by Todd Merer
His back still to me, he said, “The feud that killed Stella’s folks is heating up again. I have reason to believe Stella’s been targeted for kidnapping. I won’t let that happen but don’t want to chance traumatizing her again. She needs to go elsewhere. Problem is, it’s hard for people like Stella to hide. The way she looks, her sudden mood swings, her behavior when . . .”
“When . . . ?”
“None of your business. All you need to know is that you personally are going to escort Stella to a place where she can’t be dragged into, ah, court, or anything like that. She’ll be among people I trust. Afterward, you’ll return here and continue looking after her interests.”
“Which are?”
“You ask too many questions.” Duke spun back around, gave a horsey grin, and aimed an automatic pistol at me. Its black-holed muzzle was even with my eyes, although it didn’t really matter where he shot me; the gun was a Colt .45 model 1911, the US Army’s official sidearm for a century or more. Perhaps Duke’s own original service piece. Even a flesh wound from that thing could hydrostatic-shock me from here to eternity.
“I’d like to shoot your nuts off,” he said. “Maybe someday I will. All depends on how you behave. For now, you got paid, and you’re in the op. Which is strictly need-to-know. And you don’t need to know—”
He pulled the trigger.
I flinched, but there was only a dry click, followed by his reedy laugh. He put the Colt away, stood, and went to the globe. Spun it so Southeast Asia faced us. Regarded the area for a moment, then said, “The legal matter at hand concerns a certain individual whose presence is desired by both sides. We have custody of an object belonging to the individual, who, I might add, has authorized us to act on his behalf.”
“The next time you pull a weapon on me, you better use it,” I said. “Because if you don’t, I’ll chuck it and your old ass out the window.”
His eyes narrowed. “Careful, boy.”
“Igual, old man. What object?”
He reached to a desk drawer. Opened it, paused. “You’re retained because Stella insisted, but if necessary, I have no compunctions about overruling her. If you want to earn your fee, keep your trap shut.”
From the drawer, he took out a box and set it beneath a desk lamp. The box was a foot-square cube of sturdy metal topped by a lid, otherwise featureless but for a keyhole. He reached inside his shirt collar and took out a heavy silver chain on which a gold key dangled. His hand trembled as he bent into the cone of lamplight; in it, his eyes had the yellowish cast of the deeply ill.
He put the key to the lock, looked at me.
“Ready, Counselor?”
I nodded.
He turned the key, and the lock clicked open. He raised the lid and turned the box so I could see what was inside.
It was some sort of a crown, obviously quite old, made of dull gold inlaid with colored stones—no, not stones. Precious gems: an assortment of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, all huge, undoubtedly rare specimens.
Priceless, I thought. If real.
“Lucky’s hat,” he said. “Stella’s unaware of its whereabouts. Unfortunately, certain people believe I know where both the hat and Lucky himself are. That’s the ransom they’ll demand if they kidnap Stella. Only you’re not going to let that happen, are you?”
“Not on my watch, as they say.”
He squinted at me. “You were military?”
“Not my kind of thing.”
“It shows. These people . . . the other side, they’re battle hardened. They also believe something else you’d best be aware of.”
“Feel free to enlighten me.”
“They think you know, too.”
“Why would they think that?”
He shrugged. “Wireless in the sky. Ears on the street. Your connection with Stella is known. Like it or not, you’re along for the ride.”
“You put me in harm’s way?”
“A quarter mil bought me that.”
“You old son of . . .” I put my balled fist at his face.
He didn’t blink. Wearing a self-satisfied smile, he waited for my tantrum to end. He was right. I’d already figured the case was like walking a narrow ledge far above a rocky shore. So I chilled and sat back and replayed what was going down.
On one side, Stella, Uncle, and Dolores were seeking my help regarding someone named Lucky. On the other side, Missy Soo and unnamed others wanted me to turn Stella over, also so as to get Lucky. What could be so important about Lucky that it triggered murders and mayhems?
I don’t like not knowing. Damn them all and Lucky, collectively. My big concern right now was my luck, since their enemies were apparently my enemies.
“Deal with it, boy,” said Duke.
“It’s going to cost you,” I said.
“Stella’s already paid you.”
When I was a drug lawyer, one of my credos was, When the drug dealer’s distracted, take the money off the table. I doubted old Duke was a drug dealer but was certain his secretive lifestyle was both motivated and financed by past criminality, and from the surroundings, I figured he was—or had been—a big player. The kind who survive because everything they do is deliberately planned.
But no way I was getting caught up with violence-prone types unless I got paid a whole lot more. Time to distract.
“I don’t charge by the hour,” I said. “My bill for incurring enemies is steep. Not sure you can afford me.”
“I can afford a thousand of you. How much?”
“One million dollars.”
“You got balls.”
“In advance.”
He brought up some phlegm, rolled it with his tongue, then swallowed it back down, like a cow chewing its cud. Disgusting. The older the criminal, the cruder they get, and the more they hate to part with money. They’ve been taking so much from so many for so long that they forget, sometimes, that they, too, must give.
“I’ll need a few days to raise the money,” he said.
I stood to leave. “Let me know when.”
“Four days, you’ll have it. You’ll have to trust me on that. You’re escorting Stella on a trip tomorrow. One day traveling, one day there, another day traveling back. Your money will be waiting when you return.”
“This trip? Where to?”
He smiled. “Colombia.”
Dolores, I thought.
They escorted me to my room. Nice, comfortable, spacious. Windows with a view of treetops and Long Island Sound. An antique Chinese bed with soft, embroidered cushions. I stretched out and evaluated the photos I’d surreptitiously taken of the letter on Duke’s desk. His name and address on the envelope had been written in an old-timey hand. A woman’s hand. It was postmarked from San Francisco. Only a corner of the letter was visible, and it, too, was handwritten, although I couldn’t make out a word.
I shifted gears to the proposition. I’d be escorting—whatever that entailed—Stella to Colombia, a country that’d been my home away from home for decades. I missed it sorely: the country, the action, the money, the good times. And now that things were again copacetic with Dolores, my previous trepidations about returning there had vanished. Although I didn’t dig giving Duke extra time to pay, maybe getting out of Dodge was the smart move. Deliver Stella from her “enemies,” then disengage if necessary.
I must’ve dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, there was a cover over me and part of it was covering Stella. She was wide awake. Watching me from inches away. I’d been wrong about her resemblance to Gene Tierney. Stella didn’t resemble anyone. She was the most singularly beautiful woman in the world. I considered whether I was still dreaming, but before I could crack wise, she put a finger to my lips and made a point of glancing around.
Meaning we were being taped. Probably there were cameras as well, but Stella didn’t seem to mind. Or maybe that was why she kept the cover over us as she snuggled closer. But blanket or not, if Duke was watching, I had to get Stella out of my bed, pronto—
But then, as she began unbuckling my pants, I realized she was bare-ass naked. Which provoked a perfect example of balls over brains.
Stella’s nipples stood like a baby’s thumbs. Her body was silken smooth. She smelled good and tasted better. We moved this way and that, and the sheets tangled beneath us. I noticed something strange: she always made sure to keep one or another part of her body covered by the bedclothes. First, it was her backside, which got me thinking she was hiding some real or imagined flaw. But then the blanket moved, and her ass proved to be as supple and perfect as a newly halved pear. We went on to other things, and she made sure her upper body was under wraps.
Why this need to keep parts of herself unrevealed? Surely, it wasn’t the possibility of cameras in the room that made her reluctant to go full body, for if Duke was ogling us, it would be obvious that two pigs were rutting in a blanket, no pun.
We played at being missionaries. Then she got out from under and lowered herself atop me. Her eyes were closed. She looked queenlier than Nefertiti. Me, I was Sir Walter Raleigh, just a cape in a puddle for her convenience. She balanced atop me and pressed harder—“Oh!”—and her breathing became more rapid, her lips moved as if she were talking to herself, and she covered all of herself, the blanket a burqa . . . then she slid from atop me and sighed deeply. Her eyes were still closed, but like mercury on a pearl, a tear leaked down her smooth cheek. Her hair was pushed back, and I saw a slight discoloration in her skin below her hairline. A scar? Oh well, perfection is boring—
“Benn?” she whispered.
“Yuh?”
“Pretend this never happened. It’s not you; it’s me. I’m sorry. You won’t leave me, will you?”
“I won’t leave you.”
“Close your eyes.”
I did. And thought how strange our interlude had been. I’d succumbed to her beauty, but it seemed as if she couldn’t have cared less about me physically. I was merely a prop for her physical desire, or perhaps some deep need to debase herself by doing the horizontal mambo with a cipher.
When I opened my eyes, she was gone.
PART TWO:
THE CONSPIRACY
CHAPTER 8
Guna Yala archipelago, Gulf of Panama.
A speedboat cleaved across the flat sea, weaving between hundreds of islets big and small. From the speedboat, the water ahead was clear as glass. Mantas scurrying from it scattered like dark clouds across the white-sand sea floor.
“I like that one,” said Dolores, turning the wheel toward a tiny islet, hardly a bump of white sand topped by a single palm.
Behind her, Richard lay on the cockpit bench, a beer in his big hand, a satellite phone cradled between shoulder and ear, although his gaze remained fixed on Dolores: sun browned, bare breasted, thong bottomed. A sensational woman, no question. Who would do sensational things to further his goals. But the thing about Dolores that really got to him? The way her eyes reflected her surroundings; they were not colorless now but the pale green of the sea.
He was so absorbed in Dolores that he was hardly aware of the woman’s voice on the phone. As the speedboat gently nosed onto the islet’s powdery beach, he ended his call with, “Sounds like you’re doing real good,” and put the phone away.
“It’s a New Yorker cartoon,” said Dolores.
“What’re you babbling?”
“This place. Like in those cartoons of people marooned on tiny desert islands saying funny things.”
Richard burped, popped another beer.
“You don’t get it,” said Dolores. “Have you never read the New Yorker?”
“I don’t read that commie fag rag.”
Dolores drank deeply from her bottle, then closed her eyes and poured the remaining beer over her head. When she opened her eyes, they reflected the white sand.
Reflections always, thought Richard. Never a hint of what’s inside her.
Dolores finger-combed her hair while looking at his phone. “So?”
“The lawyer was approached.”
“What’s your take?”
“He’s hooked.”
“We knew he would be. What’s next?”
“You keep asking what’s next, and I keep answering that’s for me to know and you to find out. So stop asking.”
“Maybe I’ll stop a lot of things.”
“Aw, what the hell, I’ll make an exception. I’m thinking it’s time for some R and D.”
“Been there, done that, but why not?”
He laughed. “Not Richard and Dolores. Research and development. We’ll be working separately for a bit. Your first stop is just over the horizon,” he said, raising his chin southward.
“Colombia?” said Dolores. “What about it?”
“My people want you to keep the fires burning.”
“Oh, I will. You? Where are you headed?”
“Thinking of taking a slow boat to, ah, China.”
“China, again. Pray, tell me more, master.”
“You’ve already used your exception . . .”
Richard’s voice trailed off as another vessel neared. Not a buzzy speedboat but a dugout canoe propelled by two Indians working paddles. One Indian was young. The other, older Indian was the man who’d sniped the Chinese officer on a Colombian beach. Dolores’s Logui kinsmen, watching over her.
“Relax,” said Dolores. “They’re Kunas who live here. They like tourists.”
Richard waited until the dugout was well away before continuing. “We need to code up. From now on, I’m Brutalist.”
“I’d say the shoe fits. Who am I?”
“Sangfroid. From the French, meaning—”
“Cold-blooded. Hmm. Why not?”
“The woman from Shanghai? She’s Flower.”
“A poisonous one, for sure. The other woman?”
“She’s the White Tigress.”
“Whatever that means.”
“The Chinese hold their legends dear. The White Tigress is the lover of the Green Dragon. Together, they represent the power of the Orient. Blah-blah-blah.”
“Benn’s code name?”
“You dig Benn, or what?”
Dolores didn’t reply.
“You fuck him yet?”
Still no answer.
Richard smiled. “Benn’s code name is Franklin. As in, the face on the bills he loves so much.”
“The mission’s code name?”
“Operation Lucky.”
The helicopter followed the northeast Colombian coastline from Barranquilla east over the Guajira Peninsula. Dolores, its only passenger, was enjoying the ride.
She also was enjoying Richard. On a physical level, they interacted as if custom-made for each other. Of course, given the realities, it would be short-term. The way she was. From time to time, when she wanted a man, she took him until she grew bored with his presence. Richard was nearing that point. She’d noted his dyed hair, capped teeth, steroid-enhanced body, and seen a phial of Cialis in his Dopp kit. For sure, he was equally fake beneath his skin, but so were all men . . . well, maybe not so much Benn, a world-class faker, yet at the same time . . . honorable? Yes, that was the word.
But, bored or not, she had to stay with Richard.
Thanks to his astonishing leverage within the US intelligence community and military, Dolores was being introduced firsthand to the newest military hardware produced in the arsenal of democracy, a euphemism that amused her no end. Out of necessity, Dolores had become a serious student of weaponry and had already equipped and trained her Logui to defend themselves against the bandits and cartels that poached their lands in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta mountains, the northernmost range of the Andean chains that split Colombia like a trident.
The helicopter thrummed along in near silence. It was custom cladded to reduce cabin sound. She made a mental note to obtain a similar machine, a beautiful toy that would be put to ugly use. She’d sent the Brothers of Those Who Know More to flight schools, and they were fine pilots.
Her earphones squawked. The pilot said, “Call for you.”
She glanced at her watch. The caller was precisely on time, a trait she demanded of her workers. This worker she knew as Fifty-Five. He’d worked for her father, and now for her. She turned on the Voxal software, modifying her voice to an asexual robotic drone.
“Proceed,” she said.
Fifty-Five spoke in clipped sentences while describing the current abysmal state of the Colombian drug business. The Caribbean-coast drug-trafficking organizations—DTOs in DEA parlance—were idled, no product coming through. The vast Los Llanos plains were a cartel battlefield. The southern grow zones were untended. Assassinations had brought business in Cali and Medellín to a standstill. The big guys in Bogotá were locked down, waiting, hoping for the storm to pass.
“Spread the word,” said Dolores. “Sombra will be arranging a meeting of cartel representatives to discuss reimbursement of their losses.”
“When they ask where and when?”
“Say soon. They will be notified.”
“It will be done.”
“Thank you.”
Dolores had no intention of reimbursing anyone, but she wanted to raise expectations, buying time during which the nearly bankrupt cartels would cannibalize one another. This was her part of the deal with Richard, keeping him successful, therefore powerful, therefore useful. His masters in Washington would be pleased by the disruptions in the cocaine trade and announce a great success in the war against drugs, no doubt followed by a request for more funds to ensure total victory. Fools. Of course, the drug trade, with its attendant miseries and endless torrents of money, would continue as before. Just as water sought its level, so would the drug trade reappear. It had done so in the lull after Pablo, it had done so after the putsch overthrowing her father’s Cali cartel, and it would after she, Sombra, was a memory.
So sad. America had saved the world seventy-five years ago, but the sweet smell of that success had corrupted its senses. Now its armies waged wars that needn’t be fought and couldn’t be won. Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, and the granddaddy of them all, the war against drugs. And all the while the answer was staring in their faces:
