Survival (23 page)

“Mostly. But that big one? That’s navy.”

The distant roar of motors reached their ears across the black water, the sound like a Formula One race. She eyed the screen but saw nothing moving fast enough to be the vessel causing the sound. “And that?”

“Drug runner. Low to the water, probably doing a hundred forty or so kilometers per hour, built out of fiberglass, with nothing that would be radar reflective, so it won’t show up on the screen. You’ll hear them all night long.”

“Where are they running to?”

“Either the outer islands in Honduras for refueling or the Yucatán. If they leave Colombia at six in the evening, they can make it to Mexico by dawn on a calm run.” He shook his head. “That’s a young man’s game. Daredevils. When you’re going that fast, you’re asking to be picked up. But you’d be surprised how few are stopped. The numbers justify the tactic – they’ll lose maybe one in ten. If each is carrying a million bucks U.S. wholesale of coke…figure it probably cost a hundred grand or less in Colombia. For the Mexican cartels, that nine hundred thousand is pure profit. So if they lose one, they’ve lost the cost of the boat, which is maybe a hundred, and the product, another hundred. But nine make it through and they’ve earned eight million, subtracting the two for the boats and product. They just ditch the boats off the coast of Mexico once they’re done, or scuttle them – they don’t really care. It’s a great business. They just build it into the model.”

“I didn’t realize the margin was so big.”

“Oh, well, I’m actually underestimating how much they make per shipment. Could be more like one and a half or two. Doesn’t matter. You run, what, twenty boats a night, it’s a nice business. Of course, you’re also running submarines up the Pacific coast, and landing some in Panama and Costa Rica for truck shipment north, as well as cargo ships and airplanes…It’s a full-time industry for much of Colombia.”

They listened to the engines fade in the night as the invisible boat continued on its way north. Jet glanced to starboard, where flashes of lightning over the Panamanian jungle were lighting up the cloud cover. The celestial pyrotechnics were a near constant in the tropics, illuminating the strip of coast before the rainforest-covered hills retreated into the darkness.

“Are you going to turn around once you drop me off, or stay in Colombian waters?”

A sly expression flashed across Juan Diego’s face. “Our business is done once you’re off the boat. I won’t ask you what you’re doing from there, and you shouldn’t worry about what I’m up to.”

The old smuggler had probably arranged to bring a load of something north, and viewed taking her south as paid stowage for a part of the run that would have normally been unpaid. Taking her five grand the easiest money he’d probably ever made. Which Jet didn’t begrudge him. She’d long ago learned that what others had to do to make their living was none of her concern. With what she’d seen and been ordered to do while in her country’s service, she had no room to judge.

They stood together for half an hour, the predictable swells on the port side creating the slight roll she’d felt in the bunk, and then after yawning several times, she gave Juan Diego another neutral stare. “Are you piloting all night?”

He shook his head. “No, just a little while longer, and then my mate will take over for six hours. The good news is that moving at this speed, not much happens you don’t have time to correct for.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She stepped down the ladder and returned to her bunk, and fell into a light slumber, the rocking now so familiar that it no longer troubled her.

When she started awake, bright sunlight was streaming through the porthole, and she was sweating. She pushed herself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bunk and stretched, then resignedly used the toilet, which failed to meet even her lowest expectations. After a brief sink bath with a hand towel, she emerged into the galley, where one of the crew was playing a video game on a phone, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

He didn’t say good morning and she didn’t either, instead opting to pour herself half a mug and climb the ladder with it. The other crewman was at the wheel, looking punchy. The sea stretched endlessly to port, transitioning from deep azure to light turquoise as it neared land. A series of islands dotted the surface in the near distance, jutting palm trees shimmering in the offshore wind. Jet shielded her eyes from the sun and gazed at them before turning to the mate.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.

“San Blas Islands,” he said, pointing. “That one there’s Guna Yala, and that one’s called BBQ Island by the gringos.” He caught himself and fixed his eyes on the radar. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

She sipped her coffee and watched a few sea birds cross the vessel’s path, including several hopeful pelicans far above off the stern, hoping for some easy pickings off the back of the boat. Eventually they tired of their vigil and wheeled south toward the islands, leaving Jet and the
Providencia
to their destiny.

The day wore on and the heat increased, the sea breeze providing scant relief. Juan Diego appeared an hour and a half later and took the wheel. His coffee was pungent with the smell of alcohol. They passed the time watching the waves roll by and studying the depth sounder and the radar, nothing else to do to avert the tedium. Flying fish shot from the waves, their flight exuberant as their blue and green flanks sparkled in the sun, and for a moment the world seemed benign and good. Hope for the future felt like a reasonable possibility for Jet until the memory of the toys she’d abandoned while running for her life dashed her optimism.

Forces she didn’t understand were pursuing them for unknown reasons. There was little doubt in her mind that revenge was the motivation, but for what transgression, she had no idea. Not that it mattered much. At this point all she could do was react, and when she learned more, take action to eliminate the threat at the source, as she had with the Russian lawyer.

For now her priority was to get back to her daughter and to Matt, and she’d deal with the rest once they were safe. The prospect was depressing, but she knew better than most that an adversary was dangerous until you cut its head off, and running wasn’t a long-term solution. If her last year had proved anything, it was that the world was smaller than she’d hoped, and her myriad enemies more resourceful than she’d given them credit for.

A mistake she couldn’t afford to make ever again.

~ ~ ~

Santuario, Colombia

Hannah sat on the edge of a cot humming to herself as Matt stared at the valley below through a window set deep in the monastery’s stone walls. He’d always thought of Colombia as jungle, and was somewhat surprised by the soaring mountains and rolling valleys surrounding their refuge. The monastery was nestled in verdant green, the only approach via a tram suspended by cables over the foliage. The four towers supporting the conveyance on the way up the steep slope were the only structures he could see between the compound and the road far below.

Franco had met them when they’d arrived at dusk and led them to an outlying dormitory that he said had been unoccupied for several decades. He’d handed them a fifteen-liter bottle of water and a loaf of crusty peasant bread for their evening feast, promising to bring something more satisfying the following day as he took his leave. Matt and Hannah had relished the bread after a long day of munching on dry rations from the survival kit; their breakfast of chewy breakfast bars washed down with tepid water had left much to be desired.

Hannah was being a trooper, accepting her strange new reality without complaint, and Matt again remarked to himself what an exceptional child she was. At times she would gaze at him with huge eyes and his heart would melt. That she’d been subjected to so much in her few years and had persevered, emerging relatively unscathed if not stronger, was a small miracle for which he was thankful.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges, and a small cloud of dust rose from the stone floor. Franco entered, adorned in the long robe he’d met them in the prior evening, a black plastic bag in one large hand and a bottle of orange juice clutched in the other. Hannah’s eyes lit up when she saw the juice, and he smiled as she toddled over to him, a smile of welcome on her face.

“Good morning. Sorry it took me a while. I needed to attend to my duties before I could go into town and get some provisions,” Franco explained. He set the bag down and handed Matt the bottle of juice. “These pastries are fresh baked. They’re a guilty pleasure of mine, so my buying them won’t raise any eyebrows.”

A heavenly aroma wafted from the bag, and Hannah’s nose twitched like a rabbit’s. Matt smiled at the kindly monk’s generosity.

“Thanks. Judging by the size, that should do us for a while.”

Franco reached beneath his robe and Matt froze, and then relaxed when the monk’s hand emerged holding a roll of toilet paper. “I thought this might come in handy.”

Matt laughed. “I was afraid I might be reduced to using my socks.”

“Fortunately not.” Franco looked around the bare room. “Sorry it’s not more comfortable.”

“Are you kidding? There are no gunmen, and we even get a little breeze. We’ll live.” He paused. “Any luck on the cell phone?”

Franco closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Sorry. I almost forgot. Here,” he said, and pulled a small Nokia box from somewhere in the depths of his robe. “I have change for you, but figured you’d want me to put it toward more food later.” He glanced around the stone chamber and gave Hannah another warm smile. “I wish I could stay and share some breakfast with you, but it would be better if I went about my business as customary. We don’t want any of the others getting curious, do we?”

“I understand. Thanks again for everything.”

Franco departed on sandaled feet, pulling the heavy plank door closed behind him. Matt opened the phone box, removed the charger, and plugged in the phone. Hannah was waiting patiently by the bag, clearly anxious for Matt to dole out the delectables. He hefted it as though considering the contents and then smiled at her.

“Seems about two pounds, maybe more. Wonder what’s in it?” he said, and waggled his eyebrows. Hannah giggled and then composed herself, her typically somber expression returning. Matt opened the bag and gazed inside, and then removed a fistful of napkins and several breakfast pastries. Their sugary glaze gleamed in the sunlight, coating layers of thin dough with pastry cream between them and topped with caramel. “What do you say? Do we try one?”

Hannah nodded. “Yeth.”

They both bit into their treats. Hannah looked like she was in heaven as she chewed. Matt smiled at the caramel smudged around her mouth and decided to let her make a mess of it before cleaning it up. What was the point of being a kid if you couldn’t get your food smeared all over your face while eating?

He eyed the cable car at the bottom of the slope as he munched. It hadn’t moved since Franco had sent it back down the hill, a courtesy for the other monks who were in town running errands. The monastery was a veritable fortress; the tram was an effective way of limiting who could enter the grounds, which were remote enough that he hadn’t seen another living soul besides Franco and a few distant pedestrians far below on the winding street.

When they were done with their snack, Matt helped Hannah clean up and then cautioned her to stay put until he got back. After donning a robe Franco had left for him, he checked the new cell phone to ensure it had sufficient charge and took the cable car down to the bottom of the hill, where there was cell coverage – there was none in the monastery due to the location of the only tower in the area.

He dialed Jet’s phone from memory and it went to voice mail – not unexpected if she was in the wilds, on her way from Panama. He left a short message reassuring her that they were safe and read off the new cell number, and then explained that he’d try to call later because there was no coverage in the monastery.

When he hung up he felt unaccountably deflated, and even the breathtaking view as the cable car ascended the mountain failed to raise his spirits. When he came back into the little room, Hannah was humming to herself on her cot, watching a squabble of sparrows fight over a few bits of pastry she’d set on the windowsill. The angle of her face reminded him of her mother, and for a moment he felt a pang of loneliness so intense it almost took his breath away. After living so long as a loner, first in the concrete jungle of Bangkok and later in the very real ones of Laos, he’d let Jet and her daughter into his life, and now he was paying the price.

~ ~ ~

Fernanda and Jaime sat at a breakfast restaurant in Apía, three miles north of Santuario, enjoying the idyllic setting on the veranda where they were the only diners. They sipped coffee and wordlessly nibbled at their eggs, lost in their thoughts. Fernanda tried Igor’s sat phone again, having been unable to reach him that morning, and he picked up on the third ring.

“Hello,” he said curtly, the rumble of motors in the background so loud she could barely make out his words.

“Good morning.”

“It is, isn’t it? What’s happening on your end?”

“We have a line on the man and the girl. We’re tracking down the truck driver they got a ride with. Hopefully we’ll find him today,” she reported.

“That’s good. But it may all be for nothing. I’m about to leave Colón in a fast cigarette boat our friend arranged for. It’ll make short work of the seas, so I should be able to overtake the fishing boat before it gets to Colombian waters. When I do, she’s as good as dead.”

“Well, she’s proved resilient, so I’ll keep working the truck-driver lead. This woman seems to have nine lives. We’ve underestimated her resourcefulness before. I don’t want to again.” She stopped, thinking. “Why don’t you fly into Colombia and take a boat north instead of trying to get her in Panamanian water?”

“We don’t know their end destination, so there’s no guarantee we would spot her. Besides, this boat is equipped with good radar and a seasoned captain. I have no idea what condition the Colombian boats might be in, but from everything I’ve heard they’re likely to be primitive around that area. Our best bet is to follow them, not try to head them off.”