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.