by Howard Upton
Buddy looked at the paper then folded it and put it into his shirt pocket. For a few seconds he looked into her eyes then gave her a wry smile. “Why, Pamela, I won’t lie and tell you I haven’t become acquainted with several women in my day. You and I are both old enough to know that we all have certain needs. I’m just happy you have fallen for my southern charm.”
“Come now, Buddy. Do you honestly think I’ve fallen for that wonderful southern accent and your slick vocabulary? I’m an educated woman and know when I’m being gamed,” she primly replied. Her words, as harsh as they came out, weren’t convincing. “I would love to continue this discussion, but I fear it’s almost time for my flight.”
He grabbed her right hand and kissed it. “Good day to you, Pamela. That really is such a regal name. In fact, it’s almost as lovely as you. When I get over your way, I’m going to give you a call and show you the time of your life.”
She rose from her seat and giggled like a teenage girl at the compliment. Her posture was perfect, her shoulders back and both her hands in front of her waist holding her Louis Vuitton purse. Pamela bent her knees and kissed Buddy on a scruffy cheek before turning and walking toward her gate.
Buddy watched Pamela sachet toward her gate, her heels knocking against the tile floor. He paid especially close attention to her lithe frame and long legs. A last smile touched his eyes and he said to himself, “You sly old fox, you’ve still got it. Almost had her talked right out of those panties. Yep, I’m definitely going to Massachusetts when I get back.” He stopped for a moment then mumbled, “If I get back.”
He forced his mind away from his new love interest and refocused himself on the matter at hand. Dugan was heading to Monterrey and he had gotten word back that Evers had been captured. Something told him that Dugan’s stake in this game was more than monetary gain, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was obvious to everyone involved in this strange deal that he would do whatever was necessary to assure acquisition of the jewel.
All he could do now was hope and pray that he got to Mexico in time to avoid a complete disaster. If Dugan escaped with the cartouche, who the hell knew what would happen? Most importantly, what would become of the world if he got away?
Monterrey, Mexico
General Mariano Escobedo
International Airport
July 21, 2013 10:27 P.M.
Dugan smiled as he disembarked the 757 Boeing aircraft that had taken him from Dallas-Fort Worth’s international airport to Monterrey. As usual, he had been delayed, but he made the best of it by sipping on gin and tonics and thinking about how his plan was taking shape. Tomorrow would be the cliché day of reckoning. All of his hard work, research and truckloads of money spent would be worth it once he got his hands on the talisman.
He had spoken with Rafael after he arrived in Dallas. The Mexican was making him a little nervous with his conversational distance. In fact, his mumbling and rambling had grown more than just sporadic since he had taken hold of the cartouche. He figured Rafael would make a play for more money or maybe attempt to keep the cartouche for himself. This was a part of the calculation he knew was real and problematic.
There were still so many unknowns and variables in the equation. Risky math wasn’t a subject he enjoyed; he preferred to understand the situation, remove anything (or anybody) that created “noise” and solve the problem. A plan and a roadmap to success had always been something he prided himself in having, but the position he found himself in lately felt loose. He wasn’t controlling the controllable and that made him exceedingly more agitated.
Like so many public places in the Mexico, General Mariano Escobedo Airport was immaculate. The carpeted areas at the gate were phenomenally clean even though they were trampled daily. The marble floor hallways were highly polished and spotless. Stores were tidy and the people friendly. This was one aspect of the country Dugan liked. He knew a little bit of money would buy a hell of a lot of happiness in Mexico, and the money spent to keep this aging airport looking like new was nominal by comparison.
Dugan carried the one bag that he had managed to stuff into the overhead compartment. As a frequent traveler he’d learned how to pack lightly and avoid the problems of checked luggage altogether. He had debated with himself before leaving New York about taking a cab to the hotel or renting a car. His lifestyle had made the decision fairly easy given the mission and the potential for a speedy getaway.
After leaving the rental center he turned northwest and drove the two-and-a-half kilometers to the Crowne Plaza Hotel. He checked in and dropped his bags in his room on the fourth floor. When he finished taking note of the layout of the room, he drew the curtains on the sliding glass door and stepped on the balcony. The night air was warm and the city buzzed with traffic.
He considered going to bed but decided to hit the hotel bar instead. The hostess seated him at a booth he requested in the back of the shadow filled room. He ordered his favorite single malt scotch from the bartender, a highland Royal Lochnager 12 Year Old. Finding it on the drink menu made him happy. As he sipped, he took special pleasure in tasting the spice and hint of sandalwood. There had been times when a higher end hotel bar would surprise him with their drink menu and this was one of them, even though the Crowne Plaza wouldn’t be considered “higher end.” He delighted in the fragrance and mellow taste of the liquor so much he decided the find was a good omen.
Dugan eased back in his seat and scanned the room out of habit. No one got his hackles up. He considered calling Rafael back but decided not to; he’d kill the greedy bastard when the time came. For now he was content to sip the Lochnager and lose himself in his plans to be one of, if not the most, powerful and influential men on the planet.
Diagonally, from his table, he could see the entrance to the hotel, in addition to the majority of the lobby. He anticipated the arrival of his acquaintance any moment. A grin took shape on his mouth.
Monterrey, Mexico
General Mariano Escobedo
International Airport
July 21, 2013 10:48 P.M.
Buddy walked down the jet-way toward customs with forty other Americans. Most were dressed in Bermuda shirts and shorts that screamed “Please mug me, I’m a tourist!” It was times like these that made him wonder why he bothered working for a country whose citizens walked around like Lemmings, totally blind and oblivious to the dangers around them. If only a few of them had been exposed to the things he’d seen in his life, they would be much more wary and untrusting. Conversely, it was good for Buddy’s personal income that most everyone lived in their comfort zone with little thought about anything outside their personal control.
Before he left Virginia he decided to pack and check a bag. He had thrown a few changes of clothes in it along with his favorite pocket knife. Having his contact in Mexico City see to it that he acquired a firearm would have been perfect, but he had a meeting to keep when he arrived at the hotel. The knife would have to do until he had time to obtain a better weapon.
He tried, with no success, to keep his thoughts out of the past and on the present. His mind gave little consideration to the dangers and trials he had lived through, beyond quantifying and cataloging them in his memory banks for future reference. Perhaps his age was beginning to show by playing on those memories, or maybe it was the sight of so many people oblivious to the world’s realities that caused his mind to drift. No matter the reason, decades of jungle and desert warfare memories paraded through his mind like a feature length movie on the silver screen.
“Señor. Señor.” Buddy’s dark green eyes snapped open when he heard the voice calling to him. The Mexican agent eyed him suspiciously as he awkwardly began fumbling around for his passport.
“Passport, Señor,” the customs agent demanded. Buddy felt around for his passport and found it in his back pocket before handing it over. “Your customs declaration, Señor,” the uniformed man also requested.
Thus far, Buddy had completely lost himself in thought l
ike some amateur traveler on his first vacation, giddy with excitement. He found the customs declaration he had filled out on the plane in his shirt pocket and handed it to the agent. Customs declarations were probably the most ridiculous documents to fill out when traveling internationally. If I brought over ten thousand dollars into the country with me, I wouldn’t tell you or anyone anyway, he mused about the question on the form.
The customs agent scanned his passport then shifted his eyes from Buddy to the photo. “What is your business in Mexico, Señor?”
“Just here on vacation. I like Mexico this time of year,” Buddy said to the agent.
“How long is your vacation,” he asked, his questions on cue and predictable?
“I’ll be here a week. Going to unwind and enjoy some tequila and a little bit of nightlife,” Buddy offered.
“I see,” the agent responded then continued. “Are you feeling okay, Señor? You seem...distracted.”
“Ah hell, I’m fine as frog hair, my man. I was just thinking about what I wanted to do tonight once I got checked into my hotel. You know, trying to figure out how a man my age can have a good time in Old Mexico,” he finished and gave the agent a wink.
The customs agent gave a little chuckle then glanced over the customs declaration and found nothing noteworthy. He glanced at Buddy one more time before reaching for the Nuevo Leon, Mexico stamp that he would pound onto the passport. His hand stopped as he picked up the stamp.
“Where are you staying, Señor,” he asked with a raised brow?
“At the Crowne Plaza, just down the road here. I like to be close to the airport so I don’t have to rush around when it’s time for me to leave. You know what I mean?”
For a few uncomfortable seconds the agent dropped his eyes and seemed to consider the stamp he held in his hand. Finally, he nodded his head and pressed the stamp onto the passport page he’d opened to. He closed the identification booklet and handed it to Buddy.
“Enjoy your stay in Monterrey, Señor, but try not to enjoy too much of the nightlife,” he said with a smirk.
“Yes sir, I’ll do my damnedest,” Buddy said as he nodded. A hushed sigh of relief whistled through his puckered lips as he tried his best to look at ease. He reached for the passport and replaced it in his pants pocket, picked up his bag and walked to catch a shuttle to the hotel. If everything went according to plan, he would have a ride out of Mexico the next day.
While he waited for the Crowne Plaza shuttle, he reached for one of his Cuban cigars. He fished his cutter from the zipper compartment in his carry-on and nipped the end of the stogie. The aroma of the unlit cigar met his nose and immediately made his mood a little lighter. Customs agents always made him edgy and this last one had made him feel particularly uncomfortable. He couldn’t prove it, but he would swear agents all around the world were trained in interrogation techniques.
Smoke filtered from the end of his cigar and encircled his head. Unlike most cigar smokers, he preferred the Ulysses S. Grant method and inhaled deeply. He pushed a brownish-white plume of smoke from his lungs that mixed with the toxic fumes of cars and buses as they stopped to pick up travelers. His shoulders and nerves relaxed as he puffed on what he referred to as “the gift of the Cuban revolution.”
Ten minutes passed when Buddy spotted the hotel shuttle in the distance. The distinct crown logo was painted on the front of the white van just above the driver’s cab. Buddy tamped the cigar out on the side of the large upright, stone-lined ashtray that stood next to him on the sidewalk, and put the remainder in a Ziploc bag he carried with him when he traveled.
The driver pulled to the loading area where Buddy and five other guests piled onto the mini-bus. He sat next to a large white woman who wouldn’t stop talking to a man, presumably her husband, about what they would do after they got to their hotel. Her husband didn’t acknowledge anything she said, which seemed to further fuel her need for unrelenting chatter. Twelve long minutes later they arrived at the hotel. Buddy thought his eardrums were going to bleed while the woman gabbed on-and-on. Her husband continued to ignore her. As Buddy rose, he reached over and patted the man on the shoulder. He winked and gave the man a sympathetic smile. The man looked beaten and on the verge of crying.
The shuttle eased into the hotel parking lot before stopping under the burnt orange awning. Buddy stepped onto the sidewalk, grabbed his bag and tipped the driver. For a few seconds he scanned the area paying close attention to the parking lot, points of ingress and egress. Details made the mission, and he was one who appreciated the finer points of his surroundings…just in case. He walked through the entrance, scanned the area, and turned toward the check-in counter.
The hotel lobby décor was typical Mexico, polished stone floor and walls and beautiful paintings hung in strategic locations. A woman wearing a yellow sundress adorned with flowery stitching and heels could be heard walking as the clip-clop of her shoes hitting the stone floor reverberated throughout the room. Three beautiful, young Mexican women greeted guests at the counter as the guests handed over their credit cards to check in.
Buddy smiled at the young lady who asked if she could help him in thickly accented, but perfect, English. “Yes ma’am you can. I have reservations for three nights. Smith is the name.”
She pulled up Buddy’s hotel reservation on her computer monitor. After confirming his information she requested photo identification and a credit card, both of which he handed her. He hadn’t felt the need to travel under a pseudonym since Uncle Sam was already his financial suitor. Most importantly, he didn’t anticipate anyone tracking him.
“Yes sir, your room is on the fifth floor,” she said as she circled his room number on the key card. “How many keys would you like,” she asked?
“Oh, I’m a creature of habit, so give me two, just in case I lose one. My mind just isn’t what it used to be, young lady,” Buddy replied with a wink.
“Of course, sir,” she smiled back a little flirtatiously. “Our free breakfast is served from six until ten each morning in the restaurant directly behind you. The elevators are to your left. Enjoy your stay.”
“Damn. If only I were a hundred years younger,” he muttered, “I’d whisk you away in a second.”
The young lady giggled as Buddy turned toward the elevators. From the corner of his eye he saw someone watching him. Angling his head slightly to his left he saw Dugan seated at a table in the back of the hotel bar. He nodded to Buddy and Buddy gave him a quick nod back. He hit the button on the Otis elevator that would take him to his floor.
His electronic key slid into the card slot. He heard the familiar click of the tumbler unlocking then pushed open the door. After dropping his bags on the bed he turned to the mirror and looked at himself. Few times in his life did he ever doubt his own abilities, but tonight was different.
Slightly shaking fingers fumbled for the bathroom light switch. Incandescent bulbs sprang to life as the old warrior walked to the sink and turned on the cold water. His hands cupped, he pushed them into the stream and splashed some on his face. Long strands of hair stuck to his cheeks as beads of water dripped from his nose and jaw.
Both of his hands landed on the bathroom vanity as he stood there staring at his reflection. Age and a hard life stared back at him. He wondered how much longer he would defy the odds and walk on the Earth. One day...two...maybe a year if he was lucky. Every strand of his fiber told him it was time to pull his hair into a pony tail and find a beach somewhere to sit, sip tequila and watch girls. But his mind and ego wouldn’t let that happen and he knew it. It had always been about the mission to him. Forget love of country and pledging allegiance to the flag and all that horseshit, it was the mission, and this one was no different than any of the rest.
What differed about this mission, however, wasn’t the danger – it was the man he was dealing with and his ruthless way of doing business. Killing and death came with the job, but Dugan took great pleasure whenever he did it. In fact, Buddy once watched him torture a
man to death with a smile on his face and an inner glee of enjoyment.
His hand found the white towel folded neatly in one corner on his vanity. He patted his face dry on rough cotton, flipped his stringy hair back and ran his fingers through it. His chest puffed out from the deep breath he took, and then his cheeks blew outward like a blowfish as he exhaled before walking back to the bedroom and unzipping his suitcase.
Inside the suitcase’s zippered panel he reached and found the Case XX knife he’d brought with him and shoved it in his front pocket. He grabbed his room key and slid it in his back pocket then turned toward the door. Outside his room he made his way back to the elevator. Within a few seconds the familiar chime let him know of its arrival. Once inside, his right index finger hit the starred lobby button on the call-button panel.
The door slid open and he stepped out, turned to the hotel bar and restaurant and walked to the entrance. With no one appearing to be out of place or threatening, he turned right to the hotel bar.
Buddy stood just inside the bar’s doorway for a few seconds allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. There were two patrons sitting at the bar and his old adversary at the same table he had spotted him at earlier. He walked over to Dugan’s table and sat down without saying anything. Both men kept their hands on the table out of respect for the other’s background and ability.
A few seconds passed before Dugan initiated the conversation. “Why, Mr. Smith, it’s been such a long time since we have seen one another. How in the world are you?” he asked. He picked up his glass and took the last sip of the golden brown liquid.