And then he was pushing forward with the rest of the fatigued travelers, eager to get out of the aluminum tube onto terra firma. His feet felt swollen and sore in his loafers, thirteen hours of forced immobilization having taken its toll. He hobbled through the door and up the Jetway, which was adorned with photographs of smiling, attractive people engaged in hospitable endeavors: offering a tray with fresh seafood, a colorful beverage with the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean in the background, strolling past Madrid’s breathtaking architecture with welcoming expressions.
The contempt he felt was the same as the last three times, and the voice in his head sounded identical, insisting that it was all a lie, a sham to trick the unwary, that reality was nothing like these pictures, these hired actors with their engaging symmetrical faces and promising come-hither looks, these ad agency-created stylized greeting committees with racially neutral complexions and only moderately prosperous wardrobes.
He didn’t know why he hated them so vehemently, but that he did was undeniable, which he wrote off to sleeplessness, as he had the times before. Some part of him understood that his reaction was abnormal, but he was uninterested in pursuing whatever part of his damaged psyche so objected to the images. He just wanted to collect his two suitcases, amble through customs and immigration, and be on his way, ten thousand dollars richer before his head hit the pillow a few hours later.
The air-conditioning was in fine working order as he stood by the baggage carousel, watching the conveyer cycle, nervously tapping his foot to some inner beat only he could hear. His first suitcase appeared and he barely made it in time to snag it from the belt, his progress impeded by two overweight geriatrics who seemed so mesmerized by the sight of orbiting luggage they were unaware of anyone but themselves. A minute later his second bag arrived, and he was fitting the first atop the second when two soldiers accompanied by a beagle materialized from a doorway and moved toward the carousel.
The dog eyed the passengers with the good-natured countenance of his breed and then went rigid when he turned in Alonso’s direction. The soldier handling him stopped talking to his partner and looked Alonso up and down as the dog stood frozen.
“Sir, are those your bags?” the second soldier asked.
“Um, yes. Why?” Alonso asked.
“Please come with us,” the first soldier said, patting the dog’s flank and handing it a treat. The dog refused to budge, and it took two tries to get him to waddle toward Alonso, whose heart was now pounding hard enough in his chest to be audible across the terminal.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Just routine. We need to inspect your luggage.”
“Inspect? Why? I’ve been through security in two different airports, and I’ve been traveling for twenty hours. You can check my ticket. I’m about ready to drop…”
“This way, sir,” the first soldier said, and Alonso watched as the second murmured into a microphone clipped to his shoulder, its cord trailing down to a radio at his belt.
“I…can I use the bathroom first?”
“I’m afraid not. But there’s a bathroom in the inspection area you can use.”
Half an hour later Alonso was sitting in a holding cell, the twenty kilos of uncut cocaine that had been packed into the false bottom and sides of the suitcases easily discovered with the help of his canine nemesis, and his papers and personal effects confiscated as he waited for the narcotics squad to arrive.
As instructed by his paymasters, he refused to make any statement or answer questions, merely insisting that he wanted to speak to his attorney. He’d managed to thumb his cell phone when it had been obvious that he wouldn’t be able to talk his way through an inspection, and had gotten off a single short call to a number he’d been told never to dial unless something catastrophic happened.
Now he was waiting, facing decades in prison if convicted – which he surely would be, given the weight and the quality he’d been caught with red-handed.
The door to the holding cell opened. A heavyset man with thinning black hair slicked straight back, his face pockmarked and besmirched with the nose of a lifetime heavy drinker, entered and sat across from Alonso. Another cop stood inside the door and pushed it closed. The first man cleared his throat and leaned forward across the steel table, a tired expression on his face.
“You won the lottery on this one, huh, Alonso? Is that even your real name?”
Alonso didn’t answer or acknowledge the question.
The man tried again. “You know what the penalty is for smuggling twenty kilos of cocaine, Alonso? They bury you under the jail. And trust me, here, with budget problems, the prisons make the ones in Ecuador look like five-star hotels.”