The DMZ Read online

  “If this was not a total waste of time and resources! I would never have agreed to this had I known we would receive so little cooperation.” Dr. Gustofferson shook her head angrily. “To be sent away with our investigation incomplete!”

  Dr. Roger Elliot yawned. It had been a long and stressful couple of days, and he was looking forward to dozing through the opening session of the conference, then ducking out early to his Jacuzzi and bed. “We did what we went for,” he said. “There was no sign of murder. I see no reason not to accept Aguilera’s hypothesis. The Americans got separated from their Indian guides. They wandered around in the jungle for a couple of weeks, in the process picking up some tropical bug. The pathology was consistent with flu or even pneumonia. Certainly some kind of virus. They finally stumbled out to civilization. And when they died, the locals got scared and dumped them somewhere the bodies would be found. Nothing mysterious, really.”

  Dr. Gustofferson, seated between the two men in the back seat of the cab, turned a disapproving eye on her Scottish colleague. “Well, we would know more if we’d been allowed to take proper specimens, do a proper analysis. They set no prior restrictions. They allowed us to take our own equipment, then they tell us we cannot take the time for the proper tests. And we cannot remove the bodies nor even appropriate specimens to run cultures and tests through our own lab and data banks. These are not the actions of innocent men. To say they do not trust our analysis is outrageous. Why should we lie?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No, it is more as though they received new orders after they agreed to our team. I think they are hiding something. And now two more are missing. Will they too show up somewhere dead, without a mark on them?”

  Dr. Elliot rubbed a weary hand over his face. What he needed right now was a strong dose of espresso—and a less zealous colleague. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t make much difference now, does it? We don’t have the bodies or the specimens. I for one feel we did everything we could. Either way, it’s pointless to keep stewing about it now.”

  “Actually,” Dr. Ravi Gupta began after clearing his throat, “that is not precisely the case.”

  The diminutive Indian doctor so seldom intruded into their debates that his two colleagues immediately broke off to stare at him. “What do you mean?” Dr. Gustofferson demanded.

  “We may not have the bodies, but we do have specimens.” Reaching into his shirt pocket, Dr. Gupta extracted the glasses case he always carried and flipped it open, revealing a cloth-lined interior, presently empty. Taking off his glasses, he inserted the end of one of the ear-pieces into what appeared to be a screw hole at one end of the case. With a faint click, the bottom lining snapped upward. Inside, to his colleagues’ incredulous eyes, were slides and tiny vials.

  “But how—?”

  Dr. Gupta closed the glasses case carefully. “I have spent my life in countries less … safe, one might say, than you two. One learns talents.”

  Leaning forward, Dr. Gustofferson tapped the cab driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but we’ve had a change of plans. If you will take us to …”

  At the name of the research lab, Dr. Elliot sat up straight in protest. “But what about the conference?”

  “Forget the conference, Roger!” the Swedish doctor snapped as Dr. Elliot groaned. “And that Jacuzzi of yours too. We’re going to nail these people if it takes all night!”

  * * *

  It didn’t—quite. Neither businesses nor government offices would be open for hours yet when James Whitfield picked up the phone. It was one of the few people who possessed his home number, Martin Sawatsky, CIA director.

  “Did you get that report I faxed over?” he demanded.

  The national security advisor swallowed half a pint of coffee to clear his mouth of the Danish he was eating. “I sure did. I’m trying to make sense of it now. So they found traces of an obscure South American poison? Only known use by Amazon natives to tip their hunting arrows and blow gun darts. What does that mean—that our personnel were kidnapped by some jungle tribe, not the guerrillas? Is it possible we had this all wrong?”

  “Just finish the report,” the CIA director said somberly. “They didn’t die from arrow poison.”

  “So what did kill them?” As he continued skimming the fax, Whitfield reached for another Danish. It stopped partway to his mouth. Carefully, he returned the pastry to the plate. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

  “The implications are certainly there.”

  James Whitfield’s prodigious morning appetite was gone. “We’d better call the president.”

  * * *

  He shifted on his pallet, listening with resignation to the steady plop-plop of dripping water hitting the dirt not far from his head. What was keeping him awake was not the maddening monotony of the rain dripping through a leak in the roof nor the hardness of the bed beneath him. He’d slept on far worse.

  It was the girl.

  Yes, this Julie Baker was who she said—he knew the voice of truth when he heard it. Though he’d wondered at first. Wondered which agency had set up such an inept competition to his own operation. Wondered even if HQ had sent in new assets over his head and Thornton’s. But the girl had given nothing away, had by all appearances accepted his own cover at face value.

  He stirred again, restively. This girl was who she claimed—and that said much. She had, in fact, done far better than he’d expected, facing what had been a brutal interrogation without whining or hysterics, with a quiet dignity and uplifted chin. The girl had courage.

  And yet she hadn’t been able to hide her terror, her fear of her captors and worry for her friends, and he couldn’t avoid a twinge of conscience. How easy it would be for him to end all this. Walk away from here—he was trained to do so easily enough. Activate his GPS locator. Call in the cavalry. Then go back for the girl.

  But then all the effort it had taken to get here would be for nothing. No, his orders were clear. The girl was safe enough, whether she recognized it or not. Little though he liked it, there was far more at stake here than the feelings or comfort of one admittedly attractive young woman.

  Or his own.

  The drizzle lifted. Gradually, the incessant dripping slowed, then ceased. But just as sleep finally closed in, a stirring of voices told him that night had ended and it was time to face another day.

  * * *

  Taqi Nouri raised his eyes from the packing crate whose contents he was inventorying to study his companion coolly. “So—it would seem the Americans are not so predictable after all.”

  “Perhaps. It may be they did not choose to send a spy as we expected. It was not a certain thing, after all. Or perhaps the spy never left the airport. Perhaps our demonstration of innocence was sufficient to allay any remaining suspicions.”

  Noun’s companion paused before going on. “There is another possibility. The girl may be programmed to give the story she told. The Americans have long experimented with such things for their agents—a cover story triggered to come out under drugs or hypnosis. Our intelligence was that their success had been minimal, but that data may be inaccurate. Though Aguilera is satisfied that she is who she says. He regrets that he cannot ask for ransom.”

  The Iranian minister of intelligence gave his companion a hard look. “And the man. What does Aguilera say of him?”

  “That his computer check shows him to be what he related under the truth drug—a harmless religious reporter who has been in this country several times before. Too big and too gringo to be a spy. Besides, he was seen following the girl out of the gate … it seems he found her attractive. A plausible story. The girl has been told that her friend is being held hostage for her good behavior.”

  “Much effort for small results. But no matter. Either the girl is not a spy, in which case the Americans are more shortsighted than we believed, or if she is a spy, she is in our custody, in which case she is no longer a danger. Which means that we can now proceed to the final test.
” Taqi Nouri returned to his inspection of the open crate, feeling both triumph and revulsion as he peered inside. If these weapons had ever been turned against his own countrymen …

  Nouri made a brusque signal that brought over the senior officer of the Iraqi security force, and he ignored the barely veiled insolence of the Iraqi’s salute. It was unfortunate that their dubious ally had insisted on his own forces to guard this treasure. But at least the Iraqi commander in chief had made clear to his subordinates who was the supreme authority here.

  Switching from Farsi to Arabic, Nouri ordered, “Bring the natives.”

  The Amazonic tribal group was an unprepossessing sight to the fastidiously clean Muslim cleric. Half-naked men, and worse, women, children clinging to a parent’s leg, babies tied to a mother’s back—they were all filthy, diseased, and foul of odor.

  But none of his revulsion showed on Nouri’s impassive features as he addressed the group.

  “You have done what we asked of you. Now you are free to go. All except for you.” He had the Iraqi guards separate out a half-dozen able-bodied adults. “You will be needed a short time longer. The rest may return to your village. You will find waiting there the goods you were promised for your labor. My men will take them ahead of you by river.”

  The tribal group had brought little with them when conscripted to labor for the foreigners, so it took little time to take leave of family members remaining behind and set out on the long trek home. Dusk was beginning to fall by the time the excited call of an advance scout announced the first glimpse of the thatched huts that were the village they had left so many months before. The tribe began to hurry.

  The village was untouched except for the inevitable depredations of animals that had scattered belongings and food supplies. And for once the foreigners had kept their word. A mound of goods lay dumped onto the village green in the center of the thatched huts. The tribal group crowded around the heap excitedly. Sacks of rice. Cloth. Metal knives to replace those of bone. And a priceless treasure—salt—that would make jerky keep much longer. This year would be a good one.

  It was a small girl who found the canister. It was not big, but it glinted silver in the last rays of the setting sun that slanted down through the gap the village had made in the jungle canopy. Pushing aside a bolt of cloth, she picked up the shiny object. She blinked as the action triggered the release of a cool mist in her face. It felt good after the heat of the day’s march. When an older child snatched the object from her hand, she began to cry.

  Then she began to cough.

  THIRTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY WASN’T AS BAD.

  Perhaps it was only that nothing could be. Or maybe it was because the drizzle had stopped and the seamless blue of a perfect day was already burning away the last pinks and oranges of sunrise when Julie tugged the mosquito netting loose from her pallet and crawled to the edge of her shelter to look out over the encampment.

  This turned out to be a more open site than the last camp. The shelters themselves were tucked back under cover of the trees. But just beyond the campfire that Linda and Marcela had thrown together for cooking the night before was a sandy beach, and beyond that, a wide stream, too shallow for navigation but invitingly clear where it burbled over a bed of rocks. Julie eyed it longingly, the freshness of the jungle morning making her only more conscious of her grime.

  Her guard seemed to be enjoying the morning’s beauty as well. A young man in his early twenties with loose, dark curls and the light skin and tall, lanky frame of predominantly European descent, he was whistling a pop song under his breath. He broke off his whistling as he caught Julie’s movement and hunkered down to peer in at her.

  “Buenos días, señorita,” he greeted cheerfully, hazel eyes twinkling down at Julie. An attractive young man, and well he knew it!

  A loud whistle from him brought Marcela scurrying over from the campfire to lead Julie to the latrine. By the time they returned, the whole camp was awake and bustling, and the appetizing odors of coffee and frying arepas were chasing away the last fresh scent of the jungle dawn.

  The coffee was very black and sweet, the jolt of caffeine improving Julie’s outlook still further, and when Marcela approached to retrieve Julie’s breakfast dishes, she lingered to say shyly, “If there is anything you need, señorita, you have only to ask me. Perhaps there are foods you do not care for, or a request you would like to make for dinner? Or if you have any questions, el Comandante Victor says that you have only to ask. We wish you to be comfortable here.”

  So she was not to be ostracized forever.

  Julie was dismayed to find tears springing to her eyes at the girl’s words. You’re losing it, when you can get that excited about having a terrorist stop and talk to you.

  Not that Julie was under any illusion as to Victor’s sudden willingness to allow her contact with his troops. She’d been on her way back from the latrine when she’d seen the camp leader bent over the radio and had heard Comandante Aguilera’s furious words coming through the explosion of static.

  “What is this, Victor, that you do not allow the woman to mix with the others?”

  “But, Comandante, the orders have always been—”

  “Idiota!”

  Another flurry of static, and Julie, herded back to her shelter, heard no more. Yesterday’s eavesdropping allowed her to piece together the rest. If normal hostages were kept isolated from their guerrilla guards—to keep sympathies from forming if nothing else—the FARC commander wanted Julie talking. As though a real spy would let something slip that easily.

  Still, anything was better than being treated as though she were invisible.

  Not that there was much chance during the rest of the day for social interchange. After breakfast the shift changed again, and her new guard was a taciturn man of almost pure African stock. Too tall to hunker down comfortably, he dragged over a sawed-off piece of log he’d unearthed from among the previous camp’s discards and seated himself on it, his eyes fastened unblinkingly on Julie.

  Under Victor’s orders, the rest of the guerrillas set to work. A deeper cooking pit was lined with stones from the river and the grass cleared away around it. A thatched shelter rose above the supply table, and Enrique hammered together another rude table for the radio. A second pit was dug for garbage, and stones were laid down to the river edge to keep feet out of the water when it rained.

  Julie’s new guard responded with no more than a surly grunt to her tentative questions. So Julie, without a book or even paper and pen for distraction, spent the day cross-legged at the edge of her pallet, watching and listening and making mental notes on the activity around her. If it was whistling in the dark to pretend this was a research expedition, at least it helped keep her anxieties at bay.

  After lunch—more beans and rice—the guerrillas set to work on a swim hole, laboriously rolling the boulders out of one of the deeper spots along the streambed until they had a shallow pool big enough for bathing. This they took in turns to do, by pairs, the two women in their bras and panties, the men stripped to their undershorts.

  Julie was led out last, the older guerrilla girl, Linda, keeping guard from the bank as Julie bathed. The water was wonderfully refreshing in the sultry heat, but Julie, conscious of more than just Linda’s eyes on her, didn’t linger. Nor did she strip to her underwear like the others. She tucked the worn terrycloth towel she’d been given around her, preferring to scramble wet into her clothes than expose herself to the whole camp.

  She scrubbed the clothes she’d been wearing as best she could, using the same sliver of soap Linda had provided for bathing. But she wasn’t going to need them again, Julie found when she emerged from the water. Waiting for her on the bank was a set of the same army fatigues the guerrillas wore. They weren’t a bad fit, and from the size might even have been Linda’s, though worn with Julie’s tennis shoes rather than the boots the guerrillas used, they were on the baggy side around the ankles.

  Linda watched with clea
r amusement as Julie maneuvered to pull on the new clothing under the wet towel. “You gringas must find it difficult to get a man when you are so skinny,” she commented, a supercilious tilt to her mouth. “Though I have heard the americanos think it beautiful to be thin. The Colombianos prefer flesh on their women.” And she glanced down at her own ample bosom.

  Yeah, well, standards differ, Julie felt like retorting. Instead, she picked up her wet towel and clothing and silently preceded the guerrilla girl back to camp. Spreading her bundle of laundry on the thatched roof of her shelter to dry, she returned to her cross-legged position, this time watching the guerrillas take apart and clean their weapons.

  Once night fell and the Coleman lantern was lit and hung from a branch, the mood of the camp changed. While Linda and Marcela were clearing away the sancocho, a traditional Colombian stew thick with rice and plantains and manioc root and potatoes, the other guerrillas had rolled several logs up to the cooking pit. Then they sprawled around the fire, some sitting on the logs, others leaning up against them. A transistor radio played softly, and Julie’s early-dawn guard crooned along in a remarkably good tenor to a Ricky Martin love song.

  The guards had changed three more times during the day—a four-hour shift, Julie had timed with her watch—with everyone taking a turn except Victor and Enrique, who evidently considered themselves above such duties. Carlos had been sent over to replace Marcela while she worked on supper, and he was slumped down on the stump with his eyes drifting as much to the campfire as to Julie when Victor called out, “Hey, Carlos, fiesta time! Bring the woman out to join us!”

  Julie heard the order with mixed feelings. If sitting in her shelter with one terrorist only a few feet away was bad, socializing around a campfire with eight of them was a daunting proposition. Still, if she had to sit here alone one more minute, she was going to go crazy.