the beans with their feet, but it was clear that there was nothing to find. Beans, only beans. The dog was happily sniffing at them. A dog that liked coffee, that was all it was. Vargas’s soul returned to his body. His heart soared. He opened his other eye.
“Look what you’ve done,” he told them severely. “How am I going to explain this? This is going to cost me a lot of money. I’m warning you, you’d better not damage anything else. I’ll file a complaint with Colonel Malagga, I’ll —”
“These boots,” the one holding the knife said. “Are they extra?”
“Extra?” He was so thickheaded with fear and relief that it took him a few moments to understand. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said more agreeably, “two of the pairs happen to be extra. I wonder, would you gentlemen like them? It would save me the trouble of transporting them.”
They grinned their acceptance, the knife was folded up and put
away, and the worst, the longest, twenty minutes of Alfredo Vargas’s life came to an end.
AFTERleaving the hold, the two soldiers and the dog started going through the cabins, as instructed by Malagga. Vargas went joyfully up to join the passengers, where he opened the bar early and offered a free round of drinks to make up for the inconvenience of the check. In a few minutes, the young soldier returned to the salon.
“Cabin six, whose is that?”
“Mine,” said Tim in a voice from the tomb.
The soldier motioned to him. “Come with me, please.”
Tim, with panic in his eyes, looked to Vargas for help, but all Vargas could do was shrug. “Go with them, don’t worry.”
He was back in two or three minutes, in even deeper distress. He took Vargas aside. “They found my stash. They want to arrest me.” He looked every bit as frightened and desperate as Vargas had been a little while ago. “They told me to ask you for advice. They told me you understood the law, you’d know what to do.”
“Your ‘stash,’ what is it?”
“It’s just pot.”
“Nothing else? No coca? No cocaine? Are you sure?”
“Yes, marijuana, that’s all, I swear. Captain Vargas, I can’t go to jail here. I couldn’t—”
Vargas gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Relax,
Tim frowned. “I don’t understand. They want money? A bribe?”
“A gift, let us call it. Not necessarily money. Did they admire anything in your cabin?”
“No, they just ...wait, I’ve got a big bag of Jelly Bellies—jelly beans—on the shelf. They were asking about them. I gave them a couple to try and they really liked them, but—no, that’s stupid—”
“There you are, then.”
The young man stared at him. “They want
“Offer them and see what happens.”
“You mean, just ...go back and... offer them? Just say, ‘Would you like these jelly beans?’ ”
“That’s as good a way as any,” Vargas said, laughing. He was feeling marvelously relaxed, and even somewhat paternal toward Tim. “You’ll see, don’t worry. They’re not interested in putting you in jail, my friend, trust me. It’s too much work.”
As Tim began to understand that he was not really going to rot for the rest of his life in some jungle hellhole of a prison, other matters came to the front of his mind.
“Will they let me keep my stash?”
“That I cannot tell you. Be polite and hope for the best. Now go back and do as I say. These people are not known for their patience.” He waved him affably on. “Go go go.”
AN hour later, the
actually come through this horrible experience in one piece and his additional $5,000 was now as good as certain; Scofield’s, because the coca paste was safe in the hold and, having been sealed and certified by customs, was immune from further official prying and his $120,000 was as good as certain; and Tim’s because he had his freedom, his stash, and a deeper understanding of the Colombian system of criminal justice.
FOURTEEN
