State of Emergency

CHAPTER 48


Zamora sat at a tippy wooden table in a coffeehouse off Prado Avenue in downtown La Paz, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Don’t do anything rash until we speak in person,” he said, pressing a thumb and forefinger to his eyes. Surely, someone was digging out his eyes from the inside. “I am on my way there now.”

“We feel the need to explore another option,” Yazid Nazif said at the other end of the line. “We are after maximum effect, after all.”

Zamora pounded his fist on the table, first shouting, then lowering his voice when others in the café looked in his direction. “And that is what you will get! You must stay with the plan!”

“I ask you again, my friend,” Nazif said a little too sweetly for Zamora’s taste. “Is the device ours or is it not?”

“Of course it’s yours,” he hissed. “We will speak of this when we get to the location. Tell Borregos to wait in Rio Branco for my call.”

Zamora ended the call and rested his head on the table. “Idiots,” he whispered to himself. He should have known better than to trust the Yemenis to follow through.

The quick exit from Chile and the bumpy flight over the storm clouds had left him dizzy and bilious. He had no idea where he was, leaving those particulars to Monagas. The altitude made his temples feel like he’d been hit with a hammer, and his stomach churned. All he wanted was to leave this stinking, airless cesspool and get to his bomb. So far, the weather refused to cooperate.

No flights were leaving the city. They were so high in the sagging clouds that rain hardly seemed to fall, but only rattle around in the mist. It was enough to make someone crazy.

He clicked the touch pad on the laptop computer in front of him, trying to connect to Pollard for the third time. For all he knew, Rustam Daudov and his men were already at the river camp. He almost cried when Pollard’s face appeared on the screen.

“Where have you been?” Zamora snapped. He used a telephone earpiece with a small microphone so the handful of other patrons, mostly tourists, couldn’t hear the conversation. Pollard stared back at him with sullen eyes, saying nothing.

“Never mind,” Zamora said. “Is everything all right there?”

“Valentine, you are insane,” Pollard scoffed. “Of course everything isn’t all right. You have my family at gunpoint.”

“A fact you should keep in mind,” Zamora said. “I mean—is the device intact and still in your care?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“There is a certain Chechen who wants what is mine. I believe he is on the way to you,” Zamora said. “If he gets there before I do, he will kill you without question.”

“I doubt that,” Pollard laughed. “You’ve surrounded me with this crack group of guards.”

Zamora scoffed, feeling a chill as he thought about Yesenia and the other guards. He’d often employed groups of Guarani and other indigenous youth to guard lesser narcotics labs. He’d thought to hide Baba Yaga in plain sight without making too much of a fuss with a heavily armed encampment. There was always someone with a bigger army. “You know they are just there to keep you honest,” he said.

“I know. But anyone familiar with one of these devices knows they will also need an expert to make it work. You said it yourself. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Believe me, he will kill you and take the device,” Zamora said. “Rustam Daudov is a thug.”

“And what are you?” Pollard sneered.

Zamora scratched his chin, then ran the tip of his finger along the thin black line of his mustache. “As you say, I am the man who has your family. You would do well to remember that. Now be watchful. I will be there shortly.”

He ended the call as Monagas entered the coffee shop.

Zamora motioned for him to sit in the chair across from him. That was the thing about Monagas; he never assumed things. “I hope you have good news.”

“I am sorry, patrón,” Monagas sighed. “They say this weather will be here for some time. No aircraft are able to fly over the mountains for the Beni.” His eyes shifted back and forth around the small coffee shop and he leaned forward across the table. “I do have a way out, patrón, but it would be very, very dangerous.”