Shattered (10 page)

“Do you think it’s the guards?” Kirby asked as Rachel braked.

Although it was difficult to see through the rain, there appeared to be people in the back of the truck.

“We’re about to find out,” Rachel said as she pulled to a stop.

Two boys, no older than fifteen, climbed out of the cab of the truck and swaggered toward them. They were wearing Rambo-style bandanas, .45 revolvers slung low on their narrow hips, like Western movie gunfighters, and carrying Kalashnikovs on slings over their shoulders.

They were obviously members of el ejécito de niños, “the army of the children,” a loosely organized branch of the rebel forces. Some had been kidnapped from villages; others orphaned or from impoverished families had joined willingly. They were also known as “little carts,” transporting drugs and weapons. They could—especially the teen boys—be more dangerous than their adult counterparts, because they were more likely to feel the need to prove their machismo.

Rachel rolled down the window.

“What can we do for you?” she asked in the same perfect Spanish the president used with his friends.

“Salimos del coche,” he demanded in a slurred voice.

That and the fact that Kirby could smell the beer on his breath was a clue that while they’d been dining at the palace, he’d been downing cerveza.

He also was chewing on something she suspected was a coca leaf. Keeping children soldiers slightly drunk and drugged was, unfortunately, a tactic used by the bad guys all over the world.

Rachel exchanged a quick glance with Kirby. It was obvious they were both thinking the same thing. That if they got out of the car they could easily end up dead.

Still, with the Toyota effectively blocking the road, and the soldier pointing the barrel of the automatic rifle through Rachel’s window, it wasn’t as if they had a whole lot of choices.

Wearing her usual calm dignity like a shield, Rachel got out of the car. Trying to judge the distance to the trees lining the road, in case they had to make a run for it, Kirby followed.

Rachel held out a hand and introduced herself. Then Kirby.

Ignoring her hand, he did not—surprise, surprise—reveal his name. Instead he demanded the keys to their vehicle.

“Disculparme,” Rachel said mildly.
“Pardon me.” “Cómo se llama usted?”

Rather than respond to her polite request for his name, he merely glared. And swayed, causing the barrel of the automatic rifle to go swinging in all directions.

He repeated the demand for their vehicle.

“No.” Rachel tossed up her chin. She could’ve been a duchess looking down on an errant footman.

“Qué?” he asked, truly puzzled.

He exchanged a look with his younger compatriot, who thus far hadn’t said a word. From the glazed look in his eyes, Kirby suspected he was even more tanked or high, or both, than the one who’d demanded they get out of the car.

Rachel repeated that she was not handing over the keys.

Kirby had learned, early in her days at WMF, that since, unlike when she was in the military, she wasn’t surrounded by lots of guys with guns who knew how to use them, the most important survival tool a medical relief worker possessed was the ability to never let them see you sweat. To not show fear, to look the other person straight in the eye, and say whatever it took—even if it took a lie—to extricate yourself from sticky situations.

And this was the stickiest she’d found herself in since treating that terrorist’s son in Pakistan. The same day Shane had been carried into her refugee camp.

No. Don’t think about that!

There were times for remembering, times for regrets and wondering about what might have been. This was definitely not one of them.

The kid exchanged another look with the younger one, who appeared even more flabbergasted.

“I am a close personal friend of Jesus Enrique Castillo,” Rachel announced.

The lie had the effect of a flare of trumpets. Both boys actually stood up at something resembling attention.

“Eso es verdad?” the younger one spoke for the first time, glazed eyes wide as he questioned the veracity of this gringa not only knowing the rebel leader, but being a friend.

“Es absolutamente cierto,’’ Rachel claimed with unquestionable veracity.

Then went on to spin a tall tale of how she’d once hidden their leader and treated him for a gunshot wound after he’d been shot in an ambush by Vasquez’s army.

On a roll, she also implied that she and Jesus Castillo had shared far more than a doctor-patient relationship, and that since he’d assured her that if she ever needed anything all she had to do was ask and it would be given, she truly doubted the rebel leader would be very pleased to hear two members of his own militia had stolen his physician’s—and close personal friend’s—only means of transportation. She added a throaty tone to “personal.”

They leered like two teenage boys who’d just logged onto the Internet to watch the Paris Hilton sex tapes, suggesting they were picturing their leader doing the medical relief doctor.

“Please give Jesus my best when you see him,” Rachel said, her tone once again lingering sexily on the use of his first name.

“Sí,” the older one said, apparently convinced. As they staggered back to the pickup truck, they were giggling and punching each others’ arms.

“That was a really good lie,” Kirby said. “Not only did you manage to keep our wheels, you also put a stop to any ideas the idiots might’ve gotten about having themselves a gangbanger fiesta.”

“They may have been drunk and stupid,” Rachel agreed as the truck drove past, all the rain-soaked boys in the back leaning out of the bed, trying to catch a glimpse of their leader’s alleged lover. “But fortunately they weren’t suicidal. . . .

“There was a story making the rounds a few years ago about Castillo taking one of his fifteen-year-old girl soldiers as what they call a jungle wife,” she revealed. “I’ve no idea if it’s true. It may be the Monteleón version of an urban legend, but the way I heard it, the girl and one of the young boy soldiers fell into a Romeo and Juliet-type forbidden teenage love.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Oh-oh, indeed. As the tale goes, when Castillo caught them together, he turned the girl over to his soldiers. After they’d finished with her, he made her watch as he cut the boy into pieces and fed him to his pet jaguar. The girl, rumor has it, prostrate with grief, along with the trauma of being gang-raped and watching her young lover executed in such a brutal fashion, ended up hanging herself.”

Kirby had seen terrible things. But that story still caused her flesh to pebble with goose bumps.

“There’s something that’s been worrying me,” Kirby said, once she and Rachel had gotten back to the small house they shared at the clinic. “What’s going to happen when those teenagers get back to camp and mention your name to Castillo?”

“I doubt they’ll remember even having the conversation in the morning,” Rachel said. “But even if they do, I’m covered. Because Jesus will vouch for me.”

“Really?” Kirby was dying to ask.

“I’m nearly positive he will. And no, we weren’t lovers,” she answered the unasked question. “But I did take a bullet out of his shoulder last year.” She glanced over at Kirby. “No lectures about working on the wrong side?”

“We don’t do sides,” Kirby said.

“True,” Rachel agreed. “Yet over the years I’ve just worked with some people who brought more of a political bias to the job.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to stay impartial.” The Sudan had been one of those places. “Especially when you’re talking civil wars, which is a stupid name for them because there’s nothing civil about them. But I certainly understand the importance of not openly taking sides.”

“I know you do. Which is why I’m sending you to Washington.”

“Well, you’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you? Washington State? Or D.C.?”

“D.C. After those nuns’ deaths, the Senate Foreign Relations committee decided to hold hearings about the situation down here. They want views from people other than the usual suspects at the embassy, so I agreed to testify.

“But I think a break would be good for you. Not that it’d be an actual vacation, but a few days in the States might help you clear your head and get your bearings back. While deciding if you want to stay.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

“Most medical relief volunteers only manage, on average, two years before burning out. You’ve surpassed that. By a lot of years, if you include your military service.”

She glanced over at Kirby again. “There’s no shame in wanting a normal life. And it’s certainly possible to use your medical degree to make an important difference in people’s lives outside of war zones.”

Some little voice in the back of Kirby’s mind had been whispering the same thing the past few months. But she’d steadfastly ignored it.

“It seems, since you’re the senior doctor and have been here the longest, you’re the logical choice to testify,” she said.

“Well, perhaps. But there’s a slight problem with that idea.”

She went over to a cabinet, took out a bottle of Chilean red wine. Although it was not unusual to end their days with conversation over evening glasses of wine, Kirby had the feeling she was stalling.

“My godfather’s head of the Senate Armed Services committee,” she revealed.

“Wow,” Kirby said yet again. “Does Vasquez know that?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never gotten a hint that he does, anyway. I certainly try to keep it a secret.”

“Because you’d make a good kidnapping target.”

Since kidnapping had become a cottage industry in Monteleón, those same wealthy citizens who opted for helicopters to get around the city never traveled without bodyguards.

“Exactly. There are a lot of bad guys out there who might not realize the U.S. doesn’t negotiate with terrorist kidnappers. I wouldn’t want to put other WMR workers or the people I’m trying to help at risk.”

“That’s probably wise.”

“It gets worse.” Rachel sighed. “My mother’s second cousin is president.”

“The U.S. President?”

“Certainly not Vasquez.” The doctor’s tone was a great deal drier than the weather.

“How the hell do you keep that secret?”

“I joined WMR under my married name. There’s never been any reason to connect me to politics. Which is why I’d just as soon keep a low profile in D.C. The last thing we need is some reporter discovering my political connections.”

“When would I be leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“That’s not much time to come up with what to say.”

“Simply tell the truth. It’s usually the best policy. Except, of course, in those cases where you have to lie to save your life.” Rachel took a long sip of wine and Kirby knew they were thinking how close they’d come to getting into serious trouble with those teenage soldiers. “So, would you be willing to do it?”

Kirby wasn’t all that enthusiastic about making a public presentation, something she hadn’t done since she ran for class president in high school. But it was for a good cause, and although she felt a little guilty even thinking about it, the idea of going back to the States, where she didn’t have to deal with death on a daily basis and worry about getting shot or kidnapped, was admittedly more than a little appealing.

“Of course I will. If you think I’d be of help.”

“You’ll be fantastic. And while you’re in the city, pick up a hunk staffer. Take him back to your hotel and have yourself some hot sex.”

“I’ve sworn off men,” Kirby said. “They’re too high maintenance and not worth the trouble they cause.”

“Yeah, that’s what we all say,” Rachel said knowingly. “Until we meet the one.”

Not wanting to point out that she hadn’t seen the other woman with a man the entire six months she’d been in Monteleón, Kirby didn’t respond.

Kirby was given an indication about how important the government took the situation in Monteleón when she entered the subcommittee hearing room on the second floor of the Hart Senate Office Building. Barely ten by eighteen feet, the room was dimly lit. And nearly empty. It was definitely a long way from those huge, richly paneled, classically beautiful rooms she’d seen on C-Span.

She bet if only Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie had shown up to testify about events in the Central American country, the entire damn building would be filled to the rafters with members of congress and reporters. Unfortunately, lone relief doctors weren’t exactly on the Washington A-list.

Reminding herself that this trip wasn’t about her, she took a deep breath and wet her suddenly dry throat with a long drink of water from the glass in front of her. Then, after the chairman introduced her, she began the statement she’d prepared with Rachel in Monteleón, honed on the plane, then polished yet again this morning before leaving for the hearing.

She was allowed to speak uninterrupted for twenty minutes, sticking to facts, avoiding conjectures or personal comments, and, although it wasn’t easy, resisting the urge to criticize the Monteleón government for its corruption and cooperation with drug dealers.

Instead she told of the crushing poverty the majority of the people were suffering. “The indigenous people in the rural areas are among the poorest,” she reported. “Unsurprisingly, the individuals we treat at our WMR clinic feel powerless to change their situation, which in turn leads to frustration. Especially when you factor in that the country has the highest mortality rate in Central or South America. Sixty-one out of every thousand children don’t live to the age of five.”

Knowing a mere recitation of numbers could make eyes glaze over, which indeed appeared to be happening, Kirby pulled out the heavy ammunition.

“To put that in perspective, taking into consideration that, with the House and Senate combined, there are five hundred and thirty-five members of congress, we’re talking about thirty-three of those members having a child who does not live to the first grade.”

She paused a moment to allow that to sink in. A couple of the men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, while the sole woman committee member appeared stricken. Which was exactly what Kirby had been shooting for.

“Now imagine how you would feel if you watched your young son or daughter die of measles or malaria or typhus while the so-called intelligentsia drove Mercedes and BMWs and threw quinceañera parties for their fifteen-year-old daughters that can cost upwards of the equivalent of fifty thousand American dollars.”

“Which explains the rebels.” One of the senators nodded sagely.

“I’m not here to get into the political and military issues, Senator,” she replied, trying to stay on message.

“The ambassador assures me the government is doing its best to help these native peoples,” another senator said to her breasts.

“With all due respect, Senator,” Kirby said, buttoning her navy jacket in an attempt to direct his wandering eyes back to hers, “if President Vasquez was sincere about wanting to help his people, a good start would be giving them at least part of their land back.

“Over the centuries, first during the coffee, mining, and timber-production booms, and now, of course, with the discovery of the oil, large parcels of land have been co-opted by the government.

“At present, more than seventy-five percent of the agricultural land is owned by less than two percent of the population, and those poor who have managed to hold on to some land own less than an acre, which is typically fragmented and unable to be tilled. Forty percent of the population owns no land at all.”

Although some members of the committee were dutifully taking notes, Kirby could tell she was losing them again. Though his closed eyes might suggest he was deeply pondering her words, she suspected an elderly senator from Texas had actually dozed off.

She’d wanted to get into how deforestation, erosion, and the decline of traditional agriculture had, in turn, led to a decline in nutritional levels among the rural poor WMR was trying to help, but decided it was time for a little show-and-tell.

Opening a manila folder, she’d just begun showing the faces of those most harmed by decades of strife—widowed women, orphaned children—when the door to the hearing room opened and a young man in a snazzy navy suit entered and handed a note to the chairman of the committee.

“Thank you, Doctor Campbell,” the chairman said briskly. “Your report has been very informative, and we’ll be sure to take everything you said into consideration when we send our report to the other members. And, of course, to the president.”

“Thank you, Senator.” She gave him a small, polite smile. She gave a significant look at her watch. “But my time isn’t up yet.”

“I realize that, and we’ll be certain to have you back at some later date.” His tone let her know that the issue wasn’t up for discussion. “If you’ll just go with this gentleman, he’ll accompany you to your next meeting.”

Next meeting?

Rachel hadn’t told her anything about any other meetings. Realizing that there was no point in asking for more details, Kirby gathered up her materials and followed the aide.