by Donn Taylor
I guess I’ll get used to it. He hoped so.
They parked in front of a four-story building a mile from downtown. Lights showed in one third-floor corner suite, only. Raúl entered with a key and led the way upstairs. “Inconvenient, but necessary,” he said. “It’s hard to throw a grenade into a third-floor window and harder yet for gunmen to get a decent angle of fire. Señor Ramirez is most careful.”
The solid steel door to the lighted suite was inscribed in plain lettering:
POIROT, ESPADA, y RAMIREZ
Investigaciones
Inside, a strikingly beautiful woman rose to greet them. A few touches of gray in her jet-black hair suggested an age on the high side of forty, but her trim figure and flashing dark eyes seemed more suited to thirty. “Welcome, Señor Sledge. I am Elena Garcia de Ramirez.” She spoke perfect English in a contralto voice and extended her hand.
Sledge took it with more pleasure than he liked to admit. “Delighted, Señora Ramirez. I was told to ask for Señor Poirot.”
Amusement danced in the dark eyes. “Señor Poirot is not here at the moment, nor is Señor Espada, but Señor Ramirez will be happy to work with you.”
While Raúl remained behind, she guided Sledge to an inner office. The man who rose to shake Sledge’s hand looked like an older version of Raúl. “Good evening, Señor Sledge.” He spoke with a decided accent. “I am Ramón Ramirez. You have already met my wife and my son.” He nodded to the lady. “Thank you, mi vida.”
The door shut behind Sledge. “If I’m working with you, Señor Ramirez, why was I told to ask for Señor Poirot?”
Ramirez laughed. “I presume Señor Brinkman wanted you to get the full treatment. When I opened this office twenty years ago, I asked myself, ‘Who has ever heard of Ramón Ramirez? I will starve to death while waiting for clients.’ But everyone has heard of the great detectives Hercule Poirot and Sam Spade—Espada, in Spanish. So I put their surnames on my door, and for twenty years I have had more clients than I can handle. Elena always tells them the exact truth, as she doubtless did with you.”
Sledge grinned. “Brinkman said you were unorthodox.”
Ramirez grinned back. “That reputation is helpful. But let’s get down to brass tactics. The kidnapped women were not returned for the ransom. So Señor Spinner is taking the bull by the handlebars with this rescue, and you are foolish enough to try it.”
Sledge blinked. Father and son both talk that way? Must be something in the genetic code. “Foolish or not,” he said, “I’ve agreed to try. Raúl said you had information.”
“Enough to earn Señor Spinner’s dollars.” He led Sledge to a table spread with maps and used his pencil for a pointer. “The main range of the Cordillera Oriental runs generally north and south. On the west side, where you will work, the ridges and valleys run east and west. Here in the foothills, where my pencil rests, lies the village of Chozadolor, the scene of the massacre. The two women were captured east of the village and taken into the mountains, probably up this valley.”
The pencil moved eastward and stopped where the map’s contour lines lay almost on top of each other, indicating a steep-walled mountain valley. According to the map, the area was heavily forested with few clearings.
Ramirez tapped the map with his pencil. “The women are held in this nameless village. Maybe a hundred guerrillas in and around it. They think it a safe area because any attacking force would lose many men fighting its way up the valley through successive outguards.”
The pencil moved to a clearing four miles farther up the valley. “This is the one possible helicopter landing zone, and you can bet your doll’s bottom the guerrillas have it covered.”
Sledge grunted. “What do you recommend?”
The pencil moved southward, crossing a ridgeline. “Here in the next valley there are few guerrillas—only light patrols to frighten the campesinos and collect taxes.” The pencil moved to the valley’s western end. “Take the two men I have chosen into this landing zone. Climb the valley eastward to this point, where a path leads through a pass in the mountains. From there you can find a position on the ridge overlooking the guerrillas’ village.”
“They have listening posts on the foot path, I suppose.”
“Almost certainly. You can probably avoid them if you leave the path before the watershed. Both of your men know the area and should get you past the guards if you are willing to travel the mountains at night.”
“Brinkman talked to you about a deception plan?”
“Sí, and it is costing Señor Spinner a mint with something extra for the juleps. We have planted rumors of an army operation. While you are landing in the next valley to the south, a helicopter will fly up the guerrillas’ valley and circle the clearing four miles above their village. We hope they will think the army is telegraphing its punches. When the guerrillas leave the village to set an ambush, you should be able to make the rescue.”
“And if they do not?”
Ramirez flashed a glittering smile. “Then, Señor Sledge, you are up the creek without a padlock.”
Next, they planned the extraction of Sledge’s group, deciding at length it was safer to retrace their entry route than to exit down the valley heavily populated by guerrillas. That violated all the patrolling procedures Sledge had ever been taught, but in this case it seemed best. That settled, he asked about the equipment.
Ramirez shook his head. “Asking for the moon was too simple, so you asked for the planet Jupiter. Who could hope to find a High Standard H-D .22 caliber silenced pistol on such short notice?” He studied Sledge carefully. “But no task is too difficult for Poirot, Espada, and Ramirez. But why would you choose the .22 when I can give you a silenced Walther with more power?”
“Our Special Ops people in Vietnam used the .22 for deep patrols into Laos. It’s good for close-in work, and you don’t need a lot of power for a head shot. How about the other equipment?”
Ramirez grinned. “All of it awaits you, along with your two men, at a hacienda outside the city. The helicopter will pick you up there.”
“We haven’t talked about the pilot.”
“Raúl will fly you.” Ramirez beamed with pride. “He is young, but he is no stranger to operations like this. He is a real fire-eater. You have seen the scar?”
“We’d better get started. If everything is ready at the hacienda, we’ll hit the landing zone before sunset tomorrow.”
“You won’t take a day to get over your jet lag?”
“A luxury we can’t afford. If they move the women, your work comes to nothing, and we have to start from scratch.”
They carried the maps into the outer office, where Señora Ramirez faced them with hands on hips.
“So you have made your plans,” she said. “You will fight your way into the village and fight your way out. But there is a better plan. I could talk my way into the guerrilla camp and bring the women back without getting anyone hurt.”
“We cannot risk that, mi vida.” Ramirez turned to Sledge. “My wife is a frustrated actress. She thinks she can persuade any man to give her anything.”
The lady cocked an eyebrow. “For you and your agency I have done it more than once.”
Ramirez’s jaw jutted out. “Only when I could cover you in case of trouble. But we must not bore Señor Sledge with family matters. The plans are made.”
She gave him an angry look but said nothing.
That difficulty settled, the foursome and the two bodyguards drove to the hacienda. There Sledge met his comrades-to-be, two husky specimens named Mario and Javier. He liked their steady gazes and firm handshakes.
The equipment checked out letter perfect, confirming Brinkman’s assessment of Ramirez’s dependability. They’d have time tomorrow to go over plans and rehearse procedures. Sledge praised their preparations and thanked them for their work. As a clock struck midnight, they drank a toast to success and retired for the night.
Alone in his room, Sledge relaxed on the last bed he’d s
ee for several days. The familiar sounds and smells of Colombia brought back bittersweet memories of Alita. So much for his efforts to banish emotion. Maybe Old Sledge wasn’t in charge, after all. For a few moments he let the memories take over. In the months following the ambush, it seemed Alita’s death had emptied the world of all value. But lately, as more memories returned, he’d become aware of a deeper, more general emptiness.
It connected somehow with a tantalizing dream that haunted him lately. In the dream he struggled through barren terrain toward the green crest of a far-away hill. He didn’t know what awaited him there, but the hill somehow defined his hope. Desperate and thirsting, he fought toward it through quicksand, thorns, and thickets. The closer he got to the hill, the more difficult the obstacles became. He conquered them one by one until he reached the crest and dropped to the ground, exhausted. And there he found…
Nothing.
No sign of life and none of its amenities. Even the vegetation that had promised life was dead and only painted green by some malevolent hand. In the far distance, beyond a valley even more forbidding than the one he had just traversed, stood another green hill. The dream ended in dismay. To have come so far, only to have to go farther…
All right. Enough. If he were going to worry, he’d better worry about something practical. Everything had fallen into place so far, but one forgotten detail, or even blind chance, could send everything to smash. The foolhardiness of what he’d agreed to do sprang up again to taunt him.
Tomorrow he and two men he’d never met before tonight would land in a place he’d never seen. They’d travel by night through rugged terrain that he knew only from maps of undetermined reliability. If his group managed to dodge guerrilla patrols and thread its way through an unknown number of listening posts to reach the village alive, they still might find the guerrillas there in full force. And with Ramirez’s information more than two days old, the women could have been moved to a new location.
It was, as Ramirez suggested, a fool’s errand, and Sledge could be joining Alita in the next world sooner than expected. That thought reminded him of Diego Contreras, and the old fury surged through him again. It might just be worth getting killed to have his revenge on Contreras.
With that happy prospect, Sledge smiled and fell asleep.
4
Denver, Colorado
Sometimes it’s like playing chess, Roger Brinkman thought, and sometimes like peeling an onion.
He sat in his austere basement office in Denver, located two levels beneath a parking lot to protect against the terrorists who’d bombed his former offices in a high-rise. On his desk lay the day’s varied catch of information on international crime, plus anything his operatives, contacts, and friends thought might interest him. From adjacent offices came the hum of electronic equipment and faint sounds of activity by the small staff he maintained here.
No, peeling an onion was the wrong comparison for this business. Lately it was like playing chess inside the onion.
It was different in the old days—the Cold War with the CIA and, after his growing wealth permitted, his own independent agency. Back then, everyone knew who to watch. But now, with half the former KGB tied in with an international mafia selling illicit arms to third world nations and international terrorist groups, no one knew who to watch, where to watch, or what to watch for.
Or maybe he was too old to adjust to the new conditions. He couldn’t complain, though. He’d soon see his ninetieth birthday, but he still had more energy than most had at seventy. He’d had a longer run than most ever dreamed of, but it was clear he wouldn’t live long enough to see the peaceful world he’d longed for in his youth. Soon he’d need to pass the baton to a younger man.
Meanwhile, he had work to do. Who to watch? He had few contacts bearing on terrorist organizations. Not much hope for a breakthrough there. That left rogue nations like Iran and North Korea. Headlines focused on nuclear weapons, but other weapons could be just as deadly. No one could be sure what moves those nations’ leaders were making now.
Brinkman knew what he would do in their places. He’d deal with whoever was selling, and he’d smuggle in anything he couldn’t manufacture in-country.
How could it be done, though? Air transportation was too easily monitored. Overland transport wasn’t practical. That left sea transport. Ships coming from likely suppliers would draw special attention. So the astute smuggler would use ships from locations not usually associated with the illicit arms trade.
How many places did that include? Most of the world.
Not very encouraging.
Soon he’d need to compare notes with Brian Novak, his primary CIA contact. But first it wouldn’t hurt to put a few questions to friends in the maritime business.
He turned to his computer and began a search for addresses.
****
Colombia
After Kristin’s interrogation, she and Jocelyn passed three days in their hut without further contact. Meals arrived more or less on schedule and proved more or less edible. Their guards showed no overt hostility but refused conversation. This isolation brought a nagging sense of abandonment, and Kristin fought a losing battle with despair. A similar decline showed in Jocelyn’s face, though she said nothing about it.
On the third afternoon, Kristin heard the faint popping of blades on an approaching helicopter. Ideas spun through her mind as she searched for a plan. When she found one, she whispered instructions to Jocelyn.
As they heard the helicopter almost overhead, they opened the hovel door and ran outside, looking skyward and pretending curiosity. Their two guards were hurrying around the corner of the hut, apparently to hide their weapons from the helicopter. Consternation showed in their faces when they saw the two women. They made agitated signals with their hands, but Kristin and Jocelyn pretended not to understand.
The guards quarreled as the helicopter drew nearer. Then one carried both rifles under nearby trees while the other seized an arm of each woman and forced them back into the hut.
He was too late. When the helicopter passed overhead, two blonde heads were quite visible to anyone looking downward. Kristin doubted there were two other blondes within fifty miles.
Before the guard got them back inside, Kristin saw a flurry of activity around Contreras’s hut. No weapons were in sight anywhere. The guerrillas apparently were well trained in concealing their equipment.
The guard gave the two women an angry lecture in half-intelligible Spanish, then returned to his post.
The sounds of the helicopter faded eastward up the valley. Silence prevailed for a while. Then the popping blades announced the aircraft’s return and departure to the west.
“Do you think they were looking for us?” Jocelyn whispered.
“It’s possible,” Kristin whispered back, “but one thing is certain. If anyone was looking down, he’ll wonder what two blonde women were doing this high in the Andes.”
It was a frail hope, but better than none at all.
****
Raúl Ramirez flew Sledge and his two companions into the adjacent valley. Though Raúl had offered him the copilot’s seat, Sledge rode in the passenger compartment where he could watch Mario and Javier. He liked what he saw. They seemed as calm now as they had that morning while coordinating plans and signals.
All three men carried AK-47s and wore the camouflage uniforms, fatigue caps, and boots used by Contreras’s forces. They hoped that at first glance they’d be mistaken for guerrillas. A second glance would show they carried heavier packs than any guerrilla would, but the split- second interval between first and second impressions might mean the difference between life and death.
Sledge regretted the weakness of last night’s slide into sentimentalism. He’d always thought of people as either weak or strong, and he counted himself among the strong. During last night’s ruminations he hadn’t been so sure. But today he’d locked down his emotions and his mind was clicking with the machine-precision that combat o
perations demanded. He didn’t relish what he was doing, but with enough willpower he’d get through it.
Raúl caught Sledge’s eye and held up five fingers to indicate they were five minutes from landing. Sledge acknowledged with a nod, secretly happy that using hand signals meant he didn’t have to hear the pilot’s malapropisms. Sledge glanced at his companions. Mario gave an answering nod, and Javier acknowledged with a wink.
The helicopter began a gentle descent. Sledge hoped Raúl would not try any demanding maneuvers at this high altitude, but he’d trust the pilot’s judgment.
Raúl leveled out and, with a momentarily free hand, pointed ahead and right. In a few seconds, a clearing appeared. Raúl flew past it as if to continue on course. Then, with one sudden motion, he dropped the aircraft into a breathtakingly swift descending turn and brought it to a hover near the wood line on the east side of the clearing.
Sledge and his companions leaped out and ran for the cover of the trees as quickly as their heavy packs allowed. Without further signal, they spaced themselves fifteen feet apart at the corners of an imaginary triangle. With each man responsible for 120 degrees of arc, they covered the entire circle of woods around them. Assured that no threat was hiding there, they moved eastward up the valley with Mario at the point. Sledge and Javier followed at fifteen-foot intervals.
Raúl had made his takeoff as soon as his passengers cleared the aircraft. Now Sledge again listened to what seemed to him the loneliest sound in the world: the decrescendo of popping blades on a departing helicopter. The sound signified that he and his companions were on their own in a deadly, hostile environment. Nor could they know if they would live to hear those blades again.