Survival (24 page)

“I understand. I spoke with Jaime, but he doesn’t have any contacts with the Colombian navy in that part of the country. His power is concentrated on the Pacific side.” They were speaking Portuguese, so she had no worry about Jaime overhearing and taking offense. “At any rate, I’ll keep after the man and the girl. Good luck catching up with them.”

“At worst you’ll have wasted a little time. And it will give you something to do with yourself while you wait – I know how you get with idle hands.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “And thanks for the good wishes, but luck will have nothing to do with it.”

“I’m sure it won’t. Enjoy your boat ride.”

She signed off and turned to Jaime, who was texting on his phone. He glanced up at her and pursed his lips. “We found the driver’s distribution center in Viterbo, but he’s already left on his route. The girl didn’t know where he was going today, so we’re watching the roads.”

“Where’s Viterbo?”

“It’s a larger town about nine kilometers from here. We’ll head over after breakfast.”

“What about his cell phone? Can’t we track it?”

“Yes and no. Many areas in these hills don’t have coverage, so it’s hit or miss. And there’s still some latency between when I get someone at the phone company to run a trace and when it gets done. I’ve already asked for it, but there are no guarantees.” He smiled. “Nothing happens fast in Colombia, so relax, enjoy the view, and be patient.”

She returned the smile. “I’m not good at being patient, or passive.”

He held her stare. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Chapter 34

Santiago, Chile

Drago shifted from foot to foot as the phone rang. His agent was taking longer than usual to pick up. When the man’s distinctive voice came on the line, he sounded cautious.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Silence. When the agent spoke, his tone was typically flat, devoid of inflection. “Been a while since you checked in. Our client is…unhappy.”

“Something came up.” Drago told him about the river, the hospital, and his scrabble over the last days to accumulate sufficient cash through muggings to have some reasonable options.

“I see. That’s quite a tale,” the agent said neutrally.

“I need some help. I want the word put out about our boy. He had help. A woman. Professional. He couldn’t have gotten that help without a local contact. That spells either an intelligence agency or organized crime.”

“I have some contacts with the Chilean government.”

“Good. Nose around and see what you can learn about their clandestine group. Do you have sufficient pull to confirm whether they’re helping the target?”

“I should be able to,” the agent said dryly.

“Fine. As to the local mafia, find out who the groups are that run Chile and put out feelers to them. Someone will know something.”

The agent cleared his throat. “We have an issue with the client. He’s not happy about your going dark.”

“He can feel free to pull the contract, and I’ll gladly go home.”

The agent was silent for several moments. “I need to discuss this latest development with him. Where can I reach you?”

“I can call you back in an hour. Will that be enough time?”

“I should think so. Are you…fit, after your hospital stay?”

“A little worse for wear, but I’m fine.”

“No concerns about your ability to conclude the assignment?”

“None, unless you don’t do as I’ve asked – in which case we’re wasting each other’s time. So make your call and I’ll touch base shortly.” He hung up before the agent could argue.

He expected the man had taken some flak for his being out of touch for so long, but he was well paid and could deal with a few ruffled feathers – the client would understand, given the situation, and it wasn’t like Drago had been off on a binge. The real question was whether the client would still want to move forward with Drago, or whether he had contacted someone else to replace him.

Drago was sitting in the shade of a tree near one of the city’s wide boulevards, the snowcapped Andes in the distance. It had been an unpleasant few days, having to assault pedestrians to build up a bankroll, stealing everything he needed – shoes, money, a watch, a heavier jacket. But after four muggings in four different neighborhoods, he had the equivalent of five hundred dollars, shoes that fit, a decent shirt, and the newly purchased burner cell phone he planned to toss as soon as he completed his next call to the agent.

An hour passed as he watched pretty girls stroll down the sidewalk toward the university, and he thought to himself that Chile might not be a terrible place to go to ground after this episode was over – good food, passable wine, friendly locals, acceptable weather. It definitely warranted looking into; he understood that Colombia would be too hot for him after this contract was finished, regardless of how it turned out.

His agent sounded slightly more relaxed when Drago called him back.

“The client has expressed his desire for the contract to proceed as agreed, and he reiterated his sense of urgency.”

“Very well. I need some money and a passport. Can you get a package to Santiago, Chile, within twenty-four hours?”

The agent hesitated. “That’s tight.”

“I didn’t ask whether it would be difficult, I asked whether you can make it happen.”

“I’ll see what I can do. How much do you see yourself needing?”

“Figure ten grand cash, a credit card I can use for flights and cars, and a full set of papers. You still have my photos, correct?”

“Of course. I’ll have my technician get to work. But getting it to you in that time frame might prove to be more complicated than you imagine.”

“Ship it via LAN airlines to be picked up at the Santiago airport – that will be faster than sending it DHL or FedEx. Use the name Guillermo Cribi.” One of the men Drago had relieved of his wallet bore a decent resemblance to him, and he’d kept his identification for just this reason.

“Right. I’ll see if he can turn this in time to get it out by this evening or, worst case, first thing tomorrow. If he can, figure tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Fine. In the meantime, put out the word. Someone will know something.”

The agent hesitated. “You’re absolutely sure you’re up to this?”

“Oh, never more so. I’m not going to say that this is personal now, but let’s just assume I have a burning interest in seeing the contract satisfied sooner rather than later.”

“Very well. I’ll get to work.”

“Good. Send the details to my email. I’ll check it tonight.”

~ ~ ~

NE of Acandí, Colombia

The lights of Colombia glimmered in the distance as the
Providencia
crossed the invisible line that marked the end of Panama and the beginning of Colombian water. The trip had taken longer than Juan Diego had expected, due to a headwind strong enough to rob them of several hours, and he was now estimating that they’d be off Acandí in another forty minutes, or about twenty-five hours after Jet had set foot on the fishing boat’s deck.

She’d spent most of the trip below. The vessel’s movements were conducive to dozing, abetted by the hypnotic drone of the motor. Once it had gotten dark, she returned to the pilothouse with her bag in tow and watched the black coastline slip by, occasionally studying the glowing screen of the radar and the few blips at the far edge of its range.

“That’s strange,” Juan Diego said, following her gaze and eyeing the radar. His ever-present bottle of seco was wedged among the instruments, and the smell of alcohol seeped from his pores whenever Jet got close to him.

“What?”

He tapped the screen with a gnarled finger. “That. It’s moving pretty fast. Probably forty knots. You don’t see that kind of boat down here unless it’s headed north.”

“How far away is it?”

“Maybe thirty kilometers.”

“Navy?” Jet asked, watching the glowing dot inch a little closer to the center of the screen with each sweep.

“Way too small. That looks like maybe forty, forty-five feet.”

Jet stepped away from Juan Diego. “How much longer till you drop me off?”

“Figure half an hour, tops. I’ll have one of the crew take you to the beach in the tender.”

“I don’t suppose you know of any hotels in Acandí…”

“Never had the pleasure, but if there are any, I can’t imagine you’ll have any trouble getting a room. Acandí’s not exactly a high-traffic destination.”

“I’m surprised there’s anything there, based on your description.”

“A lot of Colombians go to these border beach areas for vacation, to get away from the crowded towns.” He unscrewed the cap on his seco, drained the last of it, and studied the empty bottle with a sad expression. “Takes all kinds.”

Half an hour later Juan Diego backed off the throttles as Acandí’s waterfront main street glowed along the dark stretch of coastline to starboard. He turned from the wheel and called to the crewman who was using the head in the cabin below. “Gerardo. Get up here. Time to take our guest to shore.”

A few moments later Gerardo arrived, with the distinctive smell of cannabis on his clothes and a faraway look in his eyes. Juan Diego either didn’t notice or didn’t care, and pointed at the tender that was trailing the boat, twenty feet off the stern. “Reel her in and let’s get this over with.” The old smuggler looked at Jet. “Nice having you aboard, and good luck with whatever. Safe travels, and all that. Watch your back – Colombia can be a dangerous place.”

“Thanks.”

Gerardo had the skiff ready in thirty seconds, and Jet stepped aboard as Juan Diego put the larger vessel’s transmission in neutral. The little outboard whined like a jilted bride, and then they cut across the water to Acandí, no more than a quarter mile away. Jet turned to watch the approaching outline of thatched roofs and a few buildings with lights on. The beach was deserted, most of the dwellings already dark.

The roar of high-performance motors reached her from across the water, and she glanced back at the
Providencia
. A low-slung cigarette boat was bearing down on it from behind, seemingly on a collision course.

“Hang on,” Gerardo said.

The skiff bounced through the mild surf as it neared the beach, and then the bow bumped softly against the sand. “Watch your step,” Gerardo warned. Jet waved over her shoulder as she climbed over the bow and leapt onto the beach. He gunned the outboard in reverse and the tender slid off the sand, lifted by an incoming roller, and then he was gone, invisible in the darkness, the skiff’s dark hull blending with the surface of the sea.

A tickle of apprehension stirred in her stomach as she watched the speedboat pull alongside the
Providencia
. A fast-moving vessel coming from Panama and beelining directly to the fishing boat might have been any of several innocent things, but that wasn’t how her luck had been running. A man boarded Juan Diego’s craft in the dim light, and she didn’t wait to see the outcome. Instead she bolted across the sand to the relative safety of the small town.

On the
Providencia
, Juan Diego saw the approaching boat and moved below with surprising agility, returning with his flare gun just in time to see the other craft bump against his vessel’s hull and a man leap aboard. He squinted against the glare of a spotlight that blinked on, temporarily blinding him, and was struggling to see when a presence materialized next to him and twisted the weapon from his hand.

“You’re not going to need that,” Igor said, tossing the gun on the deck and pointing his own pistol at Juan Diego’s head. “Where is she?” he demanded, then turned and slammed the butt into the second crewman’s head as he tried to tackle him. The man went down in a heap, knocked senseless, and Igor turned back to the old smuggler.

“Tie him up.”

Juan Diego shook his head. “You’re insane.”

“You either tie him up or I shoot him. Your choice.”

Juan Diego frowned and moved to the cabinet below the helm.

“Easy – I better not see anything but rope in your hand, or you’re a dead man,” Igor warned.

Juan Diego grunted as he knelt and opened the storage area, pulled a length of cord from inside it, and secured the crewman’s wrists before standing and facing Igor.

“We don’t have any money onboard, so you’re wasting your energy,” Juan Diego said.

“Don’t play dumb. Where is she?”

“What do you want?” Juan Diego demanded.

“You heard me. I know you took on a passenger. Is she below?”

“There’s nobody below.”

Igor cocked the hammer. “Show me.”

Juan Diego eased down the ladder, his movements stiff, hoping to trick the newcomer into letting down his guard – he was, after all, an old man. Igor followed him down using one hand, the pistol in the other, and then motioned with the gun. “Sit down at the table and keep your hands where I can see them,” Igor said.

Any hopes Juan Diego had of being able to take the gunman evaporated – the man was obviously a seasoned pro.

Igor’s eyes traveled to the front of the boat. “Those are the staterooms?”

Juan Diego nodded. Igor eyed him as he moved to the first door. “Move and I shoot you.”

“There’s nobody there.”

“So you say.” Igor’s hand slid onto the lever handle, and with a twist he pushed the door open and swept the tiny room with his gun. Finding no one, he repeated the move on Juan Diego’s cabin and finished with the two heads. When he got back to where Juan Diego was sitting, his face was dark. “What else is down here?”

“Machine room. Engines. Fish hold accessible through the deck.”

Igor did a perfunctory search and returned to Juan Diego. “No more screwing around. Tell me where she is, or I start shooting off body parts.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong boat.”

Igor considered shooting him in the stomach, but decided to give it one more try. “I watched her get on in Portobelo, you turd,” he hissed, venom dripping from every syllable. “Do you want to die tonight, or live to smuggle more dope north? I really don’t care which, but you might. And I’ll find her anyway.”