Jungle of Glass Read online

  "Keep it confidential," Broadbent said in an urgent whisper. "There's no use spreading around information like this."

  Hoag nodded, then turned to Marta. "You always think the right is responsible for all the evil, my dear. That is your problem. When you do not have to fight for your money, when everything is given to you, then you believe the left is good."

  Hoag turned back to talk to me. "You see, Senor Rogan, Marta believes the leftists are saints and the rightists are the devil. Needless to say, her father did not believe this."

  Marta smiled coldly. "Unfortunately, I did not exploit the masses. You and your friends live grandly on the fruits of that exploitation." She reached over and patted Hoag on the arm, like a kid. "Senor Hoag and I have had many interesting conversations about this subject. As you can see, we have not been able to reach any agreement."

  One of the maids walked into the room with some new guests. They were all the same types, mostly Europeans, women in couturier outfits with polished fingernails and high-rolling men with fat cigars and gold signet rings. The guests kept drifting in, couple by couple. Marta made small talk with all of them. Everybody smoked, so the conversation was punctuated by periodic hacking. Laughing and hacking. Hacking and laughing.

  The dining room was huge, opulent and lavishly furnished in an old Spanish style. There were crossed swords, escutcheons and breastplates on the walls. It was like the medieval wing at the Met, only less crowded than on a Sunday afternoon.

  Epictetus, the Roman philosopher, had written that it was unseemly to have more servants than guests at a banquet, but Marta had evidently not read her ancient Roman philosophers. When we sat down to dinner, there were twelve at the table. It looked like there were at least that many maids scurrying around the room.

  Marta sat at the head of the table and I was on her right. She orchestrated the meal like Toscanini. The servants set down the dishes and picked them up at her direction with breathless efficiency. The main course was filet mignon. I knew from McInerny's little instructional lecture that the steak wasn't home-grown. There was a high probability that Marta had them flown in from Texas just for the evening.

  Ah, the unadulterated privileges of being a Marxist.

  The conversation during dinner was inconsequential. It was as if no one wanted to talk about Roderick's kidnapping. Or maybe it was just because I was a stranger in their midst.

  After the meal we returned to the sala which had, mirabile dictu, been cleared of all plates and glasses and looked as pristine as when I first walked in. We washed down the dinner with rivers of Remy Martin and Courvoisier.

  It was almost eleven. There wasn’t any reason to stay longer. I got up and walked over to Marta. She was deep in conversation with Broadbent. She fell silent when she saw me.

  "I want to talk to you tomorrow," I told her. "I'll call you in the morning."

  She nodded wordlessly.

  I shook Broadbent's hand. He leaned toward me and said into my ear, "Any luck?"

  "Yeah. Wile E. Coyote did it."

  I turned and walked down the long corridor to the front entrance. New guests kept arriving as if the eight o'clock invitation had no meaning in a world without rules.

  Before I got to the door, Hoag stepped out of a hallway and grabbed my arm. "Senor Rogan, let me wish you goodbye," he said in his hoarse voice. He shook my hand and pumped my elbow with his left hand at the same time. Then he took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  He lowered his voice. "Call me at my office. I have some information I think you will find interesting."

  "Sure," I said. "You're going to let me in on the spiritual meaning of a full life."

  He blinked. "Pardon?"

  I slapped him on the back. "Forget it," I grinned. "I'll give you a call without fail."

  CHAPTER VIII

  The parking lot of the Hotel El Salvador wasn't where you wanted to be at eleven-thirty at night. The place was lit by halogen lamps but the night was as black as the grave and there were large dark wooded areas on the fringes of the parking lot that could have hidden Rommel's tank corps.

  Luis dropped me off at the hotel entrance. I told him to come back in half an hour.

  The air was humid, warm and windless. It was quiet, if you didn’t count the racket of the crickets and the noise of an occasional firecracker to signal the approaching New Year.

  It was past eleven-thirty but Mayorga wasn't there yet. I walked around the lot with an uncomfortable twitch in the back of my neck, the result of many years of being in places I wasn't supposed to be, at times I wasn't supposed to be there. The hotel had some kind of function going on and men in tuxedos and women in long gowns kept drifting in and out of the lobby. As I swung around the outer edge of the blacktop, I came upon a couple engaged in sexual congress in the back seat of a late model four door black or dark blue BMW 728i. If they had that kind of money, they could've bought a small hotel. But, hell, lust and time being what it is...

  They didn't see me, and I didn't want to break the rising and falling rhythm of the shocks, so I kept on walking.

  Just as I rounded the far corner for the second time, and liking it less each lap around, a jeep raced into the lot and squealed to a stop ten feet in front of me. The driver didn't even have the common courtesy to lower his brights.

  I walked around to the driver's side and looked in. The driver was wearing a uniform, but the man sitting on the passenger side was in mufti. The guy grabbed the windshield and hauled himself upright. He waited a couple of seconds watching me, then slowly climbed out. He said something to the driver I couldn't hear.

  The driver gunned the engine, put it into gear and roared out of the lot as if he just remembered he had to take an overdue book back to the library.

  Colonel Mayorga walked over to me with an easy swagger. He was a small wiry man, younger than I expected, with close-cropped curly black hair. He was clean-shaven and not bad-looking. He must have been in his late thirties, maybe five-eight. There was a kind of coiled tension in his walk. He was wearing a neatly-pressed white guayabera, a pair of tight jeans and well-polished cowboy boots.

  He didn't give me his hand. He just stood there studying me. It was tough to see his eyes in the darkness, but I would've bet even money they were small and hard.

  Suddenly he clicked his heels and inclined his head slightly, like a character in an old black and white movie. I almost laughed in his face.

  "Mister Rogan," he said in English. "Jim Broadbent said I should give you a hand any way I can." His lisp made the words sound like the hiss of a snake. He should've spoken in Spanish. At least, in that language he would have sounded like the Captain from Castille, not some goddam gay caballero.

  "How do you know Jim?" I asked him.

  "We go back a long way." He waved his hand in dismissal. "What can I do for you?"

  "You heard about Roderick?"

  He grunted. "You think I'm blind and deef?"

  "I want the scuttlebutt from inside the military."

  "Who are you working for?" he said.

  "The forces of enlightenment."

  "Yeah. Well, let me give you some advice. You're here on a sucker's mission."

  "Why do you say that?" I asked him.

  He put his hands on his hips and leaned closer to me. "You got no idea what you're getting your ass into."

  "Who grabbed Roderick?"

  "I don't know, but I can nose around and get you the inside skinny."

  His English was good, if highly accented.

  "Where'd you learn English?" I said.

  He broke into a big grin. His teeth were white and big, but he had too many of them.

  "Man," he said. "I went to the Citadel and West Point. My little finger has more time in grade than your whole fuckin' body."

  "What the hell do you know about me?"

  "You? A jarhead." He laughed. "The Tet offensive in Hue. First battalion, Fifth Marines. Semper Fi and all that shit. I know all about you and you
r distinguished career."

  "From Broadbent?"

  He shrugged. "A saber. Who ever knows?"

  "Who grabbed Roderick?" I asked again.

  "You want my personal opinion?"

  I looked deep into his shadowed eyes. "I want your professional opinion."

  "The fuckin' guerillas. They need the cash for their cause."

  "I thought the war was over."

  "Wise up, Colonel," he snorted. "La lucha continua. The struggle continues. The rebels are broke. They can't get a peso from the Chinks or the Russkies. Fidel's on his last legs. The Sandinistas are history. Where do you think they're going to get their dough?"

  "What happens if they don't get their money?"

  "They'll get it. Don't fret. Five million is cigarette money for Roderick."

  "How do you know it's five million?"

  He put his hand on my shoulder. "My friend, have you ever read Alice in Wonderland?" He gave me a smile that could have won points for sincerity. "Welcome to the land behind the looking glass. Everyone knows everything here. Everyone knows why you are here. And everyone knows you are on a fool's errand."

  That made me feel real good.

  CHAPTER IX

  McInerny was leaning against the arm of a chair in the lobby, chomping on a cigar, when I got back to the Camino Real. It was almost midnight. He still hadn't shaved and his face had a ten-day beard. He'd been reading the International Herald Tribune. He tossed the paper on the chair when he saw me.

  "I got something," he said.

  "What? The clap?"

  "No, I'm serious." He pointed his stogie at me and blew out a thick stream of blue smoke. "I got word Roderick's chauffeur was spotted in Santa Tecla. Want to take a ride out there?"

  "Where the hell is Santa Tecla?"

  "It's a suburb of the city," he said. "Fifteen, twenty minute ride from here."

  "Sure," I said. I turned and started out the door. "Wait a second." I turned back to McInerny. "I told my driver to go home."

  "No sweat," he said. "I have my ve-hic-al." He put the accent on the first syllable. "Follow me."

  He walked out the front door and stopped next to an olive drab standard military issue jeep. The night air was sickly sweet from all the flowers in the hotel garden.

  "Hop in," McInerny said. His breath reeked from a full day's worth of imbibing alcoholic beverages. I climbed in and watched him as he started the engine. "Well?" he said and he gave me a sideways grin. "Do I get my story?" He let out his high-pitched laugh.

  "I'm a man of my word. You got me information. Therefore you get your story. What do you want?"

  He put the jeep in gear and took off with a lurch. "A rundown on the family Roderick?"

  I shook my head. "Too broad. Ask specific questions."

  "Who hired you?"

  "Confidential," I said.

  "Why did they bring down a ringer from New York?"

  I hesitated, then thought, what the hell? The bad guys knew. Why not the press? It just might be able to shake loose some information.

  "The ransom note was postmarked New York."

  "Who was it sent to?"

  "Guess," I said.

  He didn't miss a beat. "The aggrieved spouse?"

  "No comment."

  His grin widened. We bounced over a pothole. I unholstered the Glock and checked the magazine. The safety was still on. I clicked it off.

  He glanced over at the gun. "What's that for?" He drummed his fingers on the wheel in a staccato rhythm.

  "My mother always told me to carry protection," I told him. I didn't know where this clown was taking me and whether he was on the level.

  There wasn't another car on the road as we zoomed along. He was going way over whatever speed limit there was, if there was one. There was no moon and most of the street lights were out.

  "Reach in the glove compartment," McInerny said.

  "Why?"

  "Hand me the camera."

  I opened it and reached in. It was one of those old workhorse Nikons. An FTN, one kilo in weight.

  "You going to take pictures in the dark?"

  "There should be a flash unit in there too."

  I rooted around. "Nothing in there."

  "Shit," was his reply. "Feel around on the floor."

  I reached under the seat. Imagine my surprise. There was a MAC 10 and the weight indicated it was fully loaded.

  "Going to a birthday party?" I said.

  He grimaced. "The natives are restless. I'm a peaceful guy normally, but peace has its limits."

  I shoved the gun back under the seat. I was starting not to like the smell of this operation. "Where did you get your information?" I asked him.

  "Tit for tat," he said, shaking his head. "Some things you can't say. Somethings I can't say. You know how G-2 is."

  I grunted. "G-2 is usually wrong. I can tell you from bitter personal experience. Misinformation fed to the misguided who misinterpret it."

  "That's what I like — a positive mental attitude." He jerked the wheel sharply to the right and we skidded around a corner with a loud shriek of protest from the tires. We drove past some shanties that were dark except for the telltale blue flicker of the TV set. It was the same old story. These people were so poor they lived in a shack with a dirt floor and no indoor plumbing, but somehow they could afford a TV. There was nobody out on the streets. They were all inside watching soap operas selling unattainable dreams.

  We had just left the city when McInerny turned right and pulled into a middle-class street with postage stamp lawns. It was too dark to make out the street sign as we drove slowly past, but it looked something like Avila.

  McInerny turned the jeep in a circle so it faced the house. All the lights in the house were out. It was a small, one-story structure. McInerny slammed on the brakes and jumped out. "C'mon" he said. He didn't bother to turn off the engine or the headlights. I did him the favor and reached over and shut them off. I wasn't going in like a schoolgirl on prom night.

  The block was quiet. It was lit up by two lamps — one on each end of the street. McInerny walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I got out of the jeep and walked around behind it so I could see McInerny and the street at the same time. There was no answer to the bell, so he rang it again and then started banging on the door.

  No one came to the door, so he motioned to me that he was going around back. I nodded to him. He was gone for a couple of minutes. Then he reappeared and shook his head.

  "Nothing and nobody,” he said.

  He started walking back toward me when he tripped and went sprawling headfirst. "Shit," he cursed.

  That was when the first slug hit the windshield. The glass didn't shatter. It just cracked into a spiderweb pattern.

  Two more shots followed quickly. I hit the ground and rolled over next to McInerny. "A fine mess you've gotten us into, Ollie," I said.

  He didn't answer. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. I reached over and felt his temple. There was no pulse.

  He was dead. Nice shooting or a lucky shot?

  There were half a dozen more shots and then a couple of quick bursts from an automatic weapon, only this time they weren't coming from the far corner. They were coming from the corner we just turned. We were taking enfilading fire from both ends of the street. There was no cover. I was lying on an open lawn like a sheep waiting to be sheared.

  I pulled out my piece and waited for the flash and fired a couple of rounds into it. That shut them up for a minute. The streetlight was maybe thirty meters away. I propped myself up on my elbow on the grass and squeezed off a shot. The light went out with a little crash.

  The street was half dark now. This would give me half a chance to figure out some way to get the hell out of this place. Then some asshole at the far end turned on a searchlight that looked like it was mounted on a vehicle. The beam sent long shadows down the cobblestone street.

  I rolled over a couple of times and sighted down the barrel. The searchlight was
going to be tougher than a potshot at the streetlight. The Glock pulled slightly to the right so I made the adjustment and squeezed one off. It missed, but I could tell it was close because it hit the vehicle and ricocheted into somebody who let out a short grunt. The sound was sweeter than Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

  I made another correction and squeezed off another shot. This one took out the searchlight.

  Now the street was almost dark but it wasn't quiet. The boys at both ends of the block were hollering back and forth about the maricon in the middle who was giving them such a bad time. That would've been me, I guess.

  "Get up close and finish that son of a whore," one of them yelled.

  "Puta," the other side yelled. "You get up close and do it."

  It didn't sound like any one of these gentlemen wanted the honor. I stuck my head up a little and looked up and down the street in the hope of some form of relief. In New York, every house on the block would've been lit up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. But here, no one turned on a single light.

  Too smart for that, the civilians were. They weren't going to get in the middle of this little difference of opinion.

  There wasn't much time left. Sooner or later, one or both of these groups of lowlifes were going to come rolling up the block to greet me.

  Only I wasn't going to be there to meet them.

  I crawled back to the jeep on my gut. As quiet as I could make it, I pulled myself up into the driver's seat and slumped down. The key was in the ignition where I'd left it. The passenger side was closest to the far corner with the automatic weapon. But I wasn't going that way. Not on your life.

  I fired a couple of rounds at that corner, turned on the ignition, made a fast U-turn going over the sidewalk on the other side of the street and over some poor sucker's lawn, knocking down something in my way, whatever the hell it was, and took off back the way we came, flooring it and pumping off rounds right and left as I went.

  I kept as low as I could. So low I couldn't even see over the hood. I just knew I was in the middle of the street but I couldn't see anything on the road. The jeep took a couple of slugs in the door and another one somewhere in the front that made it cough. The speedometer said I was going forty-five, but it felt like I was crawling along at five miles an hour. The jeep hit a pothole and banged my knees up under the dash and I let out a curse.