some recon.
Shannon Conner wasn’t getting this story. It went beyond anything resembling competition, straight to the heart of who Tory was. Something strange was going on in her life, and she was tired of Shannon showing up everywhere.
Tory started making notes and composed a list of questions to ask the islanders about the tension in Puerto Isla six months ago when the hostages had been taken and the navy SEALs sent in to rescue them.
What was the emotional climate? How did they feel about having the U.S. send its troops in? Did they back Del Torro’s government? Were the hostages familiar to them?
Already the story was starting to form in her head, and she jotted down a few opening sentences. She could hear her own voice-over, introducing American viewers to the island paradise that had turned into Hell on Earth for Thomas King. She wrote a note to Jay about some cutaway shots she wanted him to get for the feature. She wanted to show the lush tropical forest and long, white sandy beaches they’d passed on their way here.
She worked for thirty minutes, doing some research on the Internet. But since she was here she wanted to get out there with the Puerto Isla people and listen to them talk. To try to understand what had happened when Thomas King and his platoon had come to the island.
She picked up the phone and called Jay’s room. He answered on the second ring.
“Matthews.”
“Hey, no luck with the ladies?”
“I’m saving myself for you.”
She chuckled. “Sure, you are. Listen, I want to go interview some Paraiso citizens to get their views on what’s been going on here.”
“Great. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes. How long are we going to be?”
“I’m not sure. I have a four-o’clock appointment with Perez but he’ll only speak to me off camera.”
“I’ll go with you anyway and do some pick-up shots of the palace and surrounding area.”
“I’ve made a list of shots I want you to get.”
She changed into a pair of black trousers and a short-sleeved black T-shirt. She pulled out a map of Puerto Isla that she’d downloaded from the Internet. They were staying in the former resort town of Paraiso, now the island’s capital. There were main roads from the small airport and the large port into the city. The island’s coast was dotted with smaller towns and farms. The middle of the island seemed uninhabitable.
Tory went out on the balcony. To the west, she could see the high-rise condos that blocked the view of the beach. To the east rose a large mountain. Leaning over the balcony railing, she studied the city as it started to wake up from siesta. People appeared on the sidewalks, and small European cars filled the cobblestoned streets.
She took her notebook and grabbed her jacket. Jay wasn’t in the lobby when she arrived, so Tory approached the front desk, hoping to get some information from the young man about the hostage situation and the recent coup.
The desk clerk looked up in disinterest as she approached. Before she could ask him a question, the elevator doors opened and Shannon walked into the lobby.
She was dressed similarly to Tory but had her arm through a local man’s. She gave Tory a superior look as she walked by. Tory ignored her.
Tory smiled at the desk clerk. He didn’t smile back. She asked for directions to a local tavern and the docks. She hesitated, then asked, “Where is the prison?”
She took the map out of her bag. She knew that Thomas King had been held in one. “Could you mark it on the map for me?”
Finally he looked up at her and she read the fear in his eyes. He pushed the map back toward her. “You don’t want to go there.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Not a nice place for a gringa.”
“What about a gringo?” Jay asked, walking up beside Tory.
He leaned in, close to Tory. She hesitated for a moment and then shifted away from him. Jay always crowded her.
“Do you know where it is or not?” she asked.
The desk clerk searched her eyes for a minute and she didn’t know what he was hoping to find. Finally he sighed and pulled out a street map of the city. His finger fell on a road near the edge of town that looked as if it ran into the jungle.
“Take Camino al Infierno. It dead ends at the guard shack.”
She translated the road’s name in her head. “Road to Hell.” Well, it took more than a name to scare her.
Tory drove the Jeep through the streets of Paraiso. They stopped at an open-air market, and she surveyed the people who went about their business with little rushing around. The mood was laid-back and the steel-drum band that was set up on the corner playing added to it.
“What’s the plan?”
“Do you have the Steadicam?” she asked. The Steadicam was a camera that didn’t need a tripod but could be balanced and steadied on the cameraman’s shoulder. Jay handled the camera with an ease that belied its heavy weight.
“Of course.”
“You’re fluent in Spanish, right?” Tory asked.
“Yes. I grew up in Little Havana, so I’m more fluent in the Cuban dialect, but I can get by. What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to that steel-drum band and see if they’ll agree to be filmed. I think that will give our viewers a nice sense of the flavor of Paraiso. Oh, and I want to go back and film that slum we passed on the way from the airport, too.”
“Will do. Where should I meet you?”
Tory glanced around the open-air market. It was comprised of rough wooden stalls and thatched roofs. There was a weather fountain that was dry but had a nice flowering stone in the middle of it. “Right there.”
“Fifteen?”
She nodded, and they went their separate ways. Tory walked with the crowds for a minute, letting the language swell around her. Gradually her thought patterns began to change and she became accustomed to Spanish again. She listened to the conversation of two women about her age and realized that overprotective mothers were universal. These women were the equivalent of suburban mothers in America, with similar concerns about issues like schools, health insurance and child care.
Tory joined the conversation and sympathized with the two women. They chatted for a few minutes about families before Tory brought up the coup and the new government. The women were very vocal about their feelings that Del Torro wasn’t any better than the man before him had been.
“Why not?” Tory asked.
“He’s the puppet of the American government. Our people need a leader who can stand by himself.”
Interesting. She knew that Del Torro was well liked by the U.S. because he enforced their policies, which weren’t always popular in Central and South America. “I’m a reporter from UBC and we’re doing a story on Puerto Isla. Would you be willing to let me interview you on camera?”
The women looked at each other and then at her. Abruptly the warm rapport she’d developed with them disappeared. “No.”
“How about off camera?” she asked. But the women only shook their heads and walked away. It was the same with everyone she spoke to. They were living in a military state, and though Del Torro was better than Santiago had been, no one was willing to take a chance of speaking out against him.
When she got back to the fountain, she found Jay lounging in the sun. “No luck?”
“They all had plenty to say, but off camera. Can you just film the market and the people coming and going? I’ll summarize what I learned and do a voice-over.”
Jay