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JONATHAN SILVER was becoming impatient. He had demanded progress reports, but Devereaux was infuriatingly noncommittal. The White House chief of staff bombarded him constantly.
Elsewhere, the official forces of law and order cont
inued as before. Huge sums from the public purse were allocated, and still the problem seemed to worsen.
Captures were made and loudly acclaimed; interceptions happened, the tonnages and prices—always the street price, rather than the at-sea price, because it was higher.
But in the Third World, confiscated ships miraculously slipped their moorings and vanished out to sea; accused crews were bailed and disappeared; worse, impounded shipments of cocaine simply went missing while in custody, and the trade went on. It seemed to the frustrated myrmidons of the DEA that everyone was on the payroll. This was the burden of Silver’s complaint.
The man taking the call in his Alexandria town house as the nation packed up for the Easter break remained icily courteous but refused any concession.
“I was given the task last October,” he said. “I said I needed nine months to prepare. At the right moment, things will change. Have a happy Easter.” And he put the phone down. Silver was enraged. No one did that to him. Except, it seemed, the Cobra.
CAL DEXTER flew back into Colombia via the Malambo air base again. This time, with Devereaux’s assistance, he had borrowed the CIA Grumman executive jet. It was not for his comfort but for a fast getaway. He rented a car in the nearby town and drove to Cartagena. He had brought no backup. There are times and places where stealth and speed alone bring success. If he heeded muscle and firepower, he would have failed anyway.
Though he had seen her in the doorway, kissing her husband farewell as he left for work, Señora Cortez had never seen him. It was Semana Santa, and the district of Las Flores was a-bustle with preparations for Easter Sunday. Except Number 17.
He cruised the zone several times, waiting for dark. He did not want to park by the curb for fear of being spotted and challenged by a nosy neighbor. But he wanted to see the lights go on just before the curtains were drawn. There was no car on the hard pad, indicating no visitors. When the lights went on, he could see inside. Señora Cortez and the boy; no visitors. They were alone. He approached the door and rang the bell. It was the son who answered, a dark, intense lad whom he recognized from the funeral film. The face was sad. It did not smile.
Dexter produced a police badge, flashed it briefly and put it away.
“Teniente Delgado, Policía Municipal,” he told the boy. The badge was actually a duplicate of a Miami PD badge, but the child did not know that. “Could I speak to your mama?”
He settled the issue by sliding quietly past the boy into the hallway.
Pedro ran back into the house called, “Mamá, está un oficial de la policía.”
Señora Cortez appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands. Her face was blotched from crying. Dexter smiled gently and gestured toward the living room. He was so obviously in charge, she just did as he suggested. When she was seated with her son protectively beside her, Dexter crouched and showed her a passport. An American one.
He pointed out the eagle on the cover, the insignia of the USA.
“I am not a Colombian police officer, señora. I am, as you see, American. Now, I want you to take a real grip on yourself. And you, son. Your husband, Juan. He is not dead, he is with us in Florida.”
The woman stared uncomprehending for several seconds. Then her hands flew to her mouth in shock.
“No se puede,” It cannot be, she gasped. “I saw the body . . .”
“No, señora, you saw the body of another man under a sheet, burned beyond recognition. And you saw Juan’s watch, his wallet, his medallion, his signet ring. All these he gave us. But the body was not his. A poor tramp. Juan is with us in Florida. He has sent me to fetch you. Both. Now, please . . .”
He produced three photos from an inside pocket. Juan Cortez, very much alive, stared back. A second showed the recent Miami Herald in his hands with the date visible. The third showed his birthmark. It was the clincher. No one else could know.
She began to cry again. “No comprendo, no comprendo,” she repeated. The boy recovered first. He began to laugh.
“Papá está en vida,” Daddy is alive, he crowed.
Dexter produced his recorder and pressed the Play button. The voice of the “dead” welder filled the small room.
“Dearest Irina, my darling. Pedro, my son. It is truly me . . .”
He ended with a personal plea that Irina and Pedro pack one suitcase each of their dearest possessions, say adieu to Number 17 and follow the American.
It took an hour of rushing about, between tears and laughter, packing, discarding, packing again, choosing, rejecting, packing a third time. It is hard to pack an entire life into one suitcase.
When they were ready, Dexter insisted they leave the lights on and the drapes closed to extend the period until their departure was discovered. The señora wrote a letter, dictation, leaving it for the neighbors under a vase on the main table. It said she and Pedro had decided to emigrate and start a new life.
In the Grumman back to Florida, Dexter explained her nearest neighbors would receive letters from her, sent from Florida, saying she had secured a cleaning job and was safe and well. If anyone investigated, they would be shown the letters. They would have the correct postmark but no return address. She would never be traced because she would never be there. Then they landed at Homestead.
It was a long reunion, again with a combination of tears and laughter, in the VIP suite. Prayers were said for the resurrection. Then, according to his word, Juan Cortez sat down with a pen and paper and started to write. He may have been a man of limited formal education, but he had a phenomenal memory. He closed his eyes, thought back over the years and wrote a name. And another. And another.
