Chapter 5

BOLO DROVE ALONG a broad cobblestoned avenue with stately hotels, marble columns, lush fountains and ornate statues. Wrestling with the wheel, he seesawed around pedestrians on bicycles, old men pushing carts, Volkswagen vans and tourist-packed buses belching greasy exhaust smoke.

Reassured by the sight of all the luxury resorts in Santa Isabel, Smith fished out his well-read paperback, Famous Naval Battles. He began to reread the chapter about his hero, Horatio Nelson, and his seven years at war in the Mediterranean. Sighing, Smith read on, admiring Nelson’s battles, his snap decisions with the fates of mighty nations depending on his success.

Then he thought instead of Admiral Turner back in New York, as well as his own tedious job approving blueprints for new missile systems. He wished he could have lived back in the days when joining the Navy actually meant a lifetime of excitement. . . .

The engine roared as Bolo accelerated, threading the cab through a narrow alley. Sudden chicken squawks and a flash of white feathers past the car’s rear window caused Smith to look up from his paperback. The street was flanked by whitewashed buildings with blue-painted doors, topped by crumbling tile roofs and sagging electrical wires used as clotheslines. Tar-paper strips patched crumbling stucco. Feral chickens flew out from their path, dive-bombing the windshield. Dogs barked and chased the cab, but fled in fear from the vicious chickens.

“Almost to your hotel, sir,” Bolo said, turning to look at his passenger without watching the road. “Just a few more minutes.” The cab bounced and thumped as he ran over something large and moving. A blizzard of white feathers flew into the air as the cab screeched down another alley.

Finally the taxi came to a halt before a broken-down edifice that might have been a moderately nice hotel if it were torn down and rebuilt entirely from the original plans. No sign adorned the hulking building, but Bolo gestured proudly to a front door that hung off-kilter on bent hinges.

“Here you are, sir. The Hotel Grande de Lujo.” He beamed.

Around the cab, the street was deserted. Everyone had fled, even the angry chickens. Smith stared out the back-seat window in surprise.

“Is this the best hotel in Santa Isabel?” he asked, incredulous. He rubbed his eyes.

“That’s what they say,” Bolo said, his voice proud. “Highly recommended.”

“But . . . there must be some mistake,” Smith said, swallowing hard. “I won the grand prize.”

“And it’s the Grande hotel.”

“Well, but we passed plenty of nicer hotels back there in the resort district.” Smith turned around in his seat, trying to see the end of the long alley behind the taxi.

Bolo waved his hand in dismissal and made a raspberry sound. “Ah, those are mere tourist traps, no character, no substance. Certainly not a place for a man of your caliber, sir. A distinctive hotel like this is where the locals stay. It’ll be a true experience for you, a genuine taste of Colodor. You can see what our country is most famous for.”

* * *

Inside the hotel’s foyer, two tough Colodoran gangsters hid behind the sagging door. Each in his own shadowy corner, they pressed against the crumbling whitewashed walls, keeping an eye to the cracks.

“It figures he would show up now,” said the first one. “I was just going to take a break.”

The other snorted. “A break? What do you need a break for? We’ve just been standing here all morning long.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” the first gangster said.

“Well, you should have planned ahead,” his partner answered. “This is the most important part of the plan, where we make the switch. Now be quiet. He’s getting out of the cab.”

* * *

When Smith remained unconvinced about the suitability of the hotel, Bolo finally said, “Well, if you don’t like it, you can always go in and complain to the management. Maybe they’ll clean the place up a bit.”

“In fact, I will talk to the management,” Smith said. “I don’t like to complain, since this was a free trip, but I’m sure Maria, the contest administrator, would like to know about this.”

Smith stuffed his paperback into the pocket of his sport coat and climbed out of the taxi. He fumbled for money to pay the driver, but Bolo just waved and puttered on down the alley. “My congratulations on winning the contest,” he called. “No charge.”

Smith gripped his black suitcase and trudged up the sidewalk, but the hotel didn’t look any better when he got closer. As he watched, one of the terra-cotta roof tiles, apparently dislodged by an extremely large tarantula, tumbled down the side of the building to smash on the street.

“They ought to be ashamed of themselves.” Smith frowned, craning his neck to look up at the windows of the other rooms. He set the suitcase down at his feet.

Knocking at the front door but hearing no answer, Smith pushed open the creaking door. He walked in, blinking to adjust his focus in the sudden interior shadows. He glanced around, but could see nothing but a narrow landing and coat hooks nailed to old wooden paneling. Bright smudges of sunlight splashed through the windows in a steep stairwell in front of him. All the rooms seemed to be upstairs.

“Hello?” he said. His voice echoed back at him. Anxious to get on with his prize vacation, he marched up the groaning stairs, making no attempt to be quiet. “Anybody here?” He heard skittering bugs, but no other sound.

Behind him, on tiptoe, the two hoods emerged from their respective hiding places and stalked after him. They adjusted sturdy ropes looped around clips at their waists; in each hand they carried strips of rags, convenient for gags or blindfolds. The first man walked in a strange scissorlike fashion, trying to keep his legs crossed and his full bladder under control. The second man hovered close to him, hiding in his partner’s shadow.

“Is this the Hotel Grande de Lujo?” Smith shouted again. “Where’s the lobby?” He stopped at a landing next to a grime-streaked window. The view looked out onto an alley piled with rusted automobiles stripped of parts — nothing scenic at all.

As Smith stood at a loss, one hood crept up behind him and looped his ragged strip of cloth around Smith’s face in an attempt to jam it into his mouth.

Smith grabbed the cloth and yanked it out of the hood’s hand. “Hey!” In a brief struggle, the first hood scrabbled to snatch the cloth back.

Smith’s naval commando training — honed and refined by living and working for years in the mugger-rich suburbs of New York — suddenly came into play.

He expertly grasped the hood’s wrist, hunched and elbowed him in the stomach. A sudden dark wet spot blossomed at the man’s crotch. Smith turned backward, spun around and hurled him through the window.

The second thug charged up the steps to join the fray.

As he sailed through the shattering glass, the first hood’s heels struck the second thug in the chin and knocked him back down the stairs. The second hood thumped and rolled and bounced down from landing to landing, picking up speed.

Smith watched him, arms crossed over his chest. He sniffed in annoyance. “I could tell this wasn’t a first-class hotel.”

* * *

Outside, Bolo sat behind the wheel of his stolen cab. He had parked half a block away, and now the skittish, predatory chickens had begun to return, creeping out of their hiding places and looking for unsuspecting food.

Hearing the glass crash from above, he looked up to see one hood sail through the splintering window and fall into the alleyway below. The thug thumped with a metallic clang onto the rusted hood of an ancient Mercedes. The cautious chickens perked up, looking from side to side, then raced clucking toward the helpless man in the alley.

After another sound, Bolo looked to see the second thug tumble down the last few stairs and out through the half-open front door to sprawl in a heap on the porch.

Bolo raised his eyebrows in admiration at Smith’s handiwork. Perhaps the naval officer would be salvageable for his purposes after all. “Two down, one to go.”

* * *

On an upper balcony above the stairs, Smith looked all around him, still clutching his black suitcase. “I sure don’t like the service in this hotel.” He glanced back down the stairwell, scowling. “I hope they don’t plan on charging me for that window glass.”

A third man crept into sight at the balcony rail, carrying a stained bedsheet like a safari net. Smith saw him and waved. “Are you the manager?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for—”

The thug threw the sheet, and the tattered and fouled cloth descended on Smith, enveloping him. “Hey, no fair!” He flailed his hands and kicked at the edge of the cloth, but his expert kicks missed their mark as the thug dodged aside.

Before the lieutenant could fight his way out, the thug rushed forward and swung a club down on Smith’s sheet-wrapped head.

Though he had not even finished his complaint, Smith stopped grumbling in mid-sentence. He saw only stars and then blackness.