Open Pit (9 page)

A voice interrupts her. “Have these two been chatting like hens the whole time?” It's Rita. She has appeared beside Delmi. “Such
sucias
shouldn't even bother trying to get clean.”

Tina, who hasn't understood the Spanish, still instinctively shakes her head no.

Delmi giggles nervously, something she does often, her jaw shaking under her mask. She moves back several steps, ceding power to Rita.

“No?” says Rita to Tina. “But I heard the old one yapping. She knows this is not allowed.
Qué lástima
. I'm going to have to cut things short. Get your clothes on.”

Tina stands there confused, covered in suds, until Delmi swings her gun in the direction of the creek bank several times. For Danielle, the order is too outrageous.

“You too,
vieja,
” says Rita, coming to stand over her. “And for talking, you'll put your same clothes on.”

“But they're filthy!”

Rita picks up the soiled clothes, which are caked in dust, and thrusts them at Danielle so hard she has to step back into the water, soaking her left boot, to keep from falling. “I said do it.” Rita's mouth is painted in thick, orange-red lipstick today, which, in combination with the balaclava, makes her look like a Mexican wrestler. Something flashes across her big brown eyes. “Did you learn Spanish when you were here before,
vieja?
”

Danielle takes the bundle of clothes. “I grew up in Central America,” she answers flatly. She wants very badly to go and stand with Tina and Delmi.

“
En centroamérica?
That's
mierda
. You're a rich
blanca
with too much free time, travelling to poor countries, getting your passport stamped.”

“I was born in Costa Rica.” Should she explain that her father was an agronomist? Danielle doesn't want to. They have her documents. Hasn't Pepe let the rest see?

“
Perra,
you are a
desgraciada puta
liar,” says Rita, shaking her head, but Danielle can't tell if she really thinks it was a lie. Rita seems to enjoy hearing herself swear. “In Canada, it's colder than in Miami all year, or just part of the year?” she asks, hauling on Danielle's arm to go up the bank, Danielle's boot going squish-squish.

Why does Rita care how cold it is in Canada? Unless that's where she's planning to end up — with a doctored version of Danielle's passport, maybe? Danielle runs through possible scenarios, including one in which Pepe is taking them north to the Honduran border where they will be shot, their bodies left to blister in the sun, their identities and clothes spirited north. But then why send Ramón off to the capital with that paper?

Rita spins on her heels and slaps Danielle in the face. “
Contés-tame!
” she says, a casual look on her face, still expecting an answer to her question about the weather.

Danielle's paranoid notions depart, replaced by intense anger. “Only in the winter,” she says, a tear wetting her lip. “It's cold in the winter.” She can hear Tina crying further up the bank.

Rita assesses, then seems to accept as true, this description of the northern climate, and has gone back to holding Danielle's upper arm too tightly, pulling her upwards, when Pepe appears on the other side of the creek. “Go to your post,” he says to Rita. “Take them with you.”

Rita has no choice but to retreat, Delmi and Tina trailing behind, but she shoots Pepe a parting look that Danielle reads as hateful. A flutter of hope moves through her at the thought of a rift among her captors. But then Pepe takes several fast steps to cross the creek, the soles of his boots making a sucking sound where the ground is muddiest. Oh God, Danielle thinks. Her punishment is coming. For having been in El Salvador before. For having once been so foolish.

“You were an
internacionalista
. A journalist. You know these mountains.”

Danielle hasn't heard the word
internacionalista
in more than twenty years and it's like a jack-in-the-box popping open in her face. “No,” she says, frantically shaking her head. “I was young. I didn't know anything. I'm not a journalist — not now.”

“Yet you've come back. Strange to know so little and care so much. Who are you writing for?”

“No — I'm not. Not here to write.”

“Why did you come here, then? If you aren't going to write anything.”

Danielle recalls the bundle of letters on her dining room table. Her own rash decision to take Neela's place on this trip after her friend surprised her with their old correspondence, calling it an intervention — the first startling pop-up from Danielle's past.

“Did you kill a lot of military in
1980
?” Pepe continues. “Or do you own shares in the mine?”

“The gold mine? In Los Pampanos?” she says, surprised to hear mention of the object of the delegation's visit.

Something in Pepe's neck twitches. “Who did you know in the war?”

Danielle wants to answer, but she's busy going over everything Neela told her about local opposition to that mine.

“Who?” Pepe repeats, stepping in closer, his posture more aggressive.

“A lot of people — unimportant people. I knew some other foreigners. A priest. One commando. . .”

“Special Forces?”

“Yes.”

“And did you yourself train as a Special Forces commando?” Pepe isn't laughing at this absurd suggestion. He displays very little emotion altogether, like he's fishing for what should worry him. It strikes Danielle that he might know something about interrogation.

“Of course not. How would I have done that?”

Pepe shouts: “I ask the questions!” He pauses, then adds more calmly, “I don't assume. That's how I survive.”

Danielle suspects more than ever that Pepe was once in the Salvadoran military. She remembers all the stories of torture and disappearance that she ever heard in
1980
, the mutilated bodies of civilians that she saw with her own eyes. Is this who she's dealing with? But what would somebody like that care about a gold mine?

Pepe reaches slowly into a pocket from which he pulls paper and a pen. “Write down the names of all the people you knew and what their role was.”

“They were all assumed names.”

“Do it.”

Danielle looks down. She's still in her underwear. “I need to dress,” she says, dying of shame. Pepe gives her a look like she's stripped off her clothes on purpose to cause a delay. “
Allá,
” he says, pointing to a tree.

Danielle picks up her fresh clothes — Rita can rot — and goes to change. Behind the tree she tugs on her pants and t-shirt quickly as mosquitoes bite her everywhere. She has mostly dried off, save that left foot, which is warm and wet, back in the boot, but now she starts to sweat all over again from the intense heat of the day. She tries to decide if there's anyone she should leave off the list. But why risk angering Pepe? It was all so long ago. He's unlikely to recognize anyone, even if he does have knowledge of the Northeast guerrilla faction, with whom Danielle was placed. Most of the people she knew really were unimportant.

Back at the creek, Pepe foists the pen and paper back at her impatiently and Danielle bends down, laying the sheets across a thigh. She feels out of practice. At home, she runs an editing business, and her computer, pens and reams of paper are like extensions of herself. Here, writing and its instruments are alien. She begins to list the names with their occupations in brackets. Doing so forces more memories back to her with carnivalesque horror, memories she's hoped to revisit more slowly, on her own time.

“
Vaya,
” says Pepe. “It's not hard to make a list. Unless you're inventing.”

“I'm not.”

“We'll see.”

They're quiet for some time, with just insects buzzing in Danielle's ears and getting under her collar as she puts down the names of all her main contacts from
1980
, many of whom had more than one war-given nickname, something she always found confusing and, she believes, also led to confusion among the guerrillas. She sees their faces. Chepe, the young messenger she befriended, was also Enano, because he was so short. Gabi, one of the cooks, was La Gallina for being such a gossip. Freckle-faced Renaldo was Pecoso. Danielle herself was La Rojita, for her red hair, and sometimes Delgadita, for how thin she got when she had stomach bugs, which was often. Then she adds Sosa, her friend the priest.

Eventually Danielle has to decide what to do about Adrian. It seems conspicuous, somehow, to put him last. He was the most “important” person she knew. She squeezes his name into the middle of the list, a decision she immediately regrets. Why protect him? She remembers Adrian telling her that, at his rank, names could change depending on the importance of the mission. Sometimes the insurgency didn't even want members of a particular guerrilla unit to know the true identity of the person assigned to lead them. Secrecy was paramount. But Danielle can't recollect whether Adrian ever told her what his other name was. He was Adrian to her, so that's what she writes, followed by his occupation: commando, Special Forces.

Pepe holds out his hand. “Homework for later,” he says, folding the paper back into his pocket. “Now. Something else.”

Danielle feels the blood drain from her face: he's going to abuse her, rape her in this muddy place.

But Pepe makes no sudden moves. “If you are a journalist, you write well.”

“I am not one.” Danielle's hands remain in tight fists. “I work as an editor — by myself. Freelance.”

“
Bien,
” says Pepe, not conceding the difference. “You can write something for me. With you, I can document episodes of my life. So the people understand my motives.”

“But who will read —?”

Another of Pepe's withering looks stops Danielle mid-question. “Go!” he says, standing behind her, waiting for her to move out.

3:00 PM
. Canadian embassy, San Salvador

Mitch pauses at Catharine Keil's door, reminding himself to be nice. But Keil does not return the smile he offers when he walks in, or even bother getting up from her desk.

“Please,” she says, indicating a chair facing hers.

Mitch sits, sinking lower into the seat than he expected. He lifts a foot over the opposite knee, trying to compensate. “I didn't know you guys were in this building,” he says, still failing to get any height. “I actually ran into an acquaintance at the elevators — exploration guy. Small world!”

“I'm sure,” says Catharine Keil, tucking a section of hair behind her ear. It's greyer than last time Mitch saw her in person, evenly silver. Has she dyed it that way, he wonders? She's not even that old.

“Do you need clarification on something in particular, Mr. Wall?”

“Okay. Let me first say that no one could've anticipated these demands.” Out of the corner of his eye Mitch can still see Keil's assistant, who showed him in from reception. Mitch assumed he would leave before the meeting began, but the man has taken up a spot by the window. Mitch tries to ignore him while appealing to the ambassador's reason. “We've been blindsided — as you have.”

Keil picks up her pen, stands it on her desk, then lays it down again. “These things happen. We have policies. Your insurers have probably briefed you before.”

“About employee abductions? Oh, sure. But that's completely different. These tourists weren't my employees!” Mitch starts to laugh, looking towards the assistant, who is stony-faced.

“One interesting thing about those cases is that companies regularly pay a ransom rather than risking people's lives unnecessarily,” says Keil.

Mitch remembers this smug attitude from last time he chatted with Keil, at some event for Canadian businesses abroad. In that gruff voice, everything is a lecture.

“Some would say it's the price of doing business in markets like this one, that are, otherwise, very cost-effective,” she adds.

“We're launching a multi-million-dollar expansion,” says Mitch, trying to put across the simple truth of what's at stake. “This month.”

“The abduction has posed some extreme challenges for everyone,” says Keil, stubbornly neutral. “And as the owner of the property, it's within your rights to refuse this exhumation. Regardless of consequences.”

Mitch questions his decision to ask for this meeting. Keil is about as pliable as a brick. He searches for a new tack. “The reason I came by is I felt we should speak face to face about the police. I know Captain Hernández comes off a little strong. But I have it on good authority that the anti-kidnapping unit really is ready to end this at a moment's notice without any danger to anyone.” The mention of Hernández seems to freeze Keil's facial muscles. With concern? “I know that's not your preferred option,” Mitch says, guessing. “But there's no need to let a dangerous situation linger either —”

“No one in this embassy wants the abduction to last even one minute longer,” says Keil, jumping on his last word. “Nor do we control how the local police react. As the Captain has made clear, it's his jurisdiction. But hasty action in cases like these is always risky, as past examples in this country have shown.”

“But no risk, no reward, right?” says Mitch, smiling.

Keil furrows her brow. “Mr. Wall, are you aware that some of the families of the hostages are travelling to San Salvador because they want to show how important it is to resolve the abduction safely? Maybe you would consider meeting them, hearing their point of view about the exhumation.”

Mitch tries to look regretful. “That would be great. But I've been advised by my legal team not to speak directly to anyone so close to the kidnapping. For my own safety.” Mitch's
PR
people did get a couple of calls about the families, but Mitch has no interest in having parents bawling in his office over something he can't do anything about. He's not the one who took their kids hostage. “I sincerely hope everyone is reunited,” he goes on, illustrating his hope by weaving together the fingers on both his hands. “At the same time, these families can't possibly keep perspective on the demands. They've been put in an impossible position. Your own office has a travel warning in place. People have to know what they're getting into when they leave Canada to fraternize with — well, we all know that group in Los Pampanos, that ‘Committee,' is a fringe organization. Who's to say they didn't invite the delegation here expressly to stage this kidnapping? In the end, this is a police matter.”