The Lord of Opium

“Stop!” shouted Cienfuegos as the old man reached out. “I’ve seen those before. It guards something that only El Patrón was allowed to see. It recognizes his handprint and kills anyone else who touches it. You could open it, Don Sombra.”

Both men turned to Matt. He stared at the symbol. There was no telling what it led to, but he was suddenly unwilling to reveal the secret. El Patrón had considered it important enough to hide in this dangerous place. Matt wanted to be alone when he opened up whatever it was.

“I’ll come back another time,” he said in a tone that allowed no room for argument. “Let’s return to the hospital.”

42

THE SUICIDE BOMBER

They had lunch under a grape arbor. Fidelito and Listen had quarreled, and Sor Artemesia sat between them to keep the peace. “He wouldn’t play with Mbongeni,” Listen complained.

“Who wants to sit in a baby crib and glue chicken feathers to your fingers?” retorted Fidelito.

“You’re jealous ’cause Mbongeni likes me and not you.”

“He bit me,” cried the little boy.

“So? You had molasses on your hand. He likes sweets.”

“Both of you keep quiet,” said Sor Artemesia. She was out of sorts and was distant with Dr. Rivas. He, too, spoke little and appeared agitated. An uneasy atmosphere brooded over the gathering.

Only the Mushroom Master seemed relaxed. He rambled on about how mycelia wrap the roots of young fir trees and draw food to them when the soil is poor. “I think of them as babysitters,” he said. “ ‘Time for your three o’clock feeding,’ they say, and the little trees sit up and pay attention.”

“Shut up!” exclaimed Dr. Rivas. “I can’t take much more of your drivel. What in hell are you doing here anyway?”

“He’s helping us clean up the pollution near the eejit pens,” Cienfuegos said.

“Why bother? The eejits don’t care.” The doctor glanced toward the lab, where the cow was walking slowly through flower-filled meadows in her mind. “I’m sick of eejits. Nothing fixes them. Nothing works.”

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” the Mushroom Master said brightly. Dr. Rivas threw down his napkin and stalked off.

“I think all of us have been put into his freezer,” said Listen.

“He certainly seems nervous,” the jefe said. “Did you see the Bug when you visited the nursery?”

“Nope. I hope somebody got him with a flyswatter,” said the little girl.

They finished lunch, and Sor Artemesia took Fidelito and Listen off for a nap. The Mushroom Master said he wanted a nap too.

That left Matt and Cienfuegos. “I’m going to call María, and I want to be alone,” Matt said.

“Bad idea,” said the jefe.

“What? Calling María?”

“Being alone.” Cienfuegos looked pointedly at the grape arbor and cupped his ear. Matt understood. Someone was listening. There was an undercurrent of danger in Paradise, and the jefe had picked it up. He was practically sniffing the air like a coyote.

Matt felt the strange tension too. Something was building up, and he wished he could count one-thousand-and-one, one-thousand-and-two to see how close it was. Along with Cienfuegos, he went to the holoport room and opened the wormhole to the Convent of Santa Clara. A UN peacekeeper in full battle dress was standing in front of the portal. He was covered from head to toe with riot gear, and his helmet was darkened so no one could see his expression. The soldier hurled himself into the wormhole.

“Close the portal!” screamed the jefe.

Matt was frozen.

“Close it! That’s a suicide bomber!”

The figure drew closer with agonizing slowness, and Cienfuegos tried to reach the controls. Matt shoved him away. “We don’t know what he is. Stay back! That’s a direct order!”

The jefe collapsed to his knees. “I can’t disobey, but please, please, please close the portal! Esperanza wants to kill you!”

What would El Patrón do? thought Matt as the lethal mists swirled about the figure. The answer came at once. I’d wait and see, said the old, old voice in his mind. I didn’t become a drug lord by wetting my pants every time something went wrong.

Cienfuegos was doubled up with pain, the two directives at war in his mind: to protect the patrón and to obey a direct order. It was killing him. Matt laid his hand on the man’s head and said, “I forgive you.”

The peacekeeper’s body shot out of the wormhole and fell with a clatter. The portal closed with a thunderclap that shook the room. Matt kicked away ice, wrapped his hands in a towel, and undid the helmet. The cold still penetrated to his fingers. He blew on a face that was heartbreakingly still and white.