The Cain File (5 page)

Maggie needed to meet her contact, be on her way. The police, and God knows who else, would be on the lookout for her.

As she headed into town, the tin and cinderblock shacks turned to buildings built with permits, the dirt roads transformed to paved streets that became cobblestones by the time she reached Plaza San Francisco, with its huge white rococo church and monastery taking up one entire side of the long square. Vestiges of fog floated across the center. A glimmer of early daylight pulled back the shroud of night.

Although many people weren’t out yet, four heavily armed National Police
tombos
in olive drab fatigues and black lace-up boots stood on the church steps, scanning the square. Head down, Maggie walked by them at an even pace, resisting the urge to cut a wide arc that would have only raised suspicions. A few hardened faces hovered in the shadows at the far end of the plaza, where Old Town continued into the narrow capital huddled in the long valley nestled between the mountains. At the end of the plaza, across the street, she stood under a colonnade. Adjusting the blanket containing the laptop over her shoulder, she eyed the few cars trolling by. One of them would hopefully be her ride to safety.

A beat-up red Toyota pickup with a crushed fender pulled over, two
campesinos
in the bench seat. The passenger window squeaked as it rolled down. A grizzled man with a face full of stubble squinted out at Maggie. He drank from a bottle, turned to his companion, got a nod, turned back.

“How much,
chica
?”

“Ten million dollars?”

He laughed, drank. “If I had it, gorgeous, it would surely be yours. Come on—how much? For both of us?”

No reference on his part to a check, the coded exchange word. These two were just what they looked like—losers.

“What do you think I am?” Maggie said.

“That’s pretty clear. What we’re doing now is haggling is over the price.”

“No one’s haggling with you,
boludo.
On your way.”

“Stuck-up cow.” The window squealed back up and the pickup rumbled on.

More cars passed by. A lot of men looking for women. Love never flagged. Church bells rang six times. More people were crossing the plaza, some in suits.

A white Ford Fiesta slowed down. A chubby businessman in a suit at the wheel. Promising. Maggie went over, bent down as the electric window whirred open.

“Speak English?” the man said in a heavy Germanic accent.

“A little.”

“How much?” He wore glasses and his eyes were bugged out behind the lenses. Too nervous to be an operative picking up on-the-run agents perhaps.  Car-rental paperwork sat on the passenger seat.

“How much for what?” She’d give him one chance to use the coded exchange word.

He looked about nervously. A car whipped around them, horn blaring, echoing across the plaza.

“For coffee,” he stammered. “How much for coffee?”

“Coffee.”

“Do you want to have coffee with me? You’re beautiful.”

“Ai.” She stood up, sunk back into the shadows as the Ford drove off. Across the square, she saw one of the
tombos
staring at her. He spoke to his partner. His partner looked her way as well.

She needed to get away before she was arrested for soliciting.

A red BMW sedan pulled up smartly. The driver, the only occupant of the vehicle, leaned over. Latin, in his thirties, nice-looking. Shirt and tie. He gave Maggie a questioning look, raising his eyebrows.

She returned an affirming nod and dashed over as the window slid down. Two cops were strolling across the square toward her.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but you don’t know where I can cash a traveler’s check at this hour, do you?”

This was her ride. Thank God.

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.” She opened the door, got in the car, heaved the door shut. “
Vámonos.
The
chapos
are headed this way.”

The man behind the wheel confirmed with a single nod, threw the car into gear, took off. Speeding around a corner they headed into the narrow flagged streets of Old Town.

“Are you OK?” he asked, gunning the engine as they shot by the grand Plaza de la Independencia.

“Good enough,” she said. “And aren’t you going a little fast? You’ll attract attention.”

“Not fast enough. It’s all over the news. Gunfights at international events tend to do that, you know. Even in this country.”

Maggie let out a breath of air. “Where are we going?”

“Airport,” he said. “You’re on a morning flight to Houston. But we have to move, fast.”

Maggie’s insides unwound a millimeter or two. “Do you have a new passport for me? Mine’s in my briefcase, along with my purse, back at that so-called party.”

“We’re having one made as we speak.”  

Her heart jumped. “You didn’t bring the passport with you?”

“We need a headshot of you. Won’t take long.”

Her heartbeats bumped up. “You don’t have my photo on file?”

“You’re with Forensic Accounting—a new department. The authorization process hasn’t been set up. We couldn’t get your photo at such short notice.”

He spun the BMW out of Old Town and up into the hills overlooking Quito.

“Where are we going now?” Maggie asked.

“The Embassy.”

Maggie’s nerve endings tingled. Ed’s instructions had been pretty clear:
Don’t
go to the embassy. “You sure about that?”

“Absolutely. All we need do is take that photo of you, have the passport finalized, and we’re on our way. No worries, eh?” He shot around a curve as rubber skidded.

She hadn’t done her seatbelt up. She did so now. He wasn’t wearing his. Typical Latin male.

Maggie noticed a pack of Marlboros on the console. She picked the package up casually, slid a cigarette out, stuck it between her lips. Punching the cigarette lighter in on the car’s dash, she ran her fingers nervously together, flipping her ring back around so that the stone pointed outwards.

“Relax,” the driver said, navigating around another hairpin turn as they climbed toward an upscale part of Quito. “It will all be over soon.”

That’s exactly what she was worried about.

The cigarette lighter popped out, ready. She pulled it from its socket. It glowed red and pulsed with heat.

“Stop the car,” she said calmly. “Now.”

“Stop the car?” He gave her a quick turn of the head. “What are you talking about?”

A note of falseness in his voice confirmed what she had suspected. Gunning the BMW around a tight bend, they got to Avenida Avigiras, the top of the hill.

“I’m going to be sick,” she said. “Pull over.”

He ignored her, headed for a modern white building on the right, overlooking the summit. There were barricades out front and a huge satellite dish on the roof. The U.S. Embassy.

“Stop the car,” she said. “I won’t ask you again.”

He turned and she saw his eyelids flicker. His smile became a furtive sneer.

She jammed the glowing red cigarette lighter into his cheek. A sizzle of burning flesh filled the cabin.

He screamed, clutching his face with one hand, trying to maneuver the car with his left.

“Stop the damn car!” she yelled. “Now!”

Howling in agony, he tried to steer the wobbly vehicle toward the barricades. Two U.S. Marines in dress uniforms were backing away, raising their rifles.

She jabbed his face again, the crackle of skin drowned out by his banshee-like howl. Both of his hands came off the wheel as he clutched at his face. Maggie reached over, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, losing the cigarette lighter in the process. She gritted her teeth and navigated the BMW back onto the two-lane road, her mysterious contact’s foot still on the gas. But now she was in the oncoming lane. At this point she would just keep going, get as far away from the embassy as possible.

They flew past the guards. One shouted for them to slow down in Americanized Spanish.

Another sharp turn lay up ahead. Worse, a truck was barreling toward them. Its horn blasted.

“You damn
puta
!” her driver screamed, striking Maggie’s chin as she wrangled the car back into the right lane. Again he punched her. She lost control and the car lurched toward the truck. She heaved the wheel just in time to pull the car back to the right. With a whoosh of air, they narrowly missed hitting the truck head-on. But not entirely.

The BMW banged off the side of the cab in an ear-scraping screech. Maggie fought the wheel as they spun into a 180. The driver finally took his foot off the gas and they came to a complete stop, facing the embassy. The stink of scorched rubber and burned flesh filled the car.

She sucked in air, fighting to control her thoughts.
Get away.

Her driver was twisted up against his window, having been flung from his seat. His left cheek bore two large red welts that oozed blood.

“Get out of the car!” Maggie shouted.

Her attacker came to, eyes blazing, and threw a wild punch. She blocked it, grabbed his flailing hand with her right, and struck him repeatedly across the temple with her left, gouging him with the ring. She twisted and dug. His hands went slack as the cuts on his face ran with blood. She kept whipping him with the ring, clenching her teeth, willing herself to see this nightmare through.

“
¡Bastante!
” he gulped. “Enough!”

She slammed his head against the window. “Get out of the car!”

The Marines were running toward them, rifles up. She needed to put some distance between them and her.

The car’s console blocked her from stomping on the gas pedal with her foot. She reached down with her left hand and pushed the accelerator to the floor, clutching the steering wheel with her right. She could just see over the dash. The plan was to get out of range of the guards, then leap from the car and hoof it down that hill that lay up ahead.

The car took off but the flap of a flat tire caught her by surprise. She had no control. The BMW swayed from side to side for fifty yards before it spun, and fishtailed. Her driver was thrown back into the rear seat, his leg smacking Maggie’s face. They flew off the road into a bank of trees. The BMW leapt into the air, then slammed onto the dirt between two tall pines. She glimpsed the city far below: Quito in the mile-long valley.

The car rolled toward the precipice.

She jerked the wheel hard, all the way left. The car twisted, flipped on the passenger side, skidded on the dirt, then came to a stop.

Maggie panted with desperation.

But she wasn’t injured—or if she was, she didn’t know it yet. She found herself pressed against the passenger window, staring down at pine needles packed against the glass. The car lay on its side, pointing downhill.

Behind her, crumpled up in the rear, was the driver. Motionless. His head jutted out at an unnatural angle. If he wasn’t dead, he was incapacitated: a broken neck or worse. Nausea gripped her stomach.

Maggie reached over to the dash, stretching to press the moonroof button. Couldn’t quite reach it. She grunted and pulled against the seatbelt and finally made contact. The moonroof slid open. Struggling, she released her seatbelt and thumped against the passenger door and window. Taking deep breaths, she calmed herself, then clambered onto her hands and knees and climbed out of the moonroof, dropping down onto the layer of pine needles.

She stood up, her legs shaking with adrenaline. She was in one piece.

“
¡Alto!
”

Turning quickly, she looked up the hill, through the trees.

One of the Marines stared down at the crashed vehicle. And at her. His weapon was at his side and he was obviously trying to assess the situation. Was it an attack on the embassy or simply an auto accident?

Maggie looked down the steep hill at the capital. She broke into a slow jog, trying to keep herself low. Her legs were wobbly, but they were moving. She was okay.

“
¡Alto!
”

The laptop. Damn! Head spinning, she turned around and slogged back up the hill, slipping on pine needles.

The driver was still where she had left him, crumpled up in the back. Frozen in death.

Maggie got on her hands and knees and searched. There it was. The blue
lliq
blanket containing her silver laptop. Under his shoulder. She reached back, pushed his twisted arm to one side, got hold of the blue blanket. She pulled. The weight of the man’s body made it tough.

The thin blanket began to rip.

“Hey you!” she heard the Marine shout in gringo Spanish. “Stop right there!” His voice was closer. She peered through the rear window.

He was coming down the hill now, negotiating the slippery pine needles.

She tugged while she shoved the driver’s shoulder out of the way with her free hand. He was heavy and still. She had to move slowly, tease the thin blanket and laptop free.

It finally came loose. She got a whiff of baby spew.

“You!” the Marine shouted again. “Stop!”

Blanket containing laptop in hand, she retreated on her hands and knees back out of the moonroof.

She stood up. She could see his face. He was young, with pink acne and blue eyes.

Bag over her shoulder, she spun and scurried down through the trees, toward the fog-shrouded valley of the city.

At the bottom of the hill, Maggie stopped to catch her breath, loosening her impromptu braid and fluffing her long tresses loose with her fingers. Change your hairstyle, change your appearance. She broke into another run. Despite the altitude, despite Kacha’s cheap sneaks with no socks, Maggie’s daily five-mile jogs were paying off.

By the time she got back to the Plaza San Francisco, she was filmed with perspiration and the narrow streets were clogged with morning rush-hour traffic that she suspected lasted all day. Bitter auto exhaust hung in the cool morning air, stinging her nostrils. The long square was now marked with stalls being set up, and people were crossing en masse, heading into Old Town.

One part of her said it was insanity to come back here. But another knew she needed money to get back to the U.S. Any way she could.

Over by the large white church now stood a half-dozen national police officers. As of yet, no one seemed to notice Maggie so she resumed her position under the colonnade, jutting her chest out in the tight sequined T-shirt Kacha had given her. An old woman in black clucked as she waddled by, giving Maggie a disdainful shake of the head. Maggie eyed the cars crawling by. Most were simply stuck in the snarl of morning-commute traffic, but she noticed one or two telltale stares from men desperate to satisfy last night’s leftover cravings.