by Scott Cook
I scoffed, “I’m just plain, simple Jarvis. A down at heel private eye, no more.”
Grayson shook his head, still smiling, “Most private eyes don’t get involved in international espionage. Most private investigators spy on cheating spouses and follow up on fraudulent insurance claims and petty theft. They don’t have your kill record, either.”
I felt my face redden with a flush of anger, “Excuse me?”
Grayson picked up the book and started flipping through it, “Five men in connection with the Ravetti case… not counting the non-fatals. Let’s see… A goon shot at sea one night off of Stuart, Florida. Another shortly after in the parking lot just outside your window… one man killed on a kayak in the Banana River… Carl Winston, Jillian Moore’s mother’s boyfriend off Longboat Key… yes, your friend Wayne fired the shot, but still… Four hitmen from Missouri. One a confirmed member of Hamas and another a transplanted Arab from Nicaragua. Not to mention Roberts and Billings. And those are the deaths. We can add a few more casualties… you see, Scott… may I call you Scott… you’re not just any ordinary P.I.”
“Those are legitimate incidents,” I all but growled.
Grayson tossed the SRB back on my desk, “I’m not making accusations or judgements, here, Scott. I’m illustrating a point. You’re no average ordinary anything. You’re the kind of man we need helping to keep our country safe.”
“I do my part,’ I stated.
He shrugged, “Okay… but maybe you can do more. More to help people.”
“I’m quite satisfied with where I am, thanks,” I said flatly.
“I’m not asking you to give it up,” Grayson explained. “I’m suggesting that I can add an arrow to your quiver. I’m not asking you to quit and come work for me full time… not yet at least. I’m suggesting that as a freelance… consultant… you can still run your private investigation business. You’d just occasionally do some work for me, including special missions. It would grant you special authority as well. The only reason you’re not in jail right now for those four hitmen is that Ariel Mizrahi pulled some strings on your behalf. We work closely with Mossad and it was a small favor. Yet as one of my men, you’d have broad powers. Should you be forced into a similar situation on my behalf, you’d be backed by a badge, as it were.”
I sighed, “I can’t say it’s not mildly intriguing, Colonel… but I’m happy doing what I do. And I don’t like killing. It’s something I try to avoid at all costs. I left law enforcement specifically because I was tired of having my hands tied behind my back. I prefer to do it on my own, thanks.”
Grayson sighed, “I thought you might say that. I’d like you to think about it, Scott. I’m not asking that you make up your mind now. Just think on what I’ve said. The country needs a man like you. I need a man like you.”
He stood and extended a hand. I shook it and he turned to go.
“Oh, you can keep the SRB,” he said with a grin. “You might enjoy reading it… although I suspect it’s a work in progress.”
With that he went out. I went and flopped into Swivonia. I sighed and looked at my fern, “Geez, Ferny… Every time I think I’m out… they pull me back in!”
Ferny the fern indicated that she understood my frustration. She also thought that I’d done a remarkable impersonation of Al Pacino from The Godfather, part III.
Chapter 4
I couldn’t see much from my aisle seat as we descended into the San Jose International airport. What little I could see past the oversized head on the oversized woman who’d been my flying companion since we took off from Miami looked inviting.
The plane touched down and rumbled along the runway, steadily breaking and shedding speed rapidly. When we’d slowed to a reasonable velocity, the petite and exotically pretty Costa Rican flight attendant got on the PA. Her English was good, but thickly accented.
“Welcome to the Juan Santamaria International Airport at San Jose. On behalf of our pilot and the rest of the flight crew, I want to thank you for flying with us. The local time is eleven twenty-five a.m. and the local weather is ninety-three degrees and mostly sunny.”
The woman next to me groaned at that. I had several smart ass remarks prepared, most of which revolved around the idea that it was foolish to complain about the weather in the tropics when you chose to visit them in June. I didn’t though, mentally patting myself on the back for my fortitude and maturity.
Of course, when she slammed the window shade down to cut off the ray of sunshine that fell across her ample girth… and cut off what I could see of the airport… I had to ratchet my forbearance up at least two notches.
As I passed the flight attendant who’d made the announcement, she smiled and said that she hoped I enjoyed my visit to Costa Rica.
“If your country is even half as beautiful as you are,” I charmed with a big smile, “then I may never go home.”
I was gratified to see the becoming flush on her olive skin. Still got it.
I made my way from my gate through the throng of travelers and noticed some interesting differences between this airport and the U.S. facilities I was used to. For one, the colors were a little brighter. Lots of pastels and vibrant tropical greens, blues and yellows. It felt comfortable and relaxed, or as comfortable and relaxed as one can feel in a crowded airport at any rate.
There were some unique eateries as well. There was the obligatory Mickey D’s, yet there were also some local quick serve and sit down options whose delectable scents wafted out into the terminal and main concourse. It brought to mind the ubiquitous cartoon food mist that morphs into a hand and drags the ravenous Fred Flintstone or Scooby-doo toward a freshly baked pie or other treat.
Clearly a sinister plot to get me to spend my hard earned American dollars on empanadas, Costa Rican tamales, chifrijo and something called patacones. Upon closer inspection, this turned out to be a flattened plantain mash that’s double fried. And yes, dear reader, your intrepid explorer did have some and they were outstanding.
“Jarvito!”
I turned to my right to see Clay ambling toward me. He wore a big grin on his face and was dressed in shorts, flip flops and a pastel striped polo shirt.
“Que pasa, hermano!” I said and gave him a hug, “Just you?”
“Yeah, Missy and the kids are doing an overnight hike and camp in the Arenal Volcano National Park,” Clay explained, “Man, wait until you see this joint. I can hardly describe it… Right up against the mountains in this huge valley with what must be a twenty mile lake running through it.”
“Uhm… you just described it,” I poked.
“A pale substitute for seeing it for yourself.”
“Sounds romantic… you’re not planning on putting the moves on me are ya’?”
He laughed, “Why do you think I sent the wife away?”
The tropical climate made itself felt the moment we exited the airport. While it was quite warm, there was also a breeze blowing across the land that took some of the edge off the heat and humidity.
Clay stopped in front of a late model Honda Odyssey van and I placed my suitcase in the cargo area, “Even came with a vehicle, this house.”
“It’s good to be the king,” I stated, “How far away are you?”
“About two hours. It’s not that far, but once we get out of San Jose, the highways turn to two laners much of the way. You’ll notice that here. One minute you’re in a big city and the next you’re in the jungle. Then all of a sudden there’s a town.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s pretty cool,” Clay confirmed as he pulled away from the airport, “We’ve only been here three days and I feel like a kid in a candy store. There’s so much to see and do.”
We drove in silence for a while. I took in the scenery and noticed how quickly the terrain changed. Not surprising for a country that was only a couple of hundred miles wide and even less deep. Even in that small area, though, there were environments that ranged from mangrove swamps to forested mountains. From tropical jungle
s to arid plains. All in an area smaller than the Florida Peninsula.
“So tell me about this Palmer guy,” I said, “and EcoLife.”
Clay eyed me sidelong as we made our way at a modest eighty kilometers per hour, or about fifty miles per hour, down the Pan American Highway, “Tell me what you already know first. It’ll save time.”
“Formed in 1999 by Miles Palmer. Based in Saint Louis, Missouri. He started as an alternative energy and green tech engineering consulting firm. Started with simple stuff, solar power for farms, water reclamation, irrigation filtration and like that. By oh-seven Palmer had built his business into a strong local concern with nearly a dozen employees including himself.”
“Then along came Andrea,” Clay said with a smirk.
“Then along came Andrea Wellesley,” I agreed. “From what I understand, and it’s pretty lean at best, she was the nitro that blasted EcoLife into the nine figure international juggernaut it is today. Subsidiaries in two dozen countries, several thousand employees and a huge fortune for the couple.”
Clay nodded, “Or it was. They got divorced a few months ago.”
I chuckled sardonically, “How’s that going for them?”
Clay scoffed, “Just as you’d think, I guess. I think that’s what Miles wants to talk to you about.”
“How do you know this guy? Old Marine Corps buddy or what?”
“No… although he did serve. I worked with him on a small commercial job in Zellwood a few years before I met you. Some new irrigation and treatment systems for a big farm up there.”
We left a more or less open area in which sat a small village and the road we were on wound into a denser semi-jungle. The foliage seemed to press in on us until I felt like I was riding through a narrow canyon that rose steeply twenty or thirty feet above my head.
The jungle, although really as much a forest at this point, was an exotic blend of Cedar, Gallinazo (not to be confused with the vulture), lama del bosque, jobo and the huge Guanacaste trees. Some of these last had trunks wider than I was tall and rose high over the canopy to either side. With our windows rolled down, we could hear all manner of tropical birds, the calls of howler monkeys and I swear every once in a while, the roar of a distant Jaguar.
I even saw a few white-headed capuchin monkeys peering at us curiously from the high branches or the thick ferns and other underbrush. Yet I also felt the heavy moistness in the air and heard a rumble somewhere in the distance. The smell of ozone and dusky sky water quickly followed.
I breathed it in and smiled, “It’s going to rain.”
“Yeah,” Clay said, rolling up our windows, “any second now.”
We could see even as we talked that the blue sky above was darkening and the fluffy white clouds were being pushed aside by fat cumulus clouds, their dark gray bellies low and heavy with moisture. Within five minutes, the sky had darkened and a heavy tropical rain began to fall.
Clay slowed the van down to about fifty kilometers, thirty miles, per hour and hit the lights. He grinned.
“Welcome to the tropics.”
“I love it!” I said. I reached into the back seat to grab a bottle of water from the small cooler there and noticed something through the tinted back window.
“What’s up?” Clay asked, noticing that I hadn’t turned around.
“Not much traffic on this road,” I commented.
“Saturdays can be light out here,” Clay observed.
“There is one vehicle behind us,” I said. “Maybe a hundred yards back… a Jeep maybe. Kind of hard to see in this rain, but now that I think about it, I’ve seen that Jeep before… since we left San Jose, in fact.”
“Getting paranoid on me?” Clay teased. “Think everybody’s out to get you?”
“They usually are,” I remarked. “He’s getting closer, too.”
Clay shrugged, “That’s because I slowed down. Still not used to the roads and stuff here yet.”
I frowned, “Hmmm… I think he’s trying to keep us in sight. Any turn offs coming up?”
Clay consulted his phone’s GPS app, “Maybe a mile ahead there’s a couple of side roads. Dirt tracks, really. I think they lead off to private residences or coffee farms or something.”
“Speed back up,” I instructed. “Take the next one to the left. Are you armed?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. If you speed up and this guy does too…”
Clay waved that off, “All that means is he wants to keep another car in view in case something happens. We’re remote right now and it’s coming down in buckets.”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “Then if you turn off and he speeds by… fine. If not… I want to be ready. Are you armed?”
Clay frowned, “Yeah. I’ve got a Glock in the glove compartment. You really think something’s up?”
I shrugged, “Maybe I’m wrong, man. But my guts are telling me otherwise.”
“Okay…” Clay said resignedly and pressed down on the accelerator.
The van shot forward across the asphalt, already covered by an inch of rain water. I looked back to see the other vehicle keeping pace. I sighed.
“He’s with us,” Clay commented unhappily, “and there’s something else that makes me think you’re not just being loco.”
“No lights,” I confirmed as I pulled the 9mm from the dash storage compartment.
“Fuck me…” Clay muttered.
I broke the magazine out, quickly inspected the breech and slid the bullets home again. I racked the slide and laid the weapon at my feet. The Glock didn’t have a safety, so I was extra cautious.
“We’re coming up on it now,” Clay said, pointing out the front windshield.
The half-jungle had thinned somewhat, but only enough to allow a four-way intersection. Up ahead, I could see two wide muddy dirt roads leading away. I turned an eye on Clay.
He groaned, “I can’t take the corner at this speed. Not in this thing. It’s rear wheel drive only.”
“Slow down but take it as fast as you can. Then pull over quickly. It’d be great if you could spin us around to face the highway, too.”
“You want me to find a crick we can jump, Luke?”
I laughed, “That never failed to get rid of old Sheriff Rosco, did it?”
Clay slowed and made a wide arcing turn off the highway and onto the pitted dirt road to our left. The rear of the van slid a little but the muddy path actually helped us to keep from losing total control. Although muddy, the dirt road was hard packed and had a lot of gravel in it. Clay down shifted into first gear, gaining traction and keeping the van on a more or less straight course as he decelerated.
Maybe fifty yards down the side road, Clay spun the wheel and the minivan slewed around and came to a stop. We sat along what passed for the soft shoulder, facing the highway.
We both watched in silence, me holding the Glock at my shoulder, as the Jeep shot past us.
“Well, Machu Picchu,” Clay said, smacking me on the arm, “guess you’re getting delusional in your old age.”
I frowned, “Let’s bail.”
I opened my door and slammed it shut, rapidly heading off the road and into the cover of the sopping underbrush. I heard Clay swear behind me and do the same, except on the other side of the road.
“You couldn’t do this shit in the sunshine, right?” Clay cranked loud enough for me to hear from where he was diving for cover opposite me.
“I thought you army guys liked this kind of shit!” I called back.
“Fuck you, Jarvis!”
My laughter died in my throat as the Jeep, its lights now blazing, appeared at the intersection and turned toward us. I swear I heard Clay griping something from his hiding place fifty feet away but couldn’t be sure.
The Jeep came to a stop a car length or so ahead of the van and was positioned so that the Odyssey would have to back up to get around it. I was certain that was done deliberately.
When the passenger got out of the Jeep and took a f
ew steps toward our vehicle, I became certain that this wasn’t simply the act of a concerned fellow motorist, as the man tried to indicate a moment later.
“Hello! He said in heavily accented English, “Are ju okay? Do ju need some help?”
When he got no answer, the man placed his hand on his right hip. I couldn’t see it now, but my instincts told me he had a weapon in a holster there. I waited.
The driver’s window of the Jeep rolled down and another man stuck his head out and spoke in rapid Spanish. The gist of it was that the first man should go and look inside the van.
I knew for certain these weren’t tourists nor your average Costa Rican citizen out for a drive. The man standing in the rain was dressed all in black and wore high boots into which his trousers had been tucked. He also wore a black ball cap. The man in the Jeep seemed to be dressed the same, at least from what I could see of him. Although the rain was heavy and the clouds blacker than a coal miner’s nose, it was still mid-afternoon and there was plenty of light for me to tell that the Jeep was painted an olive drab.
These two guys were para-military. Or wannabes. My guts churned. I’d only been in country a couple of hours and already the shit storm had begun. I’d like to claim that I was surprised… but that would stretch credulity beyond the breaking point.
The first man, obviously unhappy about being soaked to the bone, quickly moved over to the van and jerked the driver’s side door open. I could see that he’d pulled a pistol and was training it into the interior of the van. He stood there for a moment, closed the door and turned to his companion.
“Es vacio!” It’s empty the first man shouted over the pounding rain.
“Habia dos hombres!” There were two men, the driver retorted irritably. Then he asked where they were. “Donde estan?”
The first man threw his hands out and twirled around, “Como carajo deberia saber…? How the fuck should I know?”
That’s when I stood up, aimed my pistol over the hood of the Jeep and squeezed off three shots. Even over the wind, rain and occasional thunderclap, the reports made themselves known.