Ancón

Present Day A knock on the door startled Bernardo awake. He looked at his watch; barely daylight at seven thirty in the morning. He struggled out of bed and shuffled to the door. “Who is it?” he whispered, still half-asleep. “National Police, señor,” a crisp voice responded. “We have urgent business for you to attend to back in Lima. Please, señor, get dressed and come with us quickly!” The voice left no room for protest or negotiation. It was firm. Bernardo cracked the door open slightly, wearing only his underwear, and peered into the hallway. There were three men, dressed in typical police uniforms, machine guns at the ready. They were all very fit, and all business. “I apologize for the hour, señor. We have our orders.” “Very well,” muttered Bernardo, looking the man who had knocked on his door squarely in the eyes. “Let me get dressed and gather up my things. I’ll be outside in fifteen minutes.” “I apologize, Señor Villacorta,” said the stocky, well-built officer. “But I must remain here with you outside your door until you’re ready to leave; for your safety, señor. My men will escort us to our vehicle outside when you’re ready.” “Very well,” he muttered. “I’ll be just a moment.” He shut the door, removed his old underwear and replaced them with a fresh pair. Then he shuffled to the bathroom to splash cold water over his face and wash the sleep from his eyes. He grabbed a toothbrush and shoved it in his mouth, brushing with one hand while he struggled to put on his shirt and pants that were hanging on a nearby hook with the other. Hopping around the room, he finally abandoned the toothbrush on the bed. He pulled up his pants and thought to himself, when did putting my pants on get to be so difficult? He reached for socks and laced up his shoes. He glanced around the room. Where had he left his laptop and briefcase? It was by the window on his favorite old desk, overlooking the harbor. He began shoving papers and the laptop into the briefcase, pulling the plug for the computer out of the wall and stuffing that in another compartment. “Señor, por favor!” the voice outside his door said loudly this time. “We must go now!” “All right, all right, I’m coming,” he said, struggling with his jacket. He opened the door and was immediately saluted by the man who had been so insistent, heels snapping together accompanying the salute. “Please, señor, come this way.” Bernardo noticed as they walked that his escorts’ eyes constantly moved around the hallway and up and down the stairway. They exited through the back entry, next to the kitchen, where a large black Mercedes E 300 AMG was parked, engine running. The driver jumped out of the car and ran around to the rear passenger door, opened it, and snapped to full attention. Bernardo got in. The other men took offensive positions, two in front and one on the other side of Bernardo in the rear. They sped off, heading for the Pan-American Highway back towards Lima. Not a word was said, nor were any needed. Bernardo had left town with his beloved Emelia’s ashes without saying a word to anyone, least of all his business partners. He had earned the right to a few days of privacy. Other than an occasional day off due to national holidays, he had hardly done anything but work and travel for the past…how long had it been? There was other business that needed attention in Ancón, but it clearly would have to wait, at least for the time being. Bernardo made a mental note to complete this other business at another time, but soon. Little did he know how important that other business would turn out to be. The car sped down the Pan-American at high speed until they reached the outskirts of Lima. Even at this early hour, heavy traffic was already slowing everything to a crawl. “Mierda!” the officer cursed quietly under his breath, and leaned forward to flip a switch under the dashboard. Blue blinking lights lit up under the front grillwork, and in the rear of the car as well. A siren began wailing, and slowly the traffic parted, as if it were the Red Sea itself. The driver sped up, artfully weaving in and out and around other cars and buses in the early morning traffic. It was a dance of sorts. Bernardo was always surprised at the lack of accidents in this intricate ballet on the streets of Lima. To the untrained eye, it looked like a free-for-all; cars speeding up and then braking at the last moment, barely missing each other, cutting across lanes of traffic with seeming disregard for human life. In all his years in this city, he had only witnessed one accident, and it involved more yelling and screaming about broken taillights and injured grills and personalities than any physical damage. As the car closed in on the center of the city, the driver began to take alternate routes, weaving back and forth on one-way streets, circling ever closer to the familiar destination he had spent so much of his adult life in, and the very place where his own father had made his first fortune: Palacio de Gobierno, the Presidential Palace. There was a back driveway; high gates topped with ribbon wire and two heavily armed National Police guards, H&K MP5 9mm machine guns at the ready. The gates opened, but the guards hardly changed their forward stares, acknowledging the vehicle and its contents. Business as usual. Instead of pulling to the side entrance, the car continued to a ramp that led downward, inside the palace. The dimly lit, cobblestoned tunnel led further downward, curving slightly to the right. Down and down it went for another three hundred meters into the bowels of the city. Brighter lights approached, and the car stopped in a landing area, a portico carved out of stone. The three security guards jumped out, one opening the door for Bernardo. “Thank you,” he muttered at the young, brown face. The guard nodded his head slightly, motioning towards the riveted steel door on the far wall near the rear of the car. Another guard had already begun to open the door. Bright light spilled out towards the car, and the entrance greeted him with elegant oriental rugs on heavy stone floors. The familiar halls of the inner circles of power in the country, he thought to himself. He walked a few meters to one of twenty ornately decorated heavy wooden doors. The artistry of each door was different, depicting detailed scenes of the history of his beloved country. The Nazca door, as this one was called, had detailed characters of what the ancient ones had inscribed on the land so long ago: the spider, hummingbirds, monkeys, fish, sharks or orcas, llamas, and lizards. They had jewels for eyes, and were embossed with gold and silver. They were truly works of art, each of them. He entered the lavishly decorated room, with its overstuffed leather furniture and large tables. Flowers and fruit were everywhere. A large table to the right was set with a starched white linen tablecloth and a fine silver coffee pot, sugar, creamer, and spoons, alongside bone china cups and saucers. There was fresh, warm bread, and cheese on a platter. Slices of several types of meat and sausages and bowls of black olives sat in other silver dishes. “We need to talk,” a voice to his left said. He turned and saw the familiar drab olive uniform of his trusted friend and confidante for over four decades, General Victor de la Hoya. Bernardo knew full well that this had to have been important for the meeting to occur in this manner and in this place. He knew better than to show impatience, or anything but respect. “Victor, my old friend, I’m at your service, of course,” he said with a slight bow, and extended his hands. They hugged and kissed each other on the cheeks and pushed back. “Coffee? Something to eat, perhaps, after your ride into the city?” The general waved at the table of food and drink. “Just coffee, thank you,” Bernardo replied. “I don’t have much of an appetite these days.”