They led the horse uphill through the accumulating mist to a clearing bounded by twisted spreading trees with black bark as wrinkled as the faces of old, old men, and they watched him graze, moving a step, munching, moving another step. Here he looked at home, serene and natural. His dappled coat blended with the mist, making it appear that he was either materializing from or disintegrating into the ghostly white ribbons clinging to his shoulders and haunches, his head sometimes vanishing when he bent to pull at a clump of grass. Moonlight slanted through the mist, haloing every object, creating zones of weird depth, coils of smoky glow, as if some magical force were dominating the clearing and illuminating its shapes of power. It was partly this perception of the magical that roused Mingolla’s desire, the hope that he could evoke a magic of his own and forget the foulness of the wagon. He pressed Debora against one of the trees, opened her blouse, and helped her skin down her panties. ‘It’s too damp,’ she said, pointing to the dewy grass. He lifted her a little to demonstrate an alternative. Her breasts were cool, gleaming with condensation, and felt buoyant in his hands; her eyes were aswim with lights. He drew up her skirt, lifted her again, and as he entered her, she threw her arms back around the trunk, her legs scissoring his waist. The stillness of the night was banished. The horse whuffling, munching, and the muffled noises from the jungle were gathered close, sharpened and orchestrated by the wet sounds of their lovemaking, their ragged breathing. It was a white act, seeming to kindle the moonlight to new brilliance. Mist curled from Debora’s mouth, tendriled her hair, and seeing her transformation, Mingolla felt that he, too, was being transformed, changing into a beast with golden eyes and talons, gaining in strength with every thrust, every cry she made. Afterward he supported her against the tree for a long time, too weak to talk or move, and when at last he withdrew, when he turned to the clearing, he expected to find that the horse had disappeared, that it had been dissolved by their good magic. But there it was, shoulder-deep in a white sea, staring at them without curiosity, merely watchful, knowing exactly what it had witnessed, its eyes steady and dark and empty of questions.
Several nights later Ruy invited Mingolla and Debora for coffee in his tent, while Tully and Corazon were gathering kindling. Ruy had apparently given up all rights to Corazon, preferring to concentrate on Debora, and though he had stopped making overt attempts at seduction, his eyes were always on her, and much of his conversation was suggestive. Mist curled through the tent flap, glowing in the radiance of a battery lamp, and Ruy lay on his sleeping bag, a coffee cup balanced on his stomach, talking about Panama, telling them more of what his long-ago passenger had purportedly told him. As he spoke, his language and his inflections grew more and more refined, and at last realizing that he was revealing himself to them, that there was no further use in circumspection, Mingolla asked, ‘What are you, man? Madradona or Sotomayor?’
Ruy set down his cup and sat up; shadows filled in the lines of his face, ‘Sotomayor,’ he said. ‘Of course most of us have grown accustomed to using other names.’
‘Why…’ Debora began.
‘Why haven’t I told you before? Why am I telling you now? Because I…’
‘Because it’s a game he’s playing,’ Mingolla said. ‘Everything’s a game to them.’ He wanted to ask Ruy about the horse, but was afraid he might lose his temper. ‘And we’re supposed to believe you playful fuckers are capable of making peace with one another.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Ruy haughtily. ‘You know a good bit of it. Would you like to hear the rest?’
‘Sure,’ said Mingolla. ‘Entertain us.’
‘Very well.’ Ruy sipped his coffee. ‘Toward the beginning of the last century, the wiser heads among us concluded that the world was headed for disaster. Nothing imminent, you understand. At least in terms of that generation’s happiness. But they could see the development of conflicts and forces that would menace everyone. They realized that the feud had to end, that we had to turn our energies toward dealing with these questions. And so we met in Cartagena and made a peace between the families.’
Mingolla spat out a laugh. ‘Altruists!’
‘That’s right,’ said Ruy. ‘You have no idea how great an altruism was required to overcome centuries of hatred. It wasn’t only that we had to end the feud; we had to become colleagues with our bitter enemies, because the logistics of creating a worldwide revolution were…’ He couldn’t find an appropriate term and shook his head. ‘We had to initiate breeding programs to begin with. The families were not large in those days, and we needed more manpower to infiltrate the political arena, the military, the intelligence communities. That’s been the purpose of programs like Psicorps and Sombra… to swell our ranks. It’s taken us more than a hundred years, but finally we’re ready for a takeover. There’s not an agency of any importance in Russia or the United States whose strings we can’t pull.’
‘Then why haven’t you pulled them?’ Debora asked.
‘We’ve made a number of mistakes over the years. Despite the accords of Cartagena, many of us were unable to put aside our bitterness, and from time to time the feud would flare up. We overlooked most of these flare-ups. After all, things were going well overall. But then’—Ruy let out a long, unsteady breath — ‘then we made a terrible mistake. About twenty of us were engaged in trying to neutralize the threat of the Palestinian terrorists, when the feud flared up again. Those twenty people became so involved in settling personal scores, they neglected their assignments. And as a result a terrorist plot to plant a nuclear device in Tel Aviv was carried out.’
‘Jesus!’ Mingolla started to say more, but sarcasm and insult seemed unequal to the enormity of the folly.
Ruy appeared not to notice his outburst. ‘We renewed the accords after Tel Aviv, but even so there continued to be flare-ups of trouble, especially among the younger generation. At last it was determined that all those who were keeping the feud alive—along with those of you from Sombra and Psicorps who were strong enough to help us shape a new world—would take up residence in Barrio Clarín and negotiate a separate peace. Once the peace was successfully negotiated, then and only then would we begin the takeover.’
‘What if you fail?’ Debora asked.
‘Then we’ll die, and the takeover will go on without us. I’m not sure how the sentence will be carried out. Carlito’s in charge of that. An air strike, I presume. But we won’t fail. We’re making progress every day.’
‘Who’s Carlito?’ asked Mingolla.
‘Dr Izaguirre,’ said Ruy. ‘My uncle.’
‘Right,’ said Mingolla. ‘We’re going to Panama so that crazy son of a bitch can blow us up. Sure we are.’
Ruy shrugged. ‘If you run, you’ll be tracked down. And besides’—he looked at Debora — ‘you want a voice in making a new world, don’t you?’
‘I’ll pass,’ said Mingolla. ‘What you’ve made so far doesn’t seem much of an improvement.’
‘You know nothing of what we’ve done.’
‘I know this goddamn war!’
‘We didn’t start the war! You did! What we’ve done over the past few years is to reduce it to a fraction of its previous scope. We’ve had to maintain it to an extent to cover our operations, and we don’t have enough people to influence specific battles, only the command structure. But once the peace is achieved, we will end it. And then we’ll pull the strings and end all wars.’ Ruy had another sip of coffee, made a sour face. ‘We’ve done shameful things, we’ve permitted shameful things to continue. But that’s the responsibility that comes with power. You do what you have to and live with the consequences. And if the result is good, all else is justified.’