Power Down (34 page)

HIGHWAY 25
CALI, COLOMBIA

By the time Dewey made it to Highway 25 the woman in the backseat had died.

He took the highway after several miles of breakneck driving down narrow Cali streets ahead of two green and yellow police cruisers.

Dewey could have pulled over and left himself at the mercy of the Cali police, the local government, and ultimately the Colombian government. But the existence of a mole in the interagency group changed everything. If the traitor could arrange to take out two Deltas, he could easily get to him elsewhere. A jail cell in the country’s corrupt western drug capital would be an easy place to manufacture the accidental death of a prisoner. No, surrendering was not an option.

He took the highway entrance at seventy miles per hour, swerving right and hitting the sharp curve of the entrance ramp with the screech of tires beneath him, barely keeping the sedan under control. The first police cruiser, just yards behind him, temporarily lost its traction in the sharp turn. Its rear end bounced against the guardrail, sending the cruiser in an uncontrolled spin in the middle of the entrance ramp. The other cruiser passed it and tried to move closer to Dewey but the dustup
with the first sedan provided Dewey with several hundred feet of new freedom, and he didn’t let up.

Highway 25 was crowded but moving quickly. Dewey pushed the accelerator to the ground and kept it there. Soon the Mercedes sped down the two-lane highway at nearly 115 miles per hour, pushing the envelope of recklessness.

After several minutes of driving, a blue traffic sign above the highway showed an airplane. Aragón International Airport, five miles away.

With the relative comfort of the distance gained from the police car, plus a clear lane of traffic as far as he could see, Dewey took the cell phone from his lap. He pressed the camera icon and the display screen changed. Looking for a moment behind him, he held the phone above the dead assassin’s face and snapped a photo. He shut the phone and turned back to the road.

Driving skills were a core competency in Delta, and Dewey now thanked God for all of the endless hours he spent behind the wheel that one summer so long ago. There were two keys to evasion tactics when driving. The first was obvious: speed. They taught you how to handle the effects of high speed, what it will do to a vehicle, how to plan for upcoming turns, different terrains, even catching air. As Dewey checked the speedometer, which now showed 122 miles per hour, he felt the training rejoining him.

The second key was the element of surprise. That was always a harder one, especially at high speed, but he began to work out a plan.

Within a few minutes the signs for Aragón International became multiple as he approached the facility. Planes overhead seemed barely to clear the mountains that ringed Cali’s airport.

The police cruiser would expect him to be running for the airport. Dewey kept the Mercedes in the left lane as the exit to the airport came within view on the right. At the exit ramp, he swerved right. In the rearview mirror, he watched as the police cruiser followed suit, moving rapidly up the highway’s breakdown lane, trying to cut Dewey off. In response, Dewey settled back into the left lane. Cars filled the center lane between the approaching police cruiser and the Mercedes. At the last possible moment, Dewey feinted right, as if to cut across to the airport
exit, then swung abruptly left, back onto the highway, racing past the airport entrance. The policeman was trapped behind a line of cars and soon Dewey was out of sight.

Less than a mile past the airport Dewey saw a crossover gap in the guardrail between the east- and westbound lanes of traffic. He slowed the Mercedes and swerved into the small gap, then hit the accelerator and lurched forward into traffic. To his right, Dewey saw a young Colombian man in a decrepit, rust-covered Volkswagen Rabbit. Dewey cut off his car, bringing him to a halt. Dewey climbed out of the Mercedes amid slowing traffic and the blare of horns around him. He moved to the Volkswagen, revolver out, and signaled for the man to get out of the car. The driver complied quickly, arms raised.

The traffic on Highway 25 began to resume its normal speed around the incident. It clearly wasn’t the first time the local population had witnessed a carjacking in broad daylight.

Dewey squeezed into the Volkswagen, backed up, and maneuvered around the Mercedes, hitting the gas. Soon, he was back at the eastbound entrance to the airport. He moved into the entrance lane and settled into line. He had lost the tail, but they would be waiting at the airport.

Sure enough, at the entrance to the parking garage, one of the police cruisers was already in position, no doubt looking for the black Mercedes.

Dewey passed the cruiser and parked the Volkswagen in short-term parking, then walked to the airport entrance.

Aragón International was a four-story yellow cement building that spread out in a rectangle beneath the scorching Cali sun, the surrounding peaks forming a stunning backdrop in the distance. Dewey entered the building and went quickly to a restroom. There, he waited until he was alone, then unzipped his leather jacket. He looked in the mirror. The bandaging on his wound had seeped through and dark red now saturated the gauze and his blue T-shirt. He went to the last stall and shut the door. He quickly removed the old bandage. The wound had formed a small outer ridge of scab, but the center of the gash remained raw. A trickle of blood leaked out. It was healing, but the trauma at Madradora had not helped. Still, the homemade suture seemed to be holding. And there were no
signs of infection. He replaced the bandage with a new one from his pocket, wrapping another piece of duct tape tightly about the shoulder.

Back in the main arrival and departure area of Aragón International, Dewey glanced around him, looking for signs of trouble.

Beyond airport security, he spied a small gathering of policemen. On one side of the large main room of the facility, four uniformed officers stood beneath the arrival portico. One of the officers gesticulated emphatically, commanding the others, Dewey guessed, as to the importance of capturing the one who’d left him trapped in the breakdown lane at the first airport entrance.

The evasion had served its purpose to lose the initial tail, but they knew he was here. They weren’t idiots.

Dewey moved into the crowd at the center of the chamber and walked beneath the large arrival and departure screen. Reading down the screen, he found two flights leaving within the hour: to Medellín and Havana.

Dewey walked to the ticket counter, where a young Colombian woman in a Navy blue uniform smiled at him.

Behind her, just feet away, one of the uniformed police officers walked quickly by. He inspected the line as he did so, staring for a moment at Dewey. Dewey kept his eyes focused in front of him, not down, staring at the woman behind the counter. The policeman paused just beyond the woman’s shoulder, then moved on.

“
Adónde, señor?
” she asked.

“
Habana,
” said Dewey. “
Unidireccional.
”

After purchasing the one-way ticket, Dewey entered a souvenir shop and bought a baseball cap. Then he went to a small café and ordered a steak sandwich, glancing around the airport as he waited for his order to come.

The four policemen had been joined by others and soon he could count a dozen officers in total.

By now, they no doubt had found the Mercedes on the highway, the owner, and perhaps even had a description of him. At least the hat provided some cover.

The officers searched among the crowd at the airport, scanning the
main arrival and departure area with serious, intense looks on their faces. Dewey knew time was now working increasingly against him. He watched as the minutes on the overhead screen moved ahead.

An officer was posted at each entrance to the large chamber, while several officers patrolled through the atrium.

The flight to Cuba boarded in ten minutes.

As he waited for the sandwich to arrive, a young officer in a brown uniform walked through the small café, staring at each table. At his table, the officer paused for several seconds and stared at him.

“Hola,”
Dewey said politely.

The officer nodded, saying nothing.

He was onto him. Dewey knew that, and the next minute would determine his fate.

The officer had no radio, and Dewey knew the young man was looking for a backup to help him.

Dewey moved.

Standing, he walked toward the rear of the café, aiming now for the restaurant restroom. Its entrance stood out of sight from the main airport concourse and it represented Dewey’s only hope of escape.

As Dewey expected, the officer followed. He was now confused, his inexperience showing as he began to panic.

“Parada,”
the officer said as Dewey crossed the café. Then louder,
“Stop!”

Dewey continued to walk through the small, nearly empty café, pretending not to hear.

He made it to the restroom door and pushed it in, entering quickly. It was a large, well-lit space. He went to the urinal and stood, as if about to urinate. The door opened and the young officer entered, gun out now and aimed at Dewey.

“
Estate quieto!
” yelled the officer. “Don’t move!”

Dewey let his mouth gape, pretending to be shocked.

“What have I done?” Dewey asked, feigning fear.

With his empty hand, the policeman signaled for Dewey to move toward the wall.

“Spread your arms,” he said. “
Now.
Against the wall. Feet too.”

Dewey walked to the wall, spreading his arms and legs. He heard a jingle as the officer pulled handcuffs from his waist belt. Looking over his shoulder, Dewey watched. As the policeman began to place the steel cuff on Dewey’s right wrist, Dewey swung the arm back and sent a vicious elbow to the side of the officer’s head. The policeman stumbled backward, trying to maintain the aim of his handgun. A fraction of a second later, Dewey followed the elbow by turning and unleashing a sideways kick with his left foot that flung the pistol from the policeman’s hand. Dewey stood over the young man, who cowered beneath him. Dewey finished with a well-calculated right hand to the temple, knocking the policeman unconscious but sparing his life.

He exited the restroom and walked inconspicuously through the café. As he passed his table, he grabbed half the sandwich, now sitting on a plate, and dropped a few Colombian bills on the table.

At the Avianca gate, boarding had begun. A dark-skinned female customs agent stood, inspecting passports, swiping them under an infrared scanner.

Anger suddenly filled Dewey’s head as he realized the implications of the coming moment. After the customs agent swiped his passport, his name and location would immediately pop up on the Interpol grid. Most likely, whoever was behind the attempted take-out at Madradora would already have him flagged. And while Cuba would be a difficult place for legitimate American government agencies to reach him, the mole wouldn’t have that problem.

He swallowed, less nervous than embarrassed at the thought of his grave miscalculation. He should have fled in another manner; by road, by boat. He should have holed up somewhere and waited for Savoy to extract him properly.

Behind him, he glanced back and saw a commotion of police officers, likely now aware of the café restroom incident.

He was trapped, and he knew it. He thought back to his training, but came up empty. There was nothing he could do. As an elderly woman in front of him handed her passport to the customs agent, he pulled his U.S. passport from the pocket of his jacket.

Then, suddenly, another memory came to him. Fenway Park. An afternoon so long ago. With his father, they’d bought bleacher seats to a game. They could barely see the game, but it didn’t matter to Dewey, so amazing was the experience of his first visit to the ballpark. In the seventh inning, he’d held his father’s hand as he led him toward home plate. He remembered being excited, scared even, as they came closer to home plate and the prized seats behind it. Then, at the entrance to the row that led down to the Red Sox dugout, he watched as his father handed the usher a $20 bill, asking the man to let Dewey watch the rest of the game at the end of the aisle next to the field. He’d watched three innings that day, standing there, his father smiling in the September sun from an exit ramp thirty rows away.

Dewey reached down into his leather coat and pulled the large wad of cash from the pocket. There was still more than $10,000 there, at least a year’s wage for the customs agent. It was all Dewey had. He kept $1,000 in his pocket, then folded the remaining wad of cash into the passport and handed it to the stone-faced agent. She opened the small passport, eyeing the money. She looked up at Dewey, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments. He stared back blankly, knowing his fate was now beyond his control, that his life now lay in the hands of the severe-looking government employee in front of him. He followed her eyes as she glanced behind him. No fewer than six officers now hovered in the atrium behind the line, searching methodically from gate to gate.

She looked back at Dewey. His eyes moved toward the passport scanner. Hers followed his, then looked back at him. Their eyes met again. Ever so subtly, he shook his head quickly, letting the woman know what he needed.
Don’t swipe it,
he thought. The agent paused. Then, she moved the passport toward the screen. He felt his stomach suddenly drop. But her arm kept moving, past the screen, swinging the passport down to her side, where she removed the money. She handed the passport back to him.