Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER EIGHT

A week later, I land at the Simón Bolívar International Airport in Maiquetía, about an hour away from Caracas. I'm greeted by a welcoming committee of two bodyguards and a dark-eyed brunette, the kind that makes you forget what you're saying when she passes.

"Buenas noches, yo soy Eric Caine," I say as I walk up to the security guy holding the sign with my name.

"Welcome home, Mr. Caine, I'm Trishna Santorelli, sub-director of the International Accounts Department. It's nice to finally meet you," she says in Spanish with an accent I can't quite place.

"The pleasure is mine," I say, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm and professional. "Please, call me Eric."

"In that case, I'm Trishna. Need help with the bags?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I say, waving away the obliging bodyguards. I hate being waited on. "I was expecting to meet someone from HR." Not that I'm complaining.

"And you will. But because you'll be working on the security of our accounts, my boss wants me to get to know you better."

I have to remember to buy that man a drink, I think, as we board the back seat of an SUV with tinted windows.

"You're a bit of a surprise yourself," Trishna says.

"How so?"

"You don't look anything like I expected," she says.

"I doubt you spend a lot of time with computer nerds," I say.

"You'd be surprised."

"I've been meaning to ask you, where's your accent from?" I say, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Everywhere," she says. "I was born in Tampa, but my father was from Brazil and my mother from Colombia. We moved a lot, so I grew up in places like Sao Paulo, Buenos Aires, Bogotá and Rome. I also spent a couple of years in Mozambique after graduating from business school."

"Harvard?" I say, knowing the type of executives Corso likes to hire.

"Columbia."

"What were you doing in Mozambique?"

"I served in the Peace Corps as a teacher."

"That's quite amazing," I say.

"Thanks," she says. "Coming from a guy whose life reads like a modern Hemingway novel, that's pretty flattering. Do you have any family in Caracas?"

"No, my parents are both deceased and I'm an only child," I say. "I have some family in Spain from my mother's side, but we aren't close."

"I'm sorry to hear that," says Trishna, looking for a way to change the subject. "Do you consider yourself American or Venezuelan?"

"It's hard to say. No one's really asked me that before. I guess a little bit of both. Although it seems I've leaned more toward the American side as an adult."

"Then maybe coming here wasn't a coincidence," she says. "Maybe this is life's way of helping you get in touch with your Venezuelan roots."

"That's a nice thought," I say, noticing there's no ring on her finger. "Maybe you can help me out by showing me around the city."

"I don't mix work with pleasure," she says as I detect a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Then I have nothing to worry about." There's something exhilarating about making a beautiful woman laugh.

"Is that right?"

"A lonely guy in an unknown town... that's a recipe for disaster. Someone can take advantage of me."