Vistaria Has Fallen (The Vistaria Affair/Vistaria Has Fallen #1)(2)

Was he American? Help had arrived, at last?

Only, the men were rigid. Waiting. The sergeant stood locked into a salute, quivering with perfect attention. The woman next to him leisurely pulled her blouse into place.

The red-headed man sized up the men.

What had the soldiers called him? Calli recalled the soft, alarmed words they had spoken, alerting each other. Amongst the mongrel Spanish, she’d heard “Roger”. Was that his name?

He glanced at the woman and shook his head. “Rosali...” He spoke, his Spanish clearer than anyone Calli had heard tonight. It was too fast for her high school level comprehension.

The woman shrugged and smiled. She moved to the door. He patted her shoulder as she passed. She shut the door behind her while the man examined the room once more.

None of the soldiers moved.

He said a quiet word. They relaxed, although no one sat.

The man spoke to the sergeant in the same understated tone. He didn’t use his hands. In this land of flamboyant gestures and uninhibited volume, he was contained and controlled. His hands stayed at the sides of his dark, modern suit.

The sergeant rattled off a spate of Spanish. Explanations, Calli realized. They had been busted.

Who was this guy?

When the sergeant ran out of words and fell silent, the man studied him for a thought-filled moment. Then he replied.

The sergeant quailed and nodded.

Red-head spoke to the other men, who scurried from the room, leaving the sargeant in the corner, looking cowed. Then Red-head turned, finally, to look at Calli. It felt like she was pinned by lasers. His direct, unflinching gaze locked onto her face. The blue of his eyes was black, as if a trick of the light made them appear indigo only when reflected correctly.

He slid a hand into his pants pocket, pushing the open jacket aside, revealing a crisp white business shirt. “You have been in Vistaria less than five hours, Miss Munro, and already you are in trouble. It does not augur well for the remainder of your stay here.” His English was flawless. His voice had a gravelly quality that caressed the back of her neck.

Calli shivered. “It’s not my fault. There were three of them. I kept saying no.”

He considered her. “Then you backed up your ‘no’ by breaking one nose and leaving cuts and bruises for them to remember you by.”

“How many times must I say no before it sticks?” She tried to keep her voice sweet and reasonable, despite her resentment.

Again, the thoughtful silence. “This is not Montana, Miss Munro. This is Vistaria, in Latin America, during the Luna festival. Vistarians have learned to treat Americans with suspicion and prejudice. You should make allowances.”

“Like they did for me?” Her voice was rising.

The men who had come up to her in the dark had made no allowances. They had moved out from a shadowed side street, blocking Calli’s path toward lights and civilization. Their sudden appearance scared her.

The men moved around her, hemming her in, talking rapidly, laughing and smiling as she struggled to understand them. Now Calli recalled the many repetitions of “Americana” dotting their talk. They pushed at her shoulders and arms.

Calli didn’t want to play. She shook her head and repeated “no”, while trying to step out of their tight circle. Then a hand cupped her buttock and she reacted.

Three years of karate had paid off…sort of.

The red-headed man on the other side of the bars did not agree with her. “You are a visitor, Miss Munro,” he told her. “Things are different here. You cannot demand the rights you are used to in the States.”

“You’re not American,” she judged.

His mouth curled up at one corner. “No, I’m not American.”

“Don’t I at least get a phone call?”

He considered her request, then stepped closer to the cage. Calli was already standing next to the bars. His pace brought him within a foot of her. She didn’t like having to tilt her head to look him in the eyes. At five feet ten, she didn’t have to raise her chin often. Calli held her ground, unwilling to reveal how he bothered her, which she would if she moved backward.

He spoke just above a whisper, yet each word reached her, clear and precise. “Miss Munro, your nationality is declared by your hair, your skin, your demeanor. You come to my country dressed in provocative clothes, during the festival when inhibitions are loosened. Then you complain when you are subjected to unwanted attention.”

She pushed at locks of hair that had fallen about her face, conscious of their golden wheat color and their wild disarray. They had escaped the long braid she wore. “I didn’t go looking for trouble,” she said, in the same whisper. Murmuring seemed appropriate.

“I know.”

“Then—?”

“You must understand Vistaria if you wish a peaceful stay. Americans are not loved. They are looked upon with suspicion. You have been subject to a small degree of the prejudice that fear engenders. You would better spend your time here being as insignificant as possible.”

Calli swallowed back her response. He seemed like a tolerant man in comparison to the soldiers who had locked her in here. She suspected, though, even he would not appreciate being told she didn’t want to be in Vistaria at all.

He went on. “The situation here is explosive. We have guerillas in the mountains looking for a reason to swoop upon the capital. An incident involving untrustworthy Americans would give them the excuse they need.”