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“I am no longer Emilio Sánchez Perón,” he snapped, his glassy smile vanishing. “I have not been that naive, idealistic youth in a long while. Certainly not since the revolution and your return to the United States.” He almost snarled the last two words. “A nation I hold in utmost contempt.”
Key hated what the young man said, but he was impressed by the manner in which he said it. He spoke fluent English without a trace of a Spanish accent, although he didn’t use contractions.
The squalid backdrop made his neatness even more pronounced. He was smooth shaven and immaculately clean, not an easy condition to maintain in the middle of a jungle. His black hair had been pulled back so tightly that his head was as sleek and shiny as a bowling ball. He had a short queue at the nape of his neck. The style accented his high cheekbones, the lean angularity of his face, the hard, angry slash of his mouth. His eyeglasses had thin gold-wire frames.
Key had tangled with tough customers from all parts of the world. He couldn’t recall one who had looked more chilling than Emilio Sánchez. He was slightly built, but the cold, dead quality in his eyes was symptomatic of unmitigated cruelty. The eyes of a snake.
“If you hate the United States so much, why were you working for my husband at the embassy?” Lara asked.
“My position there allowed me to receive information which others found very useful.”
“In other words you were spying.”
He flashed another grin. “Between you and your husband, I always considered you the more intelligent.”
“You were using the embassy as a source of information. For how long?”
“From the beginning.”
“You bastard.”
A murmur arose from those around them who understood English. El Corazón’s smile slowly dissolved, as though it were melting in the heat. “Having narrowly escaped with your life once, you were a fool to return to Montesangre, Mrs. Porter.”
“I came to retrieve my daughter’s remains. I wished to return them to the United States.”
“You came in vain.”
“I know that now. I condemn the Montesangrens who buried her in a pit.” Tears formed in her eyes, but her posture was now unbowed. “God damn you all.”
“You’ll find it difficult to attract God’s attention from here, Mrs. Porter. He hasn’t listened to the people of Montesangre for decades. We no longer believe he exists.”
“Is that why you found it so easy to murder Father Geraldo?”
“The drunken priest?” he said scornfully. Ricardo slapped him on the shoulder as though he’d told a joke. “He had outlived his usefulness long ago. He was merely another mouth to feed in a country of starving people.”
“What about Dr. Soto? Surely he was useful to your regime.”
“And also to Escávez.”
“You are unforgivably wasteful. Dr. Soto was a healer. When it came to saving lives, he didn’t think politically.”
“Which was his downfall,” El Corazón replied blandly. “In Montesangre one cannot have divided loyalties. Speaking of which,” he said, his eyes moving to Key, “I’m curious about your loyalties, or lack thereof, Mr. Tackett. My curiosity alone has kept you alive.”
“My life’s an open book.”
The soldiers guarding Key had allowed him to stand. His ribs hurt like hell. A couple of them had probably been cracked when he was kicked during the attack at the cemetery. His head hurt worse. The wound on his temple had scabbed over, but his whole cranium throbbed. He itched from having had so much sweat dry on his skin, leaving a salty, gritty residue. On top of everything else, he was hungry.
Sánchez said, “You are assisting the whore who unraveled your brother’s political career. I find that peculiar. What would compel you to risk your life for her?”
“Not her. Her daughter. I believe she might have been my brother’s child.”
“Indeed?” El Corazón removed a folded white handkerchief from the rear pocket of his trousers and blotted his forehead. Even despots were victims of the jungle heat.
Key enjoyed knowing that the other man wasn’t immune to discomfort. It made his own aches and pains more bearable. “Now that I know what happened to Ashley’s body, I agree with Lara in her opinion of your country.”
“Which is?” Sánchez asked as he meticulously replaced the handkerchief in his pocket.
“Montesangre is a shithole and El Corazón del Diablo is the toilet paper.”
