Survival (14 page)

Fernanda didn’t push it. She sat back, masking her impatience, and returned the smile. “I have tons of it. But I’m a big believer in being one of those who help themselves. I’ve found it’s bad business to wait and hope.”

He nodded. “I understand. The young are always in a hurry. It’s only when the years have seasoned you that you realize the virtues of biding one’s time.”

“I hope to get the chance to discover that for myself. But right now I’d settle for the helicopter radioing in that it’s found the boat.”

Mosises laughed. “Yes, I believe you would. But it’s out of my hands now. The game has been put into motion, and all we can do is watch and wait…and be prepared to strike when our opportunity presents itself.”

“I specialize in the striking part.”

Mosises appraised her, his laugh dying on his lips. “I have no doubt that you do.” He took another puff on his cigar and regarded the glowing ash thoughtfully. “No doubt at all.”

Chapter 20

Colón, Panama

Jet’s heels snicked on the tile floor of the seedy bar as she pushed her way through the double entry doors and made a slow beeline to where a lone bartender stood polishing glasses. This was the second watering hole she’d been to this evening, and she’d already had enough of Colón’s waterfront entertainment possibilities to last a lifetime. Rough-looking men with scruff on their faces, their skin burnished dark by constant exposure to the sun, sat drinking at small circular tables, talking among themselves. A few working girls leaned against the bar, giving the patrons the eye, open for business before the night rush got underway.

Jet surveyed the tawdry interior, with its peeling paint, grungy tabletops, and ceramic tile floor so old and stained it was impossible to guess the original color, and her gaze settled on a pair of younger men sitting at the bar – hard-looking, but dressed better than the seamen and laborers at the tables.

She sat on an empty stool next to the men and ordered a beer, which she’d nurse for two hours if necessary while she trolled for the right kind of predator – the sort who either ran the border himself or knew someone who did. The aging bartender at the last bar had told her that she’d have better luck in some of the waterfront towns down the coast from Colón, but she was here now and would give Colón her best effort. Traveling increased her risk of being stopped by the police, even if it was fairly remote, and while her newly dyed hair and more provocative outfit would probably exclude her from serious scrutiny, it was foolish to take unnecessary chances.

The two men looked her up and down, making no effort to contain their leers as she waited for her drink to arrive. The bartender, a middle-aged man with a bulldog face that looked like it had taken more punches than Ali, set a bottle of Panama beer in front of her. She handed him a twenty-dollar bill, drawing raised eyebrows from her new admirers, the closest of whom elbowed his companion.

A bulky television sat on a ledge behind the bar, showing a martial arts movie on an endless loop in the background, the sound off. A has-been B movie actor now more in the C category waddled toward the camera, his bad hairpiece dyed black in defiance of his fifty-something paunch and deeply lined face, the wardrobe department’s efforts to conceal his girth by keeping him in a buttoned dinner jacket for most of the movie having the opposite effect, and sneered his lines at another actor. The actor mugged, making it clear he was the villain, and then ten toughs with lengths of pipe, two-by-fours, hatchets, and axe handles appeared from the shadows.

Jet sighed, wondering why nobody had a gun, and watched as the portly star took on the lot of them, barely able to lift his arms in his getup, while his adversaries never landed a blow or mussed his rug. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, then studied the beer bottle label as though it contained ancient wisdom.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” the man next to her said.

Jet turned and looked at him. A lean build, three days of stubble dusting his jaw, and dark circles under his eyes even though he looked younger than she was. He was wearing a hoodie in spite of the heat. She raised the sweating bottle to her lips and took a swallow, then set it on the wood bar and offered a tentative smile.

“First time for everything,” she said in a playful tone.

“What brings you to lovely Colón on a night like this?”

“I want to make new friends.”

Another elbow, a snort from the second man, and obvious interest from the nearest one. “Yeah? You don’t look like you’d have any problem making friends.”

“I’m looking for a special kind of friend.”

The man smiled. It had the effect of stretching his skin, making him look like he was in pain. She noted that he didn’t waste effort on dental hygiene, his teeth yellow from smoking and neglect. “Is that right?”

“Yes. Someone connected.”

The men exchanged a glance. “Connected,” the man next to her repeated.

“That’s right.”

“You a cop?”

She laughed. “Do I look like a cop?”

His eyes were hard and he didn’t smile. “It’s a yes or no question.”

“Then the answer is no, I’m not a cop.”

“Because if you were, and you lied to us, nothing we said would be usable.”

“Is that right?” she said, her tone bored. The other man hadn’t said anything, but when he leaned forward and stared at her, she could see that beneath his beard he had some sort of scar tissue on the right side of his face. If she had to guess, she would have gone with a broken bottle in a bar fight.

When he spoke, his guttural voice matched his looks. “What do you want? Dope? Guns? Somebody taken care of?”

Apparently these boys were a one-stop shop. She took another sip of beer and wondered how likely it was that they weren’t full of shit. Probably fifty-fifty, she thought; but she’d come to dance, and these gentlemen were the most likely partners on the floor.

“Nothing like that. I need somebody who can get in and out of Colombia.”

“What’s the cargo? The customs patrols don’t mess around. It’s practically impossible to get any serious weight out of Colombia with the number of boats being inspected.”

“I don’t want to bring anything north. I have a friend who wants to go south.”

The man nearest her stared at her in surprise. “South?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“Because he wants to. What does it matter to you?”

The steel in her tone shut them both up. She kept her eyes on the pair, her gaze unblinking, assessing whether they were zeroes or had game. The bottle-faced man cleared his throat and leaned toward her.

“When?”

“Nobody’s getting any younger.”

“Just one?”

She nodded. If they asked what her imaginary friend had done that he wanted to cross into Colombia without going through formalities like customs or immigration checks, she was walking. Nobody pro would ask that, she knew from experience, and there was no point in wasting her evening on anyone who couldn’t deliver.

“I might have a guy.”

Bingo.

“A guy?” she echoed.

“A buddy. Has a float plane. Might be interested in doing some low-level night flying if the price was right.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah? What do you think that would cost?”

Bottle-face pulled his friend’s sleeve. “Let’s go to the bathroom. I need to make a call.” He looked at Jet, his expression unreadable. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“This is as far from anywhere as I can get.”

The bartender approached once the two had gone to the back of the bar and pointed to her beer, which was still three-quarters full. He glanced around without seeming to and leaned forward across the bar.

“None of my business, but those two are bad news.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Of course not. Listen. I’m looking for someone who can help me with a problem. You know anyone like that?”

“Depends on the problem.”

She was about to tell him when the two men reappeared. Jet caught the look of caution in his eyes as he turned away and made a mental note not to underestimate the pair. They returned to their seats and Bottle-face sat next to her this time. He was clearly the brains of the operation, which spoke volumes for whom she was dealing with. Bad news indeed, but perhaps useful.

“My buddy said he’s interested, but it’ll cost ten grand American.”

Jet didn’t say anything for several beats. She shook her head.

“Sorry for wasting your time. Have a nice night.”

She pushed the beer away and stood. Bottle-face registered surprise and grabbed her arm. “Wait. Sit down.”

She looked down at where his hand gripped her, then at the man, and calculated which of the fifty ways she could break his hand or arm she would use if he didn’t let go of her. He must have registered the danger because he let go and sat back. She considered possible responses and decided to play out the scenario to see what they came back with.

“He wanted ten, but I told him the going rate’s half that,” the thug tried. On screen, the chunky action hero was just finishing off the last of the stuntmen, looking like a bear with a beehive stuck on its face as he swung at the villain implausibly. Jet watched the man launch back in a graceful arc as the tubby hero grazed his face with a puffy hand; he landed on the ground, twitched once, and then lay still.

“Still seems pretty steep for, what, a half-hour plane ride?” Jet countered.

“There’s a lot of risk.”

“Really? The Colombians really patrol the Darién for planes going the wrong way?” she asked in a low voice, with obvious skepticism.

“Five gets him into Colombia, within fifty clicks of the border.”

She appeared to think about it, taking her time considering the deal. Reality was she had no other options.

“How much notice does he need?”

“He said he could do it tonight. But payment in advance.”

“Oh, yeah? I’ll tell my friend. How do I get in touch with you?”

Bottle-face frowned. “Don’t you have a cell? Call him. This is a one-time offer.”

Jet didn’t smile at the hard close attempt, merely nodding instead. “Now it’s my turn to head to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

The facilities might have been better than a Turkish prison, but not much, starting with the lack of a toilet seat and extending to unmentionable globs of mysterious goop on the floor that gave even Jet pause. She waited long enough to have called someone and then exited, breathing through her mouth until she was back in her seat.

“He says it’s a go,” she said.

“Cash only,” the thinner friend said.

Jet eyed the man. These weren’t the brightest, but then again, she wasn’t talking to them for their scintillating wit. “I got that. How do we do this?”

“Can you get the money and be back in an hour?” Bottle-face asked.

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll meet you by the statue of Christopher Columbus in the park near the waterfront, on Paseo del Centenario. You can’t miss it. Everyone knows where it is.” He held up his cheap, oversized watch – overcompensation for something, she had no doubt. “One hour.”

“At the statue. Got it. We’ll be there,” she assured them.

Bottle-face and his buddy looked her up and down, grinning like fools. They’d probably just made off the finder’s fee what they pulled in on a good week. They both gave her the creeps, low-level maggots, but it was a seller’s market, and she wanted to see Hannah and Matt before the sun set tomorrow.

She didn’t look back as she strode to the door, heels tapping out a tattoo on the tile as half the eyes in the place admired her. She couldn’t wait to get the outfit off, but she had to admit she fit in now, whereas with her usual black cargo pants, running shoes, and muted top, she would have looked out of place.

In the end it didn’t matter. She had an hour to kill, and then, with any luck, she’d be winging her way toward her daughter.

Chapter 21

Santiago, Chile

The lights of the Metropolitan Hospital were dimmed for the night. The wards were empty except for nurses and the sick, the teaching hospital’s doctors having gone home earlier. The corridors were redolent with the distinctive aroma of antiseptic and bleach, the odor of hospitals everywhere, a smell that permeated clothes and hair and never completely washed out no matter what the staff did.

An air conditioner hummed overhead, blowing a stream of frigid air into the already cool halls, as if modern medicine could chill infirmities away rather than battling them on a daily basis. The doors to most of the rooms were open on the critical care floor, where death was a regular visitor and few stayed long.

Two nurses sat behind a circular counter, talking in muted tones, occasionally glancing to where a bank of monitors displayed the vital signs of the unfortunates asleep in the ward’s occupied beds. Most would leave in body bags, but that was the job, and after enough years it either ate at you to the point where you quit the field, or you hardened and dug in, watching the endless stream of humanity come and go, a constant reminder of the frail hold living things had on this world.

Down the hall, in a room with four beds, one of the reclining patients’ eyes flickered open. The prone man blinked several times, as though confused by the darkness, and then slowly worked his fingers into a fist – first one hand, then the other, ignoring the discomfort of the IV line.

Five minutes later he repeated the process with his lower appendages, taking his time, waiting until he was confident that all the circulation and feeling had returned. He had no idea where exactly he was, other than in a hospital. Memories of his last waking moment rushed back to him and he tried to sort through them, to make sense of the jumble of images. After another minute, he turned his head, first in one direction, then the other, testing, ensuring he wasn’t paralyzed or injured so severely that he couldn’t easily move.

Satisfied that he was intact, his hands roved down his torso, probing. A lance of pain spiked through his ribcage when he reached the lower ribs – broken, no doubt, but he could manage the discomfort. When he was finished with his body, he felt his head and the cool, soft bandage wrapped around it. He repeated the inspection and drew a sharp intake of breath when he reached the back of his skull – it felt like he’d taken a hell of a blow, that was for sure. His fingers slipped beneath the bandage and fumbled with the clips that held the long strip in place.