Chapter 8
Squat and peeling, its one time grandeur a sun faded memory, the Hotel Sucre sat like a knackered whore on a busy street corner in downtown La Paz. Almagro had gone on with the rest of the men to Camiri, leaving Kinsella and myself to hook up with Tania. It was around seven in the evening; we were standing at the entrance of the hotel when a decrepit one armed cigarette vendor approached us and forced a pack of Astoria cigarettes into my hand. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, produced a front cover of National Geographic, shook it open and laid it flat on top of the packs of cigarettes in his tray. Kinsella took an identical front cover from his pocket and placed it on top. The old man nodded and inquired if we were tourists. I said we were.
“You have come to see our beautiful Bolivian sunsets?” he asked.
“And to photograph them,” I replied.
“Two American dollars.” He held out his hand. “For the cigarettes.”
“And the sunsets?”
His face remained impassive, his hand outstretched. “One dollar.”
The meeting outside the hotel had been Tania’s idea. She had used the word caution, insisting her cloak and dagger instructions be adhered to. I handed him three dollar bills. Between them was a strip of passport photographs for the forged documents we would need. The old man slipped them in his pocket and pointed down the street. “Next to the Universo cinema is a coffee shop” was all he said. Then he turned and disappeared around the corner.
By now the sun had gone. A sudden chill breeze chased litter along the busy pavement, forcing us both to turn up our collars and thrust our hands deep in our pockets. Lights that had glowed yellow only minutes before glowed brighter. Up-market Cantinas, their swing doors flapping from a constant stream of snack-happy homeward bound office and shop workers, wafted an aroma of appetizing ‘tapas’, small dishes of delicately flavoured meat and vegetables, onto the busy high street. Unable to stop due to recent threats of bombings, empty taxis sounded their horns and crawled along crowded kerbsides in the hope of picking up a fare. We had walked at least six blocks, crossed several intersections, and were about to hail a taxi when Kinsella spotted the Cinema Universo further down across the street. Next door to it was the coffee shop. A blue neon sign in the window read, ‘Rodolfo’s’. Kinsella nudged me and drew my attention to a mud spattered Toyota jeep parked a few yards along from the entrance to the coffee shop. “I know some of these Bolivian reactionaries run with the hare and the hounds, Rick, but you don’t reckon it could be Saldana’s place?”
“Rodolfo Saldana, Ché’s Bolivian liaison? I doubt it; he’s in hiding. The jeep’s Tania’s.”
“Didn’t Intelligence report it had been dumped in Camiri?”
I spoke from the corner of my mouth. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Ray?”
“The word ‘compromised’ had crossed my mind.”
“Pretty shrewd for a Mick.”
Kinsella’s big blue eyes narrowed. Not at the jibe—his razor wit could dish it back with interest at the drop of a hat. We’d both heard the rumours, heard about the CIA intercept regarding Tania, knew of her involvement with the KGB. We edged kerbside and waited for a gap in the traffic. “If we were to turn around now, we wouldn’t see the end of the street. You know that don’t you, Rick?”
“I can think of better dumps to die in. Coffee?”
Kinsella laughed. “You buying?”
“Got any money?”
* * *
She looked around thirty, though she could have been younger. Her raven black hair was swept back at the sides, revealing an impish attractiveness enhanced by smiling soft brown eyes. She was dressed in a black jacket, black high-buttoned shirt, and black slacks. As she stood and shook hands, a collection of hand-wrought gold and silver bangles rattled on her wrist.
