Guatemala

Velanova comes to me while I am eating dinner. A footstep in the dark and he is there, squatting down beside me, leaning against the car. I am leaning against a wheel scooping lukewarm black beans out of a plastic bowl with a stale tortilla. It all tastes great.

"¿Como esta, mi amigo?" he says. His voice is husky, sounds tired.

"Bueno, capitan," I say. "Gracias. ¿E tu?"

He nods and goes on, speaking slowly so I can keep up.

"Your Spanish is pretty good, gringo." he says, "You need only to practice more. You have a good ear for dialect and accent."

I thank him, wonder what he really is here for. I don't think he'd come over just to shoot the shit, he is much too busy.

"You will be leaving us tomorrow," Velanova says.

"Yes," I say.

"The road ahead," he says, "it runs through our territory for about eighteen more kilometers, then there is a stretch of no man's land, then the government again."

"Okay," I say, "Do you think there will be a problem?"

"There is a checkpoint," Velanova says, "A gate and a guard house."

"Uh huh?" I say.

"They will stop you," Velanova says, "and question you for a while. They will want to be sure you are not a spy or a sympathizer. We will arrange a little show to help you convince them you are no friend of ours. They will want to search your car and your luggage and they will confiscate anything they think may be valuable to them. You may be able to prevent them from doing so by offering a bribe. Two hundred thousand pesos ought to be enough. There will be one thing, though that we will want them to confiscate."

He stands up and waves to a soldier waiting near the truck. The soldier brings over a black briefcase. Velanova shows it to me, both sides, like he's a magician showing me there aren't any hidden wires. Nothing up his sleeve. He opens the front door of the Mercedes. Leans inside and places the briefcase on the floor on the passenger side. Pulls himself out of the car and looks at me, eye to eye.

"Just leave it under the dash like this." Velanova says, "They will see it and want to know what is in it. You will tell them it is for the American Consul in Guatemala City. They will take it and give you a receipt. You will be indignant, but you will not fight them. You will drive away toward the city."

"Then what?" I say.

"That is all." Velanova says. "It is some false information which we want them to think is real. It is cryptic, but they will be able to interpret that our position is weaker than it is, and they will probably try to mount an offensive. They will be surprised."

His smile is wide, his eyes look sharp and angry. He looks like a devil. Vincent Price sending the unsuspecting victim into the basement full of quicksand. I wonder if I should believe him. I don't think he wants to hurt me. I nod and he nods.

In the morning, Velanova and most of his men are gone. One young man watching the road from behind the cab of the truck waves at me as I drive away south.

* * *

It happens very like how he had described it. The bribe, the questions, the taking of the briefcase over my blustery objections. As I drive away toward Guatemala City, I am proud of my performance. I am chuckling to myself when the sky lights up behind me, and the sound and shock wave of the explosion follows, rocking the Mercedes forward on its springs. I glance in the mirror, see the smoke and flames and running soldiers, then hear the sound of guns. I floor it down the road. I have to get out of the country fast.

An hour later I notice that my hands are gripping the wheel so hard that I cannot relax them. I have to pull over to get them to unbend.