Chapter Fifteen
Prayers at Breakfast
The next day began as had the previous, but with a few changes. Sands was allowed his morning "coffee," and the two of them were escorted, not to the ballroom, but to the dining hall. Even Sands was kept under close guard, and the escorts were wary.
Sands bounced and hummed, but seemed more subdued than he had been yesterday morning. Yesterday morning seemed a long time ago.
Delgado sat at the head of the dining table. Other men also sat there, burly, competent-looking men, who eyed El suspiciously. The chair to Delgado's left was empty, and Sands strode confidently toward it. El marveled distantly, once again, at how well Sands got around, when he wasn't in withdrawal. El would even suspect that Sands was faking his blindness had he not seen the hideous empty sockets where the man's eyes should be.
El paused, watching Sands sit in the chair by Delgado as if he knew it was for him.
With one of his ironic smiles, Delgado invited El to take the empty chair next to Sands.
El sat, and returned the men's stares with a sneer of his own.
"Good morning, Gentlemen," said Delgado.
The wait-staff began serving a veritable banquet of a breakfast.
"I love breakfast," Sands declared with a happy sigh.
Yeah, thought El with disgust, you love the "coffee" that comes with it.
Delgado ignored Sands. "David and Pablo have gone to the coast, pretending to watch the ports for our shipment. They will be noticed. These men," he indicated the others at the table, "will accompany you."
"I work alone," El grumbled.
"Except when you work with Romero and . . . what's the name of the other man? Oh, yes. Fideo Meza. The drunk."
El said nothing, sickened at the thought of involving yet another friend.
"Don't worry." Delgado smiled. "They're really there to ensure your cooperation. They'll be happy to let you have all the glory. I pray you succeed, my friend. I truly do.
"The Orozcos have had time to get the shipment to their secret location. And we have had time to scout it."
Delgado nodded at a guard who stood by the wall. The man reached over and turned out the lights. A projector lit up, showing against another wall a photograph of a concrete building in dense jungle.
Delgado detailed what they had been able to learn about the building's surroundings and security. El turned off his conscious mind, concentrating instead on putting away as much food as he could manage. He had long ago learned to let what he thought of, ironically, as his "talent" absorb tactical situations. He wondered about Lorenzo's plan for the day. He hoped nothing about yesterday's aborted escape attempt would change his plan, because El was counting on Lorenzo being free before he returned from Villahermosa. Free or dead, he thought with a sinking feeling. Lorenzo would be alone against an army, and burdened by Maria. Either way, he would no longer be a hostage for El.
Well, they knew from the moment they were defeated in Mexico City that their chances were not good.
El seldom prayed. Like a guilty child, he didn't want to call attention to his faults by making requests, but he thought a selfless prayer for the Romeros' safety shouldn't offend.
He looked at Sands. Despite having had no dinner, Sands ate little of his breakfast. His dark glasses seemed to regard the slide show as if he could see it. The only sign of the drug that El could see was the sheen of perspiration on the man's face and his restless fidgeting. The agent jiggled one leg where it was out of sight of everyone but El, and he tapped the fingertips of one hand in a relentless staccato on the table. El was suddenly reminded of the tuneless tune of thirteen notes and he sighed, realizing that now he wouldn't get it out of his head for who knows how long.
El resisted the urge to add a postscript to his prayer, regarding Sands. His wishes for the agent might not be viewed as in the best spirit of Christian generosity.
Delgado ended the briefing, the lights came on, and servants began clearing away the dishes.
"And now," Delgado said, with a grand gesture as he stood, "let us adjourn to the courtyard."
Delgado led the way out a door El had not been through. El noticed that as soon as the group of them were on the move, guards moved closer to him, watching.
As usual, no one offered Sands any help, and Sands didn't seem to need it. He did follow the wall with his fingertips, though, until it led him to the door. El guessed the agent had not been this way before.
The map of the estate that was drawing itself in El's head confirmed that there had to be one of the many internal courtyards on this side of the dining hall, but El had not seen any glimpse of it from other directions. He now saw why. Except for the door from the dining hall, and one other door, nothing opened onto this courtyard. Like leftover architectural space, it seemed to be formed by the blank back walls of other sections of the estate. No one could see in here, except through those two doors. Consequently, it was not a lovely courtyard: more like a prison exercise yard.
Its resemblance to a prison was heightened by the first sight El saw as he came through the door. A man was tied to a scaffold by his wrists, his hands above his head, his bare back to El and the others. Beyond him, grinning, stood the craggy-faced Castilian speaking man, holding, of all things, a whip. A surge of panic went through El, and he stifled a sudden urge to bolt.
He could not see the bound man's face, but he didn't need to. The man wore only red swimming trunks.