Black Pomegranate Page 10

  “Uncle Carlos, please speak in English. Alfredo is still on the phone.”

  “Did you get the package? The guava jelly?”

  “Yes, we did. It just arrived.”

  “And, did you find the oreja?” I knew Carlos was referring to the ear.

  “It is already pickling in a jar of alcohol,” Cat responded. She made no mention that she knew the ear was not Toro’s.

  “Excellent. Now, for the good news. You can return to Granada Negra. No, you must return to Granada Negra. As quickly as possible.”

  “Why is that, Uncle Carlos?”

  “General Villa has informed me that, now that Toro is dead, the rebels are disbanding. It will be a matter of only days before your father is exhumed to power. And then, there will be a big celebration in Granada Negra. You must be here to welcome him back, Catarina. You too, Alfredo,” he added, remembering I was listening.

  Catarina held a finger over her lips. I got the message. She wanted me to go along with whatever she said. “That is good news, Uncle Carlos. I cannot wait to return home. But, are you absolutely certain of everything you have just told me?”

  I could hear sputtering on the other end of the line. Carlos’s voice came back sounding strained. “No, but I’m reasonably certain. Your father will want to see you as soon as he’s released. When will you and Alfredo come to Granada Negra?”

  “Soon, Uncle Carlos, soon.”

  “I will tell General Villa. He will be quite pleased.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing the General again,” Cat volunteered. “I must express my gratitude in person for the present I’ve just received. I’ll bring Villa a special gift from the United States.” She emphasized the words carefully.

  “That would be most appreciated,” Carlos responded, also with special emphasis. “What do you have in mind? Perhaps I can contribute to the gift?”

  “I certainly hope so. But don’t say anything to General Villa yet. I want to surprise him.”

  “I understand fully. Villa is planning a victory party on New Year’s Day, to honor your father. Will you and Alfredo be able to be here by then?”

  “We’ll certainly try, Uncle Carlos. I’ll let you know our travel plans.”

  “Then both of you will be coming? Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, Uncle Carlos. I’m absolutely certain,” Catarina told him emphatically.

  “Bueno,” Carlos roared. He hung up, again without saying goodbye.

  Fifteen

  Walk Like A Man

  “IT’S A TRAP.”

  Catarina poured each of us a cup of Granada Negra coffee before speaking. I could tell she was extremely upset. Her face had an unnatural pallor, her voice a tremulous waver.

  “What do you mean, ‘It’s a trap’?” I asked.

  “Uncle Carlos was not telling the truth. Someone—perhaps Cesar Toro, or even General Villa himself—was with him, forcing him to say what he did.”

  “I don’t understand …”

  “Toro is very much alive—I’m certain of it. Either my father’s still a prisoner or has been killed. Villa is planning to inaugurate himself as el presidente in three weeks. But he cannot do so without my presence, as a sign for the people of solidarity between our family and him. Or, unless I’m dead. That’s why Villa wants me to return to Granada Negra. If I don’t openly support him in his quest for the presidency, he’ll kill me.”

  “Then, we’ll just stay here in Timberline. That should foil Villa’s plans.”

  She shook her head sadly. “No, I must go. I must do what I can for my father, if he’s still alive, and for Uncle Carlos. It is my duty.”

  “But you just told me Carlos was lying to you.”

  “Yes, Uncle Carlos was lying, but I knew he was lying, and he knew I knew he was lying. And that’s the same as telling the truth.

  “Carlos needs my help to bring Villa to his knees, and I must go. You do not have to accompany me, Alfredo, if you choose not to. It will be very dangerous.”

  “I can’t let you go by yourself. Of course I’ll go with you, Catarina.”

  She pulled herself close and held me in her arms. “I knew you would, Alfredo. I told Uncle Carlos you would help us.”

  “Is that what you meant by the phrase ‘absolutely certain’?”

  “Yes. When there is no doubt whatsoever.”

  “I guess we’d better start packing. Do you want to call the travel agency or should I?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I have numerous preparations to make first. There are still two weeks before the Christmas break at college. We’ll wait until then.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, which was a Sunday, Catarina planned an entire day out. Brunch at the pancake house in Timberline Village, then a drive down the mountain to gather items for her botany class, followed by dinner at Maurice’s. I thought it was high time to let Cat know I was aware of her bodyguards.

  “Shall we invite Pablo and Pietro to join us? There’s no sense in having to buy gas for two cars.”

  Catarina didn’t bat an eyelash. “No, that would never do. They must stay a discreet distance away. Otherwise, we could all be taken by surprise and murdered.”

  I was flabbergasted. She acted as if she knew all along I knew about the Santos twins. On further reflection, I realized she did know I knew. In fact, I was absolutely certain. There was no need to discuss the matter further.

  Although I’d located all the electronic bugs in our apartment and the one in my car, I decided to leave them in place. I concluded that, despite the lack of privacy, it was prudent to allow Pablo and Pietro to continue monitoring what went on inside our home. In fact, it became more important than ever, since we had learned that not only did the rebels want Catarina dead, apparently General Villa did also.

  When we reached the valley floor, Cat directed me to drive toward the town of Riverside, in an area where housing developments and condominiums and shopping centers had not yet completely supplanted agriculture. We passed small vineyards and fields of corn, tomatoes, and melons.

  “What are you looking for, Cat?” I asked helpfully.

  “I remember seeing a place near here where castor bean plants were growing like weeds. I want to gather some castor beans.”

  “Are you going to make homemade castor oil? When I was a kid—I mean, a little boy—my mother gave me a dose of castor oil and molasses every spring, as a tonic. Aarrgh! What a horrible experience.”

  “No. I’m not going to make castor oil. I’m going to cook up a batch of ricin,” she explained.

  “That’s nice. Can I help you?” I assumed that ricin was another of Cat’s Granada Negra culinary delights.

  “Just in gathering the castor beans. I’ll do all the rest at school. In my chemistry class.”

  Little did I know at the time that ricin is the third most toxic substance in the world, immediately after plutonium and botulism. Ricin kills by agglutinating blood. That is, it causes red blood corpuscles to clump together. It’s twice as lethal as the deadliest cobra venom, has no known antidote, and is virtually impossible to detect in the body after death. One gram of ricin—about a twenty-eighth of an ounce—is enough poison to kill more than two hundred people.

  “Oh, look! There they are,” Catarina informed me brightly.

  I directed my glance where she pointed and saw forty or fifty gangly plants about six to eight feet high, with rough-looking light green serrated leaves—some of which were nearly a foot across—and large yellowed pods containing black seeds. I parked the car and we filled several gallon-size plastic bags with the castor beans before Cat was satisfied she’d accumulated enough.

  WHEN I GOT HOME from the college the next day, I was in for quite a shock. Cat had cut her beautiful waist-length black tresses into a short, mannish bob. Not only that, she’d dyed her hair a flaming red, approximately the shade favored by Ronald McDonald.

  “Ohmigod, Catarina! Why did you cut and color your hair?” I asked. “I loved it the wa
y it was!”

  I could tell she had been crying. “Don’t worry, Alfredo. It will grow out again. Perhaps in five or ten years.

  “Nobody in Granada Negra knows what you look like, but everyone knows me. Many pictures taken with my father have been published in the newspapers. This is a disguise. To avoid suspicion and to keep any of the rebels or Villa’s soldiers from recognizing me, we must appear to be two businessmen.”

  “Two businessmen? That’ll never fly.”

  Cat pouted. “Yes it will, Alfredo. You will see. Wait, I will show you.”

  She stepped into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later wearing one of the tropical-weight suits she’d bought for me, complete with a dress shirt and four-in-hand tie. She’d bound her breasts with an Ace bandage and planted a fake bushy mustache above her upper lip.

  “There. Don’t I look like a man now?”

  “I … I suppose so,” I conceded grudgingly. “But not a very macho man. You’ll have to be careful how you walk if you’re going to pull off the deception. Take long, straight strides.” Customarily, Cat’s sides swayed sensually as she strolled.

  “I’ll practice,” Cat laughed. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

  “Wait a minute,” I remembered. “Your disguise won’t work. Not without a new passport. The minute the Granada Negra immigration authorities see your name on the passport and compare the photo with your present appearance, they’ll haul both of us into the hoosegow.”

  An eyebrow shot up. “Hoosegow?”

  “Jail.”

  “Oh—you mean juzgado. Don’t worry. We will not be arrested. Pietro is an excellent forger. I’ve already spoken to him. He’ll have a new passport ready for me tomorrow.”

  “I suppose the Santos twins are going to follow us to Granada Negra?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Of course. But you’ll never know they’re there, Alfredo. They blend into the scenery like a pair of chameleons.”

  “Have you told Uncle Carlos when we’ll be arriving?” I asked.

  “No. His telephone is probably tapped. I’d guess his house is staked out, too. We’ll have to be very careful how we make contact with him.”

  I was becoming more apprehensive by the minute. Unless everything went perfectly, we could be killed. Worse yet, we could wind up in a Granada Negra prison.

  SEVERAL EVENINGS LATER, Cat and I had just retired for the night when we heard a loud scuffle outside the apartment, followed by an insistent pounding on our door. I reached inside the night stand for my revolver, bounced out of bed, and peered out the peephole. Pablo and Pietro Santos were standing in the entry. Between them, they held a disheveled, wild-eyed youth of about eighteen, who was struggling gallantly but unsuccessfully to free himself from their grasp.

  I opened the door a crack, first making certain the brass chain was in place.

  “What is it? Be quiet, or the neighbors will call the police.”

  “Let us in. Quickly,” implored Pablo or Pietro. I never could tell them apart.

  I closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it again. I was standing in my boxer shorts, but Cat had managed to slip into a silk bathrobe.

  “This man has been stalking you for several days,” Pablo or Pietro announced.

  “He had a gun. And, he is from Granada Negra,” stated the other. “The rebels have found you, Catarina. You will have to find a new place to hide.”

  “No … wait … let me explain,” the young man pleaded. “I’m not one of the rebels. I mean no harm. I’m Catarina’s brother.”

  Sixteen

  Miguel

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN you’re my brother?” Catarina spat out contemptuously. “I have no brothers or sisters. Who are you really? Why are you here and what do you want?” she demanded.

  Pablo and Pietro had relaxed their grip on the youth, and he ran his fingers through his mussed hair. He looked more wild-eyed and frantic by the minute.

  “No, Catarina, you are wrong!” he cried out. “I am your brother. Your half-brother, anyway. The result of one of our father’s little indiscretions. My name is Miguel Perez Esquivel. Look at my passport. It will prove who I am.” He removed a purple leather folder from his trousers pocket and passed it around. A stylized pomegranate was embossed on the cover in gold foil.

  I noted that Miguel bore a striking resemblance to Catarina, especially since she’d cut her hair short. He was a rather handsome young man, slender but with an adequate build, a dark complexion, shiny black hair, and the same flashing eyes as his purported sibling.

  If Catarina was shocked by the newly-acquired knowledge she had a brother, she kept the fact well concealed. Perhaps she still didn’t believe Miguel’s story.

  Trying to be the perfect hostess, she inquired, “Would any of you like a cup of Granada Negra coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Miguel replied. “And could I possibly have something to eat? I have not had any food for two days.”

  Catarina stepped to the kitchen. She started a pot of coffee, then nuked a platter of leftovers in the microwave—chicken, vegetables, and rice.

  Miguel took a few bites, then rolled his eyes up at Catarina, his mouth dripping grease. “This is delicious, my sister. What do you call it?”

  “Yesterday, it was chicken Granada Negra. Today, it’s chicken déjà vu.”

  We sat around the dinette table while Miguel ravenously wolfed down the meal. Between bites he explained his presence in Timberline.

  “Papa sent me to warn you. You must not return to Granada Negra now. If you do, your life will be in grave jeopardy.

  “Villa and Toro had planned to assassinate our father, so Villa could take his place as el presidente. Toro was to become Villa’s prime minister. But papa got wind of the plot and—barely in time—fled to the small village where my mother and I live. Papa was never a captive of the rebels, though that’s the cover story Villa spread to explain papa’s sudden disappearance from the presidential palace.

  “Villa knows the citizens of Granada Negra will never accept him as their leader as long as our father is alive. And even if papa is dead, Villa needs the support of the rest of the Perez family in order to take office without an election. That is why the general is so anxious for you to return to Granada Negra: to be an active, enthusiastic participant in his inauguration ceremony, which he has scheduled for New Year’s Day.”

  Miguel looked Catarina straight in the eyes. “Toro has even more sinister, evil plans for you, my sister. If you do not agree to marry him immediately after the inauguration, he will put you in irons in the dungeon beneath the palace and make you his love slave.” Miguel wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin.

  “Uncle Carlos is a prisoner in his own home. He’s under guard twenty-four hours a day. General Villa has threatened to kill Carlos if he does not publicly support him and if he does not entice you back to Granada Negra in time for the inauguration.”

  I was shocked and appalled by Miguel’s story. But I wasn’t sure I believed it. “Where is President Perez now?”

  “He is safely ensconced in a villa in Mexico, an exile. And that is another reason I am here. Papa needs money. He wants you to bring him two million US dollars as quickly as possible. In cash. I will take you to where he is hiding.”

  I began to be suspicious. “Oh, is that all? Just two million dollars? Where does he think we can raise that amount of money?”

  “You can transfer it from papa’s Bahamian bank account to your bank here in Timberline,” Cat suggested. “The same way you moved his money from the First and Only National Bank of Granada Negra to The Bahamas.”

  I thought for a moment. “I suppose I could. But depositing such a large sum in my usually overdrawn account and then withdrawing all of it immediately—in cash—is bound to attract a lot of attention.”

  “I’m sure you and I will be able to come up with a good explanation for the transaction, one which will satisfy the bank officials,” Catarina said encouragingly.

/>   Miguel interrupted. “One other thing. Papa asks for you to bring him a can of Granada Negra special blend coffee. He says he can’t stand Mexican coffee. It’s too harsh and bitter.”

  I’d heard about enough. I jumped to my feet and waved my finger in Miguel’s face. “How do we know you’re telling the truth? Perhaps your passport is fake. Perhaps you’re really one of the rebels. Perhaps you want to steal the money you’ve asked us to take to President Perez. Perhaps you want to kidnap or kill Catarina. What can you offer to prove you are who you say you are?”

  Catarina draped an arm over my shoulder. “Do not worry, my love. Miguel has already given me all the proof I need. I’m absolutely certain he is my brother and was sent by our father.”

  CAT AND I DEVISED A PLAN to get the money for her father—a plan we hoped would not raise too many questions about withdrawing two million dollars in cash.

  I made an appointment with the president of Timberline State Bank, a rotund man named Thomas Mack.

  “Mr. Mack, I’m Alfred Hobson. I’ve been an associate professor at Timberline College—and a customer of this bank, by the way—for several years now. I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Catarina Perez Valdez.”

  Mack held out his hand, somewhat indifferently, as if he thought we were there to grovel for a loan or beg him to finance a used car.

  “It’s my pleasure, Miss Valdez,” he stated, somewhat perfunctorily.

  I didn’t bother correcting him. Few Americans are aware that Spanish names place the mother’s maiden name last and the father’s name—the family name—in the middle.

  “What can I do for you?” Mack asked, somewhat impatiently, addressing both of us.

  “Catarina’s father is the president of Granada Negra,” I started. I could tell from Mack’s deadpan expression that he probably didn’t know whether Granada Negra was a real estate development or a soft drink company, and couldn’t care less.

  “Granada Negra is a small republic in Central America,” I explained.

  That seemed to catch his attention. “I think I may have heard of it …”