Robert Stone - A Flag for Sunrise

Zecca waved his thanks.

“ Que le vaya bien, capitano ,” the sergeant called, and returned to the line of quaking travelers. The Honda and its passengers drove past their wistful glances.

“It’s lousy about these kids,” Zecca said. “But I can’t interfere in that.”

“They can’t all be carrying dope,” Holliwell said.

“No, he just got one or two. He’ll let the rest out when he’s had his fun.”

“They really are pigs, the Guardia,” Marie said. “Actual pigs.”

“What happens to the ones with the dope?” Bob Cole asked.

“Best not to think about it,” Zecca said. “It was very dumb of them to buy it here. They were probably turned by the guy who sold it.”

“I didn’t know you were a captain,” Holliwell said after a while.

“That’s because I didn’t tell you. But I am. U.S. Army. I’m with the military mission in San Ysidro.”

Bob Cole stared at him.

“Don’t you feel a little …” Cole let the question die.

“A little what, Mr. Cole? I feel just fine.”

“O.K.,” Cole said. He turned to Holliwell. “Can you imagine what that feels like — especially for a college kid? Standing there, taking that abuse, waiting for those bastards to go through your stuff?”

“I know what it feels like,” Holliwell said. “I dream about it.”

“That was no dream back there.”

“No,” Zecca said, “that was an average day at the gates of Tecan.”

As they drove south, the wind carried dust clouds that sometimes forced them to close the car windows. With every kilometer the land seemed more brown and infertile, the cattle fewer, the corn scantier and more stunted. A squat brown volcano came into view in the southwest; the wind whipped its faint smoke trails into the lowering sky.

“I’ll tell you a Guardia story,” Tom Zecca said. “Our Caudillo in the capital lives in a house with a hundred and fifty rooms. The grounds take up about twenty-five city blocks square and there’s a wall of cactus against the fence. The whole complex is patrolled by German shepherds, real ones — from Germany. When the old man bought them he was told that they had to have steak every night to be happy and alert — so the palace is serving up steak dinners for over a hundred of these huge mutts. The dogs probably eat more meat than the population of Tecan.

“One morning, El Caudillo arrives at his desk to find eight guys from the palace Guardia detachment on their knees in front of it. The palace commandant is his little brother Arturo and Arturo is wailing on these guys, yelling and carrying on and beating on them with the butt of his sidearm. It turns out they’ve been stealing the dogs’ steak, sneaking it home to their families. Arturo’s beside himself, making points with big brother. A breach of the President’s trust. Treason to the nation. A disgrace to the most honored branch of the service. And so on. One of the Guardia is already half dead from Arturo’s beating on him.

“Now this is a thorny problem. These characters know all the security arrangements for the presidential palace. They know where all the bodies are buried — we’re in Tecan now, so I’m speaking literally. You can’t fire these men, you’ve got to shoot them or forget about it.

“Amid the weeping and the dull thuds, El Hombre considers the scene and ponders deeply. Finally he tells Arturo to knock off and let them go. From now on he says, all the Guardia and their families get steak every night just like the dogs. AID will pay for it somehow. The Guardia crawl over to El Hombre, they cry on his cuffs, they lick his boots. He’s got their loyalty for life. They’ll all walk over their grandmothers for him.

“All except the dude little brother’s been beating on too much. He’s too punchy to be properly grateful, so they shoot him.”

Marie uttered a soft vibrating wail, indicating fear and loathing.

“Life in Tecan,” she said.

“But observe the craft,” Tom said. “Observe the crude but sound statesmanship. The bastard hasn’t been in power all this time for nothing.”

“Have you been inside that palace?” Holliwell asked Tom.

“ Claro. Many times. Even partied there.”

“The parties,” Marie said, “are ghastly. It’s like a Dracula movie but without the class.”

“The last party I went to,” Tom said, “was after I’d been out to the islands, so I’d been peeling. I mean my skin was peeling from sunburn. Up to me comes Arturo — drunk out of his gourd, as is customary. He grabs a fistful of skin off my nose and calls me a gringo.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” Marie said. “What did you do?”

“What did I do? I smiled and saluted. Is Arturo a sadistic little creep? Should I have cold-cocked him and rubbed him into the carpet? Claro. But I represent the flag, comprende ? In my small way, I represent Policy. I had my dress whites on and two years in grade.”

“He’ll get his,” Marie said.

“Not if we can help it, my dear. If we can help it, he’ll be the next President.”

“There must be someone better than that,” Holliwell said. “Someone acceptable.”

“Well, Arturo’s a stopgap. While Policy decides what to do next. Mind you, Fat Frank really likes the guy. He likes the whole family. He thinks they’re American-type people.”

“That’s a quote,” Marie said. “ ‘American-type people.’ Because they speak English to him.”

“Fat Frank?” Holliwell asked.

“Ambassador Bridges. Some people call him that.”

“But not us,” Tom said.

Bob Cole was staring out at the hills to their left. The desert ended where they rose toward the Sierra and the further hills showed dark green.

“That’s coffee up there,” he said after a while. Holliwell thought that Zecca was glad to hear him speak. Cole’s silence had been making him uneasy.

“That’s right,” Tom told him. “Good grade and low price, they tell me. But what do I know?”

“Then there’s probably an insurgency in progress up there,” Cole said. “Given the situation.”

“Yeah?” Tom Zecca asked him coolly. “Why do you say that?”

“The way I understand it,” Cole said, “wherever you’ve got coffee in this country, you’ve got an insurgency. They go together.”

“There’s a degree of truth in that,” Tom said.

“Is there one going on up there?”

“What do you hear?” Zecca asked him.

“I hear there is. That it’s centered around Extremadura. Among the Indians there.”

“Who says that?”

Cole looked on Captain Zecca with a sagging smile, his mossy yellow teeth briefly displayed.

“There was a piece in the international edition of the Miami Herald last week. It was off the AP wire — I think the dateline was San José. You must have seen it.”

“I saw it,” Zecca said. “Might be something to it.”

“Well,” Cole said, turning his gaze back toward the hills, “I’m thinking of going up there.”

“I wouldn’t,” Zecca said.

“You oughtn’t to,” Marie told Cole. “I’ve been around there. If I were you I wouldn’t go up there right now.”

“I’m just doing my job. Like you folks are. Like Mr. Holliwell.”

What job? Holliwell thought. What does he mean?

“If I know you’re up there,” Zecca said, “I’m going to worry about you. The Atapas don’t like strangers around in the best of times and they’re not nearly as tranquil as they look. Especially these days.”

“Do you suggest I register my presence with the embassy in San Ysidro?”

“Honest to God, Mr. Cole,” Zecca said, “I don’t know what to suggest. Except that you not go.”

“I understand,” Cole said.