Chapter Fifteen
Laura checked the time again. Ten till five. Two minutes since she’d last checked. The sun would be up soon. How long had Mark been gone?
To be ready to leave when he brought Tony, she’d taken the gun Mark left, made sure the magazine was loaded, and then pocketed a box of bullets.
Could she shoot someone?
For Tony, yes. For him, anything.
She fought the urge to leave, to go after her son. But again, if Mark had Tony, they could miss each other.
Trust. She had to trust.
She hurried to the front of the house and peered out the tiny window. Several soldiers and one policeman moved along the sidewalk that surrounded the plaza, checking the doors of businesses and homes. She lost sight of them as they crossed to this side of the plaza, but as they drew closer, she heard them next door, knocking and calling out.
“¡Abre la puerta!” Open the door, a man shouted.
After a crunching bang, pounding footsteps echoed in the early morning. Were they breaking in? Why?
The sound of voices and conversation she couldn’t understand, followed by heavy footfalls on the sidewalk close to the front door, reached her. She jumped back so they wouldn’t see her through the small window in the door.
“The woman you saw,” a man said, “is she the woman in this picture?
“That is the step-daughter of our United Nations ambassador,” came a raspy male voice.
Julie? Someone thought they’d seen Julie?
“No,” the man who’d just spoken said. “The woman I saw was dressed as a servant, in a uniform, but she is the one in the newspaper. Arturo Herrera’s daughter.”
Not Julie. Her. Someone had seen her enter the house.
Her breath left in a rush. She pressed her hand to her mouth. They would come here next.
She backed away from the door, turned and ran as quietly and quickly as she could.
The gun. She’d left it in the kitchen when she’d gotten a drink of water. She snatched it from the counter, patted the box of bullets in her pocket, and raced for the back gate. The first light of sunrise turned the eastern sky a lighter blue.
The clang of something hitting the iron bars in front reached her, then the crack of wood. They were breaking in.
Hands shaking, fumbling, she opened the gate, closed it quietly, and looked up and down the back street. Empty.
She dashed across and into the shadows of the alleyway between two small shops.
***
Avoiding troops was taking Mark on a zigzag route that was eating up the time. The sun peeked over the horizon as he jogged down a street close to the Presidential Palace.
He stopped midway down a city block in the dark doorway of a three-story building and oriented himself to the street where Tony was being held. If he had it in his head right, crossing the Plaza de Armas would be the quickest way, but he ran the risk of running into more armed troops. There was no shooting now, and if he could get to Tony before full blown daylight, he stood a better chance of getting the boy out before anything else happened.
He kept jogging, careful to stay in the shadows, ever watchful of his surroundings. Minutes later, as he rounded a corner onto one of the five main feeder avenues to the plaza, he ran into a small patrol. Regular army, the four young soldiers had fanned out across a wide avenue, their eyes scanning all the buildings, their FN F2000 assault rifles held at the ready. One turned swiftly at a sound from a building to his right, crouched and prepared to fire.
“Calm down, soldier,” the sergeant said. “We are here to protect, not to kill.”
“I heard something. Our orders are to keep everyone inside.”
“¡Adentro!” the sergeant shouted at whoever had stuck their head out of a door. “Stay inside!”
“I don’t like this,” another soldier said. “Why are we here doing this when Monte Blanco is invading our country from the north?”
“Let the generals worry about that,” the sergeant replied.
“But General Montero has issued no orders. We are getting all of this from others.”
Another soldier laughed. “What? Montero didn’t bother to ask your opinion?”
“Think about it. We should be along the frontera. Instead, we are ordered south from Huamachuco to come here. To patrol the streets of our capitol? Other troops, those from here, should be doing this. Instead, they were sent north. Something’s wrong.”
“He’s right,” a third soldier agreed. “Montero would send his orders down through officers we know. Instead we get this from... What was his name?”
“Soto,” another filled in. “Colonel Soto.”
“I have never heard of him. No. This isn’t right. I will not shoot my own people.”
“Be quiet. Do your job,” the sergeant said. “We’re soldiers. We follow orders.”
They continued their patrol, each wary, scanning the street and the buildings.
Mark made it down a side street, then over two more into one of the several neighborhoods of the old colonial city. Pausing for breath, he heard a mechanical rumbling. The sidewalk beneath his feet trembled.
Tanks.
The door of the house beside him opened and a middle aged man peered out, his attention fixed down the avenue that led to the Plaza de Armas, toward the sound. When he glanced the other way, he jumped, startled at the sight of Mark.
“Vete,” he demanded. Go away.
“What’s wrong with you?” a woman’s voice came from inside. “Don’t you see he’s not a soldier?”
The older man, dressed in black pants and shirt, a bandana around his neck, cautiously opened the door a little wider. “What are you doing out there?” he asked. “It isn’t safe. They shot four people last night.”
“I’ll move on,” Mark said.
“They will catch you,” the woman, probably the man’s wife, said, joining him. “They are our soldiers and they are killing us.”
“Go inside, mujer.”
The woman gave Mark one last look, and, with a toss of her head, went back inside.
“You are a foreigner?” the man asked.
“Argentinean,” Mark replied.
“This is no place for you,” the man said, looking down the street again.
Beyond him, in the darkened interior of the modest home, Mark caught a glimpse of several men, both old and young. The younger men had sling shots.
“You can’t fight the tanks,” Mark warned.
“We will resist,” the man replied. “Go, they will shoot us.” With that he shut the door.
Hell. He couldn’t get caught up in this, not until Laura and Tony were safe.
What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t afford to get caught in this at all. He was CIA. His false papers should hold up, but if they didn’t? He knew he’d have to handle Ethridge’s anger, but if his true identity were discovered, it would set off a diplomatic disaster with political and international repercussions.
***
Laura was forced to keep moving by patrols that seemed to be everywhere. With no place to hide, she headed toward where Margarita held Tony. There was at least a small chance she’d find Mark with her son.
Her knowledge of the city, of the alleyways and side streets she’d walked for years, made it possible to move quickly toward her destination. As the first rays of sunrise spilled over the city, she cut through the old neighborhood streets that held bodegas, pharmacies and other small businesses. Five avenues led into the Plaza de Armas, about six blocks away, like spokes on a wheel. The owners of most of the shops in the area lived on the second floor. As she crept through the shadows, she began seeing open windows. People would lean out, look across and down toward the plaza, then duck back inside.
Squeaking and rumbling filled the still dark street. The sidewalk shook. Then she saw the tanks. Two of them. They rolled up the avenue, gun turrets aimed toward the plaza.
Doors opened, people peered out cautiously. Laura froze directly in front of a bodega when the single opening in the metal roll-down door opened. An older man, still dressed in his pajamas, didn’t seem at all surprised to see her.
“Are they taking El Palacio?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She kept watching the tanks.
“It’s not Monte Blancan troops,” he said.
“Of course not,” came a female voice from inside. “Come. Get dressed. It’s not war, it is a golpe de Estado.”
A coup d’état?
An older woman peeked around the door. “The government lied to us.”
“Not Valdivia. The president would not lie,” the old man insisted.
“Then who?” she demanded.
“Ruiz,” Laura said in a whisper. Ruiz planned this. Her father and all political opponents were in jail or exiled, her son taken in case—in case of what?
The woman opened the door wider. “Madre de Dios, Diego. We cannot allow a golpe.”
“How do we stop this?” The man raised his hands.
“Anna!” someone shouted from the floor above the laundry next door. “It’s a coup! I see tanks surrounding El Palacio!”
Anna looked up. “That is what I am telling Diego.”
The woman upstairs turned to her neighbor on the other side who also now leaned out her window. “Do you see the tanks?”
“Two are turning, positioning themselves to shoot El Palacio. Others are coming up the avenues.” The neighbor crossed herself. “What’s to become of my sons?”
“Your sons are probably driving the tanks,” the upstairs woman said.
“No, my sons would never tear down what it has taken years to build up. They would never shoot us. No.” The neighbor spun away from her window. An instant later she was back, an old aluminum pot in one hand, a slotted spoon in the other. She banged the spoon against the bottom of the pot.
“What are you doing?” the upstairs woman asked. “You’ll bring them down on us.”
Moments later, Laura saw several more second story windows open, saw several doors open as people heard the banging and peered out.
“For what? For banging my pot?” The neighbor took a breath and yelled. “Return our government! ¡No al golpe!”
One block down, a tank began turning its turret toward them.
The woman continued her banging and shouting. “No to the coup!” As the minutes ticked by, she was joined by other women chanting and banging pots. The tank’s turret squeaked to a stop, gun aimed toward them. A second tank turned, its turret aimed down a side street.
More and more women joined in the din.
Laura watched in horror. Would the tanks shoot civilians? Would the soldiers inside really turn on their own people?
Anna, who’d opened her door and spoken with Laura, went inside momentarily, came back and banged furiously on a pot she’d gotten.
Only a short distance away, the tank turret adjusted its squeaky turn and stopped again. The hatch opened and a helmeted head eased into view. The other tank’s crew did the same. The soldiers were watching, but didn’t seem to want to shoot. Several shook their heads.
“You should leave here and seek safety,” the woman said.
Yes, but did she dare believe Tony could be safe now, even if Mark found him?
***
Mark stood on the corner of a one of the largest of the plaza feeder avenues as dawn burst across the sky. He’d run into two armed patrols that had forced him to backtrack, eating up more precious time, and now the curfew had been lifted. Clusters of people huddled on corners carefully peering in the direction of the Presidential Palace. Soldiers, some so young Mark thought they’d never shaved, made half-hearted attempts to move those gathered away, but the mix of old and young, male and female, seemed to overwhelm their ability to figure out how to do it.
He ducked through an alleyway that cut from one feeder avenue to another to avoid tanks. As he emerged onto the sidewalk, several college-aged boys holding sling shots ran away, looking over their shoulders. A column of helmeted police, riot gear, masks and shields in place, followed at a steady and menacing pace.
Two blocks away, tanks surrounded the statue of San Mateo’s colonial liberator in the middle of the Plaza de Armas. Some aimed toward the Presidential Palace, others up each of the avenues that fed the plaza. Troops and helmeted police occupied most of the side streets.
Had Ruiz taken over the Presidential Palace? Or was this simply a show intended to keep up the subterfuge that the military was protecting it from foreign invasion?
Mark pushed on as the riot police moved forward. Men and women of all ages and economic statuses scattered.
A handful of college-aged students, who’d gotten closer to the plaza and hadn’t fled, climbed onto two of the tanks that still had their hatches closed. Old men cursed with raised fists. Both men and women waved handkerchiefs of different colors. And then the real noise began. It started with a few women who leaned out of their second floor windows in front of a bodega several blocks up, banging on pots. Within seconds, a chorus of banging and chanting reverberated along the avenues of the old colonial city.
Mark shoved his way through the increasingly crowded streets as a lone figure carried the San Matean flag and slowly made his way into the open area of the plaza, between the Presidential Palace and the tanks. The soldiers inside watched, but did nothing. The man, in what looked to be the striped pants of a prisoner but wearing a green jacket, reached the monument of the liberator who’d freed the country from the Spanish nearly two hundred years ago. With some effort, he pulled himself up. From his perch, he waved the flag back and forth. A cheer began close to him and soon traveled along the avenues. Someone took the flag and handed him a megaphone. Amid shouts for quiet, the noise died down. The handkerchief waving hands all dropped.
“What is he saying?” a man in a business suit asked another beside him.
The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed a number, said a few words and held it up. On speaker, the tinny words of the man holding on to the statue of the liberator came through.
“Do not let this happen!” he shouted. “Do not let those hungry for power gain it at the expense of San Mateo, its people and the democracy we have struggled to achieve!” He said something else Mark couldn’t make out over the distortion caused by the cell phone speaker, then, “Let us take our government back!”
Shouting erupted and chanting began. It took a few moments for him to understand.
“Herrera!” the crowd shouted.
Laura’s father.
Mark pushed and shoved his way through the crowds. A woman blocked his way as she spoke to another woman, “My nephew who lives near the jail says there were only six or seven men who freed Herrera and the other political prisoners. ¡Que valientes!” How brave.
Probably Estrada and a handful of others. Where were they now? And where were Sam and his team? Had Delta come to evacuate Americans? Did they know where Tony was?
The crowd began shouting, “Valdivia!” for the president.
A college student on the closest tank jumped down and ran into the crowd that blocked Mark’s way. “They say Ruiz has fled. He has called in those loyal to him to try again. He won’t give up without a fight.”
This had to be the reason Ruiz kept Tony Iglesias after Herrera was. As a hedge against the possibility of having to retreat. The boy was a bargaining chip.
Stark-white fear jagged through Mark. Finally breaking through the throng, he sprinted, thoughts of Laura’s anguish over losing Tony pushing him to reach the house before Ruiz could take the boy and flee.
***
Laura dodged protestors, soldiers, police and tanks. She was only three blocks from her son. Breaking into a run, she skirted the crowds and ducked through two alleys to emerge one block away.
With shaky fingers, she felt for the gun she’d placed in the back waistband of her jeans. Her shirt covered it and the bulky ammunition box in her pocket. She had to be calm, prepared for anything. If Tony was still there, she would get to him no matter what. And if Mark had already gotten him?
She’d find them.
Walking with forced calm, she reached the house as people moved in waves toward the plaza. The guards were gone. The sheers inside the house moved. Someone peeked out but Laura couldn’t tell who the shadowed figure was.
She kept her attention on the door and windows as she neared the sidewalk to the front door. After a quick check for the armed men she’d seen yesterday, she reached for the gun.
Someone grabbed her arm. She gasped, jerked her arm to free herself, and spun around.
“What are you doing here?” Mark whispered into her ear as he propelled her away from the house. “Come on. I—”
“I’m so glad I found you.” She looked around, anxious to see her son. “Where’s Tony?”
“I just got here. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“Soldiers came to Julie’s house and broke in the front door. I had to get out.”
The roar and crunch of tank treads on the street made her turn. A single tank, still two blocks away, rolled toward them. Men and women on their way toward the main plaza turned and began running away. But several young men scattered to either side of the tank and began pelting it with the small stones used as decorative ground cover along the sidewalks.
“Come on!” Mark shouted, pulling her around the corner, to the side of Ruiz’s house, toward a barely open courtyard gate.
She fought his hold. “Tony—”
“Laurita?” someone asked from the gate.
“Esperanza!” She ran to the woman who’d been with her son and hugged her tightly. “Where’s Tony?”
“Ruiz and Gonzales,” the long-time servant replied, “they came and took our Tony and Margarita.” She rushed into the crowded street and pointed. “That way.”
But there were no cars, just people running as the tank rolled forward.
“Laurita, I am sorry,” Esperanza said. “I took care of him, but I could not stop them. Margarita promised she will take care of him.”
“Por Dios, Esperanza! She cannot take him. She and her pendejo husband cannot have my son.”
Mark had never heard Laura swear, even with what he considered the relatively mild “asshole.”
“How long ago?” Mark asked.
“Five, ten minutes maybe?” Esperanza replied.
“Where will he go?” Laura asked, grasping Mark’s arm.
Damned if he knew. No.
What if…?
Ruiz needed a pilot. That was why he’d hired Victor Fuentes, why he’d asked if Mark could fly a plane. A plane would get Ruiz away quickly. He couldn’t use the international airport because he couldn’t be sure of who was holding it. “Where’s the closest small airport?”
“Why? What—” Laura seemed to consider his question. “If he’s running away…” And met his gaze. “He needed a pilot.”
“Exactly. Small airport?”
“The closest...” Laura bit her lip. “I don’t know!”
Ruiz would need something close to the city.
Close… While he was a Green Berets, his unit and San Matean soldiers had run drug interdiction from one. “There’s a small airport in San Felipe.
“It’s too far,” Laura said. “We’ll never get there without a car.”
Mark looked down the street for a car or truck he could hotwire. Nothing.
“My father’s men. We can go to them—”
“I don’t know where they are. They broke your father out of prison.”
“He’s out?”
“Yeah. He’s leading the effort against Ruiz.”
“I’m happy he’s safe.” Then her eyes narrowed and gaze zeroed in on his. “You went to them before you came for Tony,” she accused.
“It’s not what you think. We need to move.”
“Laurita,” Esperanza said, taking her hand. “Your cousin, Carmen. She’s close. She drives the church van.”
“Yes! Two blocks maybe?” She pointed. “That way.”
“Let’s go,” Mark said. “Esperanza, are you coming?”
“I’ll go to my sister. It’s not far. Please bring our Tony home.” She ran to join those fleeing.
“¡Corre!” Run, came shouts from the street.
As soon as they got to the sidewalk, a young man in jeans, T-shirt and running shoes spun around the corner. “Hurry, run,” he said between gulps of air. “You must hide before it gets worse.” He looked over his shoulder.
“What’s happened?” Mark asked.
“It’s said that Ruiz is flying to Puerto Escondido. From there he will direct his loyalists to try again.”
Ruiz had lost his fucking mind. His failed attempt to take over the government would turn into civil war, never mind the likelihood of war with Monte Blanco.
The menacing rumble of the tank drew nearer.
Mark took Laura’s hand and started running.