Stop, breathe, think. She stepped into the bathroom and flushed the loo. With the flush masking the sound, she gently lifted the mosquito screen away from the window and stood back. Taking as long a run at it as possible, she hurled the plastic bag out of the window with all her might, thinking: Someone over there is going to find their evening just looked up. Then—hearing a distant splash—she replaced the screen and calmly opened the door.
Once she actually saw the police, they weren’t scary at all. They were spotty teenagers and actually rather apologetic. She sat on an upright chair, watching them search the room, trying to work out if they knew what they were looking for and where it was. Were they real police? Military? Actors? Resting actors slash lifestyle coaches?
“Todo está bien,” said one of them finally. “Gracias. Disculpenos.”
“No tiene importancia,” she said, which wasn’t strictly true, but then she was English and believed in the hot air of politeness, for, as the Girl Guide Handbook says, “There’s nothing but air in a tire, but it certainly makes the wheels go round more smoothly!”
“Un cigarillo?” said the younger boy, holding out a packet.
“Muchas gracias,” she said, taking the cigarette and leaning forward for a light. She hadn’t had a cigarette in years. It hit her as though it were a joint. She wished she had some tequila to offer the policemen. They looked as though they’d be susceptible to getting drunk and telling her who sent them.
“Por qué están aquí?” she ventured anyway.
The two boys looked at each other and laughed. They had, they claimed, been tipped off. They all laughed some more and finished their cigarettes, and the two boys took their leave as if they were lifelong friends of hers who’d just been round for a party.
When she was sure they had gone, she sank down with her back against the door. Eventually, she pulled herself out of her funk of fear and confusion and asked herself, in accordance with Rules for Living number seven, Does it really matter? The answer, unfortunately, was yes. She decided to call the British Embassy in the morning. If there was a British Embassy.
Olivia had a terrible, hot, anxious, sleepless night. She was relieved when a rooster started crowing to signal that it was over. When the sun appeared through the glistening tops of the palm trees, it gave a disappointingly pale light, not full-on Caribbean morning sun. She opened the window, looking down on a tranquil harbor and corrugated-iron rooftops, smelling the heavy, spicy air. There was a group of local women talking and laughing in the street below. There was clumsy mariachi music coming from a radio. She realized there had been no word to the passengers as to how or when they might reach their intended destination. She wondered if they would all just stay there forever, the party continuing day after day, until they did nothing but drink tequila and sleep under trees from dawn to dusk.
Down at Reception, a scruffy piece of paper taped to the wall said:
Pasajeros de ATAPA para La Ceiba. El autobús saldrá del hotel al aeropuerto a las 9 de la mañana.
It was eight o’clock already. Olivia’s mobile, it emerged, did not work in Honduras. She asked the receptionist if she could use the phone. He said the phones weren’t working, but there was a call box outside. Down the road a dilapidated blue and yellow sign featuring what was either a telephone or a sheep’s head was hanging at an angle off a wooden shed.
She started with Honduran directory enquiries, expecting a lengthy and frustrating round of engaged signals, nonanswers and repeated yelling and spelling of words, culminating in a dial tone. Instead, the phone was immediately answered by a charming girl who spoke perfect English, gave her the number for the British Embassy and informed her that it opened at eight-thirty.
It was eight-fifteen. Should she wait? Or rush back and pack her bag so that she’d be in time for the bus? She decided to stay where she was. At eight-twenty-five, a woman with two small children appeared, hovering insistently. Olivia briefly attempted to ignore her, but decency got the upper hand and she ceded her position. The woman began a lengthy emotional argument. By eight-forty-five, she was yelling, and the smallest child was in tears. By eight-forty-eight, both the children were in tears, and the woman was banging the receiver against the wall of the shed.
She was going to miss the bloody bus and the plane and be marooned in Tegucigalpa. In the end, it was quite simple, really. She opened the door, said, “You. Out,” and dialed the Embassy.
“Hello, British Embassy.”
“Hello, my name is”—dammit, what?—“Rachel Pixley,” she said quickly, remembering that was the name on the passport she had used when she booked the flight.
“Yes. What can we help you with?”
After briefly explaining her problem, she was put through to a man whose crisp English voice made her almost tearful. It was like bumping into a British daddy, or a policeman after being chased by brigands.
“Hmmm,” said the chap, when she had finished. “I’ll be honest with you, this is not uncommon with the flight from Mexico City. You’re sure there isn’t anyone who could have tampered with your bag there?”
“No. I had repacked it just before I left the room. The drugs weren’t in there. Someone came to my room when I was down in the bar. I’m worried about some people I met in LA, a guy called Pierre Feramo and some rather odd things that happened . . .” There was a slight buzz on the line.
“Can you hold on a minute?” said the Embassy chap. “Just got to take another call. Back in a mo.”
She glanced nervously at her watch. It was three minutes to nine. Her hope was that all the passengers would be so hungover that everyone would be late.
“Sorry about that,” said the man, returning to the phone. “Miss Pixie, isn’t it?”
“Pixley.”
“Yes. Well, look. No need to worry about the drug business. We’ll let the powers that be know. Any more problems, just give us a ring. Can you give us an idea of your itinerary?”
“Well, I was planning to get the plane today to Popayan, stay in the village for a few days, and then maybe move on to Feramo’s hotel, the Isla Bonita.”
“Jolly good. Well, we’ll let everyone know to watch out for you. Why don’t you pop in on your way back and let us know how it all went?”
When she put down the phone, she stared straight ahead for a moment, biting her lip in concentration. Did the phone really buzz when she mentioned Feramo, or was it just her overactive imagination?
Back at the hotel the receptionist informed her that the bus had left ten minutes ago. Fortunately, she ran into the recipient of the Marc Jacobs tote, who said she’d get her husband to drive her to the airport in his van. He took a while to turn up. By the time they rattled up to the Departures area, it was ten twenty-two. The plane was due to leave at ten.
As Olivia careered across the tarmac, dragging the little case behind her and waving frantically, two men in overalls were starting to pull the stairs away from the plane. They laughed when they saw her and shoved them back again. One of them bounded up ahead of her and banged on the door until it opened. As she entered the crowded cabin, a ragged cheer went up. Her fellow passengers from the night before were pale and fragile, but still jolly. As she flopped gratefully into her seat, the pilot was making his way down the aisle greeting everyone individually. She felt quite reassured until she realized it was the drunken mariachi with the mustache from the salsa party the night before.
At La Ceiba airport she bought a ticket to Popayan and headed desperately for the newsstand, only to find no foreign newspapers except a three-week-old copy of Time. She picked up La Ceiba’s El Diario and slumped into an orange plastic chair at the gate, waiting for the flight announcement, flicking through the paper and trying to find any update on the OceansApart. She was mildly cheered by the sight of her dancing partner from the previous night—the one with the serious expression and cropped peroxide hair. He reminded her of Eminem. He had the same combination of the grave and the subversive. He came over and sat beside her, holding out a bottle of mineral water.
“Thanks,” she said, enjoying the slight contact as he handed it over.
“De nada.” His face was almost expressionless, but he had compelling eyes, gray and intelligent. “Try not to puke now,” he said, getting up again and heading for the newsstand.
Concentrate, Olivia, she said to herself. Concentrate. We are not a skittish backpacker on our gap year. We are a top foreign journalist and possible international spy on a mission of global significance.