by Glen Carter
Jesus. Something crawled up Jack’s spine. What was it? The woman’s insane behaviour didn’t seem so insane anymore. Intuition? Maybe. His inner voice again. Jack spun around. Where were they? Still relaxing over cold beers back at the bar? Jack doubted it. He grabbed the rope and a moment later it snapped loose, freeing her leg. What now? Would he tell her, Sorry, thought you were someone else? No worries, she might say, then get up and walk back to the parade. Have a nice day.
Jack’s thoughts were shattered by the crack of a bullet. He flinched. Turned. The Russians were running towards them. Shooting at them. At him. What the hell? Jack waved at them. Stupidly, he thought, after Uri raised his arm and fired again. Killers?
Uri and Pavel were behemoths, and Dmitri’s better years were long gone. They were neither svelte nor fast, heavy-footed and sluggish as they pounded into the sand and rocks two hundred yards down the beach. This was a good thing, Jack thought, as he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up.
“You see now?” she shouted, running. Another bullet snapped at the rocks behind them. She was pulling Jack now, surprisingly hard, and after a few seconds they dove behind a flimsy wooden shed. Not much cover. A bullet splintered wood just above their heads.
“Shit!” Jack growled before yanking her into the open again. Fifteen yards at least to another alleyway. They crouched as they ran. Another bullet. It cleaved the air next to Jack’s head. Jesus. They were trying to kill him. He looked back in rage, wishing for a moment alone with his “old friend.”
Mercedes picked up the pace, frantically tugging Jack towards safety. “No time,” she said as if she’d read his mind.
They lunged into the alleyway opening. Thirty feet more until they reached the safety of the street and the crowd. Behind them Jack heard the Russians shouting, furious that their prey were getting away, were still breathing.
Jack’s heart sank. The crowd was gone, thinned to nearly nothing when they burst through the alleyway onto the sidewalk. Jack saw the tail end of a float disappearing around a corner up the street. Bad news. They’d have to move faster. Jack looked back and spotted the two brothers, weapons gripped in their meaty hands. They looked at Jack and sneered. Jack rubbed the sweat from his face and decided the Russians had a clear shot no matter which way they ran. They’d be cut down. With no time to figure it out, a bullet chipped pavement at Jack’s feet. He grabbed her arm and flung her towards the disappearing float, their feet pounding towards what remained of the parade, the crowd, and their dwindling chances for survival. Why were they shooting? Who was this woman? Jack knew he had to live to find out, and it was time to get the hell off this street.
They were running full out when an engine revved, careening behind them. Jack glanced back, at Seth’s grinning face behind the wheel of the Land Rover.
“Get in,” Seth screamed through the windshield.
Mercedes tried to pull away until she looked back and spotted the Russians in a dead run towards them, rapidly closing the distance. One of them raised his weapon to take aim.
Jack shoved her roughly into the back seat and jumped in beside Seth. Pollard gunned the engine and they vanished in a cloud of dirt and dust. Jack swung around to watch his new enemies grow smaller and smaller behind them. He gulped air loudly and whipped his head to the stranger in the back seat, daring her to fool with him any longer. “Now, like I said. Who are you?”
FIFTY-SEVEN
They didn’t look dangerous, but they’d been with the Russians and that alone was a good reason for Mercedes to want to jump from the car, though she knew she’d kill herself in the process, or at least hurt herself badly. For the moment she was alive. The Russians were apparently their enemies and that meant it was possible the two gringos were her allies.
They had already been to her hotel, where she grabbed her things. The one called Doyle had watched her like a hawk, and when they saw her car, the one from the video, the decision was made to dump the Land Rover. They took two weapons from a large black bag and then tossed it into the ocean.
The one driving was named Seth. Mercedes remembered where she’d seen him before, that day at the restaurant about a week ago. That day she’d also made the mistake of believing she could safely leave the motel. Seth was the one with the camera as she was leaving the parking lot. They were both watching her. Doyle was twisted in his seat with a red face and hardened eyes that refused to release her. Mercedes averted her eyes to the blur of passing landscape, the dusk clumping in shadows near the road and farther in where the forest thickened. Sunlight settled like brilliant slivers of gold leaf on distant hills. She was hungry and tired. If only she could travel back in time. She’d trade all the money in the world for a chance to correct the mistakes she’d made. Mistakes that had cost two lives already, one of them her dearest friend. Mercedes flashed her eyes. “You stare at me,” she said, folding her arms. “This is rude.”
“I’m waiting,” Jack replied.
The gringo had a deep soft voice that resonated with what Mercedes admitted was warmth. She didn’t know how much of it was schooled, how much was natural. He was very handsome except for the anger that lined his face, and his blue eyes were accusing and full of something that might have been hurt. Mercedes thought that under different circumstances she might have found him attractive.
“Mercedes. Mercedes Mendoza. Does this satisfy you?”
Jack shook his head. “Not nearly. Maybe you can start by telling me why my friends got so worked up over you back there.”
Mercedes looked past him, nonchalantly. “This is something to ask your amigos.”
“We’re not on speaking terms anymore,” Jack replied. “Apparently thanks to you.”
Mercedes continued to glare.
Jack was stunned by the similarity. She was a carbon copy of Kaitlin, a remarkable duplicate. Her face. Her colouring. Her voice. Strange to hear Kaitlin with a thick Spanish accent. Kaitlin was an only child, yet this woman could have been her twin. Jack had no idea what to make of it. He looked at Seth. “Doppelganger?”
Seth’s eyes shifted to the rear-view mirror. “They say we all have one.”
“Bloody strange to see. Look at the way she bites her lip. Doppelgangers don’t share nervous ticks, do they?”
Mercedes hissed something Jack didn’t understand.
Seth said something back. “She’s angry with us.”
Jack squared himself in his seat, quiet as he watched the passing landscape. There wasn’t much to look at. Trees and listless signs of civilization. Here and there a tractor or donkeys hauled a wagon piled high with some kind of harvest. Occasionally a farmer waved lazily as they sped by. No surprises yet. Good. Though Jack knew they’d have to quickly find a safe place to hunker down. Raspov was still out there, looking for them. Jack reached for a map.
“You are Jack and Seth.” The anger was momentarily absent from her voice.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Jack and Seth. Please to listen. I was watching the parade and you…you came after me. I thought you were killers so I ran. Then I fell and you – yes, you – assault me–”
“Wait a minute–”
“No. Excuse. Your ugly friends shoot at us. Then you pulled me away and into the street, and next you push me into your car.” Mercedes rubbed her shoulder.
“A Land Rover,” Seth corrected.
“A Land Rover…yes.” Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Anyway, here we are. You have kidnapped me, and I demand you release me.”
Jack rubbed his face, paused while he processed what she had said. “You forgot something,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” Mercedes folded her arms. “But please feel free to tell me what.”
“You said they were killers,” Jack said. “The Russians.”
“Of course they are killers! They tried to kill us.”
“Yeah. But you called them killers before they showed up on that beach. Before they started shooting. I grabbed you after you fell, remember? You sa
id I was with them, and you called them killers.”
“I am a good judge of these things,” Mercedes said. “And I think you and him,” Mercedes pointed at the back of Seth’s head, “are kidnappers.”
Jack looked at Seth, shook his head, and sighed loudly.
“Sorry, mate,” was all Pollard said. “She’s a dead ringer.”
“Good choice of words,” Jack said, the disillusionment showing in his face.
The dirt road was leading them nowhere, a destination Jack was now familiar with. How could he have been so stupid? Chasing shadows from the start. Trusting a gut feeling that, somehow, Kaitlin had survived the bombing. Pollard’s video had fit nicely into that fantasy. He should have known better, should have asked himself some basic questions first. Like, how in hell could she have survived? Why wouldn’t she want anyone to know? Jack realized now he had been a victim of his own grief, selfinspired folly.
“How far to Cartagena?”
Seth gave him a perplexed look. “What’s in Cartagena?”
“An airport,” Jack said. “A flight to Havana. Get Scoundrel the hell out of Cuban water before Raspov can stop me.” Jack knew there was a good chance the Cuban navy would be waiting for him anyway. Raspov could pick up a phone and within the hour, Scoundrel would be surrounded by armed guards.
A safer option would be to fly to Miami, wait for things to cool down a little and then fight for the return of his boat. Jack didn’t like the thought of abandoning Scoundrel, but at least he wouldn’t end up in a Cuban jail, or worse.
“We could be there by morning,” Seth told him. “But the rebels are pretty thick in this area, and they’re always looking for the big fish.”
Great, Jack thought. He wouldn’t get to decide about his boat because he was going to be shot or kidnapped by FARC rebels.
Mercedes was quiet in the back seat. Jack wondered about her too. He still couldn’t believe the similarities between the two women. He wanted to ask about her family, to find a thread that would tie her to Kaitlin. But this woman was clearly not interested in cooperating. Jack had no idea what game the Russians were playing, but thankfully this little adventure was over. At least that’s what Jack thought. Then Seth cursed and Jack saw the roadblock.
There were four of them, standing there smoking. Jack recognized the uniforms. Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia. When they saw the approaching car the FARC soldiers stomped out their cigarettes and pointed their AK-47s.
Mercedes gasped in the back seat. “Stop please. Turn. Stop now.”
Suicide, Jack knew. “Shut up,” he said between clenched teeth. He looked at Seth. “You know the drill.”
“Righto.”
It suddenly became harder to breathe. Jack felt his own heart, beating like a snare drum when he reached into his pocket.
Seth stopped the car.
The youngest rebel had to be no more than fifteen. Fresh recruit, Jack guessed, leftist drivel still a wonderful mystery to him. The oldest one looked like a veteran not much older. They were suddenly blinded by powerful flashlights, and for a second Jack wanted to shout at Seth to get the hell out of there. Before he had time to open his mouth both doors were ripped open and Jack felt the barrel of an AK at his temple.
They were ordered from the car. Rough hands jerked Seth and Jack into the night while Mercedes tried to sink into the shadows in the back seat. One of them yelled at her, then reached in and pulled her out. Smells of dried sweat on electrified air. Jack immediately recognized the ingredients of a massacre.
The rebels circled them. Whistling and grunting. Sizing them up, Jack thought. He waited for them to make the first move and hoped Mercedes wouldn’t do anything stupid.
One of the rebels held a hand out and Jack noticed the Rolex watch. Nice touch. Jack held up his press card. “Journalista,” he said. “Journalista.”
The rebel snatched the card. “Journalista?” The man looked at Jack and then the photo. “Access Hollywood? Maury? Gerry Springer? Transvestite priests?” He flung the credentials to the ground and stomped on them.
One of the others laughed but stopped abruptly when the soldier doing the talking shot him a look.
The air thickened. How much longer before the shooting started?
Seth kept his mouth shut even though one of them was rooting through his equipment bag at the back of the car. The camera alone was worth forty grand. The leader moved closer to Mercedes, sniffing the air.
Jack tensed.
The rebel brought his flashlight up and shone it directly on her face. He said something in rapid Spanish, words that jabbed at her.
Mercedes slapped him.
That got everyone’s attention. Rifles up. Safeties off. They were dead. Jack braced himself for the bullets while Seth whispered what he thought were his last words. “Not a good idea to strike the soldier, my lady.”
Mercedes stared at the soldier hard. Spit a mouthful of words that seemed to slice into him.
The rebel forced a laugh and then brought the flashlight closer. Mercedes spoke again, this time with exigency in her voice. The universal language of warning. Jack saw her steely squint and would have given anything to know what she was pulling.
The rebels searched her face, muttering among themselves.
Mercedes wasn’t backing down.
Seth looked at Jack questioningly.
Jack tilted his head slightly but said nothing. Whatever was going on, he was glad it was buying them time.
A full minute passed in silence, except for the sound of crickets and the flapping of powdery wings in the shaft of white from the rebel’s flashlight. He finally barked something at his men.
Jack was stunned by what happened next. The rebel soldiers backed off. Their leader muttered something that sounded crazily like an apology and lowered his light to the dirt. He bent down to retrieve Jack’s press card and handed it to him. “Grande cajones,” he quietly said to Jack.
Jack exhaled. He didn’t know if the soldier was referring to him, or Mercedes.
FIFTY-EIGHT
An hour later they pulled into the dirt parking lot of a rundown motel, an unimpressive flat span of rooms whose main source of ambient light was a neon sign that flickered “Vacancy.” There was an empty swimming pool that might never have held water, cracked and littered with green patio furniture.
Seth went into the office to pay for two rooms while Jack and Mercedes hunkered down in the car. They crouched lower in their seats when a couple of trucks turned in and parked next to them. Half a dozen men with hard hats tumbled out, talking and laughing. They dispersed to rooms without even looking in their direction.
The rooms reminded Jack of a place he once stayed in Kinshasa – lino floors worn in places to bare wood with a curtain the colour of a hunter’s vest. The furniture was vintage seventies.
Everyone breathed easier when Seth locked the door and Jack pulled the curtains. They both stared at Mercedes. Waited for her to say something.
When she didn’t, “Nice trick,” Jack said in amazement. “Whaddya call it?”
Mercedes forehead wrinkled. “Trick?”
Roadblocks like the one they ran into were a choke point for executions and kidnappings, especially for foreigners. Not to mention Mercedes had slapped the man. Nice. “What happened back there?”
Mercedes studied the ceiling, focusing on a large yellow stain that seemed to be migrating down a wall.
“The pig called me gringo whore.”
Brave woman, but a lousy explanation. The soldier had backed off. No roadside executions. The slap had suddenly turned him into a real gentleman, full of remorse. Jack pointed out the weaknesses in her reasoning.
“A man I know,” she explained. “At the roadblock the pig knew of him.”
“Powerful friend,” Jack said.
“Si.”
At that moment something occurred to Jack. The attention Kaitlin got when they’d arrived at the airport in Cartagena, the way the guy at the hotel kept looking
at her, and then at the restaurant. It was very possible Kaitlin was mistaken for Mercedes the minute they’d arrived in Colombia. Mercedes, who apparently kept company with a powerful friend. Maybe very public company that made her a familiar face around here.
They could have spent the better part of what remained of the night jousting with one another but Jack wasn’t in the mood. He went over to the television, the only thing in the room that wasn’t cracked or peeling. He bent down and saw the inputs for audio and video and then said to Seth, “Have you got adapter cables for the television?”
“Absolutely,” Seth replied.
It took him a few minutes to string cables from his camera to the television.
Jack removed a videotape from his knapsack and tossed it to him. “It’s cued.”
Seth shoved the tape in the camera and snapped it shut. He turned on the television and fiddled with some of the buttons on his camera.
Jack swigged from a bottle of water and turned to her. “I want you to meet someone.”
A second later the television screen came to life and Mercedes inhaled sharply. Kaitlin filled the screen. She was sitting in front of a floor-toceiling window with a million dollar view of the city. Off camera a voice said, “Sit up, Katie.”
“Sorry, George,” she said, straightening herself. “Forgot how tall Carlyle is.” Jack watched the tape glumly. Kaitlin was sitting in for the interview subject, the head of a large New York investment firm. They were covering the latest inflation numbers, the problem child of an overheated economy.
“Mic test,” the voice off camera said. George was checking light and sound, the camera angle.
“The increase in inflation signals a worrisome, but predictable trend,” Kaitlin recited from Jack’s script, never looking down. “The big investment firms are worried how the Federal Reserve will react to today’s numbers.”
Jack had showed the tape to Walter Carmichael, the VP of news. “She’s a natural. Camera loves her.” Kaitlin didn’t know it, but she’d just made her first audition tape.
