Manos' Encounter With the Gods, Volume II
by Marko Lampas
E-book $10.50

Volume II

Chapter Twenty-One

Mános arrives in Santa Cruz, Bolivia

On Monday morning, Mános and Sonia departed from Teterboro Airport for Bolivia. They landed that same afternoon at a small private airport in Santa Cruz, ready to meet the monster of death, Juan Suza Gonzales. Mános and Captain Travis removed their jackets and loosened their neckties the moment they stepped down from the plane and confronted the heat and humidity. Sonia fanned herself constantly, and Doris Patton, the flight attendant, complained about the oppressive tropical weather. When they left Teterboro, it had been close to forty degrees; Santa Cruz felt like a sauna.

Doris removed her jacket too and sighed. “My God, the humidity is suffocating! I prefer the cold temperature anytime.”

Mános looked toward the helicopter area for the reporter Tom Troman said would meet them here. But it looked like the soaring temperatures had kept everyone inside the terminal and the comfort of the air-conditioning, rather than outside on the blistering tarmac.

A man in his mid-thirties wearing an official customs uniform approached them and introduced himself as Pablo Vasquez. “I’m a customs agent. You’re coming from America, no? Please come with me inside; it is very hot out here.” They followed him to the arrival terminal.

A huge white sign loomed in front of the four-story building:

WELCOME TO JUAN SUZA GONZALES AIRPORT

The exterior of the airport building had dark brown glass windows, light gray columns, and pale pink walls. It was unusually modern looking for this part of the world. Adjacent to the terminal stood the deluxe Gonzales Hotel.

The smell of the steamy air and the rasping of the crickets made everyone eager to get indoors. This was Gonzales’ private airport, where greedy industrial executives were allowed to land for illicit, nefarious transactions. Parked on the airfield were many single- and twin-engine planes, and more were lined up inside the two large hangars. A couple of men were standing in front of one helicopter with their shirts open. Two more commandos stood next to each other, smoking their cigars under the shadow of the revolving blades that cooled the air around them, and indicated that the chopper was ready to take off. These two sweating commandos glared at Mános and his group, arrogantly spitting brown tobacco juice on the ground. Waiting farther out in the field were several high-speed jets, as well as three more helicopters.

Mános and his companions entered the building’s large reception room. He and Travis towered over most of the men there, which attracted quite a bit of attention from the natives. Some of the Bolivians proudly wore their colorful ponchos over their shirts and pants and congregated in small groups. Their expressions were filled with hope that these new arrivals might have work for them. Others were cleaning the waiting room or working as baggage handlers. No begging or loitering was allowed, by order of Juan Suza Gonzales, according to signs that were posted prominently on several walls. The reception area was clean and orderly, with Bolivian music echoing from the many speakers. The customs man directed them to an office with two glass doors and windows where he and his two associates examined their passports and asked them routine questions. No doubt, the three of them were on Gonzales’ payroll and had been informed of Mános’ arrival.

“We’ll hold your passports, señoras e señores, till the time you have to leave. Thank you, and welcome to Juan Suza Gonzales Airport. You’re free to go about your business.”

Most of the travelers were European, Japanese and Korean businessmen, all elegantly attired. Very few Americans were visible in the crowd. The majority of the visitors were in the luxurious lounge, which was separated from the reception area and the natives by a beautiful stained glass partition. The foreign executives were in the country to exploit the cheap labor of the natives, putting them to work in their mines and factories. Mining was the country’s leading industry, along with the natural gas and oil pipelines that extended from Santa Cruz all the way to Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Juan Gonzales made such tempting offers to the large American, European, and Asian corporate executives that they could hardly refuse. He requested ten to fifteen percent of the profits in return for their personal safety and the safety of their business as long as their business did not conflict with his. On top of that, he often provided them with entertainment of all kinds, including beautiful women and, in some cases, handsome young men. The suspicious, ethical men who refused his offer had their factories or mines blown up. Most of the greedy, blood-sucking, corporate executives who acquiesced to Gonzales’ demands were frequent guests at his palace. His other holdings in the country included tobacco, sugar, and coffee plantations and three large newspapers. He also owned two television stations, which provided another way to control any negative criticism leveled against him. And, of course, his biggest revenue source was the drug trade – a venture that made him the richest and most powerful billionaire in all of Latin America.

Mános was looking around in the reception room for the reporter when just at that moment, an attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, wearing a light green silk blouse and navy gabardine slacks, approached.

“Mr. Theodórou! Welcome, welcome to Santa Cruz. I'm Lucia Maria Rivelli and this is my cameraman Fernando Orefice. We’re from IBS. Mr. Troman sent us to meet you.”

They shook hands. The cameraman was in his twenties with shoulder-length black hair and a beard. He was dressed appropriately for the hot climate in a thin light blue cotton shirt with full sleeves, white pants and sandals.

“Thank you, Miss Rivelli. Meet my associates, Sonia Ramirez, our flight attendant Doris Patton, and our captain Travis Drake.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” Lucia said with an attractive smile. “We have a corner table in the lounge, sir. We can go there to have a cold drink and talk about your plans.”

Mános and the others followed her to the table where all the business executives were. The large dark brown windows gave the room a comfortable atmosphere with tables adorned with brilliant multicolored marble tops and comfortable armchairs. The many conversations, some serious with documents on display and others informal, echoed throughout this large lounge.

“Mr. Theodórou,” Lucia started to say, Mános raised his hand.

“Call me Mános, my dear, everyone does, and if you don’t mind, I will call you Lucia. By the way, Lucia is one of my wife’s favorite operas — ‘Lucia di Lammermoor by Donizetti,’ that is.”

“Yes, sir, if that’s what you wish.” She leaned in close to Mános and looked around fearfully before she whispered, “My boss, Mr. Troman, informed us of your misfortune with this ― this heartless killer and of the grave danger your wife is facing. There is no need for me to tell you what we’re up against. Only one single warning, if I may...”

Mános nodded as she looked around the busy lounge surreptitiously to see if any of Gonzales’ los asesinos guerillas were nearby. No one knew how many there were loose all over the country; ready to kill anyone Gonzales assumed was his enemy. They would attack in public places like this one, or in front of the victim’s family, killing in cold blood without even thinking twice. Lucia observed the business executives near their table chatting in a casual conversation, exchanging deals while enjoying their drinks and food delivered to them by the gracious, most attractive waitresses. Other elegant-looking women waited by the bar, obviously available for hire as prostitutes. Others sat in the company of men at the long fancy bar, watching the three monitors above showing the soccer games. Some were filling the lounge with heavy smoke from the cigars and cigarettes offered by the young girl making the rounds saying in Spanish and English, “Señoras e señores compliments from Señor Gonzales.”

Lucia’s expression bespoke her deep-seated fear. Many of Gonzales’ enemies had been shot inside this place, including a reporter colleague, Tom Troman mentioned to Mános.

She turned and faced Mános. “Sir, Gonzales will not allow us to enter his quarters, not with all of our equipment. This I’m certain of. And if, by some miracle, we are allowed inside, and you cannot save his wife,” she stared solemnly at each one of them, “none of us will come out alive. No reporter with or without cameras has ever gotten inside to interview him or report from his palace, not even from his own network. The only ones who visit his stronghold are the politicians and some executives like the ones you see here. I’ve heard it’s a spectacular-looking place.”

Mános replied reassuringly, “Do not concern yourself with all of that, my dear. He will not harm any of us, and we will enter his so-called palace.”

“Señoras e señores, may I take your orders, por favor?” asked a waitress, who looked like a Las Vegas showgirl. She was tall, blonde and very attractive, wearing a miniskirt that showed her shapely long legs. They all ordered bottles of mineral water.

The moment the waitress left, a murmur was heard from among the natives congregating near the reception area. Everyone turned and looked at these two scary commandos with Dr. Sosa. The doctor wore an impeccable white linen suit and stood between the two commandos. They paused at the entrance to the lounge adjacent to the lobby of the hotel. The room grew silent with a frightened chill. They stared at everyone for a couple of seconds and then glared at Mános. The commandos and the doctor approached their table.

“Oh, Dios mio,” Lucia gasped.

Mános noticed her anxiety and that of her cameraman, but was not aware of the doctor and the commandos standing behind him. The two rough-looking men waited, their muscles tensed, one on each side of the doctor. They both had large black mustaches and wore light brown military uniforms, black ankle-high boots, and black berets. Pistols hung from their wide belts.

A restless movement occurred immediately among the occupants of the surrounding tables.

“Mr. Theodórou, welcome to Santa Cruz,” said Dr. Sosa.

Mános turned upon hearing the doctor’s voice and stood up to shake his hand and introduce the rest of his group before he asked the doctor and his two escorts to join them. Mános glanced over the doctor’s shoulders and saw all the natives in the reception area with their faces pressed against the stained glass, trying to see what the commandos were about to do. Many recognized the captain; he was one of Gonzales’ many heartless killers. Every time the Gonzales commandos appeared in this place, someone would be taken out to be shot, or if he became difficult to handle, he’d be shot on the spot.

“Please, gentlemen,” Mános said, “have a seat. We have just ordered some mineral water, but feel free to order whatever you like.”

The doctor glanced at the two men standing next to him. They stood with legs apart, facing Mános. The tall commando extended his left arm to push the doctor back. Then he called out with a husky, bullying voice, “Señor! Are you the Griego (Greek) that my patrón Gonzales is waiting for?”

With that, many faces turned in Mános’ direction, and some people began to distance themselves, picking up their drinks and slowly moving out of danger’s way, behind the long bar. Nearly everyone knew who these two commandos were, and some of them had witnessed the outcomes of confrontations with these men.

Mános calmly answered, “Yes, I am. Would you please join us?”

The commando’s husky voice increased in intensity. “Vámanos!” he ordered Mános, with his hand pointing toward the exit door. “Come! We leave now! There is no time to waste!”

Mános looked deeply into the man’s eyes and stood very composed and fearless. He replied, “We just ordered some water to drink, and as I said, you’re welcome to join us, or, if you prefer, you can go and wait over there at that table until we finish.”

At once, the two commandos reached for their pistols and pointed them at Mános, their faces red with suffused anger. Seeing their rage was enough to compel customers from nearby tables to move off to the opposite side of the lounge, many of them rushing into the hotel’s lobby. All the natives in the reception area expected to witness yet another killing.

Mános’ first penetrating gaze reached the control centers of both men’s minds, forcing them to return their guns slowly to their holsters and lower their heads as if they were encountering a supreme authority. The commandos withdrew and sat down obediently at a nearby table. Not a word was exchanged between them. The two of them succumbed to Mános’ control. Only one other man had power like this over them, and that man was Juan Suza Gonzales.

Manos' Encounter With the Gods, Volume II
by Marko Lampas
E-book $10.50