The Extraditionist

by Todd Merer

  Foto had been so stoned, I doubted he’d remember my having been there. In truth, it seemed long ago. Back when we were friends.

  The street was quiet. Empty. Above the entrance to Foto’s house, a tiny red light shone. A security camera. I kept walking. The neighboring house was dark. No camera. I vaulted a low fence and went behind the neighboring house. The rear of Foto’s place was dark. A trellis thick with night flowers was fixed to that wall. I remembered because we’d had the window open that night.

  I climbed the trellis to a rear window.

  Paused, listening. Nothing but cicadas and the low whirr of an air conditioner and, faintly from within, a soccer match on television. The announcer spoke Colombian Spanish. I smiled. Foto was there.

  I took hold of the window, tensed. For sure, it would be locked, but I intended to smash it open and be inside before Foto could react. I hoped. Maybe he had a gun. Maybe he’d use it before I could get to him. Maybe I was too old to even think of trying such a move—

  Fuck old. Fuck maybe.

  I gripped the window tightly, was about to put my shoulder to the glass . . . but it wasn’t locked. It opened smoothly. A typical Foto stoner lapse. It was a “safe house,” after all; why check the windows?

  I crawled through the window.

  Found myself in a small bedroom. Barbells on the floor. A rack of expensive suits. A door opened just a crack but enough to see the television in the master bedroom.

  I inched the door wider.

  Foto lay in bed with a beer bottle propped on his stomach. He was naked except for shorts. He was unshaven. He looked drunk. I counted to three . . .

  Then burst through the door.

  Drunk or not, Foto reacted quickly, reaching toward the nightstand. My hand was in my jacket pocket as if I held a gun. “Move, and I’ll kill you.”

  He froze. Blinked. “Benn?”

  I crossed to the nightstand, opened the top drawer, took a small automatic from it.

  “Why are you here, Benn?”

  I whipped the gun across his face. “I’m asking the questions. Why are you here?”

  “No reason. Come on, Benn, we—”

  I hit the other side of his face.

  “When I was in PC before the holidays?” I said. “You already knew I was on my way to Guatemala.”

  He began shaking his head but stopped when I raised the gun to his face.

  “I don’t recall. What’s the fucking diff? I was referring you a case.”

  “Who was your source? Mondragon? Kursk? Sombra?”

  He swallowed hard. His silence was a tell that spoke volumes. I smashed him again. I saw blood flying and didn’t care. “First, I’m going to take your face—”

  “Benn, I meant you no harm—”

  “Then I’ll take your balls.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you—”

  He lunged for the gun.

  It flew from my grip and skittered across the floor. We both went after it. I grabbed it first and leveled it at him, and he stopped short. For a moment, I thought he was considering taking a bullet, but then his lips quivered.

  “All right, all right. I’ll tell you—”

  His expression froze. A red rose bloomed on his shirt front. He tottered and fell onto the bed.

  I turned and saw, framed by the same window I’d entered, a small man holding a large pistol with a long silencer pointed at me.

  Enano.

  A phone was pressed to his ear. He listened, nodded, hung up. Then lowered the gun and climbed back through the window and was gone.

  I left by the front door.

  My shirt was splattered with blood. I buttoned my jacket, turned the collar up. Forced myself to walk slowly for several blocks, then caught a cab to my hotel.

  One thing was clear: I hadn’t been dispatched to Panama City to meet Helmer Quezada. No, I’d been sent because I could be followed to Foto, so he could be located and silenced. Like Paz, he knew Bolivar was Sombra—

  My phone rang, startling me.

  I put it to my ear, grunted.

  It was Helmer Quezada.

  He said, “Caracas.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Returning to New York was the safe, smart thing to do. But if Sombra had marked me for death, I’d have already been lying alongside Foto. Besides, New York wasn’t safe, either: Stefania was proof of that. So, in for a dime, in for a dollar.

  The next day, I flew to Venezuela.

  I hadn’t been to Caracas in years. I remembered it as a bustling city throbbing with rumba. But that was when Venezuela was just dipping its toe into vast pools of oil, the start of what promised to be a long swim in a sea of wealth. But the price of oil had plummeted, and the country had gotten sidetracked by the false promise of Chavismo and descended into a full-fledged narco-state, much as Colombia had during the late twentieth century. Still, Colombia had fought its way through, and although drugs still accounted for too much of its econ, its society was relatively free and decidedly upwardly mobile. Venezuela, however, remained the domain of drugsters and military strongmen, its economy depressed and in ruins.

  I felt the vibes as soon as I walked off my flight. Eleven in the evening, and the international terminal was nearly empty. Just a few lonesome travelers with eyes averted from men loitering in darkened boarding gates. Plainclothes cops. They eyeballed me, but I passed unhindered through customs and immigration.

  Helmer Quezada had given me a number to call, and during the cab ride to Caracas proper, I dialed it, but it didn’t ring. Bad connectivity, or old-pro Quezada being cautious? Whichever, he’d call when he wanted, and not a moment before. So I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

  Or tried to.

  A half mile out from the airport, the roadside was dark. Desolate. Just our headlights, eating up highway totally bereft of other traffic. The sad legacy of Hugo the Munificent.

  My cab sped along for forty-five minutes: no lights, no signs, nothing.

  Caracas was barely lit, its downtown deserted. I went into a large hotel that looked transplanted from 1960s Miami. The lobby was empty. I told the desk clerk I wanted an inexpensive room. He replied there was a promotion going on; he would upgrade me.

  The promo turned out to be a presidential-size suite. Made me wonder if Quezada, acting on Fercho’s wishes, was making nice. Whatever. It was a welcome nest for this weary traveler. I placed an order for room service, then showered. I was toweling off when room service arrived. I dressed while the white-jacketed waiter set up my meal.

  When I came from the bedroom, he stood with his face turned away, as if embarrassed to be waiting for remuneration. I put ten American on the table. He murmured thanks and lifted the cover off my steak plate.

  Only there wasn’t a steak on my plate.

  It was a stack of crisp new Franklins.

  The waiter laughed. I blinked.

  The waiter was my longtime client PF, the permanent fugitive, now far from Honduras. Raising a hand for silence, he picked up a remote and switched on the television, then ran through stations before stopping at a news commentary. He increased the volume to a roar and leaned closer.

  “To understand the present, understand the past,” he said. My obvious confusion made PF smile. “Remember years ago, when all of a sudden you began getting major Colombian clients?”

  I nodded. I remembered all too well.

  “Then you met a certain man and learned your clients were his people.”

  I wondered why PF was talking about Nacho Barrera but didn’t want to be drawn in to the conversation. Assume everyone—even a longtime client—is wired, and you have one less thing to worry about. There’s a huge difference between representing a criminal and being house counsel to a criminal organization. The former is criminal-defense business as usual; the latter criminal monkey business. No way I was going to own up to anything resembling that, so I simply nodded.

  “Weren’t you curious that, even after Nacho was dead, you continued representing big players know
n as . . . what do the federals call them?”

  “Consolidated Priority Operational Targets. CPOTs.”

  “Ah, yes, CPOTs. Like Fercho. Like me. Like a dozen others since Nacho’s death. All of whom know of, or actually know, one another. Why do you think we all retained you?”

  “Because I’m good at what I do.”

  “Nacho was a private man. Few people knew he was survived by a son. Many lawyers are good at what you do, but you proved yourself to be loyal to the family and the survivors of Nacho’s organization.”

  “Which survivors?”

  PF grinned. “There’s me, and . . . I’m sure you’ll discover who else on your own. We’re not an organization. We have no name. We’re just a group with a shared history of loving Nacho. We only deal with one another and are sworn to never reveal our ties. Still, given the nature of our business, sometimes we must deal with an outsider . . . and sometimes that outsider breaks our code of silence. I am referring to a particular client of yours, or perhaps I should say, a recent client. You know who?”

  I nodded. “My only recent client was Rigo.”

  “Yes, him. You knew what Rigo planned?”

  I nodded. “Why are you telling me this?”

  PF regarded the television. The commentary was over; now a beauty contest was on. He sighed. “Women. I’m tired of one-night putas. I want to settle down with one woman. Just like you, Benn. I remember Nacho was impressed with your wife. Brains and beauty, he said. A Puertorriqueña, if I recall. How is she?”

  No way was I going to discuss Mady with these people. “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “We divorced long ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but not surprised. Difficult maintaining a home life in the business we’re in.”

  I wanted to say I wasn’t in his business, but PF was right. I was right in the middle of it. I was the missing link among those in jail and their brethren outside. Drug money paid my bills.

  “You asked why I am telling you this, Benn. It’s because we need your services again. One last time. Accomplish the task, and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams.”

  “I’ve heard that line before.”

  “Your answer is yes?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “No. Tomorrow we begin.”

  When he was gone, I counted the money. One hundred thousand, exactly what Fercho had paid. Sombra’s organization was paying me twice for the same trip. Dangling two juicy carrots before one hungry horse.

  Putting me in double trouble.

  CHAPTER 68

  When the phone rang, I bolted awake. Still dark out. I answered. “Your car is here, sir.”

  What car? I squinted at my watch: 3:00 a.m. Right. It was tomorrow.

  Fifteen minutes later, I checked out. My car was an old taxi, its driver unremarkable.

  Last time I’d been in Caracas, the clubs were just getting going at this hour, but now we drove through dark, deserted streets. We went down a boulevard that petered out at a dirt field. Apparently, the driver had been paid to go this far but no farther because he stopped, reached back, and opened my door.

  I didn’t like the idea of being left alone in the middle of nowhere, but it had been preordained. As soon as I got out, the taxi pulled away. Dead quiet and pitch dark—

  Suddenly, bright lights came on. Behind their glare, an insectlike contraption was perched in the field. A small helicopter. Its blades began turning as its cockpit door swung open and a man leaned out, motioning me toward him.

  As I approached, a second man appeared. He wore flight coveralls and a handgun in a shoulder holster. The first man was also armed. He spoke into a radio. His accent was Colombian. Not surprising. Venezuela was loaded with colombianos doing business protected by the corrupt military. I supposed whomever I was about to meet operated somewhere in western Venezuela, in a mountain redoubt hard by the Colombian border.

  The second man indicated for me to board.

  I climbed into the cockpit and sat behind the pilot. I was given a headset and told to buckle up. The motor coughed to life, the rotors picked up speed, and we lifted off.

  There was a quarter moon, and in its pale light the downtown buildings looked like tombstones. There was no traffic on the streets. No signs of life. We tilted upward and gained speed.

  For an hour, we droned through darkness. Then a few tiny, flickering flames appeared. As we neared, they grew numerous, so many it looked like a firefly convention. Their illuminated reflection was on water, and I realized the lights were the gas flares of oil rigs on Lake Maracaibo. Meaning we were headed due west. The flares receded behind us. The eastern sky was lightening—

  All at once, the sun rose above the earth’s rim, and ahead in the far distance were mountains topped by snowcapped alps. I’d seen the peaks often from jetliners and recognized them as the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta—

  In Colombia.

  The altimeter read six thousand feet, but that wasn’t why my heart was pounding. Never mind that Fercho claimed General Uvalde hadn’t killed Paz and didn’t care about me: the fact remained that people knew I’d possessed a video incriminating Uvalde. And now, I was entering Uvalde’s domain, bereft of either a passport stamp or customs declaration.

  Below in the predawn lay a white-sand coastline I knew to be the Guajira Peninsula, where six years ago Joaquin Bolivar had loaded a sailboat with weed brought down from the high Sierra, weed harvested by the Logui Indians.

  Now the jungled coastline gave way to fields and buildings, and beyond them was the grid of a seaside city. Santa Marta.

  We corkscrewed lower. At the edge of a field, headlights flashed on and off three times. The helicopter landed in a cloud of dust. Its rotors slowed and stopped, and when the dust had cleared, an automobile became visible. It was a dark Escalade like the one Castri drove me in.

  I felt a twinge of unease: the pilots’ body language was wary, as if the scenario were not what they’d expected. They had their hands on their guns. The Escalade’s rear door opened, and a man got out.

  Felipe Mondragon.

  “A small change of plans, guys,” he said. “It was thought that Indians might be noticed, so they asked me to escort the doctor instead.”

  “No one told us,” the pilot said. “I don’t like it.”

  “Understandable. One can’t be too careful. As proof, they asked the doctor’s man to vouch for me.” Mondragon gestured, and the Escalade driver got out.

  To my astonishment, it was my driver, Castri.

  The pilot looked at me. “You know this man?”

  I nodded. The pilots holstered their weapons.

  “Come, Doctor,” Mondragon said to me.

  Even as I started toward the Escalade, two men brandishing automatic weapons emerged from its rear. Their guns chattered, and the pilots crumpled.

  I stood still, stunned.

  “I had no choice, Doctor,” Mondragon said. “People who know Sombra have a troubling manner of disappearing. The list, unfortunately, includes me.”

  I was on the list, too, but said nothing.

  “Oh, I intend to disappear from sight, but very much alive and very wealthy. You see, all you have is now mine. This vehicle, and the twenty-million-dollar fee you received for representing Bolivar.”

  Received? Mondragon was an even bigger fool than I. I hoped to be paid. He thought I had been.

  He smiled wolfishly. “Pretending you don’t understand? A poor act, Doctor. We will arrange for you to wire the money from your account to mine. Get in the car.”

  Castri held the door for me. Whatever small hope I had that he was still with me was extinguished when our gazes met. His looked defiant. He said, “You didn’t think I’d be a driver for the rest of my life—”

  The side of Castri’s head imploded—a flashback to my near-death experience in Antigua. Before I fully comprehended what was happening, I had instinctively thrown myself to the sandy soil, processing the fact of an ambush while pressing myself against te
rra firma. Above me flew a deafening exchange of incoming rounds and outgoing responses, which slowly lessened and finally ceased.

  Tentatively, I got up.

  Castri, Mondragon, and the two sicarios from the Escalade lay in their own pooled blood, eyes vacantly staring at the rifle-toting new arrivals above them, two Indians and a short man with truncated fingers I recognized:

  Enano.

  CHAPTER 69

  Again, Enano chose to let me live. Which did little to calm my fears. I didn’t feel as if I’d been pardoned, rather granted a temporary stay of execution.

  I was put into the back seat of the Escalade. We drove along the beach, headed east, into the low-rising sun. I didn’t know if I was a prisoner or a guest, or where we were going or why.

  Enano sat up front with the Indian driver; the two Indian gunmen sat beside me. The Escalade’s big V-8 was soundless; the air conditioning blew softly. I could smell Enano’s brilliantine in his matted hair. The Indians’ bronze skin had an herbal aroma. They looked alike except for their sizes: large and extralarge. They were lean in loose cotton pants and shirts. Their aura was calming: be here now; be patient, relax.

  An hour out of Santa Marta, the paved road became a packed-earth track. There was no other traffic. To the right was impenetrable green jungle; to the left, white sand and pale sea. The Guajira. We passed rusting wreckage sunk in the sand. Dope planes that had never made it. A lot of people had struck it rich in the Guajira, and a lot had died here miserably. Which was my future?

  The Escalade glided along.

  An hour passed. The sun was full up, the day blindingly bright. Ahead, dark against the sand, tiny objects wobbled in the heat waves. As we neared, the objects became distinguishable. Indians and horses.

  We stopped alongside them. Left the Escalade for dense heat. Immediately, I began perspiring. The driver said something to Enano. The little man laughed.

  “They say you smell bad,” he said to me. “Go for a swim.”

  The Indians were grinning. I shed my clothes and dived in. The sea was cool. On the beach, the Indians were forcing Enano into the water. He protested until stepping off a sand shelf so his head dropped below the surface. He came up sputtering. Funny. I laughed along with the Indians.