A Love Forbidden Read online

  Juana made no reply. She wanted her boss to stew in his apology and think twice before verbally abusing her again. Sensing a moment of opportunity, she swallowed her anger. "Shall I send for de los Reyes?"

  "Yes." Montenegro's reply was subdued, pensive. "I think it's time."

  Calling for Juan de los Reyes represented another triumph in Juana’s quest to influence presidential policy. Only two nights ago she had planted in her boss and lover's head the seeds of an idea, which she labeled a sort of "final solution" to the nagging POCI intrusion. It had taken less time than usual for the president to assimilate her plan and believe it to be his own original brilliant design. If it wasn’t her destiny to wear the crown, she had decided long ago, the next best thing was to wield power through the man who held the highest office.

  Slowly, Montenegro rose from his desk and paced in front of the large bullet-proof window that overlooked the plaza in front of the presidential palace. Juana watched him carefully. He thought better on his feet than sitting in a chair, and not at all in bed. After a moment, he turned to face her, his expression conflicted but resolute.

  "Get in touch with Father Javier de Córdova up in Santa Teresita," he ordered.

  Juana’s lover was proving he had the guts to make tough decisions, even if he lacked the creative imagination to invent solutions to his problems.

  "Are you sure it's necessary to involve the Barton woman?" he said.

  "Trust me. She's our guarantee the priest will accept the assignment." A sneer displayed her low opinion of the local clergy and their fidelity to celibacy. "I understand they were . . . intimate--" She lingered over each syllable of the word. "When she was here with Project SHARE some years ago."

  "I find that hard to believe," the president said. "I've known Father Javier since he was born. Not once have I heard a negative word about him. The archbishop praises his work."

  "I didn't make it up," Juana said. "I read it in his personal file. A single lurid paragraph in an otherwise dull report, dated at the time and signed by none other than our own Juan de los Reyes, then Chief of Police of the Santa Teresita Region."

  "That was years ago," Montenegro said, still willing to defend the priest, though less forcefully. "And, didn't the woman marry someone else soon after she went back to the States? Friendship, yes, but I can't believe there was anything improper between them."

  "Believe what you want," Juana said flatly. "I say, 'The heart of a lonely man has a long memory.'"

  "That's my Juana," Montenegro laughed, "poetic and hard as nails in the same instant." Finally accepting his lover's assessment of the distant relationship between the priest and the young American volunteer, he added, "I'm glad you are on my side. We make a great team, you and I."

  * * *

  Late Friday afternoon, Juan De los Reyes, barrel-chested head of the secret Special Branch of Montenegro's Internal Security Forces, entered the Sala Azul. He looked irritated at having been kept waiting so long in the outer lobby, but Juana Santiago didn't care. De los Reyes’s discomfort escalated when she closed the door and took her place beside the president's desk.

  "Juan, you old donkey, sit down. How's your love life these days?" the president said.

  The file in Juana's lap contained biographical and professional notations on Santo Sangre's top cop. After the wife of his youth died in childbirth, the former Santa Teresita police chief had never remarried, preferring the company of expensive capital city call girls to a committed relationship. The ruthless efficiency with which he kept order in his mountain village and its environs had attracted the president's attention and led to an invitation to visit Santa Catalina. A thorough check of the policeman's background and career confirmed his trustworthiness--and his stomach for danger and blood. He was brought into ISF and employed on an ad hoc basis to carry out "delicate assignments." The president assigned him to Special Branch full-time in 1977. De los Reyes's forte--assassination.

  The ISF director cast a languid, drooping glance toward Juana. "I'm sure you didn't call me in to inquire about my--" He lay his thick palm alongside the bulge in his crotch.

  "I just want to make sure my top agent's ‘needs’ are being met," Montenegro laughed. "Juan, I have something very important for you. The most important assignment of your career."

  5

  One week after Leah's appearance on SFO in the AM, she worked at her desk, right through the lunch hour. With a tossed-green salad in front her and an open file folder next to it, she munched and read. She had a mouth full of greens when Sandy buzzed: "Janet Wishard on line two."

  "Fanks," Leah gurgled, trying to swallow and talk at the same time.

  Janet Wishard was a college classmate at Berkeley. Although bright and talented, she had seemed aimless career-wise, until she met and married Sergeant Jack Sharkey of the San Francisco Police Department. Leah had her own explanation of Janet's transformation: "She married Jack, but she fell in love with law enforcement." As expected, the marriage didn't last, but her career did.

  "Hi, Janet. What's up?"

  "Something just came up on my computer that made me think of my favorite do-gooder." Janet never wasted time on small talk. Hers was a get-to-the-point-and-tell-it- like-it-is style, even with close friends.

  "Good to know I'm on your mind." Leah had always liked Janet and supported her, even when her friend refused to listen to advice, which had been the case when Leah discouraged her from getting involved with the hot-tempered, chauvinistic cop.

  "We got a bulletin last night about a shooting in L.A.," Janet began. Her voice had the quality of a veteran detective, deadened to the pain of human trauma. "At first, it seemed like your typical, gang-related drive-by. You know, innocent bystander. Wrong place, wrong time sort of thing. Turns out the victim was a well-known Guatemalan refugee, who'd been deeply involved in human rights work in his country."

  "That's awful," Leah said, but Janet's concern puzzled her. "What made you think of me?"

  "There's a twist to this story." Janet related that customs and I.N.S. officers had detained a passenger at Los Angeles International Airport, a Guatemalan national about to board an outbound TACA flight to Guatemala City. The man had a concealed weapon in his suitcase. "To make a long story short, a witness identified him as the shooter."

  Leah was still unsure why Janet linked her and this murder. "And . . . ."

  "It struck me that you're in the same business as the victim."

  "There's hardly any similarity between me and a Guatemalan refugee. I don't go traveling to places where I'd be in any danger." Surely, Janet had reacted more out of friendship than any logical link. "Thanks for the warning, though. It's nice to know someone's looking out for me."

  "Did you hear anything I've said!" Janet scolded. A rare degree of emotion had swept away her flat monotone. She was parent, concerned friend, sworn protector of the citizenry. "This happened in L.A., or have you forgotten that's still in the U.S.A? The shits came up here and got their target."

  The meaning of Janet's warning penetrated the fog that had shrouded Leah's understanding. When she didn't respond, Janet continued, "Just don't take anything for granted. You watch your backside, hear me?"

  "I hear."

  Later, sitting alone at her desk, Leah couldn't recall how her conversation with Janet Wishard had ended. Before her friend signed off, Leah's mind had already traveled back to October seventeenth, the day she appeared on SFO in the AM. She heard the pained voice of Carmen, the Salvadoran woman, pleading with her, "The human rights movement has powerful enemies. They will stop at nothing to preserve their power."

  * * *

  At midnight, Raúl Montenegro pushed open the massive gold-paneled doors of Santa Catalina Cathedral just as the bells in the twin towers began their alternating toll of somber mourning. The president wore full ceremonial uniform. Medals, a few earned, most self-awarded, colored the left breast of his tunic with ribbons blue and red and medallions of silver and bronze. The
nave was deserted, except for his fallen comrade lying between two rows of erect beeswax candles. Yellow-blue flames flicked heavenward, casting swaying shadows on the uneven floor at the base of the high altar. A hint of sweet incense hung in the still, humid air.

  A chill shook Montenegro as he moved toward the cathedral sanctuary. "Ernesto, I miss you, amigo," he whispered, pausing at the head of the metal casket. Covering the coffin, the flag of their beloved country; blue as the Caribbean that surrounded the island; single, bright red and gold horizontal stripes signifying the people's loyalty and the life-giving warmth of her year-round tropical sun. "Who can I trust now that you are gone?" No answer came from the lifeless form sealed within. "I did not want this to happen. Believe me. I need you."

  The body of Col. Ernesto de Córdova had lain in state since being helicoptered back to the capital. The fatal skirmish had taken place on the other side of the island, at the mud flats near the mouth of the Río Gabriela. Guerrilla ambush, the soldiers reported. Comandante Fuego, leader of the rebel forces, had betrayed a truce called by himself and agreed to in good faith by the president. "I am prepared to enter into negotiations with our new government," the communiqué had read, "with a view to settling differences now that our common enemy, Vicente Ochoa y Chavez, is dead. The only precondition is that you come to a place of our choosing, so we can be assured of our safety."

  "I thought he was sincere, dear Ernesto. I was mistaken." Montenegro brushed away a tear. "I should have gone myself. It should have been I who faced the traitor and died, not you."

  The president respectfully folded the flag back from the top half of the casket and snapped open the latches that sealed the lid. Thousands of grieving Santo Sangríans had filed past the popular statesman's body throughout the day and evening. At Montenegro's orders, the last of the mourners had been sent home at eleven. It was now his turn to pay his last respects to his friend--face to face.

  Raising the heavy half-door, the president let the candlelight illuminate the face of his country's latest war hero.

  A cry flung itself against the perimeter walls of the cathedral and echoed back to Montenegro from every corner of the empty basilica. It had escaped from his own throat and was followed instantly by reverberations of metal crashing upon metal.

  The face staring at him open-eyed from the white satin interior was--his own!

  * * *

  "Raúl! Raúl! Wake up!" a distant female voice commanded.

  When Montenegro opened his eyes, the naked Juana Santiago was shaking him by the shoulders. Her long, jet-black hair streamed across his chest. Tanned breasts rolled above him like graceful palms swaying in a gentle trade wind.

  "You screamed like a madman, for God's sake!"

  "I dreamed--" Cold perspiration dotted his pale forehead and cheeks. "I dreamed I was . . . dead."

  "I'm not surprised," she laughed.

  Their early evening trysts, always at the secluded ocean villa the president maintained for her, were the highlights of those all-too-few days when the press of state business slackened enough to allow them an hour or two of lovemaking. Sated with Juana's passion, he would return home to Anastasia, his wife of more years than he cared to count.

  "You were quite the animal this time, my love." Juana said. "Almost more than I could handle. Almost."

  A faint smile forced its way to the corner of Montenegro's mouth. Juana's affirmation of his manhood did more to chase away his demons than any amount of power ever could. That a woman of her age and beauty could find in him a satisfying sexual partner he considered a tribute to his excellent physical condition. That it could also be due to Juana's ambition to be as close as possible to the seat of power and to influence the wielding of that power, he chose not dwell on. Nevertheless, he had no illusions about it. It was enough that she was a loyal public servant and a most desirable personal ally.

  "Was it the same as before?" she said, gently stroking the side of his face.

  "Yes, I opened Ernesto's coffin, and there I was, lying in his place."

  Montenegro rose from the bed and stepped onto the balcony, still naked. The sun was about to slide into the pink-gold bay, giving way to a typically balmy and fragrant Santo Sangrían night. Under his bare feet, the glazed Tuscan tiles felt cool.

  The obsession that fate had cheated him sat like a bad meal on the bottom of his stomach. He possessed the God-given ability to be a great world leader. But, that same God had played a sadistic joke on him by confining the arena of his greatness. No one of importance on the international scene took seriously the leader of a nation best known for its white sand beaches and gaudy casinos.

  Why didn't he just retire to his farm on the outskirts of the capital and leave behind the demands of state? Because his vanity would never allow him other than the spotlight, even one as dim as Santo Sangre's. Vanity--the great motivator. Even at sixty-four, Montenegro drove his lean body through a daily regimen of vigorous physical exercise. He got enough exposure to the sun to keep his fair complexion--inherited from Northern Italian immigrant grandparents--from looking pale by comparison to indigenous Santo Sangríans.

  When a circle of baldness appeared like a monastic tonsure at the crown of his head, he sought out Miami's most expensive--and discreet--wig maker. He remained a regular client over the years, although no one but his wife and mistress knew his full head of raven hair bore the label "made in the USA."

  Juana followed him outside and put her arms around his waist from behind. Her warm breasts pressed against his back. Her hardened nipples teased him. Any other time, this would have inflamed his passion to the point of demanding satisfaction, but the nightmare dominated and dampened his mood.

  "I don't like being reminded of my mortality," he sighed.

  "I know, Darling. I don't like being reminded of it either." Juana's tongue played moistly at his flesh. This, too, was an invitation he usually accepted with delight.

  "It's those POCI meddlers and their Jew banker friends." Montenegro pressed his temples to distract the pain throbbing inside. "They're like . . . like cucumbers. They give my brain indigestion."

  "Not much longer, my love," Juana reminded him. She replaced his hands with her own, massaging his head in slow circles, until the muscles and nerves relaxed under her slender fingers. "Your plan is brilliant. POCI will soon have other things on its mind. They won't have time to bother with the internal affairs of Santo Sangre. Without pressure from POCI, the bankers will look at us differently. I'm sure of it."

  "I don't know what I would do without your support." Montenegro emitted a short, humorless laugh that erupted directly from the hell he and Juana had created together.

  "We'll see to it that the meek don't inherit the land, won't we, my dear?"

  "Yes." Juana's hands drifted to his shoulders, down his rib cage, over his hips, and met at his now-flaccid penis. "Come back to bed. I have the perfect cure for your 'indigestion.'"

  "I have to go." He broke from her embrace and returned to the bedroom where he dressed in silence before leaving.

  * * *

  Alone on the balcony, Juana stared at the chauffeured limousine gliding down her cobbled driveway and onto the beachfront road. A shiver rippled through her body, when the tail lights disappeared.

  She sought comfort in a hot shower, grateful to the flow of water for disguising the tears she was powerless to hold back. She despised these tears. Like her bathroom mirror, they told the truth. "You're getting old, and you're all alone."

  Folded within the embrace of her body-length bath towel, she vowed not to be alone much longer.

  6

  Father Javier de Córdova spent three days in Santa Catalina at the end of October, conferring with Montenegro's aids, primarily Juana Santiago. The president's secretary stressed in their initial meeting that "His Excellency has personally requested your assistance in representing Santo Sangre in discussions with the POCI leadership."

  Although Javier acknowledged his o
bligation as a citizen to respond to a direct request from his president, it had taken a personal phone call from Archbishop Palacios to pry the reluctant pastor away from his parochial duties to see what the mysterious presidential summons was all about.

  "Why me? Why now?" he asked the archbishop, but the prelate knew little about the details, or had been ordered not to reveal them. Clearly, however, the assignment involved an overseas trip on behalf of Santo Sangre.

  Javier had puzzled over his questions during the tedious journey from the virtually roadless interior. The considerable knowledge and equally remarkable charm and beauty of President Montenegro's private secretary made a strong impression on the village priest from the high country. She briefed him on the unjust campaign POCI was waging against the Montenegro regime. She also offered to provide Javier with dossiers on men and women serving jail terms in the Cárcel Central, whom POCI claimed were prisoners of conscience and subjects of torture.

  "Believe me, Father. There are no political prisoners in Santo Sangre. That is the plain truth you must convey to POCI." Juana's dark-eyed gaze, steady, convincing, and unblinking, held Javier's until he broke and looked away.

  "Santa Teresita's far from the action of the capital," he said, carefully choosing his words, "but, we hear . . . rumors."

  Juana's thin, dark eyebrows arched. "What sort of rumors have made their way up the slopes of Chuchuán, Father?"

  Javier had no reason to hold back. Still, he was reluctant to admit that some of his best information came not from the idle talk of traveling merchants, but from his own mother and her reasoned distrust of the roguish Montenegro, whom she considered less of a man than her late husband. "People bring stories back from their trips to the capital. Professors and students being picked up and detained, possibly mistreated, without ever being charged."

  "Well!" Juana said, dismissing the allegation. "Now, you are at the source of information. You won't have to rely on second-hand gossip any more. Take a good look around Santa Catalina while you're here. I'll help you in any way I can."

  An age-trimming smile rippled across her features, catching Javier off guard. Until that moment, their conversation had been serious, almost intense. He couldn't help but feel physically attracted to this smart, stylish woman, who undoubtedly spent at least one weekend a month shopping in Miami's finest stores.