by Philip Cox
Dr Montilla paused to thank the cabin crew member, a tall, flaxen haired man with a heavy tan, who was standing by the door, then made his way down the steps. The DC9-30 is essentially a commuter aircraft, only five seats across, twenty rows, and its fuselage is nearer to the ground than on larger craft. Hence, the steps are little more than an ornate stepladder. Montilla stepped down onto the tarmac, put on his sunglasses, then walked, attaché case in one hand, overnight bag in the other, to the terminal building.
Although Simón Bolívar is an international airport, this was an internal flight, and therefore no customs and immigration formalities, and Montilla and the other passengers were able to head straight for the domestic terminal. As he stepped into the air-conditioned glass and steel building, he glanced over his shoulder to see a larger aircraft - a 737, he thought - moving from the international terminal to the main runway. It was an American Airlines aircraft, probably setting off to Miami: a journey Dr Montilla had made several times.
Montilla joined the escalator leading up to the arrivals hall. At the top of the escalator, he had to make a quick side step to avoid being hit by the same backpack as before then walked briskly past two machine-gun armed police officers, through a set of glass doors into the land-side hall.
There was a small group of people gathered by the barrier awaiting passengers: one man was dressed in a chauffer’s uniform and peaked cap holding up a crumpled piece of card with Gomez scribbled in black felt pen. Montilla cleared his throat as he walked past: maybe he should have arranged to be driven into the city that way.
Situated near the coastal city of Maiquetía, the airport was named after Simón Bolívar, the South American military and political leader who died in 1830. There are also airports of the same name in Columbia and Equador, but this one is some thirteen miles from downtown Caracas, Venezuela.
As was his custom whenever he visited Caracas, Montilla had pre-booked his taxi into the city. A row of yellow taxis waited outside the arrivals hall: Montilla checked the licence plates, and found the one waiting for him. He climbed in, introduced himself, and the cab pulled away into the traffic.
The cab turned onto Avenida La Armada then a couple of hundred yards later took the ramp leading to the autopista for Caracas. A couple of miles later they passed through a set of toll booths, then, in quick succession, two tunnels. The tunnels were called Boquerón I and Boquerón II: Montilla looked up at the entrance to the first tunnel and saw the name ornately carved into the stone above the road.
One more tunnel – this one was called La Planicie – and the road descended into downtown Caracas. The cab turned into Avenida Puente Hierro, where the traffic came to an abrupt halt. Ahead, Montilla could hear the sound of car horns. He moved over to the nearside, wound down the window, and leaned out. There was a large truck two vehicles ahead: this obstructed his view, but he could still hear horns, then a siren.
‘Always bad. This road is always bad,’ muttered the driver.
Montilla grunted, resisting the temptation to ask why the driver came that way then.
Traffic began to move shortly, but slowly. When they had moved about two hundred yards, Montilla could see the reason for the delay. A small white and green van was stopped on the offside lane, its hazard lights flashing. An ambulance was parked in front of the van. As Montilla’s taxi slowly edged past, he could see the crumpled remains of a bicycle underneath the front of the van. The ambulance doors were open, and a paramedic was standing in the doorway, his back to Montilla. Montilla wondered if he should get out and offer assistance, but he had urgent business himself, and in any case, the paramedics would know their job.
Once past the scene of the accident, they were able to speed up slightly. Two more turns, and they were on Avenida Este 3.
‘It’s just here,’ Montilla called out as they approached a large building, set back slightly from the street. The cab pulled up.
The pre-arranged fare was 300 bolívares fuertes: this equated to just under US$50: many transactions were carried out in US dollars as some traders preferred this: cab drivers in particular. Montilla handed the driver three $20 bills, and waved away any change.
Montilla’s destination was an imposing, yellow Spanish Colonial style building. A neat, well-manicured lawn lay between the house and the street. A pathway wound its way across the lawn from the street to the door. All along the front of the house was a colourful bougainvillea bush. Montilla took the pathway to the dark stained oak door; pushed the door open, and went in. On the front wall next to the door was a highly-polished metal sign reading Clínica Central.
A tiny, white haired woman in a nursing uniform sat at a desk in the clinic lobby: she stood as Montilla entered. ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ she greeted him quietly. He mumbled the same to her, and walked up the marble staircase which led from the lobby.
The first floor resembled a small hospital. At the top of the stairs there was another desk: again, the nurse at the desk stood and greeted the doctor. Montilla turned right and walked along a corridor either side of which were glass-walled rooms, each with one bed and an array of medical apparatus. A figure dressed in a white lab coat came out of one of the rooms and greeted Montilla.
‘Gabriel; good to see you. They said you were coming today.’
Shaking hands, Montilla replied, ‘Good to see you too, Luis. I would have been here earlier, only the plane was late.’
Dr Luis Ramirez asked, ‘How was the flight, by the way?’
‘It was fine,’ Montilla answered, as the two men continued down the corridor to an office.
‘Coffee?’ Ramirez asked as they stepped into the office.
‘Please.’ Montilla stood his overnight bag down on the floor and the attaché case on Ramirez’s desk. He clicked the two locks on the case and opened it. As Ramirez passed him a paper cup of coffee, he took from his case two sheets of paper.
‘Things are going well, before you ask,’ said Ramirez, perching himself on the desk. He twisted round and pressed a couple of keys on the keyboard resting on his desk. ‘Look at this.’
Montilla felt into his jacket pocket and took out a pair of glasses. He sat down and joined Ramirez in staring at the computer screen.
‘The improvement first started there,’ Ramirez pointed at a line of data on the screen. ‘And has gradually increased.’
‘Day to day?’ asked Montilla
Ramirez made a wavering gesture with one hand. ‘More like week on week.’
Montilla nodded. ‘Still encouraging, though. What about the others?’
‘Not so much. He was the first, so the others are going to be so far behind.’
Montilla nodded again. He sat back in his chair and rested his hands on his knees. ‘Let’s go see him then.’
‘Fine,’ said Ramirez, standing up. ‘He should be awake.’
Both men stepped out of the office and walked into the first room on the left. A man lay in a bed with a nurse sitting on a chair next to him. She immediately stood as the two men walked in; Ramirez gestured for her to sit back down.
‘This is Señor Medina,’ said Ramirez, by way of introduction.
‘Good morning, Señor,’ said Montilla. ‘How are you feeling today?’
The man, white hair, in his sixties, replied cheerfully, ‘Much better, thank you, Doctor. Will I be able to go home soon?’
Ramirez laughed. ‘You keep asking that every day, Señor. Don’t you like it here?’
‘I do,’ chuckled Medina, ‘but the food here isn’t as good as my wife’s.’
Smiling, Montilla picked up the clipboard attached to the foot of the metal bed frame. He studied the data. Nodding to Ramirez, he put the board back then turned to Medina. ‘Things are going very well, Señor. I’m not sure yet when you’ll be ready to go home, but I don’t expect it to be very long.’
Medina sat up, smiling and nodding. He turned to the nurse, who smiled back.
‘Keep up the good work,’ said Ramirez, as he followed Montilla out
. The two men returned to the office.
Montilla turned to face Ramirez, taking off his glasses and putting them back into his pocket. ‘This is excellent, Luis. Excellent.’
‘Early days, yet, Gabriel. Don’t forget: he is the only one so far.’
Montilla waved his hand, as if to dismiss Ramirez’s concerns. ‘I know, I know, but…. Let’s say, so far so good.’
‘Do you propose to continue the treatment in the same way?’
‘I think so. For now anyway.’
Ramirez paused. ‘And the confidentiality? Still the same?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Montilla sat down and looked up at his colleague. He folded his arms and replied, ‘Apart from those of us involved here, nobody must know. Nobody.’
Chapter 2
Dr Montilla inclined his head over to his colleague’s computer screen. ‘Show me the data for the others,’ he said.
‘Surely,’ said Ramirez and typed some keys. Montilla put on his glasses again and stared at the screen.
‘As you can see,’ Ramirez said, pointing at the information on the screen, ‘there has been a little progress, but not as much as with Señor Medina.’
Montilla cleared his throat loudly.
‘But,’ Ramirez continued, ‘their condition at this stage of treatment is the same as that of Señor Medina.’
Montilla nodded. ‘So, we can extrapolate that their outcomes will be the same. Mm?’
Ramirez shrugged. ‘In theory, yes. But as you say, Gabriel, these are very early days.’
‘But nevertheless encouraging?’
‘Very much so, yes.’
‘Good, good,’ muttered Montilla, as much to himself as to his colleague.
‘How are things going at the farm?’ Ramirez asked.
Montilla took off his glasses and sat back, arms folded. ‘Very well. I’ve just come from there, in fact.’
‘We must be nearing the end of the season.’
‘We are, but this year weather conditions were very favourable, and so output exceeded our expectations.’
‘Really? I wasn’t aware of that.’
‘Not by a huge amount, I grant you, Luis, but nevertheless….’ He paused. ‘I am very encouraged.’
Ramirez asked, ‘And I am assuming that the people working there have no idea of the connection they have with us?’
‘Absolutely. Secrecy is essential at this time. Both at the farm and here. What we are doing, Luis, has monumental ramifications for the future. It has been costly, yes, and risky; but the potential for us all is immense.’
‘You mean recognition?’ asked Ramirez. ‘Or earnings?’
Montilla sniffed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Both. Both financially and professionally speaking.’
Ramirez scratched his cheek. ‘I would also guess there are those who would pay us handsomely to stop what we are doing.’
Montilla nodded. ‘That thought had occurred to me. But what is that compared with how we will be judged by future generations.’
*****
At the end of the day, Dr Montilla appeared in the doorway of Ramirez’s office. His colleague looked up from his desk.
‘You look tired, Gabriel,’ Ramirez said.
‘I am. I have been up since five. Unless you need me for anything else, I’m going to head for my hotel.’
‘Will we be seeing you tomorrow?’
‘No. This was just a flying visit. I am booked on a 9am flight in the morning.’
Ramirez nodded. ‘Okay. Where are you staying?’
‘I’m at the Gran Melia Hotel.’
Ramirez frowned. ‘Gran Melia? Where’s that?’
Montilla paused a beat. ‘It’s on Avenida Francisco de Miranda.’
‘Ah, yes; I know the place you mean. Have you rented a car, or shall I get someone to call for a taxi for you?’
‘No, it’s all right, thank you. I came by taxi from the airport this morning, and I arranged one from here an hour ago.’
Ramirez stood up and shook Montilla’s hand. ‘Well, have a good night’s rest and a safe flight in the morning.’
Montilla nodded. ‘Thank you. And thank you for all you are doing here. We are all engaged in great work, Luis. I will speak to you tomorrow.’
With that, Montilla picked up his overnight bag and attaché case and walked down the stairs to the main door. He could see a yellow cab waiting for him on the street.
*****
It was now rush hour in downtown Caracas, and the three mile journey took forty minutes. Dr Montilla paid the cab driver and strode into the hotel. Once he had checked in and got into his room he sat down on the bed, looking around his room. Then stood up and walked over to the window. The fifth floor balcony afforded him a panoramic view of the city. Over to the west, the sun was beginning to set. In the other direction, he could make out the terracotta coloured roof of the Centro Medico. He gazed at the hospital building nostalgically. That was where he began his medical training all those years ago. And where he met his wife…
His thoughts then moved to Maria. The times they had together. The regret at not having children. The pain when she was taken from him at the age of forty-nine. The vow he made then.
He turned back into the room, and closed the balcony door, shutting out the sound of the Caracas traffic. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired: it had been a long day. A long year, in fact. He decided he would take a long bath, order dinner from room service, then have an early night. He would need to be up before dawn tomorrow.
It was seven o’clock when he got out of the bath. He dressed in a casual shirt and trousers and dialled for room service. He ordered Pabellon Criollo - lean steak, tomatoes, garlic and onions - and chocolate ice cream. And a bottle of Toni Teatrino. Room service advised him his meal would be around thirty minutes: that was acceptable. He sat on the bed and opened his attaché case. Took out some reports and began to read them.
After twenty minutes there was a knock on the door. Montilla looked up from his reports and checked the time. The food had arrived early. Not that he was complaining.
He walked over to the door and checked the spy hole. Expecting to see somebody wearing a white waiter’s jacket and pushing a trolley, he was surprised there was nobody there.
‘Who is it?’ he called out, one ear to the door.
‘It’s Luis,’ came the reply. ‘I need to talk to you urgently.’
Montilla pulled a face and shrugged his shoulders: this was unexpected. ‘Hold on,’ he called out. As he released the chain the door flew open, knocking him back six feet. A figure in a suit - not Ramirez - quickly stepped in, closing the door behind him. Montilla looked down and saw the man was carrying a gun. It had a small tube attached to the end of the barrel.
The man aimed the gun and Montilla heard a muffled sound. Pfft. He felt an intense stabbing pain in his chest and collapsed to the floor. The man stood over him and looked around the room. Then back down at Montilla. Through the pain in his chest Montilla’s brain fought to recognise the man. He was certain he had seen him before, recently; but where?’
In the instant that he realised the man was on the same flight as him that morning, he saw him aim the gun directly at his forehead.
Then he heard one more sound.
Pfft.
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WRONG TIME TO DIE
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood.’
Los Angeles, California
When LAPD Detective Sam Leroy is called to a murder scene, even he is taken aback by the ferocity and savagery of the crime.
Furthermore, there seems to be no motive, which means no obvious suspects.
Believing the two victims themselves hold the key to their own murder, Leroy begins his investigations there, and before long the trail leads him to the island of Catalina, where a terrible secret has remained undiscovered for almost thirty years…
; Here’s a sneak preview…
ONE
In the distance the man could see the lights from the house. A warm, yellowish glow. As he half stepped, half slid down the slope, through the undergrowth, getting closer, he could begin to make out more detail. He was at the back of the house: now he could see it was in effect on three floors. The first and second which were visible from the front, and a basement. The house was constructed on a slope, the front being at the top of the incline. At the rear, there was room for a door and two sets of windows. The basement door led out onto a patio and a small swimming pool. The moonlight reflected off the water in the pool.
It was not a full moon tonight; half, maybe. However, it just about gave the man enough light to find his way. The last thing he wanted was to slip and be found the next morning either in the pool or at the foot of the slope with a broken leg.
This was actually the fourth night of the man’s project, the first he had actually been able to get this far. On the first night there was heavy fog. Visibility was poor. He was able to carry out a reconnaissance of the front of the house, but saw nothing. In the fog he felt it was too risky to go round the back. The second night was clear, more so than tonight, but the house was empty, all the lights off. Last night the fog returned, heavier. Tonight, though, was just right. Not entirely perfect, as there were still traces of mist around, but he could see.
And somebody was in.
He had parked his car two blocks away, and walked the half mile to the house. He was surprised at the lack of security here: some of the neighbouring homes had walls and locked gates with CCTV, but here there was just a fence, which he easily climbed over. He knew from the first night that the fence was not alarmed.
