Abel recognized the crates. They held boxes of ammunition. Zooming in, he saw that it was the standard caliber used for American M16 or AR-15 assault rifles and various types of semiautomatic handguns. He also noted one crate that carried belt-style ammo designed to be used with a heavier-caliber weapon with full-automatic capability.
Looks like the DEA will definitely find a reason to check out that facility, thought Abel. He pocketed the monocular and continued along toward the town.
It didn’t take long for Abel to note several other things as he crept through the jungle. There was no other road to the building complex he’d just passed. Its only vehicle accessibility was the Jeep track that the ammo vehicle had used that must have come from the main highway. There was, however, a well-used footpath winding through the area that looked like it probably led all the way down to the town itself. There was a small school building on the other side of the dirt road, and younger, elementary-age children played fútbol on a grass-and-mud playground. Others hung out in the shade or played on a brightly colored play structure. That meant that older kids were probably bussed out to Jacó or perhaps down the road to Parrita to attend high school. He noted a small cemetery alongside the road. The jungle had been cleared from around the headstones, and a fence was around the site to make sure it stayed that way. As he got closer to the town, he noted that the river curved toward the road, squeezing his space and putting him dangerously close to the walking path that led to the facility he’d just passed. The area soon broadened out, though, as the river curved away from the road again.
He then began to encounter townlike buildings, a small motel and adjacent restaurant tucked away in a carefully manicured jungle clearing, and a larger facility along the other side of the river with an iron footbridge that was twenty to thirty meters wide and brown in color. A car driving through the jungle toward the lodging facility told Abel that another road went that far into the forest from the coast.
Suddenly, Abel stopped himself in his tracks, barely managing to keep from falling. The trail to the storage facility had veered suddenly toward his line of walking. One more careless step and Abel would have left a distinct boot track in the trail mud, a sign that may have tipped off a vigilant guard that a stranger was about. Though Abel had seen no sign of guards or even found any evidence of surveillance equipment, he couldn’t afford to get sloppy. A slipup would undoubtedly come at the same time Monti Ruiz and his men decided to tighten their security. Eyeballing the path in its new direction, Abel saw that it came out in another clearing around an American-style frame house at the back door of a building that looked like a garage. Taking more mental notes, Abel went on.
The jungle was thinning now, and the sky was becoming clearer and brighter through more significant gaps in the trees. Abel knew that his recon journey to Playa de Palma was just about over. There would be no more jungle to hide in. He heard the quiet rush of falling water from the river to his right and veered that way. Falling water could mean some higher place, an overlook of some kind, where he could survey the village from a superior point relatively unobstructed. Encouraged by the lightness ahead, but wary also, Abel finally came to the river’s edge.
The Rio Palma did drop gradually down, and Abel’s sharp eyes noted a zip line, probably for tourists, which began on a platform in the trees on the far side. There looked to be a steeper drop just a hundred meters or so farther down the stream that the zip line disappeared over. Cautiously, he hugged the riverbank as he proceeded toward the light. Finally, the jungle opened slightly, and the water dropped over a small escarpment. And there, laid out below him like a panoramic photograph, was the heart of the town of Playa de Palma, and immediately beyond, the turquoise blue of the Pacific Ocean.
The main road that he’d been paralleling was now several hundred yards to his left. It emerged from the jungle there, then turned, serving as a beachfront main street of sorts as it followed the Pacific, crossed the Rio Palma about two hundred meters from where Abel sat, and continued down the coast. Several beautiful beachfront motels and quaint little restaurants were clustered in the area, easily visible by the clearings in the jungle where they were set back from the ocean. One in particular, on the far side of the river crossing, looked almost elegant. Its main residence area surrounded a well-maintained swimming pool, an asphalt parking lot, and several beachfront guesthouses within easy walking distance to the main building. Across the bridge were substantial restaurants and another, quainter establishment.
That’s where I’ll be staying, thought Abel.
Farther back to his left, the beach made a little bay, and the roadway turned. Around that nook, a plethora of colorful adobe buildings was built along the sides of another dirt road and several small offshoot tracks that branched from it. The buildings on the beachside looked to be more small motels and eating establishments. Those on the other side were service establishments, such as a prominent food store, several shops that sold clothes and souvenirs, an ATM kiosk, surfing gear, paddleboat rental facilities, and more. There was a town square of sorts where there was a building that served as a bus depot. It was along a road that continued right down to the very edge of the Pacific where it turned into a pier along which several boats of various sizes were moored. There was also a well-tended park and even a soccer field with cut grass and some old aluminum bleachers along its touchlines. Farther back, Abel could see a gas station with a two-bay garage for making auto repairs. Next to it was something that looked like a visitor center or city hall building, and, of course, the most impressive building, the local Catholic church, complete with a spire topped with a bell tower.
The clean Pacific waters were alive with surfers and swimmers. On the inviting beaches, sunbathers enjoyed the brilliantly clear day from their beach towels, umbrellas, and even cabanas that seemed to be the property of seaside motels. Not crowded, to be sure, but definitely not deserted either.
Abel did note one area where there seemed to be more activity than other places. This was the head of the pier, where a large man in a Hawaiian shirt sat in a big lounger in the shade of a wide canopy held up by poles secured deep in the sand. On a table next to him, safely in the shade, were perhaps a dozen cups filled with big candy lollipops. Coming and going like bees from a hive were many children. They would take a cup of lollipops, then circulate among those on the beach, selling the delicious goodies. When they’d sold all the lollipops, they’d run back to the big man, give him a wad of money, and then take another cup full of confections and repeat the routine. The man would count the money and put it in a cashbox. Then he would return to talking to various adults who wandered over from time to time and sat in a beach chair next to him. He appeared very jovial with everyone, though it did seem as if the adults’ behavior was overly obsequious upon coming and going, lots of exaggerated laughter, elongated handshakes, and stiff little bows.
Monti Ruiz holding court, thought Abel with a smirk, all while using children to make money for him. There wasn’t a more perfect caricature of a small-time drug lord in all the world. It was hard for Abel to imagine that this man could be as shrewd and ambitious as Commander Lopez had warned. Perhaps Lopez was being overly cautious in his assessment, but Abel decided to remain wary. He may be just a greedy buffoon, but what a great way to disguise the devious, ambitious scoundrel that could be the man inside.
Having taken all this in, Abel was about to stand when he heard screaming behind him. He dove for cover, then peered out from behind a shrub to see two people on the previously noted zip line fly through the trees and past his hiding place on the other side of the river, flying on down to the fancy motel that he’d picked out for himself. Abel shook his head.
You know you’ve been out of the field too long when you’re not paying attention to a freaking tourist zip line, he scolded himself.
His business now done, Abel was about to put his monocular back in its belt pack when something that he’d fail
ed to take note of caught his eye.
There was an island in the ocean directly out from the beach. Abel pulled out his monocular again and zoomed in on it. How could he have missed this?
Must have been too laser-focused on the town and the beach, he decided. He estimated its range to be not more than a mile and a half out. It was flat and covered with jungle on one end, with prominent beaches that extended out into the ocean. But on the other end, there rose a significant peak, probably an old volcano, perhaps a few hundred feet high. It, too, was covered with jungle, except for the very top, which was barren, and where it abutted the sea, it ended in sheer cliffs that dropped all the way down to the water. There, the woefully thin beach was covered with boulders and black sand. It did not appear there was any sign of people on the island at all.
Abel put his monocular away, and as he carefully made his way back to his Jeep, he found himself almost salivating thinking about the island. Finally, a new and potentially exotic place to explore. Who knew what dangers or wonders there might be to discover? For the first time since his SEAL days, Abel felt genuinely alive again. It was like a breath of clean, fresh air was washing out all the angst and worry that had polluted his psyche for so long. This job would be more than just routine DEA muckraking, Abel decided. It would be exciting, engaging, and hopefully action-packed as well. He could hardly wait.
It was a good thing he had no idea how prophetic his thoughts were. Had he known, he probably would never have shown up at Playa de Palma ever again.
8
—
The next day, Abel was packed and ready before he even hit the Marriott’s breakfast buffet. And why not? The number of things he had to pack was the sum total of the outfits and gear that he’d been given by his DEA commander and whatever else he’d bought for himself with the money from Colonel Ochoa back in Panama. Much of the cash had gone into his Kia Soul that was now stored at the DEA garage, and the rest into a small start on a new wardrobe that he’d made shopping at Jacó’s various clothing shops in the absence of large department stores. It all fit very nicely in the carry-on size suitcase he’d also bought and the military-grade duffel bag that he’d been given by the DEA.
Everything else he’d owned was gone.
Most, of course, had been blown up with his apartment in Cartagena a little over two weeks ago now: his clothes, his guitar, his simple kitchen items and dishes, including his special ceramic Wheaties breakfast cereal bowl his mom had gotten for him when he was ten. She had always demanded he start his day with the “breakfast of champions.” He still loved Wheaties, but it wasn’t as satisfying to eat them in an ordinary bowl.
Likewise, his bedroom things were gone. Most of what he’d had was just stuff he’d bought at garage sales and thrift stores, but his 100-percent memory foam Tempur-Pedic queen-size adjustable bed was no more. It was one of the original, ultra-firm types that’s no longer made. He’d spent $3,000 of college graduation money on it because his former box-spring mattress gave him backaches, and he wanted to have a bed that he truly loved to sleep in to come home to when he was in the military. It always felt like lying on a board at first, but within seconds, the memory foam would warm and wrap itself around every contour of his body. Going to bed had felt how coming home should feel—a sigh of relief, and a warm embrace—but not anymore.
All of his bathroom things were gone as well, but what he really, really missed were his photos. Framed photos were the sum total of the interior decorating that he ever did, and they were not only gone, but irreplaceable. These had either been given to him or taken on old film cameras or early digital cameras when one-megapixel seemed like a wonder. Having a sharp eye for both panoramic scenery as well as portraits of people, the walls of his various living spaces had always been covered with a selection of his simply framed shots, whether it was some scenic marvel he’d been to in his SEAL team travels or on vacations or intimate shots of his SEAL mates, his friends from college, or his now-deceased parents and estranged brother and sister. Sometimes, when home, he had just sat in his recliner, another piece of his life that he sorely missed, and gazed at his pictures, remembering moments and reliving times he never wanted to forget. The memories were still there, but the reminders were gone, and Abel was afraid that without the reminders, the memories would fade as well.
And then there was the one picture—a picture he’d taken of the only woman he’d ever been truly in love with, one that seemed to capture all of her pure loveliness, both inside and out, in one inimitable expression. It was a perfect portrait of the closest thing he’d had to a lifelong companion. She was gone now, of course, hopefully more content with someone who could make her happier than he had, but he still loved looking at her photo, partly because it was such a damn good portrait and partly to remind him that he once had made a woman of such beauty very, very happy, and because of that, perhaps there was some shred of hope that he could do it again.
Abel had grieved for a couple of days, but, of course, he knew deep down that the absence of these things from his life had been his fault, the result of what had been a risky, foolish decision. He wasn’t totally convinced that the decision had been entirely foolish, though. After all, had things gone as planned, he’d be rich, not someone with nothing to his name but what was packed in two bags. Then again, given the tenacity of those who were after him, maybe it was time just to come clean and, little by little, start to rebuild some semblance of what he’d lost. But if the right opportunity came along—
Ack! Enough of all this, he told himself.
Leaving his bags on the bed, he headed down to the breakfast buffet dressed in his new favorite outfit—khaki cargo pants, a breathable light-blue button-down that was nicely tucked in, and waterproof trail runners that made his feet feel invincible. Time to load up on calories, then load up the Jeep with all his worldly possessions—and a few DEA-issued weapons—so he could make life interesting for “Fat Monti” Ruiz over the next few days.
***
At that same time, in Playa de Palma Fat Monti Ruiz was making his morning rounds after breakfasting at home with his dutiful wife, Maria, and his little granddaughter Lucia, who was a very spry eight-year-old. She had made sure that her papi had finished his entire breakfast burrito and both his quesadillas before running off to school, a distance longer than eight hundred meters. Monti kissed Maria goodbye, then headed out from his house, an impressive wood-framed building with aluminum siding and a composite roof that looked stately compared to all the adobe buildings in town.
The first stop was always up the road at his son’s place, also a stately wood-framed house with a big corrugated metal garage behind it, just a block or so away. Monti preferred to take care of the family business before anything else. Today, Monti had to talk with his son, Paco, about the recent ammunitions shipment that came in the day before. Paco was his quartermaster who kept an inventory of everything in the business and distributed it to whomever might need it, among other things. All seemed to be in order except for a couple of boxes of handgun ammo, forty-five-caliber bullets that obviously wouldn’t work in the business’s 9mm Glock and Beretta pieces. Along with the larger ammo, his Mexican supplier had shipped two new forty-five-caliber semiautomatic pistols for free.
Monti had scoffed. “He’s trying to get rid of those old cannons he’s had around forever. Doesn’t he understand that no one walks around with a holster on his hip down here? Why doesn’t he sell them to one of the cartels up there who have to fight with the Mexican Army or something?”
“Probably because he thinks we’re small-time down here, and we don’t know the difference between a big weapon and a useful weapon,” answered Paco. Paco was far too skinny, Monti thought, and he continually urged his wife, Sonia, to fatten him up, but she’d just laugh and say that food went through Paco like water.
“Send them back,” Monti had directed, “the ammo, the guns, everything.”
“Just the forty-five stuff, right?”
“Sí, of course. And tell that jackal that just because we can run our business down here without fearing that the Federales will interrupt our breakfast doesn’t mean we’re estúpido.”
“I’ll tell him, Papa,” answered Paco.
“How is our product flow?”
“All is well, Papa. Our sales on the playas are above normal for this time of year, and the hotel business is steady. I believe that as long as we continue to give our vendors the twenty percent commission that we started last year, we will continue to see sales figures remain stable,” surmised Paco.
“And how about the lollipops?” Monti smiled.
“Ah.” Paco chuckled. “Their sales are rising like a fleet of hot-air balloons. You’re very clever, Papa. The amount of product we use is not enough to make someone an addict, but it is enough to give a nice little buzz. People don’t know why, but they can’t get enough of them.” They both laughed.
“Sí, and the kids love to hustle them.” Monti smiled. “Make sure that there is strict, separate accounting for all sales from them. The profit is to go entirely to the school. And if that stuffy schoolmaster gets suspicious, make sure he knows that part of those profits will go to raising his salary, as well as that of the maestras. This town will have the finest primary school on the costa. It is our obligation to your children and Lucia, as well as all the rest. We’re not jackals like those cartel muchachos back in Michoacán.”
“Speaking of cartels . . .” said Paco, more seriously.
Monti lowered his voice. “You’ve heard from the Colombians, no?”
The Green Cathedral Page 7