He had time. Lots of it.
Most of his men were asleep. Their heads bobbed as the van hit the occasional pebble that had rolled down from the steep rocks next to the road. He turned to see his half-brother Augusto staring at him without expression.
When their eyes met, Augusto looked away. He picked up a green knapsack and tucked it between his ear and the window, then he too closed his eyes.
One of these days,
thought Suarez,
I will have to terminate Auggie’s life, even though he is blood of my blood. He is the weak link in the chain I have forged. One day – but not yet.
Remo, driving, smoked an unfiltered Pal Mal as he studied the road from behind large sunglasses. Noticing Suarez looking at him, he reached into his shirt pocket and, pulling out the pack, offered it to his boss. Suarez took one and pushed in the lighter on the dash.
“You would have preferred the plane, Remo? Faster – no?”
Remo shrugged and blew smoke out the window. “I like driving.”
Suarez lit the cigarette and his attention returned to the address he was planning to deliver to the world. It had to be a perfect follow-up to his manifesto. That had been a work of art. “The Golden Sun Terrorists.”
Perfect. He’d liked the line about “mad from the suffering of our children”. He’d claimed sympathy with Tamil Nationalists, the Brotherhood of Islam. Then the part supporting Libya’s sovereignty and the New World Order of Farrakhan. It all had the desired effect of clouding the issue. He couldn’t wait to visit a newsstand in Santiago – fairly salivated at the thought.
“A smoking stick into the hornet’s nest,” he said with a laugh. He glanced at Remo, but the man never took his eyes off the road.
Suarez returned to his typing. There would be more than a mere FBI investigation underway. If he was correct, the CIA would be working inside the USA, their resources added to that of the local police and the FBI, to monitor the activities of all internal religious and minority groups.
Divide and confuse,
he thought.
#
President Kerry was with the Joint Chiefs all day. No one was quite sure who had called who first that morning. It didn’t real y matter.
It was with great reservation that the
New York Times
had printed the terrorists’ manifesto. When their first call to verify the story had been met with the simple statement from the Pentagon to “just print it”, they had taken that as verification enough and done so. It was the
Times
article and the threat that, if it wasn’t printed, “more” bombs would be detonated that had led President Kerry to address the nation. But, with typical political vagueness, he’d omitted the details, and many analysts thought he had left some doubt about the real situation.
Because of this, the
Times
found itself the fall guy, trying to answer questions without any real information.
Their best reporters couldn’t crack anyone in Government, and no one was being allowed into McMurdo or any other place in Antarctica. The world now knew about the bombs in the ice, and they knew from the manifesto and the speech that one of those bombs had been detonated. But subsequent editorials in the
Times
and other papers called the information just “credible speculation”. Some sources told the media it was true, others denied it. Still other – usually reliable – sources claimed to know nothing at all. The world was up to its ears in half-truths, gossip, speculation and denial.
Dedicated as it was to the “fair dissemination of truth”, the
New York Times
was becoming concerned that it had become a source of not facts but mere rumours. The best it could offer anyone was the manifesto, which seemed to be mostly lunatic ravings, and that sourceless statement from the Pentagon: “Just print it”. After several days, the newspaper’s editor went on TV’s
Sixty Minutes
to tell the world he’d expected more information, but had it never come. He wanted to stop the calls that were cramming his switchboard. He wanted the truth to come out, and would print it the moment it crossed his desk. But all he could do was sit there for an hour and field questions.
Were there really “more” A-bombs in the ice?
Were the nations of the world taking action and, if so, what?
Could anything be done to prevent further detonations?
Had the President or anyone else talked to the terrorists?
These and hundreds of other questions remained unanswered. And the broadcast did nothing to clear his desk or put anyone at ease – in fact, the entire media industry was now believed to be involved in what many were calling the “conspiracy of fear and denial”.
The citizenry who’d been evacuated from McMurdo had been debriefed by the US military, and they’d all been told to keep quiet about the incident for reasons of “utmost national and world security”. So, even though the word had gotten out, that only told people one thing: something had happened near McMurdo, something people
thought
was an atom bomb. But in the end nothing could be verified, and everyone in every government was suspected of keeping secrets.
The truth was that no one knew what to say. The prime ministers and presidents of the world watched each other, waiting for someone to drop the first boot. No one wanted to do so. In the end, it was President Kerry who found himself holding that boot. He threw it, long distance, via satellite to General Hayes.
“With all due respect sir,” said Hayes into his headset phone, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, “we can’t arrest someone on a guess. We have about forty candidates vying to be our terrorist. And the latest string of copycat threats coming in around the world is clouding the issue and taxing our resources. . .”
Grimes and Admiral Schumacher stood at Hayes’s side in the captain’s office, waiting to offer answers should they be needed. But it seemed that the President wasn’t interested in talking to anyone but Hayes.
“I know sir,” said Hayes after a further brief pause, “but the truth is we also don’t know where he is. Yes – I’m talking about Suarez.”
Grimes shook his head and lit a cigarette. Then he looked at the ashtray in front of him and realized he already had one lit. He mumbled a curse as he tamped out the first one.
“We think he was in Chile or Bolivia around the time the bombs were planted,” said Hayes, staring at the ceiling as he leaned back in a large leather chair. “And, well, we have no record of him ever going to Antarctica. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but we can’t connect him with any atomic materials, either.”
Smoke curled slowly into the air-conditioning duct in the centre of the tiled ceiling. The general watched it move about the room as he listened to President Kerry rage at him.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, sir, but until we can tag him with something we have to work on the principle that he’s not our man. The only person who can place Suarez hasn’t yet been able to give us a positive ID. Yes, sir, we’ve showed him lots of pictures. We’re doing all we can.”
There was another pause.
“In Santiago, sir,” answered the general. Everyone in the room heard the President’s reaction to that one.
Hayes lifted the earphone away from his head and winced. Then he sat up in the chair and reached for his cigar, which had grown an inch of ash while he’d been talking to the President.
“Yes,
sir
!” he finally said.
Gladly he pushed the disconnect button on the console in front of him and got up. “You can have your chair back now, Milborne. Thanks for the loan. Er, it’s not too comfortable, is it?”
Schumacher laughed out loud. “No need to thank me.
I can’t wait to give it up to its rightful owner when he gets back from his stroke session with President Frei. Halsey’s better at politicking than I am.”
There was no need for Hayes to explain the details of President Kerry’s end of the conversation. The other two men in Halsey’s private office were well aware of the situation; what they hadn’t heard blaring from the phone’s tiny headphone they could easily guess.
“We have to find some way to get Gibbs to finger the guy,” said Grimes. “He must have looked at those photos a hundred times. The more we press him, the more unsure he gets about what the guy looked like.”
“And we haven’t got a clue where Suarez is?” asked Schumacher.
“Well, he’s not at his villa in Arica,” said Hayes.
“And we can’t shake down his family. That would just tip him off,” offered Grimes.
Schumacher: “Is there some way to draw him out?”
“I’ve considered some anonymous e-mail messages, because we know he’s receiving his e-mail,” said Hayes.
“But that’s risky.” He shook his fist at an unseen sky.
“Come on, God,” he said. “You’re supposed to be on the side of the good guys. Give us something,
anything
!”
Seven
“Somehow, I keep thinking we should call in,” said Sarah, rolling over under the fluffy comforter.
Henry, freshly awoken next to her, smiled.
Sometimes he felt he was in a wonderful dream. And now, as he slowly opened his eyes and reality unfolded itself around him, he was almost glad he’d been shot.
He rubbed his rib where the bullet had grazed him. The place didn’t hurt any more, and the bruise had long since vanished.
His newly found contentment made him wonder about the rest of his life since the accident that had taken his family. If you’d asked him only a few weeks ago why he’d chosen the isolation of Antarctica, he would have said he had simply gotten into his work, that he hadn’t chosen isolation
per se
. Now he wasn’t so sure. Sarah was snuggled next to him on one side, and on the floor within arm’s reach was Shep. Everything he wanted as a family was with him. He wondered if he really wanted to go back to the ice at all.
That it had been a lifestyle fraught with danger hadn’t bothered him before. Perhaps, even, he had hoped at some deep level that the ice would one day claim him, as it had so many others. It would have been an honourable death, and no one would have called it suicide. And he wouldn’t have had to grow old alone and tortured by the loss of everything he loved.
He looked around the room. Bright blue wall paper backed up a large ornate crucifix that hung next to smaller delicate paintings of flowers. Sarah had been quite taken by the simple style of this bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of Santiago.
She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“You look lovely this morning, my dear,” he said as she yawned sleepily. “I’m sure Enrique keeps in touch with President Frei at all times. We can put a call through if you want when we leave for the hotel. We’ll likely as not be spending most of the day in the limo.”
Sarah pushed the flowered comforter aside, got up and walked to the window, unselfconsciously naked. She gently parted the curtains and peered out at the scenery.
“Oh, Henry, come look.”
He sat up and slipped on his pants, then went to her side.
They were on the ground floor of a sprawling hacienda perched on a hillside west of Santiago. The sun nearly blinded him, but soon his eyes adjusted to the scene. Red roofs and multicoloured single-storey cottages dotted the landscape. Between them, trees and shrubs decorated the otherwise barren land. Here and there purple wisteria added a complementary blue to the scene. In the distance, off to the left and right, Santiago sprawled; while the city seemed to go on forever, it was dwarfed by the mighty wall of the Andes that hung over it like a monstrous purple wave.
They remained at the window for some minutes, peering from behind the curtain.
Suddenly the now familiar mustachioed face of their driver, Enrique, interrupted their view.
“Oh goodness. I see you are awake, Sir Henry and Miss Sarah.”
Sarah screamed and jumped into the shadows, reaching for a robe.
Henry looked at Enrique scornful y. “You been standing there all night?” he asked.
The man laughed. “I am walking on the path from breakfast, Sir Henry,” he said. “It is after ten, and if you don’t hurry you will miss the delicious food.”
Henry glanced at his watch. “Sheesh, you’re right. It is late. And I have to walk the dog before we can eat.”
He waved his hand, shooing Enrique away. “Okay, thanks. You can go now.”
Henry closed the curtains and looked at Sarah, now clutching her robe tightly around herself. He laughed.
“It’s okay. He didn’t see anything. Let’s get dressed.”
Breakfast was still being served when they reached the dining room. The hostess, Aldonza, met them with the same cheerfulness she’d displayed when they’d arrived.
“I was going to call you to breakfast, Señor Gibbs. Good that you did not miss the delicious huevos enchiladas and cornbread cakes our Consuela has made this morning. There are still many left. Do not worry.”
Aldonza seated them at a sofa under a large painting of a waterfall and poured coffee into two cups set before them on a wide coffee table adorned with a vase of yellow and blue flowers. In a sunny corner a large cactus was blooming with pink blossom. The room had the delicious aroma of coffee, cinnamon and sandalwood. The golden morning sun spilled into the room through double doors that led to a garden full of roses.
She pointed to a laden table against the wall.
“Please help yourself to everything that pleases you, Señor and Señora Gibbs. If there is anything else you need, just ring the silver bell and Consuela will come.”
Sarah looked at Henry and smiled. Señora Gibbs, indeed.
They’d left Shep tied up outside the house on an extra long rope, rather than bring him into the dining room, but the pains of his exile were being tempered by a large patty of ground meat and a massive bone left over from dinner the night before. Nearby, Enrique was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper.
“Hola,” he said as Henry and Sarah emerged from breakfast. He folded the newspaper and put it under his arm. “The dog is not friendly this morning, Sir Henry, I am thinking.” He gave Shep a baleful look. “I try to give him a nice pet, but he is thinking I want his bone and becomes most fierce.”
“Did he try to eat you?” asked Henry, winking at Sarah.
“Eat me?” roared Enrique. “I should say not, Sir Henry.”
“Okay, well, that means he likes you.” Henry untied Shep and affixed the leash to the dog’s red leather col ar. “He always eats his enemies. Right, Sarah?”
Sarah was wearing a dark green lightweight sweater and a long brown-and-gold print dress that caught the breeze when she walked. Henry was dressed in his usual jeans, but had decided to wear a cream-coloured silk shirt he’d bought at a nearby men’s store.
Since Sarah had brought only enough clothes for a week in cold weather and Henry had just his ice gear with plaid shirts and torn pants – hardly suitable for travel or warm weather – they had expended a fair amount of cash on a wardrobe. He normally hated to shop, but had found the experience delightful in Sarah’s company. In fact, everything they did together was fun because of her. She seemed to want to walk where he did, to stop and investigate the same things he was curious about. And, as good as they were in bed, their times just talking and being together were even better. Soon they didn’t fight it any more and accepted it when people took them for husband and wife.
In the limousine on the way to Santiago, Henry asked Enrique if he’d been keeping in touch with Frei.
“Absolutely, Sir Henry,” said the driver. “I am talking with his secretary this morning.”
“There you go, Sarah. If they want us they’ll know where to find us.”
Both Henry and Sarah had arranged to have cash from their American banks transferred to the hotel. Until it arrived, their credit cards were taking a hammering, while Henry was also using money given to him by the Chilean Government. He felt ill at ease about using it for personal items, but Sarah saw it as if he had simply hit the lottery or was receiving a form of workman’s compensation. She told him to have fun with it: hadn’t he earned it for taking a terrorist’s bullet? He didn’t argue, but felt there was something wrong with her logic. Still, to have refused the money might have been taken as an insult.
He had a fair amount of cash and securities at home, and the insurance money and his family inheritance had made him a millionaire and then some, but he didn’t broadcast his fortune. Primarily, he saw it all as ill- gotten gains. And he didn’t mention it to Sarah because he wanted her to choose him for himself, not for his money. He had decided to use only what he needed of Chile’s gift until he got his own cash, and to spread the rest as largesse around among the local citizenry. Money, after all, crosses language barriers and opens doors rather well.
After a two-hour drive down through the hills to Santiago, the limousine arrived at the Foresta Hotel at the edge of the city centre. Enrique told them Frei sent many important guests there, recommending it as his personal favourite because it was more like a palace than a hotel. It stood across the street from the trees and gardens of Saint Lucia Hill.
“This is where our beloved country was born,” said Enrique, pointing to the park. “This is where the great Spanish Conquistador, Pedro de Valdivia, established Santiago as the capital city. You see that the city is a checkerboard, built outward from this point. You will not get lost when you are walking your Shep. All the streets, they lead to this place.”
“You sound like a tour guide, Enrique,” said Sarah as she looked around at the buildings that surrounded the park. “I wonder if it was always this beautiful. Look at the buildings, Henry. So European.”
Enrique shook his head. “Not many hundreds of years ago, Miss Sarah, there was only the river and the trees. What looks old to you now was new not so long ago. She has been restored, and all the beautiful gardens are recent. The city as you now see her is made in the 1930s.”
He drove the limo around the square, and then returned to the hotel.
It was obvious from the look on the face of the bell captain who opened the car door that the man took them for royalty. He beckoned to three porters standing next to a large marble pillar. Henry found it almost embarrassing to see three porters used to carry just three smal suitcases.
When they got inside they found the hotel maître d’ standing at full attention in his tuxedo.
“Your rooms are ready, Mr Gibbs, Miss French,” he said in German-accented English, handing them their room keys. “You are travelling light, I see. May I ask if you will need anything before you see your rooms?”
The reception and royal treatment were beginning to overwhelm Henry, but Sarah seemed to be enjoying it immensely.
“We’d love some champagne if it’s no trouble.” She was acting like a cheerful schoolgirl at her first prom, and it tickled Henry to see her having so much fun.
“Of course, Miss French,” said the man. “You will find it already chilled and waiting in your rooms. We will send up more, if you’d like. We have a wonderful wine cel ar, and dinner this evening is ‘on the house’, as you say.”
Henry handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
The maitre d’ smiled broadly and thanked Henry with a bow.
“You are most generous, sir. Uncommon in Americans, if I may say so.”
Henry glanced at the man’s name tag and gave him a stern look. “Well don’t say it too loud, Hans. I happen to be fond of Americans.”
Henry gazed around the lobby as he followed after Sarah and the bellmen. At least three men seemed to be watching them. When he looked directly at them, however, they turned away.
Up on the seventh floor, Sarah gave a little squeal of delight when she saw the room. The three bellmen put down the suitcases. Henry handed them each a twenty. They left the room smiling and bowing.
Sarah threw her arms around him. “Look at this place! Flowery wall paper, antique furniture. Isn’t it great?”
His mind was still in the lobby. As his eyes studied the gardenias on the wall paper, the gilded frames on the paintings of Mediterranean scenes and the gaily decorated bowls and vases full of flowers, he tried to link those three men with something ominous. He thought back to the ice, to the
faux
-Norwegians, and mentally compared these men with the ones who’d shot him. But he’d never seen these guys before.
Final y, after he’d subtly cased the decorations in the room for hidden cameras and microphones, he told himself this wasn’t America – and that even in America you could find well dressed gentlemen in hotel lobbies watching who came and went. The royal welcome they’d received would have drawn the attention of even the most casual observer. Still, there was something about these observers that had made him feel they weren’t just your average hotel security agents. But he had sensed no threat from them, although he couldn’t have said why.
His attention was abruptly recal ed to the present as Sarah pulled him close, her breath warm on his neck, and kissed his earlobe, laughing softly, lustily. The hair rose on the back of his head as she told him to open the champagne while she took a shower. Then, with a kittenish growl and another well timed flick of her tongue, she told him how much all this royal treatment was turning her on.
Her eyes stayed on him as she walked into the ivory- tiled bathroom, where a romantically flickering gaslight illuminated her in its soft amber light. Framed in the open doorway, she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. Then she turned slowly, smiled sweetly at him, and stepped into the shower stall.
“Sheeeeesh,” said Henry, looking at Shep.
Standing at the foot of the bed, the dog had been watching her too. Henry couldn’t help laughing as he furtively checked if the dog had a hard-on to match his own. Shep’s tongue was hanging out because of the heat in the room, but that was all.
“Hot enough for you, Shep?”
“What are you laughing about?” yelled Sarah over the sound of the shower.
“Ohhhh, nothing. Laughing at Shep, is all !”
“What did he do?”
Henry had to think about that one. Finally he said, “I guess it’s what he
didn’t
do.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said as he unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his shoes and his pants, grabbed the champagne and two long-stemmed glasses, and headed for the shower.
Soon he forgot all about the strange men in the lobby.
#
That evening a van arrived at the Carrera Hotel, behind the Moneda, on the other side of Santa Lucia Hill. Six men checked into the hotel. Leading the group was Rudolfo Suarez, whose generous tips and Gold Card number instantly won him a suite at this, the most elegant hotel in Santiago, even though he’d arrived unexpectedly and had made no reservations. Without question or hesitation, the manager at the front desk checked them into the fifth-floor presidential suite and handed Suarez six keys. Carrying their own luggage, Suarez’s gang walked together to the panelled mahogany elevators across the lobby.
He loved this hotel; he always stayed here when he visited Santiago. A tall lobby atrium arched up to a skylight, reminding him of an Incan stepped pyramid. For him this was the centre of Santiago and the heart of his family’s power.