Life Blood Part 33

The first thing I did was call Steve's hotel in Belize City. Of course he wasn't there, but I left a long message to the effect that I was taking a "sightseeing" trip up to the Peten with Alan Dupre today because of unforeseen new circ.u.mstances. The reasons were complicated, but I'd watch out for myself and therefore he shouldn't worry.

That out of the way, I looked around the room. It was a disaster, but I quickly began cramming things into the small folding backpack I always took on trips. Then I rang the kitchen and told them to make up a quadruple egg sandwich (_quatro huevos, por favor_) to go, along with a large bottle of distilled water.

By the time I got to the reception desk and explained I wasn't actually checking out for good, Alan Dupre was already waiting outside in his battered green Jeep, cleaning his scratchy shades and leaning on the horn.

Let him wait. I wrote out a long note to Steve, on the chance he might come looking for me. Then with deliberate slowness, I wandered out to where Alan's Jeep was parked and tossed my backpack behind the seat.

"First things first." I climbed in and handed him the address of Ninos del Mundo I'd copied onto some hotel stationery. "This is where we've got to go."

He stared at it a moment, puzzling, and then seemed to figure out where it was.

"Upscale part of this beautiful oasis." He s.h.i.+fted into gear. "But it's more or less on the way." He glanced up nervously at the sky. "We just don't have all day."

Off we headed toward the suburbs, through a ganglia of downtown streets laced with pizza joints and frying-meat vendors, till we eventually ended up on a tree-lined avenue that looked as genteel as Oyster Bay.

When we got to the address, I told him to park across the way, and just sat a moment staring.

The building itself was a windowless compound surrounded by trees and a high wall of white stucco, with a guardhouse and wide iron gate (not unusual for Guatemala) protecting a long walkway. The whole thing looked like a fortress, except the view through the gate was a pastoral vista of neat flower beds and a pristine lawn. The guardhouse itself had a dozing teenager, undoubtedly with an Uzi resting across his lap.

"Okay, Alan," I said "time to get with the program. How's your Spanish?"

"Depends on who I'm trying to BS." He shrugged and began cleaning his sungla.s.ses again.

"Well, why don't you see if you can talk us past that guard."

He stared at the entrance a moment. "Be a waste of our precious time.

Tell you right now, kids like that only answer to one boss, the _jefe_, the big guy, whoever he is. That's how they retain their employment. A joint locked down this tight don't give Sunday tours."

"Well, I think he's asleep. So I'm going to be creative and see if there's a back entrance of some kind. Maybe a service area that'll give me some idea of what's going on here."

"Do what you want, but make it fast," he said, leaning back in the seat. "And try not to get shot."

I carefully got out and walked down the empty street a way, then followed the stucco wall/fence--the building covered an entire city block--until I came across an alley entrance, with another large iron gate, padlocked shut.

I peered up the driveway, shrouded in overhanging trees, but there was nothing in the parking lot except a couple of Army Jeeps. And a black Land Rover.

Well, Barry Morton really wanted me to see this. But why? Is there a connection to the place in the Peten? And what are the Army vehicles all about?

I sighed and made my way back to the street. When I reached the Jeep, Alan was gone, but then I realized he was over talking to the young guard, offering him a cigarette. A few moments later he waved good-bye and casually ambled back.

"Okay." He settled in and hit the ignition. "Here's the official deal.

This place is some kind of hospice for unwed mothers. They also take in orphans, or so he thinks. According to him, no American women have ever had anything to do with the place, which is probably why I'd never heard of it." He glanced at me as we sped off. "You happy now?

Debriefing young Army dudes is a specialty of mine, so I think that's probably the straight scoop."

"Did you ask if it's connected with something in the Peten?" I was still hoping. In any case, whatever it was, I was collecting more pieces of the puzzle.

"Hey, give me a break." He s.h.i.+fted up, gaining speed. "I know when to push, and this wasn't the precise moment. The kid was itchy enough as it was. Like, who the f.u.c.k are you, gringo, and what are you doing here? I got all I could get without a cold _cerveza_." He glanced over.

"You ask me, a little grat.i.tude wouldn't be entirely out of place."

"Okay. _Muchas gracias, amigo_. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

The Jeep was open and I checked out the sky, which was growing darker and more threatening by the minute. The promised foul weather still seemed to be just that, promised but it was definitely on the way. Alan Dupre must really be scared. Finally I leaned back in the torn plastic seat and closed my eyes.

Was this Ninos del Mundo the Latin branch of Children of Light? The place where Alex G.o.ddard's babies came from? Considering the interest Colonel Ramos had in my movie, the Army Jeeps could be a tip-off. Also, there seemed to be an even chance that Barry Morton was involved somehow. But it was all still guesswork. And anyway, this wasn't the place Sarah had put on her landing card. _That _Ninos del Mundo was somewhere up north, hidden in the rain forest.

Ready or not, Sar, hang on.

Chapter Nineteen

"What did he say?" I asked, not quite catching the burst of rapid-fire Spanish from the c.o.c.kpit. The explosion of expletives had included the word _navegacion_. Something about malfunction.

G.o.d help us.

Alan Dupre's helicopter reminded me of the disintegrating taxis on Guatemala City's potholed streets. The vibration in the pa.s.senger compartment was so violent it made my teeth chatter. My stomach felt like it was in a c.o.c.ktail shaker, and the deafening roar could have been the voice of h.e.l.l.

I was staring out the smudgy plastic window, where less than three hundred meters below I could just make out the top of the Peten rain forest of northwest Guatemala sweeping by beneath us. So this was what it looked like. Dense and impenetrable, it was a yawning, deciduous carpet enveloping the earth as far as the eye could see--if something ten stories high could be called carpet. I'd been in the forests of India's Kerala and seen some of the denser growth in southern Mexico, but this was like another planet.

The main problem was, a violent downpour, the leading edge of the hurricane, was now sweeping across the Yucatan, stirring up the treetops of the jungles below. The rain, which had begun in earnest about ten minutes after we got airborne, had been steadily increasing to the point it was now almost blinding.

This was the risk I'd chosen to take, but let me admit right here: The weather had me seriously scared, my fingernails digging into the armrests and my pulse erratic. And now was there something else? We'd only been in the air for thirty-five minutes, and already we had some kind of mechanical issue looming? What was left to go wrong?

"Some of the lights went out or something." Dupre tried a shrug. "I'm not sure. No big deal, though. This old bird always gets the job done."

His pilot, Lieutenant Villatoro, formerly of the Guatemalan Army, had just shouted the new development back to the cabin. "Probably nothing.

Don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it! His "tourist" helicopter was a Guatemalan candidate for the Air & s.p.a.ce Museum, an old Bell UH-1D patched together with chicle and corn masa. Surely the storm was pus.h.i.+ng it far beyond its stress limits.

"Right, but what exactly--?"

"Sounds like the nav station." He clicked open his seat belt.

"Something . . . Who knows? If you'd be happier, I'll go up and look."

I felt my palms go cold. "Doesn't seem too much to ask, considering."

The world down below us was a hostile melange of towering trees, all straining for the sky, while the ground itself was a dark tangle of ferns, lianas, strangler vines, creepers--among which lurked Olympic scorpions and some of the Earth's most poisonous snakes. If we had to set down here--I didn't even want to think about it. To lower a helicopter into the waves of flickering green below us would be to confront the hereafter.

"It's just the lights, like he said." Dupre yelled back from the c.o.c.kpit's door, letting a tone of "I told you to chill out" seep through. He was peering past the opening, at the long line of instruments. He followed his announcement with a sigh as he moved back into the main cabin. "Relax."

I wasn't relaxed and from the way his eyes were s.h.i.+fting and his Gauloise cigarettes were being chain-smoked he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In his case it wasn't just the weather. He was fidgeting like a trapped animal, giving me the distinct sense he was doing someone's invisible bidding and was terrified he might fail.

"Well, why don't you try and fix it?" Was he trying to act calm just to impress me? "Can't you bang on the panel or something?"

"Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Jesus!" He edged back into the c.o.c.kpit, next to Villatoro. The wind was shaking us so badly that, even bent over, he was having trouble keeping his balance. Then he halfheartedly slammed the dark instrument readouts with the heel of his open hand. When the effort produced no immediate electronic miracle, he settled into the copilot's seat.