The most effective way to overpower a hijacker was to work as a team. As Olivia looked aorund the cabin for suitable teammates, the man next to her held out the tequila bottle. This time she gratefully took an enormous swig. She handed it back to him and was puzzled to see him grab it with a cheerful grin. Glancing around the plane, she realized that no one was behaving appropriately for those on the verge of death. The air hostess was making her way down the aisle with another tray of lurid drinks and a fresh bottle of tequila.
“Is okay,” said the man beside her. “Is no worry. ATAPA Airlines is never know where they go. Is stand for Always Take a Parachute.” He roared with laughter.
The landing in Tegucigalpa was rather like a tractor hitting a corrugated-iron roof. But the assembled passengers clapped and cheered the pilot regardless. The first drops of rain were falling as they climbed onto a rickety bus, and soon, as they rattled through the scruffy streets of the town past crumbling colonial buildings and wooden shacks, a full tropical rainstorm was hammering on the roof. It was kind of cozy.
Olivia considered the El Parador hotel to be of the highest standard. The point on the toilet paper was faultless in terms of both sharpness and neatness. The only problem was that the bathroom floor was under two inches of water. The phone, when she tried to reach Reception, gurgled in reply. She headed down herself, requested the speedy dispatch of a mop and bucket and returned to the room, where she sat cross-legged on the brightly colored bedspread and started to organize her possessions.
She spread out her stuff in front of her and started two lists: Essentials for Rest of Trip and Items Surplus to Requirements. Items Surplus to Requirements now included the sweatshirt and ugly jeans (far too hot) and the beautiful this-year’s Marc Jacobs tan-leather tote (too heavy, too identifiable and too posh).
There was a knock on the door.
“Un momento, por favor,” she said, concealing her research materials and spy equipment under the blanket.
“Pase adelante.”
The door opened, followed by a mop and a smiling Hispanic girl holding a bucket. Olivia made as if to take the mop, but the woman shook her head, and so the two of them did the floor together, Olivia emptying the bucket and the girl keeping up a steady stream of Spanish, mainly about what fun was to be had in the bar downstairs. When the floor was dry, the two of them stood back, admiring their handiwork. Olivia felt it was her honor—and hoped it wasn’t neocolonialist—to replace the tip for this happy spirit with the leather tote, as well as some clothes and other Items Surplus to Requirements. The woman was very pleased, though not quite pleased enough to suggest she realized it was actually this season’s Marc Jacobs, or maybe she was just a spiritual person who eschewed labels. She embraced Olivia and nodded down at the bar.
“Sí, sí, más tarde,” said Olivia.
Better stay off the margaritas, Olivia told herself as she stashed her valuables in the safe and zipped her Essentials for Rest of Trip firmly in the tan and olive case. But hang it all, she thought when she reached the festive courtyard. Everyone else is as pissed as a fart. She took a sip of her first sensational margarita. Salud!
A handsome, white-haired man with a mustache, dazzlingly drunk, crooned along to his guitar as the shambolic crowd of hippie travelers, businessmen and locals joined in. When the inebriated mariachi started to lose the plot, he was abruptly replaced by blaring salsa. Within moments the dance floor was filled with locals dancing intricate, detailed steps exquisitely, and the indeterminate writhings of the tie-dye-clad gringos. Olivia, who had briefly gone out with a Venezuelan Reuters correspondent and developed a penchant for salsa, was mesmerized by the sight of dancers brought up on its rhythms doing the real thing. Through the mass of bodies, a guy with cropped, bleached-blond hair caught her attention. In the middle of all the festivity and mindless drinking, he sat at a table, leaning forward, chin on hands, watching the crowd intently. He was dressed in baggy hip-hop clothes, but he was too cool-looking and focused to be a backpacker. He reappeared a few minutes later, directly in front of her. He didn’t smile; he just raised an eyebrow towards the dance floor and held out his hand. Sexy boy, cocky too; he reminded her of someone. He was a great dancer. He didn’t move much, but he knew what he was doing, and all she had to do was follow. Neither of them spoke, they just danced, bodies close, his arm leading her where he wanted her to go. After a couple of numbers, an elderly local man cut in with immense courtesy. The blond guy ceded his position graciously. The next time she looked, he was gone. Eventually she took a break from the dancing; as she stood there, wiping her forehead, she felt a hand on her arm. It was the maid to whom she had given the tote bag.
“Go back to your room,” said the girl quietly in Spanish.
“Why?” said Olivia.
“Someone was in there.”
“What? Did you see someone?”
“No. I have to go,” she said nervously. “You go and have a look. Go quickly.”
Sobering up fast, Olivia made her way to the room, taking the stairs, not the elevator. She slipped the key in the lock, paused and flung the door open. The room was a mass of strange shadows thrown by the streetlights shining through the palm trees and the mosquito screens against her window. Still in the doorway, she reached for the light and clicked it on: nothing. She listened again, shut the door behind her and checked the bathroom: again, nothing. She went to the safe. It was untouched. Then her eye fell on her case. It was partly open; she knew she had left it zipped up. The clothes she had left folded inside were messed up. She slipped her hand underneath them and came across what felt like a polythene bag full of flour. She pulled it out, frantic, saw it was full of white powder and at the same moment heard footsteps in the corridor. She ripped open the bag, dipped in a finger and ran it along her gum, confirming her suspicion, with a not-unpleasant frisson, that it contained cocaine, and a sizable stash of cocaine. Just then, the footsteps stopped outside her room, and there was loud shouting and banging on the door.
“La policia! Abra la puerta!”
“Un momento, por favor.”
It was a simple choice: open the door to the police with a large bag of cocaine in her hand, or take a jump straight down from the fifth floor.