Recluse:The Ramona Question

'All units, all units stand by.' The man spoke into the car radio, 'Homicide reported in Carrera two, opposite Café Merlin.'

  Chapter Three

  Rodriquez sat in silence inside the tiny windowless room at the Bogota Police Headquarters staring at the man who had just walked into the room.

  'Had a rough day Señor Rodriquez is it?'

  'Yes Inspector.' Rodriquez answered standing up to extend his hand. The bulky man had a firm handshake.

  'Raul, Inspector Raul Gilibert, Head of the Directorate of Criminal Investigation and Interpol.' the man said before settling on the chair opposite Rodriquez.

  'My sincere apologies Señor Rodriquez for all you’ve suffered today. Our people are doing everything to recover your stolen briefcase and its contents.' His eyes, Rodriquez noticed were watery.

  'I have also arranged you get police protection for who knows,' the man went on, 'these people whoever they are, might want to abduct you or do even worse, especially now that you’ve spoken to the police.'

  'Thank you Inspector, I appreciate but I am fine.' Rodriquez answered standing up.

  'Alright, here's my number,' the man said standing up too. 'If you see or hear anything suspicious or you simply want to talk, call me on this number.'

  'Thank you Sir.' Rodriquez said.

  'Let my people drop you off. You said you are staying at the Casa Galeria?'

  'I hadn't even checked in yet.' Rodriquez replied feigning a smile.

  The man shook his bulky head, muttering. 'Oh Colombia, is this how we welcome visitors?'

  Back at the Hotel, Rodriquez ordered for a Martini, undressed and stepped into the shower.

  The day had been chaotic. He also had missed the deadline set for the exchange. He hoped, whoever was holding Ramona needed the information so bad that they were willing to operate on his terms and not the other way round. The problem was, he thought staring at his hazy reflection in the steamed shower he was on their turf, in a foreign country, his movements too were bound to be monitored now that he had come onto the police radar, his every move from now onwards scrutinized.

  His phone rang.

  'Ola,' Rodriquez answered wiping his face with the damp white hotel towel.

  'Detective Rodriquez,' the same voice that he'd come to identify as that of the captor cut into the phone, 'you are a great disappointment.'

  'Hey mister,' Rodriquez interrupted anger building in his veins,

  'Call me Cesar.' the voice cut in sharply.

  'Mister Cesar,' Rodriquez cut in again, 'I said I still have the information but why are you trying to kill me?'

  'Don’t bluff Rodriquez, why kill the duck that lays the golden egg?' the man replied. 'Give me the information, and then you can be free to play your little games with those who want you dead.' before adding, 'someone wants you dead detective Rodriquez?'

  For a moment Rodriquez stared in silence at the neat Hotel bed, he knew what the man on the other line was saying was indeed true. Many people wanted him dead. The only problem was, he didn’t know who or why.

  'You were wise not to inform the policia about our little arrangement.' The man said, 'that my friend buys you a little more time. I will contact you about a new venue and detective,'

  'Am listening' Rodriquez answered into the phone feeling somewhat relieved.

  ‘Someone's at the door.’ the voice said before hanging up.

  Rodriquez thought he saw the door knob turn sending his heart pelting.

  ‘Room service,' a gentle female voice called.

  He steadied himself, belt in hand, approached the door, unfastened the metal strap quietly, turned the key ready to spring a surprise on his would be assailants.

  The door knob turned again. He was now on the assailant's blind side, hidden from view behind the opening door, waiting. Ready.

  'Good evening sir' said a young hotel maid carrying a Martini and two glasses on a blue and white plastic tray as she walked delicately past a frozen Rodriquez towards the ceramic table against the wall.

  'Are you alone?' Rodriquez asked trying to remain calm.

  'Yes why?' The maid retorted. Her jet set black hair was tied in a ponytail making her look even younger than Rodriquez had guessed.

  'I mean did you come up here alone?' He asked closing the door and refastening the door's golden metal strap and chain. 'Did anyone see you come up here?'

  'No.' she answered, 'No one.' she was pouring the crisp drink into a glass. She turned and gave him a puzzled glance.

  ‘Senorita, someone is trying to kill me.’ He said walking towards where she stood. ‘Just before you knocked at my door, I received a telephone call from a stranger saying I was to expect something or someone at the door this very moment.’

  The maid remained silent for a few seconds before suddenly whispering.

  'Two men came and paid for the room opposite yours. They looked scruffy, odd if you asked me.'

  'Thank you, thank you.' Rodriquez said before rushing through his trouser pockets, pulled out a few folded thousand pesos handing them over to her.

  'Are they in right now?'

  She nodded in affirmative, her eyes opened wide.

  'Okay. Good, and stay away from this floor at least for tonight.' He whispered to her before letting her out.

  Chapter Four

  The deserted hotel corridor remained silent as Rodriquez stealthy made his way to the room adjacent to the one the hotel maid had pin pointed. He meticulously picked the door lock quietly letting himself in. His heart thumped as he shut the door behind him, checked for signs of any occupants before heading for the glass door that opened out onto the balcony.

  A chilly night breeze welcomed him as soon as he stepped on to the balcony bringing with it exotic cuisines. Outside here, he had a clear view of Bogota's high rise buildings, all lit up wonderfully in the Colombian night. Below, he saw rows upon rows of car lights speeding in opposite directions. It was time to move.

  Climbing onto the balcony slab, he steadied his baroques, firmly balancing his tall frame, took a deep breath before leaping for the adjacent room's balcony. His left hand missed but the right grabbed onto the slab, sending the rest of his body dangling heavily in midair. Acute pain shot through his right arm as he tried to bring the forwards and backwards swinging movements to a steady halt. He hoped no one inside the room had heard a sound. Satisfied, he brought his other arm up firmly grabbing onto the cold slab, painfully pulling the rest of his body up and dropping quietly onto the room's balcony.

  He crouched by the room's glass door hidden from the room's light by thick drawn curtains. Peering through the tiny curtain openings, he caught a glimpse of one of the room's occupants, a male. He had a round face, dark eyes and was bold headed. He appeared to be in his late forties. His companion, male too, Rodriquez observed, wore a thick black beard, dark brown hair hung loose down his back. His craggy face gave him a violent look. No wonder the maid had found them odd looking, Rodriquez silently thought. He tried to recall whether he'd crossed paths before with either or both men, but no event came to mind. These, he concluded, were hired hands, funded by someone or an organization. Neither man spoke to the other. They, he observed, were like machines, reenacting carefully choreographed sequences.

  The two men were drilling holes into the wooden hotel front door. As he continued to watch unnoticed, the bald head proceeded to unwrap from a black casing what looked like a falcon sniper rifle. Rodriquez's heart pelted within him and he clenched his fists. This must have been the gun that took out the blond in the old grey building Rodriquez pondered. These two sods were after him and had followed him to his hotel room. Assassins no doubt, he concluded, but who had sent them and why were they after him. It was time to make his move.

  He tapped onto the glass door startling both men who turned with alarmed expressions towards the direction of the balcony. He waited, observing. He knew he had the advantage being in the dark. He was invisible to anyone inside. The tall bearded fellow beckoned to his nervous l
ooking colleague. Rodriquez steadied himself. He knew the odds were not in his favor and besides, he was unarmed which made him feel vulnerable. The bald head drew the curtain open trying to peek into the darkness but Rodriquez had plastered himself against the narrow wall edge and was hidden from view. A few seconds went by in silence before he heard the glass door latch click and slide open. The man had stepped onto the cold balcony.

  He saw Rodriquez a fraction too late. Rodriquez lunged on to him, grabbing his head and in one rapid sweep flung him over the balcony into the fast moving traffic below. Surprised by the sudden attack, the bearded man inside the room squeezed off a shot from the Falcon missing his intended target. Rodriquez was already onto him. He aimed swift powerful blows in the man's belly area and face. The man tried to fend off the ferocious attack with jabs of his own but Rodriquez kept him close landing precision blows. A few seconds later, weary, panting, bleeding and almost out of breath, the man hunched onto the room's green carpet. He was holding his molested nostrils and swollen eyes. Rodriquez, still raging, kicked the man hard in his groin before grabbing onto the hotel's white bed sheets which he used to tie the man up from head to toe.

  Walking back to the balcony, he observed a stunned crowd had gathered around the splattered head of the dead man below, some staring and pointing up to where they possibly thought he'd dropped amidst loud honking from frustrated motorists. He walked back in, slide shut the glass door and drew the curtains.

  Chapter Five

  Eleven days ago, Tuesday, 09:05am

  Anger rose within his veins and his face stiffened. A moment later, he heard the sound of a door crank open and shut loudly, followed by footsteps heavily thumping the wooden ceiling above him. Someone was coming down the stairs towards him, fast. Rodriguez tensed cowering further into the dark. He readied himself to spring a surprise on the approaching form. He was suddenly awoken from his dream by a speed bump. He was seated, squeezed between two very noisy old women holding papyrus woven baskets inside a buseta-bus headed out of Bogotá. He checked his phone; a battery low icon kept flickering, feeling frustrated, he glanced at the time on the green lit screen before switching it off. Every ounce of battery life left in it counted.

  He guessed by now an unfortunate hotel maid had to her horror and shock discovered the second assassin's cold stiffened body hanging upside down strapped to the Hotel room's chandelier tied using an ancient Japanese shibari torture technique, with a gaping mouth, dead.

  What the dead assassin had revealed to Rodriquez had sent his mind reeling in utter disbelief bordering on despair. He reasoned that if he kept moving, then he might stay ahead of his pursuers. He'd never faced such an adversary before. Time was of the essence and he was running short of it. But first, he had to save Ramona. She was the reason he was on this buseta. The bus weaved through highway traffic at frightening speeds occasionally stopping for repairs to the annoyance of some passengers. Rodriquez observed, most were rural folks probably returning home from selling their produce in the big city. Rodriquez was restless. Ramona's captors had ordered he meet with them in the city of Bucaramanga, Santander province, some seven hours journey north; near the border with Venezuela, a rebel strong hold.

  He had last seen Ramona over a year ago. He recalled their first encounter on the plane to México, her pensive, expressionless face and pony tail. She had twice saved his life, first in Santa Gertrudis and from Miguel at the summit of Mount Corcovado. His heart sank at the thought of her being held captive, in the hands of the FARC rebels. Word was, they, the rebels, were quite ruthless with their captives. Often they starved the hostages for days on end, flogging and forcing them to traverse the half a million square mile dense Colombian jungles and mountainous landscape constantly evading the Colombian government military planes and at times using captives as human shields in event of an encounter with government forces. Rodriquez knew that the greatest weapon the richest rebel group in the world effectively used to terrorize Colombians was kidnappings and subsequently demanding for ransoms from the victims' families. The Marxist rebels too were masters of the drug trade, sustaining the five decade long war in Colombia mainly from the insatiable demand for the Coca plant especially in the United States. Billions of dollars of drug money was pouring into their coffers used to purchase weapons to fuel the war. Such weaponry, men like Guzman, the now jailed Sinaloa cartel capo had supplied in exchange for tonnes of cocaine and was what had brought Ramona into contact with the FARC when she, in place of Miguel and Marcelo had ventured into the Andes mountain ranges, a kill zone, FARC territory, to deliver the SAMs. Rodriquez painfully recalled what she'd said then-I’m not asking you to come with me. I will deliver those SAMs’ myself. SAMs'- Surface to Air Missiles, weapons the FARC had all along been desperate to get a hold of, were now in their hands, thanks to Ramona. With the SAM's firmly in their hands, it meant the war against government troops would tilt in the FARC rebels' favor, possibly force the government to call for a truce, hold peace talks meanwhile reduce on the rebels' casualty numbers. However, the weapons' operations manuals, these, Rodriquez had kept on himself as insurance in case something were to happen to Ramona, and these very documents, her captors were now demanding in exchange for her life, documents stolen from him yesterday in Bogotá.

  The bus jerked noisily to a stop and a few passengers alighted, including the two chatter birds who had sat next to Rodriquez to his immense relief.

  'Cuanto tiempo para Bucaramanga?' Rodriquez inquired from the old chap seated gloomily on the opposite end. His old tired face filled with ridges. Rodriquez had been seven hours inside this bus.

  'A una hora.' the man coldly replied before turning away to stare out through the bus window.

  'Grumpy old man,' Rodriquez thought. He had at least one hour left to his final destination. Hopefully, he thought, he might get Ramona back safely, although deep within him, he knew he was just being overly optimistic.

  Something though didn’t quite add up. Ramona had left a year and a half ago to deliver the weapons, why had her captors waited this long to contact him. Maybe she had been double crossed. These and other unanswered questions awaited him in Bucaramanga.

  He finally disembarked walking gingerly into a small restaurant across one quiet Bucaramanga Street. It was late evening, grey and very cold too. It was wet, possibly rained early afternoon, and, he was hungry. Inside the cozy colorfully lit restaurant, he quickly ordered for a hot Sancosho meal. He was served a sliced avocado and a plate of white rice, chicken stew on the side by an elderly looking lady with a round happy face. A sweet scented dark brown espresso soon followed. A familiar rumba sound played in the background bringing with it acoustic melodies and memories of happier times in his life, days gone by when he and Natalia danced on the sandy beaches to samba tunes of sweet Rio de Janeiro.

  He paid his bill, switched his phone on and waited.

  His phone bleeped. Its battery was really low. He became anxious. Its buzz sound startling him. He pressed the answer button bringing the phone to his ear.

  'Ola?'

  ‘Ola detective Rodriquez.’

  It was Inspector Raul Gilibert, Head of the Directorate of Criminal Investigation and Interpol.

  Rodriquez tensed.

  ‘My sincere apologies Señor Rodriquez for calling you at this hour of the evening,' Raul said sounding rosy, 'but we found your brief case and all its contents, intact.'

  'Oh,' Rodriquez was in shock. 'Thank you so much inspector, I appreciate.'

  'Will you come over to the station tomorrow at nine?' Raul said, ' you see, I don’t want to sound suspicious or anything but the contents in your briefcase are quite sensitive and could easily land in the wrong hands, again. Lucky for you, the chap who mugged you is a known hoodlum, local kid, no one special.'

  'Detective Rodriguez, is everything okay?’ Inspector Raul asked suddenly.

  ‘Yeah it's just that I am currently out of Bogotá.' Rodriquez answered in reply, 'I wanted to get some fresh air, might
be back in a couple of days. You might want to hold onto my briefcase for some time till I get back.’

  ‘No problem.' replied the man.

  ‘Are you in Medellin?' the Man asked. He seemed not entirely convinced by Rodriquez' replies.

  ‘No, no actually am in Bucaramanga.'

  ‘Beautiful place.' the man said, 'FARC territory too.'

  ‘Yes Inspector, so am told but haven’t seen any rebels yet.' Rodriquez shot back.

  ‘You're aware some people were apparently killed at Hotel Casa Galeria, last night?’ asked Raul. Rodriquez could sense where this conversation was headed.

  'Yeah, I heard the commotion.' Rodriquez answered, 'apparently a man jumped to his death.'

  'Two men actually.' Inspector Raul corrected. ‘You see detective, this might sound really strange but,' the man continued, 'a young maid at the Casa Galeria, said she spoke to a man fitting your description who said some people had wanted to harm him and he had pressed her until she pointed him to the opposite room that housed the two victims.'

  ‘What are you trying to say inspector?’ Rodriquez interjected.

  ‘You see señor, everything about you just doesn’t seem to add up, but I'm willing to look the other way if we can reach a small settlement, like say ten million pesos?’

  'What?’ Rodriquez asked shocked.

  ‘In cash’

  The line broke off, it was his phone battery.

  Chapter Six

  Ten days ago, Wednesday, 03:15am

  Rodriquez awoke his heart beating fast, his body perspiring. He sprang out of bed rushing to the hotel window and peering through the curtains into the darkness outside. He glanced about, remaining still, silent. A minute later, convinced it was just a dream, he exhaled in relief before returning and sitting atop his bed.

  He had grown accustomed to nightmares. Strange frightful dreams accosted him daily mostly centering on his family, Miguel, and now Ramona. In this particular dream, he'd watched Ramona get shot in the back of her head.