"Can you describe the man?" Inspector Goretti asked. The balding, fiftyish homicide detective had interviewed thousands of witnesses. He had both an Italian male's eye for feminine beauty and a policeman's distrust of an eyewitness to murder.
"He was tall," she offered without conviction. "No, I think he was on the short side."
The policeman rolled his large round eyes. His note-taking assistant stifled an unamused laugh. "Thin or heavy-set?" Goretti continued.
"I don't remember! He had a raincoat on. Maybe he was skinny and just looked fat!" Iliana burst into tears, and the inspector's voice became more gentle. He needed her cooperation.
"Was he Italian?"
"I suppose so. Oh God, I don't know!"
The girl was losing the battle for control of her emotions. "Try to calm down. It will help you think more clearly."
"He spoke to us in Italian. What do you expect of me?" she whimpered.
The inspector tried to read Iliana's soul through the window of her admittedly fascinating eyes. Was she lying about the stranger at the kiosk? Had she murdered the Pontieri boy herself? If so, why? Or, was she telling the truth about the incident, but lying to protect a murderer she knew? Again, why? Patience had never been Goretti's prime virtue, and he was quickly spending his meager store. "Signorina--" An accusatory edge hardened his voice. "You are telling me that, yesterday afternoon, a man walked up to your boyfriend in broad daylight and injected him with poison right in front of you. And you can't tell me one damn thing about that man? Forgive me, if I find that hard to believe."
"I told you! I wasn't paying attention to him," Iliana wept. "Marcello and I were having so much fun. I didn't notice anything or anyone else." She exploded into grieving, terror-laden sobs. When the storm receded, she asked in a quiet, hesitant voice, "Am I in danger?"
The inspector shook his head. "I don't think so, child. Marcello was the target. I'm sure of it. What I don't know yet is why."
Inspector Goretti had asked María and Carlo to bring him the clothes Marcello wore at the time of the injection. In the jacket pocket, he found a small silver medallion. Nothing unusual. An avenging angel, with a fiery sword raised over his head ready to strike some enemy of God or the Church. It was an object tourists commonly bought in any of the hundreds of souvenir shops in the city.
Goretti turned the medal over and over in his hand, while questioning Iliana. He couldn't help but believe the medal was a clue that would lead him to the murderer. The possibility that this sacred object might be central to the crime intrigued and frustrated him. As for Iliana, the inspector's educated instinct about human nature led him to conclude she was what she claimed--an innocent bystander. He cursed the fact that his only eyewitness remembered nothing useful at all.
17
Javier was no fan of the cold Northern European weather. Yet, he looked forward to Amsterdam, because it took him one step closer to the fork in the road that was his life. After retrieving his baggage, he hurried through the terminal and caught a shuttle to the nearby Schiphol Hotel. Less than an hour later, he lay on the bed in his comfortable fourth floor room, listening to the rumblings of his neglected appetite.
His hunger appeased, Javier picked up a bus schedule for transportation into the main part of the city. I hope tomorrow's appointment with Willie Vander Hoorst is more productive than my sessions with Carlo Pontieri. After a late-morning meeting with the executive director, he intended to devote the whole afternoon to sightseeing. Number one on his "must see" list was Anne Frank's house. How convenient that POCI World Headquarters and that historic brick building faced each other across the same tree-lined canal. He wanted--needed--to visit this modern-day catacomb in which the Frank family hid for over two years, before the Nazis discovered them and sent them off to concentration camps.
* * *
During breakfast in the glass-walled dining room, Javier watched the sky grow angrier and less inviting. Before his bus reached the city center, rain already poured out of the flying cloud fronts. The loping, swirling precipitation descended from every direction at once. With hail pelting the side of the bus, he had a dark vision of the whole city sinking into an avenging sea bent on reclaiming what had once been its own. What a headline that would make around the world!
The journey to Prinsengracht required a change of buses. Javier spent half-an-hour shivering in a narrow doorway with his not-heavy-enough topcoat clutched around him to keep from getting soaked or blown away, or both. He arrived on POCI's doorstep looking like a stray cat.
"We've cooked up some real Amsterdam weather for you, Father." Willie Vander Hoorst evidently favored foul weather more than his guest from the Caribbean's "island of endless summer," as the travel ads in European papers called Santo Sangre.
"Rain I'm used to. The cold you can keep. I'll take the heat and humidity of the tropics."
"Then, let's hope it blows over, so you can enjoy the short time you have with us."
Willie Vander Hoorst was an intense but pleasant man in his late forties. A full, brown beard fell from his chin and jaw line, covering the top portion of his plain gray necktie. His prominent nose served the dual purpose of supporting gold wire-rimmed glasses and pointing the way for the probing gaze of his steel-blue eyes, gabled by arching, bushy eyebrows. On the wall of his office was a color portrait of the Vander Hoorst family--Willie, an attractive blond wife, and a slightly overweight, but pretty teen-age daughter.
"Beautiful photograph," Javier said. "One child?" He did his best to conceal the wave of envy that nearly drowned him. Mentally removing Willie and his two women from the scene, he stepped into the posed group himself. His arm, not Willie Vander Hoorst's, circled the waist of a wife who tried ever so hard to look like Leah Barton, if only Javier's conscience would let her. He wasn't about to indulge in adulterous fantasies. In front of Sr. and Sra. de Córdova in the framed portrait stood a dark-haired, teen-age beauty. She had inherited the best combination of parental features. Do I have any right to hope that my unpredictable life holds a future with a scene of such domestic warmth? I doubt it. A weary sadness cut off the oxygen supply his spirit needed to survive.
"I'm very proud of them," Willie said. "Gertrude and I wanted a large family. It doesn't seem fair, does it, Father? Some of us who want children do not get them, while those who do not want them seem to get pregnant easily." He glanced at the smiling trio in the photograph and chuckled with paternal pleasure. "My Elli. She is worth a house full of kids all by herself."
Willie shook himself from his daydream and returned to the matter of Javier's visit. "Father de Córdova, in preparation for your visit, I had my staff review all the information we have about conditions in Santo Sangre. In particular, let me cite the cases of Dr. Arturo Valdez and the labor leader, Pedro Alarcón. The evidence of blatant human rights violations is clear." Vander Hoorst took off his glasses and vigorously rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. He seemed to be mulling over a mental puzzle, as he hooked the frames over his generous ears one at a time. "I confess to being baffled by your mission."
Javier was ready with his sales pitch. "President Montenegro feels that POCI's judgment is unfair. He's displeased that your organization is influencing world opinion negatively."
"Yes. I hear he was turned down by several lenders, who had formerly given him a fairly open line of credit." Willie's voice contained no sympathy for Montenegro's financial problems.
"The president asked me to convey his sincere intention to call for elections and announce a program of major land reforms and public works improvements. Soon."
Vander Hoorst's fingers made an exploding gesture in the air. "Poof! How many times have I heard that? Always the same words. You surprise me, Father."
Javier's Roman collar felt like a horseshoe just removed from a blacksmith's forge. Willie Vander Hoorst had proved to be as formidable a foe as Carlo Pontieri.
"I believe he means it this time. We in Santo Sangre and you in the int
ernational community will never know unless he gets the chance to prove himself."
"That still doesn't address the issue of political prisoners."
Here it comes again. Javier breathed a chest-deflating sigh. "I've seen the dossiers on the same prisoners you mentioned. With all due respect, I found them . . . in substantial contradiction to your information."
"You saw and questioned the prisoners personally?" Willie seemed ready to be convinced if a clergyman of Javier's status affirmed as an eyewitness that the prisoners in question had indeed committed real crimes and had not been tortured into false confessions.
"I fully intended to. Unfortunately, time ran out before it could be arranged." Behind Javier's mask of sincerity, he renewed a battle he had waged within himself daily, since the start of his journey. Why didn't I insist? I could have refused to accept the assignment or to leave Santo Sangre without visiting the prisoners. If Leah's name hadn't been on that list, I would have fought harder. The thought of Leah always led to further self-flagellation. All I thought about was getting to San Francisco as quickly as possible. Would Valdez, Alarcón, and the others rot forever in a stinking jail, just because a spoiled priest was hot to see his former girlfriend? Am I just as callous as the president and Juana Santiago and this Angel character who is tailing me around Europe?
On the way to Vander Hoorst's office that morning, Javier had a mortifying thought. What if they planted Leah's name on the list for just that purpose? Did they gamble that Leah was my Judas switch, that one crack in my priestly armor . . . and conscience? You stupid fool, Javier! Montenegro must have known about my relationship with Leah. These inner ramblings already had him on the defensive by the time he arrived for his appointment with Willie Vander Hoorst.
The older man eyed him with a curious expression. "Is something wrong, Father?"
"No, no." Javier struggled to regain his composure, without having to admit the director had exposed him as an incompetent messenger. "I was reviewing my recollection of the cases you asked about. In my opinion, the documents were quite complete." The testimonial lacked conviction.
Willie rolled his eyes. "Forgive me for being a skeptic, Father, but a dictator's 'complete' documents are as worthless as Monopoly money. Are you familiar with that American board game?"
Javier sagged in his chair. "I am," he said, swallowing the words. He liked this assignment less and less each minute. Only the prospect of seeing Leah prevented him from canceling his flight to New York and returning home. At the very least, he intended to give his Angel an earful, when and if he made contact a second time.
"I'll promise you this much, Father de Córdova. I will write to President Montenegro and ask if we can send an independent inspection team to Santa Catalina. If we are allowed to enter the prisons freely and see for ourselves that conditions either are not as we had thought or have significantly improved, I will make our findings public and see that the international press carries the story."
"That's more than fair," Javier conceded. Would Montenegro permit such an investigation? It would be in the president's and Santo Sangre's best interest.
"Good. Consider it done." Willie rose and reached for his coat on the rack near his desk. "Now, let's go home and have some lunch. I'd like you to meet Gertrude and Elli. They're expecting us."
* * *
When they arrived at the Vander Hoorst home, it was Willie's turn to be uncomfortable. Shouts from inside the house greeted them as they ascended the front steps. Clearly, Javier and his host were intruding upon a full-blown mother-daughter battle.
Willie kissed his wife on the mouth, which surprised Javier, since Northern Europeans were supposed to be more reserved than their Latin neighbors to the south. "Father de Córdova, this is Gertrude." Willie then put an arm around his daughter's shoulders. The girl's blue eyes evidenced the recent presence of tears. "And this is my Elli."
"I am very pleased to meet you both," Javier said. He smiled broadly to let the Vander Hoorst women know he came in peace and hoped his presence would help heal whatever wounds lay open and bleeding during this enforced truce.
The meal went well. Gertrude pumped Javier for information about Santo Sangre, the island's climate, the people. "I would love to go to the Caribbean," she said with the wistful look of a woman condemned to spend all her remaining winters in the cold north.
"Aruba!" chimed Elli, perking up for the first time since Javier's arrival. "I've heard the beaches are fantastic. And they speak Dutch there."
"Yes," said Javier, "the Netherland Antilles. I confess I am partial to the white sands of my own country."
"Any place that's warm would be better than Amsterdam in the winter," Elli stated.
"I'm afraid we have very little time to travel for pleasure," Willie explained. "I'm away more than I would like to be, visiting our national affiliates. I'm afraid there is never enough money in the budget to bring the family along."
Throughout the meal, the interplay of his three hosts fascinated Javier. Civil war remained a constant threat, ready to erupt without notice. He surmised that whatever peace existed between mother and daughter resulted only from the overwhelming love and presence of their husband and father. Javier thought about the people of his village and the domestic battles he often overheard through his open windows.
Is this the secret reality of 'domestic bliss'? he wondered. His thoughts created a scene in which he played the Willie Vander Hoorst role. Do I have enough love in me to cement such fragile relationships? Javier's admiration of POCI's executive director grew immensely during his brief visit in his home.
After Javier said his good-byes to Gertrude and Elli, Willie walked him to the front door. Javier wanted to confess his doubts about Montenegro. He didn't want POCI's executive director to think of him as the enemy. Javier could not find the right words to admit his failings and the impurity of his motivation in accepting this assignment from his president. This was his secret reality.
As he descended the steps, all Javier said was, "I am deeply grateful for your hospitality. Be assured I will convey your message to President Montenegro." It came out much flatter and more officious than he wanted it to.
All the way back to his hotel that evening, Javier repeated the self-abusive mantra, "You coward, you ass, you jerk! You coward, you ass, you jerk!"
It was a stern Javier de Córdova who reported to Angel from an airport pay phone, just before his flight left for New York. He communicated POCI's offer with the strongest possible endorsement. "Please--" Whoever the hell you are. "Advise His Excellency to accept POCI's terms. That should satisfy the foreign bankers he's so worried about."
Javier had completed the hardest part of his mission. The best was yet to come.
18
Elli Vander Hoorst disliked being overweight, but not enough to make a sustained effort to shed the twenty pounds she wanted to lose. Her father told her--and she adopted his dubious logic--that she would slim down "when that special young man comes along you want to look your best for." One or two boys had already stirred her heart. Since the experience hadn't moved her to shed a pound, Elli concluded that true love had not yet rung her doorbell.
The key question of Elli's adolescence was, Why didn't my parents have more than one child? Since she was at an age when curiosity about things sexual occupied most of her daydreams, she asked herself, Could it be because they had "done it" only once? That seemed unlikely. Willie and Gertrude were unashamedly affectionate in front of her, embarrassingly so at times, especially when they acted that way in front of her girlfriends. Besides, on still summer nights, when windows were left open to let some air circulate and bedroom doors remained slightly ajar, Elli sometimes heard things her parents would not have wanted her to.
To solve her only-child mystery, Elli created a plausible scenario. Her father entered the room in which his first child had just been born. Taking the infant from the midwife, he studied her for a moment, found her perfect, and smiled a satisfied
smile. In a kingly voice, the new father declared in proud and solemn tones, "One little princess is quite enough for this family! We will devote all our attention to her care and upbringing."
Certainly, Elli felt like the center of her parents' world. Too much so. Especially in the last few months, with maternal fires licking at her feet, she had wished for brothers and sisters to share some of the heat. Usually, this followed a misfired prank or a particularly maddening test of female wills that left her sulking and wanting to be a missionary in Africa.
* * *
The truce between the Vander Hoorst women that began the day the priest had come for lunch didn't last long. Another episode a day later sent Elli fleeing from the house in a tearful rage. With her flaxen, shoulder-length hair tumbling in front of her eyes, she ran a hundred yards at full speed, before slowing her pace to a fast walk. She crossed the bridge over the canal that fronted their house on Herengracht.
Elli forgot how it all had started. It hardly mattered. She had said some pretty awful things, the worst of which was, "I hate you!" repeated many times in the heat of the argument. She hadn't meant it, but her mother called her "lazy" and "ungrateful," neither of which were true in Elli's mind.
The battles between herself and her mother had grown increasingly more frequent and acrid. Typically, the two stood toe-to-toe shouting at each other until Elli sensed inevitable defeat. Yielding to an overwhelming flight instinct, she would leave the house for an hour or so. With her anger spent, she'd return home and carry on as if nothing had happened. Until the next time. Like today.
As the rage that darkened her vision like the sky before an on-rushing North Sea storm subsided, Elli became aware of a stocky man in the dark trench coat. He followed a few paces behind. Her breathing had returned to normal by the time she made a U-turn on the other side of the canal and headed back in the direction of her house. Her father would be home soon and would play his usual role of patient mediator between his warring women.
Why do I get so upset with her? Elli struggled to understand the confusion and guilt her mother evoked. She's good to me most of the time--better than good. Since her parents had married in their late thirties, Elli's father blamed the mother-daughter conflict on the volatile mixture of "adolescent and menopausal juices." She had never been quite sure what "menopausal" meant, but her father's explanation absolved her of half of the blame.