The Venezuelan Page 10

  He took a deep drag and held it for a few moments before exhaling, as if smoking a doobie.

  “Good. I like people who get right to the point,” said Marco, settling into his chair and crossing his legs, his right ankle resting atop his left knee, American-style. “My people are very concerned about the chaos occurring across the border in Venezuela.”

  “As are we,” said Bostwick, motioning for the old man to set the coffee pot and cups down on the table in front of them. He noticed the concerned look on Marco’s face at the man’s presence. “Don’t worry about the sergeant major. He’s probably forgotten more than most of us will ever know in our entire lifetimes.”

  Marco smiled reassuringly because he understood that’s what his hosts expected. The old man’s probably been sitting in the next room listening to everything they said, anyway, he thought to himself. Hell, he’s probably even recording it. I’ll have to keep that in mind for the post-op cleanup phase.

  Still, he waited until the old sergeant major had left the room before continuing.

  “We are especially concerned that any unrest in Venezuela not be allowed to spill over into Guyana…unless, that is, it would serve your interests if some of it did spill over,” said Marco, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning back in his chair. “As you can appreciate, ultimate stability in this region is important to the people I represent. Very important.”

  “As it is to me and the people I represent,” said Bostwick, smiling.

  “My people are concerned to the point of wanting to do something about it,” said Marco, waiting for a reaction. “In fact, they think the current situation presents us with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “Please continue,” said the Cuban, speaking for the first time.

  ◆◆◆

  “Capitão Miller,” said Major Rodrigues, his voice showing his exasperation at the situation unfolding in front of his eyes. “You need to move these people along to the shelter before we have violence on our hands.”

  The day had been a rough one. For whatever reason, the number of refugees crossing the border into Pacaraima was twice what it was the day before. The fact that it was summertime along the equator didn’t help matters either, as frustration led to rising tempers, especially among the locals, who had witnessed their once peaceful community being transformed into a hothouse of misery and despair.

  And they were the lucky ones. The vast majority of the Venezuelans pouring across the border probably hadn’t eaten in days. Food and water were at a premium in this small border town of twelve thousand, even with the Brazilian government shipping supplies north to them to help deal with the situation.

  The problem was that their efforts were not enough, not by a long shot.

  “The relief shelter is completely full, Major,” the captain replied. “These people will have to either sleep on the street or start walking south toward Boa Vista…or they can return to Venezuela.”

  It was more than one-hundred-thirty miles to Boa Vista, and this time of year, the temperature along the blacktop road was sweltering. The only breeze came from the wings of the millions of mosquitos that hunted without mercy along the road.

  “Look, Captain Miller, we have a job to do here,” said Rodrigues, pronouncing the man’s name as MEE-ler. “It’s not the fault of these people that they find themselves in their current predicament. All we can do is try to make the best out of a bad situation.”

  “This is insanity, Major. This is all because of that maniac in Caracas.”

  “We can only focus on those things we can control. For now, our mission is to provide humanitarian assistance. Leave the political decisions for the politicians.”

  It wasn’t that Rodrigues had no political opinions. He did. Very passionate ones. However, he was also a soldier and felt it was important to his country’s stability that the military remain out of politics. He wished that more of his counterparts held the same beliefs.

  The shouting in the distance interrupted their conversation. A growing crowd was forming around the site of the ruckus.

  “It looks like there’s a commotion over there that requires your attention, captain,” said Rodrigues, removing a pack of smokes from his pants pocket.

  He took out a cigarette and lit it as Captain Miller jogged over toward the site of the squabble. As the major turned around to walk back to his vehicle, the sound of a single shot rang out. Then all hell broke loose.

  Rodrigues spun back around and broke into a full sprint, charging toward the crowd, which was now compressing inward toward the center of the cluster, like space debris being drawn into a black hole.

  “Move back. Move back,” shouted Rodrigues, grabbing bystanders by the arm or shoulder and yanking them out of the way, clearing a path toward the middle of the gaggle.

  A few people, mostly younger men, objected to being pushed aside and tried to block him. The first received a punch in the throat for his troubles, the second a kick in the nuts. After that, it was like Moses parting the Red Sea.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Rodrigues yelled as he finally reached the center of the crowd. That’s when he noticed Captain Miller on the ground, sprawled on his back, the front of his green camouflage uniform saturated with blood. His own blood.

  “Get me a medic over here. Now,” the major shouted at one of the soldiers standing nearby. There was a medical aid station next to the border checkpoint where he had been talking to Captain Miller only moments before.

  He looked up and saw a young man standing three feet away being subdued by two Brazilian army soldiers. The boy was struggling to break free from the two men, each of whom was gripping one of the boy’s arms at the shoulder. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

  “Let me go,” the boy yelled as he continued to squirm, causing the Brazilian soldiers to tighten their grip. “It wasn’t my fault. I thought he was trying to kill me.”

  That’s when Rodrigues noticed the blood on the young man’s leg.

  “He shot me,” the kid screamed. “The soldier shot me. That’s why I stabbed him.”

  He was beginning to slack off with his struggling, realizing that he was unlikely to break free. Even if he did, there were now half a dozen soldiers within ten feet of him, not to mention the horde of angry Brazilians whose numbers were growing ever larger by the minute.

  “He attacked Captain Miller, Major,” said one of the soldiers who was holding on to the young man. “He stabbed him in the chest. That’s when the captain drew his weapon and fired.”

  Rodrigues looked around at the crowd. Everyone seemed to be nodding their heads vigorously in agreement. He looked over at one of the civilians in the crowd.

  “Is that what happened?” Rodrigues asked in Portuguese.

  “Si, Señor,” the man replied in Spanish.

  “Are you Venezuelan?”

  “Si, Señor.”

  “Do you know this boy?”

  The man nodded his head. “Si, Señor. He joined our group about a week ago, while we were passing through Las Claritas. A real troublemaker. We caught him stealing from one of the old women in our group.”

  “Was he traveling with anyone else when he joined up with you?”

  “Yes, he was with two other men.”

  “Are they still with you?”

  “No, Señor, they managed to catch a ride an hour ago on a truck heading south toward Boa Vista,” he said, his eyes searching the crowd, as if looking for someone. “They left the boy here.”

  Rodrigues thought for a moment.

  “Take the boy into custody,” he said to the two soldiers holding on to him. “Don’t let go of him, or we’ll never find him again.”

  Rodrigues turned back to the Venezuelan man.

  “You come with me,” he said. “I need to ask you some questions about the men that the boy was traveling with.”

  ◆◆◆

  PART TWO

  The Canadian

  Chapter 13

  Eme
rson, North Dakota

  The heavily bundled man in the black Ford Focus sedan smiled at the female U.S. customs agent as she handed him back his Canadian passport and waved his vehicle through.

  “Merci,” he said, tossing his passport onto the empty passenger seat next to him.

  He could see his breath as he held down the button that automatically rolled up his vehicle window. It was the dead of winter and the outside temperature at the Emerson, North Dakota border crossing was minus five degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature inside the sedan had probably plunged twenty degrees just in the forty seconds he had the window down at the border checkpoint.

  Olivier Gauthier was accustomed to the weather. He was born and raised in Montreal, a city where long, harsh winters were the norm. He was looking forward to spending a few days in Houston, where he had some quick business to attend to. It would also give his bones an opportunity to thaw out before returning to his job as a contract assassin for the leading organized crime family in Montreal.

  Gauthier turned up the volume on his satellite radio, which was playing a Celine Dion song. He loved music. In fact, that was a major factor in his choice of professions. Killing, especially in the big leagues, as it were, paid handsomely. It also left him with plenty of free time to pursue his true love.

  Music.

  The only real drawback is that it is difficult to find a piano to play while traveling for work. Sure, there are plenty of bars with pianos, and most good hotels seem to have a grand piano in the lobby or in the bar, but he was an exceptional player and people would certainly remember him if he played in public…so he didn’t. It was a sacrifice he made for his profession.

  Besides, Gauthier was also an albino, and despite shaving his head to get rid of the telltale thin white hair, the blood vessels inside his iris made his eyes look pink. He usually wore sunglasses during the day and lightly tinted glasses at night. His appearance was unnerving to most people, while scaring the bejesus out of most of his victims.

  He glanced down at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was nearly five o’clock and it would be dark soon. Despite being Canadian, he absolutely hated to drive at night, especially after the sun went down and it became even more treacherous. He glanced over at the GPS. It was another eighty miles to Grand Forks.

  He planned to check into a hotel on the north side of town to avoid the evening rush hour traffic on the icy roads. He always thought people who said that Canadians or Upper Midwesterners were good drivers in the snow and ice were crazy. Crazy and ill-informed. They may be less bad at it than most people, but nobody was actually very good at it.

  Besides, he had plenty of time. He didn’t need to be in Houston for another three days.

  ◆◆◆

  “So tell me, did you send Clarice Robideaux away from the embassy for a few weeks?” Margaret Donovan asked over the secure telephone. She was calling from her office in Langley.

  “Yes, I told her it would be a good idea if she took some time off to decompress,” said Ryan Carpenter, who was sitting in his office in Brasilia. “Her flight home to New Orleans left last night.”

  “Excellent. How did she take it?”

  “She wasn’t pleased about the situation, but I convinced her that it was best for her to drop off the radar for a while until things calmed down a bit in Washington. I simply told her that, since she was the only one in the station read into the program, Langley would likely blame her for allowing HIMILAYAN VULTURE to go off the rails.”

  “That’s precisely why I didn’t want you read into the program, Ryan,” she said earnestly, if not necessarily truthfully. “A crucial part of any good plan is to lay the foundation for the fall guy in case anything goes wrong.”

  “I’ll just add that piece of wisdom to the long list of useful things I’ve learned from you,” he said, laughing nervously only because he did not appear to be the designated fall guy in her plan. At least he thought he wasn’t. With Margaret Donovan, one never knew for sure.

  It was not like she was his longtime mentor. In fact, they had never met prior to his recent assignment to Brasilia three months earlier. He knew better than to ask the older woman why she seemed to be choosing him over Clarice Robideaux. There are some things he was better off not knowing.

  “What is your guidance concerning Robideaux?” he asked.

  Margaret Donovan was silent for a moment before answering. Not that she was necessarily pondering the question. Heck, she had decided several months ago what the deputy station chief’s role would be in this operation.

  “You need to make sure she stays away, out of the loop for at least a week,” said Donovan finally. “That should give us the time we need.”

  “Yes, but she’s a quick study,” he replied. “Once we read her into SOARING CONDOR, she’ll figure everything out pretty fast.”

  “That’s why we don’t read her into the program.”

  “How can we not read in the number two person in the station?”

  “The same way we didn’t read in the number one person into HIMILAYAN VULTURE.”

  Carpenter pursed his lips. He had always looked at access to a compartmented program as being a reflection of greater acceptance and trust from above.

  Not anymore.

  “What shall I tell her?” he asked. “Unlike in my situation, she is already aware of the existence of the new program.”

  “Simply tell her that the decision was made up here in Langley,” said Donovan. “Don’t mention any names. If she presses, as I’m sure she will, go ahead and say that all I would tell you is that my hands are tied. That’s sufficiently vague to leave room for a variety of interpretations.”

  Carpenter laughed softly.

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  ◆◆◆

  Pete Cortez was stuck in traffic, listening to Robert Earl Keen singing “Feeling Good Again,” when an incoming call triggered the ringtone of his mobile phone through his pickup truck’s audio system. His right thumb depressed the telephone button on the steering wheel.

  “Cortez here,” he said, adjusting the truck’s visor to block the blinding glare from the morning sun.

  “Pete,” the voice on the other end said. “It’s Clarice. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, I’m just on my way in to work. What’s up?”

  “I’m back in the States, at home in Breaux Bridge,” she said, sounding more than a bit agitated. “Ryan suggested I take some time off to decompress.”

  He was coming up on his exit off of highway two-ninety, so he flipped on his turn signal and waited for one of the vehicles in the righthand lane to make room for him to get into the exit lane. He may as well have been waiting for peace to break out in the Middle East. At times like this, he wished he had a light-bar mounted to the roof of his truck, although in Houston, a hundred-twenty-millimeter main gun would have been even more useful.

  A young woman in the right lane, driving a beat-up old sedan with a bumper sticker reading “Love Trumps Hate,” continued to speed up, then slow down, in an effort to prevent him from moving over.

  “Perfect timing. Mardi Gras is coming up soon, right?” he said as he slowly forced his way into the far righthand lane.

  This caused the young woman he was cutting in front of to honk her horn several times while, at the same time, making animated hand gestures. It was probably just as well that he wasn’t a lip reader.

  “Yeah, but that’s probably the furthest thing from my mind,” she said.

  “Still thinking about Santarém, huh?”

  “Sure, but not in the way you imagine.”

  “Tell me, how can I help?” he said, driving past the monument sign that read FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION HOUSTON DIVISION. He turned into the FBI compound.

  “I’m getting ready to drive over to Houston this morning,” she said. “I should arrive around noon. Can we meet for lunch?”

  “You bet. What are you hungry for?”

  “How about if I just pick
up some sandwiches on the way and meet you at your office? There’s something I really need to talk with you about.”

  “Can you give me an inkling of what’s so important?” he asked as he pulled into a parking space outside the FBI building and cut off the engine.

  “Not over the phone. See you around noon.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was midday when the riverboat finally arrived at the docks of Macapá, a port city of four hundred thousand people on the northern channel of the Amazon River, about thirty miles before it empties into the Atlantic Ocean.

  The Venezuelan remained in his cabin while his two bodyguards stood watch on deck, looking for anything out of the ordinary as dockhands hurriedly tied off the boat to the pier. Each of them was wearing a backpack containing their belongings. The throng of passengers, most of whom had slept both nights on deck in hammocks they had brought with them, were anxious to get off the boat and onto dry land, much like racehorses waiting for the starting gate to spring open.

  It is difficult to describe just how big and wide the Amazon River is. Although they could periodically catch glimpses of one or both of the distant shorelines during the voyage, it was almost as if they had been at sea the past few days, albeit without the big waves that made seasickness inevitable.

  Eduardo, whose jobs in the past had taken him to Europe and the States, reckoned it was a lot like a store opening for Christmas shoppers. In fact, his plan was to use the surging crowd as cover for the three of them as they disembarked.

  Once the boat’s staff had extended the gangplank to the pier, the crowd began to surge forward. Claudio, the heavier of the two, briefly blocked the progress of the crowd while Eduardo hustled Calderón out from his cabin and onto the deck. Less than three minutes later, all three were off the boat and pushing their way through the crowded marketplace.