“Thanks, mate,” Bluey said. “Feels nice to be legal again. Now both our passports and the airplane have been cleared through Cartagena, all perfectly legal, thanks to that bloody bent copper back there. We can go anywhere in Colombia, and no sweat.” They walked back into the little office.
“How long you tying down, Bluey?” Mac asked.
“Just a couple days.”
“It’s a hundred a day. You can pay when you leave. You need any work done on the bird?”
“Nah, she’s fine. I’d like it if she was in one piece when I get back. Tell me, Mac, is Florio still working out of the Excelsior in Riohacha?”
Now Mac had found something to look surprised about. “You changing your habits, Bluey?”
“I wouldn’t be down here in a light single.”
“Yeah, he’s still there. Don’t show him any money, though, not until he’s showed you something.”
“Too right. Thanks.”
In the car, Bluey produced a road map. “We’re here, near the thumb of this mitten-shaped peninsula, about thirty miles inland. We’ll drive down to Riohacha, on the coast, and nose around a bit.”
“Why not just go on to Santa Marta?” Cat asked. “It’s early and it doesn’t seem all that far.” He pointed to the town and measured the distance against the scale. “About two hundred and fifty miles.”
“Before we start doing detective work down there, I want to feel around out here in the Guajira a bit, see what we can turn up,” Bluey answered. “I’ve been away a while, you know, and I want to get my feet on the ground again and see what’s happening before we charge into Santa Marta and start asking questions. Okay?”
Cat nodded. “Whatever you think best. What was that business between you and Mac, about you changing your habits?”
“Florio is a coke dealer. I’m known down here as a grass man. I’ve never run anything else. Shitty stuff, cocaine, screws people up. I’ve never wanted any part of that.”
“What do we want with a cocaine dealer?”
“Well, there ain’t any tourists in the Guajira,” Bluey said. “Out here, people make a pair of gringos as either buyers or narcs. People they think are narcs don’t live long, so we want to establish ourselves as buyers right off.”
“I see.” The idea of being thought of as a drug buyer didn’t rest easily with Cat, but the idea of being dead was worse.
They climbed into what seemed a brand-new Ford Bronco, a four-wheel-drive vehicle with a leather interior and air-conditioning, and were let out a gate in a chain-link fence. Shortly, they came to a ramshackle settlement, and Bluey stopped in the only street in front of a mud building.
“I just want to pop into the cantina here and pick up a cold beer. You want anything?”
Cat shook his head. “It’s early for me, but I’m going to be hungry pretty soon.”
“I’ll get some food, too. You stay with the car, okay?” He got out and went inside.
Cat looked around him. The settlement was nothing more than two rows of mud houses with tin roofs and shanties, made of almost anything, on either side of a dusty, rutted road. A pig was rooting in the road a few yards away, and a couple of dogs lay sleeping in the morning sun. A few minutes passed, and Cat saw a truck appear a hundred yards down the road, in a dusty haze of rising heat, driving slowly toward him. There were half a dozen men standing in the back, and they appeared to be armed. The truck came slowly on, weaving a bit, as if the driver was drunk. Suddenly, there was a popping noise, and the ground around the pig erupted. The animal screamed and went down. He struggled to his feet again and ran off the road, dragging a useless leg. Cat could see two bullet holes in his rump, pouring blood. There was more noise and mud flew from some buildings across the road.
Bluey came to the door of the cantina. “Get in here, quick!” he shouted.
Cat jumped out of the car and ran inside. He joined Bluey, pressed flat against the wall facing the street. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered to Bluey.
“Some of the locals had a little too much up the nose, I expect,” Bluey replied. There was another burst of automatic gunfire, and a large picture on the back wall of the cantina exploded, then fell from the wall. “They get paid what for them is fabulous amounts of money, then they snort up everything they can get their hands on. It’s a bit like the Old West out here.”
Cat heard the truck move on and more gunfire. After another minute, Bluey stuck his head out the door.
“All clear; let’s go.” They got into the car and drove on. Miraculously, it was unscathed. “What you’ve got to understand,” Bluey explained, “is that out here there’s too much money and cocaine, and no law at all. Even the army doesn’t poke into the Guajira very often.”
“Christ, is the whole country like this?”
“Oh no, no. It’s a lovely country, most of it; lovely people. It’s just the Guajira that’s wild. Mind you, you can get your pocket picked or your throat cut just about anywhere. You just have to exercise the same caution you would in, say, New York City.”
This, Cat thought, was the country to which he had brought two million dollars in a briefcase. And, he reflected, where somebody had taken his daughter from him for God knew what reasons.
They bounced along a dirt track, through scrub brush and cactus for some time, then broke onto the coast road at a place Bluey identified as Carrizal. The track became a road here, but not much of one. Bluey made the best time he could, and Cat gazed out drowsily at the blue Caribbean on his right. The sun was well up now, and the heat was bearing down. Cat rolled up his window and switched on the air-conditioning. They passed through a collection of ramshackle buildings known as Auyame, then came to a place called Manaure. Cat was contemplating the sameness of these places, when suddenly he jerked upright in his seat, pointing.
“Out there, Bluey, anchored just beyond the trawler.”
“The white one?”
“Right. The sportsfisherman.” Cat’s heart was pounding. “Jesus, I think that’s it.”
“What?”
“The Santa Maria, the boat the Pirate was on.”
Some buildings blocked their view for a moment, then Bluey turned down a side street toward the sea. After a moment, the water appeared again. They were facing a harbor, open to the east, but bound by a long point of land to the north. An assortment of boats rode at anchor, some of them looking very fast indeed.
“A lot of these are runners,” Bluey said, maneuvering the car to the side of the road and stopping. “They take bales of grass out to ships waiting offshore.” He pulled a new pair of binoculars from his luggage. “Have a look through these.”
Cat, trembling, put the binoculars to his eyes and focused. Could they have gotten lucky this fast? The boat came into sharp focus, and immediately, Cat saw a man sitting in the fisherman’s chair, aft, smoking a cigar. The man seemed Anglo, gray hair, in his fifties. Not familiar. He panned slowly the length of the boat. Something was wrong, he wasn’t sure what. He closed his eyes and ran the scene again in his head. The boat was approaching Catbird off her starboard quarter; the name, Santa Maria, was clearly visible on her bows. He opened his eyes again. There was no name on the bows of this boat, but that could have been changed. There was something else, though. The davits, aluminum arms for bringing a dinghy aboard. The Santa Maria had had no davits on her stem. They could have been added, though. Cat watched as the wind shifted, and the boat began to swing her stem toward them. As she came around, a name appeared on her stem, Mako, out of Guadeloupe. A stab of disappointment hit Cat, but it wasn’t the name that did it. He could see into the wheelhouse. The boat’s wheel was on the port side, and he had a clear memory of the Pirate steering the Santa Maria from the starboard side. As she had approached Catbird the man had stuck his head out over the gunwales while turning the wheel and throttling back.