certainly wouldn’t have come all this way to tell one.’
Victor looked down at the old Indian, smiling. ‘Did you hear that, Yoinakuwa? The great beast and slayer of innocent women and children is dead.’
The Indian held his gaze for a moment, his dour expression unchanged, and went back to peeling his vegetables.
Victor’s smile faded as he remembered the old man’s pain and how it could never be eased even by such glad tidings.
‘Can we go inside?’ Harris asked. ‘We’ve come a long way.’
Victor did not appear to hear, lost in his memories, and stepped back into the hut. Another thunderclap shook the air and the volume of the rain seemed to increase. Harris walked onto the porch, keeping an eye on the Indian.
Jacobs was uncertain if he should follow but he took a step towards the door anyway. The Indian remained focused on the calabazas.
Harris stepped into the doorway and looked at the interior of the hut. A fire crackled in a grate on the far side of the cramped little room. One opening led to a kitchen area and another to a bedroom. It was basic, to say the least, well lived-in and cluttered. The air inside smelt like a mixture of tobacco and mildew but it was not an entirely unpleasant odour. The room had only one window, partly covered by a grubby curtain; the lack of light added to the impression of musky dilapidation. A table stood against a wall and two old leather armchairs on either side of a crate that acted as a coffee table faced the fire. Various items adorned the walls and shelves, mostly old Indian weapons and pictures. There was something strangely cosy about the place. Perhaps it was nothing more than the atmosphere created by the crackling fire and the sound of the rain beating on the roof.
Victor lit a twisted cheroot from the flames of the fire and blew thick smoke at the ceiling before slumping down into one of the armchairs. ‘Please, sit,’ he said.
Harris put down his backpack and eased himself into a chair. Jacobs looked around the room as if it were a museum. He stowed his own soaked pack and sat on one of the creaky chairs while studying the knives on the wall.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Victor asked.
‘That would be great.’ Harris shrugged.
‘Yes. We should celebrate such good news. Yoinakuwa!’ Victor called out.
A moment later the Indian stepped into the doorway.
‘Some wine,’ Victor said, his gaze resting on Harris who was slow to catch on. ‘Visitor’s treat.’
‘Oh. Right,’ Harris said, digging into his pocket to produce some notes. ‘Dollars okay?’
‘Of course,’ Victor said. ‘Where is the Yankee dollar not welcome?’
Harris held out several dollar bills, unsure how much to offer. Yoinakuwa took them all and walked away, closing the door behind him and muffling the drumlike noise of the rain hitting the awning.
Harris and Jacobs exchanged glances. The younger man looked vindicated.
‘Did you change your name or is that our mistake?’ Harris asked Victor.
‘I was born François . . . François Laporte. When I found myself embroiled in the local politics here I decided it was . . . well, politically uncomfortable. “François” sounded too much like Franco . . . as in Francisco Franco, the fascist general - Spanish Civil War.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘We were in the middle of a revolution and I thought Victor was more victorious-sounding.’
‘A scientist turned revolutionary. That’s quite a switch.’
‘Is it? Surely scientists are revolutionaries by nature. An FBI agent turned revolutionary, now that would be fantastic. If that’s why you’re here by the way, you’re too late to join up. The revolution’s over.’
Harris smiled politely.
‘So. If you have come all this way just to tell me that Steel is dead then I’m flattered,’ said Victor.
Harris took a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘What can you tell me about Steel?’ he asked. ‘How did you know him?’
Victor shrugged. ‘Steel worked for the CIA. Did he not?’
‘I’ll be honest. I don’t know who he worked for. I’ve come here to ask you some questions, that’s all. It’s just a small part of a larger investigation.’
Victor shrugged. ‘That much was obvious, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Steel came here to help the rebellion because at the time it suited American foreign policy in the region. He was a clandestine operator. He had no papers of authority. But he had money, weapons - he could provide lots of both. He supported us, or at least gave us the impression that the United States