The Laughing Falcon (32 page)

“Blown out on dope.”

“Well, I hope we can pull it off.”

“Think there’s any chance of doing this in one shot?” Ham asked. “Just follow you in there?”

“No, I should reconnoitre first, see the lay of the land.”

“Okay, I think you’re right. But you’re to be blindfolded, isn’t that the idea?”

“And checked for wiring. I’m going to have to work this Halcón guy a bit.”

“So you won’t be armed,” Walker said, disappointed.

Slack ignored him. “Ham, can we get Benito Madrigal out of that house without a media carnival?”

“I think we can smuggle him out. He’s in the hands of the local authorities, they’ll have to be brought into the picture.”

“I don’t want Minister Castillo or any of his ineffectual Ticos involved,” Walker said. “Well-meaning, but they don’t have the know-how.”

“Can’t be avoided,” Ham said. “Madrigal is acting up, wants a full pardon before he’ll agree to be released. Guess that can be arranged, too.”

“I’ll also need a shitload of
dinero.”

Slack waited for the reaction, and was met with a silence that held while Borbón passed around mugs of coffee.

“I understood we would not be donating to the cause of left-wing terrorism,” Walker said.

Slack shrugged. “A good-will offering, senator. Say, a token five hundred thousand dollars.”

Walker seemed in a state of shock. “That’s totally unacceptable.”

Slack spoke hoarsely, ordering himself to ignore the pain, he had to make the strongest possible case. “Maybe that’s not going to be enough. Six hundred. Senator, they may just jump at that, it might be enough, and then I get the women out of there. Even if it’s not enough, it’s a hell of a down payment. The money will be safe, they won’t be able to run off with it. Then they’ll be softened up for my next visit. With backup.”

Slack didn’t really think the Mayoists would accept six hundred free and clear, but maybe he could use it for Maggie Schneider, get her out of the way in case there’s rough stuff
later. They had no reason to hold her. No discredit to her, but she wasn’t worth anywhere as much as Glo. He dared not let Walker know what was in his mind, the Canadian woman was nothing to him, he would go cold on the idea.

She had looked so sad and pretty in that Polaroid photo, a hardy, spindly prairie flower.
Close up, he smelled rancid
… She’d be on her knees thanking him, though he’d remember to shower first.

“It seems a very risky investment.”

“Bait money, senator. It’ll set this whole thing up, they’re going to think I’m their best pal. And the next time I go in there, I’ll be packing, a snug in my boot, how’s that?”

“And you take them out.”

“If necessary.” Slack gave him a fixed look, didn’t bat an eye. Let him think he’d do it.

“Your call, senator.” Ham’s face was shrouded in smoke, but Slack could tell he didn’t mind, it wasn’t his money. “He’ll have to be wired on the second go-round, and he’ll need first-rate backup.”

“Snipers,” Walker said. Then he shook his head, still antagonistic to the idea. He had a big war chest, the Keep Chuck Running fund was rumoured at around forty million dollars, Walker could look bad if he refused to invest a small portion in Glo’s freedom.

“Tell you what,” Slack said, “the three hundred you’ll be paying me, I’ll throw that in. You ante up the same amount.”

Walker began pacing. “I hope I’m being fair, Slack, but, ah, it seems to me you’ve had a few misadventures along the way, and …”

Slack stood up, winced, staggered a step, a demonstration of what he had suffered on Walker’s behalf during the course of these misadventures. He got close to him.

“Senator, you’re risking no more money than me, and I’m almost dead broke. I’m also risking my life – for the woman you love.”

That pulled him up. This was the kind of appeal Walker could understand, he prided himself on his honour, an old-fashioned principled conservative. Slack sensed his heroic offer had hit home. Walker himself was no coward, a decorated officer, he’d rescued his platoon behind enemy lines.

He patted Slack on the shoulder, gave him a squeeze. “I take your point, soldier. I’ll discuss the matter with some friends, see if we can come up with the extra three on top of what we’ll owe you.”

Ham was looking at Slack with renewed respect. “Okay, sounds good, anything else?”

“Expense money. I’ll need about ten grand, I’m not talking colones.”

“I’ll make out a requisition. Maybe we can clean this up quick. Do we have to wait ten days for you to contact Jericho?”

“That’s what he said. I need ten days.”

“Give him what time he needs,” Walker said. Astonishingly, he seemed to have bought Slack’s expensive plan, he’d expected to be bargained down.

“You running more checks on that name, Pablo Esquivel?” he asked Ham.

“We’re looking into it.”

Slack was working on a theory.

La Esmeralda, downtown on Avenida Segunda, was a venerable San José eatery, packed with musicians, home of the Mariachi Union, also a hangout of promoters, speculators, and fixers, crowded now at two p.m., still lunchtime. Ham Bakerfield had put some people on the street, but Slack had told them to stay well downwind.

The big room echoed with guitar music and the loud gabble of the country’s vast underground economy at work. You
could get the best rates on the U.S. dollar here, passports for sale,
permisos
, Swiss watches. You could buy or sell just about anything in San José, a connection town, you just had to know the right person.

They’d fixed up Slack a bit at the clinic and he didn’t draw anyone’s attention as he strolled in, looking for Elmer. After ten days, much of his bruising had subsided, but the cracked ribs remained a potent reminder of the perils of drink; negative conditioning works.

He spotted Elmer waving at him from the back. Slack had called him on a tapped line at the Eco-Rico office, hinting at developments. Elmer had suggested the Esmeralda. “We better not be talking on the phone.” If he was that nervous, why weren’t they meeting at a more clandestine location? Slack was having trouble figuring out these people.

Someone was with Elmer, short and stout, and as Slack approached, he got a better look at him, noticed a cane leaning against his chair. Herman Rebozo of the wounded foot, his cast had been removed, the bullet wound couldn’t have been that crippling.

“Looks like they got you pretty good, buddy. This here’s Herman, but everyone calls him Gordo.”

Rebozo didn’t seem to like the teasing nickname, and looked uneasy, distrustful, his handshake didn’t have much oomph. The moustache and beard were new, needed a few more weeks to fill out. Ex-payroll clerk in the civil service, fervent believer in the Great Dead God of Marxism, plus he’d run away from a wife and six kids. You’d think she’d be bitter, but interviewers hadn’t found her a fountain of information.

Elmer called for a round of beer, Slack said he’d stick to coffee. He and Elmer had a few laughs over Slack’s run-in with the cops, Gordo not following, he had no English.

“You ain’t had any second thoughts? You know, about the project.”

“Like you say, how can I lose? Things fuck up, I’m just a guy doing my best to help out.”

“Gordo here, he’s officially running the show out of San José, that was his orders from Johnny … ah, from the war office. I’m just a lowly go-between, far as he’s concerned, you gotta bear that in mind.”

Who was Johnny? Slack assumed he meant Halcón.

“I’m afraid this patsy ain’t too sure about you.” He said in Spanish to Gordo, “Señor Cardinal, he supports the goals of the revolution.”

“You will bring our leader to us?” Rebozo asked.

“I will do my best,
compañero.”

He wasn’t sure Gordo was buying it, he didn’t seem too trustful of Elmer, either, maybe doubting his revolutionary credentials.

“Gordo’s gonna be your main contact person except in emergencies because I can’t be front and centre. So what’s the news?”

“The news is good. The U.S. Embassy got your note and they’ve already been in contact with me. You spelled
designa
wrong.”

“I never won no spelling bees.”

“That’s the kind of goof could get us in shit, they might think Spanish isn’t the first language of the guy who wrote it.” Gordo was looking lost, so Slack switched to Spanish. “The man who talked to me hinted some accommodation could be made. I assume that means they’re willing to pay.”

“Who was it?” Elmer asked.

“Some geezer named Bakerfield, a friend of the senator. They offered me twenty thousand and expenses and said they would forget a mistake in my past. I said I would think about it.”

“You are sure they are not deceiving you, señor?” said Gordo. He was as bad as Benito Madrigal, paranoid, Slack was going to have trouble bringing him around.

“When they release Don Benito, we will know they are sincere.”

“Maybe. We will see.”

“When they call me again, I will insist they give me not only Don Benito, but a down payment. I’m going to ask for a million dollars.”

“Good luck on that one,” Elmer said.

“Just watch me.”

Elmer grinned and said in English, “You know, after this is over, you and me should maybe work on a few other projects. I think we got some chemistry happening.”

Slack massaged his aching neck, sipped his coffee. Despite Gordo’s wariness, he was pleased with himself, basking in the sunshine of accomplishment.

“Okay, this is the arrangement: they will not release my name to the press — they don’t want reporters hanging around, and neither do we. One thing they will insist on is a photograph, me and the two women, or else they’re not dealing.” He asked Gordo, “So when can you take me to them?”

“I don’t know the way, I have not been told.” He was obviously miffed at that.

Elmer returned to English. “Gordo don’t have a clue. It’s way out in the country, I’m gonna have to give him directions.” He paused in thought. “No, that ain’t gonna work, Gordo’s kind of dim. Okay, the three of us have to meet in a secure place and sneak out under darkness.”

“You forgot Benito.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s a nuisance, how’re we gonna bring him along? Well, we’ll work it out – you make your personal deals with them, come up with that down payment, and then you’ll be contacting Gordo here and he’ll know where to find me.” He gave Slack an address for Gordo, Barrio Mexico, a working-class area.

The plan seemed riven with holes, unplanned-for contingencies, an amateurish gamble for high stakes. Could they be
operating so loosely, or was he missing something? Still, the hostages offered good security in the case of mishap, maybe that’s what they were banking on.

“Hey, remember you gotta tell them if they follow you or do some dumb thing like that, they don’t get them women back.” Elmer slit his own throat with a forefinger. “In pieces, that’s how they get them back.”

The gesture did not seem flip, though Slack wondered if they had the balls to carry out the threat. But for the first time, he noticed something cold and mean in Elmer’s eyes.

Slack stayed on in San José, in a fourth-floor suite at the Gran Hotel. Walker usually showed up for the daily briefing there, seeming ever more strained but not butting in too much. He’d talked to his friends, the six hundred thousand was coming from the U.S. by diplomatic pouch.

The hotel was by the busy Plaza de la Cultura, and Slack often wandered out to mingle with the crowds watching the fire-eaters and puppeteers. He’d been given a .38 snub and offered a car, but opted for a motorcycle, a big 1500 c.c. Honda touring bike, easier to wiggle through the congested inner city.

He felt he was ready, but the handlers thought he needed a few days on fundamental matters such as memory training for the minutiae of the kidnap scene. Somehow, he was expected to memorize the route and collate evidence even when blindfolded.

He’d been almost a week in San José, and Joe Borbón was back in Quepos, trying to get into the pants of Camacho’s sister and keeping Mono Titi Tours afloat. It would look odd if the office was closed in high season. Should anyone — reporters, former friends – ask as to his whereabouts, Joe would
say Slack was sick. If they pressed, he was in a dry-out clinic.

Though Joe would not be dogging his steps during the risky next stage of Operación Libertad, Slack worried someone else might try to shadow him. If they screw everything up by doing that, they’d better not blame the fuckup.

The one hitch was getting Madrigal sprung, Minister Castillo insisting that proper procedures must be followed. “In this country, we are guided by the rule of law.” The security chief was miffed he was out of the loop, his people rarely consulted. But though he was a pain in the neck with his little obstacles, he finally seemed to understand that this hemisphere’s colonial power was in charge of Op Libertad.

Eager to get the show underway, Slack volunteered to do battle with the Tico bureaucracy, to get the pardon issued, Benito out of custody, his personal belongings released. Otherwise, it might take weeks for some dawdling official to work his way through the red tape, manufacture of which was the major industry of the Republic of Costa Rica.

He criss-crossed the city on his
moto:
the courthouse registry for the required forms, over to another public building for tax stamps, an hour finding the right wicket, up to the corrections ministry to get Benito’s wallet and his
cédula
released, back to the security ministry for the pardon, the document crossing a myriad desks, various officials examining, initialling, discussing, finally applying rubber stamps.

At other stops, supporting records were missing, misfiled, or
in trámite
between offices. Finally, near the end of his third full day, he found himself crawling to the front of one more line, one more counter, one more functionary, a prim no-nonsense woman who sniffed at the paper he produced and said, “I see no
permiso
from the Judicial Police.”

“Just sign it, please.” He smiled through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, señor, it is not authenticated, you must return tomorrow. We are closing now.”