Free Novel Read

Black Pomegranate Page 13


  We stepped up to a counter on the right, twenty feet inside the building, and waited impatiently. The man behind the counter nodded to acknowledge our presence, then returned his attention to a white-haired couple. He took what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time making arrangements for them to go on a guided tour of the pyramids at Chichén Itzá. Not until the elderly pair ambled away, bus tickets in hand, did we learn we were at the travel desk. The registration desk was up a short flight of stairs to our left.

  I wanted to stall before checking in, in order to get a better look at the men who were following us. We browsed the gift shop for a few minutes, where Cat bought me a white cotton guayabera—a short-sleeved shirt, worn outside the trousers, that is popular throughout Mexico.

  A slight, wiry redhead, almost simian in appearance, accompanied by a tall, Arnold Schwarzenegger type, entered the gift shop and pretended to examine an onyx chess set.

  “There’s an odd couple,” I pointed out quietly.

  “Are they two of the men following us?”

  “Yes. At least, I think so.”

  “I wonder why they’re so interested in us,” Catarina pondered.

  “I hope we never find out,” I replied glumly.

  After we registered, a uniformed bellman escorted us to a lavishly decorated penthouse villa twice the size of our apartment in Timberline Village. The eighth-floor apartment consisted of two bedrooms, two baths, large walk-in closets, a living room, full kitchen, dining area, and a large balcony overlooking the Caribbean. Lots of room to romp around in. Marble floors—which seemed to be the standard in Cancun—added to the aura of opulence. It would be a splendid place for us to spend our honeymoon, I decided.

  We changed into swimsuits and flip-flops. Cat draped a cover-up over her suit, and I donned the guayabera.

  “The beach or the pool?” Cat asked.

  “How about the restaurant first? I couldn’t stomach the food they served on the plane and I’m famished.” How times had changed. A few months before, I seldom cared whether I ate or not. I realized I’d almost become a gourmet. A gourmand, anyway.

  We rode the elevator downstairs and strolled leisurely to a large palapa adjoining the freshwater swimming pool. A palapa is an open-sided hut with a cone-shaped roof made from palm fronds, looking much like a giant toadstool. Palapas on the beach, to provide shade from the intense rays of the tropical sun, are not much bigger than beach umbrellas. Some palapas are large enough to contain open-air restaurants, such as the one at the Royal Mayan.

  I ordered a quesadilla—melted jack cheese between two flour tortillas, served with guacamole and a salsa made from tomatoes, onions, habanero chiles, cilantro, and lime juice. Catarina ordered shrimp ceviche. Cerveza—beer—quenched our thirst.

  Two men passed by and seated themselves at a table a discreet distance away.

  I leaned toward Cat. “We’re not alone,” I murmured confidentially.

  Cat raised one eyebrow questioningly. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t look now, but those two men—the ones who just sat down—don’t they look a little out of place to you?”

  The men were wearing business suits, stiffly starched white shirts, and regimental ties. Their wingtip shoes were highly polished. Their hair was trimmed in a short, almost military cut. Only their dark sunglasses seemed appropriate for the region.

  Chancing a glance, Cat laughed. “They certainly do. They’re some of the alphabet police, aren’t they? I wonder which agency they’re from?”

  “My guess is they’re with the FBI. They match the stereotype.”

  “Uh, oh. Here come two more, Alfredo,” Cat warned.

  She was right. Two others I’d seen arriving at the resort earlier sat down at the next table. Their attire was more casual, but still not typical of clothing worn by tourists.

  Shortly, four other groups of two men each came into the restaurant, including the apes we’d decided to refer to as Red and Muscles. We were surrounded by our uninvited entourage.

  “I don’t understand why the government didn’t send just one or two men to follow us,” I thought out loud. “It seems like they could have coordinated their efforts.”

  Cat always had a ready answer for things political. “It’s because of dirty hands,” she said.

  “Dirty hands?” I echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “One hand doesn’t wash the other, so both hands are dirty. And, one dirty hand doesn’t know what the other dirty hands are doing. All governments are the same. If one department tells the others its secrets, the information won’t be secret any more. It’s the same way in Granada Negra, too.”

  I was a little confused, but decided to agree with her. “I think you’re right. I remember what happened before 9-11. Various governmental agencies had knowledge of the terrorists, but they didn’t inform the other agencies of their information until after-the-fact. And, by then, it was too late.”

  “You’ve got to admit the government’s inefficiency increases employment,” Cat mused.

  “Yes, but those are my tax dollars being squandered,” I commented dryly.

  Cat rested a hand on my arm. “Don’t fret, Alfredo. When you move with me to Granada Negra, you’ll not have to worry about such mundane matters. We do not have any taxes in Granada Negra,” she proclaimed proudly.

  “You mean to say you don’t have an income tax? No sales taxes? No property taxes?”

  She shook her head from side to side as if to say no. “Yes. We have no taxes. No taxes at all.”

  “I don’t understand. It costs a lot of money to run a country, even a small one. To build roads and operate schools and maintain the army. If there are no taxes, who finances the Granada Negra government?”

  “You Americans do,” Catarina laughed. “Granada Negra receives foreign aid from the United States. More than enough money to pay for everything our country needs.”

  I should have known.

  AFTER LUNCH, we spent the rest of the afternoon lazing around the pool. At no time were we out of sight of at least one member of each twosome. The men we surmised were with the FBI sat on deck chairs, still wearing their suits and ties and wing-tip shoes. All of the others had managed to scrounge up bathing suits, probably buying them at the gift shop.

  I didn’t feel particularly menaced by their presence. After all, I rationalized, the men were employees of the United States government. But I certainly wasn’t bemused by their benign benevolence.

  Twenty

  Escaping the Entourage

  FOR OUR FIRST EVENING in Cancun we made dinner reservations at El Conquistador, the restaurant near the travel desk in the Royal Mayan lobby. The food was delicious. Service was excellent. The lights were low. A solo guitarist provided a background of classical and jazz. All in all, the atmosphere was extremely romantic.

  Shortly after we were seated, the small gourmet room filled to capacity. In addition to Cat and me were assorted tourists—couples, families, small groups. And six parties of two men each—our self-appointed, uninvited consorts.

  Cat and I ordered the Caribbean dilled shrimp. Our waiter wheeled a cart tableside and sautéed large tiger shrimp together with shallots and fresh dill weed and other condiments. Then, he added a dab of béchamel sauce and splashed in and ignited a dash of tequila—a spectacular fiery finale to the culinary production.

  The restaurant specializes in flaming foods—not only entrees, but also after-dinner coffees and luscious desserts, such as cherries jubilee and a Mexican version of bananas Foster. Each time a new creation was prepared, a tantalizing aroma filled the room; the blue glow of the flaming liquors and the show put on by the waiters demanded the diners’ attention.

  After dinner, we removed our shoes and socks and strolled on the beach in the moist-sand area between the powder-fine dry sugar sand and the surf. Occasionally, a gentle wave larger than the rest lapped at our feet. The water was bathtub-warm, not at all like the frigid Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, Malibu, or th
e other Southern California beaches I’d been to in the past. I found this most remarkable, for it was late December.

  We were not quite followed, but were constantly observed. I spotted one man on a balcony watching us with binoculars, another on a sun deck overlooking the beach, and yet another leaning against a palm tree, staring intently in our direction.

  “Cat, I’m getting more than a little perturbed about our paucity of privacy.”

  “Me, too,” she nodded. “Almost as much as your awful alliterations aggravate me. But what can we do about the men, Alfredo?”

  I thought for a moment. “We could confront them, I suppose, but somehow I don’t think that would be very smart. We can ignore them—just pretend they aren’t there. Or, we can try to lose them.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No. Not tonight. Tomorrow. Right now, I’m ready to go to our villa and climb into bed. It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

  “You’re right. We should turn in soon. Tomorrow morning we must be up early to take the scuba lessons,” Cat reminded.

  “Isn’t there something you’d rather do instead? I’m not too keen on scuba diving.”

  “You heard Pablo. He said he was absolutely certain we should take scuba lessons.”

  There it was again. The absolutely certain phrase. It had a compelling effect on Granada Negrans, a secondary meaning I was only beginning to comprehend.

  “Okay. But after we’ve finished playing amateur Navy SEALs, let’s take a bus somewhere. To a mall or flea market.”

  Catarina’s eyes lit up. “Is there something you would like me to buy for you, Alfredo?”

  “No. There’s something I want to buy for you. A wedding ring. It’s time we got married. I think our sleeping arrangements will sit better with your father if we tie the knot before we go to meet him.”

  In truth, I was half afraid Cat’s father might try to squelch our romance once he met me. In many respects, I was still severely lacking self-confidence.

  Cat shook her head. “Not yet, my love. We must wait for my father to be back in the presidential palace and for my mother to return from France, and then we will have a big wedding. But, if it will make you feel any better, for now I will sleep in the second bedroom of our villa.”

  I must have grimaced, for Catarina laughed loudly.

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” I hastened to assure her. “We’ll just live in sin a while longer.”

  AFTER A BOUNTIFUL BUFFET breakfast in the Palapa restaurant, Cat and I headed for the pool. The scuba instructor was already in the water, teaching a handful of students how to assemble, attach, and wear the scuba gear.

  Three of the men who’d followed us from California joined the class. The others were stationed nearby, either in the pool or sunning themselves on a chaise lounge, trying to look invisible. All except for the two FBI agents. Still wearing business suits, they sat at a table in the shade and played cards, peering in our direction from time to time. Maybe all the time. It was hard to tell where their eyes were pointed because of their ever-present dark sunglasses.

  One man bore a remarkable resemblance to Ollie North. The other was a male version of Heidi Hazelhorst, if you can imagine such a travesty.

  I wondered how she and Dean Martin were getting along. The thought of Heidi and the dean going at it hot and heavy behind the closed doors of his office caused me to chuckle out loud.

  Catarina looked at me quizzically. She deserved an explanation.

  I motioned with my head. “Look over there. At the FBI agents. One of them reminds me of the executive secretary at Timberline College.”

  She giggled. “You’re right. He does look strikingly similar to Heidi Hazelhorst. Though Heidi’s got bigger breasts.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I never noticed,” I lied, averting her gaze.

  Just then, I eyed a woman who looked even more like Hazelhorst than the FBI agent. Why was Heidi so entrenched in my mind? Was the hot Cancun sun making me hallucinate?

  To my astonishment, I realized the woman not only looked like Hazelhorst, she was Hazelhorst. The horny broad was actually there! In Cancun. At the Royal Mayan. Lounging on a deck chair, not twenty paces away. Was she following us, also? And, if so, why?

  My question was soon answered. Dean Martin, two margaritas in hand and apparently three sheets to the wind, sauntered up beside her. He was clad in a hot-pink tee shirt and matching Bermuda shorts. With his skinny, bird-like legs protruding from the bottom of the fabric and his prominent aquiline beak, he reminded me of a wading bird. A pink flamingo, to be precise. A pink flamingo in heat; he seemed to be doing a mating dance.

  This was getting better and better. I grabbed Catarina’s hand and pulled her after me.

  “Well, well, well. What a small world. It seems to be getting smaller every day. Right, Dean Martin? And, how are you, Miss Hazelhorst?”

  The range of emotions that crossed Martin’s face were priceless. Bewilderment. Astonishment. Embarrassment. He was flustered. He was flabbergasted. He was frantic. He was found out. He couldn’t be any more nonplused if I’d actually caught him and Heidi flagrante delicto. For probably the first time in his entire life, Dean Luther Martin was at a complete loss for words.

  Not so Heidi. She shamelessly displayed a ring of hickeys that circled her neck and traveled downward. I could not tell how far they went below her abdomen because of her bikini. She looked at me with a salacious smile.

  “You were right, Hobson. Absolutely right. Everything you told me about Luther was true. I owe you an immense debt of gratitude.”

  “What do you mean, dear?” Martin mumbled in a milquetoasty voice. “What did Hobson say to you?”

  Heidi glared at him sadistically. “Maybe I’ll tell you later. If you’re a good boy. Light me a cigarette.”

  “Yes, sweetie,” he murmured meekly, taking out a cigarette and holding a flame to its tip before handing it to her. It was patently obvious Hazelhorst was completely in control of Dean Martin and intended to remain so.

  “Are you here on college business?” Cat asked innocently.

  “In a way,” Heidi replied, smirking. “I’ve convinced Luther to petition the regents for a number of changes at Timberline. Smoking rooms. Sex education classes. And a complete overhaul of the college’s outmoded morals code.”

  Dean Martin squirmed but said nothing. His eyes seemed to be examining his toes.

  “Mostly, though, we came here on Christmas break so I can help Luther lose his inhibitions. He’ll be a totally different man when he returns to Timberline,” she gloated. “I guarantee it.”

  “I believe you,” I said in amazement. “I can see a remarkable change already.”

  It was true. There was a definite difference in the dean’s demeanor. He looked like a puppy that had just been punished for peeing on the carpet. We were talking about him as if he were not there, and he was unable—or unwilling—to speak up on his own behalf. I realized then that when I’d sicced Heidi onto the dean I’d opened a Pandora’s box.

  “We were just getting ready to go to the mall,” Heidi said. “I heard about a store that specializes in bedroom toys. Want to come along with us?”

  “No, thanks,” I chuckled. “I think we brought everything we need. Perhaps we’ll catch up with you later.”

  Martin finally gathered enough gumption to join the conversation. “Hobson … about your job at the college … perhaps I was a bit hasty …”

  “Nice of you to admit it, Luther.” It was the first time I’d ever called him by his given name. “But, I’ve made other plans. I certainly can’t support the daughter of the president of the Sovereign Republic of Granada Negra on an associate professor’s salary.”

  “Well, if you’ve already made up your mind …”

  “Yes. I’m absolutely certain,” I said, for Catarina’s benefit.

  She smiled knowingly. It was quite evident Cat had other plans for me, also.

  SELDOM IS THERE NEED to hire a
taxi in Cancun, and even less cause to rent a car. From the farthest hotel to the downtown area, a fleet of buses runs the length of Kukulcan Boulevard, minutes and sometimes only seconds apart. The fare is just a few pesos—about fifty cents in American money, depending on the rate of exchange.

  A shuttle van provided by the resort runs every ten minutes or so from the Royal Mayan entrance to the bus stop—a distance of about two long city blocks. Cat and I waited until the van was ready to depart, hopping on board at the last possible minute.

  As we’d hoped, our fellow travelers, all keeping their distance, trying to stay out of our line of sight, didn’t make it to the shuttle van in time. We peeked out the rear window and saw seven or eight men—I don’t know where the rest were at the moment—chasing the van. Two were dressed in suits and ties.

  We got off the shuttle at the bottom of the hill and were able to catch a bus immediately. Our followers were several hundred yards away, still running.

  But we hadn’t yet lost them. As our bus pulled out from the curb, the men caught another bus that had stopped behind ours. We knew as soon as they saw us get off our bus, they would depart theirs.

  But a minor miracle happened. One of the hotels had just changed shifts and our driver stopped to let a large group of workers board. The bus with our followers inside leap-frogged past and sped out of sight. The men would have no way of knowing where Cat and I got off of our bus!

  For the rest of the day, Cat and I were blissfully alone. We shopped at Kukulcan Mall. Since Cat wasn’t ready for a wedding ring, I bought her a sterling silver necklace. She bought me a waterproof diver’s watch. We had lunch at a restaurant in the mall, then caught another bus for downtown and browsed for hours at the flea market.

  We took a sunset cruise around the lagoon on a reproduction of a Spanish sailing vessel. Waiters dressed as Caribbean pirates served lobster dinners. Finally, tired but content, we returned to the Royal Mayan.