The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  “Who do I have to kill?” Al deadpanned.

  “See, that’s why I love you, Amor,” Carmen squealed. “You’re so funny!”

  “Yeah. I missed my calling.”

  “So you can make it?”

  Al looked at the clock over the TV. He had two hours. No problem. “I’ll be there. You want to fill me in now, or later?”

  “When you arrive,” Carmen said. “I need to make some calls to see if I can set everything up for tonight. I’ll see you when you get here...”

  “All right. Thanks, Carmen. Ciao.”

  “Ciao to you too, Amor...” Carmen hung up.

  Well what do you know. Maybe his luck was turning around. Eighteen jings, just when he needed it most! Ask and ye shall receive. He flipped open his Zippo and lit a Marlboro red, exhaling a satisfying cloud of smoke as he absently fondled his belly; which seemed to grow bigger by the day. At one time, he’d been somewhat of a lady-killer – piercing blue eyes, high cheekbones, a smirking self confidence that knocked the chiquitas dead. The years hadn’t been as kind to him as he might have hoped – actually, the years and a steady diet of alcohol and tobacco. But he still had some game, and he could always lose the weight.

  Maybe after this weekend he’d start working out.

  Anything was possible.

  ~ ~ ~

  Esperanza was a brothel with a difference. Situated in a colonial mansion on the outskirts of old town in Panama City, it aspired to a higher tone, a more select clientele, than the typical whorehouse. Red velvet draped the foyer and incense permeated the air, and instead of the typical squalid ambiance, an air of seedy refinement was the ethos within its walls.

  Carmen Ortega presided over the establishment with an iron fist in her proverbial velvet glove. Her girls were among the most attractive, and her prices the highest because she believed you got what you paid for. And the popularity of the venue vindicated her choices. There prevailed an appetite for a higher-end experience in the burgeoning city. As the money steadily gravitated to Panama, so too did the requirement for a platinum-level den of iniquity. Her customers came from all walks of life and no one was ever overtly excluded, though she unabashedly courted and catered to the well heeled, whether that meant new fast money from the drug trade, the established business-elite, or as in Al’s case, the embassy crowd. If any rowdy college kids wandered in, the prices shut down their party faster than any burly bouncer could.

  Carmen’s vision had been of a classy club with a veneer of sophistication, and when she’d happened across the dilapidated building in need of major refurbishment she’d known instantly that this was the place for her. Six months of round-the-clock construction had resulted in a kind of baroque Disneyland for horny men, where they weren’t just paying for a one hour roll in the hay, but rather an entree to a wonderland of possibilities.

  She was making a killing and she knew it was all in the packaging.

  A natural entrepreneur, Carmen had also become a discreet go-to source for solutions to mundane problems such as border crossings, smuggling, money laundering and the like. Her intricate network could get anyone anything – for a price. And because she avoided narcotics trafficking and murder-for-hire, she didn’t step on the more established operators’ trades, thus providing a complementary service rather than outright competition. This enabled her to leverage relationships and stay on good terms with the whole twisted web of conflicting networks in the region. Everyone needed a little help from friends sometimes and Carmen had a menu of necessary, but obscure, services that were lucrative, but not to a degree that anyone would want to muscle in and cut her out.

  Take her current project: a simple cook who had slipped on his paperwork and found himself experiencing a minor misunderstanding with local law enforcement. He’d been an occasional client of her place – maybe three times a year, likely birthdays or other special events – but was a decent sort in need of help, and with cash in hand. So what to do?

  Rather than charging him an exorbitant fee for a relatively straightforward service, Carmen had offered a solution to him for forty-five hundred dollars. That was a bargain for what she was offering: guaranteed safe passage to Colombia, escorted much of the way by a highly-regarded member of the diplomatic corps. Obviously, the cost would have been triple if he’d wanted to come the other direction – most questionable traffic tended to move north through Panama, not south – however, she avoided that trade; preferring to leave it to those who were more comfortable with the increased risk. So Carmen pocketed a grand, paid the border patrols near the rendezvous point a few hundred each to get busy for a few hours, and arranged for a guide to meet her client and get him into Colombia. No questions asked. And of course, the eighteen hundred for her friend Al to shepherd the client south ensured his trip would be uneventful and uninterrupted. Money well spent.

  It was a win-win deal for everyone. A nice little sideline to her prostitution business. She was owed many obligations by grateful clients on both sides of the border, and this provided a means to monetize her favor bank. And all for just a few phone calls. It was perfect.

  Ernesto sat in the downstairs bar, fortifying himself with Seven and Sevens as he waited for word he’d be departing that night. The bartender’s black slacks and tuxedo shirt, fitted with a black vest and bowtie, reinforced the formality of the room. There were worse places to kill time – the scenery was first rate; a steady stream of exceptionally beautiful young women in various stages of undress moving through the lounge, trolling for clients among the exclusively male patrons seated at the circular white marble tables. The gold brocade and velour trappings created an aura of quiet sophistication for the drinking gentlemen.

  At first he’d balked at the cost of getting across the border, but upon consideration he’d realized it was unlikely he’d find a more reasonable or dependable avenue. Carmen was top notch – he’d get his money’s worth – and at the end of the deal he’d still have almost $1500 left when he landed in Colombia; more than enough to support himself while he got a job in Bogota or Cali or Medellin.

  The price was steep, but it beat the hell out of rotting in prison for a year or two.

  That choice was no choice at all.

  Carmen presided over the scene like royalty, greeting new entrants and thanking departing customers. A striking brunette with an eerie resemblance to Salma Hayek, she wore a long, red silk sheath with a slit up the side that almost reached her hip – a suitably provocative yet elegant ensemble that somehow resonated with the decor. Carmen fancied herself the consummate hostess – her charms weren’t for sale; rather, she was the mistress of ceremonies.

  As Al entered the foyer, she waved and blew him a kiss, disengaging from the two men she’d been entertaining.

  “Alberto, Amor, welcome again. You look thirsty,” she said, smiling warmly.

  “It’s hotter than usual out. Easy to get parched with this weather,” he conceded. “And you look ravishing, as always.”

  “Let’s get you something cool to drink and slip upstairs to talk business.”

  “I like the way you think, Carmen,” he flirted, eying the bartender. He crossed the room in a few strides and ordered a double vodka tonic; easy on the ice and tonic.

  Carmen waited until he returned, tumbler in hand, and they climbed the curved stairway to a room at the far end of the third floor – all the other rooms had been converted to bedrooms but Carmen had reserved this suite as her office.

  “I have a friend who needs to get to Colombia in a hurry,” Carmen explained. “I’ve arranged everything – a guide will be waiting in the jungle to walk him over. The usual spot near Meriti. He’ll be there at 6 a.m..”

  “Brutal hours,” Al observed. “But should give us plenty of time. When do we leave, and what’s the traveler’s story?”

  “His name’s Ernesto – a cook who’s been unfairly accused of theft and has also lost his passport,” Carmen said. “A simple man with a problem. A Colombian who just wants to get home
.”

  Put that way, Al almost felt guilty accepting the $1800 Carmen was going to pay him. Almost. He downed his drink and rose to his feet, feeling better than he had all day. “Okay, so it’s an escort job. Fair enough.” Al paused. “I’ll be back at ten to meet him and give him the rundown. We should plan on leaving at eleven. Thanks for setting this up, Carmen. Couldn’t come at a better time.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to spend an hour here? I have some remarkable new arrivals…”

  “Thanks, but no. I need to grab my passport, gin up Ernesto’s paperwork and change into something more comfortable. I’ll take a rain check though,” Al promised.

  “Okay, mi Amor, it’s your loss. Don’t say I never offered,” she said, feigning offense.

  “If it were you, Carmen,” Al said softly, “I’d change my mind.”

  “Ah, Amor,” Carmen flirted. “If only it was a different time and place – you wouldn’t even have to ask.”

  This was a common theme in their interactions; a harmless diversion. Both enjoyed the banter, and neither took it seriously. Their relationship was far too lucrative to ruin business with anything personal.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Al asked. He’d need it for the document he had in mind.

  “Ernesto Sanchez, spelled like it sounds,” Carmen replied. “Sanchez might not be his real name, though,” she cautioned. “Here’s a photograph for the document you’ll need to create...” She placed a passport sized color headshot on the table – her digital camera and photo printing setup in the corner of the office came in handy for such assignments.

  “It’ll take me a few hours,” Al said. “I’ll see you at ten. Thanks again.”

  “De nada, Al, de nada.” Carmen waved her fingers at him. “Now come back downstairs with me – I’ll accompany you out. It’s a busy night so I have to be available to help the clients make smart choices. Otherwise I’d stay and chat with you forever, Amor.”

  Al understood. It was time to hit the road and get his stuff together. Carmen had money to make and the evening wasn’t getting any younger.

  Neither was he.

  They walked down the stairs, arms linked, Al playing the gallant courtier to Carmen’s regal descent.

  ~ ~ ~

  Al sat at his ancient computer and typed in Senor Sanchez’ name, then printed the document. It was pure bullshit but would suffice when the police decided to stop and check cars going towards the border, which they routinely did. Purporting to be a photocopy of the photo and signature pages of an American passport – the story being that he’d lost his original, which accounted for Ernesto being escorted by State Department personnel – it was pure invention; one of Al’s many sleights of hand he’d come up with for his little side business.

  Al knew from past experience he could bluster through by waving it around and leaning on his diplomatic passport. Truth was, very few folks were trying to slip from Panama to Colombia at night with a U.S. diplomat escorting them, which made his job all the easier; the scrutiny traveling south was typically lackadaisical. Other than a few routine traffic stops by bored, tired, disinterested policemen, they’d be golden.

  Getting near the border wasn’t that tough, but making it out of Panama and into Colombia was harder than it sounded, at least if you didn’t have the right paperwork and couldn’t travel in a legitimate manner. If you’d had a misunderstanding with law enforcement and couldn’t hop on a commercial airliner, there were only three options: boat, private plane, or foot.

  Cars and buses were out because there were no roads between the two countries, nor any rail service – just some of the densest jungle in the world. That created a natural, virtually impassable barrier to movement between South and Central America, which was where he and Carmen came in.

  Al ran the timeline in his head. Pick up Ernesto at ten, fill out the blanks in the bogus document, like birth date and physical characteristics, and then drive to Meteti – which would take almost all night. Ernesto then faced the hard and dangerous part – forty-four miles of jungle skirting the northern section of the infamous Darien Gap. Fortunately for Al, he didn’t do that part of the trip – his brief was to get the customer to the rendezvous point outside of Meteti, and his part of the transaction was done.

  There was no frigging way he’d have taken the job otherwise.

  Rightly considered one of the most dangerous areas on the planet, due to the drug smugglers’ rebel forces or armed militia – often one and the same – that controlled the area, you’d need to have a death wish to stray anywhere near the Gap. Normally, Al wouldn’t have ventured within fifty miles of it, however, Carmen’s contacts with the border shadow organizations ensured safe passage, at least to the rendezvous point. After that, Ernesto would be on his own with the guide Carmen had arranged and Al would return to his car, eighteen hundred dollars richer. He’d done the trip a dozen times and by now had full confidence in the arrangement – after all, he was still around to tell the story, so the system obviously worked.

  He didn’t envy this Ernesto character the next part of the trip. If you somehow managed to evade being shot to pieces by homicidal drug smugglers or bloodthirsty armed insurgents, you’d likely succumb to any number of toxic plants, insects or animals. It was the perfect place to disappear if you wanted to drop off the face of the earth, but in the absence of someone like Carmen’s guarantee of safe passage, trying to make it through was an imminent death sentence. Every year an occasional hiker would ignore the plentiful warnings and try his luck crossing the tangled, verdant expanse and inevitably disappear, never to be heard from again. Even the police were deathly afraid of that frontier, and wouldn’t approach even the perimeter.

  Not that Al cared – he was only playing glorified chauffeur as far as Meteti, and after going for an early morning hike, would be out of the deal. He understood his role; the police had checkpoints all along the southern part of the Transamerica highway, as the two lane strip of asphalt was self-importantly labeled, and unless one had, say, a diplomat for company, it could be difficult to make the last fifty miles. That was his value. Al had zero issues with ferrying a fugitive to the middle of nowhere as long as he got paid. Who was he to judge his fellow man? Carmen wouldn’t have helped a murderer or rapist, and anything less was just a question of local laws being bent. He’d been around long enough to understand that everyone made mistakes – his philosophy was: do the job and let God sort it out in the end.

  He inspected the document with satisfaction. This was the easiest money he’d ever make. Beat the hell out of roasting in his oven of an office, that was for sure.

  Chapter 8

  The rutted dirt runway glistened with dark mud following the constant afternoon showers. The private twin-prop plane struggled to maintain control as it came in to land. The pilot wrestled with the flaps, eventually straightening the craft and gliding to a slithering halt by a waiting late model Toyota Land Cruiser. A weary customs agent emerged from the small shack near the end of the landing strip and waved at the pilot. Don Tomas reflected on how relaxed crossing international borders could be when the local officials had gambling debts they needed to pay off. The pilot killed the engines, restoring the hushed quiet of the thick jungle on all sides of the clearing.

  The door of the Cessna opened and a small folding ladder descended gracefully from the fuselage, coming to rest on the waterlogged gravel. Two black-haired males in their late twenties followed the white-suited Don Tomas as he made his way towards the Toyota. The younger men, one tall, one stocky, scanned the surroundings and slipped into step on either side of the Don in a protective formation. The driver, who waited by the vehicle, stepped forward as they approached and hugged Don Tomas, enthusiastically shaking his hand in greeting. “Don Tomas. Always good to see you.”

  “Thank you, Cesar,” the Don replied, an easy smile complimenting his cherubic, yet forty year old face. “It’s good to be seen.”

  The stocky young man waved at the pilot.
After a few moments the props slowly turned as the starter fought to engage. After a splutter or two the engines roared to life, leaving a puff of black smoke hanging in the air as the plane taxied to the far end of the runway. The motors howled as the RPMs went into the redline. It leapt forward and within a matter of seconds was airborne, its wheels narrowly clearing the surrounding tree line.

  The tall man attended the passenger door for Don Tomas before getting in the back with his partner. Cesar took the wheel and started the engine. He opened the center console and extracted a small black nylon sack. He handed it to Don Tomas, who unzipped the bag and extracted three Glock 17 pistols, one of which he slipped into his jacket pocket, passing the remaining pair to his two younger bodyguards.

  “Gracias, Cesar. You did well,” Don Tomas said.

  “De nada, Don Tomas. Any time I can be of assistance, you know you only have to call,” Cesar replied. “And how long will you be with us this trip?”

  “Just for the weekend,” Don Tomas said. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow, about the same time. The pilot knows to arrive at seven.”

  Cesar frowned. “A very short trip indeed.”

  “Si. And how are things?” Don Tomas asked Cesar.

  “Ah, you know. Always the same. The police want more money every month. The politicians want more money every month. Everyone wants to do less for it,” Cesar complained as they navigated the road north.

  “It’s the same everywhere, Cesar.” Don Tomas raised an eyebrow. “And have you had any trouble with our associates here?”

  “No, it’s been business as usual. Seems like things have settled down since the last disagreements,” Cesar said cheerfully. “But I still don’t trust them.”

  “The only ones you can trust are family, and even then you have to sleep with one eye open.”

  The three men laughed at the Don’s dry observation, and when the mirth subsided Cesar said, “When the police stop us at the checkpoint ahead, let me handle it. There won’t be any trouble.”