The Venezuelan Read online

  His driver, an older sergeant who had been born and raised in Boa Vista, knew this part of the country like he knew the back of his hand. Rodrigues glanced down at his wristwatch. It just past nine-thirty. They had just driven through the town of São Marcos and were now approaching the bridge across the Surumu River.

  “Roraima Six, this is Roraima Three,” said Rodrigues into his tactical radio, the sound of his voice cracking from the occasional static over the radio. “Just cleared phase line Cobra. Over.” Phase line Cobra was the river, which meant that they were only half an hour from Pacaraima.

  To pass the time, Rodrigues counted the number of people walking along the side of the road, heading south toward a better life in Boa Vista. It wasn’t a precise count, just a rough count, kind of like counting bug splats on the windshield during a long road trip. He had counted one hundred and forty-two people so far during the past two and a half hours.

  That may not be very many when compared to, say, a straggling, defeated army making its way back home, but the cumulative math told a very different story. Nearly one person a minute. Fourteen hundred people a day, ten thousand a week, more than forty thousand a month…and this was just this one road. That was the theoretical math, anyway.

  Adding to the complexity of the trip for the refugees was the fact that a section of BR-174 passes through the Waimiri-Atroari Indigenous Territory. Tribal members were once again blocking the highway from dusk to dawn.

  No matter how you felt about Nicolás Maduro, the Venezuelan leader, the constant flow of refugees was a problem for Brazil. A big problem.

  Thirty minutes later, the staticky squawk from the vehicle’s tactical radio brought his attention back to the moment at hand.

  “Roraima Three, this is Roraima Six,” said Lieutenant Colonel Lima, whose voice was on the other end of the radio. “We have just crossed phase line Jaguar.”

  Phase line Jaguar was the southern outskirts of the town of Pacaraima, their destination. They would be turning off into their forward deployed headquarters compound in a matter of minutes.

  Pacaraima—pronounced pock-ah-RYE-ma—has never been an attractive town, but over the past several years, it had been transformed into a dingy, poverty-stricken eyesore. The problems had all begun with the ascendency of Hugo Chavez in Venezuela, but its death spiral had dramatically accelerated with the ascension of Nicolás Maduro.

  He had never been to Bangladesh but imagined it could not possibly be any worse than Venezuela these days.

  Ninety days in this shithole, thought Rodrigues. This is certainly not what I imagined doing when I entered Agulhas Negras, the military academy founded in 1792 while Brazil was still a Portuguese colony. Still, he was a professional soldier.

  This was the mission he was tasked with, so he would do it, no questions asked…at least not out loud.

  ◆◆◆

  “João, this is Jack Gonçalves,” said the SSA, who was sitting alone in his office in the Houston JTTF.

  The man on the other end of the line, João Carvalho, was a senior official with the Portuguese Judicial Police in Lisbon. The two men had met while Carvalho was a foreign student attending the FBI National Academy and Goncalves was one of the instructors.

  He had been thinking quite a bit about Mateo Calderón and the Venezuelan’s breakout from a black site in the Brazilian Amazon. Clearly, this incident was not part of the FBI’s law enforcement charter. In fact, it was really none of his business. Still, something just didn’t smell right.

  In fact, a lot of things just didn’t smell right.

  “It’s good to hear from you again, Jack,” said Carvalho in Portuguese. “Is this a personal call or is there something I can help you with?”

  Gonçalves knew he would have to be careful in his choice of words because of the sensitivity of the subject matter.

  “One of the investigations I’m working involves human trafficking originating out of Brazil,” said the American FBI agent, measuring his words carefully. This was the type of conversation best had in person, but geography and time precluded that, at least for now. “We’re concerned about how the growth of criminal enterprises down there is starting to find its way up here…human trafficking, drugs, you name it.”

  “So how can I help? You Americans obviously have much greater resources than I do, particularly in the western hemisphere.”

  “True, but you guys also have a special relationship with Brazil as a former colony, much like the UK has with us. There are things you might hear that we never would, regardless of our technical systems.”

  “Is there something in particular you are interested in?”

  “We’ve seen a significant growth in activity related to Brazil on our southern border with Mexico,” said Gonçalves, still not entirely sure how he was going to broach the heart of the subject. “We suspect something big is going to happen, something in the north of Brazil, but we’re not hearing anything from our usual sources.”

  “You mean the Agency?”

  There was a momentary silence, which Gonçalves saw as his opening.

  “Well, I’m sure you have your occasional little peeing contests in Europe, too. Let’s just say both the Agency and the Bureau have full bladders these days.

  Carvalho laughed. “Say no more, Jack. I’ll let you know if I hear anything interesting.”

  ◆◆◆

  The sun was settling into the distant horizon as an unusually tall man boarded the river boat, a small beige canvas duffle bag hung over his right shoulder. He was wearing jeans and a tan collared shirt, which was untucked to hide any trace of the pistol he carried hidden underneath. On either side of him were two bigger men…not taller, but heftier.

  Each of them also carried an oversize canvas duffle, stuffed to the gills.

  The tall man paused briefly, slowing his gait as he walked gingerly across the eight-foot long wooden gang plank that connected the boat to the dock. It had been ten days since his rescue from the jungle prison compound and he had still not yet completely recovered his strength and coordination.

  He still tired easily and had not fully regained his appetite. Remaining an extra week in Alter do Chão would have been preferable, but that was not possible. It was time for him to move on.

  “Claudio, check with whoever is in charge and find out where our cabin is,” said Calderón to his bodyguard.

  Despite his screw up with the attempted snatch and grab of Cortez and the American woman, the Venezuelan liked Claudio…at least for now.

  Besides, he also had Timoteo to keep an eye on him since his escape from captivity. Timoteo, who got his start in crime while growing up in the Azores, had been handpicked by Corcovado to provide security for the Venezuelan until he was able to reconnect with his own people.

  “Timo, you keep an eye out for anyone who looks out of place,” said Calderón. “But don’t do anything that might attract attention to us.”

  A minute later, Claudio returned with a skinny kid who was sporting a tee-shirt with the name of the boat emblazoned across the front. His long blond hair hung over his shoulder.

  “The boy here will show us to our cabin,” said the bodyguard.

  Calderón had heard stories about immigrants from the American South who had fled to the Brazilian Amazon following the gringo’s civil war more than a hundred fifty years ago, but this was the first time he had ever actually seen one. To say the young man looked out of place here in the middle of the Amazon rainforest would be an understatement, and yet his ancestors had probably been living in Santarém for seven or eight generations.

  In reality, it was just about everyone else living there—excepting, that is, the indigenous people—who was really the true newcomer to the rainforest.

  They followed the blonde kid down the starboard deck to their cabin, which was one of only ten on the boat—five on either side, each facing the shoreline. He unlocked the outside steel plated door and pulled it open to a loud, creaking sound. He stood aside to allow the
three men to enter ahead of him.

  There were two beds in the cabin, on opposite sides of the room, each one secured against a gray painted bulkhead. The private bathroom, a true luxury on the boat, contained a small shower and a toilet. A small metal sink was located in the main room, another luxury. The only port hole was next to the door they had just come through.

  “As you requested, there is a folded cot over there by the door for the third person,” the boy said in Portuguese, pointing to the canvas and wood-frame cot over by the door to the outside. “If you need anything, just ask for me…my name is Roberdinho.” The nickname, Little Robert, was probably given to him as a joke, given that his present height was well over six feet.

  The boy handed two keys to Claudio and walked back out the cabin door, closing it behind him as he left.

  Roberdinho descended to the lower deck, bounding two steps at a time, to where the less affluent passengers were jostling for sufficient space to hang a hammock to sleep on during the two nights before the boat reached its final destination in Belém.

  He walked up to a dark-skinned man who appeared to be in his late thirties and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded his head and handed the boy a yellow and orange twenty-reais note, the equivalent of about five U.S. dollars.

  Roberdinho pocketed the money, turned around and went on about his business of getting the rest of the passengers settled in before the boat set sail down the Amazon River.

  ◆◆◆

  Zachery Jellico had one final detail to attend to before he returned home to Houston. This took him to an enormous penthouse apartment in the Ipanema neighborhood of Rio de Janeiro.

  “Zachery, my old friend, it’s so good to see you again,” said Paulo Mendes Almeida as he embraced the elegant looking older man in the gray suit. Zachery Jellico, whose once dark hair was now a powdery white, was a wealthy investor from Houston, with whom Almeida had numerous business dealings over the past decade.

  Jellico had flown down to São Paulo on unrelated business several days earlier and had made a stop in Rio de Janeiro to see Almeida on his way back to the States. Despite their difference in age—the American was at least ten years older than the Brazilian—the two men had become close friends over the years.

  “Let’s sit outside on the terrace,” said Almeida, a tall, heavyset man whose red hair and ruddy complexion made him look like a Hollywood casting agent’s idea of what a Viking would look like. “It’s an absolutely beautiful day and there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

  Almeida maintained a large penthouse apartment that spanned the top two floors of an eight-story building in Ipanema. From the west side, he had a stunning view of the iconic statue of Christ the Redeemer that dominates the magnificent skyline of Rio. The massive granite peak upon which it rested is named Corcovado. Hence, the nickname Jellico had bestowed upon his Brazilian friend during his first visit to his home years ago.

  “You’re a lucky man, my friend,” said the American as the two men stepped out onto the heavily landscaped rooftop terrace. “The view of Corcovado in the distance is absolutely breathtaking.”

  Almeida led them over to the seating area that had the best view of the iconic statue.

  “Tell me, how are things falling into line with our friends in Guyana?” asked Jellico.

  “I still have a few more pieces to put together before we’re ready to make our move,” said the Brazilian, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the black marble ashtray beside him. His English was flawless, and he spoke it with a mixture of Scottish brogue and the smooth and lyrical lilt of Brazilian Portuguese. “However, our young friend, Mateo, is on the move now.”

  “I assume, then, that he has fully recovered his strength?” asked Jellico. He meticulously picked a piece of lint from his trouser crease and flicked it aside.

  “Good enough. An extra week of recuperation would have been nice, but there was an incident in Santarém that prompted us to move up his departure date.”

  “Incident?”

  “Yes, it appears an FBI agent from Houston—a man named Cortez, with whom Mateo grew up in Caracas—suddenly appeared in Santarém looking for him.”

  The American smiled and shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “So he just happened to suddenly appear out of nowhere, in the middle of the Amazon rainforest? Do you think we have an informant somewhere within our organization?”

  Almeida took a deep drag from his Turkish cigarette before stubbing it out in the marble ashtray. His wife disliked finding cigarette butts on the stone terrace, so he always used an ashtray despite being outdoors.

  “No, my guess is that it’s probably just the Americans looking for their escaped prisoner,” said Almeida. “He also said there was also a woman with him. Both were carrying weapons and knew how to take care of themselves.”

  Almeida lit another unfiltered cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke through his nose before replying.

  “That’s the problem with intricate plans like this,” said the American. “Does our young friend have any idea who the woman is?”

  “No, except that he said she had made a couple of visits out to the jungle compound while Calderón was being held there. He seems to harbor an intense dislike for the woman…and that’s putting it mildly.”

  “She’s almost certainly with the Agency,” said Jellico. “Was he able to give you a good description?”

  “Better than that. He had a photo he had gotten from an inside man with the local police in Santarém.”

  The Brazilian transferred the photo electronically to Jellico’s phone.

  “I have some contacts with the Agency,” said Jellico. “I’ll find out who she is and let you know. What about Cortez? Where is he at the moment?”

  “I heard that he returned to the United States right after the incident, but I still need to confirm that information,” said Almeida. “Unfortunately, before he left, he and the woman roughed up four of the men Mateo’s security team that he had sent to find them and bring them in.”

  “We Americans are becoming just like the old Soviets were in that regard,” said the older man, the sarcasm literally dripping from his voice. “Is it normal for this Cortez fellow to leave a trail of bodies in his wake wherever he goes?”

  The man they called Corcovado pursed his lips disapprovingly.

  “Apparently, from what I’ve been able to gather, it’s not the first time,” he said. “I think it’s time we remove this troublesome piece from the game.”

  “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “I have already put a contract out on his head,” said Corcovado. “Let’s see who wants to earn some extra money.”

  “Excellent,” said the American. “And I’ll find out who this woman is and send her a message that she’s sure not to misinterpret.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 11

  Houston, Texas

  Jack Gonçalves was just about ready to leave the building to grab some lunch when the phone call came in.

  “Jack, this is João Carvalho,” said the man on the other end of the telephone link. “I hope this is a convenient time to talk because I just picked up on something that I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”

  There is six hours difference between Houston and Lisbon, so Carvalho was probably getting ready to call it a day.

  “Sure, João. What’s up?”

  “My liaison with Interpol just informed me they have picked up reports of an assassination contract against an American federal law enforcement official. More specifically, a special agent assigned to the Houston FBI office.”

  “Did you happen to get a name?”

  “Yes, I did. His name is Pete Cortez. I assume you know him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Gonçalves, now sitting back down in his desk chair. “He works for me here in the JTTF. Does your source know who put out the contract? Or any of the specific details, like the time or date or location?”

&n
bsp; “No, just that it was sanctioned at a pretty high level, somewhere here in western Europe,” said Carvalho. “Has your man been working on anything involving this region recently?”

  “No, nothing in Europe, although he has been working on that same matter you and I spoke about the other day.”

  “Hmmm. Well, perhaps what you thought was originating from your hemisphere also has tentacles into Europe as well.”

  Gonçalves remained silent for about five seconds, mulling over what he had just heard. The news had come completely out of left field and he needed more time to process what to do about it.

  “Let me know if you hear anything more regarding Cortez,” the SSA said finally. “In the meantime, I’ll talk to Cortez and see if he might be able to shed some light as to who in Europe might want him dead. The more I think about it, though, that will probably turn out to be a pretty long list.”

  Gonçalves disconnected the circuit to Lisbon and placed a call to Cortez, who was still in the building.

  “Pete, come on down to my office. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Three minutes later, Cortez appeared at the doorway to Gonçalves’ office and casually knocked, saying, “What’s up, Jack?”

  “Come on in, Pete, and close the door behind you.”

  Cortez sat down in one of the metal government chairs in front of the SSA’s desk while Gonçalves filled him in on his conversation with Carvalho. Cortez was not accustomed to receiving death threats, but the past couple of years had considerably raised his profile among the criminal underbelly.

  “The first name that comes to mind is the Frenchman,” said Cortez, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He needed to quit using his old electric razor. It didn’t seem to give him a very good shave anymore. “Remember, his name came up as part of the Dallas nuke threat last year.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too,” said the SSA, picking up a soft rubber ball from the top of his desk and squeezing it repeatedly. He always said it helped him better focus his thoughts. “I didn’t say anything to Carvalho because I seriously doubt that he is even aware of that particular incident…and I sure don’t want to be the one that lets that cat out of the bag.”