“Hija de puta!” the taxi driver shouts at me.
Nick rushes toward me.
The taxi driver scurries away.
“You can take the girl out of Georgia,” he says, smiling and shaking his head.
I stop in front of him, sweating. My bag wobbles and falls. The handle strikes the sidewalk.
The last time we saw each other, Nick was leaving New York to join the LAPD. How did he get involved with the CIA? How long has he been in South America? Just what is going on?
“What are you doing here, Nick?”
“Not here,” he whispers. “Follow me.”
He lifts the bags and carries them.
I walk beside him, watching his thick arms flexing under the load. There’s a tattoo on his upper arm that I don’t remember. It’s black and spirals and lends him a modicum of danger. Must be new. The ink rises past the sleeve of his featherweight mesh shirt. His arms are dark from the sun and a braided, leather bracelet rests on his left wrist. I can’t decide if the accoutrement makes him appear more like a local or a tourist.
We pass a long line of Tico Taxis and early model Beetles. The passenger door to a 1970s Dodge Dart pops open. Half of the grill is missing and a headlight is smashed in. The vehicle was once black but spreading rust is morphing it into an unintended shade.
“Apúrate!” the driver shouts.
“Get in,” Nick tells me.
I give him and the car a second look before I climb into the backseat. The leather interior burns my hands. I’m glad I wore jeans.
Nick hops in the front, slaps the dash and yells, “Vamos!”
The engine cries out like a tortured seagull on the brink of death. We leave the tiny airport and drive along on a two-lane road that is currently being used as four. A banner spans the road with the words: MUNICIPALIDAD DEL CUSCO. Banners flank the road with gay pride colors.
“I didn’t know Peruvians were so progressive,” I jest.
Nick turns in the front seat. He’s now wearing a pair of black Ray-Bans and my heart flutters a little faster. Dark stubble marks his chin and face—rugged like the Andes.
“That’s the Cusco Flag,” he says. “You should have studied up on the culture before coming.”
“I would have except for the fact that I just found out about the assignment this morning.”
We continue along the main thoroughfare with the windows down. I feel as though I’ve entered Saigon after the fall. Buildings are crumbled into forgotten piles of brick and scattered dust. Large canvas tarps span over several rooftops. Even modern buildings have their sides exposed unabashed, as if their architects were restricted to designing only their façades.
The mountains rise around this satellite of third-world industrialism. Billboards dot the hillside. From the ads, I get the impression Coca-Cola holds a majority ownership of the city. Higher still, plywood shanties cling to sheer mud. Grey clouds rush over the cordillera and into the valley, and I wonder how these homes will not soon be washed into the city by a terrific mudslide.
Our driver strikes me as a local not just for his Spanish ethnicity, but moreover, by the way he drives. With perilous deft, he whizzes our clunker between trundling buses and past sputtering motorcycles. I brace myself and pump a phantom brake with every pass as the rushing air tousles my hair.
“Where’s the rest of the team?” I shout over the wind.
“You’re looking at it,” Nick answers. “This is José. He’s our local expert.”
“Please to meet you,” José says, turning to shake my hand as he continues flying down the busy, overcrowded road.
“Would you please just keep your eyes on the road!” I scream.
He turns back in time to careen around a truck loaded with workers returning home for the day. The main road, Velasco Astete, empties into a roundabout. 240 degrees later, we turn onto Av. 28 de Julio. These names are meaningless to me, but I log them into my memory like I’ve been trained to do.
“How long have you two been here?” I ask, trying to take my mind off José’s driving.
“About a month,” Nick answers. “José has lived here longer. He’s worked with us on some other assignments in South America.”
So this isn’t Nick’s first South American assignment. I’m slightly jealous, but at least one of us has some experience.
“I’m originally from Rio,” José says, now lighting a cigarette. Smoke whirls in the air current. I fan the smoke and cough. “Now I travel around and try to be helpful where I’m needed.”
It’s a typical CIA-evasive answer.
We turn off the main drag, shooting down an obscenely narrow, one-lane cobblestone alley. The sidewalk is packed with passersby. They’re so close I could reach out and touch them.
The Spanish may have conquered these lands five hundred years before, but their baroque mark is still on almost every stucco façade. Intricately carved wooden railings and balconies are placed on almost every dwelling. The structures all connect to one another, forming a single unified block, an island of stone resting along the busy thoroughfare.
After cutting through a few more back alleys, we stop outside a stately building. At first glance I can’t discern why it seems so out of place. Its architecture is right, but the stones are too recent and smooth to fool even a Georgia girl on the verge of cardiac arrest.
“This is the hotel,” José says. “We have to hurry. We’re blocking traffic.”
Nick jumps out of the front and pulls his seat forward. He offers his hand to help me out. When I take it, a familiar flutter occurs.
Maybe it’s the altitude.
When I get out the car, we both stare at one another. I can smell the woody sweat on his collar and nothing else.
He gestures toward the bags.
“I already have your room,” Nick tells me. “We can eat here and then go over everything tonight. I think it’s best if we lay low and not draw any attention to ourselves.”
“That’s fine.”
We enter the JW Marriott. There’s nothing modest about it. We pass through a cavernous lobby reminding me of a chancel inside a cathedral. Stone bricks form the floor, walls, and arched ceiling. A black-suited man with wire-rimmed spectacles nods to us. From the excessive use of arches and hidden, glowing orbs of light, the hotel almost pleads for historical authenticity.
We pass through a courtyard. Stilted arches form the cloister. The sun has receded beyond the tallest peaks and the alpenglow bathes the yard with serene hues of red and pink and yellow. As we pass through the opening, raindrops begin to patter the earth. We rush out of the elements and into a second wing of the hotel.
Nick passes me a keycard.
“I’m across the hall, and José is one down from you,” Nick says, opening a door in the middle of the hall. “Nice, isn’t it?”
I don’t care about the amenities. I collapse onto the bed. The short walk from the car has left me breathless. I inhale as deeply and as quickly as I can, but I struggle to find oxygen in the lean air. My heart races and there’s a hammering in my head. I start to panic. There’s nowhere to go. I’m eleven thousand feet above sea level with nothing but lanky air to breathe.
“Relax,” Nick says. “I have bottled oxygen if you need it, but it’s best if you can adjust on your own. It takes a day or two. Hold on. I’ll get you some tea.”
Nick returns with a ceramic cup of hot tea. Green leaves float at the surface.
I take a sip.
“It’s good,” I say. “What’s in it?”
Nick smiles. “Coca leaves.”
I laugh with him. Here I am in a foreign country, risking my life and limb to stamp out a drug I’m now casually drinking in a Western-owned hotel.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s quite different from the powder version. Supposedly it helps with altitude sickness. Or maybe it’s just a way to sell more tea to tourists.”
Knowing there’s bottled oxygen, I begin to relax. I glance around the room. If I ignored
what’s outside the window, I could be in any Manhattan high-rise readying myself for a Broadway musical.
“Do we know where Diego is staying?” I ask. “I wouldn’t want to run into him in the courtyard. This isn’t exactly a hotel that a waitress could afford to stay in.”
Nick sets my bags on the luggage rack. “He’s not staying in a hotel. Diego has a compound just outside of town.”
I think back to the photos. “Is that the one that looks like Vizcaya?”
“I think that might be a stretch, but yeah, that sounds like the one. I have all the intel. We can go over it later. Let’s wait for José and then we’ll go to dinner.”
“Fine, but first you have to tell me how you got into the CIA. I thought you were going out to California.”
“I did go out to California. I just didn’t join the LAPD. CI stuff.”
CI is bureaucratic lingo for counterintelligence.
“And how’s life in California?”
Nick shrugs. “Same as anywhere else, I guess. I’m hardly ever there anymore. I spend more time away than I do at home. That’s why I rent a small, one-bedroom apartment.”
“No Mrs. Price in your life?”
I watch Nick’s face tighten and I worry I’ve gone too far. We haven’t seen each other in years, and I’m talking as if we are still close friends.
“At one time. She left about a year ago. I don’t blame her. You know how this job is. She’d see me for a few weeks every couple of months and always wanted to know where I went and what I was doing, and every time I had to tell her I couldn’t talk about it. She started dating some movie producer and the divorce papers came shortly after. You?”
“No. For the same reasons.”
“At least you were smart enough to realize it.”
“Did you guys have any kids together?”
“Thankfully not. It was a pretty clean break. Or as clean as a divorce can be.”
There’s a knock at the door. Nick looks through the peephole and lets José inside.
We go to dinner at Pirqa, the hotel’s restaurant. I finish my coca tea as the waiter approaches. Feeling adventurous, I order the alpaca roast beef. We don’t discuss the assignment during dinner as guests are nearby.
Nick tells me the hotel is located in the heart of Cusco’s tourist district, a block away from the Cathedral of Santo Domingo and Plaza de Armas. I make a mental note to look up the landmarks in case I need something to talk to Diego about.
We eat and head back to our rooms. While Nick and I go over the details and logistics of the assignment, José leaves for a final stakeout of Diego’s compound to ensure he’s arrived.
Nick opens a laptop and brings up maps and aerial photos. “The fundraising event will be held at the Belmond Hotel Monasterio.”
“Where’s that?”
Nick points to a map on the screen. “About a quarter of a mile from here. It’s a straight shot down Calle San Agustin.”
“Where’s that?”
Nick laughs. “It’s the street we’re on. We’ve secured you a job at the event. Most of the other waitresses are regular employees at the hotel, but given the size of the gala, extras have been temporarily employed, so you won’t have to worry about being a fresh face. We’ll drop you off around a half past eight. The event will start at nine. We aren’t sure when Diego will arrive. José will be inside the courtyard with you posing as a guest. I’ll remain in the hotel.”
“Well, don’t you have the easy job? I can tell you’re in charge.”
“Normally I’d be outside the event in a van, but there’s nowhere to park on the street and the hotel’s parking lot will be teeming with Diego’s associates. We can’t take that kind of risk. Don’t worry. I’ll be able to hear everything, and I’ll remain in constant communication with you.”
Nick shows me several small devices. “This is a recording device that you’ll wear. It has a microphone that attaches to it that will transmit to José and me. You’ll also wear this earpiece so we can communicate with you. It can transmit up to about a mile so we have plenty of distance to work with. While it’s very hard to detect in your ear, we’ll ensure your hair is styled so that it covers the earpiece.”
“By the way, who’s going to do my hair and makeup? Bailey mentioned it would be someone from the team.”
Nick smiles. “José.”
“The driver!”
“Don’t judge. José is quite skilled with makeup and disguises. You’ll look great.”
A terrible image flashes before me.
Nick returns the devices to a small case.
“So what’s tomorrow night’s objective? Get Diego to fall in love with me and propose?”
“Diego? I don’t think the man is capable of love. He likes playthings. Be flirty and available. Act innocent and aloof. The goal is to get him interested in you enough that he wants to see you again. We won’t have another opportunity for you to speak to him, so you have to make an impression.”
My lack of Spanish should be the least of my concerns. “Nick, I’m not exactly the world’s greatest flirt. I’m going to act like a fool. I don’t even know how I got on this assignment.”
Nick places a hand on my thigh. “Flirting is subtle. You’ll do fine. That’s why I was so adamant when I recommended you for the job.”
“You recommended me?”
“Sure. I needed someone I could trust and a woman who could think quickly on her feet. I remember the way you carried yourself in New York. You were a pro then, and I’m sure you’ve only gotten better with time.”
I tilt my head and study Nick. The way I carried myself in New York should be all the reason not to have me on this assignment. I wonder if he has other motives for inviting me to Cusco. I can’t entertain those notions, though. Not now. I need to keep my mind clear. Dad has already gotten too much in the way.
“I almost got myself killed, Nick. I wouldn’t call that stellar undercover work.”
“It wasn’t your fault. The important thing is that you got yourself out of it alive.”
That’s one way to tell the story.
Back in the early days of our undercover work, when Nick and I were infiltrating Russian heroin dealers, I managed to network my way through Manhattan’s high society and made several small to medium purchases of heroin. None of these dealers were arrested since our intent was to nab the bigger fish. I eventually got my introduction to two Russian mobsters from a woman I befriended at a Halloween party on the Upper East Side. We arranged to meet in a hotel room. Nick and the rest of the law enforcement team waited and listened from an adjoining room. Everything was going well at first. Money and drugs exchanged hands. We were all about to leave when one of them said, “Hey, I know this girl. She’s a cop.” What happened next is a bit of a blur, but when they pulled out their Tokarev pistols, Nick crashed through the adjoining hotel door, tackled one of the mobsters, knocking this guy into the other Russian. A gun went off as I dove away from the bed; the slugs ricocheted off the far wall, missing me by less than a foot before NYPD and DEA stormed the room and disarmed the men.
“I think you were the one who got me out of that alive,” I say.
“But you had the good sense to move. Most people would have frozen up in that situation.” Nick starts to get up. “Trust your instincts and you’ll do fine. Study the intel for a few minutes but don’t overdo it. The best thing is that you’re rested and relaxed.”
An impossible request.
Nick leaves me with the pile of gadgets and intel. Years of undercover work have given me an almost photographic memory. After a few minutes of reading the documents on Diego and glancing through the pictures, I rehearse the main points in my head until I feel confident that I can recall them from memory alone.
I settle in and change into a comfy pair of all-white silk pajamas. I’ve worked on the road enough times to know there’s no better way to unwind after a long day of field work than to wrap my body in the soft, sexy feel of silk.
/> After lying on the bed to catch my breath, I decide a warm bath is in order. I start the water and begin to unbutton the silk top.
Someone knocks at the door.
I turn off the water and tiptoe to the peephole.
Nick.
I study him for a moment, taking in his soft eyes and handsome face. He’s holding a cup of tea. What a sweet guy. He glances around like he’s nervous. Keeping the chain latched to the door, I crack it open.
“Can I help you?”
Nick smiles. “Thought I’d bring you some tea and check up on you.”
“That’s very sweet of you. I was just getting ready to take a bath.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
“No, but I’m in my pajamas.”
I show Nick the sleeve of my gown.
“I’ll just leave the tea outside your door.”
Agh. Now I remember why everyone at the NYPD called him “straight-laced Nick”.
I shut the door, undo the chain, and open it.
Nick has already started down the hall.
“Nick! I was just kidding. I’m wearing more clothes than I was when you picked me up.”
While that’s true, my former attire didn’t show the hillock of my nipples. I hold the door for Nick, offering him what I hope is a cute smile.
“I think you skipped a few buttons,” he says, nodding at my chest.
Shoot! I’m absolutely mortified. Half my breasts are hanging out. Nick probably thinks I’m a whore. My hands race to button away my impropriety.
“Sorry, I was running the water when you knocked and I forgot—”
“You don’t need to apologize, Miranda. I should have called before coming over.”
He sets the tea on the nightstand. “You breathing okay?”
Not now that you’re around.
“Yes, I’m doing much better.”
“Great. Listen, the real reason I came over is because I just got a call from Langley. Bailey wants to pull you off of the assignment.”
“What? Why?”
Nick scratches the stubble on his face and tells me to sit.
“I just got here, Nick. Is it because I don’t speak Spanish?”
Reckless Page 2
