is Children of the World, lost somewhere in the state of Montana.
The home address was equally vague. Just "New York." So much for the
high level of curiosity at "Inmigracion."
However, the carbon copy of the landing card, which you're supposed to
surrender when you leave, was not stapled to it, the way it was on all
the others in the box. Naturally, since she'd left in a medevac plane,
half dead.
"What does this mean?" I got up and walked over to the woman's desk,
carrying the card. Mainly I just wanted to get a rise out of her. "The
carbon copy is missing. Does that mean she could still be here?"
Red alert. She glanced at the arrival date a moment and her eyes froze.
Then, doubtless with visions of another CIA scandal looming in her
consciousness, she brusquely announced that the office was getting
ready to close for the day.
"You'll have to pursue any further inquiries through the American
embassy, Mrs. James, which handles all matters concerning U.S.
nationals."
"Well, thanks for all your help." I was finally getting the
police-state runaround I'd expected all along. I guess I needed her to
care, and it was obvious she didn't.
Okay . . . I'd planned to go to the embassy anyway. Maybe they could
tell me about this place she'd put on her landing card. Could it be the
local name for Alex Goddard's clinic?
As I picked up my things, I thought again about the prospect of showing
my face on the streets of Guatemala City. Would there be more loitering
men in grungy brown shirts waiting to watch my every move? More black
Land Rovers? As I marched back out through the ornate lobby, I decided
not to let my imagination get too active. It was now late afternoon,
but I was making progress. I also was thinking about Steve, wondering
if he'd gotten into town yet. Probably not for another couple of hours,
but just thinking about seeing him again, and having him for support,
was boosting my energy.
A short cab ride later I arrived at the embassy of the all-powerful
United States of America, a two-block-long concrete fortress on Reforma
Avenue guarded by Yank Marines with heavy automatic weapons. When I
explained myself to the PR people manning the reception desk, including
my brush with Guatemalan bureaucracy, they told me to check with the
Internal Security section.
"In fact, if you're looking for an American national, this is where you
should have come in the first place," said a very efficient-appearing
young woman, with a business suit and dark, close-cropped hair. "A
phone call from here works wonders at the Palacio Nacional."
I had no proof Sarah was in Guatemala yet, and if she was, it would
doubtless be under a different name. What's more, telling them my
suspicion that she'd been kidnapped by a high official and brought here
would definitely brand me as a conspiracy theorist. So for now, all I
could really hope to get from them was an address for Alex Goddard's
clinic, someplace to start. Where and what was "Ninos del Mundo"?
Apparently the woman hadn't fully understood that.
Moments later a thirtyish male attache showed up, looking very harried.
He also could have been president of the local Young Republicans, with
a cute haircut and preppie tie, knotted perfectly.
"Hi, I'm Mel Olberg. How can I . . .?"
I told him I wanted to see someone who was responsible for the records
of missing American tourists. I also sensed he was edgy and trying to
get it over with fast; all the while he kept checking his watch, only
half listening.
"Gee, I really wish you'd come earlier," he said. "Monday
afternoons are a little nuts around here, weekly reports due and all,
and it's getting late." When he glanced at his watch again, making sure
I noticed, I found myself wanting to yell at the guy. "I mean it's been
two years since this woman you're looking for filled out a landing
card. We might have something in the files, but. . . would it be
possible for you to come back tomorrow?"
"No, it will not be possible," I lied. "I've got a plane back to New
York tomorrow." I felt my frustration rising. I wanted to just grab him
and shake him.
My first thought was to tell him I make documentary films and maybe
he'd like to end up in one about how my country's Guatemala City
embassy didn't care about its citizens. But then I decided to go in a
different, probably more productive, direction.
"Just for five minutes," I declared, reaching for feigned helplessness.
"Well, let me call upstairs," he muttered, realizing, I suppose, that
the best way to get rid of me was to kick me up the chain of command,
"and see if Mr. Morton can take a moment to meet with you."
It worked. The next thing I knew, I was in the office of a good-looking
diplomat named Barry Morton--gray temples, tailored suit, rugged face
of a sixty-year-old soap-opera heartthrob who plays tennis and keeps a
mistress. Chief Information Officer.
"Actually, I do remember her, vaguely," Morton declared, flashing me
his professional smile. "The Crenshaw girl was an unfortunate case. To
begin with, anybody who overstays their visa that long gets us in a lot
of hot water with the locals. They always tend to blame us, Ms. . . ."
"James. My name's Morgan James."
"Ms. James." Another of those smiles. "Frankly, I don't know what to
tell you, though." He shrugged, exuding helplessness. "It's hard to
keep track of every American tourist who comes and goes through this
country. Some of the hippie types end up in a mountain village
somewhere, gone native. In this instance, as I recall, we got her out
on a medevac."
"Her landing card gave her destination as someplace called 'Ninos del
Mundo,' up to the Peten. That ring a bell? Any idea how I could find
it?"
"Niiios del Mundo?" He glanced up quickly. "That's a new one on me."
He'd been fiddling with a stack of papers on his desk, giving me only
half his attention, but he abruptly stopped. "You try the phone book?"
"Like I said, it's in the Peten." I was getting the definite sense he
wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible. The whole scene was
feeling tense and off. "My understanding is that's mostly rain forest.
Do they even have phones up there?"
"Not many," he said, his tone starting to definitely acquire an "I have
better things to do" edge.
That was when he focused in on me, his look turning protective.
"Let me speak candidly, Ms. James, strictly off the record. Down here
people have been known to 'disappear' just for asking too many
questions. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that. Between us, this
place is still a police state in many regards. You want my advice, let
sleeping dogs lie. Just forget about this Crenshaw girl. She's out of
the country now, so . . . Let me put it like this: People who go poking
around here are just asking for trouble."
I felt a ring of sincerity in his voice. Maybe a little too much
sincerity. Why was he so worried for me?
"That may be true, but I'm still going to see what I can find out. My
heart is pure. Why should anybody care?"
"Do what you think best," he said with a sigh, "but I've told you
everything we know. Which, I'm afraid, is actually very little."
"By the way." Try one more thing on him, I thought, see what he'll say.
"Since you're so concerned about Sarah, you'll be relieved to know
she's regained consciousness and started to talk." There seemed no
point in telling him any more. The rest was all still speculation.
That stopped him cold. "What . . . what has she said?" His eyes
appeared startled in the glaring light of the office fluorescents. At
long last I had his undivided attention.
"You're busy." I smiled at him. "I don't want to bore you with details.
But it's just going to be a matter of time before she remembers exactly
what happened down here."
"She hasn't talked about it yet?" He was fiddling with an ornate letter
opener, an onyx jaguar head on the handle.
"She's getting there." I stared back at him, trying to read his mood.
"We may soon find out who was behind whatever happened to her." Then I
tried a long shot. "Maybe officialdom here had something to do with it."
"Let me tell you something." He sighed again, seeming to regain his
composure. "The sovereign state of Guatemala definitely plays by its
own rules. Whenever foreigners down here meet with foul play,
lower-level officials have developed a consensus over the years that
sometimes it's better not be too industrious. Nobody's ever sure of
what, or who, they might turn up."
The meeting was definitely ending, and once again I had more questions
than answers. Something about Barry Morton felt wrong, but I couldn't
quite get a grip on what it was. One thing I was certain of: He knew
more than he was telling me. Why was that?
As I was exiting through his outer office, headed for the swarming
streets below, I waved good-bye to his secretary, a stout, fiftyish
Ladino matron with defiantly black-dyed hair, a hard look mitigated
somewhat by the Zircon trim on her thick glasses and a small silver
pendant nestled on her ample, low-cut sweater. It was the pendant that
caught my eye, being the silver face of a cat, most likely the local
jaguar. Looked just like the ones I'd seen you-know-where. I was
staring so hard I almost stumbled over a chair. Yes. It was definitely
like those I remembered from Kevin and Rachel.
The only difference was, when she bent over to reach for her stapler,
the medallion twisted around and the back, I could see, flashed blank
silver, no engraving of lines and dots.
So where did she get it? I started to ask her, but decided I'd just get
more BS runaround. Then I had another thought: Maybe she handled a lot
of things that never made it to Barry Morton's desk, the "don't waste
the boss's valuable time" kind of secretary. Maybe she s the one I
really should have been talking to, the kind of woman who takes care of
everything while the high-paid senior supervisor is at long lunches.
She looked at me, and our eyes met and held for a second. Had she been
listening in on my chat with Morton? Did she know something I ought to
know?
By then, however, thoughts of Steve were weighing in. I hadn't seen him
in three and a half months and I was realizing that was about my limit.
I wanted to recapture the lost time. Our being together was going to
make everything turn out right.
Clinging to that thought, I grabbed a cab and headed for my hotel and a
much-overdue hot bath.