Smoke and Mirrors (11 page)

One of SIS’s techies had given me a specially modified iPod, and I’d tuned into a playlist that was actually live feed from Alasdair’s helicopter.

“More bloody ex-IRA. The whole goddamn country’s run amok with them.”

The helicopter pilot laughed. “O’ Conner’s going to be the fastest growing surname after Sanchez.”

Snorting, Alasdair continued to watch as Sanchez and his daughter emerged under the sheltered care of the AK-47’s. They descended quickly, moving into the throng of men and entering the middle vehicle.

“Where the hell is she?”

At that moment, the pink carrying case must have come into sight, followed by my arm. The cat’s crate was awkward, and I thanked one of the men who jumped to my aid.

“Agent Board has reached Starbucks.”

As soon I reached the ground, I took one of the bodyguard’s hands and stepped onto the rear running board. The door was closed behind me and within four minutes of the plane setting down, the jet was moving off again down the runway in the opposite direction of our three heavily armored SUV’s.

I heard Alasdair say, “Cross your fingers, mate, she’s on her own now, loose in the land of the Tiger and Tejo.”

“What’s Tejo?” the pilot asked.

“It’s a game they play in the highlands here, where boys throw flat stones at explosive caps.”

I heard their helicopter lift off. “Sounds like the sort of thing I played as a kid in Belfast.”

“But did you put landmines in your enemies’ shoes and toss rocks at their feet until they blew up?”

“I’d wager your boys from Belfast there gave Sanchez’s men the idea.”

The playlist ended, and I removed my headphones, wondering about the man locals called El Tigrè. Wondering if Brad’s reservations hadn’t been right from the beginning.

•   •   •

Two months had passed since Sanchez’s jet had landed in Bogotá. Two months since I had moved inside the high walls of my employer’s massive hacienda. Having come armed with as much information as SIS had, I was to discover where the majority of the coca fields were located and put a name and face to Alberto’s mysterious partner.

Thus far, I had been to a variety of social functions – most putting Sanchez in the salving light of the city’s most generous patron – consisting of a few dinner parties filled with the local upper class and two cultural events, both held at restaurants in the hip Zona G district. With the use of a hidden camera, I had fed SIS digital images of all who came in contact with Sanchez. And a motley crew they were: owners of mines, oil reserves, and land. But in the end, they had all been dead ends. All had dirty hands, one way or another, but none were soaked in the filth for which we were looking.

And so, with one month left and help from IT, I’d gone through papers found in Alberto’s safe and tapped his phone system. What information I couldn’t dead drop, I passed along to my Handler at our infrequent rendezvous.

My weekly runs had been my greatest asset, allowing me to ditch my bodyguards so I could meet with Alasdair. Stretched out on a park bench, interchangeable with any one of a thousand retired ex-pats, he read the paper and ate his lunch. I spoke without looking at him.

“Anything on the phone taps?”

“No. How about the papers in his briefcase?”

“Nothing.”

Frustration mounted in his voice. “Any ideas?”

“I get myself kidnapped by the left wingers.”
I’d probably be dumped smack in the middle of the fields we’re looking for.

“Don’t even joke about that. We’ve got a month to go; something’ll break. Oh, Jack sends his love.”

Jack, not Brad.
I felt the pit I’d try so hard to ignore, open and engulf my relatively sunny mood.

Alasdair turned the page of his paper and ruffled it. I glanced over as I lowered my head to my shin. It was a copy of
The London Times
. A photo in the upper right corner showed the forlorn Duchess of Barkley holding a check to the RSPCA. An anonymous donor had made it out for £1,000,000. A caption underneath indicated that the donation had been made in loving memory of the late Samantha and Nigel Forsythe.

I felt my eyes well. “Brad?”

The paper muffled his words. “The bastard’s sold his family’s estate to The National Trust.”

Bouncing on my calves, I realized it never occurred to me that Brad still owned his family’s estate; after all, he’d only mentioned it the one time.

“I was only seven when C came to the estate. He ruffled my hair, told me to get myself something to eat and go play.” A tinny quality traced Brad’s voice. “They thought I’d left. Only I hid around the corner from the library, behind the enormous tapestry that bears my ancestral arms. It was hot under there, but I eavesdropped on their entire conversation. To my mother’s scream and C’s noble attempt at consolation. When he left, she took out my father’s ancient dueling pistol and blew a hole through her head.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Alasdair tucked the paper beneath one arm and walked by. I never saw his lips move. “No. Until next Monday.”

I ran two more miles before my eyes finally dried. I missed Brad incredibly. And despite his cold assertion and the inexplicable fact I’d pretended to agree with him, hoped he missed me too.

I had let Alberto believe I was indifferent to De Torres’s absent figure. And tried to tell myself the same, concentrating on my job and Francesca.

Alberto had come to trust me as deeply as a man like him could trust anyone, because I
loved
his daughter. Took care of her, read to her, played games with her, taught her to swim, and tucked her in when he was away.

When I returned to the hacienda, it was noon. I had three hours before Francesca and I would join him at the opening of a children’s wing in the city’s largest hospital. She was to cut the ribbon alongside her father and his current girlfriend, Estelle.

They had gone out for the day – Estelle and Alberto – to shop for something for her to wear. Had gone ‘out’ to Los Angeles on his private plane.

Her last minute directive, for Francesca to be dressed in something appropriate, had drawn a mock salute from me and a laugh from Alberto. That had infuriated her, and they had left in a flurry of Latin fury, each trying to outdo the other’s curses and mad gesticulations.

Francesca and I had laughed, tried on half a dozen outfits that had us rolling on the floor, stomachs aching, until we reluctantly settled on an Armani dress Isabella had sent from Italy.

At two-thirty, I changed into a Chanel pantsuit and pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail. The air was chilly most nights, quite unlike the sweltering temperatures of Colombia’s other major cities, and I grabbed a white cashmere cardigan for Francesca.

“To hell with Queen Estelle,” I muttered. One of my bodyguards, a handsome blend of native and European ancestry with bulk to match his brains, was close enough to hear, and he laughed.

“She’s a bitch, no?”

“My thoughts exactly, Enrique.”

His grin was colossal, and he carried my matching Chanel briefcase down to the waiting car. I entered the Audi and settled myself down to arrange the medical kit I kept with me at all times. The slim briefcase had been customized to include all of Francesca’s medicine, her testing kit, assorted foods and any non-essential first aid items.

Satisfied everything was in order, I sat back and watched the scenery drift by. We passed the Church of San Ignacío, and I found myself longing to wander down its endless aisles with Brad. I had always reveled in beautiful architecture, and the church’s stunning example of Mannerism was a site I thought he’d enjoy as well.

“Señorita Hermanas?”

I was startled by the voice, and the fact that Enrique’s hand was reaching out to mine, the door to my left already opened. “Lo siento.”

He smiled at me for the second time that day, and I wondered once again why a smart man like him worked for a piece of scum like Sanchez. I kissed his cheek, making him blush, and walked up the school’s front stairs followed by my posse.

Francesca was waiting by the principal’s office, and she jumped up to hug me when I entered. I signed her out and chatted with her about her day as we were followed back to the car by a now doubled set of bodyguards. The SUV pulled away for a second time that day, leaving interested faces to peer out at their most prestigious classmate.

“Can Emma come over?”

I shook my head. “By the time we finish at the hospital, it’ll be time to go to dinner with your father and Estelle.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Tell you what, I’ll call Emma’s mother and see if she can come over tomorrow. How’s that?”

Already preoccupied by the memory of her latest art project, Francesca nodded absently and pulled forth the watercolor. “You like it?”

I held it up, admiring the clean lines and sparing use of blues and greens. “It’s beautiful. We should have it framed for your father’s office.”

She seemed pleased by the idea, clasping her hands and glancing out the window with simple pride. “Maybe I could make another one for Mama?”

I smoothed the picture, placing it between the sheets of her thickest notepad. “That would be a lovely thing to do.” The car came to a halt, and I stared at the hospital through the glazed windows. I had expected to see Alberto there, waiting for his beloved child with a grin of pleasure no drug dealer should have.

Instead, Enrique exited the vehicle, made certain the perimeter was secure and led Francesca and me up the long steps into the main lobby. We were escorted to a conference room where we would wait for Alberto.

Two hours passed before I heard my charge issue a sigh of desperate boredom.

Francesca was tired of tic-tac-toe and cat’s cradle. I glanced over her head at Enrique. “Where are they?”

He held up his pointer finger. I expected he was listening to the earpiece connecting him to his counterparts and boss. A few seconds later, he beckoned me to him. Extricating myself from Francesca’s leaning little body, I passed her a coloring book and made for the one bodyguard I actually trusted.

“Raphael said Señor is late because of a fight with Estelle. Probably about clothes, eh?” We laughed, thinking about the mind-boggling sum of money and time she put into lining her gargantuan closet.

I glanced at my watch. “I don’t suppose we could start without him. It’s nearly five and if I don’t get Francesca dinner soon, she’s going to be one unhappy camper.”

Squinting toward the reporters and small crowd gathered down the hall from us, Enrique considered my question. “I’ll contact Raphael. Give me a minute.”

I moved away, pulling more crayons out of my jacket pocket, pondering for a moment if any Armani trench coat had ever held a Crayola Aquamarine. I figured it was a possibility with perhaps Madonna or Angelina and handed my fistful of colors to my charge’s outstretched palm.

We colored for a few more minutes, shared some orange juice after I checked her blood, and were finally given the thumbs up from a relieved looking Enrique. Standing up to repack our things, I felt a hand on my back. Enrique’s eyes were dark.

He spoke softly while adjusting his shoulder holster. “Raphael said he couldn’t get a word in with Alberto because of Estelle’s screaming, so he told me to go ahead himself. Said he’d take the heat from Señor if he got upset later. Wouldn’t want to be him, eh?”

I snorted. “Do me a favor and stay on the opposite side of her. She doesn’t like Paolo.” We laughed, covertly glancing at the cologne drenched object of our mirth.

“No problem.” He paused then, for a fraction of a second.

More than once I had wondered about him. Wondered if he was actually in the pay of someone else.

“What is it?”

“Maybe nothing. I don’t know. Look, if something goes down, I’m gonna to get you two out, okay?”

I felt the strange schism of the real me and Alexandra. If there were orders to be given, I wanted to be on the ordering end. Instead, I smiled and nodded. He began to move away when I grabbed his hand. “Have you a pair of handcuffs?”

He raised a seductive brow. “What’ve you got in mind?”

Light laughter bubbled out of me. “I hadn’t been thinking along those lines, but…” I pretended to consider his offer, moving close enough to him that Francesca couldn’t overhear us. “If something happens, handcuff her to you and pass me the key.”

“Why?”

We were interrupted by the sound of the hospital loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, staff, patients and patrons, it is a great honor to present Francesca Sanchez and her mother Isabella Lauretti!”

It had happened several times during my stay. With couture clothing and similar coloring, I had been mistaken for Francesca’s mother on more than one occasion.

“They think you’re Mama,” she giggled nervously.

I smiled, straightened the sweater over her thin shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Well, let’s knock ‘em dead anyway!”

She grinned back at me and walked, her little hand in mine, out into the light of many cameras and a few hundred faces. We were on a podium of sorts, erected in front of the blocked entrance to the new wing. A huge glass window lit the stage with the pink rays of the setting sun. The color stained Francesca’s sweater crimson, and for one instant, I reeled, reliving another swath of expensive material drenched in crimson of a much more tangible substance.

I did not let go of her hand for one second.

She spoke a few soft words into the lowered microphone, ushering forth a chorus of ‘oh’s and ah’s’ from the audience. Then, taking the large scissors, she cut the pink ribbon and the crowd cheered as cameras clicked. Backing away, we allowed space for the doors to be opened. They had been securely locked to prevent anyone from seeing the state of the art children’s center, and everyone leaned forward to view what was to be the world’s premier ward.

It was then I felt my blood surge with adrenaline. The guards had checked the perimeter of the hospital, had given personal clearance to every person in the room. Had even placed a sharp shooter on the roof to cover the round window.

But had they checked behind the bolted doors? It was to have been an isolated internal unit taking over an unused courtyard. A unit designed to give children the feeling of being outside, while they were inside. Indoor tree houses. Indoor nature walks between chemo treatments.