Little Tiny Teeth

the kitchen crew, the Yagua Indian Porge, neither of whom had papers that would pass inspection at the border. They would run up ahead through the jungle, and once the Adelita was safely past the checkpoint (by the grace of God) and out of sight, the boat’s dinghy would pick them up.

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A few minutes later the ship had passed the rusting Republica de Colombia sign high on the right bank (which was what had started the perspiration streaming), and now they were pulling up and securing to the dilapidated pier, at the end of which was the falling-apart wooden shack that housed the Colombian military border police. At Vargas’s order, the Adelita’s gangplank, a two-by-twelve board studded with crosspieces every couple of feet, was let down. The door to the shack opened.

El momento de la verdad. The moment of truth.

From the shack swaggered an overweight officer in mirrored sunglasses, fatigues, and combat boots, with a black baseball cap on his head and his hand resting on the heavy, black butt of the supersized handgun holstered on his belt.

Vargas’s heart sank. Malagga.

“Buenas tardes, mi coronel!” Vargas effused, grinning away like crazy. “Como esta usted?”

He extended his arm to assist Malagga in making the one-foot jump onto the deck, but Malagga ignored him, as he had ignored the greeting. Instead he let himself down, and without even looking at Vargas, held out his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger impatiently, abstractedly together.

“Pasaportes.”

Vargas had them ready, having collected them earlier. Malagga riffled through them without evident interest, although he occasionally looked up, apparently to match a photograph with one of the faces of the passengers, all of whom were assembled in the deck salon at Vargas’s instruction.

While Malagga shuffled the passports, two soldiers that Vargas

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had not seen before came aboard, one well into his fifties, wiry and sly, the other a pot-bellied, dim-looking, snaggle-toothed youth of twenty. That these were low-grade officers was evident from their ragged, stained uniforms. Both wore fatigue pants, but only the older one had a matching shirt. The other had on a dirty T-shirt with a picture of an Absolut vodka bottle on it. The older one was wearing filthy tennis shoes; the other had on flip-flops. Neither had shaved for a few days. Both had the same sinister, mirrored sunglasses and the big semiautomatic pistols that Malagga had.

But it wasn’t the guns that had sent an icy, new spicule of fear deep into Vargas’s gut, it was the small, friendly-looking brown-andwhite dog they dragged with them on a leash. A drug-sniffer, God help him. He had worried that such a thing might happen and had expressed his concern to Scofield, but Scofield had laughed it off— he was a big laugher, Scofield was, always chuckling—telling him that the balls of coca paste were hidden in the sixty-kilo coffee bags for a very good reason: the coffee beans would mask their scent so that the dogs couldn’t smell them. But did Scofield know that this was so? Or was it only something he had heard? Vargas, in the clutch of his shameful greed, which he now so sorely repented, had not asked, but only eagerly accepted it as fact.

He stole a glance at Scofield, who was pointedly studying some kind of book, leaning his forehead on his hand to avoid any possible eye contact with Malagga. Vargas surreptitiously flicked perspiration from his own forehead. This kind of grief wasn’t worth five thousand dollars, it wasn’t worth fifty thousand dollars. Only let him get through this and, on his mother’s grave, he would never—never— again violate even the smallest law, the tiniest, most trivial legal tech

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nicality. Well, unless, of course, there was absolutely no danger whatever of—

Malagga gave the passports to one of the soldiers for stamping, then made the quick thumb-and-forefinger gesture again. “Sus papeles.” Your papers.

Vargas handed over the manifest and the various permits he had gotten, everything having been scrupulously completed. Malagga glanced at them indifferently, then took another look at the people around him, a long one this time, stopping at every face for two or three seconds as if to register it. At least that was the way it appeared, but with those sunglasses, who could tell for sure where he was looking? Still, his intention to intimidate them couldn’t be missed. Most of the passengers did what any sensible person would do under the circumstances: they tried their best to look as unremarkable as possible. All except for the FBI man, Lau, who was glaring right back at the colonel and visibly bristling.

Don’t ...make... trouble, Vargas tried to convey to him with an assortment of grimaces and facial expressions. Can’t you see the kind of person you’re dealing with here? Don’t you know the kind of trouble this man can make? Don’t you understand where we are? But the FBI man was continuing to stare boldly back, patently uncowed. Malagga’s thick lips pursed thoughtfully. For a second it appeared as if he was going to walk over and confront the Hawaiian (or Chinese, or whatever he was), but apparently he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, he muttered a few curt words to Vargas.

“Si, mi coronel,” Vargas said. “Seguro que si.” He turned to the passengers. “In addition to inspecting our cargo, Colonel Malagga

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respectfully requests your kind permission to examine your cabins. He also asks that you remain here while this is being accomplished, if there is no objection.”

“I have an objection,” Lau said, despite the eye-rolling facial contortions Vargas was now sending his way. “I’d like to know what his grounds are for examining our cabins.”

“Oh, it’s routine, merely routine,” Vargas said, smiling through his perspiration. “Very standard. It’s done on every ship.” Now shut up, will you?