That afternoon, Alex watched as Venezuelan Red Cross workers came in and led a long march of survivors down the mountainside to waiting vans. The village was no more. The survivors were to be relocated.
That same evening, Major Ramírez appeared and spoke to her. “I have my further orders,” he said. “You are to leave the country immediately.”
“It’s not like I was planning to stay after what happened,” she said sullenly.
“Your contact will find you in Caracas,” he said.
“What contact?” she demanded.
“I only know my instructions,” he said, “and I’ve just related them to you.” He paused. “And if I were you,” he said, “I would leave quickly, before the government of Venezuela changes its mind.”
That evening before sunset, she returned to La Paragua and flew back to Caracas by army helicopter. Three soldiers accompanied her, obviously under orders, saying nothing, only staring. The personal items she had left at the hotel had been safely stored for her. She retrieved them easily upon her return to Caracas.
The horrors of Barranco Lajoya hung heavily on her. She phoned Joseph Collins in New York with the intention of relating what had happened. But word had already reached him. He inquired only about her safety. She assured him that the Venezuelan army had treated her properly.
They agreed to meet in New York as soon as possible. Then, that evening, she found a Methodist church not far from her hotel and spent time in prayer and meditation-seeking answers and guidance and not finding much of either-until an elderly pastor appeared and closed the doors to the church at midnight.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Alex walked the few blocks back to her hotel from the church.
The blocks were quiet and shadowy, South American cities being lit at night nowhere as well as North American ones. She had her Beretta with her and examined every shadow as she approached it.
She returned safely to her hotel. But in her room, there was a man waiting, a visitor. She was not altogether shocked to see him. She had almost been expecting his reappearance. In the darkest corners of her mind, things were starting to fall into place, no matter how much she wished to reject the meaning of recent events.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable here,” the visitor said, standing as she entered her own room. “We have a long trip ahead of us.”
“Go to hell, Michael!” She glared at him and suppressed an even more violent and profane run of obscenities.
“No, really,” Michael Cerny said evenly. “I know what you’ve been through. I know what you’re thinking. But we’re going to iron everything out by the end of the day.”
“What I’m thinking is that there’s a black cloud following me around. And you’re it. I ought to shoot you.”
“That doesn’t sound very Christian to me,” he said, “nor very charitable.”
“Then I ought to shoot you twice,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Cerny said. “We’re on our way to Paris.”
“Not a chance!” she answered.
“You might want to change your mind,” he said. “Don’t you realize what the militia attack on Barranco Lajoya was about?”
“No, I don’t,” she answered. “Mr. Collins sent me there to troubleshoot. To find out what someone had against these people. So why don’t you tell me? Then we’ll both know!”
“The attack on the village had nothing to do with the village itself,” he said. “But it was made to look that way. You honestly don’t understand what they were after, what they were looking for?”
She could see Father Martin being thrown to the ground again. The insistent voice of his murderer as he stood above him.
¿Dónde, dónde, dónde? Where, where, where?
What had they been seeking?
“It hasn’t occurred to you?” he asked.
It had. “They were looking for me,” she said.
“You,” said Cerny. “The Ukrainian Mafia sent people looking for you. They wish to kill you or kidnap you and take you back to Ukraine.”
“What?”
“Don’t be so surprised. The Ukrainian underworld has a million dollar contract out on your life. They followed you to Venezuela but the people in Barranco Lajoya wouldn’t give you up.”
Still in shock, she asked, “How could they even have known where I was, the Ukrainians?”
Cerny shrugged. “There are all sorts of theories,” he said. “We can discuss them eventually.” He paused. “Did you ever discover why the village was being harassed in the first place?”
“All sorts of theories,” she said quietly. “Local ranchers. People who want to poach the wood from the forests. Venezuelan nationalists who don’t believe the missionaries should “pollute” local culture. The government in Caracas who thinks we’re all a bunch of imperialist agents. Plenty of theories and not one that will hold together. Not yet, anyway.”
“We’re going to New York first,” Cerny said. “You’ll have an evening to talk to Mr. Collins. That would probably be a good idea. Then we’re headed back to Europe.”
“I thought I was finished with the Ukrainians. At least for a few years,” Alex muttered.
She felt a deep surge of fear inside her. That, and a lack of comprehension. What had she been, other than a bystander, one who lost something precious, her fiancé, and might have lost her own life too, if things had gone any differently. “How could they possibly care about me?” she asked.
“That’s what we’d like to know as well. You must have learned something, witnessed something, had access to something in Kiev. All we know is, your life is marked.”
She simmered.
“Anyway, you might want to help us get them before they get you,” he said. “Federov and his one remaining bodyguard. We’re flying Air France to Paris, you and I. Business class if it makes you feel any better.”
“I’m not going anywhere other than back to New York,” she said. “And I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Alex, don’t be foolish,” he said. “By this point, you don’t have much choice.”
This time, as it sank in, she didn’t spare him the expletives.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Gian Antonio Rizzo was planning a trip as well. He had reassembled everything he had on the two spiked murder investigations, but as far as his bosses in Rome were concerned, he was warning everyone that he was prepared to be as difficult and obtuse as possible.
“Lousy meddlesome Americans!” he complained to anyone who would listen. “They come in and steal your work time after time. When will it end?”
Rizzo’s political distaste for the Americans was beyond discussion. He cursed them profanely whenever he could. He’d gone on and on about it so much that it wasn’t that anyone could question it any more; no one even wanted to hear about it.
Then suddenly life’s random events broke in his favor, reversing a recent trend. Sophie was back from Monte Carlo, contrite as could be, and asking her policeman to forgive her and take her back. The American actor, Billy-O, Sophie now told him, wasn’t much more than a pretty face, wasn’t even that much in private, and as a singer could barely hum a tune. Plus he was a financially askew hophead, she told him, traveling with a least a dozen illegal prescriptions in his medicine kit, including a small packet of cannabis and thousands of dollars sewn into the lining of his luggage. Sophie knew since she’d been in his hotel room for two days and saw everything.
“Why are you even telling me this?” Rizzo grumbled, sounding bored and hurt. “To incite me? To make me jealous?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “So you know how sorry I am. So you know that I made a bad mistake and that you’re a better man than he’ll ever be.”