East of Rio
by DJ
Chapter 1
September 1970, In the Northern Mountains of Tamarigo.
Yussef stumbled. Blindfolded, with his hands tied firmly behind his back, only the grip the two guerrillas had on his shirt stopped him falling on his face. He had lost his footing so many times on the seemingly endless trek up and down hillsides, marching quickly along rough tracks between the knife sharp bark of trees, and wading through streams and rivers. His knees were badly grazed and pain seared his chafed wrists.
They left his hands bound when they stopped for food and water, but one of the men helped him eat bread, meat and some fruit then gave him a drink of water from a nearby stream. The only time they untied his hands was to answer the call of nature when they took his pants then pushed him into the centre of a thicket to give him some privacy. A circle of rifles outside the thicket put the idea of escape, even without his pants, well out of his mind. Their concern for his welfare intrigued him, and he decided it could only be part of the softening up process prior to a harsher interrogation and a bullet to the head.
After what, to Yussef, seemed like hours of marching, the guerrillas brought him to a sudden halt and whipped off his blindfold. He shut his eyes against the glare of the hot noonday sun and minutes passed before he could open them again without pain. He found himself standing on the edge of a small village square surrounded by neat little cabanas out of which came a stream of yelling children. Several of the guerrillas scooped them into their arms and greeted the women who followed. A wave of loneliness flooded through Yussef as he realised he would never see him family for a long time, if ever.
His captors made him sit on the ground in the full glare of the sun while they stood in the shade of an old tree. Their women brought them food and drink but none was offered to Yussef. Finally, when he thought he could not stand the heat anymore, another guerrilla beckoned from the doorway of the largest of the cabanas. Yussef was hauled to his feet and hustled across the square and into the cabana. In the sudden gloom, Yussef could not see a thing. His hands were untied and he was pushed down onto a hard-backed chair. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimness he found he was seated at a large table. An oil lamp was brought to the table and in the light of the fluttering flame he saw a thick set man of swarthy complexion with a heavy drooping moustache sitting opposite him. Yussef's breath caught in his throat as a pair of dark eyes, held his own and pierced him with dread. Here sat the most wanted man on the island, guerrilla leader Estoban Delgado.
Yussef knew the pangs of despair at the knowledge that his life was forfeit unless he could convince this man he was not a government spy. The man whose group had captured Yussef, and who now walked round the end of the table to stand beside Delgado, looked like a smaller version of him. Yussef realised this was Delgado's brother Juan, second in command of the guerrillas and just as feared according to what he had been told. The other men lounging against the cabana walls looked no less threatening as they watched him closely. Juan tapped Delgado on the shoulder and beckoned him away from the table. While they whispered together in a corner of the room, the other men came away from the walls, they eyes fixed on Yussef, chasing any thought of escape from his mind.
Coming back to the table, Delgado sat down and pulled a packet of cheroots from the breast pocket of his camouflage shirt, and offered it to Yussef who refused it. Delgado lit his own cheroot and drew slowly on it, giving Yussef the impression he wanted time to digest what he had just been told. A small diamond glittered on the face of his silver lighter, and twinkled when it caught the lamplight. Delgado pointed at Yussef. "You'd pass for a Latino but I suspect you are not. Where are you from?"
"Morocco." What was the point in lying?
"Your name?"
"Yussef."
"Your age"
"Twenty."
"You speak Spanish well."
"A lot of Moroccans do."
"Are you a mercenary?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
Yussef hung his head in shame. "I killed someone."
"Tell me about it."
Yussef looked up again and saw the sympathy in his eyes. "I had to get away from the police. When someone said he knew of a way to get out of Morocco, I said I was interested."
From the look on Delgado's face, the man had heard the story many times. "And this someone offered good pay and somewhere to hide, in return for services to the Republican Army of Tamarigo, for an indefinite period of time?"
"Yes."
"Why did you not run away with the rest of your unit?"
Yussef recalled the ambush and the sight of his fellow troopers, minus their boots, clothes and ammunition, scrambling down the trail with a few bullets whizzing past their ears. "I didn't want to. If I had been told I would be doing the dirty work of a tyrant, I would have stayed in Morocco and faced the police. I've heard one side of the story, now I want to hear yours. I don't want to fight on anyone's side till I know the truth about what is going on here."
Yussef watched Delgado's eyes silently question his men, each gave an answering nod and Delgado let his dark eyes rest on Yussef. "My men have voted in your favour. Also, one of the villagers Juan brought in told him you tried to stop the girls of the last village you raided from being raped. Because of that, I will tell you what you want to know, unless you are a plant, in that case a bullet is all you will get."
"A plant?" Yussef sprang to his feet. "If I am a spy you can kill me now, and may Allah be the judge of your actions."
Nobody spoke, nobody moved to seize him, and he felt more than a little foolish. Delgado regarded him thoughtfully for a moment then said calmly, "Sit down, please, Yussef, and tell us about the man you killed."
Yussef sat down and licked his dry lips. "I killed him because he was cruel to my mother and my sisters; he beat them many times. He beat me too. I warned him I would kill him if he hurt my mother or my sisters again. He didn't listen."
"Who was the man you killed?
"My father."
The cabana was quiet, as glances were exchanged, then Delgado nodded. "Tell us, how you killed him?"
"I used a chakram. He had a collection of them. He'd been cleaning them and the case was open. I grabbed one and threw it at him and it sliced his throat open."
"A chakram?" Juan asked.
"A nineteenth century Punjabi war quoit, made of steel, with the outer edge honed to razor sharpness. You spin it on your index finger like this," he raised an index finger and demonstrated the action, "then you let it go," he flicked his finger forward sharply.
"This man you met in Morocco," Juan now took up the questioning, "what did he tell you?"
"He said the government here was having trouble with terrorists. He said you were criminals, killing a lot of innocent people, raiding villages for food and ambushing trains on the central mountain line. He said your supporters were rioting in the cities, and the peace of the island was being disrupted." There were chuckles of laughter around him, he looked up and saw the grins that met his words.
"Terrorists?" one man laughed. "If we were, we would have left you down at the burning village with a bullet for company. I was once the owner of a transport business. The soldiers arrested my son a few months ago for allegedly inciting the students to riot in the streets of San Margarita. I tried to find out what had happened and was arrested as well. I was lucky to escape. I never saw my son again. I ended up here in these mountains with my business confiscated and my wife and my three other children turned out of our home. Thank God I have friends who got them to safety in Buenos Aires."
"Me too." A grey haired man with an eye patch moved close to Yussef, and pointed to the patch. "You see this? I was tortured last year when the soldiers suspected I was using the produce of my farm to feed Delgado and his friends. They gouged my eye out and were about to start on the other when Delgado rescued me."
Yussef turned round to stare at Delgado who nodded once more. "All my men were legally employed or owners of their own businesses. My brother and I were born here in this village. We were educated here by the village elders; we learned to hunt and shoot to supplement the village food supplies. We were taught right from wrong at an early age, and when I was old enough I went to join the army. That was in the days when we had an army to be proud of, and a democratic government. The army turned me down, I don't know why, so I joined the police force instead. Juan went to college and is a teacher of engineering. Tonio here," he indicated the elderly man standing at his left shoulder, "and his father, were tailors and Benito here had one of the biggest stores in the Southern port of Dominique."
While Delgado talked, Yussef felt waves of fear rise slowly through him to clutch at his guts. "You're a policeman?"
"Was. In nineteen fifty-two, when our president Eduardo Carreras' life was threatened, I became his personal bodyguard. I noticed you looking at my watch. That and the lighter were gifts from Carreras himself for services rendered."
"So, what happened to make you an outlaw?"
"Bad blood in the armed forces, namely a young Major called Rico Valdez."
"General Valdez? The Chief of the armed forces?"
"The very same. He and his army comrades began to eliminate anyone who tried to stand between them and their thirst for power, starting with the president's senior adviser, Carlos Mendoza. They accused him of the very same thing they were going to do themselves, plotting to murder Carreras. Fortunately someone warned Carlos his life was in danger and he managed to flee to safety. He ended up, as I am now, an outlaw and has his base in the Southern Mountains. Carreras lasted another three years while our anonymous mole fed us with information about Valdez and his cronies. Only Carreras knows the identity of the mole. One day, this informer warned him that the army was about to attempt a coup. We got Carreras safely away in a helicopter then made our own escape as best we could. We were chased through the city like criminals and many friends risked their lives to hide us. We made a break for the mountains across the Southern plains and the soldiers came after us with dogs. I alone reached the foothills.
I don't know what happened to my friends, I never heard of them again. There were three dogs still on my trail and two bullets left in my gun. I hated shooting such beautiful animals; they were pedigree Doberman Pincers. I clubbed the last one to death with my gun. It is certainly an experience I would not like to go through again." Delgado said as he held up his left forearm to show Yussef the semi circle of scars where the dog's teeth had sunk into the flesh. "Carlos cared for me till I was able to make my way North."
"And Carreras?"
"No one knows."
"But if Carreras left the island, who promoted Major Valdez to General?"
"Valdez himself, of course. He's a self made man, with every president after Carreras dangling from any string he cares to pull."
"Why didn't he just take over and set himself up as president? Most revolutionary leaders do."
"He wouldn't have lasted long. He's an army man not a politician, and knows little about running a government. His only strength is the armed forces, which are no longer filled with men from this island. Rumours abound that he recruits criminals and mercenaries from abroad who do not care what dirty work they do. Your story has proved those rumours to be fact."
"But I'm not a criminal!" Yussef protested, "and I'm certainly no mercenary. I've seen what Valdez is doing to your people and I want no part of it."
"What do you want to do?"
"I just want to go home."
Yussef saw Delgado's eyes take in the looks from his men and once more a silent communication passed between them. "Leaving Tamarigo won't be easy. Friends of mine can make a search at the immigration office but I doubt they will find valid documents with your name on them. In any case, if you go back to San Margarita you will probably find yourself branded a deserter who, in the General's eyes, is a traitor. And traitors face the firing squad."
"What other choice do I have?"
"First you will stay here with us while we ask you more questions, then we will make enquiries to check out your story. We have to be careful, you understand. If your story is genuine and we win the fight to put Carreras back in power, we will help you get back to Morocco and find you a good attorney. In the meantime, I need men who have the right sense of justice. There are no criminals among my men, nor are we the animals Valdez wants everyone to believe. We are a well-trained, fully disciplined group and we have the backing of the majority of the people. Any soldiers we find in the mountains are shown the painful way back to barracks, with painful blisters on their feet as a bonus, but we do not kill unless we have to. The odd bullet zipping past their ears is enough to keep them moving. My men are skilled at causing only minor wounds. As for any prisoners we take, we treat them the same way we are treating you. We talk to them and put them right about a few things, then invite them to join our group. The bad ones are sent back for Valdez to deal with. You will have to excuse our caution. Valdez tries to plant spies among us all the time but it doesn't take long to weed them out. The choice is yours Yussef."
Yussef shook his head. "I'm certainly not a spy. Till I can go home I will help you if I can. I would also like to meet this El Tigre people are talking about. I've heard he's a friend of yours."
Suddenly Yussef could feel a sense of excitement in the room. Faces that had begun to soften were once again alert. Delgado had been rocking his chair on its back legs. Slowly he set it down square, his dark eyes wide with interest. "What do you know of this El Tigre? What have you heard?"
"It was something the villagers shouted at us as we chased them from the village. They said El Tigre was coming home to lead them in their fight against Valdez and we would pay dearly for what we had done. Who is El Tigre and what makes him so special?"
Yussef watched Delgado's eyes seek those of his brother and noticed Juan's shoulders move in a slight shrug accompanied by raised eyebrows. Around him, the faces of his captors indicated the same veiled shock. Yussef's news had certainly taken them all by surprise. Delgado turned his attention back to Yussef and shrugged his shoulders. "A fanciful dream I'm afraid. My uncle and I changed El Tigre from a hothead into a fighter, but he got into trouble over a girl and was sent back to the USA where he was born. That was four years ago and I doubt we will ever see him again. So you see, Yussef, we have two battles to contend with. One to get rid of Valdez, and the other to persuade our people not to depend on myths."
"But it isn't just the villagers," Yussef insisted. "There is talk in the city that he has been seen. The soldiers have overheard people talking. I think you'll find those people have already been arrested and questioned."
"And tortured no doubt." Delgado's handsome face darkened with a frown. "What you heard is idle gossip. You know the old saying don't you? Let two men whisper and it will turn into an almighty shout before the day is done. El Tigre is certainly a close friend of mine so, if he came back, I would be the first to know."
"But isn't he a bit young to be the hero they're talking about down in San Margarita? Even the soldiers seem to be in awe of the name."
Delgado stared thoughtfully at him for a few moments then shook his head. "There is nothing much to tell. El Tigre was just another boy who got involved with some students at the University of Tamarigo, in San Margarita. He urged them to rebel against the General's oppressive education laws and stand up for the same rights their American contemporaries enjoy. As a result, he was marked as a troublemaker. If the students think of him as a hero that is their problem. They are in the forefront of all the recent demonstrations in San Margarita, and these rumours about El Tigre probably originate from them. I very much doubt he will return. Now, to get back to the immediate problem, what are we going to do with you?"
While his men took their newest prisoner away with instructions to put him under guard and feed him, Delgado gave his attention to the large bowl of stew his elder sister, Maria, set on the table in front of him. Like their mother before her, she could turn the simplest ingredients into a mouth-watering meal. It was a pity the mention of loose talk in the city deadened his appetite.
Juan paused before leaving the room behind the others, eyeing Delgado thoughtfully. "What if he is back?"
"I'd know, and until I do, you can forget about El Tigre. Now if you don't mind, Juan I am going to have my lunch like you should be doing, I need you fresh and rested for tonight's operation so get some sleep too."
As he tore a piece of bread from the loaf beside his bowl, he mulled over some of the problems on the afternoon's agenda. His family had been the undisputed elders of the village for many years and, as a little boy, Delgado had stood at his father's knee when villagers brought their problems to the village council. By the time he was fifteen he had already relieved his father of some of the basic responsibilities. Likewise Maria had stepped into her mother's place. These days he and Maria held the villagers together as a self-sufficient community but always ready to delegate to others willing to help. Maria was known throughout the village for her culinary skills, and may God help anyone who disturbed Delgado's enjoyment of the contents of her cook pot. Anyone, that is, except Chico Barrantes.
The door swung open once more and Delgado was about to bellow loudly when a little grey haired squirrel of a man popped his head round the edge of it. Seventy-year old Chico was Delgado's chief contact in San Margarita and it had to be serious news for him to undertake the long journey from the Capital City to Delgado's mountain lair. Juan followed him into the cabana with a broad grin on his face.
"Hello, Chico," Delgado shook the man's hand warmly, "I take it there's no trouble or Juan wouldn't have that silly grin on his face."
Chico smiled up at the guerrilla towering over him. "No trouble, just some news I thought you ought to hear from me personally, or you would not believe it. There's a tiger loose in San Margarita."
