by Stuart Woods
Cat looked and saw what looked like a large metal cylinder lying on its side. “I hope it’s not a water tank,” he said.
Bluey made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn to lose some altitude, then lined up with the dirt runway and let the airplane glide toward it. When he was sure they had it made, he lowered the gear and some flaps, and the airspeed came down to seventy knots. “Picture-book approach!” he chortled. They landed smoothly enough, and Cat marveled at how quiet it was with no engine. The runway was rough, but passable. Bluey let the airplane roll until it came to a stop on its own. Ahead of them about fifty feet, just off the strip, was what looked like about a five-hundred-gallon tank set on a wooden cradle about ten feet off the ground. “That’s fuel,” Bluey said, pointing. “Look, there’s a hose. Quick, let’s get the airplane over there.”
They scrambled out of the airplane and began pushing on the wing struts. The aircraft moved slowly across the pebble-strewn dirt strip. Cat looked around but saw only a shack with a tin roof about fifty yards on the other side of the tank. Was it really a fuel tank? Was there anything in it?
Finally, they were within reach of the hose. As Bluey ran for it Cat saw some letters roughly painted on the side of the tank: 100LL. It was aviation fuel.
“Quick!” Bluey whispered, glancing at the shed. “There’s a collapsible stepladder in the luggage compartment with the auxiliary fuel tank. Get it, and be quiet about it! If there’s anybody sleeping in that shed, I don’t want to wake them.”
Cat ran around the airplane, opened the compartment, and found the little stepladder. He ran back to the right wing, set up the ladder and stood on it, taking the fuel hose from Bluey. He got the tank open and the nozzle inside.
“It’s not even locked,” Bluey said in a loud whisper.
Cat squeezed the handle and fuel began to flow. The tank was about half full when Bluey tugged at his trouser leg.
“Get down from there; get the shotgun and cover me.”
Cat looked over his shoulder and saw four sleepy-looking Indians approaching them from the direction of the shack. Three of them had pistols. The fourth was wielding a light submachine gun. Quickly, he got the cap back on the fuel tank and jumped down.
“Give me some money,” Bluey said hoarsely.
Cat dug into his shoulder holster and snatched out a bunch of fresh, new hundred-dollar bills. He gave them to Bluey, tossed the collapsible stepladder into the airplane, and grabbed the shotgun. He stood under the wing, his feet apart, with the weapon held at a stiff port arms, and tried to look calm.
“Amigos,” Bluey cried out, waving to the men. They stopped, and one of them began to talk rapidly. He stopped.
“What’s he saying?” Cat asked out of a corner of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” Bluey said, “but he’s pretty mad.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You said you speak Spanish!”
Bluey shook his head. “Yeah, but this is some kind of dialect.”
The Indian started talking again, and the man with the submachine gun cocked it ominously. Cat, somewhat to his surprise, worked the pump of the shotgun noisily. The four men all stepped back, staring at it. Bluey had said it was scary.
Bluey stepped forward and held up a hundred-dollar bill. The Indian stopped talking, then waved him forward. Bluey began to speak in Spanish, smiling, waving the money. Cat heard the word “amigos” used several times. The Indians were glancing at each other.
Bluey called over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the men, “How much fuel did you get into the tank?”
“Maybe half full,” Cat called back.
Bluey continued to talk. Now he was peeling off hundreds, counting loudly in Spanish. One of the Indians stepped forward, nodding, and took the money. The man with the submachine gun still looked threatening.
Bluey turned and began to walk toward the airplane. “Just keep standing there with the shotgun,” he called to Cat. “I’m going to turn the airplane around, then we’ll get the hell out of hero.” He walked to the rear of the plane, pushed down on the horizontal stabilizer, lifting the nose-wheel off the ground, and spun the airplane on its axis. When it was pointing down the runway again, he began to climb inside. “When the engine starts, get your ass in here,” he called to Cat.
“Right,” Cat replied. A moment later the engine cranked, then fired. Cat, half backing, made his way around the airplane, waving and smiling at the four Indians. They remained impassive and suspicious. Cat leapt into the airplane, and it started to move.
“No time for a run-up,” Bluey said, shoving the throttle to the firewall. “Here we go. I hope those bastards don’t start shooting.”
The airplane rolled down the short strip, picked up speed, and lifted easily into the air, lightened by its lessened fuel. Cat let out a long sigh.
“Okay,” Bluey said, “we’ve got a little more than an hour of fuel. Let’s find Idlewild. Bravo One, this is Bravo Two.”
To Cat’s astonishment, a voice immediately said, “Bravo Two, this is Bravo One. How far out are you?”
Bluey let out a whoop. “Stand by,” he said into the radio.
He pushed a button on the loran, and it came to life. “Bearing one three five degrees, distance twenty-two miles,” he said into the radio. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Exactly how late are you?” the voice asked, suspiciously.
Bluey glanced at his watch. “Thirty-one minutes,” he replied.
There was a pause, then: “Right, you’re cleared to land, Bravo Two,” the voice said.
Bluey and Cat looked at each other.
“Does that mean we won’t get shot at?” Cat asked.
“Looks that way,” Bluey grinned.
Five minutes later, Bluey pointed dead ahead. “Field in sight!” he shouted.
Cat looked at the long strip of dirt ahead of them and smiled weakly. “How much was the fuel?” he asked.
“A thousand bucks,” Bluey said, dropping the landing gear and lowering the flaps. “Do you mind?”
“A bargain,” Cat said, and meant it.
11
A MAN WAVED THEM TO A PARKING PLACE ALONGSIDE HALF A dozen other aircraft—a DC-3 and some light twins. They turned the airplane and pushed it backward under a camouflage net. Cat was surprised to find himself on pavement. The airstrip was evidently covered by a thin layer of dirt, and not by nature’s design. As Cat watched, a small house on a trailer was hauled into the middle of the runway, and brush was placed in other strategic places.
“Makes it hard to spot from the air,” Bluey said. “They don’t uncover unless they’re expecting you, and anybody else who tried to land would have to run right through the house.” He led the way to a low building under more camouflage netting. Inside, a man at a desk looked up. He was at least seventy, skinny with a thin, white beard.
“Bluey,” he said. He looked as if nothing could surprise him. “What do you need?”
“Hi, Mac.” Bluey flopped down in a rickety chair and gazed at the ceiling fan whirling above him. “Fuel, a car for a couple days, some stamps on my papers.”
“How much fuel?”
“Just the wing tanks. About eighty gallons, I guess.”
“A grand in advance, and five grand deposit on the car. You can make your own deal on the stamps.” He picked up a microphone and said something in Spanish. His voice boomed across the strip over loudspeakers. “There’s a capitán around somewhere.”
Bluey peeled off most of the rest of the money Cat had given him. “Right. What kind of car?”
Mac tossed him some keys. “There’s a newish Bronco outside. You bend it, you buy it, and it’s expensive.”
“Right.”
The door opened and a uniformed Colombian police officer came in. Cat tensed, but Bluey stood up, shook his hand, and held a brief conversation in Spanish. There was some bargaining, and Bluey turned to Cat. “Give me a couple thousand.”
Cat handed him another wad of bills
. Bluey produced the airplane’s papers. The policeman opened a briefcase, stamped the documents in several places, then made out a lengthy form, occasionally asking Bluey questions. Cat thought he heard a reference to passports, and Bluey shook his head. Cat produced his Ellis passport and Bluey’s, and the man blithely stamped them, hardly looking at them before returning them to Cat. He had been paid, and he couldn’t care less whose passports they were. Bluey looked puzzled but paid the man without comment.
“Come on,” Bluey said when the policeman had gone, “let’s get our gear into the car and get out of here.”
Cat handed Bluey his passport. “A little present from Carlos.”
Bluey looked at it and laughed. “Oh, he’s wonderful, he is. I’ve been travelling in Europe these past couple of years, according to this. I’ll bet he told you not to give it to me until you had to.”
“He did.”
“Ever cautious, Carlos.” He looked at Cat quizzically. “Why now, then?”
Cat returned his gaze. “Because I think I can trust you.”
“Thanks, mate,” Bluey said. “Feels nice to be legal again. Now both our passports and the airplane have been cleared through Cartagena, all perfectly legal, thanks to that bloody bent copper back there. We can go anywhere in Colombia, and no sweat.” They walked back into the little office.
“How long you tying down, Bluey?” Mac asked.
“Just a couple days.”
“It’s a hundred a day. You can pay when you leave. You need any work done on the bird?”
“Nah, she’s fine. I’d like it if she was in one piece when I get back. Tell me, Mac, is Florio still working out of the Excelsior in Riohacha?”
Now Mac had found something to look surprised about. “You changing your habits, Bluey?”
“I wouldn’t be down here in a light single.”
“Yeah, he’s still there. Don’t show him any money, though, not until he’s showed you something.”
“Too right. Thanks.”
In the car, Bluey produced a road map. “We’re here, near the thumb of this mitten-shaped peninsula, about thirty miles inland. We’ll drive down to Riohacha, on the coast, and nose around a bit.”
“Why not just go on to Santa Marta?” Cat asked. “It’s early and it doesn’t seem all that far.” He pointed to the town and measured the distance against the scale. “About two hundred and fifty miles.”
“Before we start doing detective work down there, I want to feel around out here in the Guajira a bit, see what we can turn up,” Bluey answered. “I’ve been away a while, you know, and I want to get my feet on the ground again and see what’s happening before we charge into Santa Marta and start asking questions. Okay?”
Cat nodded. “Whatever you think best. What was that business between you and Mac, about you changing your habits?”
“Florio is a coke dealer. I’m known down here as a grass man. I’ve never run anything else. Shitty stuff, cocaine, screws people up. I’ve never wanted any part of that.”
“What do we want with a cocaine dealer?”
“Well, there ain’t any tourists in the Guajira,” Bluey said. “Out here, people make a pair of gringos as either buyers or narcs. People they think are narcs don’t live long, so we want to establish ourselves as buyers right off.”
“I see.” The idea of being thought of as a drug buyer didn’t rest easily with Cat, but the idea of being dead was worse.
They climbed into what seemed a brand-new Ford Bronco, a four-wheel-drive vehicle with a leather interior and air-conditioning, and were let out a gate in a chain-link fence. Shortly, they came to a ramshackle settlement, and Bluey stopped in the only street in front of a mud building.
“I just want to pop into the cantina here and pick up a cold beer. You want anything?”
Cat shook his head. “It’s early for me, but I’m going to be hungry pretty soon.”
“I’ll get some food, too. You stay with the car, okay?” He got out and went inside.
Cat looked around him. The settlement was nothing more than two rows of mud houses with tin roofs and shanties, made of almost anything, on either side of a dusty, rutted road. A pig was rooting in the road a few yards away, and a couple of dogs lay sleeping in the morning sun. A few minutes passed, and Cat saw a truck appear a hundred yards down the road, in a dusty haze of rising heat, driving slowly toward him. There were half a dozen men standing in the back, and they appeared to be armed. The truck came slowly on, weaving a bit, as if the driver was drunk. Suddenly, there was a popping noise, and the ground around the pig erupted. The animal screamed and went down. He struggled to his feet again and ran off the road, dragging a useless leg. Cat could see two bullet holes in his rump, pouring blood. There was more noise and mud flew from some buildings across the road.
Bluey came to the door of the cantina. “Get in here, quick!” he shouted.
Cat jumped out of the car and ran inside. He joined Bluey, pressed flat against the wall facing the street. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered to Bluey.
“Some of the locals had a little too much up the nose, I expect,” Bluey replied. There was another burst of automatic gunfire, and a large picture on the back wall of the cantina exploded, then fell from the wall. “They get paid what for them is fabulous amounts of money, then they snort up everything they can get their hands on. It’s a bit like the Old West out here.”
Cat heard the truck move on and more gunfire. After another minute, Bluey stuck his head out the door.
“All clear; let’s go.” They got into the car and drove on. Miraculously, it was unscathed. “What you’ve got to understand,” Bluey explained, “is that out here there’s too much money and cocaine, and no law at all. Even the army doesn’t poke into the Guajira very often.”
“Christ, is the whole country like this?”
“Oh no, no. It’s a lovely country, most of it; lovely people. It’s just the Guajira that’s wild. Mind you, you can get your pocket picked or your throat cut just about anywhere. You just have to exercise the same caution you would in, say, New York City.”
This, Cat thought, was the country to which he had brought two million dollars in a briefcase. And, he reflected, where somebody had taken his daughter from him for God knew what reasons.
They bounced along a dirt track, through scrub brush and cactus for some time, then broke onto the coast road at a place Bluey identified as Carrizal. The track became a road here, but not much of one. Bluey made the best time he could, and Cat gazed out drowsily at the blue Caribbean on his right. The sun was well up now, and the heat was bearing down. Cat rolled up his window and switched on the air-conditioning. They passed through a collection of ramshackle buildings known as Auyame, then came to a place called Manaure. Cat was contemplating the sameness of these places, when suddenly he jerked upright in his seat, pointing.
“Out there, Bluey, anchored just beyond the trawler.”
“The white one?”
“Right. The sportsfisherman.” Cat’s heart was pounding. “Jesus, I think that’s it.”
“What?”
“The Santa Maria, the boat the Pirate was on.”
Some buildings blocked their view for a moment, then Bluey turned down a side street toward the sea. After a moment, the water appeared again. They were facing a harbor, open to the east, but bound by a long point of land to the north. An assortment of boats rode at anchor, some of them looking very fast indeed.
“A lot of these are runners,” Bluey said, maneuvering the car to the side of the road and stopping. “They take bales of grass out to ships waiting offshore.” He pulled a new pair of binoculars from his luggage. “Have a look through these.”
Cat, trembling, put the binoculars to his eyes and focused. Could they have gotten lucky this fast? The boat came into sharp focus, and immediately, Cat saw a man sitting in the fisherman’s chair, aft, smoking a cigar. The man seemed Anglo, gray hair, in his fifties. Not familiar. He panned slowly the length of th
e boat. Something was wrong, he wasn’t sure what. He closed his eyes and ran the scene again in his head. The boat was approaching Catbird off her starboard quarter; the name, Santa Maria, was clearly visible on her bows. He opened his eyes again. There was no name on the bows of this boat, but that could have been changed. There was something else, though. The davits, aluminum arms for bringing a dinghy aboard. The Santa Maria had had no davits on her stem. They could have been added, though. Cat watched as the wind shifted, and the boat began to swing her stem toward them. As she came around, a name appeared on her stem, Mako, out of Guadeloupe. A stab of disappointment hit Cat, but it wasn’t the name that did it. He could see into the wheelhouse. The boat’s wheel was on the port side, and he had a clear memory of the Pirate steering the Santa Maria from the starboard side. As she had approached Catbird the man had stuck his head out over the gunwales while turning the wheel and throttling back.
“I’m wrong” Cat said. “This boat’s newer, too. The Santa Maria was seedier.”
“You’re sure?” Bluey asked.
“I’m sure. Sorry for the false alarm.”
“That’s okay. Shows you’re on your toes. You were half asleep when that boat hove into view.”
Cat lay his head back as Bluey drove away. He was tired from being up all night on the airplane, and now the adrenaline charge from seeing the boat was draining away, leaving him feeling washed out. He dozed.
Bluey woke him on the outskirts of Riohacha; he pulled over and shrugged out of his shoulder holster. “Time to put these under the jacket,” he said.
Cat sleepily followed his instructions, pulling a light bush jacket on, covering the pistol. He looked around Mm. The shacks on the outskirts of town gave way to real buildings of stucco with tile roofs. The shops were opening, and traffic, what passed for rush hour in Riohacha, was on the move.
Bluey drove into the center of town, which somehow combined being sleepy with being busy, and pulled up in front of the Excelsior Hotel, which did not live up to its name.
Cat was annoyed to see Bluey slip a hundred-dollar bill to the boy who took the car away, and another to the boy who brought in the bags.
