The Geronimo Breach (11 page)

After half an hour they arrived at a little hamlet made up from a sorry collection of squalid houses stretching into the shadows of the ever-surrounding jungle. Incandescent lights glowed over a small market, still open, where a number of local residents were seated at white plastic tables near a portable food-service cart mounted to the back end of a bicycle. A small black and white TV sat on a shelf by the cart, providing free entertainment for the diners.

A tired looking sign a few yards from an ancient pay phone informed them they were in La Loma. Ernesto approached the man standing at the food cart and began an animated discussion in Spanish. After several minutes of hand waving, pointing, and gesturing at the sky with exclamations of wonder or amusement, Ernesto disengaged with his warmest handshake and returned to Al’s side.

Ernesto reported his findings. “He says there’s a mechanic who lives in this town, but he’s gone to Panama City for the weekend, no doubt to party and wade in sin, leaving his poor mother to worry about whether she’ll ever see him again. Apparently, he has a drug problem, and a number of loose women he sees in the city, while he ignores his live-in girlfriend here and their three year old daughter.” Ernesto smiled. “Sorry I asked him…”

“So no go on a repair tonight...” Al summarized.

“No.”

Well that was just peachy. They were stuck in a backwater slum with no car, a tight deadline, and nobody around to help them. Al considered calling Carmen, but quickly reconsidered when he realized what she must be going through with the police after the shooting. And she’d never use him again if she discovered he didn’t keep his car in reasonable operating shape.

Al fished through his wallet for a card, finally plucking out the one he wanted. “Ernesto. You have a phone I can borrow for a second? I need to call someone to come get us.”

Ernesto pouted. “What’s wrong with yours? Mine’s almost out of minutes...”

“I…uh…forgot mine – it’s at home,” Al explained sheepishly. “Look, I’ll only be a minute, okay? And this is to help you, not just get me out of here,” Al reminded him.

Ernesto reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a micro-cell phone. He reluctantly handed it to Al, who glared at him before moving away to distance himself from the television noise. He entered a series of numbers and pushed send.

A bombastic voice answered. “
Hola. Quien Hablas
?”

“Sergio, it’s Al. Al Ross.”

“Al! What’s up?” Sergio asked. “Why are you calling at midnight on a Saturday? Did you get arrested? In an accident? Start a fight?”

Al laughed. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. Are you working right now?”

“I just got off my shift, and was about to head out for some entertainment, you know?”

“Hmm, nice,” Al said. “But how would you like to make a little money for a very minor favor, my friend?”

Sergio’s tone took on a suspicious air. “A minor favor at midnight on Saturday? Sounds like it might be expensive…
my friend
.”

“It’s really nothing, Sergio. My car broke down, and I just need a little lift.”

“So all you need is a ride?” Sergio still wasn’t convinced. He’d known Al a long time. “Where are you, and where do you need to go?”

Al paused. “Well, that’s kind of the touchy part, Sergio. I’m about an hour outside of the city, in a beautifully quaint spot called La Loma. It’s just a little south of Chepo...and I need to get to Metiti by morning.”

“Metiti? As in, Metiti by Darien? Have you lost your mind? What did you do, kill someone?” Sergio fired back at Al.

“No, Sergio,” Al explained softly. “My car broke down, and I was giving a friend a ride to see his sick grandmother in Metiti...she could go at any time. It’s heartbreaking really, and you know what a soft touch I am...”

Sergio’s good nature surfaced. “A friend, to Metiti, huh? That doesn’t seem too suspicious at all.”

“It is what it is, Sergio. I was thinking two hundred dollars for just a few hours of your time...” Al ventured.

“Two hundred? To blow off my Saturday night and haul you and god knows who else into the middle of the jungle? Al. Please. You’re so way off. I think I’m hearing an $800 favor,” Sergio replied.

“$800? Are you nuts?” Al exclaimed. “You think I have that kind of money lying around? If I did, don’t you think I’d have fixed my car?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not a $200 favor by any means,” Sergio explained. “But hey, you called me, not the other way around. Do you want to take some time and think about it? I can’t guarantee I’ll be answering my cell much longer – I have a date for the evening I’d have to cancel. And she’s very beautiful.”

“Okay. $400. But that’s all I have,” Al countered.

“Did I mention she’s young, too?” Sergio continued. “Young and beautiful. A rare and breathtaking combination...”

“Sergio, I really need your help. Fine. You’re killing me. $500, if you can be here in an hour,” Al conceded.

“It’s a deal,” Sergio said brightly. “Now, where in that shithole are you hiding?”

Al gave him directions and disconnected. He was pissed, but there wasn’t much he could do. So now he was down to $1300 for the ‘errand’ and by the time he was done with his bookie and fixing his car, he’d be lucky if he had a few hundred bucks left for himself. He returned the cell to Ernesto, who pocketed it and immediately resumed viewing the TV. Al told him a friend would be coming to give them a lift within the hour, so everything was fine. Ernesto shot Al a skeptical look but said nothing.

Frustrated, Al turned and ventured into the little market. He emerged in a few minutes with a quart of local beer. He chugged half of it before taking a breath.

“Hey, are you hungry? This is really good,” Ernesto called to him. He was clutching a Styrofoam plate from the food cart with some steaming concoction on it, which he was eagerly consuming with a plastic spoon.

“No thanks. I don’t eat anything but hot dogs and beer. American food. I don’t like boiled cat or whatever that crap is.” Al took another long pull on his beer.

Ernesto waved his spoon. “It’s really good –
Sancocho
– a Panamanian specialty. I’m a cook, and I can tell you that this is not just good, it’s great.”

Al eyed the plate dubiously. “What’s in it? Rat tails? Dog sphincter? Goat semen?” He had to admit it did smell pretty good. And the locals were munching it like it was opium.

“Chicken, meat, vegetables. It’s practically the national dish. Come on, Alberto,” Ernesto chided. “How long have you been living here, and you haven’t sampled one of the best things Panama makes?”

“It’s probably pig intestines and horse scrotum, isn’t it?” Al said. But he was wavering.

“Just try some,” Ernesto said, motioning to the man serving the food. He spooned a heaped portion onto a plate and handed it to Al. “It’s on me,” Ernesto offered. “My treat, Alberto.”

Al took a tentative bite, making a face like he was chewing on live worms. “It’s not bad,” he conceded.

Five minutes later, both their plates were empty and Al had gone back to the market for a refresher of beer.

A guy had to keep up his strength, after all.

Sam burst into his office, which had been commandeered by Richard, who was busy murmuring into the telephone, feet up on the desk as he reclined in Sam’s chair. Richard glanced at Sam and turned his head away so Sam couldn’t hear the discussion. Sam paced around until Richard hung up.

“What?” Richard demanded.

“The GPS signal from the cell shows them stopped in a small town on the Transamerican highway,” Sam said. “It’s about 40 miles south of here. La Loma. If we scramble your team you can intercept them and this will all be over.”

“Sam. Do I look particularly stupid to you?” Richard asked, conversationally.

That wasn’t the response Sam had been hoping for. He tried again. “The point is, sir, that we could be there in an hour, tops, and...”

Richard held up a dismissive hand. “Da, ah, ah, ah. I asked you if I look like a moron. Do I? I must,” Richard said, “because only a moron would consider sending a team into a situation they know nothing about, with no planning or information, at a moment’s notice. That’s the kind of whim that gets people killed,” he continued. “Just like your men were slaughtered when they went into the whorehouse with no intel or plan.”

“I...I just thought...” Sam stammered.

“No, Sam, you didn’t think. That’s the point. You didn’t think at all. You just wanted to act. But we don’t have the luxury of acting first and thinking later now, do we? You’ve seen how well that worked so far. I don’t think we want a repeat of the last disaster, do we?” Richard asked.

“Well then,” Sam blurted, “what are we supposed to be doing? What’s your plan?”

Richard regarded Sam as though he were a paltry specimen under a microscope – a distasteful speck of something foul. “Sam, I can see where you’re confused again. You apparently think I need to report to you, or include you in my thinking. Let me clear this up – nothing could be further from the truth. I will move to neutralize this threat and recover the item when, and only when, I’m satisfied I can do it with a hundred percent certainty of success, and not before. And I won’t be consulting you for your opinions when I do decide to move. If you’re lucky, you’ll be allowed to watch so you learn how a real operation is run. But your role will be limited to watching, hopefully in complete silence, and maybe bringing me coffee from that fancy gizmo you have in the outer office,” Richard dictated. “Do we understand each other?”

“I...yes, sir. I was just trying to help,” Sam explained. “I thought this might be the opportunity we were waiting for.”

Richard turned and reached for the phone. He dialed a string of numbers and resumed studying the flat screen monitor.

The discussion was obviously over.

Carmen sat handcuffed to a chair at a metal table in a holding cell at National Police headquarters, wondering how long it would take for her to be charged – if she was going to be – or released. So far, nobody had questioned her or tried to take a statement. She was just placed in the cell, cuffed to the metal armrest and left to her own devices.

That struck her as odd, given that she was one of the few witnesses to the confrontation at Esperanza, not to mention she’d also shot one of the gunmen. All they had to do was ask and she would turn over the digital recording of the firefight. It was all there on her hard disk. Of course, they’d probably never figure that out if she didn’t volunteer it because the cameras she’d installed were the size of pencil erasers – skillfully incorporated into the decorative moldings of the ornate ceilings. Patrons obviously wouldn’t be thrilled at the idea of being recorded, so discretion was in order. But Carmen also needed to be able to watch over her flock, as well as monitor security, so she needed eyes everywhere. It was her little secret, and also her insurance policy – she had virtually every government official in the current administration on tape, so she was confident she’d be able to resolve any issues and get back to business soon enough.

By the time she had made it downstairs the shooting had been over, except for outside the front door. When she’d poked her head out to see who was shooting, the man with the pistol had turned the gun on her. She’d had no choice but to shoot him – a simple case of self-defense. Carmen didn’t think she’d have any problem convincing whoever was running the investigation of that.

She heard the echo of footsteps approaching down the concrete hall. The heavy metal door swung open and a man in a lightweight suit entered, a manila folder clasped under his arm. The uniformed officer who had opened the door for him remained outside the room until man in the suit nodded. He closed the door. Carmen heard the bolt slide back into place.

The man studied her face for a few moments before speaking. “Miss Ortega – Carmen. My name is Jenkins. I have a few questions for you, and it would be best if you cooperated with me and told me everything you know.”

“Mr. Jenkins, I would like my attorney present before I say anything,” Carmen responded, smiling sweetly at him.

“That won’t be necessary,” Jenkins stated. “This is an informal discussion we’re having, and nothing you say will be used against you.”

“That’s all very nice, but I’d still prefer to have my attorney here,” Carmen insisted.

“Why don’t you listen to what I have to say, and then you can decide if that will be necessary, hmm?” Jenkins suggested, and before Carmen could respond, he continued. “Tonight was a regrettable and horrible slaughter. My concern, however, isn’t with the shooting, nor with your role in the killing of the Colombian gentleman on the street. No, I’m here to seek your cooperation in a different matter,” Jenkins explained.

“I don’t understand. But I still want my lawyer,” Carmen said. “This interview is over until he arrives.”

“Yes, I see your point. And I understand. So now maybe you’ll take a moment while I tell you a story, and then perhaps we’ll both be on the same wavelength,” Jenkins said, his fluent Spanish tinged with just the slightest Gringo accent.

“Do whatever you want,” Carmen declared. “I’m not talking.”

“The Colombian man you shot was a powerful cocaine trafficker. He was in Panama illegally. His name was Don Tomas Salazar, and he’s reputed to operate one of the most brutal syndicates in Colombia. He’s also believed to have a rather extensive operation in Panama, as well as in Costa Rica. If that wasn’t enough, he’s also rumored to have partners here who are Chinese Triad, and also extensive reach within the Mexican Cartels in the Yucatan and in the U.S. border states.” Jenkins paused, watching her reaction.

Carmen was emphatic. “I have nothing to do with any of this.”

“Oh, we know that,” Jenkins said. “We also know you’re one of the ‘go to’ people in Panama City for undocumented trips to Colombia and Costa Rica. Which brings me to the reason I’m here. You had a patron in your establishment tonight at the time of the shooting who I need to find, in the very worst sort of way. In fact, I’m so anxious to locate this man that I will do almost anything.”