Life Blood ---XV---Page No--47

For once in my life, I took my time getting off an airplane. But
the instant I felt that first burst of humid tropical air against my
face, like a gush from a sauna, I found myself wondering what
Sarah had felt the moment her feet first touched the ground of
Guatemala. In fact, I'd decided to try to think like her, to better
understand why she might want to come back. Truthfully I didn't
have a clue.

But first things first. Not knowing whether I was being stalked
by Ramos or his proxies, I decided the idea was to see and not be
seen—which actually was easier than I'd expected, at least during
the initial pell-mell stages. Turned out the self-centeredness of
Homo sapiens blossoms under those circumstances. Ignore thy
neighbor, goes the credo. I just buried myself in the crush.
        When I got to "Inmigracion," I labored through the "formalities"
(as all countries love to call the suspicious looks you get from their
airport bureaucrats) along with all the other gringo passengers on
AA Flight 377, paranoid I might be arrested on the spot for some
spurious reason. The purpose of my visit, I declared, was tourism.
Just a nod at my passport and a stamp, which looked exactly like
the one in Sarah's. I stared at it and felt a renewed sense of
purpose. In fact, the photo in my passport looked more than a little
like her. Maybe, I thought, I'm getting carried away with the
identity issue, but there it was.

As I emerged through the wide glass doors of the arrival area, which fronted out onto the steps leading down to the parking lots and the humidity, I spotted a black Land Rover with tinted
windows right in front. Uh-oh. That was, Steve once told me, a
vehicle much favored by the notorious Guatemalan G-2 military
secret police, who had retired the cup for murderous human-rights abuses over the past two decades.

Then two middle-aged men with Latin mustaches and

nondescript brown shirts began getting out through the door on the far side. They next walked around to the terminal side of the car and glanced up the steps in my direction, as though looking for somebody. It was a quick survey, after which they turned back and nodded to the vehicle before it sped away.

What's that about? Am I imagining things already?

By the time I reached the bottom of the steps, I was being

besieged by clamoring cabbies, so it was difficult to keep an eye on the two men, who were now walking off to the side of the main commotion, toward a shady grove of palms at the end of the
arrival drive, lighting cigarettes.

Get out of here. Whether you're fantasizing or not, the thing to do is grab an unsuspecting cab and get going.

I strolled toward the other end of the long row of concrete

steps till I reached an area where cabs were parked, more drivers
lurking in wait. They all looked the same way most cabbies in
Third World lands look: shabby clothes, with beat-up cars, an
expression in their eyes somewhere between aggression and
desperation.

Just pick one whose car looks like it might actually make it to downtown.

I spotted a dark blue Chevy that seemed clean and well

maintained, its driver young and full of male hormones as he

beckoned me to his vehicle, all the while undressing me with his eyes. Yep, he was definitely my guy.

I ambled by his car, acting as though I was ignoring the

innuendos of his pitch. Then I bolted for the back door, opened it myself since he was too startled to help, threw in my carry-ons, piled in behind them, and yelled, "Let's go. Rapido."

As we sped away, I realized his greatest surprise was that I

hadn't raised the subject of price. At that point, it was the last thing on my mind. I looked back to see the two guys from the black
Land Rover, together with two others, heading for a car that had been double-parked right in front.

Had I been right after all?

We made a high-speed turn onto the highway, and I

immediately ordered the driver to take a service road that led off toward a cluster of gas stations and parking lots with falling-down barbed-wire fences. I figured I had about half a minute of lead time, whatever was going on.

We dodged massive potholes and the loose gravel flew, but
then we reached a ramshackle gas station and I ordered him to
pull in. Then I watched the line of traffic speeding by on the main
highway for several minutes. Nobody pulled off. Good.

My driver finally got around to asking where I wanted to go, and as calmly as I could, I told him.

"The Palacio Nacional."

"Si."