Chapter 16

ON THE SECOND FLOOR of the Cantina de Espejos, the late morning air carried the smell of hot cooking oil, bananas and boiled Inca corn from the doorsteps below. Roosters crowed and dogs barked.

Smith stood in the open bathroom dressed only in his skivvies. He rinsed the dangerous straight-edged razor in the sink, then inspected his shaving job in the chipped mirror. Better than yesterday, at least; he’d kept the injuries to a minimum. Satisfied, he patted his face with a damp towel.

The jackhammer pounding in his head was better as well, especially now that Yaquita had stopped throwing things at him. She had dressed in a bright red skirt and frilly white blouse with intricate embroidery, then left him early in the morning. She had promised to bring him fresh roses from the flower market as soon as it opened. He tried to tell her he was allergic to pollen, but she just laughed and trotted out the door with a swirl of her skirt and a flash of her bronze calves.

Refreshed for the first time in days, the redheaded lieutenant sang out loud as he went to the tan suitcase on the footstool. “‘What you gonna do with a drunken sailor? What you gonna do with a drunken sailor?’”

Of course, his big question was what was he going to do, now that his vacation was ruined, his passport and luggage stolen, and the Marines at the American Embassy were shooting at him. . . . Stupid Marines . . . you could never trust them. He decided not to worry about that, at least not until he was dressed.

With one hand he fumbled to open the tan suitcase, but the damp towel slipped from his shoulder. He grabbed it, losing his grip on the suitcase so that it tumbled off the footstool, striking the floor.

Unperturbed, Smith lifted the case onto the footstool — but something odd happened. Its back opened, a crack widening from a false panel he had not noticed before. Curious, he bent to inspect the case, wondering if it had been damaged by the same baggage handlers who had mixed up his luggage with this stranger’s. He hoped the case could be repaired without too much cost. Its actual owner would likely be upset.

He tried to get the back panel open further; his cheery sailing tune faltered, then stopped altogether as he became distracted with the problem. Smith flopped the suitcase one way, and the secret back compartment opened. He flopped it the other way, and the innocent front opened. “Something suspicious here.”

He thought of all the stories he had heard about South American drug smugglers, and he grew suddenly concerned. What if the authorities mistakenly went after him? What if they confused Lieutenant Tom Smith with a bad man, with a . . . lawbreaker!

He removed the contents of the suitcase’s hidden compartment one at a time, holding each up to the light and setting it aside on the bed.

A broad, wicked-looking commando knife.

A camouflaged, waterproof jungle suit.

Two alien-looking holstered weapons on a web belt.

He pulled out one of the pistols, curious. He had never seen such a sleek, high-tech weapon before, like something from a science fiction movie. Laser pistols? He had heard the Navy was developing firearms like those. In fact, he thought he might have signed off on the blueprints himself.

Next, Smith popped open a black case to reveal a suicide kit containing needles and poison capsules (marked as “grape flavored”). From the bottom of the secret compartment, he removed a fancy military digital wristwatch that sported more incomprehensible buttons than even his VCR at home. A military chronograph.

Smith peered at it, reading the maker’s label. “Made in Russia? Uh-oh.” He snapped his head up with the belated realization. These weren’t the possessions of a drug smuggler — this was intelligence stuff! How could he possibly be mixed up with spies?

Then his eyes flared wide in greater astonishment as he saw the date displayed on the fancy watch. “Oh, my God, it’s the eleventh.” He looked up in horror. “I’m AWOL! They’ll send the Marines after me!” All of Naval Intelligence would fall apart without him — who would stamp all their blueprints now that he was missing?

A loud knock on the door startled him. He whipped his head around, then he tossed the damp shaving towel over the scattered weapons and illegal espionage equipment on the bed. What if this was the Colodoran police?

An oddly familiar dark-haired man with exotic Turkish features walked in, dressed as a waiter. Bolo carried a tray that held a breakfast roll and a pot of strong coffee with hot milk. He gave no sign of recognition or friendliness on his calm, bland face. “Breakfast, sir? Compliments of the establishment.”

Smith stared at Bolo, who looked very different from his previous guise as a scruffy taxi driver. “Hey, haven’t I seen you someplace before?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Bolo said. “I’ve never been here before.”

Smith’s thoughts were on other things, particularly being AWOL, and he didn’t pursue the matter. He went to the broken window, as if pondering the best escape route.

Smith glanced again at the complex Russian military watch, double-checking the date. He winced, then turned to the waiter, worried. “Excuse me, but can you fetch me a telephone, quick? Teléfono? I’ve got to call the United States.”

“Sí, señor.” The waiter casually set the breakfast tray on top of the towel that covered the scattered weaponry on the bed, not noticing the lumps. He closed the door behind him as he left Smith to ponder what he was going to do next.