necessity.”
“How do you know each other?”
Jonathan answered with arched eyebrows.
“Oh.”
“No names, either. If pressed, you’re Mr. Smith.”
Harvey’s shoulders sagged. “Smith? That’s the best you could come up with? Why not Jones?”
Jonathan smiled. “Because it’s already taken.”
The hostel was less shoddy on the inside than it was on the outside. More house than hotel, the place had the well-worn look of too many parties thrown by too many young people, of whom none were visible at the moment.
Jonathan called, “Hello?”
An ancient raisin of a man stepped in from what Jonathan knew to be the kitchen, and the mutual recognition was instantaneous.
“Hello, Felipe,” Jonathan said in English.
“Senor Jones!” the old man exclaimed. A snaggletoothed grin consumed the lower half of his face. He shuffled over, his arms outstretched to enfold Jonathan in a bear hug. Given his five-foot-three stature, it was really more of a cub hug, but the thought was there. “It has been too long!”
Jonathan had never adjusted to the Latin American abrazo — the man-hug-but he did his part by patting the old man on the back. “Too long,” he agreed.
“You look good,” Felipe said as they broke the embrace. He patted Jonathan’s chest. “You skinny. You have neck now.” The old man laughed.
Jonathan laughed, too. The last time the two had seen each other, Jonathan had been part of a Unit operation in which he and his squadron mates were supposed to disappear among the locals to gather intelligence against the drug cartel. Felipe had been an important link in the communication chain, and he had always teased Jonathan about being in far too good shape to ever blend in.
“I’m getting old and soft,” Jonathan conceded.
Felipe pinched his cheek. “No, you look good. You look healthy.” He turned to Harvey and extended his hand. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. “He’s a business associate. He doesn’t say much.”
Felipe enfolded Harvey’s hand in a friendly double grip. “Think of the coincidence,” Felipe said. “Yet another business associate named Mr. Smith.”
Harvey grinned. “Seems we’re a dime a dozen,” he said.
Felipe turned toward the back of the building and beckoned his guests to follow. “Come, come. We catch up.” As he passed the tiny front desk, he leaned across the counter and produced a tent-card that read CLOSED. In English.
Felipe caught the knowing glance from Jonathan. “Yes, the American dollar is still good to me,” he said. He beckoned again and led the way out the back door into a tiny courtyard that truly hadn’t changed a bit in the decade-plus since Jonathan’s last visit. The same tufts of grass peeked through the same spaces between the same broken bricks. Even the aluminum lawn chairs looked as rickety as before.
Felipe lifted two of the chairs a couple of inches off the ground and rattled them against the bricks. “Have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Jonathan gasped, “Coffee! Jesus, Felipe, it’s a hundred and ten degrees.”
“Only thirty-eight Celsius,” he said with a grin. “Sounds much cooler.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jonathan said, waving the offer away.
“Beer then,” Felipe said. “Or tequila. Whiskey?”
Harvey started to take the beer bait, then retreated from Jonathan’s glare.
“Nothing, really,” Jonathan insisted. “Thank you very much, though. Muchas gracias. ” Jonathan sat in the proffered seat, and gestured to the other one. “Please, Felipe. Sit with us. Let’s just talk.”
The old man’s smile gave way to a look of concern. “I don’t like that tone, my old friend. I’ve heard it before. Soon I fear you will tell me that this is not just a pleasure trip to revisit the goods times with Felipe.”
They shared a smile. Both were fully aware how much Jonathan despised this part of the world. Heat, corruption, violence, and poverty combined to form a perfect storm of misery for which Jonathan had no tolerance.
“My mission is nowhere near as large or difficult as in the past,” Jonathan said. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Felipe settled himself into his seat and crossed his legs. For a man of his apparent age, he’d always moved with considerable grace. “I hear you’re working with your old friend Jose,” Felipe said. He noted the startled look and added, “What, you think I don’t have ears anymore?” Clearly, he wanted Jonathan to know that he was still in the loop.
“So how is Jammin’ Josie these days?”
“He’s hungry. Just like all of us.”
“Is he still trustworthy?”
“Was he ever?”
Jonathan made a rocking gesture with his hand. “I never had a problem with him. At least he never betrayed me.”
“That’s because he feared you,” Felipe said with a wry smile. “That makes you different. If he still fears you, then I suppose he is still trustworthy. Your big friend-what was his name?”
“Mr. Smith,” Jonathan said. As if Felipe didn’t already know.
“ Si. Senor Smith. What ever came of him?” He looked to Harvey. “I hope he is well.”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Jonathan said. “We still work together. In fact, the plan is for me to join up with him tonight.”
“Does Jose know?”
“Not yet.”
Felipe laughed-a deep-throated peal that came from his soul and brought tears to his eyes. “Well, once Jose learns that the other Mr. Smith is with you, he’ll be very, very trustworthy.”
Jonathan joined him in the laughter. Throughout the world-from Cleveland to Samoa-Boxers was a big man. In South America he made Gulliver look short. Jammin’ Josie was afraid of him at a level that made “terrified” seem like a small word. Boxers had always relished it, and Jonathan had always used it to his advantage.
As the laughter settled, Jonathan killed the frivolity. “We make light of Josie’s shifting loyalties, but I need to know for real if he has gone bad. A child’s life lies in the balance.”
In South American culture, family meant everything, so Jonathan knew that Felipe would understand the urgency.
Felipe’s expression wrinkled. “Your business here is not about drugs?”
“In Colombia, my friend, I’m afraid that everything is ultimately about drugs. First and foremost, though, my business is about a kidnapping.”
“For ransom?” Felipe had been around long enough to understand that not all abductions are created equal.
“Not this time. For controlling information.”
Felipe showed his palms, his fingers pointing down. “What could a child know?”
“I can’t share the details. But I can’t afford betrayal.”
Felipe raised his hand, as if taking an oath. “On my mother’s grave, Jose mentioned your coming only to impress me. For all I know his intentions are good.” He paused. “He just talks too much. Is there a way I can help you?”
“Does the name Mitchell-or Mitch-Ponder mean anything to you?”
Felipe’s eyes darted to the corners of the courtyard. He tried to cover his fearful twitch, but it was too late.
Jonathan smiled. “Felipe, it’s me. You know that I’ll die to protect your secrets.” He said this without hyperbole, and Felipe knew it.
“Senor Jones, I hope that we have been friends long enough for you to know that I do not frighten easily.”
