The Second Bat Guano War Part 34

"Call the papers," she said. "Expose this to the world."

"What planet do you live on?" I said. "You think the sc.u.m at the New York Times aren't working for the CIA? Or any other newspaper for that matter. It's big business, baby. Money is all that matters to them. The truth?" I farted, and the stink of my rotting carca.s.s filled the van. "Plus, even then, a.s.suming you found an editor who didn't have the CIA blackmailing him, you'd need proof. How you going to prove there's a plot?"

"So we put it online, like Wikileaks," she insisted. "The net is still free."

"For now," Victor said.

"That might work," I admitted. "But you would still need proof. Hard evidence. Where you going to get that?"

She curled her knuckles tight, pressed them between her thighs. Bowed her head. "There's got to be something we can do," she said. "And I don't care what. Those f.u.c.kers killed Sven." A tear trickled down her cheek.

She looked so forlorn. I felt sorry for her. I rolled down a window, and cold mountain air swept away my scent. I put my arm around her and pulled her head to my shoulder. "It was nothing personal," I said. "It was Pitt they were after. Sven was just collateral damage."

She pulled away. "And that's supposed to what, make me feel better?"

Victor held up a hand. "I like the idea," he said abruptly. "It's a long shot, though."

"What's that?" Aurora asked, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips.

"We can go to the second refuge, where Kate and the others are. Or," and he lowered his voice, "we can go into the Salar de Uyuni. We can go to the mine."

"And do what?" I asked. "Get killed in the crossfire?"

He held up a cell phone. "Satellite roaming," he explained. "If we can get video evidence of the bombing, I can send it via satphone. Get it out to the world."

"But what does a video of a mine blowing up prove?" I demanded. "How is that evidence of CIA involvement? And how are the Americans planning to frame the Chileans, anyway?"

"These are all good questions, Horace," Victor said, and fingered the bruise under his left eye. "I don't know the answers. All I'm saying is, let's go and improvise. Doc.u.ment what we can. They aren't expecting visitors. The mine's in the middle of nowhere. There must be some kind of evidence we can find once we're there on the ground."

"And even if we do find some evidence," I said, "what good does it do? By the time the bombing takes place, it's too late."

"Too late to save the mine. True. But if I can get the video to the Bolivians, plus whatever evidence we find, it might be enough to prevent them from invading Chile. We still got," he said, and shook his wrist, consulted his watch, "two days before the bomb goes off."

"Two days?" Aurora said.

"Well, a bit less, actually. Day after tomorrow at 11:37 in the morning, what Pitt said."

"But the CIA knows you know," she said. "Knows that Pitt told you that. Wouldn't they push forward the timer and blow the mine immediately?"

Victor shook his head. "They are arrogant Americans. They think they can do what they want and get away with it. Why should they change their plans just because of some annoying activists who live in a cave?"

"We couldn't just, you know, like, pick up the f.u.c.king phone?" My voice rose in a crescendo. "Look under the bed, boys, there's a f.u.c.king bomb there?"

The truck ahead of us spewed a thick stream of diesel exhaust, ground ahead a few meters, stopped. Victor followed, the van gliding ahead in neutral.

"It's not as simple as that," he said, his voice so quiet we had to strain to hear him. "The Anglo-Dutch management is working with the CIA. They're afraid of Ovejo. Nationalization. All their work up in smoke, you know? The company wants this war. They'd rather let the CIA sabotage their mine than lose the entire concession. Best case, you call them, they ignore you. Worst case..." He left the thought unfinished.

"I've got a better idea," I said.

"What's that?"

"Go back to Lima. Find Ambo. Stick some jumper cables on his b.a.l.l.s. Make the f.u.c.ker squeal."

"Who is this Ambo?" Aurora asked.

"I told you. The guy I intend to kill."

"And who is that?" she insisted.

"Jeremiah Freeman Watters. The Amm Basderr a tha Yoo Ni Stase a Mareka. Pitt's father."

Aurora gasped. "a.s.sa.s.sinate the American amba.s.sador?"

"Stop him, you stop the whole thing. He's the key."

I didn't believe a word I was saying, of course. It would make no difference in the grand scheme of things if I killed him or not, although it would sure as h.e.l.l scratch my itch. But I had no money, no doc.u.ments and no vehicle. I could use their help.

"And how," Victor asked, "do you plan to do that?"

"Confront him," I said. "Demand the truth. Bring a gun. Maybe a car battery."

Victor looked straight ahead. His eyes were pale, translucent half-orbs in the afternoon light. He said, "You think that, you're a fool."

He could see it too. "Am I?"

"Pitt's father is a replaceable p.a.w.n, just like everybody else," he said. "The machinery grinds ahead. All parts can be replaced. Or are you," and he laughed, that barking sound again, "are you planning to fly to Washington, start shooting people at the CIA?"

I toyed with the idea. It would be fun. Multiple murder-suicide. But all I'd kill would be a bunch of underpaid rent-a-cops. It wouldn't make any difference. The creeping American evil would continue to spread across the globe like a plague.

"You want revenge," Victor said. It wasn't a question.

"The only thing I want."

"Stop the war, you destroy his career. Everything Ambo has built. Then you can go kill him. If killing is really what you want."

Destroy his career.

I hated to admit it, but Victor had a point. Hurt Ambo where it counts. His pride. Stop the war. Destroy his life. Then you kill him. So much more satisfying that way.

"Now you're talking," I said. "I'm in."

"And the worst case?" Aurora asked.

"Worst case what," I said.

"Worst case if you make that phone call. To the mine."

Victor sighed. "Worst case, they trace your call and send a missile in to take us out." He uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel and blew air through his teeth, mimicking an explosion.

The three of us looked at each other. Aurora cleared her throat. "Maybe we should take a bus."

"Good point," Victor said. "Now that you mention it. Do. Let's."

Two trucks ahead of us in line was a bus. Victor pulled the van to the side of the road. He left the keys in the ignition, the doors unlocked. We hopped out and jogged to the bus. We were still a good half a kilometer from the border crossing.

The hydraulic doors opened with a shriek and a hiss. A squat, potbellied Indian in a blue poncho looked down at us from his throne. Amplified Andean pan pipe music blasted from the bus's speakers, rattling the windows. Purple-and-green fringe dangled from the top of the bus window. On the dashboard a candle burned in a large shrine to the Virgin Mary, a cherubic Jesus held out in her arms.

"Si?" the man shouted over the music.

"Para La Paz?"

"Subanse."

We got on.

Fifty unwashed Indians reclined in their rotting chairs. A Bolivian woman in traditional hoop skirt squatted on the floor, a puddle of urine spreading with each movement of the bus. We sat across the aisle from her, opened a window and did our best to hold our noses.

"How far is it to La Paz?" Aurora asked.

"Eight hours."

"Oh G.o.d." She stood, stuck her head out the window and breathed the cold, dusty mountain air.

Bolivian immigration is a joke. h.e.l.l, after closing time you can just walk across. It's your job to get the stamp you need. Once, Kate and I arrived just as they closed up shop, and they waved us right through. "Come back tomorrow," they said. "We're going home."

The question was, would they be on the lookout for us? They saw us land on the Peruvian sh.o.r.e. Bombarded us as we drove east toward Copacabana. You didn't have to be a North American imperialist running dog to guess where we were headed.

"See anything?" I asked Aurora.

She gulped diesel fumes, squinted ahead of us. Her a.s.s wiggled in my face. "What am I looking for?" she asked.

"I don't know. Sharpshooters on the rooftops? Tanks and barricades? Squads of black-clad commandos with night-vision goggles?"

"It's daytime."

"Whatever."

Victor said, "They won't bother with any of that."

"How can you be sure?" I asked.

"I can't be," he said. "Not entirely." He fingered his lip. "All the same, our best bet is to walk across like we're tourists."

"With no luggage?" Aurora asked, pulling her head in the window. "No backpacks?"

He shrugged in his seat. "You got a better idea?"

I stood, stepped between Aurora's legs and stuck my head out the window. We were close to the Peruvian immigration post. I'd crossed here dozens of times, and it looked the same as always. Street vendors selling diarrhea on a stick. Money changers with their counterfeit play money and "fixed" calculators. It all looked normal.

Maybe Victor was right. Could we really just walk across? Unless there was a commando team hiding in the bushes ready to jump out and say "boo," in which case we were f.u.c.ked. But no. Better to be aggressive. Time was on our side. If we waited until nightfall, it only gave them more time to get ready for us. Plus, we would be a lot more conspicuous after dark. Foot traffic slowed after sundown.

I sat back in my chair. "Alright," I said. "Let's do it."

The bus squealed to a halt outside the Peruvian immigration post. We shuffled off with the other inmates, joined the crowded lineup. I looked around casually, just another gringo tourist gawping at the locals. Still nothing. The bus drove off, and I had a momentary panic before realizing the driver was only moving the bus toward the Bolivian post a few hundred meters down the road. The handful of police didn't give us a second glance. I frowned. It was almost too normal. Did they want us to get through?

One by one we slipped off to change money, without returning to the scrum for an immigration stamp. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. I was about to change my lonely five-dollar bill into bolivianos when an explosion shook the air. Behind us, a plume of black smoke unfurled skyward.

Van? I mouthed the word.

Victor nodded. "They know we're here."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Aurora said.

"Against the bus. Now," Victor ordered under his breath.

We scuttled the rest of the way up the line of parked traffic, pressed our backs against the bus.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Spotter." He scanned the sky. "Five o'clock. Motorcycle helmet."

I found the man. He sat low, head down, over a high-powered Honda. Kept his helmet on, shade closed. His black leathers looked new.

"They wouldn't," I said.

"Not with so many people around."

"How can you be sure?" I asked. "They blew up the Finski, didn't they? All those dead tourists, just to get Pitt."

"You got a better idea?"

"Spotter," Aurora said. "What does this word mean?"

"Laser-guided missiles need a ground spotter," Victor explained. "Shine a laser on our foreheads, ram a missile down our throats."

"What the h.e.l.l," I said. "They know we're here. Why don't they arrest us?"

Victor crossed his arms, chewed his lip. "Maybe it's easier to kill us. Or maybe they know about the other jeep, and they want to drive us forward, find out where Kate and the rest are so they can kill us all. Make the cover-up complete."

Aurora patted her clavicle, as though she had something stuck in her throat. "I see," she said.

I put my hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to come with us if you don't want to."

"Too late now," Victor said. "They've seen you. You try going solo, the CIA'll grab you and interrogate you." He looked away. "I'd hate to think what they'd do to a pretty girl like you."

"f.u.c.k the CIA," she said. "You couldn't pay me enough to stop me from going with you."

A stream of pa.s.sengers returned to the bus. The driver unlocked the door. We resumed the journey to La Paz. Aurora pinched her nose, held her breath.