The Geronimo Breach (30 page)

The team was still located in Colombia but had nothing to do. The decision was made to get them to Bogota, as there was a U.S. Embassy there, but they were at a dead end on leads. Until Al made a wrong move or contacted them again they had nothing.

That didn’t sit well with Richard, however, he’d learned to be extremely patient during his thirty-five year tenure with the CIA. He had run ops all over the world, in all manners of hellholes, including Colombia and Ecuador, so he felt comfortable with the local dynamics. Compared to places like Nigeria or Sudan or the Balkans, this was positively uncomplicated and serene. So he’d just watch and wait, and be ready to pounce once Al surfaced.

Sam had cancelled the police bulletin, as instructed, and now Richard was thinking maybe that hadn’t been such a great idea. Then again, they really had no choice – they couldn’t afford Al getting picked up, and a room full of cops viewing the camera’s contents. That would broaden Richard’s headache exponentially.

They’d questioned all of Al’s associates and colleagues and known contacts but the man had no close friends or confidants. No mate, no steady, no poker buddies or weekend pals. It was as if Al was some kind of ghost. He had no credit cards, though his credit rating was below terrible anyway – then again, that could have also been a skillful ruse to sustain his cover. And worst yet, his generation of passport didn’t have a chip in it, so it couldn’t be tracked. Unless it was entered into the system somewhere and flagged a computer, Al was essentially invisible.

That worried Richard. Under normal circumstances the first thing to do was follow the money, understanding that amateurs virtually always slipped up and eventually used an ATM or credit card. But a search of Al’s apartment had yielded his ATM card on the coffee table – next to his cell phone – so no hope there of an easy tag.

That’s where things got complicated – if he was a pro, he’d ditched everything and likely had an emergency stash of cash to access until his handlers could get him somewhere safe. If that was the case and Al disappeared they had an epic problem, namely the equivalent of a hydrogen bomb ticking away, to be used by America’s enemies at the worst possible moment. The fallout would be devastating; the credibility of the nation ruined, and the repercussions would cut across partisan lines. It could literally start World War Three.

There was simply no way they could allow the unthinkable to happen. Richard had even run scenarios where a major land and sea attack could be launched in Colombia, annihilating a whole town if need be, to contain the damage. It could be made to look like a rebel attack of rival elements fighting. Or whatever. But in reality they had no target, and no clue as to where to begin looking. There was no guarantee Al wasn’t long gone and currently jetting to Moscow, or Beijing, or God knew where.

These were the crisis situations that wore on him, as one of the top field directors and trusted confidant of the Director. He was one of a handful, the inner circle, and knew the whole story; or at least as much as anyone knew aside from the Director – and possibly the President, though there were many operations that required deniability, and so the Oval Office was kept in the dark on them; for their own good, really.

But exposure of the camera’s contents would destroy everything. There was no denial that would be plausible. It was the worst of all possible situations.

Mari and Al checked into their hotel – a three star establishment five blocks from the primary business and tourist center. The modest focal point of the hotel was a coca plant growing in the small courtyard that housed the pool. They had a single room, but two beds; Mari hoped she had made it abundantly clear this wasn’t going to be their re-kindling vacation.

Sure, they had things left unsaid – and now Al knew about Mel. For better or worse, things had forever changed. It seemed Al had changed too. Mari reminded herself this was about saving the life of Mel’s father. Nothing more. At least, that’s how she had articulated it, and Al had agreed – in that way of his.

Once Mari had checked in, she met Al down the street from the hotel for a late lunch and gave him a room key. She instructed him to stay in the room at all times until she came for him. She’d already slipped the desk clerk some cash to ignore whoever accompanied her – in a society where mistresses were common you often didn’t want to recognize whoever a young lady was with.

Nobody knew that Mari’s brother was high up in the FARC; for her protection and his. Many of the fighters went by false names or aliases, and nobody needed to know who was who when a man had proved his loyalty over a harsh number of years. Mari knew her brother, ‘The Butcher’ was beholden to and connected to no one, and that’s the way it would stay. If there was any hint that she was his sister, she’d have been in mortal danger from the Colombian government, but Mari felt safe enough in her society – where secrets were closely guarded for generations.

They finished their lunch and returned to the hotel, where Al was studiously ignored by the suddenly-absent clerk. Once in the room, Al searched around for a mini-bar but it wasn’t that level of place. Mari advised him against ordering anything from room service unless he wanted to risk his life, so it was looking to be a dry trip for Al, other than the beer he’d had at lunch.

At four o’clock Mari’s cell rang. After a listening to a few words, she wrote down a number on the corner of a paper napkin, which she then screwed up and put it in her pocket.

“I need to use a pay phone and call this number within fifteen minutes. I’ll arrange a meeting with my brother then. I may be gone for a few minutes, or maybe hours. Either way, don’t worry, and stay put. And under no circumstances call or order anything until I get back. No joke, Al,” Mari instructed, giving him a withering look. She knew him very well.

Mari grabbed her small purse, checked her reflection in the mirror and hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door as she closed it.

Al listened to Mari’s footsteps echoing down the passageway, and then she was gone. He tried taking a nap but the adrenaline from the flight and the anxiety over Mari’s brother overwhelmed his usual ability to sleep virtually anywhere at the slightest pretense. He tossed and turned until common sense told him he may as well try to distract his overworked brain. He switched on the TV to try out the Spanish language programs. Ugly Betty was the only program he recognized – he hadn’t realized it was Colombian, not that he particularly cared. He only recognized it because his secretary was a devotee, regaling him with plot summaries on a regular basis. Usually when he was tediously hung over.

The darkening sky triggered Al’s concern for Mari and he was getting seriously worried until finally he heard the key turn in the door.

Mari entered.

“So how did it go?” he asked.

“How did what go?”

“Uh, well, I don’t know. Your meeting?” Al hated when she fucked with him. This was too good an opportunity for her to pass up though, obviously.

“Oh, that. Pretty well. We can discuss it at dinner. I’m starving. There’s a good restaurant a few blocks away, according to the desk. Let’s try it,” she suggested, before waltzing in the bathroom and locking herself in. “I’ll be ready in five,” she called through the door.

Al played along. What choice did he have?

She finally emerged, all sweetness and perfume, grabbed his arm and walked him toward the door. He grabbed his satchel and they made their steady way to the restaurant. The streets were bustling with the dinner crowd and Al detected no aura of menace or danger on the well lit street.

Once they were seated and had ordered, Mari gave him the data dump.

“You’ll meet him tomorrow. Seven a.m.. We have to go to a coffee shop a few minutes from the hotel, and we’ll get a message from someone telling us where you have to go. It will be just the two of you.” She folded her arms. “I’m to stay out of it.”

“Does he want to cut out my heart and eat it in front of me?” Al asked.

“I think we got past that part. I guess you’ll know for sure tomorrow. If he changes his mind, I’ll remember you every Christmas,” Mari offered.

“That’s touching. But seriously – is he holding a grudge?”

“You’ll be fine. Just don’t make any sudden moves around him,” she warned.

“Are you serious?” Al demanded. He couldn’t tell.

“Mostly no – okay, maybe a little. He’s on edge being near an urban area,” she explained.

“The Butcher is a little testy, but hopefully I’ll be fine,” Al concluded.

“It’s the best I could do. Have you got any better options I haven’t heard yet?”

Al burst into low-volume song: “
We’re off to see The Butcher
...”

The reference was lost on Mari, who’d learned her English in elementary school, before perfecting it throughout high school and college, that and watching Bruce Willis action films.

Their food arrived, and Al floated a different topic as they ate. “Mel is very cute, and very smart,” he began.

“She should be. She’s my daughter,” Mari stated.

He tried again. “I never thought I’d have a daughter…”

“Al, you don’t… I do,” she explained matter-of-factly. “You had a few seconds of muscle spasm. I have a lifelong commitment.”

“And what if I don’t feel that way?” Al asked. “I mean, now that I’ve seen her? Now that I’ve seen
you
again?”

“Spare me the melodrama, Al,” Mari snapped. “You had a chance to stay with me, and if you’d loved me you would have. You didn’t. So there are no obligations.”

“You never called me to tell me,” Al argued.

“I had my cell number forwarded for a year. Were your fingers broken?”

Al shook his head in defeat. “I thought you knew me well enough to understand I’m an idiot sometimes...”

She stared at him. He had a fleck of food in his goatee, and was sweating down his sunburned bald head.

“Sometimes?” Mari repeated.

“Haven’t you ever done something really stupid you now regret?” Al asked.

She stared at him again, incredulously. Waited a few beats. Eventually Al figured it out.

Time for a different approach.

“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Mari,” Al offered.

“I’m doing it for Mel.”

And there they let it settle, though Al believed, well hoped, there might just be more to it than that.

They finished their dinner and walked back to the hotel, the streets still populated, only now with young people headed to the nearby clubs. The same desk clerk abruptly found something that needed doing in the back office when he saw Mari entering the lobby. Mari and
The Invisible Al
made their way upstairs.

A tense silence permeated the room as they took turns brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed – Al taking a shower so he’d save time in the morning.

Eventually, they silently slipped under the sheets on their respective beds. Mari turned off the bedside lamp.

“I’m sorry, Mari, about everything,” Al murmured. “Sleep well…my friend.”

“Me too, Al...me too.”

The following morning, Mari’s phone alarm sounded at six a.m.. She went into the bathroom for her morning routine while Al tried to drowse. Mari emerged at six-thirty.

“God you snore loudly nowadays,” she declared.

“Good morning to you, too,” Al responded.

“Really. My cousin had an English bulldog, and that’s the only other noise I’ve ever heard that sounds like you,” she said. “You didn’t snore four years ago.”

“I have allergies.” Al explained.

“You’re fat,” Mari offered.

“I have issues,” he tried again.

“Like eating too much. And not exercising, and drinking all day long...” she listed.

“I was thinking of respiratory deficiencies,” Al said.

“I hear smoking helps those,” Mari observed.

“I’m trying to quit,” Al lied.

“Snoring? Or eating too much? Or smoking?”

This wasn’t going well. “I’m sorry I disturbed your rest, Mari.”

“We need to leave in a few minutes,” she said – right, as usual.

Al dabbed ointment on his ragged feet, pulled on his clothes and grabbed his knapsack. He was ready to hit the road in three minutes flat.

“Were you planning on zipping your fly?” Mari queried.

“Ooops...I’m still asleep,” Al said.

She didn’t say anything.

They made their way to the street and walked four blocks to an intersection where a small coffee bar was serving espresso and pastries. They took a table on the sidewalk and ordered
cafe Americanos
. The coffee arrived and they sipped it in silence. Nobody approached. No one called.

After twenty minutes, the waiter brought the check, handing it to Al. He glanced at it and fished around in his pocket for change.

“Look at the back of the check, Al,” Mari instructed.

A single sentence was scrawled in Spanish.

“Walk south on Calle 2 – start now,” Mari read. “This is it. I’ll pay. Good luck, Al.”

The cafe stood on the corner of Calle 2. Al got his bearings and looked for the position of the sun to establish direction but it was hidden somewhere behind an expanse of rolling clouds. He extracted the GPS from his satchel, powered it on and immediately turned right, walking steadily down the quiet street. Two blocks later a car pulled to the curb beside him and a voice from the backseat called his name through the halfway lowered window. Al stopped and the door swung open. He got in, and a man jumped in beside him. They roared off into traffic.

Forty minutes later they were deep into the countryside, having left the city well behind them. They turned off the highway and navigated a series of ever smaller roads until they were bumping along a dirt track cut into the dense growth. They arrived at a small caretaker’s hut and pulled over. Two men holding machine-guns stood on either side of a Nissan van. A third man rolled the sliding door open and gestured with his head for Al to get inside.

He did, and another man already in the van slipped a black hood over his head. The van engine started and soon they were bouncing down a rural trail, after making a series of switchbacks and turns. They stopped ten minutes later and Al was guided out of the van and into the interior of a structure. The hood was removed, revealing a man in his late thirties, seated on a threadbare loveseat, black and white photos of anonymous Colombians framed on the wall.