Heart of the World (32 page)

“Weeks ago, I cannot give you a date. Time is not measured here the way it is measured in cities. Here we have planting and sowing—”

“Just tell me. What happened?”

“You know your country has a military presence here.”

“They train Colombian soldiers to wipe out coca fields and arrest drug dealers. They've done it for years. Big deal.”

“There are secret troops,” he said, “U.S. Special Forces, stealing the last gold from the last tribe that protects the earth. Acting with the knowledge of my government.”

“Is this Cabrera talking?” I bit my lip. The helicopter crash must be the journalist's big story, her history-making revelation.

“Your soldiers may say they come only to spray the coca bushes. Look around you. There are no fields of coca here.”

The fuselage, burned as well as twisted, had once been painted black. The cockpit was so badly damaged that most of the equipment had melted into a lumpy mass.

“Luisa wishes to document this travesty, to make a public outcry. She wants me to break my silence, to tell the people what my government, in connivance with yours, tried to do here.”

Cabrera was right: The story was made for the news. Roldan, already a folk hero, returning from the dead to level charges against the government. A secret deal with the U.S. involving the theft of archeolog-ical treasures. The heritage of a country betrayed. The U.S. caught doing
what it used to do best, interfering in Latin America. If it was true, it was headline news. If it was true, it could topple the Colombian government.

I gazed at the wreckage. I thought the twin-rotor aircraft was a Chinook, a smaller version of the gunship the army was currently flying in the mountains of Afghanistan. I could see no insignia on the downed copter.

I said, “Why are you so sure your government is involved?”

“Do you understand anything of history? That this country is still a democracy is nothing less than a miracle. For fifty years, our candidates have been shot down like dogs, yet someone always rises to grab the standard and lead the charge. And now, betrayal again! There's nothing the government will not sell the
gringos
, our oil, our gold, our heritage.”

“When did you learn about this?”

Roldan said, “Learn about it?
I saw it
. My people and I heard the helicopter. At first we thought it was hunting us, but then it disappeared behind the peak and reappeared too close to the ground. I thought the pilot was out of fuel and would crash. I took a party to search. It took us too long to get here.”

Mama Parello bowed his head; it sounded like he was praying.

“By the time we arrived, they'd found the gold. They seemed to know exactly where to dig, as though they had a map.”

“Is that out of the question?”

“Many of the
guaqueros
, the tomb robbers, have a spot they research, but never dig. They call it their ‘bank account.' But I know of no one who's come this far up the mountain.”

“Go on.”

“When we got here, the soldiers were loading bags into the copter. They gave us no time to ask questions. They began firing automatic weapons. We returned fire with the few rifles we had. They tried to lift off, but the downdrafts are tricky in these mountains. And gold is heavy”

I imagined the desperation of the hurried departure, the crash.

“Yes,” Roldan said. “It went up, up, but only a few hundred meters. The front rotor hesitated, the chopper tilted. There was a moment when I thought they would simply land again, but they had no wish to continue the battle. They tried to rise. The copter crashed on its side. The fuel tank ruptured and ignited.”

The
mama
spoke; his face solemn.

“They killed a
moro,”
Roldan translated. “He is irreplaceable.”

“What's a
moro?”

“When a Kogi child is born, the
mamas
come, and if the Great Mother tells them, they take that special child for the priesthood, to be a
mama
someday. These children, the
moros
, are the greatest treasure of the tribe. To make a
moro
is an incalculable cost. The family loses the child's labor forever. The
moro
, to be trained, lives in a cave for nine years without daylight. He must learn the secrets of
Aluna
, of the Great Mother, and for that he needs silence and introspection. He needs to learn to see beyond this world.”

“How did the
moro
die?”

“Before the soldiers tried to take off, they shot him like a dog. The
mamas
say his death caused the crash.”

I shook my head. What did people like the mahogany man know about the mechanics of helicopters?

Roldan said, “There is everything in
Aluna
. Before a thing can be, the Great Mother must think of it in
Aluna
. Everything is part of the Kogi World, even helicopters.”

His way of answering my unspoken questions was getting on my nerves.

“With the death of the
moro
, we thought this terrible thing had come to an end.” His eyes seemed to focus on something far beyond the misty mountain peak.

It hadn't come to an end. That's what he'd brought me here to understand: This terrible thing was linked to Paolina's kidnapping.

I said, “Let me get this straight. It was two or three weeks after the crash that the kidnappers got in touch?”

“Yes. Demanding the gold in exchange for my child. Gold they'd failed to steal here. Gold that is not mine to give.”

“But how did they know?
How did they know about Paolina? How did they know about you? Did Cabrera tell them?” The journalist might be trying to manipulate him, trying to grab a big story by the throat to make her name, nationally and internationally.

The Kogi spoke in his strange language.

“What did he say?” I demanded.

“There were two helicopters.”

Two
. “Then one got away.”

“Yes, but that one did not carry gold.”

“Someone on the second helicopter must have recognized you.”

“Or they could have seen me on the film.”

“Film?”

“Mama Parello says they used the ‘black boxes' as they looted. I saw cameras pointing at us from the helicopter as it flew away.”

“Who would recognize you, know you, wearing what you're wearing? Here in the mountains?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can't say or won't say?”

“It makes no difference. The kidnappers have not called back.”

“You offered them the wounded American.”

“In exchange for the girl. It seemed reasonable, a life for a life.”

“What will you do with him if they don't call? Kill him?”

“I pray that, in this life, I am done with killing.”

He might be an outlaw, he might have been a drug dealer, but when he spoke about killing, I found myself believing him. Still, the wounded soldier might die in the hut, of infection or disease. The Kogi might have saved Roldan with the bark of trees, but the American could have undi-agnosed internal injuries. My faith in ancient remedies was limited.

Thoughts of the wounded man made me remember. “Who is Gee-mo?” I said.

Mama Parello raised both arms, hands outspread. His words sounded like the chatter of birds, but I caught the repeated sound: Gee-mo.

“Where did you hear this name?” Roldan said.

“You stuck me back in the hut with the wounded soldier. You must have hoped I'd learn something.”

“He mentioned Gee-mo?”

“Who is he?”

Roldan glanced at the wizened man for guidance. The
mama
slowly nodded his head, and Roldan said, “If his name passed the lips of the
gringo
, possibly a traitor.”

“One of the
mamas?”

“Not a priest, but a Kogi. A few have intermarried with people from the coast. It's difficult for the children. Usually they stay with the tribe, but some learn Spanish as well as the Kogi language, and they help the
tribe by bartering with the outside world. Gee-mo is one of these half-and-half Kogi. He will be found and questioned.”

“When? How?”

“I can tell you only what Mama Parello wishes you to know.”

“Come on; he won't be able to tell one way or another.”

Roldan shot me a glance. “He knows.”

Whether he knew or not, the picture was starting to make sense, the fragments of the mosaic coming together. Gee-mo, the traitor, reveals the location of the gold. Two copters come for it. One crashes; one gets away. Someone recognizes Roldan, either in person or on film, and sees another way to get the gold. Paolina's kidnapping and the ransom demand follow: Paolina, in exchange for the holy gold.

I said, “Cabrera wants to make this front-page news. She wants governments to fall. What do you want?”

“For myself, nothing.”

I stared into his eyes and waited. I thought: A woman could get lost in those eyes.

He said, “I wish only to make it as it was before this evil thing happened. The
mamas
are unsure whether the desecrated gold can be re-sanctified. The pots in which it was buried are broken, and they no longer know the words to bless the Mothers. They hope, by divination, to ask the Mother for guidance.”

Divination
. I stared at him blankly.

“The beads you recovered are divining beads. It is a good omen that you found them.”

I'm no mystic. I'm a cop to my gut; I collect facts.

I said, “Did they bury the
moro?”

“They took his body away.”

“The others? The soldiers?”

“We covered them with rocks. The scavengers would have taken them if we hadn't.”

“Let me look at them. Let me look at the helicopter.”

“My men have been over the ground.”

“Let me look.”

Roldan's eyebrows arched. “You know about helicopters?”

“I know about crime scenes. I know how to search. Let me look.”

CHAPTER 29

The initial search team never finds everything
. It's one of Mooney's tenets. The initial searchers can get wrapped up in the crime. Cool heads are needed for a search.

What might I find? What was I looking for? Another of Mooney's rules:
Don't look for anything; look for everything
. If you search for the specific, you'll have eyes only for those car keys, that shell casing.

I blanked my mind while Roldan and Mama Parello discussed my request with clicks and gutturals and waving hands. When Roldan nodded permission, I scurried down the incline, scrabbling over rocks and boulders, grateful for work I knew how to do.

Divination, my ass
.

I'd flown in helicopters during police exercises, gotten a quick lift in an FBI copter once, smaller than this one and in pristine condition. I tried to remember where things had been stored, where compartments had been located. Possibly there were places in the copter that hadn't been searched, papers that might tell me who
they
were.

The holy
they
were the Kogi. Who were the evil
they?

Because of the angle of the crashed copter, I had to clamber onto the fuselage, clinging to a metal bar, to reach a sliding door that was immobilized in the open position. Dropping down into the cabin would have been no treat considering the condition of my feet, so I let my eyes do
the initial walk-through. There were no bodies inside, but there were helmets and goggles, charred remnants of scarred machinery. I saw another light source, slid to the ground, and squirmed inside a more convenient opening, a narrow crack in the fuselage.

It was a Boeing craft, model CH-4, something, something. The panel had cracked on impact and the last two letters or numbers were illegible. I wondered whether the radio might be miraculously intact. It wasn't. There had once been labels on the helmets, but they were charred. Same with the goggles.

I squirmed back into daylight. Roldan and the priest sat cross-legged on the ground. The little man was holding Paolina's birdman up to catch the rays of the sun.

“How many men were there?” I yelled.

“Dead?” Roldan said. “Six.”

“Dog tags?”

He shook his head no.

No dog tags on the injured American; no dog tags on the dead. Odd.

The signs of hastily abandoned digging were plain, shovels stuck in the earth, picks propped against skinny trees, shrubbery uprooted. A moonscape of holes pocked the earth. Half a huge pottery urn leaned against a rock. Bits of hard red clay littered the ground. Some holes were completely empty; some littered with shards indicating the breakage of an urn. There were bones scattered in the remnants of the urns, human bones, I thought, ancient bones. If I'd been an archeologist, I'd have been fascinated, but I wasn't looking for bones, pots, or gold. I divided the area into a mental grid. In the first few minutes, I found a package of cigarettes and two partially smoked cigars. After ten minutes, a lump of chewing gum. I worked at a slow, deliberate pace, lulling the men into inattention. I noticed a khaki cap caught on a bush, but it bore no insignia. Why were there no dog tags? Roldan's eyes were glued to the priest; the shaman focused on the birdman.

The pistol was shoved into a mound of dirt, concealed under brush and leaves. If the sunlight hadn't caught the dull metal, I wouldn't have noticed it. I didn't react; I kept walking and stooping, pretending to examine a patch of discolored earth. I glanced downhill. The little man clicked and chattered.

If I grabbed the gun and threatened to shoot the old man called
Mama Parello unless Roldan cooperated in getting Paolina back, where would I be? I had the feeling that the two men would simply tell me to do what I needed to do, that the
mama
would be pleased to join the spirit world sooner rather than later.

A Mac-10 might have been more persuasive, but a small pistol like this one could be concealed. It looked like a Beretta, a new one, a .38 with twelve rounds, and I didn't intend to leave the mountaintop without it. Roldan and the priest were peering at something in the Kogi's cupped palms, possibly the divination beads. Where were the others who'd melted into the mist? I did a quick scan of the area, waited till a bird called. Roldan and the little man looked up, and the gun nestled in the back of my waistband like an old friend.