Betrayed (4 page)

Was this Michael Camden the reason for Holly’s preoccupation? At least he hadn’t rebuffed her appeal, however tepid the assignation. Holly was as effervescent and friendly as a St. Bernard puppy, Vicki considered with affectionate exasperation. And as easily hurt.

Like it’s any of my business. She’s a big girl now.

“Hey, Holly, over here.”

“Where’d you get lost to? We were about to come looking.”

The calls and waving came from two tables pushed together in a back corner.

Holly’s face lit up, the troubled look evaporating, as they reached the group. “Sorry it took so long. But we’re worth waiting for, aren’t we, Vicki? Here, tuck yourself between these guys.”

Vicki counted six others around the table as she sank into an empty chair opposite Holly.

Holly made the introductions. “Vick, this is Lynn Waters, Amazon Watch. Dieter, Greenpeace. And I’ve told you about Kathy and Roger, my colleagues at the center. Former colleagues, that is."

Lynn looked like an aging hippie with her flowing red hair streaked with gray and bright flowered muumuu. A stocky German, Dieter’s ample waistline was proof that his own consumption of the planet’s resources was well beyond Greenpeace’s stated principles. Roger and Kathy were youngish and blond.

“Roger and Kathy just finished their postdoctoral project,” Holly explained with enthusiasm. “Sustainable logging and agriculture in a cloud forest habitat. A great project that fit rights in with WRC objectives. They’re headed back to the UK tonight.”

“Hence the celebration.” Roger lifted a wineglass. “Tomorrow, London. Next week, a Cambridge fellowship. Maybe even a BBC documentary.”

“And we hope a grant or two to keep sustaining our conservation projects. I really am happy for you. But I sure don’t know what we’re going to do without you.” Holly let out an exaggerated sigh; then her face brightened. “At least we’ve still got Bill on the project.”

She gestured at the oldest member of the group, though the man’s lean, weather-beaten frame and buzz cut made it difficult to determine his exact age and a twinkle in his eyes held nothing of encroaching senility.

"Bill is WRC’s most generous sponsor,” Holly went on. “He’s got property right outside the reserve near the center, and he’s been helping us navigate local bureaucracy and security. You must be one of the longest-term American residents in this country; isn’t that right, Bill?”

“Something like that,” the older man agreed gravely.”

“Señores, you are ready to order?”

“Oh yes—of course. Silly me!” Taking the menu a hovering waiter was discreetly pushing at her, Holly finished hastily, “And this is Vicki, everyone. She’s a people hugger,” she added as though that explained everything.

“International Foundation for Children at Risk,” Vicki clarified as she took a menu.

The habit of introducing people by their organization was a time-saver because why a foreigner was in a country like Guatemala defined largely—and quickly—who they were. The numerous aid organizations were popularly termed people huggers. Those groups represented here were dubbed tree huggers. Then there were the multinationals—country reps of the international corporations. The various diplomatic and consular personnel, military task forces, and other US government representatives were lumped together as the embassy.

So what category did that leave her final table companion? Did Holly realize she hadn’t finished her introductions? Vicki surreptitiously studied her neighbor. He didn’t fall easily into any of the usual categories. Give him an ax and one of those horned helmets, and he could stand at the prow of a Viking longship. In fact, from his deep tan, long sun-bleached hair, sculpted muscles, and Hawaiian shirt, she’d have placed him as one of the many nomadic surfers or outdoor sportsmen who found Central America a low-cost playground for their hobbies.

And if that isn’t stereotyping
. So if you’re the outdoor type and physically fit, dining in a suit and tie, you’re military. In a Hawaiian shirt with sandals and bare legs, a beach bum.

“Joe.” The Viking’s drawl, at least, was pure American.

Startled, Vicki dropped the menu, meeting his comprehending green gaze. Yellow-green, she noted. Like a cat. “Excuse me?”

His comprehension deepened to amusement as Vicki flushed, but he only said mildly, “My name.” Lounging back, he stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “It’s Joe. That’s what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?”

“Joe,” Vicki repeated flatly. The incongruence forced a giggle to her lips, and she bent over her menu to hide a grin.

“Did I miss the joke?” Joe frowned and ran a large hand through his heavy mane, leaving it even more tousled.

A frowning Viking was an intimidating sight.
Off with my head
. This time Vicki let the giggle escape. “I’m sorry.” Straightening, she made a helpless gesture. “It just caught my funny bone. Bill. Joe. It’s so . . .”

“Tom, Dick, and Harry? Moe, Larry, and Curly?”

“Not exactly.” Vicki smiled. “More like those macho types in a Western who are always sidling up to a bar—‘Hi, my name’s Joe.’” She dropped her voice in a caricature of his drawl. “Or Bill. And never any other alias other than that one syllable name.”

She must have imagined the brief narrowing of that cat’s gaze because the sardonic mouth was curving, Joe’s strong features relaxed with amusement as he mimicked, “You got a point there, little lady.” He gestured to Bill. “Let me disabuse you of that at least. I’m told that William Taylor’s been kicking around Guatemala since shortly after Simon Bolivar. As for yours truly, would Joseph Ericsson—make that spelled with a c and two s’s—have enough syllables to rank grade A?”

“Maybe.” Vicki’s eyebrows rose as she contemplated his name. “Ericsson. That’s Scandinavian for ‘son of Eric,’ isn’t it? Wasn’t there a Viking ruler by that name?”

He laughed. “More like a common marauder. Why? Were you picturing me with a battle ax and horned helmet on some longship?"

 Vicki was spared from answering as the waiter leaned in between them to take their orders. Joe requested a large steak while Vicki settled for a chef salad. As the waiter collected their menus, Vicki asked neutrally, “So what brings you to Guatemala?”

Joe shrugged. “Great beaches. Warm climate. Cheap living. Nice people. But if you’re asking what I’m doing here today with a tableful of tree huggers, it’s nothing as mysterious as I can see going through your head. Okay, I’m guilty of inheriting those rover genes. Problem is, following the waves is a great life, but it doesn’t exactly pay well. Your friends were looking for a handyman to help out at the center until the new supervisor arrives. I needed to replenish my bank account. Bill over there was kind enough to drop my name into the hat.”

So she’d been right. Vicki felt a pang of disappointment. There was no denying a certain magnetic attraction about Joe, but the guy had to be pushing thirty, surely time to be thinking of the future and a steady job.

“Now, Joe, don’t be selling yourself short,” Holly chimed in. “Vicki, don’t listen to him. Joe is one of the most multitalented people I’ve met. He can pilot anything from a boat to a small plane.. Better yet, the local tradespeople listen to Joe, which is more than they do to me. You tell ’em, Bill—just who was being kind to who when you steered Joe our way?”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Bill said. “When you’ve known me longer, Vicki, you’ll learn I’m never kind. Joe here was simple self-preservation. He’s bilingual, been kicking around the region long enough to cope with local politicians and red tape. Something you’re not, Holly, and you might as well accept it, so don’t shake your head at me.”

Holly wrinkled her nose at him.

“Plus, I have it on good authority—his—that he can work as hard as he plays when he chooses. It was a logical recommendation.”

“Well, I can tell you, we’re glad to have him,” Holly went on enthusiastically. “How many languages do you speak, Joe? He may not have come down here with an NGO, but Joe’s not just a surfer. He can talk environmental issues and politics and—”

“Okay, Holly, enough already.” Straightening up from his lounging position, Joe lifted both hands palm out in mock protest. “I don’t think Vicki here’s in the market for an entire biography. A misspent youth bumming around the planet may have been great for picking up languages and other useful skills, but don’t make me out to be any kind of pro. I’m just happy to help out awhile. And pick up next season’s living stake.”

Under his admonition, Holly blushed and bit her lip.

Vicki frowned. Could Holly be interested in this nomad? She hoped not. And had she imagined Holly’s interest in that embassy attaché?

Vicki glanced across the restaurant, caught Michael Camden turned in their direction, and looked hastily away.
Holly, what kind of heart tangle are you getting yourself into this time?

Chapter Three

“So, Vicki . . .” Lynn leaned forward. “Holly says you’re a people hugger. What organization brings you to Guatemala? One of the local foundations?”

“No, actually I’m here with a children’s project,” Vicki answered. “Casa de Esperanza. They work mainly with the
basurero
population.”

“You mean all those people living in the dump.” Lynn’s thin eyebrows arched. “Sure, I know Casa de Esperanza. Who doesn’t? So you’re a missionary, then.”

“Missionary!” Holly hooted, clearly restored to her usual ebullience. “Vicki a missionary? Though if you’d seen the specimen she was with when I caught up to her—” She stopped under Vicki’s warning look, then said, “Vicki’s an anthropologist. PhD from Duke. Fulbright scholar at that,” she added with pride. “Though now she’s more of a PI. She investigates projects and decides who gets all those millions her foundation has to hand out.”

“Really!” Lynn’s eyebrows shot higher. “So how does one go from anthropologist to private investigator?”

“It’s not quite as glamorous as Holly likes to believe.” Vicki threw Holly an exasperated glance, noting uncomfortably that the loud question had ended all other conversation. She caught Joe’s sardonic smile before she faced Lynn. “I’m the project inspector for Children at Risk, an international foundation that funnels funds to children’s projects around the world. Basically, it entails spending from a few days to a few months working directly with the project to see what’s working and what isn’t. Then I make a recommendation as to whether the project should be funded—at least by our foundation. And if so, how much. Or alternatively, what steps can be taken to salvage the project if its value merits the effort.”

“It certainly sounds like an interesting line of work,” Lynn said. “If you don’t mind my asking—why you? Not that I’m questioning your competence, but I have to say you don’t look much older than the children you work with.”

 “Yeah, and where can we sign up for one of those grants?” Dieter put in loudly. An emptied pitcher of sangria stood at his elbow. “I’ll take a million, two even.”

“I’m twenty-five,” Vicki said stiffly. She looked over at the German activist. “And I’m sorry, but we don’t do environmental projects. The name is
Children
at Risk. As to why me—” Vicki shrugged as she turned back to Lynn—“I guess I just kind of grew into it. I did my doctoral thesis on the Colombian refugee camps. My original idea was to study childhood development in a refugee setting, but I ended up putting together a scathing—and accurate—analysis correlating international aid and corruption in the camp administration. It earned me a PhD and a commendation from USAID’. That’s where I first ran into Children at Risk, which had considerable money in that project. After they read my final report, they asked me to come on board to check out some of their own projects that were raising red flags.”

Vicki hesitated, but seeing genuine interest around the table, she went on, “My last assignment in Mexico City is a good example. Children at Risk had been pouring considerable funds into a partnership with the local Department of Families to provide housing and medical care to children living in the municipal dump there. So they couldn’t figure out why there never seemed to be any funds for food or medicine.”

Vicki didn’t even like remembering the horrific conditions she’d found in that so-called children’s home. “After a few weeks I discovered that the department administrators had just paid cash for a brand-new mansion in the nicest neighborhood of the city.”

“That’s terrible.” Kathy looked appalled. “You mean, they’d been siphoning off the kids’ funds? And you’re saying Casa de Esperanza . . . ? Why, that’s one of the best-known children’s projects in the city. I can’t believe they’d be—”

“Oh no, not at all,” Vicki cut in. “On the contrary, we’ve heard nothing but good about Casa de Esperanza. So much so that we’re exploring the advantages of partnering with some of these faith-based NGOs instead of the usual local authorities.”

“If any.” Dieter interrupted again. “Personally, I think too much money is going into these groups already. After all, it’s Guatemala’s environment that’s at risk, not its juvenile population count.”

Vicki didn’t know what incensed her more: Dieter’s attitude or the murmur of agreement around the table. She gritted back a hot retort.

Lynn changed the subject. “Speaking of Mayans, have any of you seen the news? What the army came across yesterday?"

 “You mean that massacre up in the mountains?” Kathy shuddered. “I thought they’d put an end to all that.”

“Oh, let’s not talk about it,” Holly pleaded. “I had nightmares last night.”

Her plea effected silence just long enough for the waiters to refill glasses all around.

Then Dieter, recovering his aplomb in another glass of sangria, demanded, “So who do they think did it—the right or the left?”

“If they know, they’re not saying,” Roger said. “Of course, the army’s denying any involvement.”

“And the embassy?” Lynn lowered her voice as she glanced at the suit-and-tie table. “Do you think they had advance warning this time?”

“How can you say that?” Holly’s eyes widened. “Do you really think anyone in our government would look the other way?”

A battery of derisive looks crisscrossed the table, but no one ventured to challenge her naiveté. How much embassy personnel had known of what Guatemala’s military regime was doing with its American-supplied arms, training, and support during the last few decades of  civil war was anyone’s guess. That they’d been totally ignorant of the rampant human rights abuses was a fiction few were credulous enough to buy any longer, thanks to recently declassified CIA briefings.

“Speaking of your embassy—” Dieter injected derision into his mimicry of Lynn, sangria slopping onto the tablecloth as he used the glass to gesture. “—did you see who’s in town? Think it’s connected?”

“Who are you talking about?” Holly turned her head. “Oh, you mean the big guy with the gray suit and beard next to the ambassador. He looks familiar. Where have I seen him?”

“Probably CNN,” Lynn enlightened her dryly. “That’s the administration’s new drug czar. He was here for some big counter-narcotics exercise our guys were running with the locals. They managed to snag half a dozen poppy fields and opium labs up in the mountains, and our drug czar has been patting the Guatemalans on the back, handing out medals left and right.”

Roger shook his head. “How do you do it, Lynn? If that isn’t classified, surely they don’t go broadcasting it to the press.”

She grinned at him. “I’m dating a guy in the air wing. He was out of commission all week while they were out playing with their toys up there.”

“Yeah, well, they can pat themselves on the back all they want,” Dieter snapped. “But for every lab they grab, there’re a dozen others, and the growers just move on to a new patch of jungle. I don’t know where we’re losing more rain forest—the drug cartels or land-grabbing peasants.”

“And going back to that, did you see where the massacre took place?” Lynn put in. “Right in your neck of the woods, Holly. Straight up past the center into the Sierra de las Minas.”

Holly sat up straight. “The biosphere?”

Once again, it was due to all those country-to-country calls that Vicki knew what they were talking about. The Sierra de las Minas Biosphere was the highland nature reserve that opened up just beyond the Wildlife Rescue Center to preserve 150,000 acres of Guatemala’s remaining cloud forest habitat.

“I thought the Ministry of Environment had cleared out that area.” Holly spun around in her seat. “Bill, you know that area up there. There can’t still be villages inside the biosphere, can there? I mean, we raised millions of dollars when we negotiated the reserve to pay for that land and recompense anyone already living inside the perimeter.”

 Bill hunched his shoulders. “From the coordinates they were giving, it looks as though it might have been within the perimeter. Bottom line, your environmental groups can pay off the government to sign over the land. But as long as people are hungry, they’re going to keep finding soil to grow corn. And as long as they stay off the beaten track, it would take a better law enforcement than you’ve got to police a territory that size.”

“Then maybe that makes one silver lining in all this, as you Americans would say.” Dieter shot Vicki a malicious look. “After yesterday, the next bunch of
indios
looking to move in on the reserve will think twice.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?” Lynn demanded. “After all, they’re just trying to feed their families.”

“Oh, come on,” said Dieter. “Let’s not be hypocrites. Aren’t these Mayan peasants supposed to worship Mother Earth? Well, let them respect her before there are no cloud forests—or any other rain forest—left for the next generation. I’m certainly not applauding this massacre. It’s a terrible tragedy, of course. But it may have never happened if these people hadn’t been breaking the law out there to begin with.”

“So what you’re saying—” Lynn summed up with deceptive sweetness—“is that we’re not talking leftist rebels or out-of-control military out there but maybe some kind of fanatic earth terrorists bent on saving their rain forest? Got any candidates in mind?”

Everyone started talking at once, but Roger’s voice rose above the babble. “Okay, everyone, let’s keep our eyes on the issues here. Yesterday’s events have exposed a major systems failure in our conservation efforts. It’s not going to do us any good to pour our funds and effort into these projects if the locals are just going to come in behind us and erode everything we’ve done. What can be done to protect our perimeters from these kinds of incursions? Who can we get on board?”

The waiter was distributing their food orders now. Dieter inspected his double-bacon cheeseburger before contributing, “For one, let’s get more army patrols into the area.”

Vicki picked at her chef salad as proposals and arguments ebbed and flowed across the table. For all Holly’s insisting on Vicki’s presence, Holly was as deep in the discussion as anyone. Worse, nowhere in all the talk of endangered species, biodiversity, tropical gene banks, and pristine habits did there seem to be any consideration of any human link in the food chain.

Vicki checked her watch. If she didn’t leave soon, she was going to have a hard time making that team meeting at Casa de Esperanza.

“In other words, Mayans aren’t an endangered species; the cloud forests are.”

The ironic drawl startled Vicki. Like her, Joe had remained silent during the debate, though his expression denoted no lack of interest. Was this all one more new “language” to the nomadic wanderer? And how did he keep reading her mind?