The Lazarus Drop Page 16

  “What about the son?” Carlos asked.

  “He is nothing,” Cruz replied.

  “He is a Noriega,” Carlos insisted. “That makes him dangerous. He should die."

  “You think too much of death, Carlos,” Pilar said wearily.

  “The fewer people die, the better, as far as I'm concerned,” I said.

  “You should talk, gringo,” Carlos snapped. “You have more blood on your hands than anyone here.” He gave Beto a meaningful glance. Beto just looked down at his hands.

  “I agree with Senor Blue,” Cruz said. “The less death, the better. There has been too much death. I don't even want to kill Noriega if it isn't necessary."

  “I do,” It was Beto's quiet voice. There was a long, subdued silence.

  Finally Cruz spoke up again.

  “Very well. Lopez, you and Portillo,” he glanced at the policeman next to Lopez, “meet me at the station at the beginning of the morning shift."

  “Si, jefe.” The two men got up.

  “Bring Torreon with you. And Chavez and Carnero as well. They will lead the three landing parties."

  The two men headed for the door.

  “Also, pick four others, I don't care who, just so they are good shots. The six of you will be our brave rocketeers."

  The two policemen grinned broadly. One of them raised a thumb into the air. As they started out there was a knock at the front door, followed by the sound of it opening and closing again. A blue-uniformed policeman came into the room.

  “News, jefe,” he said to Cruz. “The General has radioed Huetamo that he is sending four men from the island to replace the ones lost at the airstrip."

  Cruz smiled broadly. “The odds tip, just a little."

  “Problem is, jefe,” the newcomer went on, “two of the four are Carrillo and Delaplata."

  The smile dwindled to a wry grin. Cruz looked at me. “Remember I said two of the men on the island were mine?"

  I nodded.

  “No more. Pues, ni modo. What the hell. Life is a gamble, que no?” He stood up. “We should all get some sleep, I think. Until this evening, at dusk.” He and the policemen filed out.

  “A good idea,” Carlos said, standing up with a noisy yawn. “Of course, I suppose you will stay right here, gringo, with your nose in my sister's crotch. But then what can one expect, when she goes around panting after you like a bitch in heat.” He stalked out of the room.

  Pilar shook her head and sighed, as Beto rose from his chair.

  “Hey, gringo,” he said softly. “There is something you need to know."

  I glanced up at him, and my look was returned by his own troubled gaze.

  “Carlos told me,” he said. “He told me about the bus, that it was you they were looking for when they killed my family. Is that true?"

  “It's true. I'm sorry for that."

  “Don't blame yourself for fate. Do you still wish me in your boat with you?"

  “If you want it."

  He nodded. “I think you're my best chance to get to Noriega."

  And to Chandra Beg, I thought. But him I want for myself.

  Beto walked out, and left Pilar and me to sit awkwardly. Her brother's parting shot had bothered me more than I liked to admit. At length I stood up.

  “I guess I'll take Cruz’ advice and get some sleep,” I said. I started past her and she reached out and grabbed my arm. She looked up at me, her eyes unfathomable.

  “In many ways, my brother is still a child."

  “I know."

  “You are a man."

  “A man who frightens you. I remember your saying that."

  “True,” she nodded. She still held my arm. “I have known that you will bring me pain, and I think I haven't even felt the worst of that pain yet."

  “Then you should stay away from me."

  “Ah, but you have also brought me a little bit of joy.” She stood up and pulled me toward her. “I must accept the pain, no matter what. I would be a fool if I did not also accept the joy."

  We made love in her room again, that night, hungrily, clawing at each other in our need. Her smooth, dark body filled the room with its perfume, and for a little while both of us could forget any fear we might have of what the next evening would bring.

  Later we lay in the dark, bodies touching.

  “I think this won't happen again with us,” Pilar said. “I feel us parting already."

  “Do you always accept whatever comes to you?” I asked.

  “I try. It does no good not to. What the gods bring, they bring."

  “You really believe in that Jester God of yours, then?"

  She giggled, like a little girl, someone very different from the strong, almost somber woman I had come to know.

  “Oh, that stuff?” she said. “That's mostly for Carlos. He loves the spectacle. He always has. When he was very little, before my father died, the Night of the Dead was his favorite time of all. We would go out in the little boats, and the fireworks would come, and he would get so excited he would stand up and dance around. He tipped the boat over once, doing that, and we all fell in the lake. But that never stopped him.” She sighed, a long, wistful sigh. “Those were happy times."

  She rolled toward me, and I could feel, rather than see, her eyes on me in the darkness.

  “But there are gods, gringo, and for all your technology, you can't hide from them either. Call them fate, if you will, or blind chance, for they are blind, and capricious, and kind and cruel in turn."

  We were silent for a while, then I asked, “Will you be taking part tonight?"

  “Of course,” she replied. “I will share a boat with my brother. We are tied together in this, whatever comes."

  “I hope he doesn't get excited and dance in the boat."

  “I do not believe he will be dancing tonight."

  Later we slept, and I dreamed, a dream filled with strange figures, flickering between flame and shadow, running and falling, all in chaos and yet with a sense of order and purpose. It was one of those strange unsettling dreams that linger after you wake, that you don't comprehend, and yet know you have, somehow, been shown something important.

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  Chapter 15

  At dusk we slipped into the boats—fragile, square-cornered wooden boxes, barely large enough for a child, straining under the double load of full-grown warriors and their arms. The weight pushed the boats deep into the water, so that the slightest waves splashed over the sides, wetting the feet of the rider lucky enough to be up on the seat.

  I wasn't one of the lucky ones. We had all agreed that my pale face was better hidden, so I took the low station, half crouching, half lying in the bottom of the boat, getting soaked, while the flickering, golden light of a lantern that perched precariously in the nose of the craft gave me a worm's eye view of Beto's knees and face. His eyes glowed with excitement as he maneuvered the boat through the water, managing a surprising amount of speed with the primitive, single oar.

  “What do you see?” I whispered up to him.

  “It is all so beautiful. The little boats are everywhere, each with its lantern. And you should see the nets; they are like angels’ wings in the light.” A broad, happy smile spread across his face, pearly teeth reflecting the lantern's glow. “It almost seems a shame that we are going to upset such tranquillity."

  “But what do you see?"

  “I see heaven."

  “Come to earth, then. Business now, heaven later."

  Beto shifted his grin down to me. “Sorry.” He glanced out over the water.

  “I see two of the patrol boats, sitting right where they should be, as brightly lighted as the plaza at fiesta time. They will make wonderful targets."

  “And the third?"

  The smile faded. “I don't see it anywhere,” he said. “Perhaps the thing at Huetamo has made them more cautious, after all."

  I was afraid he was right, and unhappy with the thought. One of those boats on the loose thre
atened disaster for our plans; running fast and dark, a high-speed battering ram with a snout of fire, crushing and burning at its leisure, picking off our little boats one at a time.

  “Pues, there are many of us,” Beto said with an accepting shrug. “Even if the third boat is patrolling, how will it know whom to attack, once things begin?"

  “They may not worry a lot about that,” I was remembering the bus.

  Beto frowned and didn't respond. We moved silently over the water, his oar rising and falling smoothly, the only constant sound the drip of water from it, and the gentle slap of waves against the wooden hull, punctuated with occasional murmurs and people calling softly from boat to boat. The black sides of the boat and the dark outline of Beto's head framed the sky above me. There was no moon, but scattered stars twinkled, brilliant in the chilly night air.

  “It goes well, with the water so calm,” Beto said. “We should reach the island with time to spare."

  That, at least, was good news. We had an hour from the time we slipped into the water until Cruz was scheduled to signal the start by taking out the first popper. Half of that time was gone already. I was wondering where the poppers were when one of them sailed directly over my head, giving me a brief glimpse of shiny silver and bright, flashing, colored lights.

  “Are all of the poppers up?” I asked.

  Beto swiveled on his seat, looked over his shoulder.

  “They are all in the air,” He laughed. “What a sight it will be, when Cruz fires. I wonder which one he will choose?"

  “I just hope to hell he hits it."

  Beto laughed and looked down at me again, his eyes sparkling. “Hey, gringo, you worry too much.” He looked around him again, head high. “What an adventure. We Tarascans are great warriors, did you know that? In the old days, when the Aztecs were building their empire, they came over the mountains to make war on us. We beat the hell out of them. In fact, we took land from them, all the way to Toluca. Even the Spaniard was never able to defeat us."

  “I feel so much more secure, now,” I said. “I'm stuck in the care of a crazy, Indian warrior. What could be better?"

  “That we have arrived,” Beto replied. “We are at the island. Should we wait offshore, do you think, or go ahead and beach the boat now?"

  “Let's beach it and get me out of this bath tub.”

  I started wriggling to a sitting position. Then all at once I was flat on my back again, pressed down by Beto's oar.

  “Be quiet,” he hissed, and a low grumbling bounced across the water to tell me why. It was the unmistakable sound of the third patrol boat.

  “Shit!” Beto muttered tensely. “Of all the damnable luck. It is coming straight toward us."

  The grumble became a low roar, then diminished to the burble of engines idling. The patrol boat's bow wave pushed into our little craft, rocking it violently.

  “It's stopped,” Beto whispered.

  Brilliant light bathed us suddenly, and I heard metal on metal as a hatch opened with a clang.

  “Someone's climbing out,” Beto's voice grew suddenly louder. “Buenas noches, amigo."

  “What are you doing here?” a man's voice rattled and echoed back across the water. “You are not supposed to be here. This isn't your place. You should be out with the other boats."

  “My apologies,” Beto was the epitome of contrition. “I get so careless, sometimes. I was gazing at the beautiful stars instead of paying attention to where I was drifting.” He put the oar into the water, started pulling away from the island. “Back to where I belong, then,” he cried out heartily.

  “Be glad we didn't ram you, baboso."

  The spotlight stayed on us as we moved.

  “We'll just wait until he leaves, then sneak in,” Beto said, then, “Oh shit, he's following."

  The engine got louder as the boat moved toward us once more, then:

  “Hey! Stop rowing. Stop at once. Stay right where you are. Why is your boat riding so low in the water? We'll just take a look at what you're up to, no?"

  I reached into my belt, pulled the little stinger out. The patrol boat got closer, and the spotlight began to brighten the bottom of the boat.

  “Who is that hiding in your boat? Something stinks here. Don't move a centimeter, or I'll blow you out of the water!"

  “Is he armed?” I whispered.

  Beto nodded. “A rifle of some kind. But I think they're too close to use that fucking cannon."

  “Good. Grin and look stupid, and then hang on."

  I twisted to my knees, craning to look over my shoulder, and brought the handgun around, not really aiming, just spraying as I swung the barrel in an arc that passed through the crewman on the deck and the spotlight. There was a pop, and a darkness as dazzling as the light had been, followed immediately by a huffing groan and a splash.

  “I think you got the son of a bitch, but I can't see,” Beto said, paddling frantically at the same time, trying to put distance between us and the patrol boat.

  My vision returned just in time to see the hulking craft bearing down on us. Beto made one last, valiant pull with the oar, and the little butterfly boat skipped just out of the direct path of the patrol boat, so that the larger craft struck us a glancing blow. Then I was in the water, and Beto was clinging to the patrol boat, his fingers wrapped around a ladder rung on the side of the hull like a dark, determined leech. He gave his head a shake as if to clear it. Then he scuttled up, hand over hand, and half stood, half crouched on the deck, hanging on with his left hand and fumbling at something on his body with his right.

  It was the antipersonnel grenade, which he had insisted on taking with him, and which was strapped to his chest. He freed it, straightened, and threw it with a mad, triumphant yell through the still-open hatch. A flash of brilliant, green-white light silhouetted his body, and then he was diving into the water, and the patrol boat was careering crazily in widening circles away from us.

  Beto swam next to me, his wet face and broad smile gleaming dimly in the light of the stars.

  “I think I lost my rifle,” he said. “Tell Cruz not to charge me for it, okay?"

  A brilliant, searing light blossomed in the sky, with a soft, crump of sound close behind it. We both looked up to see one of the poppers tilting and lurching overhead, flames licking all around it. The fragile craft spun over our heads toward the island in a violent, yet almost stately, dance of death, a stream of silvery sparks cascading from its body. It vanished behind a dark row of trees, and then there was a softer flash of light, and a sharper explosion, and that part of the island was bathed in the orange glow of flames.

  “I guess we can start now,” I said.

  “I suppose so,” Beto replied with a happy laugh. We swam toward the shore, pulled ourselves dripping from the water.

  “Carlos was right about your inexperience,” I said. “An experienced man would never have tried to pull off such a crazy stunt with that patrol boat. You ought to be a dead man."

  Beto gazed at me, anguish glinting in his eyes.

  “I already am a dead man, amigo. All the parts of me that mattered died in that bus.” His eyes held me for a moment longer, then he looked away—mercifully; the pain of memory was welling up in me, too.

  I glanced down at the water. Something was floating in it, and I stepped into the wavelets to pick it up. It was the rifle the patrol boat crewman had carried; its light, plastic stock and barrel had kept it from sinking. I handed it to Beto, relieved to be able to change the subject.

  “Here. I guess you can trade up to something better. Cruz should be happy."

  Beto grabbed the rifle, slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Let's go kill somebody,” he said, and darted into the trees.

  I followed him, stumbling on rocks and tree roots, up a dark path that led from the beach through the trees to a small knoll that gave us a view of the main house, the pier, and the lake beyond. One of the anchored patrol boats was blazing brightly and listing to the left; and as we watc
hed, an explosion rocked the second boat, almost lifting it from the water. The boat's forward hatch popped open and one figure emerged to leap flaming into the water, but that was all, and then the boat settled rapidly into the lake, hissing and screaming like a wounded beast.

  We crept cautiously toward the buildings. Lights were on in the small guard barracks, and eight or ten men were running out the door, looking confused. Then one of the men took charge and formed the rest into two small skirmish lines, one facing the water, one the hills above the house. A popper skimmed overhead and hovered over the ridgeline, firing furiously. It swept beyond the ridge, circled and returned, and hovered again, firing down.

  “The main party must have landed,” I said.

  Beto nodded. “And that damned flying bug is giving them a hard time."

  He had barely gotten the words out when the popper burst into flame, tilted to one side, and disappeared behind the ridge. Someone had managed to save at least one of the smart wire rockets and put it to good use.

  The men near the house began moving up toward the ridge, laying down fire as they went. From the ridgetop, flashes of return fire began to appear.

  “That should keep them occupied,” I said. “Let's find Imry."

  Beto grabbed my arm and pointed with his rifle. “Look! There's Torreon's boat. He's just now landing."

  The little butterfly boat, two men sitting up in it, was easing its way toward the pier.

  “It's good they waited a little,” Beto said. “The guard has left."

  We crouched in the trees and watched as Torreon and his companion scrambled up the ladder to the pier and started running toward the main house. Suddenly there was a low humming and a brilliant beam of ruby light, not more than twenty meters from us, reached out and touched the running men.

  For a terrible moment they hung, illuminated in the red light, jerking like demented puppets. Then they were flaming cinders. And then they weren't anything.

  “Madre de dios!” Beto breathed in awe. “Holy mother of God. What did that?"

  “A laser. A big one. Cruz didn't say anything about that.” I guessed it was something brought in by the Chinese visitors, and wondered if they had any more surprises.