Chapter 2

The streets of Roatan Island had become quite busy in the hours since Brandon’s last attempt at this walk. Bicycles, scooters, dirt bikes and work trucks slithered past him at speeds that would make most Americans rather uncomfortable. It wasn’t that Brandon trusted in the driving skills of all those on this island. Brandon, like most of its citizens, had just grown so accustomed to the possibility of dying while walking along the narrow dirt and stone streets that he no longer reacted to the close calls. Once or twice, Brandon had jumped out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed by a box truck that had been overfilled with chickens in stacked cages or a Volkswagen Beetle trying to squeeze around traffic (the roads were barely one lane wide but permitted traffic in both directions, making passing attempts rare). For the most part though, Brandon trotted along seemingly ignorant to the danger around him. Ramon’s coffee shop didn’t really have a name, but he supposed that since it was the only place in town that "specialized" in coffee, a name wasn’t all that necessary. A hand painted sign hanging above the door said simply, “café” in lowercase letters that resembled some kind of hybrid between print and cursive. The white lettering contrasted against the dark stain of the wood, a shade that infiltrated the interior and covered nearly every surface inside. Brandon sighed a bit of relief as he walked through the door. As short a walk as it was, on a day like it had been, you take the wins where you can find them. The small room he stepped into made up most of the building. No bigger than the inside of an average Dunkin Donuts back where Brandon was from, the room had only four small tables with coinciding chairs and a tall wood counter in the center. Behind the counter stood one of the few people on the island Brandon had never been able to fully catalog and understand: Ramon. He was tall for a Honduran man, then again, it was possible that he wasn’t Honduran at all. Ramon didn’t seem an inappropriate name for a man from the area, but it had occurred to him that he wasn’t aware of the cultural idiosyncrasies of every group of people in South and Central America. Ramon could hail from any number of countries in this region, but the point was moot as Ramon had clearly claimed Roatan as his home. Everyone on the island knew him, and he seemed to know them better. He was a patient conversationalist, happy to listen quietly but not simply for the sake of listening. He paid close attention. Brandon wondered if Ramon was a player for another organization gathering intel himself; his mannerisms did seem almost trained, but he was fairly certain it couldn’t be the case. The defining characteristic for Ramon was not his name, his height or national origin; Ramon was covered in burn scars. Although he never wore shorts and Brandon could count the number of times he’d seen Ramon in short sleeves, he felt as though he could safely estimate that the burns covered seventy or so percent of Ramon’s body. Those burns, combined with Ramon’s connections around town provided Brandon with the one thing he know for sure about his host; Ramon used to be in the drug game. The United States gets a lot guff for its justice system. With more people per capita in prison than any other nation on the planet, it can be easy to find things to criticize, but Brandon knew that statistics don’t always convey the whole story. There are very few convictions in Honduras when it comes to the drug trade, most suspects are killed in the process of the investigation. The boats used to traffic drugs, people and the like were usually boarded, set ablaze, and then let to drift with the crew and anyone else on board left to die or, in Ramon’s case, live for the rest of their lives covered in scars. Enough drugs still managed to go through that it didn't serve as much of a detractor. The promise of wealth is more than enough to convince most that the work is worth the risk. Ramon, Brandon assumed, had amassed enough wealth, power or both while active in the cartel to convince his superiors not to kill him when he reported the loss, and even more to be able to open a legitimate business after. Of course, that was under the presupposition that this coffee shop was a legitimate business. “Ah, good morning my friend. Sleep late today?” Ramon raised his hands to welcome his guest. Brandon’s usual table against the left wall was open, as were the two near it. Opposite his reading nook, a single table with a young woman and her two children sat over three glasses of water. She was filthy and did not look up as Brandon stepped past her and toward the counter. Her kids seemed content enough drinking their glasses and whispering to each other that they barely noticed his presence. “Yeah, sometimes I stop drinking coffee and start drinking whiskey a bit too early, Ramon.” Brandon replied as he placed his hands on the counter. “You come here every morning for a long time, my friend. I see you every day. You never stop drinking whiskey.” Ramon smiled to soften the delivery of his joke. “Well, maybe I just needed to keep watering it down with your coffee a bit longer, is all,” Brandon chuckled his response, “gimme a cup of coffee with cream and sugar, would ya? Oh and,” Brandon leaned closer to Ramon, “get these kids something to eat and say it’s on the house.” He slid a few Lempira bills across the counter and winked. Ramon smiled faintly and nodded as he turned to go about his work. Brandon turned and nodded a hello to the mother, who smiled but only glanced at him before returning her gaze to the table. Poverty is never easy to see, but to see a mother so shamed by her poverty was painful. It wasn’t unusual where they lived, in fact, it was probably ordinary, but it was still painful. Brandon took a newspaper off the neat stack on one of the tables as he passed and sat down in a chair with its back to the wall. He set his backpack on the seat beside him and started his daily dissection of the local print news media. He’d read each article carefully, assess their value in regard to his overall intelligence goals, rank them and then reread the ones he felt were most important in order to retain as much of the pertinent information he could. Very rarely were the stories of import to him on the front page, but he always started there anyway; seemed like as a good a place to start as any. After a half hour of reading and occasionally glancing at the happy family eating the biscuits Ramon brought them, the mother thanked her host sincerely and ushered her children out. Ramon carried their dishes into his small kitchen (serving as the rest of the tiny building) and came back out with a damp dish towel in hand. “You know, these people keep thinking I’m giving away food, they start to come looking for it.” Ramon broke the silence as he wiped up the crumbs. “Are you concerned these people might find out you’re a good man?” Brandon replied without looking up from the page. “Mi pregunta es why you are so concerned with people finding out that you are?” Ramon broke the language barrier momentarily. “I don’t want these people feeling like they owe me anything, that’s all.” Brandon spoke through the paper. “Don’t kid a kidder, Senior Webb. Everyone owes something.” Ramon’s response broke Brandon’s concentration and he looked up from the page. They locked eyes for a split second, just long enough to make Brandon wonder what he meant, but not long enough to come to any educated guesses. Ramon went back to wiping down the table and Brandon returned to his paper. They didn’t speak again until they exchanged goodbyes. Brandon still had a number of stops on his agenda, many of which involved people that were expecting him a number of hours earlier, but the bright side to working “freelance” for the cruise companies was that he rarely had any real answering to do for his behavior during his cover-job. As long as the water tests were run, the excursion companies didn’t lose any tourists and the cruise ships were fueled up during their stay, no one from any of the large lines ever had much to say to him. His primary responsibilities were to ensure the restaurants, bars, and excursions that were sponsored by the cruise lines that frequented the island were safe, both in terms of food and of people, and to act as the liaison at the port when ships needed refueling or supplies. Most of the local businesses were entirely dependent on tourism and without the approval of the cruise lines, the number of customers a business would get would dwindle dramatically. Because Brandon represented the cruise lines, this made him popular among small business owners. Initially, Brandon had made it a point not to accept gifts or bribes from these small companies, but it raised flags among the locals. It was simply how business was done out here, so Brandon snubbing their attempts made him stand out a bit more than any covert operative would want. Instead, Brandon tried his best to walk the line between representative on the take and the cruise line’s best friend, usually settling for free drinks at the bars and a dinner or two here or there. He felt better about letting them feed him than about taking money from these people. His first stop was a small margarita stand only a few hundred yards away from the docks. These positions were coveted and as such, had to be checked most often. After a bit of friendly conversation with the attendant (or at least, his broken English seemed friendly) Brandon did the usual tests on the water, checked the tequila bottles for tampering and gave the entire stand a once over for cleanliness. It was unusual to come across any gross violations; these people needed the work and knew they could lose their license or even worse, their prime real estate, if they didn’t play by the rules. It made Brandon’s job pretty easy… and extremely boring. Three stops later, Brandon finished checking the freezers at the last bar on his stop and decided to stay for a bite to eat. It was the only place on the island to get a cheeseburger, and even though they weren’t particularly good, a bad cheeseburger is always better than none at all. He washed his hands in the unusually clean bathroom and took a seat at the bar. “Clean bill of health?” A local woman who spoke excellent English asked as she filled a tall glass with Bud Light for him. Brandon wasn’t interested in pursuing women, they were nothing but trouble in his line of work, but that didn’t stop him from recognizing when one was beautiful. This one was. “My favorite stop as always, Maria.” Brandon shifted his gaze from her hips to the beer she carried in his direction. “Glad we can keep our jobs – what’ll it be? The burger again?” Her tone seemed annoyed with his presence. It was the off season so business was slow, maybe she was annoyed at the lack of customers, or maybe she was annoyed at the gringo who was eyeballing her breasts. “If it isn’t any trouble.” Brandon looked at the counter in front of him, demonstrating his embarrassment at being caught checking her out a bit more than he meant to. A regular James Bond, he thought, winning with the ladies. “One burger!” She yelled toward the kitchen, “you want a newspaper to read or something while you wait?” The suggestion meant Brandon was out of luck if he intended to keep busy by talking to her. He had already read both local papers cover to cover, but agreed none the less. Couldn’t hurt to reread them, he supposed, maybe he missed something. Lord knows it would be better than awkwardly staring into space anyway. After a bit of sparse conversation and a wildly mediocre cheeseburger, Brandon finished off his third beer, slid a twenty onto the counter and stood up. He knew he didn’t need to leave any money for the check, but when business was slow it was the least he could do. He slipped out the door while Maria was in the kitchen speaking to the cooks to make sure she couldn’t dispute it. It was cold outside, or at least, it felt cold to Brandon. He’d become so accustomed to the Honduran weather that sixty degrees could feel like freezing to him. He smiled to himself. Pretend you’re something for long enough, it becomes true, he remembered his instructor saying during his crash course in intelligence gathering. He’d been pretending to belong here for two years, it was nice to know that his body was playing its part. His work day was at an end and the sun was setting in the distance. There was a short list of things Brandon could do at this point in his day: he could head home, break out the laptop and start work on his weekly update… or he could make one more stop, maybe grab a few drinks before settling in for an evening of work. A few hours ago, Brandon would have done anything for a chance to get back into bed, but now the hangover had passed (or had been subdued by beer) and the night was just beginning. It seemed like a waste to simply turn in. As a compromise, Brandon decided to go to the most modern bar on the island. Usually frequented only by tourists (the locals were kept out largely by the prices) it would be near dead this time of year and the wireless internet would give him a chance to catch up on some world news. He had a secure Ethernet line in his apartment that was good only for e-mailing his reports in as far as he could tell, nothing else. Who knows, maybe the Buffalo Bills were actually good this year for all he knew. The fact that they had a full bar didn’t dissuade him any and it seemed too lonely a night to spend by himself. Sometimes, just having a bartender to smile at made the day a bit easier. He rearranged his backpack on his back and turned toward his new destination: Jose Macintyres. The locals called it simply, “Jose’s,” perhaps out of convenience or perhaps out of disdain for the pun that was supposed to represent the theme of an Irish pub that served margaritas. Brandon had heard when they were building it that there was a bar in the Financial District of Boston with the same name and theme, but he doubted the two were actually related. It can be tough to sue someone in a third world country for stealing the name of your bar. The interior was decorated a lot like an Applebees would be back in the States; whacky decorations from various Hispanic nations. The American owners probably didn’t know that most of them weren’t Honduran nor did they care to. To them, like many tourists, they were all the same. Brandon had to acknowledge that to an extent, he once felt that way as well, but his time with these people had changed his perspective. While he still may not be able to recognize a name or dish as unique to one country or another, he was well aware that to call a Mexican person Puerto Rican, or a Puerto Rican person Dominican could cause quite a bit of trouble. He wasn’t sure if there was a cultural hierarchy placing one lower than another or if it was that each culture simply saw itself as the highest, but the lesson remained the same: never assume where someone was from out loud. It was a bit busier than he expected, he nonchalantly counted and cataloged the customers as he passed them on his way to a table in the back. There were thirteen patrons, mostly belonging to a group of rowdy Americans at the bar. Most of them were men, with the exception of two women in the American group and a young woman sitting by a window in the front. She could have been American, but easily could have been Canadian or European too. She was sitting silently in front of a laptop computer with a man beside her that looked annoyed. Brandon took a seat that allowed a view of the two of them, in part because they were an interesting oddity by comparison to the group doing shots at the bar, but largely because Brandon couldn’t help but notice that she was gorgeous. She took a sip from her beer, not from thirst, but as a reprieve from the glaring frustration of her laptop screen; a half blank page that needed to multiply into five before she could breathe easily again. The subject was simple enough, and she was more than adequately prepared, but this evening the words simply weren't cooperating. Each syllable had to be pulled from the twisted mess of hangover muddled, drowsy confusion by force and the more she forced it, the worse the paper came together. Meeting the deadline was more important than producing quality work in this case, but the way things were going made her wonder if she could succeed at either. To her right sat a slightly older man, in his late twenties by the look of him but with a childlike quality in his face. A pair if broad shoulders, visible even through baggy tee shirt, would leave one to assume he was an athlete, or at least he was once. Only the burgeoning wrinkles around his eyes betrayed a level of seasoned sadness, a toll collected through hardships his feigned smile did well to hide. He typed idly away at his phone, interjecting a thought from time to time to help keep her typing. She paused and looked at him quizzically. He knew the look meant she was grasping for a word, he also knew he'd be no help. Writing is a funny thing, even bad writing is a piece of you and someone else's words rarely feel right. None the less, he offered the question, "what's the context?" With a few exaggerated blinks she opened her mouth to speak and paused. It had come to her, he'd done his duty. He looked back down at his phone. Brandon slid his own laptop from his backpack and placed it on the table in front of him. He positioned it so it would only take a glance up from the screen to see his new friends. The man, he considered, could be security. He was big enough and although nothing in his training specifically taught him to identify someone who could handle themselves in a fight, his experiences as one who could had taught him a thing or two over the years. Of course, they could just be a couple that came to Roatan Island on vacation, but he doubted it. There was no love between these two, the best he could surmise was that they were here together for work, though what kind of work was beyond his best guess. It took forever for his laptop to boot up. As a security feature, the computer stopped loading at a blank, black screen. He needed to type a prompt in order for it to continue, much like the old computers he remembered running MS DOS on: type the right sequence of letters and numbers and the computer would quickly load a simple program that would ask for a series of additional prompts before allowing him into his official e-mail. It was a much better system than asking for passwords; asking for one means that there is one to find; by leaving the prompts blank, it reduced the chances of infiltration. Conversely, if you were to type in “startup” at that initial prompt, Windows would load slowly… painfully slowly, until you found yourself working on a completely average, if not extremely slow, laptop computer. Brandon assumed it came with only enough memory to really run its primary software and it was never really intended for use as the web-surfing porn theater he’d tried to use it for more than once. The girl he’d been watching had already finished her beer before he’d had a chance to open a web browser. The waitress, a heavy set local woman in her mid-fifties delivered the girl a fresh beer before strolling over toward Brandon, “Senior Webb, is too late to be working,” she smiled warmly as she approached. “It’s never too late to be working, mi flor.” Brandon smiled back at her. Her name was Ana Rivas, but Brandon always referred to her as “mi flor” or, “my flower.” The flirtation was purely friendly as she was neither his type nor available, her husband was the manager of the bar. “Ah, and this is why you stay the most eligible bachelor in all of Honduras!” She laughed, “you should be chasing pretty girls, not typing into that machine!” Brandon joined her with a chuckle, if only she knew. “You know I’ll never find a woman that could love me like you, mi flor. What’re the specials tonight?” He wasn’t hungry, but it shifted the conversation toward taking his order and he really wanted a drink. “I think the only special you need is two for one Coronas,” she was on to him. “You know the secret to my heart.” He replied while pressing his palms onto the center of his chest and batting his eyes. “Coming right up, Mister Business.” She didn’t bother to write down his order, beer is easy enough to remember. The computer had managed to connect to the WiFi during their conversation and Brandon double clicked on Internet Explorer. He never used to use Explorer, but he once spent a full day trying to download and install Firefox before he came to the conclusion that this machine simply wouldn’t take any more software. It could have been a security function of the software, disabling anything new from being installed, but chances were just as good that the computer was just too slow. “Listen, my flight leaves in seven hours, I’ve gotta go get some rest. Are you almost done here?” The man’s voice carried as he spoke to the girl on his left. Brandon couldn’t quite make out her response, but her body language signified annoyance at best. Her companion lowered his voice to match, possibly realizing people in the bar could hear, and responded with what seemed like annoyance of his own. After a few more minutes of conversation, he stood abruptly, gathered his things and stomped out of the bar. She watched him leave and as her eyes trailed back across the room toward her laptop. She caught a glimpse of Brandon at his table. For the second time that night, Brandon was caught with his guard down and his eyes where they shouldn’t be. At least this time she’s too far away to know if I’m staring at her tits, Brandon thought as he looked back at the screen. He could feel his face growing flush. Do all secret agents blush when pretty girls look their way? He assumed the answer was no.