Intelligence was leaked: stolen diamonds were to be smuggled out of the country in the cast of a man with a broken limb. The airport was put on alert. The man’s flight number was known.
The man arrived as expected. He was in a wheelchair, his leg in a full cast. Security officers were polite and apologetic: “I’m sorry sir, we’ll have to examine your cast.”
The suspected smuggler was taken to the hospital. His cast was cut off, but nothing was found inside it. The plaster was crushed and sifted; still nothing was found. The man’s leg was visibly injured, and an x-ray revealed a fresh fracture.
Apologies were profuse and the man was allowed to call his surgeon to re-set the broken leg. The surgeon arrived and plastered his patient, who was then taken through security with a police escort, diamonds safely set in the still-wet cast.
If you read this blog, you’re probably already security-conscious. But this reminder is worth repeating. Don’t trust anyone.
Sorry.
It’s a shame that’s what the world has come to. Even the good samaritan has to be looked at sideways.
Scammers are now blasting entire towns, phone number by phone number, telling residents that their debit card has been restricted. They target customers of a specific local bank or credit union, name it, and give the customer an 800 number to call in order to correct the situation. If you have a debit card from that financial institution, you just might believe it. Well, other people are believing it. After all, their caller-ID proves that it really is the bank calling.
Or does it? The scammers are able to “spoof” the phone number, so it only appears to be the bank calling. You have no inkling that you’ve been targeted by overseas phishers. If you aren’t a customer of that bank, you probably just hang up and forget it.
If you follow the scammers’ instructions, you’ll give them your card number, pin, and all the other juicy data they need to rack up the charges.
So the tired old reminder worth repeating is this: If you suspect a problem with your bank account or debit card, etc., call your bank’s main number. Call the number on the back of your card or on your bank statement. Especially don’t call a number given to you by the bearer of the news.
“I WANT,” is the driving force behind mugging: need and greed. But these muggers in India also had intangible desires that compelled them to behave in a way that surprised their victim. After a recent visit to Mumbai, my friend Paul McFarland, a cruise director, filed his report.
Thanking Muggers
After years of travel there are a few places that I still get excited to visit. Mumbai, India is one of them.
After a delicious meal at the Khyber restaurant, I waited for a taxi outside. I planned to go to Victoria Station, the train station in downtown Mumbai, to take photos of the beautiful building and the colorful people.
A black and yellow taxi pulled up, reminding me of a bumblebee; not so much because of the color but because of its size. It took me some time to fold my 6′ 3″ frame into the back of the vintage vehicle, and I was no sooner in when the driver hastily sped off. We quickly reached top speed and began cutting and slashing through the traffic. I felt like a bag of rice being thrown from side to side. Fortunately my outstretched arms could reach each side of the vehicle and that alone kept me upright.
The driver sensed my discomfort and asked if I liked Indian music—as if that would soothe me. I didn’t want to set him off by saying no, so I nodded. Big mistake. His voice sounded like a snake charmer’s flute as he sang, and he let go of the steering wheel, wildly waving his arms as if he were a classical dancer. All the while he was driving faster and faster, narrowly missing ox carts, cars, and pedestrians. I finally screamed at him to slow down, whereupon he glanced at me in disbelief and started to sing his song slower. The good news is that I arrived at Victoria Station in record time. Little did I know this was just the start of my adventure.
I got out of the taxi much quicker than I got in—so happy I had arrived safely that I gladly overpaid him by 200 rupees. I had plenty of money with me as I planned on giving a few rupees to some of the people as a thank you for allowing me to take their pictures.
Mumbai fruitwalla near Victoria Station
Victoria Station loomed large across the busy intersection and beckoned to me to photograph its architectural beauty.
On the way I stopped every few feet to photograph the colorful, happy people at the markets that had sprung up on the streets surrounding the station. They were selling everything: from watermelon with slices of fresh pineapple chilled with melting blocks of ice, to scraps of material, to cheap padlocks. Because my camera was new I was concentrating on the viewfinder, focused solely on my photography. I wandered freely throughout the crowded market and, even though I was by myself, I felt very safe. I’ve enjoyed many wonderful visits to this exotic and exciting country without any incidents and had no reason to believe today would be any different.
Even though I didn’t buy anything, the street vendors seemed to enjoy having me look at their items. I think it added some credibility to their card-table stores. I weaved my way through the vendors and crossed the street to capture a good panoramic view of Victoria Station. As I walked along a roadside barrier, I kept my eye on the building.
Mugged in Mumbai
I didn’t notice a taxi approach me from the opposite direction. It pulled to a stop right next to me and two young men got out. At the same time someone tapped me on my shoulder. As I turned to see who it was, the two men from the taxi immediately dropped down in front of me, grabbing and wrapping themselves around each leg.
My first thought was, my God these beggars are a lot more aggressive than they used to be; but at the same time two men jumped on my back, one holding onto my left arm and the other one going for my backpack which contained more camera equipment. Another one wrapped his arms around my waist. I must be watching too much of the Discovery Channel because I remember thinking: I’m like a wildebeest on the Serengeti being pulled down by a pack of jackals. Even though the wildebeest is much stronger, the jackals can bring him down through perseverance.
I staggered forward wearing five young men. Then it occurred to me that they weren’t trying to hurt me, they were just trying to detain me long enough to pick my pockets. Within seconds I reached for my wallet but it was it was already gone. This enraged me and I tossed two of the young men to the ground. But I noticed at the same time that one of the boys was running from the scene dodging traffic as quickly as his flip-flops would allow. His hasty departure told me he was the one with my wallet.
I tried to pursue him, but there were still three thugs hanging onto my legs and waist. I was able to quickly rid myself of the young man around my waist but I had to use my camera as a hammer to get rid of the human leg irons. They were no match for the Nikon D300 and dropped off. Then I was free to pursue the thief with my wallet.
I ran across the four lanes of traffic yelling stop thief at the top of my lungs, hoping to gain attention and support from the many locals in the area. But he had already made it to the other side of the road and had merged with the millions of Indians at the Sunday market. My heart sank, knowing that my chances of ever seeing him or my wallet again were nil.
Sidewalk barbers in Bombay
I wandered through the market, carefully scrutinizing every face I saw. After about ten minutes, realizing my search was futile, I headed back to the road. I now looked suspiciously at the same people, and now their beauty and innocence were gone. I was sad about that. Little did I know that there was still more to my adventure.
The black and yellow bumblebee taxis were all lined up looking for fares, but not necessarily looking for me because, in this part of town, few of the drivers spoke English. In these situations, rather than asking drivers if they speak English I ask “Did it snow last night?” if they say “yes, no problem,” I know we’d have a problem if I got in that taxi.
After quizzing eight to ten drivers, I found one I thought understood my destination. I was relieved that I had remembered before leaving the ship to stash some cash in other pockets in case of just such an emergency. I climbed into the taxi and he took off in the direction of my ship, giving me confidence that I had made the right choice.
We’d been on the road for three or four minutes, giving me time to organize my thoughts and do a mental inventory of what was in my wallet and what steps I was going to have to take when I got back to the ship. I realized that the wallet contained three credit cards, my drivers license, my PADI dive card I’d had since 1976, and $250 cash.
My concentration was interrupted when suddenly another taxi pulled up next to us with two young men in the back seat yelling at my driver. My driver tried to ignore them at first, but eventually was forced to the side of the road by the other taxi. I couldn’t believe it was happening again, and I braced myself for another attack. I thought: the bastards know I have more money because I got in a taxi and they’re after every penny.
I gripped my Nikon for action as the two young men jumped out and quickly threw something in the back window that landed on my lap. Thinking the worst, I threw myself out of its path—only to discover that it was my wallet. To say I was surprised to see it is an understatement. I opened it and realized that my credit cards and everything but my money was intact.
As they fled, I was so relieved, I blurted out the window, “thank you,” as if they were India’s version of Robin Hood. I thought: you’ve really lost it now—thanking muggers! My taxi driver smiled at me, and we once again took off for the port. On the ride I double and triple check my wallet, thinking it was too good to be true to have thieves go to the effort to track me down. Why had they chosen me to attack, and then why in the world would they take the chance of being caught by returning it?
Musicians in Colaba, a Bombay neighborhood
I wasn’t sure if my driver knew that I’d been mugged when I got in the taxi, but I was pretty sure he figured it out. So I asked him why they returned my wallet and he gave me in a one-word reply: Karma. I remembered reading that in the Hindu and Buddhist religions Karma is most important and is based on actions or deeds. The thieves initially created very bad Karma for themselves, but by returning my wallet perhaps they hoped to balance it out with a good deed.
Once back at the port I told the ship’s agent about the incident and he asked me to describe the attackers. I told him that there were six or seven of them, and that they were all about 5′ 6″ to 5′ 7″ with dark hair and dark complexions. I added what I thought would be a helpful detail, remembering that they all wore flip-flops. He seemed amused, and I embarrassingly realized that I had just described not only my attackers, but probably five million other young men in the city. I quickly added that one of them might have a unique imprint on his forehead—that of a 28 x 200mm Nikon lens.
Bottom line: I lost $250 but that’s not what I’ll miss the most. I’ll miss feeling safe in a city I still love.
The useless chain latch in my room at Miami's Radisson Mart Plaza Hotel.
See anything wrong with the chain lock on this door at Miami’s Radisson Mart Plaza Hotel? It’s mounted backwards! Upside-down. It’s useless this way and, worse, gives a false sense of security. Another serious security risk.
Do all the rooms have useless chain latches, or only our room, 612? A polite letter to management brought only a generic “We appreciate your recent message.”
We were so thrilled with it. We’d spent a year in Africa and needed a laptop. Apple didn’t make one yet, so we had to buy a DOS machine. Shortly after we got home, Apple came out with a luggable.
Apple Mac Portable
Bob and I were on a cruise ship with our Mac Portable. The machine was a year or so old—that’s how long ago this was. Bob sat at the desk in our stateroom, I on the bed, with my 16-pound Mac open in front of me.
“Pass me a paperclip,” I said to him.
Apple logo circa 1989.
He tossed, I missed. The paperclip fell right into a narrow gap behind the display, where the back end of that computer extended another four or so inches. Instantly, a thin wisp of smoke arose and, like a cartoon, curled its wavy way right up to the smoke detector. On a ship. At sea.
I gave the gap a good blow and was horrified to see a little red flame dancing within. We got the tiny fire out quickly, but the machine was dead.
The size of a small suitcase.
The story’s not over though. We had a fancy neoprene case for the Mac Portable, embossed with a pretty little Apple logo. On our way home, we bought extra insurance for the case and sent it as baggage—something we’d otherwise never do. We hoped it would be stolen. We were sure it would be.
Not a reflection. Handle, display, hinge, back end.
On arrival, we waited at the baggage carousel—and waited. Finally, we went to the lost luggage office to report the loss of our insured computer. “Oh, we have your bag,” they said. It got extra care since it was insured, and they wanted to hand it to us personally. (Yeah. Those were the days.)
I found the old Portable in the garage recently. It has some parts tucked into its case I don’t remember, like a huge battery brick. Though it doesn’t start up, I can’t throw it out. I don’t know why.
How safe is the safe in your hotel room? Not safe at all, it turns out, unless you factor in the odds. Odds are, your safe won’t be broken into. But the fact is, the crackin’s easy. Of course it is—hotels must be able to rescue valuables from faulty memories (forgotten codes, departed guests who forgot to empty their safes), lost keys, dead batteries, and power outages.
Hotel management and/or security can always access room safes. But how? Depends on the kind of safe. Does it open with a metal key? By swiping a magnetic card, or punching in a code? Does it use a plastic key card with a pattern of holes punched in it?
A hotel in Palma de Mallorca, Spain.
Is the safe safe?
Bob and I have long endorsed the use of safes in hotel rooms, as long as they are electronic. We’ve shied away from metal- and plastic-key safes, concerned about how many copies float around. But there are other ways to enter safes, and an untold number of people who have access, authorized or otherwise.
A deluge of thefts from hotel room safes in Palma de Mallorca, Spain, led to an investigative report by Burkhard Kress for Extra, a news show on German RTL TV (unfortunately not online).
Hidden camera captures master override code.
Kress booked a room there and mounted a hidden camera, then called hotel management for help opening his safe. The hidden camera footage captured the code that management punched into the safe’s keypad, which ended with the room number. With the permission of the guest in the room next to his, Kress tried the same code appended with the other room number. The neighbor’s safe opened. Anyone with the master code could open every safe in the hotel.
And anyone with a hidden camera could capture the master code.
These three, who shared a room, called police when they found cash missing from their safe. As there were no signs of a forced entry, they believe they were robbed by hotel staff. Police never responded to their call, so they went to the police station.
Kress had his cameraman stake out a different room for a week, waiting for a safe break-in. Alas, he was never hit. Eventually, Kress found out why. The thefts occur in rooms booked by two or more friends staying together. When a theft is reported, front desk staff insist the theft was committed by one of the “friends.”
Guests are required to pay a fee for the use of the safe. This, along with the fact that the only rooms hit are booked by two or more friends, leads me to suspect that these safe thefts are inside jobs. Who but front desk staff know both those facts? Of course the thieves might also be former employees, or individuals in cahoots with an employee.
According to Eric Fischer, a tour leader interviewed by Kress, these thefts have been going on for years at this and other hotels in Palma. He’s kept a log of them. He himself had €14,500 stolen from the safe in his room. When the Spanish police investigated the theft without much interest, Fischer suggested that they take fingerprints. “The police responded no,” he said, “you must be watching too much German TV—we don’t do that.”
These old safes can still be found in budget hotels.
What about those plastic key cards with a pattern of holes punched in them? They can be copied onto cardboard by anyone with a pencil and a hole punch. Safes that open with a keypad or your own magnetic card (credit card, grocery store card, or anything swipeable) often have a visible keyhole for a tool held by hotel management or security. Or, the safe may have an innocuous-looking panel that simply snaps off to reveal the keyhole. Whose got that key?
Bob and I have also come across safes screwed to loose shelves in closets.
In our book, we wrote:
Safe-cracks are extremely rare, although a man was recently arrested in Palma de Mallorca and charged with a spate of hotel safe robberies. Somehow, he had come into possession of a master tool which hotel security uses to open certain jammed electronic safes. (Other electronic safes can be opened by security using numerical bypass codes.) Presumably then, the man also had the tools to get into the hotel room itself. The burglar posted his female accessory at the elevator. They each had a cellphone and kept an open connection between them. When people came to the elevator, the woman would delay them for one minute. The burglar would hear the conversation, tidy up, and get out of the room.
The “international conman” captured last September social-engineered his way into guest rooms and tricked hotel staff into opening safes. Hotel management, meanwhile, walks a fine line, compromising somewhere between providing real security and reluctance to inconvenience guests.
So how does Mr. International Conman get into your safe? Or—maybe not your safe because, obviously, he’s going to target a “whale,” or some other affluent hotel guest. First, he needs to get into your room—when you’re not there. Like any good con artist, he knows that front desk staff at most hotels will ask for ID, so he’s prepared. Here’s how. First, he follows you to learn your room number. Later, he goes to the front desk and, giving your room number, asks for a printout of “his” charges to date. Bingo. He’s now got your name and address. Next job is to whip out a fake ID, right in his car in the parking lot. Sounds like a lot of trouble, doesn’t it? But look at the payout.
Our usual set of old, beat-up Halliburtons.
What should you do, then, with your million-dollar bauble? Carry the stuff and get pickpocketed or mugged? Leave it in the hotel safe for the safe-cracker to burgle? Put it in the front office safe? Often, Bob and I choose to lock our stuff into our largest hardsided (aluminum) luggage.
This is a good moment for intuition, or at least for some conscious reasoning. Bob and I stay some 200 or more nights a year in hotels and, though we don’t always use the safe, we’ve never had a problem with one. YMMV. The practical danger in using the hotel safe is remembering to empty it before you check out. When I expect a hurried or groggy, pre-dawn check-out, I scrawl a bedside note to myself.
What kind of joints do you stay in? What do you carry?
Don’t give your credit card details if “the front desk” seems to be calling you in your hotel room. It’s a scam!
Heads up, travelers. Beware the clever new scam happening in hotels now.
In order to thwart it, proactive properties are placing notes like this one into guest rooms:
Dear Guest:
Lately, scam artists are attempting to secure credit card numbers from guests in hotels. They’re calling guest rooms at random and claiming to be hotel employees needing to verify credit card information. For your own protection, please do not give your credit card number over the telephone while staying in the hotel. …
Hotel phone scam
My regular readers know that I stay in hotels more than 200 nights a year, and I research scams and cons. Yet, even I could very easily have fallen for this perfectly believable trick. It falls into the “pretexting” and “social engineering” categories. I got a chill reading this hotel management’s note, having just received a similar phone call in a different hotel a few days before. It took me a moment to recall that the request was for my frequent stay account number, not my credit card. Whew!
I’ve confirmed this ruse’s widespread existence with police and hotel security chiefs in several countries. Although aware of the ploy, not all properties believe in taking a proactive approach. As always, it’s up to us travelers to look after ourselves.
“Somehow they get the guest’s name, call the room, and explain that they are from either room service or the front desk and need the credit card number again,” the security director of a major hotel group told me.
“We never connect calls if the person calling can’t say the name of the guest he/she is looking for,” said the security manager of another hotel chain.
But a phone-pharming data-miner can sequentially call every room in a hotel once he knows the phone number convention. Most of us, as generally trusting (and/or oblivious) humans, will miss the fact that the data-miner on the phone fails to address us by name. If he’s any good, he’ll get “the name on the card” just as easily as he gets every other useful tidbit, and I’d bet he gathers quite a few “profiles.”
After the brutal armed robbery of 18 tourists in Nassau three weeks ago, and our naive trek through the world’s most dangerous city, Port Moresby, Bob and I have had muggers on our minds. For years, we’ve studied non-violent pickpockets and con artists, and advised travelers how to avoid becoming their victims.
Muggers, though, are a different breed, defined—by us—as those who use violence or the threat of violence in the course of robbery. Often drug-addicted and desperate, their behavior is unpredictable and not easily avoidable.
Ask your hotel staff and local hosts where it’s safe to walk, we say. Carry “give-up” money. Be compliant, give them your stuff. It’s impossible to know what these desperadoes are capable of. Beyond that, we didn’t have much to say about muggers.
That changed a few days ago, when Bob created an opportunity. We were visiting Panama’s second largest city, feared by the capital’s police as well as savvy expats.
Having heard how dangerous Colon is, I left my camera in the hotel and walked the streets with empty pockets. Bob brought a video camera and a collapsing monopod. Immediately, we were approached by many aggressive men who wanted to show us the sites. We waved them away until we met Gustavo and Carlos, gentle, low-key men. Both scramble for whatever odd jobs they can find: construction, painting, roof repair, escorting visitors to the Gatun Locks.
Gustavo
Gustavo, 38, spoke decent English and was more than pleased to fulfill Bob’s challenge: take us to the most dangerous streets, and introduce us to some banditos. “Nobody wants to see my city,” Gustavo sighed later. Everybody just wants to go to the locks, or to the mall to buy t-shirts.”
I admit to starting this adventure a little uneasily. We don’t speak Spanish, for one thing. And I remembered the scary vulnerability we experienced when two knife-wielding thieves in Peru took us in a taxi to a “quiet place” of their choosing. And the way we were followed and scrutinized in Valparaiso, Chile, when we were pretty sure we saw the flash of a blade. And the gangsters we met in Panama City. Not to mention the emotional aftermath of Nassau’s 18 armed robbery victims.
Had I read what one Colon tourism site had to say, I probably wouldn’t have gone at all:
“Though exaggerated, Colon’s reputation throughout the rest of the country for violent crime is not undeserved, and if you come here you should exercise extreme caution—mugging, even on the main streets in broad daylight, is common. Don’t carry anything you can’t afford to lose, try and stay in sight of the police on the main streets, and consider renting a taxi to take you around, both as a guide and for protection.”
We trusted Gustavo instantly, although the city looked, uh, “dicey,” to say the least. He led and Carlos guarded from behind, both pushing bicycles. “Robbers will not be difficult to find,” Gustavo admitted, “They are everywhere. They live on my street.”
Colon’s gorgeous colonial architecture glowed under a hot sun, its faded Caribbean colors covered with graffiti. The place is crumbling. Potholed streets run with overflowing sewer water and heaps of trash. Cracked pavements and treacherous gutters vie for attention, with two-by-fours stretched across particularly rough stretches—inner-city balance beams.
Bambi Vincent on the street in Colon, Panama
“Hold this,” Bob said, passing me his monopod while he shot a little video. Not “Honey, you better stay home,” as many a husband might say. I gripped the photographic tool like a weapon, and later realized that it must have looked like one. Not a very nice visitor who tours a city wielding a police baton. Better leave her alone!
Gustavo pointed out the sights as we walked; sort of a walking tour of gangland central. Here’s a building used in a James Bond film shot last year. The men over there, they’re too dangerous. That street is very bad; we won’t walk there. This street is the home of three pandillas [gangs]. Colon has at least 50.
I looked at the blood newly splattered on my pants and shivered. Right… the butcher chopping chicken in the crowded market we passed through.
Colon kids
“Stay close,” Gustavo said. “No one will bother you when you’re with me. I know everyone.” Indeed, men, women, and children greeted him at every step, but he politely deflected them and focused on us.
“That guy’s a robber,” Gustavo pointed, and called him over. Explaining our mission, he spoke with such authority the thief had no choice but to comply. Bob tossed the camera to me as we stepped into a filthy alley. It reeked of pee. Above, a man watched us from a balcony. Water gushed from another balcony, higher up.
How I mug
Dajanel and Bob Arno
It’s hard to believe that Dajanel [Die-a-NEL) is a mugger. His sweet face, slight build, and compliant behavior belied his vocation. He robs with a gun. He doesn’t fire the gun, he told us—small comfort to his victims. Or huge comfort to his victims, I guess.
Dajanel likes to work as part of a structured threesome. One man grabs and holds the victim, one watches for police, one lifts the wallet. He scopes his marks as they come out of hotels, or as they buy drugs or girls. He looks for thick wallets.
Before a theft, Dajanel fortifies his nerves with drugs. We couldn’t ferret out his drug of choice but, whatever it is, it grows his strength and power. When he seizes a wallet, he goes straight for the cash and dumps the rest. ASAP. He doesn’t use credit cards, doesn’t sell them on. Holding them is evidence against him, and commands a higher sentence if he’s convicted of a crime.
Curiosity in Colon, Panama.
Dajanel’s only 26, but he’s already spent three years in jail. As proof of his toughness, he pulled down the neck of his t-shirt to show off a thick scar on his shoulder—a deep knife wound that took three years to heal. He reminded me of Petter in Lima, who showed off his many scars, and Angel, in Panama City, whose little bullet wound was a badge of honor. Dajanel raised his knee to display the entry point of a police bullet, and another in his foot.
Gustavo translated like a pro throughout the interview, while Carlos watched my back, his bike arranged like a police barrier at the alley entrance. I was hyper-aware of the million-dollar camera in my flimsy fingers—it might as well have been worth that much. A steady stream of passers-by stopped to watch—to see what was in it for them? Carlos moved them on.
We walked on 6th Street after we let Dajanel go, where Gustavo lives. He brought us into his tiny, dark apartment, to meet his wife and four small girls. He has three older children elsewhere, he told us, though he’s only 38. Music was blasting in his apartment, as if he were force-feeding rhythm to his kids. Bob delighted them with a few magic tricks.
Three of Gustavo’s children watch their older sister help Bob with a magic trick.
Exiting the long, dark hall to Gustavo’s interior home, we met Jaer, a 34-year-old robber.
Unlike Dajanel, Jaer prefers to work alone. That way, he doesn’t have to share money or worry about a partner who, if caught, might squeal. Unlike Dajanel he doesn’t use a gun; he steals anywhere, at any hour, but prefers early morning, because there are fewer cops around. He does not profile his marks. His weapon is speed, as in quickness, and brute force, as in a chokehold from behind. He oozes confidence and control. He doesn’t use drugs.
“Show me,” Bob said, no caution left to throw to the wind. “But not here. In private.” Yeah, where no one will see the mugger with his two rubes. Bob followed him down an alley only four feet wide to an interior courtyard the size of a tollbooth. “Now, show me,” he said.
Jaer demonstrates how he steals using Bob Arno as a mock victim.
Jaer backed up to the extent he could. So did I, attempting to get the whole scene on video, but even wide angle wasn’t wide enough in this close space. Jaer lent Bob his wallet, and stepped back over puddles of mud and water for a two-step running start.
Pow! The wallet was gone, and Jaer’d have been a block away had there been any place to run. He smiled with pride as a miniature gang of children passed through the shady space.
Even Bob Arno was surprised at Jaer’s sudden chokehold.
“Wow,” Bob said, “that’s the fastest steal I’ve ever seen! Again.” This time, Jaer surprised Bob with a chokehold, lifting the wallet in a one-handed plunge. The demo proved him experienced and capable.
“Now you,” Jaer requested, replacing his wallet in his pocket. After a suitable pause, Bob stealthily swiped it.
“I didn’t feel it,” Jaer said. “I’m impressed. Your way is much better. But speed is vital. I don’t think you could run away fast enough.”
He left Bob with a final word: “I’ll be talking about you tonight…”
* * *
What the U.S. State Department says about Colon:
“The entire city of Colon is a high crime area; travelers should use extreme caution when in Colon.”
