JET - Sanctuary (4 page)

Once they’d ordered, Hannah busied herself drawing on the paper placemat with the crayons Jet carried in her purse.

“We can’t take a flight out of Chile. If there’s any sort of an alert, the computers at international immigrations will be linked, and we’d never make it onto the plane,” Matt said.

“Do you really think that’s likely?”

“It’s a risk, and after the last little adventure, I’m feeling risk-adverse.” Matt adjusted his baseball cap, his burned head itching.

“Fair enough. That leaves us with three options: We can stay in Chile, drive for a couple of days and cross into Bolivia or Peru, or take a boat north.”

“I hear nice things about Chile.”

“Like massive earthquakes…”

“Well, there’s that. But the wine’s pretty decent, and they say the people are friendly.”

“Call me crazy, but it’s still way too close to Argentina for my liking. I mean, we managed to lose whoever set up the roadblock, but it won’t take them forever to figure out that one of the places we could have escaped to was Chile. I mean, there aren’t a million destinations close to Mendoza.”

The waitress arrived with their food. They dug in, even Hannah shedding her normal reticence and attacking her food with gusto. When they’d finished, Jet ordered another coffee and sat back as Matt looked through the window at the few cars on the main street.

“Two days of hard driving isn’t that appealing. If memory serves, there’s only one road north, and it’s two lane most of the way, isn’t it?” Matt asked.

“It is. And there will be border crossings to contend with. Probably not linked to the central computers headed into Bolivia, but there’s no telling. My greater fear’s that they might have photos of us from the casino circulating. Depending on how much clout they have and who they are, that’s a real issue.”

“We have to assume it’s the CIA. They sent Tara, and there’s more where she came from.”

“Then how do we do this?” Jet asked.

“I’m thinking boat. That will have the laxest immigrations and customs. Probably nonexistent leaving the country.”

“Fine. But it’s not like we can just go down to the dock in Valparaíso and hitch a ride.”

“What about that guy Sofia’s dad gave you? The fixer?” The burner cell phone Sofia’s father had handed her contained two numbers – his and that of a man named Alfredo, who he’d told her was relatively trustworthy and could arrange for anything, anywhere. For a price.

Jet nodded. “I suppose I could see if he’s got the contacts to pull it off.”

“No time like the present.”

They returned to the hotel, and Jet dug the cheap little phone from her bag, slipped the battery into place, and then pressed Alfredo’s speed dial number. The man who answered on the fourth ring sounded surly and old.

“What?” the gruff male voice demanded in Argentine-accented Spanish.

“Alfredo?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m a friend of a friend. I was told you were the man to call if I needed anything.”

The voice turned cautious. “Yeah? What friend?”

She mentioned Sofia’s father. A silence stretched on the line. When Alfredo spoke again, his tone was alert and businesslike.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a discreet boat that can take three people out of Chile.”

“I see. Are any of the travelers wanted by the Chileans?”

“No.”

“Then why not just book passage on the first cargo ship headed north? They’ll usually have space.”

“I have my reasons.”

Alfredo sighed. “Very well. What’s your timing?”

“I’d like to be gone as of yesterday.”

“I see. It won’t be cheap.”

“I didn’t expect it would be.”

Alfredo seemed to like that. “Where are you?”

“Why?”

“I need to make some calls. See what I can arrange. Your number’s blocked.”

“In Chile. San Felipe.”

“Call me in half an hour.” The line went dead. Jet stared at the phone before powering it off.

Matt eyed her. “And?”

“I’m to call back.”

“Did he seem capable of helping?”

“He got happy when I said I wasn’t price-sensitive.”

“Always a big favorite.”

They busied themselves with packing their bags and taking a last spin through the bathroom. When they’d fit everything into the Explorer, Jet called Alfredo back.

Alfredo was now all efficiency. “All right. Here’s what you need to do. Do you have something to write with?”

She answered in the affirmative.

“It’s called the Hotel Olivier. It’s on the outskirts of town, secluded enough that you won’t be bothered. Get a room, and a gentleman who can handle your request will be there tomorrow morning, no later than eight. Here’s his number. Call him at eight, and he’ll meet you in the lobby restaurant.” Alfredo rattled off a Chilean number. She repeated it back to him as Matt scribbled it down. “I have a connection at the hotel, so they won’t require identification. In whose name should I make the reservation?”

“Naomi.”

Alfredo paused. “No last name?”

“Naomi Alfredo.”

He chuckled. “Very well, Naomi. Feel free to call if you require anything else. Any friend of the great man is one of mine, too.”

“How do you get paid?”

“My associate will take care of that. Safe travels.”

Jet explained the rendezvous to Matt, and they agreed it would be good to get out of the roach motel, although she had some misgivings about staying at the Olivier, given that Alfredo knew where she was.

“Either he’s trustworthy or he isn’t. Do you have any reason to believe otherwise?” Matt asked.

“No. Just force of habit.”

“We can stay nearby if you want. I’m okay either way. Let’s take a gander at the place, and if it looks decent, we can decide then, okay?”

Jet took a final look at the dilapidated motel and turned to Hannah, who was sitting in the car seat, gazing through the window, engrossed in the thoughts of a toddler. A momentary vision of the spider on her arm flashed through Jet’s awareness, and she shuddered.

“Okay.”

Chapter 6

Santiago, Chile

A black Mercedes pulled to the curb in front of L’École Français for the restaurant’s grand opening. Two tuxedoed valets scrambled to get the doors and held them open for a well-groomed couple in their forties, he in a navy blue double-breasted blazer with a maroon cravat around his neck, she in a slinky black evening dress that looked like a year’s salary for either of the parking attendants. A photographer took the couple’s photo as they stood outside the oversized mahogany and glass entry doors. A limousine rolled forward, and an older couple emerged from its cavernous depths as the handsome, tanned host, also attired in a tuxedo, beamed a white smile at the new arrivals and greeted them with the deference of a diplomat.

Gaspar Soto watched from his position near the kitchen and nodded, taking in the packed bar area, where the city’s privileged were rubbing shoulders and drinking Pisco Sours and expensive Scotch. Imported champagne was flowing like water, and a jazz trio played standards, the buzz of excited conversation nearly drowning out the music.

The restaurant was the latest masterstroke in a long career of them for Soto, the head of the most powerful crime family in Chile, and would go a long way toward solving his money-laundering problem – a result of the success he’d had with cocaine trafficking into Argentina as well as north through the busiest port on the Pacific coast of South America. It was a relatively new enterprise for him, only five years old, but the earnings had already eclipsed his other revenue streams, surpassing gambling, prostitution, kidnapping, and loan-sharking combined.

He’d struck a deal with a producer in Peru and his associates in Bolivia, at first shipping only a few dozen kilos from the border and distributing them in Santiago. That had blossomed over time into its current scope, where he transshipped tons into Argentina and Brazil, as well as into Mexico through Manzanillo, where his counterparts in the Mexican cartels took over.

The restaurant was a terrific front: a pricey nightspot with a top chef and two stories of dining rooms through which he could legitimize millions each year even if not a soul came through the door – which was unlikely, given the number of people he knew in Santiago society. Even if Soto was a pariah who lived on the wrong side of the law, money talked, and he was the legitimate owner of an airport supply company, a string of gift shops, several bars and nightclubs, and a shipping company, and as such he had the respect of the elite who owned and operated the country.

His bodyguards stood nearby, wearing dark suits tailored to conceal the bulges of their shoulder-holstered weapons – six seasoned veterans of the ongoing turf war he’d been fighting with his rivals for a decade. Soto claimed most of Santiago and several of the northern cities, and the Verdugos had Valparaíso, a small section of the poorest reaches of Santiago’s slums, and several of the inconsequential rural towns. It was a delicate equilibrium, but one that both groups had settled into, preferring to take a large slice of a generous pie rather than fight a war of attrition for territory against an unbeatable adversary. Both Soto and the Verdugos had their pet government contacts, so neither could eliminate the other, and they’d settled into a cautious truce that was in its fourth year – although Soto had been hearing rumblings that the Verdugos had cast their eye on the cocaine business, which he had no intention of ceding even a small part to keep the peace.

A bejeweled woman easily Soto’s age, in her mid-sixties if a day, her plastic surgery insufficient to mute the ravages of time’s passing, approached wearing a peach sequined formal evening gown and thousand-dollar shoes. She was trailed by a shorter paunchy man with the unhappy demeanor of a basset hound, whose tux looked like he’d been shoehorned into it.

“Gaspar, it’s a triumph. An absolute triumph!” the woman said, her voice cultured and modulated with the studied grace of royalty. “You must be so proud.”

Soto kissed her on the cheek. “Vivienne. An honor, as always. You look astonishing,” he lied. “What’s your secret?” He stole a glance at her husband, who nodded and mumbled something unintelligible. The gleam of her diamond necklace was almost blinding in the light from the chandeliers, and Soto looked away, not wanting to gawk. He then caught a flash of movement at the front door and froze when he saw at least a dozen rifle-brandishing police push into the foyer, where the host was doing his best to face them down.

Soto took in the shocked expressions of the nearby guests and leaned into the woman, the better to hide his face from the police. “Will you excuse me?” he asked and, without waiting for her response, spun and climbed the nearby stairs two at a time, followed by his bodyguards. He was already fishing for his cell phone when he reached the top step.

The second-floor dining room had been closed off because the gala opening was limited to the ground floor, and he strode purposefully to the rear of the expansive room, where bare tables were collected next to stacks of chairs. His head bodyguard stood by his side, waiting for instruction, while Soto called his top contact in the police department – the number two official in Chilean law enforcement. By the fifth ring, when the call went to voice mail, Soto knew he had a problem. His contact always picked up. Always, whatever the hour.

Something had happened. What, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, for a small army of armed men to disrupt his opening signaled it was no longer safe there for him. This wasn’t the way things worked – if he’d been charged with something, a polite and apologetic detective should come to his office after making an appointment. There was no precedent for anyone to send in a SWAT team.

Whatever it was, he’d figure it out from afar, surrounded by a swarm of attorneys.

“Delay them. I’m going down the fire escape. Give me your weapon,” Soto snapped at his bodyguard, who handed him his SIG Sauer pistol without comment. Soto tested the weight of the weapon in his hand as he held the man’s gaze. “I’ll call once I’m clear.”

The bodyguard nodded and returned to his men by the dining room entry. Soto slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and moved through a service exit, furious that he was being rousted at a time like this. It had to be the Verdugos. Only they would have the audacity to attempt to turn Soto’s moment of victory into a rout. But if they thought he could be overturned this easily, they’d badly misjudged him, and he would get his revenge.

Soto pushed the outer door open and stepped out onto the iron fire escape. The back alley was quiet. A flare of moonlight reflected off a puddle of black water that had collected from a late afternoon cloudburst. After doing a quick scan of his surroundings, he lowered the ladder to the street and descended the creaky steps, muttering an oath with each rung.

His feet had just touched the cobblestones when he heard a squawk of static from the mouth of the alley, and then a distorted voice. A radio. Soto retrieved his pistol and hurried in the opposite direction, hoping to lose his pursuers before they were aware he’d left the building. He slipped into the gloom, his black tuxedo a fortunate choice under the circumstances. He tiptoed along the wall, anxious to avoid making any noise with his dress heels, and was twenty steps from the ladder when a deep voice called out behind him.

“Soto. We know you’re back here. Don’t make us come after you, or it won’t go well.”

Soto’s finger moved to the pistol trigger, and he pressed himself against the filthy wall behind an overflowing dumpster, bile rising in his throat at the rancid aroma. Something squished beneath his handmade shoes, and he winced at the possibilities. His gaze moved to the alley mouth, where three police stood backlit by the streetlight, rifles at the ready. Hidden in the gloom, he realized they couldn’t see him. There was still a chance.

He edged along the wall, pistol pointed at the sky, and had put several meters between himself and the dumpster when the impossible happened – the alley filled with the shrill sound of salsa music emanating from his jacket pocket. Someone was calling his cell phone.