Chapter 57: América del Sur, Parte I

October 8, 2000, Dallas, Texas

“Paola Soto López,” she said when I sat back down.

“Steve Adams.” I replied.

“Traveling on business?”

“Yes. You?”

“Heading home from a business trip,” she replied. “What do you do?”

“I run a computer company in Chicago. What do you do?”

“I’m a fashion buyer for a company in Bogotá. I was in New York for two weeks.”

“Do you know a designer named Elena Altieri?”

“Yes! She’s wonderful! You know her?”

“She’s a good friend,” I replied. “I haven’t seen her for a few years, but we keep in touch. Have you bought any of her clothes?”

“Last year, when I was in Italy. This year we focused on New York designers. Does your company have an office in Bogotá?”

“No, I’m visiting a client,” I said. “I’ll go on to Buenos Aires and São Paulo after Bogotá.”

“Have you been to South America before?”

I shook my head, “No. I’ve been to Europe and Asia, and to Mexico when I was nine, but never to South America. Where did you go to college?”

“Kent State in Ohio. They have overseas arrangements which let me study in Paris and Milan as well. They have a five-year program which let me earn my degree in fashion and an MBA in fashion business in five years.”

“Would you mind if I asked your age?”

“Twenty-six. You?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Where did you go to school? Or are you one of those computer prodigies who dropped out?”

“I went to Illinois Institute of Technology in Chicago and graduated, despite being one of those ‘computer prodigies’.”

“When did you start your company?”

“Right out of school,” I replied. “Four friends and I who all graduated at the same time. Well, one of them continued working on her Master’s in Finance while she worked with us.”

“But you’re the owner?”

“I lined up the financing, developed the business plan, and added some of my own money for capital. But the others all have shares in the company.”

“How big is it?”

“Just over two hundred employees spread across the US, with a bit more than half in Chicago.”

“In what? Fifteen years?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impressive!”

“And you?”

“A professor at Kent State put me in touch with a woman who has done this for about twenty years in Colombia, but has expanded to neighboring countries, too. I’m her assistant, and I’ll take over for her when she retires in perhaps ten years. We serve eighteen boutiques in five cities - Bogotá, Caracas, Lima, Panama City, and San José. And we’ll probably try for clients in Santiago and Buenos Aires in the next few years.”

We were interrupted by the flight crew making the required safety announcements, and once those were completed, the plane pushed back from the gate and we began taxiing.

“Do you speak Spanish?” Paola asked.

“I studied Spanish in High School, but I really haven’t kept it up since a close friend of mine from Puerto Rico died. He was the main person I spoke Spanish with, albeit poorly. I can get by reasonably well in basic conversation and can read it pretty well. Our clients in South America all speak English, as that’s the official language of their firm.”

“Do you plan to do anything but work in Bogotá?”

“No. I only have Monday and Tuesday, and then Wednesday morning to finish. If everything goes perfectly, I could potentially finish very late on Monday, but I expect it to take until at least noon on Tuesday because with computers, things rarely go perfectly!”

“Don’t I know it!” she laughed. “Where are you staying?”

“Hotel Rosales on Calle 71.”

“I know it. Our office is about two kilometers from there. It’s a good hotel and they have a very nice terrace bar. Perhaps we can have a drink?”

In the past, I’d have taken a different tack, but given the short time I was going to be in Colombia, combined with the amount of work I had to do, and because I needed to have dinner with the client, I simply smiled and held up my left hand.

“Ah, well, that’s too bad. Your wife is a lucky woman!”

“Thanks.”

We reached the runway, the captain asked the cabin crew to prepare for departure, and a moment later, we were hurtling down the runway.

October 8, 2000, Bogotá, Colombia

“An armored personnel carrier?” I asked, looking out the window at our escort on the taxiway.

“The rebels have been threatening the airport for a long time, and despite the ongoing peace talks, they are not keeping to the agreement they made with our President, Andrés Pastrana.”

“The State Department says that the city is very safe.”

“It is, generally, but the government can take no chances. You’ll see an armed military policeman get on the plane as soon as the doors are opened. When you leave, make sure you’re at the airport at least three hours before your flight time, in case there are special security checks. I’m sure your client will tell you, but I wanted to make sure.”

“Thanks. I really enjoyed our conversation on the flight.”

“Me, too! It’s too bad about the ring!”

“I’m flattered,” I replied.

“Do you have a business card?” Paola asked. “It never hurts to have friends!”

“I agree!” I replied.

We exchanged business cards just as the plane came to a stop at the gate. As Paola had predicted, an armed soldier in fatigues boarded the plane as soon as the doors were opened. Paola and I exchanged a quick hug, and she kissed my cheek, and then we walked up the aisle. The soldier eyed each passenger carefully as they deplaned. As I walked up the jetway to the terminal, I passed two more armed soldiers, and once inside the terminal I was directed to Customs and Immigration.

“«Pasaporte»,” a stern-looking man about my age demanded when I approached his counter.

I handed over my passport as well as the letter from our client inviting me to visit. The Immigration officer looked over the letter, verified the name matched the passport, then thumbed through it. I’d had the passport for about six years, and it had a number of stamps, including Japan, Australia, Singapore, Sweden, Germany, the Netherlands, England, and, of course Russia, though given the time that had passed, none were from before the end of the USSR.

“Welcome to Colombia, Señor Adams,” he said, handing back the documents.

“Thank you,” I replied.

I went through the gate he opened with a button behind his counter, then followed the arrows which led me to a very long, brightly-lit hallway, at least thirty meters long, at the end of which was a large one-way mirror set in the wall above what had to be gun ports. I reached that wall then turned right and right again, to find another equally long hallway. At the end, I went through a set of doors which opened into the luggage claim where there were several military policemen stationed. I retrieved my bag and got in line for Customs, which I cleared with no trouble at all.

When I walked into the Arrivals hall, I immediately saw a well-dressed man who I guessed was in his late twenties, wearing a business suit and holding a sign which read ‘Mr. Steve Adams’. I walked over to him and introduced myself. We shook hands and I noticed, because I was very familiar with them, a shoulder holster. When he turned, I got a glimpse of what look like 9mm Beretta.

“I have a car out front,” he said.

We left the Arrivals hall and walked over to a Ford SUV by which another man, dressed similarly to the one who greeted me, was standing. He took my bag and put it in the back of the SUV, and then directed me to the front passenger seat. When I pulled the door shut, it felt at least three-times as heavy as it should, and I realized it was armored, and that the glass was bullet-resistant. Once I was situated, both men got into the SUV, with the one who greeted me driving.

“It’s about twenty-five minutes to the hotel,” the driver said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Ex-military?”

“Yes. We work for a security firm now.”

“How much damage can the armored SUV absorb?” I asked.

“Most automatic fire, unless it’s a heavy-caliber, and if they use an RPG, well...”

I nodded, “Not much protection from that. How much risk is there?”

“Here in the city? Very little. But there’s no reason to take any chances. You can’t know if the taxi driver is a rebel, a drug dealer, or both! You seem calm for the circumstances.”

“I have quite a few friends in the Navy, one of whom taught me to shoot ‘Expert’ with my 9mm, and I hold a 6th Dan ranking in Shōtōkan karate.”

“Were you in the military?”

“No, but my dad was, and as I said, a good number of my friends. I usually carry a pistol in Chicago.”

“Which in some ways is more dangerous than Bogotá!” the guy in the back seat said.

“I can’t argue with you there. One of my friends was randomly shot about fifteen years ago when we were driving down the street. And my car didn’t have bullet-resistant glass!”

“We’re scheduled to pick you up on Wednesday for your flight. I’ll give you my card in case you need to go anywhere.”

“Just from the hotel to the office down the street.”

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Enough to get by,” I said. “And I believe I’m having dinner with people from the office both nights.”

“OK. If you decide to go out, just call the number on the card I give you. We can get you to a nice club or bar.”

“Thanks.”

When we arrived at the hotel, they pulled up right to the door and both men walked me into the hotel, where two guards armed with automatic rifles were keeping watch. One thing was for sure, and that was I wasn’t going to describe ANY of this to Kara, Jessica, or especially Birgit, until I was safely back home. I shook hands with my two bodyguards, the only term I thought applied, and went to the registration desk to check in.

“Steve Adams,” I said, handing over my passport.

“Good evening, Mr. Adams!” the man behind the desk exclaimed, then found the correct card in his file. “Welcome to our hotel. We have you in a junior suite, and I have a coupon for two free drinks at our terrace bar for you. One key for the room?”

“Thank you. Yes.”

He had me sign the registration card and put my passport in a slot marked with my room number.

“The bill is pre-paid,” he said. “May I take an imprint of your credit card for any extras?”

I handed over my American Express card and after he imprinted it on the room invoice, he handed it back.

“Have a nice stay! Jaime will take your bags up to your room for you.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

The clerk tapped a bell on his desk and a young man dressed in a crisply-pressed uniform came over to take my bags. The young man, whose name tag read ‘Jaime’, took the room key from the clerk, then led me to the elevators. We rode up to the floor where my suite was, and he escorted me down the hallway. He opened the door to the room and let me in, then followed with my bags. He set them on the bed, asked in Spanish if I needed anything, I replied in Spanish that I did not, then tipped him. He thanked me and left the room.

My first order of business was to call home, which I did and I spoke to Kara, Jessica, and the kids, and was careful to say only that I’d had no trouble and no delays on my trip. After we all professed our love for one another, I hung up. I took a quick shower, dressed, and went down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. After dinner, I went back to my room, wrote in my journal, read, and then went to bed.

October 9, 2000, Bogotá, Colombia

On Monday morning, I exercised in my room, showered, then put on casual clothes and went downstairs for breakfast. After breakfast, I returned to my room, put on my suit and tie, grabbed my bag, and went downstairs. I stopped at the desk and handed in my key in exchange for my passport, then walked through the automatic sliding doors onto the sidewalk which led along the driveway.

“«¿Taxi, Señor?»” a uniformed bellman asked.

“«No necesito un taxi. Voy a la Carrera 7.»” I said in what I was sure was heavily accented Spanish.

He nodded and I walked to the main sidewalk, turned right, and walked about a hundred meters to Carrera 7, turned right, and then walked to the entrance to the building. When I went through the doors I saw six guards armed with automatic rifles, each one of which seemed to be staring at me. I went to the desk, showed my passport, and explained my reason for being in the building. I was directed to the elevators and went up to the 8th floor.

“Steve Adams?” a young woman asked as I walked out of the elevator.

“Yes.”

“Hi. I’m Maria Elena, the IT coordinator for South America. I believe Sam told you about me.”

“She did,” I said, extending my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” she said, taking my hand.

We shook lightly, and then we walked past the reception desk and she led me to a large corner office.

“José Calderón may I present Steve Adams from NIKA Consulting.”

A good-looking man, who was probably a few years older than I was, got up from his desk and came to meet me.

“Nice to meet you!” he said. “I’m the managing partner here in this office. I understand you’re here to set up our new database and convert our data?”

“Nice to meet you as well. And yes, those are my tasks.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Maria Elena will get you anything you need. I assume you’re free for dinner?”

“I am.”

“Excellent. I’ll send the car for you at your hotel at 7:00pm. Several others from the office will join us as well. Do you think you can finish by noon tomorrow?”

“Probably,” I said. “Why?”

“If you can, we’ll take you for an afternoon getaway with our families, with drinks, a barbecue, and music.”

“I’ll do my best,” I replied.

We shook again and Maria Elena and I left his office. She led me to the small room where they kept their file server, and then showed me the boxes for the HP server on which I’d load SCO Unix and the database program, Adapt. I had code from Sam which would convert the data from their current system, but I’d likely need to tweak it, as each office had a unique setup.

“Do you need anything?” Maria Elena asked.

“Let’s start by putting the server together and installing Unix. Once the installer is running, we’ll look at your current database and do a sample dump.”

“OK. Everyone knows the system won’t be available today or tomorrow. The training for the new system happened last week, so they’ll be ready to use it as soon as you’re finished.”

“Then let’s get started.”

Everything went smoothly with setting up the server and configuring it. The SCO installation, which I’d done many times, was automated once I went through a few configuration screens. When it started, we went to an office Maria Elena was using and I gave her the diskette with the extraction program. She ran it and as expected, several warnings about field names were displayed. I fixed those, and then she re-ran the program.

“Now we have to wait until the Unix install finishes so I can run the programs to change this proprietary format to the one that your new system wants.”

We went to check and the install had about fifteen minutes to go, so we went to the break room and got some coffee.

“Where are you based?” I asked.

“Buenos Aires,” she said. “But I travel to the other offices regularly. We have a PC support company that takes care of the individual computers, but I handle the servers and the networks. Did Sam tell you we’re going to connect all the offices to the WAN early next year?”

“She mentioned that last week. All of the US and Canadian offices are on InfoNet and about half the European ones.”

“There was some debate about the costs here, but in the end, the ability to share data between the databases is worth the added cost, not to mention saving money on modem charges and local internet access in each country. We still plan to connect Buenos Aires when you’re there. The technician will be there on Monday.”

“Good. It’s what? Six new offices in the Americas since we started working with you?”

“Five. Boston, Dallas, Palo Alto, Miami, and Bogotá. There will be three new ones, soon - Santiago, Calgary, and Rio, as soon as they can be organized.”

“How long have you been with the firm?”

“Six years. You own your company, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you usually do this kind of thing?”

I shook my head, “No, but I’m the other main Unix engineer besides Sam, and she wasn’t comfortable coming to Colombia.”

“It can be a dangerous place, but I’ve never had any trouble.”

We finished our coffee and checked on the Unix install. It had completed, so I rebooted the system, put in a diskette, and ran a suite of validation tests Sam and I had developed. All of them passed, so we transferred the dumped database to the server and I started the conversion program. I then switched to a separate virtual terminal and inserted a CD which contained the new system. The install was straight forward, as things usually were on Unix. Once it was installed, Maria Elena went to a PC which had the client software installed, connected to the system with the default administrator account. and after running a few tests, began creating the user accounts.

When the conversion routines completed, I checked for errors, and finding none, went to the PC we had been using, brought up the client software using the default administrator account, and selected the ‘data import’ feature. I verified that everything was correct on the configuration screen then clicked ‘Start’. The rough estimate for the import based on the number of records was three hours, so Maria Elena and I went to lunch at a small restaurant about a block from the office.

When we finished eating, I did some shopping for gifts for the kids, and then we headed back to the office. When we arrived, I connected a modem to the server and configured remote access both for administration, and for loading database updates. I called Sam and had her test the access and she could successfully connect.

“How’s it going?” she asked when we finished testing.