A Cut Above Read online

  His nostrils flare as he approaches the effluvium. One does, though, have to give the man credit for impeccable manners. He waves my concern away. “Is there anything I can do to help? What happened?”

  I dish up the digest version of my dining experience as Mr. Sloan ducks through the metal detector setup to speak with the uniformed man at the desk.

  As I reach the end of my tale of woe, he comes back to our side. “I’ve arranged to have one of our guys drive you back to the hotel.”

  “You don’t need to bother anyone,” Marcos says. “I’ll be happy to take Miss Adams. It’s not far out of my way home.”

  “Oh, you don’t really want this”—I wave down the length of my clothes—“in any car you’ll drive again. I’m sure an embassy vehicle will be easy to clean.”

  “I have leather seats. What can be easier?”

  For a moment, I dither. Do I really want to head out to the hotel at the side of one of those strangers that have recently thronged around me? But then I remember his business card. And the guy had just walked out of an office in the U.S. embassy. Plus, Mr. Sloan knows I’m with him. I don’t think he’s dumb enough to do away with me tonight.

  Here goes nothing. “Only if we keep the windows down, okay?”

  He laughs, and we both leave the safety of the embassy. The trip back to the Hotel de la Opera is uneventful, and Marcos and I discuss the theft. He bemoans the high level of crime in his country. Since I’m not heavily into politics, I turn the conversation toward the beautiful old hotel.

  “The older one of the two buildings,” he tells me, “was once Simón Bolívar’s headquarters.”

  My eyes nearly pop. “Are you telling me I’ve been walking on the same tiles the famous liberator of practically half of South America walked on?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wow!”

  “I’m sure you can visit George Washington’s Mount Vernon. It would be no different there.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But this is so . . . so foreign.”

  He laughs. “It’s foreign only to foreigners.”

  “You have a point.” I begin to relax. “How come you speak such excellent English? It seems all my years of high school Spanish decided to stay back in high school. It sure isn’t helping me here.”

  “I attended an American school here in Bogotá, and then college in Washington, DC. Afterward, I returned to study law at the university here.”

  “How’d you get from law school to the Senate?”

  Marcos spends the rest of the drive to the hotel telling me stories of his time as a new attorney, and then of his political start. I have to keep from pinching myself. This kind of thing only happens in movies, not to me.

  Not the super gross or the super cool.

  If it weren’t for the pervasive miasma of rot, I would think I’ve been plunked into a romantic movie. Then again, the stench belongs in a horror flick.

  Before I know it, we’re at the hotel. I thank Marcos for his kindness, we say goodbye, and I head for the front desk. There, I get a new room key, and then hurry through the thankfully empty lobby. Up the stairs, and I’m outside my room. I slip the key into the lock, but then hesitate.

  The windows. Those huge openings I liked so much when I first saw them. Only now does it occur to me to wonder about their safety. True, there was that grille on the little balcony, but really. What self-respecting creep would be deterred by something so surmountable? Besides, a simple door lock was all that latched the windows shut.

  And I can’t remember whether I latched them before dinner.

  “Aw . . . come on! Don’t be such a sissy.” I open the door, flick on the light, and hold my breath. “Hello?”

  I figure if someone’s out to get me, they’ll probably rush me right now and get it over with. But nothing happens. I don’t even get a breeze from the windows. When I look that way, I breathe a sigh of relief. I did lock them before I headed down to dinner.

  But there’s still the bathroom and its matching door to check out.

  My pulse kicks up, and I fight down the rising fear. I have to make sure no one’s hiding in the enormous claw-foot tub. Or inside the linen closet. In the corner behind the door.

  I catch sight of myself in the room’s mirror and cringe. I look more like Marcos should have dropped me off at the nearest homeless shelter than here at a super-luxurious hotel. The fear burns in my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” I ask my reflection. “Here you’re looking for a burglar, and you’re scaring yourself with one crummy scenario after the other. What sane woman would do that to herself?”

  No answer.

  So I give the answer business a whirl. “Then again, who ever said I was sane?”

  Yep, folks. I’ve really gone off the deep end. Now I’m asking myself questions. And I’m even answering.

  I turn on the bathroom light and sigh in relief. Although there are potential hiding places here, the room’s empty. So, unwilling to spend another moment in my grody garments, I strip, turn on the hot water, and spend the next half hour scrubbing. I soap up. Twice. Three times.

  By the time I’ve shampooed yet another time, I feel ready to consider sleep. My skin tingles from all the friction, but at least I know I no longer stink. A thick slick of body lotion plus clean pajamas later, and I’m ready to crash.

  What a day. It’s time to call it a night.

  I crawl under the blankets, Bible in hand. But I can’t concentrate on reading, not even God’s Word. So I close the leather cover and call out to the Lord.

  After my “amen,” I turn off the light and hunker down to sleep. The minute I close my eyes, a thought strikes. Did I lock the door when I came into the room? Not the automatically latching lock, but the bolt and even the little chain thingies.

  Probably. It’s not something I’d be likely to forget.

  And I’m so tired.

  Of course I locked the door.

  But the more I try to tell myself I locked up, the more uncertain I become. Finally, with a groan, I jump out of bed and hurry to the door. Sure enough, the latch is bolted and the chain’s in place.

  I can sleep in peace.

  Back in bed, I snuggle under the crisp, clean sheets. Ah . . .

  The windows. I know they’re not wide open, but did I ever throw that lock? Before dinner. I didn’t even check when I got back. I saw them closed and left it at that.

  “Come on, Andie. Of course you locked up before you went to dinner. You don’t ever forget to do something like that.”

  Again, I grow more anxious the more I try to tell myself to go to sleep. “Aaaargh!”

  I drag myself out of bed again, then head to the windows. This time, my heart leaps to my throat. I hadn’t locked the doors. I take the time to make sure both of the ones in the bedroom are latched, and then I head to the bathroom. That door is locked.

  The lecture I give myself goes a ways toward calming me. Maybe now I’ll go to sleep. So I try again.

  Riiing, riiing!

  The cell phone. Who would be calling at this hour?

  I sigh and fumble in the dark. “Hello?”

  “Are you ready to admit I was right?” Max says, barely leashed anger in his tight voice.

  Lord? Do I really need this? Now? “Hi, Max. How’s your evening going? Lovely, I hope. Mine was interesting, but I chalk it up as part of the experience of foreign travel. At least I’ve gotten my fair share of crime while abroad out of the way. Everything is hunky-dory now.”

  “Your fair share!” The leash on his anger has just loosened. “Murders in Asia and purse-snatching in South America? That’s enough for a whole continent’s worth of travelers. Of course, you need a babysitter. So don’t you argue with me. I’m coming.”

  The memory of my encounter with the petty thief in that back alley rushes at me with the oomph of a runaway rhino. Maybe I do need help. Just not from a heavy-handed, overbearing, testosterone-poisoned babysitter.

  “Don’t you da
re, Max Matthews. You stay where you are, and I’ll stay where I am. With God’s help, I’ll handle anything that comes my way.”

  “Faith is one thing, Andie. Bullheaded stubbornness is another.”

  “I’m not bullheaded.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Am not.”

  “Quit the grade-school routine. I care about you and don’t want to get a body bag back at the end of your trip.”

  His graphic comment gives me a moment’s pause. I pray. Then, “Max, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve already set things in motion to get my passport replaced. I contacted Miss Mona about the network’s credit card right away—as you too obviously know, and I’m going to negotiate the emerald buy tomorrow. By the time you make arrangements to get down here, I’ll be back in Louisville.”

  “Just keep your room door locked. I’ll be there before you know it.”

  “Are you deaf—”

  Before I can finish my question, he’s hung up. Fine. He can visit Colombia. By the time he gets here, since you can hardly book a transcontinental flight for the next morning, I’ll be home.

  It’ll serve him right. Arrogant male . . .

  And I’ve been entertaining the thought of a relationship with him? How can I be so . . . so . . . I don’t know. But I know I’m going to have to think long and hard about it. I mean, can I live long term with that kind of pressure? Not being able to go anywhere without having my competence questioned?

  I don’t think so.

  My heart sinks.

  Then, as I consider the ramifications, another, totally unconnected thought hits. Did I make sure I locked the doors after I checked them? I opened them all to see if they were locked or unlocked, but did I make sure I locked up again? I’m so discombobulated, I can’t be sure. How’m I going to sleep if I don’t make sure?

  “Oh, help me, Lord!” At the rate I’m going, I’m going to need treatment for obsessive-compulsive disorder. I can certainly understand what those poor sufferers go through on a regular basis.

  I punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape, pray for all the folks afflicted with OCD issues, and finally find it possible to relax. Amazing how this faith thing works. You throw your problems to the Lord, focus on those less fortunate than you, pray for them, and your own troubles fade in comparison.

  “Thank you, Father,” I murmur, and then, trusting, I close my eyes.

  At ten the next morning, a couple of hours later than I’d initially planned, and after I’ve bought a new purse, posed for a passport photo, checked in with the police, and fielded three calls from Aunt Weeby and two from Miss Mona, Mr. Cruz comes by in a beefy-looking SUV. Before we take off, however, he has me pose in front of the vehicle, and I smile, thinking his a nice gesture for a tourist.

  When I thank him, he blushes under his dark tan. “So sorry, Miss Andrea. The photo is for identification purposes. Our guerilla problems are better than they’ve been at times, but kidnapping is still a very real occurrence in Colombia.”

  Great. He had to go and tell me. I try to put the whole scary possibility out of my mind as we head out toward Mr. Cruz’s camp in the Muzo emerald-producing region.

  When we reach the outskirts of the capital, the vendor-turned-travel guide warns me we might be stopped at various checkpoints, the government’s effort to cut down on criminal activity on the roads in and out of the mining regions.

  I snort. “I’m an expert at checkpoints.” He looks surprised. I go on. “Colombian ones can’t be any worse than Burmese or Kashmiri ones.”

  Before long, I doze off—I didn’t sleep well even after all the checking and rechecking of doors I did. When I wake up again, I notice the drizzle that’s started up as we’ve climbed higher into the Andes Mountains.

  “How far is the Muzo region from Bogotá?” I ask.

  “Oh, about seven or eight hours’ drive.”

  My groan escapes me before I can shut it off.

  Mr. Cruz laughs.

  We climb up from the capital to the Andean range. According to Mr. Cruz, we’ll go up to about twelve thousand feet above sea level. We’ve now reached a barren landscape, covered by a blanket of clouds that shrouds the more luxuriant, green valleys below us. The damp cold penetrates the car, and I fight constant shivers.

  The stillness around us feels quietly mysterious.

  Neither the long drive nor the silence outside inspires conversation, so we bump along the rough road in a deep silence. Finally, as dusk approaches, we begin to descend into the jungle-covered Muzo region. On the peaks, the clouds had surrounded us with a whitish paleness. Now, I get a sense of sinking into the depths of darkness, the unknown. When I realize what a dangerous trip my imagination is taking, I give myself a mental shake.

  Get a grip. You’re about to see emeralds like few ever see. But, hey. It’s really weird out here in the wilds of Colombia. The last five or six miles of our approach to the mining camp at Muzo prove impossibly steep, and our SUV creeps along through thick mist, the leftovers of the earlier drizzle.

  Then I see ahead of us three buildings of rough, cement block construction with Tin-Man hat roofs. Since Mr. Cruz aims right for them, I can safely assume they’re his camp. As he slows down the SUV, a handful of camp workers come out from different directions to greet us. They chatter with Mr. Cruz, then lead us to the medium-sized structure, which turns out to be the kitchen. As soon as I step inside, I’m offered a cup of amazing, fragrant coffee and a pair of arepas with butter.

  Yum!

  I take my snack to a table next to a dingy window, and as I sip, I study the landscape outside.

  Perched on a steep slope, the rest of the camp seems carved right out of the hillside. Underlining the buildings, a road disappears up toward the peak and into more clouds. From where I’m sitting, the whole mountain appears cobbled out of little more than jagged rock covered with ragged patches of vegetation, deep, rich green decorations for the stark, black outcroppings. According to what Mr. Cruz told me on the road, because of the misty cloud-and-steam cover, I won’t be able to see down to the actual mines until the fog clears, hopefully when the sun burns it all away in the morning.

  Sitting here, sipping hot coffee, less than a frog’s hop away from the legendary Muzo mines, the source of the world’s most amazing emeralds, the horrors of the night before pale in importance. A riff of excitement plays through me. Just to think of how close I am to the emeralds makes me wonder if I might be just a night’s dream away from finding a treasure.

  In spite of how tired I am, I begin to relax. “Thank you, Father.”

  700

  In the morning, I dress quickly and leave the relative privacy of my quarters in the bunkhouse-like dorm building. Fortunately for me, I was escorted to a small room with a narrow single bed and small chest of drawers when I arrived. I didn’t have to sleep in the large room with multiple beds. From everything I saw last night, I’m the only woman at the camp.

  The scent of fresh-brewed coffee greets me when I open the door to the kitchen building. Rich, potent, heady, and oh so welcome. But by the time I reach the large pot, I get a whiff of a different undercurrent. There’s chocolate in one of them thar pots!

  As I stand, sniff, and scout for food, the cook—a short, wiry man in a greasy apron—comes out, chatters in fiery Spanish, shoves a plate and mug at me, then smiles and returns to his fragrant domain.

  In the center of my plate is a mound of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. To a side is a big, steamy arepa, butter dripping from between its sliced halves, a small mound of rice, and two oval, golden-brown potatoes. On the other side, forming a luscious food triangle, are slices of—I think, I hope—ripe, juicy mango. In my other hand, I clutch a massive mug of creamy hot cocoa.

  I hurry over to the same table where I sat last night and glance out the window. A dark Jeep pulls to a stop fifty yards from the kitchen building. The same miners who greeted us when we got here hurry out from a multitude of directions to check on the newest arrival
s at the camp. The misty neblina, as the men call the ever-present blanket of fog, is negligible already, and I hope what’s left will disappear as the sun heats up.

  Right now my breakfast is calling my name. I sit, pray, and dig into the eggs. “Mmm . . .”

  “I see you managed to stay out of trouble since last night,” Max says as I take a sip of cocoa.

  Shock makes me spray it back out. I choke. Cough. Sputter.

  The rat slaps my back in a—fake, I think—helpful gesture. “Wha . . . what are you doing here?” I stammer once I can breathe again.

  Max leans a hip against the corner of the table, then sticks his hands in his pants pockets. “I told you I was coming.”

  “But you couldn’t have bought a ticket, flown into Bogotá, then driven here after you talked to me.”

  He shrugs. “Nobody says I did. I called you when I landed at the El Dorado airport.”

  He’d stunned me by just showing up. Now? Well, now he’s just made me plain old mad. “So you’d already made up your mind. No matter what, you were going to discount everything I’d said to you and come do your Neanderthal thing.”

  He crosses his arms. “No Neanderthal here. Just someone concerned for someone else’s well-being.”

  “If I hear you say the word ‘concerned’ again, I’m going to . . . going to . . . oh, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do something. And you won’t like it. I promise.”

  Mr. Magnificent has the gall to laugh. “I think you need your coffee. No matter how delicious that cocoa might be, it’s not your fuel of choice.”

  You can be sure Marcos Rivera would never treat me like a slightly stupid child. “Oh, go eat.”

  Max strides off laughing, and I return to my now cold breakfast. As I watch him, I work overtime to convince myself I’m really and truly mad at him. But I fail.

  Okay, sure. His lack of trust in me burns. But somewhere deep in my heart I’m glad Max is here. Not only does he have that hyper-awareness effect on me, but he also brings a sense of familiarity along with him. I find that bit of comfort dangerously welcome.