The Codex

17

Tom stared at the diminutive military officer. A little dog, which had taken a dislike to one of the soldiers, crouched in front of him, baring his teeth and yapping. The officer kicked it away with a dainty boot, and the soldiers laughed.

“On what charge?” Tom asked.

“We will discuss that back in San Pedro Sula. Now, if you will please come with me.”

There was an awkward silence. Sally said, “No.”

“Señorita, let us not make difficulty.”

“I’m not creating any difficulties. I’m just not going. You can’t force me.”

“Sally,” Tom said, “may I point out these men have guns?”

“Good. Let them shoot me and then explain it to the U.S. government.” She spread her arms out to make a target.

“Señorita, I pray you.”

The two soldiers with him shifted nervously.

“Go ahead, make my day!”

The officer nodded at his two men, and they set their guns down, briskly stepped forward, and seized Sally. She yelled and struggled.

Tom took a step forward. “Get your hands off her.”

The two men hoisted her up and began carrying her, struggling, to the jeep. Tom took a swing at the first man and sent him flying. Sally wrenched free while Tom tackled the other man.

The next thing Tom knew he was lying on his back, looking up into the hot blue sky. The officer stood over him, red faced and angry. Tom could feel a throbbing sensation at the base of his skull where the man had struck him with the butt of his gun.

The soldiers pulled him roughly to his feet. Sally had stopped struggling and looked pale.

“Macho bastards,” she said. “We’re going to report your assault to the American Embassy.”

The colonel shook his head sadly, as if at the folly of it all. “Now, may we please go peacefully?”

They allowed themselves to be taken to the jeep. The colonel shoved Tom into the backseat and pushed Sally in next to him. Their backpacks and bags had already been collected from the hotel and were piled in the back. The jeep started down the road to the airstrip. There, a shabby military helicopter was sitting on the grass. A metal panel on the side of the helicopter was off, and a man with a wrench was fiddling with the engine. The jeep came sliding to a stop.

“What are you doing?” the colonel asked sharply in Spanish.

“I am sorry, Teniente, but there is a small problem.”

“What problem?”

“We need a part.”

“Can you fly without it?”

“No, Teniente.”

“Mary whore of Jesus! How many times does this helicopter have to break down?”

“Shall I radio for them to send a plane with the part?”

“By the balls of Joseph! Yes, you deficient, radio for the part!”

The pilot climbed into the chopper, radioed, and then came out. “It will be coming tomorrow morning, Teniente. That is the earliest.”

The lieutenant locked them in a wooden shed at the airstrip and put the two soldiers outside to guard them. After the door clapped shut, Tom sat down on an empty fifty-five-gallon drum and held his aching head.

“How are you feeling?” Sally asked.

“Like my head is a brass gong that was just rung.”

“That was a nasty blow he gave you.”

Tom nodded.

There was a rattle, and the door was flung open again. The lieutenant stood aside while one of the soldiers tossed in their sleeping bags and a flashlight. “I truly regret the inconvenience.”

“You’ll truly regret the inconvenience when I report you,” Sally said.

The lieutenant ignored this. “May I advise you not to do anything foolish. It would be disappointing if someone were shot.”

Sally said, “You wouldn’t dare shoot us, you tinhorn Nazi.”

The lieutenant’s teeth glinted silvery yellow in the feeble light. “Accidents have been known to occur, especially to Americans who come to La Mosquitia unprepared for the rigors of the jungle.”

He backed out of the door, and the soldier slammed it. Tom could hear the muffled voice of the lieutenant telling the soldiers that if they fell asleep or drank on the job he would personally cut their testicles off, dry them, and hang them up as door knockers.

“Damn Nazis,” said Sally. “Thanks for defending me back there.”

“Didn’t do much good.”

“Did he hit you hard?” She looked at his head. “That’s a nasty lump.”

“I’m fine.”

Sally sat down next to him. He felt the warmth of her presence. He looked at her and could see her faint profile, just outlined in the semidarkness of the shed. She looked at him. They were so close that he could feel the warmth of her face on his, see the curl of her lip, the faint dimple on her cheek, the scattering of freckles on her nose. She still smelled of peppermint. Without even thinking of what he was doing, he leaned forward, his lips just brushing hers. For a moment there was stillness, and then she sharply pulled away. “That’s not a good idea.”

What the hell was he thinking? Tom pulled away, angry and humiliated.

The awkward moment was interrupted by a sudden banging at the door. “Dinner,” cried one of the soldiers. The door opened briefly, letting in light, then slammed shut. He heard the soldier relock the padlock.

Tom shined the flashlight over and picked up the tray. Dinner consisted of two warm Pepsis, some bean tortillas, and a heap of tepid rice. Neither of them felt like eating. For a moment they sat there in the darkness. The aching in Tom’s head subsided, and as it did he began to get mad. The soldiers had no right. He and Sally had done nothing wrong. He felt that their phony arrest had probably been engineered by the nameless enemy who had killed Barnaby and Fenton. His brothers were in even more danger than he thought.

“Give me the flashlight.”

He shined it around. The shed couldn’t have been more shoddily built, just a post-and-beam frame with boards nailed over it and a tin roof. An idea began to take shape — a plan of escape.