The Threateners (33 page)

Vasquez looked at Ruth and spoke deliberately: “You are Mrs. Steiner, whose husband wrote one book containing much nonsense and some truth about my business and was killed while writing another. . . . And you are Mr. Helm, assigned to protect her as she searches for her husband’s electronic manuscript, but with certain personal motives for seeking me out, am I correct?” When I nodded, he turned to Belinda and Ackerman. “And you two feel a sacred obligation to save mankind from one of its innumerable bad habits; it might have been better if you’d directed your earnest salvation efforts toward tobacco or masturbation. . . . No, no, we will talk later. Right now I am sure you would all like an opportunity to ‘freshen up,’ as I believe it’s called. Señor Palomino will show you the facilities. I do not believe in the barbaric Yankee custom of cocktails, so we will meet again at the dinner table.”

El Viejo’s
mountain hideout—one of many hidden sanctuaries, no doubt—was not a treasure house of fine old paintings and priceless period furniture, but it was not a vacation cottage in the Berkshires furnished out of the Monkey Ward catalog, either. The house was roomy and massively built, and everything in it was sound and solid. The bathroom to which Ackerman and I were directed had been remodeled quite recently with new U.S. plumbing. Roger had nothing to say to me, which was fine, since I had nothing to say to him. Finished in there, we waited out in the long hall, under Palomino’s supervision, for the ladies to join us.

“This way, please,” Palomino said.

The dining room to which he directed us was big enough for a table that could have seated eight people, or maybe even ten if they were skinny, but was set for five. The tablecloth was linen or as close as made no difference; the china was thin and gray, marked with a colorful crest; the glasses seemed to be crystal or a good imitation; the flatware was silver and also sported a crest. Having associated, upon occasion, with aristocratic Scandinavian relatives who also went in for shields and crowns and lions and unicorns, I’m not particularly impressed by heraldic symbols, but I noted that Belinda, as soon as she was seated, picked up a fork to study the markings with unabashed curiosity. With Ackerman beside her, she’d been put to the left of the place setting at the head of the table that had no chair; Ruth was on the right, with me to talk to if Vasquez proved boring. I doubted that we’d be holding any lengthy conversations.

Then Don Gregorio, as he seemed to be called locally, was wheeled to his place by his silent attendant. Bravo trotted alongside the chair and sat down at a hand signal.

He said, “I hope no one objects to a dog in the dining room, but I must ask you not to feed him. We would not want to give him any bad habits, like begging at the table, would we? Were you very strict with your dog, Señor Helm?” I shook my head. “I’m afraid Happy was a terrible beggar, Señor Vasquez.”

“I wish to state that I regret your loss very much. It was certainly not intended—”

Ackerman made an angry sound. "Did you drag us all this way to talk about
dogs
, for Christ’s sake?”

Vasquez said calmly, “As you Yankees say, first things first. Now we talk about important things like dogs; later, perhaps, we discuss unimportant things like people. I’m certain that Señor Helm will agree with those priorities.”

I said, “All the way.”

“But first we eat,” Vasquez said. He didn’t smile, but there was, let’s say, a certain twinkle as he went on: “I was intending to serve
cabrillo
, but consulting Señor Palomino, I learned that there is a certain prejudice. Do you know what
cabrillo
is, Mr. Ackerman?”

“No, I don’t talk Spanish.”

Ruth said, “As a good New Mexican of about two years’ standing, I know that a
cabrillo
is a young goat.”

Belinda said, “Goat, ugh! Don’t they have any cows or chickens south of the equator?”

Vasquez laughed shortly. “Apparently Palomino was correct; there is a prejudice. So I am happy to announce that you will be served good Argentine beef. Now let us commence, and let us not spoil our meal with business talk; that will come later. Do you know about die nearby Machu Picchu ruins and how they were so heroically discovered by a gentleman named Bingham . . . ?”

It was quite an elaborate, European-style meal, with one course following another and a different wine for each. Our host gave us the history of Machu Picchu and the Incas in considerable detail; then he told us about the cultivation of the coca leaf and its many uses, recreational, medicinal, and religious.

“In your country you encounter only the evil side of this versatile substance,” he said, looking at Ackerman. “But today, here in Peru, you have seen the kind of fields cultivated by the natives. Do you think over the centuries they could have sustained such effort at such an altitude without the support of coca, Señor Ackerman? As for the religious aspects, I believe your country permits the use of peyote in certain religious ceremonies. . . .”

Ackerman spoke sharply: “It’s ridiculous to compare a fairly harmless hallucinogen like peyote with a poison like cocaine! Anyway, I think the most recent court cases involving peyote have been decided the other way.”

“Ah, so your vaunted freedom of religion is just another Yankee sham,” Vasquez said. “Well, after we have finished our discussion, Señor Palomino and his associates will demonstrate one of the less secret religious ceremonies performed by the
Compañeros de la Hoja
; I think you will find it very entertaining.”

“Discussion?” Ruth said. “What do we have to discuss, Mr. Vasquez?”

“Peace,” Vasquez said.

There was an interruption while coffee and after-dinner drinks were offered around. I settled for some brandy that was a little hard to track down as it rolled around in the bottom of a snifter the size of a kid’s balloon. Coffee for Ruth, a gooey-looking liqueur for Belinda, a Scotch for Roger. Vasquez, taking nothing, apologized for keeping us at the dining table, but the other rooms were small, he said, and he thought we’d be more comfortable here. I thought it more likely that Palomino, stationed at the door to the kitchen supervising the black-clad attendants who hovered around catering to our every whim, had suggested that it would be easier to control us if we remained grouped neatly at a table than if we were allowed to sprawl around untidily on sofas and easy chairs.

Finally, with everyone taken care of, Vasquez leaned forward to address us: “Now to business. I am an old man, and as you can see my bones are becoming brittle—the doctors do not seem to be certain whether my hip broke because I fell, or I fell because my hip broke. In any case I no longer thrive on conflict. That is why I have brought you here gently and fed you well. I think in most instances we can resolve our disagreements without violence. So, ladies and gentlemen, this is a peace conference. Let us hope it will be more successful at generating useful compromises than most such conferences.” As he sat back, folding his hands, I noted belatedly the ring with the green stone that Ruth had mentioned.

Across the table from me, Ackerman stirred indignantly.

“If you think . . . This is a big waste of time! I don’t compromise with drug dealers. If that means you’ll have me shot, go ahead and shoot!”

“Shooting is what we are trying to avoid, Mr. Ackerman. There has been sufficient shooting. . . . I will be honest with you,” Vasquez said, addressing all of us. “The killings at Estacón Seis—Station Six—in Brazil, where two of you were held for a while, can easily be explained as the result of some young Americans—well, three young Americans and an evil old professor leading them astray—looking for drugs and getting too close to a major operation. Unfortunately, it means sacrificing a productive laboratory to the police and the press, but so be it. However, while this incident was required, it rather limits my options, as your businessmen might say. We cannot have too many wandering
Americanos
dying violently down here; it gives tins continent a bad name.”

I reflected that the son of a bitch had a nice, dry sense of humor, which didn’t make him any less a son of a bitch. But it was nice to see the smoothie approach so nicely done. He and Palomino. The toughies know you hate them and will clobber them instantly at the first opportunity; the smoothies think they can get you to like them or at least respect them, and thereby slow you down a bit when the time comes. Well, it’s been known to work under favorable conditions, with susceptible subjects. There even seems to be a syndrome of sorts leading captives to love their captors. So far I’ve managed to stay immune.

Vasquez was still talking: “There is also the fact that some of you are working for your government, which makes things slightly awkward, since your country takes these matters with ridiculous seriousness. For instance, a certain U.S. agent was killed in Mexico; you have probably heard of the case. It happened a considerable time ago, but your country is still making more trouble about it than one would think a single man would be worth to a country of endless millions. Well, it is a form of trouble I can survive if I must; but I would prefer not to. Therefore I will not shoot you unless you force me to, Mr. Ackerman, even though you are not employed by quite such a well-advertised U.S. agency. Mr. Helm’s organization, I understand, avoids publicity, and is less likely to call for government action when it loses an operative; but it is reputed to have a very long memory, and I prefer not to spend what life I have left to me looking over my shoulder. As for Mrs. Steiner, she is the widow of a fairly prominent literary figure, and her death or disappearance would also cause some inconvenient notices in the press. This is why I have brought us together here. ”

Ruth started to speak and checked herself. It was Belinda who spoke: "What about me?"

Vasquez regarded her for a moment and said, “I gather that you have quite recently severed your connections with the U.S. government, so you can hardly claim protection there, Miss Nunn—I believe that is your correct name. We will discuss your problem later. Right now, let us commence with your former associate. Mr. Ackerman, what would satisfy you?”

“To see you extradited and standing in a U.S. courtroom answering for your crimes!”

Vasquez smiled thinly. “If you could guarantee that I would be standing, it might be worth it, since the doctors do not promise that I will ever stand, or walk, again,” he said. “But consider, what kind of a triumph would that be, trying and convicting and sending to prison a doddering old fart like me?” Vasquez glanced at Belinda without expression; a little color came to her face as she realized that her hotel-room remarks had been recorded—as had, obviously, the conversation in the Cadillac where she’d thrown her government job into Ackerman’s face. Vasquez went on: “You can see that I am a helpless cripple, and the fact that I have brought you here for such a ridiculous reason—in such a violent business, how can I ever expect to find peace?—should indicate to you that I am mentally, as well as physically, incompetent, totally incapable of controlling the far-flung empire of crime I will be accused of manipulating for your country’s destruction.”

Ackerman said quickly, “Then you admit that you intend to flood the U.S. with cheap drugs?”

Vasquez shrugged. “This room is flooded with delicious odors and there is a roast on the sideboard with considerable meat remaining. Yet Bravo sits beside me, resisting this terrible temptation. Should I concern myself with the fate of men who have less self-control than a dog? Should you? And even if you do, do you really wish to put a senile cripple on trial when you could prove to your employers, and your press, that the infamous Old One is really only a figurehead; the real power behind the South American drug trade with connections all over the world, both financial and religious, is the much younger man you will produce as your prisoner—”

"What the hell are you driving at?" Ackerman demanded.

“Hector, please come forward.”

Palomino left his post to stand beside Vasquez on the side that was not occupied by Bravo.

Vasquez said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Señor Hector Palomino Escobar. Or, rather, let us say that he gives himself to you, Mr. Ackerman. Hector made a mistake; and mistakes are not tolerated here, as he well knows. The others involved have already been punished. Hector was given a choice of punishments; he sensibly chose this one. An American prison will be a country club compared to what he would normally have had to endure to atone for his error. And having given his word, and being a man of honor, he will give your officials much incriminating evidence about the international drug transactions he will freely admit to having controlled in my name; he will also, with my permission, proudly claim to hold my position as the high priest of the
Compañeros de la Hoja
, the Companions of the Leaf, the new religion of cocaine that is taking the world by storm. And, finally, he will confess to the ritual execution of the sacrilegious journalist Steiner who had managed to penetrate the mysteries of the
Compañeros
and was about to reveal them in print.” Vasquez leaned forward. “It will be a spectacular trial, I assure you. And you, Mr. Ackerman, you will be the agent who receives the credit for bringing to justice this mastermind of crime! Consider it, Mr. Ackerman, consider it carefully. As you might say in your country, it sure beats a bullet in the brain."

Ackerman drew a long breath, but said nothing. Vasquez made a signal and Palomino returned to his station by the door. One of the waiters, if that’s what they were, poured another dollop of brandy into my big globular glass. Vasquez looked at me as I tried to comer it.

“And you, Mr. Helm,” he said. “While Mr. Ackerman is thinking things over let us hear what would satisfy you.”

“I’m satisfied,” I said, lowering the snifter, my least favorite type of booze container; why make liquor so hard to catch? But the brandy was excellent. I went on, with a glance toward the lady on my left: “As long as Mrs. Steiner is unharmed and allowed to go about her business without interference, I’m satisfied. That’s my job. Granting that I haven’t been in a position to work at it for a while, and am even kind of handicapped at the moment, it’s still my job. As long as she’s simply attending a pleasant dinner here with friends I have no reason to object; but if the situation should change, I’ll carry out my orders to the best of my ability. It may not be a very good best, under the circumstances, but good or bad, you’d better count on it."