was just
light enough to see their breath. They walked the winding mountain
paths in single-file, without talking, stopping occasionally to
listen or reconnoiter from cover when open terrain had to be
crossed.
Attempts by the militia to round up the
fugitives were half-hearted at best. The occasional low-flying
aircraft appeared to be the only visible threat and with each
downward step Svoljsak’s hope for freedom rose. Soon the paths
became roads and other travelers more frequent. By the following
afternoon the pair were able to assume the mantle of locals going
about their business. To his credit, Svoljsak’s guide waited until
they’d skirted Arequipa—also a prison town—to decide his tobacco
debt had been paid in full.
Before letting Svoljsak fend for himself,
though, the Peruvian located a telephone from which they could each
make calls. For his help, Svoljsak wanted to give the man a small
golden amulet that he’d managed to conceal. The jeweller’s wife had
given it to him ‘for protection and luck’, but with typical South
American graciousness his comrade bade him to keep it for the
journey ahead.
“Vaya con Dios, Amigo!”
Svoljsak echoed back, “Go with God, my
friend,” and the Peruvian vanished into the marketplace like a
ghost into a tapestry.
His telephone contacts eventually provided a
forged passport, an exit visa, and transport, all acquired with
wired funds that emptied his accounts. By way of Moquegua and
Tacha, and several greased palms, the would-be drug czar from
Quebec finally managed to quit Peru via the Chilean border.
CHAPTER
12
The large FOUR on a steel door brought
Svoljsak out of his reverie like a hypnotist’s finger snap. He
dropped the cigarette butt on the landing for his boot to snuff out
and flicked the telltale ashes from the lapel of his uniform, or
whoever’s uniform it used to be.
He opened the door and stepped cautiously
into the hall. He’d left the other security guard checking the
ground level accesses but didn’t know the man’s routine, and
preferred not to find out about it here.
This floor, like the others at Simedyne
Corporation, had been freshly painted in neutral tones and given
new light-blue carpeting. Framed watercolours basked in a diffused
light and a false ceiling of white fiberboard helped to mute the
sounds of commerce down to an executive hush.
The quiet emptiness amplified the clicks and
pops of settling joints and cooling pipes. The aging edifice had
undergone an extensive makeover but that didn’t change the fact she
was an old broad that slept fitfully at night. The low rumble of
her respiration came through sheet metal sinuses as mechanical
lungs, floors below, pumped her breath into the corridors.
There were only two offices to Svoljsak’s
left. Role-playing he gave their doorknobs a perfunctory turn then
continued on, testing all the others to the same result. He reached
the far EXIT sign, checked out the stairwell, then strode directly
back to the room labeled: DOCUMENTATION LIBRARY–RESEARCH AND
DEVELOPMENT.
He scrutinized both door and frame, and
devoted several seconds to the push-button combination lock. He
stood his large flashlight, lens down, on the floor and wriggled
his fingers into a pair of latex gloves. From his wallet he plucked
a white plastic card with a magnetic strip on one side. On the
other side was the embossed name of its former owner: ROGER
AIRD—RDL 01565.
Svoljsak had been in the game long enough to
know that every caper had a point of no return. To swipe this card
through the reader of the lockbox would be akin to playing Russian
roulette. The coded strip could either unlock the door or open a
Pandora’s box of flashing lights and clanging bells.
He looked at the rectangular pass again and
tried to divine its effect. He knew the PIN code for the card and
he knew there was a chance it was no longer valid. It didn’t help
his confidence any that the plan had been drafted by someone
light enough to see their breath. They walked the winding mountain
paths in single-file, without talking, stopping occasionally to
listen or reconnoiter from cover when open terrain had to be
crossed.
Attempts by the militia to round up the
fugitives were half-hearted at best. The occasional low-flying
aircraft appeared to be the only visible threat and with each
downward step Svoljsak’s hope for freedom rose. Soon the paths
became roads and other travelers more frequent. By the following
afternoon the pair were able to assume the mantle of locals going
about their business. To his credit, Svoljsak’s guide waited until
they’d skirted Arequipa—also a prison town—to decide his tobacco
debt had been paid in full.
Before letting Svoljsak fend for himself,
though, the Peruvian located a telephone from which they could each
make calls. For his help, Svoljsak wanted to give the man a small
golden amulet that he’d managed to conceal. The jeweller’s wife had
given it to him ‘for protection and luck’, but with typical South
American graciousness his comrade bade him to keep it for the
journey ahead.
“Vaya con Dios, Amigo!”
Svoljsak echoed back, “Go with God, my
friend,” and the Peruvian vanished into the marketplace like a
ghost into a tapestry.
His telephone contacts eventually provided a
forged passport, an exit visa, and transport, all acquired with
wired funds that emptied his accounts. By way of Moquegua and
Tacha, and several greased palms, the would-be drug czar from
Quebec finally managed to quit Peru via the Chilean border.
CHAPTER
12
The large FOUR on a steel door brought
Svoljsak out of his reverie like a hypnotist’s finger snap. He
dropped the cigarette butt on the landing for his boot to snuff out
and flicked the telltale ashes from the lapel of his uniform, or
whoever’s uniform it used to be.
He opened the door and stepped cautiously
into the hall. He’d left the other security guard checking the
ground level accesses but didn’t know the man’s routine, and
preferred not to find out about it here.
This floor, like the others at Simedyne
Corporation, had been freshly painted in neutral tones and given
new light-blue carpeting. Framed watercolours basked in a diffused
light and a false ceiling of white fiberboard helped to mute the
sounds of commerce down to an executive hush.
The quiet emptiness amplified the clicks and
pops of settling joints and cooling pipes. The aging edifice had
undergone an extensive makeover but that didn’t change the fact she
was an old broad that slept fitfully at night. The low rumble of
her respiration came through sheet metal sinuses as mechanical
lungs, floors below, pumped her breath into the corridors.
There were only two offices to Svoljsak’s
left. Role-playing he gave their doorknobs a perfunctory turn then
continued on, testing all the others to the same result. He reached
the far EXIT sign, checked out the stairwell, then strode directly
back to the room labeled: DOCUMENTATION LIBRARY–RESEARCH AND
DEVELOPMENT.
He scrutinized both door and frame, and
devoted several seconds to the push-button combination lock. He
stood his large flashlight, lens down, on the floor and wriggled
his fingers into a pair of latex gloves. From his wallet he plucked
a white plastic card with a magnetic strip on one side. On the
other side was the embossed name of its former owner: ROGER
AIRD—RDL 01565.
Svoljsak had been in the game long enough to
know that every caper had a point of no return. To swipe this card
through the reader of the lockbox would be akin to playing Russian
roulette. The coded strip could either unlock the door or open a
Pandora’s box of flashing lights and clanging bells.
He looked at the rectangular pass again and
tried to divine its effect. He knew the PIN code for the card and
he knew there was a chance it was no longer valid. It didn’t help
his confidence any that the plan had been drafted by someone
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