Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,57
and other powerful men don’t want the word to get out about what I saw in Pakistan,” he said. “On my last trip there, Ishmael took me to the Tribal Area near Afghanistan. That’s a place…”
“I know where that is.”
“Ok.” Wara enjoyed the moment of showing him she wasn’t as dumb as he might think. Alejo nodded with respect and continued. “We were way out in the middle of nowhere, visiting a five-house town near the fighting. And huddled inside one of the buildings where fighters crash when they’re not out shooting rockets at each other, I found about one hundred Bolivian teenagers, dressed like mujahedeen, waiting to go back to the skirmish.”
Wara frowned, confused. “What…?”
“That’s how I found out, Wara, that Ishmael’s foundation has been recruiting among the native peoples, especially in Bolivia. He explained to me that the recruiters visit small towns in the countryside and talk to the young guys. They recruit them for Islam, but in reality they exploit them, only telling them about an Islam that they can join to fight together against a common cause: Western Imperialism. They tell these converts that they are getting an expense-paid trip overseas to study for free. But they end up in the Tribal Area, or God knows where else.”
“The missing!” Wara repeated the term the Quechua women had used on that trip to the Bible conference with Noah. “In the countryside, a lot of women told me that their sons have disappeared.”
Alejo’s mouth pressed together in a firm line. “I don’t know how many Bolivians are over in Pakistan right now, or how many have already been killed. Their families will never know.” He shook his head and then sat up straighter. “Anyway, believing what I do about Jesus and finding that out meant it was just a matter of time til I left the Prism. When you…when I saw you…I had to leave right away.” Alejo’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat.
“But…” Wara found she couldn’t say the thought that had just run through her head. All she could come up with was, “Why did you have to kill us?”
“Do you really want to know?” Alejo was quieter than Wara had expected. “It’s not going to make you feel any better, you know. I can’t fix it.”
“Yes, I want to know. How could you do this?” She crossed her arms tighter across her chest and shivered.
Alejo closed his eyes, then looked away. “The reason we targeted the bus you were on is because it was chartered by a guy named Franco Salazar. Salazar is…was…”Alejo winced but kept going “…not only a government official for the state of Cochabamba. He was also a child molester, and ran the largest child pornography ring in Bolivia and Paraguay.”
Wara fought to keep her jaw from dropping and stared back at Alejo. That guy had been on her bus?
“He was going to leave for Thailand, Wara, today, from La Paz. Did you know Thailand is a major center for child prostitution? This is not the first time Salazar has been to Thailand.” Alejo’s eyes radiated hurt and horror. Despite herself, Wara felt her heart twist with disgust for Franco Salazar—if all of this were really true.
Why should I believe anything he says?
“The police would never touch him,” Alejo continued, “because of bribes, high-up friendships. The man was protected from every angle you can imagine. How many more children would have their lives ruined, while I sat, a ‘good’ man, doing nothing?” Alejo raised his hands to make sarcastic quotation marks in the air around the word “good”, lips twisting cynically.
He paused, then asked distractedly: “Did my parents ever tell you about Ruben Mamani? No, of course not.” Alejo caught Wara’s blank look and heaved a sigh. “They probably forgot. Anyway. Before Franco Salazar worked for the national government, he was the mayor of Quillacollo.” A medium-sized town on the outskirts of Cochabamba. “And before my family lived in Cochabamba, they lived in Quillacollo, where my dad pastored a really big, popular church.”
Wara vaguely remembered hearing that years ago Pablo Martir had been senior pastor of a huge church in Quillacollo, with its own radio station, seminary, and everything. Alejo was still telling his story.
“My best friend Ruben was a year younger than me, and he was from a poorer family, Quechua. He loved to come over to my house because we had cable and a big yard, and he lived in a little house with one room. We always played