The DMZ Read online

  Her eye fell on Sondra, talking earnestly into her sat-phone, her hands moving rapidly in heated argument.

  I am the most frivolous person in this room, she thought suddenly. All these people are at least passionately dedicated to a cause they care about, however misplaced that dedication might be. Even Sondra with her rainforest. So what am I after? A story that’s going to be back-page news in a week and forgotten in a month.

  No, not just a story, Julie reassured herself. Fame. Glory. A future. And really, that’s what they’re after too. Sondra, Shidler, even the guerrillas. They’re no different underneath.

  Sondra put away her sat-phone, then stretched out to nap, tucking a cushion under her neck so her hairdo would not be disturbed. Julie, driven away to another couch, pulled out her laptop and worked desultorily on some notes. At some point she must have dozed off, because she jerked upright to find that her screen had gone dead, as it did when inactive to conserve battery power, and the sky outside the plate-glass windows was fading to dusk.

  Beside her, Sondra was still asleep. Bill and his team too were scattered around the remaining seats, not asleep but stretched out resting. Like her, Bill Shidler had his laptop out, and he’d seated himself where he could watch the storeroom door. A swift glance told Julie that Carlos was no longer on guard. Nor did the other sentries look familiar. At some point there’d been a guard change.

  Shutting down her laptop, Julie shoved it back in her knapsack and rose restlessly to her feet. Shouldering her knapsack automatically, she walked over to the window and looked out. The DC4 stood abandoned on the runway, the stairs pulled away from its door, even the guerrilla sentries no longer in sight around it.

  Past the plane, another chain-link fence marked the far side of the airstrip. Beyond the fence Julie could see the burnt-out shell of the old customs station and beyond it a glimpse of moving, rippling gold—the setting sun reflecting off the muddy waters of the Ipa River. The far side of the river hadn’t yet been cleared for cropland, and in the fading light the uneven skyline of the scrub jungle rose in stark silhouette to the fantastic play of pinks and flames and pale greens that were the leading edge of twilight.

  Here at last was something familiar—a thousand such perfect sunsets over just that patch of jungle.

  Julie spun away from the window. She had to get out of here—even if it was back inside that stuffy enclosure with the other journalists. Walking over to Bill Shidler, she waited until he glanced up from his laptop, then asked abruptly, “Are we allowed to leave here? Walk around—or go back into the hangar?”

  He looked surprised and faintly annoyed. “Of course! Just tell the guard where you want to go.” With a glance to the baggage-room door, he added quickly, “Stay out of the storeroom, of course. Security’s important in a situation like this. But we’re not prisoners here, you know. We’re guests! I’m sure you’re welcome to stretch your legs. Their hospitality and the accommodations supplied for us are for our comfort.”

  Sure, and you haven’t seen where the rest of the press corps are stashed!

  Julie kept that thought to herself. Thanking Shidler, she headed toward the door by which she and Sondra had entered. She was still several strides away when, behind her, the storeroom door opened. She turned to see the figures in combat fatigues and white coats emerge from the autopsy room. With her journalistic instincts quickened, she abandoned any idea of leaving.

  The Swedish doctor was again in the lead; even Aguilera trailed her rapid stride. As Bill Shidler sprang to his feet, she broke into urgent English.

  “This is ridiculous! We have nothing. No results. These people were not assassinated. They did not drown. As near as we can tell, they died of disease. But how? What? And was it natural or induced? What do we tell the world? That they have simply died, and we have no idea how?”

  Julie was mentally scribbling notes even as she rummaged through her knapsack for her recorder. What an irony it would be if the three activists’ deaths did turn out to be from natural causes. It would certainly put a dent in her own story—though she might be able to salvage the environmental angle. Still, no one else would fare any better. A final blip on the evening news. A work-up on “mystery death in the jungle,” if she knew Tom Chaney and others. And that would be it.

  “We can’t go any further without proper cultures and tissue analysis!” Dr. Gustofferson stormed on. “And those we cannot do in an afternoon. Nor without a proper lab and data banks. But these … these …”—the Swedish doctor paused, visibly exchanging terms in her mind—“these freedom fighters won’t let us take samples out of here. Or airlift the bodies for further study. And now they say they’re not letting us leave. This is in direct violation of UN conventions. If they think the world will stand by while they hold us hostage—even Saddam Hussein wasn’t that foolish!”

  Comandante Aguilera made an impatient gesture to his interpreter, and the younger guerrilla stepped forward.

  “We are not holding anyone hostage,” he translated curtly. “Just look out the window. It is already growing dark. The regulations of this airport do not allow despeje—takeoff—after sunset. We made arrangements for such a possibility. Even now, we are bringing in supplies from the town to provide a comfortable stay for your people.

  “As for your tests, it does not interest us which disease was responsible for these deaths. You have seen for yourselves that no violence was involved. That is all that matters. They became lost. They wandered in the jungle. They died. Their families are welcome to come here for their burial. But we will not allow them to be removed where evidence can be manufactured against us. No, we know the lies of those in power too well. All that we require of you is that you report the truth of what you have found—nothing! Then in the morning you will be free to leave.”

  “Fine!” Dr. Gustofferson responded. “Just make sure it’s early. My colleagues and I have a conference in New York tomorrow evening. And don’t think you’ve heard the end of this!”

  Julie had remained motionless and silent, but the Swedish doctor’s eye suddenly fell on her. Swinging around on Bill Shidler, she demanded, “Who is that, and why is she still here?”

  At the political officer’s murmur, she exclaimed louder, “A journalist? Then what is she doing here? Get her out of here. She can get her briefing when everyone else does.”

  Aguilera made another brief gesture, and the interpreter started in Julie’s direction. Julie didn’t wait to be ejected—nor even to remind Bill that Sondra, still asleep despite the racket, was being allowed to remain. With a shrug, she headed for the door. She had information no one else had, and it wouldn’t hurt to jot down a few notes while it was fresh in her mind.

  The interpreter caught up to her as she reached the door, but instead of hurrying her away, he strode out ahead of her and jerked his head for her to follow him. Julie eyed him warily as she stepped into the hall behind him. He had pushed back his assault rifle casually across his shoulder, but its gray metallic length and the shapes of banana clips and a grenade under the cloth of his ammo vest only reinforced her first impression of a very dangerous individual.

  Still, there was something she’d been wanting to say.

  Halfway down the hall they came to the door leading to the hangar, but the interpreter strode past it. He nodded toward the far end of the hall where a sign above a larger metal door announced Salida. Exit.

  “This way, señorita.”

  Julie followed obediently, lengthening her stride to walk beside him instead of on his heels. “Please, I wanted to thank you for what you did back there in San José. I … I think you probably saved my life!”

  She had shifted without thought into Spanish, and it was in Spanish that he answered, his glance down at her as sardonic as the curve of his mouth.

  “You need not be so surprised. We’re not all barbarians.”

  It was the same crack he’d made to Bill Shidler earlier. Julie flushed. A flicker of his eyes took in her discomfort, and he sp
oke again with a shrug that lifted his assault rifle up and then down again. “You were in danger. I saw it first. I acted. Any man would have done the same.”

  “Any man” isn’t a terrorist who goes around shooting people!

  Julie lagged back a step. She’d been handed an incredible opportunity here—a personal interview with one of the guerrilla leaders himself—while no one else on the press corps was being allowed anywhere near their hosts. And here she was blowing it! Norm Hutchens would rant and rave. That, or fire her if she let this one slip through her fingers: My Chat with a FARC Commando.

  Tacking the headline prominently in her mind, Julie took a long step forward. The worst he could do was to tell her to shut up, and even that could be turned into a nice little news clip.

  “You speak very good English,” she began conversationally. “And Comandante Aguilera—he’s an incredibly knowledgeable man. Are all of your people so well educated? Where do you manage to study? Or do you maintain schools out here? And—could you please tell me your name? You saved my life, and I would like to know a little about you. If that’s okay.”

  Julie didn’t quite hold her breath as she finished that artless bit of dialogue. Getting someone talking was the tricky part of an interview, but hard experience had taught her that younger males like this responded better to the airhead blonde—or rather brunette—routine than the intelligent and well-informed reporter who coaxed answers out of people like Colonel Thornton. She didn’t quite turn on the “oh, you’re such a big, handsome man; tell me about yourself” eyebatting that she’d seen colleagues like Sondra Kharrazi utilize, but her gaze as she waited for his response was guileless and innocent.

  His own eyes, as they held hers, were unreadable. For one nasty moment she had the sensation that he knew exactly what she was doing. But as he paused in front of the exit door to lift a heavy key ring from his belt, he shrugged and said brusquely, “Enrique. Enrique Martinez. And if you are wanting a story for your news service, you may report that I was a university student in Bogotá when I chose to use my education to fight against the political and social injustices of this country. As for education—no, there are very few of our people who have access to education or any of the other services they need. Something Comandante Aguilera is determined to change.”

  Sorting through the dozens of keys on the key ring, he chose one. “So—is there anything else you wish to know for your story?”

  There were countless things she wished to know, countless lines of inquiry she could have followed. But it was the question that had burned on her lips since he’d snatched her from harm’s way back in San José that spilled out before she could stop it. After all, for all his weapons and intimidating appearance, he wouldn’t touch her in this time and place, and she might never have another opportunity to ask.

  “Yes! If … if you can risk your own life to save someone you don’t even know, then … then how can you kill innocent people? Burn down villages? Bomb people’s houses and businesses? Shoot people in cold blood? Doesn’t it bother you that a lot of the people being killed are the very ones you’re supposed to be fighting for?”

  There was no answer except the jangling of the key ring. Julie caught a bleakness in his expression that made her wonder with a tightening of her stomach if perhaps she had gone too far after all.

  Indifference slid over his face like a mask. With measured coldness, he said, “There is a saying: ‘The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.’ The priests like to quote it, and like all such sayings it has its grain of truth. This is a war! And in a war people die. Men, women—yes, and even innocent children.” He might almost have been trying to convince himself. “It’s regrettable, certainly. But no nation has ever gained its freedom except through the sacrifice of its citizens who are willing to shed their own blood on behalf of their country. And Colombia will never have peace or freedom until its people are willing to stand up and fight—yes, and die—for them.”

  The intensity in his tone reminded Julie of Comandante Aguilera. Julie, staring up at this man Enrique Martinez, thought with the same chill she had felt earlier, He really believes it!

  Inserting the key in the lock, he pushed the door open and motioned for her to step through.

  The door opened onto the airstrip in front of the control tower. The earlier color show above the horizon was fading to twilight, but there was still enough light to make out the DC4 off to her left, wings outspread like a giant insect settling down for the night. To her right was the hangar. Out on the runway, knots of people were wandering around, some with the bulky outline that could be nothing but a camcorder on their shoulders. Neatly situated under a portable spotlight, Tom Chaney was addressing his camera crew. CNN viewers around the globe were getting their evening update.

  Enrique nodded toward the news crew. “Now that the day is cooling, your colleagues have emerged to refresh themselves. You are free to join them. In a brief while, there will be a statement to the press. Your colleagues have already been informed. In the meantime, the people of the town will shortly be providing you food and bedding to make your overnight stay comfortable. We apologize for the inconvenience this may be causing any of your people.”

  His words were as short and succinct as a prepared press release, and with them given, he stepped back inside. Julie caught the door as it was swinging shut. Dropping the airhead pose, she said quietly to Enrique, “But these people aren’t giving their lives for their country. They are having them ripped away. They never asked to be part of this crusade of yours. All they’ve ever asked is to be left in peace.”

  With a sharp tug, the door came loose from her fingers, clicking shut with an audible squeak of its springs. Julie stared at its metal exterior. Boy, did I blow that one!

  Still, for all the terse remarks Norm Hutchens might be addressing her way right now, she’d managed to get some usable quotes from this Enrique Martinez. And it would seem that Bill Shidler was right—they weren’t prisoners here, but guests.

  Dropping her knapsack to the ground, Julie dug out a notepad and began jotting down every word and impression of the last half-hour, squinting against the failing light as her fist raced across the page. Others preferred to dictate into a recorder, but Julie thought better with pen in hand. Only when she could think of nothing else to write did she wander out onto the runway.

  As she strolled over toward the hangar, Julie saw a truck pulled up inside the cavernous entrance. Several men in the cotton shirt and pants of campesinos were unloading baskets of potatoes and rice under the watchful eye of an adolescent guard. Others were lifting down rolled-up esteras, sleeping mats woven of bamboo stalks and leaves.

  Beyond the control tower, the demonstrators had finally abandoned their post, and the only noise was the cheerful chatter of the news crews. Sentries still stood at attention along the length of the airstrip, but they were no longer making any attempt to curb their visitors’ explorations. Dodging a stalk of plantains—the enormous cooking banana that was a staple here—as it was lowered from the truck, Julie strolled on past the hangar.

  She came to a service gate set in the chain-link fence. Outside the fence, an ancient Volkswagen pickup had pulled up to the gate. A guard strode around the truck bed, inspecting its contents. In the fading twilight, Julie could make out only vague shapes, but she could both hear and smell. Chickens and at least one pig—still living. Their dinner was going to be very late, but it would include fresh meat.

  As the guard carried out his leisurely inspection, Julie wandered over to the fence. It was indeed much cooler out here, the evening breeze across the airstrip blowing away the heat of the asphalt. The pinks and oranges of sunset had faded to pale green, and above the remnants of scrub jungle that separated the airport from San Ignacio itself, the first stars were twinkling. A flock of parrots swooped down to roost with a raucous caw.

  Outside the fence, a gravel track ran from the service gate parallel to the airstrip until it intersected with t
he main entrance on the far side of the control tower. There it turned at a right angle to make its way into town. Seven years ago, only that main road had been there, and the airstrip was unfenced and graveled like the road. Julie knew now exactly where she was.

  Straight across from where she stood—give or take a few meters—had once been a footpath, a shortcut through the jungle that petered out just a few blocks from the little plaza on which the Bakers’ house was situated. Behind Julie, the footpath had crossed the runway, continuing on down to the docks where her father’s Cessna had floated on its pontoons. She’d traced that path so often, she could probably follow it in the dark even now.

  “Uh … excuse me—Julie … Julie Baker, right?”

  The laughing drawl drew Julie’s gaze behind her and up—a long way up—into twinkling eyes that were no longer blue in this light but dark. Tim McAdams stood, briefcase in one hand and the other fiddling with that digital camcorder of his. Julie frowned when she saw that the lens was focused on her.

  “You did say I could pick your brains,” he said cheerfully. “Is this a good time?”

  Julie reached over and deliberately took the camcorder from his hands. Shutting it off, she handed it back to him. “Just what is it you want to know?”

  The big American showed no irritation at her action. He grinned down at her, relaxed and confident as he looked her over with candid interest. Twilight had paled the flaxen blond of his hair to silver, and his teeth flashed white against the fading light in that heart-stopping smile of his. Julie thought with renewed incredulity, This guy is really a missionary?

  “Everything,” he said, stuffing the camcorder into a pants pocket that on most men wouldn’t be capacious enough to hold it. From another, he removed the recorder she’d seen earlier. Clicking it to record, he grinned again. “Just tell me about yourself. You’re quite an expert on the politics of these people for someone who writes for an environmental magazine. Any personal interests in the region? Or are you this well-versed on every country you travel to?”