JET - Escape: (Volume 9)

by Russell Blake

  When the pair arrived at the entrance, Ramón stepped aside. Viega pushed Franco through before stepping back, as though afraid if he crossed the threshold, he’d never be allowed to leave.

  “He’s all yours. Call me when you’re through,” Viega said, and hurried back to the SUV, not awaiting any response.

  Ramón took Franco’s arm and led him to a metal chair in the middle of the room, the only illumination a single bulb hanging from a frayed black wire that was suspended from a support beam overhead. Fernanda slammed the door shut and slid the bolt closed as Ramón forced the monk into the chair. When she approached him, his eyes were unafraid – a man at peace with himself, she thought.

  “You’ve been lying to the police long enough. I need to know what you do, and I need to know it now. We’ve lost enough time,” she announced as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap. Franco’s eyes drifted to a toolbox sitting open on a wooden crate just out of the halo of light thrown by the lamp, and then they returned to hers, meeting her gaze unflinchingly.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Franco said, his tone calm.

  “You do, and you’ll tell me. The man and woman escaped from the monastery. They had to have assistance. I think you helped them or know who did. If I’m wrong, I’ll repeat my interrogation with every one of your brethren until I get it out of you. Do you understand?”

  “I understand that you believe something that isn’t true.”

  Fernanda sighed. “Let me tell you a story. When I was just a little girl, I had a brother. His name is unimportant. What is important is that he was a beautiful spirit – generous, kind, friendly. When he was nine, he began his service in our town’s church, as an altar boy. A year later he was found hanging in the outhouse, where he’d rigged a noose out of wire and strangled himself by stepping off the toilet.” Fernanda paused and studied Franco’s face. “His last moments had to be excruciatingly painful, because his neck didn’t break – the wire sliced through his flesh and he bled to death.” She stepped nearer. “He killed himself because of the shame and self-hatred that consumed him, because of what was done to him by the town priest. Stories circulated after the good father was transferred elsewhere – other little boys with horrific accounts of their own – but by that time he had escaped the townspeople’s revenge, spirited away by his superiors.”

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss, but what does that have to do with me?” Franco asked.

  “I mention it because I want you to know that, unlike everyone else who has interrogated you, I’m not impressed by your position in the Church. If anything, it makes it easier for me to do what I must in order to drag the truth from you. Because, in a way, I’m doing it for my brother, not just for expedience.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Fernanda smiled, and the effect was blood-chilling. “You misunderstand your circumstance.”

  “I’m not saying another word until I have my lawyer.”

  “Oh, you will talk. You’ll beg to talk, but only when I allow you to. First, I get my revenge for my brother. Only after I’m tired will I give you the opportunity to speak.” Fernanda nodded, and Ramón slipped a knotted rag around Franco’s head, forcing the knot into his mouth and tying the loose ends behind his head.

  When Ramón was finished, Fernanda studied Franco with cool detachment and moved to the toolbox. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to gather all the instruments I would have liked. I originally conceived of your questioning as a perfect opportunity to use some of the more popular techniques from your organization’s infamous inquisition period, but circumstances didn’t deliver a rack or a Judas chair. Do you know what a Judas chair is?”

  Franco’s eyes widened.

  “It was popular in obtaining confessions from the particularly stubborn. It’s a chair with a sharp, pointed pyramid for a seat. The victim is seated on it, naked, with the point inserted into an orifice, and then as questioning progressed, lowered inch by inch. That sounded perfect for what I intended; but alas, there are none to be found nearby and we’re in a bit of a rush.”

  Franco struggled against the bindings.

  “Another popular technique was called the strappado. That’s where the victim would be suspended from the rafters by his wrists shackled behind him. The muscles in his arms would rip from the weight, and then the ligaments in the shoulders, and then, as he was bounced by the interrogators, his shoulders would break. It sounds excruciatingly painful, doesn’t it? Leave it to the Church to innovate convincing ways to extract information.” She looked at Ramón. “Unfortunately, the overhead beams don’t look like they’ll support your weight – they’re too old – and I’d hate to pull the building down on top of us. So I’ll have to make do with more modern techniques, which I promise you are every bit as painful, if not more so.”

  She pulled on a green plastic apron and cinched it around her waist, and then held up a pair of cables with stripped copper wire ends. “The Inquisition didn’t have the benefit of electricity. If it had, it could have dispensed with many of its tricks and gone straight to judicious application of voltage to sensitive areas of the body. I can assure you that it exceeds the worst you might experience with the old-school approaches. But don’t take my word for it. You’re about to discover firsthand that technology has made marvelous strides since the days of Torquemada.”

  Franco closed his eyes, realization dawning on him that this wasn’t an act to frighten him into divulging what he knew.

  An hour later Fernanda removed the apron and tossed it on the cement floor. Ramón stood by the door, his complexion ashen and his eyes averted. She noted Franco’s slumped form and moved to the toolbox, where she withdrew a hand towel and cleaned her face before slipping off the gloves and dropping them onto the crate beside it.

  “Your people will dispose of this?” she asked, nodding at Franco.

  “Of course. His passing will be described by the coroner as the result of heart failure. Natural causes.”

  “Then let’s go. We’re already two days behind. Call Viega and arrange for us to have access to the area of the monastery where the tunnel starts. I want to be there in ten minutes.”

  “Will do.”

  “Do you know anything about the river he described?”

  “Not really. But we’ll be able to track it on my phone.” He seemed to want to say something more, but instead dialed Viega and held the cell to his ear.

  After a brief discussion, Ramón terminated the call and turned to her. “He’ll arrange it. We’re to be at the cable car station as soon as possible.”

  “He understands his men are not to touch the area?”

  “I made it abundantly clear.”

  She took a final look at the dead monk and nodded. “At least now we’re getting somewhere. We may be too late, but at least we’re in the game again. We should have done this yesterday.”

  Ramón followed her stare to where Franco sat. “There’s no question in your mind that he told you everything?”

  “None at all. Nobody can withstand that kind of abuse and lie successfully.” She pushed past him to the door and slid the bolt open. “Nobody.”

  When they arrived at the monastery, Viega was waiting for them at the upper cable-car station. Only a few cops were in evidence, all spectacularly disinterested in the new arrivals. Viega glanced at Fernanda as they walked toward the darkened building, the flashlight she’d brought swinging easily in her hand.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing any more of the good father?” he asked.

  “You have nothing to worry about. We’ll handle the autopsy and quash any inquiry. You’re effectively above suspicion,” Ramón said.

  “Well, turns out he was holding out on us, so your methods worked,” Viega conceded.

  They moved into the monastery’s storage chamber, located the hidden access lever on the cabinet, and swung it open. Viega peered inside and retrieved his own penlight from his jacket pocket as Fernanda switche
d hers on. She took three steps into the passage and turned to Viega. “This is as far as you go, for now.”

  Viega looked insulted, but held his tongue. Ramón tilted his head in apology and followed Fernanda into the dank entry. They followed the sloping tunnel floor to the remains of the iron grid and were soon standing on the riverbank, moonlight silvering the rushing water. Ramón pointed downstream at the collection of wooden rowboats on the bank.

  Fernanda nodded. “Looks like we’ve found their route. Fifty-to-one that they went downstream in one of those boats. Check with the local cops – there will be a boat missing. What’s south of here?”

  Ramón tapped his cell phone screen to life and studied a small map. “A few small bergs. The next real town is La Virginia.”

  “How far?”

  “About twenty kilometers.”

  Fernanda eyed the boats first, and then Ramón. “Let’s get back to Viega. We’ll want the cops in La Virginia to help us with questioning the locals. If we’re lucky, our little family will have left a trail. It may be cold by now, but it will be there. We just have to know where to look.”

  Ramón looked at his watch. “It’ll be light in just a few more hours.”

  Fernanda gave him a hard stare. “Viega’s going to have to wake the La Virginia police. We’ve lost enough time. At this point, every minute counts.”

  Chapter 11

  Medellín, Colombia

  Drago sat up in bed and pulled his shirt on. Alana was breathing softly beside him, the Rohypnol he’d dropped into her drink while she used the bathroom having worked its magic, but not before she delivered a workmanlike performance complete with impressive gymnastics and a faux screaming climax worthy of an Academy Award. She would be out for the duration, which suited him perfectly – he’d been listening for sounds of life next door, and it had been silent since their arrival.

  After shutting the lights off so he wouldn’t be visible from the street, Drago slipped on his pants and shoes, slung his bag over his shoulder, and moved to the window. He pushed the curtain aside and looked down at the gloomy backyard, the neighboring houses across the enclosed area completely dark. There was nobody outside, which he’d been sure would be the case at such a late hour – essential if his scheme to get into Renaldo’s room without being detected was to work.

  When he tried the latch, it was unlocked, which fit – there was no reason to lock a third-story window, and the cleaning staff would open them every morning to air out the rooms as they went about their business. With any luck, Renaldo’s would also be unlocked. Which left creeping along the narrow molding to the next sill, sliding the window frame up, and pulling himself into the suite without waking either the cartel honcho or his whore.

  Who would hopefully be out for the count by now.

  If not, plan B was to neutralize them both, take Renaldo’s phone, and hope that some germane information came across it before his corpse was discovered.

  Drago studied the molding he’d have to traverse in order to reach the suite next door. It was no more than three inches deep and sculpted from concrete, which could be crumbly given the age of the building. He took three deep breaths, patted the butt of the sound-suppressed pistol in his belt, and eased himself into the night, feeling for the molding with his toes.

  Once he was sure it wasn’t going to collapse under his weight, he inched along the exterior, back to the wall, taking his time. For anyone else the experience would have been paralyzing, but for Drago it caused no more anxiety than crossing the street – he’d been in far more precarious circumstances, after all, and handled them with aplomb.

  After thirty seconds, he reached the master suite window and was relieved to see a six-inch gap at the bottom, which would make entering child’s play. The frame creaked softly as he lifted it, and once he had sufficient space, he pulled himself inside.

  Drago was in the sitting area he remembered well from his stays. His quarry would be in the adjacent bedroom. The connecting door was half open, and Drago heard snoring over the muted jangle of a radio playing pop music at low volume. He crept toward it, eyes sweeping the space to ensure he didn’t miss the man’s cell phone on either of the two tables in the sitting room. He stopped at a dress jacket draped across the back of a chair and felt in it.

  Nothing other than a package of cigarettes and a lighter.

  Drago smirked in the darkness. It would have been too easy if the phone had been in the jacket. That wasn’t how life worked – at least, not Drago’s.

  He cocked his head, listening for movement: the rustle of a sheet, a change in the sonorous drone of male snores. After several agonizing moments he was satisfied that the room’s occupants were fast asleep, and he moved through the doorway, his steps soundless.

  The bed was a jumble of forms, and it took Drago a moment to make out the single expected male and two smaller females, their nudity stark against the white sheets. He scanned the room and spotted the blinking red of an LED from the nightstand nearest the slumbering Renaldo. Cursing silently that he would have to get that close to the man, he crept toward the bed, which as he drew nearer, reeked of cheap floral perfume and sex.

  Drago’s fingers were closing on the cell when one of the girls stirred. He froze, not daring to breathe lest the slightest movement rouse her. She groaned softly and shifted on the bed, and then resumed sleeping. Drago’s eyes darted to an empty bottle of rum on the dresser near the window and thanked Providence for the threesome’s appetite for alcohol. If they’d been doing cocaine they would have been up all night, and he’d have had to come up with another approach.

  Drago lifted the phone from the table and retraced his steps to the sitting room, where he quickly plugged the cable into the cell and uploaded the tracking software, which took twenty seconds. He checked to ensure his effort had been successful and rebooted the phone, wincing as it beeped softly when he powered it back on.

  His return to the bedroom was anticlimactic, and he was in and out in moments. Drago stopped in the doorway and eyed the tableau of the inebriated drug lord and his companions, and then turned and took measured steps back to the sitting room window. His errand concluded, the only thing remaining to be done was to get back to his bed without plunging three stories to his death.

  The return trip along the ledge posed no undue challenge, however, and thirty seconds later he was standing outside his window, eyes scanning the darkness.

  Once in his room, he powered on his phone and activated the tracking application. It blinked at him in the dark and an icon showing no activity appeared on the screen, indicating it was working, waiting patiently for an incoming call or text. He scrolled to another icon, selected it, and found himself with a list of Renaldo’s text messages.

  Two hours later he’d finished his scan of the cartel capo’s phone contents; but other than enough evidence to convict Renaldo ten times over, he had nothing. There were only references to looking for the targets, putting the word out, alerting immigration, but nothing that indicated the cartel had any idea where to find their quarry.

  Drago swallowed the bitter disappointment and stripped off his clothes before climbing back into bed. He set his cell on the nightstand beside him and rolled toward Alana, who would be unconscious for at least another few hours before awakening with the hangover of her life. His phone would notify him whenever Renaldo received a call or a text message, so now there was little to do but wait. And he’d paid for the room all night, as well as Alana’s able company…and there was nothing to be gained by allowing either to go to waste.

  He closed his eyes, resigned to snatching a few hours of rest, and was asleep in minutes.

  Chapter 12

  La Virginia, Colombia

  Fog hung over the valley as Ramón and Fernanda rolled into the downtown area of La Virgina and past the cathedral on the square, which was the focal point of the town’s commercial center. The narrow streets were deserted as dawn broke, its amber rays lighting the sky through the ghostly ha
ze.

  “Not really a lot here, is there?” Fernanda asked as they rumbled over the uneven pavement.

  “No. But the good news is that should make it easier to track our friends. Not much goes unnoticed in a town this size.”

  “Viega is already on the ground?”

  “Yes. He roused the locals and they’re knocking on doors. We’re to meet him at the square.” Ramón was interrupted by his cell phone chirping. He took the call, held a short conversation, and then hung up. “That was Viega. He’s down near the river. Apparently a boat was found yesterday afternoon by a fisherman.”

  “Where?”

  “About two kilometers south of town. An agricultural area. Portobelo. He’s there right now with the police chief, interviewing the man. Do we want to join him?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t trust Viega to ask the way to the bathroom, much less parse descriptive nuances from a witness. He doesn’t strike me as being particularly sharp at fieldwork.”

  Ramón shrugged. “That would make sense. Probably pilots a desk most of the time. The higher you climb in the force, the less you actually do.”

  “That’s consistent the world over.”

  The drive to Portobelo took ten minutes, and as they crossed a two-lane bridge, Fernanda eyed the brown swirl of the river snaking from the mountains to the east.

  “That’s a much bigger river. Does the other feed into it?” she asked.

  “Yes. The boat was found west of here.”

  Portobelo turned out to be a string of shanties scattered along a dirt road that paralleled the shore. Fields of crops on either side framed the tiny community of agricultural workers and fishermen. When they reached the end of the muddy track, they spotted Viega’s SUV pulled under a tree and a police pickup truck parked beside it. Ramón eased onto the shoulder and shut off the engine.

  They opened the doors and nearly choked as they were assailed by the stench of human waste in the muggy air, and Fernanda had to breathe through her mouth to avoid gagging. Ramón’s nose twitched, and he scowled in distaste.