La
Loma
The six-seater pitched dramatically as it turned out from
the northern tip of San Andres and began its descent into the interior. Frank
put aside his briefing papers on nuclear warhead proliferation and instead
concentrated on the green rainbow of mangrove swamp that swelled below,
threatening to swallow the plane whole. Tropical climes heated his epidermis
but chilled his Norwegian soul, and at this moment he longed for
air-conditioning and vodka. The plane shuddered, as if sharing his hunger, and
then quitened as the engines seceded to the airstream. The wing-flaps sucked in
air and the wheels eased down. Sooner than expected there was the glorious double-thump
against soil and Frank had arrived in San Andres.
Frank had been chosen for this covert meeting precisely
because of his illegal history. In South America he had been at the centre of a
lucrative trade in modified cocaine, and the CIA had seized upon this as the
perfect cover for their necessary dialogue in the region. He had hoped for some
protection in the form of highly trained agents, but all he had was his
reputation and wits on this small Caribbean island. Despite the climate he felt
utterly cool and collected: he would fulfil his mission and also use the
opportunity to enrich himself. Old habits die hard.
Upon leaving the plane he realised that the Contras were
not feeling as relaxed as he. Automatic pistols rose to meet him along with
dark focussed eyes. Eight sets of tightened lips beneath impressive bigotes enabled him to evaluate himself
as a potential threat. This was familiar stuff; although the familiarity did
not take away from the immediacy of the threat.
“Buenas tardes. Quiero encontrar mi primo,” he said, hoping, but not
expecting, that an emissary of his so-called cousin was amongst his welcoming
committee.
“Venga.” Frank
could not identify from which moustache the order had come, but all of the pistols
rose as if each had spoken. The Contras parted to reveal a black Mercedes Benz
with even darker windows. Recognition swept through his organs like an allergy.
Here was his cousin; and here was the future: his personal future. He had known
that his rebirth was due at some time this decade; but now he could taste it. The
CIA expected him to progress their agenda, and he would do so as long as it
suited him, but they had afforded him the perfect introduction to someone who
he needed vitally.
The back door of the Mercedes opened, held open by the
beige glove of Alejandro Iglesias. Frank refused the Contras a smile as he slid
into the air-conditioned interior.
“Hace gran tiempo”
said the drug Baron. He had lost weight; more than was healthy. His cigar was
similarly thin, and the tobacco was no longer of the highest quality. The
President would be pleased to know that his policies had produced this effect
at the highest level of the narcotics ladder. Of course it was not Iglesias’
physical state that mattered to Frank; all he required were cells from the
brain.
Frank said nothing, but offered his hand. Iglesias took
it and squeezed his desperation into every cell. “hablaremos”. Frank glanced at the driver and then at his briefcase.
“Aqui, no. Hay un sitio privado?” The
private room was just what Frank required.
The Mercedes left them outside an establishment called “Smoke City” which specialised in
everything one needed to make a joint except the cannabis itself. Upon entering
Frank was amused to see that it also sold sex toys, second hand copies of
“Playboy” and LP records. They passed a copy of “Thick as a Brick” by Jethro
Tull, piles of viscous newsprint and some impressively sized and gaudily
coloured vibrators before entering the private room. As they sat down across a
glass-topped desk Frank remembered the room in Los Cardales where he had
eliminated the competition to the Iglesias drug empire. He had never sought to
extract the cerebral foam after using the bone gas, but expediency and a sense
of symmetry demanded it this time.
He separated the map from the other briefing documents
and spread it across the table. “This is the area we are interested in” He let
his thin index finger rest briefly on the spot. Iglesias fumbled for spectacles
and, failing to find them put his face close to the paper in order to read the
tiny print. “La Loma; I know it. This is a region of high land beyond the town.
There are few houses, just a few shacks. For this reason we have used it to
carry out business in the past. Why do want this land?”
“I cannot tell you that today,” replied Frank. He removed
the envelope from his breast pocket, “but we hope that this will cover the
expenses of securing the site for us until we are ready to begin the next phase
of this operation.” Iglesias let the envelope rest on his hand, as if assessing
the value of the notes it held by weight. He then opened it and examined no
more than the corner of the first note. He breathed out slowly; these were
notes in denominations that even a seasoned drug baron could only dream of
handling.
And then Iglesias inhaled the gas. Frank forced the face
down over the cube. The Ecuadorian, although not as strong as he had been when
they worked together was still much heavier than Frank. Fortunately the gas had
been improved over the last few years and within a few seconds Frank felt his
fingers bite into the soft material that had been the skull. He pulled
Alejandro’s head back and forced the cube into his throat. Now the bone had
dissolved to the consistency of a ripe camembert and so he opened the head and used
nail scissors to remove a section of the frontal temporal lobe and the
hippocampus. He deposited the samples in his father’s brass phial and then
removed the drug baron’s gun from his shoulder holster. The driver was engaged
in studying the centre-fold of a mid- seventies issue of Playboy, which allowed
Frank a perfect head shot. The store keeper, splattered in the driver’s blood
and brains lifted his hands to heaven before sinking to his knees, but Frank
placed a finger to his lips before handing him a note from the government
treasury envelope. The blood that had soaked into the envelope would go some
way to excusing the loss; besides the price on Iglesias’s head was twice the
value of the shop-keeper’s promise of silence.
Once in the Mercedes Frank helped himself to one of
Iglesias’s Dominican cigars and prepared himself for the rapture of rebirth.
