Cries of the Lost (17 page)

T
HE DECISION
to drive was a good one for about two hundred miles. We were up on a plateau with nothing but high plains covered in grey green grass to either side, mountains in the distance and wind-roiled clouds overhead, when from out of nowhere a black and white Nissan Patrol SUV with the bar of blue lights on the roof hysterically alight filled the rearview mirror.

I pulled over. Both guardias got out of the Nissan. One approached my door, the other stood behind the trunk of our car. Both men stood unsteadily in the fierce winds that blew across the plateau, their white shirts rippling like sea waves. The guy at our car door asked in Spanish for my driver’s license. Then when I handed him the North Carolina version I’d used to rent the car, he asked in thickly accented English for our passports. He stood back from the car and studied the passports, holding his hat against the wind, then leaned into the window.

“Leave the vehicle, please,” he said.

We stepped out into a warm wind blowing well over twenty knots. It made it hard to hear the cop’s questions.

“Where is your destination?” he asked.

“Cerbère,” I said. “We’re traveling to France.”

“For business?”

“And pleasure. We’re touring Spain on our way to an academic conference,” I said in Spanish.

He frowned at that, as if I’d given the wrong answer. He was a tall man, with a doughy face and caved-in chest. His partner, standing several paces away, was shorter and thicker, and better looking. His gaze was fixed on Natsumi and he’d drawn his service weapon from its holster.

“What is in the car?” the tall guy asked.

“Luggage and electronic equipment. I’m a computer scientist guest-lecturing here in Europe.”

The wind was making mischief with Natsumi’s silk tank top, forcing her to clench her midsection. The short cop told her to take her hands away, waving at her with the barrel of his semiautomatic.

“Hey,” I said, “what the hell.”

Natsumi held her arms away from her body, allowing the tank top to flap around her torso and at brief moments expose her white bra.

“Why weren’t you wearing your seat belt?” the tall guy asked me.

“I was. So was my wife.”

“That’s not what we observed. We can confiscate this vehicle and hold you at our post for questioning,” he said in English.

“We’re just traveling through,” I answered in Spanish. “We will be sure to have our seat belts on for the rest of the trip.”

“He should go and the woman should come with us,” said the short cop, throwing in the Spanish equivalent of “Chink.”

“I’m not a Chink,” said Natsumi. “I’m a Jap.”

“I’m a scientist with associations throughout the global community. They know my travel plans. I’m expected in France tomorrow. If I don’t show up, there will be international attention.”

The tall cop didn’t seem impressed, though a bit undecided.

“Let me see this equipment.”

I opened the trunk and showed him the laptops, monitors, video cameras and various external devices. I gave a running commentary, much of it made up, that I hoped gave the regular gear an enhanced stature. I was fairly sure he had no idea what I was talking about.

He made me open our luggage, which he rummaged through until I couldn’t re-zipper the bags. Along the way he pulled out a pair of Natsumi’s panties, which he showed to his partner.

“See?” said the short cop, “I still think we should take the woman. She’s suspicious. We need to talk to her in private.”

Apparently satisfied with his search, the tall cop stuffed Natsumi’s underwear back into her bag and slammed the trunk.

“You need to obey the laws of our country, Señor,” he said. “That includes wearing your seat belt.”

“We will.”

He looked over at his partner, whose gaze seemed permanently fixed on Natsumi’s midsection.

“He’s young and far from home,” he said to me in English. “They get over it.”

“Just keep an eye on him,” I answered, also in English. “Some day when you’re not around, he’s going to do something you’ll regret.”

“No lectures from you, Americano,” he said. “Feel lucky you and the Señora get to go to France.”

With that they got into the Nissan and roared back onto the highway, tires spinning on the gravel shoulder, then burning over the paved surface. Natsumi and I watched as it disappeared into the horizon.

“Well,” she said, “that was interesting.”

“Are you okay?”

“Assholes.”

“I memorized the license plate.”

“And?”

“And we’ll see.”

C
HAPTER
10

T
he trip across the rest of Spain to Cerbère was smooth as silk. As soon as we crossed the border and sailed into the coastal zest of Languedoc—western Mediterranean France—I felt like an invisible weight had been lifted from my heart. A menace expunged.

With a bit of survivor’s élan, we sped over hills and through fields and vineyards with the windows open and the radio playing music that would have been unrecognizable to me no matter where it played, though Natsumi had a different perspective.

“That’s Eskmo in San Fran and Mala from London. Circa twenty eleven dubstep get-real-on-the-dance-floor music. Where you been, boy?” Natsumi asked, with just a touch of condescension.

“In a coma, okay?”

“Not the whole time. And it didn’t make any difference anyway. You still wouldn’t know anything.”

“Okay, but I really was in a coma.”

I purposely avoided the four-lane superhighway that could have rocketed us to the eastern side of the coast in favor of a circuitous ramble through the hills and verdant fields, endless vineyards and medieval villages—sometimes not much more than piles of organized stone with colorful modern signs—that graced our passage.

Driven by hunger and hopeful despite the late hour, we stopped at a hotel that promised fine food procured entirely from an area less than a mile in any direction from the hotel lobby. Of course it was closed. I rang the bell on the front desk anyway.

“Can we possibly buy some food?” I said in my lousy French to the old, bent woman who poked her head through the curtain behind the desk. “We are traveling and very hungry.”

“Stay in the hotel and I’ll get the old man up to give you anything you want,” she said. “Otherwise, eat the trees.”

Seemed like a reasonable arrangement.

The old man, Monsieur Prefontaine, was so delighted to have two hungry, culinarily unsophisticated Americans to shower with specialties of the house, that we nearly expired from overeating. It would have helped to know that the
bourride sètoise
—fish stew—followed by pan-seared
fois gras
set on caramelized arbutus berry
jus,
then by turbot roasted in a verbena infusion with crushed cooked apples and lemon, and a chicken baked in a basket of woven pine needles, represented only a partial sampling of a multi-course meal, most of which was on the house.

Monsieur Prefontaine stood at the table while we ate, giving us a comprehensive description of the contents, procurement, preparation and ideal presentation. We responded with relentless appreciation, for the flavors both novel and delicious, and for his generous attention.

The obvious occurred to me—food in France is truly an art form, not unlike drama. You can put everything you have into training as an actor, but your success is ultimately determined by applause from the audience. Monsieur Prefontaine had the exclusive focus of an audience of two, and he was determined to deliver his finest culinary performance.

The arrival of dessert was both a gigantic relief, and cause for horror, since it was composed of five large balls of ice cream, each flavored by plants and wildflowers harvested from the surrounding woodlands. We sampled from each—lavender,
thym, rosmarin,
jasmine and marjoram. I was ready to beg off finishing the bowl, when Natsumi bravely dug in and rescued our family honor.

“Then perhaps we can now finish with our crème brûlée?”

It took all of Natsumi’s considerable diplomatic skill to get us out of there with good will intact and up to our room, where we collapsed on the bed, hands resting on our bellies as if containing a potential explosion.

“I don’t think I can take off my shoes,” I said.

“I wonder what the crème brûlée tasted like.”

“Local moss.”

H
AVING LEARNED
the benefits of apartment dwelling while staying in Madrid, we rented a pay-by-the-week tourist flat a few blocks from the Cours Mirabeau in the old town area of Aix-en-Provence. The rental agent was a very round woman with excess makeup and delusional body image, as demonstrated by the fuck-me high heels and form-fitting skirt.

The rooms were perfectly appointed, abundantly filled with light and fresh air by way of the classic French floor-to-ceiling casement windows, whitewashed rough plaster walls, the larder partially stocked with packaged meats, cheese and snack food, and a bottle of wine waiting on the counter with two glasses and a corkscrew.

The agent looked disappointed when we took it on the spot.

“But we have just begun to look,” she said, her upsell strategy in ruins, assuaged when I offered to pay two weeks in advance.

We went through the unpacking and setup process like the regimented routine it had become, requiring very few words and little deviation from the settled division of labor. While I configured the electronics array, Natsumi went out to procure basic foodstuffs and necessities. Once the computers were up and online, I placed a few orders for gear I thought we might need for the next round, now that we had a fixed address to receive the goods.

I tested to see if my backdoor into the enterprise system at the
Dirección General de la Policía y de la Guardia Civil
was still unlocked. It was. I found the email address of the officer in charge of the
comandancia
that covered the eastern portion of
Castille-La Mancha.
By using my admin privileges, I was able to drop a note directly through the email server, thus disguising the origin of the message.

I wrote that I had witnessed two guardias (whom I described) driving an official vehicle—license number cited—buy the services of an underage prostitute with a small quantity of cocaine. It was rumored that this
pareja
—team—had also been using their authority to shake down small businesses in the remote rural areas they served.

I hit send and quietly sneaked out the way I came.

M
Y PACKAGES
started arriving a few days later. The largest was only about 2 × 4 × ¾ inches. Inside was an AM/FM radio and flashlight that ran on batteries, solar power, or human power in the form of a hand crank. I unscrewed the housing and carefully extracted the electronics. Then I opened another box which held a micromini tracking device, which I also separated from its housing, disconnecting the AAA battery, the bulkiest part of the working system. Then I integrated the tracker into the power supply of the little radio, and managed to cram it all into the radio’s green plastic case.

I downloaded the tracker’s software and ran a test, which it passed.

I moved on to InDesign and Photoshop, graphics programs that I used to create lurid new packaging for the radio and the shipping box. Also a selling pamphlet that announced to the unidentified recipient that he/she had been selected at random to receive this outstanding once-in-a-lifetime offer to visit a beautiful new condominium complex in Lloret del Mar on the Costa Brava, the resort region north of Barcelona. All travel and hospitality expenses for two people will be covered for three gorgeous days and exciting nights. All in return for just one hour touring the condominiums and watching an entertaining informational video.

All one needs to do is return the enclosed SASE with the quick and easy questionnaire filled out (please include all requested information) and you’ll be sent the dates for your free fun vacation on Spain’s glorious Costa Brava.

And the perfect-for-the-beach radio that never runs out of power? Keep it as a token of our appreciation for considering this unique and exceptional offer.