by Niv Kaplan
“So are we back to square one?” Sam asked, disappointed.
“Not quite,” Ortega said, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. “I got friendly with the travel agent. She’ll see us if we hurry.”
They hurried through Immigration and Customs to a waiting taxi and sped on the M-10 to the M-30 via Castalena to Cuzco Plaza where they entered Sunshine Travel, a colorful agency on the ground floor of a high rise building on the northern side of the roundabout.
Julia, the agent, a striking tanned brunette, dressed minimally, as if just arrived from a Caribbean cruise, welcomed them to a back office where she shut the door behind them and planted herself on the edge of a desk facing them. El Chino introduced them both and went on to explain the purpose of their visit, in Spanish, translating to Sam intermittently.
Carlos Rio was eleven when he disappeared from his home in Madrid a year before. His case reached the Center six months later and was immediately embraced by Ortega who knew the family through mutual friends. Carlos Rio’s parents, Jose and Louisa, separated and went through a long custody feud which ended in the mother receiving custody and the father weekly visiting rights. Being a devoted father, Jose Rio kept his visiting rights to the letter, demanding his rights be kept precisely as instructed by the courts.
Mother Louisa, who in the midst of pursuing a new life and possibly a new partner, had sent the boy to her parents in Segovia for a spell, forgetting her ex-husband’s meticulous devotion to the boy. When his time came and the boy was gone, Jose threw a fit and drove to Segovia to retrieve the boy from his ex-in-laws. When he arrived in Segovia, the boy was not there. Actually, his belongings were there, but the grandparents were at a loss as to where the boy was. Jose initially thought they were taunting him but later, with the police present, realized the grandparents were as terrified as he.
The boy, Carlos Rio, had disappeared. He had been at the house the night before, then, in the morning, went for a walk and never returned. Jose had arrived that same day at noon finding the grandparents worried but still hopeful. They had split up looking for him in playgrounds, nearby shopping centers, and in the city center, but he was nowhere to be found. Jose accused Louisa of a conspiracy to keep the boy from him, but the investigation could not support his claim. Jose Rio was never convinced and kept watch on the family, especially his ex-wife. Six months later, the boy still missing, and no progress with the investigation, the case reached the Center for Missing Children in New York, where Ortega first became aware of it. The name, Jose Rio, rang a bell. He was a building contractor who had built several hangars in Barajas airport and became quite friendly with the local police force Ortega had been a part of. A mutual friend, police sergeant Alonso Ferrer, suggested he contact the Center having been aware of El Chino’s success in tracking the Ricardo boy a few years earlier. Jose Luis Ortega convinced his partners to take the case and had been at it for the last six months. He was convinced, as was Jose, that the mother was involved, and employed a local detective agency to follow her around. The agency had gotten him the information of the planned trip to Barcelona.
Ortega briefed the travel agent, leaving out most particulars, trying to avoid staring at her long brown legs, bare to her thighs, showing underneath a tight black mini skirt.
“We need to know how many people were in the Rio party and whether or not the boy was with them.”
“May I see your credentials?” Julia asked in fluent English, spreading her legs just a little wider around the tip of the office desk.
Ortega showed her his Spanish police credentials and that seemed to do the trick.
“There was an under-aged child in that party,” Julia recalled, “but I could not tell if it was a boy. Of course they could have given a false name.”
“First initial, which is all I ever need, was H. Rio,” she said and turned on the table, stretching to reach the desk drawer on the other side. The men swallowed hard, exchanging glances.
She managed to open the drawer and grab a printout of the train tickets, which she handed Ortega, an apologetic smile on her face as she straightened her almost non-existent skirt over her thighs.
The itinerary included four names, the only full name showing belonged to Louisa Rio, with her Madrid address. The other initials M. and R. stood for Maria and Reuben Rio, her parents from Segovia. Initial H. remained a mystery.
“Can we talk to the delivery boy?” Sam asked, speaking for the first time.
Julia looked him over. “I suppose,” she said, “when he’s around.”
“When would that be?” Ortega pressed.
“You can wait around here for a few hours. He’s usually back by day’s end. Or you can come back tomorrow morning, bright and early.”
“How early?”
“Eight is a good time,” Julia said, sliding off the desk. “I must be going now. I got clients waiting.”
She kissed both men, each on both cheeks, rubbing her firm breasts against them, and led them back to the front office.
“We’ll wait for the boy,” Ortega said in Spanish.
“Suit yourselves, there’s coffee in the corner,” Julia said, blew them another kiss and slipped out the door.
The remaining two agents, both ladies, laid upon them a forced smile and resumed their work. Sam and El Chino poured themselves coffee and slumped into adjoining guest sofas to wait.
The delivery boy, Javier, appeared two hours later, promptly at five. Sam was napping by then. They cornered him in the back office.
“Describe the Rio party you delivered tickets to at the Eurobuilding three days ago.” Ortega commanded in Spanish.
“I had a guy ask me about them,” Javier said.
“I know,” Ortega said. “Now describe them to me.”
“Are they in some kind of trouble?” the boy inquired stubbornly.
“No trouble. We just need to find them.”
“They were two old folks, a nice lady, and a boy,” Javier said.
“Did you see the boy? Can you describe him? How old was he?” Ortega asked, taking a photo from his shirt pocket and handing it to Javier who studied it for a long moment.
“He was in the shadows. I did not pay much attention. The woman took the tickets and gave me a nice tip.”
He looked thoughtful a moment, looking at the photo in his hand again, then added, “He was not big. Might have been twelve or thirteen. I did not see his face.”
“Did you notice what he wore? Anything special?”
“I think he wore a hat. I think it’s why I didn’t see his face.”
“You sure it was a boy?”
The boy hesitated then nodded. Sam and Ortega exchanged glances again. The resource had been exhausted. They thanked him and went out into the street.
“He’s with her. I know it,” Ortega said, flexing his hips in the middle of the street.
“Why did they cancel the trip, is what I want to know,” Sam mused. “They didn’t even ask the travel agency for a refund.”
“They may still,” Ortega pitched in.
“Make sure we know about it.” Sam said.
“Anything for another look...” Ortega remarked.
“She may eat you alive,” Sam observed drily.
They halfheartedly cackled at one another. In truth they had reached another dead end.
“Have you checked the Eurobuilding?” Sam asked.
“They have no record of any of them. The lady is smart.” Ortega said. “It was just a rendezvous place. They left the same day they were supposed to go to Barcelona, only they went somewhere else. I got no one on them now. Jacobo and his people were expecting them on the train.”
“We need a big break here,” Sam commented. “Where’s the father?”
“Business trip to Palma. He won’t be back for a while.”
“Let’s eat,” Sam suggested.
Ortega bowed his head and signaled for a taxi. Dead ends and disappointments were an everyday occurrence in their line of business.
They had learned to live with it but they could never afford to accept it.
CHAPTER SIX
The Air France flight to Tel Aviv was delayed. Black Jack and Christine had time to catch up as they waited around the business lounge an extra two hours.
On the flight they both slept.
They reached Tel Aviv late afternoon, proceeded to rent a car and began the long haul to Eilat. A fairly decent, two lane highway took them south to Beer Sheva, capital of the Negev, where they checked into a roadside motel and spent the night. In the morning after a hearty breakfast, they veered east to Dimona and down along a sloping scenic route to the Arava, a long flat desert plateau spread between Israel’s Judea Mountains and Jordan’s Red Mountains.
They reached the picturesque tourist town of Eilat by the Gulf of Aqaba at noon and stopped for lunch then continued to the border crossing at Taba. The line of cars waiting to cross the Egyptian border took the rest of the day to manage. The Egyptian immigration personnel and Army officers were in no hurry to let people in. Each car had to be searched, marked, and given Egyptian license plates to be placed over the Israeli ones. A fee had to be paid for both passengers and cars not to mention the routine border proceedings of visa approval and passport stamping. At least four different venues had to be visited and revisited in order to pass the checkpoint and be able to drive to the Sinai.
It was evening when they were finally let through. They carefully drove the next sixty kilometers to Nueba in darkness aware of the local habit to drive without headlights at night for long spells “in the interest of saving energy”. Mainly a Bedouin village, named Neviot in the Israeli occupation days, Nueba offered an array of tourist attractions such as diving, sailing, reef snorkeling, a market, shops, restaurants and decent accommodation along its enchanting coast. Jack and Christine checked in at the Hilton, a beach resort a few kilometers north of Nueba and dropped exhausted in their rooms.
A bright caressing sun woke Christine up early. As tired as she had felt the previous night, she could not resist the tranquil beach looking so peaceful and inviting from her bedroom window.
A bathing suit was one item she had not packed so she threw a long white negligee over herself and eagerly walked to the beach.
The resort was arranged in a semicircle facing the beach. The two-storey sandy colored buildings were curved encompassing three swimming pools with manufactured waterfalls and adjacent jacuzzis, three restaurants, and several bars and kiosks located by the pools and beach area.
At six thirty in the morning there wasn’t a soul around. The waterfalls made a trickling sound, soothing to the ear. The beach bar had stacks of plastic easy chairs piled around it and the bamboo sun sheds were empty.
The repetitive sound of the gentle waves stroking the sand drew Christine to the water. She walked along the shore digging her bare feet in the sand. She reached a small wooden pier standing a few meters over the water and climbed it. To her surprise, a dolphin popped up with a cheerful cackle just as she peered over the edge of the peer, two smaller dolphins tagging along, welcoming her to their midst. She waved at them and they appeared twice more.
She looked across at the looming cliffs creating a large perpetual gorge around the incredible blue-green shades of the peaceful waters of the Gulf. Then she turned and looked at the Sinai to the west. The Santa Katarina ridge looked imposing over the desert terrain, the morning shades making their might even more distinctive. She suddenly felt majestic, in tune with the world, something she had not felt since her father died.
A man was staring at her. She had not noticed him, though he was only a few feet from the pier, rooted in a crouching position. She knew she was only half-decent. Her breasts were showing through the flimsy negligee, her bare legs to her knickers, clearly visible.
She hesitated, not sure if she was arousing or offending the man. Dressed in Bedouin robes and a kafiya, his black eyes kept probing her, twirling his big moustache with one long brown finger, content in his place. She looked back momentarily but even the dolphins had deserted her. She carefully descended the wooden pier steps and headed back toward her room. The Bedouin remained in his place, only his eyes followed her. As she reached the enclosure of one of the swimming pools, the Bedouin no longer visible, she noticed a stack of clean towels ready for use. On a whim, the frisky morning air prickling her body, she stripped naked and jumped in the pool swimming hard for the first few minutes to ward away the cold. Aware that any wakeful tenants in the building above could get a clear look at her nakedness, she next skipped into the jacuzzi where the water felt much warmer. She turned the timer and let the bubbly currents massage her body. She drifted for a few minutes thinking of the kidnapped boy, Ibrahim El Shara, and his mother Clair being held a prisoner. She secretly blamed herself for the blunder and for not paying closer attention. She wondered what lay ahead for her and Black Jack.
She was startled for a second time that morning by a skinny teenage boy who joined her in the jacuzzi. Unabashed, he smiled at her as he stripped to his bathing pants and hopped in. She smiled back and stepped out, walked to the towel stack and wrapped herself. The boy was attentively watching her as she picked up her garments and walked to her room.
Black Jack joined her for breakfast at nine. The breakfast room was a spacious hall with large windows facing the beach, aligned with spreads of fruits, vegetables, scrambled eggs of all sorts, omelets, rolls, croissants, cheeses, cold fruit drinks and hot beverages.
“What have you been up to?” he asked smiling, seeing her energized.
“Morning swim,” she answered, biting into a buttered croissant. “I hope I won’t be reprimanded.”
“For what?”
“Stimulating the local population,” she chuckled. “You forgot to tell me to pack a bathing suit.”
“What did I miss?” he asked delightedly.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Jack.”
He laughed heartily and went to fetch breakfast.
“Where to next?” Christine asked when he came back, his tray stacked with plates, a colorful mix of fruits and vegetables, omelet and toast, the Egyptian waiter straggling behind with a mug of steaming coffee.
“We go to Dahab. We should get there by noon if we leave at ten. I’ve arranged to meet a local attorney who claims he can get us in to see Clair.”
Christine sat back, sipping her tea. “How high is the fee to get her out?”
“The bribe you mean?” Black Jack snorted. “It depends how many we need to bribe. I’d say it’s at least the local police chief, the jail master, an Army officer or two, and the judge.”
“That’s our entire budget,” Christine remarked.
“Nah, relax Chris. US currency goes a long way in these parts. The lot of them can live on a couple thousand bucks for a full year.”
“Do we stay here or move there?” Christine asked.
“We may as well move,” Black Jack reasoned. “We need to stay as close to Clair as we can. Place has a similar feel but is much larger and more commercialized. We should find similar accommodation there without too much trouble.”
“I sure hope so,” Christine said. “I was beginning to grow attached.”
“This place is awesome.” Black Jack said. “People don’t know it until they get here. Then they don’t want to leave. But it’s all along the coast to Sharm el Sheikh. The scenery, the coral reefs. It gets even better.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
An hour later they were on their way to Dahab. The mostly empty road stretched along the mountain face, at times high above the coast and at times right by the water. Christine could not get enough of the sheer wild beauty in the form of a contrast between the barren desert and deep blue-green shades of water. Coral reefs could be seen all along the way, some bare along empty golden beaches, some surrounded by small beach resorts with baffling Arab names.
They reached Dahab at noon, as Black Jack predicted, and found a parking spot along a long busy seaside boardwalk, by a bu
stling market. Christine had no idea how Jack planned to locate the attorney with all the commotion and foreign language around them but, lo and behold, they found him, sipping mud coffee, a thick concentrated brown liquid, at a beach café. It turned out, though Christine could not understand a word spoken, the attorney, Abdullah Fuad, was a local celebrity of sorts. Within minutes, using hand signals and what sounded like foul language, they were pointed to his lordship’s local hangout, a noisy entourage of children leading the way.
The attorney smiled broadly as they walked in. Word had probably reached him well in advance. He greeted them graciously, moving from the bar to a low side table with three chairs, signaling the proprietor to prepare amenities. The welcoming party of children disassembled in a hurry.
“Mr. Jack,” Abdullah began, clearing the table for a coffee tray, “I’ve arranged to see the woman tomorrow morning.” He had not yet acknowledged Christine, who sat motionless holding her breath.
“Much appreciated,” Black Jack said, not bothering to introduce Christine. “Is she in good health?”
“She is doing just fine,” the Arab said in lame English. “You will see her tomorrow.”
“We need to get her out,” Black Jack said.
Christine could not even begin to guess his age. Abdullah wore a white robe, she later learned was called a Galabia. He had thick short hair, very black, alert brown eyes, a moustache, which all men seemed to own in that part of the world, and a prickly goatee beard strapped to the middle of his chin. He chain-smoked, and twirled his moustache with his fingers like the Bedouin who had startled her that morning in Nueba. She wondered if he had an office, or did he handle all his business from the beach café.
Mud coffee was served in small ornate china cups then various sweet delicacies appeared.
“We will see,” Abdullah said, in a delayed referral to Mr. Jack’s comment. “She will appear before the judge soon.”