Alan Dupre didn't ring till almost ten-thirty the next morning, and I
had the feeling even that was a stretch. He then offered to meet us in
the Parque Concordia, right downtown. As I watched him ambling toward
our bench, my first impression was: Why'd we bother?
The man appeared to be in his early forties, puffy-eyed and
pink-cheeked with discount aviator shades, looking like a glad-handing
tourist just down to Central America for a weekend of unchaperoned
bacchanals. The flowered sport shirt, worn outside the belt, gave him
the aura of a tout insufficiently attired without a can of Coors in
hand.
How can this be progress? I'm down here hoping to find Sarah, and I end
up in a trash-filled park meeting some expat operator.
Steve had explained that the main benefit of Alan Dupre's CIA gig was
that he did learn how to fly a helicopter. With that skill he'd ended
up starting a tourist agency in Guatemala City using an old Bell he
leased: "Mayan Pyramids from the Air." Mainly, though, he was a
self-styled bon vivant who knew people.
"Steve the brave." On came Dupre's mirthless smile as he approached a
jaunty spring entering his step.
"Alan, any friend of yours has got to be brave." Steve just stared at
him.
Dupre had the kind of empty grin that looked like it'd been rehearsed
in his high school bathroom mirror. It was thin, kind of forked and
dangerous, and this morning its plaster quality undermined any attempts
at honesty. Maybe dealing with complaining tourists every day of your
life did that to you.
"You called, I came." He was now shifting from foot to foot. "Guess it
finally had to happen. What's the phrase? You can run but you can't
hide? Surprise us both and pretend you're happy to see me."
Steve looked like he was not entirely prepared for this moment. He used
the awkward pause that followed to introduce me. Dupre shook hands like
he was fearful of germs, then turned back.
"Jesus, man, I'm still working on the money, honest to God. But do I
get a last cigarette before the firing squad?"
"Hey, Alan, ease up." Steve was deadpan. "Good to see you again. I mean
it. Love that Waikiki shirt, by the way. Never knew you had such
progressive taste."
"This is actually my incognito attire. For secret missions. It's my
objective today to look like some cruise-ship jerk." He glanced around
nervously. "So how'm I doing?"
"I'd say your years of training in undercover work have paid off."
I listened, remembering Steve had explained that Alan Dupre's career as
a CIA information-gatherer was hampered by his propensity to drink too
much tequila and then brag about his occupation, hoping to impress
whatever woman he had in his sights at the moment.
"So bring me up to date." Steve was trying to hide his total contempt.
"Why'd you get out of the spook business? Langley couldn't find a 'new
mission' for you after the Evil Empire dissolved?"
Dupre's face turned pensive. "Man, you don't get it, do you? Langley's
still got plenty on its mind. Nothing has changed. Most people don't
realize the U.S. isn't run by the folks they vote for. There's a
permanent government that doesn't appear on Larry King, and I was part
of it. The Central Intelligence Agency of the U.S. of A. will go on
doing exactly what it's always done, guiding events in Third World
toilets like this through whatever means are necessary to protect
America's strategic concerns. Keeping the world safe for Microsoft and
Ronald McDonald." He paused and glanced at me, as though slightly
embarrassed. Then he continued. "What I'm saying is, all those Beltway
turkeys with the briar pipes and gigabyte computers, sitting around
wringing their hands, worried the Company needs a new mission, never
really grasped its old mission."
"You're right," Steve said going along with the shtick, the applause
lines Dupre had doubtless used in a thousand bars. "I'm getting slow.
What Langley needs nowadays is a new cover story."
"Couldn't have phrased it better." Dupre smiled again too easily.
"They're--"
"Actually," Steve said cutting him off impatiently, all the while
gazing up at the gathering dark clouds as though they were a hovering
adversary, "the truth of the matter is, we called you to discuss a
favor. A small helping hand." He seemed to be searching for a sales
point. "For old times' sake."
"For old times' sake?" Dupre appeared to be having trouble with the
concept.
"Yeah. All we want is to hear a little talk of the town." He gazed out
over the square, Uzi-toting police still strolling by. "You know, local
information of the kind that doesn't make the papers."
"Right," I said. "For starters, how could a gringa sort of melt into
the Peten rain forest, disappear for months and months, and then end up
in a coma?" I'd decided to feel him out before going for the bigger
questions.
"People disappear down here all the time, and nobody in their right
mind goes around inquiring why." Dupre seemed genuinely astonished that
anyone would find such a thing unusual. He also was fingering a
cigarette pack in his breast pocket, clearly nervous about the quick
turn our conversation had taken. "Whatever's your problem in Guatemala,
just forget about it. Drink some _cerveza_, take a few snapshots of the
picturesque natives, and then move on to a civilized place. This is a
land of mystery, lady, and the people who matter like it that way.
There are those here who take their privacy very seriously."
Just like Alex Goddard's Children of Light, I thought. Or Ninos del
Mundo, or whatever it's called. It was chilling to hear Alan Dupre
backing away so quickly from my question. The guy seemed truly scared
under all the bluster. I also observed that his eyes were curiously
small, out of proportion to his face. I hadn't noticed it at first.
"Well," I went on, determined to push him, "an old landing card for the
person I'm looking for said her destination was a place called Ninos
del Mundo, up in the Peten. I assume that's somewhere in the northern
rain forest, right? So I guess what I want to know is, does that name
stir up any connections?"
He looked around, then extracted a Gauloise from a blue pack and lit it
with a wooden match, flicking the tip with his fingernail. He inhaled,
taking his time. "Well, maybe I've heard a little something about a
place some people call by that name." He drew again on the cigarette.
"And the story might include a female American _tourista_ or two--about
one a year, actually--who've sort of melted into the forest never to be
seen more. I'm not exactly sure where it is, though. Or even if what
you hear is true. But who cares? Come on, guys, this is Guatemala, for
chrissake. Shit happens. Get a life."
"The embassy, or the CIA, or anybody ever carry out an inquiry?" I felt
my energy rising. "A woman every year or so? I went by Reforma Avenue
yesterday and nobody there seems to have ever heard of any of this."
"No kidding." He snorted. "Whatever happened that place, our caring
embassy, ain't gonna do zip--don't faint at the news--and there's no
way the Company's going to pull their old-time Yankee number, roll in
with the beige sunglasses, and yell, 'Okay, you peons, we're here to
take names and kick butt. What happened to our national?' They've
recently acquired a habit of taking local situations at face value.
Makes for a lot better tables at the tony supper clubs in town."
This guy liked to talk, I realized but he had no interest in going
beyond glib one-liners. I glanced at Steve, and I could tell he was
having the same thoughts.
"Tell you what," Steve said finally, "how about this? Tell us whatever
you know about how to find this place, and maybe we can adjust the
terms on the money you screwed me out of. I might settle for something
less on the dollar and let bygones be bygones."
"Hey, man, you'll get your money. I'm good for it." Dupre sighed and
drew on his Gauloise. "It's just that things are a little tight right
now, you know." He paused. "Matter of fact, I was hoping you might be
able to spare a couple of bills for a week or so. But I guess . . ."
His voice trailed off.
Alan Dupre knew something I needed to know, or might know it. Steve had
definitely found the right guy in that regard. But he clearly was
cautious to the point of paralysis as he kept furtively glancing
around. What was he so fearful of, and what could I do to convince him
to help me?