Life Blood ---XV---Page No--49

smile. "Some of your American press has been printing

distortions, that the Guatemalan Army conspired with the CIA to cover up murders. It's a total lie."

Right. Maybe you ought to see some of the photos Steve has
of the "Army-pacified" Maya villages up in the mountains.
        The search took an hour and a half of leafing through dusty
boxes, which chafed my hands raw, but then . . . voila.
        There it was. The crucial piece of information Lou had
missed. A hastily scribbled-in landing card for an American, with
the name Sarah Crenshaw. I stared at it a moment, feeling a glow
of success. Was it an omen?

It was definitely her. She'd even dotted an "i" with a smiley face, one of her personal trademarks.

Then I looked down the form. What I wanted was the address
she'd put down as a destination in Guatemala.
        The answer: "Ninos del Mundo, Peten Department."
        My hopes sank. Great. That was like saying your address
 is Children of the World, lost somewhere in the state of Montana.
        The home address was equally vague. Just "New York." So
much for the high level of curiosity at "Inmigracion."
        However, the carbon copy of the landing card, which you're
supposed to surrender when you leave, was not stapled to it, the
way it was on all the others in the box. Naturally, since she'd left in
a medevac plane, half dead.

"What does this mean?" I got up and walked over to the

woman's desk, carrying the card. Mainly I just wanted to get a rise out of her. "The carbon copy is missing. Does that mean she
could still be here?"

Red alert. She glanced at the arrival date a moment and her eyes froze. Then, doubtless with visions of another CIA scandal looming in her consciousness, she brusquely announced that the office was getting ready to close for the day.

"You'll have to pursue any further inquiries through the American embassy, Mrs. James, which handles all matters concerning U.S. nationals."

"Well, thanks for all your help." I was finally getting the policestate runaround I'd expected all along. I guess I needed her to care, and it was obvious she didn't.

Okay . . . I'd planned to go to the embassy anyway. Maybe they could tell me about this place she'd put on her landing card. Could it be the local name for Alex Goddard's clinic?

As I picked up my things, I thought again about the prospect
of showing my face on the streets of Guatemala City. Would there
be more loitering men in grungy brown shirts waiting to watch my
every move? More black Land Rovers? As I marched back out
through the ornate lobby, I decided not to let my imagination get
too active. It was now late afternoon, but I was making progress. I
also was thinking about Steve, wondering if he'd gotten into town
yet. Probably not for another couple of hours, but just thinking
about seeing him again, and having him for support, was boosting
my energy.

A short cab ride later I arrived at the embassy of the all-

powerful United States of America, a two-block-long concrete

fortress on Reforma Avenue guarded by Yank Marines with heavy
automatic weapons. When I explained myself to the PR people
manning the reception desk, including my brush with Guatemalan
bureaucracy, they told me to check with the Internal Security
section.

"In fact, if you're looking for an American national, this is

where you should have come in the first place," said a very

efficient-appearing young woman, with a business suit and dark, close-cropped hair. "A phone call from here works wonders at the Palacio Nacional."

I had no proof Sarah was in Guatemala yet, and if she was, it
would doubtless be under a different name. What's more, telling
them my suspicion that she'd been kidnapped by a high official
and brought here would definitely brand me as a conspiracy
theorist. So for now, all I could really hope to get from them was
an address for Alex Goddard's clinic, someplace to start. Where
and what was "Ninos del Mundo"? Apparently the woman hadn't
fully understood that.

Moments later a thirtyish male attache showed up, looking
very harried. He also could have been president of the local
Young Republicans, with a cute haircut and preppie tie, knotted
perfectly.

"Hi, I'm Mel Olberg. How can I . . .?"

I told him I wanted to see someone who was responsible for the records of missing American tourists. I also sensed he was edgy and trying to get it over with fast; all the while he kept
checking his watch, only half listening.

"Gee, I really wish you'd come earlier," he said. "Monday

afternoons are a little nuts around here, weekly reports due and
all, and it's getting late." When he glanced at his watch again