“We have plenty of women here. There is a male population wing as well as a full female wing.”
“You know the woman I mean. She’s not a local. And the reasons for her being here are bullshit.”
Jorge could feel a trickle of sweat threatening to pop out on his forehead. He swiped at it quickly, trying to make the gesture look as casual as possible.
“If you say so,” Jorge started, “but the reasons people end up here are not my….”
The man interrupted him.
“She’s coming with me. Today.”
For the first time, Ruiz felt a break in the tension. He had been taken off guard, but he was used to being threatened. He threw his head back and laughed, a deep, raspy, full-throated laugh.
“I’ve just had two men escape and you think I can just open the door for your bitch to walk out of here?”
He grinned, feeling as if he had the upper hand. “Even if I wanted to, these are decisions made by the court, Mr. Collins. Surely, a smart man like yourself knows that. What is the CIA teaching these days?”
Collins reached a hand out and slid the photos to the side. Beside them, he placed a phone, face up. He touched the screen and a recording began to play. Juana had done an impressive job of laying out the facts of Jorge Ruiz’s indiscretion with her while she had been incarcerated. She also left no doubt that her son was the result of that liaison and that she would expose him and demand a paternity test.
The bead of sweat formed into a large, wet drop and trailed down Jorge’s temple. He swallowed hard. Twenty-two years and he’d made one mistake. If this woman came forward, he would lose his job, his pension, his marriage, and could face time in his own prison. He licked his lips nervously
“What shall we do now, Chris?”
“Let’s stick with Mister Collins, shall we?” Chris said, without letting the man speak. “You and I both know you have connections. Make the call. Get her released. Today.”
“But, I cannot—”
“Yes, you can. You have contacts. You rub shoulders with lawmakers at swanky social events you had to brown-nose your way into, because the truth is it’s a world men like you usually can’t aspire to. And I will make sure you lose it all.”
“Mr. Collins, please…”
With speed that Jorge could not have imagined, Chris Collins reached out, grabbed the man’s collar with both hands, and jerked him forward over the desk. Ruiz saw steel in the intense blue eyes, and a grimace on the lips that said this man would never change his mind.
“Today.”
Collins released him and he slid back into his chair. “Or this recording,” he tapped the phone, then the photos, “hits the fan in the morning.”
For a long moment, Ruiz said nothing. He searched his brain for a solution, a way out of this mess. He could find none, and the ex-CIA man knew it.
“Good,” Chris continued, “It’s clear the evidence against Tsu Kim of being involved in hacking and international conspiracy is totally non-existent, and the CIA already knows who was behind the hack. This is a case of the Mexican government putting up a good front, being seen to conduct a thorough investigation, and all the rest of that nonsense. The judge can simply say he’s made a thorough review of the secret information passed to him by the CIA and release her. He looks good because the Americans have trusted him with highly classified information. You look good because you safely detained her until her release today. Make it happen.”
Jorge Ruiz picked up the phone and dialed. Chris Collins stood, picked up the photos and the phone and slid them into his pocket.
“I’ll wait in the lobby,” he said, showing himself out.
Chris hoped the man wasn’t smart enough to pick up on the fact that he was here alone. He had no backup. If Jorge Ruiz locked him up and threw away the key, it would take the CIA months to find him … if not longer. He was counting on the threat being enough to help him get Tsu out … but not enough for the man to lose his cool and go rogue. He’d been here before, but this time, he was gambling with innocent lives. Juana and her son were victims and he hoped Ruiz would not take out his anger on them. But this balancing act was something he’d had to get used to over the years.
The warden’s office door opened. The cool, hardened face was back, but his shirt was stained with sweat.
“She is on her way out to processing.”
Chris pulled the photos out of his pocket. He handed them to Jorge. “Why don’t you keep those to remind you of what’s at stake here.”
The warden looked at the objects as if they might burn him. Chris shoved them into his hands. “If I hear about a single hair on her or her son’s head being harmed, copies of these will be mailed to every single person who had a hand in putting you here. You know what will happen then. They’ll burn you to save themselves.”
Jorge took the photos between two fingers, like a man picking up a dead rat. Chris turned and walked calmly down the hall.
10 Broken Record
Okapi, Central Africa
Red dust kicked up off the road as the open-top Jeep carried Haley Henry through the streets of Buja, the compact capital of Okapi. The road was paved but barely seemed it, as dust and dirt swirled around its surface and the wheels collided with cranium-sized potholes. It wasn’t the most comfortable of rides, but Haley didn’t care. She didn’t care that the wind whipping back her blonde hair was filled with the tang of pollution or that she was being bounced around violently in the back of the vehicle. The seat belt had been crudely hacked off leaving only a flap of black polyester that slapped angrily against the worn leather of the seat.
Haley felt alive. This was her first trip to anywhere that wasn’t in Western Europe or North America. Beneath the thin scarf that was protecting her face from the dust, she smiled. It was satisfying to think that this invigorating experience was actually paid for and not some backpacking adventure that mounted up debt. She looked forward to the day, not long from now, when she would buy herself a shiny new Jeep. With seat belts and everything.
The vehicle bounced its way past low-rise buildings, many of them shells of gray cinder blocks and jagged rebar rods. Other haphazard constructions were made from corrugated iron that seemed to have been hastily thrown together without any hope they would last more than a few weeks. Roadside shacks had been set up to sell fruit and vegetables to drivers and pedestrians, who were intermingled without any obvious line where the road ended and the sidewalk began.
Through this gray and brown swirl, the vibrant colors of clothing forced their way into Haley’s consciousness, and she admired the intricate patterns on the clothes worn by women who seemed to glide along the edge of the road. Their vivid sarongs and blouses contrasted with the tattered clothing of the men, who obviously paid much less attention to their own appearance.
In the distance, where cluttered settlements crept along the sides of low hills, she could see plumes of smoke rising towards the skies. The scene made the place look like a city at war, but one of Haley’s new colleagues had informed her this was a common sight due to people burning garbage, as trash collection was non-existent. Such luxuries were out of the question in a country where much of the population couldn’t get access to healthcare or even education.
It shouldn’t have been that way. This small nation nestled between South Sudan and Ethiopia had more than enough natural resources to ensure that its entire population was comfortable. But like so many countries with potential wealth, the riches had been funneled upwards and ended in the hands of a tiny elite. At the pinnacle of that elite was The Butcher, a man whose opulent palace stood as a symbol of obscene indulgence among widespread poverty.
Haley felt a sudden pang of guilt at having been smug about the money she would be earning and the top-of-the-range vehicle she planned to buy with it. She comforted herself with the fact that the project she was working on should be of some benefit to the local population. She was in the country to assess the environmental impact of a new oil refine
ry being built on the edge of the city thanks to major investment from China. Not only would the refinery bring jobs, but her work would ensure that the project was as ecologically safe as possible.
She quickly dismissed the mental image of her brother’s face when he dropped her at the airport while trying to talk her out of the venture one last time, or at least persuade her to use the services of the security agency he had recently founded with his friend, Chris. Haley had point-blank refused.
Ned had also told her that any project between the Chinese government and the brutal dictator who ruled Okapi would only have an environmental impact assessment attached to it for purely PR reasons. Haley hoped he was wrong.
Her colleagues from the university that was facilitating the impact assessment seemed like earnest, committed people who wouldn't allow themselves to be part of a sham. There was Lana from Switzerland, an affable young woman whose freckles bunched up around her nose when she smiled, and Jean, a native of Ethiopia who wanted to help the people of Okapi despite his country having had regular political tensions with The Butcher.
It was fair to say that Haley’s country was having some current tensions of its own, given that the government of Okapi had managed to illicitly acquire a handful of American tactical nuclear weapons. But while her government tried desperately to contain the situation, Haley managed to keep it mostly out of her mind. If anything, it only added a little extra spice to her sense of intrepid adventure. The Swiss lady, meanwhile, basked in neutrality.
As the sun set over Buja and embraced the city in warm pinks and reds, the three of them were heading to a bar for some well deserved liquid refreshment after a long day in the university’s sparse and stuffy rooms. Not that the bar or any place else they expected to visit would have air conditioning, but at least a few rounds of the potent local beer would take their mind off the heat.
The bar was on the eastern edge of the city and had been suggested by one of their local security detail. “Detail” was perhaps a bit of a strong term, Haley had come to realize, for the two gentlemen who had presented themselves at the airport. The only similarity between the two guards was that they both wore faded, ill-fitting clothes. Diomo was tall, young, and muscular, and he had a quiet demeanor that left his soul accessible only by the intensity in his eyes. Lobu was older, around fifty, and was short and bald. He flashed his smile generously, clearly unashamed of his missing or yellowed teeth.
Both were openly carrying AK-47s as they entered the bar. Their matching beige fatigues gave the impression they were acting in some sort of official capacity, although Haley got the impression that none of the patrons would have flinched too much if anyone had walked in carrying an assault rifle. It was around 9pm and the place was half full, which amounted to around eight people plus the new arrivals.
The small, one-story red brick building looked more like a public toilet than a bar from the outside. But inside, the neon lights and cluttered decor dangling from the ceiling gave it a unique feel. Eclectic memorabilia from random NFL flags to vintage typewriters hung over the drinkers like stalactites in a low cave.
Among the customers were two middle-aged businessmen having a raging argument, a couple of guys in military uniform who were drinking neat whiskey, and a woman in the corner pulling provocative dance moves while her eyes rolled in her head. There was no music playing.
Haley leaned against the bar and tried to look like she wasn’t out of place. Quickly, an ice-cold beer in a frosted glass was slammed down in front of her. Lobu was grinning at her and holding a beer of his own. Haley, Jean, and Lana all eyed the guy’s beer at the same time, wondering how much it was likely to enhance his ability to protect them, then collectively thought well, there’s not much we can do about it.
It was lucky they were able to be open-minded about it, because Diomo was starting on the lotoko—an incredibly strong local moonshine made from maize and often brewed in improvised oil drums. The way Diomo’s eyes widened with the first sip made it clear why the booze is nicknamed “pétrole.”
“So,” Lobu said as he stared at Haley. “What do you think about the American situation in our country?”
Suddenly, the tension was more piercing than the scent of lotoko coming from Diomo’s glass.
“Err...I don’t really like to talk about politics. To be honest, I’m not really all that interested in it.”
Lobu pointed at Haley with one finger as he gripped his beer glass.
“You are not interested that our two countries will soon be at war? Your own people could drop bombs on your head.”
“Got to meet my maker one way or another, right?” Haley smiled and raised her glass to toast her own come-what-may attitude. Her two colleagues from the university hesitated before bravely deciding not to leave her hanging. They clinked glasses with her. Lobu flashed another one of his strange smiles, then said:
“Okay, let’s change the subject. Sing me an American song.”
Haley blushed.
“Actually, let’s talk about politics!” she replied.
Everybody laughed, except Diomo who seemed to have transported himself to another planet.
Haley glanced down at the gun slung around his waist.
In the momentary silence that followed the laughter, Lana began to sing. The song was beautiful. It was a German-language lament with long soulful notes that turned the heads of everyone in the bar, except the two men who were continuing their argument.
When she had finished, Lana suddenly seemed very self-conscious.
“That’s a song about my home in the Alps,” she said. “I miss it so much.”
“How long have you been in Africa? Jean asked.
“Two years, I think. Actually, a little longer.”
She was interrupted by the sound of a trumpet cutting through the air. A trio of musicians was starting up in the corner of the bar, with a mic for the singer and no other amplification except passion and enthusiasm. People were piling through the door. The tiny bar quickly became a concert venue with hips gyrating and hands waving all around.
This heady mix of alcohol, music, and visceral experiences made Haley suddenly feel like she was in a dreamlike state. It continued for two more hours as colors and bodies swirled around her. She was up and dancing with her colleagues and one of her guards. The taller guard was swaying, but it may not have been to the music.
When she finally exited the bar in the early hours, Haley knew she was drunk. Lobu had encouraged more drinking of the lotoko, and soon all were imbibing on the sharp gasoline flavored drink. Her head was spinning, but she was happy. She loved the feeling of the warm air on her face as the vehicle started off at high speed.
“How can you be driving?!” Lana shouted to Diomo. It was a very serious question, but Lana couldn't help laughing at how ridiculous the situation was. This was a country with a different set of rules.
“Hey, let’s have some music!” Haley shouted to no-one in particular as the car turned east.
“Broken!” Lobu announced while pointing at the vehicle’s radio.
“Fine, I’ll sing!” Lana announced.
“Good idea!” Haley replied. Then her eyes scanned across the surrounding landscape. There was a lot of farmland she hadn’t seen on the way in.
“Hey, you’re going the wrong way!” she told Diomo. He ignored her.
“Yes, the university is back towards the city!” Jean shouted towards the front seat. Both of the guards looked straight ahead and said nothing.
The joy and alcohol quickly evaporated and left the sensation of a gaping hole in Haley’s stomach. She had a strong feeling that something was wrong. The vehicle picked up speed.
“Hey!” she shouted, slapping Lobu on the shoulder. He spun around, and Haley saw a look of pure hatred in his eyes. He lifted his weapon and placed the muzzle an inch from her forehead.
“Do not speak!” he barked.
She froze in fear. In the corner of her vision, she could see the look of terror on
Lana’s face.
“Please,” the Swiss girl squealed. “What’s happening?”
Lobu spun his weapon and crashed it into the bridge of her nose. She gasped as blood exploded over Haley to her left and Jean to her right.
The vehicle lurched off the road and onto a dirt track that ran right through the middle of farmland. Haley covered her face with her hands and began to sob. Then she put her arm around Lana’s shoulders. The Swiss girl’s head was rocking back and forth like she was about to pass out.
The Jeep skidded to a stop outside an unlit farm building. They were in the middle of nowhere.
“Out!” Lobu hissed. He dragged Haley over the side of the vehicle without opening the door. Diomo forced the other two to exit at gunpoint. Haley was being pulled along by her hair, her knees bouncing and scraping on the hard ground. She swung a punch and collided with Lobu’s back. He didn't flinch. It was like punching a tree.
Haley was flung into a bare room that smelled like rotting meat. Lana landed with a thud beside her. Jean was being taken elsewhere, his grunts and growls from a useless struggle becoming quieter as he was taken off to his fate. Haley and Lana were left in silence to await theirs.
11 Future So Bright
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Chris turned to look at Tsu as she shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun. It was dipping towards the Atlantic Ocean, its rays lighting up the pointed rock formations of the islands in Guanabara Bay.
“You need some shades,” he said, taking off his own to pass to her.
“I should have picked some up at the prison boutique,” she replied, curling her naturally pink-red lips into a smile. Chris noticed that she somehow looked the picture of health despite her very recent stint in a third-world prison. She held up her hand to let him know his shades weren’t required.
“I guess we could have taken a few minutes to pick up some things for you instead of getting to the drinks this quickly,” Chris said, taking a sip of Caipirinha. The sharp and sweet national drink of Brazil enlivened his soul.
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