Montega's Mistress (10 page)

“Just a minute, sir,” the guard said, coming to stand by his side. “Please empty your pockets.”

“Sure thang, officer,” Matteo responded in a deep Texas drawl.

Helen almost fainted. He sounded like a B-movie cowboy.

Matteo displayed the contents of his pockets, and the guard held up a metal keyring.

“This must have done it,” he said. “Go on through now.”

Matteo complied, and the buzzer was silent. The guard handed him the offending object, saying, “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“You bet,” Matteo yodeled, and Helen grabbed his arm, pulling him after her toward the passenger lounge.

“What is the matter with you?” she hissed at him as soon as they were out of earshot. “Did you think you were in a Marlboro commercial? I’ve heard more authentic accents in fourth grade Christmas pageants.”

“The papers say I’m from Texas, and I had to talk that way because they might have checked them. I had a roommate in college from Abilene; I thought I sounded just like him.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Next time you order up a set of dummy papers, get them to say you’re from Jersey City.”

“We have to take what’s available,” he replied, grinning at her.

Helen stared back at him, beginning to realize one thing that she should have understood from the start. He actually enjoyed this. He enjoyed the close calls, the aspect of living on the edge, which was so much a part of his work. She sank gratefully into a lounge chair, hoping that her heart would hold out for the duration of the journey.

When their flight was called, Matteo put his arm around her shoulder and walked next to her as they lined up for the plane, like any husband. He squeezed her gently as he handed their boarding passes to the bored stewardess, who glanced at them routinely and gave them their stubs.

“See how easy?” he whispered to Helen as they took their seats.

“Don’t give me that,” she muttered in response. “We’re much more likely to encounter trouble on the other end, and you know it.”

“Still mad about my Texas accent?” he said to her, smiling slyly.

She turned her head to stare out at the landing strip and he laughed.

“The flight is four hours,” he added. “You’d better get some rest.”

Helen thought she would be far too nervous to sleep, but it wasn’t long before the drone of the motor and the comforting presence of Matteo beside her had lulled her into slumber. She woke to find herself curled up in his arms, her head on his shoulder and one hand draped loosely over his muscular thigh. He was calling her name.

“What is it?” she said, sitting up and stretching.

“You have to fill out your landing card. The stewardess just distributed them.”

She searched his eyes, concerned.

“It’s all right. Just use the information on the papers I gave you and everything will be fine.”

Helen did as he directed, listing her name, address, age, and the purpose of her visit to comply with the documents in her purse. She handed hers in when the stewardess collected them and then glanced at Matteo when the pilot announced that they had begun their descent to San Jacinta.

“You’re doing fine,” Matteo said.

Helen didn’t answer, wondering what conditions were like in Puerta Lindan jails. Every scene in
Midnight Express
flashed across her mind. That was Turkey, she reminded herself. Puerta Linda had to be a little more advanced, a little more civilized.

She changed her opinion as soon as they stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac. She looked around apprehensively, instantly wishing that she were back in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Soldiers in green fatigues were everywhere, all carrying machine guns, riding three and four in a jeep or walking in incessant parade to and from the reception terminal. Barbed wire fences surrounded the open area leading to the debarkation building, and marksmen were perched in gun turrets at strategic places all along the route.

“Welcome to Puerta Lindan democracy,” Matteo said sarcastically into her ear.

“Oh my God, Matteo,” she responded, clutching his arm. “This is awful.”

“This is what I want to change,” he answered simply.

Helen tried not to gawk as they walked with measured pace to the long white building at the end of the paved lane. The humidity was crushing, stealing the breath from her lungs and causing her clothes to cling damply to her skin. The sky was overcast, threatening rain as they entered the reception area and got in line.

“Here we go,” Matteo whispered. “Courage.”

“Matteo, I’m frightened,” she answered. There was no doubt in her mind that those military men in mirrored sunglasses, carrying Israeli Uzis and American M-16s, meant business.

He embraced her and held her close for a couple of seconds, kissing her hair.

“So am I,” he answered. “I always am, and I’ve never been caught yet. Take a deep breath, Helen, and try to calm down. I didn’t bring you this far to let anything happen to you. You believe me, don’t you?”

Helen nodded, looking up at him. Strangely enough, she did.

“I just keep thinking that all of these people must have seen your picture,” she said, putting her lips directly to his ear.

She thought of the price on Matteo’s head and her heart sank. In a poverty stricken country like Puerta Linda, a reward could be a pretty powerful motive.

They were moving closer to the desk, and just as Helen was telling herself not to panic and to leave everything to Matteo, a dispute arose in front of them. A woman who had traveled on the plane with them was led away, screaming and crying, between two soldiers.

Helen stared out the terminal window at the palm trees swaying in the breeze. She couldn’t look at Matteo because she didn’t want him to see the terror in her eyes.

They were next. After she placed her papers on the table before the official examining them, Helen shoved her hands in her pockets to conceal their trembling.

“Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell, from Dallas, Texas,” the man said in a heavy accent. “You will be staying here for five days?”

“That’s right,” Helen replied, staring straight ahead. Why was he asking her that? It was written on her card.

The man looked up at Matteo. “Mr. Caldwell?”

Here it comes, Helen thought.

“Yes?” Matteo said, drawing out the word, making it two syllables, as an American would.

Good boy, Helen told him silently.

“The stamp on your passport expires in two weeks,” the official said. “Make sure you have it renewed.”

“Thanks, I’ll just do that,” Matteo replied, and Helen saw him shove a wad of folded bills across the counter when he took back his passport.

“Bienvenida a Puerta Linda,”
the man said. “Welcome to Puerta Linda.”

Matteo nodded and took Helen’s arm, steering her toward the door. They had almost made it when another voice interrupted their progress, calling, “Mr. Caldwell.”

Matteo stopped in his tracks, and Helen went rigid. A uniformed official appeared at Matteo’s side and said in stilted English, “Come with me, please.”

Matteo looked at Helen, telling her without words that they should comply. The official led them to a small side office while Helen mentally recited the first line of every prayer she knew. Once inside the room the man shut the door, breathed a sigh of relief and started to babble in rapid, excited Spanish.

Helen looked from one to the other. If she and Matteo were about to get arrested, every film she had ever seen had been wrong.

Matteo saw her confused glance and held up his hand for the other man to stop talking.

“He’s a friend,” Matteo said to Helen, “sympathetic to our cause. He works at the airport and saw me arrive. He says that one of the top government officials, who might recognize me because he used to work with my father, is here on an inspection tour. We have to get out another way so we don’t pass him.”

Helen sagged against Matteo, who hugged her for a brief, encouraging moment. She smiled at their companion.

“Gracias,”
she said. It was almost the only Spanish word she knew.

“De nada, senorita valiente, amiga linda del jefe,”
he responded, bowing graciously.

“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.