“For you, maybe.”
“Granted, for me. I’ve been blessed in my life, so I try to pass it along while I’m still on this earth. And this is also a pet project, you understand, translating the Bible into a new tongue. I’m convinced it’s helping the people who are there, and the missionaries like what they’re doing. I’d like to keep things going in the right direction.”
“So what’s the problem?” Alex asked.
“Well, after some considerable early success, we’re being sabotaged. A lot of our work gets undone. There seems to be an effort coming from somewhere to discourage our people and drive the missionaries out of the country.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Very. Most countries in Central and South America encourage missionaries even if they don’t like them. They bring dollars and provide social services the governments are unwilling or unable to provide.”
“ ‘An effort coming from somewhere,’ ” Alex repeated, thinking back a beat, framing Collins’ own words. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Caracas. Washington. Maybe Havana.” He paused. “There are a few ragtag guerrilla organizations in the area, but the army keeps them in check.”
She sipped her coffee. “So interference with missionaries doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s South America. It’s Venezuela. It doesn’t have to.”
Collins produced a sealed manila envelope and handed it to her.
“Obviously, your ultimate job is to report back to me on where the problems are coming from. And what we can do about it, if anything.”
She nodded.
“The Venezuelan government is hostile to us right now, as you know, I’m sure. And the country is almost as lawless as Colombia, next door.”
She nodded. “I’ll take your file with me today,” she said. “Whatever is in it, I want to give it some thought.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He paused, then added, “I should mention one or two more things. Right up front.”
She waited. From the nearby table, the tourists had stopped staring. They turned their attention to the menus.
“I sent someone down there seven weeks ago,” Collins said. “A security man named Diego. Former marine. A very good man. Someone set him up with a mobile phone that was rigged as a bomb. In a hotel bar in Caracas. When he used the phone the first time, he was-how did they say it locally?-decapitado.”
A pause. “So someone’s playing for keeps.”
“Someone doesn’t want us there, for whatever reason. And I fear that some of my missionaries and their villages are coming into the line of fire, too.” He paused. “You’ll need to wear a gun for protection. God forbid that you ever have to use it. But as I said, it’s a rough area. Jungle cats. Poisonous bats. A lot of snakes.”
“As well as the two-legged dangers,” she said. “Correct?”
“I want to be right up front about what you might be getting into.”
“Then I’ll be up front with you,” she said. “You’re asking me to do something for you and for the church. I’m appreciative of that. But…” She paused. “You’re talking to a woman whose faith… is badly shaken right now. I’m still recovering from Kiev and asking a whole lot of questions about how God could let something like this happen to me.”
“I know that, Alex. But I also know what you’re like. You need to plunge right back into something.” A shadow passed over his face. “Do you know what Gandhi, a Hindu, said to some British army officers during the battle for Indian independence?”
“What?” she asked.
“He said, ‘Jesus was a good and moral man. The trouble with many of you Christians is that you’re nothing like him.’ That’s why I keep the missions going, feeding the hungry, supplying medical care, doing what I can to fight poverty and illiteracy. I asked myself what Jesus would have done if he’d made all this money in hotels and restaurants.”
She laughed.
“And that was the answer that came to me. So these missions will continue while I’m alive and afterward. I hope you can help.”
“I’ll do my reading tonight, Mr. Collins,” she said.
She reached to her neck, where the gold cross used to be. Nervous tic time again. The jewelry was missing, of course, except in her memory.
“If you’re willing to go forward after you read the file,” he said, “I’m going to put you in touch with a man I’ve recently hired to advise me on some Latin American issues. His name is Sam Deal. Ever heard the name?”
“I might have. It rings a bell.”
“Sam used to work for Washington. I’ve known him for many years. He’s no one’s fool. He can give you an objective picture of what you’re getting into.”
Alex nodded. Somewhere she had heard Deal’s name. Then she pegged it. Her friend Laura who worked at the White House had had issues with him.
“I’ve tentatively arranged for you to meet with Sam tomorrow morning at eleven if you wish to proceed. He’s in town for a few days. He has time to meet.”
Alex nodded again.
“Sam would also be your weapons guy when you get to Caracas. You won’t be able to fly with a gun, obviously, but I’ll make sure you have protection as soon as you get there. Sam won’t be in Caracas, but one of his people will arrange things. Don’t worry about clothing for going out in the jungle. What size do you take?”
“Ten, American.”
“I’ll arrange for some gear. Shoes?”
“Nine. Wardrobe and firearms. You think of everything.”
He laughed.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Collins,” she said, “you can be a bit of a contradiction.”
“How’s that?”
“You want to send me on a mission of peace, but the first thing you do is supply armament.”
“It’s a cruel, mean world,” he said. “I want you to be safe.”
She smiled. “Sounds like you think I’m going.”
“I rather have my hopes up,” he said.
She grinned slightly and pushed back from the table. If nothing else, the offer was both flattering and exciting. But she wasn’t sure how much flattery or excitement she was in the mood for these days.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll look at everything. Then I’ll call you tomorrow.”
From Collins’s lips, she saw the trace of a grin.
“Thank you, Alex,” he said.
By the entrance to the terrace, there was a sudden commotion that grabbed her attention. Outside on the sidewalk, a noisy homeless man accosted an older couple passing by. Alex watched as the man aggressively pursued them. The older couple hurried their pace. Alex rose to her feet. If no one else would do anything about it, she would.
Collins placed a gentle hand on her wrist. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said.
“But-?”
Collins then nodded to his bodyguard. The bodyguard, obviously seeking any small piece of action he could find, moved with the grace and speed of a much younger man. He interposed himself between the couple and their assailant.
The panhandler attempted to shove the bodyguard in return. Bad idea. Mr. Collins’s hired hand sent the vagrant hurtling in a different direction, and he disappeared.
FIFTY-SIX
Alex’s apartment on East Twenty-first Street in Manhattan was a very quiet unimposing place, considering its location, and perfectly suited to her needs.
It was nestled into the back of a walk-up building first constructed in 1900, third floor rear, just twenty yards east of Second Avenue. The block itself was quiet, although traffic rumbled southbound on the avenue all day and all night.
Inside the furnished one-bedroom apartment, all windows overlooked a rear courtyard. The two rooms were a witch’s brew of clashing wallpapers, lamp shades, aging furniture, and worn carpets. It reflected the lifestyle of Joseph Collins’s son, Daniel, whose interests were far from the worldly or the run-of-the mill.