compartment, Alim marched them down the passageway toward the cargo deck. As they reached the deck, the taller of the two men looked back to get direction as to which way to go, forward or aft.
Alim nodded with his head toward the railing as he lifted the safety lever to the middle position.
The second he heard the click, the man bolted. Afundi pulled the trigger. The burst of bullets caught the Asian before he could take a second step. They ripped through his back and chest before his shocked dead body could hit the deck.
The little one stood frozen in place with his hands up, his back to Alim. His head was turned and his eyes cast down on the bloody mass that an instant earlier had been his crewmate.
With all the thought he might employ in reaching for a cup of coffee, Alim swept the muzzle of his rifle back thirty degrees and emptied the clip.
The man’s knees buckled as his body disintegrated in bits of spattered tissue and sprayed blood.
With the casual air of a hunter who has just shot a duck, Afundi turned from the riddled corpse before it could even stop moving. He went through the ritual of reloading, scrupulously depositing the empty clip into his pocket pouch. Then he headed back into the interior of the ship looking to bag another bird.
FIFTY
This morning as Herman and I step out of the cab downtown, I have donned a floppy canvas jungle hat packed from home, and a pair of dark glasses. I have the brim on my hat pulled low over my eyes.
It has taken the mayor the better part of a day to find someone who could produce the passports within the time frame we have.
Just before we left Goudaz’s apartment, I tried to reach Harry at the office using the encrypted cell phone. Harry answered; we got a few words in, but a couple of seconds later the call was dropped. I redialed three more times and each time the same thing happened. Herman thinks it’s the thick concrete walls in the mayor’s apartment building. He calls it the bat cave. I got enough of the message to Harry that he knows we’re all right. I’ll try again later.
We walk two blocks to Avenida Central, a pedestrians-only avenue that runs half a mile or so through the heart of downtown San Jose. The mayor has put us on to a small shop where they make document copies and do photographic work. He has called the owner and the man is expecting us.
As we shoulder our way through the crowds walking in the center of the street, I feel as though I’m naked. Templeton has a warrant out for my arrest, but I’m worried that the FBI may have identified Herman, in which case they may have circulated his photograph to the local authorities. Even in a crowd he is big enough that walking next to him is like carrying a signpost.
Half a block down we find the shop. Herman and I quickly get off the street. We give the girl at the counter Lorenzo Goudaz’s name, and a few seconds later a tall, slender man with a pencil mustache and drooping eyelids motions us to follow him behind the counter. He takes us to a back room where he quickly closes the door the moment we?re inside.
He turns and looks at me. What is your name, senor?
We're Lorenzo's friends, I tell him.
“I need to see some identification.”
“Is that necessary?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I show him my driver’s license.
He takes a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolds it, and checks something written on the paper against the information on my license. “Okay. And you,
Herman does the same.
Okay. Mr. Goudaz says you need them today.
Correct, says Herman.
Did he tell you how much?
No.
The man smiles a little. It must be cash. I only take cash.?
How much? says Herman.
Twenty-five hundred dollars, each,” he says.
“Five grand, that’s pretty steep,” says Herman.
“You need them in a hurry. Of course, you are free to find someone else who will do them for less,” says the man.
“No, we’ll have them done here,” I say. “But they’ll have to be good.”
“My work is always good. I have never had any complaints; the pages are all properly stitched; the covers, you cannot tell the difference between the real passport and mine; and the printing and documentation you will see for yourself are excellent.”
“How long will it take?” I ask.
“Give me a few moments.” He starts for the door, then stops. “You wanted Canadian, correct?”
“That’s right,” says Herman.
“You know, for ten thousand I could give you two French passports, official paper, real covers, the genuine article.”
“Do I sound French to you?” says Herman.
The guy looks at him, doesn’t say a word. He steps out of the room, leaving Herman and me alone with the door closed.
“This is probably where the Costa Rican police come in and bust our ass for passport fraud,” says Herman.
“In which case the Dwarf will probably give them foreign aid,” I tell him. “How much of the money here is going into Larry’s pocket?”
“I don’t know, but you gotta figure the DSG fee down here is probably pretty high. I know it was in Mexico when I lived there.”
“What’s the DSG fee?” I ask.
“Delivering stupid gringos,” says Herman. “You notice the mayor couldn’t wait to step up and swallow my lie about the prosecutor having us followed as the reason we need new passports.”
“That wasn’t a lie.”
“The way I told it, it was.”
“You don’t think he believed you?” I ask.
“I don’t think he heard me,” says Herman. “Calculator in his head was making too much noise trying to figure out the freight on the passports. Mind you, his beer’s not bad. But I can’t recommend the overnight accommodations.”
“Compared to the local jail, I’m thinking I’d probably give it four stars,” I tell him. “The real question is whether his Urban Information Exchange is spitting out accurate poop.”
“You mean the
“For starters.”
The ship
