The Infinity Tattoo (21 page)

Meg closed her eyes and let herself sink into the bed, into his arms, into lovemaking.

* * *

That night, a policeman and a soldier sat at a local restaurant in Santa Lucia. They sipped after-dinner glasses of beer. To the average patron, they looked like two guys enjoying a cold one after a hard day of work. But these two weren’t relaxing; they were nursing their beers very slowly, waiting. During the last couple of days they had wrapped up the final details of their plan. Now it was nearly time to finish the job.

As darkness fell, they drank the last of their beer, paid their tab, and stepped outside. It was cool in the higher altitude of the pueblo just outside of the capital. And it was plenty dark. The half-moon provided some light, but not so much that they would be easily spotted.

They used an old, nondescript Toyota Corolla, similar to dozens of other cars on the road. They drove to the end of the town, then turned onto a small street. Soon the pavement gave way to dirt as they exited the town proper.

They drove another kilometer and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. They got out of the car and checked their weapons. These included two Glock semi-automatic handguns taken from narcos during a bust, and their own weapons. One was a police issued Sig Sauer; the other was an army issued Colt .45. Both men were experts in the use of these firearms.

They nodded to each other, then proceeded onto a barely visible footpath in the brush. As they walked stealthily long the path, they listened carefully. A dog howled in the distance, then another dog howled, perhaps in reply. An occasional cicada sounded, its plaintive song crescendoing, then receding into the night.

A twenty minute walk brought them to a fence marking the perimeter of the property. To their right was the main road and a guard station. To the left, the fence line led to the back of the property. The two men followed the fence line to the left. After another ten minutes, they saw the lights of the house. They could see their quarry sitting on a deck, smoking a cigar.

Suddenly vicious-sounding dogs charged towards them. They were two very large German shepherds, trained to kill. When they were within range, the men aimed and shot them in the furry chests, the silencers offering up but a ping in the night.

Then they cut a hole in the wire fence. The soldier held it open and policeman scooted through. The policeman held the fencing apart to let the soldier pass. They stood in the shadow cast by a large tree and listened for a full minute. Then they nodded to each other.

Taking cover from bush to bush, they approached the house. As they neared, they could see their target sitting in an old lounging chair. His cigar tip glowed intermittently in the night, the aroma of the burning tobacco wafted towards them on the night breeze.

The soldier rose from his squatting position, took aim and fired at the man’s chest, a small pop in the dark. The man dropped his cigar onto the deck and his head dropped to his chest. The policeman rose and took aim at the man’s head. The impact of the bullet caused the man’s head to snap back. Then it sunk forward again and rested once more on his chest.

Certain that their quarry was dead, the two men withdrew, moving stealthily back into the brush and disappearing into the night.

* * *

On the third day of their self-imprisonment, Meg’s cell phone rang.

“This is Luis Pedroza.”

“Yes,” Meg said. She waved Jack over closer to the phone and put it on speaker.

“I hope that all is well with you,” he said.

“Yes, we’re fine.”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that our friend will no longer be a problem.”

“And the photos?” asked Jack.

“I have them. When and where would you like to pick them up?”

They met at Ruby Tuesday’s. Meg approached the car while Jack stood in the shadows with his gun aimed at the driver’s head. The man handed Meg a package through the window and drove off.

They opened the package in the privacy of their room. It contained a series of photos of Jack’s commanding officer, Richard Parker. A woman was suspended with her hands above her head. She was naked. A very young Richard Parker was pawing her body.

Jack felt sick. It was a good thing that the bastard was so far away because he wanted to beat the colonel to a pulp.

Meg’s cell phone rang, pulling him away from his dark thoughts. She answered it. It was a very quick conversation. Then she grabbed Jack’s hand.

“Come on. There’s a newscast we need to see.” There was no television in their room so they hurried to the sitting room. Their landlady was already there, watching the news. A reporter was speaking:

“. . . Augusto Garcia was shot dead in his home near Santa Lucia sometime last night. His body was found by his wife of 42 years, Leticia Hernandez Garcia. Police said the shooting could be gang related, but they currently have no suspects . . .”

The next morning the ringing of their cell phone woke Meg from a sound sleep. She fumbled around until she found it and pressed the talk button. It was Karl Davis, the political officer at the embassy.

“Listen,” he said without preamble, “the ambassador wants to meet with you.”

“That’s great,” Meg said trying to sound alert, like she hadn’t just woken up.

“Yes. She takes the kind of thing you brought to our attention very seriously. She’d like to look over your evidence, talk a little about the best way to handle things.”

“Okay, sure. Of course,” Meg said. “When and where?”

“How about this morning at eleven at the embassy?”

“We’ll be there.” She looked at Jack, her eyes huge. “That was Karl Davis. The ambassador wants to speak to us.”

* * *

Once again, Meg and Jack went through security at the embassy. They told the marine on duty that they had an appointment with Karl and handed over their passports. Armed with visitors’ tags, they followed Karl inside a different part of the embassy. They had to go through another security point.

Karl took out his cell phone and placed it in a receptacle by the door. “The ambassador’s office is in a secured area,” he explained. They passed through another metal detector and approached the office.

Meg took a deep breath. Her anxiety had been mounting ever since Karl had called that morning. So much had changed since their meeting. Was it really only three days ago? What would the ambassador say when Meg told her what they had done? What could they tell her about Roberto without breaking their word? With tremendous effort, she suppressed all negative thoughts. She had to believe things would work out.

* * *

Despite the air of security and secrecy, the front office was pretty basic. It consisted of a suite of offices. The front office was long and somewhat narrow. A man who apparently served as a receptionist, sat at a desk by the door. On the other end of the room was a set of couches around a large coffee table.

In addition to the reception area, there were two other offices. The door to one of them was closed. The other one had a large desk with visitors' chairs opposite. Karl indicated that they should sit in the reception area until the ambassador was ready to see them.

There was nothing on the coffee table to read, so Meg just gazed around. There were, of course, pictures of the president, the secretary of state, and the ambassador. Across from where she sat, there were some beautiful paintings.

They were watercolors obviously done by the same artist. The first one depicted was a colorful village scene with a man and his oxcart standing in the street. He wore a cowboy hat. The second was of a dancer with shiny dark hair and a full red and black flamingo skirt. Meg wondered, apropos of nothing, if they belonged to the ambassador personally, or to the US government.

Before too long, the door next to the receptionist opened and several people exited, each shaking hands with the woman standing by the door as they departed. She had silvery-grey hair cut in a chin-length bob. Meg recognized her from her picture on the wall.

Karl went over to her, speaking to her briefly in hushed tones.

“Right,” said the ambassador. She came over to the sitting area.

Meg and Jack stood up. Meg wondered what the proper protocol was when meeting an ambassador. She took her cue from Jack, who seemed to know what he was doing. She held out her hand and said, “Madam Ambassador.” The ambassador’s hand was warm and firm.

She gestured for them to follow her into a room with a sizable conference table.

“If you’ll just have a seat here, we can talk. Now, then, I understand that you have some interesting information to share.”

“Yes,” Meg said. “What has Karl told you?”

“Just pretend I don’t know anything and start from the beginning,” she said.

And so Meg took the lead and laid everything out. The ambassador interrupted occasionally to clarify a point or two, but otherwise listened quietly and carefully. When Meg got the part about being waylaid in an alleyway, the ambassador winced and nodded sympathetically at Jack’s bruises.

After Meg finished laying out the evidence, the ambassador continued to sit in silence for what seemed like a long time, but was perhaps less than a minute. Then she asked, “What do you plan to do with this information?”

“I think you can appreciate that we’re in a spot of trouble here,” Jack said. “Somehow, we needed to get Augusto off our backs. We tried to turn the tables on him. To threaten to take the evidence to the press if any harm should come to us. But . . .”

“He tried to kill us anyway,” Meg said.

“Dear God,” said the ambassador.

“So we went the political route. We met with Luis Pedroza. He said he would take care of Garcia,” Meg said.

“And then last night” Jack said, “Augusto Garcia was executed in his country home. It was on the news.”

“Yes, I saw that.” The ambassador looked at Karl. “Do they know who killed him?”

“No, ambassador, they don’t. And I doubt they ever will. Word on the street is that people are very glad to see him gone.”

“I see,” said the ambassador. Then she turned her attention back to Jack and Meg. “Well, I guess your troubles are over at least in that regard. Although I’m not sure if your actions were foolhardy or extremely brave. Now, what about your colleague, the journalist? Jack, didn’t you say someone told you where he was buried?”

Meg was relieved that the ambassador had raised this topic. She and Jack had discussed the issue on several occasions. What was the proper protocol for locating an American body on foreign soil? Wouldn’t that be something that the embassy would have a hand in?

“Yes,” Jack said. “It’s just off the road to Valle de Angeles. A fellow soldier, a Honduran, told me.”

“And this soldier, do you think he would help you find him?” the ambassador asked.

“I don’t know. I would have to ask.”

“Do that, would you? I can give you the full support of the embassy to retrieve the body and bring it home, back to the United States.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

“Now, what about this other matter, your commanding officer?” she asked.

Jack responded this time, “We’ve initiated contact with the US military. We are hoping to be able to talk to General James Ethan about it. We don’t believe it’s our decision to make, as to what happens to Parker.”

“I see. Do you know General Ethan?”

“Only by reputation, but we are working our network in order to approach him.”

“Good,” she said. “I know Jim. He’s been in SouthCom for a long time. You’ve made a good choice. Let me know if you need my assistance establishing contact with him.”

“We will,” Jack said.

The ambassador started to gather up the evidence that they had brought, then she stopped. She gazed first at Jack, then at Meg.

“There’s something I don’t get,” she said. “How did you two ever manage to arrange a meeting with Garcia?”

Meg and Jack looked at each other. Jack nodded.

“If I may,” Meg said, “your question brings up another matter we’d like to discuss with you.” She looked pointedly at Karl. “With just you, alone.”

The ambassador studied their faces. Then she looked at Karl. “Karl, do you mind?” she said.

“Of course not, Ambassador,” he rose to leave. He gave Meg and Jack a puzzled look.

“Now then, what is it?” she asked after Karl closed the door behind him.

“You have a breach of security here at the embassy,” Meg said. “See, it was right after we met with Karl that Jack was assaulted. We were pretty sure it was Augusto’s thugs. But if this was true, how did they know we were here? We entered the country by way of El Salvador.”

“You think that someone here in the embassy told him?” the ambassador asked.

They nodded.

The ambassador’s face suffused with blood. “I hate to think it, but it’s possible,” she said. She stood and began to pace in the small area at the end of the conference room near her chair.

Meg could see the wheels turning as she absorbed this news and its ramifications. Then she returned to her seat.

The ambassador’s eyes hardened with a kind of cold fury. “I appreciate your telling me this. It is a most aggravating issue that crops up from time to time when working in Central America. Sometimes the ties are just too close. Rest assured. I will get to the bottom of this matter. It will be taken care of.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.

“Well, I thank you for coming in,” said the ambassador. “It’s been a pleasure meeting the two of you, not to mention extremely interesting.” She smiled at them graciously, then stood to indicate that the meeting was over. She walked them to the door and, as they were leaving, said, “Again, thank you for coming to me with this information,” and offered her hand.

* * *

Conrad Bishop, head of the regional security office in Tegucigalpa, was livid. He had just returned from a temporary duty consultation in Washington. Before he had a chance to go through his inbox, the ambassador had called him in for a meeting. She told him about the leak in the embassy. It hadn’t taken them long to put two and two together.

A letter had arrived at the regional security office concerning the disappearance of an American journalist. The letter never came to light. Roberto had been in charge of receiving all communications at that time. Somehow, that letter had disappeared. Conrad had no doubts who had made it vanish.

That sniveling SOB
, Conrad thought. He had never liked the guy. In a job like theirs, they had to be vigilant every moment of every day. Especially in a country like Honduras, with its kidnappings and drug traffic and gang violence. And a frigging coup for Christ’s sake. There had been protests in front of the embassy for weeks on end, following the coup. Journalists started disappearing. And now, politicians were being gunned down on the streets.

Not only did the RSO have to liaise with the local police, which was routine for a regional security office, but they had to make nice with the military as well, because they were charged with keeping the peace in the aftermath of the coup.

Roberto had been in-country since before the coup. He had done his job of networking with the local authorities. But Conrad always got the feeling that the guy did too good of a job in that respect, that he was too close to his counterparts. Countless times he hadn’t been able to find Roberto in the office. Where was he? Having coffee with a local policeman or some officer in the military. It never sat well with Conrad.

He sat at his desk and opened Roberto’s personnel file. Born in Nicaragua, immigrated to the United States at the age of ten in 1986. That would have been during the Contra war, when Ortega was confiscating property from land
o
wners and nationalizing industries. If Roberto’s parents were among the wealthy whose land or other assets were taken from them, they would have been bitter. And anti-communist. It was possible that Roberto shared those sentiments. Which meant he had an internal conflict that was affecting his ability to do his job. Maybe even compromising his duty.

Conrad would just have to have a little conversation with the man. He walked out of his office and into Roberto’s office.

* * *

“You won’t get rid of me,” Roberto said.

“Tell me why that is?” asked Conrad. He had just laid out the circumstantial evidence of Roberto’s treachery.

“Because if you do, I’ll go to the press. Or, even better, Congressman Hackman. How would it look for the American embassy in Honduras persecuting one of its own for sympathizing with the coup. How many congressmen have questioned our handling of the coup? How many think we should, in fact, have supported it?”

Conrad glared at Roberto, barely holding his temper in check. It was true that there were plenty of politicians in the United States that believed the Honduran congress had done the right thing ousting their leftist-leaning president. At least, that was their position. As far as Conrad could tell, it was all political posturing—Republicans against Democrats.

But as he thought about it, he realized that it didn’t matter what they thought in Washington. After a full minute, he started to relax. He smiled at the assistant RSO, which should have caused alarm bells to ring inside Roberto’s head.

“I’ll tell you what, Roberto,” said Conrad. “I’ll do you one better. I’m going to get word out to our fellow security agents. I’ll let them know that you are a traitor and can’t be trusted. How long do you think you’ll survive before someone just fails to watch your backside?”

Roberto paled and Conrad knew he had him. Around the world there were usually only two or three diplomatic security agents charged with protecting Americans both inside and outside the embassy. With so few of them, and so many threats coming from every direction imaginable, these agents were forever on the frontlines. And they were proud of the job they did. They would never tolerate betrayal. Not only because they had to trust each and every one of their colleagues to watch their backsides, but because they believed in their cause, protecting Americans.

“Start packing,” Conrad said. “And send me your letter of resignation. Use whatever excuse you think appropriate.”