The Spy's Little Zonbi

by Cole Alpaugh

  “Geraldo, what do you call a Mexican with a new car?”

  Lopez looked at his neighbors on both sides, but they were turned away, already involved in conversations. He looked for the server girl he’d recently screwed, but she’d vanished. He desperately needed a drink and was about to be assailed with off color jokes by the old News Core has-been.

  “A felon. Ha! Isn’t that just wonderful? You know, it’s funny because it rings so true. One more?” McManny emptied his wine glass despite his wife trying to pin his arm to the table, whispering harshly in his hairy ear. “What do you get when you cross a Mexican with an octopus?” he said.

  Geraldo sat silently.

  “I don’t know either, but it can sure pick lettuce.”

  “You have to stop drinking this moment.” Geraldo heard McManny’s wife beg.

  “Why doesn’t Mexico have an Olympic team?”

  Geraldo shook his head.

  “Because if they can run, jump, or swim they’re in the U.S.”

  And just then, a set of arms clad in a white tuxedo shirt surrounded McManny and locked at the wrist. McManny and his chair began to slowly elevate above the elegant table settings. Geraldo could see the old man’s bent knees and the linen napkin spread across his wide lap. He was suddenly looking up the man’s nose, white clumps of wiry hair sprouting in ten directions, as McManny was lifted and tilted backward, arms pin-wheeling for balance.

  “Help!” McManny’s voice whined as he began grabbing at the sides of his chair and Geraldo got a glimpse of the culprit.

  “Hugh!” His wife reached for him, the loose sleeves of her pale blue dinner dress flapping, but the Mexican Secretariat of Tourism had an iron grip. Geraldo had met and interviewed the man. He couldn’t recall his name, but knew he’d attended college in Canada and then gone to Harvard. Was it Tony? Geraldo thought it might have been.

  McManny, whose voice had turned shrill, began reciting jokes without finishing the punch lines. “What do you call a Mexican without a lawn mower? How do you get fifty Mexicans into a phone booth? How many Mexicans does it take to change a light bulb?”

  Before security could intervene, one of the guests managed to intercept the Mexican Cabinet member who seemed to be attempting to leave the dinner hall with McManny still seated in his chair, as if taking out the trash. To Geraldo, the guest looked like some sort of John Lennon hippie, which meant he was probably a lowly newspaper or magazine photographer.

  In the commotion, Geraldo reached across the table, snatched up Margie McManny’s glass of wine and drained it. He took some tiny measure of comfort in the fact that although he might live in New Jersey, at least he wasn’t a news photographer.

  ***

  “Gentlemen!” Chase kicked back his chair and nearly stumbled over his camera bag. A commotion like this could wreck the operation. He lunged past an elderly woman in a blue dress and grabbed the shoulder of the man carrying a chair load of the old News Core commentator, who was wildly spouting off one-liners at the top of his lungs. Chase tried slowing them down, but the man doing the carrying had gained momentum, heading for the double doors. Instead of stopping them, Chase sprinted ahead and kicked open the one door and cleared the path down the marble hallway. Several members of the security detail bumped past him, the sound of running boots echoing down the long chamber and competing with the obnoxious rants of the man in the chair.

  “Have you ever wondered where all the heroes have gone?” the voice seemed to ask the soaring walls. McManny’s companion in the blue dress was hurrying after, her heels click-clacking.

  Chase stepped back into the stunned dinner hall, cleared his throat and straightened his tuxedo jacket. All eyes were on him, including Ortega’s and the remaining bodyguards. The photo op had been prearranged through the Associated Press and the President’s public relations office, so he decided to push forward. “Perhaps this is a good time for a very brief photograph of our host?”

  Ortega nodded to his young translator, who had to help him to his feet. The President’s face was pale, drops of sweat pooling at his chin, as Chase leaned down and pulled a Nikon from his bag. Attached was a 24mm lens, the length Limp had taught him to rely upon.

  “Señor Presidente, perhaps in front of this beautiful window?”

  Ortega stood shakily, looking like hell. A bodyguard had retrieved a glass of ice water, held it out to him. Ortega’s bronze skin was white, his lips tinted blue, and he’d removed his jacket to expose a dress shirt that was practically translucent, drenched in sweat. He looked up at Chase with bloodshot eyes.

  “Sí, por supuesto,” Ortega groaned. “Sería un placer.”

  “Yes, of course. It would be my pleasure.” His translator’s strong voice was an odd contrast to Ortega’s.

  Chase had a recurring fantasy of Ortega taking the sharpshooter’s bullet, collapsing forward with a red bloom forming at the breast of his shirt, his wife coming to sweep his head from the hard floor. Chase knew the Pulitzer committee would be overwhelmed by the First Lady’s pleading eyes, begging God not to take her husband.

  It’s show time, Chase thought giddily, one simple mission to change the course of history. Books would be written, encyclopedias would need to be changed. The murder of a dangerous Central American leader was about to happen right in front of his eyes. And he was going to be responsible, it being his job to arrange the man in front of the thick glass panes of the hall’s enormous windows.

  With the bodyguard’s help, Ortega took shuffling steps toward where Chase was motioning. There was silence in the room as everyone stopped to watch the president’s struggle to walk, hobbled by pain or drink. He was about two-thirds of the way when he stumbled and barely caught himself on the back of a chair. Chase took a step toward Ortega, grimacing, his arms out as if to catch a phantom, willing Ortega not to collapse and ruin the mission. The bodyguard managed to right Ortega, tried speaking in his ear, but was shrugged off and pushed away. Ortega took a few deep breaths, smiled wanly, and gathered his strength to make it the rest of the way under his own steam.

  Faint gongs began to echo down the marble and granite corridors from what sounded like grandfather clocks in distant rooms. Chase could hear his own pulse as Ortega finally arrived at the window radiating feverish heat. He sensed the sniper off in the night tracking Ortega, waiting for the target to be lined up.

  With great difficulty, Ortega accepted his tuxedo jacket from the bodyguard, straightened the collar, and flattened the lapels. He wiped his brow with a swipe of one sleeve, took another strained breath, lifted his chin and said, “Ahora.”

  “Now,” repeated the translator from behind Chase.

  Chase fumbled with his Nikon, hands clammy with nervous sweat and burgeoning paranoia. Journalists were everywhere and one had to recognize the huge mistake of putting the subject in front of a reflective window for a flash photo. It was more than a rookie mistake. Chase looked around at the waiting eyes that were filled with suspicion. Fraud, someone was about to shout. A murder plot!

  Ortega flattened the hair across his forehead, teetering on his heels. When he tried licking his lips, Chase saw that his tongue was swollen.

  The clocks all began to chime in earnest when Chase brought his camera to eye level and turned the focusing ring. Chase vaguely wondered if the high-powered round would pass through Ortega and also hit him.

  Too late; this was it. Was that tiny speck of light off in the night a glint of moonlight reflecting from a powerful shooting scope?

  Chase blinked to clear his eyes and braced for impact, just as the clocks around the palatial building mostly agreed the hour had come.

  Chase fingered the shutter release button just as the distant sniper must have begun squeezing the last bit of pressure on his trigger. As the bullet struck the window, Ortega lurched forward out of its way, projectile-vomited all over the front of Chase’s tuxedo, and collapsed at his shiny rented shoes. Frantic bodyguards rushed to Ortega’s convulsing body on the marble floor as th
e beautiful translator lay dying from a single gunshot wound.

  Chase turned and took her picture.

  Chapter 10

  Chase stood in line at customs, the backpack propped against his shins weighing a ton from all the newspaper clippings. He’d hit every newsstand and vending box, stealing more than half because he needed the last of his cash for an airport taxi. It was hard to feel bad about the blown assignment after the Associated Press had distributed his series of Ortega’s near-miss across the world. It would have been much better if Ortega had taken the bullet, but the death of the twenty-three-year-old beauty seemed to strike a chord.

  Someone had poisoned Ortega. At least that was the official line fed to journalists. Residue of a common rat poison had supposedly been found in his wine glass. Chase figured the CIA had been covering all bases, but who knew? Maybe it was an inside job, or just a pissed off servant whose family had lost a farm. Instead of being under suspicion for leading Ortega to the assassin’s crosshairs at the window, Chase was credited with saving the president by getting him up and moving. He might have just keeled over and died on the white tablecloth had he not been enticed to walk across the room and puke on the photographer.

  Photo by Chase Allen. El Nuevo Diario, Nicaragua’s national newspaper, used thirteen pictures in an assassination attempt special issue. The LA Times, Dallas Morning News, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, and Chicago Sun-Times all ran Chase’s photos, most above the fold on page one.

  It was ten at night when he hailed a cab outside the Philly terminal. His new address was in the letter he’d received at school, along with a single key he assumed was for the front door. The city was still hot, but the air changed as they headed north to a part of New Jersey that was thick with woods. Chase wanted to show off one of the newspapers, but what would this guy care? The cab was dark and there was a baseball game on the radio. The man’s name might have been Haitian, or maybe he was French. His skin was as black as that of the boys Chase had coached, but that didn’t mean anything.

  Signs on the apartment complex indicated it was near Trenton and Princeton. He handed over his last thirty dollars and lugged his two bags up concrete steps to a peeling front door. He was up another flight, over an apartment with low music and cigarette smoke. It was like checking into a budget motel, with the same sort of furniture. Everything was brown, even the TV with long rabbit ears.

  Chase dropped his camera bag and backpack on a cushioned chair.

  “Hello?” It was empty, of course, and he didn’t expect an answer. He switched on lights as he explored the long hallway that led to a bedroom and yellow tiled bathroom.

  There was a new towel draped over a bar by the toilet and Chase leaned into the shower to twist the knobs. He’d abandoned all his clothes to make space for the newspapers and realized he probably had nothing left in the world except what was on his back. He was incredibly tired from the long trip and couldn’t decide if he cared.

  He washed his hair with soap and wore his dirty boxers out to the kitchen. There was an envelope on the counter just like the one back in his dorm. This one was stuffed with twenty dollar bills and a plane ticket to Panama.

  Chase picked up the phone and dialed information for a pizza joint, but everything was closed.

  Chapter 11

  Chase folded the newspaper with the headline announcing Bush’s million dollar reward for the capture of Panamanian President Manuel Noriega. The taxi driver had stopped again, confused by the lack of street signs in the posh neighborhood. He seemed ready to give up before pointing to a number partially obscured by tall shrubs.

  “Aqui.” The driver pulled to the curb in front of one of the many compounds purportedly owned by Noriega.

  “Gracias.” Chase paid him and jumped out.

  With indictments for cocaine trafficking, racketeering, and money laundering secured, twenty-seven thousand U.S. troops walked, boated, and flew into Panama and quickly beat down Noriega’s Panama Defense Force. When Noriega wasn’t in any of the obvious places, the invasion became a manhunt around the mostly middle-class capital city.

  The envelope left on Chase’s kitchen counter had given this upscale address, with instructions to keep an eye on the place and alert a CIA contact if Noriega or anything suspicious turned up. It also said the CIA wanted Noriega before the Army Rangers got hold of him.

  Noriega’s house was the only one surrounded by a low cement wall, topped by strands of dangerous concertina wire. Chase imagined that the neighbors were happy to have a de facto military dictator on the block, but pissed off at the walls and wire, which were ugly and a drag on property values.

  Chase looked both ways then draped his jacket over the wire and hopped easily inside the compound. He circled to the back of the two-story Mediterranean-style villa, with its white walls and red-tiled roof. Its small backyard was packed with dozens of water fountains, crammed tightly around a meandering cement pathway. Tall shrubs grew well above the wall and wire, making the space private except for a narrow metal service gate. Chase shook it to make sure it was locked.

  The power was on. A little cherub stood peeing in one stone bowl while Atlas struggled to hold four tiers of cascading pools. There were flying angels and diving dolphins, as well as Neptune rising from the sea. Chase walked the path, read the placards. The largest fountain was a replica of the Naiad Fountain in the Piazza della Repubblica in Rome. Its four naked bronze nymphs had caused a scandal at their unveiling in 1901, read the small sign.

  Chase headed for the back door of the villa and knocked. What could it hurt? He had press credentials and his camera bag. Noriega’s top officers were cooperating with the U.S. military and his bodyguards would probably be lying low until things settled down. A maid with a frying pan might be the worst Chase would have to deal with.

  A tangle of red, green, and black wires erupting from a small security pad indicated that the alarm system had been disabled, probably during a Ranger sweep. It was a good bit of luck, since Chase had to use his elbow to break out a pane of glass.

  If it had been the Rangers, they left a big mess. Every drawer was opened and tossed. Chairs kicked over, trash dumped. And from the look of the pile of empties in the kitchen, Noriega wasn’t hiding at the bottom of a beer can either.

  In the great room, VHS tapes were spilled from glass cases around a big screen television, and every book in the adjoining library had been taken from the shelves and piled haphazardly. Lids on toilet tanks had been removed and shampoo bottles pulled from under sinks.

  Just off the kitchen and through swinging doors was a walk-in pantry. Two large freestanding freezers had bags of vegetables and white paper wrapped meats collecting layers of frost. Their lids had been left gaping, like an open coffin viewing at a funeral home. Bags of ice were strewn across the floor, melting.

  There was nobody upstairs. Just more mess in the study, two smaller bedrooms, and a huge master suite. Chase stashed his camera bag in the bathroom off the master and took a sip of water from the gold plated tap. He decided the best vantage point to wait for Noriega was the top of the dual staircase, which rose from both ends of the black and white checkered marble first floor, meeting at a large hardwood second floor landing. Before him was a view of the driveway entrance gate through a grand window beyond a chandelier; behind him was a smaller window overlooking the backyard fountain collection and service entrance gate. There was a small powder room at the top of the nearest set of stairs; no toilet, but a sink and a spot to hide should he need to take cover.

  The first outdoor floodlights came on—either by timer or solar sensor—about an hour later. Then, one by one, small colored lights illuminated each fountain, producing a cheerful scene below as Chase leaned against the wall next to the back window. The air was cool in the still house and he was certain he’d catch any sounds of entry should anyone jump the wall out of view and come in through an unseen door.

  The hours passed and adrenaline rushes kicked in and out as car lights occasion
ally swept across the large iron front gate. But the cars didn’t stop. Only a tiny sliver of moon rose over the palm trees as his watch ticked toward midnight.

  Chase yawned, stretched his back and neck, and then watched the back service gate slowly swing open. A huddled dark figure made its way along the winding pathway amid all the colorful water and fancy sculptures. Chase realized he hadn’t planned for getting to a phone. At some point he’d decided that if Noriega appeared, he was going to take him down alone. Even though he hadn’t personally botched Nicaragua, the mission had been a failure. He’d been on enough lousy teams to know how much he hated losing. Noriega was a shot at redemption.

  Keys jingled and a door on the main floor opened. The echoing footsteps puzzled Chase because the sound they made wasn’t the clomp of combat boots or the squeak of sneakers on the marble. Some sort of healed shoe—a woman’s shoe—made its slow, tapping way into the main foyer, then unsteadily up the stairway to his right.

  Chase had long since adjusted to the finite lighting, but the approaching figure, taking one step at a time while grasping the railing for support, was silhouetted by the glow coming in the large front window.

  Chase melted back into the dark powder room, assuming the figure would make a left toward the main bedroom. He could easily take her down from behind. As the figure crested the final step, Chase caught a glimpse of a flash of metal and what looked like the snub nose of a nickel-plated .38 Special right out of a TV cop show. Now on his level, the woman was revealed to have a stocky build, with narrow shoulders and short legs. Her hair was black and piled in an uneven mess. She wore a light blue house dress, something you’d imagine a maid wearing in a fancy neighborhood like this. The heels were low, and she bent forward and held the railing and her gun with one hand, pulling off her shoes with the other.

  A distinctly masculine voice uttered a sigh of relief.

  Chase’s heart raced and he clenched his fists, poised in the darkness. Noriega adjusted his wig, wiped his brow, and gripped the .38 in his outstretched right hand.