night.”
“And when in our business were they ever short?” Ansara pointed out.
Moore grinned and hustled off for the van.
Before leaving Bogota, Jorge Rojas had scheduled a final visit with his old friend Felipe Somoza, who had called to say that he had a very special gift for Rojas. At ten in the morning, Rojas and his old college buddy Jeff Campbell, who’d struck a lucrative cell phone deal with the Colombian government, arrived outside the block-long, two-story shop and attached warehouse. They were greeted by Lucille, a dark-haired woman in her fifties who had been working as Somoza’s receptionist for the past ten years and was, like all of the man’s employees, fiercely loyal, treating Somoza more like a family member than a boss, to the point of handling his dry cleaning, the oil changes on his vehicles, even handling his personal schedule for attending his three sons’ college soccer games.
Rojas and Campbell were escorted through the shop floor and tailoring area, where dozens of women from eighteen to nearly eighty wore blue uniforms and sat diligently behind sewing machines, producing cold, warm, wet, formal, and casual wear for both men and women.
However, they weren’t making “normal” clothing.
Somoza was known as the “Armored Armani,” and his bulletproof clothing was world-renowned. His business had flourished since 9/11, after which he had focused his attention on private security and bodyguard companies. He expanded to supply clothing to diplomats, ambassadors, princes, and presidents of more than forty nations and was now popular with individuals and with more than two hundred private security firms, as well as local police throughout the Americas. What set him apart from other bulletproof manufacturers was his attention to comfort and fashion design. He wasn’t just making ugly militarylike vests; his clothing ranged from bulletproof suits to dresses to even socks and ties. He even had a boutique in Mexico City on the same street as such names as Hugo Boss, Ferrari, BMW, and Calvin Klein. He was planning to open a new shop on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, California, so he could supply both celebrities and their bodyguards with some of the most stylish yet “safe” clothing in the world.
The bulletproof panels themselves were carefully concealed within the garments. Each panel was designed from sheets of plastic polymers composed of many layers. Kevlar, Spectra Shield, or sometimes Twaron (nearly identical to Kevlar) and Dyneema (similar to Spectra) became part of the process, depending upon the garment’s target weight and available materials. Kevlar thread was used to sew together layers of woven Kevlar, while the Spectra Shield was coated and bonded with resins such as Kraton before being sealed between sheets of polyethylene film.
“Now, Jeff,” Rojas whispered as they neared Somoza’s office near the back of the shop, “he’s going to have a little fun with us, and you need to play along.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t insult him. Just do whatever he says. Okay?”
“You’re the boss, Jorge.”
Campbell had no idea what was about to happen, and Rojas chuckled inwardly.
Somoza was already at the door as they reached it. Barely fifty, with a thick shock of black hair dappled with a few patches of gray, he was an imposing figure of six-foot-two with broad shoulders and a belly that betrayed his addiction to sweets. In fact, four glass candy jars the size of one-pound coffee cans were lined up on his broad mahogany desk, standing in sharp juxtaposition with a large placard hanging on the back wall. This was the company’s logo — a pair of crossed swords behind a black shield with a superimposed silver bullet that suggested a combination of medieval armor and modern-day technology.
Somoza trundled forward in a pair of tight designer jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that offered a light level of protection against long-range fire. He always wore his own products: nothing but …
“
“
Jeff shook hands with Somoza. “It’s an honor to meet the famous bulletproof tailor.”
“Famous? No,” said Somoza. “Busy? Yes, yes! Come inside, gentlemen. Come inside.”
Rojas and Campbell sank into plush leather chairs opposite Somoza’s desk, while he slipped outside for a second, calling after Lucille to bring him the present. Off to their left hung dozens of pictures of Somoza with movie stars and dignitaries, all wearing his clothing. Rojas pointed to the photos, and Campbell’s mouth began to open. “This is quite an operation he’s got here. Look at all the movie stars.”
Rojas nodded. “I’ll show you the warehouse before we leave. It’s a very ambitious business. I’m very proud of him. I remember when he was just starting up.”
“Well, it’s a much more dangerous world.”
“Yes, the one we leave our children.” Rojas sighed deeply, then turned his head as Somoza entered the room carrying a black leather trench coat.
“For you, Jorge!”
Rojas stood and took the coat. “Are you kidding me? This is not bulletproof.” He ran his fingers across the material and the flexible plates behind it. “It’s much too light and thin.”
“I know, right?” agreed Somoza. “It’s our latest design, and I want you to have it. It’s your size, of course.”
“Thank you very much.”
“We just finished showing it at our annual fashion show in New York.”
“Wow, a fashion show in New York for bulletproof clothes?” asked Campbell.
“It’s very popular,” said Somoza.
Jorge glanced at Campbell, then faced Somoza and winked. “Are you sure it’ll stop a bullet?”
Somoza reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a.45-caliber revolver, which he placed on the desk.
“Wow,” cried Campbell. “What’re we doing now?”
“We need to test it out,” said Somoza, his eyes growing devilishly wide. “Jeff, I want you to know that I give all of my employees the test. You can’t work here unless you’re willing to put on the product and take a bullet. You need to know what that feels like, and you need to trust in the product and in your work. This is why my quality control is so good: I shoot all of my employees.”
Somoza said this so matter-of-factly, so coolly, that Rojas couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Rojas then handed the jacket to Campbell. “Put it on.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s no problem,” said Somoza. “Please …”
Campbell’s eyes glassed up, and he sat there, perched on a cliff between offending Somoza and obeying Rojas’s warning about playing along. Rojas had known the man for a long time, known him to be a risk-taker, so he was surprised when Campbell said, “I’m sorry, I’m just, uh, I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Lucille?” called Somoza.
The woman arrived in the doorway just a few seconds later.
“Did I shoot you?” asked Somoza.
“Yes, senor. Twice.”
Somoza faced Campbell. “You see? The lady gets shot? You are too afraid?”
“All right,” Campbell said, struggling to his feet and wrenching the jacket away from Rojas. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can shoot me.”
“Excellent!” cried Somoza, who whirled around in his chair and reached into a cabinet to produce three sets of earphones.
Once Campbell had wormed his way into the trench coat, Somoza carefully buttoned it up and placed a round sticker on the jacket’s left side, near the abdomen.
“So that’s your target,” said Campbell.
“Yes, I need this because I am not a very good shot,” Somoza said in a deadpan.
Rojas chuckled again.
“Go ahead and laugh,” said Campbell. “You’re not getting shot!”
