The DMZ Page 19

  So what was the point, God? Why did You bother sending them in the first place—for nothing? How could You ask them to sacrifice everything—even their lives—if it was all going to be one big waste in the end?

  Or was it all some big mistake?

  Theirs—or Yours?

  The guerrillas had not yielded to the request from Norm Hutchens to remove his friends for burial in their homeland, so Richard and Elizabeth Baker were buried in San Ignacio where they had lived and served.

  Or so Julie had been informed. None of it seemed real to her. For years, in fact, it had felt like just one more boarding school separation, as though if she could only make her way home, she might still find her parents tending their patients in the clinic dispensary or puttering around the patio of their small, cinder-block home.

  Julie herself was too numb to protest the strange old man who appeared at boarding school with guardianship papers and the explanation that he was a longtime friend of her parents. Meekly, she had followed Norm Hutchens aboard the American Airlines flight to Washington, D.C., walking away from the country of her birth without a backward glance.

  Nor had she ever wanted to. The leftist guerrillas hadn’t killed her parents. Colombia had!

  Colombia had used them up, sucked them dry, and spit them out.

  The elite New England boarding school in which Norm Hutchens had deposited Julie—with relief, Julie was sure, though to give him credit, a teary teenage girl must have been a daunting charge for a bachelor—was a world apart from the austere mission school she’d attended till then. Julie had never really fit into the American teen culture with its giggling cliques and obsession with hair, nails, clothes, and rock stars. Didn’t these spoiled rich kids realize there was a real world out there where people got hurt and went hungry and died?

  Still, she’d managed to cut her prison sentence short by condensing her last two years of high school into one, and at least in college she was not the only new kid. Her grades were high enough that she could have followed her father into the medical field, but she steered deliberately away from that path. If she’d learned anything from the tragedy of her parents’ lives, it was that it didn’t pay to pour yourself out for people who didn’t appreciate it.

  Julie had followed instead in the footsteps of her guardian, graduating magna cum laude with a degree in journalism, and if she’d spent the last two years doing more grunt labor than she cared to remember, she was at last on the path to making a serious mark in her profession. A mark that—if she was successful—would bring Julie far more public acclaim than her parents had ever received.

  But who would have ever believed this path would bend to force her back to the last place on earth she wanted to see again? It was just too wildly improbable to be coincidental.

  God‚ is this Your quirky idea of a sense of humor? Are You still messing around with my life?

  SEVEN

  THE DC4 WAS DROPPING IN ALTITUDE. The bend in the river was just ahead, and they were low enough to make out the water traffic. It was busier than Julie remembered, the wide-beamed shape of shipping barges having been added to the river launches and dugout canoes. The sleepy town of San Ignacio had evidently prospered during the seven years she’d been gone.

  She didn’t have to look far to see the reason. When she’d left, the first slash-and-burn clearings of colonists had been cutting into the jungle along the banks of the Ipa River, creating scattered fincas for several hours up and down the stream. Now, vast expanses on either side of the river revealed no jungle at all. The tall trees had been replaced by hectare after hectare of gray-green bushes. And unlike the area around San José, these coca fields were glisteningly healthy, untouched by the wilt of herbicide.

  How dare they?

  “Are you all right here, Miss—?”

  Julie felt the sag of a heavyweight dropping into the next seat. She spun around in her seatbelt.

  The eyes only inches away from her own were a far cry from the last pair she had stared into. They weren’t brown and angry, but blue and smiling and warm with concern. Sondra’s hunk. Julie glanced back to see Sondra looking displeased three rows back. What had she told him?

  Julie flushed at the realization of the picture that must have drawn the man over. Clenched fists. Nose practically glued to the window. Nothing like the cool professional image she’d worked so hard to perfect.

  “Everything’s just fine,” she answered firmly. “I was just—”

  “Nervous?”

  “Interested in our destination,” Julie corrected flatly. She was not going to get bogged down again in her past connection to San Ignacio.

  The concern in the blue eyes grew to a twinkle that was as sympathetic as it was disbelieving. Either the man was born with the most perfect smile ever created, or somewhere along the line he’d invested in a very expensive set of dentures. At this close range, Julie could understand Sondra’s interest. He was so big and blond and good-looking. As to his nationality, Julie was no longer in any doubt. With that drawl and extroverted friendliness, he could only be American.

  “Look, being a little nervous is a natural reaction for this kind of scenario,” he said gently. “Terrorists … murder … guerrilla strongholds—that’s not exactly your everyday news story. And I did notice you’re traveling alone. It doesn’t seem quite the situation into which most editors would choose to send a young woman on her own. That’s assuming you are a journalist, Miss …?” His pause made the question a double interrogative.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” Did all men think alike? Or was worrying about her well-being some innovative new pickup line? After two years in professional journalism, Julie had stopped keeping track of the countless ways in which men chose to introduce themselves. At least Sondra hadn’t wasted time gossiping about the other woman on the press team.

  “I’m Julie Baker. Staff writer with Our Earth magazine. And my editor didn’t choose to send me on this trip. I volunteered. And I wouldn’t characterize being with a group this size as traveling alone. So how about you? Doesn’t what’s down there bother you—guerrilla strongholds … murder?” Julie tossed back his own phrases dryly. “Or maybe these kinds of assignments are old hat to you.”

  “Not old hat. But this isn’t the first time I’ve been down here,” he admitted with another flash of teeth. “Nothing like this, of course. Though I’ve learned to deal with the locals.”

  “Really?” Julie couldn’t keep a skeptical note out of her voice as her gaze swept down his enormous, patently gringo frame. “And you haven’t had any problem with the guerrillas? Or the paramilitaries? They just let you wander around free? No questions asked?”

  Limpid blue eyes met hers. “If God calls you to go somewhere, it doesn’t matter who else is out there. Not guerrillas. Not paramilitaries.” He made a solid thump against his chest, and Julie realized he was still cradling that absurd museum Bible. “I’m sure you know the stories. David and Goliath. Daniel and the lions’ den. Nothing can touch you if you’re where God wants you—even if it’s in the middle of a guerrilla camp.”

  Yeah, right! Tell that to my parents! Who was this guy?

  “Excuse me—uh, who did you say you were? I didn’t catch your name. Are you with the embassy—some kind of chaplain?” Julie glanced dubiously at the Bible. “Or a missionary?”

  The missionaries she’d known weren’t so … so—well, so in your face. Julie tried to imagine her father parading a Gutenberg-sized specimen of the Holy Scriptures through an airport and failed.

  Her new seatmate caught her glance and offered a wry grin that had Julie liking him more than she had. “It is pretty big, isn’t it? A friend pushed it off on me when he knew I was coming on this mission. His idea of a joke! He figured it would make a good conversation starter. I brought it over—well, you looked in need of some cheering up. Habit, I guess!”

  Dropping the huge volume into his lap, he thrust out a large hand so that Julie had to twist in her seat t
o shake it. “Tim McAdams, at your service. And actually, yes, you could call me a missionary. A missionary journalist, to be precise. I’m in the area to cover Colombia’s war from the religious angle. I don’t know if you’re aware that a lot of churches and pastors have been wiped out by the guerrillas these last few years.”

  “Actually, yes, I did know that.” For the first time Julie looked at her seatmate with genuine interest. “So what news service are you working with? And how in the world did you ever wangle a seat on this plane?”

  She must have imagined the check of his body movement, because the geniality of his expression didn’t change. “What do you mean?”

  Julie had meant that last remark only as a casual exclamation, but since the missionary journalist was clearly waiting for an answer, she shrugged. “Well, just take a look around you. Except for the embassy and UN team, they’re all pretty public figures—by name and reputation if not face. See the guy over there?”

  She nodded across the aisle to where a slim young man with dark hair and olive complexion was scribbling furiously in a notebook.

  “That’s Andy Rodriguez. Miami Herald correspondent. Does a lot of articles on Colombia—which is why he got a seat. Sondra Kharrazi covered the environmentalists down here for NBC. Tom Chaney is the Latin American correspondent for CNN. The Chicago Tribune didn’t make it. No room. Nor did the LA Times. Or the Boston Globe. And I happen to know they put their names in. Now you …”

  Her apologetic glance was meant to take any sting out of her words. “I don’t recognize your name—and I would have remembered. I have a photographic memory, and I do know most of the bigger-name journalists who deal with Latin America. I don’t know what Christian magazines or radio networks you write for, but—”

  The white teeth were no longer showing. “But they’re probably a lot smaller than the Tribune or the Times. Well, I’m sure you’re right—though there are more religious news services out there than you might think. Maybe the powers-that-be felt as I do that the church-going segment of our population should be represented on this mission. A lot of the evangelists and pastors killed by the guerrillas have been from this area. For that matter, I’ve never heard of you either. This magazine you mentioned … Our Earth? Is that some kind of science digest?”

  “Well, no, actually it happens to be the largest environmental magazine in North America.”

  “And what would you say your circulation was—say, compared to the Chicago Tribune?”

  Julie laughed and lifted her shoulders in retreat. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I guess the powers-that-be felt the ecological viewpoint should be represented. Remember, the three victims were environmentalists. Look, uh … Mr. McAdams, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry or insinuate you don’t belong here. Being nosy is an occupational hazard for a journalist, I’m afraid. It’s just that I have a personal interest in your field. My parents …”

  The thump of landing wheels hitting asphalt cut off her explanation. Glancing out the window, Julie saw with some surprise the palm trees and fields rushing by. At least her new acquaintance had proved a distraction from their arrival. As the hydraulic brakes went on, Bill Shidler emerged from the cockpit.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. We’ve now landed in San Ignacio. If you’ll keep your seatbelts fastened until the plane has stopped moving, I’d like to use this time to cover a few last-minute items. Ground radio has just informed us of a slight disturbance …”

  But he’d lost his audience. The press members were out of their seats, shoulders jostling for a view, TV cameras pressed against windows. The DC4 shook as the brakes slowed their rush down the runway, but experienced hands held lenses steady. Bill Shidler’s angry voice rose futilely above the din. Showtime was here, and no one was going to be accused of missing the first shots.

  “Excuse me, Miss …” Blocked on his own side of the aisle by the CNN crew, Andy Rodriguez leaned over Julie and her companion, a digital camera in his hands. “Would you mind if I squeeze in here for a few shots?”

  “Can I get copies?” Julie demanded shrewdly, quick to see a solution to her own problem.

  “What mag are you with?” The reporter’s thin body was practically vibrating with impatience.

  “Our Earth. World Conservation Institute. Norm Hutchens, editor.”

  The Miami Herald correspondent wasted no time debating. The next issue of the environmentalist magazine wouldn’t be out until long after his own release. “You’ve got it. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Squeezing past Tim McAdam’s knees, Andy leaned across Julie to get his camera to the window. Not that there was much to see yet, as he’d quickly find out, since this side of the plane gave a view only of fields and the muddy expanse of the Ipa River in the distance.

  As another reporter crowded in behind to lean over Rodriguez’s shoulder, Julie found herself crawling over the seats to get away from their armpits. The missionary journalist, Tim McAdams, had already rescued his own large frame from the crush and was working his way back down the aisle to his original seat. She caught his eye as he glanced back, and he paused to lift his hand in a genial wave. At least he didn’t seem the type to hold a grudge.

  The babble rose to new heights as the DC4 slowed to a complete stop.

  “Hey, what’s going on out there?”

  “You see that crowd? What the dickens?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen! If you’ll kindly return to your places, I can assure you this door will not be opened until everyone is in their seat and quiet!”

  This time the political officer’s angry roar had an effect. The camera kept rolling from the CNN crew’s porthole, but the other news people began filtering back to their own seats like unruly children chastened by their schoolteacher. Andy Rodriguez dropped into the window seat that had been Julie’s, leaving her on the aisle.

  At the front of the plane, Bill Shidler was looking absolutely furious. “Ladies and gentlemen. Members of the press.” That last sarcastic phrase differentiated the former from the later. The political officer struggled visibly between his training in diplomacy and what he really wanted to say. Diplomacy won.

  “This is a historic moment for the United States and the other countries represented here. We deplore the tragic events that have necessitated this mission. But we also recognize that these events offer us an unprecedented opportunity, and it’s our sincere hope that along with the investigation at hand, the United Nations team will also be able to address the peace process with the guerrillas. You, the press”—his voice grew drier as a sardonic gaze swept the first two-thirds of the plane—“are not here because we consider you necessary to that process. You are here because—and only because—the guerrillas wish to present their story to an international audience. Just what they want, we’re still not sure. But we are now in their territory, and here they make the rules. Once we disembark, the UN team will be making the first contact. You will not shove your cameras into their faces. You will not yell and shout and ask questions. You will simply listen and observe. No matter who you are or what kind of audience you may have, if you do anything—anything—to jeopardize these proceedings, by the authority vested in me as head of this mission I will have your press credentials confiscated and have you confined to the interior of this plane until the time of our departure. Any questions?”

  There were none, despite plenty of grumbles. Aggressive might be one of the kinder adjectives applied to the news media, but stupid they weren’t, and they were capable of recognizing a nonnegotiable boundary line when they saw one.

  Julie made no effort to join the peering out of portholes as she filed down the aisle between the CNN crew and Andy Rodriguez. Tension again knotted her stomach. If the emotional impact upon her of the jungle canopy and the familiar curve of a river had been enough to attract the attention of this Tim McAdams, what kind of a spectacle would she make when she actually set foot in the place she’d considered home for most of her life?

  But as she stepped ou
t onto the landing stairs, nothing in the scene that lay before her evoked unwanted memories. In her time, the only airfield in San Ignacio had been a grassy strip that her father had talked the town council into clearing. The only terminal had been a storage shed for off-loading cargo. What greeted her eyes now was a modern, if modest, airport with an asphalt runway nearly as long as San José’s. Beside the runway was an honest-to-goodness air control tower with a galvanized-metal aircraft hangar next to it. The DC4 had taxied in close to the hangar before stopping, and through its open doors, Julie identified a smaller version of their own plane—a DC3—and beside it a Fairchild two-engine.

  The smells carried to her nostrils by a hot, dusty breeze were wrong too—not the fresh sweet scents of the jungle that had bordered the grass strip of her memory, but petroleum fuel and the hot tar of the runway and other strong chemical smells Julie couldn’t identify.

  “Coca o muerte! Coca o muerte!”

  The furious chanting drew Julie’s eyes past the control tower. So this was the disturbance that had drawn her colleagues’ attention—and cameras—during the landing. When Julie had lived in San Ignacio, the airfield had been open to fields and jungle. Now a chain-link fence bordered the runway, topped with nasty-looking coils of concertina wire. Behind that fence was what could only be described as a mob, their angry roar rising even above the babble of the disembarking news crews. They swarmed over the bed and cab of several cattle trucks parked close to the fence, and many held placards and banners above their heads. Even at this distance, Julie could make out some of the slogans.

  “NO to Plan Colombia.”

  “Yanquis Go Home!”

  “Make Peace, Not War.”

  And of course, Coca o Muerte—“Coca or Death!”

  Julie studied the angry mob with disbelief. There were more people in it than had comprised the entire population of the sleepy riverbank town she’d known. Was it possible the guerrillas had diverted their flight, and this wasn’t San Ignacio after all?