The Calm Before The Swarm

II

Hospital Nacional Docente Madre Niño San Bartolomé

Lima, Peru

October 15^th

9:03 a.m. PET

Eldon Monahan, Consul-general of the United States Consulate in Peru, waited in the small gray chamber, handkerchief over his mouth and nose in preparation for what was to come. At least this time he'd had the foresight to dab it in Vicks VapoRub before leaving the office. He wore a crisp charcoal Turnbull & Asser suit with a navy blue silk tie, and had slicked back his ebon hair with the sweat that beaded his forehead and welled against his furry eyebrows. His piercing hazel eyes absorbed his surroundings. It took all of his concentration to suppress the expression of contempt. Slate gray walls lined with ribbons of rust from the leaky pipes in the ceiling surrounded him on three sides. The fourth was a sheet of dimpled aluminum that featured a single door with a wide horizontal handle, the kind of freezer unit they installed in restaurants. Twin overhead sodium halide fixtures were mounted to the ceiling on retractable armatures. The diffuse beams spotlighted the scuffed, vinyl-tiled floor in front of him.

God, how he hated this part of his job.

A baccalaureate degree in Political Science from Stanford and a doctorate in Politics and International Relations from Oxford, and here he was in the basement of what could only loosely be considered a hospital by American standards, in a backward country half a world away from where he really wanted to be. Paying his dues. Mastering the intricacies of foreign diplomacy. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was still about as far as a man could get from a seat on the Senate floor. Here he was, thirty-six years old and not even an actual ambassador.

The screech of his grinding teeth reminded him of his hypertension, and he tried to focus on something else. Anything else.

The door in the aluminum wall opened outward with a pop and a hiss. Eldon took an involuntary step in reverse. The morgue attendant acknowledged him with a nod as he wheeled the cart into the room and centered it under the lights. A sheet, stained with a Rorschach pattern of mud and bodily dissolution, covered the human form beneath.

"What can you tell me about the body?" Eldon asked in Spanish through the handkerchief.

"The policía dropped it off last night," the attendant said, visibly amused by the Consul-general's squeamishness. He wore a yellow surgical gown and cap, finger-painted with brown bloodstains. "Found him way up north in the Amazonas. Textbook case of drowning, you ask me."

"How do we know he's an American citizen?"

"The pilot who flew him into Pomacochas recognized him."

"But he couldn't identify him?"

"That's all I know. You're supposed to be the man with the answers. Shouldn't your embassy have told you all of this?"

Eldon flushed with resentment.

"Where are his possessions?" Eldon asked.

"What you see is what you get."

Par for the course.

"Let's just get on with this then, shall we?"

With a curt nod, the attendant pulled back the sheet to expose the head and torso of the corpse.

Eldon had to turn away to compose himself, but he couldn't chase the image from his mind. The man's face was frosted from the freezer, his skin tinged blue. Chunks of flesh had been stolen from his cheeks, earlobes, and the tip of his nose. There were still crescents of mud in his ear canals and along his gum-line. He was dramatically swollen from the uptake of water, which caused his epidermis to crack as the deeper tissues froze.

"You don't want to see the parts I left covered," the attendant said. He smirked and clapped Eldon on the shoulder, eliciting a flinch. "Do what you need to do quickly. We don't want him to start to thaw."

Eldon removed the digital camera from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and leaned over the body. Three hurried flashes and he was out the door without another word. He needed fresh air, humid and oppressive though it may be. He ascended the stairs and crossed the lobby through a churning sea of the sick and injured, oblivious to their curses as he shouldered his way toward the front doors. As soon as he was outside, he ducked to his left, cast aside the handkerchief, and vomited into an acacia shrub.

Sometimes he absolutely hated his life.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and headed to where his car idled in the emergency bay. The driver waited outside the open rear door of the black Mercedes-Benz E-Class sedan, and ushered him inside. They drove in silence, save the whoosh of the wind through the open driver's side window. The chauffer repeatedly raised his hand to cover his nose as discreetly as he could.

Wonderful, Eldon thought. He'd obviously brought more than pictures of the corpse with him.

The Mercedes turned through the black, wrought-iron gates of the Consulate. Armed Marines saluted as the car passed and rounded the circular island of rainbow flowers, from which twin poles bearing the American and Peruvian flags rose.

Eldon didn't wait for the driver to come around to open the door. He just wanted to get this over with. As he ascended the concrete stairs beneath the gray marble portico, he focused on the task at hand: upload the digital images into the program that would compare them to the passport photos of all Americans still in Peru, starting with those who had registered their travel plans with the Embassy. Once he had positive identification, he could make his calls, get the body embalmed and on a plane back to the States, and wash his hands of the whole mess.

"Mr. Monahan," the receptionist called in a thick Spanish accent as he strode into the lobby. She pronounced it Meester Monahan.

He pretended not to hear her and started up the staircase beside her desk. The middle-aged Peruvian national climbed out from behind her post with the clatter of high heels.

"Mr. Monahan!"

With a frustrated sigh, he turned to face the frumpy woman and raised the question with his eyebrows.

"There's a man waiting for you outside your office."

"I assume he's been properly cleared?"

"Yes, Mr. Monahan."

"Thank you, Mrs. Arguedas."

He ascended to the top floor and headed toward his office at the end of the corridor. A man with shaggy chestnut hair and pale blue eyes sat in one of the chairs outside his office, a filthy backpack clutched to his chest. The armed soldier beside him snapped to attention when he saw Eldon, while the other man rose almost casually from his seat. His discomfort was apparent, yet he seemed less than intimidated by his surroundings. He had broad shoulders and a solid build that suggested he had been shaped more by physical exertion in the real world than by countless hours in the gym.

Eldon extended his hand and introduced himself as he approached. "Consulate-general Monahan."

"Wes Merritt," the man said. He offered his own hand, but retracted it when he noticed how dirty it was.

Eldon was silently grateful. He lowered his hand, gave a polite smile, and gestured for the man to follow him into his inner sanctum. The soldier fell in behind them and took his place beside the closing door.

"How can I be of assistance, Mr. Merritt?" Eldon seated himself in the high-backed leather chair behind his mahogany and brass Royal Louis XV Boulle desk, and made a show of checking his watch.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Monahan. Especially with no notice."

Eldon waved him off, but he would definitely have to discuss such improprieties with Mrs. Arguedas.

Merritt opened the flap of the rucksack and set it on the edge of the pristine desk.

"I wanted to give this to you in person. You know how the authorities are down here..."

Eldon nodded and fought the urge to shove the vile bag off of his eighteenth century antique desk.

"I found this with the body you just visited at the morgue. I need to make sure it reaches the right people back home." Merritt shrugged and rose as if to leave. "You'll make sure it does, Mr. Monahan?"

"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Merritt. I'm sure the decedent's family appreciates your integrity."

Merritt gave a single nod in parting and exited through the polished oak door.

His curiosity piqued, Eldon plucked a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of the desk and walked around to inspect the bag. He gingerly moved aside a tangled nest of dried vines and appraised the contents. His eyes widened in surprise.

He leaned across the desk and pressed the "Speaker" button on his phone.

"Yes, Mr. Monahan?" Mrs. Arguedas answered.

"Please hold my calls."

"Yes, sir."

He disconnected and returned his attention to the rucksack.

Now he really needed to figure out to whom the body in the morgue belonged.