“You'll keep questioning her, right?”

Sobero, who hasn't said a word since Mitch arrived, suddenly chimes in. “It's always useful to shake the confidence of individuals like
Señora
Ramos.”

“But the documents.” Mitch cannot — will not — believe that Carlos's sources lied, that Marta and her Committee are innocent. How could Carlos have been fooled?

Sobero and Hernández both smile. “Someone must have been bored,” says Hernández, shrugging as he did earlier in the room with Marta.

Seeing Mitch's dejection, Sobero claps him on the shoulder, displaying a familiarity completely at odds with his usual manner. “You never know. If Antonio gets the coordinates and locates the delegation, they might still be convinced to use the name of Marta Ramos — whether they've heard it before or not.”

“If they all make it out,” says Hernández, pausing a moment before adding, “You'd be amazed what's possible once we have control of a situation,
Señor
Wall.”

Mitch tries to write this off as joking exaggeration, looking between the two former military men for a humourous edge, but he doesn't find one.

TUESDAY
APRIL 12

11:20 AM
. 27
KM
south of the Salvadoran-Honduran border

This last stretch before they're close enough to cross is rough going. Straight up to about
2
,
400
feet and through some of the only dense pine forest left in the country. These stands haven't been cut in nearly a generation. They were owned by the patriarch of one of El Salvador's richest families until he died in Miami, where he was living off the money he stole from the public coffers. His nine children have been fighting in court for the right to clear-cut the area ever since. Pepe has followed the case in the press, and he takes his time describing these ins and outs to Cristóbal in a clipped monotone as they set up camp together, digging a fire pit and latrine, then recovering the supplies — matches, bottles of water to fill the canteens, cigarettes, cans of food — that they buried here two months back. “These trees are thriving on lawsuits,” Pepe says, in summary, and horks loudly.

Cristóbal shakes his head in an exaggerated manner and smiles at the inexplicable behaviour of rich people. He's happy to listen. They haven't spoken much since their disagreement about Rita except to confirm that they will continue to travel in this general area for the time being in a back-and-forth pattern, taking a slightly more northerly route every night. Suits him. Cristóbal loves the freshness of the air up here, the pine scent on the breeze, so different from the sweet, damp heat at the lower altitudes. Plus, when this is over, he and Rita can go north quickly. When Pepe finishes his story, Cristóbal tips his head towards Tina and the other hostages. He doesn't normally venture his opinions, but he wants to keep up the exchange with his cousin. “The antibiotics are working,” he says.

“We should have started them sooner,” Pepe barks back. “Tonight, walk more slowly with her. Don't push. If she collapses, we'll have a bigger problem than going slow.” He's lit a cigarette from one of the fresh packs, but now he throws it, barely smoked, onto the ground and heads in the other direction.

Cristóbal pulls the last cans from the plastic bag they were buried in, rolls the bag small and tucks it into his pack. He thinks Pepe overreacted during that last phone conversation. He should not have committed himself to taking the life of a hostage over some small problem of a time limit. They have plenty of supplies. They're prepared to keep up their evasive tactics. There's no real deadline on their end, no rush. But Pepe sent that message out to the press and now it's too late. If Tina can't walk, she'll be the one to go. It's a shame. She's very nice.

Cristóbal takes a few steps forward and grinds Pepe's butt out, then picks up the stub and puts it in his pocket. He goes about the rest of his daily duties then switches off with Rita and Delmi while the hostages finish their long morning sleep. When it comes time, he tells Pepe that he's free to go rest, but Pepe shakes his head and ignores him. Cristóbal tries to think of the right thing to say. He sees how Pepe is struggling with himself, which makes Cristóbal feel love for him and deep regret that the mine hasn't been more compliant. He's never been convinced that Pepe will find what he's looking for at El Pico, even if a team of people is allowed to dig for weeks. But he wants Pepe to succeed and hopes that if he does, his cousin will find inner peace.

The hostages pick up on the change in Pepe's mood as soon as they wake up — mostly because he's usually off sleeping by now. Cristóbal watches their eyes fill with questions. Curiosity keeps them quiet a long time. Eventually though, unable to stand it, they revert to their normal means of communication, using their hands and a sprinkling of quiet words in English, which Cristóbal half understands. But seeing them relax has the exact opposite effect on him. He and Rita and Delmi have been less than strict about the talking rule. Now that Pepe is agitated, the trigger won't be important. It could be something small. Cristóbal can only hope that if Pepe goes off, the impact of his rage will be minor and won't harm Rita.

It's odd. The kidnappers never give up sleep time. But even after Delmi and Rita get back from their daily food preparations and Cristóbal goes out for his afternoon sleep, Pepe sticks around. Everyone waits to see what he'll do, but for a long time he pays them no attention, stomping in and out of view. Then, abruptly, he sits, takes off a small, dirty-looking pack Danielle hasn't seen before, then his rifle, and puts them on the ground. From the pack he tugs a heavy-looking pouch, which he lays open to reveal some containers, a cloth, a rod, a thick screwdriver and a brush.

He disconnects the strap from his gun, removes the magazine and loudly pulls back a lever, making Antoine jump. A round falls into Pepe's palm. Everyone leans forward to see the ammunition. Pepe takes the rest of the weapon apart and lays its sinister black components on an enormous, oversized leaf. Danielle looks between this spectacle and the others, who are transfixed, Rita included, her gaze moving rapidly between the gun parts and Pepe's mask, maybe as concerned as everyone else that he's getting ready to put the weapon back together for a specific use.