No Title Yet Part 5 - Rendezvous

This is a snapshot of a fictional story written daily(mostly) 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, part 2, part 3 and part 4.

Sapporo had never been a warm place and the early Spring temperature still provided a strong bite to the senses. The two men stepped outside the wagon to Jozankei Grand Hotel Zuien, their breath visible in the cold air. "Amazing garden", Pedro quipped.

"Indeed. I always return here whenever I stopped by Sapporo.", Azimov concurred. "The Japanese sector must be busy". "Killing Yakuzas". "Interesting". "Most of them are clients and they do not die of old age and the cycle continue. It's good for business. Let's come inside".

They were received with a beaming smile at the front desk. "Mr. Asimov, welcome back. We have missed you", the manager rushed to greet him. Azimoz bowed slightly, "Nice to back, Mr. Mashimoto. This is my guest Pedro from Ecuador.". "Certainly. Shall I arrange the usual?". "Yes".

Mashimoto quickly arranged two bath kits for the two men; a set of blue robe, a pair of wooden sandal, a green towel, a scrubber and a soap. "Here's the deal", Azimov explained as they walk to the washing room, "Before we try the bedrock bath, or as they say it here, ganban'yoku, we will spend sometime in the outdoor onsen here. There is no water in ganban'yoku, just a hot stone you lie on and it's Thai".

They entered a wide room with stone floor and approximately 20 washing cubicles stocked with tiny wooden chairs. Five of them occupied. It smelled sulfuric and quite cold, betraying none of the heat they about to experience. They disrobed completely and arrange their personal belongings on one of the many open wooden shelves. It looked like nobody had ever gotten their things stolen here.

Pedro picked the second cubicle in the corner and started washing himself thoroughly. There were variety bath artitcles in front of him and he understood none of them so he stuck on only soap. The Japanese has the right idea, he thought of himself, this is the way to live.

Pedro walked gingerly outside to the onsen area, holding his way too small towel around his waist with his butt partially exposed but nobody seem but nobody seem to care. Azimov came up beside him, "take the right one. It goes to the biggest onsen and overlook the valley and river".

They walked for few minutes and come to an small opening to a wide concave rock formation filled with steaming sky blue water. They entered the waist high water and pick a spot on the ledge. Just right over beds of flowers dropped precipitously to the valley below.

"Iceland also has plenty of these", Pedro quipped, after settling down comfortably, both of his arm resting on the rocks. "Theirs are much bigger right?". "The big ones are outside cities. They name their capital city 'Reykjavik'. It means 'Bay of Steam'".

Only streaming water heard around the onsen. This hot spring area was found by a monk 130 years ago and now had well been commercialized.

"How many clients do we have here in Japan?", Pedro inquired. "Give or take one thousand". "That is huge". "The biggest, mostly Yakuzas". Azimove continued, "They have a distinct code of honor, even the hardest among them. They accept the duty of revenge for any fallen members ; but they will only allow one attempt for revenge. So if the aggrieved party failed to complete the revenge, it is forbidden to retry."

"What happened if it is violated?". "The whole system will come and destroy your family", Azimov said chillingly. "Has it ever happened?". "Once, in 1983. The whole 3 generation of Ichikawa clan were wiped up by the 7 of Yakuza organizations within a year. Never again."

Pedro followed up, "So they prefer to let us to do their revenges?". "Yes, because our track record is solid. Not perfect but solid". "So what happened if the one in the hit list a client?". "We sent the target a note that he is in a hit list but no longer being executed". "and the revenge attempt is up", Pedro concluded. "Yes. He is no longer in danger.". "No wonder Japan is doing well". "Nobody likes to die".

Pedro closed his eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the air and absorbing the moment. It had been a while he rested like this. They continued spending their day in the hotel. Pedro found he did not like the hard surface of the bedrock bath and decided to quit early. At 3 PM, they feasted on local cuisine, the last good meal to be had in a while, drinking way too much beer and for Azimoz, vodka.

Azimoz arranged the front desk to wake them up at 11 PM and crashed into hotel room to wash off the effect of his drinking. Pedro lingered for a while, strolling around the hotel and admiring the classical paintings on the whole. He too finally retire to his room.

They checked out of the hotel 11.20 PM sharp. Pedro had two cello cases and a backpack, Azimoz had his single mountaineer pack.

Azimoz took the wheel, "It is 150 from Saporro to Rumoi. It will take us two hours to get there. I am not risking being checked by police. I have no idea what you have on those cases, but I doubt the Japanese police would like it". "It won't be pretty", Pedro murmured.

The wagon cruised steadily through the highways connecting the cities, yellow lamps lighted it all stretches of the road. Everyman was on his own thoughts - the mission had started now and they made mental preparation for upcoming events. They were going to make sea journey to Sachalin from Rumoi which will take the whole day.Then the dangerous part started, crossing to Russia.

They arrived at the outskirt of Rumoi just about 1 AM. This town of 30,000 people was already vast asleep. Nary any souls on the street. They crossed the town in less than 15 minutes and instead going to the main port in the city, they continued east tracing the coastline.

Azimoz started to pay attention on the GPS information on the dashboard. He was looking for some sort of enclaves off this road 231. Pedro thought that the ride must be spectacular during the day, but for now there was nothing but darkness on the horizon. He could though hear the faint noise of waves crashing the rocks and smell the salty air of the ocean.

The wagon took a right turn off the road just before the main road headed South East. Handfuls of pebbles began striking the bottom of car as it speed through this rough and narrow path. They needed to go out of view from the main road as soon as possible. The path sloped down and filled with thick vegetation on either side. Occasionally the wagon hit a bit rock and caused a loud bang inside.

Finally this path opened up to sea and they found it slightly agitated with continuous waves struck the land. Azimov slowed down and started blinking the wagon light with a series of morse code sign, .- --.. .. -- --- ...- and repeated it. This went on for several tense minutes.

Finally they saw flickers of responses from the darkness ahead. "Can you make that out?", Azimoz asked. "I think it is --. .-. --. -. -.-". "OK, that's is our boat. Let's get to work". They unloaded their gear quietly and switch to dark wet suit. It gets chilly on the sea.

Azimoz steered the wagon to a secluded area on the rocky beach and put it under camouflage net so it is not so visible from the sea.

Pedro found it tricky to walk on wet rocks with heavy loads on his hands and shoulder. The visibility was quite poor and they were only guided by the flashing red beacon from the boat. In closer look, Pedro found out that the boat was a grey rigid hull inflatable boat.

The boat rocked gently from side to side on the agitated sea. "Watch your steps", a female voice shouted from the boat. "I'll be alright", Pedro responded just before his left foot slipped and he stumbled with all his gears crashing down. The two Cello cases made cracking noises when they hit the wet rocks - an ominous sign that they have been cracked. Pedro swore and righted himself back up.

"She told you be careful", Azimoz laughed, following him from behind. "Are you OK?". "I'm goddamn fine".

Azimov introduced the captain of the boat to Pedro after they secured their belonging at the stern of the boat. She then immediately took the boat out of the treacherous rocky shore of Hokkaido to the open sea. She increased the powerful 300 hp inboard motor to top speed 65 knots. It did not make a pleasant journey but they had to make distance as soon as possible before light.

There was not much cover on the 15 meters boat so soon all of them were soaked in cold sea water. Thankfully the wet suits kept them warm.

No Title Yet Part 4 - Transit

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, part 2 and part 3. It's also published on twitter at http://twitter.com/republicoffear.

The bland interior of Narita Airport violated Pedro sense. It was a crime to have such a lifeless place as a first entry point for a visitor from abroad, as it betrayed none of the vibrancy of the Japan and its culture. This is what happened when an airport is run with a committee of anonymous old men in symmetric stripe suits. He looked around toward the exit, looking for signs with his name. He was to be picked up.

He crossed the threshold of the airport and read through the throngs of hand written signs held by pickers until he found "Pedro, Quito". He introduced himself and the man responded, "Ushiro Tanaka. Nice to meet you". They walked together to a black latest model Lexus and drove away to the Embassy of Ecuador in Minato-ku, a ward near the bay. Pedro allowed himself to enjoy the eclectic view Tokyo in comfort.

Midway, Pedro politely requested Tanaka-san to take a detour to Akihabara for a quick shopping. He needed to get a new phone. "So you have been to Tokyo before, sir?". "Only once, five years ago". "Oh wonderful, did you enjoy it?". "I did. Unfortunately I was at work most of the time.". "Are you intending to stay a bit longer this time?". "That is the plan. I am going to Sapporo in two or three days.". "It is lovely"

One cannot miss the vibrancy of Akihabara, the mecca of all things electronic in Tokyo. Ocean of electronic signs in Kanji and English greeted visitor in over the top way. "What phone should I get?". "I recommend Sharp Aquos", Tanaka replied. The car stopped on Chuo Dori and Pedro hopped out to a Sofmap shop. Tanaka-san drove the car around the block, parking was hard to come by. He picked up Pedro ten minutes later.

They ended their journey in an unassuming Ecuadorian embassy and the current Attaché Marcelo Samaniego greeted them at the entrance. "We have been expecting you, Sir". They shook hands. Pedro was given a rather small but posh guest room on the west wing of the building. The embassy itself was rather spartan, only adorned with maps, flags and photographs of Ecuador. The view though was fabulous, the Tokyo bay.

He logged to to his system on the fastest phone data connection in the world. Pedro sigh, "Why can't we all be like Japan". His private newswire collects pertinent information that interest him, a service he expensively paid without any complaint. The highlight news item was about a new flu strain reported in Mexico and the second about a gruesome murder that rocked the capital of Ecuador. Pedro tensed

The wire stated that a prominent businessman Picanto Linares had been found murdered in his car yesterday. His dark BMW had been shot to pieces in the outskirt of Quito. The police was working on a link between this case and a car bomb explosion a couple of days ago. Pedro immediately recognized the name, Picanto is Rómulo's bitter rival.

"Hmm, it look like he refused them too.", he thought. He wondered about the kind of requests that would have the notorious gun runners of Quito to shy away. He kept this thought and decided to take an early sleep to wash off the jet lag.

Pedro received the rendezvous confirmation one day early so he found himself in the afternoon inside a cozy sleeper in Hokutosei Express to Saporro. He looked out the window to the hectic Ueno station. Spring sun bathed the station cheering every busy body up. The train would only leave sharp at 15.30, in ten minutes. The journey would take 16 hours, some of it through the longest undersea tunnel in the world.

He took a book he had been dying to find time to read, a Barry's tea bag wrapped up in sellophane/cling film, a pen, blank page and a comfy jumper and settled in for the ride. And then he got a surprise. Someone came into the sleeper. He would not be sharing the journey alone...

His eyes warily tracked her every movement as she struggled to put an oversized red luggage to the overhead compartment. She was about to lose her balance when the train jerked as it started its journey. Pedro swiftly rose up and pushed the bag over and she grabbed the door rail to break her fall. "goddamit", she cursed in surprise and found herself looking at a man staring at her with full curiosity.

Embarrassed to begin with, she quickly became distracted by his gaze. Such intense hazel eyes staring back at her. Instinct told both of them this was a 16 hour train journey that they wouldn't forget in a hurry.

"Arigatou gozaimasu", she bowed and then extended her hand "Hajimemashite, watashino namae wa Anna". "Bokuno namae wa Pedro, ainiku nihongo wo hanasemasen.", he replied, introducing himself and explaining that he did not speak any Japanese". "English?". "That I can do".

6.30 in the morning, the air was cold out in the platform. Passengers streamed out of the train hurriedly. They flowed around a man and a woman kissing passionate goodbye. The man then tore himself apart and walked away, then giving a quick look back and a smile. Nothing that had happened registered to him yet but he had things to accomplish. Outside Sapporo station, a blue wagon was waiting for him.

A red hair man came out and gave Pedro a bear hug, "good to see you again". "Asimov, you lose weight". "There is nothing to eat but misery in Grozny". Pedro grinned at the familiar sarcasm. "What's the agenda for today". "Let's talk in the car".

They found themselves in Bikkuri Donkey, having breakfast burger. a delicate and delicious bun-less category that was distinctly Japanese. "So we are going through Sakhalin to Russia". "Yes. It is an easier way of entry instead of going directly to Vladivostok. Too many navies in this area. We will cross to the narrowest of Tatar Strait so we don't spend too much time at sea. We leave at three hundred hour."

"What happens between now and then? There is a whole day". "Have you spent any time in Sapporo?". "This is my first". "I'll take you to the bedrock bathhouse. Better than Sauna and goes well with Vodka. There is nothing else in Sapporo other than great beer and ramen". "I can live with that". "I still remember your distaste of Vodka". Pedro replied, "Nothing good happens with Vodka in daylight". Asimov laughed.

No Title Yet Part 3 - Puzzles

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 and part 2.

Pedro entered the club silently, he observed his 270 degree surrounding, memorizing every faces (not many) and fixated his attention immediately to a lone guy sitting on the bar, Andrew. The music now changed to the growl of Alice Cooper's "You're poison running through my veins,," and he took a stool on the bar and look on Andrew to the left. "Long time no see, Andrew". "You looked terrible". "Worse than usual".

"So what's the occasion?". "I need a transport out of here. Long range.", Pedro confessed. "Where do you need to go?". "Siberia". "That is far". "If it is close, I'll fly there on my single engine". "Sorry, I can't help you this time.". "Why not?". "Budget cuts. We have a new guy at the top and right now it's budget review time.". "Shit!". "Fly commercial"."I'm afraid I have to".

Andrew changed the topic, "What did you know about yesterday?". "I was there". "How close?". "It was supposed to be my drive and it blew up on my face", Pedro volunteered. "I didn't find your name on the casualty list". "I asked the doctor to remove it from the list". "Good idea. Premature detonation?". "No, some punk tried to steal the car and he ignited the trigger. Poor bastard". "Better him".

Andrew pressed further, "You think Rómulo tried to take you out?". "I doubt it. We go way back thirty years and this is not his style. He trades weapons - he doesn't take people out. That's my business. I think it was for him.". "That's surprising". "It is. He had been good for everyone, ironically". "It is rare to find an honest broker in this game". "Indeed. He is special". "Have you contacted him". "In an hour".

Pedro continued, "If the bomb was for him, his attacker would know that he was not hit. So they might try to take him out at his house. I would have tried yesterday but I was too messed up to do anything". "You would not have done any good yesterday". "Aging". "I hope we are getting wiser". "I doubt it", Pedro smiled. "I have to write back to Langley". "I will send you what I find out". "Thanks - and good luck".

The night turned barely turned into a new day when Pedro reached the roof top adjacent to the target house. It took him some difficulty to hoist himself up 9 meters up from the ground from an alley four buildings to the left - he threw rocks to kill the lights - one of the threw sparks when its glass casing shattered. He had walked for six blocks back to the are - following the crowd going to churches nearby.

He dressed smartly, with a loose brown striped tie and easy casual brown jacket - and a black ribbon on his right arm, a sign of mourning. He surveyed the landscape of the rooftops with his monocular, checking for sign of observation pots - a usual security precaution. He was satisfied that he could move freely now and started to step towards an attic window thirty meters ahead. Adrenaline kicked in.

He reached the window, pulled his glass cutter and started a rectangular incision. He pulled the glass and entered the attic carefully, checking for any sign of house protection alarm. There was none. It looked like Rómulo had just move in the house recently. The attic was dark, only a glimmer of faint light of a lower floor could be seen through a small gap in the door. He took out his knife and started moving.

He push the handle and it did not budge - locked. "fuck". He took out a steel pick from his small pack and started working on the lock. After 35 seconds, it gave up. He opened the door and carefully turned to two sides of the white corridor, a series of Picasso prints adorned the walls. He noticed "Lady with a fan" a couple of meters too the right, next to a stair and the waif girl in "Girl in a Chemise" on the left.

He turned left, sneaked 10 steps and peek over to another smaller corridor to the right. He could see two doors, one left ajar. His suspicion arose and he carefully approached the door, knife at ready. It was a small study, furnished with polished brown wood furniture in classical model commonly found in court houses - a single working table and two sets of bookshelves. It was neat and nothing seems to be disturbed.

He approached the table and look over the stack of business papers. They were invoices for previous deliveries - all marked for March. Rómulo was probably doing over a million dollars worth of deliveries a month. "Lucky bastard". He move his attention to a jewelry box, lovingly decorated with intricate wood carving. "Maybe it's a gift for the Miss", he assumed - wrongly - as he found a bloody finger when he opened it

"hmm, this can't be good", he murmured to himself. He put the ghastly item back and decided to check the adjacent room. It opened to a cozy dark wood bed room, lovingly decorated with photographs of smiling children and families. There was light in presumably a bath room. The door was opened and then somebody shouted from inside, "I could hear you. The government was already here". It was Rómulo's voice.

Pedro smiled, his friend was alive. "So they took you for a ride?", he replied. "Just like 1976", he referred to a military coup against President Lara. Pedro found his friend in a tub, brandy on the side, in a bath room with pebbles floor. He had a three cuts on his left cheek, a black eye right eye and a swollen lips. He wore a wry smile. "Want to join ?". "Tempting, but no. I see that you are alone. Where is she".

"I sent her away immediately after my car blew up on you. It was not good for her to be entangled with all of these mess. I thought you were dead but your name was not on the list.". "Surprised?". "Delightfully yes". Pedro knew that his statement was sincere. He sat on top of the loo and inquired, "What do you think happened?". "So now you are interrogating me?". "I want to know your theory". "I think I am a pawn".

"There is something going on around here. Somebody is planning something big. You know that I have been dealing for a long time - with everybody. Last month was the first time I refused to supply a potential buyer. It's a new group - never heard of them before. They wanted some really serious stuff, which does not make sense because war is winding down and there nothing around here to do but FARC. I don't like it".

"I heard that even that imbicile across town refused them. Then I got a lovely gift, two weeks ago, a severed finger. Not sure whom. With a note, something like 'you will pay'. They did follow up, two days ago.". "Are you sure those are the same guys?", Pedro interrupted. "Too much coincidence". "Why would one go to this great length for a refused buy?". "Nobody unless they wanted to create a diversion".

"That must be an expensive diversion". "Yes. And you only go to all these troubles if you have something big in the work". "That makes sense. It cannot be a coup". "The military does not need a diversion.". "Not FARC either.". "No, I think they are planning an assassination of high value target or do a spectacular terrorist attack, like Mumbai". "It's a long way from Pakistan". "Somebody is trying to kill a President

"That sounds too far fetched to me". "Up to you, but nothing else explains these events". "It's up to you to figure out, they were trying to kill you". "Unfortunately yes. Btw, how did you get here?". "Through the roof". "Good, they must be monitoring the street.". "I figured. What is your next plan?", Pedro inquired. "First, I have to get a new car. Then I want to make sure that those spooks constantly follow me".

Pedro left the house the way he came in, moving out more carefully this time as the center had turned quieter in the early morning. He followed the shadows and returned to his hotel to end the day. Hectic days were looming ahead.

April 2nd, morning, at Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores, Comercio e Integracion headquarter. Pedro introduced himself at the front door and efficiently guided to the west wing third floor office of Eduardo el Fuentes, head of Asian affairs of the foreign ministry of Ecuador. The two men greeted warmly and exchanged official pleasantries, before setting down to business. "This is quite an unusual request."

Pedro had asked to be given a cover as a trade attaché to Japan so that he could travel under diplomatic cover to his destination. Nobody checked on the luggage of a diplomat, thanks to the full immunity granted to foreign service by host country. Next to a private flight, this is the next best option and he could still enjoy the first class long haul flight from Ecuador to Tokyo.

Eduardo then continued, "I do not consider this as serious.". Pedro pressed, "Then next time the President asks for a favor, I will decline", hardball. Eduardo paused, "You know the President?". "Ask him". Eduardo frowned and made a 5 minute phone call and got a confirmation. "So?". "The Foreign Minister office give instructor to give you assistance of any kind". Pedro smiled smugly, "That is much better".

"We will issue you papers as part of temporary trade mission to Japan supporting the commercial attaché. They will be ready tomorrow and valid for a year". "That is fine". Pedro started to leave the room when Eduardo called, "How did you get these privileges, if I may?". "It's a long story my friend, I have been a valuable asset to the country for a long time", Pedro smiled.

Pedro strapped in comfortably on his leather first class seat on a 747 Avianca plane, destination LAX. He would then took a layover and continue to fly half around the world, to the futuristic mega-polis of Asia, Tokyo. There was nothing to much do for the next three days. He planned to exercise his rights to unlimited scotch and whiskey on the flights, although pity about the no smoking flights, no cigars.

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.

No Title Yet Part 1 - Murder of a Chechen Rebel

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.

"Any last wish Yamadayev ?" The bound man on the floor looked up with his red swollen eyes, angry and resigned. He started to speak when the trigger was pulled. Job #151 was completed. Dubai, March 30, 2009.

The news of Yamadayev death reached Grozny 2 hours after his lifeless body was discovered by an unfortunate runner about to leave her apartment for a morning run. Azimov spilled his coffee on his lap when suddenly his monitor was lit up by an avalanche of news about the assissination of yet another chechnyan opposition leader. "блин", he swore on his empty cup. "I need to wake Pedro up" and started making a call..

Pedro sat on his bed, shirtless, digesting the bad news he received a moment ago. The breeze from Rio Guayas cool the humid night air of Guayaquil. Pedro always sleep early whenever he is staying in his mother's house, a simple two stories on the hill with a view to the river; The wooden floor creaked noisily especially at night and it always wakes her up. Well, no more sleep tonight.

Processing a terminated client takes 6 to 8 hours in case of murder or unnatural deaths and it should be done immediately. There were assets to be moved around, recorded tapes to be heard and last will to be executed and usually that involves some sort of revenge to be taken. The clients of "Caretaker International" always suspected that they were not going to die of old age and they usually listed some names.

"Pedrito, come sit with me", a call from outside the room. Catalina de las marias de las mercedes laid out verde asado and coffee with milk neatly on the checkered red table; the 80 year old knew her son's favorite breakfast well. "Are you travelling today?", she knew from her son's tired eyes that something was up. "Quito". "How long is it going to be this time?". "I will be back before your birthday". Three weeks.


The roar from Jaibiru 3300 engine dominated Malecon 2000 marina in this early dusk. There were little activities among the yachts anchored in the harbor. "Good, no fools on the way", Pedro observed approvingly. Pavarotti ripped "Vincerooo!" while he pull the throttle to full power to take off speed of 130 km/h and let the graceful bird soar. He set the heading to 35.2° north - 265 KM to go.


Settling at 2000 meters cruising altitude, Pedro let the auto pilot took over. It would be another 80 minutes before he had to land. The vista outside his cockpit was breathtaking with the hills, rivers and forests of interior Ecuador quickly passing under. He had remembered to arrange a gift delivery for mamita in 20 days just in case he would not survive these assignments. One never know.

Thursday morning, San Francisco de Quito, a city in the clouds. Madrinas lined up in La Marin market with red, orange, yellow plastic plates filled with the day's produce laid on the ground over black plastic sheets. The market was crowded and filled with art of bargaining being performed. Pedro was looking for a familiar face and found her grinning at his sight. "buenos dias patroncito", Maria from Otavalo cheered.

This Secoya Indian grandmother was fond of the hulking middle age man in front of her. "I have fresh beregena just from today. Would you be interested?". "Oh excellent, exactly what I need.". A no would have prolonged the conversation. "Caserito, come then to pick them up on Gabriel Garcia Moreno this afternoon. The blue door after Simon Bolivar on the left.". "The location changed again", Pedro thought and left.

The sweets of Cohiba perfumed the veranda overlooking a small garden inside the grand house. The two old friends relaxed out enjoying pleasant warm of winter sun, finest Cognac on their hands. Fine plates strewn across the table between them, meal fit for kings. A dark hair beauty checked upon the men, "Is everything fine?", "It has been splendid my dear", Rómulo responded. He grinned at Pedro, "Miss Venezuela 2007".

"Next time please stop by for pleasure. I'll show you around". "I have been busy for the past year". "I notice. Do you still go around shooting people?". Pedro smiled, "why do you think I gave you the items list? Hobby?". "Perhaps you've grown fat and comfortable". "Fat, yes, but definitely not comfortable"."What keeps you going?". "I'm really good at it and this world needs good killer"."True. Less damage".

"How's your lady?". "She still hates me". "Where is she?". "Brazzaville, with MSF". "Incredible". "How about you? I see that you've climbed the peak. The last one was a semifinalist, wash't she?", Pedro chuckled. "I met her in Caracas, in a charity ball last July. I couldn't take my eyes off her". "I can see why". A pager buzzed. "It's ready. WBA-324, parked 2 blocks away". "Thanks. It's time to go".

Centro historico, the cultural heart of Quito, was filled with sense of anticipation for the incoming holy week. School kids were streaming through from the three nearby churches after their misa and choir practices, 3 hours before sundown. School bags, pony tails, delightful squeals all mixed with throng of tourists and laymen filling up the streets. A joyous day.

Pedro strolled two blocks and turn left. He spotted a striking new Citroen C3 and recognized its tail number. Except that there is a youth inside tinkering with the steering wheel. "Hey, that's my car!", he shouted and the youth looked back, startled. He started to give chase while the youth frantically tried to start the car. Then a sense of dread filled him. He had seen this before.

He stopped mid stride and threw himself to a school of 6th graders, shouting to shocked onlookers, "get down !!!". The blast started as a flicker of bright light, then angry sound of explosion roared in, followed by shock waves that skip your heartbeat carrying bits and pieces of burning molten twisted metal fiercely flying across ;searing any flesh in the way, piercing walls and shattering windows to pieces.

Two best girlfriends stood inside Iglesia San Francisco, admiring the fine details of gold leaf interior, lovingly imagined since 1514; one in oversized purple "I love Quito" t-shirt purchased yesterday. A distinct boom rattled the commoners and the two instinctively ran toward the sound outside the church. An all too familiar ominous cloud hover a block and half away; panicked crowds ran away from one direction.

They exchanged quick looks and sprinted against the outpouring masses; screech from car alarms filled the air - crying fear and pain mingled with wailing of infants - pandemonium. Staff Sgt. Jo Turner and Spc. Cheryl Ivanov of Oregon Army National Guard, combat medics veterans with three tours in Mosul, abandoned their well deserved vacation and arrived on the scene in a flash. Cheryl gasped, "oh lord".


"Arrggh", Pedro tried to stand up, supporting his frame with his right hand, except it was too weak and he fell back to the cracked smooth stoned street, on his face. His left hand held his bleeding ear, his eardrum pierced by the intensity of the explosion. He tried to focus but the blood from his cut forehead kept dripping and he was having the worst headache possible. His body was decorated with small projectiles

Cheryl scanned the surrounding carnage and took command. "Anybody speak English!!". Somebody responded and she continued, "Please translate for me."If you are not hurt, I need you". "I need seven people to take care of the Children. Bring them to the shade and somebody please get water!". "I need five more to set up a perimeter around this place and do not allow people to cross until police and ambulance arrive".

"Follow that lady", she pointed at Jo, "and she will tell you what to do with the children.". "I'm a doctor", somebody shouted. "Great, doctor. Help me set up a triage here". Cheryl continued organizing the makeshift rescue team to maximize the golden fifteen minutes after an initial bomb explosion in which the survivability was the highest. In a chaotic situation, a leader is needed and the one here is she.

Four ambulancia were rushing through the old town and a truck of grupo de operacion y rescate broke all speed limits in Quito to reach the scene within 15 minutes. The big guns had arrived. The extent of the damage have surprised even the veterans as they had never seen anything like this in the city over the past thirty years. Blood trickled through the stone pavements, mangled cars and bodies littered the streets.

What the rescue team saw was also the sight of a man in Armani suit helping a goth punk to walk - step by painful step, a priest carrying a little girl with a dirty hair, a grandma comforting a pale looking highschooler - keeping him from falling into shock, a young nun in her black habit and white cornette administering last rite to a dying man; the sight of common people each other in their grief. Humanity.

"Send all available ambulances and prepare the hospitals, immediately", Captain Piero of grupo de operacion y rescate radioed back to his HQ calmly. "Please confirm", the replied back. "Roger, this is a priority one emergency. This must go to the minister immediately". "Anything else?". "Please send dispatch to 13th Infantry Brigade for their medics. The hospitals will have to deal with combat injuries"."Affirmative"

Pedro opened his eyes to the light green ceiling of Carlos Andrade Marini Hospital - in a small room - alone . Only whispers from the soft wind through an opened window were heard. He felt the strained of the day and groaned as he woke up and tentatively walked to a bottle of water put on a small white wooden table at the corner of the room. He drank the water greedily until there was no more and return to bed.

"I can't sleep". "Come squeeze to my bed". Cheryl tip toed slowly over to the next bed - there were 12 other beds in this ward - fully occupied by exhausted and overstressed people. "you OK?". "I'm supposed to be fine". "Don't be too hard on yourself". They continued to whisper for another hour until their tiredness overwhelmed them - sleeping next to each other - holding hands -like in a slumber party 12 years back.

Tania sob quietly in the waiting room on the surgery wing of this white place. Her eyes puffed, her favorite make up were undone and she could not find her bag. She didn't care. Her husband sat next to her - no words - dazed looking beyond the walls. Their baby had been in surgery for more time they can bear. She wished it had been a bad dream. She was angry, felt guilty and hopeless - and in bad need for a miracle.

Candles flickered valiantly in Iglesia La Compañia, trying to stave off the darkness of night. Here and in the surrounding churches were packed by grieving parents, sisters, brothers, friends, husbands, and wives - they streamed in and out throughout the night, looking for solace after a terrifying afternoon. Armed guards cordoned the old town. Rings of yellow tape line barricaded the spot, "DO NOT CROSS".

The phone woke Pedro. "Pedrito, I have been trying to call you!"."Sorry mamita."."Did you hear what happened?"."Yes, last night on the news. I was in Cumbayá", he lied. "I was really worried. Alisa called yesterday. She heard the news. She asked if I am OK and you". Oh, fucking BBC, they are everywhere, Pedro grumbled. "I thought she'd be happier if I was dead", Pedro coldly replied. The separation had been hard.

Pedro finished the conversation and left the room. He had to figure out what happened yesterday. The incident yesterday went beyond the usual individual assassination technique. It used too much explosives and the damages attract too much attention - not considering collateral damage. He never felt so grateful for a young thief - who unfortunately triggered the car bomb while trying to steal the car.

He traversed the length of the grand hospital, which was still hectic trying to deal with a code red situation (A disaster has occurred and casualties are inbound; hospital disaster plan in effect); he wanted to find the doctor that fixed him up yesterday and thanked him. He had his left ear stuff with cotton ball dipped in a syrup of antibiotics to heal the pierced "myrinx". It would take a couple of days.

Amazing

The great thing abotut life is all the wonderful things that happen regardless of your involvement or not.

loyalty

More people are loyal to their football team than to their ideals. We support our sports team throughout the years, through thick and thin - but we readily abandon our ideals in the first sign of trouble.