by Glen Robins
“What are you doing?” Alastair asked, the annoyance in his voice undeniable.
“I’ve got a video you need to see. Bear with me while I get to it.” Within seconds, Nic had the YouTube video loading. After it played, he showed Alastair the close up photos of Collin’s face from the video and compared them to the photos they had on file. For further proof, Nic played back an audio recording of his phone conversation with the woman at the front desk of the hotel. She confirmed that the man involved in the altercation last night was in room 2321. To drive his point home, he played back another recording of his call with the police chief in Lima, who agreed under some pressure from Nic, to instigate a raid, but only if the directive was from the section chief.
Nic turned to his boss and glowered. “There you have it. We know it’s him. We know where he’s at. Now all we’ve got to do is go get him. What do you say, Section Chief?”
“I say don’t cock this one up.” Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he said it. Nic knew he was serious, but he also knew he had another video file of old Alastair, one he stored in a safe place on his phone that would be his hall pass if ever Alastair became an obstacle. Maybe Alastair needed a reminder. He held off for now. The right moment would present itself eventually.
* * * *
J W Marriott Hotel, Lima, Peru
May 20
This is comfort, thought Collin as he walked through his twenty-third floor suite. Thick carpet, soft lighting, every modern convenience and luxury he had ever imagined, and then some. Everything was so clean, so fresh, so modern. A flat screen TV, leather couches, fancy artwork. But the crowning feature was the view of the ocean. It was spectacular. He gazed out the full length window, taking it all in—the cliffs, the protruding peninsula to the south, the moon as it shimmered on the water.
When he finally finished gawking, he felt even grimier than before. A long, hot shower made him comfortable and relaxed. Dressed in his favorite sweatpants and worn out T-shirt, he stretched out on the bed. He wanted to close his eyes, but he didn’t feel sleepy. Instead, he lay there and pondered the events that had taken place downstairs. It was probably no big deal. Nothing would come of it. He forced his eyes shut and let his head sink into the down pillows.
But sleep would not come. The image of making a spectacle in front of all those people kept sweeping across the stage of his mind, followed by the words Lukas had said so many times. “Stay low. Stay small. Blend in.”
The incident had blown over just as quickly as it had started, so he forced the thought out of his mind by thinking about more pleasant things, like his Facebook conversations with Emily. Since sleep eluded him, he went online to see what was happening and to continue the communication with his dear friend.
At two o’clock in the morning, after emailing his mother, his siblings, and Rob, and messaging back and forth with Emily, he decided it was time to get some sleep. It had been a long, difficult day. And week. He needed to catch up on his rest to stay sharp. He signed off and climbed in the soft, inviting, king sized bed, gathered up the pillows, and settled in for a cozy night of luxury.
At 4:07 a.m., there was a pounding on the door. Then more pounding. When no one answered, a key card was inserted into the lock. The door swung open. Lights on. Eight military commandos stormed into the room, rifles at the ready, swinging them into every nook and cranny of the suite. Within twenty seconds, the man in charge called out, “All clear.” Over his cell phone, he confirmed his announcement. “I’m sorry, Agent Lancaster. The room is empty. There is no one here.”
“You sure you got the right room?”
“Positive. We double checked with the front desk that this is the right room, 2321.”
Nic let out a string of profanity, revealing his bitter disappointment. Hot rage boiled behind his eyes and in his chest. He panted like a dog and hissed like a viper. “You mean to tell me that man from the video, the one that looked like a beggar, never checked into his room? Even after making such a fuss?”
“No, sir. It looks like someone was here. The bed has been slept in, and the shower has been used. Someone was here but not anymore. There is no luggage, no personal items left behind.”
Another series of expletives. “Then get me camera footage from the lobby. We’ve got to find this man. He’s an international criminal, and now he’s loose in your country. Find him.”
Twenty minutes later, as he poured over the video footage from the hotel lobby, Nic continued to curse and fume. He clearly saw, from a different angle, Collin Cook’s performance with the security guards and his checking into the hotel. He watched him cross the lobby to the bank of elevators after the front desk staff excitedly flapped over him, practically kissing his feet. Nic fast-forwarded through hours of video. There was constant activity until midnight, then it slowed considerably. The crowds dispersed and disappeared at eight times normal speed. From about twelve thirty on, the lobby was mostly empty, save the occasional couple holding hands as they strolled through or small groups moving at a leisurely pace from the entrance to the elevators. Nothing interesting until the time stamp in the lower corner showed 3:23 a.m. That’s when he saw a lone man, wearing a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled down to hide his face, walk purposefully through the lobby, head down the whole way. The man had a small backpack on one shoulder and a computer bag on the other. The same pieces of luggage Collin Cook had when he checked in at 7:47 p.m.
Nic slammed his palms on his desk and clinched his jaw so tightly he almost broke a filling. “How in the bloody hell does he do it? Every bloody time.”
Too restless to sleep, Collin had gotten up and paced the floor of his suite for another twenty minutes, trying desperately to reach Lukas. When he didn’t answer and didn’t respond to texts, Collin gave up and followed his own best instincts. He packed, dressed, and exited the building as quickly and quietly as he could. He turned north out of the front doors and worked his way through the deserted city streets in search of a taxi. When he finally found one in front of a downtown night club, he asked the cab driver to take him to the Best Western on the other side of town. He knew there would be budget-minded American tourists there.
Perhaps he was being silly, paranoid even. But he couldn’t shake the nagging sense that he had drawn too much attention to himself. He didn’t like that feeling and feared a repeat of what happened in Panama City. Sure, he had spent five hundred dollars for a few hours of luxury, and he hated wasting money, but it would be worth it to feel safe and completely anonymous somewhere else.
At least he had enjoyed the view while he could.
* * * *
San Diego, CA
May 20
The clock on the display monitor in her late model BMW showed 9:41 p.m. Emily had stayed late, again, working on her presentation and trying to manage two, simultaneous, interdependent experiments, the results of which could add that much more punch to her performance. This was the fourth day in a row she had put in fourteen plus hours, and she needed to find another gear, something other than work, to take her mind away.
After backing out of her reserved parking stall at the Scripps Research facility, Emily decided to use her ten minute commute productively. It was time to call Sarah Cook. With the BioMed Conference looming and the burden of her first-ever professional presentation weighing heavily on her mind, Emily had neglected to keep in touch with Sarah for over a week. This conversation would be different than most because this time she actually had something significant to report.
Sarah was so happy to hear from Emily and thanked her for the good news. It sounded like Collin was interested in rebuilding the friendship, they both agreed, and this gave them hope. Sarah was pleased that Collin had picked up his communication with her as well, although he purposely avoided telling her anything substantive about his doings.
Emily gently turned the conversation toward Sarah and her health by asking how she was feeling.
“I’m on my third dose of chemo, and as I’m sure you kno
w, it gets harder and harder. I’m exhausted for several days after a treatment, and then just as my energy begins to come back, it’s time for another dose. It just wipes me out,” Sarah explained.
Emily did her best to empathize, but rather than responding emotionally, the scientist in her started asking questions that Sarah didn’t know how to answer. When her queries yielded little information of value to Emily, she asked, “Will you do me a favor and have your doctor contact me? If you’re OK with it, I would like to take a look at your lab results and just see what is going on.”
“Of course that would be all right. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Emily approached her building and explained that she might lose cell service in the basement garage, so they signed off with a promise to stay in touch. Sarah wished her luck on her presentation and assured her that she would be the star of the show.
What Emily failed to notice as she talked and drove was a blue sedan mirroring her every move several hundred yards behind her. As she slowed to turn into her parking garage, the blue sedan kept going and parked under a large tree in front of her high rise condominium.
In her top floor condo, Emily dressed in nothing but a well-worn, cotton Padres shirt. She stood in front of the picture window in her living room, clutching a steaming, oversized mug of potato soup, looking out over the mighty Pacific, wondering where her friend was and what he was doing. It was eleven o’clock, and she had just signed off her computer after another long conversation with Collin. It was enjoyable but exhausting.
She stood to stretch her legs and think while she ate.
The full moon shone on the glassy surface of the ocean in bumpy streaks that stretched toward her. The muffled roar of the surf below brought a sense of calm that drowned the encroaching loneliness. As she thought about Collin, she felt at once empty and grateful. Grateful for so many memories that still made her smile. Grateful that he let her back in his life at a time when she was most desperate for friendship. Grateful that now she had a chance to return the favor and be his friend when he needed one most. Empty because of his decided absence.
While she was pleased that Collin continued the dialogue and shared his experiences, albeit with the most indistinct descriptions imaginable, she wanted more. Maybe it was because he was a guy and didn’t communicate in the language of emotion. Maybe he was masking something. She didn’t know, nor could she. Not with his frustratingly vague, bare bones style. She wanted to know, really know, where he was and what he was doing and how he was feeling. She wanted so badly to talk to him, to see him, and, if he would let her, to hug and comfort him.
At the same time, she worried about Sarah and her health. She was sworn not to breathe a word of it to Collin, or anyone else for that matter, but she ached for the ailing mother who longed to see her son.
Chapter Sixteen
May 21
Lima, Peru
He found an empty seat by a window halfway toward the back of the bus and listened to the chatter. Excited voices with thick mid-western accents went on and on about what a thrill it was to actually be on their way to Machu Pichu, the famed Incan site high in the Andes Mountains. It seemed that no one on board the sleek, new Prevost tour coach could believe that this was happening, that they were about to see the ancient and mysterious city in the clouds.
Collin’s hair was now short and black, hidden by a baseball cap. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes; headphone wires dangled from his ears. His beard was gone, as was his British accent. Based on the conversations of the groups huddled around the tables closest to his at the hotel breakfast room, he had decided to sign up that morning for the same five-day tour as the other hotel guests. He changed his persona to be a high school teacher from suburban Chicago, who had saved up to visit the sites he had only seen in books. It would be a convincing story anyone could believe.
He was able to purchase one of the last tickets, according to the gal at the agency two doors down from the Best Western, but he counted at least five empty rows.
Most of the people clumped together in groups of four to eight, but there were a few couples on their own, too. As far as Collin could tell, he was the only solo traveler on the bus. But no one seemed bothered by that fact.
Following Lukas’s advice, Collin was blending in with the tourists.
During the daytime, he took dozens of photos and listened to Eduardo, the tour guide, and asked searching questions, trying to learn all he could about the mysterious ruins he explored with the group. At night, he updated his photo journal and communicated electronically with his friends and family back home, always careful not to divulge too much.
Whatever assignment Lukas was on, it must have been important and all-consuming. Collin received very little in terms of communication from him, most of it rather superficial in nature. But there was no real need. Except for the scene in Lima, Collin was keeping a low profile, just as Lukas had instructed.
In his conversations with Emily, he learned how stressed she was about her presentation but also about a new direction she was taking her experiments. She had three days to send in her slideshow but wanted to include the latest data. She fretted about getting it all done in time. She told him about a lovely patient who was going through chemotherapy. Emily had become acutely interested in that patient’s case. Her goal now was to find a way to personalize a treatment based on that patient’s exact needs. Targeted gene therapy, she called it. Other cancer labs did it as a matter of routine, but Scripps had always been more removed from the actual treatment, more esoteric. She hoped to get permission soon so that she could help this patient. It was clear to Collin that she was passionate in her resolve to make a difference for this woman. “You’re amazing Emily,” he had said in his most recent message to her. “You really care about saving lives, don’t you? Even if it’s just one at a time.”
Her response was, “Of course, I do. Everyone matters. Everyone has something to offer, so why not do my best to save them?”
By the end of his five-day tour with this group, Collin was at ease. The experience had far exceeded his expectations. The feelings of awe and wonder could only be expressed in his journal to Amy, not with any of his friends or family. During this time he had become part of the group—more than just another face in a crowd. Folks were kind and hospitable, but no one pried into his business, and he was comforted by that. He didn’t try to avoid contact or conversation, but he didn’t readily engage in it, either. The group accepted him as a studious school teacher on a quest to learn.
At noon the fifth day, the tour came to an end. Most of his new friends loaded onto a chartered bus bound for the airport. Collin waved good-bye and headed for the express bus terminal, where he caught a bus that would take him through the majestic and stunning Andes to Puno, Peru, a popular tourist attraction on the shore of Lake Titicaca, close to the southeastern border shared by Bolivia. At the recommendation of several travel blogs, he headed to the Qelqatani Hotel and settled in for a quiet evening. It was comfortable, clean, and had wireless Internet.
He spent his first night there searching transportation options through South America. He imagined himself taking another month or so to wind his way through Bolivia, Chile, Brazil, and Paraguay, eventually ending up in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Things felt safer in South America. Calmer. Slower. Less threatening. The people were unassuming and generous. They let him be, paid him no mind, never intruding nor interfering. It was all so new and different than what he had expected from South America. It was an adventure. An eye-opening adventure. He was soaking it up.
Collin toured Puno the next day, enthralled with its natural beauty, taking pictures for his photo journal. As he moved among the people, seeing sights and learning history, Collin practiced his South American Spanish. He asked touristy kinds of questions, ordered food, and discussed current events—all in an effort to improve his accent and become familiar with the place. A shopkeeper recommended a visit to an island called Isla del Sol, which lay at the south
ern end of vast Lake Titicaca. The lake was enormous, like a tranquil ocean twelve thousand feet above sea level. Rugged snow-covered peaks rimmed the lake and valley, providing a formidable boundary of protection, which attracted the early inhabitants.
Collin wanted to learn more about this “Island of the Sun,” where legend taught that the Incan god of the sun rose from Lake Titicaca to claim his kingdom. Late in the day, as he strolled down to the docks, a boat full of tourists had just returned from Isla Del Sol and began to filter into town, chattering about the amazing ruins and the spectacular views. Collin found a kiosk and picked up a brochure.
As he read the brochure, he wandered back toward the tourist section of town and his hotel, planning in his head to visit the island the next morning. The sun was perched just above the peaks to the west, casting an orange beam of dancing light across the glassy surface of the lake and causing his shadow to stretch out long and skinny in front of him. His stomach was growling, reminding him of the neglect it had endured since mid-morning. Night was coming on, and a chill wind blew off the lake. He ducked in a taco joint popular with the tourists to grab a quick bite before returning to his room. There he could blend in with fellow Americans. The front of the restaurant was open, allowing him good visibility, and a back door through the kitchen was a possible escape route. Yes, he decided, it would be OK to eat out tonight. He would spend some time among other humans instead of holed up in his tiny room.
He pulled his iPhone out and checked for notifications as he waited for a table to be made ready. No text messages, a few new e-mails, and a notification on Facebook from Emily, responding to his earlier message. He read it, trying to decipher his feelings about the attention she was paying to him. Smiling to himself, he reread her message, oblivious to anything else.