The Geronimo Breach (12 page)

“I’m sorry I can’t help you. Now I want my lawyer,” Carmen demanded.

“That’s a shame, Carmen. Because if you won’t help me find him, I can see ugly rumors circulating around town that you not only cooperated with a rival faction and set up Don Tomas and his boys for execution, but you finished the job yourself. That would make for an extremely short life expectancy for you, not to mention destroy your source of income – Esperanza would be a ghost town within an hour of the story hitting the streets.”

“But...that’s not true!” Carmen protested.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, regardless. The Triads tend to be extremely sadistic in their retribution – even more so than the Colombians, if you can imagine that.”

“Who...who are you?”

“Ah, Carmen, I’m your savior.” He lightly touched her forearm. “I’m prepared to single-handedly prevent that story from leaking out. And all I need is for you to look at a photo and tell me what I need to know.” Jenkins flipped open the folder and slid a black and white photo of the cook across the table to Carmen.

Carmen regarded the picture. It was Ernesto. Her expression didn’t falter in any way. Jenkins watched closely for any telltale giveaways – ticks, rapid blinking, sidelong glances. There were none.

He waited for her to say something. She refused, and merely studied the photo.

“This man is a cook. We know he was in your establishment when the gunfight started,” Jenkins probed.

“Mr. Jenkins, with all due respect, there were a lot of people there. It’s Saturday night. How can you expect me to know every man who passed through the door looking for a little relaxation?”

“Carmen, this isn’t a game. We know you’re helping him out of the country. We don’t even care that you’re doing so – everyone’s entitled to make money however they can. Same for Esperanza. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. But this man is extremely sensitive for me, and I absolutely will find him, whether you tell me or not. Your cooperation will simply accelerate the inevitable, which is why I’m here,” Jenkins explained. “Oh…and, of course…ensure your survival in the process.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Carmen said. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Carmen, this is your last chance to save yourself. We’re tracking him, and it’s only a matter of time until we have him. We know he’s moving south, down the Transamerican. My only questions relate to where he’s headed.” Jenkins watched her reaction. Nothing. She was very good. Figured, given her line of work. “We know he’s headed for the border, so the only question is whether he’s going all the way to Yaviza, or is he stopping in Santa Fe or Meteti and cutting over the mountains.”

Carmen had blinked when he’d said Yaviza. Subtle, but it was there. And it was enough.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Jenkins – or whatever your real name is. Maybe this man
was
at my place, enjoying the charms of one of my girls, but as to the rest of your story, it’s way off base. I don’t know what this man has done, but I have nothing to do with helping him get to Colombia. So you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Carmen’s eyes narrowed.

Jenkins clapped, slowly, appreciatively. Carmen glared disgust at him, not bothering to disguise it. “I never said he was trying to get to Colombia, Carmen. I just said you were helping him get to the border. That could mean Costa Rica, too, couldn’t it? But you said Colombia.” Jenkins grinned, confident now.

Carmen frowned. “You said they were going south, and mentioned three villages near the Darien Gap. I put two and two together and figured you think they’re going to Colombia.”

“And I never said anything about ‘they’. I only asked about the man in the photo.” Jenkins reached over and slid the photo back into his folder, then pushed back from the table and stood up.

“It probably won’t be safe for you to stay in Panama, Carmen, given the nasty rumors which will soon be circulating. A shame, really. I hope you make it out before someone gets you. You’re a beautiful woman – I’ve seen what these characters do to beautiful women before they kill them.” Jenkins held her gaze.

Carmen seemed deflated and her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at Jenkins, and said, “Meteti. Ten miles south of Meteti.”

Jenkins smiled again, and turned to leave. He’d seen her blink when he’d mentioned Yaviza. He was almost certain she was lying now. He didn’t blame her. He’d lie too, in her position. It merely confirmed his understanding of human nature.

“Good luck, Carmen. I think you’re lying. I think you know ‘they’ are going to Yaviza and you’re trying to throw me off the scent.” He walked to the door, and knocked twice.

“You’re wrong,” Carmen insisted tearfully. “Absolutely wrong.”

“Sure I am. Goodbye, Carmen.”

Al wasn’t feeling particularly good. He had heartburn from the goddamned sheep sphincter soup or whatever the hell it was, and he had to pee away the three liters of beer he’d knocked back while they were waiting. Ernesto seemed content to stare at the jabbering on the TV, and he’d declined Al’s generous offer of a frosty beverage to mitigate the heat.

Al stood, sweating from the humid night air, and told Ernesto he was going to take a leak. He wandered down the road about fifty yards and turned down a dirt track, moving towards the concrete wall of an industrial building – some sort of abandoned warehouse or storage facility.

Unzipping his cargo pants, he almost moaned aloud at the glowing sensation of relief. He urinated for over a full minute, focusing the flow on a crumpled beer can and hiccupping occasionally – the flavor of his nocturnal meal rose in his gorge each time, triggering a gag reflex.

Fucking monkey brain stew.

Finished, he retraced his steps down the dirt trail towards the main road, pausing by the corner of the building to light a cigarette.

A police cruiser screeched to a stop next to him and an officer leapt out, gun drawn. Startled, Al dropped the cigarette on his shirt, burning a small hole in it. He yelped. The policeman wrenched his arms behind him, and cuffed him expertly, then slammed him against the car, knocking the wind from Al’s lungs. He threw the door open, and wordlessly stuffed Al into the back seat, then moved to the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. The cop looked at his captive in the rearview mirror.

“Do you have to be such a dickhead? That was one of my last cigarettes, for Christ’s sake,” Al said conversationally, in English.

The cop chuckled. “You smell like a brewery, and smoking’s bad for you. You really should quit. It’s a filthy habit,” he responded, also in English.

“Bite me, you prick,” Al suggested helpfully.

“Not in this lifetime. Where’s your friend?” Sergio asked, starting the engine and opening the door again.

“Over by the market. You gonna take the cuffs off, or are you going to rape me, you Latino homo?” Al inquired.

“Still have those prison rape fantasies, huh, Al?” Sergio responded. “It’s a shame you’re still fighting it – at your age, I’d just give in and live my dream.” He opened the back door and playfully hauled Al out of the car before unlocking the cuffs. “Sorry. I just get all worked up whenever I see ‘COPS’ on satellite…and you caught me at a bad time when you called,” Sergio explained with a grin.

“
No problema
. Thanks for coming. I owe you one,” Al said, his tone serious.

“You damn right you owe me. Eight hundred bucks, I believe,” Sergio said, returning to the driver’s position.

Al moved around the car to the passenger side.

“Five hundred,” Al insisted. “That’s all I have.”

“Yeah, but you smell like a goat soaked in beer piss,” Sergio observed. “That costs extra.”

They continued bickering as Sergio drove to the main road and pulled up to the market.

Ernesto was visibly alarmed at the police car, and almost made a break for it until he saw Al get out and head into the market, muttering to himself.

“Ernesto, your chariot awaits. Meet Sergio. Don’t let him try to kiss you,” Al called as he walked through the door.

Ernesto looked dubiously at Al’s back as he entered the market, and then swung around to meet Sergio.

They shook hands and exchanged greetings. Sergio was the exact opposite of Al. Short, muscular, obviously athletic, mid-thirties, dark skin, thick black hair cut in a military style, white teeth. His arms had almost the girth of Ernesto’s thighs. He obviously spent a lot of time around barbells and looked like he could strip a car apart with his bare hands. Not a guy to cross, that was clear. Al, on the other hand, was a tall, doughy bag of goo on legs. Soft, pink skinned, balding, puffy and overweight. Ernesto was willing to bet Al could do little more than walk into the market and back. Not exactly a confidence builder to have him as your escort into hell’s backyard.

Ernesto started to feel a little better about his odds. All Al seemed interested in was pounding booze and chain smoking. At least Sergio didn’t smell like someone had emptied a vodka bottle on his uniform – so their chances of actually making it to the rendezvous without crashing into a cow or a tree seemed to have picked up considerably. And he was a cop. A brilliant cover, Ernesto had to admit. He knew they’d be stopped at least a half dozen times on the way south, but they’d be waved through with little scrutiny in a police cruiser with a uniformed officer driving. Maybe Al wasn’t a complete idiot after all.

Al stumbled out of the market and tripped on the small rainwater curb, dropping his beer in the process, which shattered on the hard packed dirt with a percussive crash and tinkle. He did the classic drunk’s double take, as if staring at the offending flooring would somehow warn it to be more careful who it trips next time. Al cursed, spinning around to procure another one for the road.

Ernesto took it all back. Al was definitely a cretin.

God help them getting to the rendezvous point without further incident. Maybe they could just leave Al there and proceed without him? Ernesto gave it serious thought, for more than a moment. But no, Carmen had a method to her madness. If Al was her chosen instrument to get him safely to the meeting with the guide, surely there had to be a reason. Maybe he just didn’t show well late at night.

Anything was possible.

Sergio buckled in behind the wheel as Ernesto tossed his bag in the back and slid in after it, closing the door. Al weaved to the passenger side and wedged himself into the front seat, slamming his knee against the butt of the upright-mounted shotgun. He cursed again, and coughed alarmingly – his lungs wheezing like he had pneumonia.

Sergio gave him a sidelong glance, put the car into gear and smoothly rolled onto the Transamerica for the long drive south.

~

Lilliana approached the bed. The man reclining against a stack of pillows had a bandage swathed around his head and an IV running into his arm. He looked pale and seemed uncomfortable in his hospital-gown, but beyond that, appeared unharmed.

Hearing her enter the room, or perhaps smelling her perfume, he opened his eyes, taking her in. Nice looking late-twenties Panamanian woman holding an oversized paper tablet. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, wondering if this was an hallucination. No, she was still there, and was pulling a chair up alongside his bed.

“Manuel, my name’s Lilliana Cruz. The embassy sent me over to help create a likeness of the man you saw with the fellow everyone is referring to as ‘the cook’. I’m a sketch artist and I sometimes work with the police. How are you feeling?” Lilliana asked. “Are you up to this?”

“I…well…sure – I suppose I am. It’s not like I have anything else to do tonight.” Manuel looked around for a wall clock. “What time is it, anyway? They took all my clothes and watch...”

Lilliana checked her watch. “It’s two in the morning. I’m sorry to intrude so late, but this is apparently very important. They got me out of bed to come here.” Lilliana shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

“No, don’t worry. After everything that’s happened tonight, this is the one pleasant thing I’ll remember,” Manuel said, smiling at her. He gestured at the bedside chair. “You may as well sit down…”

“I hope it will be pleasant, Manuel. Let’s start with a few questions. Are you married?” she asked before easing into the seat.

“No. It’s just me. I’m single.”

“Any kids?”

“No,” Manuel answered.

“How old are you?” she inquired.

“Thirty-one.”

“And you live in Panama City, or one of the surrounding
colonias
?”

“The city.”

“Alone, or with someone?”

“By myself,” Manuel said testily. He wasn’t expecting the third-degree.

“Any brothers or sisters?” Lilliana probed.

“One brother. Older. What does this have to do with describing the man I saw?” Manuel asked, defensive about the strange line of questioning.

Lilliana removed her glasses and buffed the lenses on her skirt. She met Manuel’s eyes. “Honestly? Nothing,” she admitted. “I just wanted to know something about you before we start.”

“Oh...Is that some sort of relaxation technique they teach you so I’ll remember things more accurately?” Manuel was puzzled now, rather than rankled.

“Yes...well, truthfully, no. I just think you’re a good-looking man and I wanted to know more about you,” Lilliana said softly. She flipped open her sketch pad.

Manuel was caught completely off guard. He studied her carefully. Lilliana looked like she worked out and watched her weight. She had a nice body and a pretty face, especially when she lost the glasses. This suddenly got interesting for him.

Lilliana bent forward. He could feel her sweet, warm breath on his face. “Alright, Manuel, let’s start with some basics on the man. What was he wearing?”

The huge transport plane lifted into the night sky, its massive turbines propelling it quickly to 40,000 feet. The lights of the East Coast receded behind it as the SEAL Six team settled in for the last rest they’d have for several days.