Connections: Conexiones (Mercenaries Book 3) Page 2

  Thank God! she thought as one of New York’s normally ubiquitous blue and white police cars drifted toward her. She ran to the cruiser’s side. The officer stopped short and was out of the car in an instant. Breathless, she just pointed to the man lying against the tree.

  The attacker had noticed the activity and was running. The officer told her, “Stay here!” He and his partner hollered “Stop, Police!” as they took off.

  Piero escorted Camila back to the hotel after a late dinner; in his room, he was preparing for another pleasant interlude when several sharp raps on the door destroyed his mood.

  He glanced at the clock; at quarter to midnight, it was far too early for Huamán to return… Unless there was a problem! Heart in his mouth, he pushed Camila to the bedroom and closed her in. He surveyed the room for any incriminating objects. Another impatient blow on the door just as he reached for the handle made him wonder why Huamán was so anxious.

  Finding a uniformed policeman and a second man in a rumpled suit was a relief only for a second. “May we come in? Only be a couple of minutes.”

  Dazed, Piero just nodded and held the door for them. As he closed it, he gestured to the chairs. “Have a seat,” though his experience with police at home suggested they’d continue to stand.

  They did. “You are…” The man in the suit referred to a scrap of paper he slid from his notepad. “Mr. Piero Salvadore? Sub-Minister of the Interior from Peru? Do you have some identification?”

  What? Piero nodded, dumbstruck. The officer’s surly voice was not unfamiliar to Piero, accustomed to dealing with his police forces at home. A little unsteadily, he retrieved his coat and dug his passport from the pocket. He handed it to the man.

  “Thanks.” After a long look flipping the pages, the man returned the document. “Sorry, Mr. Salvadore. It’s been a long day, and it’s not getting any shorter. I’m Detective O’Keefe; this is Officer James. I have the unpleasant duty to inform you of the death of your countryman, Mr…” He looked down at the paper once more; while Piero could guess what the detective’s next words would be, he reached for the chair and as O’Keefe said, “Mr. Mateo Huamán,” he fell into it.

  “What… how… What happened? An accident?”

  “No. It looks like he was set upon by a mugger, a common thief, and fought back.” The detective shook his head sadly. “He was stabbed. We apprehended the killer before he got away.” He slipped a pen from his shirt pocket. “It was about ten-thirty this evening. There was a witness.” He clicked the pen, ready to write. “Do you know why Mr. Huamán would have been out walking at that hour?”

  Piero wasn’t so dazed that he answered immediately. He dropped his head to his hands and thought. No reason to get involved. All my problems may be swept away. “He had an appointment earlier in the evening; something personal which we did not discuss. Also, he may have wished to take a walk; that would not be unusual for him.”

  “Do you know who he was meeting?”

  Piero shook his head.

  “Okay. If you think of anything that might help us, here’s my card. Call anytime. They’ll get me the message. Thanks. And my sympathies on the death of your friend.”

  The news had taken the steam out of Piero’s ardor; he sent Camila to the sitting room while he called Sara. Then he called his new superior, Peru’s President, who asked him to stay no longer than necessary to help with the investigation, and then bring Huamán’s body home.

  Camila had been surprisingly adept in helping press the night’s events to the back of Piero’s memory. “Of course I will stay with you until you tell me otherwise. But I must call…”

  “Call” meant a lawyer. Her look of surprise when her call was answered at two-thirty in the dark morning, not by voice mail but a live voice, could not have been faked. As she replaced the phone, she said, “He will meet us tomorrow evening in the lobby of the Pennsylvania Hotel. Everything will be set then.”

  In the plane, escorting Huamán’s coffin, Piero reflected on the meeting with Frank Pella. Frank’s boss, Talos’ lawyer, was too busy trying to keep Talos out of jail to meet in person, but Frank reminded Piero of his agreement with Donny. Camila would continue to “be available,” he said. “She can arrive in Lima in a week.

  “Either I,” Frank continued, “or someone will accompany her, to make sure the proper arrangements are in place.”

  Piero had swallowed deeply. He was certain that “proper arrangements” had nothing to do with a place for Camila to live. In fact, Piero knew even if he dismissed the girl the “arrangements” would survive. The thin envelope Frank had handed him settled that. He waited until Camila slept to use a leftover dinner knife to slit the top. A typed piece of paper slid out; he read: “Call this number when you have set up an account to receive your compensation.” A ten digit number followed. He tore the number out of the page and slipped it in his wallet, then burned the paper.

  Ten days later, Piero drove to Arequipa’s Rodríguez Ballón airport to meet Camila’s flight. His home was near Arequipa, and he owned through family connections a town house in the city’s Cayma District. He’d spent the week furnishing it for Camila’s use.

  In the terminal, Camila hurried as soon as she saw Piero, but not so much as to leave a tall heavy-set man behind. As Piero watched him huff to a stop beside the woman, he thought, this is more than overweight. He will die if he does nothing.

  Camila was speaking. “… Samuel Goldfarb. He could not meet you in New York, but—”

  “We can talk about these things when we are settled,” Goldfarb said.

  Piero nodded and led them to his car.

  Goldfarb asked Piero to find him a “good hotel” for the next two or three days. Piero decided to put him up in the Libertador Arequipa; the manager and he had a comfortable arrangement, and it was one of the best hotels in the city. Goldfarb voiced his approval as Piero approached the entrance.

  “Shall we talk here, Mr. Salvadore, or have you another place in mind?”

  “We can use the room we take for you. Unless you have concerns?”

  With a shake of his head, Goldfarb levered himself out of the car and stood, looking around the park while he caught his breath. “Beautiful. What season is it, here?”

  Piero smiled. “We are in la primavera.”

  “Spring,” Camila said softly. Goldfarb nodded as Piero flagged a porter for Goldfarb’s bags, then led the way into the building.

  In the room, Camila said, “Shall I go down to the bar, or—”

  “Not on my account,” Goldfarb said. “You’ve heard it all before.” He chuckled. “And you are my messenger. You can make sure I don’t leave anything of import out. Piero, are you comfortable in English? Sadly, my Spanish was never—”

  “English will be fine.” Piero glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting in ninety minutes, so…”

  “Of course. To cases, then. Mr. Talos was impressed by you when you met. He wishes to confirm the arrangement you and he agreed.”

  He gave Piero a look Piero could only consider questioning: one brow up, the other down, and a half smile on his lips. Having accepted Camila, and sent my bank number away, I’m in, no matter what. “I believe I can confirm our arrangement, unless something has changed?”

  “Well, Mr. Talos is incarcerated and between the three of us, with that woman’s testimony he’s not likely to be free any time soon. However, between Frank, León and myself, his organization will continue, and may even prevail upon the witness.” He walked to the sofa. “I must sit. Camila, could you order us some drinks and perhaps snacks? That’s a good girl.”

  “Are you to describe what Mr. Talos requires?”

  Goldfarb shook his head violently. “Of course not. But anyone who claims to speak for us, or makes a request on our behalf, will have bona fides that will be clear.”

  Piero also took a seat. “And what is your bona fide, Mr. Goldfarb?”

  The man waved his arm at Camila. “She is.”

  Chapter T
wo

  Piero visits Goldfarb

  Arequipa, Peru

  NEARLY TWO YEARS LATER, IN the middle of August, Piero and Camila discussed the directive she had delivered from the lawyer Goldfarb. Piero himself was to acquire and deliver to New York counterfeit $100 bills in the amount of two and a half million dollars.

  He considered refusing. While the quality and availability of counterfeit dollars made Peru an excellent source for Goldfarb, Piero said, “Why should I take this chance? Goldfarb would have me documented as a smuggler. What could he then force me to do?” While the payments from facilitating the cocaine smuggling operations were generous, and he surely enjoyed fondling Camila, were they worth this risk?

  “Oof!” The next evening, Piero stretched out face down on the dry grass behind his Arequipa finca. Laughing, he watched the soccer ball careen into the makeshift goal. His son had made a scoring shot under Piero’s outstretched arm, and the boy and his sister, both excellent junior soccer players, were celebrating their victory.

  “You three! Inside now, for dinner!” Sara, his wife and their mother, called from the back door.

  Piero rolled over and spit a few bits of straw from his mouth. The Peruvian high desert in August, he thought. Lovely. He raised himself. “You heard Mamá; let’s get going. You can gloat over dessert.”

  With shouts of pleasure, the children ran toward the house.

  Inside, washed and seated at the head of the table, Piero felt more like Minister of the Interior. At least until the children shouted in unison: “Mamá, we got the last goal!”

  Sara looked across the table at Piero, a smile curving her lips. “Is that why you were sprawled on the grass?” Her smile faded; Piero didn’t like her new expression. “We need to talk later.”

  “I am to work tonight.”

  “Before you leave.”

  He agreed, keeping his reluctance to himself.

  After dessert, the children retired to their schoolwork. In the living room, Piero and Sara shared the sofa. He sipped his pisco and waited patiently for her to break the silence.

  Sara’s brows furrowed. “I understand Nayra Mamani will join the Presidential campaign against us. She has augmented her staff by contracting a campaign manager. And—”

  “We expected her, and planned for it.” He paused, his glass half-way to his lips. Goldfarb’s demand… perhaps I can use that.

  “So you wish to challenge her as well as the others?”

  “Of course! I have the backing.” He sipped, gazing at her over his glass while rethinking his last statement. “She’s just another fish, as they say. Still, I will bring it up at the meeting.” He set his glass down and stood. “The biggest impact will be financial. She has good support, there.”

  “Does it change your plans?”

  Piero considered her question. “It may. I will see. I’ll return late, I fear. Te quiero.”

  In spite of his brazen words to Sara, the threat Mamani posed to his campaign was sufficient to reconsider Goldfarb’s demand. I can do this, he thought. Two suitcases, not even large ones, and under diplomatic seal, especially if I enter through Miami.

  So, how may I take advantage of this situation? A moment’s thought brought a recollection. Huamán’s videos would be an excellent weapon…

  Inside the home in Arequipa’s Cayma district where he’d installed Camila, he kissed her more hurriedly than he’d intended, and took a welcome drink from the glass she offered. No time to waste, he thought, and plunged into his decision. “I will bring the currency to Goldfarb as his message instructed. He should make sure the payment has been transferred.”

  “I thought you feared him having so much control?”

  He finished his drink. “Times and circumstances change.” Pulling her close, he opened her blouse. “Beautiful as usual…” His voice trailed off as he kissed his way down her throat to her chest.

  The trip to deliver the fake bills offered the chance to take Sara and the children, not only to New York, but Orlando as well. His position as Minister made arranging the trip easy if not convenient. He would visit the UN for a half-day and Goldfarb the next. Meanwhile, the family would spend a couple of days touring and then, on the return home, they would stop at Disney World. Piero admitted his children were more excited than Sara, but she was willing.

  New York

  In New York, Piero had the limo driver drop him at Goldfarb’s office in Jersey City. He hurried through the glass door and entered Goldfarb’s office.

  “Señor Goldfarb, how nice to see you again.” He dropped the two cases beside him. “I believe you are expecting these?”

  “Yes, thank you. Relax. Colleen will arrange anything you’d like; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Colleen smiled. A professional woman of perhaps forty with a well-toned figure, she brought a light lunch with a small glass of Macchu Pisco.

  Piero touched the glass of the Peruvian wine. “Thank you very much for this; it brings my country here.” He smiled knowingly. “Did Mr. Goldfarb betray my weakness?”

  Her grin spread quickly. “Actually, Camila. I hope she did not speak out of turn?”

  “Of course not.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “Do you have a paper?”

  “Just a moment.”

  She returned in a moment with copies of the New York Times, the Post and the Daily News. With a courteous “Thank you,” Piero opened the Times.

  He hadn’t finished the first section before Goldfarb strolled into the conference room. “Very satisfactory,” he said. “As promised, those goods are now on the way to Saint Louis for distribution.”

  “Good,” Piero said. “Now, we have business to discuss.” Goldfarb’s eyes opened wide. My tone gives him pause. Excellent. “First, I would betray your hospitality if I didn’t thank Colleen and you for the lunch and newspapers.” Goldfarb relaxed and Piero smiled. The smile faded into a forbidding expression. “I have made the delivery. I will not do this again. In fact, beginning now I alone will control the delivery of product from Peru.” Piero paused to let the lawyer think. “You must decide if you can afford to create a new network to replace mine. If I fall, it does as well.”

  Goldfarb cleared his throat.

  My work this past year will now pay its dividends, Piero thought as he smiled, the smile that had surprised many of his countrymen when he’d discovered a new gold seam, or smuggling route or most recently, a new safe house for his counterfeiters. “Before you fret, señor, I make a proposition. You are concerned for the income stream from my products.” He waited; the lawyer sipped before nodding agreement. “However…” Piero brought his dealing-with-miscreants voice into play. “… I am now interested in the video recordings Talos was to have handed to señor Huamán two years ago. Remember those? So. I can supply a viable, inexhaustible source of revenue—until the US enacts reasonable drug laws, at least—if you and Talos will give me the videos.

  “For me, for other Peruvians, the videos lose value as time passes. The next elections may depend on them, if I can employ them to my benefit.

  “I am sure my proposal is clear to you. I must have the recordings before the elections. You must have my product. Can we agree?”

  “We can,” Goldfarb said. “However, Mr. Talos remains adamant the video cassettes cannot be retrieved whilst he remains incarcerated.”

  Piero smiled again. “Then it will be in your interest to solve that problem.”

  Chapter Three

  Missing

  A Calm Day

  BECKIE SVERDUPE CURLED UP BESIDE Ian Jamse, her fiancé and mentor, on the Gulfstream’s sofa. The pilot had assured them nothing would interfere with the short hop from Nassau to their home. Home, she reflected. The Nest. Wonderful! Seven Out Islands in the Bahamas that Ian had purchased as home base, not only for him, but for his mercenary team.

  She wriggled in pleasure, rubbing her cheek against his chest. The drone of the engines, the heat of Ian’s skin and the beating of his heart lulled h
er, though she’d already napped through the trip from London to Nassau.

  The Nest. It is aptly named, Go Shen thought as he dropped into his comfortable desk chair. As security director, it is my task to keep it safe. Although, he admitted with a smile, this Tuesday in early September hasn’t been much of a challenge! He opened his laptop to check for messages. According to Ian, the flight from Nassau would arrive on time; he and Beckie would soon deplane on Port Cay. Shen glanced at the clock and thought, Yes, I should hear it landing any time now.

  Ten minutes later, he did, and checked his monitors to make sure everything was in order. With a smile, Shen joined—in a virtual sense—the small crowd greeting the couple. Not every business trip gets that welcome, he thought. Won’t take me long to straighten up here; I can get Ian’s final update on Reverend Billy’s arrest.

  Before Shen finished, however, his phone rang. When he answered, the front desk person said, “Doctor Ardan is out here; she’d like to see you.”

  “Send her back.” Doctor Millie Ardan, trauma specialist, ran the Nest’s hospital for Ian, in addition to traveling with teams going into situations where injuries were likely. Before he’d decided he had no idea why she’d visit him rather than Ian, she rapped the door frame and entered. In green scrubs, she held her head high but tipped slightly. “Thanks, Shen. I came by to see if Amy’s been in touch. Guppy’s not in the anchorage and it’s getting late. I expected her way before now.”

  He regarded her with what must have been a completely stupefied expression, based on her next words: “You remember my daughter?” Her mouth quirked up in a twisted grin. “Fifteen years old? So tall?” She held her hand a little above her own head. “Long brown hair? Sailing an old white Contessa 26?”