The Venezuelan Page 11

  A young man dressed in athletic shorts and a yellow Brazilian national team tee shirt came up to them. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen…and probably not even that.

  “Taxi? I’ll give you the best rate in all of Macapá,” he said, reaching his hand for the strap on Eduardo’s backpack. “Here, I’ll help you with your bag.”

  Eduardo slapped the boy’s hand away and looked over at the Venezuelan, who nodded his head, signaling his approval.

  “Bueno,” said Eduardo. “Where is your car parked?”

  “Just around the corner, senhor. Follow me.”

  They turned right and started walking through a trash-laden alleyway. The smell made Calderón gag. It reminded him of his months of captivity in the jungle not long ago.

  “It’s just up ahead,” the young man said, periodically turning around to make sure they were still following him.

  The three of them dutifully followed the boy. As they rounded the corner, they were met by three muscular men. Each had pistols pointed directly at Calderón and his two bodyguards.

  “Hands in the air,” shouted one of the men, the one wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was speaking in Portuguese. “Hand over your money and your valuables.”

  The man gestured with his handgun toward the boy, the one who had led them into this ambush.

  “Diogo, take their wallets and wristwatches. We’ll keep them covered.” He pronounced the boy’s name as Gee-OH-go.

  Again, Eduardo and Claudio looked over at Calderón, who spoke for the first time since they had gotten off the boat.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, my friends?” asked the Venezuelan, who was at least half a foot taller than any of the other men.

  “You, big man, shut up and hand over your money…along with that nice wristwatch you’re wearing.”

  Calderón calmly unfastened the brown alligator leather strap securing his Patek Philippe gold watch and handed it to the young boy. Their eyes bulged when they realized it was an expensive watch. A very expensive watch.

  In their excitement at their unexpected good fortune, though, they failed to notice that the Venezuelan had reached his right hand behind himself and pulled out the FN-57 pistol that was tucked in his waistband, hidden underneath his shirt. He calmly shot each of the three heavyset men in rapid succession. They died instantly, collapsing in a heap where they stood.

  The boy, suddenly realizing what had just happened, began sobbing.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he blubbered, acting even younger than he actually was. “They made me do it. They said they would kill me if I didn’t help them.”

  “So where is this car you were taking us to?” Calderón said to the boy in a calm, matter-of-fact voice.

  “There is no car, senhor,” he sobbed. He was scared to death, barely able to get the words out of his mouth and wanting to be far away from this crazy man as quickly as possible.

  He walked over to him and bent over, his face now inches away from the boy’s.

  “I’m going to ask you this just once more,” he said calmly, as an adult would in explaining something important to a young child. “And keep in mind that, if there is no car, you are of no further use to me. Now, where is the automobile?”

  The boy dropped his head. Of all the people getting off the boat, he thought to himself, why did I have to choose these men?

  “It’s on the side street, right around the corner,” he said dejectedly. “Maybe two minutes away.”

  “I assume one of these three has the keys,” said the Venezuelan, pointing his pistol in the direction of the three dead bodies. “Find them and then take us to the vehicle.”

  ◆◆◆

  Thirty minutes later, the light blue Fiat Panorama SUV pulled up in front of a dilapidated pale-yellow home surrounded by a ten-foot concrete wall. Diogo turned off the engine and started to pocket the keys.

  He noticed the Venezuelan’s outstretched hand, palm upward. He frowned glumly and placed the keys in Calderón’s hand.

  “You come inside with us, Diogo,” he said brusquely, opening the vehicle’s passenger door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. At six-six, his lanky frame was not well suited to most Latin American cars, so the act of climbing out of the vehicle was probably a lot like watching a giraffe give birth.

  The Venezuelan pressed the buzzer next to the gate and waited several seconds until he heard a buzzing sound, followed by the mechanical clunk of the lock disengaging. The rusty hinges of the old gate gave out a shrill squeal as Calderón swung it open and walked through, followed by the others.

  As they approached the house, the front door opened and a familiar face appeared.

  “Mateo, my friend, it’s so good to see you again,” said Marco, his normally pale face a bright red from too much sun. The sunburned skin peeling from his arms reminded the Venezuelan of a reptile molting.

  The two men embraced, as much of the world does, before turning and walking into the small entry hall of the house.

  “Make sure we are not disturbed,” said Calderón to one of his bodyguards. “And keep an eye on the boy. I don’t want him to sneak off someplace.”

  He closed the door to the small study behind them and walked over to the two armchairs in the corner of the room.

  “So, my new friend, I’m ready to go to work,” said the Venezuelan. He noticed another man, someone he did not know, was already in the room. “Fill me in on the details.”

  “Of course,” said Marco, removing a white handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping the sweat from his brow. “First, though, permit me to introduce my colleague, Dominic D’Angelo.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 14

  Houston, Texas

  “Igot yours with all the fixings,” said Clarice Robideaux, removing a paper-wrapped cheeseburger from the bag and handing it to Pete Cortez. She had stopped by a Whataburger several blocks from the Bureau’s Houston office to pick up lunch for the two of them.

  “Who knew Whataburger sold salads?” he said in genuine amazement as he watched Robideaux remove the clear plastic lid from her lunch container and begin applying the dressing from a largish squeeze packet.

  She had also picked up some bottled water for the two of them, much to Cortez’s displeasure. Burgers were meant to be consumed with an ice-cold Coke at lunch and a beer at dinner. He was pretty sure that was written into the Texas constitution somewhere.

  Robideaux, who was on leave, was dressed in jeans, sneakers and an oversized LSU sweatshirt with long sleeves that covered her hands. Cortez was wearing a dark suit, it being wintertime in Houston, the seventy-degree temperature outside notwithstanding.

  At her suggestion, they were sitting at a long conference table in the SCIF of the Joint Terrorism Task Force because of the extreme sensitivity of what they were about to discuss.

  “So tell me, what was so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” he asked, having just swallowed an oversized mouthful of burger that nearly sent his Adam’s apple hurtling across the room from the energy generated by the sheer force of the gulp.

  “Something is just not right about this whole Calderón thing,” she said. She was halfheartedly picking at her salad with her black plastic fork.

  “How so? Not that I necessarily disagree with you, by the way.”

  He took another bite of his burger. A piece of lettuce fell out from the bun and onto the sandwich wrapping paper he had laid on the table in front of him. Gonçalves will kill me if I get any grease on the table, he thought to himself, especially if he didn’t bother to clean it up afterwards, as he was occasionally prone to do.

  “Nothing about this whole thing makes any sense, from the breakout to my being placed in the Agency’s version of the time-out corner,” she said, obviously still frustrated.

  “Good Lord, what happened after I left?” he asked, dipping a French fry into a tiny tub of ketchup before popping it into his mouth. “It’s only been three days.”

>   Robideaux set down her fork on top of the salad and pushed it away.

  “Margaret Donovan was waiting for me in Carpenter’s office when I got back to the embassy after dropping you off at the airport,” she said.

  “Who is Margaret Donovan?” he asked. He could tell by the tight muscle movement of her face that she was still furious and was having a hard time containing her emotions.

  “All I know is that she is senior to Ryan and works in the Directorate of Operations,” she replied. “According to her and the people at Langley, the entire Calderón fiasco is all my fault.”

  “How could it be your fault? You didn’t have operational control over anything about it…or did you?”

  “No, my involvement consisted of a grand total of two visits to the remote compound during the past eight months. Nothing more. I had absolutely no involvement in personnel or logistics matters, no responsibility for security. Nothing.”

  “So why would they think it was your fault?”

  “I was the only person at the embassy who was even aware of the existence of the program,” she said, lowering her head in resignation. “Neither the chief of station nor the ambassador was read in on it.”

  “So who was running the operation then?”

  “Langley. As to who in Langley, I have no idea.”

  “And now you think Langley has chosen you to be their fall guy?”

  “It’s sure beginning to look that way,” she said, her head bowed as she dejectedly shook it back and forth.

  “Tell me about Donovan. Do you know her well?”

  She reached for her plastic bottle of water and took a sip before answering.

  “I only know of her by reputation,” she said. “The other day in Brasilia was the first time I’ve ever actually met her.”

  “Does she have it out for you personally?” Pete did not know how else to phrase it.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “How about Carpenter? Does he?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “We’re not personal friends, that’s for sure, but I always thought we got along well enough, at least professionally, that is.”

  She noticed the concerned look on his face.

  “That should be a good thing, right?” she asked hopefully, a sudden twinge of anxiety gripping her. “I mean, that there’s no personal animus.”

  “Maybe that would be true in the real world that normal people inhabit, Clarice, but not in ours,” said Cortez, drinking the last of his bottle of water and tossing it in the direction of the wastebasket in the far corner. It fell just short, though, and ricocheted off the front of the receptacle, eventually coming to a rest three feet away from where he was sitting.

  “Nice shot,” she said sarcastically, smiling for the first time since they began the conversation.

  “I’ll pick it up later,” he said, turning back in his seat to face her again. “Anyway, if it’s not personal, then that means there’s something far more sinister going on…not to be overly dramatic.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” she said, pushing back her chair slightly and crossing her legs. “And if I don’t figure it out soon, I’m totally screwed. That’s why I’m here. Jack Gonçalves believes in you, and after spending a week together in the Amazon, so do I.”

  She paused and looked at him earnestly, saying, “I really need your help, Pete.”

  Cortez was silent for a few seconds, thinking.

  “When I got back the day before yesterday, Gonçalves told me he had made a few discrete inquiries involving the photo of Marco, the compound guard who flew off with the assault team.”

  “Did he find out anything?” she asked, reaching for her salad for the first time in minutes. She snatched a small piece of lettuce with her fingers and began to nibble on it.

  “As a matter of fact, he did,” said Cortez. “He learned from one of his sources that Marco was a covert operative who supposedly left the Agency within the past year. According to the source, the man’s name is really Bud Smallwood.”

  “Never heard of him,” she said after a few moments. “Then again, Smallwood is probably not be his real name, either.”

  “His departure from the Agency occurred not long after Calderón’s capture and exile to the Amazon. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Are you implying you think the Agency might be behind the Venezuelan’s breakout from the black site?” she asked.

  “I definitely think it’s a possibility.”

  ◆◆◆

  The flight from Macapá, Brazil to New Amsterdam, Guyana was uneventful. Uneventful and boring. The pilot, a smuggler by trade, was a longtime associate of Corcovado, who had arranged for the flight out of Brazil for the Venezuelan.

  They had chosen to fly the straight-line route, which took them almost entirely over the tropical forests, rather than follow the more traditional route along the coastline. They also flew at night, taking off just after sunset to further mask the existence of their flight.

  The only lights they saw from the moment they left Macapá until they came upon the lights of New Amsterdam several hours later were from the stars in the sky. The dense forests below them were pitch black, as if they had been flying over the ocean. Radar coverage over that route was spotty at best, which was the reason they had chosen that particular route.

  “We’ll drive the remainder of the way to Georgetown,” Marco said after the plane touched down at a small runway outside of New Amsterdam, a port city of just over thirty thousand people located about sixty miles east of the capital city of Guyana. They were also not far from the border with Suriname, Guyana’s neighbor to the east. “It’s a challenge to be inconspicuous when you’re six-foot-six, like you are.”

  “Physical stature is a two-edged sword,” said Calderón, who had tucked his ever-present sunglasses into his pocket during the night flight. “But you are right. Being a head taller than most people does not allow me to blend in very well. Fortunately, blending in is not something I usually aspire to do.”

  “It’s a good idea for now, though, especially considering ninety percent of the world’s law enforcement and intelligence agencies are scouring the planet searching for you.”

  The Venezuelan smiled. “You are right, my friend,” he said, looking around and seeing nothing in the darkness. “Speaking of which, where are we? This looks like we fell off the planet.”

  They were on a remote, sparsely populated stretch along the northern coast of South America, not far from the border with Suriname.

  “There are three airfields in Guyana that I like to use,” said the American. “I vary them so that I don’t become recognizable at any of them.”

  He could make out the pulsating sound of a helicopter approaching from the northwest. He could faintly make out the lights of New Amsterdam on the distant horizon. Otherwise, it was pitch black outside.

  He looked down at the luminescent dial on his wristwatch. It was eleven o’clock.

  “We should be at your new home in less than thirty minutes,” said Marco, handing the Venezuelan three small plastic LED flashing lamps. “Here, help me place these flashers in a circle over there, away from the plane. We need to set up a quick landing zone for the incoming helicopter. I think a ten-meter diameter should be good enough.”

  A minute later, an unmarked helicopter set down within the lighted circle and a short man wearing a Panama hat emerged from the passenger side. The pilot remained in the chopper while the man hustled over to Calderón and Marco, his left hand on his head to keep his hat from being blown away by the rotating helicopter blades.

  “Mateo, I’d like to introduce you to Major Rafael Perez with Cuban military intelligence,” said Marco, knowing from experience that the vain Cuban liked being introduced as if the entire world would be excited at the prospect of meeting him. “Rafael and I have worked together on a number of occasions over the past few years.”

  “Welcome to Guyana, Señor Calderón,” said Perez in Spa
nish, taking note of the tall Venezuelan’s firm handshake. His recovery appears to be going well, the Cuban thought to himself. “We are set up on a small plantation south of Georgetown that I’m sure you’ll find to your liking.”

  “How long will I be there?”

  “Not long, Mateo,” said Marco, taking him by the elbow and nudging him toward the waiting helicopter. “Your people have been busy while you were gone. All they need now is your leadership.”

  “My people?” he asked, not sure what the American meant.

  “Yes, I have been in regular contact with your number two man in M-28 for several months. Ernesto is his name, isn’t it?”

  Calderón was surprised. He had not had an opportunity to talk to Ernesto since he was freed from captivity. He wondered what else the damn Americans knew about M-28. Probably everything, he thought to himself resignedly.

  “There are a lot of people who will be counting on you, Fósforo,” said the Cuban, using Calderón’s nom de guerre, which he knew the mercurial Venezuelan loved hearing. “Your friends and admirers—and I count myself and my government among them—have a lot invested in your success. Whatever you need, just let me know and I will see to it that you receive it.”

  Mateo looked at the Cuban, then at Marco.

  “You’re going home, Mateo,” said the American. “The situation is ripe for the picking. The time is right.”

  Perez looked the Venezuelan in the eye.

  “Just remember, my friend,” said the Cuban. “We don’t simply reward people for mere effort. We expect success. You’d be wise not to forget that.”

  ◆◆◆

  Lieutenant Colonel Roberto Lima sat at a wooden picnic table sipping a cafezinho. His Venezuelan counterpart, a lieutenant colonel by the name of Sanchez, sat across the table smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

  Since cigarette smoking in public indoor spaces is illegal in Brazil and Sanchez had a two-pack a day habit, Lima’s command sergeant major had a group of soldiers set up the outdoor conference area just outside the private entrance to the battalion command group suite of offices. He also had the men suspend camouflage netting overhead to help filter the midday sun.