Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (24 page)

“You’re not going alone?” she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

“I’m taking two of my best men. More than that might attract attention as we move through the jungle. We have to avoid being spotted until we’re close enough to destroy the nest.”

“You could be gone a long time.”

“I don’t know. We might have to wait until dusk, when visibility declines, but we can’t wait until full dark. That will be too late.”

“You’re very good at this, aren’t you?”

“What?” he said, his mouth against her ear.

“This guerrilla stuff.”

“I have to be. That’s why I’m still alive.”

“Come back,” she said softly, stepping away from him.

“I will.”

Helen turned her back while he reclaimed his hardware and didn’t look around until she heard him leave. Then she followed, watching from the tent entrance as he joined the two men waiting for him. All three walked to the stand of shade trees at the edge of the clearing and fell to their knees. Helen stared, fascinated, as they smeared their faces and hands with mud, a product of the recent downpour, gouged from the base of the big jacaranda. Elsewhere the earth had already been dried by the hot Puerta Linda sun, but in the dim shade of the giant tree’s branches the ground was still soft, ready for their use.

Matteo didn’t say anything to the others, but at some hidden signal they rose together and melted into the trees, their clothes blending in with the foliage so well that after a few seconds they were invisible. She looked at the spot where they had been for a moment longer, then went inside.

“Is he gone?” Theresa asked.

Helen nodded .

“Now comes the hard part. We wait.”

“For what?” Helen asked.

“The explosion. If we don’t hear it by nightfall, we’ll know the
cabos
got them.”

The
cabos
were the government troops. The name, an abbreviation for
caballeros
, or horse soldiers, had originally referred to the mounted police. It had passed into general usage as a synonym for
gentlemen
, which was ludicrous when applied to the military arm of the current regime. But the title stuck, and among the rebels it was another word for
butchers.

The afternoon was a torment for Helen. She had thought the night before was bad, when they were under attack, but at least then she had been busy. Now there was nothing to do except change an occasional bandage, get a drink of water for a thirsty patient and listen. She listened so hard that she felt her eardrums should have burst from the strain, but she heard only the usual camp sounds, the birds in the trees and the ominous, larger silence.

She was sitting on an overturned box, staring into an empty cup, when Theresa sat on the ground next to her and handed her a banana.

Helen shook her head.

“Take it,” Theresa said. “Maybe you’ll want it later. If you get any skinnier even Rafaela’s clothes won’t fit you anymore.”

Rafaela was the smallest of the women, and she’d been supplying most of Helen’s things. Helen accepted the piece of fruit, peeled it and took a bite.

“The waiting is a
brujata
, no?” Theresa asked, using the peasant word for a bad dream, a nightmare cooked up by a
bruja,
or evil witch.

“Yes,” Helen replied.

“Now you really know what it is like to be one of us,” Theresa commented. “If you can stand this, the rest is easy.”

“What can they be doing out there?” Helen asked rhetorically.

“Taking care,” Theresa said. “Matteo is very careful, very...” She tapped her temple with her forefinger.

“Smart,” Helen supplied. Theresa’s English came and went in spurts; at times she could wax eloquent, at others the simplest words failed her.

“Si´. Inteligente,”
she agreed. “We’d all be dead if Olmos had been in charge from the beginning. He was fearless himself, but foolish, too quick to act.”

“Where do you think he is?” Helen said to her.

“Olmos?”

“Yes.”

“In hell,” Theresa replied. “He betrayed his friends; he is a Judas. There’s no place on earth for him now.”

So Matteo wasn’t the only one who’d figured out the source of the previous night’s attack.

“I feel responsible,” Helen confessed, alluding to her role in Olmos’s defection, which continued to haunt her despite Matteo’s dismissal of it.

“Nah,” Theresa said, waving her hand, agreeing with Matteo. “Those two were like a couple of roosters in a henhouse; one had to give up and go away or they would have killed each other.”

“They almost did.”

Helen and Theresa both froze as they heard the distant roar of a tremendous explosion. It sounded like a powder magazine had gone up—or a cache of incendiary rockets.

Helen threw her arms around Theresa’s neck. “They did it!” she yelped, elated. Outside she could hear the sound of cheering as the rest of the camp shared her joy.

Theresa nodded. “So far, so good,” she said. “They still have to get back, and every
cabo
left alive in the jungle will be looking for them now.”

“They won’t move until it’s dark,” Helen guessed aloud.

“You’re learning,” Theresa said approvingly. “Come on, help me get the food ready for tonight. It will help to pass the time.”

It did. Helen worked at Theresa’s side, secure in the knowledge that Matteo had accomplished his objective, hopeful that she would see him in a few hours.
Her good spirits were deflated only slightly by the presence of A
lma, who kept surveying “the gringa” with a curiously triumphant look that made Helen extremely nervous. Anything that made Alma happy, especially where it concerned Helen, was surely open to question, but Helen tried not to let it bother her. Matteo had survived the trickiest part of his mission, and fate would not be so cruel as to let something happen to him now. This was a routine trip for him, she told herself; he did this sort of thing all the time. So she doled out the evening meal, watching the light fade as darkness fell, hoping that the genius that always seemed to protect him would not fail him in this.

Another two hours passed, and Helen was reduced to taking inventory of the depleted stock of black market medicines, desperate for something to do. She was on her hands and knees in front of the wooden cupboard where the medicines were stored, dictating its contents to Theresa, when they both heard a shout go up outside.

Theresa’s pad and pencil fell to the floor as Helen tripped over her on her way out. Theresa followed, and both women stopped when they saw Matteo and his companions making their way through the camp toward her tent.

Helen was motionless in the entrance, her eyes fixed on Matteo’s face. People called to him and slapped him on the back as he passed, but he held Helen’s gaze and never looked away. A silence fell as he stopped in front of her, and she reminded herself to behave with restraint, as befitted the
jefe’s
woman.

“Hi,” he said, smiling into her eyes.

“Hello,” she whispered, twisting her hands together to keep from touching him.

In the next moment she was whisked off her feet as he bent and swept her up in his arms, spinning her round and round. Whistles and catcalls erupted among the onlookers as he ducked his head and kissed her. Then another sound began, the insistent beating of many hands against hard objects, as if the rebels were drumming a signal. The beating fell into a pattern, rhythmic, insistent, and increased in volume until Helen could hardly make herself heard.

“What does that mean?” she asked, pulling away from Matteo and turning her head.

“It means that they approve,” he replied, grinning.

“Of me?” she said.

“Of you and me. It’s what they do instead of clapping.”

He strode past Theresa’s tent with Helen in his arms and carried her through the entrance to her own. Behind them the sound fell away to a babble of voices as the people discussed their reprieve, thanks to Matteo’s latest exploit.

“Tell everybody I don’t want to be disturbed,” Matteo called over his shoulder to one of the men who had gone with him. “For anything.” As he set Helen on her feet he added, “They’ll all be too busy celebrating tonight to care what I’m doing anyway.”

As she watched he began to strip off his filthy shirt, glancing around for the tin tub she’d been using for bathing. He found it and set it on a chest, at waist level.

“The nest wasn’t even guarded,” he said to her, as she got water for him and he dipped into it. “They were so confident they were all off eating
dinner
, if you can believe it, when we got there. Martin and I just tossed the grenades and ran like hell; they never even got close to us. Those
cabos
will have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.”

He was exhilarated, on an adrenaline high from the experience, as he’d been when they had escaped from the airport police. After he had washed his upper body and his face, he started to rub the bar of soap over his damp hair.Then he winced when he encountered the wound on his forehead, just at the hairline.

“Let me do that,” Helen said. She peeled away the sodden bandage Theresa had applied and tilted his head back over the basin to wet his hair. She worked the lather into his hair, creating a wealth of creamy suds, and gently washed the cut, which was already scabbing.

“You heal fa
st, jefe”
she said, smiling.

“Good thing, too,” he answered dryly, and she shook her head. He would never change.

“Your hair is beautiful,” she murmured as she poured clear water over it to rinse it, noticing how it gleamed wetly in the lamplight, shining with vitality.

“Your touch is beautiful,” he answered, reaching back to capture her hands. He pulled her around in front of him and forgot his ablutions, taking her in his arms and kissing her. The water from his hair ran down Helen’s face, but she didn’t care. She kissed him back in helpless, thoughtless response, wondering if it would always be this way with him; one embrace and resistance was impossible.

He backed her against the standing chest, then took the full tub and tossed it, with its contents, out the back of the tent. He returned and unbuttoned the pair of shorts she was wearing, letting them fall to the floor. Her eyes widened as his hands went to his belt and she realized what he was going to do.

“Matteo, wait,” she said, as he freed himself from his pants and lifted her.

“I can’t wait,” he muttered, and entered her standing.

Helen closed her eyes, all thought fading as he moved her, adjusting her position, and she moaned, clutching him tighter. It was fast and explosive; she gasped and then went limp as he shuddered within her, then carried her to the cot, where they collapsed, replete.

There was a long silence and then she said, “Did you think about me when you left camp today?” She needed to hear that she was important to him, as he had become everything to her.

“Yes,” he answered. “I was afraid to go.”

She sat up to look at him. “You were?”

He nodded. “Afraid I wouldn’t see you again. I have something to lose now.”

“I don’t like to think I’m weakening you,” Helen said quietly.

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, you make me stronger. You make me remember what I’m fighting for, a place where people can grow up to be like you. We grow up hard in this country; the women become like Alma, and the men . . . well, like Olmos, and I guess me too.”

“You’re nothing like him, nothing,” Helen said fiercely, putting her arms around his neck and settling against his chest.

“Oh, yes, I am,” he said tersely. “More than you know.”

“I don’t want to talk about Olmos,” Helen said, not liking the trend of the conversation. “Let’s talk about us.”

“What about us?” he asked, absently caressing her arm with the palm of his hand. “Our sexual adventures? Now that I’ve taught you to overcome your maidenly reserve, that is.”

It was a long moment before he realized that she wasn’t going to answer him. He looked down at her to see that she was blushing, her face and neck stained pink.

“You’re making fun of me,” she finally said.

“What?” he responded, half laughing.

“You think I’m a prude.”

He stared at her, his mouth open. He cleared his throat. “Sweetheart, you are talking to the man who just had you, still dressed, standing up, in a tent in the middle of a jungle. No, Helen, I don’t think you’re a prude.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her sexual confidence was still too new, too shaky; the subject could not be treated lightly. Registering her miserable expression, he realized that what she needed more than anything was reassurance.

He turned her on her back and kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her mouth. He was careful this time, gentle, as he had been with her in the beginning. By the time he got up to remove the rest of their clothes she was watching him avidly, anxious for his return.

When the cycle began again, he brought her along slowly, caressing her with lingering tenderness, finally teasing her until she was clawing at him, begging for release. When he entered her she surged up to meet him, enclosing him in the vise of her legs, taking from him as much as she gave, until they reached the peak together.