"What's your opinion about where that last group was going?" Carter pushed a few American dollars toward her. Nervously, she picked up the bills.
"They sure wasn't no chicleros, because men what does that, they got a pungent odor about them, being out there an' they'd say they maybe could be your construction types, lookin' to make big money in the long-term construction projects."
Carter pushed two more dollars toward her. "You say maybe. And maybe they're something else."
Her eyes rolled. "Sometimes lately, seems to me a lot come through here wantin' to play soldier."
"Where do they go? Do they stay here in Belize?" He shoved a five at her.
"Man, how do I know where dey all go? I cannot take dat fiver."
"Take it," Carter said. "It's okay."
She looked about her uneasily. "You telling me you gonna protect me from now on?"
"What do you need to be protected from?"
"Man, some folks say the ones who like to play soldier, they end up in places like Honduras or Nicaragua, learnin' a trade." There was a heavy irony lacing her voice.
"What kind of trade?"
"Man, they become magicians." She gave a nervous laugh and lowered her face toward Carter's. "You know what I mean? They learn how to take people who ask too many questions and make 'em disappear."
Carter pushed the five at her. "You've earned it," he said. He decided to walk off the effects of the heavy meal. At a magazine stand he bought a small map of the area, noticing with interest the range of periodicals and magazines. There were the omnipresent comic books in Spanish and English, there was a stack of old National Geographic magazines for a Belize dollar apiece, the international edition of Newsweek, and an entire section of Soldier of Fortune magazines, some over two years old. There was a large stack of the latest edition as well. Equally imposing were the displays of handgun — and rifle-oriented magazines, priced in Belize dollars according to their newness.
He checked his watch. He still had two hours before he could have the rental car. He made the rounds of bars and coffee shops, and saw one place where he noted guns and ammunition were sold. He was looking for traces of Samadhi. His cohorts had undoubtedly gone on that bus with Unkefer, but maybe the cocky PLO man was still in town.
When he found no trace of Samadhi, Carter walked back to the Hotel Mopan, secured his room, and settled down for a nap. It could be a long time before he had a good sleep again.
It was still light when he awakened. He showered and went down into the bar for some coffee. After two cups and a cinnamon bun, Carter felt measurably better and went out and found a dry goods store where he bought a serviceable pair of chinos, a lightweight chambray work shirt, and a flop-brimmed straw hat to wear against the ravages of the tropical sun. He went back to the car rental place and told them he'd expect the car in half an hour. No excuses. It was time to move.
Back at the hotel, he packed, left coded messages for Zachary and Margo Huerta, checked out, and loaded his things in the car.
The rental car was a Toyota from the early 80s. Scratched and dented here and there, it nevertheless had reliable tread on the tires and a good response to the gas pedal. Carter filled the tank at a station near the Swing Bridge, put in an hour driving around, still looking for traces of Abdul Samadhi, then headed into the late afternoon sun, away from the coastal humidity and onward toward Belmopan.
The Western Highway to Belmopan was about as good a road as Carter had seen in a developing country. While not luxuriously wide in some places on a steep upgrade, nevertheless there were wide shoulders on either side and, in a few places, turnouts to allow slower traffic to pull over safely if a faster driver wanted to pass.
There were some potholes, but there were also signs that a road crew had recently been through doing some patching work. The road took Carter roughly southwest, into the foothills of the Maya Mountains and through farming country that was colorful and inviting. Carter made excellent time; darkness had just begun to set in as he noticed a sign for the cutoff to Belmopan.
Signs of civilization were apparent almost immediately, but some of them reminded Carter of real estate developments he'd seen in various desert and mountain areas. Signs and staked-out areas began to abound, a number of well-articulated foundations were dug, and yet others had been poured, with piles of equipment set nearby. A series of signs spoke of the Belmopan twenty-year plan, and another, lit by a modern mercury vapor lamp, told of the pride with which Belezians could view their new country capital.
Carter drove past a few scattered farms, a small shanty-town, and a more ambitious series of housing tracts, surrounded by a wide, well-paved ring road.
Continuing south, Carter found a business area with gas stations, a few groceries and a feed and grain store, all closed for the day. Several hundred yards away another clump of activity seemed well lit in the mountainous night, and Carter saw another gas station, a few garages, food shops, and a modest inn with hand-painted signs and numerous flowerpots filled with geraniums.
He also noted two banks, a post office, a large and neat-looking hospital, and the large pink cinder-block building with enormous dish antennas on the roof, a microwave telephone installation. That meant he could check in at the AXE nerve center and talk to David Hawk.
Driving on, Carter saw another of the ubiquitous signs, this less ambitious and cruder than the others: Belize Center for The Arts, 10 kms. Six miles to the south. The sign contained information in English and Spanish about the Spring Festival of the Arts.
Carter parked and approached the inn, thinking to find a beer and a room. If Zachary were on schedule, he should be there.
He had no sooner entered the lobby when a familiar voice greeted him. "Just in time for a nightcap, Carter. I'm buying." Sam Zachary lifted a glass in salute.
Thirteen
They sat in the small cafe area, drinking beer. "I think I had a run-in with Samadhi," Carter said. "In Belize City. He took off. Lost me. But there's a lot of activity around here that validates our suspicions. I'm pushing to get out to that arts center. I just know that there's a connection between Samadhi and the LT that we're not seeing and I won't rest until I get it."
Zachary ran through his experiences before leaving Mexico City. "I went to see the people Chepe Muñoz interviewed. They swore they didn't turn him in. They said there'd been people watching their home since Bezeidenhout had been there."
"You believed that?" Carter asked.
"I pressed them, and got them to tell me what Bezeidenhout had talked to their group about. I got stuff that backs up your theory, Carter. Bezeidenhout was trying to sell shares in an organization that would become a multinational political arm, beholden to no one. They intend to work it like a law firm: you've got the money to pay their fees, they're on your side and won't sell you out to another client."
Carter's anger dropped a notch. The story made a grim kind of sense. "It's like paying a yearly retainer fee for terrorism."
"Son of a bitch," Zachary said, standing. "When you put it that way, the hell with sleep. Let's go."
"You might as well grab a few hours. I've got an errand and it may take me some time."
After Zachary had ordered another beer and taken it off to his room, Carter headed to the nearby Belmopan hospital. His gunshot wound in the shoulder needed looking at and there was yet another angle he wanted to check out.