Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 2

  Ernesto gripped the metal handle for support, swaying with the rest of the passengers as the brightly painted bus bounced along the dusty, rutted street. Faded Spanish advertisements for breath-freshening gum and miracle kitchen cleaning products punctuated the ever-present graffiti scrawled over every interior area of the vehicle.

  Most of the occupants were dark-skinned Panamanians wearing colorful shirts or dresses, as if the vibrancy of the colors could ward off the stifling temperature. A few intrepid tourists sat towards the front, their pale complexions and floppy hats proclaiming them as aliens in the tropical landscape. The rich aroma of coffee sloshing in Styrofoam cups mingled with less identifiable odors in the confined space, and for those unaccustomed to such constant humidity and heat it was almost unbearable. But for the locals, this was merely the start of another workday – a Friday exactly like thousands of others before it.

  The creaky fifty-year old conveyance might have seemed primitive to outsiders but for the commuting laborers it was a blessed alternative to walking miles in each direction to and from work. Sure, air conditioning would have been welcome but compared to trekking two hours to get to a job that barely paid for food, water and shelter, the ancient converted school bus was welcome progress.

  Ernesto tuned out his fellow travelers and watched the scenery go by. Every day it was the same cast and the same landscape. There was the graveyard followed by several barrios leading to a haphazardly laid out strip mall, and then increasingly condensed homes of progressively larger size. He knew how close he was to his exit point by the landmarks. When the old pink shack appeared with its rows of chickens roasting on the makeshift grill, Ernesto rang the bell to signal his stop, fifty yards past it.

  For eight years now he’d taken the same bus to this very stop and it never once occurred to him to question whether his life had turned out the way he’d wanted, or if some alternative, better reality could be his with just a little more initiative or effort. No, Ernesto was comfortable in his role. He was a cook – not a chef or a showman – just a cook; like his father and mother before him had been in his native Colombia. He actually felt he had it pretty good – his current job was hardly demanding; creating three meals a day in a large colonial villa a quarter mile down a side road from the chicken shack. True, the cuisine requests had seemed odd at first, but he’d long since become accustomed to preparing the largely-vegetarian fare and it was second nature to whip up a lentil soufflé or zucchini curry.

  Beyond those simple culinary exercises, work was invariably tedious. He was the only kitchen staff and, but for the small black and white TV he was allowed on the counter by the refrigerator, he would have died of sheer boredom. Still, many workers had it far worse; and the pay was good, as were the hours. Nine to seven, six days a week, with Sundays off – he always prepared Sunday’s meals on Saturday so the staff only needed to warm them in the microwave.

  Ernesto had mixed feelings about his existence in Panama. He lived in a small row house in an outlying barrio. It wasn’t bad – had running water – and four years ago they’d finally installed electricity. To an outsider it would have been a frightening area; run down, poor and dangerous, but to Ernesto it was simply where many people like him lived. Sure, it had its fair share of crime – mainly burglaries at night, and assaults on weekends when disagreements broke out after a long day’s drinking – but he knew all his neighbors, and they watched each other’s’ backs.

  He wished he’d met and married someone special and started a family but with his schedule and limited means there hadn’t been a lot of prospects. Even in Panama, a chubby, thirty-seven year old cook who spent his free evenings and discretionary income at the bordellos in town wasn’t at the top of the food chain for desirable mating material. Besides, the barrio women were usually dark and coarse and illiterate. Ernesto considered himself superior to them.

  Originating from Colombia, with light brown skin and green eyes, Ernesto not only knew how to read and write but also had a vocational skill that earned him more than most in his circle. Getting trapped in a marriage with a flat-footed mestizo girl who’d swell to two hundred pounds within a few years of their nuptials wasn’t for him. He preferred the company of the professional ladies of the city, and if he had to pay, well, that’s why he worked and made money. It wasn’t like he had an extravagant lifestyle; no car, a few hundred dollars a month rent between him and his roommate, thirty dollars for utilities, and the rest for entertainment, with a small portion set aside for savings with the local loan shark

  Nobody used banks in his neighborhood – they asked too many questions, were suspicious of cash and paid laughably low interest. In virtually every barrio in Central America the neighborhood convenience store ran a profitable side business lending money; and they tended to be trustworthy custodians for savings. He methodically gave the local market owner $200 each month, as he had for three years, and earned fifteen percent annual interest. Sure, the owner lent the money out at sixty percent, but Ernesto was satisfied with a quarter of that as his cut because the owner took all the risk. And Ernesto was building a nest egg. Perhaps one day he could return to Bogota and meet a nice girl – someone with an education who worked in a shop or an office – his savings could easily provide the beginning of a life together. But for now, a little paid romance twice a week did the trick.

  Such were Ernesto’s thoughts as he strolled towards the familiar high-walled compound. He punched the red intercom button by the ornate iron gate and the overhead camera mounted at the top of the support beam swiveled towards him. Just as it did every day. The lock buzzed and he entered the grounds. It was a large piece of land, no doubt had belonged to a wealthy colonial landowner back in the day. There were a number of buildings scattered around the two story main house – several garages, servants’ quarters, a kennel and stables, and a large corrugated steel storage shed he knew was used as an office. He believed the place was owned by a powerful Gringo because there was always an armed retinue of at least four Gringo guards patrolling the interior, day and night, often accompanied by several large German Shepherds.

  Armed compounds weren’t particularly unusual in Central America, given the often bloody manner in which the narcotraficantes settled their disputes, along with the ever-present danger of kidnapping for the wealthy and their families. Ernesto had grown so accustomed to the presence of the gunmen he barely registered them beyond giving them a salute or a wave, which they always reciprocated. The entire time he’d worked there he’d never heard of any altercation or problems, so the sentries and high walls topped with razor wire had obviously served their purpose. This was one the of the last places on the planet anyone would want to rob. There were far easier targets.

  He’d never met the owner he’d been cooking for – not once in his eight years at the villa. Clearly the man or woman had reclusive tendencies. Fine by him. His weekly salary was always paid in American dollars, and never late, so as far as he was concerned things couldn’t have been better. He simply had to follow the written menu that invariably awaited his morning arrival, but was largely left to his own devices beyond that. The shopping was done by parties unknown and the pantry and large double-width refrigerator were always brimming with fresh supplies. It was like working in a small hotel – he kept to himself, stayed out of the way, did his job, and everyone left him alone. His contact person was a bi-lingual Gringo named Stanley, who checked in with him several times a week in addition to handing him his pay envelope.

  This morning was Friday. Payday. Ernesto knew that at 10 a.m. on the dot, Stanley would enter the expansive kitchen, chat for a few minutes and then give him his wages – always in twenties. The routine never changed.

  But today the activity around the villa was unusual. Four new vehicles sat by the garages – big SUVs, late model, with their rear deck lids open. The sentries no longer carried their weapons and were ferrying crates and boxes from the house. There were at least fifteen unfamilia
r people helping move the items, some of which were large trunks.

  Ernesto was troubled. This was a first.

  He entered the kitchen and placed his backpack onto the counter by the TV as he did every day before approaching the large island to see what the day’s menu consisted of. But today there was no menu. Instead, there was a handwritten note in Spanish, signed by Stanley, along with a brown envelope. He picked up the note and read the terse missive.

  “Ernesto, your services won’t be required any longer. Sorry for the lack of notice but I just found out last evening. We’re moving on Friday. The envelope has two week’s pay in it. Good luck finding another position. You’re a good cook.”

  Ernesto opened the flap and peered inside at the paltry wad of twenties. Unbelievable. He was now unemployed, even though he’d never missed a day’s work – except when his mother had died – and all he got by way of thanks was one lousy extra week’s pay? Ernesto sat heavily beside the island and read the note again. Stanley hadn’t even bothered to show and personally deliver the news – Ernesto just got a short letter. Why not just text message him on the bus on the way in? What a thoughtless way to reward almost a decade of loyal service. Gringos were all the same. You couldn’t trust them; they viewed anyone foreign as beneath contempt – just cheap little robots for their own convenience, unworthy of the most cursory consideration.

  He deserved better than this. Whether Stanley wanted to talk or not, Ernesto intended to have a conversation with him. This wasn’t over – not like this. For the first time after his eight years in the compound he shouldered his backpack and moved through the connecting double doors into the hall that led to the main house. It was buzzing with activity; men hastily carting boxes from the house to the vehicles. Ernesto was invisible to them; just another of the locals hired to move their belongings and clean up after them. He realized he had no idea where to find Stanley – even if he was still in the villa. His indignation rapidly fading, he stopped outside one of the open doorways halfway to the main wing. Glancing inside, he saw several monitors, some audio-visual gear and a case filled with about a dozen late model video cameras.

  Ernesto looked up and down the hall. It was temporarily deserted. Overcome by an impulse he didn’t completely understand, he leaned into the room and grabbed the nearest camera, hurriedly stuffing it into his bag before closing the lid on the camera container. He scanned the hall again. Nobody had seen anything.

  He stood for a moment in the hall, internally debating his next move, when a man in one of the house ‘uniform’ windbreakers rounded the corner. The Gringo stopped when he saw Ernesto and spoke to him in rapid, clipped Spanish without any hint of an accent.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Ernesto’s righteous indignation buckled, replaced by fear of being caught. “Er, nothing, sir...I was actually looking for Mister Stanley...”

  “Stanley? He’s gone. Who are you?”

  “Ernesto. The cook. I really need to speak with Mister Stanley...”

  “He’s gone, and he’s not coming back…just like you.” He narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave the area right now.”

  “But I–”

  “I’m not going to repeat myself. Get out of here – now – or I’ll have you removed by the guards.”

  Ernesto weighed his anger at his abrupt termination against the likelihood of being prosecuted for stealing an expensive piece of electronics.

  Discretion won the day.

  “All right,” Ernesto protested. “But you tell Mister Stanley the way he treated me isn’t right. It isn’t right.”

  The man regarded him with a stony stare and pointed to the kitchen door.

  Ernesto got the message. He turned and slunk back down the passageway, through the kitchen and out of the compound.

  Eight years, and the bastards boot him out just like that.

  Chinga tu Madres, Putas.

  Fatal Exchange excerpt

  Chapter 1

  A shriek ripped through the bunker, then slowly tapered off to a moan punctuated by congested gasps and feeble gurgling. At first it was hard to tell the gender of the screamer by the timbre of the emanation, but then the moan gave it away.

  It was a man.

  The noise was coming from a room at the end of a dimly lit hallway, concrete construction, everything painted a sickly olive-green and reeking of disrepair. Behind the chamber’s steel door stood two men in brown uniforms of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. A third man wearing a short-sleeved pleated dress shirt sat at a metal table upon which rested an old wooden box with a hand crank, and what looked like a weathered carpentry kit, with all the usual tools present. There were other, more arcane instruments strewn over a small rolling stand, and a tray containing rubber gloves, an apron and a Dremel.

  The floor sloped gradually to meet the drainage grid in the far corner, where an old faucet intermittently dripped water. Illumination was dim on the periphery but brighter in the middle of the space, where a large lamp hung from the ceiling, housing a bank of hundred-watt incandescent bulbs.

  The air was putrid and ventilation was poor – they’d needed to improvise a facility on relatively short notice. The building had originally been a holding cell for prisoners offloaded from returning naval ships, and powerful climate-control and air-moving machinery had never been deemed necessary.

  All three men had their attention focused on a naked Asian man in his late thirties, strapped to a metal chair directly below the lights. His head rested on his chest, where a thin thread of saliva and blood slowly trickled down his concave ribcage. The screaming had stopped, replaced by sobbing and whimpering, high pitched and eerily reminiscent of a cat in heat.

  The smaller of the uniformed men approached the seated figure. He leaned in close and spoke softly in Burmese.

  “Where is it?”

  The man in the chair moaned. The uniformed man tried again, reasonably.

  “Where is it? We know you took it.”

  The subject didn’t register the words. Annoying. The officer had so many more pleasurable things he could be doing. Right now he was running late for a rendezvous with one of the young ladies he favored with his charms, as well as the odd food voucher or handful of coins.

  He pressed onward. “We don’t wish to make this last any longer than it has to. It would be a shame to have to bring your family into it, but you’re leaving me no choice. How old are your two daughters? Eight and ten, I believe? Think of them. Answer the question. For them.”

  The man slowly raised his head and regarded the officer with his remaining eye. The other had been ruined earlier in the discussion. The pain had to be excruciating.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear.” The words ran together in a hoarse mumble.

  The officer shook his head and sighed. His tryst would have to be delayed; this was going nowhere. Shrugging his shoulders, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of white foam earplugs, then turned to the man in the short shirtsleeves and nodded.

  Without hesitation, the man cranked the handle on the old wooden box. The victim shrieked again, an otherworldly sound that bespoke unimaginable horrors. A pair of worn blackened wires ran from the old hand generator to the seated man's naked form. The smell of burning hair and flesh mingled with the other noxious odors.

  “Where is it? What did you do with it?”

  More gurgling.

  The taller officer removed his round wire-rimmed glasses, cleaned the lenses carefully with a handkerchief, and addressed the man in the shirtsleeves.

  “Use the drill.”

  The shirtsleeved man nodded and removed from his bag a device resembling a dog muzzle, with straps on the back terminating in metal hooks. He clawed his hands into the man’s head, forcing his face into the contraption. The front section had a hinged mechanism controlling two short metal rods now plunged inside the man’s mouth. The rods were grooved, worn by the many
previous sets of teeth which had ground them.

  He secured the metal hooks to the chair back and tightened the straps so the man couldn’t move his head. Then, with a practiced twist, he turned the lever on the side of the mechanism, forcing the man’s mouth open, allowing access to his dental plate.

  Pausing for a moment, the shirtsleeved man considered his shoes, now soiled with the accumulated expulsions. Aggravating, but there was nothing to be done about it. He hoped they’d wash clean.

  Turning, he donned a plastic apron with an incongruous faded image of a dancing crab, and selected the Dremel, a tiny high-speed jeweler’s drill used for polishing and grinding work. He inserted the bit—a small tapered cone with serrated edges running from the tip to the base, useful for boring holes in stone or metal—and tightened the shaft.

  The victim’s eye went wide as the screech of the high-pitched motor filled the space.

  “So, my friend, is there anything you want to tell me before we start?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Overhead loudspeakers blared flight arrival and departure information in Korean as well as in Japanese, Chinese, and English. The terminal was congested, even though its ultra-modern interior was designed specifically to accommodate heavy traffic, and the din of conversations battling with the ceaseless announcements created a kind of low-grade pandemonium. Seoul was a major hub for travel into China and the Far East, and on any business day there were a lot of busy people with important places to go, most of whom apparently had to do so while having animated discussions on their cell phones.

  Seung waited restlessly in the ticketing area, half an hour early for his meeting. Thin, fashionably mod haircut, and a studied air of disinterest affecting every mannerism, he was dressed in jeans and leather jacket, in defiance of the brooding heat outside the airport’s doors.