in Guatemala City the following night, a cool breeze accompanying the errant drips still falling from the edge of the roof. She pulled her sweater close as she passed five men in military garb. They each carried an automatic weapon slung casually over the shoulder and they watched Meredith as she headed toward the waiting taxis, a single light bag in her hand.
The president of Guatemala had been overthrown in the late fifties and since that time, the government, such as it was, had been under the command of a parade of generals and dictators, each more corrupt than the previous. In the eighties, the country had turned into a killing field. Things had gotten better in the late 90s, but no one forgot what it had been like and most expected it would return. The poverty was staggering.
The address she gave the taxi driver was in the Zona Viva, an area of town comprised of restaurants and hotels with plenty of upscale houses as well. Traffic was heavy despite the lateness of the hour but they got there eventually. She tipped the driver an amount reasonable enough to be acceptable but not enough to be remembered, then climbed out of the car in front of a hotel. Walking briskly, she lost herself in the crowd of pedestrians coming toward her. Four blocks later, she turned south. The commercial buildings became villas and fifteen minutes after that, she stopped and tapped twice on a wooden fence. A gate, unseen until that point, swung back, a slice of light spilling out from behind it to the darkened sidewalk. Meredith slid inside and the lock clicked behind her.
She’d never been in this particular house but it was so similar to the ones she always used that she barely noticed its comfortable furniture or generous rooms. The only thing she cared about was privacy and anonymity. Having to worry about someone recognizing her was the last thing she wanted. She made a quick check of the windows and doors, then had an even quicker conversation with the man who’d opened the gate. He knew better than to ask any questions and twenty minutes after she’d arrived, Meredith was settled in. The maps she’d requested were on the kitchen table. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down with the phone.
The first number she dialed was Cipriano Barrisito’s. She’d called him from the States before leaving and told him what she needed. She listened to the phone ring and thought about the tasks that faced her.
His voice was slick and deep when he answered. He was a fixer, a man who hung on the edges of both good and bad, doing whatever needed to be done for whoever had the money. “¿Bueno?”
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m here.”
“That’s good. Was your journey a smooth one?”
“I’m still in one piece,” she said. “Will I see you tonight?”
“Actually, I’m sending my cousin, Rosario. When I told the family that I needed some information of a certain type, she came to me.” He laughed. “You know how it works. She has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend….”
Barrisito’s “family” consisted of a dozen or so hookers he ran in the center of town. They represented only one facet of his organization, but when he needed to know something, the women were where he went first.
Meredith murmured her assent, but when he spoke again, his tone was guarded and uncertain, a fact that made her nervous. “I’m not sure we can shed any light on the problem, though.”
She hid her reaction by mock surprise. “Your family is always so friendly and helpful, mi amigo. I find that hard to believe. What are you saying?”
“The situation is…fluid, as you like to say in the north. The friend you inquired about seems to be out of town at the moment. Perhaps he’s joined the other gentleman you mentioned?”
As was her way, Meredith had explained as little as possible when she’d called Cipri earlier. She needed to locate Brad Prescott, she’d said, and Jack Haden might be able to help. Was he around?
“They’re both out of pocket now?” she asked.
“That seems to be the case,” Barrisito said. “I may have a handle on where they went, but like I said, I’m not sure at this point.”
“How long has my friend been gone?”
“That, I don’t know. All I do know is that he didn’t turn up for work yesterday or today. I may learn more within the next hour. If I do, Cousin Rosario will tell you when you see her.”
They said their goodbyes, Meredith’s concern rising over this latest turn of events. Where in the hell was Haden? Had he gone back to the States? For half a second, she thought of calling Reynolds to see what he knew, but in the end, she decided to stick with her original plan.
A little after eleven, she headed back to the business district. The bar was easy to find, its blaring techno pop competing with the even louder salsa music coming from the place next door. She sat down near the door and waited. Five minutes later Cousin Rosario slipped into the empty seat across the table. Her skimpy yellow blouse and cheap black skirt advertised her work, her hard face and made-up eyes, further confirmation. They chatted in Spanish and acted as if they’d known each other forever, checking on nonexistent relatives and verifying their identities in the process. After sharing a plate of tapas they got up and left together, heading down a busy side street to a small parque.
They made their way to a bench under a huge mahogany tree. It was late and getting later but the parque was still fairly full, a family with five children sitting in the grass nearby, their innocent laughter totally incongruent with the conversation the two women were about to have.
Meredith spoke first. “So what do you know?”
The woman was accustomed to people in a hurry. She took no notice of Meredith’s rush.
“Cipri told me you’re looking for someone. A gringo… I came because I have a friend who works up north. By Lake Ati. She goes to this place once a week. It’s like a prison but it isn’t.”
“What do you mean it’s ‘like’ a prison?”
The woman shrugged. “It’s not an official place, you know? The men, they’re locked up, okay? But the guards, they let the women in easy, no hassle like the policia would give them. All they want is some thing in return. They get la mordida—just a little money, not big like the police—then the women, they do their jobs and leave. No problems.” She explained the layout of the compound, her hands moving gracefully.
“Who puts the men there?” Meredith asked when she finished. “Who runs the place?”
The woman looked at her blankly. If she knew, she wasn’t telling.
“All right,” Meredith said impatiently. “So there’s two gringos there, correct? What do they look like—”
“No.” The hooker interrupted. “Not two. My friend, she say nothing about two. There was only one. One man. Cipri, he asked me that, too, but hay sólo uno.”
The uneasiness that had started during Meredith’s conversation with Barrisito raised another notch. Just as he’d pointed out, situations like this were always changing, but Meredith had come down here believing Prescott was the only MIA. Then Barrisito had told her Haden was gone, too.
Now she was back to one man?
“Does this gringo have a name?” she asked.
“They call him Árabe.”
“The
