Sean Black - The Devil's bounty

The father cut him off: ‘I’m believing shit from these people.’ He stared straight at Rafaela, whose heart was racing now. ‘You know something, and don’t tell me you don’t because I can see it in your eyes.’ His hand shot out across the table and grabbed her wrist.

‘John, please!’

Rafaela made a quick calculation. ‘I don’t know anything for definite,’ she said, ‘but I have my suspicions based upon recent events here.’

His grip loosened a little. He must have felt he was getting somewhere. ‘What events?’

‘Kidnap for ransom is a growing problem. I’m not saying that’s what this is but it’s a possibility.’

He let go of her and slumped in his chair. ‘I’ll pay whatever it takes. You hear me? I’ll sell the house, take out a loan if I have to.’

‘It may not be that. But, as I said, it does happen now. And if someone has Julia, you can help me.’

The father looked at her, his eyes wet. He swiped at them with his sleeve. ‘How?’

‘By staying away from the press for a start. Often these cases can be resolved quietly. A lot of publicity can spook the kidnapper,’ she said.

The official raised his hand, palm open. ‘She’s right. This is something that needs to be handled carefully.’

‘So if we do what you tell us we’ll get Julia back?’

‘I can’t promise you that. It wouldn’t be fair if I did. But there will be a better chance, yes.’

The father’s chin was resting on his chest. He took his wife’s hand. ‘We understand.’

Outside the hotel, Rafaela sat alone in her car for a few moments. She could have told them that she knew where their daughter had last been seen and whom she had been with. She could have told them those things and more. Would she have wanted the truth if she’d been them? It went without saying.

What right had she to deny them the truth? Who was she to decide?

Questions. Those were her problem. Did the men behind these things calibrate their choices like this? No. They took action. They made decisions. They stuck to them.

She was about to turn the key in the ignition when she stopped. She’d been so preoccupied that she had forgotten the routine that had become like a reflex. She opened the driver’s door and, using a mirror she kept on the back seat, checked beneath the car.

Her husband had died four years ago when the cartels had ramped up the violence. A bomb had been planted under his car. He had been a newspaper reporter whose crime had been to report the news. At first he had reported on the cartels with no problems. But as the violence had escalated the public had become more indignant at the failure of government and politicians to stop it. In turn, the cartels had grown more sensitive to how they were covered in the newspapers and on television. Like pushy celebrities, they wanted to use the media but on their terms. Her husband had received two threats. The third time they had made good on their promise and blown him up. She even knew who had planted the bomb but, as she had told Lock, knowing wasn’t enough. Not if the person was powerful or connected to those who were.

Satisfied that there was no bomb, she got back behind the steering-wheel, started the engine and pulled away from the hotel, leaving the girl’s parents to their tear-stained vigil. No more questions, she told herself. That time was gone.

They met in a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. The first there was the chief of police, Gabriel Zapatero. He slid into a chair and immediately ordered a whisky, which evaporated almost as soon as it was placed in front of him. He ordered another, then a third.

Manuel Managua arrived five minutes later, greeting the hostess with a kiss on both cheeks and shaking their hands with the vigour of a career politician, then settling in to stare at the menu over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. Zapatero often imagined him shaking his family’s hands at breakfast, pledging cookies for all if he could count upon their support. It had made his continued presence at these festivities all the more surprising. Even a whisper of his involvement could end his career.

Zapatero had often wondered about Managua until Federico, Zapatero’s childhood friend, had pointed out that many politicians seemed to seek out, or at least flirt with, the seeds of their own destruction. Managua’s flirting was overt, but that, Federico said, was merely a reflection of where they lived and at what point in history. In comparison to the Roman Empire under Caligula, or the Holy Church under the Borgias, things were not so extreme. The rich had always craved decadent pleasures. It was entirely natural.

As the politician fussed over the menu Federico, the boss of bosses, arrived with his two bodyguards. Of course, they all carried security, but Federico’s was of a different magnitude. The joke was that if he woke in the middle of the night and rolled over, he would find a bodyguard beside him, rather than his wife or mistress. He took his seat at the head of the table and dismissed the guards — one headed for the door that led back into the restaurant and the other took up a position just outside in the courtyard. He accepted a menu and a waiter took their orders while another poured the wine. Then they were left alone.

Managua took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. Zapatero checked emails on his BlackBerry, until a look from Federico prompted him to power it down. The rule was that all cell phones had to be turned off. Finally, Federico spoke.

‘I see from the newspapers that a young American woman is missing,’ he said, his gaze bypassing all of them and settling on the far wall of whitewashed stone.

Zapatero cleared his throat, his eyes shuttling back and forth to his powered-down BlackBerry. ‘I have assigned one of my best people to find her. A woman. The family and the American government have been reassured,’ Zapatero said.

‘Really, I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ Federico said, with a sigh.

Managua put his glasses back on. ‘We wouldn’t have a picture of her, would we?’

Zapatero glanced towards his BlackBerry. ‘With your permission, Federico?’

Federico couldn’t contain his smile as he nodded. They all knew what Managua was like when it came to women. A regular Bill Clinton.

The police chief turned his BlackBerry on, opened an email attachment, full-screening a picture of the girl, and handed it to Managua, who studied it. ‘She’s pretty,’ he said. ‘I hope she’s still alive.’

‘Still alive?’ Zapatero mused. ‘Of course I hope she is, but nothing has been confirmed one way or the other.’ He turned his gaze to Federico, who was staring fixedly at the silverware laid out on the table in front of him.

Managua put down the BlackBerry. Zapatero could see the girl’s face staring up at him but he, too, turned to see what Federico would do. Would he pick up his knife or his fork? Pick up one, and the girl would be allowed to live, at least for the time being — and, no doubt, to satisfy Managua. Pick up the other, and she would be disposed of.

Federico drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, his thumb nearest the fork, his pinkie nearest the knife. He took a sip of red wine, enjoying the attention and his role as final arbiter between life and death. That was what it was all about, thought Zapatero. For Managua it was an appetite. But Federico was the one who had sanctioned it. He had brought along the first girl, and had let things get out of hand when she had tried to escape from the bedroom. He could have called a halt to it at any time. But he hadn’t. He enjoyed the power too much.

‘I think it is mostly likely,’ Federico began, his hand shifting slightly, ‘that she will be returned to her family.’