“It’s in the pocket. Take the jacket. Have you thought through the other matter?”
“Not sufficiently to commit. But enough to guarantee that it will be at least triple what the guns will run. Is that a problem?”
“We can talk about it when I take delivery. I don’t know you well enough to discuss that kind of money yet.”
“Fine. Call me tomorrow and we’ll see if I’ve been successful,” the smuggler said as he stood. He took the windbreaker and left, sticking Jack with the bill.
The tall man on his right chuckled and shook his head. Jack appraised him surreptitiously. A Caucasian, dirty blond hair, his skin tanned to a leathery brown — the typical look of the traveler who’d arrived years past and stayed on for the plentiful cheap cocaine and inexpensive living. Peru, Brazil, and Bolivia were filled with down-on-their-luck expats, casualties of the drug trade or fugitives from the U.S. looking for a new start.
“Something funny?” Jack asked.
“Nah. None of my business,” the man said in English. American English, Jack noticed.
“Correct,” Jack said, wondering how much of the discussion the eavesdropper had overheard.
The man smirked and returned to his beer with a shrug. Jack pushed back from the bar, unwilling to engage, and then some instinct commanded him to turn to the man.
“You got a problem?” Jack asked, his voice soft, the menace obvious in spite of the volume.
“Hey, like I said, it’s none of my business. But I’d say you do.”
Jack considered possible responses as the man stood and faced him, taking Jack’s measure, his gaze steady and unblinking. Jack revised his earlier assessment. This wasn’t some casualty wasting away in an alcoholic fog.
The man dug in his pocket and extracted a business card. He handed it to Jack, who looked at it before palming it. A phone number. Nothing else.
“What’s this supposed to be?” Jack asked.
“A lifeline for when Asad there screws you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He went off the reservation about three months ago. On the pipe. You’re never going to hear from him again. He’s got enough money to go half a year now, thanks to you. And by the way, he was right. What you asked for will cost more like ten to twelve, unless you want junk.” The man finished his beer, threw a crumpled bill on the bar, and then edged past Jack and made for the door.
“We’ll see. What’s your name?” Jack asked, not moving.
The man turned and looked around before speaking softly.
“Everett Spencer. People just call me Spencer.”
Then he was gone, the doors swinging behind him. Jack tossed some money at the bartender and followed him out, but when he exited there was nobody in view, the sidewalks empty other than a few couples hurrying along. Jack scanned the surrounding buildings and saw nothing but shadows. Wherever he’d disappeared to, Spencer was good. He’d managed to evaporate in seconds, leaving nothing in his wake but his card and a feeling of dread that Jack hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Drake jolted awake and rolled over, sweating in spite of the air conditioner, and squinted at the alarm clock, which read seven p.m. He forced himself upright and, after getting his bearings, moved to the bathroom. Once the water was warm he took a shower, trying to expunge the memory of the troubling dreams with soap and elbow grease. The sense of unease that had seemed so vivid upon waking gradually faded, rinsed away in a spiral of suds down a rusted drain. By the time he toweled off and stepped out of the stall, he’d forgotten it, his mind occupied with more immediate concerns.
Nobody was downstairs yet, so he wandered into the lobby bar and ordered a Pisco Sour, advertised on the small menu as the Peruvian specialty cocktail. He watched the preparation with concern when the raw egg white was added, but quickly resigned himself to living dangerously. He was getting ready to head into one of the most hazardous stretches of jungle on the planet. The possibility of a little salmonella paled in comparison — and he had to admit, the concoction was tasty.
He was on his second drink when Allie joined him, and he convinced her after a taste to have one as well. When Jack showed up at eight, they were enjoying themselves, which abruptly ended when they saw his expression. He ordered a cup of coffee and, when the bartender brought it, sat at their table and filled them in on his meeting, as well as his concerns.
“Who’s this Spencer character?” Allie asked when he finished.
“I don’t know. He must have heard enough of the discussion to put two and two together. What he was doing there, I have no idea. Same with who he is.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?”
“We won’t know until tomorrow, but he seemed pretty confident. In which case I just lost a tidy sum to learn that you can’t trust anyone,” Jack spat.
“What are we going to do if he’s right?” Drake asked.
“We don’t have a lot of options. Worst case, I call him and set up a meeting to learn more. I’d hoped that because my contact vouched for the Pakistani guy, he was reliable, but it could have been a while since he dealt with him.” Jack took a long sip of coffee. “And a lot can happen in a short period around here. Occupational hazard in a country where pure cocaine costs four dollars a gram.”
“Then you believe Spencer?” Allie asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” Jack said.
Dinner was a maudlin affair, and when they parted, Drake agreed to meet them the following morning to strategize. They’d still need to source the rest of their equipment and could occupy their time with that while waiting to see whether Spencer’s prediction held true.
The next day was spent traversing Lima, buying camping gear and the various odds and ends they’d want for their jungle adventure. Their final stop was at a pharmacy, where they assembled a respectable first aid kit suitable for attending to any kind of emergency, including gunshot wounds and snake bites. Although from what the pharmacist explained, most of the local poisonous snakes would kill you long before the bite could be treated.
Asad didn’t answer his phone, and after spending hours trying with no reply, Jack suspected the worst. He’d been taken, and there was no recourse — they didn’t have the time to hunt down the Pakistani on the unfamiliar streets of Lima.
Spencer answered on the second ring and agreed to meet at six at a café a block from the hotel. He didn’t ask what had happened. He’d obviously known when he’d handed Jack his card.
Drake accompanied Jack to the rendezvous in the empty café. When Spencer showed up, Drake instantly disliked him. The man’s attitude was cocksure and smug, his good looks a little too smooth, his breezy assurance that he could help them insincere.
“I can get the guns. Peru and Brazil are crawling with them. But good condition weapons always command more, and fully automatic assault rifles come at a premium. So expect to pay. As to playing guide in the jungle, that’s a different story. I’m not into risking my life for a few lousy bucks. You’re going to need to make it worth my while. And no bullshit about secrets and need-to-know. You either tell me the whole story or I’m out, and you can take your chances with someone else,” Spencer said.
“For a guy living in dope central, you have high expectations,” Drake began, but Jack held up a hand, his gaze never leaving Spencer’s.
“Why don’t you convince me I should trust you? You’re just some guy in a bar. Why would I want to hand you money?” Jack demanded.
“You called me. That means Asad screwed you. If you had a backup, he’d be here instead of me. So why don’t we skip the posturing and cut to the chase? You need guns and a reliable guide. I can supply both. But I’m not dumb, and I’m not cheap. I make plenty with my little business. I don’t need to die for chump change.” Spencer paused, studying Drake before returning his attention to Jack. “But seeing as you got bent over by your man Asad, I’ll answer some reasonable questions. Ask away.”