by M C Rowley
I nodded. “Use this to get us in without the check,” I said, and handed him another, slightly smaller wad of the coffee-colored notes.
I saw his face drifting away from the idea.
“But that´s fine, if you don´t want the cash,” I said.
He shook his head.
“No, no. Está bien,” he said.
“Get in.”
I walked to the rear double doors and pulled the handle upward, a large click opened the door and I climbed in. It was refrigerated, and full of boxes of frozen produce. French fries, bread rolls, canapé shells. I shut the door, I walked through the food and climbed to the back where a small window connected the cabin with my part and knocked it.
It opened and the young guy´s face appeared. “And the money?” he asked. And I threw the wad of cash to him. His face lit up and he opened up the central compartment of the cab and threw it in, after a little look at the notes.
I owed my fortune to the blindness money inflicts upon us. He had barely given my face a look. After he saw that wedge, he saw nothing else.
I settled down with my back to the cabin wall and waited. The truck started to move.
The shudder of the truck told me we were stop-starting toward the security checkpoint. I slumped down behind the last boxes and the cold began to burn the parts of my face where the skin only stretched across the bones, and the knuckles too. I stayed still. The truck moved and stopped. Moved and stopped. Moved and stopped. And then I heard voices. The security guard talking to my bribed driver, although I could make out nothing. I heard the mumble and then steps outside, around the back of the van, and the door handle started to rattle.
Maybe I should have waited to give the money at the end. It was too late now. I couldn´t get arrested now. Not now. Too damn early.
A glowing crack flooded the space with sunlight and kept still. No-one got up into the cab. No-one spoke. I waited. It was -3 degrees and my teeth were chattering, and I prayed it wasn´t as loud as it was in my head. From outside I heard the bustle of the other lanes of traffic. Horns honking with impatience.
Finally, “está bien, pasale” and the doors shut again, and the truck started its engine. And we moved.
Suddenly, the little window to the driver´s cab knocked, and I got up. It slid open and the young man shouted, in Spanish, “Stay down.”
I thanked him, and waited. The truck´s engine stayed steady and only ebbed and revved as my ride took the turns and pauses necessary to get to the loading bay of the Centro. Eventually, I heard more voices, but the door didn´t open again until my friend opened it and gave me the all clear.
I got up from my hiding place, chilled to the bone, walked to the doors and jumped down.
We were in a dimly lit underground space. Just concrete pillars and dry concrete walls, about the size of two football pitches. It was dank and deserted, like the car park of an unpopular shopping mall. The supplier loading bay. There were doors every ten meters, and other vans dotted around with people delivering goods in and out of them. The light was sterile white. Economy bulbs bought in bulk and at extra industrial size.
The kid looked at me in the light.
“I know you,” he said.
But I looked straight at him and shook my head, “No you don´t. Which door leads inside?”
He looked at me with a suspicious glare, but I guess he remembered the six month´s salary I had paid him and span on his heel, hummed his thinking, and pointed at one door about fifty meters away.
“That one leads to the backstage.”
I thanked him, and walked away.
From behind me, I heard him call again “I know you, man.”
I turned quickly. “No you don´t,” and I turned and didn´t wait for his answer.
I got to the door he had shown me and twisted the fake gold spherical handle and pushed it, and walked through.
Chapter Thirty
I found myself in a gloomy, backstage corridor, facing outward from the curve of the wall.
The space was lit by eco-fluorescent tubes, and made dim for it. I could make out the thin, built-to-wear gray and terracotta-colored diamond patterned carpet. The walls were blank. The roof was uncovered industrial steel, hanging lights, and wiring. There was no sign of life. I took off Polo´s jacket and hat and left them piled on the side.
I walked down the corridor. I had the time right. Esteban was here. He would be in plain sight.
The backstage of the conference center, dingy and muggy, served me well. I met the first people within two minutes, two government type organizers, busy making work for themselves, walking side by side deep in discussion, looking at an iPad one of them held, leaning into each other. I passed them with ease. They barely offered a glance. Next, a cleaning lady dressed in a plaid apron, solemn and quiet, wheeling along her cleaning trolley, full of chemicals, and mops. I kept on.
Each time I found a door, I checked the handle quickly and firmly. But none were unlocked.
I moved onward.
As the corridor curved, the doors ran out so I walked a little quicker. Not too fast but enough not to be noticed and pick up the pace.
And then, out of the gloom, came a group of about ten people. I went to the side to allow them to pass. They were young suited people, sharp and busy looking. Although I avoided their glances, I had to greet them, just to appear normal. The first few were too engaged in their own conversations to care about me, but the ones in the middle and at the back caught my gaze full on. A woman looked at me in the eyes, then her colleague, a guy in his late twenties, then another guy the same age. But nothing registered on the outer shell. They were about to pass when the last guy, an older guy, looked right at me, and I saw recognition register on his features. Confusion at first, then his mouth fell open. He raised his arm at me but he seemed lost for words.
He mouthed the words.
“Es él.”
It´s him.
I smiled and walked past, hoping my features hadn´t registered enough.
But from behind me, came a shout.
Some commotion. I kept walking, but fast, waiting for a door. Anything. I walked around the curved corridor and went into a jog. The shouts came from behind. I was made. I started to run, and the din went quieter behind me. Then the doors started again. I went to the first, locked.
The second, the same.
The voices behind me got more frantic. Collecting, trying to reach me. It was between them catching me and getting security, and me finding the main stage, with my target on it.
Then I heard someone shout, “Stop him. Stop him,” in Spanish.
I sped up to a run, trying every door that I came to. After the eighth I lost hope but kept trying, the shouting getting louder behind me all the time. Locked.
Locked.
Locked.
Locked.
And then, I got one. The handle was stiff, but I twisted it hard, and it opened.
I fell into an empty office and I stood and gathered myself and shut the door, locked the button in the center of the handle and stayed still. The furniture inside the space was temporary and cheap. The desks and tables were full of papers, copies, and empty cups of coffee. The air smelt of old coffee too. There were mirrors on the walls and the walls were a matte black. Everything was painted black. There was another door at the other end, I ran to it and dived through.
I came into a second office, this time double the size. Same black unfinished walls, same durable carpet under foot. I ran through the room and found three more doors. I grabbed the central one and went through. I came into a much larger space, and noise filled my ears. Noise from the stage. The conference was close. The space was black again but this time had a ceiling at least 30 meters high. There were scaffolding structures let aside and equipment and things scattered everywhere. I side stepped away from the door, and leant against the wall with my back and slumped to a squat. Then I waited.
They say you need six minutes to see if you´re being follow
ed. I don´t know why the number six, but it was a good gauge. I´d used it before. I first heard of the measurement in a paperback thriller, the name of which I could not recall. But it worked. Six minutes, and you were safe.
I pictured the group who had made me, shocked, and discussing me. I imagined them arguing about what to do. I guess they would bring someone, a guard, the police. Someone. And I would be caught. The Governor´s kidnapper. I was made, well and truly. But it didn´t bother me now. I was close to the real Governor´s kidnapper. And he would protect me to protect himself.
I waited, and counted to six minutes. Nothing. My fourth gamble approached me. Was it to be running on stage and doing this in front of thousands of people? Or waiting and trying to grab Esteban on the way out?
I walked to the other end of the space, and found what I was looking for.
There, the black walls created an illusion of solid structure. But it wasn´t solid. It was a giant crack that peered out to the back part of the main stage. There was a crowd of about 15 security guys peering through it. They were private security. All sturdy guys dressed in beige chinos, blue shirts and waistcoats, with two or three cell phones clipped into the belt. They were staring away from me, at the stage. And past them, at its center were two bright red couches, on one sat a handsome man dressed in a fine suit holding a big microphone, the glamorous interviewer flown in from Mexico City no doubt, and on the other sofa, a portly older man, in a gray suit. Balding on top, huge moustache above his lip. Thin, drooping intelligent eyes, brown skin. Matias Esteban sat with a microphone in his hands talking.
I stepped to the side of the vantage point I had found, so that I could peer at the stage, but so that Esteban´s band of protectors could not see me. I listened to the voices a little.
Esteban was speaking about the weak peso, and how that can be a good thing for Mexico. His voice was slow and thoughtful. What he was saying was eloquently put. It was thought through. He spoke in a controlled and restrained way, making every word count. It was a skill not many can profess to possess, but he did it with panache as the entire auditorium uttered nothing more than a hint of a sound and he held them captivated.
I decided running on stage was foolish. I couldn´t risk getting taken down and leaving Eleanor´s fate to the unknown. I was sure he would speak with me, if I just got the chance. So I listened.
It wasn´t my first conference experience. I had sat through endless presentations, speeches, and workshops, seminars and business themed getaways. It was part of my facade. I had to go to them. If I was the Director of a company at that given job, then I would often have to set the budget and even organize them. They were hell. But this? This was different. I had to admit it. Esteban spoke of the need for a new evolution of capitalism, where profits are married to social investment. It was compelling stuff, I supposed. His voice was that of the empathetic and experienced university professor, a wise old man who had done the suffering for us. And I battled to even comprehend him scheming the fake kidnap of a governor, or the spying on a competitor for that matter. There were things I didn´t know. But there were things I knew for sure. And Esteban just didn´t fit into any of my thinking. It didn´t work.
I realized that he was beginning to wrap things up on stage. He concluded his thoughts, and began extolling Mexico´s virtues and future promise as a superpower. And then, the handsome presenter stood up and thanked Mr Esteban and didn´t need to ask for applause before the entire space was flooded with the noise of ferocious clapping.
It was time.
I walked backward and eased up to the group of minders, who waited patiently for their boss.
One of them turned and looked in my vague direction, but quickly swung his neck back to the stage, where Mr Esteban was walking around the front of the sofa, still looking at the crowd, still waving and smiling. Then he turned to us, and I caught his eye.
It was a millisecond. Not even that, but I could have sworn on my life that he recognized my face. The way his pupils swooped downward to his left straight after meeting mine. A self awareness in him, like he was seeing some uncanny childhood phantom. I stood and stared at him. But he, willingly or not, avoided my gaze and walked toward us and I realized how tall he actually was, at least 6 foot, maybe more. His gray suit was expensive and tailored to wrap around his gut perfectly. His shirt was salmon pink, and he wore no tie. His shoes were polished and buffed to a military shine and he walked like he talked. Elegant, and full to the brim with conviction.
He was 10 meters away, then 5, then his men made their move. Like a horseshoe they surrounded him. In the middle, a young man in a slick, tight fitting suit placed his hand on Esteban´s shoulder and began talking to him rapidly. The bodyguards now formed a U around him and the gap was closing tight. I ran and ducked. I felt one of the guards swoop his arms around my head but miss. I pushed up as the guards pressed in, shocked by what was happening. I saw guns draw, and radios come out of holsters. In a some farcical synchronization, we squeezed into each other, a tight ball of bodies, and my face came right up against Esteban’s.
His bird-like eyes lost their droop, his eyebrows stretched two inches above his eyelids.
I said, “recognize me?”
But he was speechless. And then I felt a stone-like smash on the back of my head and everything went black.
Chapter Thirty-One
The carpeted floor underneath me vibrated and hummed. It was dark and there was almost no air to breath. I sucked it in, but the gag filtered it and made it taste like oil.
There was a knot at the back of my head from my blindfold, and I lay in a fetal position, hog-tied.
The car was driving fast. I lay still, and listened.
It was an SUV. Not a truck. Not a cop car. A Suburban, or a TAHOE, or an Escalade. So they hadn´t killed me, yet. And they hadn´t turned me in, yet.
But that wasn´t to say I was guest of honor either, with being hog-tied, gagged and in the back of a truck, and all.
Someone coughed. It was loud, it made me jump and shudder in my ties. The SUV was a big hatchback, and the trunk was open to the back seats. That´s why there weren´t voices. They didn't want me knowing anything more than I had to. But the cough was loud; an unstoppable itch from the throat, probably resisted for as long as he could take. It sounded rasping, like his throat cut up when it came out. It also bounced off the interior walls quickly, but not as quickly as a small car. So this was definitely an SUV.
The humming told me we were on good tarmac, which was good news, because a bumpy country track would end in shovels and holes and burying. So I was OK for now. Esteban needed me.
I lay still, listening. But these guys were pros. I doubted I was in the same car as the big man, but I could have been. I couldn´t talk or see so it didn´t make a difference. The floor hummed away.
After a half hour or so, the truck slowed and made a series of turns. My body shifted and banged into the trunk´s walls. Then I felt us elevate slightly, and then more aggressive circular turns. The noise of rubber on cement and a heavy engine bounced back from the walls. An underground car park.
After eight turns, the truck came to a halt, and I shifted forward toward the driver end, and then back until we were parked.
Four doors opened, and then steps sounded from outside. And at last, the trunk door screeched open in my ear and warm stale air hit me. I sucked it in like a water fountain.
Big hands grabbed me at my shoulders and then at my legs. I felt myself lifted and placed on a hard shoulder.
We walked for at least two minutes before I felt the air vacuum and then heard the sound of the elevator start. It travelled a short way and the door pinged, and the air got fresh.
A larger space. It smelled of cut flowers, and the hint of expensive and perfumed furniture polish. My weight shifted as my carrier span me around and sat me down on a chair, and cut the hog-tie between my arms and legs. I let my body and aching limbs settle into my new position and waited. I heard steps walk away from me.
The guys were silent. Deadly silent. They could have been robots. Then a whisper, and then the tie at the back of my head undid. The gag fell away and I stretched my mouth as open as possible.
Then, a voice whispered in my ear,
“Volteas y te mato, ¿entiendes?”
Turn around and I kill you. Understood?
I nodded.
My blindfold fell away and light flooded my eyes. I didn´t turn back, but I heard two sets of footsteps retreat from where we had come and the door shut.
It was a luxurious hotel suite, some sort of penthouse. The furniture was French, polished oak with curved table legs, spindly and delicate. The carpet under my dirty shoes was thick and a coffee cream color. The room was large, about 100 square meters, and sofas lined the edge, while huge windows lit the room, although the drapes and curtains blocked the view.
There were coffee tables placed at intervals in front of the sofas, and oversized lamps stood proudly on each of them.
The silence hummed and I waited for the man who owed me an answer.
The entrance of the penthouse was as luxurious as the window side. There was a corridor which ran off out of sight, and the main door.
I turned back and started to count. I measured each second with a Mississippi. I focused on the questions I would ask Esteban when he came.
The sun was high, above the tip of the window now. Midday, or thereabouts. But the heat didn´t enter this space. The air con was a subtle, expensive system. I could not even see the vents.
Silence.
I got to half an hour in my head and nothing.
The ties on my wrists and my ankles started to burn. My tendons and muscles ached. And my heart began to beat wildly.
40 minutes had passed.
My breathing was labored. It hurt. My heart moved out of sync with it. Beating, beating.
Had I lost the gamble? Maybe I had. Maybe this was my execution.
50 minutes. I counted. An hour.
Nothing.
I began to focus on what I could hear. After five minutes I picked up the hum of the air conditioning, and the tiny, subtle shifts in its rotors, and that was it. I let my hearing sink deep into the atmosphere and all the floors of this building, and only the humming stayed constant. I imagined the sound waves emanating from below me, all the way up until they met my frontal ear lobe, and then inside, registering in my brain. I felt dizzy from it, from worrying about Eleanor, about Jason too. And I realized I could also hear my heart beat.
