The man continued on his way and Jack checked the time again. It was still shy of seven, but he was impatient and decided to push his way through the double doors in the hopes his rendezvous was already there.
The interior was dark. A pall of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling, where an inadequate ventilation duct battled to clear it. He walked to the long bar and took one of many empty barstools. A few desultory drunks were seated down the scarred wooden slab, their arms protecting their drinks as though they’d be snatched away if they let their vigilance slip. Several groups of locals stood quaffing beer in groups of two or three, occasionally laughing at a joke. An ancient television flickered a soccer match, and a bored bartender with the face of a basset hound watched the screen as though it was about to announce the winning lottery numbers.
Jack waved and waited for the bartender to approach, and ordered a mineral water with a twist of lime. The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle eye roll told Jack what he thought of his choice.
A tall man in his mid-thirties took the seat one down on the right, and Jack was about to move farther away for privacy when a dark-complexioned man, his hair an oil slick combed to the side, in a red dress shirt, as agreed on the phone, slid onto the stool next to his. The newcomer ordered a beer, and when the bartender deposited it in front of him along with Jack’s water, he took a long pull before setting it down and leaning into Jack.
“You found the place okay, I see,” the man said in heavily accented English. But not with a Spanish inflection – more Indian or Pakistani, which fit with the voice on the phone.
“Yeah. No problem.”
“You were cryptic about what it is you need. Hopefully you can clarify for me. You mentioned weapons?”
“Correct. I’ll want three fully automatic assault rifles, with flash and sound suppressors if possible. Four extra magazines and two hundred rounds of ammo for each. And three pistols. SIG Sauer P226s would be preferred. With holsters. Fifty rounds apiece, with at least one spare magazine per.”
“Any particular caliber?”
“On the rifles, AKs will work. On the pistols, .40 caliber S&W would be preferred. But they all need to be in new condition. I know weapons, and I won’t accept crap.”
“Of course. How soon do you need them?”
“Yesterday.”
“You have cash?”
“Some. Dollars. How much?”
The man took another sip of his beer and thought. “Twelve thousand. Half in advance.”
Jack shook his head and tried his water. Flat. Tasted like metal. He set the glass down and turned slightly.
“I’m not a fool. I know the going rate. Six.”
“If you know the rate, then you know for that you get a few thirty-year-old AKs in spotty shape, and maybe some Berettas that have seen better days. What you’re requesting are top-shelf guns. Those command a premium. Eleven.”
They settled on nine, and the little man finished his beer and motioned to the bartender for another. Jack waited for the next round to arrive, and with it the inevitable questions.
The man’s voice struggled to make it over the din of the nearby conversation as a trio of workers entered and called to the bartender for drinks.
“You also mentioned a need for a guide. Someone discreet.”
“That’s right. A guide who knows the jungle and who can keep his mouth shut.”
“Why do you want to go into the jungle? I don’t involve myself in anything drug-related.”
“It’s not drug-related.”
“Then what is it?”
“An archeological expedition.”
“I see. What are you looking for?”
This was where the art would come in, Jack knew. Too much information and he’d compromise the operation before it started. Too little and the man would balk once he understood their real intentions. Jack cleared his throat and edged nearer his companion.
“Inca ruins.”
The smuggler stared stonily at his beer as though it contained the answer to questions he’d long pondered in vain.
“Inca ruins. Any particular ones?”
“I have one site in mind. But that’s not important. I need someone who knows the area and can assure us safe passage.”
The little man nodded. “It’s very dangerous, you know. A lot of trafficking activity. Primitive tribes who have no hesitation about killing intruders. It’s not something to be taken lightly.”
“I understand.”
“Let me think about how much I’d need to help you with that. It won’t be inexpensive.”
“Nothing in life worth doing usually is. How long on the weapons?”
“One day. Maybe two. Go count out the money in the bathroom and then slip it to me when you return. I’ll save your spot.”
Jack rose and made his way to the back of the bar. The men’s room was as vile as he’d expected, and he breathed through his mouth as he stood in a filthy stall and thumbed through a wad of hundreds. He slipped money into an envelope he’d brought for that purpose and slid it into the pocket of his light windbreaker before leaving the empty bathroom, a whiff of stale taint following him out as he returned to the bar. Another group of rowdies had arrived, and suddenly the room was moderately full, making Jack uncomfortable. He laid his jacket next to his new friend and lifted his glass to his lips. After another small mouthful of the bitter water, he set it down.
“It’s in the pocket. Take the jacket. Have you thought through the other matter?”
“Not sufficiently to commit. But enough to guarantee that it will be at least triple what the guns will run. Is that a problem?”
“We can talk about it when I take delivery. I don’t know you well enough to discuss that kind of money yet.”
“Fine. Call me tomorrow and we’ll see if I’ve been successful,” the smuggler said as he stood. He took the windbreaker and left, sticking Jack with the bill.
The tall man on his right chuckled and shook his head. Jack appraised him surreptitiously. A Caucasian, dirty blond hair, his skin tanned to a leathery brown – the typical look of the traveler who’d arrived years past and stayed on for the plentiful cheap cocaine and inexpensive living. Peru, Brazil, and Bolivia were filled with down-on-their-luck expats, casualties of the drug trade or fugitives from the U.S. looking for a new start.
“Something funny?” Jack asked.
“Nah. None of my business,” the man said in English. American English, Jack noticed.
“Correct,” Jack said, wondering how much of the discussion the eavesdropper had overheard.
The man smirked and returned to his beer with a shrug. Jack pushed back from the bar, unwilling to engage, and then some instinct commanded him to turn to the man.
“You got a problem?” Jack asked, his voice soft, the menace obvious in spite of the volume.
“Hey, like I said, it’s none of my business. But I’d say you do.”
Jack considered possible responses as the man stood and faced him, taking Jack’s measure, his gaze steady and unblinking. Jack revised his earlier assessment. This wasn’t some casualty wasting away in an alcoholic fog.
The man dug in his pocket and extracted a business card. He handed it to Jack, who looked at it before palming it. A phone number. Nothing else.
“What’s this supposed to be?” Jack asked.
“A lifeline for when Asad there screws you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He went off the reservation about three months ago. On the pipe. You’re never going to hear from him again. He’s got enough money to go half a year now, thanks to you. And by the way, he was right. What you asked for will cost more like ten to twelve, unless you want junk.” The man finished his beer, threw a crumpled bill on the bar, and then edged past Jack and made for the door.
“We’ll see. What’s your name?” Jack asked, not moving.
The man turned and looked around before speaking softly.
“E
verett Spencer. People just call me Spencer.”
Then he was gone, the doors swinging behind him. Jack tossed some money at the bartender and followed him out, but when he exited there was nobody in view, the sidewalks empty other than a few couples hurrying along. Jack scanned the surrounding buildings and saw nothing but shadows. Wherever he’d disappeared to, Spencer was good. He’d managed to evaporate in seconds, leaving nothing in his wake but his card and a feeling of dread that Jack hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Drake jolted awake and rolled over, sweating in spite of the air conditioner, and squinted at the alarm clock, which read seven p.m. He forced himself upright and, after getting his bearings, moved to the bathroom. Once the water was warm he took a shower, trying to expunge the memory of the troubling dreams with soap and elbow grease. The sense of unease that had seemed so vivid upon waking gradually faded, rinsed away in a spiral of suds down a rusted drain. By the time he toweled off and stepped out of the stall, he’d forgotten it, his mind occupied with more immediate concerns.
Nobody was downstairs yet, so he wandered into the lobby bar and ordered a Pisco Sour, advertised on the small menu as the Peruvian specialty cocktail. He watched the preparation with concern when the raw egg white was added, but quickly resigned himself to living dangerously. He was getting ready to head into one of the most hazardous stretches of jungle on the planet. The possibility of a little salmonella paled in comparison – and he had to admit, the concoction was tasty.
He was on his second drink when Allie joined him, and he convinced her after a taste to have one as well. When Jack showed up at eight, they were enjoying themselves, which abruptly ended when they saw his expression. He ordered a cup of coffee and, when the bartender brought it, sat at their table and filled them in on his meeting, as well as his concerns.
“Who’s this Spencer character?” Allie asked when he finished.
“I don’t know. He must have heard enough of the discussion to put two and two together. What he was doing there, I have no idea. Same with who he is.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?”
“We won’t know until tomorrow, but he seemed pretty confident. In which case I just lost a tidy sum to learn that you can’t trust anyone,” Jack spat.
“What are we going to do if he’s right?” Drake asked.
“We don’t have a lot of options. Worst case, I call him and set up a meeting to learn more. I’d hoped that because my contact vouched for the Pakistani guy, he was reliable, but it could have been a while since he dealt with him.” Jack took a long sip of coffee. “And a lot can happen in a short period around here. Occupational hazard in a country where pure cocaine costs four dollars a gram.”
“Then you believe Spencer?” Allie asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” Jack said.
Dinner was a maudlin affair, and when they parted, Drake agreed to meet them the following morning to strategize. They’d still need to source the rest of their equipment and could occupy their time with that while waiting to see whether Spencer’s prediction held true.
The next day was spent traversing Lima, buying camping gear and the various odds and ends they’d want for their jungle adventure. Their final stop was at a pharmacy, where they assembled a respectable first aid kit suitable for attending to any kind of emergency, including gunshot wounds and snake bites. Although from what the pharmacist explained, most of the local poisonous snakes would kill you long before the bite could be treated.
Asad didn’t answer his phone, and after spending hours trying with no reply, Jack suspected the worst. He’d been taken, and there was no recourse – they didn’t have the time to hunt down the Pakistani on the unfamiliar streets of Lima.
Spencer answered on the second ring and agreed to meet at six at a café a block from the hotel. He didn’t ask what had happened. He’d obviously known when he’d handed Jack his card.
Drake accompanied Jack to the rendezvous in the empty café. When Spencer showed up, Drake instantly disliked him. The man’s attitude was cocksure and smug, his good looks a little too smooth, his breezy assurance that he could help them insincere.
“I can get the guns. Peru and Brazil are crawling with them. But good condition weapons always command more, and fully automatic assault rifles come at a premium. So expect to pay. As to playing guide in the jungle, that’s a different story. I’m not into risking my life for a few lousy bucks. You’re going to need to make it worth my while. And no bullshit about secrets and need-to-know. You either tell me the whole story or I’m out, and you can take your chances with someone else,” Spencer said.
“For a guy living in dope central, you have high expectations,” Drake began, but Jack held up a hand, his gaze never leaving Spencer’s.
“Why don’t you convince me I should trust you? You’re just some guy in a bar. Why would I want to hand you money?” Jack demanded.
“You called me. That means Asad screwed you. If you had a backup, he’d be here instead of me. So why don’t we skip the posturing and cut to the chase? You need guns and a reliable guide. I can supply both. But I’m not dumb, and I’m not cheap. I make plenty with my little business. I don’t need to die for chump change.” Spencer paused, studying Drake before returning his attention to Jack. “But seeing as you got bent over by your man Asad, I’ll answer some reasonable questions. Ask away.”
“Who are you? What do you do in Lima?” Drake demanded.
“I’m a businessman. I arrange things. I fix things. I cross borders with anything besides drugs. Money, people, papers, whatever.”
“Then you’re a smuggler,” Drake said.
“Sure. If it pays. Why – you have something against smugglers? Your grandpa here was trying to hire one of the most notorious in the area,” Spencer replied evenly.
“Where are you from?” Jack asked.
“Central Valley, California.”
“How did you wind up in Peru?”
“I spent some time in the service. When I got out, I realized that I wasn’t cut out for standing behind a counter greeting people or pushing a mop. So I decided to travel until I found something that interested me. Peru interested me. That was twelve years ago.”
“What did you do in the army?” Jack asked.
“I didn’t say I was in the army. I said the service.”
“How about you tell me exactly what you did. Because this is already sounding like make-believe to me,” Jack said.
“Make-believe? Fine. After a stint in the navy I wound up as a SEAL. For four years. I won’t talk about specific missions, but you look like a man who’s spent time in the trenches. Figure it out.”
“And now you’re a lowlife in a third world backwater,” Drake said flatly.
Spencer’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a pretty smart mouth. What’s your claim to fame? Impress me.”
“I don’t have to impress you. I’m not asking for a job,” Drake fired back.
“Neither am I. You called me, not the other way around.”
Drake turned to Jack. “I don’t like him. Let’s find someone else.”
Spencer laughed. “That’s rich. You still don’t get it. There is nobody else. Just cheats and addicts trying to con you out of your cash. You may not like me, but I’m the best chance you’ve got. Assuming I’m interested. Which so far, I’m not.” Spencer sat back. “I can get you the weapons within forty-eight hours. The rest? Good luck. Better leave instructions on where to send your bodies, assuming anyone finds them. Because at the rate you’re going, you’re history.”
Jack cleared his throat. “All right. Enough of this. We don’t need to fall in love. We need to be able to work together. Why should we trust you?”
“Because you’ll make it worth my while to be trustworthy. That’s why.” Spencer shifted. “Now I’ve got some questions of my own. But first, tell me why you need an arsenal – and why you want to go into
the rainforest. And don’t make it up. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’ll get your popguns, and best of luck. Although I’ve got to warn you – the jungle traffickers are loaded for way bigger bear than you, so you’ll need more than what you’ve asked for to survive a week. They’ve got grenades. Fifty cals. Every conceivable weapon you can imagine.” Spencer gave Drake a dismissive laugh. “And you expect to go into their backyard and walk out alive? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Fine. Get the guns. We’ll take our chances,” Drake said, the color rising in his cheeks.
Jack shook his head and glared at Drake. “Easy, huh?” He turned to Spencer. “Here’s my proposal. Find us the weapons. We’ll pay a reasonable amount. If you get them in a timely manner, we’ll consider telling you what you want to know. How much do you need up front?”
Spencer laughed. “Five grand. Cash. But I’ll tell you what. We can play a game. You can either give me the five now, and the price will be ten, or you can give me nothing, and when I have the weapons, the price will be twelve. Call it bridge building. You have to earn trust to get it. Your choice.”
Drake and Jack exchanged glances. “We’ll take the twelve. You sure you can have the weapons that quickly?” Jack asked.
Spencer stood. “I already have the AKs. They’re the most requested weapon down here. More punch than M4s – better stopping power, even if not as accurate. But in the jungle you won’t be sharpshooting, so an AK’s a solid choice. It’s the SIG Sauers that’ll take a little creativity. Very popular, but getting three on short notice in new condition without any paperwork…they’d normally go for more like a grand apiece through legit channels, but seeing as you probably don’t want to bother with reams of paperwork…”
Jack nodded. “That’s right.”
Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) Page 15