Jungle of Glass Read online

  Then I slammed into something that jarred my teeth and brought the jeep to a stop. I stuck my head up to see what it was.

  It was an old Buick angled out into the street. The jeep had run into the side of the Buick and was jammed into it at a forty-five degree angle. A guy stuck his head up not five feet from me. His mouth was open wide and you could see he had a couple of gold front teeth.

  While I sat there and wondered what this sonofabitch was going to do, he reached into the Buick and pulled out something that looked like a flare gun.

  I didn't give him a chance to point it at me. I put a bullet into the bridge of his nose and gunned the jeep into reverse, pulled around the Buick going backwards, cleared it, shifted gear and headed forward around the corner back toward the city.

  Someone got off a couple of shots at my back but they went wide and then I was clear.

  I was shaking in a pretty bad way so I drove back slowly. There were no cars on the road. I stopped the jeep about what I figured was a half mile from the Camino Real and wiped my prints off the steering wheel and the doors and the MAC 10 as best I could and started to walk back to the hotel. It was a long walk. All the stars were out and it would've been a beautiful night except for the minor detail that at least two men were dead and I had no more information than when I landed here and the clock was ticking louder and louder for Roderick and his bad heart.

  I went up to my room, climbed into the rack and slept until hell froze over. I didn't bother to shower.

  CHAPTER X

  Hoag's office was located in a neighborhood of large houses on a palm tree-lined street in a section of town called Escalon. There was nothing to indicate it was a business rather than a private home except maybe for the two cretins standing in front with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. Then again, a lot of the private homes had guards standing around.

  Luis dropped me off in front of the house and shut off his engine. I walked up the path to the gate and spoke to the nearest guard.

  "I'm here to see Senor Hoag."

  "What is your name?"

  I told him.

  "Yes, Senor," he said. "Wait for me one moment."

  He went inside while the second guard shifted his weapon to the other shoulder and eyed me up and down with an impassive look.

  The first guy came out and motioned me to follow him into the house. He took me into the living room, pointed at a sofa and said to wait. The room wasn't much to look at. It was furnished in a style that was frozen in time, like one of those styles that people use to furnish their house when they first get married and then never change over the years. This one was Danish Modern out of the Fifties.

  After a couple of minutes, Hoag came shuffling out of a side room. He grabbed my hand in his big bear paws and gave me a hearty handshake. His voice boomed in his middle- European accent, "I am so glad to see you, Mister Rogan."

  He was wearing a light blue guayabera that didn't do much to hide his generous waist. Under the guayabera was a pair of neatly-pressed tan slacks. He had highly-polished Gucci loafers on his feet. He wasn't wearing any socks.

  He draped his arm over my shoulder like a long-lost compadre and guided me outside onto a large patio and pointed to a glass table with a white wrought-iron base under the shade of a bougainvillea.

  "Do you like coffee?" he asked. "Real coffee?" He ran his hand over his thick walrus moustache.

  "What do you mean, real coffee?"

  "I mean Arabic coffee - Turkish coffee, whatever you call it in North America."

  "You mean where the spoon stands up in the cup?"

  He laughed uproariously.

  "It wasn't that funny," I said.

  "I like you, Mister Rogan. You are a man of few words."

  "Yeah, laconic. That's me."

  He looked at me, started to say something, then changed his mind. He sat down at the table and bellowed, "Nina Rosita."

  I pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. The weather was pleasant, the morning sun was blocked by the tree and there was a soft breeze. The patio floor was covered with leaves that hadn't been swept up yet. Not a bad day to be hunting a kidnapper while a victim slowly died.

  A little wrinkled maid in a pale blue uniform came out carrying a small tray with a small pitcher and small cups. She poured a cup for Hoag and one for me. When Hoag picked up his cup with his bear paw, it looked like a thimble with a handle. He took a little sip and said, "Ahhh....Gracias, Nina Rosita."

  Nina meant a young girl. This Nina Rosita was older than the hills.

  I picked up my cup. The handle was so small I couldn't put my finger through it. I didn't like the idea of holding the handle between my thumb and forefinger like a prissy schoolmarm so I just wrapped my hand around the cup. I looked at the coffee. The stuff was so thick it looked like pudding.

  Hoag leaned over to me and lowered his voice. "I want to help you find Senor Roderick. He was my friend. I have some information, but you have to give me your word you will not say where the information came from."

  "How do I know your information is good?"

  He frowned. "Because it came from a dying man."

  "Go on." I took a gulp of the coffee. That was a mistake. It was bitter as hell. I coughed and then said, "What did this man tell you?"

  He glanced around as if someone was hiding behind a tree. There wasn't anyone in sight. The garden was large and well-tended. Part of it was a fruit orchard. On the fruit trees there were little plastic bags covering each one of the fruits. I couldn't tell what kind of fruit trees they were because I couldn't see the fruit because of the little plastic bags.

  Finally Hoag turned his gaze back to me. "Let me tell you a story." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "A long time ago, maybe thirty years ago, three men formed a partnership. They formed it for one purpose only, because if they had not done so, they would have destroyed each other."

  He looked around once again and lowered his voice. "No one knew of the partnership. Its purpose was to monopolize the commercialization and export of an essential oil called Balsamo de Peru."

  I watched his greedy eyes as he told his tale. You could just visualize the profits piling up behind those tiny black marbles. It put me in mind of Balzac's line: Behind every great fortune is a great crime.

  "Are you familiar with this product?" he asked me.

  I shook my head.

  "It is a valuable ingredient in medicines and cosmetics and fragrances, and has been used for centuries."

  "Why is it called Balsamo de Peru if it comes from here?"

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled at me. "Ah, that is interesting and rather clever. You see, the Spaniards did not want the pirates on the seas to know the origin of this valuable oil so they gave it a false name — a fiction. Because, you see, this product comes from only one place in the world and from one kind of tree only. It does not come from Peru. It comes from a coastal area of El Salvador called Balsamar from trees which are hundreds of years old. And no one can plant such a tree because it would take a hundred years for the juice — how do you call it? — the sap to be suitable for processing."

  He stopped and nodded to himself, as if he were remembering a forgotten time. "This is not a pretty tale, my friend. These three men were among the richest in the country and they were hungry men. They set a price to export the Balsamo, but one man was hungrier than the other two and he secretly sold his excess at lower prices. Senor Roderick found out about this and..." He hesitated and inspected his fingernails. His fingers were like knockwursts and the nails were manicured and covered with a clear polish. He must have seen a cuticle he didn't like because he started to worry it with his teeth.

  A hunched-over peasant with a straw hat came out of nowhere and started to trim the garden with a machete. The man was fifty meters from us, but Hoag dismissed him with a wave of his hand and a shouted word, "Later." The gardener skittered away quickly like a mouse caught in a bright beam of light.

  Hoag finished chewing on
his nail and returned to his story. "Senor Roderick — Don Jaime, as we called him — was not pleased, so he had the man's factory set on fire. It burned down but there was a further problem. The man's child was playing near the tanks of honey and was badly burned. The child was blinded and crippled by the flames. In this country, one does not call the authorities when there is a crime. You take care of it yourself, or your friends take care of it. So this man swore he would repay Don Jaime for his evil deed."

  "So you mean this man had Roderick kidnapped?" I said.

  Hoag shook his head. "Things are never so simple, my friend." He paused and brushed his hand over his walrus mustache. "The grudge lasted for many years. About five years ago, the man died. On his deathbed, he made his brother swear to revenge him." Hoag stared at me. "The brother made an agreement with the devil. Two of his workers were brothers of a priest who was known to have a connection with the Left. The dead man's brother arranged with the priest to have the Left kidnap Don Jaime."

  Hoag leaned back in his chair and finished off his coffee. "Thus was the blood feud settled."

  "Hell of a story," I said. "And what's the name of the dead man's brother?"

  A grim smile came to his face. "One does not betray one's friends so easily. For this information, I will ask of you a little favor."

  So this was one of life's little tit-for-tat games. I gave him a sour grin. "And what would that be?"

  "I would ask you to carry a little package for me."

  He held up his hand before I could say a word. "It is not drugs or anything dangerous or criminal.” He shrugged. "You are a man of the world. It is a little gift for my...girlfriend in Miami."

  "What is it? A battery-powered dildo?" This guy didn't look like much of a Don Juan, what with his girth and his advanced years.

  He didn't catch my meaning. A nuance of language, maybe.

  "It's a little something of no significant value. Something that would appeal to a young woman. I would be very grateful if you could do this thing for me."

  "I might be here a long time. Your girlfriend might get impatient. I've heard women sometimes get impatient."

  He shook his head. "You will not be here long." He gave me a knowing look. "Your work will be finished shortly."

  CHAPTER XI

  "What in God’s name are you, old buddy? Some kind of walking disaster area?" Broadbent said. "I got a call from the policia that there was a rootin’ tootin’ shootout in Santa Tecla and an American reporter was killed. There's all kind of hell to pay. We have to write an official report." He squinted at me. "You know anything about this?"

  Broadbent was waiting for me at the front desk when I got back to the hotel. The air conditioning wasn't working very well because he was using a big red handkerchief to wipe the sweat off the top of his shaved head.

  "Don't even ask," I said. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "I've been trying to reach you. Where the hell were you?"

  "Checking out the local walruses. They get mighty uncomfortable in this climate."

  He rolled his eyes and clapped his hand on my shoulder. "Come with me. Colonel Mayorga has something for you."

  We got into the back of the embassy car and Broadbent told the driver where to go. We didn't say much as we rode along. I thought about McInerny. How much had he known? Had he set me up or was he an innocent lamb led to the slaughter? I’d always had an instinctive distrust of newsmen and McInerny was no exception. Why was he carrying a loaded automatic? If I dug deep enough, I was bound to root out some maggots.

  The colonel was sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall when we walked into the restaurant. He was wearing a dark suit, a black tie and a white shirt. He had on dark sunglasses so you couldn't see his eyes. There was no sign of recognition from him when we sat down. Impassive as a stone wall.

  The restaurant was called El Bodegon. The decor was mock Spanish, like Charlton Heston in El Cid. The place was comfortable, quiet and almost empty. The air-conditioning was working overtime and the room was cool. Broadbent nodded to a man sitting with a young woman at a table on the other side of the room and then turned to me.

  "Want a drink, Ed?"

  "Last time I said no to that, I misunderstood the question."

  "What's your poison?"

  I ordered a scotch on the rocks and Broadbent had the same. Mayorga had aquavit.

  "What's good here, Bobby?" Broadbent asked Mayorga.

  "Have the camarones del rio," Mayorga said.

  "They're crawfish," Broadbent said to me. "They're really tasty here."

  "They're not crawfish," said Mayorga. "They're shrimp."

  "You're wrong," said Broadbent. "Shrimp are small. That's why they're called shrimp. These are big. They're like crawfish, crayfish, whatever the hell you call them."

  "What the hell do you know?" Mayorga said. "You're a goddam gringo shitkicker from the south who doesn't know his sister from a pig to be porked." The angrier he got, the more pronounced his lisp became.

  "You dumb fucking spic," Broadbent said. "You get a little education at a second-rate military school in the States and you think you're a fucking Cordon Bleu chef."

  I cut in. "Gentlemen, I don't give a good goddam if it's a friggin’ blowfish," I said. "Can we get down to business?"

  They both looked at me and then at each other. Mayorga spread his hands palm down on the white tablecloth. "You know I don't have any contacts with the Left." If he weren't wearing those dark glasses, I would have sworn he gave me a wink. "But I can put you in touch with a professor of religion at the UCA who has certain contacts, if you get my drift."

  "What's UCA?" I asked Broadbent.

  "That's the university. Hotbed of Marxism."

  "I thought Marxism was dead," I said.

  He nodded. "Sure. And so is Christianity."

  "Who is this professor?" I asked Mayorga.

  "My brother-in-law."

  Broadbent looked surprised. "Seems like Bobby's family plays both sides of the aisle."

  "Yeah," I said. "The Red and the Black."

  Mayorga raised his hands defensively. "Hey, wait a minute. He's my wife's brother. You know how these teachers are. He talks a good game but he's just a harmless intellectual."

  "Not likely to blow up any buildings?" I said.

  "No, no," Mayorga said, sweeping his hand across the table. "He sits in sidewalk cafes drinking aperitifs and bullshitting about Marxist theology."

  "Could he plan a kidnapping?" I said.

  Mayorga stopped talking and looked at me for a long time. Then he turned to Broadbent. "Our friend is a suspicious son of a bitch."

  "That's my job," I said. "How do I know you didn't grab Roderick?"

  Broadbent cut in. "Listen to Rogan. He's good. He'll find your wife's maternal grandmother in hell if he has to."

  Mayorga nodded. His mouth tightened. "OK, he might be able to plot something or other, but he's not the one to get his hands dirty, if you catch what I mean." He was about to say something when the man who Broadbent had nodded to when we walked into the restaurant came over to our table.

  "Mister Lightener," Broadbent said and half rose to greet him. "Sit down and join us." He pushed out a chair for the man to sit down.

  The man shook his head, then jerked his thumb back toward the girl he was sitting with. "My friend will get mad if I ignore her and then I won't get laid tonight. First priorities, you know."

  He was an American, well-dressed in a dark business suit. His hair was black, cut short and neatly-combed. He had a thick dark mustache that suited his face. His skin was smooth and unlined, even though he looked about fifty. He stood straight and stiff. Professional spook, I thought.

  He looked at me. "I know who you are and why you're here."

  "Sorry I can't say the same," I said.

  "My name is Lightener and I'm here to help you."

  "I'm grateful. Seems like everybody in this small country wants to help me."

  Broadbent p
ut his hand on my arm. "We appreciate your offer of help. Mister Rogan is going to take you up on it. The embassy and the American people appreciate your offer of help."

  "Yeah," I said. "And the rest of the free world appreciates your offer of help."

  Broadbent jabbed his elbow into my side. "Mister Rogan has a well-developed sense of humor, but unfortunately he thinks he's back in the States where it's more appreciated."

  He shot a look at me that would have stopped a charging bull elephant in heat. "Mister Rogan will give you a call."

  Lightener nodded crisply. "Thank you, Mister Broadbent." He inclined his head slightly. "Gentlemen," he said and made an abrupt about-face and walked back to his young lady.

  Broadbent turned to me. "Asshole," he said.

  "Yes?" I said.

  "That guy could be very valuable to you. He's one of the richest and best-connected men in the country."

  "What's his background?" I said. "Is he one of your co-religionists?"

  Broadbent raised an eyebrow. "Interesting you should catch that. You still have a good eye. He was with the Agency for twenty years before he retired. Mostly administrative, back in Langley, although he did spend some time in the field. Remember Ortega and Comandante Zero in Nicaragua? Then he married a daughter of one of the fourteen families, took over the family business and made it even bigger than it was. He knows everybody of importance in El Salvador and Washington."

  “What are the fourteen families?” I asked.

  “Just the richest people in the country, that’s all,” Broadbent said.

  I turned to Mayorga. "What do you make of Lightener?”

  Mayorga made a face like he'd just smelled a three- day-old corpse. "He is one bad motherfucker. I wouldn't trust him with the family silver. But, hell, if he can help you..." He shrugged and let it drop.