~ ~ ~
Al inspected himself in the mirror. He’d shaved his head with the sideburn trimmer part of the razor and trimmed his facial hair into a kind of three musketeers mustache and goatee. He hoped that as it grew in more, the goatee would be the feature people focused on rather than his whole face. He tended to remember faces by distinctive attributes – maybe everyone did the same thing.
But that would only go so far. He needed a plan if he was going to survive. And personal grooming aside, what he was facing wouldn’t ever go away. He was painted into a sticky corner and needed options.
Al paced the room, spinning scenarios in his head. He had, what, a few grand in cash? That might last him two or three months in rural shitholes like this one. Less if he went to a city. He had his passport, but it wasn’t really usable if everyone on the planet was looking for him, now was it? That further limited him. He was basically broke and limited to Colombia, where he didn’t know anyone and probably couldn’t survive very long.
Only that wasn’t completely true, was it?
He did have one option. Assuming he hadn’t run it into the ground – as he had so many in his life.
Four years ago, a few months after being posted in Panama City, Al had spent what was easily the best year of his life with a woman from Colombia – a native of Cartagena, a popular beach city on the northern Colombian coast near Venezuela. Margarita Trigos, or Mari for short, had been working for a financial services firm in Panama City, and Al had met her at a charity mixer that had been thrown in conjunction with the embassy. Normally he would have avoided any such event like the plague but the embassy had purchased a slug of tickets and handed them out to staffers and above – and besides the noble cause of helping Panama’s orphans and stray dogs, attendance included free drinks and food. A powerful attraction for Al, who was forever short on cash but long on having a good time.
So he’d cleaned up pretty well, donned a silk tropical shirt and slacks and made his way to the function; staged in the lobby of one of the large banks, which had been transformed for the evening into an entertainment zone – three bars, food stations, small tables scattered around for relaxing and enjoying the tapas and cocktails. And a live salsa band.
At first he’d felt out of place but after several vodka tonics he’d settled in, even chatting with a few groups of people he vaguely knew from the embassy. At one point, he’d gestured with his drink in his hand and bumped into a passing woman, spilling some of the clear liquid down the front of her evening dress, and almost giving her a black eye.
He’d been almost as horrified as she. Grabbing some cocktail napkins from a nearby table, he’d tried to blot the worst of the unexpected splatter off her face and bare bosom as he apologized profusely. Then she’d stopped him, and in English told him to just leave things be – she would find a ladies room and survey the damage.
When she’d returned from getting cleaned up, Al still felt terrible about the incident, and at the prodding by one of the embassy wives, approached Mari and offered to get her a drink. She’d paused for a considerable time, and then acquiesced, ordering a rum and coke. Al practically ran to get it for her. When he returned, he apologized yet again for his clumsiness.
“I’m so sorry. I normally don’t slam beautiful women in the head with my drink to get their attention,” he’d offered.
And she was beautiful. Al guessed maybe early thirties, medium dark complexion, raven hair, five foot one if she hadn’t been wearing four inch cocktail heels, slim athletic physique. No wedding band.
“It’s effective, I’ll grant you that,” she’d responded. “But not an ideal ice-breaker.”
Al got the feeling that, in spite of his disastrous collision she was flirting with him, just a little.
Al then tried his hand at flirting: “Normally I drug the girl’s drink, but I thought a straightforward concussion might do the trick, it being a Friday night, and all. I like to keep them guessing...”
At that point in his life he had been thinner and relatively presentable. Forty, a diplomat, decently groomed, coherent. He was not unaccustomed to interest from females since he’d hit Panama – he was plum target for females seeking a certain type of domestic bliss. At least on initial appearances. In short, Al had game.
“So what are you doing at this soiree?” Mari then asked him.
“I’m showing support on behalf of the embassy, in addition to boxing with the locals,” he’d quipped. “My name’s Al Ross...Encantado...”
He’d never forget the way she stared full into his eyes. A mild charge ran between them. She introduced herself.
“Hmm. I’m not a local, just for the record,” she’d responded.
“No? Then where are you from? And are you with one of the embassies? Your English is very good.”
“No, I’m Colombian, and I’m in Panama with one of the large accounting firms. They just brought me in a month ago to help start their new office here. I’m a CPA.”
“A bean counter! I’d never have guessed. They generally don’t put accountants into such attractive packages where I come from.” Flattery never hurt, he’d found.
“Which is where, Al?” That look again…
He’d felt happy to share with her: “Originally? Cleveland, Ohio. A place that couldn’t be more different than Panama.”
“Yes, I suppose it must be.”
“And you? Where did they drag you here from?” He remembered feeling a mild surprise that his curiosity was genuine.
“Cartagena. One of the most beautiful cities in the world...” she’d explained. “Are you a high-powered diplomat? A mover and shaker?” she teased.
“The State Department would be in chaos without my daily input,” he’d volleyed.
They had royally hit it off, and a few cocktails had turned into a proposal for dinner the following night, which had developed into a few dates, which had become nights spent at her apartment – though she’d spent one evening at Al’s before declaring it uninhabitable. Al had offered token resistance but he didn’t really disagree. He wasn’t the most domesticated man in the world, and hadn’t had time to find a maid yet...
Life had gone by and they’d become an item, spending almost every night together for months on end. She hadn’t been that interested in Al’s past and had seemed okay with his divorce – less so with his drinking – but then again, he’d cut way back since he’d met her, so it was manageable. They both enjoyed a cocktail now and again and it hadn’t been a problem, at least for the first six months.
Then, as with most of his relationships, he’d grown complacent and started missing dinners and showing up later and later. They fought several times, and while he recognized he was in the wrong, he also kind of didn’t give a shit. Al supposed he loved her, at least to the extent he was capable of loving anyone but himself, and Mari certainly appeared to love him, but he just couldn’t conquer his irresponsibility. They’d settled into an uneasy truce, but it was one that couldn’t last.
On their one year anniversary she’d proposed they move in together and consider becoming serious – as in marriage serious. Al could have probably handled the discussion better – which soon degraded into a heated argument, and Al had knocked back a few more celebratory pops than normal, it being their big date, so the argument quickly spiraled into a breakup.
That had started the current three years’ cycle of non-stop boozing that had torn Al’s life apart. He’d tried to patch things up with Mari a few times over the following weeks but she’d been adamant that she wanted and deserved better than being the sex toy of a misogynist drunkard – hard to argue she wasn’t right on that point.
Then one day he’d dialed her number on a Friday night, only to find it had been disconnected. He took a cab to her apartment, being already too tipsy to drive reliably, and had caused a minor scene banging on her lobby door. Eventually one of the neighbors returned from dinner and told Al brusquely that Mari had moved out several days before. Back to Colombi
a. The looks they gave him clearly indicated they felt she’d done the right thing, and that he rated slightly below the black ooze to be found at the local waste dump in terms of redeeming qualities.
He’d been despondent for months, which of course manifested in increased binging, which then resulted in even deeper depressions, requiring yet more booze to keep the demons at bay.
At one point Al had spent several days trying to track Mari down, assuming she’d gone back to Cartagena. He’d even gone so far as hiring a private detective there to locate her, but once the man had found her info, Al chickened out. What was he going to say? That he’d let the best thing in his life slip away because he was a self-absorbed, drunken piece of shit, but that he was still unsure he was willing or able to change, so he still didn’t know what he really wanted? That didn’t sound like a particularly compelling pitch, even to him. And so he’d simply put it all behind him and blundered forward, dulling the pain with booze, gambling, women of loose virtue and anything else self-destructive he could get his hands on, which was abundant in a place like Panama.
Three years was a long time. A good-looking woman like Margarita had probably found herself a man who was willing to commit, and likely wouldn’t want anything to do with Al anymore. He wouldn’t, if he were in her shoes.
Still, Al didn’t have any other options. He recalled that a frequent topic of their discussions together had been her agonizing over her big brother, who had left Cartagena five years before she’d come to Panama to join the rebel forces in the south – a dangerous and stupid move, in her opinion. She constantly worried he’d been killed, or wounded, or arrested. Colombia had been wracked by civil war for decades and the FARC was the largest of the armed rebel groups – occupying huge tracts of land along the country’s northern and southern borders. Many idealistic and disenfranchised youths had left their comfortable homes to live in the jungles and play out their own Che Guevara fantasies.
Maybe she would take pity on Al. She’d had strong feelings for him, he was sure of that. Perhaps there was enough residual glow, even after three years, that she wouldn’t just leave him hanging out to die. Which was exactly what he had to look forward to if he couldn’t drop off the map in a hurry.
Al repacked his satchel, taking care to ensure the camera was protected by the few T-shirts he’d pilfered from Ernesto’s backpack. He briefly considered taking a shower – seemed like a decent idea given the day he’d had. He removed one of Ernesto’s shirts and gave it a whiff – smelled clean and looked new, like he’d just bought it. Extra Grande, so adequate room for Al’s girth.
He grabbed the key and the ragged towel that was folded on his table and exited the cottage, locking the door behind him. He approached the bano and pushed the door open. The odor was overpowering – a combination of industrial ammonia-based cleaner, mildew and general rot. He took in the square shower stall with its plastic curtain and jury-rigged shower head mounted to a short length of garden hose, and almost retched. But he smelled like an old bear who’d just come out of hibernation, so if he wanted to arouse as little attention as possible he’d need to do something about that. He removed his pants and underwear but kept his socks on, and again began his shower with his shirt on, removing it once it had been soaped and rinsed, then going to work on his body. Fortunately the proprietor had stocked the shower with a full sized bar of soap, which had been worn down halfway by use but was still more serviceable than the small hotel bars at the Alcazar.
Ablutions concluded, he wrung out his soaking shirt and slipped his shoes over his soaking socks. He didn’t want to risk infection with whatever nameless horrors were multiplying on the floor, ammonia or no, so he’d take his chances with damp shoes. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to go on any long hikes over the next few hours.
He wrung out his socks once back in his little love shack, and donned Ernesto’s T-shirt. It would be soaked through with sweat within a few minutes outside anyway, so Al wasn’t too concerned with its aesthetic appeal. Even so, he reflected that a canary yellow T stretched across his belly wasn’t a pretty sight. Still, that was the least of his current problems. He’d take time to diet if he was still breathing in another few days.
His satchel packed, he unlatched the window and gave it a good shove. The lower portion slid up, creating a two foot by two foot opening. That would be just enough.
Al leaned out and placed the satchel on the ground and then reversed his position, squeezing his legs and lower torso through the window before dropping the few feet to the ground. He looked around. His eyes met those of a small boy, maybe six years old, staring at him as though he’d just teleported from Mars. Al supposed it wasn’t every day that the local kids saw tall, heavy white men climbing through tenement windows. Al waved at him, and the little boy spun and ran away as fast as his short bow legs would carry him.
He didn’t really blame the kid.
~ ~ ~
Sam’s screen blinked to life as his computer beeped, signaling he’d received a message. He checked it and clicked on the icon. A satellite map of Colombia popped up and a yellow star icon blinked steadily. They’d found the phone.
Sam called Richard.
“We have a lock on him, sir,” Sam reported. “He’s in Turbo, which is a small town on the northern coast. Population fifty thousand.”
Sam heard the rustling of paper in the background.
“I see it,” Richard confirmed. “Looks like it has an airport, but it’s not long enough for this jet. Arrange for a prop plane to be waiting when we touch down in twenty minutes or so, and I’ll put a team on it and hit Turbo. It’s probably a little over an hour by prop.”
“You could put down in Medellin in the jet, and prop plane up to Turbo. Might cut off a few minutes, sir,” Sam suggested.
“Sam. I don’t want to be on record landing an Agency plane in the heart of Colombia and disembarking a team of armed men – might be a little tough to explain to an unfriendly regime, you know? So just do as you’re told and get me a prop plane that can carry six passengers and some gear. I’ll make some calls and arrange for it to be able to get into Colombian airspace and on the ground in Turbo with no hassles.”
“It may take longer to get a plane at this hour. It’s getting dark...” Sam said.
“Thanks for the update on the time, Sam. I can look out my window and see that. How about making the calls and getting it done, and calling me once you have everything in place?”
God Sam hated this man. “I’ll handle it, sir. Are you still coming in to the office or continuing on to Colombia?” Sam asked hopefully.
“I’ll still be in your office within an hour, traffic allowing,” Richard said. “Better get busy on finding a plane. Clock’s ticking.”
Terrific. Sam could already foresee the next few days turning into a slow-mo instant replay of his miserable weekend. His wife was giving him enough shit already for his continual absences – and when she got upset she was meaner than a bag of snakes. He couldn’t tell her anything more than it was embassy business; his usual excuse for staying out and banging his young mistress silly. If he was away from home the better part of the week with no sustentative explanation, his domestic comfort was going to take a pronounced turn for the worse – and even more so if he had to be on call 24/7 for the duration.
Maybe he could convince Richard that he’d be more effective working out of the embassy in Bogota, since his target was no longer anywhere near Panama?
As he dialed for his contact who handled air charters for him, he again wondered what Al could be involved in that would have Richard jetting across the continent with a Citation full of killers. Whatever it was, Sam wanted no piece of it.
Sometimes it was better to be the tiny cog than the big wheel.
Chapter 31
The dark of night fell stealthily over the seaport town, giving Al a mild case of the heebie-jeebies as he faltered his way through the deepening shadows of Turbo. He stopped in at a small neighborhood bar and as
ked about a bus service to Cartagena; only to be told he’d be better off waiting till morning – the buses weren’t safe after dark along that route.
Great. That didn’t really work for him. He asked the bartender about alternative travel options; if that’s what you could call the sweating man watching a small TV and doing his best to ignore the three customers in his establishment. The bored man looked blankly back at him before returning to gawp at the TV.
Undeterred, Al repeated the question, eating into the bartender’s viewing time, until he finally suggested there was an airport he could try the next day. Al told him he really needed to get to Cartegena immediately. The man shrugged and turned back to the program.
Al wasn’t getting anywhere.
He returned to the black of night, headed towards the waterfront and found another bar, where he asked the same set of questions. This barkeep, a woman, also advised him the buses weren’t safe at night, but conceded that one did stop within the hour at some incomprehensible place in town. Al asked if she knew anyone who could show him the way. She screamed for someone in the back room. A ten year old boy emerged, and the woman issued a rapid-fire set of instructions in a Spanish patois of some sort. Al ordered a beer while this went on, and discovered that he got change back from a dollar on a bar beer in Turbo. At least there was a positive to his little odyssey.
The boy motioned to him. Al swiftly downed the beer and followed him out of the depressing and humid drinking house.
They walked in silence for about fifteen minutes before the boy stopped and told him he should wait just here and wave at the bus when it came by ‘in a while’. Al offered him the change from the beer. The little boy snatched it from his hand and ran off laughing.
It was almost pitch black now, with only slim illumination from a bulb at the entry of a questionable edifice across the street. A car slowed as it pulled past him, and then sped up. Al had a distinctly unsafe feeling.
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