Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The week goes by without further incident. Trishna insists I travel by car with some bodyguards, but I refuse. I'm not going to give these fuckers the satisfaction of getting on my nerves with all their cloak-and-dagger bullshit. I've been out of the computer scene for so long that I forgot how paranoid we make the government. They think most hackers turn good only after they're caught. Not me; I've always been a white hat hacker-at least in my professional life-but the fear of me going black hat one day might be enough for them to circle the wagons.

At work, my boss tells me that the powers that be are pleased with my performance, and that I might be leaving the country in a couple of months. Rumor has it that they want to send me to Beijing so I can work my magic over there. I love the idea of spending some time in China, but not more than I love Trishna.

We both know that sooner or later we will have to have "the talk." I decide to speak to Trishna after the Venezuelan Technology Symposium.

A strong rain mires the day of the conference, but those attending the symposium at the Eurobuilding Hotel are busy with panels about the technological future of Venezuela, dazzling presentations of things to come, and impossibly optimistic speeches. I'm impressed when I find out that Venezuela launched its own communications satellite from China in 2008, a concept that in my youth would have been laughable.

The conference goes like any other. Aside from the usual out of sync slide, uncooperative laptop, and inopportune phone call, everything goes uneventfully. If the words of these men are to be taken at face value, Venezuela will be a paradise in the next ten years.

As the evening comes to a close, all the guests start making their way to the main conference room for the presidential speech.

Security is pretty tight as one might expect; there are metal detectors with grim federal agents stuffed in suits frisking people and cross-referencing IDs with conference passes. The room fills up quickly and after what seems like an eternity, an announcement is made and the crowd quiets.

The president of Venezuela makes his grand entrance hailed by thunderous applause. For the next two hours, he talks about a variety of topics including the history of Venezuela, Simón Bolívar, the Grand Colombia, American interventionism in Latin America, the Cuban Revolution and the need for wealth redistribution. All the while, he throws in jabs at the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, the United States and its allies, and the American non-governmental organizations in Caracas.

Having firsthand experience with private interests dictating world policy, I have to admit the man has some good points. Yet, the president's uncouth delivery, divisive disdain for the upper classes, and fervor for going out of his way to antagonize the United States, doesn't sit well with me.

True, like every powerful nation in history, the United States has a long, dark history of interventionism, but a nation can claim its right to pursue its destiny without the need for populist, incendiary rhetoric. It's like Gandhi telling Mike Tyson to get out of his house by spitting in his face. Right or wrong, you know it's not going to end well.

I start getting a headache. Maybe I'm just tired or perhaps it's because this man just will not shut up. The speech is running typically long and I start to feel as if a metal spike is being driven through my head. I'm getting dizzy and the noise and lights start bothering me. The pain is so intense that it makes me double over.

"Are you alright?" says the man sitting next to me.

I ignore him. My head stops hurting and I experience a moment of complete clarity. My attention shifts to a few rows in front of me where two Middle Eastern men nod approvingly at what the president is saying. I know what needs to be done. I exit the conference room and a member of the security detail starts following me as he whispers into his hidden microphone. The roar of applause behind me announces the end of the speech.

The restrooms on the conference level are off limits, so I make a beeline for the ones in the lobby upstairs before the security guy can engage. Once inside, I go to the sink at the far end of the restroom, and start splashing water on my face. I have to remain focused.

The bodyguard walks in. "Sir, are you OK?"

I wave him away, but he decides to approach me with caution and mutters something into his microphone. "Do you require assistance?" he says.

I nod painfully, turn around and spit water in his face. The man flinches, giving me enough time to strike his throat, knee him in the stomach and then elbow him at the base of his skull. I drag the unconscious guard into a stall.

A few moments later, I come out of the restroom running into the crowd that has gathered outside. The people part like the Red Sea as the president walks among them shaking hands and taking pictures.

It's hard to move around, so I hug a window-framed wall avoiding the worst of the multitude; but I'm still heading straight into the president's path. When the head of state and his entourage get closer, we lock eyes. He gives me a curious look, just before I lift the gun I took from the security agent and open fire.

The crowd runs away in panic as the president falls to the ground and his bodyguards scramble to protect him. One of them rushes me, but I throw him over my hip effortlessly. Another grabs my gun and uses leverage to disarm me, pointing my pistol right back at me.

"Don't mo-!" the bodyguard never completes the sentence. I deflect the weapon to the side. The gun discharges twice behind me, punching holes through the glass. I twist the bodyguard's wrist, breaking the joint and making him fall. The pistol is back in my possession, but before I can do anything else, two security agents tackle me, throwing me against the window.

We fall two stories in a downpour of raindrops and shattered glass. I instinctively try to position my body in mid-air hoping for a controlled fall, but one of my attackers still is ahold of me. I manage to get him underneath me just before impact.

I roll away from my human cushion. A pool of blood starts to form under his head, and I can hear his partner agonizing nearby. The angry shouting above makes me wobble to my feet, when bullets start whistling by my head and ricocheting past me.

Desperate, I run away from the window looking for cover, not sure where to go or what to do. There's nobody outside the hotel because of the rain. I avoid any entrance to the building, always running toward the street. My escape is cut short by a fence, and the street is on the other side, twelve feet below. I hear men shouting in the distance; they're getting closer. I throw my jacket over the barbed wire, and climb over the fence.

Someone screams, "There he is!" I see men with guns running toward me.

I let myself drop with another controlled fall to the sidewalk below. It hurts, but I'm not injured. I run down the elevated one-way street in the direction of Chuao away from the hotel entrance. The sound of speeding cars makes me look over my shoulder. Two black SUVs race to intercept me. I have nowhere to go. One of the trucks overtakes me and blocks my path, while the second car stops behind me. Gunmen spring out of the vehicles. In an act of pure desperation, I jump to a tree protruding from the street below and land hard on a branch trying to get a hold. I slip and tumble to the ground.

"Shoot him!" a man shouts above me.

More bullets ring out. I run using the trees as cover until I find myself in front of the Guaire River, raging and bloated because of the heavy rain. I lean on the railing trying to catch my breath, but I can see two men already running toward me. I jump over the railing, using it as a shield while I run alongside the river.

"Freeze!" one yells before shooting.

The bullets make the railing ring. My dress shoes slip on thewet concrete and I fall.