The DMZ Page 27

  As they returned, she passed Tim on the same errand. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. Back at the sleeping hut, a Coleman lantern had been shifted to a branch just above the open end of the sleeping hut, and a hard-backed wooden chair placed directly outside. As Julie stepped into the shelter, the guerrilla woman placed herself in the chair, with her back to the camp and her eyes on Julie, her assault rifle laid across her lap.

  Doing her best to ignore that implacable stare, Julie walked over to the nearest army cot, covered neatly with clean bedding. She grimaced to see the mud and damp that stained her khaki shirt and slacks, thinking of how it would soil the bedding as well. Julie solved this by pushing aside the thin mattress and seating herself gingerly on the bare metal springs. Across the camp, she could see the shapes of the other women moving around behind the translucent blue walls of another sleeping hut. Wearily, she dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t realize she had company until the springs beside her groaned under a heavy weight.

  “What are you thinking about, Julie?” Tim asked quietly. “I don’t expect they’ll hurt us. The guerrillas have a reputation for treating their captives well.”

  Julie lifted her head, pushing back her curls to look at her companion. The missionary journalist certainly made a better picture than herself. He was damp, of course. But he had missed the grime that bespattered her own clothing—and face, no doubt, as well—and he’d even managed to comb his hair since his arrival in the encampment. Julie managed a faint smile, feeling the crackle of drying mud around her mouth as she did so.

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that. I’m sure this is all a mistake. Once they find out we really are with the UN mission, Comandante Aguilera will order us back. I just hope we don’t miss our flight.” Julie glanced over at the other sleeping hut. “And that these people don’t get in trouble for our stupidity.”

  Brushing at her face in a vain attempt to dislodge the drying grime, Julie wrinkled her nose in a rueful grimace. “No, actually, I was thinking what a great story this is going to be when we get out of here.”

  “A story?” Tim’s eyebrows shot up unbelievingly “You are kidding!”

  “I know. Crazy, isn’t it, at a time like this? But after this morning … add on a genuine kidnapping experience, an inside look at a guerrilla camp—we’re talking Pulitzer Prize material! Now if we could just come up with the pictures.” Julie’s lips twitched at the expression on his face. “An obsessed journalist, right?”

  Tim studied her, and she had the sensation that for some reason beyond her understanding, she had astonished him. But if he was going to say so, he had no opportunity; the female guard who had been sitting outside was entering the sleeping hut.

  She carried Julie’s knapsack, and Julie took it from her with relief, cheered by the very thought of clean clothing. Tim’s briefcase didn’t correspondingly appear. No surprise, since it hardly contained personal belongings, and though it would have been nice, Julie couldn’t imagine the guerrillas being stupid enough to let them get their hands on that sat-phone and modem. But the guerrilla woman laid out a selection of articles on the nearest cot. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Bar of soap. Roll of toilet paper. One very worn towel.

  She handed Julie a duplicate of the last three items—proof that she, or someone, had been through Julie’s belongings—then left without having addressed a word to either prisoner. Julie dug eagerly into her knapsack. Almost immediately, she discovered that her own belongings hadn’t been left untouched either.

  “Hey, my computer!” she called after the guard.

  But the woman had returned to her position outside the shelter, weapon across her lap. Julie checked hurriedly through the knapsack. Gone were her camera, cell-phone, even the notes she’d scribbled after the autopsy.

  The notes were the worst loss—everything else was replaceable. Julie blinked back her disappointment. She’d been foolish to expect any less, and maybe when this whole crazy mess was straightened out, she could get them back.

  She dropped the knapsack as another guerrilla—another woman, though it wasn’t always easy to tell with their loose military clothing—ducked into the shelter. She carried a basin, and Julie took it from her gratefully. Water to wash up, and another well-worn piece of terrycloth for a washcloth.

  It felt so good to have clean face and hands that Julie attacked the enamel bowl of rice and beans that followed with a better appetite than she would have expected. At least it seemed the guerrilla’s reputation for treatment of prisoners wasn’t unmerited.

  Though to Julie it was more a depressing indication of just how much experience these people had with taking hostages. I just hope they’re treating Doña Nina and the others this decently.

  “So why did they put you in here?” she asked Tim as they ate. “Didn’t you say it was protocol to separate everyone so they can’t compare notes?”

  Tim’s spoon scraped the bottom of his plate with a metallic clink. “Who knows how these people think! They said something about gringos together. Maybe they figure we know each other better than we do—that we’ve got no secrets left to share.”

  He accompanied that last remark with a grin, and Julie did her best to respond in kind. The truth was, she wasn’t happy about the idea of sharing sleeping quarters with a man, however unavoidable. And a virtual stranger at that.

  Still, what difference did it make when she had to sleep in full sight of the entire guerrilla camp? Not to mention that guard with her eyes glued on them. She had to admit there was some comfort in having her fellow American hostage close enough to talk to. He’s big and strong and some protection, anyway. And maybe even cute. I could have been stuck here with Bob Ryder. There was a horrifying thought.

  Now if I can just figure out how to get out of these filthy clothes and into clean ones without every eye in camp on me.

  In the end Julie waited until the Coleman lanterns were turned out for the night. It didn’t take long. From the foot of her army cot, Julie watched two of the guerrilla women—it would seem this army was sexist in labor division—wash the dishes with water dipped from a barrel set beside the supply table. The rest of the group, except for the guards on duty, gathered around the campfire, some playing cards, others—much to Julie’s astonishment—clustered around an old black-and-white, battery-operated TV set. A Colombian soap, from the dramatic Spanish.

  The leader alone did not socialize, disappearing instead into the hut where Julie had seen the UHF radio. When he reappeared, the lanterns were turned off. Their female guard was replaced by a hard-faced young male, but not before she showed them how to unhook mosquito nets from the thatched roof. This was no new experience to Julie, who found the knack of shooing out the bug-life while simultaneously tucking the netting under her pallet, coming back as naturally as riding a bicycle.

  And none too soon, as once Julie was no longer moving, the mosquitoes, previously only a minor nuisance, began to congregate around the net with a high buzzing whine piercing enough to drive all sleep away.

  Slipping under the thin blanket that was all the bedding provided, Julie maneuvered a clothing change, doing her best to ignore her roommate, lying close enough to hear every rustle she made, and the guard, who at frequent intervals ducked his head into the sleeping hut to shine a flashlight over the cots until Julie wanted to scream with annoyance. How was she ever supposed to sleep with a light in her face all night?

  In the end, though, she slept better than she’d expected, blocking out the shrill whine of the mosquitoes, as she had also learned in her childhood, and sliding gradually into an exhausted slumber that even the brilliant flash of the guard’s inspections couldn’t disturb.

  * * *

  Oddly, Julie awoke to a sensation of peace and well-being that she hadn’t known in years. She lay for a moment with her eyes still closed, just listening and breathing. There was the soft sigh of wind through treetops. A twitter of birds. Not just any birds, but a jungle chorus she had once known intimately. The ra
ucous morning demands of macaws, and from somewhere overhead the angry hiss and scamper of monkeys quarreling. A lingering perfume of flowers just closing up their petals against the coming day’s heat and the pungent minty fragrance a certain grass released when trampled underfoot. The smell of green things and warm earth and the last cool whisper of the dawn breeze across her cheek.

  It all felt—so right!

  Then last night’s events flooded into her consciousness, and Julie’s eyes jerked open. She wasn’t back in her childhood home but in a jungle camp, a hostage of human beings who had no reason to wish her well. The guard—a new one, Julie thought, though all those young faces under the billed caps blurred together—was sitting stiff-backed in his chair as though he hadn’t shifted all night, his black eyes fixed on her and one hand on the weapon across his knees.

  Julie turned her head on the jacket she had rolled up as a pillow. Tim McAdams was awake, sitting on the edge of the next cot. His gaze was on her, and when he saw that she was awake, his good-looking features beamed with pleasure.

  “So you’re up, are you!” he commented affably.

  Rolling to a sitting position, Julie eyed her fellow hostage with scant appreciation. He had been up for some time, for he was washed and shaved and combed, and even his clothes had stood up to sleeping in them better than her own. Julie knew what she herself must look like, and she flushed with embarrassment and annoyance as she pushed back the rat’s nest that sleep always made of her curls. The public was meant to be faced only after a decent interval and an encounter with a bathroom, and as for that much cheerfulness at this hour of the morning …

  Ignoring Tim’s remark, Julie snatched up her knapsack and strode to the front of the hut. The two guerrilla women from the night before were standing at the cook table, slapping white dough between their hands into the round, flat shapes of arepas.

  “Baño, por favor?” Julie called hopefully.

  One of the women—a girl, really, still in her teens—rinsed her hands in a basin and hurried over to escort Julie to the outhouse. By the time she’d washed up in a basin set for her under a tree and tugged a comb through the tangle of her curls, Julie was feeling more able to cope with the day—and that barrage of eyes.

  Then she checked her watch and groaned. It had taken them hours to reach this remote jungle camp, and the morning was already well-advanced. Surely the DC4 would be readying for takeoff by now, and Bill Shidler would be fuming over his missing press team members.

  Uncle Norm is going to kill me!

  For all his severity, the old editor would worry if she didn’t return on that plane, and Julie felt remorse at the trouble her impulsive excursion had to be causing not only herself but others. Yet she couldn’t be sorry about taking those rash steps beside the truck and out the gate. She had accomplished what she came for, after all. And to see her parents’ grave—more, to see the love and attention the townspeople had lavished on that tiny cemetery—was worth all the inconvenience of her present predicament.

  They really did care! At least some of them.

  The other women were being led out to the outhouse and wash basin now, and Julie managed a small wave to Doña Nina before her guard’s frown warned her to be more circumspect.

  Back in their own shelter, the guard served Julie and Tim a breakfast of arepas and coffee. Tim kept up a light, cheerful conversation throughout, trading anecdotes of journalism assignments in odd corners of the world with a self-deprecating humor that slid Julie’s estimation of him up another few notches.

  “So … back to you,” Tim said finally as their tin plates and cups were being collected. “Come on, I’ve been dying of curiosity. What were you really doing out there last night?”

  Julie glanced up in surprise. “I told you. I grew up here—in San Ignacio, I mean. I just wanted to see it again. I know it was stupid, but I just couldn’t pass it by after all these years. And after all”—she waved a hand that took in the row of army cots and the blue plastic walls and the guard sitting right outside—“I wasn’t figuring on something like this.”

  “You grew up here? Then your parents were Colombian?” Tim ran an eye over Julie’s dark curls and the tan she never quite lost even during Washington winters. “Yes, I can see where they would be. Your English is so good I just assumed you were American—though of course, your Spanish is just as good.”

  Julie brushed arepa crumbs from her hands and wished she had the wash basin back. She settled for her towel, still damp from her earlier wash-up. “But I am an American! With a name like Baker? What else would I be?”

  Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “Julie, your story has more twists than a New York pretzel. If your parents were American, then how did you end up in San Ignacio? What in the world were you doing in the middle of a Colombian jungle?”

  Julie looked at him oddly. “Isn’t it obvious? I thought I told you last night. My parents were missionaries—like you.”

  Tim looked momentarily taken back, then smiled ruefully. “Of course, what was I thinking? You did say something about that last night—right before our friends out there crashed the party and drove everything else out of my limited brain. Missionaries. That explains a lot. Then—that grave … you were serious? That was your parents? I’m sorry about that.”

  He studied Julie, his blue eyes thoughtful on her face before he went on. “So you haven’t been in these parts for a while. Then how in the world did you connect with those women out there? I didn’t think the guerrillas were allowing a lot of open communication in and out of the zone.”

  “I didn’t connect with them. I told you that too, remember? They just recognized me and followed me. They’ve known me all my life. I guess I hadn’t changed as much as I thought.” Julie shook her head, half annoyed, half rueful as she eyed him, bent slightly forward on the edge of the cot, his hands in his lap as though itching for a notepad, his good-looking face settled into that bland expression of the experienced interviewer, belied by the sharp interest in his eyes. “You really are a journalist, aren’t you? That instinct to start grilling as soon as someone gets across the table … or in this case, the army cot!”

  “Am I grilling? Sorry about that!” Tim’s return survey was appreciative. “It’s just that I find you a very interesting young lady. You have an unusual grasp of the situation down here. And of course, one doesn’t run into a whole lot of Americans born in a guerrilla hot zone.”

  Julie hunched her shoulders dismissively. “Well, of course it wasn’t a guerrilla hot zone then.”

  “No? Is that why you left, then—because the guerrillas arrived? And—pardon me if I ask …” His deep voice gentled. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I can’t help wondering … just how did your parents die?”

  Julie’s face hardened. “Talk to the guerrillas!”

  Springing to her feet, she paced over to the open front of the enclosure where she could see the guard, a cup of coffee in the hand that wasn’t on his weapon. Beyond him, the rest of the guerrillas were gathered around the campfire, eating their own breakfast, a transistor radio blasting out salsa on the supply table. She swung away. “Let’s just say these … these terrorists are responsible for a lot more deaths than the people they murder.”

  “Sounds like you hold quite a grudge against the guerrillas. I guess that’s to be expected. This place must hold a lot of bad memories. In fact, I’m surprised your boss would put you of all people in the position of having to come back here. Surely your magazine could have sent someone else.”

  Julie sighed. “Look—I really don’t like to talk about it, okay?”

  She swung around again to the opening, then stiffened with an excitement that dismissed their discussion from her mind. “Hey, look, they’re coming! It’s about time. I just hope that plane hasn’t left yet.”

  There were four of them, on horseback. They rode in single file with the relaxed effortlessness of country folk who spent as much time on horseback as in a motorized vehicle, and Julie recognized th
em all. Comandante Aguilera himself was in the lead, and right behind him was the guerrilla spokesman, Manuel Flores. Their English interpreter, Enrique Martinez, followed, and trailing in the rear was the young guerrilla boy who looked so familiar. “Carlos.”

  As the men pulled up near the cooking pit and swung down from their mounts, Julia’s eyes were drawn to Enrique. What looked so different about him?

  Then she realized that he had shaved off his unkempt start at a beard, leaving only a thin line of moustache above what was now revealed to be a very firm mouth. Without the stubble, his features looked at once younger and harder, the set of his jaw that had been masked before uncompromising, even obstinate.

  I’d sure hate to try to take one of his toys away!

  Enrique dropped his reins and stepped away from his mount. Then his eyes, sweeping around the camp, alighted on Julie, and she quailed under the smoldering fury in them. This wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  ELEVEN

  THE RAID LEADER CAME FOR Tim and Julie. Two armed guards ensured their cooperation, but Julie had no intentions of protesting. She was eager to speak to the new arrivals.

  Comandante Aguilera and his men had commandeered the communications hut. The UHF radio had been set to one side, and the FARC commander now sat behind the table where it had been. No other seats had been provided, and Manuel Flores and Enrique Martinez were standing at attention on either side of the commander, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

  Carlos met them at the entrance of the hut. With a jerk of his head toward Julie, he announced, “The comandante says the man may stay here. The girl will come with me.”

  Julie was less frightened than surprised. This was a machista culture where women were still considered little more than an extension of their men folk—as evidenced in those female freedom fighters out there, still doing all the cooking, washing, and cleaning up just as they might at home. So why were they picking on her rather than Tim?