The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  ~ ~ ~

  “We have a problem.” The voice on the phone was almost a whisper, and had a sibilant, reptilian quality that oozed latent menace.

  “Yes, sir. What is it?” Sam asked, eager to solve whatever problem had summoned the man on the other end of the line. Late night calls at home from Langley were almost unknown, and this operative wasn’t just anyone – so Sam viewed it as an opportunity to prove his worth.

  “We’ve had a complication on a little off-grid op in your backyard. We were sanitizing a safe house and had an item go missing. We believe it was pilfered.”

  “Can you send me the details, sir? Do you have any suspects?” If they had an idea of who might have taken whatever it was, this would be easy enough to fix.

  “You’ll have a full report waiting for you in your office. I can’t underscore enough how sensitive this item is, or how important it is we recover it immediately,” the voice continued.

  “I’ll get right on it in first thing in the morning,” Sam promised. “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Perhaps you should go in now,” the voice suggested. “Time is of the essence.”

  Sam glanced at his watch – it was three in the morning.

  On a Saturday.

  “Can you tell me anything about what I’m looking for?” Sam was curious about what could be so pressing.

  “It’s all in the report,” the voice continued. “We’re not sure who took it – there were a number of locals helping clear things at the site – so you’ll need to mobilize several teams.”

  That didn’t sound promising. Needles in haystacks came to mind. “Any G2 as to what the op was, sir?” It would help to at least understand what had been compromised.

  “That’s need to know. You don’t need to know. We just need the item recovered,” the voice cautioned.

  “I...I think I understand,” Sam said, who didn’t understand at all, but didn’t want to appear provincial.

  “Focus on locating the item. I’ll make arrangements to get someone down there within 24 hours to deal with any logistical issues.”

  Sam didn’t want anyone from headquarters banging around in his turf if he could help it. “I, err, there’s no need...I can handle whatever needs to be done from here,” he ventured.

  “Just find the item. I’ll handle everything from that point. You should probably head into the office now – time’s wasting.”

  Sam very nearly protested, but something inside advised against it. The caller wasn’t the sort to be trifled with. If he wanted to fly someone in to handle this messy situation maybe Sam really didn’t want to know anything more about it. The most prudent course at this point was to do as he was told, and go read the report before responding appropriately. “Yes, sir. Of course. I’m on my way,” Sam declared. “Whatever it is, I’m on it, sir.”

  “Good.” The line went dead.

  Sam regarded his wife, snoring rhythmically on her side of the bed, visions of opiate-friendly pixies no doubt dancing in her head. She hadn’t even registered the unusual conversation. Probably a blessing.

  He stifled a groan, stepped into his slippers and trudged to the bathroom. Whatever was going on it didn’t auger well for the caller to be so concerned about some ‘missing item’ of indeterminate origin and purpose. Something very serious must have happened. It was only an hour later in Washington, which meant the caller was awake at 4 a.m. on a weekend dealing with some mystery item gone walkies. That was definitely not standard operating procedure. Especially not for the man on the other end of the phone. This was as unusual as anything Sam had ever been involved in.

  It promised to be a very long morning.

  ~ ~ ~

  The sound of Shakira’s ‘Loca’ filled the small room, rousing Ernesto from his boozy slumber. Angel had already flown a few hours earlier; duties performed and with a cozy bed at home calling to her. He looked around the room until he spotted his shirt crumpled in a ball under a chair and stumbled over to it, retrieving his ringing cell phone in the process.

  “Hola,” Ernesto greeted.

  “Hola. Ernesto? It’s Miguel, from across the street,” a male voice said in Spanish.

  Who? He racked his brain for a few moments, trying to place the name. Oh, his neighbor Miguel. Of course. “Si, Miguel. How are you? What’s up?” Ernesto asked.

  “I don’t know, amigo,” Miguel said hurriedly. “But there are people in your house. They arrived a few minutes ago.”

  What? In his house? There had to be some sort of mistake. “What do you mean? What people?” Ernesto demanded.

  “It’s none of my business, man. But there are two Gringos, and a couple of police.”

  Ernesto stiffened. “Police?”

  “Si. The cops are sitting out by their truck and the Gringos are inside,” Miguel explained.

  “What are they doing?” Ernesto asked. “Can you see anything? Where’s Andres?” Andres was his roommate.

  “Let me get closer. Hey, it looks like they’re going through your stuff. Oh, and there’s Andres. One of the Gringos just took him out to the police truck.”

  What the hell? That wasn’t right. Why would the cops be standing around while a couple of Gringos ransacked his place? And what were they doing with Andres? He was completely harmless.

  “Miguel, go back inside your house. Try not to look suspicious. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, you don’t want to be involved.”

  “Yeah, okay, man. I don’t need no trouble. I just wanted to warn you...you know, in case...in case you needed to know,” Miguel hesitated. “Dude, you into anything dangerous? Is there anything you want me to do? They’re cuffing Andres...”

  Dangerous? Not good. Now his neighbor thought he was in the dope game. “No, Miguel. I don’t know what they want,” Ernesto said. Which was true.

  “Awright, I hope you figure it out. Good luck,” Miguel said, then hung up.

  A pair of Gringos in that neighborhood, escorted by the Policia? What would Gringos be looking for in his house? He didn’t have anything...

  Oh shit. The camera. They must have figured out he’d taken it. But how?

  Ernesto remained a little fuzzy from the night’s fiesta but the scenario wasn’t that hard to figure out. He’d been seen by the guy in the hall. And there were few other locals to choose from who worked at the villa and had the same access he did. Maybe there were security cameras in the room where the equipment had been stored? He hadn’t troubled to looked very closely, just acted instinctively.

  God, that had been stupid. Why on earth had he done it? It was just a spur of the moment, childish move. What had he been thinking?

  ~ ~ ~

  The two men went over every inch of the little cinderblock dwelling, methodically checking for any hiding places. There weren’t a lot of options, given that the walls and floor were concrete. The air inside the house was stifling – there were only a few small windows for ventilation with bent rebar over them – acting as security bars – and no air conditioning. The tiny, two bedroom house couldn’t have been over 300 square feet, with a pair of microscopic bedrooms, a primitive bathroom and a combination living room/dining room with a strip kitchen. After half an hour, they were done – the brains of the operation pulled out his cell phone and placed a call.

  “The place is clean,” he said. “Or at least, there’s no camera.”

  “What do you mean, at least?”

  “Well, it looks like our boy had sticky fingers. Probably a kleptomaniac, by the looks of it. We found a windbreaker, a bunch of utensils, some office supplies, about eighty pens and pencils, some small kitchen appliances, even a flashlight from the villa – but no camera,” he explained. “There’s a roommate here; doesn’t speak a word, but he seems terrified. Claims he hasn’t seen the cook since he left for work yesterday. I think I believe him.”

  “And there’s no sign of him? Just the roommate?”

  “Yup. Just him. Maybe we should park someone here to watch
the place? There’s a good chance he’ll come back – seems like everything these guys own is in the house, and that isn’t much. They’re about as dirt poor as you can imagine.”

  “Good idea. And have the cops bring the roommate in to grill him – no, better yet, tell them it’s a U.S. federal investigation involving the DEA and we’d be very obliged if they’d allow someone from our offices to question him.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you if there’s a problem. Doesn’t seem like there should be. Worst case, maybe we have to donate a few hundred bucks to the police retirement fund. I get the feeling they’ll play ball.”

  Sam hung up. It looked like they’d identified their perp. Now it was just a question of finding the guy. He’d just collected two weeks pay in cash, so it was likely he was off on a bender somewhere and would return once the money ran out. That was how they played. Almost like children. Couldn’t be trusted not to steal everything that wasn’t bolted down; they were even worse with their own money. Probably one of the reasons they stayed destitute instead of making something of themselves.

  Sam twitched his computer mouse to wake up his monitor and typed in a brief status report for Langley.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ernesto took a quick shower and hurriedly dressed, slicking back his hair with water. He had invited trouble; that much was obvious. He’d clearly stepped on the wrong toes by stealing the camcorder and they were taking it personally. Ernesto opened his backpack and fished around inside, retrieving the camera. It looked expensive; a Sony, like new. The dreadful realization hit him that, since they’d gone through the house they would know he’d been stealing things for years, so any chance of mercy was gone. Maybe if he’d been able to explain it away as poorly-advised angry impulse and returned the camera, they would have let him go. But now the police were involved to a point where they were willing to escort Gringos out to search his place. This was serious.

  Ernesto fought back a rising sense of panic. He couldn’t really resist pocketing items that weren’t his whenever the opportunity afforded – overtaken by a compulsion inherent since childhood – but he’d never imagined it would get him into any real trouble. But now it had, and in a big way. He cursed under his breath. Why did he do this shit? He never even sold any of the stuff he snagged. It was just automatic.

  To make matters worse, his passport had expired several months ago; so not only was he a serial thief, but also living illegally in the country. He didn’t know that much about how the law worked in Panama, but if it was anything like Colombia he could expect a long time in jail until he got to trial, followed by an even longer term once he was sentenced, especially since he’d also demonstrated complete disregard for Panama’s immigration rules.

  So what was he going to do?

  He couldn’t stay in Panama; it was simply a matter of time until they caught and imprisoned him. He’d never been in jail but the thought petrified him – jails were stark, miserable places back home and he had no reason to believe they were any better here. If only he knew how to sneak across the border into Colombia. Easier said than done, especially since he didn’t have a valid passport. Colombian officials would certainly not just take his word for it and let him back into the country. No, they’d turn him away at the border and force him to get a new passport at the consulate in Panama City, which would result in him going straight to jail because, the Panama side of the border would do a police check, and bam – on would go the cuffs.

  No matter how he sliced it, he was screwed.

  On the plus side, the crimes of theft and being an illegal alien were nowhere nearly as serious as rape or murder, so it was doubtful there would be a manhunt. After all, how much shit got stolen every day with nobody ever getting caught? Then again, how many times had he heard of Gringos ransacking a house while the cops stood watch? The only safe assumption was to expect the worst. He’d have to be very careful.

  Ernesto would never get another job in Panama without legal papers, so his future in the country was over. Plus, he wasn’t getting any younger. If there wasn’t a chance of better paying work for him in Panama he might as well return home and find employment there. The economy in Colombia had picked up a little since he’d left, and he did have some savings – so maybe all of this was a blessing...

  Shit. Savings. His money.

  Ernesto needed to visit the convenience store owner and get his cash before the day got much later. With a fat wad of hundreds, he had options. As things stood now, he was a sitting duck. As he considered his next move, a plan started to take shape in his head. It might cost him a bunch but he suspected he knew a way to get across to Colombia without any problems, leaving the stolen camera drama in Panama City.

  Maybe everything happened for a reason.

  Ernesto opened the door and stepped out into the muggy sunshine, backpack in tow. He made his way to the main road and waited for the bus. On weekends they only ran half as often so he figured he might be there for a while. His head ached from too little sleep and a too much alcohol, but it had been worth it. Traffic was sparse with not a single bus in sight. He continued down the road until he reached a small market, where he bought cookies and a soda. Breakfast of champions.

  Ernesto walked back to the opposite side of the thoroughfare and stood under a tree, sheltering himself from the unforgiving rays of the mid-day sun. Half an hour later, a bus groaned to a stop and he boarded. It was almost deserted, a far cry from the weekday throng. Settling into the worn bench seat, he realized this would be one of the last times he ever watched the scenery along this stretch of road go by. For eight years he’d been taking the ride automatically and now that was over for good. He didn’t have any regrets, especially as he sat roasting in the poorly ventilated old relic.

  After ten minutes he saw the familiar pink chicken shack on the opposite side of the road. He’d be at the villa road in a few more seconds. A siren screamed behind the bus, forcing it to lurch onto the shoulder at the side of the road, chilling Ernesto’s blood. How was it possible they’d caught him? How had they known he was on the bus?

  Two fire trucks roared by, horns blaring and lights flashing, and turned the corner onto the villa road. A police car screeched by and followed them. Ernesto let out his breath and peered through the dirty window as the bus rolled slowly by the turnoff. Clouds of black smoke wafted into the sky.

  From the exact place where the villa sat.

  There weren’t a lot of homes down that road – it was rural, and he knew its geography by heart. The closest house to the villa was a quarter mile away, right by the intersection. What on earth was going on? Curiosity clawed at him, and he almost yelled ‘stop’ to the driver so he could jump off the bus. Then his survival instinct kicked in. How smart would it be to rubberneck at the scene of his crime, surrounded by emergency vehicles – including police, with the stolen property still in his backpack?

  Not so smart.

  Besides, whatever had happened at the villa wasn’t his problem anymore. Ernesto’s only concern was now Ernesto. He remained seated, biding his time until he got to the outskirts of his barrio, where he descended from the bus and entered the neighborhood convenience store.

  Chapter 7

  Al sat on his couch in his underwear, munching on leftover Chinese food and watching a DVD he’d downloaded from a pirate site. He favored simple-minded action plots but this one was lowbrow even by his liberal standards. How did crap like this make it into production? He daydreamed about having written a hit screenplay based on his experiences in Desert Storm, savoring the seven figure bonus he’d been paid as an advance, and imagined the hot, young starlet who’d been cast as one of the leads. The poor thing had fallen head over heels for the enigmatic but brilliant author – no, make that author/producer. Their biggest annoyance were the Paparazzi, who would follow them around to the five star restaurants they regularly frequented, and the award ceremonies where he was routinely honored, and even on their private jet vacations to the islands...

&nb
sp; The cardboard carton leaked a viscous brown sauce onto his undershirt, startling him out of his fantasy and burning his stomach. He jumped to his feet. God damn, that hurt. He inspected the shirt. Ruined.

  Al carried the container to the kitchen before padding to the bathroom to turn on the shower. He’d managed to jury-rig the toilet into operation last night, and so far, so good. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – paunchy, out of shape, a good thirty pounds overweight.

  Okay, forty.

  Maybe it was the stained shirt that made him look fatter. Whatever. He knew he wasn’t in exhibition shape, by any means. Al peeled off his underwear and stepped into the shower, scrubbing at the sauce on his shirt with the remaining sliver of soap. His home phone interrupted this interlude. Dripping wet, he slipped and almost went down as he hurried out of the shower towards the telephone, tweaking his sacroiliac, which had only recently stopped throbbing from the twisting it had received during the calf cramp episode. The ringing stopped a second before he was able to pick up. Al stood, dripping water onto the floor of the living room, naked from the waist down, glaring at the evil handset in his hand. He flopped onto the bed, and hit redial. Music boomed in the background as the caller picked up.

  “Amor!” Carmen exclaimed. “I’m so glad I got you.”

  “It’s been a long time since a woman said anything like that to me.”

  “Oh, you. Listen, I have something I think you can help with. Are you busy tonight?”

  Al paused a moment, considering his soaked, semi-naked, Chinese food-stained state. “I think I can break away. What’s the deal?”

  “Eighteen hundred dollars if you can be here by seven p.m..”