Aaron Elkins - Little Tiny Teeth

He stole a glance at Scofield, who was pointedly studying some kind of book, leaning his forehead on his hand to avoid any possible eye contact with Malagga. Vargas surreptitiously flicked perspiration from his own forehead. This kind of grief wasn’t worth five thousand dollars, it wasn’t worth fifty thousand dollars. Only let him get through this and, on his mother’s grave, he would never – never – again violate even the smallest law, the tiniest, most trivial legal technicality. Well, unless, of course, there was absolutely no danger whatever of Malagga gave the passports to one of the soldiers for stamping, then made the quick thumb-and-forefinger gesture again. “ Sus papeles.” Your papers.

Vargas handed over the manifest and the various permits he had gotten, everything having been scrupulously completed. Malagga glanced at them indifferently, then took another look at the people around him, a long one this time, stopping at every face for two or three seconds as if to register it. At least that was the way it appeared, but with those sunglasses, who could tell for sure where he was looking? Still, his intention to intimidate them couldn’t be missed. Most of the passengers did what any sensible person would do under the circumstances: they tried their best to look as unremarkable as possible. All except for the FBI man, Lau, who was glaring right back at the colonel and visibly bristling.

Don’t… make… trouble, Vargas tried to convey to him with an assortment of grimaces and facial expressions. Can’t you see the kind of person you’re dealing with here? Don’t you know the kind of trouble this man can make? Don’t you understand where we are? But the FBI man was continuing to stare boldly back, patently uncowed. Malagga’s thick lips pursed thoughtfully. For a second it appeared as if he was going to walk over and confront the Hawaiian (or Chinese, or whatever he was), but apparently he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, he muttered a few curt words to Vargas.

“ Si, mi coronel,” Vargas said. “ Seguro que si.” He turned to the passengers. “In addition to inspecting our cargo, Colonel Malagga respectfully requests your kind permission to examine your cabins. He also asks that you remain here while this is being accomplished, if there is no objection.”

“I have an objection,” Lau said, despite the eye-rolling facial contortions Vargas was now sending his way. “I’d like to know what his grounds are for examining our cabins.”

“Oh, it’s routine, merely routine,” Vargas said, smiling through his perspiration. “Very standard. It’s done on every ship.” Now shut up, will you?

“Yeah, but is he looking for drugs, or what?” Lau persisted. “He should have a reason.”

Malagga’s heavy eyebrows rose. “ Pues que pensa este?” he said ominously, his hand back on the butt of his gun. What’s with this guy ?

Before Vargas could reply, he heard Lau’s friend, the anthropologist, come to his aid. “John, will you shut up, for Christ’s sake? Let the guy do his job, don’t bug him.”

“I just don’t like to see a cop act like that,” Lau answered, still glaring at Malagga. “I hate that crap.”

“So do I, but look around, we’re not in Seattle at the moment, if you haven’t noticed. This is Colombia. This is the Amazon jungle. Different rules.”

Lau, thank God, appeared to see the sense in this, even if reluctantly. “Okay, forget it,” he said to Vargas.

Now Malagga’s eyebrows lowered behind his sunglasses. He didn’t like Lau’s tone. “ Que es lo que dice?” What’s he saying?

“ El Senor Lau se equivoco, y le pide su perdon,” the conciliatory Vargas explained, embellishing a little. He misunderstood. He asks your pardon.

The crazy Lau looked anything but apologetic, but Malagga, with a shrug, chose to let the matter pass.

Tim Loeffler, the gangly student, held up his hand. “Is it okay if I go to my room for a minute first?” he asked in reasonably good Spanish. “I want to get some-”

“No, it is not all right,” snapped Malagga in Spanish. “You will wait here with the others.” He slapped the manifest and permits back into Vargas’s hand. “These appear to be in order.” In fact, he had hardly looked at them.

Malagga’s head swung toward the bar and Vargas thought he was going to demand an explanation for the broken, boarded-up glass pane, but instead he remarked amicably on how fortunate Vargas was to have all those bottles of Scotch, and how difficult it was to get decent whiskey in this miserable jungle outpost, where all that was available was the miserable, homemade aguardiente you could buy in that so-called town of Potrero de Mineros, and Vargas, lamentably slow on the uptake, finally leaped willingly for the bait. “I hope, Colonel,” he said, “that you will accept from me as a friendly gift a bottle of our finest-”

Malagga’s brow lowered. His mouth pursed again.

“-I meant to say, four bottles – six bottles-”

The colonel’s brow relaxed.

“-of this fine Scotch whiskey for the pleasure of you and your men, when you are not on duty, of course.” Not that your men are likely to see a single drop of it, you thieving bastard.

“That is most kind of you, Captain, and I accept with pleasure on behalf of my officers. You can have someone bring it to the office.” He extended his hand in a limp, three-fingered handshake. “I wish you a safe continuation of your journey,” he said, and jumped up on the gangplank.

Vargas’s world, so dark for the last hour, lit up. Was that it then? They could go? There would be no inspection after all?

No such luck. The other two men and the dog stayed. “Do your work, Sergeant,” he said to the older one, who wore no insignia of rank. “Captain Vargas, accompany them, if you please.”

The next twenty minutes, spent in the hold of the ship, were the worst of Vargas’s life. With the two soldiers dourly tagging along, the little dog merrily explored every crevice, every item, sniffing away at the lumber, the boots, the guitar… and finally the coffee sacks, stowed neatly in stacks of three. Stopping at the very first stack, he put his nose right up against the bags and went over them like a vacuum cleaner gone crazy. Then, God in heaven, he barked, sat down, and looked proudly up at the sergeant, eyes bright, tongue lolling, tail wagging against the floor, as if to say, “Here it is, I’ve found it. It’s coca paste, all right. Quick, arrest that man right there!”

The younger soldier leaned curiously over the stacks, poking at them with a finger, as if that would tell him something. Vargas, about ready to faint by now, crossed himself with a trembling hand. Hidden deep in thirty of the forty-eight sacks of beans were sealed, white, plastic bags, each containing five kilos of coca paste. Scofield, damn him, had said it would be impossible for a dog to “Open this one,” the sergeant said to him, slapping the central sack.

“Open the sack? Are you serious?” Vargas babbled. There was a tiny sign, a black triangle made with a marker pen, under the folded down tops of the sacks that contained the paste, but Vargas, in his panic, couldn’t remember whether that particular sack was one of them or not. “I can’t open any sacks. Can’t you see they’re sewn shut? They’re not my property, I can’t-”

At a tilt of the head from the sergeant, the soldier shoved the top sack off, produced a stubby folding knife, and sliced into the burlap of the center sack, slashing it from top to bottom. The contents spilled like beige lava onto the floor, filling the hold with the sharp aroma of dried, unroasted coffee beans. Vargas, grasping at the corner of a crate to keep from collapsing, closed his eyes. He was hyper-ventilating. He could feel his soul flying away, leaving him. This was what it was like to die. He heard the soldiers burrowing through the pile of beans. And to make it even worse, he had wasted – thrown away – six 1.14-liter bottles of Cutty Sark, his best “ Nada,” mumbled one to the other.