No Title Yet Part 2 - Dark Horse
This is a snapshot of a fictional story written daily on my Facebook status, 160 characters at a time - two or three status updates a day. Each paragraph constitutes one Facebook status update. It is still ongoing and it is written without edit. Part 1 is here.
The hospital put up a main board of names and conditions (OK, Critical, Dead) near the main entrance. Photographers and TV crews mulled around looking for new tragic stories to put on the nightly news. The pundits were talking all night and all morning, in radio and TV and blogs, expressing horrors and then immediately speculated about the possible culprits.
His back was still painful after most of the tiny projectiles were removed from his back yesterday night. This hindered what he set out to do today. Anything requiring physical agility was out so he needed to get some equipments. He called up a taxi and head out to UIO, also known as Mariscal Sucre International airport, to the private hangar section, where his beloved amphibious plane was stored.
"So you are bailing out of town?", a kind old face smiled from the mirror, driving his cab slowly, navigating the busy traffic of near noon. "I worked at the airport", never tell the truth to stranger. "Good. I have driven six people to the airport today. Everybody is scared of a possible coup". "You think the bomb was part of a coup?". "No, I think it's FARC or CIA".
The taxi traced 10 de Agosto, one of the longest avenue snaking through the length of Quito. Quito airport was located smack down in the middle of the city so it would reach its destination soon. "CIA? That is interesting. Don't you think the new President would not allow such thing?". "Gringos, they are the same, black or white. They always interfere in other people's busines".
Pedro smiled and continued the small talks, although unbeknown to the driver, he typed a short message using his right hand to a stored number in his phone, "Happy April Fools Day, red lady". In a flash, the message would arrived in a secure phone owned by Andrew Martin - rendezvous tonight. The taxi stopped and Pedro got out and add a few extra dollars to the fare.
Pedro entered the international terminal and took a straight right immediately and continued along the length of the hall, passing hordes of shabby looking and probably unwashed backpackers and moneyed Ecuadorians elites trying to get out of town in a panic exodus.
At the North of end of the hall, two ladies in the airport received him in a small entrance labelled "Private". They gave him their best smiles - Pedro had always been generous - and passed him through without checking his red striped plastic access card. He passed a half full luxurious first class lounge and went straight to a black Lexus GS340 waiting on the tarmac.
"Flying again sir", Antonio inquired. "No, I need you to wait for me. It would not take long". "Fine sir". He drove off gingerly across the tarmac to the private hangar section of the airport where private planes were parked and stored at a cool price of 250 dollars per day for smallish planes. There were no plane taxiing at the moment - it's near noon and no executives likes to fly around this time.
Pedro climbed inside surprisingly spacious two seater and reached to a compartment at the back. He pulled a savage hunter rifle, not forgetting the optic and move them to a brown hunting knapsack. He added a black Winchester 1300 defender shotgun, suitable for a quick short range work and threw in a couple of buckshot rounds. Basics for hunters. Anything powerful enough to kill a bear, will be enough for men.
He selected a night vision monocular and lastly, picked a bowie knife as a last resort weapon. All of these equipment were professional hunting grade equipment, easily available in the US, pretty good but not quite the ones used by the Seals. Rómulo supposed to have delivered those ones to him yesterday except for the little hiccup with the high explosives. He would find out more tonight.
Pedro finished filling up the form at the East Terra office in the airport and picked up a metallic Mitsubishi Lancer for a week. This arrangement cost him 540 USD, a local currency, with unlimited millage. There was enough trunk space in the car to store his gear. He had preferred taxi for moving around but lugging around tall rucksack would invite unwanted attention especially during tense time like now
Pedro stepped on the gas and let the machine took him to back to 10 de Agosto. There was nothing to be done for the rest of the day other than answering doing his electronic paperwork and communication until tonight.
"Tus fotografías para verlas cada vez", Juanes and Nelly serenaded sweetly in the background in Las Diosas, a small club on 270 La Nina. Colombian and Ecuadorians girls hung around the velvet round sofa, giggling and eagle eyeing potential customers. The chicas were 15 USD per session, one hour, straight missionary - anything else extra charge. It was 10 PM and the night was just about to start.
A bald man in his 60's in a tight khaki shirt sat at the bar, consuming his mohito with relish - he looked happy and Antonio, the bartender, was fond of this guy as he was a regular and tipped well. Andrew Martin, the legendary station chief of Ecuador, CIA Latin America. His last exploit last year killed the top leader of FARC, which crippled the movement until today.
A pair of elegant hand sneaked up on him and covered his eyes - he smiled and grab both hands and turned his head toward their owner, a dark haired woman with hazel eyes and a delightful smile. He nudge forward and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. "Good evening, Paola". "My dear Andrew". "May I?", he stood up and peel the coat from her. She was wearing a black strapless cocktail dress with a stripe of fine red rose.
Black 3 inch open toe shoes and above knee dress accentuate her finely shaped legs and bringing her height to match Andrew's at 1.80. She smelled especially good tonight, he thought. She read his mind and hushed, "I am wearing a Dior Chérie tonight". "What's the occasion?". "I am meeting you". She never fail to blush him, "wonderful".
She sat on the stool next to him and gave a wink to Antonio. He responded, "the usual Paolina?". "Yes, please". Antonio pull out a tall glass and fill it to just beyond half with a fresh squeeze orange juice. He pour in two measure of Aguardiente (a Traguito y Gallito) and mixed it gently. "Thank you doll", she reached and tasted her favorite mix with relish and let her mouth experience the burning sensation.
Her smile disappeared and she turned to Andrew, talking to him in a serious low tone voice, "Nobody knew who did. Everybody is nervous. Pancito went berserk this evening because his organization was taking heat but they did not do this. It was not his style.". Andrew agreed. "He told me that the car belonged to the two face bastard Rómulo and he hoped he died in it but his name was not on the casualty list".
"What does the Colombians say?". "If they were lying, they are pretty good at it. Nobody is claiming any on this. I reckon somebody is trying to kill Rómulo". Andrew remarked, "Rómulo has been selling and dealing weapons with all of them for the past thirty years. There has not been any complaints. We even use his service from time to time". "Maybe a new player in the market?". "Maybe, but it's not exactly lucrative"
"The conflict in Colombia is winding down. Much of the heavy gears were not much in demand anymore. Those are the ones were you can make fat profit, not from those AKs you buy by the kilos". "You are the smart guy, I will let you chew on this. I have to go to meet another client tonight. A regular". "Besos". She gave him an air kiss and walked toward the door. Andrew looked back to appreciate the view.
Andrew discovered Paola Elisa Seales Miranda ten years ago, when she was just a starting up girl in this very club, a fresh runaway from San Vicente del Caguan, a little strip in the jungle of Colombia, inside FARC territory. As in many cases of Colombian runaway girls in Quito, she ended up working in the industry - in one of the many adult clubs in the old red light district in El Centro Historico.
He picked her out of a line up of ten or fifteen youngish looking girl, slept with and paid her the standard rate of 250,000 Sucre, before horrifically discovered that she was only 16. He almost killed the owner of the club that night more so because sleeping with an underage girl was one of a few sure thing that would ruin the career of a CIA officer.
So he did the next best thing to cover his track. He bought her out from the club, put her in a host family and paid for her education from high school until she finished her training in becoming a makeup artist. Over the years, the awkward skinny girl blossomed into a confident young woman and had proven her talent in navigating through the layers of Quito social classes.
Andrew recruited her to obtain information from the various power elites, political or criminal or both, for his craft. Her occupation and talent gave her access to the most credible source of information of powerful men (mostly), their wives, girlfriends and call girls. The men would not divulge what they know under the harsh treatment of torture but they willingly told deepest secret to their favorite mistress.
Those secrets were then passed around among close girlfriends in social outings across the villas in town. And in time, Paola had become the go to person for spilling secrets and passing gossips. The women were not threatened by the person that work to make them beautiful. Keeping up your appearance in the highest social ladder were hard work and nothing was more important than your makeup - it was alchemy.
The hospital put up a main board of names and conditions (OK, Critical, Dead) near the main entrance. Photographers and TV crews mulled around looking for new tragic stories to put on the nightly news. The pundits were talking all night and all morning, in radio and TV and blogs, expressing horrors and then immediately speculated about the possible culprits.
His back was still painful after most of the tiny projectiles were removed from his back yesterday night. This hindered what he set out to do today. Anything requiring physical agility was out so he needed to get some equipments. He called up a taxi and head out to UIO, also known as Mariscal Sucre International airport, to the private hangar section, where his beloved amphibious plane was stored.
"So you are bailing out of town?", a kind old face smiled from the mirror, driving his cab slowly, navigating the busy traffic of near noon. "I worked at the airport", never tell the truth to stranger. "Good. I have driven six people to the airport today. Everybody is scared of a possible coup". "You think the bomb was part of a coup?". "No, I think it's FARC or CIA".
The taxi traced 10 de Agosto, one of the longest avenue snaking through the length of Quito. Quito airport was located smack down in the middle of the city so it would reach its destination soon. "CIA? That is interesting. Don't you think the new President would not allow such thing?". "Gringos, they are the same, black or white. They always interfere in other people's busines".
Pedro smiled and continued the small talks, although unbeknown to the driver, he typed a short message using his right hand to a stored number in his phone, "Happy April Fools Day, red lady". In a flash, the message would arrived in a secure phone owned by Andrew Martin - rendezvous tonight. The taxi stopped and Pedro got out and add a few extra dollars to the fare.
Pedro entered the international terminal and took a straight right immediately and continued along the length of the hall, passing hordes of shabby looking and probably unwashed backpackers and moneyed Ecuadorians elites trying to get out of town in a panic exodus.
At the North of end of the hall, two ladies in the airport received him in a small entrance labelled "Private". They gave him their best smiles - Pedro had always been generous - and passed him through without checking his red striped plastic access card. He passed a half full luxurious first class lounge and went straight to a black Lexus GS340 waiting on the tarmac.
"Flying again sir", Antonio inquired. "No, I need you to wait for me. It would not take long". "Fine sir". He drove off gingerly across the tarmac to the private hangar section of the airport where private planes were parked and stored at a cool price of 250 dollars per day for smallish planes. There were no plane taxiing at the moment - it's near noon and no executives likes to fly around this time.
Pedro climbed inside surprisingly spacious two seater and reached to a compartment at the back. He pulled a savage hunter rifle, not forgetting the optic and move them to a brown hunting knapsack. He added a black Winchester 1300 defender shotgun, suitable for a quick short range work and threw in a couple of buckshot rounds. Basics for hunters. Anything powerful enough to kill a bear, will be enough for men.
He selected a night vision monocular and lastly, picked a bowie knife as a last resort weapon. All of these equipment were professional hunting grade equipment, easily available in the US, pretty good but not quite the ones used by the Seals. Rómulo supposed to have delivered those ones to him yesterday except for the little hiccup with the high explosives. He would find out more tonight.
Pedro finished filling up the form at the East Terra office in the airport and picked up a metallic Mitsubishi Lancer for a week. This arrangement cost him 540 USD, a local currency, with unlimited millage. There was enough trunk space in the car to store his gear. He had preferred taxi for moving around but lugging around tall rucksack would invite unwanted attention especially during tense time like now
Pedro stepped on the gas and let the machine took him to back to 10 de Agosto. There was nothing to be done for the rest of the day other than answering doing his electronic paperwork and communication until tonight.
"Tus fotografías para verlas cada vez", Juanes and Nelly serenaded sweetly in the background in Las Diosas, a small club on 270 La Nina. Colombian and Ecuadorians girls hung around the velvet round sofa, giggling and eagle eyeing potential customers. The chicas were 15 USD per session, one hour, straight missionary - anything else extra charge. It was 10 PM and the night was just about to start.
A bald man in his 60's in a tight khaki shirt sat at the bar, consuming his mohito with relish - he looked happy and Antonio, the bartender, was fond of this guy as he was a regular and tipped well. Andrew Martin, the legendary station chief of Ecuador, CIA Latin America. His last exploit last year killed the top leader of FARC, which crippled the movement until today.
A pair of elegant hand sneaked up on him and covered his eyes - he smiled and grab both hands and turned his head toward their owner, a dark haired woman with hazel eyes and a delightful smile. He nudge forward and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. "Good evening, Paola". "My dear Andrew". "May I?", he stood up and peel the coat from her. She was wearing a black strapless cocktail dress with a stripe of fine red rose.
Black 3 inch open toe shoes and above knee dress accentuate her finely shaped legs and bringing her height to match Andrew's at 1.80. She smelled especially good tonight, he thought. She read his mind and hushed, "I am wearing a Dior Chérie tonight". "What's the occasion?". "I am meeting you". She never fail to blush him, "wonderful".
She sat on the stool next to him and gave a wink to Antonio. He responded, "the usual Paolina?". "Yes, please". Antonio pull out a tall glass and fill it to just beyond half with a fresh squeeze orange juice. He pour in two measure of Aguardiente (a Traguito y Gallito) and mixed it gently. "Thank you doll", she reached and tasted her favorite mix with relish and let her mouth experience the burning sensation.
Her smile disappeared and she turned to Andrew, talking to him in a serious low tone voice, "Nobody knew who did. Everybody is nervous. Pancito went berserk this evening because his organization was taking heat but they did not do this. It was not his style.". Andrew agreed. "He told me that the car belonged to the two face bastard Rómulo and he hoped he died in it but his name was not on the casualty list".
"What does the Colombians say?". "If they were lying, they are pretty good at it. Nobody is claiming any on this. I reckon somebody is trying to kill Rómulo". Andrew remarked, "Rómulo has been selling and dealing weapons with all of them for the past thirty years. There has not been any complaints. We even use his service from time to time". "Maybe a new player in the market?". "Maybe, but it's not exactly lucrative"
"The conflict in Colombia is winding down. Much of the heavy gears were not much in demand anymore. Those are the ones were you can make fat profit, not from those AKs you buy by the kilos". "You are the smart guy, I will let you chew on this. I have to go to meet another client tonight. A regular". "Besos". She gave him an air kiss and walked toward the door. Andrew looked back to appreciate the view.
Andrew discovered Paola Elisa Seales Miranda ten years ago, when she was just a starting up girl in this very club, a fresh runaway from San Vicente del Caguan, a little strip in the jungle of Colombia, inside FARC territory. As in many cases of Colombian runaway girls in Quito, she ended up working in the industry - in one of the many adult clubs in the old red light district in El Centro Historico.
He picked her out of a line up of ten or fifteen youngish looking girl, slept with and paid her the standard rate of 250,000 Sucre, before horrifically discovered that she was only 16. He almost killed the owner of the club that night more so because sleeping with an underage girl was one of a few sure thing that would ruin the career of a CIA officer.
So he did the next best thing to cover his track. He bought her out from the club, put her in a host family and paid for her education from high school until she finished her training in becoming a makeup artist. Over the years, the awkward skinny girl blossomed into a confident young woman and had proven her talent in navigating through the layers of Quito social classes.
Andrew recruited her to obtain information from the various power elites, political or criminal or both, for his craft. Her occupation and talent gave her access to the most credible source of information of powerful men (mostly), their wives, girlfriends and call girls. The men would not divulge what they know under the harsh treatment of torture but they willingly told deepest secret to their favorite mistress.
Those secrets were then passed around among close girlfriends in social outings across the villas in town. And in time, Paola had become the go to person for spilling secrets and passing gossips. The women were not threatened by the person that work to make them beautiful. Keeping up your appearance in the highest social ladder were hard work and nothing was more important than your makeup - it was alchemy.
Labels: quito conspiracy
posted by Dody G. at 12:38 AM
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