The DMZ Page 30

  The slow heat radiating up her arm was interfering with her thinking. Her limbs grew so heavy, she couldn’t have moved them if she’d been free. Letting her head flop against the back of the chair, Julie closed her eyes against a rush of dizziness, then opened them again. The guerrilla leader was bending over her, but it was as though his sculpted features were receding away from her down a dark tunnel. Enrique Martinez was there too, hovering in the background, clear but distant, the line of his mouth grim under his moustache. Why was he still so angry? Wasn’t she cooperating?

  Then the flames were licking through her whole body, a curious mixture of nausea and euphoria that wasn’t unpleasant, though they set the plastic walls revolving around her in a dizzying carousel of blue. From a distance she heard Comandante Aguilera say with satisfaction, “Now … you will tell us for which americano agency you work.”

  In some corner of her mind that could still register astonishment, she was surprised to hear herself answer back. But what she was saying, she had no idea. She was falling down a well that was a swirl of the blue of the plastic and the brown of the dirt floor and the green of the uniforms. And then there was only black.

  TWELVE

  “AND THEN I SAW THAT THE guard wasn’t paying any attention, so I just slipped out alongside that truck…. Doña Nina was a real surprise and so was the church. I thought it had been burned down … and then Tim McAdams showed up. I could have killed him for following me….”

  Julie had listened to the inane female prattle for some time before her clouded brain registered vaguely that it was her own voice. Like a tape, the stream of chatter kept running until she discovered she had control over it. The silence that followed was a relief, and she let it carry her back down into the dark sea from which she had emerged. It was so much more comfortable there.

  When she surfaced again, Julie frowned mentally to hear that the talking had started again. Her head hurt as she tried to focus. No, this was a man’s voice. More than one, and she felt that she should know them, but her mind was too fogged to place their voices or even to recognize in which language she was listening.

  “She is very good. I would have sworn not even a trained agent could withstand those drugs.”

  “And maybe she really is who she says—a stupid novice reporter nosing around in the wrong place! Maybe the musulmanes were wrong, and there never was a spy. After all, the girl is right. Why should the Americans waste a spy down here? Their news teams are nosing around often enough. What is it that your friends are hiding out there, that they are so afraid the Americans will come snooping?”

  “That is none of your concern. You will know soon enough. In any case, it doesn’t matter. The rest of the foreigners are on their way back to civilization, and we have this one—whoever she is! The Americans have not found what they were looking for, and before long it will no longer matter.”

  Julie stirred. She was no longer sitting up, she recognized gradually, but lying on her side, and the surface under her cheek wasn’t the hard wood of the chair she had last been in, but yielding and reasonably comfortable. Her arms were still tied behind her back, but they were no longer painful. In fact, she couldn’t feel them at all.

  “Ssst! The girl is coming around.” The voices went silent at her movement. Julie raised her eyelids slowly, because they were weighted with lead. The surface under her proved to be an army cot. Beside her was another cot, and on it lay Tim McAdams, hands pulled behind his back, his eyes shut. So they had drugged him too.

  Julie turned her head, an excruciating process that shot pain through her temples and left her vision whirling. The hut seemed empty, the guards and the women all gone, the plastic drawn across the entrance to seal her into a square, blue box. So who had been speaking?

  She heard a rustle above her head, and two blotches of green and brown shifted into her line of vision. She blinked, and they coalesced into battle fatigues with faces under the army caps that she knew well by now. Comandante Aguilera and Manuel Flores. The two guerrilla leaders looked down at her without speaking, and Julie closed her eyes against the unpleasant whirl of their outlines. What were they thinking? Were they going to let her go now?

  Julie felt hard hands jerk her upright, her legs pushed roughly over the side of the cot so that she was in a sitting position. The movement sent the beginnings of life back into her numbed arms, and she almost blacked out again at the pain of it. A hand slapped her across the face, lightly this time. “Señorita Baker, you will look at me.”

  Reluctantly, Julie opened her eyes again. Comandante Aguilera’s narrow features made another slow revolution above her, then finally stood still.

  “So, Señorita Baker, it appears that you may be who you say you are.”

  There was no anger now nor accusation in his tone, only a statement of fact, and Julie felt her hopes begin to rise. “Then …,” she managed to get out through throat and lips that had become so dry she could feel her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. “You’re going to let us go? It … it really was all a big mistake, right?”

  When the guerrilla leader made no immediate answer, she pressed on, the urgency of her pleading making her head throb again. “You can’t keep us, you know! We came here under safe passage, under your own protection. The whole world knows that! They’ve been watching it on every news channel. Our kidnapping—it’s got to be all over TV and radio and even the newspapers by now. All those news crews will make sure of that. What do you think that is going to do to your press conference and world opinion of your cause?”

  She leaned forward beseechingly, the movement sending another stab of pain through her arms. “Look, this doesn’t have to be a problem. We wandered out of bounds … okay, fine. You found us and brought us back. But if you don’t let us go—if you keep us hostage like this—the whole world’s going to know you can’t be trusted. If you can kidnap press team members right out of your own peace conference, there’s no way you can convince anyone you have a legitimate cause—”

  Julie broke off as Aguilera suddenly straightened, and she braced herself for anger, irritation. Maybe even, by some miracle, agreement.

  She wasn’t prepared for the glance of amusement that flickered between the two guerrilla leaders. Turning to look back down at Julie, the comandante spoke smoothly, a thin-lipped smile like a gash below his hollow cheeks. “On the contrary, the foreign news crews have made themselves very useful in documenting the search we have ordered for two foolish journalists who wandered away from the protection we had arranged for them, allowing themselves thus to be kidnapped by paramilitaries seeking to destroy the peace process.”

  “Paramilitaries!” Julie gasped.

  Already, as Aguilera went on, Julie was seeing how this story would work, and the sickness of despair rose up from her stomach into her throat.

  “You see, while you were discreet enough to leave the grounds undetected, your very large, blond friend here was not. It would seem that he is well-liked by women, because there was at least one watching him closely enough to notice when he disappeared through the gate. A Sondra Kharrazi with whom we are already acquainted because she has been granted our safe passage before. She said nothing at first, as she didn’t wish to make trouble for this Tim McAdams. But when the two of you were declared missing, she came forward with the information. She was kind enough not to wish accusations to be made that we, your hosts, had snatched you from the premises.”

  Sondra again! Had she really just been keeping a casual eye on a blond hunk who had attracted her interest? Or was she the very contact who, it would seem, had fingered Julie to the guerrillas as a spy? Her role in this was just a little too convenient for coincidence.

  Leaving Julie, Aguilera strode to the front of the hut and barked an order through the plastic sealing the entrance. When he came back, he nodded toward the UHF radio, now returned to its table. “Your colleagues did not wish to leave without you. But they understood the necessity of removing further valuable targets
from a zone of war. We confirmed the arrival of their plane in Bogotá an hour ago. Already, they are organizing a—what do you people always call it?” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “A crisis team to work for your release.

  “And these news teams of which you speak—they have called publicly on the paramilitaries to surrender their hostages. We have already seen their broadcast on our tele. Manuel and I are on that broadcast, pledging our men and resources to search for the missing journalists. Though we have made it clear that the paramilitaries would have swiftly removed you from this zone for fear of our interference. Your people will not be looking for you here.”

  The comandante broke off as the plastic that sealed the entrance folded back. Enrique Martinez stepped inside, his glance flashing to Julie before he gave a nod to his superior officers. The sunlight, filtered first through the thick leaf cover of the jungle canopy, then through the blue plastic of the makeshift walls, gave a gloomy, almost underwater feel to the interior of the hut, making it impossible to judge the passage of time without the watch tied down behind Julie’s back. But the length of Enrique’s shadow was that of late afternoon. She’d been out for hours.

  “The orders have been given.” It was a statement, not a question. Comandante Aguilera jerked his head toward Julie. “Take the girl and clean her up. We will convene the unit in fifteen minutes to issue my instructions.”

  The two guerrilla leaders strode from the hut. As they disappeared from view, Julie twisted hurriedly around. Tim was still lying unmoving on the other cot, his eyes closed and his breathing so quiet that Julie was alarmed. Then she saw his massive chest rise slowly and fall. He was only unconscious, not dead.

  “Señorita Baker.”

  The touch on her shoulder brought Julie back around with a convulsive jerk. Enrique was looming over her, his assault rifle thrust back out of the way and a large knife gripped in his hand. It was the biggest knife Julie had ever seen, smaller than a machete, but heavy and sharp enough to cut through a small sapling with one blow. A combat knife. Julie’s eyes widened with fresh panic until she realized with some chagrin that the man was only trying to cut her bonds.

  “If you will please refrain from movement.”

  Julie felt the pressure of the knife on the cords. Then her wrists were free. As the blood returned with a rush to her arms, she choked back a cry of pure agony. Her arms and hands felt like dead things, and she couldn’t draw them forward. Enrique had to do it for her, and he let out a sharp hiss when he saw the mottled purple and blue of her hands and the bracelets of bloodied flesh the cords had etched around her wrists.

  Rising with a fluid motion to his feet, he strode to the entrance, and even through her pain, Julie was struck again by the lithe, almost catlike power of his walk with that forward-tilted, ball-of-the-foot stride that was a dead giveaway of the combat trained soldier. A pounding of running feet answered his shrill whistle. A guerrilla male young enough to be suffering from a severe case of teenage acne rushed into the hut.

  “The first-aid kit,” Enrique ordered curtly. “Quickly!”

  The young guerrilla disappeared, returning almost immediately with a standard Red Cross first-aid box. Enrique took the box and returned to Julie. Hunkering down on his haunches, he extracted a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured a generous portion of it over her wrists.

  “I am sorry about this,” he said quietly as the stuff fizzed and bubbled. “Unfortunately, in times of war, certain inconveniences must be endured. But this—this was not necessary.”

  Julie stared in amazement at his bent head. So yesterday’s rescue act hadn’t been the only decent impulse in this man! Was it possible after all that some humanity remained in these guerrillas? Or in this one at least?

  She glanced at the entrance, where the adolescent who had brought the first-aid box still lingered. Keeping her voice low, she switched abruptly to English. “Enrique, what is going to happen to me—to Tim? If … if you aren’t going to let us go, what are you going to do with us?”

  Daubing her wrists dry with a wad of cotton, Enrique began spreading some kind of anesthetic ointment on them. The sting of Julie’s cuts dulled immediately to a bearable throb. The guerrilla interpreter wound a length of gauze around her wrists before responding, and when he did, it was in the same low-voiced English as Julie, his accent no longer as noticeable as the first time Julie had heard him.

  “Look, Señorita Baker. I know you are afraid. But please believe me that your detention is only temporary. You will be released. Not now, perhaps. But when the situation has changed, when your ransom is paid—I cannot say what the comandante has in mind. But there is no need for fear. The guerrillas do not kill hostages, nor do they mistreat them.”

  Right! That’s why I’m black and blue and bleeding! Still, if Julie had heard too many stories of guerrilla kidnappings gone bad to take Enrique’s assurances at face value, the sincerity in his low voice was some comfort. Maybe there was at least no immediate threat to her life.

  “Enrique, the comandante wishes you to bring out the girl!”

  This time it was Carlos who thrust his head into the hut. Julie didn’t wait for Enrique’s order but rose wearily to her feet. The lingering effect of whatever drug they had fed her sent a fresh wave of dizziness over her, and she couldn’t suppress a cry of pain as the blood surged through her swollen hands. They looked terrible, her fingers appearing like huge, purple sausages thrusting out past the bandages Enrique had put on. Without their use, Julie found that she couldn’t keep her balance.

  Enrique caught her as she stumbled. Enemy or not, she leaned gratefully into the support his solid frame offered, the tang of his cologne, a musk of the overpowering potency that Colombian men seemed to favor, intermingling in her nostrils with a sharper, acrid smell of burnt gunpowder coming from his ammo vest, which pressed into her cheek.

  “Here.” One strong hand supporting her shoulder, Enrique dug into the first-aid kit with the other and brought out two white capsules. “These will kill the pain.”

  Even then he had to help her, since her hands were useless at raising the pills to her mouth. Julie, swallowing them with a glass of water Carlos hurried off to bring, showed her gratitude with a faint smile as she thanked him. The guerrilla interpreter didn’t return the civility, but the expression in his eyes wasn’t unkind as he released her to try walking on her own again, and the grim set of his jaw relaxed.

  It still seemed odd to find decency—much less, kindness—in any of these men. Could it be that not all of the guerrillas were in total agreement with the brutality their leaders were using? If she could cultivate an ally like this man …

  Whatever goodwill she had gained with Enrique evaporated as soon as they emerged from the hut.

  “You wish me to accompany the girl?” Enrique’s mouth tightened ominously, and the glance he threw in Julie’s direction was far from friendly.

  Aguilera had called together the entire contingent of the camp to receive his orders, with Julie hemmed in between Enrique and Carlos so that she couldn’t make the smallest move without their being aware of it. The other hostages were nowhere in sight, and a glance into the hut where Doña Nina and the others had been held revealed that this was now empty. Something cold squeezed at Julie’s stomach as she saw that even the army cots and mosquito netting had been removed. Where—and for what—had they been taken?

  O God, please! she pleaded silently. Oh, please, no!

  Julie had already concluded that a trip was imminent. The horses that Comandante Aguilera and his company had ridden into camp were saddled and stamping their hoofs restlessly on the other side of the campfire. From the saddle of one horse, the commander was finishing his terse instructions.

  “Yes, that is correct,” he answered Enrique now. “And Victor too. He will be in command, with you second after him. You will take as well …”—he glanced around consideringly—“Carlos and these two, and you three over there. Victor, you know the camp to which you will ta
ke her. You will leave immediately so that you may reach your next position before it is dark. The rest will finish tearing this camp down, then return with me.”

  Enrique made no further public objections, but Julie couldn’t avoid hearing his terse argument with Aguilera as the guerrillas returned to dismantling the camp and the raid leader, Victor, began organizing the party’s departure. Though Enrique’s tone was respectful, Julie was learning to recognize the signs of anger in the rigid set of his shoulders and the bunching of muscles along his jawline.

  “Señor, I do not wish to question your orders. But I am a trained fighter. You know my skills. When my own faction offered my services to your cause, it was to train your men—to fight at your side. Not to be a niñera!” The word meant “nanny” or “nursemaid,” and wasn’t in the context meant to be complimentary to those of his comrades who served on guard detail. “Surely Victor and Carlos are capable of overseeing the watch of one single woman without my presence. They have done so often enough before.”

  “Enough!” The comandante cut him off with a sharp gesture. “You are a valuable fighter, Enrique, that is true. One of the best that the Central Command has ever assigned to me. But I do not permit the dispute of my orders,” he added coldly. “Not though it were Tiro Fijo himself, commander of all the FARC battalions, who sent you to us. You will obey me and go with the woman.”

  Aguilera immediately moderated the sharpness of his response, in itself an indication of how high Enrique stood in the hierarchy of these guerrillas. “Our allies have demanded extra care for this one. Whether it is truly necessary does not matter. We need their cooperation—and their weapons—so we will do as they request. You … you speak the woman’s language. This could prove useful if the woman should let something slip. For this you will stay near her even in her sleep.

  “And then there is Carlos. I cannot entirely trust him in this. I send him because he once knew the woman, and perhaps she will speak to him as she has not to us. Still, past acquaintances can be dangerous—you and I both know this. Carlos has become a good soldier, and he has his own reasons for loyalty to our cause. But it is only prudent that a watch be kept on his sympathies. I am trusting you to be my eyes and ears in the camp.”