by Tom Riggs
“Thanks man” said Munro as the hippy passed him the matches. “Nice place here, where you from?”
The hippy smiled inanely. He did not seem to mind that Munro was now in his room uninvited. Nor that he was not using the matches to light his cigarette.
“Me? Outer space amigo. Outer space.”
“Really? Cool… where are you really from?”
The hippy looked shifty as he stepped from foot to foot nervously. “Germany, Leipzig.”
“Nice. How long you been here?”
“Me? No se amigo, no se. Six weeks maybe. Maybe longer.”
Munro smiled to himself. Bingo.
“Cool man, hopefully see you round. Thanks for the light.” Munro tried to copy his inane grin and put his hands together in the Indian prayer sign of thanks. “Namaste.”
The hippy beamed and returned the gesture. “Namaste, amigo.”
Munro walked out of the posada. Few of the guests staying there gave him a second look.
The guidebook said that the cheapest place to eat in Playa Agua was Arturo’s, a block from the beach. It was also close to Posada Limon, a double bonus if you were stoned and low on cash.
The restaurant was little more than an open-air kitchen off one of the sandy lanes leading up from the beachside road. Its red plastic tables and chairs might have been a present from a local lager company. Two large Venezuelan women stood behind a large charcoal grill, surrounded by various large steel pots steaming with unidentifiable soups and sauces. Three chickens were splayed on the grill. They had been rubbed in oil, which was dripping down onto the coals below, causing them to hiss and spit. This, along with the steam coming from the saucepans, gave the kitchen a slightly chaotic air that Munro found reassuring. At least the food would be hot. Arturo himself did not seem to be around, but the food smelled good and Munro was hungry. He took a dark corner table. With his back to the wall, he could see everyone who came and left. After a huge plate of rice, beans and grilled chicken, he started to feel sleepy again. It had been a long flight and he craved more of that dreamless sleep. But there was still work to do.
Smoking weed makes you hungry and sure enough, twenty minutes later, the German hippy arrived. He had picked up some friends on the way. A twenty-something couple in matching tie die trousers and dirty t-shirts. They were tall and Nordic looking, Norwegian Munro guessed.
Munro approached them, as chilled as he could be.
“Hey man.”
The hippy looked up, slightly confused.
“Namaste?” prompted Munro.
“Oh si amigo, Namaste!” The hippy was beaming again.
“Mind if I join you guys?” Munro did not give them a chance to react and pulled up a chair.
The Norwegians were less stoned than the German hippy, who it turned out was called Frank. So Munro concentrated on them while Frank tucked into his plate of rice and beans. No chicken. The weed had lowered his blood sugar, giving him an intense hunger. Frank would have felt better, faster, if he simply drank a glass of orange juice. But Munro guessed that he had not worked that one out yet. The rice and beans would have the same effect eventually. Until they did, Frank had little to say. The Norwegians on the other hand, were keen to talk. Especially once Munro told that them he was, like them, travelling around South America for a year.
“Yeah, I just got in from Brazil,” lied Munro, “Beautiful country.”
“Brazil? Yah, cool. We are going there next. How is Rio?” Said the man. Norwegian –Munro had guessed correctly.
“Rio is beautiful, I spent a month there.”
“A month? That’s awesome, what were you doing?”
Munro had been to Brazil once, it was true. He had been doing urban warfare exercises with BOPE, Rio’s military police special operations unit. But the Norwegians did not need to know that.
“I was doing a Capoiera course, you know the dance martial art?” Teaching BOPE how to take out hostiles based in a high-density civilian area - without killing more civilians than hostiles. But the Norwegians did not need to know that either. The trick is to keep your numbers small, go in at night and always have air support on call should you need a quick evacuation. The Brazilians had favoured going in with specially adapted tanks known as ‘Big Skulls’, during the day, and blasting anything that moved until it stopped moving. They had been especially fond of fragment grenades that dispersed shrapnel up to 30 metres on impact.
““I hear it’s best to learn Capoiera in the North? Bahia is the home of the Capoiera, no?”
Munro took a deep breath and sighed, now he really was feeling sleepy.
Eventually, the conversation lagged. The Norwegians left as they were getting an early ferry over to the mainland. No flying for them. Unecological. Munro wondered how they had got to South America from Norway.
Luckily Frank had recovered. Munro had bought him three beers to rouse him out of his weed-induced slumber while they had been talking. The Norwegians said their goodbyes and Munro moved closer to Frank. He at least now had his eyes open.
“Frank my friend, you say you’ve been here six weeks?”
“I think so amigo, yah. It’s beautiful here.”
“I wonder, did you meet a friend of mine staying round here. French guy called Jean? Tall guy, long brown hair in a ponytail. He is a friend I met travelling in India. I think he was here four weeks ago or so.”
Frank pondered for while. “No amigo, I don’t think so.”
“That’s funny, because you must have been here at the same time. I got an email, he said some really bad stuff happened here. Some English guy got killed or something … you hear anything about that?”
“Oh yeah man, everyone heard about that. That was really dark man, real bad karma.”
Munro paused a beat. “So what happened?”
Frank started to look uneasy. “Bad karma man, real dark shit. Real dark.” He clearly did not want to talk about the bad shit just yet.
“Hey man, sorry to bring it up. Let’s do some tequila. On me.”
Frank was not a big drinker, but he was cheap. The lure of free booze was too much to resist. Five shots of tequila later, Munro and Frank were best buddies. They found themselves on the beach, sitting on a sun lounger sharing a joint. Munro noticed that late at night, Playa Agua took on a seedier edge. From their lounger, Munro could see four prostitutes. They were standing close together at the edge of a pool of light given off by one of the beach road streetlights. It was light enough for any punters to see them, but not so light that they could be seen too well. Some things were best left unseen. They were tall for Venezuelans and all wore tiny mini skirts or hot pants, bras and little else. There was little doubt as to what they did for a living. Munro had good eyes and could see them perhaps more clearly than they would have liked. They had the hollow faces of women far older than their years. Despite the fact that they were dark skinned naturally, their skin was sallow and greasy, their faces hardened and twisted by years of drug abuse and violence. The combination of the skimpy outfits with the distorted faces was almost demonic. Just then a pink middle-aged man wearing shorts, socks and sandals approached the group. After a brief conversation, one of them led him off to a particularly dark corner of the beach.
Frank was expostulating on his theory of life.
“You ever read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance amigo?” he asked.
“Of course man, in India. An amazing book.”
“That book changed my life amigo. The thing with Zen is that it teaches us that we can only truly understand life and gain enlightenment through ….”
Munro stopped listening and rubbed his head. He could hold his drink and the tequila had not affected him nearly as much as it had Frank, but he could feel a headache coming on if he didn’t drink a lot of water very soon.
“I think we need to understand death to understand life Frank. Have you ever seen death Frank?”
“I saw that guy killed last month, yeah.”
“T
he English guy, you actually saw him get killed.” Munro hoped that Frank had not noticed the increased interest in his voice.
Frank paused. “No, I didn’t see him killed. But he was staying at Posada Limon. So dark man.”
Again Munro paused a beat and calmed his voice. “So what happened?”
Frank paused again, as if trying to clear a memory through the cobwebs of his addled brain. “I don’t know man, I was asleep and it happened late at night. Some people say that he was out drunk and started a fight with some locals in a bar,” Frank paused. Munro gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder and he went on. “A couple in the room next-door say they heard him shouting outside the guesthouse really late. They think he was chased by some bandidos who were coming to rob the posada. I don’t know man. All I know is I went to bed and he was alive and I wake up and he was dead. Bad karma.”
“What did the police say?”
“No se man, I stay away from policia. They find you with weed here, they put you away for years. Unless you have the cash to pay your way out.”
“Didn’t they talk to you?”
“No man. I stayed away from them. But they were all over the place for a couple of days, blocking roads, searching people. I flushed my weed down the toilet I was so scared. But then they left. All of them.”
“They left?”
“Yeah, they all just picked up and left. I heard they found out who did it, so they all went back to Porlamar.”
Frank went quiet, his eyes looked heavy. His head started to drop and jolt back involuntarily.
“It’s his girlfriend I feel sorry for,” said Frank, his eyes closed as if asleep.
Munro turned to him, completely alert now. “He had a girlfriend?”
“Si amigo, beautiful girl too.”
“What happened to her?”
“She split the night he was killed. No one know where she went. Such a cool girl man. Real bad karma…”
“What was her name Frank? Where did she go?” But it was too late, Frank had passed out. Munro left him asleep on the lounger, he doubted he had anything worth stealing on him and he didn’t look like the hookers’ type. It was late and Munro needed to sleep too.
At the roadside edge of the beach, the man on the motorbike called his boss.
7
Ten hours later and Munro was back at the Posada Limon.
He had woken up that morning refreshed. Whether it was the sea air or the exhaustion of travel he was not sure, but he had again slept well. A dreamless night’s sleep. Or not. He looked at his sheets, creased and ground into hundreds of mini-ridges. His top sheet still damp with sweat. Fragments of images began returning to him. The nightmares were still there, still inside him somewhere. He pushed the images away, took a deep breath and opened his bedroom door into the sharp Caribbean sun.
Mid-morning, the Posada Limon was empty. Munro walked into the small office by the gate that served as a reception. The man sitting at the desk did not look up when Munro came in.
“Hola, señor,” said Munro smiling.
The man ignored him. He seemed engrossed in his work on the computer, which Munro saw on closer inspection was a game of online patience. Munro pulled up the only available chair and sat down opposite him. He was squat, balding but with a ponytail. He had patchy stubble and a brand new Arsenal football shirt. The red and white shirt, a size too small for his bulk, was stained with what could have been sweat or possibly grease from his last meal. Munro tried again.
“Hola. Señor?”
The man continued to ignore him and actually turned away slightly, tapping intently on his mouse. Munro noticed that he had a brand new Swiss diving watch on. Munro looked left and then right. The posada was still empty. He leaned over and turned the computer monitor screen off. The man turned angrily but hesitated from turning it back on when he saw Munro
“Que pasa?”
“Hablas ingles?” asked Munro.
“Yes, I do,” replied the man. “What do you want? We have no rooms free.” The man had recovered his composure slightly and went to turn the monitor back on, but Munro grabbed his wrist before he could. He squeezed hard so he could get his attention, twisting slightly so that the man was pulled to one side. He lost his balance and came half off his chair.
“I don’t want a room señor,” said Munro releasing the man’s wrist. “If you don’t mind, I need some information. I believe a friend of mine was staying here a few weeks ago, but I am not sure. Would you mind if I checked the guest register?” Munro smiled at him, it was just a friendly inquiry.
The man had gone red, whether from the mild pain of having his wrist twisted or the humiliation of the situation, Munro could not tell.
He did not immediately reply but instead got back onto his chair and pushed himself away from the desk, outside of Munro’s immediate range.
“I cannot help you. The guest register is confidential,” he said reaching behind a filing cabinet.
Munro was around the desk and at the man in seconds. He kicked his right arm hard against the wall and saw a baseball bat drop to the floor. The man let out a high-pitched yelp and grabbed his damaged wrist with his other hand.
“Not clever,” observed Munro as he lifted the man up by his shirt and slammed him against the back wall, “not clever at all.”
The man looked at Munro, but said nothing.
“Nice shirt, are you an Arsenal fan?”
Munro leaned in towards him so that their faces were almost touching.
“Let me give you a choice,” he said gripping the man’s neck tight with his free hand. “You can either show me the guestbook, and I will give you twenty dollars. Or, you can not show me the guestbook and I can start to break each of your fingers until you do. It’s up to you. Your choice.”
The man said nothing. His face had gone puce as Munro’s grip was beginning to cut off his airflow. Munro let him drop into the corner of the room and kicked the chair away. Munro felt his instinct and training kicking back in: take out anyone, anything, hostile. Disable by any means necessary. Suddenly he checked himself, took a breath and stepped back. The man might have been hostile, but he wasn’t a threat. From his position crouching in the corner the man looked up at Munro.
“I call the police.”
Munro took another step towards him and crouched down so that their faces almost touched. Munro felt calmer now, which relieved him. He took one of the man’s hands again and held it in his, almost gently. When Munro spoke again, his tone was soft.
“Call the police, and I’ll get them to look into where you got that nice new football shirt and smart new watch. And until they arrive, you still have a choice. The guestbook and twenty dollars, or your fingers.” He tightened his grip on one of the man’s fingers, softly squeezing and bending it.
“So which is it going to be?” Munro pulled his head back slightly and looked at him intently with a gentle smile, all the while slowly increasing his grip on the man’s fingers. The man broke his stare and looked at Munro’s hands in confusion and fear.
“Fifty,” he whispered eventually.
After five minutes at the posada Munro walked back into his hotel room with a name: Anna Neuberg, Canadian, twenty nine. It had to be her. She was the only person who had checked in on the same day as Lipakos. Her details and Richard’s had been written in by the same person. Hers, judging from the careful female handwriting. The only address she had given was Vancouver, but she had also left a passport number.
Back at the hotel, Munro called Rudd.
“Munro old boy. What took you so long? Found any nice chicas yet?”
“Get a pen, I need you to trace someone for me.”
“Nice to hear from you too Jack. All is well here.”
Munro gave Rudd Anna Neuberg’s details.
“What do you want me to do with these?”
“She is – was - Richard Lipakos’s girlfriend. I think she saw something to do with his murder. She left town the night he was killed.”<
br />
“Finding a Canadian girl travelling through South America is not going to be easy.”
“I know, I am not expecting you to. But I need to know if she is either dead or has gone back to Canada. The Canadians should know that. Do you know anyone who could help us out?”
“I know a guy, Harris. Ex-CSIS.”
“A mounty?”
“CSIS. They’re Canada’s version of MI5. But he’s gone private like us. He might be able to help.”
“Fine, get onto it. Ms Stanfield said money no object, so feel free to grease his palms a bit.”
“Will do Jack. How’s la Isla Margarita?”
“It’s a bit of a hole to be honest. The poor man’s Caribbean. If I was Richard Lipakos I would have gone somewhere a bit nicer.”
“You think Ms Stanfield may have been on to something?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. This place gets pretty dodgy at night. Working theory is that he was robbed, girlfriend saw it, freaked out and left town. If we can get an ID off of her, maybe we can give that to the police and they can get the guys who did it.”
“Newspaper reports say they know who did it.”
“I know.”
“I‘ll call Harris now. It may take a while though.”
“As soon as, Rudd, as soon as.”
By the time Munro had finished speaking to Rudd, it was midday. The local police were probably having their siesta and Munro was not ready to talk to the FO representative yet. He hated bureaucrats, especially ones who got to sit behind a desk with a big coat of arms above them. It only served to make them even more insufferable. As for local South American police officers – Munro planned to wait until the evening before approaching them. They might be slightly more amenable after they had had a few ron y cocas.
All that left was the hotel. He would be taking lunch by the pool today.
8
Five hundred miles away, on the thirteenth floor of one of the skyscrapers in El Silencio, Caracas’ commercial district, a man took a call on his desk phone. The small office suite was empty, apart from him, and had a temporary air.
