The Cain File (32 page)

Lita looked up, blinking. “Ernesto.”

“If it makes any difference, he’ll leave her too. His type always does. But not for a while. Not with his kid sucking on her tit. And definitely not for you. It’ll be someone new.”

Lita gave a heavy sigh, nodded, put her gun away, the look of anguish vanishing back under a veneer of tough
terruca
.

“I have my mission,” she said. “We need to get back to the van.” Lita stormed out in a huff, turning the corner to exit the restroom.

Maggie saw her cell phone—Abraham’s cell phone—lying on the floor in front of the urinal. From where she stood, she could see the glass was cracked, one side hanging loose, but it still looked more or less intact.

“Come on!” Lita shouted from the door.

Bending down swiftly on her way out, Maggie scooped up the phone, gave the power button a quick press, and saw it flicker red. Slipping the phone in her left jacket pocket, where it would be obscured from view by the rest of the van when Maggie resumed her seat in the back, she followed Lita.

Late-morning sun clawed its way through low clouds as the van ascended into a bad part of town, of which there were many in Quito. This one was north of the old airport, up along the mountainside where the few sidewalks were broken up and overgrown with wildflowers. Metal bars obscured every window. Graffiti made an urban camouflage across the desolate buildings.

Gauman pulled the van over next to an open space where an abandoned car without wheels lay in the weeds like a metal skeleton. Maggie watched Cain and Lita as they got out of the van, waiting for that precious second or two when their backs might be turned. Cain pulled his poncho off and Lita helped him with it. Gauman was checking his phone for messages.

No one watching.

Maggie pulled the shattered cell phone from her jacket pocket, out of view from the open van door. She stuffed the phone down the crack of the bench seat behind her. She would bet the thing was still functional, capable of sending a GPS signal if nothing else.

“Let’s go!” Cain said, turning around to glare at Maggie as he threw the crumpled poncho onto the passenger seat. He was getting nervous. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not, but she suspected it wasn’t.

Maggie climbed out. Gauman drove down to the end of the dirt street, making a 180, then shut off the engine.

Outside the thin air bore the metallic tang of pollution.

“This way,” Cain said. He and Lita flanked Maggie, practically pressing her in between them, hands in the pockets of their jackets where they gripped unseen pistols. Lita carried Maggie’s backpack. They guided her across the street toward a multistoried apartment building with outdoor stairwells, a structure that looked more like a jail spray-painted with slogans and obscenities than anything else.

Lita hadn’t said a word since her confrontation with Maggie in the highway restroom. Maggie hoped that meant her “revelation” about Cain had taken hold. With any luck, she’d begun to drive a wedge between Lita and Cain.

Cain and Lita hustled Maggie to the third floor up to a red door. It had a silver swirl of graffiti across it. From within, a television brayed with canned laughter.

Lita knocked four times. The volume of the TV dropped. Footsteps approached the door. “Who’s there?” an older woman said.

“Justice,” Lita said matter-of-factly.

The door opened partway. A pear-shaped woman in her sixties wearing a blue housedress and floral apron gave a frown at the dried mud on the cuffs of Maggie’s jeans before she stuck her head out, looked around, then stepped back and held the door open. “Tell her to brush that off,” she said to Lita. “I don’t want it in the house.”

“It’ll give you something to do,” Lita said, pushing Maggie past her.  The woman sighed as she stood back, letting them into a tiny living room. She jumped with surprise when Cain appeared. “Oh, Comrade Cain! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Cain nodded deferentially. “Think nothing of it, Comrade.”

All the blinds were drawn. An intense-looking man, about thirty, with a long gleaming braided ponytail, wearing a black-leather motorcycle jacket, had risen from an armchair where he scrutinized the arrivals from behind thick framed glasses. His eyes glistened behind them. Another guy, a lanky teenager wearing a reverse ball cap, loose black T-shirt and baggy jeans, lay on the floor, head propped up in one hand, flipping a remote control with the other. He settled on cartoons. A .38 lay by his unlaced sneaker. Otherwise, the small room was neat, with twin doilies positioned equal distances apart on a table pushed next to the wall by the door.

“Get up!” the man in glasses hissed to the boy, who turned, saw Cain, immediately jumped up, almost at attention.

“Comrade, it is always an honor,” the man in the glasses said to Cain, bowing. The heavy bulk on one side of his jacket suggested a weapon.

“Where is the prisoner, Paavo?” Cain said.

“This way.” Paavo extended a rough hand toward the back of the apartment.

Maggie followed Cain and Paavo down a narrow hallway painted bright blue, with a wooden crucifix on the wall. Lita stayed behind with Maggie’s backpack. At the end of the hall were two doors, one with a pickax handle leaning next to it. The key was in the doorknob. Paavo unlocked the door, picked up the pickax handle, and stood to one side, on guard. Cain went in, followed by Maggie.

The small room’s single window faced the stairwell outside, but was boarded up with thick plywood, well-secured. The cramped size of the room and lack of air amplified Beltran’s sour body odor and the urine smell that drifted from a plastic bucket in the corner. A single bulb burned overhead.

Beltran sat on a single bed. He stood up. He wore soiled gray suit pants and a shirt that was wrinkled beyond belief. A half-empty Styrofoam container on the floor held the remnants of a messy meal. Although he tried to remain composed, it was obvious Beltran was scared. His pockmarked skin looked sallow and his signature pompadour was disheveled, dirty and devoid of hair product.

“You’re Cain?”

Cain nodded once and Beltran glanced nervously at Maggie. “Am I getting out of here?”

“Soon,” Cain said. “This woman needs to make sure you’re who we say you are. She’s making the transfer payment.”

“Thank God,” Beltran muttered. His demeanor was a far cry from the night of the party when he’d marveled at Maggie’s derrière.

Then he blinked at her in recognition. Before he could speak, Maggie said: “I work for Five Fortunes Petroleum,” squinting to shut him up.

“Ah,” he said, getting the drift of things quickly. “And Five Fortunes is paying my ransom?”

“On behalf of Commerce Oil,” she said, giving a dry smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the opportunity to return the favor. Many opportunities.”

“I understand,” Beltran said. “I have no issue with that.”

Of course he didn’t. “Have they been mistreating you?”

Beltran eyed Cain, then looked back at Maggie. “No.”

Maggie wasn’t so sure. “When I get you out of here, you’re coming with me. To the American Embassy. You’ll be sent back home after debriefing, but the first thing you
will
do is to get a girl named Tica Tuanama and six other prisoners out of Carcel de Mujeres prison. Is that clear?”

Beltran nodded. “I know the girl who you mean. And the others. The Yasuni Seven.”

“Commerce Oil doesn’t want that kind of publicity. They’ve been all over the news. We want them out. Immediately.”

“Fully understood,” Beltran said.

Cain interjected, “But there are some things you won’t be talking about.” He gave Beltran a friendly pat on the arm. “We always know where to find you.”

“Of course,” Beltran said quickly.

“Good enough,” Maggie said. “I’ll authorize the funds transfer.” She turned and left the small room, with its smell of misery and confinement. Cain followed. The wedge-shaped woman was waiting outside. She went in, then came out carrying the bucket. It sloshed.

To her annoyance, Maggie found Lita sitting at the small square table in the living room with Maggie’s laptop out and powered up. She waited, pistol to one side.

The television had been turned off and the teenager was gone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Maggie said.

“Aren’t you going to make the transfer now? Oh wait, let me rephrase that: Are you ready to show me how to make the transfer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m going to drive.”

“Why wouldn’t you trust me? I want out of here as much as you want me out.”

Lita gave an impatient sigh.

“It’s not Facebook,” Maggie said. “There are quite a few steps to the authorization. Get one wrong and access will be revoked.”

Lita gave a shrug. “I’m anxious to learn.”

“Comrade . . .” Cain began.

“I’m doing this,” Lita said with a steely voice, glaring at Cain. “She might pull some trick on us.”

Cain exhaled. “Very well.”

There was little Maggie could do. After the restroom incident Lita was watching Maggie closely. And Perhaps Lita wanted to know the true destination of the funds, to see if they might be going directly to Cain. The seed of doubt Maggie had planted might be bearing unwanted fruit.

Maggie couldn’t let it jeopardize what she had in mind. With Lita at the keyboard, it would be trickier to pull any sleight of hand. She’d have to think of a way. And fast. But she was tired and cold and hungry and beat up—and surprised at her revulsion on seeing Beltran in his current state.

From the back of the house they heard the door to the cell room being locked. A moment later, Paavo emerged from the hallway.

Maggie sat down on the hard-backed chair next to Lita. “You’re not going to get far unless you plug the network card into the USB port,” she said. “It’s in the zipped pocket of the bag.”

Lita found the card, plugged it in.

“Now you need to enter the password,” Maggie said.

“I’m all ears,” Lita said, fingers poised over the keys.

Maggie told her.

“Interesting,” Lita said, tapping in the password in, gaining access. The computer desktop appeared.

“Log onto the secure network.” Maggie pointed at the IKON network client symbol, a globe with interconnected lines. Lita clicked it, typed in the ID and password. The little green light on the USB device flashed. She smiled, obviously pleased with herself.

“Now we have access,” Maggie said.

Almost immediately an ICE alert popped up. A small exhilaration thrilled Maggie. Whoever was trying to track her might find her this time. And in this case it might just get her out of a jam.

“What is that?” Lita said, pointing at the pop-up window.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Maggie said.

“Then why is it there?”

“It happens all the time. It’s called a false positive. Just ignore it.”

“Why?”

“Look, I don’t have time to take you through Computer Basics one-oh-one. Or years of the Bank’s security policies. It’s just part of the protocol.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because this is a highly secure system. Are you going to ask questions nonstop or can we get on with it?”

“How would you like the back of my hand across your face?” Lita said through her teeth.

“Just do as she says, Comrade,” Cain said to Lita with forced patience.

“Don’t tell me what to do,
Comrade
,” Lita replied. But she clicked the pop-up away. To Maggie, she said: “Warning disregarded. What next?”

“Before you can make the transfer, you must notify the system administrator.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s always a manual step to these procedures.”

“Why?”

“Because nothing fully automated can remain secure.”

“That makes sense to me,” Cain said.

“It would,” Lita said. Then to Maggie: “How do I get hold of this server administrator?”

“
System
administrator—sysadmin for short. Open that window there.” Maggie pointed to a white “I” icon.

“What is that?”

“The bank’s internal messaging application.”

Lita opened the Iggy client window to the app Maggie had written with Enzo, back in graduate school. “Iggy?”

“The admin ID is enzo99. You’ll have to send a message, telling him you need authorization for the Quito bank transfer. You’ll have to do it in English. Do you speak English?”

“A little.” Lita pushed a pad of paper and a pencil over. “Write it down.”

Maggie brushed her hair out of her face, picked up a pencil, and wrote:

“@enzo99: request confirmation for the preauthorized bank transfer in Quito. Please notify ED. Have verified that the merchandise is safe and am ready to move forward.”

Lita and Cain read over the message Maggie had written, translating it.

“Who is ED?” Cain asked.

“
What
is ED,” Maggie said. “External Deposits
.
The account Commerce Oil uses to stage money transfers. Looks very benign on the reports.”

Cain pursed his lips. “As long as I get the money.”

“
We
,” Lita snapped, eyeing Cain. “Cosecha Severa.”

“That’s what I meant, Comrade.”

“Of course you did.”

Maggie noticed Paavo eyeing Lita, then Cain. Did he sense the tension? But her ruse seemed to be working. She watched Lita type the message to enzo99, check it, then hit Enter. Her heart pounded while they waited for the reply. She’d known Enzo a long time—digitally. Enzo knew her boss’s name. About her search for the woman’s prison in Quito. All of that gibberish about transfers and authorizations would hopefully trigger a huge alert in his big suspicious brilliant brain.

Finally, the response came.

Enzo is typing . . .

Will process the request through ED. But first I need your bank access location and confirmation.

Maggie wrote on the pad of paper: “National Bank of Ecuador, Quito Main Branch. Access code: UIO593.”

Lita typed it all in.

Very good. ED notified. Please stand by.

Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. Enzo was a genius. She made a mental note to fly to Paris at the next opportunity and take him out to dinner and marry him, if he wasn’t too hideous.