67
I never thought I’d be so glad to reach Colombia.It was four o’clock in the morning when we went through customs. A long line of bleary-eyed passengers proceeded through the airport checkpoints. Unlike the shakedown for travelers leaving the country, inspections for incoming passengers at El Dorado International Airport were random. Visitors pressed a button as they exited. If it came up green, they sailed through; red, their bags were searched. At this hour most of the stations were closed. Alex and I were twentieth in a slow-moving line.
I had nearly fallen asleep standing up when she nudged me. “See that guy over there?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
I followed her eyes toward a man standing near a closed newsstand on the other side of the gate.
“He’s a legal attache,” she said.
“A what?”
“An FBI agent. That’s what they’re called abroad. That guy’s definitely with the bureau’s office in Bogota.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I dealt with him six months ago in another kidnapping case.”
The line inched forward, and we took a step closer. “What do you think he’s here for?”
“You.”
“Me?” I said, startled.
“Keep your voice down.”
“How would they even know I was here?”
“Same way they knew the last time. The wire transfer.”
“You think I’m in for another hassle about the money, like they did at Miami?”
“I think it’s one of two things. It could be that the FBI evaluated what you told them and want to help you nail Quality Insurance.”
“What’s the other possibility?”
She cupped her hand to my ear, making sure no one could possibly overhear. “He’s here to execute an arrest warrant. For the murder of Jaime Ochoa.”
“Oh, boy.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“What do we do?”
“I don’t think he’s spotted us yet, so stop acting like you know me. Let me go through first. I’ll strike up a conversation with him. As soon as you clear, break for the exit. Don’t run, but be quick. Remember where my friend Pablo left his Vega for us last time?”
“I think so.”
“It should be in the same spot, or thereabouts. Go straight to it, I’ll meet you there.”
I stepped out of line and let the two passengers behind us get between me and Alex, creating some distance. One was a guy so big he could have blocked the sun. I stood directly behind him with my head down, trying not to let the legal attache spot me. Slowly the line worked its way to the checkpoint. Alex went through without a hassle, as did the woman behind her. The big guy hit the button. The light flashed red, and they pulled him aside for a bag inspection. Alex was already on the other side, headed directly for the agent. I hit the button and prayed. It was green. I stepped through, presented my passport, and made a quick left at the gate.
Alex was all grins as she approached the agent, as if they were old friends. He was clearly uncomfortable, but Alex poured it on. I was moving fast through the terminal, bag in tow, my chin to my chest to minimize the chance of being recognized. I felt the urge to run but didn’t. Still, with each step my stride widened, and I could feel myself gaining momentum. I sensed I was breaking free.
“Nick Rey?” someone called.
Instinctively I stopped cold, and we locked eyes. I didn’t recognize the man’s face, but I had the distinct sense that these legal attaches traveled in pairs.
For an instant neither of us moved. I tried to read his expression, tried to discern whether he’d come to help me or arrest me. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t look friendly.
On impulse, I ran for it.
“Stop!”
I ignored him, just kept running at full speed. I glanced back, and he was right on my tail. Just ahead, between me and the exit, were a janitor with a mop and a bucket, and a five-meter stretch of glistening wet floor. I kicked into another gear and leaped across it. Just as I made it to the revolving doors, I heard a shout, a thud, and painful groan behind me. I glanced back to see a disheveled FBI agent sprawling across the floor and showing the world the bottoms of his shoes. Luckily, he wasn’t quite the long-jumper I was.
I burst through the door, ran past the taxis that Alex had warned me not to take. I followed the sidewalk to the parking lot, sprinting as fast as I could. A car suddenly cut in front of me and slammed on the brakes. I tried to stop but couldn’t. My bag flew, and I ended up on the hood.
“You idiot!” I shouted, then froze.
It was Alex. “Get in!”
“How’d you get the car so fast?”
“You went the long way, dummy. Now, get in!”
I hurried to the passenger side and was barely inside before Alex squealed the tires. We flew past the taxis, past the airport entrance, past a breathless FBI agent who was hobbling toward a bench, holding his aching back.
We took a circuitous route to the apartment, just in case we were being followed. We finally arrived around 6:00 A.M., certain that we’d beaten whatever tail they might have tried.
Before going upstairs, I had Alex stop at a pay phone. I desperately needed sleep, but first I needed to call home. I’d expected to get my mother, but Jenna answered.
“Nick, where are you?”
“Bogota.”
“Jeez, your mom’s a wreck. I’ve been here with her all night. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I couldn’t call till I got here. Just in case somebody asked, I wanted Mom to be able to say she didn’t know where I was.”
“Well, believe me, they’re asking. This Detective Gutierrez won’t leave us alone. It’s crazy, but I think he has you pegged for murdering Jaime Ochoa.”
“Don’t worry about that. The guy hanged himself.”
“No, he didn’t. Somebody killed him.”
“What?”
“What I’m hearing from Gutierrez, somebody forced him up on the kitchen chair, probably at gunpoint, and then tied a rope around his neck and hung him from the ceiling fan. Something about ligature marks around his wrists. It looks like his hands were untied after he was dead so it would look like suicide.”
That didn’t totally shock me, but I hated to think that lawyers I had once respected might have taken the cover-up this far. “This just keeps getting worse.”
“It didn’t help matters much when your mother told Gutierrez that you stopped by the house to pick up your father’s gun on your way over to see Ochoa.”
“Oh, my God.”
“And now the way you raced out of town, that doesn’t look so good either.”
“It’s not like I want to be here.”
“Nick, I know I don’t have to ask you, but. .”
“No! He was dead when I got there.”
She paused, as if relieved to hear me say it. “I know you have a lot on your mind. But when you get home, I
