"Get a voice number for the same business, assuming there is one. Then call and ask what their address is."
"And how do we do that?"
"A lot of times, fax numbers are one digit off from voice numbers."
"True. So, then, what? We start calling numbers that are close to the fax number until we get one that sounds right?"
"You sound skeptical."
"I'm willing to try anything. But neither of us speak much Spanish. Plus, how will you know if and when you hit the right number? You'll get random individuals. Random businesses. Calls without answer. You won't know what's what. Here's another idea."
"Lay it on me."
"I can send a fax to the number. I'll make the header look important, maybe with some counterfeit bank or government letterhead. But then I'll make the rest of the fax blurry and unreadable. Then, hopefully, the header will make them worry that they're missing out on an important fax. They'll send a reply to the originating fax number, hopefully with an address or phone number on it."
"Clever. But you think they'll fall for it? And what fax machine are you going to use?"
"One in a hotel business center or private mailbox or office supply type of shop," Arkin said.
"What if they do a Google search of the fax number? Won't they see that it's from a hotel or mailbox place instead of a bank or government ministry or whatever you're pretending to be? And then won't they smell a rat? And what if the fax number is only used for their assassination missions? Then receiving some random fax might really set off alarm bells."
"That's a risk. But our options are limited."
"Let's try my way first."
TWENTY-FIVE
Using his new smartphone to search, Arkin found a nearby hotel with a business center—and, presumably, a fax machine. It was on the outskirts of the resort city of Vina del Mar, just under four miles to the northeast. They walked down from the restaurant to the waterfront and boarded a light rail train at the Bellavista metro station. As they walked and rode, Morrison dialed numbers that were one or two digits off from the fax number Arkin had found in Vancouver. A few didn't answer. A few were clearly for individuals who merely answered with an "Aló," "Hola," or "Digame." A handful seemed to be for businesses of some sort. One was for a library—Morrison knew the word "biblioteca."
"Maybe we can get someone who speaks Spanish to call these numbers for us," Morrison said.
"Maybe."
They got off the train at Miramar station, walked to the modern monstrosity of a hotel, strode through the main entrance as though they belonged, and found an English language directory next to the elevators that listed the business center as being on the second floor. Minutes later, they were sitting at side-by-side computer terminals. In a few minutes, Morrison was tracking down an image of the blue-and-red seal and coat of arms for the Gobernación Provincial de Valparaíso—the provincial government of Valparaiso. Arkin copied and pasted it onto the top a document he was turning into counterfeit government letterhead.
Morrison used a free language translation website to find the Spanish equivalent of the phrase, "Notification of immediate action…." It translated to "Aviso de acción inmediata," which they both hoped fit with the local Chilean dialect of Spanish. Then Arkin typed the phrase below the coat of arms of the fake letterhead. On subsequent lines, he typed random letters, filling space. He printed the document, placed it on a copy machine, and just as the copy machine scanner reached the area between the line reading "Aviso de acción inmediata" and the body of the letter, he slid the sheet of paper so that everything below the line that said "Aviso de acción inmediata" was blurred. His first couple of attempts didn't quite work, resulting in either some of the gobbledygook lines of text remaining clear enough to see, or part of the phrase "Aviso de acción inmediata" ending up too blurred to read. On his third try, he nailed it. The letterhead and "immediate action" phrase looked perfect, and everything below was too blurry to make out.
Arkin set the document in the feeder of the business center's fax machine and keyed in the number.
"Cross your fingers," he said to Morrison as he pushed the dial button. The machine beeped to life, emitting the individual tones of numbers as it dialed. The line rang its foreign sounding ring. After three rings, the familiar click of the line being answered. Arkin held his breath as all was silent. Then, to his tremendous relief, he heard the squeaky tone of the answering fax machine. Arkin exhaled. The number still worked. And a few seconds later, the hotel fax machine spit out a confirmation sheet indication that the fax was sent and received successfully.
"So now we wait?" Morrison asked.
"Now we wait. We wait right here by this fax machine."
*****
They sat in soft armchairs in a corner of the business center, next to tall windows that framed panoramic views out over Valparaiso Bay. They had the business center to themselves.
"I've been thinking about your pursuit of Sheffield and the Priest's group in the context of the big picture," Morrison said.
"Big picture?"
"Of your life. Of life in general."
"Oh, no. Is this going to be another rant?"
"You realize you're chasing yourself, right?"
"What?"
"In chasing Sheffield and the phantom Priest, you're chasing versions of yourself. Other fundamentalists."
"I'm a fundamentalist now?"
"In a way. The only real difference between y'all is that that you each stubbornly, stupidly adhere to different codes. And really, your respective codes aren't all that different. Same goal. Just different in the details."
"Such as that I don't murder people?"
"Come on now. You have your cute little law enforcement officer's sort of Bushido code, with your strict adherence to inflexible black and white, good and evil views of people and their behaviors."
"Clearly, I've relaxed my standards of late, what with my stealing someone's I.D., assaulting uniformed law enforcement officers in Canada and Chile, and so forth."
Morrison went on as though he didn't hear him. "And Sheffield has his grandiose scheme-to-save-the-world code. I wonder if you were both driven to it by the same thing."
"To what?"
"To fundamentalism."
"Good lord."
"Probably by that extra-sharp existential anxiety that's so often a product of low self-esteem."
"Extra-sharp? Are you talking about existential anxiety or cheddar cheese?"
"Of course, it's always about anxiety, isn't it? Our biggest psychological issue, as a race."
"Are we having a conversation, or are you just talking to yourself?"
"But then the 99-dollar question is why would you and Sheffield and maybe even the Priest—each of you total studs, with resumes that nearly put you on par with the superheroes of Marvel Comics—why would you, of all people, have low self-esteem?" Morrison, suddenly lost in thought, stared out the window toward the sunny Pacific.
"A thought-provoking session, Doctor Morrison. Worth every penny of my co-pay."
"You're just irritated that I'm so accurate in my—"
His statement was interrupted by the hotel fax machine chirping to life once again as it received a call. With agonizing slowness, with Arkin and Morrison hovering over it, staring, willing it to hurry up, the machine rolled out a single faxed page with a hand-written note and phone number on it. Morrison, back at one of the computer terminals, typed the content of the note into the English-Spanish translation web page to reveal that it said, "Fax message received but unreadable. Please resend or call to discuss." The phone number was double-circled. Apparently, they'd prefer a straight-up phone call to another fax.
"Did that really just happen?" Morrison said, staring at the screen.
"You mean, did something finally go our way? Did our little scheme work like a charm? Did the objects of our pursuit just unwittingly and willingly give us their phone number? I don't know. Pinch me."
"How about if I ju
st slap you?"
"Google the phone number."
Morrison did. But nothing came up. No name. No address.
"I guess I spoke too soon," Morrison said.
"You always do."
TWENTY-SIX
Arkin sent Morrison home for the evening, thinking that having the two of them together would be overkill for the next move he had in mind. Then, after a solitary late dinner of cold cheese empanadas and lukewarm black tea back at his hostel, he put the Chilean beers he'd bought earlier in a washtub of ice he'd coaxed out of the hostel manager and set himself up, with the tub of beer at his side, in a worn rocking chair on the hostel’s wide back porch overlooking Valparaiso Bay. It was fairly dark on the porch, a single string of multi-colored Christmas lights providing the only illumination. Alone, he cracked open a cold beer, took a long drink, and waited, taking in the sweeping view of the Pacific.
After about 10 minutes, two young men in Peruvian wool sweaters joined him, taking seats on a threadbare couch against the wall. They were having a muted discussion in Spanish as one of them fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Neither of them looked a day over 18, and it occurred to Arkin that his age might make him dangerously conspicuous here. He was a little old to be staying in hostels. Guests might suspect him of being an old peeping pervert or drug dealer of the sort Arkin remembered seeing lurking around the lesser hostels he stayed in while backpacking through Europe as a freshly emancipated 18-year-old.
"Hola," Arkin said, nodding to them.
"Hola."
"Hablas Ingles?"
They shook their heads.
"Cerveza?"
"No, gracias. Cigarillo?" one of them asked, holding the pack out for Arkin.
"No, gracias."
The men lit up. And while Arkin was usually repulsed by cigarette smoke, he found the toasty aroma of whatever brand they were smoking surprisingly pleasant. He leaned back in his comfortable chair, closed his eyes, drew a deep breath through his nostrils, and allowed himself a moment of relative relaxation.
Five minutes later, they were joined by a tall blond man accompanied by two Latin-looking women. They looked to be in their 30s, which Arkin found reassuring. There were holas all around.
"Cerveza?" Arkin offered the newcomers.
"Si!" they said, in unison.
"Hablas Ingles?" he asked again as he handed out their beers.
"Yes," they all said.
"Are you American?" the man asked, his tone not altogether friendly.
"Canadian. You?"
"Dutch," said the man.
"Argentine," said each of the women.
Bingo.
They compared stories of their journeys, with Arkin telling half-truths about how he'd just arrived from Vancouver, with no certain destination in mind, but was very much looking forward to reuniting with an old friend. Before long, his candidates each had several beers in them. They were laughing, discussing favorite movies, philosophizing about the value of an unencumbered singles lifestyle, and complaining about post-9/11 American foreign policy, all as though they’d known each other for years. Arkin even smoked a cigarette one of the women offered, though it made his stomach turn, just to add to his crafted aura of fellowship.
In truth, he found the conversation utterly banal. The women were at least tolerable, and certainly friendly. But after listening to 10 minutes of the arrogant Dutchman’s inane and idealistic diatribe on the evil of America, Arkin found himself struggling to subdue visions of sarcastically congratulating the bastard on his countrymen’s "great job protecting the innocent civilians of Srebrenica, Bosnia," then jamming his head in a toilet and flushing it. At one point, the Dutchman even turned his back to Arkin and bent over to help himself to another of Arkin’s beers, leaving his scrotal area so totally exposed to attack that Arkin groaned with temptation, passing it off as a groan of satisfaction as he stretched his arms. But he contained himself and kept up the façade.
At long last, the idiot Dutchman ran out of steam. Either that, or he finally realized, too late, that the women were finding him a bore. Whatever the case, he went to bed.
"Are the Argentine and Chilean dialects the same," Arkin asked the two Argentine women, after gently steering the conversation to the topic of regional linguistics by complaining that the Spanish he studied in high school didn’t seem to help him a lick this far south.
"Different, in some ways. The accent, also different."
"Hey," Arkin said in as nonchalant a tone as possible, as though a thought has just occurred to him out of thin air. "Do you think you can adopt the local dialect and accent? Or would that be hard to do?"
"Oh yes," said the merrier of the pair. "I can do it."
"Really?" Arkin smiled a broad, mirthful smile. "Maybe you can help me."
"Yes?"
"I have an old friend who lives here. Or at least, I hope he still lives here."
"Here, in Valparaiso?"
"Yes. We became friends when he came to study in Canada many years ago."
"Yes?"
"I would love to see him again. But he has no idea I’m here, and I’d like to surprise him. He’ll shit a brick if I show up at his door."
"A brick?"
"The only problem is all I have is the phone number for his business. I don’t have his address."
"I could call the business and ask the address for you," she said, beaming.
Tally-ho. "Yeah, but they might get suspicious."
"What is the business?"
"I’m not even sure. He used to trade in seafood."
The woman thought for a moment. "Maybe I pretend to have a delivery for them."
"But then they would assume you have their address."
"Oh. Yes."
"Hmmm." Arkin feigned deep thought, then a breakthrough. "Hey, how about this? You could tell them part of the shipping label got torn off, and that all you have is their telephone number."
"Yes, that is a good idea. I can do that. Then I ask for their street address. I tell them I call from the postal office. Ah! And I say I have a package from Canada. Then your friend will laugh even more when he sees that his package is his Canadian friend, you."
"That sounds perfect."
"You want me to call now?"
"I think it would be more believable if you call tomorrow morning."
"It will be fun for me."
"Me too," Arkin said, handing her another beer. "Me too."
TWENTY-SEVEN
Twelve restless hours later, Arkin had the street address for the office of a company called Pesquera Mares Verdes, after whoever answered instructed Arkin's Argentine accomplice to "just slip the package through the mail delivery slot in the door" after confirming with her that it contained nothing perishable. He found the office by late morning, doing a quick walk-by to give it a look. To his happy surprise, it turned out to be located barely an eighth of a mile from the hostel, in a row house built of cut stone, midway down a quiet, cobblestoned block. Its tall, antique wooden doorway stood across the street from a coffee house, art gallery, and small restaurant.
He rendezvoused with Morrison in the cemetery again to go over their plan. "The nearest Carabineros police station is only half a mile away from the Pesquera Mares Verdes office as the crow flies," Morrison told him. "But it would take them at least five minutes to get here because it's on a different hill. They have to go down and then back up to get here. Of course, they could already have patrol units operating nearby. It's always a risk."
They stripped themselves of all forms of I.D., caching them behind an overgrown mausoleum. Then they loaded their guns, stuffed them in the beltlines of their pants where they were hidden under their loose-fitting shirts, and set off for the office of Pesquera Mares Verdes.
Since the weather was decent enough, they decided to take turns being outside watching the street—with the other getting to loiter in one of the several businesses on the side of the street opposite the office. Arkin bought a Chilean new
spaper and pretended to read it at a window seat in the coffee house, consuming several excellent espressos while he kept watch on the office door. But he didn’t spot anyone either coming or going. Morrison joined him after an hour or so.
"How's the coffee?" he asked as he sat down, keeping his eyes looking out the window toward the office's antique front door.
"Mild, but good. Earthy."
"Earthy, he says. The hell does that mean? It tastes like dirt?"
"Try one and see."
A server came and took Morrison's order. An extra-large coffee, black.
"Awful quiet out there," Morrison said.
"Any sense of surveillance?"
"I'm not for sure."
"You're not for sure. And the Mississippi dialect rears its ugly head once again."
"You're feeling peppy today. Firing off East Coast elitist insults of the language of my people."
"I dreamt of Hannah last night."
"A good dream, I take it."
"Not a bad one, anyway."
"Was it heavy or spiritual or something?"
"That's the funny thing. It was weird, but seemed entirely frivolous. The two of us were eating banana pancakes at the small table we had in our apartment in Washington, D.C., years ago. Years before we moved to Colorado. Just sitting there reading The Washington Post. But the paper was all ads for Dodge pickup trucks and movies with a lot of car chases and explosions, except for one article that said some sort of assembly of ultraconservative Southern evangelicals was pressing for a change to federal regulations that would outlaw the generation of electricity by power plants using anything but coal."
"Huh?"
"Exactly. Anyway, as we ate our dream pancakes and read our dream paper, we were lamenting the fact that the world was being taken over by morons," Arkin shrugged.
"That's it?"
"You were expecting some profound message from the other side?"
"Knowing your brain, yes, I suppose I was."
Arkin smiled. "The odd thing is, I woke up so happy. A dream of utterly commonplace activity. So ordinary. But it just felt so real. So real. Like I'd really had breakfast with her."
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