At least for a few precious minutes. Then I’d become a wreck all over again.
Chapter 41
I maneuvered farther from the nightclub so that I wouldn’t give myself away. The listening device had excellent range, so it was really just a matter of remaining within a short enough distance to the entrance so that I could reach Mariana quickly if I heard her utter the name Gabriel García Márquez.
I rounded the corner and slunk into the shadows of the side street. I stayed just close enough to the main road so that I could catch sight of the Trooper if it returned. As far as I knew, no one but Edgar and Grey were even privy to the fact I was here. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Paranoia can be paralyzing. Or it can prove to be a vital instinct. You simply didn’t know until you knew.
The side street I was on was empty. It was almost as though the nightclub existed in another dimension. From my vantage point, the only evidence of the club was the salsa music and Mariana’s warming voice in my ear. She’d broken off the conversation with the first man, presumably because she wasn’t getting anywhere. As I listened, she ordered an aguardiente, which if I remembered correctly was an anise-flavored liqueur made from sugarcane, its name derived from agua and ardiente, the Spanish equivalent of “fiery water.”
I’d never been a big drinker. But just now I could’ve used something to take the edge off. Something strong and good, like an aged single malt scotch on the rocks.
I was trying to remember whether I’d ever tasted aguardiente when in my ear a man opened a conversation with Mariana. I was struggling to understand the Spanish, but it sounded as though he’d offered to pay for her drink and she had accepted. Then he asked her to dance.
I turned into a dark and narrow alley to better avoid the noise from the main road.
After a few moments of welcome silence, a soft voice emanated from the shadows. A female voice asking me a question in Spanish.
“No,” I replied, “entiendo.” I don’t understand.
I kept moving but the voice followed. I could tell that the alley came to an end a couple hundred feet ahead of me.
“¿Hablas inglés?” she said.
I ignored her, tried to focus on Mariana, who was apparently speaking as she was dancing, which made it that much more difficult to understand her words.
“You looking for a date, honey?” the woman in the alley said. Good English despite the strong Hispanic accent. And, unfortunately, tenacious as all hell. No wonder the ladies had gotten to the Secret Service agents in Cartagena.
I shook my head, said, “No, thank you,” as I continued walking.
“What, you don’t even want to take a look?”
I stopped, turned to her, and smiled. “I’m just not interested tonight,” I said, surprised to be meeting her at eye level. I figured her heels had added a few inches. But still.
“Oh, no?” she said. “Why not, sweetie?”
“My girlfriend is in the club. She just went in to get her brothers. They’ll be out any second now.”
“Then we better act fast, baby,” she said, inching toward me as she let her purse fall from her shoulder.
She inserted her long middle finger into her mouth, then slowly pulled it out between her bright red lips. It was pitch black farther back in the alley, and for a second I tried to tune out Mariana to listen for the footfalls of this woman’s confederates. If you were going to get yourself attacked in a South American city, wandering alone down a dark alley was a damn good way to go about it.
I tried to reason with her. “Look, I appreciate the invitation, but I’m really not interested tonight.”
I needed to get back to the side street, but as I attempted to move past her, she stretched those long legs and slid in front of me, blocking my path. Her tight black dress crept up, revealing her thighs.
Just then, a small amount of light fell on her.
Not much.
Just enough for me to discern that she was a man. A convincing transsexual. Surgically altered—at least in the northern region. But a man, all the same.
Not a puta but a puto, as they’d say here in Colombia. A male prostitute.
“How about it, honey?” he said. “A quick blow job and you’re off. Your girl will never know it happened.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “Really. But I can’t take the chance.”
That’s when the puto reached for his crotch and came up with a knife. Told me to hand over my wallet.
If you’re faced with a knife when you’re unarmed, your survival depends on establishing and maintaining an offensive mind-set. You can’t afford to think about getting cut or hurt.
Unfortunately, it’s difficult to disarm your opponent until you’re affirmatively attacked, so all I had in my arsenal right now were insults. I needed to provoke him.
“Fuck you, puto,” I told him calmly. “You might as well have pulled your dick out, for all the good that blade’s going to do you.”
He hesitated, but luckily, my words were enough to cause him to strike.
As the knife came at me, I stepped forward at a forty-five-degree angle, moving out of the line of attack. With my hands up, I thrust my forearms at his right arm to block the knife. I then wrapped my left arm tightly around his right, trapping his arm between the biceps and torso. In the same moment, I placed my right arm on his shoulder and executed an armbar, applying pressure until I heard a bone snap followed by the clang of the blade hitting the pavement.
The transvestite may have possessed boy parts—but he sure as hell screamed like a lady.
When I finally let go, he went to the ground, curled up like a fetus, shrieking and yelling for help.
I kicked the knife handle and watched the blade spin its way under a Dumpster.
I leaned over and picked up his purse, unzipped it, and found a cell phone. I dialed 112, the national emergency number for Colombia.
Slowly, I set the phone down next to his face and told him to ask for an ambulance.
He continued screaming something in Spanish.
I covered one ear, listened for Mariana’s voice in my other, then turned and walked out of the alley.
I moved to the next block.
It was twenty minutes before I saw the ambulance park at the curb, the paramedics dashing out of the vehicle in the direction of the alley.
The transvestite was carted away. While I continued to wait.
And wait.
Over an hour after she entered the club, Mariana stepped outside. As planned, I flagged down a taxi without acknowledging her. She boarded one just behind me, and I directed the driver back to the Hilux on Av Sexta.
By the time we arrived, Av Sexta was a flurry of activity.
Once we were both safely inside the pickup and out of sight, I said, “So, how did it go?”
She smiled at me. “It went perfectly, Simon. I got a job. I am to show up tomorrow afternoon at a pool hall in Bogotá.”
“That’s terrific,” I said.
“And you? Anything interesting happen while I was inside the club?”
I turned the key in the ignition as an older couple clad completely in black leather strolled past us.
“Same old, same old,” I said.
Chapter 42
Mariana and I had shared the driving duties back to Bogotá so that when we arrived late the next morning, we’d each had roughly four hours of sleep. Doctors vehemently disagree, but I had always felt four hours of sleep were sufficient. Anything more and you were encroaching on real life. And you sure as hell never knew how much of that you had left.
The pool hall was located in a grisly barrio in the southwest section of the capital city. It was the type of neighborhood where even early in the day, you wouldn’t walk a block without looking over your shoulder.
I stepped into the pool hall two hours earlier than the scheduled meet. The place was empty but for a pair of old drunks. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Aguila, a popular beer b
rewed here in Colombia.
I was dressed in tattered clothes I’d purchased this morning in a Bogotá thrift store. I hadn’t shaved in two days. I didn’t smell like the bar’s other patrons, but I was confident that no one would come close enough to notice so long as I got the look right.
If anyone asked, I was a fugitive from the States. Running to avoid the electric chair in Laredo, Texas. Killed a man just to watch him die, or something like that.
I was strapped. Two Glock 20s and the backup stashed down around my ankle. I wouldn’t hesitate if it meant Mariana’s life. Wouldn’t hesitate if it meant Olivia’s.
The listening device was neatly tucked away in my right ear.
I took down the first beer and ordered another to make it look good. Even though I’d never been much of a drinker, I could put them away when I had to. It’s the luck of the draw when it comes to livers and lungs. So far, I’d been fortunate enough on both counts.
We might also have hit a bit of luck with our target, but I wouldn’t know until the meeting started. Early in the conversation at Changó last night, the man had spilled a little English—and Mariana complimented him on it, told him it was incredibly sexy. He’d switched back to Spanish because of the noise in the club but gave her another taste of the Queen’s when they stepped outside for a smoke.
I dropped some pesos onto the bar and took my second bottle to one of the three decrepit pool tables. Each of the tables was lopsided, with badly worn green felt. I set the beer down, picked up a cue, and racked the balls with a cracked triangle.
I glanced over at the bartender just before I broke. He had his arms folded over his chest and he was staring right at me. I wondered just where behind the bar he stored the shotgun. Decided it would be a good day if I never found out.
* * *
Mariana arrived right on time. The man, whose name was Estefan, was already present, tucked in a booth in the corner of the café area with his back to the wall so that he could watch the door. It was a small place, but I would still have been well out of earshot were it not for Grey’s listening device.
I continued shooting pool and drinking beer, one of five day-drinkers now patronizing the place, as Mariana walked back to the booth.
In my ear, I heard, “It is good to look at you, Mariana. You are as beautiful in the sunlight as you are in the moonlight.”
I breathed a small sigh of relief. Our friend in the corner was going to continue to try to impress Mariana with his English.
“Thank you,” Mariana said.
I caught a glimpse of her as she sat. She looked stunning in a black cotton dress that reminded me of a spring Tasha and I had spent in New York. Her long straight black hair was clean and neat. She wore no makeup and needed none; she was a natural beauty with dark eyes, very feminine features, a thin gold chain around her neck, a small gold crucifix resting on smooth sunned skin just above small breasts.
“So,” Estefan said, “I am to understand that you are looking for the employment, yes?”
I could almost hear her smile through the earpiece. “Yes, yes.”
I took a shot, banked the eight ball. Stood up straight and peered out the window at a motorcycle flying by. On the other side of the street was an aqua blue minivan parked in front of an old Catholic church. Catholic churches were everywhere in this country. Until the early ’90s, Catholicism was the only religion recognized by the Colombian government. Today, very few people attended Mass regularly, though the vast majority of the population still considered itself Catholic for the purpose of filling out questionnaires.
“I can help you,” Estefan said to Mariana. “You understand, this work will require traveling. But the work is easy—and the pay, it will make it worth your time.”
I stole a glance in their direction. Estefan was an older man—probably in his mid-fifties, with the graying hair and beer gut to prove it. He wore a groomed mustache and was dressed well. It was obvious we didn’t shop at the same Bogotá thrift store.
Estefan said, “You cannot tell anyone about this job, you understand? Not your parents, not your siblings, not your friends.” He paused, uttered the next words as though they were a question. “Not your boyfriend?”
“I do not have a boyfriend.”
Again, I could hear that smile in her voice. She was a master at flirtation. For some, seduction is a powerful weapon; for Mariana, I suspected, it was more powerful than the Glock 20 I had stuffed in my waistband.
“Okay, that is good, very good. You are a little bit skinnier than most girls who do this job. But that may work in your favor.”
“What do you mean?”
“You will probably appear to be pregnant, and pregnant women are extended courtesies not granted to most women—especially at places such as airports. At security, if they request a full-body scan, you will tell them you are with child. They are required then to pat you down manually instead.”
“All right,” she said tentatively.
I’d told her not to appear too eager to get the job, to express the proper concerns. Acknowledge that she was about to be placed in danger and that she was a bit nervous, if not downright scared. Ask questions of the sort one would normally ask under these circumstances: Who besides you will I be dealing with? What if I get caught? Where will I be going? How will I get my money? When?
“Do not worry about your figure,” Estefan said. “You will look only like you are in your first trimester. When the job is finished, you will be slender again. And you will have enough money to shop on New York’s Fifth Avenue.”
“Is that where I will be going, then? To New York?”
“You will be traveling to Philadelphia. It is not so sexy a city as New York, but you will be in the U.S. for a week. If you would like to see the Big Apple, you can take either a bus or a train.”
The way that Estefan pronounced it, New York was the Beeeg Opple.
“I will certainly do that,” Mariana said. “If you do not mind me being—how you say?—presumptuous, when can I start?”
I took a pull off my beer and waited to hear his answer. Unless it was the reply we wanted, I’d have to follow Estefan out of the pool hall and snatch him off the street. I’d have to find someplace private to interrogate him in the hopes he could lead me to one of the larger cartels.
But Estefan saved us all a lot of trouble by saying, “You can start tomorrow, Mariana. Now, let me buy you a nice sandwich. Because after your sandwich, I am afraid that for the next twenty-four hours, you will not be permitted to eat.”
Chapter 43
“I don’t like this,” I said, pacing the length of Mariana’s room at Casa Medina. I repeatedly reached for the curtains to bring in light, then abruptly stopped myself.
“We do not have the choice,” Mariana said.
Of course, she was right. Estefan wouldn’t give her the address at which she was to show up later today. Which meant they’d be watching for trails and it would be tough for me to follow their vehicle through the streets of Bogotá.
I made up my mind. Reached for the phone and called the concierge. “I need to rent a motorcycle,” I said.
“Excellent, sir. What type of bike?”
“Something small but fast. A bike with off-road capabilities, if possible.”
“Hold while I check.”
Salsa music came over the line and I waited. The bike wouldn’t be any less conspicuous than the Hilux, but at least I’d be able to maneuver if necessary.
The concierge returned. “Sir, I can have a Kawasaki KLX450 downstairs in half an hour.”
“Gracias,” I said. “That will do nicely.”
* * *
Mariana was picked up from Carrera Séptima in a large white van, a sparkling new Chevy N300. I started the motorbike and drove on a parallel street. I caught another break; traffic was just heavy enough to ensure that I wouldn’t lose them.
Shortly after the pickup, it seemed clear where they were headed—La Candelaria, in the hills of downtown
Bogotá. The destination surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. In my years as a Marshal, I’d discovered that criminals often hide in plain sight. Bogotá’s “Old City” was a colonial town of tourist and cultural attractions, including the Museo del Oro, where I’d met Grey when I first arrived in Colombia.
Had Grey been trying to tell me something by selecting that location?
No. Couldn’t have been more than a minor coincidence. After all, he hadn’t even known what I was there to see him about at the time.
The van pulled over. Four men got out before opening the door for Mariana. They assisted her out of the van. Only then did I notice she was wearing a strip of silver duct tape over her eyes.
They led her down a narrow pedestrian-only cobblestone alley.
They left one man at the entrance to the alley so that no one could follow.
The others vanished in the direction of the Monasterio de la Candelaria, a sixteenth-century monastery founded by Augustine monks. Only part of the monastery was open to the public.
I imagined they were headed for the part that was not.
* * *
The monastery was made up of several beautiful white buildings with bright red doors and shutters. Without an aerial view, I couldn’t be sure—but I suspected the property transformed into a maze somewhere past the main gate. I couldn’t allow the men to get too far ahead of me, or I’d be placing Mariana in peril.
Slowly I walked toward the entrance to the alley. There were very few people visible on the street, probably none who’d be willing to act as witnesses if something went down right in front of them. In Latin America, you constantly had to remind yourself that gunfights could take place in broad daylight without anyone ever being arrested. Lawlessness remained as common in some places in South America as it was in the Wild West.
The man stationed at the entrance to the alley wore a black leather jacket. Casually, he smoked a cigarette while taking notice of everyone and everything in the area. He held his cigarette in his right hand, but switched it to his left when he noticed me approaching.
That told me all I needed to know.
Payoff Page 16
