"Ask him what he considers appropriate damages — and pay him," Carter said. "If the police come and you are found not to have Mexican liability insurance, you will be in a situation far worse than Senorita Huerta and I are in."
Still holding the Luger at the level of Carter's navel, the driver of the Toyota called out to his companions in a guttural, colloquial Arabic.
At length, two of them approached and Carter heard the driver working to convince his colleagues to offer more money and get out of this mess.
When an acceptable amount was finally offered, the driver of the pickup truck got back inside the cab of his vehicle, revved his engine a few times and drove off. The Green Angels followed, and the procession began again, this time with the Toyota taking the lead.
They continued north, following signs indicating San Miguel de Allende, but after a few more miles in that direction, the area surrounding the roadbed began to give way to occasional fences, a few gutted shells of adobe sheds, and the beginnings of abundant pastureland where small, leathery-looking cows grazed.
At an unmarked road, the Toyota turned right, which Carter reckoned was close to due north. With the Blazer behind, they remained on a narrow, well-graded but unpaved road, running toward the nearby range of mountains.
The terrain began to increase in rockiness and now, on either side of them, the fields of short, clumpy grass were still suitable for grazing — indeed, an occasional cow pushed her nose into the choicer morsels and munched — but the boulders increased in size and number. What had started as a gentle afternoon breeze began to gain strength, pushing waves and ripples across the longer grass and filling the air with seeds, pollen, and chaff. The driver of the Toyota sneezed and cursed his allergy.
After another several miles of driving in low gear, they came to a large watering hole, and the road curved away from it, moving now toward a distant clump of the distinctive agave cactus and trees that Carter supposed had been planted years back as a windbreak.
As they approached the trees, a scraggly stand of cottonwood, juniper, and gums, the terrain took an even more pronounced upward thrust. Dust devils danced as the wind began to intensify. Looking back, Carter could see how they had gradually climbed to the point where the mountains were close at hand.
Their destination became immediately clear as they rounded another bend. A large, low-slung building, probably some kind of line camp, was positioned to catch the afternoon shade cast by the trees. It was large enough to have a number of rooms. A chimney and vents suggested the interior had ample heating and cooking facilities. This far out in the country, there were no traces of power lines, but any of the three or four outbuildings could house a generator. Essentially made from adobe brick, the building had shuttered windows and a thatched willow rod roof. A small fresh stream ran nearby, and a large well, with masonry made from the nearby rocks, attested to the strategic position.
Evidence of corrals and pens were plentiful, but at the moment, neither horse nor cow seemed much in evidence. On the other hand, two other four-wheel-drive vehicles were parked in front of the building, not far from the main door.
Carter was freed from his handcuffs and nudged out into the early evening. The sound of the nearby stream reminded him how thirsty he was. He noted with some interest that Margo had been in the Blazer all along and reasoned that she'd been hidden under some lap robes after the run-in with the pickup truck had taken place. Perhaps he'd been wrong to suspect her of complicity in this, but with the same kind of instinct that he'd used to suspect there had been something not entirely right about Rachel Porat, he decided he needed to find out more about Margo Huerta before he could trust her. His life might depend on it.
Margo was pushed, cramped from the long ride, into the lengthening shadows of the afternoon. The wind tossed her hair and caused her to blink her eyes. She began a steady stream of invective as she was nudged toward the front porch of the house, telling her captors they'd picked the wrong one to mess with, and trying to incite them to some kind of anger.
Those among her captors who could understand her chose to ignore her words. Even those who had limited Spanish could probably have divined her intent, but they remained impassive, pushing her toward the building.
One of the captors reached the door with a few bounding steps, opened it, and nudged Margo inside. Carter was brought along directly behind.
The door opened into a rather large, comfortable room with a stone fireplace, a well-designed cooking area, and a long plank table as well as several sturdy chairs made out of willow rods over which rawhide had been stretched and soaked to the point of tautness.
Two other men awaited them, wearing nondescript khakis and denim work shirts. A pot of coffee boiled over a charcoal fire. Yet another man stood, using a large, handcarved wooden spoon to stir a large copper pan from which a piquant stew gave off the pungent aroma of cumin and cilantro. A large stack of plastic bowls were nested nearby.
"What now?" Margo said.
"Looks like we're going to get some lamb after all," Carter replied, allowing himself to be guided to a seat.
The door to an adjoining room burst open and a man with a sharp, angular face, bushy brows, a cleft chin, and pale blue eyes appeared.
"Sorry to have missed you in Paris, Carter."
"Who is this guy?" Margo asked.
"Tell her, Carter," the man with the cleft chin said. "I'm certain you know."
"Margo, meet Abdul Samadhi. I suspect that's his real name. He probably has a much more imaginative street name."
"It's going to be a great pleasure questioning you both," the PLO man said.
Seven
Carter and Margo were separated, Carter being moved into a side room with small high windows and several layers of whitewash covering the adobe surface. In addition to a plank table and a few primitive chairs, there was a cot, a table covered with old magazines, and a wooden crate serving as a base for a portable shortwave radio.
Abdul Samadhi, working on a two-day growth of beard, motioned Carter to a seat at the plank table, produced cigarettes, and leveled his strange blue eyes at Carter. "What were you doing in Paris?"
"Vacationing."
"Yes, and your experiences there were so taxing that you had to come to Mexico to get away from everything," Samadhi said, standing and beginning to pace about the room, tapping a willow switch against his palm. "What do you know of Lex Talionis, Killmaster?"
"The law of the lion," Carter said. "A concept in early jurisprudence that finds a perfect expression in the Old Testament. Basically, it's the concept of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
Samadhi swiped at the tabletop with the willow switch. "Don't play games with me."
Carter spread his palms. "Obviously, you don't know what it is yet."
"Perhaps I am checking to see if you are innocent enough to be allowed to remain free." Samadhi fingered the cleft in his chin.
"Perhaps you're trying to cash in on what you think is a big thing, Samadhi, the biggest thing you've ever had thrown your way. I know some of you PLO fellows are reasonable in your dedication and conviction. But even among the best of a group of idealists, the scent of a big score becomes more than the ideals can stand."
"There are ways to make you talk," Samadhi said.
"Bribes?" Carter suggested, smiling.
"If I thought that would be effective."
"Torture?" Carter continued.
"As a last resort. But first we eat." The PLO operative called sharply in slangy Arabic. Moments later, the door opened and the man Carter had seen stirring the lamb stew entered carrying a tray with two steaming bowls, a pile of fresh-baked pita bread, a bowl of diced green chiles, and a single large pot of beans with sliced onions.