Where There's Smoke (71 page)

If Randall noticed Key's tenuously controlled rage, he gave no indication of it.
 
"Would you like something to drink, darling?
 
We have a few minutes before going downstairs."

"No, thank you.
 
I don't want anything to drink.
 
And I don't see why it's necessary for me to participate in this news conference."

"You're my wife.
 
Your place is by my side."
 
At the bar, Randall poured himself a club soda.
 
"Mr.
 
Tackett?
 
Anything?"

"No."

Randall returned to the sofa where he'd been sitting when Lara joined them from the bedroom of the Houston hotel suite.
 
The well-appointed rooms were a considerable improvement over the accommodations in Montesangre.

Well-wishing floral arrangements crowded every available surface.

Their mingled scents were sweet and cloying and had given Lara a dull headache.
 
She thought these expressions of congratulations ludicrously hypocritical, having been sent by many of the same bureaucrats and political figures who, five years ago, had been relieved to see Randall and his cheating wife shuttled off to Montesangre, thereby sparing Washington the embarrassment of having them underfoot.

Technically, Randall was still a United States ambassador.
 
When the media was notified by news services in Colombia of his shocking resurrection, the story took precedence over all others and earned the banner headline of virtually every newspaper in the world.
 
His return to life sent the entire nation into a tailspin, the press into a frenzy.

In Bogota he'd been treated for his wounds, which were more superficial than they'd first appeared.
 
Key had relented and had his ribs X-rayed.

Three were cracked, but he'd sustained no internal injuries.

Lara's injuries were as severe, but not as evident.
 
For fatigue she was prescribed hot, healthy meals and two nights of drug-induced sleep.

She'd eaten and slept but continued to look shell-shocked.

Her movements were disjointed, her speech distracted.
 
A husband she believed dead had suddenly returned to life.
 
Her entire system had been thrown into shock.

Neiman Marcus had generously offered to outfit her for her first public appearance following her return to American soil.
 
For the newsworthy occasion the store had donated a silk and wool blend two-piece suit, matching Jourdan pumps, and suitable accessories and costume jewelry.

The hotel salon had sent the staff to her suite to do her hair, nails, and makeup.
 
On the surface, she was well turned out and appeared ready to accompany her husband to the news conference that was scheduled to begin in half an hour in the hotel's largest ballroom.

She'd just as soon face a firing squad, she thought.

In a very real sense that was exactly what it would be.
 
Too jittery to sit, she moved aimlessly about the room among the furniture cluttered with floral bouquets.
 
"You know what they'll dredge up, Randall."

"Your affair with Clark," he replied without a qualm.
 
They had informed him of Clark's death on the flight from Montesangre to Colombia, but he already knew about it.
 
World news filtered in, although little was filtered out.

"I'm afraid that's unavoidable, Lara," he continued.
 
"I'll try to distract them with my story of the last three years.

"You don't look all that worse for wear."
 
Key ceased wagging his foot and tapping his lips.
 
"You look tan, fit, and well fed."

Lara too had noticed Randall's superior physical condition.
 
He looked even better than when she'd met him seven years ago, as if he'd enjoyed several months' vacation in Hawaii rather than three grueling years as a political prisoner.

He pinched up the creases of his new suit trousers, also a gift from Neiman's.
 
"After the first few months of my captivity, I was treated very well.

"At first, the rebels beat me unmercifully," Randall told them.

"For several weeks they ritualistically whipped me with pistols and chains.
 
I thought this was preliminary to their killing me."

He finished his soda and checked the time.
 
Seeing that he still had a few minutes, he continued.
 
"One day they hauled me into General Perez's quarters.
 
I say hauled' because I couldn't walk.
 
They carried me like a sack of potatoes.

"Perez was pleased with himself.
 
He showed me photographs of my death,' as they'd staged it.
 
They'd executed a man, God knows who, shooting him in the head so many times it was little more than pulp."

Lara hugged her elbows.
 
The room was frigid.
 
After sweltering in the tropics for three years, Randall had said he wanted to keep the air conditioning as high as possible.

"You can imagine how devastating it was for me to see those photographs.
 
They also showed me American newspapers reporting my death.
 
They had photos of my funeral.
 
l realized the hell you must be going through."
 
He looked at Lara with commiseration.
 
"I thanked God you were safe but knew you would be agonizing over the violent way in which I'd died.
 
Knowing that no one would be sent to rescue me was the worst torture of all.
 
As far as anyone knew, I was dead."

"Did they tell you about Ashley?"

"No.
 
I didn't learn that she'd been killed in the ambush until I read the newspaper accounts of my funeral.
 
The only comfort I could derive was knowing that you had miraculously survived.
 
If it hadn't been for the priest "Priest?
 
Father Geraldo?"

"Of course.
 
He got you on one of the last American-bound planes to leave Montesangre.
 
I thought you knew."

"No.
 
I didn't," she said in a subdued voice.
 
"I should have thanked him."

"It was certainly an act of bravery," Randall said.
 
"Emilio harbored a grudge against him for facilitating your escape.
 
I suppose that's why he ordered Father Geraldo's murder."

Key cursed beneath his breath.
 
"So good of you to tell her that."

"Lara's a realist, aren't you, darling?
 
Nevertheless it's a pity about the priest.
 
And about Dr.
 
Soto."

"I can never atone for involving them," she said quietly.
 
"I'll always feel partially responsible for their deaths."

"Don't do that to yourself," Key said insistently.
 
"They'd been pegged for elimination, with or without us.
 
Sanchez said as much."

She threw him a grateful look for the sentiment but knew she would carry the guilt of their murders to her own grave.

"You were incredibly brave to return to Montesangre, Lara," Randall said.
 
"Thank God you did.
 
If you hadn't, I'd still be a hostage."

Key surged to his feet.
 
He'd shaved his dark beard, but his hair was still overly long and contributed to his look of a caged wild animal.

Disdaining the role of national hero in which he now found himself, he'd declined Neiman's offer to provide him with new clothes.
 
On his own, he'd bought new jeans, a sport coat, and cowboy boots.

"I don't get it," he said.
 
"Lara and I arrive unannounced in Montesangre, and thirty-six hours later your captors up and decide to let you go?"
 
He spread his arms away from his body.
 
"Why?
 
What does one have to do with the other?"

Randall smiled indulgently.
 
"Obviously you have something to learn about the mind-set of these people, Mr.
 
Tackett."

"Obviously I do.
 
Because your story sounds like a big pile of caca to me.

Randall's eyes narrowed marginally.
 
"You saved my life and Lara's.

Therefore I'll extend you the courtesy of overlooking your unnecessary vulgarity."

"Don't do me any favors."

Randall dismissed him and addressed his next words to Lara.

"Emilio likes to play mind games.
 
Remember the chess tournaments we hosted at the embassy?"

"This is more serious than chess, Randall."

"To you and me.
 
I'm not so sure Emilio makes the distinction between a board game and the little dramas he plays out for his own amusement using human lives as the stakes.
 
He thanked you for providing entertainment to his camp that morning, remember?"

"I remember," Key said.
 
"And I'm glad you brought that up because something else has been bugging me.
 
You said you were inside the shack while all that was going on, right?"

Randall nodded.
 
"I was bound and gagged, unable to alert you to the fact that I was still alive.
 
That was Emilios inside joke."

"When did you first learn that I was in Montesangre?"
 
Lara asked.

"The morning following your arrival.
 
I knew something was afoot because my guards were brusque and wouldn't look me in the eye.

We'd developed a grudging respect for one another over the years.

Suddenly they were hostile and taciturn again.

"After Ricardo intercepted the jeep on the road, it was only a matter of hours before they deduced who the widow' was.
 
There was some speculation about the idiot brother-in-law."
 
He looked pointedly at Key.
 
"But once Emilio learned your name, he put two and two together.

He knew about Lara's.
 
. . friendship with Clark.

"The more you snooped around, the more volatile the situation became.

The night before you were brought to the camp, I was transported there.

Emilio taunted me with the threat of killing you slowly and painfully while I watched.
 
I was beaten, but not severely.

He wanted me conscious for the next morning's theatrics.

"After you were taken away, I was beaten again, then driven to Ciudad Central.
 
We were probably only an hour behind you, but my guards and I spend the night in the truck.
 
The last thing I remember is being knocked unconscious shortly after dawn.
 
Your scream when you found me in the bathtub roused me.
 
I was as shocked as you to find myself still He stood and slipped on his suit coat.
 
"Well, I think it's time to go.

"I still can't comprehend Emilio's strategy," Lara argued, making no move to join him at the door.

"We'll talk about it later."

"No, we'll talk about it now, Randall.
 
If you insist that I face the press, I need to fully understand the situation.
 
They'll ask me about my dealings with El Corazon del Diablo.
 
I'll gladly tell them everything I know about the slender, bookish young man who worked as a translator at the embassy, and about the cold-blooded murderer I met this week.
 
But I can't expound on foreign policy without having a clearer picture of what was in Emilio's mind.
 
Why did he let us go?

Why did he keep you alive but imprisoned for three years and then suddenly release you?"

Randall gnawed the inside of his cheek, apparently annoyed by her confusion.
 
He decided to humor her.
 
"I've had three years to ruminate on why my death was staged.
 
The savagery of it was to demonstrate how much Montesangre resented the United States' intervention into its internal affairs."