Page 2 of Cutter’s Lady

“Why?” Cutter asked bluntly.

“Because it’s in San Cristóbal.”

Cutter glanced again at Leslie. His eyes were an improbable shade of green, pale and icy, even bloodshot as they were, and they went right through her. Leslie experienced an unaccustomed urge to run, and she stiffened her back against it. Leslie Harper never ran from anything.

The man made a brief gesture at the seat opposite him. “Sit down.”

Leslie gritted her teeth, but she slid into the booth beside Avery. Avery began to speak. “We have a rather, ah, delicate operation that needs to be done San Cristóbal, Mr. Cutter.”

“And delicate is so obviously his specialty.” Leslie staged whispered to her companion. Cutter slid his eyes over to her, but he didn’t reply, only stared at her hard enough that she felt the pull to break their eye contact a moment before Cutter returned his attention to Avery.

“We need someone who knows the back country of that nation.” Avery raised his voice a trifle as he continued his spiel, “the jungles, the mountains.”

“Guerrilla country,” Cutter said flatly.

“Yes. Exactly. It’s of the utmost importance—well, that is, we need a certain type of man, one who knows the country and who has, er, dealt with the San Cristóbalians before. One who—”

“Think you could get to the point?” Cutter broke in. “My head’s not the clearest shape it’s ever been.”

“Obviously,” Leslie put in. She had been trying so long and so hard to get to this point, and it seemed as if everywhere she turned she had come up against another closed door. Then Avery had gotten this lead, and Leslie’s hopes had soared. For a few days she had thought that at last they’d made a breakthrough. And now, here were all her hopes crumbling again. It had all led to nothing but a drunken bum, and the disappointment was bitter. “In simple language, Mr. Cutter I need to get someone out of San Cristóbal right away.”

Cutter shrugged. “There’re flights from La Luz to Houston every day.”

Leslie glared at him. “The person in question was kidnapped three weeks ago by revolutionaries.”

That caught his attention. Cutter straightened, his eyebrows shooting up, and he began a search of his pockets, at last coming up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He took out a slightly bent cigarette and lit it. “Are you saying you want me to go in there and find him?”

“And bring him out in one piece.” Leslie waved her hand in front of her face, hoping to clear enough air of his cancerous fumes that she could breathe somewhat.

He chuckled, showing even white teeth, and emitting a cloud of smoke that smelled almost as strongly of alcohol as it did cigarettes. Leslie pushed further back into the dirty booth. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” Cutter shook his head.

“I can see that it’s pointless to ask you for anything,” Leslie snapped. “Except, perhaps, for your favorite brand of bottom-shelf tequila.”

Avery glanced at her in surprise. He’d known Leslie all her life, and it wasn’t like her to be openly hostile to a perfect stranger. She was determined and used to having her own way, of course, and apt to be impatient with incompetence, but she was usually unflappable. It was an indication, he supposed, of just how much this situation had unsettled her. “Leslie,” Avery began, laying a calming hand on her arm. “Since we’re here, we might as well discuss it with Mr. Cutter.”

“Yes, Leslie, since you’re here.” Cutter exhaled through his nostrils directly in her direction. He reminded Leslie of a bull. Though, that wasn’t really fair—a bull wouldn’t be so purposefully rude.

“What’s the use? This guy’s so drunk he couldn’t find his way out of this room!”

His green eyes impaled her. “Lady, even drunk there’s no place in San Cristóbal I can’t find. But if the guerrillas have him, I suggest you simply pay the ransom.”

“That’s just it! There haven’t been any ransom demands,” Avery explained, leaning forward earnestly. “Blake was kidnapped three weeks ago, the fourteenth of December, right off the streets of Costa Linda.”

“The resort?”

“Yes. He was working for an American construction firm there. He’s an engineer. Several passersby saw a dark sedan drive up beside him, and three masked men got out and threw him into the car. Then they took off. The next day four different terrorist groups claimed responsibility. But since then, there hasn’t been a word.”

Leslie’s dark eyes flamed, and she clenched her fists. “No one’s contacted me or Blake’s company or the newspapers. It’s as if the sedan and everyone in it vanished. The government down there has done nothing. Absolutely nothing! And our state department hasn’t pushed them. They don’t want to offend the San Cristóbal government; they say the political situation there is too ‘precarious.’ Avery’s done some prying for me in Washington, but he hasn’t found out a thing. So I decided I’d have to do it myself.”

“Yourself?” Cutter repeated. “Do what yourself?”

“Get him out, of course. Pay the ransom.”

“Leslie wants to hire someone to find Blake and negotiate with the insurgents. She’ll pay whatever they ask.” Avery paused, then went on, “I put out a few probes about San Cristóbal, and a reporter suggested that I talk to Ashe Harlan. Mr. Harlan told me that if anyone could do it, it was you. He said you’re an expert on San Cristóbal.”

“I’ve been in and out a few times.”

“We’re willing to compensate you quite handsomely for the job.”