The Moche Warrior by Lyn Hamilton Page B

through.”
    “So you’re still set on doing this.” He sighed. I told him I couldn’t really think what else to do, although I had a pang of doubt as I said it. He handed me a sealed envelope. “Do not open this,” he said. “Give it to the person it is addressed to without opening it. It will serve as an introduction.”
    “Where will I find this person?” I asked.
    “Just follow the instructions,” he said. “You will find what you need to know, when you need to know it. We will get you to the land of the Moche. After that you are on your own. Can you do this?”‘
    “I think so,” I said “Can you find some way of telling Moira where I am? Without anyone else knowing, I mean?”
    “Yes,” he replied. “I will.”
    “Be careful,” I said.
    “I think I’m the one who’s supposed to say that,” he said, then he hugged me, pulled the robe back on, and disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell. I had a feeling I might never see him again.
    The next morning the old woman handed me a packed suitcase, battered and covered in travel stickers, and then I was driven to the airport. I was told to go to a specific wicket at a specific airline and ask for Antonieta. She handed me a package. In it was a ticket for the next flight to Lima.
    Just before I left, I called Clive’s store, collect. I reasoned it was the last place anyone would expect me to call, and even if they traced it, I’d be long gone before they could do anything about it. I told Clive I’d be calling back in ten minutes and he was to get a move on, go down the street to Moira’s salon and bring her to the phone. For once he did what I asked.
    Moira wasted no time. “Heard from Lucas,” she said. “I figured you’d find some way to call. This is what I’ve been able to worm out of Rob so far. The dead man in your storage room’s name is, or was, Ramon Cervantes. Senor Cervantes worked for the government. A customs agent, as it turns out, just as you thought. He lived with his family, a wife and three children, in Callao,” she continued.
    “Where’s that?” I interrupted.
    “Suburb of Lima, I think. That’s as much as I know.”
    “That’s good,” I said. “How’s Alex?”
    “Better. He’s out of intensive care, but he still can’t remember what happened that night. They’re keeping him in the hospital, doing some tests, but I think the doctors are confident he’ll recover.”
    “And the police? Are they still investigating Alex?”
    “Alex, and you now too,” she replied. “I’m trying to get that awful man Lewis off the case,” she added.
    “I knew he’d rue the day he got on the wrong side of you, Moira,” I said, “but how are you going about this?”
    “I’ve put Rob on it,” she replied. “Told him what he needs to do.”
    “And how did you manage that?”
    “I just told him that I considered him to be personally responsible for your disappearance, and that if anything happened to either you or Alex it would be on his head, that’s all,” she said. “Subtlety is, of course, my middle name.”
    I laughed, then the enormity of what I was about to do caught up with me.
    “You may not hear from me for a while, Moira,” I said. “I’m not sure where this will take me.”
    “I know. Just make sure I hear from you sometime,” she said briskly. I guess you don’t get to own the most successful salon in the city by being subtle, or sentimental.
    Then I, no not I, Rebecca MacCrimmon cleared immigration and customs, and boarded the plane.
    7
    Carla Montoya Cervantes sits in the darkened room at the top of the stairs, shutters pulled against the light, her face puffy with tears. She is pretty in a soft way, a slight plumpness hinting at sensuality, eyes and hair dark against skin she shields from the sun in the belief that paleness appeals, rosebud lips held in an almost perpetual pout, except, that is, when she’s angry, when her eyes narrow, and the pout flattens out into a thin, hard