Chapter 4

COLONEL ENRIQUE hid between two palm trees near the Santa Isabel International Airport, and watched the jet cruising down through the blue equatorial sky. “Here comes Lieutenant Smith, exactly on time!”

He adjusted his sunglasses, then tugged down his floppy golf hat, secure in his tourist disguise. He wore pants made of material most often seen on sofas and a windbreaker with the name of a bowling league silk-screened on the back.

Enrique turned to his burly companion who wore plaid shorts, black socks and penny-loafers in which he had discreetly tucked copper ruble coins.

Ivan said, “I’m sure he suspects nothing — Americans are used to winning prizes and getting free luxuries. It is all a daily part of their decadent, dying civilization. Make no mistake, Enrique: once, religion was the opiate of the people. Now, it is prize shows and lotteries and the Publisher’s Cleaning House Sweepstakes. That is how the bourgeoisie keeps the American pigs feeding at their troughs.”

“Ah, you make me feel sorry for them,” Enrique said. “Tell me, Ivan, what happens if Smith gets killed during this little escapade?” The Cuban colonel watched the plane come in for a landing.

“I’m counting on it, Enrique,” the Russian colonel said with a shrug. He squirted a dab of suntan lotion on the palm of his hand and rubbed it on the tip of his sunburn-red nose. “Our impostor ‘Pedrito’ will become a martyr to the cause — he’ll no doubt be much more manageable that way — and the real Pedrito will be our double agent in the United States. No one will know they have switched places. Long live the people’s revolution!”

“Good,” Enrique said, “now let’s hurry before we get a parking ticket. This isn’t peaceful Cuba, you know.”

* * *

A queue of passengers straggled past the customs counters, lugging suitcases and duffels, tucking passports and papers into their pockets. A brass band struck up a loud, off-key welcoming tune, which Tom Smith suspected must be the national anthem of Colodor, though it sounded strikingly similar to an old Frank Sinatra song. The band members, all mustached, all portly, all wearing colorful sombreros, didn’t have quite enough enthusiasm to make up for their lack of musical talent. No one else seemed to mind.

Due in part to the mapmakers’ strike, as well as Colodor’s usual political turmoils, few jets landed in Santa Isabel. However, kiosks packed with entire families of smiling souvenir vendors, tour providers and T-shirt sellers lined the bright open-air receiving area beyond the customs counter. A newsstand sold Santa Isabel’s official national newspaper, as well as postcards and place mats showing beautiful scenic photographs. Santa Isabel — Pearl of South America, So Beautiful, We’ve Kept Our Entire Country a Secret! and Don’t Let the Maps Fool You! We DO Exist!

“Passengers for Santa Isabel from New York now debarking at Gate 7,” the PA announced.

A man dressed as a taxi driver stood outside the terminal, watching every person who emerged from the customs counter. He was plump and moonfaced, sweating in the South American heat. His features had an exotic Turkish cast, a distinctive mix neither Eastern nor Western. He most certainly did not belong in the cabby’s uniform, and none of the other drivers had ever seen him before.

The man tried to remain unobtrusive, but ready to spring into action as he scanned the passengers for a particular red headed American, ignoring all other potential customers.

He had a mission to accomplish.

He removed his name tag — HI, MY NAME IS BOLO! Lieutenant Smith had no need to know his name. The American would be seeing enough of him as it was.

“Flight 731 for Rio de Janeiro now loading at Gate 5,” the PA announced, echoing in the empty terminal and crackling with static. “Vuelo sieteciento . . .”

Blinking in the sunshine and looking lost, Tom Smith came through the gate as other passengers swirled around him. He wore a sport coat, trim and professional, and he carried a single black suitcase. His red-gold hair was quite distinctive. Bolo spotted him instantly.

Vendors thrust brochures and coupons in Smith’s hand, and he thanked them obliviously until he could hold nothing more. Finally, the young lieutenant took the entire stack and politely handed it to another vendor, who proceeded to distribute the coupons to new potential marks. Street urchins dashed up to sell unauthorized maps of the country, before they were chased away by officials in dark uniforms. All along the streets, groups of out-of-work mapmakers walked picket lines.

Bolo snapped to attention beside his small yellow cab, then made his move. He hurried forward like a real taxi driver, intent on getting his customer and providing the best service possible. He had his orders from Colonels Ivan and Enrique — which he followed whenever it was convenient. Bolo had even greater plans up his sleeve. . . .

But then a portly, well-dressed man also rushed toward Smith, overjoyed and waving urgently for attention. Despite his fine clothes, the portly man carried a battered cardboard suitcase held together with gray duct tape. Puffing as he ran, he skidded to a halt before Smith, dropped his suitcase and spread his arms wide.

“Ai! Pedrito!” The portly man wrapped his arms around Smith, hugging him in greeting.

Bolo paused, not knowing what to do. He had expected nothing like this. Could there be another agent on the case?

Unable to move, Smith spluttered, “Um, excuse me, sir, I—”

The portly man pulled Smith toward the cantina a few steps down the walkway from the vendors and taxis. Umbrellas and awnings provided welcome shade over wicker chairs and rickety tables. The airport lounge was deserted in the bright afternoon sunshine. Big, languid ceiling fans stirred the humid air, occasionally whacking stunned tropical insects that flew too close to the blades.

“Ai, Pedrito, how glad I am to see you,” the stranger said, pounding Smith so hard on his back that the young lieutenant stumbled forward, almost dropping his black suitcase. “We’ve just got time before my flight so I can buy you a drink! As I promised last time we met, eh? Do you still remember those wild women? And they said they were nuns! Ha-ha!”

Bolo thought fast, and decided to wait coolly outside. This encounter could prove interesting.

The portly man pushed Smith into a creaking wicker seat beneath a Modelo Especial umbrella. With a chubby hand studded with gold rings, the man swept cockroaches and a small lizard aside and grabbed for a bowl of fried plantain chips. He demanded the attention of the bartender. “Quickly! My friend Pedrito here is an impatient — and important — man! And I have a plane to catch in a few minutes.”

“Please, please,” Smith said, still trying to be polite. “There must be some mistake. My name isn’t Pedrito.”

As the portly man slumped into his own seat across the table, he grinned, as if understanding an inside joke. “Ah, now, Pedrito, you can trust me! After all we’ve been through together.” He placed a chubby finger across his lips and lowered his voice. “Just like old times, eh? Bartender! Two margaritas, fast! Use your best tequila for my friend here!”

“But, but — I don’t drink tequila,” Smith protested.

The fat man slapped him on the back, guffawing loudly. “You don’t drink tequila! Hah, my friend, that is a good joke! No tequila. Agave worms tremble in fear when Pedrito Miraflores walks near.”

Outside the cantina, Bolo continued his wait. The two colonels had given him explicit instructions, but Bolo had more important plans of his own. Calm and patient, he knew he could make everything work out.

“. . . and I always wondered if your horse really made it through the Orchid Jungle of Death!” the portly man continued, not letting Smith get in a word edgewise. “And how did you survive the stampede of poison tree frogs? Ai!”

The bartender came with the margaritas, two glasses of questionable cleanliness crusted with salt and filled with lime and tequila.

“But I’m trying to tell you,” Smith said, blinking across at his unexpected companion, “I don’t know anyone named Pedrito.” The bartender set the salt-rimmed glass before him, but Smith nudged it aside. “Excuse me, perhaps a glass of milk? Leche, por favor?”

“No leche, señor,” the bartender said with a sneer. “In this heat, it curdles too quickly.”

The portly man cracked up with a belly laugh. “Milk!” He recovered a bit, still chuckling, and swiped the back of his hand across his glistening forehead. “Pedrito, you’ll be the death of me yet! Tell me the one about the scorpion wranglers in the underground city —”

“Rio. Rio. Abordo!” the PA announced.

“Rio? Ah, that’s my plane.” The stranger gulped his entire margarita, threw a bill onto the table and patted Smith’s hand. “I wish we could talk more, but I’ve got to run. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you survived the raid on the valley of the cactus poachers. You are a legend in Colodor, mi amigo!” He leaned forward, speaking in a stage whisper, “But I see you must be on another mission now. Never mind, Pedrito, your secret is safe with me!”

The portly man rushed off, heading for his plane. Smith stared after him. “What an odd man.”

He pushed away his untouched margarita, picked up his black suitcase and rose from the wicker chair. He brushed tiny splinters from the seat of his pants. As he left, the bartender came to clean up the table, eyed Smith’s pristine drink and slurped it down himself. . . .

Outside the terminal, Bolo stood by the fender of his taxicab, still waiting. As his second opportunity arose, he remained studiously calm, the model of bored confidence as he watched Smith approach, looking for a cab.

Another taxi driver bustled forward, eager to snag a well-paying American tourist. Barely moving, Bolo’s foot expertly tripped the other driver and made him sprawl flat on his face on the cobblestoned street. Bolo stepped on the prostrate driver’s back, walked over him and moved up toward Smith, completely professional and businesslike.

“Cab, sir?” Bolo said in a flat, unemotional voice as he courteously opened the door for Smith. “I am the finest driver in all Santa Isabel.”

Still distracted by his odd experience with the portly stranger, Smith climbed into the back of the cramped yellow cab. Propping his suitcase beside him on the seat, Smith rummaged in the pockets of his sport jacket until he found the crumpled itinerary paper. Maria, the contest administrator, had faxed it to him, describing his luxury accommodations and the schedule for his once-in-a-lifetime vacation in exotic Colodor. He scanned the blurry handwriting, then handed the paper forward to Bolo. “It says here ‘Hotel Grande de Lujo,’ biggest hotel in Santa Isabel. Think you can find it?”

Bolo read the slip cursorily, then gave it back. “Oh, you’re in good hands, sir.” Without looking or signaling, he jerked the cab away from the curb and out into traffic. A bus honked and swerved, driving a skinny bicyclist up on the curb. Bolo didn’t even glance back. “Leave it to me, sir.”