The Infinity Tattoo (16 page)

Jack sat down at the table with renewed determination. No one needed to remind him how desperate their situation was. Without evidence, they had no way of extricating themselves from this mess.

An hour passed. Then another. Jack glanced at his watch. It was three thirty. If they were to get out of there before nightfall, they only had another half an hour.

He started to scan through another handwritten missive. Then he slowed down. It was an interview of a woman by a Padre Alvaro. The woman described a visit from a stranger, a gringo.

“Meg,” he said, “I think I may have found something.” He handed the paper to her, “Here, you read it. Your Spanish is better than mine.”

Meg read it carefully.

Testimonial of Juanita Reyes, January 6, 1986

My name is Juanita Reyes. I was taken into custody by soldiers in October, 1985. They brought me to a place like a cell and accused me of being a communist spy. They stripped me of my clothes and soldiers tortured me every day to get a confession. Sometimes it was Augusto who interrogated me, sometimes other soldiers. But I had nothing to confess. I do not know what communist means and I have never been a spy.

Then one day they brought another man to the cell to interrogate me, a gringo. I had never seen him before, but he came with Augusto. I heard Augusto call this man Richard. They were stinking drunk. Together, the two of them took turns interrogating me. The gringo put his hands all over my body. I was sure they were both going to rape me.

Then there was a lot of commotion coming from outside of the interrogation cell. Augusto and the man, this gringo, stepped out. I could hear a man shouting. Augusto called him Major, a senior officer. The major confronted Augusto to ask him what he was doing. Augusto said he was just showing a colleague their operation. The man shouted at Augusto. He told him to take this gringo away and never do such a foolish thing again.

The major left. But then he came back with another soldier. The major told the soldier to get rid of me, that they didn’t want any witnesses. The soldier shot me in the chest. I passed out, but I did not die. The next thing I knew, I was in a burial pit with many dead bodies. I crawled out and hid in the brush.

“Jesus,” Jack said, when Meg finished reading. “Do you think the gringo was our man Colonel Parker?”

“It would be pretty coincidental if it wasn’t, don’t you think?” Meg said.

Sister Reina suddenly stood and started gathering up the files they had open on the table. “Listen, my friends. I think we should take this document and get out of here.”

“I agree,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”

Sister Reina took the document, folded it carefully and tucked it down her blouse. She gave them a defiant look, and Meg and Jack burst out laughing.

“Well,” Meg said. “I guess you couldn’t find a safer place.”

* * *

They drove to Catacamus in a heavy silence; each of them seemed to be weighed down by the discovery. Jack wrestled with the words in Juanita’s testimonial. He kept thinking about his sisters. Even though he often fought with them, he would do anything to protect them. Juanita, it seemed had had no one to protect her.

Equally horrifying was the role of his commanding officer in the affair. It was a smack in the face of everything Jack believed in: the military code of conduct, or even common moral decency. He wasn’t so naive as to believe that men in the military were infallible. Too many horrendous things had occurred since he joined, like the torture and humiliation of the prisoners at Abu Ghraib prison.

But in his mind, those soldiers were abstract. Colonel Parker was not. Parker was his commanding officer. And it was possible that Parker was now being blackmailed for his past crime.

Jack felt dirty. He wanted to shower away all the terrible knowledge he had acquired in that place in the middle of nowhere in a country most Americans couldn’t care less about.

When they reached a four-way intersection just inside the town, a police car flashed its lights and indicated they should pull over.

“Let’s stay calm,” the nun said. “I will do the talking.”

A well-fed middle-aged policeman got out of his vehicle and approached them. Sister Reina rolled her window down.

“Good evening, Senior,” she said with a gracious smile.

“Good evening, Sister,” the man replied, his jowls wiggling as he smiled unctuously at her.

“Is there a problem?” she asked

“No, no,” he said, continuing to smile. “No problem. We just like to keep tabs on our visitors here in Catacamus. One can never be too careful these days.”

“I understand that. I am Sister Reina, and these are my two associates, Meg and Jack.”

“And what brings you to town?”

“We visited Padre Guillermo. Now we are returning to Tegucigalpa.”

“I see,” said the officer, stroking his thick black mustache. “And was your visit to Padre Guillermo fruitful?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sister Reina said. She looked him straight in the eye and started handling the large cross on her neck.

“Right, then. You’re returning to the capital, so I won’t delay you.”

Sister Reina put the truck in gear and drove out of town. The policeman tailed them until they reached the highway and the end of the town.

They arrived at the outskirts of Tegucigalpa just as it was getting dark. Sister Reina took them directly to the Hotel Maya. Meg had never been so glad to lock the door of a simple hotel room.

She checked the bathroom. Hot water flowed freely, and she availed herself of a bath. Then she flopped on the bed and turned on her IPad. There was Wi-Fi and she was able to check her emails. Jack turned on the television to CNN en Espanol.

“We need a plan,” he said, switching off the news which was just endlessly repeating the same stories.

“Agreed,” she said. “Any ideas?”

“We could take what we have to a reporter or put it out there on the internet. That would kill Colonel Parker’s career. Then Augusto wouldn’t have anything to hold over him anymore. But we’d still have the problem of Augusto. I don’t think he would just leave us be.”

“Hm . . . I wonder if a little, um . . . blackmail wouldn’t be more effective,” Meg said.

“Like what?”

“Those pictures of Augusto with the congressmen and high-ranking officer, they would be very damaging to Honduras’ image to the rest of the world. Augusto is a patriot, no matter how misguided. Obviously, he doesn’t want that to get out.”

“Yeah, so what are we going to do? Walk up to Augusto and say ‘if you don’t leave us alone, we’re going public with this picture?’ He’d probably shoot us and grab the picture. No more evidence. No more witnesses.”

“The first thing we have to do is get copies of all the evidence into a safe place.”

“That’s what Alex tried. And look what happened.”

“Yes, but he never got the chance to explain anything to you. Anyway, I’m thinking about a couple of people who would understand the significance of the evidence.”

“Like who?”

“Isabella Mendoza for one. And maybe another trusted journalist.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? I mean the whole idea is to hold it over this Augusto character as a threat. What if the journalist takes it to the press?”

“Well, there is that possibility, except for one thing. Journalists look after each other. They’re out on the frontlines every day and they understand the risks their colleagues take. If they know the information is a life insurance policy, they’ll protect it.”

“Okay. So we make sure the stuff we have is safeguarded. Then what?”

“Then maybe we should go the embassy. We might be able to approach the US ambassador.”

“Are you serious? What are we going to do, go up to the residence and knock on the door?”

“We could try a front-door approach. I think a person can ask for an audience with the ambassador through American Citizen Services. But we’d have to convince them that what we had was important enough. It would be better if we had a connection to someone at the embassy. I’m not sure if any of my journalist colleagues are still around or even if they would be able to help. What about Soto Cano Air Force Base? Do you know anyone there who might be able to help us?”

“Maybe. Let me give it some thought,” he said.

* * *

“The political section,’’ Meg said over breakfast the next morning.

“What?”

“The political section at the US Embassy. That’s who we need to talk to. They’re the ones who keep tabs on everything that’s going on in a country, from human rights to political machinations. Let’s see what we can find on the internet about the embassy in Honduras.”

“Look at this,” Meg said. “It’s a report from the political office that lists a litany of human-rights violations including unlawful killings by police and government agents, arbitrary and summary killings committed by vigilantes and former members of the security forces; harsh prison conditions; violence against detainees; corruption and impunity within the security forces, etc.”

“Sure looks like the right department to me,” said Jack.

They decided they had nothing to lose by trying to contact the political officer directly. It proved to be surprisingly easy. When the operator answered, Meg asked to speak to the political officer and was transferred to a secretary.

“Political Section. How may I direct your call?”

“Yes, I’d like to speak to your political officer,” Meg said.

“May I ask what this is about?”

“I have information about a foreign journalist, an American who disappeared shortly after the coup.”

“Does this journalist have a name?”

“Alex Larson.”

“May I ask to whom I am speaking?”

“My name is Meg Goodwin. I was a colleague of his.”

“I see. Please hold for a moment.” When she came back on the line, she said. “I’m transferring you to Karl Davis,”

“This is Karl Davis,” said the voice on the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Davis. My name is Meg Goodwin. I’m calling concerning the disappearance of an American journalist, Alex Larson. My colleague and I have some information you might be interested in.”

“What kind of information do you have?”

“We know, on good authority, the location of his body. We also have some interesting information about the kind of investigation Alex was working on when he disappeared.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“I’m here in Tegucigalpa. I was wondering if my colleague and I might come to your office.”

“That might be possible. Are you an American citizen?”

“Yes, as is my colleague, Jack Cunningham.”

“Okay, I need some details to get you cleared to come in—your names, dates of birth, etc. Also, if you can get me a copy of your passports, that would be very helpful.”

* * *

When Jack and Meg arrived at the embassy they were greeted by guards who checked a visitor’s roster for their names. They then placed their belongings on the conveyor belt of a scanner. They walked through a metal detector and picked up their belongings at the other end of the scanner. They were instructed to place their cell phones in a basket, to be retrieved when they left.

They went up to a glassed-in booth, which Meg imagined was bulletproof, where a marine stood on duty. Inside the booth were monitors showing different views of the building and various communication devices as well as what looked like a switchboard. Next to the booth was a very heavy door.

They told the marine they had an appointment with Karl Davis and handed over their passports in exchange for visitors’ tags. Karl met them at reception and they followed him through the corridor to his office. Meg was struck by the drabness of the hallway. There was a collection of abstract paintings along one off-white wall, someone’s attempt to perk things up, she supposed.

When they reached Karl’s office, he gestured for them to sit down, then looked at them expectantly.

They had decided to let Meg do the talking. “I’m a reporter,” she began, “and I was here during the coup. Alex Larson, the journalist who disappeared, was a very good friend of mine.”

“I see,” Karl scribbled notes on a yellow pad.

“He disappeared right after he met with some local journalists,” she continued. Slowly and concisely, she led him through the discovery of the package sent to Jack, the many efforts by persons unknown to retrieve it, how Jack had heard about Alex’s whereabouts, the threats on Jack’s life, and the journey back to Honduras, and discovery of Juanita Reyes’ testimony.

They placed photocopies of the evidence on his desk: the more recent photos of Augusto and the congressmen, the emails from Augusto, the older photograph of Augusto with Jack’s commanding officer, and the testimonial.

Karl tapped his pen on his desk for a moment. “Why didn’t you contact the embassy?”

“I did,” Jack said. “I sent a letter to the RSO. But I never heard back. Before I could follow up, I was redeployed back to the United States.”

Karl picked up his phone. “Roberto, I have some people in my office with some information. Do you have a minute to stop in?”

“Roberto?” Jack said.

“The acting regional security officer. Let’s see if he knows anything about that message you sent to his office.”

A man stepped into Karl’s office, notepad in hand. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with dark curly hair and a tanned complexion. His build was slight by American standards. Meg guessed that he might have Central American roots. He sat down, adjusted his wire-framed glasses with his index finger, and held his pen over his paper.

“Roberto,” Karl began, “this is Jack Cunningham and his colleague, Meg Goodwin. They have a very interesting story. It seems Ms. Goodwin and Mr. Cunningham were both friends of the American journalist, Alex Larson, who disappeared. You remember when that happened?”

“Oh yes, I remember it. I remember it very well.”

“Right. Well, it turns out that Mr. Cunningham was at the Soto Cano military base shortly after the incident. He obtained some information concerning where Larson’s body was, er, disposed of. Apparently, Mr. Cunningham contacted the embassy, specifically, the regional security office. But I don’t recall hearing or reading anything about it. I wasn’t here at the time, but you were, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“So . . . do you ever remember receiving a letter from Mr. Cunningham, here, about our missing journalist?”

Roberto glanced quickly at Jack, then returned his gaze to Karl. “I’m sure if I’d seen something like that, I would have sounded the alarms. But I can double-check our files. It’s possible, though very unlikely, that the letter got filed without being read, perhaps by someone who didn’t realize its significance.”

“Do that, would you? And let me know what you find out.”

“Of course.”

Roberto shook hands with Jack and Meg, offering stilted condolences for the loss of their friend, then took his leave.

Karl looked through the evidence sitting on his desk. “What do you plan to do with this information?” he asked them.

Meg looked at Jack, who nodded. “Well, I guess there are a number of things we’re hoping will happen. We want Augusto stopped. Ideally, we’d like to see him prosecuted, but I don’t know how likely that is,” she said.

“At a minimum he should be removed from any position of influence in this country,” she continued. “And he has to stop blackmailing Parker. We also plan to contact a senior officer in the military concerning Colonel Richard’s ‘indiscretion’, if you will, back in the eighties.”

“Fair enough,” said Karl. “I’ll need to follow up with this information you’ve given me, within the embassy. I’ll let you know what we decide to do. Do you have a cell phone number where you can be reached?”