by Laer Carroll
“A list of three businesses you have questions about. Can you have the list by the end of the week? And be ready to give me a quick briefing on each. And more extensive references or copies of documents on the business you suggest I investigate first.
“Oh, and please do not warn anyone about my coming. I’d like to look around without helpful interference. Or hostile interference.”
“Very well. Ahh. You understand that my office will not perform administrative duties for you. Getting visas, airline tickets, dispensing expense money.”
“I understand. I’ll handle all that. Or use a travel agency. Or whatever.”
“Very well, Ms. Rossiter. If there’s nothing else?”
She stood and he followed her. She shook his hand and left.
·
Bethany renewed her passport, using a photograph of herself with her hair up in a bun and wearing fake eyeglasses, looking very young and scholarly.
She also asked Kendall, Allan, and Miri to join her for dinner at her mother’s and step-father’s home when none were working late. This turned out to be a Wednesday.
After the meal, an excellent one by Nicolas with an Italian theme, they retired to the living room with coffee and wine and a favorite ale of her brother’s.
She took one of the two easy chairs which bookended the couch, sitting with one leg under her. A steaming cup of coffee, well sugared and creamed, she set on a coaster on the table between the chair and the couch. Ken sat in the opposite easy chair and her mother and step-father sat on the couch with Allan and Miri.
They all made small talk for a while, mostly catching up on what was going on at work.
That segued into Bethany’s announcement.
“I just got a job.”
“Congrats, Sis. We were getting impatient with the so-called work you do around our office. Who did you scam for it?”
“Hush, Kendall,” her mother said. “Tell us about it.”
“I’m now working for Sandrine. Basically I’ll travel around to her companies and gather statistics and other info she wants about them.”
“Surely the companies can supply that.”
Kendall was sitting up a bit, his manner sober.
“Is she going to have you spy on these companies? That could be risky if something shady is going on. Which is unlikely. But it just takes one crook to spoil your whole day.”
“If anyone bothers me I’ll call up Ming Yao and have her scare the crap out of him.”
“I think she’s in Asia someplace. Anyway, best that you call me.”
“Kendall, I think you’re being alarmist," her mother said. Bethany, will you be traveling to foreign countries? If so, you must be careful to get all the immunizations required at each.”
Nicolas said, “I’ll add to be sure to check the State Department Web site to get the latest updates on a country. What kind of scams are the pickpockets and cabbies running on tourists, for instance.”
Her mother wanted to know why Sandrine had picked her for this job.
“Maybe because I’m cheap! No, not really. I think she just picked up on a comment I had when I had lunch with her some time back. About maybe taking a business major when I go to college. It would give me some first-hand knowledge about how businesses are run. A sort of internship before instead of after getting a degree.”
“Not a bad idea,” Allan said to Rayanna. “So many youngsters get a degree before they really know they like the jobs they’ll be doing.”
“When’s your first day?”
Monday, she told them. And under questioning said she’d be mostly working out of her apartment and using her own laptop and printer. And, yes, she’d keep receipts for all her business-related purchases, for paper, for instance.
·
On Friday just after noon Salinger gave her the requested briefing of the three companies which could use some oversight.
“I have nothing concrete on any of them that suggests problems. Just that profits for the last few years are down by a few percentage points. This Guatemala coffee plantation I’d suggest you check first. Just a hunch, not supported by the numbers. They’re no different from the other two.”
“I’ll tell Sandrine I’ll be going to Guatemala first.”
·
Back in her apartment Bethany checked airline schedules and made an online reservation for a seat on a Monday morning flight to Guatemala City. She also made reservations for a hotel and a car. On the reservation page she selected a COACH seat, TWO-star hotel, and MINI car. She was playing a poorly paid functionary whose expense account only allowed minimal accommodations.
All that weekend she studied: Guatemala in general, the specific part of it surrounding the coffee plantation, coffee-production in general, and the details about this particular plantation. She examined maps of terrain, cities, and roads, memorizing the more important features, and spent time looking at the satellite views of the area. Once she got there she’d do all her sneaking from the air and this would help her get around.
She also went to a used-clothing star and bought some worn city and country clothing, trying them on to insure they fit poorly. She also hauled out her old hiking boots. They were quite expensive and fit perfectly, but they looked cheap. So. Outfits functional, cheap, and unfashionable. She also bought a pair of clear-glass glasses with fat black rims.
Bethany boarded the Lineas Aereas Costarricenses jet aircraft at mid-morning and five hours later debarked at AuroraAirport in Guatemala City. She had only carry-on luggage for her modest wardrobe and went directly to the Panamerican Rental agency. The automobile was compact and slightly battered. She dutifully noted the battered spots on the rental form, got in, and started the engine. It purred to life, fully electric and powered by a superbattery.
She carefully drove out of the rental agency and onto the main thoroughfare curving by the airport. Minutes later she left the thoroughfare and drove directly into the parking lot of the two-star hotel that she’d chosen for its nearness to the airport. She didn’t want to drive much in this foreign country until she was minimally familiar with the driving culture and road-sign conventions.
She checked into the hotel, moved her car nearer the room assigned to her, and unpacked her clothing and toiletries. Satisfied with her arrangements so far she walked a few blocks away and turned into a narrow alley. Minutes later she was a mile above the city.
Guatemala City sprawled a half-dozen miles or so to the north and south from the airport and half that to the east and west. At the southern edge a narrow lake ran east and west for about six miles. Further to the south and west she could see four or five volcanoes. Two of them were mildly active. A minute later she was above the larger of two which had just vented a puff of smoke.
Below she saw several lines of people, maybe a thousand of them in all, hiking up and down the volcanoes. Tourists and scientists, she surmised.
She was near Chimaltenango, 30+ miles west of Guatemala City, near where the coffee plantation was. She darted north a few miles to where the modest city lay amidst much cultivated land. About 50,000 people lived there. She located the plantation a bit north of the city and swooped down to about 100 feet above it.
Bethany noted how she’d come in tomorrow. At the end of a dusty two-lane road was a handsome two-story building of adobe or something similar and a red-tiled slate roof. This she knew was a combined office for the plantation and a living area for the manager and his family. Two nearby similar but smaller buildings housed the two other managers who helped run the plantation.
Further away behind and to the sides were various buildings, most with a barn-like construction, all with red wooden roofs and white sides. These housed the several vehicles and other machines and their service areas. Several long sheds were for the storage, processing, and packing of coffee beans for transportation.
All around for several miles were rows and rows of coffee bushes, green and leafy and about head high at the highest. Every hundred feet or
so the coffee bushes were broken by long lines of taller trees. Several hundred workers of both sexes were picking the dark-red cherry-like berries and placing them into large white sacks slung over one shoulder. About a dozen other people were doing something else, in one case trundling a cart containing several water barrels and cups for drinking from them.
She was done here for the day. The shapechanger zoomed up and arced over toward Guatemala City.
·
The afternoon was old by now. Sunlight slanted golden down from the west. She flew over the city for an hour as the day aged, viewing it.
It was a lovely city from a quarter mile in the air. Almost all cities were. The central area was a historic center, with a number of older buildings of archaic style, most recently scoured clean and refurbished. If you defocused your eyes and ignored buses and such you could imagine you were a century or two back in time.
The National Theater was also in the civic center. All white with blue accents it looked like stream-lined upper deck of a ship. She flew around it several times noticing a lot of grace notes. She was tempted to land and walk through it, but resisted. She did land for a few minutes halfway up its outdoor theatre, standing/floating invisible in one the rows of concrete benches which curved so that every theatre goer would be looking at the stage below them.
There were trees everywhere .
Further out in several clusters were tall buildings, the rows of windows looking like horizontal zebra stripes arrayed one above the other.
The sun now slanted so much that half the land or more below was in shadow. Lights were coming on. She floated for a little while watching the city descend into night.
In an upscale restaurant near the CivicCenter she ate food described in the menu as traditional but which she judged was altered to suit European tastes. Two hours later in a rundown part of the city she was proved right when she ate the real thing, cheap but filling.
Each time she paid with her corporate credit card issued by the small one-person corporation that was she herself in her Sandrine persona. She also insisted on paying the tips in cash, her way of making sure the waiter or waitress got their rightful not standard share of the tip.
In between meals Bethany walked, window shopped, and people watched.
Naturally she was watched as well. Twice pickpockets who thought her unwary got a shock to find they were wrong when they found their wayward wrists much bruised.
At midnightBethany ate a third large and largely traditional meal and slipped away to sleep till dawn.
·
By 9:00Bethany was driving west toward Chimaltenango. Or somewhat west, because to avoid hills and farms the highway zigzagged a lot to the north and south. Several times it even turned back on itself in sharp hair-pin turns. In a bit under an hour she passed through Chimaltenango and onto the last leg of her journey to the plantation.
The dusty road she’d seen the day before was a mile-long offshoot of a four-lane rural highway. She parked in a spot in front of the plantation’s combination office building and residence.
Just inside the entrance to the main building was a large wide room with a high ceiling. A couple of fans stirred the air, warm and humid. On the walls around the room were photographs and paintings and a few certificates. At the far end of the room two halls led further back into the house. In one wall was an opening to a stair to the floor above.
Bethany walked to one of the open doorways on the far wall. Inside it was an office. A stout middle-aged Latina sat at a desk typing something into a computer. She looked up from the flat screen at Beth’s light tapping on the door jamb.
“Hello,” said Beth in Spanish. The woman replied in kind.
“I’m sorry. Was there a tour scheduled today?”
“No. I’m here on business. Is Mr. Coronada here?”
“He’s out in the plantation. I can call him. What is your business?”
“I’m a student doing a paper on coffee plantations. Ms. Sandrine Ascaride told me to come here as my first stop.”
“Missus Sandrine! I’ll call him immediately.” She picked up a cell phone, dialed a number, spoke into it. Her explanation met with an immediate response and she hung up.
“He’ll be right here. Won’t you have a seat? Would you like something to drink?”
Bethany sat in the indicated aluminum-framed seat against one wall on a soft red cushion.
“Just water if you please. Bottled water would be great.”
The woman left through the doorway and returned a few minutes later with water in a clear plastic bottle. She found Beth with her hands behind her back looking at certificates and photos on the walls.
“Thank you,” Beth said and opened the bottle. She sat down and sipped. Cold pure water washed down inside her. It contained ever-so-slight particles of the plastic container, perhaps one part in a million.
The woman sat and continued to work. She was nervous, but only slightly and from the embarrassment of possibly being watched by a stranger.
Beth put her out of her misery.
“Are those your children?” When the woman looked at her she gestured to the framed photo of the woman, a man, and three children of several ages, all smiling at the camera and hugging each other.
“Oh, yes!”
“Are they in school?”
“Not here. Dorotea is in Guatemala City at the VeterinaryAcademy. The boys are in the States, at Harvard.” She pronounced it Arvard.
“They must be very smart.”
That’s all it took. For the next ten minutes Mrs. Coronado (as she introduced herself) waxed enthusiastic about the kids.
“You must miss them.” It did not take superhuman skills to read that underneath the pride in her children.
“Miss the noise, ever-up-to-something energy, and the arguing? Not mean, you know. Just arguing in fun.
“Every day, every hour!”
A pang stabbed the shapechanger. Yes, she knew the feeling of missing loved ones.
In the door bustled a Latino clad in khaki work clothes and tan boots. He was stout, sturdy, and full of energy. He was also a bit apprehensive.
Bethany stood and offered a hand to the man. He took it after a slight pause; South Americans didn’t shake hands as much as people from the States.
She read his body state. Healthy, though he needed to have THAT fixed. It began to fix itself. Energetic she already knew, very bright. Deeper intellectual traits of humans her powers couldn’t read. The apprehension was not strong.
There was no trace of guilty feelings. Which didn’t mean there was no guilt. Just that he felt none.
“Any friend of Missus Sandrine is welcome here, of course. But what is it exactly we can do for you?”
She began to explain her cover story. He interrupted.
“Yes, of course. But come with me to a more comfortable seat so we can talk.”
He turned and walked out the door and into the next open door.
It seemed to be his office, one a good deal larger than the one they’d just left. A long couch was against the wall opposite the large cluttered desk with its computer screen and keyboard on a side table.
He waved her to the couch, went behind his desk, and wheeled his ergonomic chair around in front of the desk to face her. He went to a short half-frig and took out a bottled water like hers. Only then he did he sit and cross his legs.
The shapechanger appreciated how he’d set up a convivial atmosphere. She kept her somewhat prim posture, knees together despite her own khaki pants, not leaning back against the cushioned back.
“Hot,” she said.
He was unscrewing the bottle cap. “Yes, it is. Especially when you are working. We go through several barrels of water a day for the pickers alone. We have a two-wheeled water cart we pull up and down the rows. And we have mandated rest stops every hour on the hour.”
“Who mandates them?”
“I’ll explain. But first what is it you want? I tend to run on and may bore you
with non-essential information.”
Never volunteer information. A smart criminal would know that, she’d learned from over-hearing the occasional cop- shop talk.
She explained again that she was doing a short study of coffee plantations for a longer work. For her school.
She didn’t specify what school. Just as a smart criminal would, she thought with amusement.
“Well, perhaps it’s best if we take matters chronologically. Starting with planting new coffee bushes and going through the product we ship out.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He glanced at her boots and ill-fitting but sturdy work clothes, stood, “Now’s as good as time as any. How is your water bottle holding up?”
She showed it: almost full.
“Let’s take an extra, just to be sure.” He went to the mini-fridge and took out an extra bottle. He handed it to her, and led her out.
The rest of the day he led her around the plantation. They had a short break for lunch which he and she shared with the workers in a large cafeteria-style room. It was old but serviceable. He and his wife and the two other managers seemed to be on good terms with the workers.
So, no obvious problems with labor who might fake a sick-out or stage a slow-down.
Near the end of the day she brought up the small drop in net profits.
By this time he and Bethany was on good terms, in part because she’d injected him with submicroscopic messengers to enhance the camaraderie she’d been trying to build all day.
He frowned. “Did Missus Sandrine mention that?”
“No. Mr. Salinger: the money manager.”
“Ah. That explains it. Remind him to look up an email I sent him two years ago. Where we proposed a crop expansion program. We projected that workers diverted to that and expenses would cause that very drop. In fact, my wife and I have reduced our salary enough to insure we stayed within projections.”
That fox Salinger! He KNEW why the profits had dropped here and casually diverted her here. He was testing her. Or developing proof that she was incompetent to present to Sandrine.
She almost snickered. Rather than being annoyed she was admiring.