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.”