Requiem, page 13
“I called the commander for Zone 15, who informed me the house in question is a licensed childcare center for the children of ex pats, diplomats, and executives.”
“We know it’s licensed, but that could be a cover, sir, as I stated in my report.”
The deputy’s jaw tightened.
“Are you doubting the zone commander?”
“Sir, I –”
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Cruz? Your job is working on gangs in your zone, not chasing some wild tip from this woman.” He tapped the folder. “Are you fucking this housemaid, Cruz?”
“Sir?”
“Because this housemaid is screwing you.”
“No, sir, it’s not—”
“She’s obviously trying to help her nephew by distracting you.” The deputy then tapped his own head. “Use your brain, Cruz. Now get out.”
Cruz’s boss stopped them as they walked down the hall.
“You will both be penalized three days’ pay.”
Cruz nodded. Pineda clenched his fists.
“Get back to work. On gangs.”
***
At their desks, Pineda cursed.
“I told you, Sebastian. Didn’t I tell you this was idiotic?”
Deep in thought, Cruz didn’t respond.
Pineda got up and stood over him.
“Are you not going to apologize?”
Cruz looked up at Pineda.
“No.”
“No? You have dragged me into this. You have cost me pay. This will stain my record, hurt my chance for advancement.”
“Pablo, think.”
“Think? Think about what?”
Cruz gestured for Pineda to lean closer, and he lowered his voice.
“Something about this does not smell right. The brass was too quick and too forceful to dismiss this and steer us away. I know what I saw at that house, and it fits with the tip. Yes, I made mistakes. I should’ve done more checking before submitting my preliminary report.”
“Let this go, Sebastian.”
“Something’s not right about this.”
Pineda shook his head and threw up his hands, cursing under his breath.
“I’m talking to a wall. I need some air. I’m going outside. When I return, we’ll work on gangs so we can get paid.”
For several minutes, Cruz sorted files on his desk while thinking about the house in Zone 15. He didn’t care about the reprimand, and he would endure the lost pay. He was convinced he had a lead to something significant. His phone rang.
“Hello, Detective. Karen Ceto, the public defender for Samuel Yaqui.”
“Yes. Is your client prepared to cooperate and give us names?”
“No,” Ceto said. “I’m calling for the status of your progress on the information Samuel’s aunt provided you.”
“Still under investigation.”
“Well, we have something that may help.” Cruz could hear the clicking of a keyboard. “I just sent you some photos.”
Cruz’s computer pinged with the notification of a new email with attached pictures. He began opening them.
“What are these?”
Ceto related how Cristina Yaqui’s search for Quito the cat had led to her getting inside the walls of the alleged adoption house, where she took photos, five in all.
“Cristina seized on an opportunity,” Ceto said. “It appears she’s better at investigating than the PNC, which would make for an interesting story for the press, should this come to light in an unflattering way.”
Ignoring the gibe, Cruz studied them—three of children and two of a white-haired man.
“How recent are these?” Cruz asked.
“Very recent. Taken yesterday.”
“Does she know the identity of the man?”
“No.”
“Are the people at the house aware she took these pictures?”
“No.”
“What else did she say about them, about the residence?”
“She was there for a short time. The man at the gate said his name was Manny. She said there seemed to be a sense of tension and urgency.”
“Urgency?”
“We don’t know what that means, but we’ll leave things with you. In the spirit of cooperation, we’ve provided you with significant information. We want Samuel released, and time is not our friend, Detective.”
After the call, Cruz continued examining the photos, analyzing them within the context of what he knew about the house. The man on the phone seemed tense. Why? It seemed out of place for a childcare center. They were usually operated by women in a nurturing atmosphere. The white-haired man appeared to be under pressure.
Cruz was well aware the neighborhood was home to powerful people. Who knows? Maybe they’re being protected by members of the upper ranks? There was precedent for bribes, payoffs, in exchange for protection.
He scrutinized the faces of the small children. Many appeared to be Guatemalan, but some were white. American? European? They could belong to diplomats or foreigners.
What if this is truly an illegal operation? Then where did these children come from? And what would happen to them if I walked away?
Anger bubbled in Cruz’s gut.
He looked around his office, deciding to continue pursuing this but in secret. He tapped the keyboard of his computer for some numbers, and picked up his phone.
I should’ve gone deeper into this at the outset. I should have examined the license, rather than confirm the residence had one.
Cruz’s first call was to the department of the Secretary of Social Welfare, to request copies of the license and permits for operating a childcare service inside the Zone 15 house. Then he called the Ministry of Public Health and Social Assistance for certificates for the property.
Next, he called the General Property Registry to learn who owned the house, and who was paying the property taxes.
Cruz was determined to find out if the house was a legitimate operation or not.
He went back to the two photos of the white-haired man.
Above all, he wanted to know who was operating it.
CHAPTER 40
Munich, Germany
“My name is Luca. I’m six….”
The boy smiled at Hanna Beck from the video on her phone.
Dressed in a plain white shirt, khaki pants, his hair combed neatly, Luca stood alone in a yard, a peach stucco wall and palm tree behind him.
“I like football. I like school. I like Dr. Seuss stories. El Gato Ensombrerado is my favorite,” he said in English, then Spanish, to the camera. “I like pineapple, video games, and Star Wars movies.”
Hanna and Deiter had just returned home from shopping. She’d purchased another book for the collection they were building. She couldn’t resist sitting on the bed and playing Luca’s recorded videos.
She’d lost count of how many times she’d watched them. Still, she fought tears when the camera pulled closer to Luca. The tiny scar on his temple was faded, but it evoked Luca’s story.
His father and mother were missionaries from Canada, helping build schools and houses in remote regions. Two years ago, they were driving along a treacherous mountain road when their jeep rolled off the cliffside, crashed, and burned. Luca’s parents were killed, but he survived.
No one in the missionary organization was in a position to take care of Luca on a long-term basis. Without any relatives in Canada, Luca’s future became mired in bureaucracy between Guatemala and Canada. Learning of Luca’s tragedy, an adoption agency, working with Guatemala’s Child Protective Services, stepped forward to take Luca into its care.
That was Luca’s case history, according to the adoption agency, which Deiter, through his contacts, had found online when they began their adoption journey.
It’s how they found Luca.
At first Hanna had questions about the agency, about Luca being an orphaned foreign national and them being foreign nationals, and about complex adoption laws, but Deiter stopped her.
“Hanna, it’s a special kind of agency,” he said. “An agency that can make miracles happen. And a miracle is happening for us. Isn’t Luca exactly the child we’ve been looking for?”
Yes, he is.
Hanna started another video of Luca, his face creased in concentration, answering questions about his young life.
“I remember some things about the fire.…It was so hot.…Someone was pulling me out.…” Luca wiped at tears. “I miss my mom and my dad.…I know I would be a good son for a new mom and dad.…”
Hanna stopped the video.
It broke her heart, and she looked around the room they’d been preparing for Luca in their flat. The agency had informed them that they’d been approved, and all would be finalized and ready in three months. Dr. Seuss books, English and Spanish editions, were on the shelves, along with posters of Star Wars movies and Guatemala’s national football team.
This is a good thing we’re doing for an orphaned boy with no one in his life, she thought. Just as Gray, the doctor in Boston, told their support group about Timur in Afghanistan. It was no different for Luca.
He needs a family. He needs a chance at life.
In recalling the group, Hanna’s thoughts shifted to Tamina and her pain. She wanted to send her another message, telling her to never give up. Miracles can happen.
Hanna adjusted her grip on her phone, when the sudden ringing of Deiter’s phone echoed from the kitchen, where he was making a sandwich. Hanna halted and listened; he was talking to the agency.
Then Deiter called to her, and she joined him in the kitchen.
“Yes, Hanna’s here with me.”
Deiter placed his phone on the counter, and they leaned toward it.
“We’ve got you on speaker now. It’s Isabel with the agency. Are you both there now?” Isabel said.
“Yes, we are.” Hanna looked at Deiter.
“Good news. The process here has gone smoother than anticipated, enabling us to accelerate steps for you.”
“What does that mean?” Hanna asked.
“The papers are ready now for you to sign and make the final deposit. We urge you to come as soon as you can. Luca’s waiting for you to take him home.”
“Really?” Hanna’s hands were shaking.
“Yes, all is ready,” Isabel said. “Keep me posted on your arrival. We’ll go over some of the last details of the process when you get here.”
“We will, Isabel,” Deiter said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you for this wonderful news!” Hanna said.
After the call, Deiter and Hanna embraced.
“It’s really happening,” Deiter said, going to his desk and laptop. “We have a lot to do. We can’t waste a moment.”
They called their employers, to take the needed time off. Hanna, a former analyst with Germany’s Federal Intelligence Service, the BND, now worked in corporate security. Deiter was an IT expert, who’d worked for Germany’s largest financial institutions. Since both had alerted their supervisors to their adoption situation, they were granted the needed time.
In between packing, Deiter checked flights.
“We can go direct on Lufthansa to Paris, Charles de Gaulle. Then Air France direct to Miami. Then direct from Miami on American.”
“How soon?”
“We can leave tomorrow.”
“Book us, Deiter.”
CHAPTER 41
Paris, France
Early afternoon at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Following their morning flight from Munich, and all security checks, Hanna and Deiter Beck, faces in their tablets, waited in preboarding at their gate for their Air France flight direct to Miami.
Deiter was double-checking their itinerary, tickets, and reservations. Arriving in Florida later that evening, they’d spend the night at the Sheraton. In the morning, they’d board their American flight direct to Tegucigalpa, Honduras.
Satisfied everything was good, Deiter went on to search other subjects, when Hanna turned to him.
“My God, Deiter, I can’t believe how fortunate we are.”
“Yes, we’re fortunate.” His eyes remained on his screen.
“Think of all the others in our support groups—those who’ve not been approved; those who’ve had the process stall, or change; and those who’ve been waiting, searching forever, like Tamina here in Paris.”
“It’s too bad that we don’t have the time to actually meet her in person while we’re here,” Deiter said, continuing to work.
“I know. But I have an idea.” Hanna repositioned her tablet and typed quickly for a few minutes before hitting send. “There, I’ve sent her a note, letting her know we’re here at the airport. I’ve said that we’re en route to get Luca, but thinking of her; that she mustn’t give up believing a miracle will happen for her, too.”
Deiter nodded his approval, and then tilted his screen.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve found more.”
Even though their adoption groups protected identities by operating on a first-name basis, members had the option of privately messaging support to each other, if they chose to share an email address, which most did.
It enabled Deiter to apply his skills and, with help of some of Hanna’s former intelligence colleagues, look deeper into the lives of support group members. They soon discovered that Tamina was a widowed billionaire heiress from Mykrekistan, who tried to keep a low profile while taking over for her ailing father—overseeing their global oil and gas operations, gold and diamond mines, and worldwide real estate properties.
The Financial Times reported Tamina’s empire had recently acquired a conglomerate to manufacture electric trucks for the construction industry.
In addition to the building Tamina owned on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, she had a mansion overlooking Lake Geneva in Switzerland; a country estate in Surrey, England; a condo complex on Baker Street in London; a townhouse complex in Prague; a suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York City; a condo complex in Los Angeles; and villas in Spain and Italy.
But civil strife in Mykrekistan, and allegations linking her father to alleged corruption and bribery schemes, had Tamina living in exile while still grieving for her little boy, Rasul, and anticipating the death of her father.
Deiter pointed to an article and rare photo of Tamina in the New York Times, listing her as one of the world’s richest women.
Hanna nodded. The photo in the Times matched the face of the woman in their support group—Tamina, the art dealer in Paris.
“So much wealth, yet so much anguish for her,” Hanna said.
Deiter agreed. “No matter how rich and powerful you are, you’re not immune to the pain.”
Hanna’s tablet pinged, notifying her that she’d received a message—Tamina’s response, which she read to Deiter.
“Thank you for your note, Hanna. My heart goes with you, Deiter, and Luca, along with my very best wishes for your new lives.”
Deiter nodded, then showed Hanna a photo he’d found online of Tamina and Rasul on a tropical beach, the boy’s eyes like stars as he laughs. Tamina’s smile is radiant in the sun.
“Judging from the date, this was not long before his death,” Deiter said.
“So, so sad,” Hanna said, opening her latest photo of Luca. “Yes, we’re blessed.”
The speaker system near them came to life with the first boarding call for their flight to Miami.
CHAPTER 42
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
Ernesto Ruiz Ayala.
With his close-cropped, gray-white hair and strong facial features, Sabrena Roha considered Ayala handsome, smiling from her phone in the photo sent by the bar association.
Roha showed Ray Wyatt.
“This is our guy, Ray. I don’t know the date of this photo, but he’s a good-looking man.”
Wyatt looked at Roha.
“Remember what Arthur Miller wrote in The Crucible, Sabrena. God thought Lucifer was beautiful in Heaven before he fell.” He pointed to her phone. “Ayala could be a murdering monster; don’t forget that.”
“I know, Ray. Evil comes in all forms. I was just saying.”
Roha closed the photo, and turned to the window of their taxi as it rolled along Boulevard Suyapa, the major avenue cutting across the city. Passing through the section where it divided Colonia Florencia north and south, she watched the buildings flow by.
They were heading for the law office the bar association gave for Ayala. Roha and Wyatt had reasoned that if Honduran police and an FBI agent from the U.S. Embassy had questioned José Luís Garcia about his missing passport; about recent trips to Los Angeles; and asked him about Ernesto Ruiz Ayala, who was listed as a lawyer registered with the bar association, then they had to be on the right track.
The taxi exited Boulevard Suyapa and traveled along a number of streets before coming to another professional building—this one, six stories of white stone and glass.
Standing on the sidewalk, Wyatt turned to Roha.
“I’m sorry. I was testy, Sabrena.”
“Ray, forget it.”
“It’s just that I feel that somehow time’s running out on us. And I still have trouble believing that the photo the FBI showed me is Danny. I want to believe it; that’s why I’m here. But after all this time, I just—you know…”
“It’s all right, Ray. It’s okay. Let’s keep working.”
The office they wanted was on the fourth floor. They hadn’t called ahead. Alone in the elevator, they agreed to, once again, proceed instinctively.
As the doors opened, they saw a sign with raised brass letters that said Sol Tierra & Marigold Law Firm.
They entered, and walked across the polished floors of the reception area to the dark wood desk of the receptionist.
“May I help you?” She gave them a warm smile.
“Yes.” Roha presented a blank white business card, on which she’d neatly penned her name, Wyatt’s name, her email, and phone number. “We’re here to see Ernesto Ruiz Ayala.”
“I’m sorry. That name again?”
Roha repeated: “Ernesto Ruiz Ayala.”
The receptionist began shaking her head.
