Sanibel Flats

'General Zacul used to deal with an American named Hollins, but who was known here as Rafferty. He had a fake passport—'

'Hollins?' Suarez dropped the notebook and leaned over the table again, pushing his face close, and Ford saw for the first time that the colonel wanted to kill them; as if killing them would pose fewer problems than dealing with them. 'Yes, we were aware of this man's real name. How is it you know of this man?' Talking in fast, strident Spanish.

'Hollins was an acquaintance of mine. My associates and I helped him market some of the stuff he transported for Zacul—'

'Then you know where this man is now? You know the whereabouts of Hollins?'

Even though Ford knew that Zacul wanted Hollins, the intensity of Suarez's voice startled him. They wanted him, all right, and they wanted him badly.

'Yes, I know where he is. He's dead.'

'Dead?'

'Murdered. Check in my bag, the shaving kit, and you'll find a couple of newspaper clippings about it.'

Suarez began to pull things from the bag, took out the clippings and read them anxiously. 'It says here that he committed suicide—suicida, no?'

Ford shrugged. 'I don't think so. He lived a dangerous life and I think he probably made some kind of mistake; trusted the wrong people. But it doesn't matter. Hollins is gone. That leaves General Zacul with no one to market his stuff. That's why we're here. I got to Hollins's body about an hour before the police. I found a little metal box the murderer had overlooked. There were interesting things in the box, particularly a notebook with his list of connections. That is how I found Zacul's name.'

Suarez lunged forward suddenly, taking Ford by the shirt and shaking him. 'What else was in the box? What else, do you hear me? Tell me now or I will have my men shoot you this instant.'

Ford pulled slowly away from the man, no longer frightened, no longer worried about Suarez killing them— because he had Suarez, really had him. He said, 'Some of the things are in my backpack; your men overlooked them in their first search. Some jade carvings, amulet-sized, and two emeralds. I brought them as a token of good faith.'

'What else?'

What else? The emeralds weren't enough, and Ford knew he'd have to play his hole card. He said, 'An old manuscript with a lot of writing I didn't understand,' watching the man's eyes.

'The book,' Suarez said in a low voice, but very tense. 'Describe the book to me.'

Ford smiled. 'You're interested in the book?'

'Yes/'

'Let's see. ... It didn't have any covers on it. About thirty-five, forty pages long. Dark ink with some drawings in faded red and gold. That's about all I can remember. '

'You still have this thing?'

'I have it. But I didn't bring it with me. Not to Masagua, anyway.'

'Where is it?' Suarez was hunched over him, his fists clenched, as if he wanted to pull the information from Ford's throat.

Ford leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head, comfortable but not wanting to push the advantage too far. 'I've done enough talking for one night, Colonel. My friend needs medical attention. And I could use some sleep. If you want to hear any more about the book, you'll have to take me to Zacul.'

Suarez gave him a long, cold look. After a few moments he said, 'Very well. You will ride with us,' but Ford got the impression that Suarez saw this as only a temporary concession.

Ford knew that, barring interference from Zacul, Suarez would kill them.

Ford shook his head. 'We'll follow you in our own vehicle. It'll be easier for us to get back that way.'

Suarez pulled a snubnosed revolver from the back of his pants, cocked it, and leveled it at Tomlinson. 'It has already been decided. Do you wish to argue more?'

Ford got no chance to sleep; nor did he get a moment alone with Tomlinson. Suarez locked them in the room with a guard, then returned an hour later to lead them through the streets of Utatlan to a clearing beside the River of the Sun where four transport trucks waited.

It was 4:30 A.M.

Three of the trucks were filled with boxes of food and other supplies—Suarez had come to town for market day. The back of the fourth truck had room for the dozen or so guerrillas, and that's where Ford and Tomlinson rode, sitting in the open truck among crates of bananas, papayas, and live chickens.

The last thing Suarez told the guerrillas before starting the caravan was if the gringos tried to escape, shoot them.

The trucks made their way across the western valley, throwing a dusty wake in the darkness, while behind them the twinkling lights of Utatlan were absorbed by the low dark hills and then the fiery haze of a slow sunrise. The fresh light was harsh, and it touched the peaks of the volcanos that lay ahead in abrupt striations of light and shadow, showing wedges of mountainside. Two of the volcanos were active, and the roiling smoke, normally gray, was transformed into iridescent orange by the sunrise. The smoke flattened above the coned peaks in a great swath of rust.

Ford and Tomlinson rode in the far corner of the bed, nearest to the cab. They hadn't spoken more than a few words to each other because the soldiers sat on the other side, just a few feet away. The soldiers probably didn't understand English, but Ford wanted to take no chances. Not now; not when they were so close. But then the trucks began a long series of switchbacks as they entered the volcanic ranges, and the noise of the shifting gears and straining engines blotted out all other sound, so Ford slid down closer to Tomlinson and nudged him with his foot. 'You asleep?'

Tomlinson had his head pillowed on a sack of beans, his long legs draped over more sacks, and his eyes were closed. 'What?' He sat up and stretched a little, touching his face experimentally. 'Naw, had to open my eyes anyway to see who was kicking me.'

'Sorry. I guess you've been kicked enough for a while.'

Both of Tomlinson's eyes were black and his face was streaked with iodine from the first aid kit Suarez had given Ford. Looking around, he said, 'Hey, you catch those volcanos up ahead? Weird-looking, man. Like something out of an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel. Like you expect to see dinosaurs and winged reptiles and stuff. Cave men eating raw meat, maybe.'

'Sounds like you're feeling better anyway.'

'I feel like hell, man.' He tapped his head. 'In here I feel like hell.'

'I can bang on the cab and tell Suarez to give us some more aspirin.'

'Pills aren't going to help what I feel. It's what those guys did to me. The way they humiliated me. They hit me with their fists and they kicked me in the nuts. They . . . they made me cry, Doc. I pissed my pants and they made me cry like a baby. That sort of shit shouldn't happen to a human being.' He put his head down, not able to shake it off, the abasement.

'It's okay, Tomlinson.'

'It's not okay, man. You told me to be careful, but I had to go and open my big mouth to that asshole Suarez. Hell, he seemed like a nice guy. Kind of dumb and harmless. Next thing I knew, he was kicking me down the alley. Now I've screwed up your plans.'

'Not too loud. Keep your voice nice and relaxed, like we're talking about the weather or something.'

'Well, I did screw it up, didn't I? No more messenger going into the mountains for us, no more clean exchange. And they're probably going to kill us.'

All of which was true.

Ford said, 'I'll think of something. We'll just have to play it by ear. One thing we can't afford is for them to catch us in a lie. Our stories have to match. That's why I need to know what you told Suarez in that room. Everything.'

Tomlinson blinked at him. 'I didn't tell him anything, man. I zoned out while they were beating me. I had no reason to tell them because I didn't feel a thing.'

'Look, Tomlinson, it's all right if you talked. It's nothing to be ashamed of. You said they humiliated you —'