Heart of the World (19 page)

Tell the truth, airplanes give me the willies. I know about aerodynamics and lift and thrust. I
know
I'm safer as a passenger in a commercial jet than as a driver on the Southeast Expressway, but I
feel
totally out of control, a side of beef zooming through space in a soup can. I want to rush the cockpit, demand the pilot's qualifications, make sure his reflexes are as good as mine.

I sucked a deep breath, loosened my hands on the armrests, and immersed myself in background material on Roldan, from
The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Miami Herald, El Tiempo de Bogota
, and
El Espectador
, working through the pieces doggedly in chronological order.
El Tiempo
and
El Espectador
had the most coverage, which was only to be expected. There were times I devoutly wished for a Spanish/English
dictionary, but considering the unfamiliar words in context, I was able to cope.

Carlos Roldan Gonzales, programmed from birth to lead the charmed life of the Colombian upper class, had grown up in north Bogota near the country club, spending weekends at one of his family's sprawling ranches and vacations in Spain. He'd earned an economics degree from Jorge Tadeo Lozano University in Bogota and attended law school in the States. In his late twenties, he'd given up the dances and dinner parties, and disappeared into the jungle to join, and eventually lead, a leftist guerrilla group.

I searched my mind for the North American equivalent, but not a lot of parallels sprang to mind. The scions of wealthy New York families who'd joined the Weather Underground in the ‘60s were a better fit than Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army.

The group Roldan headed was called MM-19, dedicated to the martyrs of the M-19 guerrilla group. I read quotes from his university professors, declaring amazement that a young man from his background had chosen the path he'd taken. Most seemed shocked and horrified; one or two sounded tones of grudging admiration.

M-19 was one of the smallest of Colombia's guerrilla organizations; the largest was FARC,
Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia
, also called the People's Army. Next came the ELN, also an acronym of its official Spanish name. The larger groups were strongest in the countryside. M-19 had been a mainly urban force until 1985, when they'd stormed the Palace of Justice in Bogota. Over a hundred died in the ensuing battle with the military. The Supreme Court Justices got caught in the middle; eleven of them died.

MM-19 was excoriated as a drug business, with Roldan mentioned in the same sentences as Pedro Escobar and the Ochoa brothers. A “war without quarter” against the cartels included the guerrilla groups in its scope. The cartels corrupted public officials with huge payoffs. They employed
sicarios
to assassinate judges and politicians.

A few of the more recent stories mentioned ties between the traffickers and the AUC, a network of right-wing “paramilitary” groups suspected of killing leftist politicians and their supporters. I reread two articles, but they didn't make sense juxtaposed one against the other. If
MM-19 had morphed from a revolutionary cell into a drug cartel, were they allied with the right-wing paramilitaries or the left-wing guerrillas?

I closed my eyes, and smoothed my forehead with my fingertips. There were too many competing groups, too many agendas. Too much violence. I couldn't expect to understand the complexities of Colombia, and mainly I didn't give a damn. I was there to find Paolina, to find her and bring her back.

A dark-haired steward asked what I'd like to drink. I requested a Pepsi, accepted a Coke, and inquired about the photos. He shrugged and shook his head. Was the girl famous, he wanted to know. Maybe that Puerto Rican singer?

I scrolled on. Roldan and MM-19 had aided a village ravaged by disease and paramilitary executions. They'd kidnapped two doctors and held them for ransom. They were implicated in the bombing of a famous nightclub. As I read, I noted the names of the Colombian journalists.
El Tiempo's
Luisa Cabrera had more direct quotes from members of MM-19, greater detail, a markedly sympathetic tone. I wondered whether she might know a way to get in touch with Roldan in case the Bogota phone numbers on Naylor's bill didn't pan out. I scribbled her name in my notebook, then skimmed the articles concerning Roldan's disappearance. The Cessna had set out from a town called Convencion in Norte de Santander province. Either three men or five men had been aboard, depending on the article I read. Several citizens of Magdalena province had reported a fireball. I wondered if Roldan had been expected to board the plane, but missed the flight. Possibly the report of his death had been made up by the press or planted by friends. I'd need to send Roz an e-mail after I landed. I wanted more information on Angel Navas, the man who'd reportedly inherited Roldan's drug empire. When the passenger in front of me decided to lean his seat into my lap, I decided to ignore the F
ASTEN
S
EAT
B
ELTS
sign and take a walk before my legs atrophied.

There's a game I play on airplanes: Spot the sky marshall. I have a good batting average because the rules for what to wear on airplane flights have relaxed over the years while the rules for proper Justice Department attire have not. Spot a guy in a suit and tie on other than a Washington—New York flight, and chances are he's got a shoulder holster to match.

I wondered whether the man and woman who'd delayed me at the airport worked for Justice. They'd been dressed well enough.

If the silver-haired man in 32F hadn't dropped his eyes and looked away, I might not have noticed him. The sudden motion, the tilt as he shifted his weight to gaze blankly out the window, drew my eye like a magnet and I thought: Where have I seen him before? Not in the security line. Not in the boarding lounge; I hadn't spent any time in the boarding lounge.

I edged into the tiny restroom. My breathing was shallow and my palms felt damp. Maybe it was simply lack of sleep. No sleep, Paolina's disappearance, the stubbornly clinging blue Saturn, the anonymous airport agents—the combination had me reacting like a rookie cop in a bad neighborhood, imagining a machine gun in every violin case. I needed to steel myself, get a grip. The plane dipped its wings and gave a sudden lurch. The P
LEASE
R
ETURN
TO Y
OUR
S
EAT
sign flashed accusingly as I splashed water on my face.

Emerging from the toilet, I stood near the rear of the plane expecting, hoping, to recover my perspective and reclassify the man as a harmless stranger. I ran my eyes over his muscular back, protruding ears, thick neck. Paranoia crept between my shoulder blades. Dammit, I was right. I distinctly remembered the laughing brunette on his arm, the tall frosted glass in his right hand, the tops of his sunburned ears. I couldn't be mistaken. I'd noticed him near the pool, crossing the patio by the crystalline water.

At Drew Naylor's party.

CHAPTER 16

I feigned sleep when the plane landed, but
the ploy would have worked better in the window seat. When the passenger next to me prodded me mercilessly awake, I had little choice but to precede the man in 32F off the aircraft. I dawdled in the arrival lounge until he deplaned, then made a minor show of realizing I'd forgotten something, and reentered the plane. Mr. 32F hadn't left anything in his seat compartment, but then neither had I.

He wasn't visible when I exited the jetway, already in line at customs when I collected my duffle. I showed the photo of Paolina to each of the customs agents in the busy room, disrupting the orderly lines and earning scowls from my fellow travelers. My little sister, I explained, had forgotten to tell me where she was staying in Bogota. Possibly you'd remember her; she was traveling with her aunt and uncle.

No one recalled her. I was urged to get back in the proper line. The line crawled. I caught a glimpse of Silver Hair lingering near a coffee vendor. As soon as I got past customs, I made a beeline for the El Dorado airport ladies' room.

There was no toilet paper in the stall. Oh well, I thought, that's okay; Kleenex in my backpack. No toilet seat on the toilet, either; I retreated into the common area of the restroom to think things over. The next woman in line took my place. She was holding a wad of toilet paper.

Aha. A communal dispenser hung on a nearby wall. I grabbed a
handful and reinserted myself at the end of the line. Plenty of time to kill.

The man in seat 32F couldn't follow me in here, and the terminal was so jammed with travelers there was a good chance he hadn't seen me enter. If I stayed long enough, he might assume I'd rushed outside and grabbed a cab. He might give up and depart.

I considered the coincidence factor. Coincidences happen. Cousins who haven't spoken in years meet abruptly in strange cities. But when I'm working a case, I regard any hint of coincidence with suspicion. I recalled the curious sensation I'd had in the mirrored room at Miami— Dade, the feeling that the man was asking me unimportant questions, holding me temporary prisoner for a purpose, deliberately delaying me. Could 32F have been behind the mirror?

Could he have been the man in the blue Saturn?

Paranoia?

I used the facilities, such as they were, and idled away the minutes washing my hands twice, applying lipstick, combing my tangled hair. None of the women lingered long enough to question my continued presence.

After twenty-two minutes, a bright-eyed cleaning woman brought in a mop and bucket. I dug out Paolina's photo again, and asked if she might have noticed the girl two nights ago, about this time. She was very sorry, but no, she hadn't. There were so many girls and so much work. When I gave her a five-dollar bill, she stared at it speechlessly.

“Keep the photo,” I said. “Show it to friends who work at the airport. If anyone saw the girl, tell them to call the phone number on the back of the picture. Call collect. There will be a reward. For both of you.”

I'd printed Gloria's number on the back of twelve copies. She doesn't speak much Spanish, but she knows enough to ask a caller to hold on, and there's always a Spanish-speaking driver who'll help her out.

“Si. Gracias.”

I left the restroom. No silver-haired man near the coffee stall; none in the corridor.

I found a money machine that spit pesos and bought a tourist map of the city. At the gift shop, waiting to pay for the map, I hauled out another copy of Paolina's photo. The stony-eyed clerk hadn't seen her. Every time I saw a person in uniform, a security guard, an airport employee,
I displayed the photo and got the same response. Twice, guided more by instinct than reason, I gave the photo away, urging the recipient to ask around, to call the phone number on the back if anyone gave a positive response. I emphasized the reward.

A bank of phone booths nestled between the money exchange booth and the entrance to the duty-free shop. I checked my watch. The plane had landed at 10:42. It was well past midnight now, too late to try the numbers from Naylor's bill. In Boston, I'd have grabbed my crisscross directory, gotten addresses to match the phone numbers, checked them out. A simple public-records search would net the identity of the inhabitants. With cop help, I could quickly learn more, like whether or not a handgun was registered to anyone on the premises.

Mooney's warning echoed in my head: Avoid the local police.

Was it really too late to call? What did I have to lose? If the numbers were office numbers, there might be illuminating recorded messages. If I woke people, I might learn more from their sleepily indignant responses than I'd get in the calm, collected morning.

I studied the directions on the phone, went back to the gift shop, and bought a bag of coffee-flavored candy. A two-fer, change and caffeine, both needed.

All the booths were empty when I returned. The number of travelers in the terminal had markedly decreased. No sign of the silver-haired man. I entered the second booth from the right, piled a stack of two-hundred-peso coins on the tiny corner shelf. Each was the size and shape of a quarter.

I tried the number that appeared most frequently on Naylor's bill. It rang and rang. No message machine. I listened, hypnotized by the repetitive sound, hung up and tried again. Same thing.

With a sigh, I punched the less frequently dialed number. Eight rings. Ten. I was about to hang up when the phone clicked.

“Zona Rosa.
^Ald?”
Loud lively music in the background, laughter.
“^Ald?”

I stammered my way through an inquiry about the hours.

Open till three, the gruff voice said, but the line was already out the door. He doubted they'd all get in. Tomorrow night, before midnight, I'd have a better chance.

He hung up before I could respond. Zona Rosa. I scratched the
name on the back of my used airline ticket, opened the phone book that lay next to my stack of coins on the shelf. Zona Rosa; no listing.

I felt suddenly exhausted, drained. Even if the address had been neatly printed, even if the Zona Rosa's greeter had told me they'd be open till dawn and I should rush right over, I'd have hesitated. If the phone booth had been equipped with a seat, I'd have been tempted to spend the night, sleep right there.

In the main lobby, a tape-recorded voice announced that buses were available for transport to the domestic terminal where departures to Cali, Medellin, Pasto, and Monteria were imminent. I went outside and joined the queue. The air, warm and heavy, was scented with the tang of greenery. I watched grandmothers greet children with open arms, fathers slap grown sons on the back with pride. I imagined Paolina, racing across the pavement into my arms. The overhead lights cast strange shadows on the ground. Buses and taxis came and went. I didn't see the silver-haired man.

When the bus came, I showed Paolina's photo to the driver. He shook his head. He looked as tired as I felt. I dragged my duffel through the domestic terminal, asking whether anyone had seen my daughter. Daughter.
Mi hija
. It slipped out instead of sister, and I let it be. A fluorescent light flickered intermittently; it would have brought on a seizure in an epileptic.