Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (10 page)

He was trying to lighten her mood, and she smiled briefly. Now that she saw the car standing ready for them and realized that she was actually going, the butterflies in her stomach were turning into hummingbirds.

“We’re leaving from the Jacksonville airport,” Matteo said as they walked out to the black sedan in the alley. “We’ll be taking a commercial flight; the private planes are being watched too closely.” He handed Helen’s bag to one of the guards and said something in Spanish. The man stowed it in the trunk.

“They don’t think I can be trusted, do they?” she asked Matteo suddenly, and he shot her a quick, intent glance.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“It’s just the way they look at me. Like they’ll go along with anything you want to do but they have their doubts.”

“You’re very perceptive,” he replied quietly.

“That’s not exactly encouraging.”

He smiled reassuringly, touching her hair briefly. “You let me worry about them. They can’t help their prejudices. The only thing they understand is that the United States is an ally of the government we’re trying to overthrow. But they don’t know you.”

“Why do you do business here, if they distrust Americans?”

Matteo shrugged. “Best prices on black market guns, the best supply. You have to go where the trade is, and you have to deal with whoever is running it.”

He handed Helen into the back seat of the car and slid in beside her. “The flight leaves in an hour. We have to go straight to the airport.”

“Is there a price on your head back in Puerta Linda?” Helen asked, as the driver started the car and pulled out of the alley and onto the road.

Matteo turned to look at her and then faced straight ahead.

^“
Don’t think about that,” he answered.

“Is there?”

“Of course, Helen. You know the answer to that. I’m an enemy of the government. My picture is in every post office.”

He picked up a briefcase from the floor and snapped it open. He handed her a sheaf of documents, some in Spanish, some in English.

“These are your passport, identity papers, everything you’ll need to get into Puerta Linda. Look them over. I doubt very much that you’ll be asked any questions, but just in case you are, try to get familiar with the information.”

The papers said that she was a textile importer out of Dallas, Texas, going to Puerta Linda to buy raw silk, which was apparently one of its biggest exports. Matteo was her husband, and they were planning to stay for five days.

“Do you think these things will hold up?” Helen asked doubtfully. “This picture that’s supposed to be me is so grainy it could be anybody.”

“The usual method of entry into Puerta Linda these days is by bribe,” Matteo answered dryly. “The papers are just a formality; few people actually look at them. All the airport officials are on the take. Getting a job there is considered a great coup.”

Helen thought that over; no wonder he wanted to reform things back home. “What about on this end?” she asked.

“Don’t you know how it works in America?” he said, turning to smile at her. “They’ll always let you leave; it’s getting back in that’s hard. And for that you have your real passport, right?”

“Right,” she said. He seemed to have all the answers.

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Relax. I’m going to take care of you.”

Since she really didn’t have a choice, Helen decided to follow his advice.

When they reached the airport the driver took off and left them in the company of the other front seat passenger, the man who had shown Helen his medallion. As they walked along the concourse and headed for the ticket counter, Helen was sure each person who saw them could tell that he was a bodyguard. He walked two paces behind Matteo and watched everyone who passed as if they were about to pull a gun.

At the counter Matteo produced two tickets and handed over Helen’s bag.

“You were pretty confident that I’d go along with this, weren’t you?” she said to Matteo as they walked to the passenger gate. “My ticket was in your pocket when you asked me.”

“I was hopeful,” he responded. “But there was every chance it would go unused.”

They left Matteo’s comrade at the luggage check. Matteo embraced him and said something softly to him in Spanish, and the man nodded. He remained watching them as Helen put her purse on the conveyor belt to be screened.

As she and Matteo passed through the line Helen glanced nervously at the security guards, waiting for Matteo to be recognized. He actually bore little resemblance now to the man who had burst into the beach house, but she was sure one of them would see through the beard and the Fifth Avenue haircut to the revolutionary hiding underneath. She walked through the arch of the metal detector, and then froze as it went off when Matteo followed her.

“Just a minute, sir,” the guard said, coming to stand by his side. “Please empty your pockets.”

“Sure thang, officer,” Matteo responded in a deep Texas drawl.

Helen almost fainted. He sounded like a B-movie cowboy.

Matteo displayed the contents of his pockets, and the guard held up a metal keyring.

“This must have done it,” he said. “Go on through now.”

Matteo complied, and the buzzer was silent. The guard handed him the offending object, saying, “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“You bet,” Matteo yodeled, and Helen grabbed his arm, pulling him after her toward the passenger lounge.

“What is the matter with you?” she hissed at him as soon as they were out of earshot. “Did you think you were in a Marlboro commercial? I’ve heard more authentic accents in fourth grade Christmas pageants.”

“The papers say I’m from Texas, and I had to talk that way because they might have checked them. I had a roommate in college from Abilene; I thought I sounded just like him.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Next time you order up a set of dummy papers, get them to say you’re from Jersey City.”

“We have to take what’s available,” he replied, grinning at her.

Helen stared back at him, beginning to realize one thing that she should have understood from the start. He actually enjoyed this. He enjoyed the close calls, the aspect of living on the edge, which was so much a part of his work. She sank gratefully into a lounge chair, hoping that her heart would hold out for the duration of the journey.

When their flight was called, Matteo put his arm around her shoulder and walked next to her as they lined up for the plane, like any husband. He squeezed her gently as he handed their boarding passes to the bored stewardess, who glanced at them routinely and gave them their stubs.

“See how easy?” he whispered to Helen as they took their seats.

“Don’t give me that,” she muttered in response. “We’re much more likely to encounter trouble on the other end, and you know it.”

“Still mad about my Texas accent?” he said to her, smiling slyly.

She turned her head to stare out at the landing strip and he laughed.

“The flight is four hours,” he added. “You’d better get some rest.”

Helen thought she would be far too nervous to sleep, but it wasn’t long before the drone of the motor and the comforting presence of Matteo beside her had lulled her into slumber. She woke to find herself curled up in his arms, her head on his shoulder and one hand draped loosely over his muscular thigh. He was calling her name.

“What is it?” she said, sitting up and stretching.

“You have to fill out your landing card. The stewardess just distributed them.”

She searched his eyes, concerned.

“It’s all right. Just use the information on the papers I gave you and everything will be fine.”

Helen did as he directed, listing her name, address, age, and the purpose of her visit to comply with the documents in her purse. She handed hers in when the stewardess collected them and then glanced at Matteo when the pilot announced that they had begun their descent to San Jacinta.

“You’re doing fine,” Matteo said.

Helen didn’t answer, wondering what conditions were like in Puerta Lindan jails. Every scene in
Midnight Express
flashed across her mind. That was Turkey, she reminded herself. Puerta Linda had to be a little more advanced, a little more civilized.

She changed her opinion as soon as they stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac. She looked around apprehensively, instantly wishing that she were back in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Soldiers in green fatigues were everywhere, all carrying machine guns, riding three and four in a jeep or walking in incessant parade to and from the reception terminal. Barbed wire fences surrounded the open area leading to the debarkation building, and marksmen were perched in gun turrets at strategic places all along the route.

“Welcome to Puerta Lindan democracy,” Matteo said sarcastically into her ear.

“Oh my God, Matteo,” she responded, clutching his arm. “This is awful.”

“This is what I want to change,” he answered simply.

Helen tried not to gawk as they walked with measured pace to the long white building at the end of the paved lane. The humidity was crushing, stealing the breath from her lungs and causing her clothes to cling damply to her skin. The sky was overcast, threatening rain as they entered the reception area and got in line.

“Here we go,” Matteo whispered. “Courage.”

“Matteo, I’m frightened,” she answered. There was no doubt in her mind that those military men in mirrored sunglasses, carrying Israeli Uzis and American M-16s, meant business.

He embraced her and held her close for a couple of seconds, kissing her hair.

“So am I,” he answered. “I always am, and I’ve never been caught yet. Take a deep breath, Helen, and try to calm down. I didn’t bring you this far to let anything happen to you. You believe me, don’t you?”

Helen nodded, looking up at him. Strangely enough, she did.

“I just keep thinking that all of these people must have seen your picture,” she said, putting her lips directly to his ear.

She thought of the price on Matteo’s head and her heart sank. In a poverty stricken country like Puerta Linda, a reward could be a pretty powerful motive.

They were moving closer to the desk, and just as Helen was telling herself not to panic and to leave everything to Matteo, a dispute arose in front of them. A woman who had traveled on the plane with them was led away, screaming and crying, between two soldiers.

Helen stared out the terminal window at the palm trees swaying in the breeze. She couldn’t look at Matteo because she didn’t want him to see the terror in her eyes.

They were next. After she placed her papers on the table before the official examining them, Helen shoved her hands in her pockets to conceal their trembling.

“Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell, from Dallas, Texas,” the man said in a heavy accent. “You will be staying here for five days?”

“That’s right,” Helen replied, staring straight ahead. Why was he asking her that? It was written on her card.

The man looked up at Matteo. “Mr. Caldwell?”

Here it comes, Helen thought.

“Yes?” Matteo said, drawing out the word, making it two syllables, as an American would.

Good boy, Helen told him silently.

“The stamp on your passport expires in two weeks,” the official said. “Make sure you have it renewed.”

“Thanks, I’ll just do that,” Matteo replied, and Helen saw him shove a wad of folded bills across the counter when he took back his passport.

“Bienvenida a Puerta Linda,”
the man said. “Welcome to Puerta Linda.”

Matteo nodded and took Helen’s arm, steering her toward the door. They had almost made it when another voice interrupted their progress, calling, “Mr. Caldwell.”

Matteo stopped in his tracks, and Helen went rigid. A uniformed official appeared at Matteo’s side and said in stilted English, “Come with me, please.”

Matteo looked at Helen, telling her without words that they should comply. The official led them to a small side office while Helen mentally recited the first line of every prayer she knew. Once inside the room the man shut the door, breathed a sigh of relief and started to babble in rapid, excited Spanish.

Helen looked from one to the other. If she and Matteo were about to get arrested, every film she had ever seen had been wrong.

Matteo saw her confused glance and held up his hand for the other man to stop talking.

“He’s a friend,” Matteo said to Helen, “sympathetic to our cause. He works at the airport and saw me arrive. He says that one of the top government officials, who might recognize me because he used to work with my father, is here on an inspection tour. We have to get out another way so we don’t pass him.”

Helen sagged against Matteo, who hugged her for a brief, encouraging moment. She smiled at their companion.

“Gracias,”
she said. It was almost the only Spanish word she knew.

“De nada, senorita valiente, amiga linda del jefe,”
he responded, bowing graciously.