Night of the Jaguar by Joe Gannon Page B

Epimenio sat with them, ramrod straight, his face the stoic blankness of the campesino in the presence of power. And for a campesino, that was pretty much everybody. Matthew’s left foot had just touched the marble tile of the sala floor when he recognized the captain’s face. For a split second, he was amazed. Son of a bitch, that’s Ajax Montoya! But then the full memory flooded back. Ajax Montoya, that son of a bitch! For a very long moment he stood staring at the captain, who kindly returned the stare.
    â€œGot a cigarette?”
    Montoya patted his pockets. “No.”
    â€œDo I know you?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œAnd you don’t have a cigarette ?”
    Montoya held his hands up. “I don’t smoke.”
    â€œYou don’t smoke.”
    Neither of the uniforms had risen, so Matthew looked at the short-haired lieutenant with the crisp uniform. “How about you?”
    â€œShe doesn’t smoke either.”
    â€œDoes she have a name ?”
    She stood up smartly. “Lieutenant Gladys Darío.”
    He shook her hand.
    â€œNice to meet you, compañera. I’m Matthew Connelly. This is my house.”
    â€œYes, compañero, we know.”
    â€œDo you? How?”
    Matthew was sure he saw a flicker of a smile on Montoya’s face. But Epimenio remained stock-still, not knowing what part was his in the game. Matthew released Gladys’s hand and turned back to the son of a bitch who, seven years ago, had abandoned him under a tree after he’d risked his life to bring back a bag of cigarettes meant to secure his passage all the way to Managua in the company of the most renowned guerrilla leader of the day. It would have been a hell of a story, and now here he was sitting in Matthew’s chair, drinking his coffee and pretending not to remember him.
    â€œI’m sure we know each other. Ajax Montoya right?”
    Montoya stood and held out his hand. Matthew took it and pumped in a friendly way, but he was sure he detected recognition in Montoya’s eyes and felt he was being fucked with.
    â€œI didn’t think the Policía Sandinista were of interest to you big-shot international journalists.”
    â€œWell, you weren’t always Policía.” Matthew scrutinized his insignia. “Captain now, is it? You used to work State Security, didn’t you? As a colonel?”
    Montoya’s grip seemed to lessen. Matthew gave in to the affront of being fucked with and decided to fuck back: “Weren’t you involved in the killing of Jorge Salazar?”
    The iron went back into Montoya’s grip before he broke the handshake and sat down. The lieutenant sat up straight and almost turned the French press over trying to pour more coffee.
    â€œLieutenant, you look kind of young, do you remember l’affaire Salazar ? Cotton grower back in ’81 got caught up in a CIA plot to turn the army high command against the National Directorate, staged a coup d’état.” Matthew took the French press from her fumbling hands and poured for her. “Salazar was shot by State Security agents, some say executed, at a gas station up in Los Nubes. They found some weapons in his trunk.” He turned to Montoya: “Or maybe you found the weapons, Colonel. I mean Captain. More coffee?” He overfilled Montoya’s cup.
    â€œI only bring it up, Lieutenant, as it was one of my first front-page stories. Graciela!” Graciela hurried into the sala from the kitchen. The look on her face showed Matthew she’d heard every word and disapproved of every one.
    â€œSí, don Matthew?”
    â€œBring the Oreos from the Diplo store. Would you like a cookie, Captain Montoya?”
    A rueful smile had come over the captain’s face. It didn’t connect to the look in his eye.
    â€œLieutenant, cookies?”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    Matthew was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about the