“Then where is the giant man? The giant with the painted tattoos on his body? If he’s hiding in the trees, we shoot you first if he comes out.”
I wasn’t surprised they were nervous about Tattoo. But why didn’t they know he was a hired go-between? That suggested they weren’t involved with the kidnappers. Which meant they weren’t allied with Balserio.
Now nothing made sense.
Before I could answer, though, a third voice commanded me in articulate English, “Shut up. Quiet! I want to get a better look at him. You. Yankee. Do what I say: Turn toward us a half-turn-keep your hands where they are. Don’t look at me! Turn now. ”
Tall Man was giving orders from his hiding place.
I turned until I heard, “That’s far enough. Stop there.”
Then, after a studied pause, I listened to him whisper in guttural Spanish, “It is you, you Yankee filth… you sewage, ” before saying to me in a louder voice, “Turn your back to us again. Now!”
I thought to myself, Uh-oh, big trouble.
Trouble, no doubt about it. Serious trouble…
For one thing, he hadn’t bothered to speak to me in English. He knew enough to realize it wasn’t necessary. Something else: His voice touched a long-ago memory. It took a moment for my brain to match the voice with a name. When I recognized who it was, I didn’t want to believe it. But there was no doubt.
I thought, What the hell is he doing here?
Tall Man and I had met only twice, but I’d heard his voice many times. During the Revolution in Masagua, I’d heard him give impassioned speeches over jungle radios, and from the balcony of the presidential palace. I’d listened to his voice enough to know there was no mistake.
Now I heard the voice say, “Keep your weapons pointed at this lying son-of-a-bitch. If he moves, if he raises a hand, shoot his kneecaps off. But make goddamn certain you don’t hit me, you fools.”
There was a rustling from behind, then the sound of a big man walking toward me through the brush.
I wanted to throw myself to the ground, tumble, and come up running. Take my chances with the shotgun and the Uzi rather than stand there and let him put a knife or bullet in me from behind. He was certainly capable of murdering me like that. In fact, shooting someone in the back was exactly the man’s style.
So I gambled. I kept my hands on my head, but turned toward the three men, a confident smile on my face, and said as if surprised, “My God. Is it really you? General Jorge Balserio? Why didn’t you say so. We haven’t talked since the Revolution. You look great. ”
Like we were old long-lost friends.
The expressions of momentary confusion on the faces of the bodyguards were encouraging. But they weren’t bewildered enough for me to attempt to run. And Balserio was still striding hard toward me, his eyes glassy, fists clenched.
“Dr. Marion Ford, you… you shit pile. I swore I’d find you one day-now I have. You cheating, sneaking whore of a man. You screwed my wife. You touched my woman. Now you’re going to pay!”
I was looking at the bodyguards, trying to read them, hoping I could risk dropping my hands to defend myself. But then Balserio squelched that possibility, repeating, “Idiots! I tell you again: Move closer with your guns so you won’t hit me. If this pig touches me, shoot his feet, his knees, but don’t kill him yet. That’s an order. ”
He was banking out around me to give his bodyguards a cleaner angle of fire. I turned at the same pace, continuing to face him. The guards were moving toward me, too. White Shoes, I noted, had pulled a little semiautomatic handgun from somewhere, choosing to use it rather than risk hitting his boss with shotgun pellets.
Balserio’s face was flushed a monoxide purple, his expression demented. He was digging in the pocket of his slacks. I watched him pull out a bone-handled knife. He snapped the blade open, still striding toward me, eyes still blazing. Jesus, now he was grinning, a coyote sort of leer on his aristocratic face.
During the Revolution, Balserio had been the subject of whispered rumors. His temper tantrums were legendary. The bloody atrocities supposedly sparked by them were infamous. Twice, there’d been formal inquiries from investigators with the International Human Rights Commission.
In Central America, giving people nicknames is a cultural pastime. One of his was the Crazy Machete.
I’d had an affair with Balserio’s wife. Now here he was, coming at me, waving a knife in his left fist. All those years of hating me seemed to be shunted into that stainless-steel blade, and it glittered like a laser. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I went from feeling shock to a strange, energized numbness. It was as if electricity had immobilized my nervous system. No weapon scares me more than a sharp steel blade. Fight someone who’s armed with a knife, and even if you manage to win, you’re almost sure to come away with ruined hands, holes in your skin, damaged tendons.
Years ago, they taught us the techniques, how to survive that kind of attack by using rubber knives and a multitude of scenarios. Made us train for hours. I’d never been in a position desperate enough to need the training, thank God, but I’d seen men who’d actually fought and survived knife fights.
The memory sickened me.
But now I either had to run and risk being shot-or wait meekly while this crazy man started hacking away.
I’d called 911 twice. Where were the cops?
Desperate to buy time, I said in Spanish so his bodyguards would understand, “General-stop right where you are or you’re not going to get the half-million dollars. I don’t have it here. But I’ll take you to it. Put that knife away, I’ll cooperate. You and your two men, you can have it all-”
But the Crazy Machete had snapped.
“Screw your money! Do you think we came to find Pilar because of money? I have all the money I need, you worm!”
They weren’t after the money? Then why follow Pilar? Survival, though. That’s all I could think about. If I survived, maybe I’d get the chance to find out.
He was nearly within arm’s reach now. I was backing away, hands still on my head, eyes focused on the knife that he was now passing between his left hand and his right.
Was that supposed to confuse me? The knife always ended up in his left hand. When he made a move, I knew it would be with his left.
And he soon would.
Balserio was working himself into it-he was going to kill me, that was clear. He was ranting as he began to circle. Ranting that I’d been naked with his wife, that I’d humiliated him. Ranting that I was finally going to get what I deserved. There was only one punishment that fit my crime.
“It’s something we do to pigs,” he said. “You’re a pig, and now I’ll make you a sow.”
Castration.
Jesus…
Was he serious?
Oh yeah-I could see it behind his eyes: something freaky in there fired by hatred. And ready to do it right now as he extended the knife blade slowly toward my chest, getting ready to charge me-I could see that, too; could read it in his muscle tension, face, and forearms.
I had to do something. The bodyguards had their guns aimed. I knew I’d rather be shot than stand there and let him stab me, but…
Make a decision, Ford…
I risked backing away faster as Balserio continued his purge, taunting me, “I’ll do the same thing to that bastard son of yours, too, when I get the chance. He’s next. On the day he was born, I should have had him drowned like the mongrel he is-”
That did it. Suddenly, I was moving, no longer in doubt.
I stopped backpedaling and dropped my hands. Surprised, Balserio froze for just an instant. In that instant, I lunged toward him, shooting in low on one knee, trusting instinct and muscle memory… just letting it happen… and I caught his left wrist clean with my right hand as he tried to drive the blade into my face.
I was already snapping his wrist and palm skyward as I stood, locking my fingers on his left elbow, which added lift and leverage. I could have broken his arm without much effort, which made it easy to spin Balserio so that his body shielded mine from the guards.