3

 

Houston, Texas

 

Two hectic days after meeting Steve Spinner, Sledge took the afternoon flight out of Houston for Bogotá. He’d never have gotten it all done without Roger Brinkman. In truth, the success of this mission depended not only on Brinkman’s information-gathering network, but on the older man’s ability to make no-questions-asked arrangements in the twilight world of international espionage.

In contrast with the tranquil blue Caribbean that slipped silently beneath the aircraft, Sledge’s mood grew increasingly grim. The bravado he’d shown Steve Spinner wouldn’t help him here. He’d taken the job partly for a chance at revenge on Diego Contreras and partly to finance his transition to a placid life. But in the heat of anger, he hadn’t counted the cost. Even the best intelligence could not eliminate his risks. He’d be on his own, without the immense back-up resources he’d had in Special Ops. And he might end up in worse shape than he had last time.

Dead, for instance.

Nearing Bogotá, Sledge watched the declining sun’s soft play on the majestic peaks of the Cordillera Oriental, the most easterly of Colombia’s three Andean ranges. From up here, everything looked peaceful. But on foot down there, he’d be dwarfed by every rugged crag, each step advancing him into the vicious world of guerrilla warfare.

With an effort, he willed himself into the proper frame of mind for combat. No room for books or soft-music CDs here. Deliberately, he squeezed the last drop of emotion out of his psyche. Machine-like, then, he focused on specific tasks he had to accomplish to complete his mission and come back alive.

In Bogotá’s El Dorado Airport, police and a drug-sniffing dog gave him and his one light bag the once-over before clearing him for entry. He was supposed to be met, but no one in the terminal’s milling crowds seemed to have that mission.

“Señor Sledge?” The speaker blended into the crowd so perfectly that Sledge had passed him over. Now he wondered why. The man was a well-muscled, square-jawed mestizo with an incandescent smile and a three-inch scar on his left cheek. In his late twenties, Sledge guessed, a bit taller than six feet, and perhaps two hundred pounds in weight. Impressive. Score one for Brinkman’s judgment.

“I’m Sledge,” he said.

The man replied in English. “There was no mistaking you, señor. You’re the only passenger who weighs more than the airplane.” The smile broadened. “I am Raúl. I will drive you to meet Señor Ramirez.” As he guided Sledge to the exit he added, “It is good that you watch the crowd. But the two big fellows waiting outside are ours—to guard us to our destination.”

Sledge laughed. “Glad you told me. I like to avoid misunderstandings.”

The two guards convoyed them to Raúl’s car and then followed in their own. Bogotá’s familiar darkened streets revived poignant memories. Sledge and Alita had driven those same streets together. But soft memories had no place in his present mission. He thrust them aside and asked, “Where will our meeting take place?”

“At the office of Señor Ramirez.”

Silence. Raúl’s eyes remained focused on the road.

Sledge tried again. “I’ve never met the gentleman. Can you tell me something about him?”

A shrewd glance. “I can tell you much, señor, but you must understand that I am prejudiced.”

“How’s that?”

Raúl’s teeth gleamed. “Señor Ramirez is my father, and I am a sheep off the old black.”

Sledge tried not to look surprised. Brinkman had warned that the Ramirez crowd performed well but had odd habits of speech. The second half of that description had now been confirmed.

Even the “performed well” had a questionable codicil: “You think they’re nowhere around,” Brinkman said. “Then they turn up with the problem solved by some wild method no one else could imagine.” Regardless, Sledge would have to work with them.

Raúl continued. “Señor Ramirez is one of seven men who defeated a guerrilla coup against our government in the seventies. He grew up near the place you will be working. His contacts are good, and he has information for you. Without that, your job would be harder than passing a camel through the eye of a noodle.”

I guess I’ll get used to it. He hoped so.

They parked in front of a four-story building a mile from downtown. Lights showed in one third-floor corner suite, only. Raúl entered with a key and led the way upstairs. “Inconvenient, but necessary,” he said. “It’s hard to throw a grenade into a third-floor window and harder yet for gunmen to get a decent angle of fire. Señor Ramirez is most careful.”

The solid steel door to the lighted suite was inscribed in plain lettering:

POIROT, ESPADA, y RAMIREZ

Investigaciones

Inside, a strikingly beautiful woman rose to greet them. A few touches of gray in her jet-black hair suggested an age on the high side of forty, but her trim figure and flashing dark eyes seemed more suited to thirty. “Welcome, Señor Sledge. I am Elena Garcia de Ramirez.” She spoke perfect English in a contralto voice and extended her hand.

Sledge took it with more pleasure than he liked to admit. “Delighted, Señora Ramirez. I was told to ask for Señor Poirot.”

Amusement danced in the dark eyes. “Señor Poirot is not here at the moment, nor is Señor Espada, but Señor Ramirez will be happy to work with you.”

While Raúl remained behind, she guided Sledge to an inner office. The man who rose to shake Sledge’s hand looked like an older version of Raúl. “Good evening, Señor Sledge.” He spoke with a decided accent. “I am Ramón Ramirez. You have already met my wife and my son.” He nodded to the lady. “Thank you, mi vida.”

The door shut behind Sledge. “If I’m working with you, Señor Ramirez, why was I told to ask for Señor Poirot?”

Ramirez laughed. “I presume Señor Brinkman wanted you to get the full treatment. When I opened this office twenty years ago, I asked myself, ‘Who has ever heard of Ramón Ramirez? I will starve to death while waiting for clients.’ But everyone has heard of the great detectives Hercule Poirot and Sam Spade—Espada, in Spanish. So I put their surnames on my door, and for twenty years I have had more clients than I can handle. Elena always tells them the exact truth, as she doubtless did with you.”

Sledge grinned. “Brinkman said you were unorthodox.”

Ramirez grinned back. “That reputation is helpful. But let’s get down to brass tactics. The kidnapped women were not returned for the ransom. So Señor Spinner is taking the bull by the handlebars with this rescue, and you are foolish enough to try it.”

Sledge blinked. Father and son both talk that way? Must be something in the genetic code. “Foolish or not,” he said, “I’ve agreed to try. Raúl said you had information.”

“Enough to earn Señor Spinner’s dollars.” He led Sledge to a table spread with maps and used his pencil for a pointer. “The main range of the Cordillera Oriental runs generally north and south. On the west side, where you will work, the ridges and valleys run east and west. Here in the foothills, where my pencil rests, lies the village of Chozadolor, the scene of the massacre. The two women were captured east of the village and taken into the mountains, probably up this valley.”

The pencil moved eastward and stopped where the map’s contour lines lay almost on top of each other, indicating a steep-walled mountain valley. According to the map, the area was heavily forested with few clearings.

Ramirez tapped the map with his pencil. “The women are held in this nameless village. Maybe a hundred guerrillas in and around it. They think it a safe area because any attacking force would lose many men fighting its way up the valley through successive outguards.”

The pencil moved to a clearing four miles farther up the valley. “This is the one possible helicopter landing zone, and you can bet your doll’s bottom the guerrillas have it covered.”

Sledge grunted. “What do you recommend?”

The pencil moved southward, crossing a ridgeline. “Here in the next valley there are few guerrillas—only light patrols to frighten the campesinos and collect taxes.” The pencil moved to the valley’s western end. “Take the two men I have chosen into this landing zone. Climb the valley eastward to this point, where a path leads through a pass in the mountains. From there you can find a position on the ridge overlooking the guerrillas’ village.”

“They have listening posts on the foot path, I suppose.”

“Almost certainly. You can probably avoid them if you leave the path before the watershed. Both of your men know the area and should get you past the guards if you are willing to travel the mountains at night.”

“Brinkman talked to you about a deception plan?”

“Sí, and it is costing Señor Spinner a mint with something extra for the juleps. We have planted rumors of an army operation. While you are landing in the next valley to the south, a helicopter will fly up the guerrillas’ valley and circle the clearing four miles above their village. We hope they will think the army is telegraphing its punches. When the guerrillas leave the village to set an ambush, you should be able to make the rescue.”

“And if they do not?”

Ramirez flashed a glittering smile. “Then, Señor Sledge, you are up the creek without a padlock.”

Next, they planned the extraction of Sledge’s group, deciding at length it was safer to retrace their entry route than to exit down the valley heavily populated by guerrillas. That violated all the patrolling procedures Sledge had ever been taught, but in this case it seemed best. That settled, he asked about the equipment.

Ramirez shook his head. “Asking for the moon was too simple, so you asked for the planet Jupiter. Who could hope to find a High Standard H-D .22 caliber silenced pistol on such short notice?” He studied Sledge carefully. “But no task is too difficult for Poirot, Espada, and Ramirez. But why would you choose the .22 when I can give you a silenced Walther with more power?”

“Our Special Ops people in Vietnam used the .22 for deep patrols into Laos. It’s good for close-in work, and you don’t need a lot of power for a head shot. How about the other equipment?”

Ramirez grinned. “All of it awaits you, along with your two men, at a hacienda outside the city. The helicopter will pick you up there.”

“We haven’t talked about the pilot.”

“Raúl will fly you.” Ramirez beamed with pride. “He is young, but he is no stranger to operations like this. He is a real fire-eater. You have seen the scar?”

“We’d better get started. If everything is ready at the hacienda, we’ll hit the landing zone before sunset tomorrow.”

“You won’t take a day to get over your jet lag?”

“A luxury we can’t afford. If they move the women, your work comes to nothing, and we have to start from scratch.”

They carried the maps into the outer office, where Señora Ramirez faced them with hands on hips.

“So you have made your plans,” she said. “You will fight your way into the village and fight your way out. But there is a better plan. I could talk my way into the guerrilla camp and bring the women back without getting anyone hurt.”

“We cannot risk that, mi vida.” Ramirez turned to Sledge. “My wife is a frustrated actress. She thinks she can persuade any man to give her anything.”

The lady cocked an eyebrow. “For you and your agency I have done it more than once.”

Ramirez’s jaw jutted out. “Only when I could cover you in case of trouble. But we must not bore Señor Sledge with family matters. The plans are made.”

She gave him an angry look but said nothing.

That difficulty settled, the foursome and the two bodyguards drove to the hacienda. There Sledge met his comrades-to-be, two husky specimens named Mario and Javier. He liked their steady gazes and firm handshakes.

The equipment checked out letter perfect, confirming Brinkman’s assessment of Ramirez’s dependability. They’d have time tomorrow to go over plans and rehearse procedures. Sledge praised their preparations and thanked them for their work. As a clock struck midnight, they drank a toast to success and retired for the night.

Alone in his room, Sledge relaxed on the last bed he’d see for several days. The familiar sounds and smells of Colombia brought back bittersweet memories of Alita. So much for his efforts to banish emotion. Maybe Old Sledge wasn’t in charge, after all. For a few moments he let the memories take over. In the months following the ambush, it seemed Alita’s death had emptied the world of all value. But lately, as more memories returned, he’d become aware of a deeper, more general emptiness.

It connected somehow with a tantalizing dream that haunted him lately. In the dream he struggled through barren terrain toward the green crest of a far-away hill. He didn’t know what awaited him there, but the hill somehow defined his hope. Desperate and thirsting, he fought toward it through quicksand, thorns, and thickets. The closer he got to the hill, the more difficult the obstacles became. He conquered them one by one until he reached the crest and dropped to the ground, exhausted. And there he found…

Nothing.

No sign of life and none of its amenities. Even the vegetation that had promised life was dead and only painted green by some malevolent hand. In the far distance, beyond a valley even more forbidding than the one he had just traversed, stood another green hill. The dream ended in dismay. To have come so far, only to have to go farther…

All right. Enough. If he were going to worry, he’d better worry about something practical. Everything had fallen into place so far, but one forgotten detail, or even blind chance, could send everything to smash. The foolhardiness of what he’d agreed to do sprang up again to taunt him.

Tomorrow he and two men he’d never met before tonight would land in a place he’d never seen. They’d travel by night through rugged terrain that he knew only from maps of undetermined reliability. If his group managed to dodge guerrilla patrols and thread its way through an unknown number of listening posts to reach the village alive, they still might find the guerrillas there in full force. And with Ramirez’s information more than two days old, the women could have been moved to a new location.

It was, as Ramirez suggested, a fool’s errand, and Sledge could be joining Alita in the next world sooner than expected. That thought reminded him of Diego Contreras, and the old fury surged through him again. It might just be worth getting killed to have his revenge on Contreras.

With that happy prospect, Sledge smiled and fell asleep.