The DMZ Page 12

  The reason was simple. In Colombia’s position on the equator, where summer and winter cancelled each other out, climate was determined not by season but by elevation. The coastal areas and the southern jungles were steamy, hot, and abounding in tropical diseases and fevers like malaria, typhoid, and yellow fever. The mountain valleys were cool, healthy, and fertile enough to feed an increasing population. To the average Colombian, the cordillera region with its large and modern cities and busy industrial areas was Colombia. The steamy coast and the southern jungles were “a long way out there.” So might a New Yorker dismiss the permafrosted tundra of Alaska.

  And if what happened out there in those sparsely populated wilds could not be fixed, they—and their few inhabitants—were no big loss.

  Aquí no pasa nada.

  The words rang in Julie’s ears as the cab turned off the highway at a sign reading, Fuerza Aerea Colombiana—Colombian Air Force. At the gate, a sentry checked her WCI pass against a clipboard in his hand before waving them through.

  Out on the airfield Julie counted at least a dozen fighter planes and combat helicopters, but she also noticed a scattering of civilian single-engine planes as well, and even a Fairchild prop jet. Like many other military airbases around Colombia and all Latin America, this one made up its budget deficit by servicing private air flights.

  As the cab pulled up outside the terminal building, Julie spotted a two-engine plane drawn up on a runway to her left. She recognized the brand—a forty-four-passenger Douglas DC4. Clustered in front of it was a crowd that screamed gringo.

  After paying the cab driver, Julie shouldered her knapsack, then grimaced as a gust of wind blew her dark hair into a tangle of curls around her face. She checked her watch: 9:50. Time enough to make herself presentable before beginning introductions. Besides, if that DC4 out there was her ride, Julie knew from unpleasant experience that it was unlikely to have lavatory facilities.

  Two more sentries checked her press badge, then shifted their machine guns to allow Julie into the terminal, which looked to have been converted at some distant period in the past from an aircraft hangar. More recruits wandered the vast concrete floor, some pushing baggage carts or carting boxes, others simply on patrol with their M-16s hanging down their backs. A knot of women were clustered around one baggage cart. Ranchers’ wives, Julie gathered from their shrill chatter, waiting for the weekly supply run into their rural community. Spotting the word Damas on a nearby door, she headed toward it.

  The bathroom was as utilitarian as the terminal, the stalls of rough plywood, the sinks clean but rusted over with mineral deposits. Julie had just entered the farthest stall when the bathroom door slammed open, followed by a babble of feminine voices and the tramping of feet. The ranchers’ wives.

  “The guerrillas are worse all the time!” a voice asserted, separating itself from the rest. “My husband called to say they took ten cows last night as their vacuna”—a “vaccination” against trouble. “Hah! When the only trouble we see comes with them. They are bleeding us to death. Last week the paramilitares came to the rancho. They say we must all come together. We must fight. We cannot allow la guerrilla to drive us from our land. Where would we go? For two cows, they say they will bring men to our rancho to fight on our behalf.”

  There was a snort from one of the other women. “Two cows! That is what they told us too! They brought their men. Fifty of them. They stayed a month, eating and drinking like pigs! They went out. They came back. The guerrillas are taken care of, they told us. They took twenty cows. Because we have given you much time, they said. My husband could say nothing. And then we went out …”

  The woman’s voice suddenly dropped. Julie had to strain to hear. “We found them. They were not la guerrilla. There was the schoolteacher from the village. And others we knew …”

  A sudden and absolute silence followed. Julie was ready to emerge from the stall, but the feeling that she was eavesdropping on a very private conversation kept her where she was. Then the first voice said soberly, unhappily, “But what are we to do, then? Give our land away? Leave our children with nothing? At least the paramilitares promise peace. To whom else are we to turn? My husband went to the comandante of the cuartel. My neighbors and I are being robbed, he told the comandante. The comandante told us there was nothing he could do. His men were not authorized to leave the base. It would seem the militares have nothing more to do than to eat and drink our taxes.”

  “The blame cannot be placed on the militares.” It was a new voice, angry, bitter. “It is not their fault that they cannot leave the cuartel. The políticos do not give them the money, the arms, to fight the guerrillas. I know. My sister’s son, only seventeen years old, was cut down with all his class of cadets and all in the cuartel only last month, down south near San Ignacio. Should the comandantes continue to send our boys out to be butchered by the guerrillas? That is not the answer!”

  “There is no answer,” the second voice said somberly. “There is no right or wrong. Only killing and death. So who do we follow? We wish only to stay alive.”

  A murmur of assent answered her; then Julie heard the door open. She waited until their retreating footsteps had died away into silence before emerging from the stall. Digging a scrunchy out of her backpack, she pulled her curls back into a ponytail, then shook her head at her reflection in the mirror. What she’d heard was in a nutshell Colombia’s response to the chaos that was this country: Keep your head down. Mind your own business. Survive.

  But then, who was she to criticize? Wasn’t that, after all, what she had chosen to do? Maybe personal survival was the only option. Certainly many of those in this country who had been noble or foolish enough to make a public stand against the guerrillas, the narcos, the paramilitaries—even the government, many whispered—now lay in their graves, gunned down on their doorsteps, shot in the back emerging from church, victims of a car bomb or a tossed grenade or a passing motorcyclist with an AK-47 or Uzi machine pistol blazing.

  Snatching up her knapsack, Julie pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary. Wasn’t it enough to live a decent life that didn’t hurt anyone else, to aim for the top in your own profession, and maybe even in the process make some small contribution to society? After all, if the world wasn’t willing to be saved, why break your heart trying?

  FOUR

  WHEN JULIE EMERGED FROM the terminal, the ranchers’ wives were leaving, trailing behind their baggage cart toward the Fairchild, now taxiing out onto the runway. Julie headed toward the DC4, matching the registration number on the tail with Kenny’s instructions in her hand.

  Not that there was any doubt this was her party. Her professional colleagues were unmistakable. They milled around with the slightly hungry expression of a reporter after a story, loudly asking questions of each other since there was no one else available. Off to one side, Julie recognized the familiar features of a CNN anchorman talking earnestly into a TV camera, the DC4 carefully positioned beyond his shoulder. Their departure would be on the midday news.

  Other well-known faces in the media world were there as well. Reuters. Associated Press. And not just North Americans. Julie picked out German and French from the babble as well as Spanish, and even what must be Japanese or Mandarin from a pair of Asian reporters. It drove home more than ever just how extensive were the connections that Norm Hutchens still wielded in the world of journalism—and just how fortunate she was to be on this flight.

  Especially since it would seem that other editors thought like her godfather. She couldn’t see a single other woman represented among that swarm of press members.

  No, that wasn’t true.

  Julie turned her head at the click of high heels on the concrete runway, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the latecomer hurrying up to the group, an enormous handbag over her shoulder, a wheeled travel bag in tow. She had changed her tailored business suit for a long, flowing skirt, but the stiletto heels were just as high, her bored expression just as ha
ughty. Behind her, a burly black man balanced a video camera on one shoulder, his own travel bag over the other.

  The woman checked as her line of vision crossed Julie. She swept an impatient glance over the crowd of reporters, then walked over to Julie, offering her a curt nod as she approached.

  “You were on the flight last night, weren’t you? I didn’t realize you were part of this mission. You know how it is … you let people find out who you are, you never get a moment’s peace.”

  It was the closest she’d get to an apology, Julie recognized. “No problem, I understand.” She held out her right hand. “I guess if we’re going to be together on this mission, introductions are in order. Julie Baker. Our Earth, if you know the magazine. We’re with the World Conservation Institute.”

  The other woman barely touched Julie’s fingertips. “Sondra Kharrazi. NBC.” She clearly considered any further identification unnecessary. Maybe she was right. Now that she’d been given the woman’s name, Julie immediately realized why she’d looked so familiar. Julie didn’t normally waste time watching live coverage, preferring to download the news on-line. But she had seen those haughty features on an occasional morning newscast.

  The tall brunette cast an irritated glance at her watch. “Aren’t we supposed to be boarding? They told us ten o’clock, and it’s 10:05. And where is the UN team? All I see is the press.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone but us,” Julie told her. “Except for the military.” She gestured to a detail of soldiers standing guard around the plane, a precaution in this country that Julie appreciated.

  “Well, at least we can catch the arrival on tape. William, get the camera ready.” As the black cameraman removed the lens cap from his camera, Sondra glanced around, her long-lashed eyes narrowing as she surveyed the rest of the press corps. “I see CNN sent Tom Chaney. Hogging the limelight, as usual. And there’s Andy Rodriguez from the Miami Herald. They say he’s single again. Hey!”

  The beautiful features suddenly lost their peevish expression. “Now there’s someone worth checking out. No, at three o’clock. Who do you think he’s representing—the Moral Majority?”

  Julie didn’t need Sondra’s sharp elbow in the ribs to pick out the object of the reporter’s interest. By anyone’s standards, the man merited a second glance. He was big, especially next to the Asian reporter with whom he was carrying on an animated conversation. Not overweight, but solid, like one of those Olympic skiers or an ex-football player who hadn’t yet lost his conditioning, and well over six feet tall. He might have been anywhere from Sondra’s own thirtyish to forty-plus, but he was so blond, it was impossible to detect any silver strands blending with the flaxen paleness of his trim cut. Nice tan, though, without the pinkish overtones that so often went with that kind of fairness.

  But it wasn’t the man’s Nordic good looks that had caught Sondra’s attention and now drew Julie’s fascinated gaze. It was the book he carried cradled under one arm, a massive thing with three-inch gold lettering that screamed “Holy Scriptures” clear across the runway.

  “Moral Majority or not, he’s cute!” Sondra went on. “I could die for that smile.”

  It was quite a smile. The man practically sparkled good humor, his blue eyes twinkling merrily as he bent his head to something his shorter companion was saying, his show of perfect teeth one that invited the rest of the world to share his enjoyment. At any moment, Julie expected him to throw back his head and let out a hearty “Ho! ho! ho!”

  “I’ve never seen him,” Julie admitted. “He’s certainly not from one of the major networks.”

  “So do you think he speaks English? He looks Dutch or German.”

  “Well, ‘Holy Scriptures’ is certainly English.”

  As though he’d caught their remarks, the man lifted his head from his companion and looked straight at Sondra and Julie. His smile broadened into a grin so infectious that Julie found her lips twitching to meet it. Evidently taking her response as an invitation, the man murmured something to his companion and took a step in their direction.

  Whatever his intentions, they were distracted by a sudden surge forward from the press corps. Alerted by the shifting of cameras, Julie swung around in time to catch a cavalcade sweeping through the gates of the base. There were three limousines, each flanked by an escort of military police on motorcycles. A pair of troop transports brought up the rear. The entire parade swept onto the runway, coming to a screeching halt only meters from where Julie was standing.

  “Hail the conquering chiefs,” Julie heard a press member comment behind her.

  She swallowed a laugh. The better known members of the press corps might dispute the assessment, but it was clear the real VIPs of this expedition had now arrived. The security alone was impressive. A detachment of what looked to be Colombian Special Forces in green berets and BDUs—battle dress uniforms—jumped down from the army trucks and fanned out around the cavalcade. The contrast with her own arrival was striking. In other words, no big deal if the guerrillas pick off a few news reporters!

  Soldiers hurried to the doors of the limousines. A pair of Colombian military officers stepped down from the first, their uniforms displaying an impressive amount of gold braid. They were followed by a handful of civilians, including two who wore pilots’ uniforms. A party of three—two men and a woman—emerged from the second limousine, all wearing the white coats of a doctor or lab technician. They circled immediately to the rear of the vehicle where a detail of soldiers was already unloading boxes.

  The third limousine drew a gasp from Sondra Kharrazi at Julie’s side. “I don’t believe it! William, get that on tape!”

  The two men climbing out of the third vehicle also wore military dress, though their fatigues and combat caps were the mottled green and brown of camouflage rather than the plain khaki of the others. Unlike the rest of the Colombian military personnel, neither was armed, though they both carried empty pistol holsters at their belts. Nor did they display any of the gold braid or insignia that adorned the officers in the first limousine. Still, their sole occupancy of the limo, and the detail of soldiers who rushed in to flank them, certainly signaled some kind of VIP.

  Sondra grabbed at Julie’s arm, her long nails digging into Julie’s skin as she whispered excitedly, “Do you know who those two men are? They’re FARC leaders—guerrillas!”

  “Are you kidding?” Julie demanded incredulously. She was already taking mental notes.

  “No, I’m not! See the shorter one there, the older one? I did an interview with him a few months back down in the demilitarized zone. He’s their PR guy. Manuel Flores, he calls himself.”

  Flores was no taller than Julie, with the barrel-chested frame of a heavily Indian mestizo mix. He was stoop-shouldered and no longer young, though the sleek blackness of his hair showed none of the telltale gray that plagued those of Caucasian descent. He looked more like a rural schoolteacher or someone’s favorite grandpa than a terrorist or even the soldier he claimed to be. But there was something about him, a smugness, that roused Julie’s immediate aversion. He was practically strutting as he paraded from the limousine toward the plane, raising his hand with a benevolent smile to the cameras flashing all around, as though he and all his comrades were some kind of heroes instead of killers and criminals.

  “They love getting themselves on the news.” Sondra dug a cordless microphone from her handbag. “Though I’ve never seen the younger one, I’d love to have him on the other end of a mike!”

  Julie followed her nod, and her caustic thoughts caught in her throat. Unlike his older companion, Flores, this man fit all her preconceived stereotypes of a guerrilla. He looked to be somewhere in his upper twenties, and stood head and shoulders above his companion, though that still made him only medium height by American standards. His coloring was much lighter as well, closer to Julie’s own olive complexion. His hair was dark brown rather than black, worn shoulder-length in a tangle of curls that might have looked effeminate were it not for the ha
rd, definitely masculine planes of his face and at least a week of unshaven stubble.

  But those weren’t the differences that drew Julie’s attention. It was the ease with which he wore his military gear, like a second skin rather than the dress-up costume it seemed on his companion. The baggy combat fatigues did little to disguise his superb physical conditioning. And his peculiar, stiff-backed, ball-of-the-foot stride was something even Julie’s inexperienced eye recognized for what it was. Despite the nonregulation hairstyle and half-grown beard, he was no campesino dressed up in a stolen army uniform. He’d had military training—and lots of it.

  The two guerrillas were heading toward the DC4. Julie lost her companion as the NBC correspondent pushed in front of her cameraman, mike in hand.

  Tom Chaney, the CNN correspondent, was as usual out ahead of the pack, his mike thrust into the path of the FARC leaders, his cameraman nearby jostling a heavy camcorder over his shoulder. “Excuse me! I’m told you are representatives of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. Do you speak English? Do you have a message you would like to share with our viewers this morning?”

  For once, it did him no good. A soldier placed a hand over the lens of the camera, and another elbowed the correspondent from his path with only minimal civility. The two guerrillas didn’t miss a stride, Manuel Flores still waving and smiling, his younger companion running an indifferent, almost bored gaze across the pack of shoving, jostling foreigners.