The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  His phone rang, and he took a call from one of the other department heads; who wanted a meeting to go over some mind-numbingly tedious procedural issues. As the man babbled on and on, Sam felt his will to live being sucked through the phone. He eventually disengaged, and returned to considering the destruction of Al.

  There was a downside to all this he hadn’t immediately considered. It was possible Al had been killed when Richard’s team had terminated the cook. Sam doubted Al would have been trekking through the Darien Gap, but you couldn’t second-guess what a drunken idiot would do. That’s what made idiots dangerous. With smart people, you could calculate their next steps by discarding behavior that would be obviously harmful to them. Smart people avoided self-destruction whenever possible. But idiots were too stupid to compute how their actions might be dangerous to themselves, so they were far harder to predict.

  Sam thought it through. If the drawing was Al, which he now believed it was, and if Al had lost his mind and decided to play Tarzan with the cook, then he was as dead as Bin Laden by now. If he hadn’t been with the cook, then he was probably holed up in some gin joint or whorehouse on a bender, in which case he would turn up shortly and Sam would have someone question him.

  There was always the possibility that he was into something sinister and had gone to ground, but Sam couldn’t believe Al would be any part of a scheme that involved him as anything other than a mere pawn – the man was a zero, a zombie. He couldn’t be trusted to tie his own shoes.

  No, either the resemblance to the drawing was an eerie fluke, in which case Al would still catch shit for dereliction of duty over the last two days, or it was him, in which case he was intoxicated somewhere after collecting money for whatever he was involved in – or at the most remote end of the spectrum, he was blown to pieces in the Darien.

  But now Sam had another problem, and this one gave him pause. If Al was involved in whatever the cook had been involved in, then Richard would need to be informed, which would re-introduce a massive irritant back into Sam’s life. That was to be avoided if at all possible. Sam weighed his possible responses.

  What he’d do is wait and see what the police dragged in. If, as he suspected, Al was drunk out of his mind then Sam could get him into a cell at the embassy, and then he would call Richard, who could do his worst. That actually had some appeal for Sam. But if Al was dead, then there was no point in inviting Richard back into his life. Dead men stayed dead, and their secrets with them. In which case, Al would never be heard from again, Richard would never have any reason to look Sam’s way, and the world would continue to turn for Sam in peaceful rotation.

  As with most decisions, self-interest ruled the day for Sam.

  He’d wait and see before kicking the hornet’s nest.

  No matter what, though, Al was going to find himself in the middle of a shit-storm, unless he was already playing pat-a-cake with Satan in the seventh circle of hell.

  Chapter 27

  A loud banging at the hotel door woke Al. He bolted upright, startled by the clamor, unsure of his surroundings. Then it all came back to him. Colombia. Gun battles. Grenade attacks. Burros.

  He padded gingerly over to the door and cautiously opened it. A maid, all of five feet tall, stood defiantly at the door, mop in hand. She pointed at her watch and looked around Al and into the room. Disapproval was evident on her face.

  Al told her he would be staying one more day, and to go away, please. His Spanish was adequate for the job – she apparently understood. She glanced one last time into Al’s lodgings and then moved down the hall to the next room. He closed the door and surveyed his surroundings.

  He’d obviously slept in his clothes. Again. That was evident from the smell, as well as the fact he was wearing them. The rum bottle rested on the small hotel table with a few fingers remaining in the bottom. That explained why his head felt like he’d gone ten rounds with Tyson.

  Al stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, emptying his pockets onto the small glass shelf above the sink. He entered the hissing stream of water fully clothed. He soaped his shirt, then his pants, and after removing them, did the same for his underwear. The process took ten minutes. His feet felt like he’d been dancing on razor blades.

  He dried off and set about washing his socks in the sink; noting that they were good for maybe one more wearing before it was time for new ones. Al ruefully studied his reflection – not only did he have the trademark bloodshot hangover eyes, but he was almost beet red from sunburn and sported three days of stubbly growth on his face. He’d seen homeless men who looked better, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it right now. Al considered shaving, then dismissed it, choosing to instead splash water on his cheeks and call it a day.

  Morning ablutions over, he donned his wet underwear, wrung out his clothes, and set them out on the little porch facing the beach, spread on his chair. They’d dry in a matter of minutes in the harsh tropical sun.

  His watch said it was noon. Tuesday.

  So here he was, in bumfuck Colombia with no idea how he was going to get back to Panama, nor who was chasing him, nor why – assuming anyone was still doing so and the entire affair hadn’t ended with the aerial strike in the middle of the jungle. Al thought that most likely – after all, ‘they’ had been after the cook and they’d gotten him in a resoundingly final way. Game over.

  His head pounded in time with his heart. He lit his first cigarette of the day and reached over to pick up the hotel phone. The reception desk answered.

  “Bueno,” a female voice said.

  “Si, hello. This is senor Alberto in room 301,” Al explained. “I’ve decided to stay another night. I hope you can accommodate me a little longer…”

  “Fine, sir. I’ll make a note of it,” the receptionist said.

  That out of the way, he needed to figure out how he was going to proceed from here. The obvious place to start was with the person who’d gotten him involved in all this to begin with.

  He picked up the phone again and spoke with the receptionist, giving her a Panama number and asking to be connected. The girl told him it would be just a few moments.

  Ernesto’s backpack started vibrating and emanated a lively salsa tune. Al walked over and rooted around in it, retrieving a little pink cell phone. Great. He hung up the hotel phone, and sat on the bed, staring at the cell in disbelief.

  Apparently Ernesto had very sticky fingers indeed. This was Carmen’s cell phone, presumably lifted from her office when the commotion had kicked off. Which meant Al had no way of getting in touch with her – he only had her mobile number.

  Nice work, Ernesto.

  He considered who else he could call, but noticed the cell phone wouldn’t be a whole lot of good to him as the low battery icon was blinking. Too bad Ernesto hadn’t considered stealing a charger while he was at it. Al figured he might as well give it a try, though, and entered his own cell phone number from memory. A Spanish recording came on advising him the number he’d dialed wasn’t in service – a result of his not dialing the area code and country code. He tried again with the country code, and went into voice mail.

  Three messages, the first two from Sam. Second one sounded strident. Al wondered what Sam was in such a rush to discuss with him. The third message was from his secretary, asking him to contact the office ASAP, and that Sam Wakefield had called, requesting he call immediately.

  Al jotted down the number and checked the battery indicator. It showed dead. He hoped it would last just a little longer. He dialed Sam’s cell number, and he picked up on the third ring.

  “Wakefield.”

  “Sam, it’s Al. You called?” Al figured he’d start out soft and then ask him for help once he found out what Sam wanted.

  “Al! Jesus. You’re...” Sam almost blurted ‘alive’ but caught himself. “…you’re not in your office. Are you okay?”

  Sam sounded weird. What else was new? Sam was weird.

  “Yeah, well, some shit happened so
I haven’t been able to make it in yet,” Al said.

  “Shit? Like what? Where are you?” Sam quickly asked.

  “Dude, you’re never going to believe it,” Al said. “It’s been a really terrible couple of days. I need to ask you a favor,” he continued.

  “Absolutely, Al. Just name it. You need me to come get you out of a jam or something? Where are you?” Sam offered, asking again.

  “It may be harder than you think, Sam. I’m in Colombia and I need you to get me back into Panama and let me stay somewhere safe until I can figure out what the hell is going on. I’ve been shot at, bombed, chased – you name it,” Al blurted.

  “Colombia! How did you get there?”

  “Don’t ask.” The phone beeped, and then went dead.

  Shit. Didn’t that just figure.

  Al tossed the phone into his satchel with a curse. That had gone about as well as everything else had lately. He went out onto the terrace and checked on his clothes. They were dry, or at least dry enough. Al dutifully smeared ointment on his feet and got dressed.

  He picked up the hotel phone and ordered room service again – more fish and more cold beer. He hadn’t gotten sick last night so the fish was probably safe to eat while he planned his next step.

  First thing, Al wanted to slip away from the hotel after lunch, preferably unseen, so he could avoid having to pay for his room service meals or any late checkout charges. Why blow a bunch of money when he was a man of limited means? He contemplated how to most easily execute this and realized it wouldn’t be simple – he had to walk past the reception desk to leave the hotel. So the best way to handle it would be through stealth and misdirection. Al was good at that.

  He stuffed Ernesto’s video camera and hygiene kit into his satchel and left the rest of the cook’s crap in the man’s battered backpack. Having removed everything of value, he could abandon the bag there, lulling the hotel into a feeling of security. He tossed a few of Ernesto’s clothing items around the room to suggest it was still occupied and put the backpack in a prominent position on the bed. It looked like Al wasn’t going anywhere today. Perfect.

  A knock at the door announced that room service had arrived. He opened for the waiting bellman, and in came the food. Al signed for it, generously adding a large tip to be covered later. The bellman thanked him and glanced around, asking Al’s permission to take the prior night’s dinner tray.

  Once the man departed Al wolfed down the salty fish and finished the rum, along with the beers. Now we were talking. He felt like a new man, or at least a slightly less used one.

  His watch beeped one o’clock – time to move on. He hoped there was a pay phone somewhere in the tiny village. The first order of business would be to find it and call Sam back – his clandestine contacts were Al’s best shot at getting back into Panama and staying safe. He gathered his things and put the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. His nerves had settled now that he’d had enough alcohol to chase away the morning scaries, and he liked his odds of bluffing his way past the receptionist.

  Show time.

  Al walked down the stairs, still limping a bit, and spontaneously decided to tackle the front desk head on. He approached the clerk and asked where the nearest market was. The clerk hesitantly gave him directions before Al cut him off; instructing the clerk to have his room made up and cleaned while he was out, and to please give him two bars of soap this time instead of just one; it was inconvenient to share the same bar between the basin and shower. Al told him that he’d be back within an hour, and there’d be a tip if it was done by the time he returned.

  The man apologized for the soap confusion and told him that of course he would see to it that the room was cleaned and appropriately outfitted.

  Al made his way out of the hotel and down the dirt road in the direction of the market. People were so incredibly gullible. It was practically a lock that the clerk would scramble to make things right. Thanks for the free fish and brews, suckers, he thought, then some unfamiliar part of him immediately regretted his insult – maybe he was going soft or afraid that karma would bite him on the ass…

  He limped around a bend, picking up the pace as he spotted the market, if you could call it that. More like the local outhouse with a cash register. A group of the more listless natives loitered casually in front of it, watching the world go by as they passed a bottle around. Oh well, he rationalized. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  He hoped they sold cold beer.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sam’s heart pounded and his thoughts raced in all directions after the phone in his hand went dead.

  Al was alive. But in Colombia.

  That was a disaster.

  Then again, it sounded like he didn’t suspect anything, at least not on Sam’s end – potentially a huge advantage; one that he hoped he could use to lure him somewhere they could grab him.

  He hated to, but he knew it was time to call Richard. The thought of the man’s voice, even over the phone, sent chills up Sam’s spine. But he had no choice.

  Or did he?

  Was there some way he could pull a rabbit out of a hat, and bring Al in on his own? As long as he had his trust, it was plausible.

  Sam considered his last attempt at doing something on the sly.

  That hadn’t ended well.

  No, in the end this was Richard’s operation so Al was his problem, not Sam’s. Much as he disliked dealing with him, it was better to hand it off to Richard than wait around and jeopardize things further.

  He called the secure Langley number and was told Richard was unavailable. That figured. It was just like the dismissive A-hole to blow him off. Sam left his number, told the disembodied voice on the other end of the line it was urgent, and hung up.

  He’d done his best.

  There was little else he could do except arrange for a bulletin to go out via the Colombian police so Al would have a hard time moving around.

  Sam drafted another memo and sent it off. It would take a while, but once his counterpart in Colombia got the word out, at least they had a shot that Al would get picked up by the local cops. It was the only thing he could do until he heard back from Richard – or until Al called again.

  Chapter 28

  Al relished his bottle of Bavarian beer as he trudged slowly down the beachfront dirt road. The beer wasn’t icy cold, though cool enough to afford him relief in the muggy heat.

  The downside to his foray so far, besides lightning bolts of pain in his feet with each step, was that the only pay phone in the tiny fishing village was broken. Probably had been for a year, by the looks of it.

  Clearly, Capurgana had been abandoned by the tourist crowds. It was dirt poor, with not a whole lot to it other than a few lackluster hotels, a passable beach and the persistent odor of fish; Al quickly realized he would need to get to a more developed area to have any serious options. Rural was a wildly charitable descriptor for the small hamlet, and Al almost pitied Ed if he’d hung around to try his luck with the local burro talent, or whatever sexy lady donkeys were called in these parts.

  Trudging farther down the road from the market, he came upon a group of dilapidated fishing boats landed halfway up the beach. Little more than elongated rowboats with ancient outboard motors. Al meandered over to the first vessel, which was tied to a palm tree. In Spanish, Al asked the man who was leaning against the tree about renting it to take him to the nearest real town. The old fisherman laughed and asked which metropolis Al had in mind.

  Al withdrew his handheld GPS from his satchel, powered it up, and zoomed-out the map. Acandi was only about ten miles down the coast, but there were no roads from Acandi to anywhere else, so while larger than Capurgana it didn’t really do anything in terms of improving Al’s transportation choices. Across the gulf was Necocli, and further south, Turbo.

  Al asked the man about the three possible destinations. The old man cackled again. He sized Al up, and told him that in one of these boats there was little chance of anyone wanting to
go to Necocli because the seas kicked up and got snotty in the afternoon. Forty miles across open sea to Necocli might have seemed benign on a map, but it was a possible death sentence in a small fishing boat if the weather turned ugly.

  After some back and forth, the man offered to take him to Acandi for twenty dollars, and if the seas stayed mild on the way there, to continue to Turbo for fifty dollars. Al asked him why so much to go to Turbo, and he explained it was almost sixty miles by sea, taking three hours in his boat, which he insisted was the finest in the area. Al regarded it skeptically – it was maybe thirty-five feet long and five feet wide, with a single large outboard motor and a deteriorating strip of canvas mounted overhead to shield the occupants from the worst of the sun.

  Al hesitated, and the man pointed out that he would have to spend the night in Turbo, sleeping anchored in the harbor, so Al was really paying for a round trip for the boat plus a hard night on the hook, even though Al would only be going one way.

  Al didn’t feel like he had a lot of negotiating room given the hotel would be looking for him soon. He’d saved twenty bucks on the meals, so he figured he might as well try his luck on a boat ride. He shook hands with the ancient mariner – who introduced himself as Adrian – and reiterated that if possible he’d rather go to Turbo. Adrian rolled his eyes skyward and motioned at the horizon. If the fates wanted it, they’d go. If not, it was a forty-five minute trip to Acandi.

  Adrian untied the boat and Al helped him push it completely into the surf. Al climbed in, the salt water burning his feet as he did so. Adrian jumped from the beach onto the bow, climbing nimbly around Al to the rear. The outboard started with a single pull, which Al interpreted as an auspicious sign, and then they were off, cutting through the small waves at a rapid clip. Al sat in the middle of the boat’s length, his weight acting as a natural leveling mechanism, offsetting the tendency of the bow to lift at speed. Thankfully the water was relatively flat – Al was prone to motion sickness – especially seasickness.