Reckless (5 page)

“It’s okay,” he says to the other attendees. “Que la fiesta continue. A divertirse!”

The music resumes. Heads turn away and gradually banter fills the courtyard.

Diego’s hand touches my arm. “My apologies. Some men are better fit for the fields. Are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” I watch the men carry the drunk into a darkened corner of the hotel. I wonder what will happen to him.

“Your dress is ruined. May I?” He gestures with the towel. I nod. He blots the stain, starting at my belly and working his way up to my chest. As he dabs the towel against my breasts, I can barely breathe. “Good thing you’re wearing black.”

I hear myself say, “Uh-huh.”

“What’s your name?”

“Caroline.”

“Caroline. I’m very sorry for what happened. Perhaps I can make it up to you.”
 

He hands me a card. It reads: COMERCIANTES INTERNACIONALES DE CAFÉ INC.
 

“My name is Diego Martinez. Give me a call tomorrow, Caroline. I’ll send a car to take you out to my ranch. I have plenty of dresses that I think are about your size. You can pick out any one you like.”

“And what must I do in exchange?”

He folds the wet towel, staring at me. “Nothing. It’s as you Americans say, ‘I give it to you no strings attached.’ ”

I take the card and thank him. He leaves me with the towel and disappears into the crowd.

“I’m heading out,” Nick says. “I’ll have the car out front in ten minutes.”

I don’t know if I’ve flirted my way to victory, but I got what I came here for. A number and a second meeting.
 

José says he’ll walk back to the hotel to avoid any possibility of us being seen together.
 

I return to the kitchen and drop off my tray. I don’t see Regina. I toss the towel in a sink and rush out the back door with Diego’s card in my hand.

***

Back in the hotel room, Nick studies the card, laughing. “Coffee International Traders. Is this guy serious? He ought to call it The Definitely Not Smuggling Cocaine Distributers of Columbia.”
 

He tosses the card on the desk.
 

“We’ll start listening to the cell calls. I doubt he uses it for his real business, but you never know. Did you pick up any new information, José?”

“Nothing we haven’t seen before. Diego entered with a large entourage, but they quickly dispersed in the crowd. They kept a close eye on him, though. I think they were guards rather than associates. They were the same big guys who snatched that drunk.”

“What will happen to him?” I ask.

“Probably nothing but a stern lecture,” José says. “That was Hugo Cortez. He’s a bank president and the middleman to Western banks laundering drug money. They won’t hurt him unless his utility is no longer valuable.”

“I need to leave here,” I say. “When Diego sends a car to pick me up, they’re going to think it’s odd that a cocktail waitress is staying in a pricey hotel.”

“She’s right,” Nick says.
 

“I know some hostels very close and very cheap,” José says. “It’s just the kind of place a frightened American low on cash would take refuge in.”

“Fine. We’ll get rooms there, as well, so we can keep a close eye on Miranda. We have to be careful. Last night was a controlled situation. Tomorrow will be different. Miranda, call Diego in the morning so that you’ll be gone during daylight. We’ll follow you, but without being so close that Diego notices us. If you think your life is in danger, say that you miss California this time of year.”

It’s a foolish line. “What if Diego starts asking me about home and saying that I miss it is applicable to the conversation? How about I say that I miss Georgia. That will give me time to explain that I’m actually from there and blah, blah, blah, while my two heroes stage a daring rescue attempt.”

Nick smiles. “Fine. As long as it unambiguous.”

“There’s just one more thing,” I say. “What am I going to wear?”

3

We checked into the Dragonfly, a tawny stucco building a few blocks west of Plaza de Armas, around midnight. A group twenty-something’s sat around a table in the courtyard drinking beer from a pony keg and passing a hash pipe.

Heavy coughs rang out into the night.
 

All night.
 

They drank and cheered and sang American pop songs until four in the morning, at which point, they continued their partying in their room, which, lucky me, was next to mine. Given our midnight arrival, we had to contend with the few remaining beds left in the hostel. After listening all night to them coughing and fucking and coughing some more, I eventually slept for a few hours.

The rays of dawn now pierce through the window.
 

I sit up in the bed and peel back the curtain. The older pair who checked us in last night is down in the courtyard, busy throwing away plastic cups and emptying ashtrays.
 

A figure passes my window. It’s Nick. Crawling to the other end of the bed, I unlock the door and turn the knob.

Nick staggers inside. His eyes are bloodshot. Dark bags hang below them.

“Did you sleep any?” he yawns.

“A couple of hours. They were beside me.”

Nick shakes his head. “Better than being on the first floor. I was right below them. I swear it took every ounce of reserve for me not to start shooting at the ceiling.”

“I know. Do I look as bad as I feel?”

“Nah. You look beautiful as always.”

“Liar. Where’s José? He better have some magic ointments. I can feel the puffiness in my face.”

“That’s probably the altitude. I’ll call him and get him up here.”

While Nick calls José, I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face. As I suspected, I look like the girl from
The Exorcist
. I slap my cheeks a few times to draw some life into them and use the restroom. When I come out, José walks through the door.

“Good morning, good morning!” he says. “There’s a splendid breakfast downstairs. Homemade stuff that’s better than Pirqa. You guys better hurry before the late sleepers eat it all.”

Nick stares at him. “And where did you sleep?”

“Around the corner facing the front. Real quiet place. Very cozy here, don’t you think?”

I could kill José. Nick doesn’t say a word, but I know he feels the same.

We eat downstairs and meet in José’s room afterwards to make the call to Diego. Nick attaches the cell phone to a recording device.

I dial the number.

Diego doesn’t answer the call.

“Comerciantes Internacionales de Café, puedo ayudarle?”

“Um . . .” I look up at Nick and José who both mouth for me to introduce myself. “I’m Caroline. Diego told me to call him—”

“Si, si. Un momento.”

We wait.

“Caroline!” It’s Diego. “I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up. I had my hands full and my assistant answered. How are you?”

“I’m doing fine. I just finished eating breakfast. I hope I didn’t call too early.”

“No, I was up before the sun rose. The coffee business runs twenty-four seven when you’re worldwide. I’m lucky to sleep at all.”

Nick rolls his eyes.

“Well, at least you don’t have partygoers keeping you up all night.”

“Where are you staying?”

“A hostel. The Dragonfly. It’s about half a mile from the Belmond.”

Diego makes tsk, tsk sounds. “Cocktail waitressing, cheap noisy hostels. You really do need a better guide, Caroline. I’m sending one of my drivers over to pick you up. Is two hours from now good?”

“That’s fine.”

“Excellent. You can have lunch at my ranch and then we can select your dress. How does that sound?”

“Sounds lovely.”

The call ends.

“José, you better grab your book of beauty secrets, because I’m going to need it.”

“No worries. I think we should go for the cute-yet-casual look.”

“You did good, Miranda,” Nick says. “Try to get him to continue talking about his business even if he contends that it’s only coffee. We’re getting good intel.
 

“If Diego really is up at night, it means he’s distributing outside of the US. We’ve heard about a power struggle going on in Europe, but we weren’t sure if Diego was a part of it. If he’s getting calls in the middle of the night, they’re probably coming from there.”

“Why is Europe being contested all of a sudden?” I ask.

“Immigration,” José says. “Traditionally, Europe was supplied with cocaine passing through Caribbean waters and the Atlantic. It’s a heavily patrolled route, though. With Europe relaxing their immigration policies for Muslims and Africans, ground routes have opened up south of Europe. It takes longer to transport and it’s more expensive per trip, but the seizure rates are less likely.”

“You think Diego’s moving drugs through Africa and the Middle East?” I ask.

“More likely Africa,” Nick says. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The seizure rates in the Caribbean and Atlantic have increased three hundred percent this summer, yet the price of cocaine in Europe has fallen by fifteen percent per gram. Economically that doesn’t add up unless it’s coming from another route.”

As José does my hair and makeup, I try to remind myself that Diego isn’t the suave, most-eligible bachelor that he presents himself to be. He may be sophisticated and good looking and a little charming, but he’s about as much an eligible bachelor as he is a coffee supplier.

José goes for a youthful, natural look that gives me a college girl appearance. He suggests a diaphanous pink tank that’s wavy and sleeveless. Cute beads accent the playful top. He pairs this with a ripped pair of jeans that probably cost a lot more than they should.

He barely finishes when a black Escalade pulls in front of the hostel.

“That’s got to be him,” Nick shouts from the window. He shuts the curtain. “Get the wire on her, José.”

“What about the earpiece?” I ask.

Nick shakes his head. “We can’t risk it in the daylight.”

I have no complaints. While I enjoy Nick and José’s company, when they’re yapping in my ear it’s a little distracting.
 

I grab my handbag and step out front.

The Escalade is spotless and formidable. In Manhattan, phalanxes of the vehicles sit outside prep schools and fashion events, patrolling the Upper East Side like small Armadas of the one percent. They never seemed out of place there. But here in Cusco, outside the Dragonfly among a row of barely running Ticos, I get the sense that Peru’s President has arrived.
 

The young partygoers are up and milling around the hostel’s courtyard with bloodshot eyes. They come out front to see who’s arrived.

 
A passenger door opens. I expect the Hulk or some other behemoth of a bodyguard to get out. Instead, a short man with a scar running down the front of his face steps out.

“Good morning, Caroline,” the man says. “How did you sleep last night?”

“Oh, fine, I suppose. We have some wild guests, so it was a struggle, but I managed.”

He squints and stares at the partygoers watching us from the front steps and the railing above.
 

They turn and scamper back toward their rooms.
 

“Would you like me to have a word with them?”

“Oh, no. They’re fine. Just young and stupid.”

“Very well.”

I climb in the back, and he closes the door.
 

The driver fails to introduce himself.

The morning traffic is a dense mass of stop and go. We soon leave the city on the Highland Road moving west. As we pass through the Poroy District, the traffic is light except for the charter buses. We pass them when the road allows.
 

While pretending to look at the sites, I glance back to see if Nick and José are following. I don’t see them, though I’m not surprised. They know where we’re going, so there’s no reason for them to follow too closely.

At every tourist stop we pass, vendors sell alpaca booties and hats, brightly colored blankets, endless strands of beads, artwork, textile dolls and items whose uses and designations I can’t specify.

An hour later, we pass through Urubamba, driving along the Vilcanota River. The mountain ranges press close together as if colluding to squeeze mankind out of the area with a slow thrust of geological warfare. Wandering through a troop of tour buses, we continue north.
 

Except for a few picturesque hostels and homes, we leave civilization, passing deep into a rising valley within the Willkanuta mountain range.
 

Within an hour, we stop outside a private gate where the road ends. The driver presses a button above him and the gate opens.
 

I watch the odometer as we drive.
 

The lonesome road curves around a crag in the mountain. A Mediterranean-style mansion the size of a small resort sits along a lee. The home’s façade faces the mountain, allowing the valley to serve as the backyard. I count three floors from the rear of the home, while the front deceptively reveals only one.
 

According to the odometer, we’ve traveled more than a mile. Shit. Nick and José won’t be able to listen in. I check my cell phone, but of course, I don’t have any bars this far out.
 

Reality sets in. I’m all-alone with high-profile criminals around me.

4

The Escalade rolls over a smooth, white sandstone drive, stopping under the porte-cochère.
 

The assistant climbs out of the passenger door and helps me out of the SUV. He escorts me down a wrap-around balcony leading to the rear of the compound.
 

I hear Diego yell, “Jalar!” followed by gunshots. At the edge of a large terrace, Diego stands before a stone balustrade with panoramic views.

“Jalar!” he shouts again.

An assistant yanks a cord, sending a pair of clay pigeons spinning out of a machine.
 

They orbit over the valley.
 

Diego tracks them with the shotgun and fires twice. A plum of grey dust drifts behind him. One of the clay pigeons explodes, but the other drifts to the valley floor still intact.