Hour of the Assassins (42 page)

Import-export was the classic cover for a smuggling operation in river ports around the world. There was sure to be a lucrative trade in smuggling illegal animals, gold, and, most of all, raw cocaine out of Iquitos on the run to Bogotá, the so-called “Colombian connection,” Caine thought as he mounted the rickety stairs and knocked on the office door. Even though he had the Payne passport, it was essential that he get to Lima without risking an encounter with the Peruvian authorities.

Ah Fong was a short fat Chinese man with a smiling, perspiring Buddha face. He was wearing a neat white linen suit and he bowed several times as he led Caine into his private office. The office was as hot as a greenhouse and lush with orchids and other jungle flowers. But Fong's pride and joy was a purplish Venus flytrap, and his face shone with sweaty pleasure as he invited Caine to watch him feed it.

Fong's short fingers plucked a live fly from a swarming glass jar and he held it delicately, then shook it like a thermometer. He dropped the dizzy fly into the brightly colored open pistil. The fly staggered drunkenly among the down-pointing hairs of the petals as it slipped downward. Fong smiled happily as the petals suddenly closed over the fly. Caine wondered if he, too, was walking into a trap again.

“I fear you do not take pleasure in the Venus plant, señor,” Fong said, gently touching his fingertips together over his bulging belly as they sat across from each other at Fong's lacquered black desk.

“I'm afraid my sympathies are all with the fly, but
por favor
, don't let my opinions interfere with your pleasure,” Caine said.

“My pleasure is in your presence here,” Fong said, bobbing his sweating face in a little bow.

“Your house reveals the presence of a man of exquisite taste and sympathy,” Caine replied.

Fong leaned back and brought out a lacquered Chinese cigar box. He offered the box to Caine, then took a cigar for himself. He sniffed the cigar appreciatively and the two men lit up.

“How may I be of service to you, señior?”

“I need to return to Lima as soon as possible, but I wish to avoid the inconvenience of the Peruvian authorities, especially the
aduaneros
at Customs. I was told that ‘El Chino' is a man of considerable influence in such matters.
Naturalmente
, I came to seek your advice.”

“Will you be carrying
contrabando?
” Fong inquired shrewdly.

“Neither
contrabondo
, nor coca, nor anything else. Only myself. Your men can search me if you wish.
Naturalmente
, I wish to compensate you for your kindness.”

“I can see that you are a serious man, señor, so I will be frank. I have a plane leaving this evening for Lima. I am shipping a quantity of animals for transshipment to the U.S. There will be no problem with the
aduaneros
at either end. If a man of your …” Fong paused, searching for the right word. “… delicacy does not mind sharing cargo space with our little jungle friends, I would be honored with your patronage.”

Caine smiled. That was funny, he thought. After what he had gone through in the jungle, that was funny.

“How much?” Caine asked.

“Will you be returning to Iquitos, señor?”

“Not unless there's a slipup,” Caine said, and smiled coldly. Fong glanced at his smile and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I see,” Fong said, pensively tapping his fingertips together. “In that case, señor, the fare will be five hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred. I'm not a
millonario
.”

“As you wish, señor. For two hundred, I recommend the Satco or the Lansa airline offices in the Hotel Turista. But for a man of your stature, I would be honored to have your patronage for four hundred and fifty, in advance.”

“Four hundred and no questions asked,” Caine said and stood up. Fong stood up and extended his hand, palm upward. Caine counted out four hundred dollars and gave it to him. Fong smiled like a sweating Buddha and bowed.

“There will be no
problemas
, señor. You have the word of ‘El Chino.' Be at the
aeropuerto
at eight tonight. Just tell the
aduanero
you are going on El Chino's plane.”

“It's a pleasure doing business with a serious man,” Caine said and bowed.

“
Buen viaje
, señor,” Fong said.

When Caine left him, he was standing with the glass fly jar in his hand, indulgently contemplating his Venus flytrap.

Caine spent the next hour shopping at the brightly lit shops around the small town plaza. He bought a lightweight overnight suitcase, toiletries, an inexpensive white linen suit, and a new pair of shoes. He changed into the new clothes, leaving the old ones in the store's dressing room. He stopped at the telegraph office and sent a telegram to the classified section of the L.A.
Times
to place an ad in the Personals column, which read: “C.J. Don't be mean, Lima bean. Stop. Bring bread and paper soonest. Stop Hot
signed
Crillon Stop.”

He gave Wasserman's Hollywood address for billing and hoped that she would readily decipher the message that he wanted her to meet him at the Hotel Crillon in Lima with money and a new passport from Wasserman. Then he found a dilapidated Chevy with a hand-painted taxi sign stuck in the window and went out to the airport.

The airport terminal was little more than a large, dilapidated shed. It was almost deserted except for a few
caboclos
and a young Indian boy who tried to sell him a fan made of parrot feathers. When Caine shrugged him off, he pressed Caine to buy some carved Yagua arrows. Caine walked up to the
aduanero
, a sleepy Peruvian in an ill-fitting brown uniform, his face slick with the humid heat. Behind the
aduanero
a centipede crawled along the wall and disappeared into a large, jagged crack. Fong was as good as his word. Caine simply mentioned the plane of El Chino and the
aduanero
lethargically waved him through the gate.

An ancient twin-prop DC-3 was being loaded with wire-mesh crates packed with parrots and spider monkeys. The silver plane gleamed in the harsh light of naked bulbs that lit the tarmac as the Indian laborers manhandled the heavy crates into the cargo bay. Many of the animals were worth more than a thousand dollars apiece, duty-free, to pet fanciers and medical laboratories. If this shipment was any indication, Fong was indeed a serious man, Caine thought.

A lanky American in faded jeans, T-shirt, and wearing a Yankee baseball cap stood in the doorway of the plane, cupping his hands around his mouth, so that his shouts could be heard over the screeching animals. When he saw Caine, he waved and motioned him to a steel ladder. Caine climbed up and the American, whom he took to be the pilot, pulled him in.

“Where you heading, Sam?” the American said.

“Lima. You the pilot?” Caine asked.

“Nobody but. El Chino send you?”

“Nobody but, Sam.” Caine grinned.

“That's the ticket.” Sam winked, then he leaned out the doorway and shouted at one of the workmen.

“
Arriba, arriba
, you fucking turkey! Right side up!
Los animales arriba!
Hey you, Sam! Sí,
sí, usted
, you shithead. Move it,
arriba
!” he shouted, then turned to Caine and said conversationally, “Did you see that, Sam? Those dumb bastards were loading a crate of monkeys upside down. Christ! Hey, hand me a beer, will you? They're in a crate behind the seat up front.”

Caine went up to the cabin and found the beer. He opened two bottles with an opener attached by a cord to the pilot's seat and brought them back, handing one to Sam. They grinned and took long gulps.

“Do you call everybody Sam?” Caine asked.

“Sure. In this business nobody has any name anyway, right?” Sam asked, his blue eyes twinkling. “Besides, it makes it easy to remember,” he said.

After about an hour the plane was loaded and fueled. Sam leaned out of the cabin window and yelled something at the tower as Caine strapped himself into the copilot's seat. The plane began to taxi even before the runway lights switched on and then they were hurtling down the runway and they were up. The plane climbed in a slow arc over the scattered lights of Iquitos, reflecting off the tin roofs of the town. Then they were over the jungle that stretched as dark and endless as the ocean all the way to the moonlit horizon.

The sound of the engines was deafening, drowning the shrieks of the terrified animals as the plane rattled and bucked its way through the cloud cover up to the starlit night. It felt and sounded as though the old DC-3 were shaking itself to pieces, and Caine wondered what were the odds on surviving a night crash in the jungle. But Sam nonchalantly ignored the noise and popped open another bottle of Cristal.

Caine found himself dozing off, until he was roused by the high-pitched scream of the engines as they fought for higher altitude in the thin air. They were approaching the massive barrier of the Cordillera. The instrument panel gleamed like stars in the cabin darkness and around them the night was filled with stars, like a distant city in the black sky. Sam told him that they would reach Lima in about an hour. Caine opened another beer and they shared it between them.

“Hey, Sam, you got a lady?” Sam shouted over the roar of the engines. Flames shot out of the prop exhausts, and it looked as though the wings were on fire. Snow gleamed a pale blue on the peaks of the Cordillera, so close beneath them that Caine felt he could reach out and scoop up a handful.

“Yeah, I'm meeting her in Lima in a few days. What about you?” Caine said.

“Are you kidding? This country spoils a man. For five bucks you can get the most beautiful young thing you ever saw, plus a room for a couple of hours. That's about what I figure it's worth. Five bucks and you can walk away, as easy as you please. Not like some of those American dames who act like they're giving you the crown jewels of England. And then they expect you to give them bed and board just because you made them a few times. Shit, there ain't nothing they're giving you, you can't have for five bucks.”

“What about love?” Caine asked.

“Listen, Sam. When most American women say, ‘I love you,' the operative word is
I
. Now you take the Latin women. They know how to treat a man.”

“Sounds like you had a rough time,” Caine put in.

“I flew F-fours in Nam. When I got back, I found my wife had been fucking everything on two legs. It cost me all my separation pay just to get rid of her. Now you figure it. She fucks her brains out while I'm off risking my life and the courts give her all my money,” Sam said, shaking his head in wonder at the injustices of the world. “I figured, piss on the whole thing,” he concluded.

“Well, maybe I've got a good one,” Caine said.

“Don't bet on it,” Sam said darkly, his face livid in the glow from the dashboard dials. “You find me a woman who ain't looking out for Number One and I'll show you a ding-a-ling broad.”

“Yeah, well we do it, too. We're no saints.”

Sam laughed and slapped the dash with delight.

“Now that's the fucking truth, Sam,” he exclaimed and turned with a wide grin to Caine. “Hey, you been in Nam?”

“I was there,” Caine said.

“That's what I figured. Funny, you can always tell. I don't know what it is. The way a guy moves, or something. But you can always tell, can't you?”

“Sure, we're the ones who look like born suckers,” Caine said.

“Fucking A, Sam!” Sam exclaimed delightedly and happily slapped at the dashboard. “Hey, are you on the run?”

Caine hesitated, wondering just how far he could trust the pilot.

“I might have to lay low for a while,” he admitted.

“Well, if you're looking for a place where they don't ask for papers or anything else, try the Pension Adolfo. It's in the
zona roja
, off La Colmena. Just tell them Sam sent you. After all, us shitheads have got to stick together. And don't worry about Fong or me. We're making
mucho
money off of these dumb animals, so we don't give a shit about anything. It's the only way, Sam. The only way.”

The walking wounded, Caine thought. Is there anyone who isn't a secret casualty? he wondered. He leaned back and stretched restlessly. Directly ahead he could just make out the distant sky glow from the lights of Lima, brightening the horizon like a moon-rise.

Sam brought the DC-3 down in an easy three-point landing and taxied over to the cargo area. As Caine started down the ladder, Sam flipped him a casual salute, readjusted the baseball cap to a jauntier angle, and began loudly cursing the cargo handlers for being a bunch of incompetent Sams. Caine's stomach tensed as he approached the
aduaneros
. They were armed with automatic rifles, but they merely looked at him curiously and waved him through the gate. He walked through the crowded terminal and out to the taxi stand. He told the driver to take him to the Pension Adolfo in the
zona roja
, which is what the red-light district is always called throughout Latin America.

The taxi drove through the heavy traffic on Avenida Nicholas de Piérola, called “La Colmena” by the Limeños. The broad avenue was noisy with horns and dazzling bright with electric and neon signs. All the noise and people jangled his nerves with a gnawing persistence, like the ringing of an unanswered telephone. It's just culture shock, he told himself. The transition had been too abrupt. That very afternoon he had still been gliding down the trackless Amazon with Father José. The world was going to take getting used to again, he mused.

He checked into the Pension Adolfo and went directly to his room. As Sam had indicated, they hadn't asked for his passport and registered him as a Señor Smith. It was better to play it safe and keep his presence in Lima quiet for a few days until he could connect with C.J. and get back to L.A. under a new cover name, he decided. Just in case, he made all the usual checks on the room before locking the door and wedging a chair under the handle. Then he took a long hot shower, his first in weeks, and went to bed.