Shattered Bone (14 page)

Anyway, I felt I had to do something. I got the two other guys I was with to give me all of the cash in their wallets. Together, we had about fifty bucks. We all started tapping on the window, trying to get the little girl's attention. She looked up and saw us, and I started waving the money around, extending my arms out to her, hoping she would understand the money was for her. She picked up her hat and started to make her way toward us. But then the train started to move. All three of us climbed on our seats, trying to open the windows, but they were never designed to be opened. As the train pulled away from the station, we watched in silence as the little girl faded from view.

It reminded me, Jesse, that many of us are orphans. Some literally. Some figuratively. But for whatever reason, many of us have spent years on our own.

I remember when I was very small, my aunt used to tell me old folk stories; stories with witches and wizards and fairy godmothers. Later, after I was sent to the school, as I lay in my bed at night, surrounded by snoring classmates and fearful for what the next day might bring, I remember thinking, if there is a God, I wish he would send me a fairy godmother. Or maybe even an angel. Either one, it didn't matter. I just remember feeling that, since I no longer had a mother, I needed someone. Someone with magical powers, to make everything all right.

But as I grew, I quit asking. After all, I was a grown man, a soldier, a combat warrior. I didn't need anyone, Jesse. I was trained to be on my own.

But that has changed. And now I do.

I need you, Jesse. I miss you. At times, the memory of the happy moments we have spent together washes over me, and I feel very grateful for the moments that we've had, and I can honestly say, my life's only regret are the times when we cannot be together.

I love you. All I want is to be with you.

Until then.

RA

___________________________ 

__________________________       

BOGOTA, COLOMBIA

C
ARLOS
M
ANUEL
S
ALINAS, ONE OF THE WEALTHIEST MEN IN THE
southern hemisphere, lay on the straw mat of his bunk and swatted at the insects that continually bit his legs. Colombia's Harada prison had not only the most aggressive roaches in the world, but also the only ones that were known to bite, burrowing deep into the skin in an effort to find a nest for their tiny eggs. He swatted the flies that buzzed around the open hole that he used for a toilet and listened to the sounds of the prison.

It was past midnight and except for the occasional barking of the guard dogs as they prowled the perimeter fence, no other sound could be heard. So it surprised Salinas to hear his cell door being opened. He had not heard the footsteps coming nor the turn of the key, but the ancient hinges on the huge oak door creaked quietly, and there was the shadow of a guard standing in the darkness.

“Salinas, are you awake?” the guard whispered.

“Yes, what is it? What do you want?”

For a moment Salinas thought it might be Juan, a guard who favored Salinas when it came to sharing a game of chess, but as he studied the figure in the doorway he realized it wasn't. Instead, it was a guard he had never seen before. He immediately became suspicious.

“Quickly sir, come with me. There is someone here to see you.”

The guard had already turned and was standing aside, waiting for Salinas to get up. Salinas peered through the darkness and into the hall. He could see that the guard was alone. Usually the prisoners were escorted by at least two guards. And he had never been allowed to leave his cell or see a visitor at night. What was going on?

“Who is it? I am not expecting anyone. Perhaps you have the wrong cell.” Salinas replied. He didn't move from his bunk.

“Oh, no Mr. Salinas, I am sure it is you that I need. Please, come quickly. We don't have much time. And be quiet. We don't want to disturb the other prisoners.” The guard then stepped back into the cell and pulled out his night stick, beckoning to the open door.

Salinas got up from his bunk and slipped on some shoes. He walked through the door and made his way down the hall, followed by the guard. A few minutes later he found himself entering one of the prisoner conference rooms. It was a dimly lit cubicle of unpainted gray cinder block, the only furniture a small table in the middle of the floor with two wooden chairs beside it.

The guard left him alone, and several minutes passed before the door opened again. In walked a man Salinas had never seen before. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and as he entered the room, he extended his hand to Salinas.

“Señor Salinas, it is a pleasure to meet you,” the stranger spoke in English. “My name is Ivan Morozov. You'll have to forgive me, my Spanish is very poor.”

Salinas remained seated, and didn't extend his hand to shake. He studied the stranger for a moment, trying to place him. He looked about forty-five. Medium build. Short hair, dark skin, and eyes like a sickly cat, yellow and mean. Salinas studied the eyes and face. He knew he had never seen this man before. If they had ever met, he would have remembered. And he wasn't an American. He spoke with an odd accent that Salinas couldn't place.

“What do you want?” Salinas asked, shifting his eyes away from his visitor to look at the door. He could see through the small glass window, and he noticed that the guard had left them unattended. Never before had he been allowed to talk to anyone, not even his private attorneys, without a guard standing inside the room.

“Señor Salinas, I will ask the questions for now. And please, don't be offended, but I must be brief and get straight to the point.”

Morozov pulled back a chair and sat down across from Salinas before he continued. “I have come to make you an offer. It will involve a great deal of money. More than you could imagine, and unfortunately, all of it will come from your accounts.

“But,” he continued, “if you agree, then I am offering you something that only we can give you.”

“And what is that?” asked Salinas, as he impatiently thumped the table.

“Your freedom,” Morozov replied. “You will walk out of this prison with me. Right now. Tonight. And we will provide certain guarantees to ensure your freedom in the future. You will never fear being hunted down and captured by either your government or the Americans. You will be free to go about your business, including your trade in cocaine.”

Salinas didn't change his expression. Morozov leaned forward across the tiny table and lowered his voice. “How much would that be worth to you, Señor Salinas? How much would you pay to get back your life? One million, five million, maybe even ten?

“How much is it worth to you not to spend the rest of your life bathing in your sweat? How much would you pay to eat a meal that wasn't prepared by a prisoner with a contagious disease? How much to enjoy the beautiful things of this world?

“Can a man put a price on his freedom? Tell me, Señor Salinas. How much would that be worth?”

COLÓN, PANAMA

Two days later, Salinas walked into the central office of the Banco de las Americas He was dressed in a business suit with a wide-brimmed straw hat. The only piece of clothing he wore that wasn't glaring white was a smooth yellow silk tie that hung below his belt. In tow was his assistant, Mr. Ivan Morozov, carrying his leather briefcase. Salinas walked across the marble floor to a small reception area tucked away in the back of the enormous lobby. Although he had never been here before, he knew this was the office of a Señor Gorge Arellano.

“May I help you?” he was asked by the secretary who guarded the office door. She was a large woman who sat behind an imposing teak desk. She didn't smile as she examined her unwanted guest.

“I would like to wire some money,” Salinas replied.

“And the name on the account?”

“Señor Juan Analla Cormona. You'll find it in file eighteen.”

The woman keyed the information into the computer. Salinas watched the computer screen as it momentarily went blank. Within a few seconds a single line displayed across the screen: “File eighteen access denied. Dorado account. Return to main menu.” was all it said.

The secretary hesitated only a moment, then reached over to her multilined telephone and dialed a two-digit number. Without speaking into the receiver, she replaced the hand piece back onto its cradle and turned again to face Salinas.

“Señor, please come with me,” she said as she got up and led the two men back through the office door. There Gorge Arellano was waiting to receive them.

“What can we do for you, Señor Cormona?” he asked as he walked across the office to meet them. He was a short, fat man who looked remarkably like his secretary. They must be brother and sister, Morozov observed.

“As I told your receptionist, I would like to transfer some money,” Salinas answered cooly.

“Certainly, sir. Do you have the access number of the required account?”

Without speaking, Salinas passed a folded sheet of paper to Arellano, who unfolded the paper as he walked back to his desk and sat at his own computer. It took him several minutes of typing before he looked up again at the waiting men.

“And the daily code?” he asked with just a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Dial three two—four five six—three two—two seven eight. Ask for Mr. Dante. Tell him Cormona authenticates Bravo Bravo. He will reply with two seven eight four and today's date.”

Arellano scribbled furiously as Salinas gave him the instructions. He dialed the international number and waited for the call to go through.

Nearly four thousand miles away, the phone rang in a small office of the Western Union Telegraph Company. It wasn't answered until the tenth ring. It took several more minutes to locate Mr. Dante. Finally he picked up the phone.

“Mr. Dante speaking. How may I help you?”

“Mr. Dante, I have a Señor Cormona here. His instructions are Bravo Bravo.”

Without hesitating Dante answered. “Two seven eight four. Today's date is three September.” Then just as quickly he hung up.

Arellano listened to the disconnect tone for a few moments before he lay down his receiver. He then turned to face the two men who were waiting. Suddenly he wanted very much to complete their business and escort them out of his office, wishing all the time he had been more polite.

“What are your instructions, Señor Cormona?” he asked as he picked up a pen to write.

“We are going to transfer money from three accounts in Zurich into one account in Brussels. Don't write any of this down. I will step you through the account numbers and give you all the necessary PINs. It should only take a minute.”

Morozov couldn't help but be impressed as he watched Salinas work. It was apparent that Salinas had set up each account so that only he could have access to them. He repeated each account and access code from memory and never hesitated with the required response. In only a matter of minutes exactly fifty million dollars had been transferred into a previously dormant account in Brussels. Salinas had already provided Morozov with the access numbers to the Brussels account. It was now only a matter of waiting to confirm the transfer. That would take some time.

“We will call you in an hour to confirm the transfer,” Salinas said as he turned toward the door. “Please don't keep us waiting.”

As Gorge Arellano escorted his visitors out, he couldn't help but notice Morozov. The man had not spoken the entire time, which wasn't surprising. But there was something unusual about him. Perhaps it was the way he touched his boss's shoulders to steer him out of the room. Perhaps it was the way he seemed to observe everything, without ever really moving his eyes. Whatever it was, Arellano knew that Salinas wasn't the one to fear.

Salinas declined Arellano's offer to call them a cab. Instead, he and Morozov walked the three blocks back to their hotel. After taking the elevator to the third floor, they entered their sparsely decorated room. They watched television for half an hour, then Morozov picked up the phone. He called the bank and received a transaction confirmation number. Then he dialed an international code and talked to the bank in Brussels. They confirmed the account had been activated, but refused to reveal the new account balance. Morozov smiled in satisfaction.

Twenty minutes later, Carlos Manuel Salinas went down to the restaurant for lunch. He ate alone while he read the paper and then returned quickly to his room.

Five minutes later he was dead.

That night Morozov was sitting comfortably on an international flight bound for Guatemala City. From there he would use three different passports as he made his way back to Europe. His first stop would be in Madrid. From there he would fly to Prague and then finally on to Kiev.

While waiting in the Guatemalan airport for his flight to Spain, Morozov secreted himself in an old wooden box of a phone booth. He studied the ancient telephone for a moment, then began to dial. Once the call went through, it only took a few minutes before he had transferred three million dollars out of the account in Brussels into his personal account in Bucharest. He considered the money as a kind of bonus. An extra tip for a job well done. And besides, since he was the conspirators' bookkeeper, who would be any wiser? Certainly not his fellow Ukrainians. They would never even know it was gone.

After completing his call, Morozov left the phone booth and stopped by a small airport bar and ordered a bottle of Corona. He sipped the beer in silence while eyeing the beautiful, dark-skinned women that seemed to surround him. Ten minutes later, he was on his flight for Madrid.

About the time Morozov's flight was touching down in Spain, a maid entered a hotel room back in Colón. There she found Salinas' body lying peacefully on his bed, his head cocked awkwardly to one side as a result of the three fractured vertebrae in his neck. Protruding from his ashen lips was a crisp fifty dollar bill, along with a handwritten note from Ivan Morozov that apologized for making a mess.