The Land of the Free (19 page)

Jess had found a map in Luis’ boat
and examined the route they were likely going to take, noting that Costa Rica
was approximately 200 miles from the Pearl Islands.  “Luis, do you have enough
fuel for the trip?” she asked.

“Si senorita.  No question about
it,” replied Luis.

“And where do you want to dock?”

“Golfito Bay,” replied Luis.  “It’s
a sleepy place, mostly a fishing resort.  I’ll stop at the Hotel Las Gaviotas. 
I have contacts there, and sometimes I do charters for the guests.  Maybe I can
pick up a fishing charter and have some cover until things quiet down.”

Lyle looked a little concerned at
that.  “Where would your own family look for you, Luis?”

“I have relatives in Panama but
none in Costa Rica,” replied Luis.  “What I do often takes me away for a few
days at a time.  When I get home safely, that’s enough.  Nobody asks where I
was.”

“Costa Rica could be good for us,”
said Lyle.  “It was never a strategically important country, and US involvement
has generally been low since the fall of the Sandinistas.  It’s as good a bet
as any to stay under the radar.”

“But it’s not a whole lot closer to
getting us back home where we can use the information we’ve gleaned,” said
Jess.

“I once knew a guy who I’m pretty
sure lives in Costa Rica,” said Lyle.  “I think I could call on him for help.”

As Lyle said that, Jess’ face
brightened.  “If he hasn’t moved out of the country, or died, or been
corrupted” added Lyle, sorry to see her expression fall.

…

Luis’ boat pulled into Golfito Bay
around midnight, with a waning moon reflecting off the water in the bay. 
Around them rose hills covered by lush tropical forests, and the smell of the
ocean was complemented by ripe tropical smells, with a trace of brackish water
from the surrounding tidal flats.  They docked and arrived at the Hotel Las
Gaviotas, where it only took a few minutes for Luis to find an attendant.  Lyle
then gave Luis an account number he could charge for his troubles and costs
associated with the trip.

The morning was raucous with the
sounds of birds, insects, monkeys, and other assorted fauna living in the Costa
Rican rainforest that surrounded them.  But there was no sign of Luis.  The
front desk told Lyle that he’d found a group of German tourists looking for a
fishing charter for a few days, and had gone back out into the Pacific Ocean.

The water looked bright blue
against the lush green of the surrounding hills, and Jess, who had awoken
early, sat on the patio overwhelmed by the symphony of nature.

Lyle took a moment to watch her
enjoyment of the view before joining her on the patio.  “We should come here
again sometime, under better circumstances.”

“I’d love that, absolutely,” said
Jess, who blushed, embarrassed her own candor.  She gave him a shy smile and
then added, as if to correct herself, “I mean, that would be nice.  But what do
we do now?”

“We need to get to San José, the
Costa Rican capital.  Whatever we do next, San José will have the necessary
infrastructure for it.”

Lyle walked over to the front desk
and spoke with the attendant for a few minutes, then returned to Jess at their
table.  “There’s a bus leaving for San José at noon.  We can’t risk flying, particularly
knowing the reach of the people at San Marcos.  It’s going to be a long trip. 
There will be mountain switchbacks, sections of dirt road and other possible
hazards.”

Jess smiled, more excited than
concerned.  “A closer look at the Costa Rican ecosystem sounds fabulous,” she
said.  They spent the morning around the pool, airing their one set of clothes
in the sun before dressing in them again for the trip to San José.  The bus was
not air conditioned and the weather was hot and humid, but the seats were at
least comfortable.  They turned onto the Pan American Highway and followed
along the coast for about a half hour before doubling back and beginning their
ascent into the Costa Rican mountains.

The weather cooled the higher they
went, and fog developed, along with a small shower.  Jess was not disappointed
with the scenery, and occasionally gave Lyle a summary of the climate zones
they were passing through, or relayed various curiosities about the species
that lived in each zone.  At the request of the passengers, many of whom were
eco-tourists, the bus stopped at a waterfall on the Rio Nuevo, and most took
the opportunity to jump into the water for a refreshing dip.

As they reached what seemed to be a
plateau, the air was suddenly drier, and the vegetation thinner.  Neither Lyle
nor Jess had seen Costa Rica before, so both were relieved to find most of the
roads paved and much smoother than those back home in New York State.  The
bridges turned out to be modern steel-truss designs, inspiring confidence in
their integrity.  The stops made by the bus were at clean restaurants and
shops, where the attendants always spoke English reasonably well.

“I don’t know why, but I was
expecting third-world conditions,” said Lyle.

“I know what you mean.  Parts of
America would need an upgrade to match this.  And the scenery is every bit as
spectacular as I’d dared hope.”

They passed the flanks of Cerro
Chirripó, Costa Rica’s tallest mountain.  The sky was clear and clouds were
visible beneath them, flowing in and filling up the valleys.  They made one
more pass up into the high mountains before descending into a drier valley
where the forests partially gave way to the pastureland and farmland that
surrounded San José.

San José struck Jess as a modern
city, with malls and commercial districts just like those in the developed
world.  But she felt it strange that every property had bars over its windows
and sturdy steel fences.  “There must be a lot of crime” she thought to
herself.

“Getting in to see the President is
not that hard,” said Admiral Stanley Howe, “if you can convince the Chief of
Staff to schedule you.  That part can be tricky to impossible.”

“That’s Gerry Levine,” observed
Frank.  “He’s from Chicago.  I bet I can find someone who knows him.”

Frank had lost his cell phone when
they were captured by Morningstar Security, so he called his banker friend Troy
from Howe’s phone.  John and Stanley Howe listened to him speaking.

“Troy, it’s me again, Frank.”

“Yeah, we’re still alive, but we’ve
had a close call.”

“It’s very serious, and now we need
a way in to see the President.  Do you know anyone who knows Gerry Levine?”

“Great.  Tell him to call Admiral
Stanley Howe at this number, but not to tell anyone else.”

“Perfect, thanks.”

“Yeah, the phone I was using before
is now in the hands of Morningstar.”

“Yes, I’d be worried.”

“Oh okay.”  Frank hung up the
phone.

“Is Troy going to be okay?” asked
John.

“He’ll be careful but it’s not a
major concern.  The number I called is to a switchboard with a live operator,
who then connects to Troy.  So all they have is the main phone number for a
large bank.”

Howe’s wife came into the room with
a pot of tea and some cookies.  They politely thanked her, but then to their
surprise she sat down and joined the conversation.

Mildred Howe or “Millie” was only
slightly younger than Stanley, at about 60.  She was about 5’6”, devoid of any
cosmetic enhancements, but pleasant for a woman of her age.  “I won’t pretend I
didn’t hear you boys speaking with Stanley,” she said.  “Seeing how serious the
situation is, and that you don’t have a way forward, I think you should call my
brother-in-law’s brother-in-law.”

“Say again?” said Frank.

“My sister’s husband has a sister,
whose husband has a brother, who’s a veteran with the CIA.”

“I appreciate the tip,” said John,
“but the top brass at the CIA may be in on the plot with.”

“I know that, Mr. Corson.  I don’t
make this suggestion lightly.  Roger Snyder has had an undeservedly mediocre
career because he’s never gone along with their plots.  He knows everything
there is to know about the agency, and you’ll be able to trust him.”

“She’s right about that,” said
Stanley with a chuckle.  “Snyder hates his job and can’t wait to retire.  He’s
not necessarily incorruptible but he pisses off his bosses so regularly, they’d
never try to recruit him for something irregular, just because then they’d have
to deal with him on an extended basis.”

Upon getting off the bus in San
José, Lyle turned on his phone, and looked up a name.  “It’s only a few
blocks.  We can walk the rest of the way.”

The street was so busy with people,
Lyle never noticed the man getting out of the car that had been tailing the
bus.  Instead, he and Jess walked past the University and the National Museum,
which was reminiscent of an old world Spanish city.  In no time, they arrived
and rang the buzzer at the gate of an attractive house with white columns and a
red roof.

A slightly balding, paunchy man of
about 5’8” peeked out the window, and then came out of the house looking
slightly bewildered.  It wasn’t until he approached the gate that he smiled
broadly and said, “Lyle!”

Dwight Crosby and his father had
known the Fergusons seemingly forever.  Their fathers had initially been
friends, and Dwight had occasionally looked after Lyle when he was a small
child.  They had lost contact a decade ago, when Dwight expatriated to Costa
Rica, setting up an international law practice.

The house was nicely appointed,
with original pieces of art and designer furniture.  They sat down, and Dwight
served some refreshments.  “I can see that you’ve done well for yourself,
Dwight,” said Lyle.  “And we’re pleasantly surprised by Costa Rica.”

“We don’t have an army as you’d
think of one,” said Dwight.  “That’s a lot of money saved.  And a lot of
freedom reserved to the people.”

“How have you ended up so much
better off than your neighbors?” asked Lyle.  “Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras,
Panama.  That’s not a nice list of regimes, and here you are in the middle of
it.”

“Agriculture wasn’t as profitable
here as in those other countries,” replied Dwight.  “So the multinationals
never made large investments.  That’s the key, because as soon as they sink
money into a country, they demand compliant labor markets, land ownership
rules, and environmental oversight.  If those factors aren’t to their
satisfaction, the CIA shows up, instability follows, and the fabric of society
is quickly corrupted.  The wealthy and the poor become enemies, and paradise
turns to hell.  The roots of the problem go back to the Spanish times and gold
exploitation, to be sure, but even then Costa Rica was obscure enough that we
had it easy.”

“What about the booming tourism
here, won’t that bring in the multinationals?” asked Jess.

“It’s a concern.  There’s been some
investment but it’s not big enough yet to dominate our political scene.  The
other thing is that to have success in tourism you need peace and some social
harmony, or the tourists will quickly sour on the place.”

“Everyone has bars on their windows
and fortified iron fences around their houses, including you,” said Jess,
seemingly determined to find the downsides of Costa Rican life.  “Crime must be
quite an issue.”

“It’s not much of an issue.  I
guess the bars help.  I definitely wouldn’t want to be the only homeowner that
doesn’t have them,” Dwight said with a smile.  “We value our freedom here. 
Nobody thinks we’d be better off by not securing our houses but having a police
presence on the streets.  Most of us think the police would be the problem, not
the solution.  I know that’s a pretty foreign idea when seen from the American
perspective.”

Dwight noticed they didn’t have
suitcases and didn’t look terribly fresh.  “So now it’s your turn to do some
explaining.  You turn up here in Costa Rica without bags, looking like you’ve
been through some trying times.  What sort of trouble are you in?”

Lyle chuckled then said, “Well, as
you guessed, this isn’t a social call.”  He and Jess took their time explaining
Robbie’s death, their suspicions of Tilbury, their visit to San Marcos, and
their conclusions.  Dwight listened silently then became somber as he
comprehended the ramifications of what they had just said.

“One of my clients has been telling
me for some time about a lot of Chinese activity in the Mexican desert at San
Gustavo, near the Amistad Reservoir.  Here’s what I know.  They bought a large
parcel of land and made some arrangements with the Mexican government and the
various drug smugglers.  Then they built a huge complex with long air strips, a
lot of hangars, barracks, and various storage facilities.  Flights land in
there straight from China, with no questions asked by the Mexicans.  Without
giving it a whole lot of thought and concern, I assumed they just wanted a
presence on the southern border of the US, using the locals to make a point
with Washington every now and then.  You’ve probably heard of incidents that
sound like the Mexican army crossing the border, shooting off a few rounds then
coming back.”

Lyle nodded and Jess looked at
Dwight, astonished.

Dwight continued.  “We have Taiwan
and any number of islands in the eastern Pacific.  The Soviets had Cuba.  So I
just assumed the Chinese have northern Mexico for the same purpose.  It’s a
little reminder that if the US wants to mess with them, they have the ability
to complicate matters and return the favor.  I never thought you could
successfully invade the US and take it over by starting from the Mexican
desert.  By the time you got to the Mississippi or the Rockies you’d be shredded
by the US military.  And since the US has to know about the base, I thought
they could disregard it for the same reasons.  That is, until the military
stopped actually residing on US soil.  But hearing your story, if I combine
what I’ve heard with your theory of a quick strike to take the major ports
which coincide with the major cities, this could constitute the start of a
viable plan.”

“So what can we do?” asked Jess. 
“We need to get back to the US but our fake papers are compromised by now.  Can
you think of any way for us to get back?”

Dwight was unfazed by the
question.  “I’ll take you to the consulate and get you travel papers on the
spot.”

“In our own names?” asked an
incredulous Jess.

“Of course.  You did everything
until now using false names.  If you’re lucky, nobody is watching out for your
real names.  Any other way we could smuggle you back to the US would be
riskier.”

“What will we tell the consulate?”
asked Jess.

“Tell them you were hiking, you
were robbed and the locals won’t do anything about it.  It’s a plausible
explanation, because the first instinct for the locals would be to cover up
anything that makes the country look bad.”

As it was getting late, Dwight took
them clothes shopping and picked up some Chinese takeout for dinner.  As they
finished, he poured some Cognac for each, and they sipped it while talking into
the evening.

“Are you armed, Dwight?” asked
Lyle.

“Of course,” he replied.  He
pointed them to a nondescript wood box in the corner of the room.  “There’s a
9-mm Glock in there, and some ammo.”

“And if you ever had to make a
quick exit from Costa Rica, what would you do?” asked Jess.

“I don’t give it much thought.  But
in that case I’d probably take a cruise ship back to Florida, lost amid all
those tourists.  Looking like you’re not in a hurry to get out is really
important when you’re actually in a hurry to get out.”