Birds Sing Before Sunrise

By Jan Smolders

In a deserted area high in the Peruvian Andes, machete swinging thugs drag California engineer Frank Anderson out of a Jeep, beat him savagely, and leave him for dead. Four days later, masked men kidnap his wife, Joanna, who has rushed to his side in the hospital. The lives of their two little daughters are also in jeopardy.

Frank is not just an unlucky run-of-the-mill tourist robbed for his money. He leads the installation of a solar project launched by an American oil company at a copper mine in the Peruvian mountains. Frank harbors a gnawing suspicion that he might be a tool of oilmen in his own company who want to create a façade of openness to solar energy. But as his list of suspects grows to include diesel tanker drivers, tribal leaders, and politicians, Frank soon realizes that the entire oil supply chain, stretching from the Peruvian mine to the corporate offices of Peruvian and American companies, appears suspicious. He must find the culprits before it is too late.

Birds Sing before Sunrise is the compelling tale of drama in the Peruvian Andes as solar pioneers battle the money and power of big oil, placing the lives of an American couple and their children directly in the crossfire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532066672

Jan Smolders

Jan Smolders has lived in Belgium, Japan, Singapore and, since 1987, the United States. He has run industrial corporations worldwide and led Clinton Foundation activities in Latin America. Birds Sing before Sunrise is his ninth book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

8:00 p.m.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

The City of Lowridge, California

J OANNA TAVARES GRUMBLED AS SHE KICKED HER BACK DOOR SHUT. What took Frank so long at the office? On this special day? Her husband’s laconic answers over the phone had irritated her at first, then gotten her concerned when he curtly cut her off, voice hushed. Peru. Got to hang up.

Peru what?

Tell you later. Love you.

Love you too. Please hurry. The kids—

What about birthday girl Jennifer and her four candles? And two-and-a-half-year-old Kim’s bedtime? The children had had their fill of cartoons. Joanna couldn’t blame her little pajama-clad treasures for getting antsy.

Peru? She put it out of her mind. She walked up the stairs to the bedroom and checked herself in her tall mirror. Not bad for a woman close to forty: height average, muscles tight, curves controlled and pleasing. She ran her fingers over her forearm. Her radiant skin, a shade of brown light for a Puerto Rican, felt smooth. Her tiny dimples winked at her. Frank adored them. She chose a long, yellow dress that hugged her slender figure and contrasted beautifully with her silky, shoulder-length raven hair. As she looked at it in the mirror once more, she feared that tonight her man would be too worn out to notice, let alone propose to unzip it.

She rejoined Jennifer and Kim in the play area just as a loud horn sounded in the driveway.

Daddy’s home! The kids dropped their dolls, flew off the couch and zipped to the garage door. Jennifer swung it open, ran out, and jumped into Frank’s arms. He lifted her high. Kim had followed her sister. Me too! Me too! she pleaded, her tiny, chocolate-smeared hands around her daddy’s leg.

Joanna, a few steps behind, gave her spent husband’s trousers a good look and managed a smile. Finally, Frank. I started worrying. She kissed him.

When they entered the kitchen, she spotted concern on his face. Peru? she asked, her voice lowered.

He waved his hand.

She shot him a quizzing glance but moved on: this was Jennifer’s day.

The birthday girl dragged Frank without delay to the oak dinner table Joanna had covered with a colorful tablecloth.

Wow! the girls exclaimed when their mother produced an eye-catching cake from a shiny box. They glued their sparkling eyes to its white and soft-blue cream.

The candles! Joanna carefully secured them upright and handed Frank the matchbox.

Watch me, he said.

Four thin, swaying flames appeared and reached hesitantly up into the air before the girls’ adoring gaze.

Me! Me! Kim shouted as she climbed into a chair, stood up and, hands on table, leaned toward the candles. Me! She inhaled deeply, her little mouth open wide.

Jennifer grabbed her around the waist, pulled her back, blew out the candles, applauded herself, and beamed as her parents gave her a thumbs-up. Kim pouted until Frank started cutting the cake and Joanna offered her a wedge just as big as Jennifer’s.

Joanna’s nerves had reached a breaking point when, two hours past their bedtime, fatigue and sleep mercifully overwhelmed the girls. The exhausted parents cradled them up the stairs to their bedrooms.

Minutes later, Joanna tiptoed into Jennifer’s pink-themed, lights-dimmed room. Kim’s gone for the night, she whispered to Frank.

He tenderly removed little Jennifer’s toy rabbit from her limp hand and covered her with a light sheet. Done.

"Our darlings," she breathed, and buried her head into his chest. She felt his heart pound. She looked up at him. He looked absent, somewhere else. It had to be Peru. Come, downstairs, we deserve a drink, she said as she pulled his hand onto her shoulder, her eyes wide. Like my dress? She slid her arm through his.

Tall, trim Frank smiled down at her. His low sideburns moved slightly. They were graying. To her, they were comforting—somehow a reassurance that he was her safe refuge.

Lovely, my princess, he said, but his tone was disappointingly monotonous. They started down the staircase. Lovely. Soft and thin. But—

Joanna paused half-way down the steps. But what? Peru, right?

He stopped one step below her and let loose a tired sigh. I couldn’t just tell you over the phone why I was running late. Martinez dropped a little bomb on me. On us.

A bomb? On us?

He called me from Los Angeles, from a meeting with investors. They gave him the green light for a solar project in Peru and he wants me to run it. He needs my acceptance by tomorrow. Peru…. It’ll mean long absences. Many. So, it’s on us. His gaze was frozen.

Frank Anderson was the Director of the newly created Renewable Energy Division, the RED, of the PuentePetro Company, a significant, worldwide oil services and distribution business headquartered in Lowridge, near Bakersfield.

Us…. Surprise, fear, and excitement invaded Joanna, all struggling for dominance, her heart threatening to burst out of its confinement. She waited.

It’ll take more than a year, he said, sighing again. Maybe two. It’ll mean long trips. Too many and too long. Agree? He had raised his thick eyebrows high: two bold, bushy horizontal question marks rising above his rimless glasses.

She had detected something dismissive in his tone, but his gaze made her think twice: she knew his facial punctuation marks weren’t questioning her as much as himself. Frankie’s torn. Peru, she murmured. Wow. Not such a little bomb. Martinez doesn’t mess around.

It’s his job. He needs help. Got deadlines from these investors.

Yeah. But, well…. The excitement inside her was gaining the upper hand. She showed her man a friendly frown and added, her voice calm but enthused, Okay. Nothing wrong with Lima as far as I know. We’ll go together. Jennifer can attend nursery school and Kim can stay with me at home. The city has a great climate. I read it never rains there. She squeezed his hand. Come, let’s talk on the couch. Watch your step—Jennifer’s dropped a shoe.

Downstairs, a defeated cake on a distressed table welcomed them in reproach. Cups, glasses, spoons, half-eaten wedges of cake, empty milk cartons, and an opened wine bottle all beckoned for attention. Chairs facing every direction and toys lost in improbable locations looked for their proper spots. Thankfully, a soothing candle scent wafted through the spacious room.

Joanna suppressed a sigh and turned back to Frank. She accepted his hand. As he eased her onto the tan leather couch, she greeted the old mirrored chest across the room, an heirloom from her grandmother. Frank’s dark-brown upright piano stared from its corner, unappreciated. To its right, the stately grandfather clock said nine. It commanded respect in the wake of all the disorder.

Frank spoke quietly, his words measured. Martinez isn’t talking about Lima, Joanna. He wants to drop me into an area called Moquegua.

Moque…?

Mo-que-gua. End. Of. World.

The end…. You? Just you?

"Just me. The Deep South of Peru. Moquegua’s a department and a city. I’d have to execute the project at a copper mine called La Divina, in a desert area, thirteen thousand feet high, five hundred miles from Lima and more than eight thousand feet up from Moquegua. It’s pure desert up at the mine. Not one blade of grass. Literally none. Workers descend to a camp at eleven thousand feet to sleep. ‘Altitude issues,’ Martinez says. ‘For men and for machines.’ All suffer pretty badly operating above twelve thousand. After two uninterrupted, seven-day weeks the miners get a break with their families down in Moquegua."

Joanna had trouble picturing it all. Oh my God. What a tough life for those workers.

Frank pursed his lips. Yeah. For their families too. And for us. I’d be far away from you and the kids for long periods. Now you know why I didn’t sound too—

Gentle. She hurried her hand onto his thigh. Sorry. But I understand. You said it’s just you for that project? No team? You can’t take turns? She stood up and walked toward the mirrored chest, her steps measured. Glancing back at him as she took out the Barceló bottle, she noticed her man had his eyes drilled into the parquet floor.

She poured two drinks, offered one to Frank, and nestled herself back in next to him. To our darling Jennifer?

She got him to clink glasses and noticed a hint of a twinkle.

Yes. To our little lady, he said, putting his drink on the side table, and no, no team to speak of. Just one more energy specialist from Los Angeles and an IT guy, both initially. A couple of electronics specialists sporadically. The other personnel will be technically schooled local recruits we’ll train for the project.

PuentePetro engineers had tweaked a revolutionary solar energy system originally developed by Swedes, and transformed it into a secret process. PuentePetro’s. It would make the extremely remote mine operation, La Divina, totally energy-autonomous: no longer would greedy, diesel-guzzling generators be needed. Independence. Freedom. At low cost. Guaranteed in the contract. Promised. Even the project’s name…it was called Promesa.

Martinez says he’s sure we’ll outperform any Chinese and European competition hands down.

Wow! The top! Great! Joanna jubilated, clapping her hands, expecting a beaming smile in response, but Frank shook his head and put his hand up, surprise suddenly plastered all over his face.

Sure, we’ll be on top of the world, the solar one, he said, his voice low and flat, but it’s also a God-forsaken dump. About those long absences I mentioned, hmm, I’d be at the camp or the mine for at least two weeks at a time. Damn altitude issues for me as well. No waivers from Mother Nature for Yankees. Adapting to working at the La Divina elevation takes three days. All I could do is fly back regularly to Los Angeles for my break.

We could take the girls to Moquegua.

He waved her off. Moquegua. His tone dripped disparagement. Living there? I brought that up with the boss. Impossible. It’s an ‘unbelievably remote and bloody backward shithole.’ His own assessment. The guy’s at least partly honest, but he could’ve mentioned the lingering dangers of resurging terrorism. No, we can’t take those risks with the kids. He choked. Can’t do it. Told him.

You said no? Already? She had her hand over her mouth. For me. And the kids. A fuzzy feeling ran over her spine: he cared. But the next second, she felt that his caring was holding him back.

Yep. The man sounded pissed. Told me I’d better think it over. He covered his eyes with his fingers.

She noticed a grease spot on his light-blue shirt sleeve but didn’t even blink. Hmm. Hold on, Frank. Let’s discuss. Maybe you should accept. The idealist in her had been aroused. She sat back and showed him a pair of wide, lively eyes he had to notice as she read amazement in his.

Huh? You mean that?

She couldn’t help letting a brief chuckle escape. Surprised? I think it’s the right thing to do. Absolutely. Tough, but right.

You—? His tone screamed disbelief.

Me. She added a forceful nod to her tender smile.

You’ve been talking to Anita again.

Anita was Joanna’s younger sister. When Hurricane Sandy hit New Jersey in October 2012, it destroyed her house and the printing business she operated next door with her husband. Still, five years later, red tape, bureaucracy, and corruption had somehow colluded to deny them fair compensation. The storm ruined their finances and their marriage, and turned Anita into an angry, vocal advocate, an activist against global warming, the big culprit she fingered furiously, her eyes spitting indignation.

Joanna had become a sympathizer and her determined mental partner—another crusader for clean energy. Frank shared their fervor, within reason. Hadn’t he quit the fracking business to jump into solar a few years ago?

She realized he was struggling with how to react to her enthusiasm. A year, you said?

Could be eighteen months. He sounded ominous, and sank into deep thought.

Okay, she forged ahead, say eighteen months. I know you don’t want to hurt me or the girls with prolonged absences and worries about the danger you’ll face. It’s going to be hard on you, too—on your body and your heart.

He sighed. In a couple of years I’ll be fifty.

Yes, a young fifty. But I say do it. You should want to do this. She softly put her hand on his leg, rocked it back and forth and disregarded his wrinkled forehead. She tightened her grip on his quad. We can handle it. You and me. We’ve come a long way, together, haven’t we? Anita can help me. She wants to move to California.

He kept shaking his head, lips pursed, while turning to pick up his glass. Yeah. Anita. I’ve known that for a while, he said, swirling his rum.

In 2013 he had left a high-level position in the fracking industry and embarked on an adventure to become president of a solar panel production facility in Noredge, Ohio. After successfully navigating two subsequent acquisitions he ended up, in 2015, at PuentePetro, also called Puente, as the Director of its Renewable Energy Division. Pregnant Joanna and husband Frank moved to Lowridge, California, with little Jennifer, their fair-skinned little daughter with the improbably-blonde curls.

He let out a heavy sigh. Something else, Joanna. It really troubles me. The elephant in the room. By now, I’ve convinced myself that Puente’s purchase of Cisneros Solar was a deceptive move. I know what I’m saying. It’s fraudulent image-polishing. Window dressing. Puente’s faking interest, speaking with split tongues. ‘We’re working hard on renewables! We care about the future of our planet!’ You and I know Puente’s a damn oil and gas company. Carbon is its soul.

Don’t say that, Frank. Faking’s such a cheap word nowadays. You can’t know for sure. Many oil companies have done similar things, lately. Martinez must be seeing where the real future lies.

He wagged his index. Mauricio Martinez has published articles in industry magazines ridiculing solar. Not too many years ago. He’s joked about tree huggers. Am I just his errand boy for a PR stunt? A sacrificial lamb? A silly—

Oh, no. Don’t talk like that about him. Joanna rocked her head and raised both hands, but quickly dropped them. Your insinuation is unfair, she said soothingly. Mauricio’s a decent person. He wouldn’t abuse a valuable associate like that. He must mean well. I bet he sees potential in you and in the new RED division.

Oh sure! he mocked. Let me tell you: I know the guy. He breathes methane and gulps oil. Maybe he even—

Enough. She elbowed him, anticipating a graphic expletive.

Frank fell silent.

The clock ticked reproachingly.

Maybe he’s seen the light, Joanna said matter-of-factly, trying to break the impasse. The longer term, the expectations in the eyes of his grandchildren. Conversions happen, you know. One happened to you—remember Noredge and fracking?

Frank slowly shook his head, staring at the ceiling. He took her hand. I’d be gone a total of nine or ten months of those eighteen. He sounded emotional again.

She caressed his cheek. "I figured that, Frankie, but it’s a sacrifice I think we should make. We. You’ll be a pioneer. A crucial contributor to the cause we’re all fighting for."

Hmm. That’s what Mauricio said, and he offered to double my salary for the period. But I don’t know. He stared at her.

Double? Hmm. Good. Money is one thing, a big one, but it’s not what we’re discussing. I love to see the trailblazer in you. I married a man I admired since the day I laid eyes on him in Noredge. We’ll all be proud when that mine up high in the Andes breathes and lives by the graces, the eternal promises, of the sun. Solely the sun. She looked up and back toward the black and white photo above the couch. Dashing Jack Kennedy, her inspiration, shot her an encouraging glance.

Frank looked at her askance. You mean all of that poetry? And what you said about Martinez? You believe him? He scratched his scalp, messing up his always impeccably groomed graying hair.

I do, she said. And I’ll be your partner. I think you should tell him you’re going to give it a hell of a try.

A warm beam blanketed Frank’s face: sunrays rising from behind motionless cloud cover. You can handle this? Sure?

She tapped her index on his cheek and slid her hips against his. Would I lie to you? Me? Let’s have another drink to seal our deal. And tell Martinez it took you blood, sweat, and tears to win me over, drag me over the damn line. She winked.

No kidding.

She stood up. Still like my dress? She inhaled his gaze. She pulled him up and stood on her toes to plant a soft, wet kiss behind his ear. The kids are quiet, big guy. It’s only ten.

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At three in the afternoon the next day, Joanna dropped the laundry basket she was holding, to take a call from Frank.

The deal’s done, Joanna. We shook hands on it over the phone. Mauricio’s still in Los Angeles.

Done? Great!

I’m off to Peru next Saturday. To get to know the place.

Already? She hadn’t expected the lightning speed. A sleepless night had belatedly raised questions in her mind and gnawed at her confidence, raising guilty doubts. Had she pushed Frank too hard? Because of herself? In the morning, she hadn’t bothered him with her concerns, figuring life often looks darker and unreasonably threatening in dreams.

Yes. Aren’t you happy?

I…I am! I am, of course.

I finagled a share of the profit, he snickered.

Oh. Great. Wait…. Finagled? You?

Now he roared. My version of it! I told him you cried all night long.

You!

Frank laughed. He offered it. I believe he expected me to hold out for it. Got to go now.

Oh. Good. Love you. Bye. I’m proud of you, Frank.

And of me too, Mommy? Jennifer was pulling her mother’s skirt, her blue eyes begging.

Of course, big girl. I’m very proud of you.

She started the Miele washer, took Jennifer with her into Frank’s office, and sat down at his desk. Reality had overtaken her and fear set in. Moquegua. Altitude. Tribal conflicts. Google, she said to herself. She had to find out what she had done to her man, with the best intentions, but nevertheless.

The old Dell took its time to boot. She checked on Kim, who was napping.

Back at the computer, she started wondering. Did she go too far with Frank yesterday? Was she suffering from a bout of Anita fever? She told herself not to blame her poor sister. Were Martinez’s intentions pure? As pure as she had argued with Frank? Had she gone out on a limb, vouching for the boss?

Mauricio Martinez. Her thoughts turned ugly. Was Frank right about the oil guy? Was he sending Frank Anderson knowingly into a dead-end street? For something he, Martinez, didn’t believe in, but needed for image purposes? Did he fear Frank could upstage him at Puente at some point not too far off? Was that why he dispatched her man into those frightening, monstrous mountains, into that desolate Divina desert where workers got sick just from being there?

Jennifer looked worried. Or did Joanna just read compassion for Mommy in her little treasure’s eyes? She pulled the little girl into her lap.

When Google arrived, it spoke cruel language: horrifying accidents in the Andes mountains; hypoxia, altitude sickness of the worst kind; indecipherable languages; drugs; cocaine candy; terrorists; Sendero Luminoso, the Shining Path resurging; kidnapping; poisoning; dirt roads on improbably steep slopes; terrifying ravines, victims traceless; helicopter accidents.

A cold shiver ran up Joanna’s spine. Oh, no, Frankie! She felt guilty and selfish. Depressing visions of life without her man and heart-piercing cries of her fatherless girls had tortured her all night long. They now came back with a vengeance.

Jennifer stared, her frown too deep for such a little girl.

Joanna reached for her phone and dialed. He should call it all off.

The phone went to voicemail.

She sat back and stared at his photo behind the Dell. Hiking. Pike’s Peak. She was terrified, but her husband had sounded upbeat when he had called, strong, ready to go.

She dropped her phone. Come, darling, she said to her daughter, let’s pray for Daddy. She folded her daughter’s tiny hands. They felt warm and steady. Hers trembled.

Dear Lord, don’t let Frankie die, she prayed inaudibly.

Chapter 2

A ROUND TEN FRIDAY MORNING, FRANK ANDERSON, AT HIS DESK AT Puente, felt a subtle tap on his shoulder. As he turned his head, he saw Lydia Gomez, Martinez’s assistant, grinning down at him.

Oblivious to the chatter and banter of colleagues at the two dozen workstations in the large open space surrounding his office, he had spent the last half hour feverishly crisscrossing the web. He had to get a grip on what awaited him in Peru. His black blazer lay nonchalantly next to his computer; iPhone, car keys, stacks of folders and magazines were randomly strewn over the remainder of his desktop; the photo of a beaming Joanna with the girls stared at him in accusation.

He pushed back his chair. Lydia!

Just me! She showed a twinkle.

He stood up, feeling a little dazed. Good to see you here. What brings you to our renewable-energy inner sanctum? Isn’t it off limits for spies like you? he joked, pushing back the top bar of his rimless glasses against the bridge of his nose. My apologies for the mess, he added, pointing at his desk.

No problem, Frank. You must have a thousand thoughts and worries on your mind, she cooed as she handed him a folder. Some more Peru stuff. Her eyes traveled over him, lingering over his slim-fit jeans and tight, navy blue Bugatchi shirt.

Thank you, Lydia. How thoughtful he is, our big boss.

The shortish, middle-aged lady nodded. He would like to sit down with you at three. Maybe by then you’ll have had a chance to check out what he sent you. It sounded like a kind suggestion. Her smile—framed in rich, complex-free graying straight locks that grazed her narrow shoulders—was endearing and natural.

I sure will, he assured her.

Okay. Back to work now, she said. See you this afternoon.

Frank watched how she strode briskly with no-nonsense steps, her flexible hips and loose skirt smartly negotiating the maze of desks toward her office in the adjacent building. As she moved along, she nodded left and right to answer questioning glances from associates.

Promptly at three, Frank waved at Lydia, who was seated at her desk near Martinez’s office. She nodded in response as he knocked on his boss’s door.

Come in!

Even Lydia looked surprised by the loud command.

When Frank opened the door and stepped in, he found Martinez standing in front of his desk. The man used both hands to shake Frank’s right one for what seemed an eternity. Good afternoon, Frank. You’ve had a couple of interesting days. My sincere thanks for taking up the challenge in Peru. The words sounded heartfelt.

Martinez had Spartan tastes. His office was barren: no rugs, no paintings. There was a metal desk like Frank’s, minus the piles of paper, sporting a leather armchair behind it and a silver-framed photo of the beautiful, young-ish Mrs. Martinez, along with an iMac. In one corner stood a small, white-lacquered modern filing cabinet, adjacent to a simple, round, wooden table with four chairs that needed reupholstering. On the wall to Martinez’s left was a USA map with tags indicating Puente locations.

In black running shoes, wearing a white sports shirt over tan slacks, nicely tanned Martinez didn’t act his fifty-five years. It had to be the president’s well-controlled weight on his average, wiry frame. His skin looked dry and wrinkled, but his motions and reactions were energetic. His full head of raven hair couldn’t deny it had consumed its share of dye over the years: his sideburns, covering as much of his cheeks as a modest beard would have, showed some gray. His facial features hinted at his indigenous Peruvian descent.

Frank bowed slightly. It’s an honor, Mauricio, and I look forward to making Promesa a success. Thank you for the opportunity.

Martinez gave him a thumbs-up. You’re being smart. The project can be a stepping stone to even bigger things. My apologies for rushing things, and for the pressure I put on you the last couple of days. We need you. Investors want assurances that the project will be run professionally. When they tell me to jump, I have to ask them how high.

Frank chuckled discretely to acknowledge the worn-out line.

Good, the boss went on. Now, I called you in to offer you a few pieces of advice, some hints straight from Peruvian lips—and a Peruvian heart. But dammit, he rolled his eyes as he picked up a sheet from his desk, this piece of shit landed on my desk minutes ago. Shit but pertinent. Look at this. Energy Solutions! Our beloved oil PAC, pain-in-the-ass Political Action Committee in Sacramento, is going after us again. Disgusting politics. That’s of course what they do. I’m contributing hundreds of thousands a year to that outfit. And now they’re taking aim at me, at our Promesa. Read here. He pointed at the top paragraph. ‘What’s wrong with PuentePetro? Solar is now their big bet? Good luck with that,’ they mock. They’ve been harping for months on our ‘senseless’ Cisneros Solar acquisition and now they’re taking potshots at Peru.

Shameless indeed. Frank had been with Cisneros Solar when Puente acquired them.

You’re telling me? Here’s more. ‘Maybe PuentePetro is getting desperate now that residential solar sales are slowing down to a trickle?’ See that? Here. Martinez stared at Frank. Stupid crap—produced with my own money. He breathed deep. His tone turned sarcastic, his voice lower. And this, ‘For the good of the industry…’ Really? Kiss my…. He dismissed the PAC position with a fierce wrist flick.

Frank suppressed a reflexive shrug and volunteered, It’s their stated mission, of course.

Martinez frowned and kept grumbling. The Summers Cousins—our ‘beloved founding donors’—had better put their money in the bank than in this bloody PAC politics. Plenty of banks at home in Nebraska who’d take their dough. He stared at Frank, suddenly sounding a little worried. This PAC nonsense shouldn’t discourage you.

Frank needed a second to formulate a