The Geronimo Breach (24 page)

Sony HCR-Z5U. Expensive looking. Someone had spent serious coin on making movies.

He fumbled with the buttons and flipped out the small playback screen, eventually locating the power. The screen blinked but nothing happened. He fiddled some more, and pushed an icon he interpreted to mean ‘Play’. The screen came to life.

Three minutes later, Al shut the camera off.

He was a dead man walking.

Plain and simple. Unless he could conjure up a way to stop the entire might of the U.S. Government from swatting him like a fly, he was as dead as if he had been sitting on a pile of plutonium during his boat ride – it was just a matter of how many hours before he expired.

His hands trembled as he clumsily stuffed the camera into the satchel. He staggered over to the mirror clutching the razor and considered his enlightened reflection.

He nodded into the grime-smeared mirror – the face of a dead man nodded back.

Sam called Richard’s cell phone the second Al’s call terminated.

“What is it?” Richard asked.

“He called again, sir,” Sam announced.

“And?”

“He still thinks I’m one of the good guys,” Sam quipped.

“Gee, Sam, that’s swell. Did you happen to find out where he is?” Richard asked, heavy on the irony.

“The trace came back to a trunk line in the Antioquia region, sir.”

Sam heard the rustling of paper in the background, accompanied by a dull roar he presumed was the airplane’s engines.

“Okay, I have a map here,” Richard said. “That’s a big area. Can you be more specific?”

“I wish I could, sir,” Sam apologized. “The technology down there is too primitive to narrow it down any further.”

“That’s a shame. About as helpful as telling me he was calling from New Jersey. It’s a big area, and, oh, features fun places like Medellin, population two million. You know, the home of the Medellin cartel?”

“I understand, sir,” Sam conceded. “But it is what it is. The good news is we should have a GPS position for the phone he used on his first call within the hour, so we’ll be able to nail him to within a few meters.”

“Let’s hope he still has it with him,” Richard said. “I’ll be touching down in Panama within an hour. I’ll see you at the office in two.”

~

Al inspected himself in the mirror. He’d shaved his head with the sideburn trimmer part of the razor and trimmed his facial hair into a kind of three musketeers mustache and goatee. He hoped that as it grew in more, the goatee would be the feature people focused on rather than his whole face. He tended to remember faces by distinctive attributes – maybe everyone did the same thing.

But that would only go so far. He needed a plan if he was going to survive. And personal grooming aside, what he was facing wouldn’t ever go away. He was painted into a sticky corner and needed options.

Al paced the room, spinning scenarios in his head. He had, what, a few grand in cash? That might last him two or three months in rural shitholes like this one. Less if he went to a city. He had his passport, but it wasn’t really usable if everyone on the planet was looking for him, now was it? That further limited him. He was basically broke and limited to Colombia, where he didn’t know anyone and probably couldn’t survive very long.

Only that wasn’t completely true, was it?

He did have one option. Assuming he hadn’t run it into the ground – as he had so many in his life.

Four years ago, a few months after being posted in Panama City, Al had spent what was easily the best year of his life with a woman from Colombia – a native of Cartagena, a popular beach city on the northern Colombian coast near Venezuela. Margarita Trigos, or Mari for short, had been working for a financial services firm in Panama City, and Al had met her at a charity mixer that had been thrown in conjunction with the embassy. Normally he would have avoided any such event like the plague but the embassy had purchased a slug of tickets and handed them out to staffers and above – and besides the noble cause of helping Panama’s orphans and stray dogs, attendance included free drinks and food. A powerful attraction for Al, who was forever short on cash but long on having a good time.

So he’d cleaned up pretty well, donned a silk tropical shirt and slacks and made his way to the function; staged in the lobby of one of the large banks, which had been transformed for the evening into an entertainment zone – three bars, food stations, small tables scattered around for relaxing and enjoying the tapas and cocktails. And a live salsa band.

At first he’d felt out of place but after several vodka tonics he’d settled in, even chatting with a few groups of people he vaguely knew from the embassy. At one point, he’d gestured with his drink in his hand and bumped into a passing woman, spilling some of the clear liquid down the front of her evening dress, and almost giving her a black eye.

He’d been almost as horrified as she. Grabbing some cocktail napkins from a nearby table, he’d tried to blot the worst of the unexpected splatter off her face and bare bosom as he apologized profusely. Then she’d stopped him, and in English told him to just leave things be – she would find a ladies room and survey the damage.

When she’d returned from getting cleaned up, Al still felt terrible about the incident, and at the prodding by one of the embassy wives, approached Mari and offered to get her a drink. She’d paused for a considerable time, and then acquiesced, ordering a rum and coke. Al practically ran to get it for her. When he returned, he apologized yet again for his clumsiness.

“I’m so sorry. I normally don’t slam beautiful women in the head with my drink to get their attention,” he’d offered.

And she was beautiful. Al guessed maybe early thirties, medium dark complexion, raven hair, five foot one if she hadn’t been wearing four inch cocktail heels, slim athletic physique. No wedding band.

“It’s effective, I’ll grant you that,” she’d responded. “But not an ideal ice-breaker.”

Al got the feeling that, in spite of his disastrous collision she was flirting with him, just a little.

Al then tried
his
hand at flirting: “Normally I drug the girl’s drink, but I thought a straightforward concussion might do the trick, it being a Friday night, and all. I like to keep them guessing...”

At that point in his life he had been thinner and relatively presentable. Forty, a diplomat, decently groomed, coherent. He was not unaccustomed to interest from females since he’d hit Panama – he was plum target for females seeking a certain type of domestic bliss. At least on initial appearances. In short, Al had game.

“So what are you doing at this
soiree
?” Mari then asked him.

“I’m showing support on behalf of the embassy, in addition to boxing with the locals,” he’d quipped. “My name’s Al Ross...
Encantado...”

He’d never forget the way she stared full into his eyes. A mild charge ran between them. She introduced herself.

“Hmm. I’m not a local, just for the record,” she’d responded.

“No? Then where are you from? And are you with one of the embassies? Your English is very good.”

“No, I’m Colombian, and I’m in Panama with one of the large accounting firms. They just brought me in a month ago to help start their new office here. I’m a CPA.”

“A bean counter! I’d never have guessed. They generally don’t put accountants into such attractive packages where I come from.” Flattery never hurt, he’d found.

“Which is where, Al?” That look again…

He’d felt happy to share with her: “Originally? Cleveland, Ohio. A place that couldn’t be more different than Panama.”

“Yes, I suppose it must be.”

“And you? Where did they drag you here from?” He remembered feeling a mild surprise that his curiosity was genuine.

“Cartagena. One of the most beautiful cities in the world...” she’d explained. “Are you a high-powered diplomat? A mover and shaker?” she teased.

“The State Department would be in chaos without my daily input,” he’d volleyed.

They had royally hit it off, and a few cocktails had turned into a proposal for dinner the following night, which had developed into a few dates, which had become nights spent at her apartment – though she’d spent one evening at Al’s before declaring it uninhabitable. Al had offered token resistance but he didn’t really disagree. He wasn’t the most domesticated man in the world, and hadn’t had time to find a maid yet...

Life had gone by and they’d become an item, spending almost every night together for months on end. She hadn’t been that interested in Al’s past and had seemed okay with his divorce – less so with his drinking – but then again, he’d cut way back since he’d met her, so it was manageable. They both enjoyed a cocktail now and again and it hadn’t been a problem, at least for the first six months.

Then, as with most of his relationships, he’d grown complacent and started missing dinners and showing up later and later. They fought several times, and while he recognized he was in the wrong, he also kind of didn’t give a shit. Al supposed he loved her, at least to the extent he was capable of loving anyone but himself, and Mari certainly appeared to love him, but he just couldn’t conquer his irresponsibility. They’d settled into an uneasy truce, but it was one that couldn’t last.

On their one year anniversary she’d proposed they move in together and consider becoming serious – as in marriage serious. Al could have probably handled the discussion better – which soon degraded into a heated argument, and Al had knocked back a few more celebratory pops than normal, it being their big date, so the argument quickly spiraled into a breakup.

That had started the current three years’ cycle of non-stop boozing that had torn Al’s life apart. He’d tried to patch things up with Mari a few times over the following weeks but she’d been adamant that she wanted and deserved better than being the sex toy of a misogynist drunkard – hard to argue she wasn’t right on that point.

Then one day he’d dialed her number on a Friday night, only to find it had been disconnected. He took a cab to her apartment, being already too tipsy to drive reliably, and had caused a minor scene banging on her lobby door. Eventually one of the neighbors returned from dinner and told Al brusquely that Mari had moved out several days before. Back to Colombia. The looks they gave him clearly indicated they felt she’d done the right thing, and that he rated slightly below the black ooze to be found at the local waste dump in terms of redeeming qualities.

He’d been despondent for months, which of course manifested in increased binging, which then resulted in even deeper depressions, requiring yet more booze to keep the demons at bay.

At one point Al had spent several days trying to track Mari down, assuming she’d gone back to Cartagena. He’d even gone so far as hiring a private detective there to locate her, but once the man had found her info, Al chickened out. What was he going to say? That he’d let the best thing in his life slip away because he was a self-absorbed, drunken piece of shit, but that he was still unsure he was willing or able to change, so he still didn’t know what he really wanted? That didn’t sound like a particularly compelling pitch, even to him. And so he’d simply put it all behind him and blundered forward, dulling the pain with booze, gambling, women of loose virtue and anything else self-destructive he could get his hands on, which was abundant in a place like Panama.

Three years was a long time. A good-looking woman like Margarita had probably found herself a man who was willing to commit, and likely wouldn’t want anything to do with Al anymore. He wouldn’t, if he were in her shoes.

Still, Al didn’t have any other options. He recalled that a frequent topic of their discussions together had been her agonizing over her big brother, who had left Cartagena five years before she’d come to Panama to join the rebel forces in the south – a dangerous and stupid move, in her opinion. She constantly worried he’d been killed, or wounded, or arrested. Colombia had been wracked by civil war for decades and the FARC was the largest of the armed rebel groups – occupying huge tracts of land along the country’s northern and southern borders. Many idealistic and disenfranchised youths had left their comfortable homes to live in the jungles and play out their own Che Guevara fantasies.

Maybe she would take pity on Al. She’d had strong feelings for him, he was sure of that. Perhaps there was enough residual glow, even after three years, that she wouldn’t just leave him hanging out to die. Which was exactly what he had to look forward to if he couldn’t drop off the map in a hurry.

Al repacked his satchel, taking care to ensure the camera was protected by the few T-shirts he’d pilfered from Ernesto’s backpack. He briefly considered taking a shower – seemed like a decent idea given the day he’d had. He removed one of Ernesto’s shirts and gave it a whiff – smelled clean and looked new, like he’d just bought it.
Extra Grande
, so adequate room for Al’s girth.

He grabbed the key and the ragged towel that was folded on his table and exited the cottage, locking the door behind him. He approached the
bano
and pushed the door open. The odor was overpowering – a combination of industrial ammonia-based cleaner, mildew and general rot. He took in the square shower stall with its plastic curtain and jury-rigged shower head mounted to a short length of garden hose, and almost retched. But he smelled like an old bear who’d just come out of hibernation, so if he wanted to arouse as little attention as possible he’d need to do something about that. He removed his pants and underwear but kept his socks on, and again began his shower with his shirt on, removing it once it had been soaped and rinsed, then going to work on his body. Fortunately the proprietor had stocked the shower with a full sized bar of soap, which had been worn down halfway by use but was still more serviceable than the small hotel bars at the Alcazar.

Ablutions concluded, he wrung out his soaking shirt and slipped his shoes over his soaking socks. He didn’t want to risk infection with whatever nameless horrors were multiplying on the floor, ammonia or no, so he’d take his chances with damp shoes. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to go on any long hikes over the next few hours.