The DMZ Page 37

  From somewhere outside the caleta, a new sound that didn’t come from the rattles and clanks and people noises of the camp impinged on the edge of Julie’s consciousness. But it wasn’t loud enough to distract her deliberations.

  I should hate these people. I did hate them all these long years.

  But not anymore. She couldn’t. Their lives were too sad, more deserving of pity than anger. And if Julie could not condone their actions, she could at least understand the torturous paths and lines of thinking that had led them to this isolated spot in the jungle.

  Oddly enough, in fact, Julie was finding that there were even things to admire in these people. After less than three weeks, she herself was sick of the inactivity, the rain and mosquitoes, the primitive living quarters, not to mention bathroom facilities, even the food that rarely varied from rice and beans and arepas.

  These men and women put up with such conditions for years at a time—and by choice. They lived on the run, often one step ahead of the military and paramilitary, hiding out in these jungles, slogging through the mud, building and rebuilding their camps, battling mosquitoes and loneliness as often as they did their enemies. If they were being paid or were profiting personally from the millions the guerrillas were said to acquire from their kidnapping and the drug traffic, they showed no signs of it in their personal belongings or lifestyle.

  Nor did they allow their vagabond lifestyle to degenerate into the slovenliness Julie had seen so often in the poorer huts in San Ignacio or among the Indian tribes. Julie couldn’t help being impressed at their discipline. Under Victor’s sharp eye, they practiced a rigorous hygiene, brushing teeth and bathing daily, washing clothes, re-digging the latrine every few days, keeping garbage and food strictly covered against flies.

  They were not allowed to forget why they had joined the guerrillas. Despite the heat that made the outdoors—and their heavy uniforms—a misery once the sun had burned off the last coolness of the dew, they held daily exercise and military drills and target practice as well. And if Julie had overheard plenty of grumbles at both the constant drills and the rigorous camp discipline, they were not loud.

  Propped up on one elbow, Julie surveyed the encampment. Linda and Marcela were starting supper. Jaime and Rafael had a book spread open on the supply table, and Jaime was explaining something in its pages with uncharacteristic animation. Alberto and Enrique were bent over an automatic rifle Enrique had been breaking down.

  No, her captors might be terrorists and kidnappers—even killers. But they were not the run-of-the-mill criminals she had once written them off to be. They were soldiers, and dedicated ones.

  So what prompted these men and women to give up families, wives, friends, the comforts of even a simple home, to swelter and train and fight out here in the middle of this wilderness? Food and clothing? A place to lay their heads? Maybe for the most destitute. But that wasn’t enough. Certainly not for someone like Alberto, who had come from a comfortable middle-class home.

  No, they were out here in this awful place for the most dangerous of reasons: they had a cause in which they believed, to which they were passionately committed. A good cause too, even noble—bringing the benefits of their country’s great resources to the oppressed and hungry masses of their society. It was beside the point that their cause was hopeless, that the means to which they resorted in carrying it out had alienated their would-be supporters and forever destroyed any chance they’d had for building their new society (for how could a people who resorted to kidnapping and murder be trusted to supply a fair and just government?), that their actions were transfiguring them into the very cruel and deadly oppressors against whom they had pledged to fight. These guerrillas believed in their cause, and to bring it about they had chosen to sacrifice their comfort, their families, their very lives.

  And that, Julie admitted grudgingly, was something to be admired.

  Sacrifice. There it was again.

  Julie rolled over, burying her face in her arms.

  Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die … whoever loses his life …

  It was odd to think that her parents had anything in common with these guerrillas—and yet the comparisons were glaring. They too had turned their backs on family and friends, given up the comforts of an easier—even luxurious—lifestyle. Maybe they’d gone about it in a better way, building instead of destroying, their motives less vengeful and self-serving. But the passionate commitment to improve the lot of a hungry and desperate people was disturbingly similar.

  And so was the hopelessness of their cause.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. Carlos was right. Richard and Elizabeth Baker had made a difference. Maybe not a big one or a lasting one. But not only had they healed bodies; they had touched lives. Those women, that lonely grave, were proof of that.

  And me?

  The futility of the guerrilla’s struggle, the scattered remnants of her parents’ life work, only underscored the logic of Julie’s choice of path. It was, after all, the choice most people made—to mind your own business, live your own life, dream your own dreams. After all, did people have a responsibility, or even a right, to throw away their lives on senseless, altruistic causes?

  And yet …

  I’m putting up with this because I have no choice. Maybe I’d even volunteer for this kind of adventure for a good enough story—if I knew I was going to get out safe in the end. But could I ever sacrifice my whole life or even my future for a cause or people who mean nothing to me personally?

  Would I?

  Julie rolled over onto her back, suddenly weary from more than inaction.

  I don’t think so, she admitted and found that she was ashamed to do so.

  The thought lasted only an instant. Her movement brought into sharp focus the sound that had been slowly growing on the edge of her consciousness. The quiet thud of hooves on the soft ground of a dirt trail.

  Julie sat up with a jerk, pushing her curls hastily away from her face for a better view. Horsemen were riding into camp. Half a dozen of them. And one, Julie saw with a sudden leap of her heart, was tall and broad with pale hair glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

  Tim McAdams.

  SIXTEEN

  CARLOS MADE NO ATTEMPT TO stop Julie as she scrambled out of her caleta. He was watching the horsemen with the same startled interest. At the head of the party rode Comandante Aguilera, and behind him was the guerrilla PR man, Manuel Flores. But Julie had eyes only for Tim.

  Tim’s clothing, like Julie’s, had been exchanged for combat fatigues. Unlike hers, his uniform fit like a glove and didn’t look at all out of place on his tall, powerful frame. He looked tired, Julie thought, though that might only have been the dust and stiff muscles of a long ride, and a jagged scar ran up one cheekbone into his hairline as though someone had struck him viciously.

  His strong, handsome features showed none of the strain of captivity Julie could feel in her own face muscles. Though he sat unarmed in the middle of a band of armed guards, he might have been the one in charge instead of a prisoner, by the self-assured lift of his blond head and the cool, unconcerned survey he was making of his new surroundings.

  Not until that calm, blue gaze met and held hers did it hit Julie just how much worry and guilt and aloneness she’d been pushing to the back of her mind these last weeks.

  He’s alive! He’s okay! I didn’t get him killed. The relief took the stiffening out of Julie’s legs. She sank down quickly onto a length of log that had been rolled up as a seat for her current guard.

  The horsemen dismounted. Letting his reins fall to the ground, Tim strode directly over to Julie. Two of the other horsemen followed hastily at his heels, unslinging their AK-47s as they did so, but they made no attempt to stop him. Julie jumped to her feet again as he approached her caleta, resisting a sudden impulse to throw her arms around him, she was so relieved to see him alive and in one piece.

  Her expression must have given her impulse away. As he reached her
, Tim said cordially, “Well, if this isn’t a nice welcome! Am I wrong, or are you actually happy to see me?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at her, and Julie could feel the heat rise into her neck.

  “If you knew how worried I’ve been!” she retorted. “I wasn’t even sure you were still alive. If something had happened to you because of me, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

  She glanced past Tim. Her first hopeful thought when the horsemen had ridden into the camp was that they’d come to take her away, even—however optimistic she knew the prospect to be—to end her captivity. Now she saw with a fading of hope that the newcomers were unloading bags of rice, potatoes, and other provisions from the horses. The FARC commander hadn’t come to set her free but to supply the new camp for an extended stay.

  Pulling her eyes away, she turned back to Tim. “What are you doing here?” she asked with determined cheerfulness. “Are … are they going to let us stay together now?”

  Tim McAdams had followed her troubled glance. His smile faded into seriousness as he answered. “I wish I could say, Julie. All I know is that Aguilera got off the radio this morning in a real flap. The next thing I know, he’s giving orders that we’re to ride out with the supplies he’s sending over to your camp.”

  He shot a quick glance at his guards, then lowered his voice several decibels. “I have to tell you, Julie, that whatever it was, it didn’t sound too good. Aguilera and Flores were both furious, and I heard your name come up.”

  Julie glanced over at Aguilera, who was now deep in speech with the camp leader, Victor, his hands punctuating the discussion with rapid gestures. At the same instant, the two men turned around to look across at the two prisoners. Julie’s stomach gave a sickening lurch at the cold glare she read in the comandante’s black eyes. Tim was right. Whatever was on the guerrilla leader’s mind, it boded no good for Julie Baker.

  Wheeling around on his heel, Aguilera called sharply, “Enrique!”

  Enrique finished hefting a sack of flour onto the supply table before striding quickly over to the commander. “Sí, Señor?”

  “Enrique, when I leave here, you will be ready to accompany me.”

  “Si, Señor!” Julie caught the guerrilla interpreter’s quick glance in her direction, and though she couldn’t hear what he added next, she knew what the question had been by Aguilera’s sharp reply: “The girl is no longer of any concern to you.”

  So Enrique would get his wish to return to the fighting.

  Julie was startled by the pang of disappointment the thought caused her. Though he had largely ignored her, Enrique had twice intervened on her behalf, and Julie had come to count on him as a protector against Rafael and the others. With him gone, what would happen to her?

  And Comandante Aguilera—why was he looking at her like that? What did he mean—that she, Julie, was no longer of concern? Why did he come here? What does he want from me? Oh, please, not another interrogation!

  Her legs went suddenly weak, and Julie found herself fumbling for the support of the log behind her. She sat down hard, unable to ward off the wave of terror sweeping over her.

  “Hey!” Tim McAdams dropped down beside her, his large frame filling the remainder of the length of log. Julie could feel the warmth of his body close beside her. Turning at a sideways angle, he reached over to take her hands in his own, his blue eyes darkening with concern.

  “Your hands are ice cold!” he said remorsefully. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Ten to one, that call had nothing to do with you—or either of us. Maybe Aguilera’s just ticked off because they’ve lost a battle or something. Either way, it’s not the end of the world. We’re both alive, aren’t we? And together again. I can tell you I’m as happy to see you alive and in one piece as you looked to see me. I’ve been worried sick about you, girl.”

  Under the comforting flow of his voice and the warmth of his fingers on hers, Julie gradually stopped shivering. Withdrawing her hands unobtrusively from his, she glanced again at Aguilera. Maybe Tim was right. Far from making any threatening moves, Comandante Aguilera was no longer even paying attention to the prisoners. He had called together the more senior members of the guerrilla unit—Victor, Enrique, and Jaime, along with himself and Manuel Flores—and they had retired to the cambuche, where through the unenclosed end she could see them clustered around the radio table, heads close together in conversation. If Tim could be this cheerful and optimistic, maybe she was just overreacting.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, she apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. This place is just … is just getting to me, I guess.”

  “Hey, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s only natural to feel fear at a time like this.”

  So you keep telling me. Except that you aren’t afraid, Julie thought wryly. She lifted her chin and did her best to infuse some of his cheerfulness into her speech.

  “Okay, if you’re trying to make me feel better it’s working. So tell me what’s happened since I saw you last. Have you been with Comandante Aguilera all this time? How far did you travel to get here? Have they …” Her voice wavered as her glance went to the wicked slash along his cheek. “Have they been mistreating you or … or beating you?”

  Tim fingered the scar with a rueful grin. “Are you talking about this? No, I’m afraid I can’t blame that on the guerrillas. Just a little fight with a thorn bush across the trail. Actually, the guerrillas have treated me pretty fair. The food gets a little monotonous.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “How about you?”

  “They haven’t mistreated me,” Julie admitted. “But where have you been all this time? I saw you on your feet just before they took me away, so at least I knew you were alive and had come out of that drug they gave us.” She shuddered at the memory. “I still have nightmares about that.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. Though I really don’t remember too much after they shot me full of that stuff. I must have been coming out of it about the time they were taking you away because I do remember your voice floating around whatever cloud my mind was on. By the time I managed to pull myself off that bed, the shelter was coming down around me. I did see you riding away, but you were gone before I could even register a protest. As to where I’ve been …”

  Tim glanced around the encampment. “Basically, it’s been a lot like this. We moved two or three times, but I couldn’t tell you where or even what direction. One jungle clearing looks like another as far as I’m concerned.”

  “And what about Comandante Aguilera?” Julie asked anxiously. “Has he been with you all this time? Have you been able to find out anything about what he’s been doing?” She lowered her voice. “Or overhear anything he might be planning?”

  Tim’s blond eyebrow shot up. “If I’d known you were expecting a full report, I’d have kept better notes.” More seriously, he added, “Actually, no, Aguilera’s been kind of coming and going—sometimes with us, sometimes not. Come to think of it, probably more not. When he turned up yesterday, I hadn’t seen him around in almost a week. And no, he hasn’t advertised his plans a whole lot. At least not in my hearing.”

  He turned a quizzical eye on Julie. “Any particular reason for asking, or just that general journalistic nosiness?”

  Julie looked over at Tim’s two guards, squatted down near Carlos, one with his eyes fixed on the two Americans, the other with his attention wandering visibly toward the two female guerrillas working on supper around the campfire. Catching her anxious glance, Tim dropped his voice another decibel. “They don’t speak any English, if that’s what you’re worried about. So shoot!”

  “Well, it’s just that …” Julie forced herself not to glance at the guards again, keeping her voice on a normal conversational level. “I think I might have an idea of why they grabbed us, why they were so sure there was a spy down here to start with, why the Americans would even want to have a spy down here. Do you remember when they drugged us—how Coma
ndante Aguilera mentioned his musulmanes friends who gave them the stuff they used to interrogate us? Well, musulmanes means Muslims. The research I did for this trip had some stuff about Islamic terrorist groups being involved with the Colombian guerrillas. It sounds to me as though Comandante Aguilera is one of them. Anyway, when I was waking up from that drug, I heard the musulmanes mentioned again. I don’t know who was talking, but there was something about the Americans not finding what they were looking for until it was too late.”

  Julie had to take a deep breath to keep excitement from creeping into her tone. “So what do they think the Americans are looking for? And why is it soon going to be too late? Whatever it is, it has to be big enough that they’re worried we might find out about it and stop it. Worried enough that they had their own spy on the job—I mean, someone had to finger me to the guerrillas.”

  She was about to mention her suspicions of Sondra Kharrazi, then remembered the attractive brunette’s determined play for Tim. He had certainly made no objection. Better not get into that now.

  “I know it sounds crazy. But I’ve been going over and over this since the day we were captured. And it keeps adding up to the same thing. They are planning something down here, and it’s going to happen soon. Either these Muslim friends of Aguilera’s, whoever they are, or the guerrillas—or maybe both of them together. And it isn’t just another of their raids on some village or police outpost. They wouldn’t be worried about an American spy for that. It has to be something that concerns us—the U.S. Maybe an attack on the base at San José or one of the other places where we have our people. Maybe they have some new weapon they’re afraid we’ll find out about. They’d almost have to if they’re thinking of taking on American forces.”

  This time Julie couldn’t resist a glance at the guards. The newcomers were tossing a pair of dice in the dust, and Carlos was engrossed in the rapid patter of their betting. “Anyway, I was just hoping maybe you’d heard or seen something more. I … I just have this horrible feeling that we need to get a warning out—and soon. I’ve gone over and over in my mind, trying to think of some way to escape or even to get out a message. But they’ve been watching me too closely. And of course, there was you. They said they’d kill you if I tried to escape. I couldn’t take that chance. But now that we’re together … Oh, I know it seems pretty hopeless with all these guards, but I just can’t help feeling that together we could do something.”