The Geronimo Breach

by Russell Blake

  Now the question was which fishing village to try to get to. He could shoot for Capurgana, which was at the northern tip of Colombia and which had a few hotels and not much else, or veer south to Acandi, which was a larger town in that it actually had streets and some commercial boats.

  He was leaning towards Acandi but the terrain looked like it naturally rolled towards Capurgana. In the end, he supposed the burro would be the key because Al really didn’t know how to get to either beyond following the now fading screen of his handheld GPS.

  Al’s stomach affliction had eased over the course of the night so at least that part of his misery was over. As he took a break by a rock outcropping overlooking the Atlantic coast, he stripped off his soaked and bloody socks to inspect his wrinkled feet – a new source of constant pain and suffering. The skin had worn off both of his heels and several toes, and his tennis shoes were a wet, pulpy mess. Al knew this was bad news and that the infection risk was extremely high, but there wasn’t much he could do about it other than hope for the best and seek out a doctor as soon as possible.

  He considered stuffing some leaves into his shoes for additional padding; but with his luck he figured he’d probably select something toxic and wind up walking the last few miles into Colombia on stumps. So he wrung out his socks, peeled off the strips of skin adhering to them and pulled them back on, wincing from the burning agony of the raw epidermis grating against the sopping cotton.

  Resigned to at least another eight hours of hell on earth, he got to his feet and patted the burro; whom he’d decided to call ‘Ed’ in a moment of weakness the night before. He’d named the burro after Mister Ed, the talking horse who starred in the black and white fifties television comedy.

  “Vamanos, Eduardo,” he whispered to the donkey, who stared at him balefully. “Come on, giddyup!”

  The burro resumed its slow passage down the trail into Colombia, and Al actually felt a momentary pang of kinship with the tired beast. They were both making their way through difficult circumstances to the best of their abilities in a harsh environment.

  At least the burro was holding up pretty well. Al considered whether he could ride the animal, but dismissed the idea – Ed was the smaller of the two burros the guide had brought, and slight as burros go. He also had a lot of gear stuffed into the packs strapped to his back, so there was no way he could handle Al’s couple of hundred pounds of Caucasian fat reserves.

  Al made a mental note to take a full inventory of the pack contents before he hit civilization – aside from scrounging around inside for food he hadn’t paid much attention to the meager contents. And once in populated areas he’d probably do better without an AK-47 or an old machete, but if old Carlos had any cash stashed in one of the packs or if Ernesto’s battered backpack contained anything of value, then at least Al could benefit from their bounty. They certainly weren’t going to be needing their worldly goods at this point.

  He gingerly followed Ed down the hill, into the brush.

  Next stop, with any luck, Capurgana...

  Chapter 26

  The mood at the embassy was buzzing with celebratory undertones. It was hard not to feel a palpable sense of relief that finally, one of the most dangerous terrorists in the world had been taken down.

  Obviously, the news about the pre-dawn attack soon became the only topic anyone was interested in talking about. In most offices, CNN was streaming the tidings from the monitors and televisions. It seemed that every hour some new tidbit of information was broken, adding to the sense of momentous events unfolding.

  Sam spent most of his day cleaning up the mess from the weekend – thanking his contacts at the police for their help with Carmen, who was still being held pending seeing her attorney today, and denying any connection to the Caucasian men in the brothel attack. A whole lot of lying, but then again that’s what Sam did best: a convincing prevaricator, even when exhausted.

  So far, there had been no blowback from the botched attack on the cop cruiser, although he noted that the papers were heralding the officer as a modern-day Panamanian gladiator – sort of a tropical version of The Terminator. The stock photo did portray a man you wouldn’t want to fuck with, Sam conceded. Looks like Don finally met his match. Too bad – it was hard to develop assets who could be relied upon to not only gun down whoever was targeted but also keep their mouths shut afterwards.

  Don wasn’t going to be talking to anyone now, that was for sure.

  The photos of the Land Cruiser on the local news depicted a molten, smoldering steel cage with lumps of unidentifiable goop inside. The vehicle had blazed white hot for some time.

  Sam was happy his little drama was over. He could return to business as usual. Of course, there was little chance of that on the day Bin Laden was killed, but then again, he didn’t have Richard breathing down his neck so he could cut everyone a little slack. And truth was he still felt beat – even after taking a sleeping pill last night he’d so much residual adrenaline and caffeine in his system it had only made him groggy. He’d finally dozed off around midnight – but it was a disturbed sleep, filled with amorphous dreams and anxious premonitions.

  Given the number of hours he’d clocked the day before, he decided to take the afternoon off and visit his other familia – as he referred to the twenty and twenty-one year old Peruvian sisters who did double-duty as his mistresses. The older one was his main squeeze but sometimes when he wanted something really loco she’d invite sis over and they’d pull out all the stops. And if today wasn’t a special occasion, he didn’t know what would qualify.

  Come lunchtime, Sam told his secretary to hold all his calls because he was going to be offsite for meetings during the rest of the day.

  He hummed as he bounced down the stairs, thinking about his afternoon’s prospects. Sam didn’t even notice the envelope in his secretary’s inbox, nor did she remember it, glued as she was to the unfolding Bin Laden saga on satellite TV.

  There was nothing so urgent that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Today, of all days, that was especially true.

  ~ ~ ~

  Al stood on the outskirts of Capurgana just before dusk, going through Mister Ed’s packs before sending him on his way. Freedom was just around the corner for the little fellow – he hoped Ed would find some nice native girl donkey and settle down, raise little ones, or whatever burros in these parts did.

  He’d ditched the weapons at the edge of the jungle and unstrapped the two packs, freeing Ed from their sapping weight. In the first he found a collection of threadbare clothes, an extra pair of ancient boots almost worn through at the soles, binoculars, a bible in Spanish, and a water bottle and funnel. There were also random odds and ends of no value – a pair of dilapidated scissors, a pocket knife, a small sewing kit. So no goldmine there.

  The other saddle pack contained Ernesto’s backpack, as well as a map of Panama, laminated photos of who he presumed must be the world’s ugliest grandchildren, and a toothbrush. Oh, but wait – there was a neoprene dive wallet. He opened it and counted $1600 dollars, $1500 of which was obviously Al’s $500 and a grand from Carmen’s end, as well as another hundred bucks in tens and fives. Al pocketed it and tossed the wallet aside.

  His feet were killing him, and it was going to be dark at any moment. He quickly rummaged through the cook’s bag and found only clothes, a hygiene kit, a camera and a micro cell-phone. Ernesto had obviously carried his cash with him. Bad luck for Al.

  Actually, worse luck for the cook, all things being relative.

  Al scratched Ed behind the ears, and pointed to the jungle. “Go on, Ed. Get out of here. You’re free now!” he said.

  Ed, as always, just stared at him.

  Al pulled the burro’s big head around and gave him a shove towards the dark vegetation. “Vamanos,” he exclaimed, slapping Ed on the butt. Ed almost decapitated him with a narrowly-missed kick – no doubt reflexive – and then trotted back to the trail.

  Al watched him go, and then set out for one of the l
argest buildings in the little hamlet – a white Moroccan-styled monument on the beach; no doubt a hotel, considering the epic scale and the lights blazing throughout the property.

  He approached the entrance and mounted the stairs. The man behind the reception desk regarded him with distrust – not surprising given that Al looked as though he’d been dragged through broken glass behind a motorcycle gang.

  “I need a room for the night,” Al said in passable Spanish.

  “Hmmmmm. I seeeeeee. Perhaps you would like to see the rates first?” the receptionist responded politically.

  “No, it’s fine. I just need a room. Something simple, and I’ll pay cash,” Al said, figuring that was a universal language in every country.

  “Dollars or...?”

  “Dollars. For one night. And if there’s a doctor in town, I’ll need to see if you can get him to come over. I have a problem with my feet – I’ve been hiking for days and wasn’t completely prepared...” Al explained.

  “Ah. Hiking. Yessss. I seeeeee.” The man made a show of studying the register. “We have a good room for you, 301, and only $80 for tonight,” the man said, smiling.

  Robbery, but Al had no capacity to argue. He was exhausted and in pain.

  “Fine. I’ll take it.” He thumbed through his cash below the counter, out of view of the receptionist, and handed him the money. “And like I said, I really need a doctor for my feet. Can you get someone?” he asked.

  “Si, of course. I’ll make the call right away. Just please sign the register, yes?” the man requested, sliding a key to him.

  Al signed unintelligibly. The clerk seemed utterly uninterested in seeing ID or anything besides greenbacks. Which suited Al fine.

  A tired looking teenage boy approached from the back office and offered to take his satchel and Ernesto’s bag. Al declined. The boy rolled his eyes, and pointed to the stairs, indicating the direction to take to find his room.

  “See if you can find me a bottle of something strong and bring it up to the room along with a package of cigarettes, Marlboro reds if you can. And get the doctor over here as soon as possible,” he instructed, handing the boy a ten dollar bill. The boy stood blinking at him but didn’t move. Al put another ten in his hand, and he nodded and disappeared around a corner.

  Al limped up the creaking stairs and found his room. He swung open the door and surveyed the aged interior with a combination of dismay and relief. After tossing his bags on a cane chair he turned on the air conditioner, which worked, to his surprise. Maybe his luck was turning. He debated a shower, but figured he’d wait for the doctor before he did anything else.

  After twenty minutes of luxuriating with the AC blowing full blast the doctor knocked at the door. When Al opened it he saw the bellboy standing behind the doctor holding a paper bag.

  The doctor came into the room and the boy handed him his bottle and cigarettes. Al told him to keep the change, and he rolled his eyes again. Big spender.

  The doctor did a cursory examination of his shredded and blistered feet and handed him a tube of antibiotic ointment after writing a quick prescription, explaining that the cream should be enough, but to get the oral antibiotics if there was any additional redness or signs of infection. The house call cost $20, which was the first time Al felt anything he’d encountered in Capurgana was even close to reasonably priced.

  According to the small menu on the table, the hotel restaurant provided room service, so Al ordered two portions of grilled fish for dinner, along with two cold beers. The fish appeared half an hour later, which he hastily devoured, spitting out the odd stray bone. He’d already started on his bottle of local rum, and that, coupled with a quarter pack of cigarettes, made the pain from his trip recede to a dull ache. By the time he was done with the fish and the beer he was over halfway through the bottle.

  Al looked at his watch. If half a bottle of rum had made him feel almost human, then the other half would have him feeling good as Ghandi. He took a few more deep pulls on the bottle before struggling with the ointment, managing to get a glob onto both feet before he fell back onto the bed. He closed his eyes, just for a few moments, to clear his head. The AC felt like heaven, even as the room spun.

  He wondered how Ed was faring since the parting of their fellowship. Damned if he didn’t kind of miss the scruffy little burro.

  He started snoring.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sam whistled as he entered his office on Tuesday morning. He felt refreshed, had caught up on his sleep and enjoyed a few hours of adult relaxation with his mistress and her sis.

  The distinctively strong smell of his private label coffee permeated his office suite; waiting to be poured. Things were back to normal. Thank God. He plopped down in his swivel chair and began sorting through the accumulated pile of paperwork stuffed in his inbox. Reports, advisements, routine forms, and a large manila envelope with his name scrawled on it.

  Sam searched his memory and recalled the sketch artist from the other night. He supposed it to be a dead issue but opened the envelope anyway and glanced at the drawing before tossing it into the trash.

  He swiveled towards his computer and typed in his password. His screen popped up. He began sorting through his e-mails, when his eyes strayed back to the trash can. There was something odd about the man the sketch artist had drawn. He couldn’t place it, but the guy looked familiar. Sam reached into the can, extracted the wad of crumpled paper and smoothed it out on his desk. He stared at it. The face nagged at his subconscious. Sam supposed that these types of drawings probably looked like a lot of people due to their lack of specificity, but there was something about this one...

  Then it hit him.

  No way. Had to be coincidence.

  Sam picked up his telephone handset and dialed Al’s cell. It rang, and went to voice mail.

  “Hey buddy. Call me when you get this. Just checking in to see how the weekend went,” Sam said, and hung up.

  He next called Al’s little satellite office in Colon. The secretary picked up.

  “Is Al there? It’s Sam Wakefield,” he announced.

  “Uh, no, I’m afraid Mr. Ross isn’t in at the moment. Can I take a message?” the secretary asked in heavily accented but fluent English.

  Sam ignored her question. “Do you expect him in soon?”

  “He...I haven’t heard from him yet this morning, Mister Wakefield, so I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “Was he in yesterday?” Sam asked, already dreading the answer.

  “No, I didn’t see him. Is there a message I can leave for him?” she asked.

  “Tell him to call me as soon as he gets in, or gets my message, please.”

  “Yes, Mister Wakefield. Will do. Have a nice day,” she said.

  So Al had gone AWOL. That wasn’t earth-shatteringly unusual – Al had a habit of being ‘under the weather’ on Mondays, and it was hit-or-miss as to whether he would show up. But today was Tuesday.

  Sam was getting a bad feeling about this.

  He dialed Al’s home number, which rang four times before going to his answering machine. Sam called the cell again. Voice mail.

  “Yo, buddy, it’s me again,” Sam began. “I was just checking in to see if you’re okay. The office says you haven’t been in, and I was hoping to get a hold of you. Could you please call as soon as you can?” Sam left his cell and office numbers.

  He stared at the drawing a few more minutes, then shook his head. What the hell had Al gotten involved in this time? The more he looked at it, the more obvious it became to him that it had to be Al.

  Sam had long been searching for ways to make Al’s life miserable, and now he finally had something tangible. A delicious wave of elation swept over him. Al was no doubt into all sorts of sketchy shit, and it looked like it had finally caught up with him. Sam could crank up the heat under the pretense he was only doing his job – this might even be a career-ender for Al. He reconsidered the unpleasant days he’d just spent with that asshole, Richard. Perhaps i
t had all been worth it after all. Fate had suddenly graced him with the ability to become Al’s nemesis – he could inflict maximum damage on the sad fuck, and Sam wasn’t the sort to pass up on that kind of opportunity.

  He considered his next step, and with mischief in mind, turned to his monitor and rapidly tapped at his keyboard. Sam would get an all points bulletin out to the police, so whenever and wherever Al surfaced the cops would quickly grab him. He didn’t know why the Agency had wanted to terminate the cook, so he wasn’t exactly sure why Al was relevant, but it wouldn’t hurt to get the word out so Al would get picked up. He was probably drunk somewhere, out on a three day bender, which would make it even better when he got nabbed – even if he denied the drawing was him, being absent and drunk for days would be a body-blow with the State Department. And if the drawing was him, Al would never be able to deny it convincingly – he was barely able to keep a grip from day to day, and had no poker face at all. Sam conjured up a mental image of a bewildered and scared-looking Al sitting handcuffed in a police cruiser. He smiled. Either way, Sam could ensure that Tuesday was a bad day for Al Ross.

  He put the finishing touches on the inter-agency advisory that would culminate in a bulletin to the locals, and smiled yet again.

  Sam pushed send, and walked out to Melody’s desk. He instructed her to scan and attach the drawing to the memo he’d just created and sent to her. She looked at the crumpled sketch dubiously and nodded. It would be done in a matter of a few minutes.

  Sam returned to his office and closed his door. This was turning into a good week already. First they off Bin Laden, then Al steps into poop up to his knees. Sometimes the wind filled your sails and everything flowed effortlessly – after years of tormenting the feckless war hero, Sam finally had a good shot at landing a knockout punch. A killer-punch, even. Take that, mister purple heart.