its existence let alone his connection to it. He was a man who had fought all of his wars forty years ago, had won them all, now was rewriting history so that the losers never existed at all. Calabrese was a cunning old man with a deadly and precise way of handling things and he had almost killed Wulff twice. The second time, holding the gun on Wulff, he had told him that he was going to pass up the opportunity, at least this time. Killing Wulff was no challenge, Calabrese said. The idea was to keep him alive, provide Calabrese with some excitement, send Wulff under heavy guard to someplace far out of the country where Calabrese could titillate himself with the simultaneous knowledge that Wulff was still alive, still a danger … but totally controlled by Calabrese.
Out of the country, then, but where? Wulff had wondered when they piled him aboard a private plane at O’Hare. Majorca was a possibility, Istanbul another, or possibly postwar Saigon. Those as far as he knew were the three great throbbing hearts of that monster, the trade. They were the hearts which initiated the flow of the blood and where the poppies were tilled out to begin their billion dollar journey. But it had not been any one of those places which, in a way, was a damned shame, because Istanbul and Majorca were interesting and he would not have minded seeing Saigon again.
Instead it had been Peru.
Wulff had not even known the destination until the plane had touched down, until the men guarding had begun to talk with one another. What the hell was Calabrese sending him to Peru for? But later on in the hotel, when he had been checked in and left alone, Wulff thought it through and decided that like everything else in Calabrese’s life it made sense. Peru was one of a number of the South American countries which would likely be accessible to Calabrese. Hell, half a million dollars could buy you a government, but of almost all those countries this was one of the most tightly held, the country where the concentration of power was the greatest. And also, past the urban sprawl of the few great cities where the tourists prowled, this country was wild, unsettled, just as it had been thousands of years ago. It was as unimaginable as the great forests of Brazil.
Anything could go on here.
The men had taken him to the Crillon, had put him into a room, had told him that he would be under watch at all times and that it would be inadvisable for him to think of escape but that on the other hand he could within those clearly-defined limits come and go as he pleased. At Calabrese’s pleasure. His accommodations would be taken care of, the hotel would be paid off. Calabrese and the owner of the hotel seemed to have a comfortable working arrangement. At least this was the word that he got but the man telling Wulff this sounded vaguely confused, as if conveying orders which he did not understand or could be physically dangerous to him. On the other hand the message had gotten across fairly well that although Calabrese was a long distance away he was still very much there in person.
Fucking Peru. For three days he did nothing. Even if he had wanted to chance some activity, Calabrese be damned, there was something about the climate here, the very aspect of the country, that got to him. It was dead, dead: dry, hot, a faint odor of bones and death in the air. Too much history, too much present suffering. Wulff tried not to think about it.
V
They had never really discussed his police work. He seemed to remember that pretty clearly. They might have mentioned it now and then, she knew he was a cop, knew he was a narco, knew what the job was doing to him. But life was full of other things; there was never enough time to do and talk about all that they had to share … and life and times on the narco squad had been pretty well at the bottom of the list.
Only once. Only once had she really had to come to terms with it, had he had to come to terms as well with what it could do
Out of the country, then, but where? Wulff had wondered when they piled him aboard a private plane at O’Hare. Majorca was a possibility, Istanbul another, or possibly postwar Saigon. Those as far as he knew were the three great throbbing hearts of that monster, the trade. They were the hearts which initiated the flow of the blood and where the poppies were tilled out to begin their billion dollar journey. But it had not been any one of those places which, in a way, was a damned shame, because Istanbul and Majorca were interesting and he would not have minded seeing Saigon again.
Instead it had been Peru.
Wulff had not even known the destination until the plane had touched down, until the men guarding had begun to talk with one another. What the hell was Calabrese sending him to Peru for? But later on in the hotel, when he had been checked in and left alone, Wulff thought it through and decided that like everything else in Calabrese’s life it made sense. Peru was one of a number of the South American countries which would likely be accessible to Calabrese. Hell, half a million dollars could buy you a government, but of almost all those countries this was one of the most tightly held, the country where the concentration of power was the greatest. And also, past the urban sprawl of the few great cities where the tourists prowled, this country was wild, unsettled, just as it had been thousands of years ago. It was as unimaginable as the great forests of Brazil.
Anything could go on here.
The men had taken him to the Crillon, had put him into a room, had told him that he would be under watch at all times and that it would be inadvisable for him to think of escape but that on the other hand he could within those clearly-defined limits come and go as he pleased. At Calabrese’s pleasure. His accommodations would be taken care of, the hotel would be paid off. Calabrese and the owner of the hotel seemed to have a comfortable working arrangement. At least this was the word that he got but the man telling Wulff this sounded vaguely confused, as if conveying orders which he did not understand or could be physically dangerous to him. On the other hand the message had gotten across fairly well that although Calabrese was a long distance away he was still very much there in person.
Fucking Peru. For three days he did nothing. Even if he had wanted to chance some activity, Calabrese be damned, there was something about the climate here, the very aspect of the country, that got to him. It was dead, dead: dry, hot, a faint odor of bones and death in the air. Too much history, too much present suffering. Wulff tried not to think about it.
V
They had never really discussed his police work. He seemed to remember that pretty clearly. They might have mentioned it now and then, she knew he was a cop, knew he was a narco, knew what the job was doing to him. But life was full of other things; there was never enough time to do and talk about all that they had to share … and life and times on the narco squad had been pretty well at the bottom of the list.
Only once. Only once had she really had to come to terms with it, had he had to come to terms as well with what it could do
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