12.4 Sandstorm

Maria sat twirling a mane of hair, in her Mitsubishi Lancer outside Embajador Hotel on Carlos Pellegrini, keeping an eye on a metallic gold Mercedes-Benz 190E. A cool fresh day in August and windy.

She could not see the broad pavement in front of the hotel entrance however Jamal Carreon in the passenger seat having a better view observed.

Madeleine Blanche stepped out and her hair caught in the wind to blow on her face. A thin figure in a red little skirt and a white top, large sunglasses and bags in her hand, keys in the other, another small bag on a shoulder, wearing flip-flops and two slings of legs.

“There she is,” said Jamal sliding down to hide his face behind the dashboard. He was a tall guy of six foot three and barely did. He wore a neat blue polo shirt.

Madeleine Blanche stepped up to reach her car. At that point, even Calima in the backseat could see. She sat with files folded across her chest next to Maria’s large tote bag left on the backseat.

Madeleine dropped her clothes in the hotel room into the laundry and did not take any of her shoes to the apartment. She came out dressed simple in a cool month. Madeleine paused on the roadside to put her bags into the backseat. Maria could see her then. Madeleine climbed the Benz and drove off. Maria began to tail her.

In Palermo, Madeleine Blanche stopped at La Casa on Thames.

Jamal released the door and leaped out in a hurry. Two ladies caught in surprise, they looked for him to be their lead. Jamal Carreon began to walk towards Madeleine pulling out her bags from the backseat.

Madeleine glanced before crossing the road. That small face framed in long black hair and eyes hidden behind glasses, reckoned him instantly. Though, she faked a move to cross the road and not to enter the house. Madeleine carried on up the pavement as if she knew not someone was after her, her hands full of bags, some polythene bags as well. She stole a quick look behind and saw him pacing towards her lurching from the other side of the row of cars parked by the sidewalk.

She began to trot and Jamal chased her. Meanwhile, Maria and Calima climbed out of the car and hurried to catch him.

Jamal grabbed her arm and tackled her ankle with a foot to drop her on the pavement. His hand immediately reached under her skirt and groped.

“BOGOTÁ!” she cried, “BOGOTÁ!”

“Where is Mary?”

“BOGOTÁ!”

The two ladies reached to witness his hand inside the woman’s legs. They glanced at each other simultaneously. Both of them wore blank expressions on their faces. They saw her flip-flops tossed over on the pavement and those bags she carried scattered as well.

He released his hand without harassment or further harassment, perhaps, realised the presence of the girls.

“Where in Bogotá?”

“In Santa Fe.”

“Holy Shit! What the hell is she doing in Santa Fe?”

“I GAVE HER A LIFT!” she uttered.

He pulled her up to a standing position still holding on to his grip on her wrist with a broad fist. Police could question her for three hours but Jamal’s brutal tactic snapped it off just like that in a jiffy.

“Give me her address and number!” he demanded.

“I don’t know!” she virtually spat on his face but the grip was too strong.

“Give it to me!”

There were eyes watching but she knew he’d do it no matter what or where. “It is in my room.”

“Get it!” snapped Jamal Carreon.

She noticed two girls who reached and watching shockingly. She immediately figured a connection and spurted a froth of saliva up on his face rather to show them that he meant nothing to her.

He wiped his face and delivered a sharp blow – a slap on her face. “You’re coming with me and guess what…”

“I have it here,” Madeleine retorted who only reached his shoulder, “Free my hand! Big Fish!”

“You will not call them!” he warned, “If you call and tell her we are going after her, you know, I will screw you to the bone!”

“I won’t call,” she cried, “I have it here in my bag.”

Jamal released and Madeleine uttered, “Villa Magellanica, Carrera 15…”

“Note it down!” cried Jamal.

Calima got those folders though Maria quickly grabbed the pen and pad and began to scribble.

“Lane 15, Address XI-XV.”

“Phone number!”

“Ana García, 283 3889,” she took a look at the two scared ladies and figured instantly that one of them was related to Marina – the similarity undeniable.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“A laundry,” she answered.

Jamal grabbed her face under the chin, thick fingers clawed into the cheeks, “DO NOT CALL!” and pushed her in a backward motion sending a flush to her hair.

He turned away and the girls followed. Madeleine watched them go nursing her wrist where he held a grip. She picked her bags from the ground keeping her eyes fixed on them.

That girl in yellow midi skirt and white top could be no other but a sister. She evenly matched with a stoop on her left shoulder as she stepped away. Same eyes, same hair, same face and height. She was taller than the other girl in an Argentinean blue shirtdress.

“What was all that about?” enquired an elderly man who paused to watch.

“It’s over, papi,” returned Madeleine.

She entered La Casa and made few calls but let it go without calling her associates in Colombia. An inner voice told her that people got families and worry. Not like her. She could not be a nuisance – the Mazzikin; the poisonous little demon. She sighed and smiled wishing this little sister her luck.

 

Meanwhile, the police chief received a handful of faxes in colour print from the City of Salta in Salta Province. He sat bewildered. They were right about Madeleine Blanche who was feigning as Claudine Cartier and holding French passports. He was bemused because a couple of amateurs could dig these things that experts could hardly think. And the colour fax of Eva Lowell was no other than the missing wife of Zaid Falak. He too figured that in the photograph, her hair was wet and that soaked her dress slightly. There was every warrant to arrest Madeleine Blanche.

The telephone rang. It was Juan Carlos Bauzá; Head of the Intelligence. “I understand that you’re looking for a lady called Madeleine Blanche. Now listen to me…this lady works for me. Jamal Carreon or Tony Yunis must not put a finger on her again. If he did, deport him out of the country.”

There was deafening silence in the hall after the call.