“Where you go in Caracas?” the driver asked.
“Residencias Anauco Hilton,” Mike answered.
“Si.” The driver spun his rear wheels and accelerated from the curb.
Thirty minutes later, the taxi arrived at the Residencias Anauco Hilton. Located in Parque Central on Avenida Bolivar, the hotel was a large, modern thirty-story building surrounded by numerous mature trees and other contrived plantings. Mike paid the driver, and then he and Karen climbed out, reveling in the cool, dry breeze. At three thousand feet above sea level, Caracas enjoyed a constant spring-like climate, with warm sunny days and cool nights.
A loud recording of Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night” greeted their ears when they entered the lobby. Behind the reception desk was a tall, elderly gentleman with thinning gray hair, dressed in a light beige summer suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. The sight of prospective guests caused him to remove his spectacles, jump to his feet, and set his newspaper down. “Buenos dias,” he said, a warm smile spreading across his wrinkled face.
Mike shrugged his shoulders. “Do you speak English?” he asked.
“No problem,” the gentleman replied with a deep, Southern drawl. “You folks here for a holiday?”
“Business,” Mike replied.
“Stayin’ long?”
“No longer than necessary. We would like a one bedroom apartment. Do you have one available?” Mike asked.
“Sure do. It’ll cost you one hundred and twenty-three dollars per night. Seven hundred a week.”
“We’ll take it for a week,” Mike said without hesitation. He signed the registration card with falsified names.
The elderly man smiled warmly. “Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Kendall. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it here. My name is Clifford.”
“Could you show us the apartment, Clifford? My wife and I are anxious to get cleaned up and get some rest.”
Clifford led his new guests from the lobby. They climbed a flight of stairs and walked to a one bedroom apartment at the rear of the building. He opened the door and led them in. “You’ll like this one. It’s got a real nice view.” He hurried to open the drapes.
The apartment was clean and neat, with white broadloom on the floors of the living room and the bedroom. The kitchen and bathroom floors were covered with glossy white ceramic tile. There were large windows in the kitchen, living room, and bedroom, all facing a well-treed park.
Mike turned to Karen. “What do you think?”
“It’s fine,” Karen said. She began a thorough examination of the contents of the kitchen cabinets.
“I guess this is home for a week,” Mike said, smug in the knowledge that Servito’s stolen money would pay for it. “This is for your trouble.” He gave Clifford a huge tip, shook his hand, and thanked him.
“Thank you, sir. You be sure to call me at the desk if you need anything,” Clifford said before he closed the door behind him.
Mike reached into his pocket and removed a quarter. He flipped it in the air and caught it in his right palm. “Call it, babe,” he said with an impish smile. He sandwiched it between his right palm and the back of his left hand. “Heads or tails?”
“Why?”
“To see who gets the shower first.”
“Screw the call, King. I’ll see you in there.”
Mike awoke and bolted upright. After a moment of disorientation, he glanced at the watch he had left on the night table beside the bed. It was four o’clock. He turned to Karen and kissed her forehead.
Karen’s lips formed a perceptible smile. “Go’way,” she mumbled.
“It’s four o’clock, babe,” Mike said, planting a more lasting kiss on her lips. “We have to be at Adi Blankenship’s by six.”
Karen turned and pulled Mike down on top of her before he could finish. “Make love to me first,” she demanded, reaching between his legs. “It improves my appetite.”
CHAPTER 63
A few hours later, their taxi stopped at the front door of an enormous stone mansion. The mansion had vine-covered stone walls, turreted towers with jagged rooflines, and numerous windows, all with leaded glass. It resembled nothing so much as a storybook castle. The driver turned to face his passengers. “This is it.”
“Are you sure?” Mike asked, staring in disbelief at the ostentatious display of wealth.
“No mistake, sir.”
Mike paid the driver, and he and Karen walked slowly across the curved stone driveway toward the massive entrance. The front door was made of a thick slab of solid oak and recessed in cut stone. It had three enormous black iron hinges and a small leaded glass window in the center, about the height of Mike’s eyes. Mike took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
Seconds later, a tall, blond man opened the door. Dressed in a tuxedo and appearing to be in his forties, he carried a large martini in one hand and half a cigarette in the other. His blond hair was parted in the center and combed flat. He sipped his martini and stared in apparent dismay at his guests, who were dressed in sweaters, jeans, and sneakers.
“Are you Adi Blankenship?” Mike asked.
Blankenship nodded and smiled, put his cigarette between his lips, and extended his right hand. “You must be Mike and Karen. Welcome to Venezuela, and to my humble abode. Please come in.”
He led his guests through the enormous house to a secluded room, recessed three steps below the level of the main floor. The room featured a gigantic floor to ceiling aquarium that gave off a deep turquoise glow, disturbed by the shadows of multicolored tropical fish gliding aimlessly inside the thick glass enclosure. Before it was a long bar lined with Cyprus and adorned with hundreds of gold and silver coins, encased in a thick layer of clear polyurethane.
Mike and Karen sat on two of the many green leather-covered bar stools while Blankenship hurried behind the bar to take drink orders. “Karen, what’s your pleasure?” he asked.
“Do you have white wine?”
Blankenship reached under the bar and lifted a bottle above the surface. “You’ll love this. It was made in Venezuela. It’s called Primo Orinoco.” He removed the cork with a gold corkscrew, and filled a tall wine glass. “Enjoy,” he said as he handed it to Karen. He turned to Mike. “What’s your poison, Mike?”
“Scotch on the rocks, please,” Mike said.
“You’ve got it… So, tell me why you’ve come to Caracas.”
“Karen’s husband is the reason we’re here. He kidnapped their son in Toronto and flew him to Caracas. We’re here to try to get the boy back.”
“Can you give me some detail, or would you prefer not to talk about it?”
Mike sensed the importance of gaining Blankenship’s trust. If they were to succeed in their mission, he and Karen needed a strong ally in Caracas. And if Blankenship was not fully aware of their dilemma, he might not be able to help them in the most appropriate way. He proceeded to disclose the whole story to his host, sparing no details.
“That’s incredible!” Blankenship declared. “How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for a native of Venezuela,” Mike said. “Ideally, he speaks both Spanish and English, and he’s very familiar with the city of Caracas.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” Blankenship said.
“Do you know of such an individual?”
“I certainly do.” He pointed to himself.
Mike smiled. “With no disrespect to you Adi, we’re looking for someone with a little less profile… your appearance is quite aristocratic.”
“You mean you would prefer someone from the working class? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Mike nodded.
Blankenship’s face brightened. “I know just the person. I hired him two months ago. He’s a native of Venezuela and fluent in both Spanish and English.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“His name is Luis Martinez. I’ll ask him to call you at your hotel tomorrow morning. Is nine too early? You are staying at the Residencias Anauco Hilton???
?
“Yes. It was very kind of you to recommend it to us,” Karen replied.
One of Blankenship’s male servants appeared at the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Blankenship,” he said. “Dinner is served.”
Blankenship nodded, and then gulped the remainder of his martini. “Drink up, my friends. It’s time for a feast you won’t soon forget.” He led his guests to the vast and ornate dining room, where they were seated at an enormous table covered with an intricately embroidered white linen tablecloth, gold cutlery and candle holders, priceless china, and numerous bottles of red and white wine. Dinner was pabellan criollo, the national dish of Venezuela, which consisted of shredded beef, rice, black beans, cheese, fried plantain, and empanadas—deep-fried cornmeal turnovers with a filling of baby shark meat.
Mike and Karen left the mansion at ten-thirty. As they traversed the driveway to their waiting taxi, Blankenship, clinging to his fourth full brandy, stood at the opened front door of his mansion and waved to his guests. “Good luck!” he shouted.
CHAPTER 64
Early the next morning, Martinez’s call was transferred to Mike’s apartment. “Is this Mike King?” Martinez asked, extremely nervous.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Luis Martinez. Mr. Blankenship asked me to call you this morning. He told me you’re looking for a man who is here in Caracas?”
“Thanks for calling, Luis. We could sure use your help. When can you be available to meet me?”
“Mr. Blankenship told me I could go whenever you need me.”
“Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Then come to the Residencias Anauco Hilton. Do you know how to get here?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m in apartment number two hundred and twelve. How soon can you get here?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.” Mike hung up and turned to Karen. “Adi kept his promise,” he said with a satisfied grin. “His man will be here in thirty minutes.”
Half an hour later, Mike’s incessant floor pacing was interrupted by a soft knocking on the apartment door. He hurried to open it, and then extended his right hand to his visitor. “You must be Luis. Please come in.”
Martinez was still dressed in his work uniform: khaki trousers and a white, short-sleeved shirt. He entered timidly, and stopped when he saw Karen. “Hello,” he said.
Karen stood and shook Martinez’s hand. “Hi, Luis. Adi Blankenship told us you could help us… May I ask, what work do you do?” She gave an inquisitive stare.
“I drive a truck for him.”
“What did you do before that?”
“I left Venezuela twelve years ago and went to the United States. I got a job as a taxi driver in New York. I wanted a better life, but I hated the cold winters. I returned to Caracas as soon as I had saved enough money to get back.”
Mike nodded thoughtfully, and then handed Martinez the piece of paper with Servito’s address printed on it. “Do you know how to get to this address?”
Martinez nodded.
“Can you take us there?”
“Why do you want to go there?”
“We think that’s where Karen’s husband is living. We also think her son is there with him and we need you to help us verify that.”
“How can I do that?”
“We don’t want Karen’s husband to know we’re in Venezuela. I am hoping that you are willing to go to the door and pretend you’re an assessment officer with the City of Caracas. Tell whoever opens the door that you need to know the names of the occupants of the house. I certainly understand if you are uncomfortable with that.”
While Mike’s proposed deception was way beyond Martinez’s job description, he knew his job would be in jeopardy if he refused. “Okay,” he said nervously, furrowing his brow.
Less than an hour later, Martinez applied the brakes to his light green 1970 Pontiac as it approached the entrance to Servito’s driveway. “That’s the driveway to the house,” he said, pointing. “You want me to drive in?”
“Yes,” Mike replied, straining to get a glimpse of the house through a line of densely foliated shrubs. “Take this with you to the door.” Mike handed Martinez a clipboard that held a pad of letter-size paper. “While you’re there, I want you to try to remember as much as you can about the house, the surroundings, and the people. Any problems?”
“Not yet.”
Mike patted Martinez’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Luis. All they can do is ask you to leave.”
Martinez turned the car into the driveway and drove straight to the house, parking beside Servito’s newly acquired black Rolls Royce. When the car had come to a full stop, Mike and Karen lowered their bodies below the windows. Martinez exited his car, marched to the front door, and rang the doorbell. So close to her son and yet still so far, Karen could hardly contain her anxiety. She struggled with an intense urge to leap from the car and run through the front door.
The door opened. “What do you want?” A burly man growled, glaring at Martinez.
Martinez trembled at the man’s imposing figure. “My name is Luis Martinez. I’m an assessment officer for the city of Caracas. Could you tell me the names and ages of all of the full time occupants of the house, please?”
“Wait here,” the man barked, and then closed and locked the door. Martinez paced back and forth, excruciating over every second of the wait. His pacing stopped abruptly when the door opened again. The burly man stepped outside with a slighter, and yet even more menacing, man at his side.
“What did you say your name is?” the white man asked.
“L… Luis… Luis Martinez.”
“Carlos here tells me you’re an assessment officer for the City of Caracas. Is that right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Show me your identification,” the man demanded.
Martinez licked his lips. He had no identification. With the likely demise of the scheme and his charade, the immediate problem was how to extract himself. “It… it’s in the car,” he stuttered. “Do you want me to get it?”
The man nodded. “No identification, no information.”
Martinez turned and hurried to his car. “Stay down,” he whispered, and then jumped into the driver’s seat, started his car, and raced down the driveway.
“Luis, what happened?” Mike asked.
“He asked me for identification,” Martinez replied, breathing heavily and continuing to drive very fast. “I had to leave.”
“Who did you talk to? What did he look like?”
“There were two men. The first one who came to the door was Venezuelan. He was very large and very ugly. He had a heavy gold chain around his neck. The second man was the one who asked me for identification. He was North American. Very good looking. About six feet tall. Long black hair. Spoke perfect English.”
“How old was the second man?”
“I’m not sure… thirty-eight. Maybe forty.”
“It could be Jim,” Karen said. “Did he have a small scar on the left side of his chin?”
Martinez shrugged his shoulders. “If he did, I didn’t see it. I was concentrating on his eyes.”
“What color were they?” Karen asked.
“Gray. Very angry eyes.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No. Just those two men.”
“Damn!” Mike swore, pounding his fist into his palm. “I should never have sent you in there unprepared.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. King.”
“Don’t be, Luis. It wasn’t your fault.
Martinez stopped his car at the curb in front of the Residencias Anauco Hilton. Mike got out and reached through Martinez’s opened window. “Thank you, Luis,” he said, shaking his hand and leaving two crisp one hundred dollar bills in his palm. “We really appreciate your effort.”
Martinez stared at the bills, and then looked up at Mike. “I don’t deserve this. I have wasted your time,” he
said, attempting to give them back to Mike.
“Keep it, Luis. You deserve every bit of it. Are you married?”
Martinez grinned and nodded.
“Then give it to your wife. She’ll know what to do with it. Thanks again for your help, Luis, and please also thank your boss.”
Martinez placed the bills carefully in his wallet and drove away. He made it no more than a hundred yards before he slammed his foot on the brake pedal, shoved the gearshift into reverse, and floored the gas.
Startled by the sound of tires screeching against asphalt, Mike and Karen turned to see Martinez’s car race in reverse before stopping again in front of the hotel.
Martinez jumped from the car, waved frantically, and then cupped his hands against the sides of his mouth. “I just remembered!” he shouted. “The second man had a diamond stud in his right ear!”
Stunned and overjoyed by the revelation, Karen threw her arms around Mike. “It’s Jim! It has to be!”
“Maybe,” Mike said, turning again to face Martinez. “Are you sure it was in his right ear?” he shouted.
“I’m positive.”
Mike nodded. “Thanks again, Luis!” he shouted.
Martinez smiled. “Let me know if I can help again!” He waved, and then lowered himself into his car and drove away.
It was impossible for Karen to contain her excitement. “We’ve got to do something, Mike,” she insisted.
“I’m still not convinced, babe. It may be just a hell of a coincidence, but whatever it is, we need time to plan our next move.” He wrapped his arms around her and touched her cheek with his index finger.
“Hell, we’re fugitives without a country. We’ve got all kinds of time.”
CHAPTER 65
Flush with cash from an oil rich economy, the Venezuelan government had constructed numerous, gleaming white apartment buildings in Caracas. The buildings blended nicely with the existing structures, which were some of the most impressive examples of modern architecture in North America. The apartments were offered to the poor for next to nothing, but there were few takers. The poor elected instead continued to live in the vast expanse of ranchos, which were sprawling slums consisting of corrugated metal shacks covering the hills surrounding the city, where goods and services were cheaper and family was close by. Luis Martinez was one of these inhabitants. Carlos had succeeded in verifying that fact by tracking Martinez’s license plate.