Lola’s motorcycle was parked near the front door of the Alejo García Airport, fifteen minutes from the Friendship Bridge. Tommy was arguing at the desk counter with the ticket clerk, a heavy man wearing a once-white open-necked shirt. Tommy’s Bees-Knees was at his feet. He had been trying his best to secure a seat on the midday flight to Nicaragua, yet the attendant didn’t seem to want the fare. Lola, who was sitting and flicking through a magazine, stepped forward to lend her Spanish language skills.
‘Tomas, give me your credit card and passport and go order two coffees,’ she suggested. Tommy was glad to see the end of the waxy-skinned unhelpful man and handed over his documents. He strolled off, glancing for the last time at the dirt-covered Tercel, which stood, spent, at the front of the building. He spied a coffee machine at a kiosk that sold everything from American soft-porn magazines to dodgy cigarettes and ashtrays made from monkey feet. Ordering two coffees, he took a seat on a barstool. By the time Lola had joined him he had finished the second cup, and was looking frustrated.
She knew Tommy’s stomach would be churning, as was hers. They had become so close in their three nights together, three different beds, and 1500 kilometres of bad road. She rubbed her hand across his back, then up into his hair and finally rested it on his neck, massaging gently.
‘You’re on the Nicaragua flight, leaving in thirty minutes,’ she said, looking forlornly at him.
‘Charming,’ he replied.
‘At least you’re away. I’ve booked you a connection to the States from there, but you’ll need to stay overnight in Nicaragua.’
‘Want to come?’ he asked, fixing the river-stone bracelet on her slim wrist.
‘Don’t ask, Tomas, you might be surprised by the answer. Now go over to the counter and sign your credit card and he’ll give you the tickets.’
Tommy leaned across to Lola and placed a hand on each side of her face. He stared long and hard into her eyes, and then kissed her on the lips.
‘Come,’ was all he said as he turned slowly to walk towards the counter. Tears filled Lola’s eyes as she watched him go.
As he watched the big man fuss over the fare at the counter, he considered abandoning the transaction and staying in the jungle, with Lola. A whole future rushed before him as he pictured himself with his new girlfriend selling trinkets to tourists, or opening a bed-and-breakfast.
But they were the dreams of a tired man who needed to keep moving.
Lola rejoined Tommy at the exit gate with an armful of motorcycle helmets and a heavy heart. Her new love wrapped his arms tightly around her.
‘Remember, you might have two names, but you are alone. Nicaragua is dangerous, just stay in your hotel till your connection leaves,’ urged Lola.
And with that, Tommy walked off.
The one-time smiling sergeant from the guard box pulled up his boom gate to allow the deceased smuggler his final passage. Nervous locals, with heads bowed deeply, crossed themselves as they eased their way back onto the bridge. Some of them could only get part way over before their fear and superstition had them return, despite the sergeant’s best efforts to wave them on. As he walked back into his guard box a fax was rolling out of the old machine, a security alert on a man wanted by the head of the Buenos Aires Criminal Investigation unit, Inspector Dias.
The sergeant looked closely at the bulletin. He then looked at the bridge. Then at his watch. He smiled slowly and screwed the bulletin into a neat little ball, throwing it basketball-style into the bin.
3rd June
The Taca Air twin engine DC9 aircraft with fewer than thirty passengers aboard landed unconvincingly at Managua. As Tommy climbed down the metal steps from the aircraft and strolled through the sweltering heat haze, a massive crack of lightning smacked him into reality. The skies opened and he was hit with a torrential downpour.
Tommy schlepped his bag through the sweaty, damp hordes. He watched in fascination as the locals abused any level of officialdom that slowed them down. Not once was he asked for his passport or any identification. Nor did he receive even a passing glance from the two national security guards on duty. It was lunchtime and they seemed far more content to gulp down their simple meals from stainless steel bowls than to waste any time on passengers.
He ventured onto the bus rank and into a foul mixture of humidity and heat. His shorts and sandals soon became saturated. The antiquated bus that he boarded bounced along the cobblestone road with Tommy and a cabin full of Hispanics. Some held cages with bantams; others had armfuls of vegetables and local trinkets: it was market day. An hour later they arrived in Granada, a neat grid of streets wrapped around a central park. Tommy found himself a room without a view at the Hotel Colonial.
He surrendered to a revitalising shower then made his way downstairs to the bar for a whisky sour. When that was met with a blank look from a moody bartender he settled instead for a beer.
A payphone in the corner of the lounge beckoned. Tommy dialled a telephone number he knew well: the telephone extension in the ACA tearoom, often used by the staff to take their private calls. He swigged the last of his warm beer as he listened to it ring.
‘Hello ACA, Katherine speaking, can I help you?’
‘Detective Butler, please,’ he asked the administration officer in his best Italian-accented voice. He heard the sound of high heels tap-tapping along the tiled floor as his coins disappeared. By the time he heard approaching feet he was nearly out of silver.
‘Hello, Detective Butler.’
Tommy struggled with a reply.
The voice said again, ‘Hello, Detective Butler speaking.’
He finally managed to form the words. ‘Hello, you.’
The line went silent for seconds. Sandra gave an awkward look at Katherine, who instinctively collected her coffee cup and biscuit and headed back to her office.
‘Where are you?’ Sandra asked, speaking very softly into the mouthpiece.
‘Next dumb question? In hell actually.’
‘Sorry. How are you?’
‘Tired,’ he replied honestly.
‘Mack’s stitched you into a dead end, hasn’t he?’ she said.
‘Well put.’
‘Did you see the punk in New Zealand?’
‘Sort of,’ he replied.
‘Can we make mileage of it?’ she queried.
‘No, we’ve got jack shit,’ came his response.
‘What can we do?’
‘Sweat it out, till Mack fucks up.’
‘Do you want me to do anything?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘I’ll let you know. I’m now the Sydney cocaine guy. I’ve got to go,’ he said as his last coin vanished.
Tommy took his beer and moved to the front of the hotel, keeping a safe enough distance from the local Indian vendors who were busy fleecing tourists. He felt comfortable that neither of them had given away too much. He was also confident that the tearoom phone would not be bugged. If there was one location on the planet that would be untraceable, Granada was it.
Spud was buried in a new investigation file; most of the copy he’d been supplied was pulled apart and strewn over his desk. He was busy linking electricity accounts with suspect names. It was the early hard-slog work, as boring as bat shit, he thought, as he looked up, pleased at Sandra’s interruption. Her face was alive.
‘Are you going to tell me?’ he asked.
‘Tell you what?’
‘It’s plastered all over your face.’
Sandra paused momentarily and fell heavily in the spare seat beside his desk, grabbing her friend’s hands tightly.
‘He just rang,’ she told him.
Spud looked hard at her. ‘Get the fuck outta here!’
‘No … serious. On the tearoom phone, just now, Spud.’ She kept hold of his hands and lightly banged them into the desktop in excitement.
‘Slow down. What’d he say?’ Spud was bursting with curiosity.
‘Do you remember Cole doing that cocaine sting in Sydney maybe
four years ago?’
He closed down the bat shit and attempted to open a highly secure file.
‘Sure, the nightclubs’. He tapped away at the keyboard to open the file.
‘Look away,’ he demanded. His password had been accepted. Spud was now in the most sensitive program in the ACA—the highly confidential program that held the identities used by the covert operatives, a program that only Spud had access to. Sandra looked back at the screen. Spud opened an index in the name of Cole Goodwin. He scrolled down a list of seven identities and selected Tommy Paul.
‘Great job that, but Tommy was killed off three and a half years ago.’
‘The job was, but Tommy is still alive,’ said Sandra. Spud raced from page to page on the electronic file, in an attempt to see when the identity papers, passport and credit cards had been surrendered by Cole to be subsequently destroyed. He soon gave up.
‘The bugger’s kept the ID.’
‘For a rainy day.’
‘For a rainy day.’
‘We need to tag each piece of ID, Spud, so we can track him.’
‘Easy. What’s he got?’ They scrolled down the list of identification issued. He then read them out. ‘A passport, a MasterCard, a Visa card, driver’s licence and a heap of business papers that won’t mean much now.’
‘The rest will though, he’s obviously kept them active—tag them,’ said Sandra.
‘I’ll be told if anyone is looking at the cards.’
‘Brilliant, set up a 24/7 warning,’ Sandra demanded as she watched the analyst play spooks with his system.
At that moment, Leigh came strolling into the office, having been out for a smart lunch with a sharp auntie. He placed an elbow on each side of the door jamb.
‘Not much happening, guys?’ he queried casually.
His question was met by intense looks from both Spud and Sandra.
‘Time for a walk, Leigh,’ said Sandra.
Entry into the United States. The toughest gig around for drug smugglers, terrorists or honest cops on the run. His only relief was in knowing that he carried nothing on him of suspicion. First to Miami, then on to JFK Airport in New York City. Over and over Tommy had conditioned himself to accept the intrusive and belittling questions from the Customs Control officials, as well the ridiculously long queues.
Remarkably, his journey went smoothly. If anything it was anti-climactic. Tommy, most likely due to his ‘nation friendly’ Australian citizenship, seemed to move through the customs and security points with relative ease. Certainly, once the staff had assured themselves that he wasn’t a native of Central America nor a cocaine smuggler, progress was remarkably quick and hassle-free.
He made the snap decision to investigate a fare to Amsterdam, to put an end to the endless travel. He picked up his Bees-Knees and walked back into the throng.
Inspector Mack’s pot of Cascade lager was half empty although he was glad to think it was half full these days, things were going so well for him. He had just met Donny at the Dogs Bar in St Kilda, to pass on the exciting news. Apparently the attendant in the business centre in the flash hotel where Cole had stayed had recalled extra information about Tommy Paul. He had told Inspector Dias that he had helped ‘Tommy’ post a letter to himself to the central post office in Amsterdam. The Argentinian inspector reckoned Goodwin was headed to Amsterdam to collect the envelope at the Poste Restante counter. Mack could only wonder what was in that envelope and why Goodwin was going to Amsterdam. Although, whatever it was, he was far more interested in the remainder of his $200 000 graft from the Mafia. He could almost smell the money now, the way his luck had turned. Mack handed a piece of paper, on which the words ‘Poste Restante’ were written, to Donny.
‘Can you alert the old Godfather, mate?’
‘Sure,’ Donny replied, ‘But who’s Poste Restante?’
‘Donny. Mate. Of course you wouldn’t know, it’s French. It means “hold for collection”. You can have mail sent to the main post offices anywhere around the world, marked “Poste Restante” and they’ll hold the letter for a few weeks.’
‘Righty-ho. So he must be heading there.’
‘Yes, Donny. Let the old man know.’
Donny placed the piece of paper in his wallet and left his half-full beer on the table to run across to the McDonald’s opposite to use the payphone. He needed to ring the Calabrians.
By the time Donny had returned, a fresh pot awaited both of them.
‘Done deal. I let them know,’ said Donny.
‘Was he happy?’ asked Mack.
‘I don’t think Godfathers are ever happy, are they?’ replied Donny.
They both laughed into their beers.
‘He did tell me one interesting thing, though.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Mack.
‘He’ll double the fee to clear a shipment of tinned artichokes next month,’ said Donny.
‘Fuckin’ artichokes?’ the Inspector queried.
‘Four tonnes of the stuff,’ Donny continued.
‘Four fuckin’ tonnes!’ Mack drained the last of the beer from his glass. After a quick exercise in mental arithmetic he looked back at Donny.
‘Tell the fuck it will be a million bucks,’ he said bluntly.
A smile spread across Donny’s younger face.
‘I already did, boss. They’re happy with the mill.’
‘That’s a lot of fuckin’ lovely.’
Mack, not believing his fortune, patted his little mate lightly across the cheek. ‘You bloody little ripper,’ he said, just before he yelled loudly to the waitress, ‘Girly, we need a wine list over here!’
Yet Mack would never know Donny’s cunning. Donny had already demanded one million dollars for a clear passage to the drug shipment. Should Mack have settled for less, Donny would have gladly and secretly pocketed the balance.
A fresh-faced Massimo, toothpick in mouth, carried his powder-blue suitcase along the concourse at JFK Airport in New York City. He glanced at the departure board, looking for his flight to Milano. His mobile phone buzzed from within his suitcase. He dropped the case on the floor and bent down to rummage through the side pocket to catch the call.
‘Pronto, si, si,’ he answered.
He stood silently as the old Godfather explained the need for him to head immediately for Amsterdam. Massimo listened to the entire story and then hung up. He looked around the air terminal and found the ticket sales counter for Czech Airlines. The punk then moved to the queue, reaching for the wallet in his back trouser pocket at the same time.
Several lines further along at the same terminal, unbeknown to Massimo, stood Tommy, looking haggard. He had edged his way to the front of his queue, a wait that had taken half a morning. One Virgin Atlantic one-way ticket to Amsterdam later, Tommy was reloading his wallet with credit cards and passport. He placed the ticket in his pocket as he headed towards departure gate B22, for a flight that was leaving in an hour and a half.
By the time he had proceeded to the long customs queue Massimo had begun his walk to departure gate B26. His flight was leaving in an hour.
In Amsterdam, Massimo stood frustrated at customs, looking at his watch. He was a good half-hour behind schedule. No matter, he thought; he was merely checking into a hotel before heading to Dam Square the following day, where his work would seriously start.
Tommy, on the other hand, had landed on time. He and his Bees-Knees sailed towards customs to join the queue only a few bodies behind Massimo.
Mayhem reigned on the taxi rank mostly because it was a Friday afternoon and the EU diplomat flights had landed. The Dutch taxi spruiker did his best. It was almost theatrical to watch the stream of taxis filing along the curb-way; doors opening, cargo and fare in, and bulleting off along the freeway. Tommy was all but pushed into his car, happy to at least have a ride. From the rear window he noticed a couple of cabs behind, a driver struggling to lift a powder-blue suitcase into the boot of his little Audi cab. Tommy’s senses prickled as he turned to get a
closer look through the rear window of his taxi, at the traveller. His only glimpse was in silhouette, a male. At that point his own taxi saw an opening and catapulted from the curb. Tommy didn’t see the cab again.
The taxi came to rest at the door of Tommy’s chosen hotel, a short stroll from Dam Square. Tommy was quickly out of the stuffy vehicle and into the heat of the early summer evening, eager to check in and find a cool shower. He dropped his shoulder bag at reception and offered up his passport and MasterCard to the arrogant hotel clerk.
A few metres further up, Massimo’s taxi also pulled into the kerb. He stepped out and through the front entry of his hotel. He too was eager for a shower. Unlike Tommy, Massimo had been to Amsterdam many times on business and he always stayed at the same hotel. If ever there was a problem with the drug shipments, particularly ecstasy, that needed to be sorted, Massimo was the Calabrians’ go-to man. Hettie, the overly friendly receptionist, handed him his usual suite key with a smile that suggested she might just turn down his sheets a little later on. She often stayed overnight when Massimo was in town, a man with no shortage of cash and a generous disposition.
After his shower, Tommy headed out again in search of dinner. He walked to the Central Canal area and took a lone table at the famed Jim’s Greek restaurant, ordering a whisky sour. Initially his waiter had ushered him to an outside table as it was a balmy night. Tommy politely refused the gesture, opting for the air conditioner inside the less crowded room. He was feeling melancholy and drifted into delicious memories of Lola as he played with his food.
Alongside Jim’s was the competing Christo’s Greek tavern. Seated at an outside table with chequered linen was Massimo, who asked a passing waiter for a glass of wine.
The adversaries had virtually identical meals. Plates of saganaki, the delicious fried cheese, followed by a Greek salad topped with Bulgarian fetta, then char-grilled octopus and lamb gyros with extra lemon. The only difference was that Massimo headed back to his hotel moments before Tommy. Both of them turned out the lights in their suites at near enough the same time.
On the Run Page 11