Alonso swallowed hard, but maintained his silence.
“You’re a good-looking young man. You’ll be very popular. I read a study the other day about the AIDS infection rate in the prison population. I doubt you’ll live out your sentence, Alonso – not after you’ve been passed around the cell block like a pack of Marlboros a few thousand times.” The man looked over Alonso’s shoulder at his companion by the door. “My money says he’ll like it.” He cocked an eyebrow at Alonso. “Which is a shame, because we all know that you’re small fry. You don’t have what it takes to be trafficking serious weight. I can see that with one look at your shoes. Cheap. Worn. You’re just a mule who got caught. Which the courts will recognize if you make a statement and tell us who put you up to this.”
Alonso wiped sweat from his brow. “I want my lawyer.”
The big man laughed, the sound ugly and mean. “I see you’re confused. That’s not how it works around here. Did they tell you that would be your ticket out? Guess what, Alonso? They lied. I say the word and you’re going into the hole, and it will be a month before you talk to anyone. Your paperwork will get lost, and you’ll be doing hard time with the worst miscreants I can bunk you with – guys who’ll rape you till you need stitches just to hear you scream. Is that how you want to play this, tough guy? Because when I stand up, the party’s over, and I don’t care if you sing a confession at that point. So make up your mind. You going to cooperate, or throw your life away as the cell block punch?”
Alonso hated the perspiration that was now running freely from his hairline down his neck almost as much as the images that seemed placed in the Jetway to torment him. He was preparing to speak when a knock at the metal door interrupted him. The cop across from him threw his partner a dark look, and he opened it. Alonso could make out a hushed conversation, and then the cop rose and joined his partner at the doorway.
The room emptied, leaving Alonso to his thoughts. He blotted his forehead with the back of his arm, his shirtsleeve sour with the astringent tang of fear. By the time the door reopened, he’d decided what he was going to say, and was surprised when a different man approached him and unlocked his ankles from where they were chained to an eyelet in the floor.
“Come with me,” the man said.
“I want my lawyer,” Alonso replied stubbornly.
“I’m all the lawyer you need, kid,” the man answered, and led him to the door. He knocked on it twice and it opened. The fat cop and his partner were glowering down the hall, watching as the man sent Alonso in the opposite direction, to where two more figures in suits waited.
When the hall was empty except for the cop and his sidekick, the big man turned to the younger one and shook his head with closed eyes. “What the hell was that all about? Since when does headquarters send down a blanket release for a maggot like that?”
“A better question is why the Americans want him so badly.”
“The form said he’s part of an ongoing investigation. DEA.”
“Since when does the DEA have jurisdiction here?”
“You got me. But unfortunately, you know how this works. We’ll be lucky if we’re allowed to sign the dope into evidence. Want to bet they confiscate that too, as part of their investigation?”
The younger man sighed. “There’s nothing we can do?”
“Oh, we’ll fill out reports and file a formal complaint, which the commissioner will wipe his ass with.” The big cop checked the time. “I’d say it’s time for a long lunch. I’ve got a date with a bottle. You’re invited.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll take you up on it this time.”
The pair walked dejectedly to the security desk and retrieved their weapons, their faces glum at having their smuggler released to the Americans. Both suspected that nothing would ever come of the DEA investigation, and that Alonso would be winging his way back to whatever mud hole he’d crawled out of before nightfall. They’d heard of similar situations, and those had never ended well, remaining unresolved, the Americans mute when asked for status reports. It was one of the dirty secrets of being a cop on the dope beat – that certain perps were untouchable and, if arrested, walked within hours. It was unfair and clearly illegal, but they didn’t have the clout to fight it, and if the way the system worked was to allow high-volume traffickers to skate when students caught with a few ounces of opiated hash would do years of the hardest kind of time, well, it was an imperfect world, and beyond their abilities to change it.
“We going back to the office?” the younger man asked on the way to the parking structure.
“I don’t think so. You want to?”
“Not really. But what are we going to tell the captain?”
“Car problem.”
The younger man smiled sadly. “Sounds good to me.”
Chapter 9
Pristina, Kosovo