Where There's Smoke

Lara stood beside the cot, washed and combed and dressed, her hand arrested in midair near his shoulder. The muzzle of the gun was only inches from her face.

“Jesus.” Key exhaled shortly. “I could have killed you.”

She was shaken and pale. “I’m sorry I startled you. I called your name several times. It… it wasn’t until… I touched you…”

They stared at each other through the morning gloom. It became increasingly difficult to breathe the heavy, humid air. Her breasts rose and fell with the effort.

Sometime during the night, he’d kicked off the top sheet. Sweat trickled through his chest hair, rolled over his ribs, down his belly, and collected in his navel. An erection like a telephone pole had distended the front of his briefs.

“It’s seven o’clock.” She sounded as though she’d just run a mile uphill. “I’ve made coffee.” She turned and fled.

Key dropped the gun and covered his face with both hands, dragging them down his haggard, bearded cheeks. Morning erections weren’t uncommon, but this one was unusually hard.

As he pulled on his clothes, he stared at the open doorway through which Lara had hastily retreated.

“You were right. There’s nothing here.”

Lara kicked a chunk of ceiling plaster out of her path. What had been done to the American embassy library defied description. The crystal chandelier lay shattered on the quarry tile floor, which had been robbed of the Aubusson rugs that had once adorned it. The bookshelves had been stripped. Piles of ashes were mute testimony to the fate of the volumes.

The flag that had once stood in the corner was in tatters. Epithets to the United States had been spray-painted on the paneled walls. None of the tall windows remained intact. Apparently guns had been fired into the ceiling, because loose plaster and sections of molding were scattered over the floor. The furnishings had been confiscated. Rodents and birds now nested in the rubble.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter.”

“It’s not your fault,” she told Father Geraldo, who was hovering nearby. He was wan; his skin looked pasty, and his eyes were bloodshot. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely drink the coffee she’d brewed before their departure from the rectory. She pretended not to notice when he laced his coffee with rum. “You tried to warn me that this was what I’d find.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

“Randall’s office, please.”

“Make it quick,” Key said.

He stood near a window, flattened against the wall. He could see out while remaining hidden. They had dressed in the clothing the priest had provided the night before and had parked the jeep off the main street before entering the building. Nevertheless, both he and Lara doubted that their disguises could fool anyone who looked closely at them.

Key was carrying the rifle. His handgun was tucked into the waistband of his pants. From the moment they’d entered the ravaged building, he’d been more interested in what was going on in the streets than in what she might discover inside.

He turned his head away from the window. “The same jeep has driven past three times. There are two soldiers in it. They’re flying El Corazón’s flag. I don’t trust their nonchalance.”

“We’ll be quick,” she promised as she and the priest picked their way through the litter to the doorway of the library. Key followed but continued to glance over his shoulder as they made their way up the staircase to the room that had been the ambassador’s office.

“Wait!” he cautioned as Lara reached for the closed door. She yanked back her hand, and he approached with the rifle. “Stand aside.” She and the priest stood with their backs against the wall, out of the way of the door. Key pressed himself against Lara, then used the butt of the rifle to nudge open the door.

He hesitated a moment longer, then explained. “It was the only door in the building that was closed. It could have been booby-trapped.”

Stepping around him, she moved into the office. At one time furnished to befit a United States ambassador, it had been ransacked as completely as the library. The desk was still there, but it had been bashed until it was barely standing. The top had been scarred by a knife, probably the same one used to slash the leather chair. White cotton stuffing sprouted from the gashes. The liquor cabinet had been raided; Waterford decanters and glassware had been shattered against the far wall.

Father Geraldo heaved a sad sigh. “It appears that your husband’s office suffered the same fate as the other rooms.” He headed for the door, but Lara reached out and caught his sleeve.

“Wait. Maybe not.” She moved to the far wall where there was a credenza that appeared not to have been disturbed. She opened one of the compartments and uttered a small exclamation.

“Look. Papers and files.” She scanned one of the documents. “They’re written in Spanish, but they look official.”

Father Geraldo read them over her shoulder. “It’s a trade agreement.” He read further. “Basically, unrefined sugar in exchange for weapons. But it’s dated several months before the coup was staged, so it can’t be of much interest.”

“It is to somebody.” Reaching deeper into the credenza, she pulled out a pair of reading glasses and held them up for the priest to see.

“That looks like—”

“The kind that Emilio wore,” she finished, her voice excited. “I knew it! I knew that if he was alive—”