SEAL Team Six Hunt the Falcon(47)
“Caracas, Venezuela,” Crocker answered.
“What were you doing there?” the official asked in accented English.
“We were there on business, organizing an expedition.”
The official explained that their visas hadn’t been entered into the Paraguayan system, which meant that they couldn’t enter the country without each man paying a hundred-dollar expediting fee. What system he was talking about wasn’t clear. Akil pointed out that the computer screen he appeared to be looking at was blank.
They were traveling in alias, so Crocker didn’t want to attract attention, but he didn’t feel like being ripped off, either. A Brazilian man who stood behind them in line sweating profusely whispered, “I recommend that you pay it. Otherwise he will keep you here all day.”
Crocker handed the official twenty dollars, which he said should cover both men. The official shook his head no, he wouldn’t accept it.
Akil reached into his wallet and produced three more twenties, whereupon the official stamped their passports and waved them through.
“Nice place,” Akil whispered.
“Yeah. Be alert.”
The baggage claim was packed with travelers from Europe and Asia who were going to visit the famous Iguazu Falls. Akil’s suitcase, which he had had to check in São Paulo because of its size, was a no-show, so he filled out a form at the information desk.
“Good luck with that,” Crocker commented.
“Yeah, right.”
The woman working the desk had a message for Mr. Mansfield, which read, “This is DZ from the agency. Because of circumstances, I’m not able to meet you at the airport. Hire a taxi to take you to Hotel Casablanca. I’ll see you there. Don’t let the driver charge you more than $30.”
The only two taxi drivers stationed outside the terminal both demanded a fifty-dollar fare. Crocker and Akil chose the newer and cleaner-looking of the two cars—a fairly comfortable Toyota Corolla sedan. The overweight driver drove it as if it was stolen, tearing down the freeway at eighty miles an hour.
The air outside the window was hot and sticky, the ground dotted with mud-colored puddles. Storm clouds formed impressive towers of gray, white, and black, while the landscape was festooned with exuberant tropical foliage. Man’s footprint could best be described as tacky—broken-down cars and buses, mud-encrusted shacks, large lurid signs advertising sex shows, casinos, electronics stores, and “five-star” Italian, Japanese, and Chinese restaurants.
Out of the corner of his eye, Crocker saw a motorcycle tear out of a side street toward their car and screamed, “Watch out!”
The driver, who was speaking nonstop Spanish into a cell phone and didn’t see the motorcycle until the last second, swerved to avoid a head-on collision. From the backseat, Crocker watched the young rider’s face smash into the passenger-side window. Then the bike and rider flew into the air.
The driver slammed on the brakes, got out, examined the scratches on the side panel of his car, and started cursing. Crocker ran over to the motorcycle rider, who wasn’t wearing a helmet and was lying facedown in the dirt. He assumed he was dead, but as Crocker knelt to examine him, the long-haired kid got up, rubbed his dislocated kneecap, which appeared to be his only injury, then limped over to the bike, picked it up, and wheeled it to a footpath. Crocker tried to stop him, but the kid was intent on confronting the driver. The two men stood nose to nose, shouting at each other.
A crowd of onlookers gathered and stared. Crocker wandered back to the taxi, where Akil asked, “What do we do now?”
“Let’s find alternate transportation,” Crocker answered as flies started to form a moving halo around his head.
When he asked the driver to pop open the trunk so he could retrieve his suitcase, he threw his arms up in disgust, walked back to the car, and started the engine. Neither man had insurance, he explained.
“What a shock,” Akil whispered.
Once again they were flying down the highway at eighty. Approaching the city, traffic slowed to a crawl. The streets narrowed and became clogged with people carrying boxes containing TVs, stereos, and DVD players, and huge sacks of what looked to be newly purchased goods on their backs. The driver said that smugglers made a very good living by purchasing goods made in China and Japan on the Paraguayan side of the border, then crossing the Ciudad del Este Friendship Bridge into Brazil and selling them for a two hundred percent profit.
How they were able to do that, he didn’t say. Instead, he pulled over to the curb and started asking for directions to the hotel. Nobody seemed to recognize the name of the establishment or know how to get there. Vendors approached the taxi windows and offered to sell the two Americans see-through panties, porno videos, Viagra, and tool sets.