Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (11 page)

“What did he say?” Helen asked.

“He said, ‘You’re welcome, brave lady, beautiful friend of my leader.”

“How lovely,” Helen murmured, inexplicably near tears. The strain was proving to be almost too much; she felt close to collapse.

Perhaps reading her expression, Matteo said something to their rescuer, and he gestured for them to follow him.

“He has a car out back,” Matteo explained as they hurried in his wake.

“Matteo, I don’t like this. He recognized you; someone else might.”

Matteo shook his head. “No, he knew I was coming, and he was watching for me. My men told him what I would look like, what I would be wearing.
Calmate niña,
it’s almost over.”

Their ally led them to an old Fiat parked by the service door they used to exit the building and handed Matteo the keys. Matteo thanked him and the man hurried back inside as Matteo opened the passenger door and hustled Helen into the car. He ran around to the other side and jumped in, starting the motor as he pulled his door closed.

“Now we just have to get through the check at the exit gate,” Matteo said grimly, glancing in the rearview mirror as he pulled into one of the moving lanes of traffic. “There’s a pistol in the glove compartment. Get it out and give it to me.”

Helen complied, handing over the weapon and staring ahead at the wooden booth as a light rain began to fall. Matteo slowed the car, pulling into line and rolling down his window. A uniformed soldier accepted their papers without comment and, after examining them for several seconds, peered into the car at its occupants .

Helen hoped that the sound of her teeth chattering was not audible. The gun was concealed under Matteo’s seat; if he decided to search the car it was all over.

The guard asked Matteo a couple of questions, but his tone sounded routine, and Matteo answered briefly. The man handed their papers back through the window, eyeing Matteo closely as he did so. Then he seemed to come to a decision and waved the car on.

Matteo lost no time, gunning the motor as the guard lifted the crossbar to let them through. Then, as they passed the booth, Helen saw one of the other soldiers speak urgently to the man who had stopped them. He whirled and shouted something after the car, and Matteo cursed violently under his breath. He floored the gas pedal, and the Fiat lurched forward as the guard dashed through the door of the booth and leveled his rifle at the fleeing car.

“Get down!” Matteo shouted, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her onto the seat. She soon heard the whine of near misses, and then the explosion of a hit as a bullet cracked the rear glass and sailed over her prone body to exit through the front window.

“Don’t move,” Matteo yelled as she cowered on the floor, her hands over her head, and he yanked down his window to fire back at his antagonist. Helen could hear the sound of other gunfire and knew that some of the soldier’s comrades were joining the attack. Bullets whizzed around the little car, and ricocheted from its metalwork, as Matteo pushed it at merciless speed through the exit lane of the airport and toward downtown San Jacinta.

Helen was flung from side to side on the floor as he made turn after turn, evidently trying to lose the pursuers he had picked up at the exit turnstile. There was unrelieved tension for several minutes as he raced pellmell through the old city, and the Fiat’s well used transmission was strained to the limit from the frequent downshifting. The smell of burning rubber and leaking transmission fluid soon filled the air, but Matteo drove on, maneuvering the car with fierce concentration until he finally said, glancing in both mirrors and then looking at Helen, “I think we lost them.”

Helen unfolded herself from the floor of the car and fell back in her seat. “What happened?” she asked shakily, in a voice that sounded several octaves higher than normal.

“The guard’s buddy recognized me,” he answered. “The first guy was a little suspicious, but when the second came in he nailed me.” He shot Helen an intent glance and added, “You look a little pale.”

“Is that all you can say?” she replied, staring at him. “Does this sort of thing happen to you all the time?”

“Not all the time,” he answered mildly. “Now and then.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her, saying, “Wet this from the canteen and wipe your face.”

Helen took the handkerchief, marveling that he seemed more concerned about her faintness than their recent narrow escape. Not to mention that they were fleeing from the airport police in a rapidly expiring car and would soon have no other means of transportation.

“We’ve got to ditch this car,” he said, as if reading her mind. “It’s on its way out, and besides, the police will have a description by now.” He slowed down to drive through the busy, crowded downtown streets, turning into a narrow lane flanked by rows of stores. He guided the little car into a parking space and left it there, signaling for Helen to get out on her side and follow him. When she reached him he took her hand and they strolled along the street, blending in with the other window shopping young couples.

“They’ll be able to trace us here when they find the car,” Helen said, looking around for policemen, unused to the role of fugitive. “One of the passing citizens is sure to notice the bullet holes in the glass.”

“We’ll be long gone by then, Dick Tracy,” Matteo replied, grinning at her.

“Oh, really?” Helen replied, amazed at his nonchalance. “How are we getting out of here?”

“You’ll see.”

They continued to walk, and Helen realized that he was scrutinizing the racks of motorbikes parked along the street. Suddenly he halted and said, “Wait for me at the corner.”

Helen went ahead, turning when she reached her destination. She watched as he walked one of the bikes out to the road and jumped on, kicking the motor into life. He idled for a moment and then glided up to her, saying, “Hop on.”

“Matt!” Helen said, shocked. “You aren’t going to steal this!”

He met her gaze, deadpan. “No, Helen, I’m going to find the owner and tell him I’m taking it, so he can call the police.”

She looked around furtively. “What if the owner comes back?” she said.

“Well, maybe if we stand here debating about it long enough, he will,” Matteo said impatiently, pointing to the space behind him. “Get on. The idiot left the keys in the ignition—he deserves to walk.”

Helen hesitated, looking unhappy.

“Look, Miss Abe Lincoln, you just defrauded the Puerta Lindan government by entering the country under false pretenses and you’re aiding and abetting a wanted man. I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”

Helen climbed on behind him, winding her arms around his lean waist. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her neck, relieving the wet heat for a moment, and she wished that she were doing this with Matteo under other circumstances, when she might have been able to enjoy the ride.

“Okay?” he said, turning his head.

“Okay,” she confirmed, and he took off with a surge of power, negotiating the streets with controlled efficiency, making his way out of town. When they stopped at a light Helen said into his ear, “Where are we going?”

“A friend of mine has a
taberna
in the hills. We can rest there and try to think what to do.”

“About what?” Helen said.

“About you,” he answered, and then roared off as the light changed.

Helen hung on as he rode steadily toward the outskirts of San Jacinta, climbing all the way. Spanish street signs and shops with names like
Bodega Escorial
and
Mendeja—Zapatos Para Toda La Familia
passed in a blur as the rain, which had stopped, began to fall again. It was a soaking mist that penetrated Helen’s thin clothing and returned Matteo’s hair to the ringlets that the stylist had managed to eliminate. They were driving into the setting sun and darkness was falling with the swiftness of equatorial night.

Helen pressed her cheek to the curve of Matteo’s damp spine and imagined that they were traveling together through the tropical paradise Puerta Linda might have been, without the ominous presence of the soldiers and the constant threat of civil strife. The palms and jacaranda trees lining the streets of the capital bent slightly under the weight of the prevailing wind as they skirted the thinning traffic and left the city, following a winding trail that moved upward through overhanging cliffs. After a while Helen could see the gleam of the ocean below, and Matteo turned on the bike’s single headlight. The air grew cooler with the height, and the road they were traveling was no longer paved. The bike kicked up a spray of loose dust, which covered them both and adhered to their wet skin and clothing. Helen knew she had never been filthier in her life, or in greater danger, but she couldn’t seem to muster much concern about either condition. She was exhausted, and the hibiscus and oleander growing in profusion along the high stone walls they passed intoxicated her with their heavy perfume. She lingered in a dream state in which the feel of Matteo’s strong body under her hands, the heady fragrance of the wild blooms and the enclosing darkness merged to convince her that everything would be all right. Matteo could perform miracles; hadn’t she seen him do it? He would get both of them out of this and she was not going to be afraid.

Helen’s eyes were closed, her head slumped against Matteo’s back, when the bike ground to a halt and he dropped the kickstand. She sat up groggily, and he took one look at her and lifted her bodily off the motorcycle. He shushed her feeble protest that she could walk. She caught only the barest glimpse of whitewashed walls and a handmade wooden sign over the door that Matteo carried her through before she put her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes again. It was so much easier just to let him handle everything, and after all, this was his country and he was used to such adventures.

She was aware of the low murmur of Spanish, and then felt the sweet comfort of a soft bed receive her weight. She meant to protest the loss of Matteo’s arms, but found she was too tired. When he let her go she fell fully asleep immediately, and she didn’t feel him cover her with a light blanket or hear him leave the room.

* * * *

When Helen awoke she didn’t know where she was. It took her a moment to remember the trip into the hills from San Jacinta and her arrival at their destination. She sat up and looked around her, taking in the rustic room with oak beams overhead and the darkness outside the single window. It must have been the middle of the night. The furniture was spare and mismatched: the bed on which she lay, covered with a faded patchwork quilt; a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, both cracked; and a cane chair by the window, some of the latticework missing from its seat. The window itself was bare, and the only covering on the floor was a rag rug made from bits of yarn, a washed out riot of dulled colors like the quilt.

Helen listened carefully and could hear the faint thrum of music from the floor below. She remembered Matteo saying something about a
taberna.
Was that a restaurant or hotel? It seemed as though it was both. If so, some of the patrons downstairs must be keeping late hours. And she was in one of the rooms to let on the second floor.

The first order of business was to find Matteo. She got up, putting aside the sheet draping her legs, and went to the door, opening it a crack. The music got louder, but the hallway was almost dark, illuminated by a single electric bulb. Helen felt her way along it to the stairwell and was about to descend when a door on her left opened abruptly. A large woman in a sunny yellow peasant blouse and a lipstick red skirt confronted her, clapping her hands together with obvious delight.

“Ah, la senorita de Matteo”
she exclaimed, beaming at Helen. Her shining black hair was scraped back into a severe bun, which did nothing to detract from the bright good humor of her expression. Gleaming gold hoops dangled from her ears and a hand-embroidered apron was tied about her ample waist.

“¿
Tiene usted hambre?”
she asked Helen, and when Helen indicated that she didn’t understand, the woman mimed the use of a knife and fork.

Helen nodded. She was, in fact, famished, but locating Matteo was of even greater interest than food at the moment. She tried desperately to remember the phrase for “where is” that the Costa Rican maid had taught her and finally came up with it.

“¿Donde estd Matteo?”
she said triumphantly, and was gratified when the woman’s smile became even wider. She answered with an incomprehensible flood of Spanish, however, and Helen wished she hadn’t tried to get cute.

“Matteo,” she said again, desperately, hoping that the woman would take the hint.
“¿Donde esta Matteo, por favor?”

The woman responded by taking her hand and leading her back to the room she had just left.

“Sientese,”
she said to Helen, pointing to the cane chair. Helen understood that she was to sit and did so.
 

Satisfied, her companion nodded vigorously and then launched into a short speech in which Matteo’s name figured prominently. She was either going to get him or telling Helen that he had left for parts unknown, never to return. Helen decided that it had to be the former and settled in to wait.

The woman departed, closing the door behind her. Downstairs, someone started to sing, accompanied by a number of guitars. Helen was listening to the music, feeling like a third grader waiting for the principal to arrive, when the door opened and Matteo walked through it.