The Venezuelan Page 5

  “Did the Americans directly approach your contact?”

  “No, he heard it from one of his friends who works at the navy base there,” the man in the black shirt said nervously. He was still getting to know the Venezuelan, but the man’s reputation for erratic volatility was well known to him. “A navy chief had the photo of you on his phone and asked him if he knew anything about a tall Venezuelan in need of medical assistance.”

  “What else did he tell you? Anything about the Americans? A description, maybe?”

  “No, señor, my contact said his source did not offer any more details and he did not ask. He didn’t want to appear to be too curious.”

  Again, Calderón said nothing for the next few moments as he considered what he should do about the information he had just received. He was not at all pleased with having his picture flashed around. He had no plans to visit Itacoatiara anytime in the foreseeable future, if ever, but that wasn’t the point. He understood that, if the Americans showed his picture around in enough cities and towns, someone eventually was bound to recognize him.

  “Do you have any reliable contacts in Santarém?”

  “Of course.”

  “Put a bounty out on these two Americans if they show up in Santarém,” said Calderón, a broad, knowing smile breaking out across his face. “But make sure they take at least one of them alive. I want to know what they know.”

  “A sus órdenes.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 6

  Boa Vista, Brazil

  As the Airbus A320 began its descent, Marco peered out his window at the darkness below. He had taken the LATAM early morning flight from Manaus to minimize the chances he would run into anyone who might recognize him. The plane was less than half-full, so Marco had an entire row of seats to himself.

  He glanced down at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. It was six-twenty in the morning. The cracking sound of the pilot’s announcement over the intercom awoke most of the passengers who had dozed off during the eighty-minute flight from Manaus.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Boa Vista International Airport,” said the pilot in Portuguese. “Please stow away your tray tables and return your seats to their upright position. We will be landing in ten minutes.”

  Marco was traveling on a false Brazilian passport under the name of Wilson Amerigo de Sousa. It was the first time he had used this particular identity, so he wasn’t particularly concerned about it arousing any attention during this trip. He had important business to attend to and didn’t want to risk any unnecessary complications.

  Boa Vista, a city of about three-hundred thousand, is located in the northernmost Brazilian state of Roraima, just one hundred forty miles south of the Venezuelan border, on BR-174. The influx of desperate Venezuelan refugees over the past few years, though, had swollen the population, not just in the border region, but all the way south to Manaus, as well.

  Because of the early hour, the airport was operating on a skeletal staff, with the day shift not scheduled to arrive for another hour and a half. Marco had one carryon bag with him, slung over his left shoulder, when we walked through the big sliding glass door and out onto the curb. A black VW Passat sedan was waiting for him, its engine idling. As the passenger window rolled down, the driver leaned across the center console.

  “Senhor de Sousa?” the man called out in Portuguese, a smile on his face.

  Marco tossed his bag in the back seat and climbed into the front next to the man, who was dressed in dark-colored athletic shorts and a dingy gray tee shirt that may have started out as white. As soon as he had closed the door, the vehicle pulled forward and headed for the airport exit and towards downtown, a three-minute drive before the early morning traffic kicked in.

  “Make yourself comfortable, sir,” the man said, his eyes remaining focused on the road ahead. “It’s a short drive. The old man is waiting for you in his office at the headquarters.”

  The man was young, probably in his late twenties, and Marco knew only that he was in the military. He wasn’t sure which branch of service, since the Brazilians maintain army, navy and air force bases in Boa Vista. Marco suspected he was a junior officer, probably a lieutenant or captain if he had to guess.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Marco was a talkative man, perhaps as a way to compensate for what was probably a deep-seated lack of self-confidence. He had not been very popular as a boy growing up and so was nervous with awkward silence. It reminded him of his childhood.

  “You’ll find out for yourself soon enough,” the driver said, turning left onto Route 174 and heading southbound for a few minutes before bearing to the right at a major traffic circle onto Avenida Brasil, as that stretch of BR-174 is called inside the city limits.

  People in his line of work don’t put much stock in names, since most of them changed their identity as often as normal people change their underwear. Perhaps even more often.

  It was just past sunrise, casting enough light to let Marco know that he was no longer in the same jungle environment as Manaus. In fact, what little he could see of the topography and vegetation as the car sped down the highway on the town’s outskirts reminded him of the Texas Hill Country.

  He had never been to this part of Brazil. Manaus, nearly five hundred miles south, was about as far north as he had ever been inside Brazil and had just assumed the terrain up here was still part of the Amazon jungle.

  Clearly, it wasn’t.

  Ten minutes later, they came upon the entrance to a military compound. The vehicle stopped next to the armed guard at the gate, who recognized the driver and saluted smartly. Marco glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was now seven o’clock and the morning sun was beginning its daily journey across the equatorial sky.

  ◆◆◆

  The driver pulled his car into one of the marked parking spaces in front of the headquarters of the 25th Jungle Infantry Battalion. As they made their way inside the one-story building, the duty noncommissioned officer, dressed in camouflage utilities, popped to attention and saluted upon seeing them. Marco nodded slightly, while the driver returned the salute before turning right and heading down the hallway toward the commander’s office. The driver is definitely a young officer, thought Marco.

  The driver, who appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, stood rigidly at attention as he knocked crisply on the open door.

  Two men, each dressed in dark green running shorts and sleeveless white undershirts were sitting in the commander’s office. Both looked up at the open doorway upon hearing the sound of the knock.

  “Ah, Capitão Pereira, come on in,” said the older of the two, the one sitting behind the desk with his black tennis shoes propped against the upper corner of the desk. He stood up and walked over toward Marco, his hand extended in greeting. “I am very much looking forward to meeting our guest.”

  The American shook hands with both officers.

  “Capitão, would you have someone bring us a cafezinho?”

  Pereira nodded smartly and hurried out of the office. He encountered a young clerk—he appeared to be in his late teens— in the ante room and told him to have four coffees brought to the battalion commander’s office immediately.

  “You’ll have to forgive our informal appearance,” said the colonel, a thinnish man who appeared to be in his early forties. He spoke in Portuguese. “I am Tenente-coronel Lima and this is my operations officer, Major Rodrigues. We just finished our morning physical training. Today was our weekly battalion officer’s run. I’ve always considered it to be an excellent team builder…except, of course, for those few who are not yet in good enough shape to keep up.”

  Marco smiled and shook his head, saying, “I’ve never understood the army’s fixation with running. How exactly does that translate in battle?”

  Lima had heard that same criticism at least a thousand times since his early days as a young cadet at Argulhas Negras, the Brazilian milita
ry academy located in the state of Rio de Janeiro. Normally, he heard it from people who themselves were lacking in physical fitness. In his mind, the American appeared to fit that description. They looked to be about the same age—early forties—and weight, although Lima was about three inches taller.

  “Our next deployment is coming up soon and physical stamina and endurance will be key to our ability to accomplish our mission,” said Lima, who had recited this line a thousand times before. “This is an inhospitable environment up here in Roraima and is not for the faint at heart. Physical fitness is not optional for a soldier. It’s as important to survival as food and water.”

  At that moment, Captain Pereira and a young soldier appeared at the door carrying a green plastic tray with four demitasse cups and saucers, each containing a bitterly strong expresso coffee. The soldier put two heaping spoons of sugar in each cup and stirred it before handing one to each man, including the captain. Then the soldier left the room, closing the office door behind him.

  Marco was reminded of the old joke about an American host asking his Brazilian guest if he would like some coffee with his sugar. Thank God they serve it in these little cups, he thought to himself. If they served it in a normal-sized coffee cup, I probably wouldn’t be able to sleep for a month.

  “So, Senhor de Sousa,” said Lima, using Marco’s fake name, even though he knew full well it was just a cover. “I understand we are going to be working together to solve a mutual problem.”

  “Yes, Coronel,” said the American, slurping down his cafezinho in two gulps. “The plan is moving along right on schedule. Our man has recently completed a previous engagement and will be ready to begin work on the project in another two weeks, at the most.”

  Of course, Lima only thought he knew what the plan was, and Marco was not about to tell him the truth about what he and his associates really intended to do.

  “Excellent,” said the colonel, nodding his head in the direction of Pereira as a signal to refill everyone’s coffee. “That should fit nicely with our timeline. My unit will be deploying up north to Pacaraima, on the border, in two weeks and will remain there for at least ninety days.”

  “Perfect,” said Marco, slurping down his second cafezinho. He glanced at his wristwatch and stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to get back to the airport. My flight leaves at eight this morning. There’s still much to do.”

  ◆◆◆

  Jack Gonçalves remained seated as he waved to the woman who had just entered the small sandwich shop just off DuPont Circle. He glanced down at his wristwatch. Ten o’clock. She was right on time.

  He stood up as she approached his table, motioning for her to have a seat. The early lunch crowd would not begin showing up in earnest for at least another hour. Except for the waitress who had followed her over to the table, they had the entire place to themselves.

  “Coffee, please. Cream and sugar,” said the woman, vigorously rubbing her hands together to warm them. They were bright red, almost matching the color of her nail polish. She took off her black woolen overcoat and folded it over the seat next to her. The waitress nodded and returned to behind the counter, where she placed the order through the window into the kitchen.

  “No gloves?” he asked.

  “No, I left them to dry in my office,” she said, now blowing on her hands in an effort to get the normal color to return. “They fell into a puddle as I was getting out of my car in the garage at work this morning. Melted snow from the car parked in the slot next to mine.”

  He had flown into Washington the night before for his monthly meeting at the National Counterterrorism Center and was scheduled to fly back to Houston later that afternoon. He couldn’t wait to get back. The temperature outside was in the low twenties, and even though he had packed a warm coat, he hated the cold. No wonder people in this part of the country seem to always be in a foul mood, he thought to himself.

  “Well, tell me, what did you find out?” he asked, his eyes focused on the entrance in case anyone came into the restaurant. He had previously passed along the photo of Marco that Cortez had sent him and asked for her help in identifying him.

  Veronica Enfield was silent for a moment, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

  “Before I say anything, I want you to know that I have thought long and hard about what I am about to tell you,” she said, obviously conflicted about what she had discovered. “The man in the photo you sent me goes by the alias of Bud Smallwood and he’s a former covert operative for the Agency…a contractor, actually.”

  “Former?”

  She smiled. “As you well know, the term, former, means different things to different people.”

  It was his turn to smile.

  “You said Smallwood is an alias. Do you know what his real name is?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” she said. “No one really knows where he is originally from. Some say he’s a Yankee from New England, others say he’s from the west coast, probably California. There’s even speculation that he’s not even a naturalized citizen, that he was actually born and raised in Buenos Aires.”

  “Geez.”

  “The only other thing everyone seems to agree on about him is that he’s a weasel of a man who will do anything for money.”

  Gonçalves was silent for a moment as the waitress appeared with the woman’s coffee. Enfield held the cup in both hands, which were now returning to their normal flesh color.

  “So, what do you think?” he said after the waitress had returned to her position behind the counter.

  “My twenty years in the Agency tell me that you’ve most likely stumbled upon an active covert op and that this guy, this Marco fellow, is smack dab in the middle of it.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 7

  Santarém, Brazil

  Cortez and Robideaux had spent the night in Santarém, a city of three hundred thousand midway between Manaus and Belém, which is on the Atlantic coast. As they walked down a wide, tree-lined sidewalk back to their hotel, the two tried to plot their next course of action.

  It was mid-morning and they had just finished meeting with her contact at the Polícia Militár for the State of Pará. Despite its ominous sounding name, the PM serves a civil police function, much like the Gendarmerie in France or the Carabinieri in Italy. Each state has one and they work for the governor.

  “Well, at least we’ve planted the seed,” said Robideaux, clearly disappointed they had not come up with more.

  “Realistically, though, it’s not like we expected anyone to say, Yes, I’ve seen that man and there he is, standing just five feet away from you,” said Cortez, stepping around some dog poop that the German shepherd on a leash half a block ahead of them had recently deposited on the sidewalk. “Watch your step.”

  “Still, that would have been nice,” she replied, deftly dodging the same urban landmine.

  “What’s next?” he asked. “You know, it’s always possible that whoever broke him out also immediately flew him out of the country. Heck, they have direct flights to Caracas from Manaus. It’s less than a three-hour flight, nonstop.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Robideaux, not believing even for an instant that he was. “Still my gut tells me he’s either in Manaus or right here in Santarém.”

  They were about three blocks away from the hotel when Cortez first sensed their presence.

  “Don’t make any sudden moves, but there are four men walking behind us…maybe twenty feet or so and gaining,” he said quietly to Robideaux. “They’ve been following us since we left the Polícia Militár.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Let’s stop here in front of this store window…pretend like we’re window shopping. We can take advantage of the reflection off the glass.”

  Ten seconds later, the four men who had been tailing them stopped right behind them, blocking their escape route. Cortez had not counted on such a brazen approach. Clearly, subtilty was not a thing for these gu
ys.

  “Place your hands on the window,” said one of the men in Portuguese. He was wearing dirty blue jeans and a knock-off Dallas Cowboys jersey that left the letter “s” off the end of Cowboys.

  “Look, we’re just tourists on our way back to our hotel,” said Cortez, just before one of the men removed his Glock 19M from his holster in the small of his back. He assumed that the man frisking Robideaux would find her Sig Sauer handgun as well.

  Passersby on the broad sidewalk gave them a wide berth as they walked by, their eyes cast downward, not wanting to get caught up in what was clearly a criminal act unfolding before them in broad daylight. Call it an instinct for self-preservation on their part.

  “Is that why both of you are carrying weapons?” said the man in the “Cowboy” jersey. He placed his hand on the FBI agent’s shoulder and gently nudged him forward, saying, “Walk down to the end of the block and then turn into the alleyway.”

  Cortez had spent more than half his life in Latin America and the Middle East. He had a pretty good idea how this encounter was likely to end if he didn’t act first.

  Before anyone could react, Cortez unsheathed the seven-inch dagger strapped to his left forearm, hidden from view by his long sleeve shirt. He spun around and slashed at the man’s right arm, causing him to drop his gun to the ground. Blood began spurting everywhere, driven by the accelerated pumping of the man’s heart.

  While the man’s three compatriots were still in a state of momentary shock at the sudden situational change, Cortez slashed downward across the right forearm of the man nearest him, creating a nasty gash and causing him to drop his weapon as all his strength disappeared from his hand. Cortez quickly kicked the pistol to the curb, where it slid underneath a parked delivery truck.

  Robideaux took advantage of the confusion to drive her fist into the third man’s Adam’s apple, causing him to drop his weapon and grab his throat, gasping for air.