Ai! Pedrito!: When Intelligence Goes Wrong

  A queue of passengers straggled past the customs counters, lugging suitcases and duffels, tucking passports and papers into their pockets. A brass band struck up a loud, off-key welcoming tune, which Tom Smith suspected must be the national anthem of Colodor, though it sounded strikingly similar to an old Frank Sinatra song. The band members, all mustached, all portly, all wearing colorful sombreros, didn't have quite enough enthusiasm to make up for their lack of musical talent. No one else seemed to mind.

  Due in part to the mapmakers' strike, as well as Colodor's usual political turmoils, few jets landed in Santa Isabel. However, kiosks packed with entire families of smiling souvenir vendors, tour providers and T-shirt sellers lined the bright open-air receiving area beyond the customs counter. A newsstand sold Santa Isabel's official national newspaper, as well as postcards and place mats showing beautiful scenic photographs. Santa Isabel — Pearl of South America, So Beautiful, We've Kept Our Entire Country a Secret! and Don't Let the Maps Fool You! We DO Exist!

  "Passengers for Santa Isabel from New York now debarking at Gate 7," the PA announced.

  A man dressed as a taxi driver stood outside the terminal, watching every person who emerged from the customs counter. He was plump and moonfaced, sweating in the South American heat. His features had an exotic Turkish cast, a distinctive mix neither Eastern nor Western. He most certainly did not belong in the cabby's uniform, and none of the other drivers had ever seen him before.

  The man tried to remain unobtrusive, but ready to spring into action as he scanned the passengers for a particular redheaded American, ignoring all other potential customers.

  He had a mission to accomplish.

  He removed his name tag—HI, MY NAME IS BOLO! Lieutenant Smith had no need to know his name. The American would be seeing enough of him as it was.

  "Flight 731 for Rio de Janeiro now loading at Gate 5," the PA announced, echoing in the empty terminal and crackling with static. "Vuelo sieteciento . . ."

  Blinking in the sunshine and looking lost, Tom Smith came through the gate as other passengers swirled around him. He wore a sport coat, trim and professional, and he carried a single black suitcase. His red-gold hair was quite distinctive. Bolo spotted him instantly.

  Vendors thrust brochures and coupons in Smith's hand, and he thanked them obliviously until he could hold nothing more. Finally, the young lieutenant took the entire stack and politely handed it to another vendor, who proceeded to distribute the coupons to new potential marks. Street urchins dashed up to sell unauthorized maps of the country, before they were chased away by officials in dark uniforms. All along the streets, groups of out-of-work mapmakers walked picket lines.

  Bolo snapped to attention beside his small yellow cab, then made his move. He hurried forward like a real taxi driver, intent on getting his customer and providing the best service possible. He had his orders from Colonels Ivan and Enrique—which he followed whenever it was convenient. Bolo had even greater plans up his sleeve....

  But then a portly, well-dressed man also rushed toward Smith, overjoyed and waving urgendy for attention. Despite his fine clothes, the portly man carried a battered cardboard suitcase held together with gray duct tape. Puffing as he ran, he skidded to a halt before Smith, dropped his suitcase and spread his arms wide.

  "Ai! Pedrito!" The portly man wrapped his arms around Smith, hugging him in greeting.

  Bolo paused, not knowing what to do. He had expected nothing like this. Could there be another agent on the case?

  Unable to move, Smith spluttered, "Um, excuse me, sir, I—"

  The portly man pulled Smith toward the cantina a few steps down the walkway from the vendors and taxis. Umbrellas and awnings provided welcome shade over wicker chairs and rickety tables. The airport lounge was deserted in the bright afternoon sunshine. Big, languid ceiling fans stirred the humid air, occasionally whacking stunned tropical insects that flew too close to the blades.

  "Ai, Pedrito, how glad I am to see you," the stranger said, pounding Smith so hard on his back that the young lieutenant stumbled forward, almost dropping his black suitcase. "We've just got time before my flight so I can buy you a drink! As I promised last time we met, eh? Do you still remember those wild women? And they said they were nuns! Ha-ha!"

  Bolo thought fast, and decided to wait coolly outside. This encounter could prove interesting.

  The portly man pushed Smith into a creaking wicker seat beneath a Modelo Especial umbrella. With a chubby hand studded with gold rings, the man swept cockroaches and a small lizard aside and grabbed for a bowl of fried plantain chips. He demanded the attention of the bartender. "Quickly! My friend Pedrito here is an impatient—and important —man! And I have a plane to catch in a few minutes."

  "Please, please," Smith said, still trying to be polite. "There must be some mistake. My name isn't Pedrito."

  As the portly man slumped into his own seat across the table, he grinned, as if understanding an inside joke. "Ah, now, Pedrito, you can trust me! After all we've been through together." He placed a chubby finger across his lips and lowered his voice. "Just like old times, eh? Bartender! Two margaritas, fast! Use your best tequila for my friend here!"

  "But, but—I don't drink tequila," Smith protested.

  The fat man slapped him on the back, guffawing loudly. "You don't drink tequila! Hah, my friend, that is a good joke! No tequila. Agave worms tremble in fear when Pedrito Miraflores walks near."

  Outside the cantina, Bolo continued his wait. The two colonels had given him explicit instructions, but Bolo had more important plans of his own. Calm and patient, he knew he could make everything work out.

  ". . . and I always wondered if your horse really made it through the Orchid Jungle of Death!" the portly man continued, not letting Smith get in a word edgewise. "And how did you survive the stampede of poison tree frogs? Ai!"

  The bartender came with the margaritas, two glasses of questionable cleanliness crusted with sah and filled with lime and tequila.

  "But I'm trying to tell you," Smith said, blinking across at his unexpected companion, "I don't know anyone named Pedrito." The bartender set the salt-rimmed glass before him, but Smith nudged it aside. "Excuse me, perhaps a glass of milk? Leche, por favor?"

  "No leche, senor," the bartender said with a sneer. "In this heat, it curdles too quickly."

  The portly man cracked up with a belly laugh. "Milk!" He recovered a bit, still chuckling, and swiped the back of his hand across his glistening forehead. "Pedrito, you'll be the death of me yet! Tell me the one about the scorpion wranglers in the underground city—"

  "Rio. Rio. Abordo!" the PA announced.

  "Rio? Ah, that's my plane." The stranger gulped his entire margarita, threw a bill onto the table and patted Smith's hand. "I wish we could talk more, but I've got to run. Someday you'll have to tell me how you survived the raid on the valley of the cactus poachers. You are a legend in Colodor, mi amigo!" He leaned forward, speaking in a stage whisper, "But I see you must be on another mission now. Never mind, Pedrito, your secret is safe with me!"

  The portly man rushed off, heading for his plane. Smith stared after him. "What an odd man."

  He pushed away his untouched margarita, picked up his black suitcase and rose from the wicker chair. He brushed tiny splinters from the seat of his pants. As he left, the bartender came to clean up the table, eyed Smith's pristine drink and slurped it down himself....

  Outside the terminal, Bolo stood by the fender of his taxicab, still waiting. As his second opportunity arose, he remained studiously calm, the model of bored confidence as he watched Smith approach, looking for a cab.

  Another taxi driver bustled forward, eager to snag a well-paying American tourist. Barely moving, Bolo's foot expertly tripped the other driver and made him sprawl flat on his face on the cobblestoned street. Bolo stepped on the prostrate driver's back, walked over him and moved up toward Smith, completely professional and businesslike.

  "Cab, sir?" Bolo said in a flat, unemotio
nal voice as he courteously opened the door for Smith. "I am the finest driver in all Santa Isabel."

  Still distracted by his odd experience with the portly stranger. Smith climbed into the back of the cramped yellow cab. Propping his suitcase beside him on the seat. Smith rummaged in the pockets of his sport jacket until he found the crumpled itinerary paper. Maria, the contest administrator, had faxed it to him, describing his luxury accommodations and the schedule for his once-in-a-lifetime vacation in exotic Colodor. He scanned the blurry handwriting, then handed the paper forward to Bolo. "It says here 'Hotel Grande de Lujo,' biggest hotel in Santa Isabel. Think you can find it?"

  Bolo read the slip cursorily, then gave it back. "Oh, you're in good hands, sir." Without looking or signaling, he jerked the cab away from the curb and out into traffic. A bus honked and swerved, driving a skinny bicyclist up on the curb. Bolo didn't even glance back. "Leave it to me, sir."

  Chapter 5

  BOLO DROVE ALONG a broad cobblestoned avenue with stately hotels, marble columns, lush fountains and ornate statues. Wrestling with the wheel, he seesawed around pedestrians on bicycles, old men pushing carts, Volkswagen vans and tourist-packed buses belching greasy exhaust smoke.

  Reassured by the sight of all the luxury resorts in Santa Isabel, Smith fished out his well-read paperback. Famous Naval Battles. He began to reread the chapter about his hero, Horatio Nelson, and his seven years at war in the Mediterranean. Sighing, Smith read on, admiring Nelson's battles, his snap decisions with the fates of mighty nations depending on his success.

  Then he thought instead of Admiral Turner back in New York, as well as his own tedious job approving blueprints for new missile systems. He wished he could have lived back in the days when joining the Navy actually meant a lifetime of excitement

  The engine roared as Bolo accelerated, threading the cab through a narrow alley. Sudden chicken squawks and a flash of white feathers past the car's rear window caused Smith to look up from his paperback. The street was flanked by whitewashed buildings with blue-painted doors, topped by crumbling tile roofs and sagging electrical wires used as clotheslines. Tar-paper strips patched crumbling stucco. Feral chickens flew out from their path, dive-bombing the windshield. Dogs barked and chased the cab, but fled in fear from the vicious chickens.

  "Almost to your hotel, sir," Bolo said, turning to look at his passenger without watching the road. "Just a few more minutes." The cab bounced and thumped as he ran over something large and moving. A blizzard of white feathers flew into the air as the cab screeched down another alley.

  Finally the taxi came to a halt before a broken-down edifice that might have been a moderately nice hotel if it were torn down and rebuilt entirely from the original plans. No sign adorned the hulking building, but Bolo gestured proudly to a front door that hung off-kilter on bent hinges.

  "Here you are, sir. The Hotel Grande de Lujo." He beamed.

  Around the cab, the street was deserted. Everyone had fled, even the angry chickens. Smith stared out the back-seat window in surprise.

  "Is this the best hotel in Santa Isabel?" he asked, incredulous. He rubbed his eyes.

  "That's what they say," Bolo said, his voice proud. "Highly recommended."

  "But . . . there must be some mistake" Smith said, swallowing hard. "I won the grand prize."

  "And it's the Grande hotel."

  "Well, but we passed plenty of nicer hotels back there in the resort district." Smith turned around in his seat, trying to see the end of the long alley behind the taxi.

  Bolo waved his hand in dismissal and made a raspberry sound. "Ah, those are mere tourist traps, no character, no substance. Certainly not a place for a man of your caliber, sir. A distinctive hotel like this is where the locals stay. It'll be a true experience for you, a genuine taste of Colodor. You can see what our country is most famous for."

  Inside the hotel's foyer, two tough Colodoran gangsters hid behind the sagging door. Each in his own shadowy corner, they pressed against the crumbling whitewashed walls, keeping an eye to the cracks.

  "It figures he would show up now" said the first one. "I was just going to take a break."

  The other snorted. "A break? What do you need a break for? We've just been standing here all morning long."

  "I need to go to the bathroom," the first gangster said.

  "Well, you should have planned ahead," his partner answered. "This is the most important part of the plan, where we make the switch. Now be quiet. He's getting out of the cab."

  When Smith remained unconvinced about the suitabiHty of the hotel, Bolo finally said, "Well, if you don't like it, you can always go in and complain to the management. Maybe they'll clean the place up a bit."

  "In fact, I will talk to the management," Smith said. "I don't like to complain, since this was a free trip, but I'm sure Maria, the contest administrator, would like to know about this."

  Smith stuffed his paperback into the pocket of his sport coat and climbed out of the taxi. He fumbled for money to pay the driver, but Bolo just waved and puttered on down the alley. "My congratulations on winning the contest," he called. "No charge."

  Smith gripped his black suitcase and trudged up the sidewalk, but the hotel didn't look any better when he got closer. As he watched, one of the terra-cotta roof tiles, apparently dislodged by an extremely large tarantula, tumbled down the side of the building to smash on the street.

  "They ought to be ashamed of themselves." Smith frowned, craning his neck to look up at the windows of the other rooms. He set the suitcase down at his feet.

  Knocking at the front door but hearing no answer. Smith pushed open the creaking door. He walked in, blinking to adjust his focus in the sudden interior shadows. He glanced around, but could see nothing but a narrow landing and coat hooks nailed to old wooden paneling. Bright smudges of sunlight splashed through the windows in a steep stairwell in front of him. AH the rooms seemed to be upstairs.

  "Hello?" he said. His voice echoed back at him. Anxious to get on with his prize vacation, he marched up the groaning stairs, making no attempt to be quiet. "Anybody here?" He heard skittering bugs, but no other sound.

  Behind him, on tiptoe, the two hoods emerged from their respective hiding places and stalked after him. They adjusted sturdy ropes looped around clips at their waists; in each hand . they carried strips of rags, convenient for gags or blindfolds. The first man walked in a strange scissorlike fashion, trying to keep his legs crossed and his full bladder under control. The second man hovered close to him, hiding in his partner's shadow.

  "Is this the Hotel Grande de Lujo?" Smith shouted again. "Where's the lobby?" He stopped at a landing next to a grime-streaked window. The view looked out onto an alley piled with rusted automobiles stripped of parts—nothing scenic at all.

  As Smith stood at a loss, one hood crept up behind him and looped his ragged strip of cloth around Smith's face in an attempt to jam it into his mouth.

  Smith grabbed the cloth and yanked it out of the hood's hand. "Hey!" In a brief struggle, the first hood scrabbled to snatch the cloth back.

  Smith's naval commando training—honed and refined by living and working for years in the mugger-rich suburbs of New York—suddenly came into play.

  He expertly grasped the hood's wrist, hunched and elbowed him in the stomach. A sudden dark wet spot blossomed at the man's crotch. Smith turned backward, spun around and hurled him through the window.

  The second thug charged up the steps to join the fray.

  As he sailed through the shattering glass, the first hood's heels struck the second thug in the chin and knocked him back down the stairs. The second hood thumped and rolled and bounced down from landing to landing, picking up speed.

  Smith watched him, arms crossed over his chest. He sniffed in annoyance. "I could tell this wasn't a first-class hotel."

  Outside, Bolo sat behind the wheel of his stolen cab. He had parked half a block away, and now the skittish, predatory chickens had begun to return, creeping out of t
heir hiding places and looking for unsuspecting food.

  Hearing the glass crash from above, he looked up to see one hood sail through the splintering window and fall into the alleyway below. The thug thumped with a metallic clang onto the rusted hood of an ancient Mercedes. The cautious chickens perked up, looking from side to side, then raced clucking toward the helpless man in the alley.

  After another sound, Bolo looked to see the second thug tumble down the last few stairs and out through the half-open front door to sprawl in a heap on the porch.

  Bolo raised his eyebrows in admiration at Smith's handiwork. Perhaps the naval officer would be salvageable for his purposes after all. "Two down, one to go."

  On an upper balcony above the stairs, Smith looked all around him, still clutching his black suitcase. "I sure don't like the service in this hotel." He glanced back down the stairwell, scowling. "I hope they don't plan on charging me for that window glass."

  A third man crept into sight at the balcony rail, carrying a stained bedsheet like a safari net. Smith saw him and waved. "Are you the manager?" he asked. "I've been looking for—"

  The thug threw the sheet, and the tattered and fouled cloth descended on Smith, enveloping him. "Hey, no fair!" He flailed his hands and kicked at the edge of the cloth, but his expert kicks missed their mark as the thug dodged aside.

  Before the lieutenant could fight his way out, the thug rushed forward and swung a club down on Smith's sheet-wrapped head.

  Though he had not even finished his complaint. Smith stopped grumbling in mid-sentence. He saw only stars and then blackness.

  Chapter 6

  NEXT MORNING AT DAWN the band of chickens set up a loud crowing among the junked cars in the alleyway, announcing their claim on the territory. From one high window, a severe-looking old matron threw an empty tin can at them. Another woman diligently took down the previous day's laundry hung from a clothesline that connected the two buildings, then hung a new dripping batch.