Stratton watched for more than an hour before the first men sporting dinner jackets walked out into the chilly air and down a flight of steps to the pavement. The flow of guests, all men, was intermittent, their breath turning to vapour as they came outside.
One of them paused at the top of the steps to pull on a coat. He looked familiar. Stratton scrutinised him through the binoculars. It was indeed Sumners, buttoning up his coat and looking back though the glass doors as if waiting for someone.
Stratton put down the binoculars, picked up the crossbow and balanced the stock in his hand. He made sure that the quetzal feather was neatly tucked behind the bolt and brought the tiller tight against his shoulder. He focused the cross-hairs of the scope on Sumners before moving them to the glass doors.
A group of four men came out. In their middle, holding court while fastening the buttons of his own coat, walked the one that Stratton had been waiting for. It was difficult to miss him, unfortunate perhaps for a man in his business - covert operations. He had a full head of thick white hair and he was also burly - not fat, just robust. He stood out in a crowd. Stratton had not seen him for several years but the last time was etched indelibly in his mind. The man had been standing on a cliff and looking down on Stratton hundreds of feet below, a gun in his hand. Their positions were now reversed: a poetic irony.
The target picture was perfect. The man had paused halfway down the steps to press home a point he was making, much to the amusement of the others. Stratton aimed the cross-hairs at the centre of the target’s torso and eased them closer to one of the man’s shoulders. It was important that he should drop him with the first bolt but not kill him. That was difficult to ensure because of the steep angle. He had to avoid the heart, of course, but also the main arteries leading from it or the man might quickly become unconscious.
Stratton exhaled. As his lungs emptied he steadied his grip on the crossbow and took first pressure on the trigger. The weapon jerked as the prods straightened, sending the bolt at four hundred feet per second towards its mark.
It struck the man with the force of a horse’s hoof, hitting him in the chest. The tip must have cut through his spine because his lower limbs folded instantly and he dropped like a dead weight, his heavy frame rolling down a couple of steps before he came to a stop on his back. The other men froze, except for Sumners who moved to the cover of the doorway.
None of them went to the man right away. He stared up at the night sky, an expression of utter shock on his face as he struggled to understand what had just happened to him. He fought to breathe and his hand quivered as he tried to find the object that was burning his chest. He was aware that his body had been pierced by something that was not a bullet. It occurred to him that perhaps something had fallen on him. But as his fingers found the end of the bolt and explored the fletching he realised it was an arrow of some kind. The quetzal feather moved in the breeze and through his fingertips and when he realised that it was attached to the arrow’s nock a memory worked its way into his thoughts. He had seen such a thing before. He inched up his head, forcing his chin towards his chest in order to look at it, but he was unable to raise his head far enough.
One of the other men finally dropped to his knees beside the wounded man. ‘Call the police!’ he shouted in the direction of the doorman. ‘Get an ambulance! Hurry!’
‘I want to see it,’ the wounded man rasped, grinding his teeth in determination. ‘I want to see it!’
His colleague seemed unsure what to do. But he put his hand behind the man’s head to help raise it up.
The man grimaced with the pain but he had never lacked grit or tenacity. When he saw the fletching and quetzal feather he knew its meaning straight away and relaxed his neck muscles as if there was nothing more to be done. His helper lowered his head back onto the step.
The man knew only too well the significance of the arrow. He squinted at the rooftops high above, hoping to see who had launched it. He could make out nothing but blackness, not even stars, but it didn’t matter. He knew who was there and that his nemesis had not yet finished with him.
A thin smile began to form on his lips but it faded as the vivid images of what he had done those years ago filled his head. If he could have said a final word to his executioner it might have been an apology, for it was the only awful deed in his life that he regretted. At the time it had all seemed necessary to him but even his black heart had been touched by the vileness of his actions. He wondered how long he had before the end.
The second bolt struck him in the throat, cutting through his larynx and smashing a chunk out of the concrete behind his neck. The man went still and blood trickled from his mouth, his open eyes glazing over as the life went out of them.
PART 2
Six Weeks Later: Central America
Harris looked exhausted. He sat on a rotten log, taking a breather, his safari clothes covered in a patchwork of sweat, his trousers muddy up to the knees. The narrow track they had come along had dried since the climb out of the valley and the trees had thinned. The sun - and the air - were welcome. He dug into a breast pocket and pulled out a stick of gum, unwrapped it, tossed the paper onto the jungle floor and pushed it into his mouth. ‘Gum?’ he asked his young assistant who was photographing some kind of insect on the ground.
‘Thank you, no,’ Jacobs replied, with a cheerful smile. Jacobs was as dishevelled as Harris but he did not look as tired as his boss.
Harris hardly knew Jacobs. He was a new guy on the team, fresh from the factory, an Ivy League graduate who had spent barely a couple of years stateside before getting a transfer to the Centrals. Rumour had it that his family was well connected. As far as Harris was concerned, apart from both of them being in the same business they were worlds apart. ‘Where’s he gone?’ he asked.
‘The soldier?’
‘No. I was suddenly worried about Elvis. Of course I’m talking about the damned soldier!’
‘He went into the bushes.’
Harris looked up and down the goat track that disappeared into the forest in both directions. ‘Are you screwin’ with me?’
Jacobs looked a bit startled by his boss’s apparent bad mood. ‘No, sir. I’m sure he—’
‘I know he’s in the goddamned bushes somewhere because there’s nothing else around here
but
bushes!’
A short South American Indian man wearing a grubby khaki army uniform stepped from the jungle, clutching a bunch of lush green leaves and chewing something. He had a single chevron on his jacket sleeve and carried a battered old rifle slung over his shoulder. He offered some of the leaves to Jacobs who accepted them with an appreciative nod, shoving them into his mouth.
Harris stopped chewing his gum, his mouth falling open as he watched his assistant munch the leaves into a pulp. ‘Jacobs?’
‘Sir?’ the assistant replied, looking at him.
‘Do you know what that is?’ Harris asked like a disconcerted parent.
‘Uh-huh.’ Jacobs nodded.
‘Jacobs . . . We’re FBI. We don’t do cocaine.’
‘This isn’t exactly cocaine.’
‘That’s coca leaf, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s an opiate, for Christ’s sake . . . How long you been chewing that stuff ?’
Jacobs shrugged. ‘Since a while back.’
‘Well, at least that explains why you’ve been bouncing along like Peter fuckin’ Pan.’
‘It helps take my mind off the discomfort.’
‘That’s how it starts . . . Do you mind? If I have to place you under arrest it’s only going to complicate matters right now.’
Jacobs looked hurt.
‘Spit it out,’ Harris snapped.
The younger man did as he was told and wiped his mouth.
Harris sighed. ‘That’s gonna be a story for the guys when I get back,’ he muttered. ‘Whenever the hell that’ll be.’
Once again he wondered who was behind this mission that had brought him into such a hell-hole. The order had reached his small office on the second floor of the US embassy in Salvador, coming directly from the top of the FBI tree without any of the usual bureaucratic diversions. Alarmingly, he thought he had detected that familiar sinister whiff of the CIA about it. The Agency was happy enough to get the Bureau to carry out some of its dirty work and to a man of Harris’s experience this job had some obvious indicators. A search in this beaten-up and backward country, which had suffered guerrilla conflicts for decades, for the murderer of a US Special Forces colonel suggested that the victim had in some way been involved in the country’s past troubles. Harris knew there had been no
official
US presence in the country during its most recent conflict, which indicated that he had been employed by a covert intelligence outfit, the CIA being the most likely candidate. That particular rebellion had ended a couple of years ago and the only compar - able danger these days came from bandits, which was why the local governor had supplied Harris with just one highly trained bodyguard . . . currently out of his tree on coca leaves, along with Harris’s assistant.
Harris got to his feet, banged out of his hat any crap it contained, put it on his head and looked out through the trees at the stretch of country that they had covered since dawn. The lush tree-canopy stretched like a rolling ocean, reaching towards a line of craggy hills that marked the horizon. He would have appreciated the landscape’s natural beauty more if he knew how much more of it he had to cross.
He hoped that he would find out more about this mysterious scenario when he got to the damned village that they were headed for, otherwise this nightmare trip that had so far taken three days’ trek from Salvador was going to be a waste of time.
‘If this was such a high-priority task why wasn’t there enough in the budget to book a goddamned helicopter?’ Harris muttered to himself.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘I was talking about flying there, but then I guess I’m the only one who isn’t . . . Since you’re so pally with our military escort here perhaps you could ask him how far we still have to go.’
‘Oh, less than two kilometres,’ Jacobs replied matter-of-factly, taking a close-up snapshot of a flower.
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘He told me.’
‘And when were you gonna let me know?’
Jacobs put down his camera and shrugged while smiling politely.
Harris nibbled his bottom lip as he adjusted his pack on his back. It hurt wherever he put it. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, facing the soldier and looking at him accusingly.
Barely a hundred metres further on the track joined a wider one with wagon-wheel ruts in it. A kilometre later they broke out of the dense foliage to find themselves facing a hill whose slopes were covered in small mud and wood huts.The dwellings were packed tightly together, the roofs a mix of straw, corrugated metal sheets and colourful plastic tarpaulins. Hundreds of smoke spirals rose skywards. The immediate impression was of a shanty town.
The first villagers to notice them paused long enough to register that they were foreigners and then went back to harvesting beans in the fields at either side of the track. The children reacted with more liveliness. They cheered, gathering around the two Americans as they entered the village.The kids’ grubby little hands, as filthy as their bare feet, tugged at the men’s clothes. The soldier made a useless attempt to shoo them away but soon gave up when he realised that Jacobs was enjoying the attention. Instead he approached one of the local adults in order to ask for directions.
Jacobs tried to engage the children in conversation, asking their names and using sweets to tempt any of them who came forward. Harris didn’t mind since it kept them away from him.
The soldier thanked the villager and beckoned Harris to follow him.
‘Jacobs - let’s go,’ Harris called out as the soldier headed for a narrow path between some huts.
Jacobs dealt out the last of his sweets and hurried to catch up.
The track wound steeply uphill between dilapidated dwellings. Some children followed but as the path became steeper they ran back down noisily, leaving the group alone.
The path reached the summit where it levelled off and the houses gave way to a small wood where it was noticeably cooler. The small group came to a stony clearing in the centre which was occupied by a handful of goats and scrawny chickens. The soldier stopped and pointed to the far side.
A solitary hut stood there, its wooden porch shaded by a bright green awning that flapped easily in the breeze.
The sky had darkened and Harris decided that a cloudburst was imminent. He approached the hut.
Clay flowerpots dotted the porch and windowsills, brightening the otherwise drab surroundings. An old Indian sat to one side of the front door on a low wooden stool. He was clearly absorbed in some task and did not look up at them.
The soldier plonked himself down beneath a tree, his mission completed - this part of it, at least. He took a roll of magnolia leaves from a small sack and unfolded them. Inside were several maize
pupusas
filled with pinto beans, which he tucked into.
The old Indian looked different from the locals they had encountered so far, as if he were not from the region. His frame was larger and he was far more powerfully built. His facial features were broad, his hands and bare feet wider. He was peeling calabazas and using his toes to hold the small pumpkin-like vegetables while he pared them with a knife. Harris realised the man was using his feet because he had only one arm. He wondered if the man had other handicaps: he appeared to be unaware of the two strangers now standing in front of him.
Harris removed his pack, took out a waterproof folder and examined a photograph of a man. He was pretty sure the Indian wasn’t who he had come to see but he wanted to be certain.