by Bill King
Corcovado nodded slightly and smiled, turning his head to the side and slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“I only wish I could have done so earlier,” the visitor said, his tone solemn. He looked to be in his late forties and physically fit, despite his somewhat bulky frame. “I’ll get right to the point. I need your help on a very important project I’m working on.”
“Of course,” said Calderón, reaching for a pack of smokes on the table between them, removing a cigarette and lighting it. “Please, tell me how I can be of assistance.”
He was not entirely sure how he—the founder of a Venezuelan revolutionary group known as M-28—could help a wealthy Brazilian businessman. Founded in Caracas back in 2014 and formally known as el Movimiento Veinte Ocho de Julio in honor of Hugo Chavez’s birthday, the group was created in order to return Venezuela to the true principals of Chavismo.
This was not exactly a logical partnership.
The two were seated on the black limestone terrace of the villa overlooking the Rio Tapajós. The sun was beginning to disappear into the western horizon, casting an explosion of vivid colors into the sky at the point where it sank slowly out of view.
“One of your colleagues was here a few days ago,” said Calderón, removing his sunglasses briefly to wipe the sweat from the lenses with a soft cloth. “An odd fellow. I believe he is an American who goes by the name of Marco.”
“Ah, yes, an interesting man,” said the visitor, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke before spitting out a tiny piece of tobacco that had stuck to one of his front teeth. “He’s had occasion to work for me on several occasions over the past decade.”
“He was also at the prison compound in the jungle for a couple of months. I believe he was one of the outside guards.”
“Yes, he’s a man of many talents.”
“He seemed amiable enough when he was here,” said Calderón, hoping his Brazilian guest might shed some insight on the mysterious man. “He reminded me of one of those bumbling characters you always see in films…the kind they throw in for comic relief.”
Corcovado smiled and shook his head slowly back and forth.
“Don’t be misled by first impressions,” the Brazilian said finally. “Marco may appear the fool at first glance, but he wouldn’t hesitate to slit your throat if the money was right.”
His guest noticed a look of uncertainty on Calderón’s face.
“Don’t worry, I pay him very well, and if anything were to happen to you, he knows there’s not a place on earth where he can hide from me.”
“I’m not worried,” said the Venezuelan, taken aback by the comment. He realized he was not physically at full strength, but nonetheless, his macho pride felt insulted by what the visitor had said. “Besides, I have security to protect me while I recover.”
Corcovado laughed.
“Yes, well, he’s a pretty resourceful fellow. I wouldn’t underestimate him if I were you.”
Calderón said nothing for a few moments, reflecting on what he had just heard.
“He never really said why he came here, other than to introduce himself,” he said finally. “He had a beer and left about five minutes after he arrived.”
“The important thing is that the two of you got your awkward reunion out of the way early because you will be spending a lot of time together,” said the older man.
“How so?”
“The project I am working on—that we will be working on—is bigger than you could ever possibly imagine,” he said, taking a puff from his cigar. “We will be king makers.”
Calderón smiled. Even though he was not sure exactly what the man meant, he liked the sound of it. It pleased him. Immensely.
“There is something you may be able to help me with,” said the Venezuelan, suspecting the man sitting across from him had resources far beyond anything he could imagine.
“And what is that, Mateo?”
“Two Americans are in Santarém looking for me. One of them is an FBI agent named Pete Cortez, with whom I have a long and complicated relationship.”
“And the other?”
“A woman, an American, I suspect,” he said, showing the visitor the photo that his men had obtained from the Santarém police. “She paid a couple of visits to the prison compound where I was being held. Can you find out for me who she is?”
The man calling himself Corcovado took the picture in his hand.
“May I?” he said, removing his mobile phone and taking a photo before handing the picture back to the Venezuelan.
“And just what, my young friend, do you have planned for this woman?”
The Venezuelan’s face was now beet red and chin was quivering.
“I intend to kill her…personally and slowly,” he replied without hesitation, his voice spitting venom.
Corcovado raised the palm of his hand in the air, as if to signal Calderón to stop what he was saying. Stop that very instant.
“Now listen to me, my young friend, and listen well,” said the visitor, his voice calm, his eyes focused intently on the younger man. “I promise you that I will take care of these two. As for you, though, you need to focus all your attention on our mutual business.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 9
Brasilia, Brazil
After dropping Cortez at the airport in Brasilia to catch his flight back to the States, Clarice Robideaux drove straight back to the embassy. She went directly upstairs to Carpenter’s office, where he was expecting her.
When she stuck her head through the doorway, she noticed a matronly woman in her late fifties sitting in an antique colonial Brazilian chair, filling out the crossword puzzle from the previous day’s Washington Post. She had brought it along with her to read during her flight down to Brasilia.
“Ah, Clarice, come on in and have a seat,” said Ryan Carpenter, motioning for her to sit over by the older woman. “Do you know Margaret Donovan?”
“Only by reputation,” said Robideaux, reaching out and shaking the woman’s hand. “I don’t believe we’ve ever actually met. How do you do, Ms. Donovan?”
The older woman smiled and set aside the crossword puzzle before shaking her hand.
“Mrs. Donovan flew down from Langley earlier this morning to talk with you about your fiasco in the Amazon,” said Carpenter, a smug look on his face.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a fiasco,” said Clarice, surprised by his tone and choice of words. He seemed to be in full weasel mode.
“You and your FBI friend were supposed to quietly and discreetly find the Venezuelan,” he said. “Instead of being discreet, though, the two of you managed to wound four Brazilian citizens on a major city street in broad daylight…and with a knife, for God sake.”
Robideaux did not like where this conversation was heading. She decided the best defense was a good offense.
“I still can’t believe you pulled us back home, Ryan,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “We were so close. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”
She wondered what Donovan’s thoughts were on the subject and suspected she’d find out soon enough.
“You also could have been killed, along with Special Agent Cortez whom, I would remind you, was here at our request, and therefore, under our protection,” said Carpenter. “The blowback from Washington will be devastating for anyone involved in this matter should something unfortunate happen to him.”
“So where do we go from here?” Clarice asked. She had been in the Agency long enough to recognize when the butt-covering phase of an operation commenced. This was definitely it.
The two of them glared at each other and, after a moment or two, Margaret Donovan finally broke the uncomfortable silence.
“I’m going to bring in a special asset to handle the situation from here on out, someone I’ve worked with in the past in similar delicate situations,” said the older woman, carefully measuring her words. “The Brasilia station will only operate in an as-needed support role.”
&nb
sp; “When will we meet this special asset?” asked Carpenter, sensing he was being squeezed out, but still not sure how far out.
“You probably won’t,” the older woman said simply. “All communications with this asset will go through me, or more often, my designated representative. This will be a very close-hold operation, so we have set up an entirely new compartmented program to manage it. We will call it SOARING CONDOR.”
Robideaux was not the only person in the room not liking the direction the conversation was taking. Carpenter was now thoroughly gripped with panic, desperate to get back into the older woman’s good graces.
His career seemed to have jumped the rails through no fault of his own. He felt like a dog on ice, scrambling desperately for any kind of traction.
“Just know that we’re here to provide you with whatever support you require, ma’am,” he said, glaring at Robideaux, whom he blamed for quite possibly ruining his once-promising career.
Donovan noticed the glare.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Ryan,” she said reassuringly. “It’s just that the stakes are much too high on this one and I need to give it my full and undivided attention.”
“I understand completely,” he said although, in truth, he didn’t understand at all. Any of it. His self-preservation instincts were now in full alarm mode.
◆◆◆
The instant he stepped out of the CIA’s Gulfstream G550 at Joint Reserve Base Ellington in southeastern Houston, Pete Cortez felt the tingle of a slight chill in the air. It reminded him that, after spending the past seven days in an equatorial jungle in the height of their summer season, February was actually wintertime in the northern hemisphere.
Not that it was cold in Houston. The temperature was probably in the mid-seventies, but compared to the Amazon, it felt almost frigid. It reminded him of the temperature changes in the desert, which can often vary by seventy degrees or more between day and night.
Pete Cortez had spent most of the time during his flight home in deep thought. He still had plenty of questions that remained unanswered. At the top of the list was why the Agency would pull the plug on the search just when it seemed he and Robideaux were getting close?
Close to what, he wasn’t sure—it could be Calderón or maybe even the mysterious Marco—but they had certainly aroused somebody’s ire. Of that much he was certain.
Gonçalves had sent one of his people down to Ellington to meet Cortez’s plane and drive him back across town to the FBI building, a thirty-mile drive through big city traffic.
It was just past two in the afternoon when he walked into the SSA’s office on the fifth floor of the JTTF. Morris Applebaum, the ASAC, was sitting in one of the armchairs over by the window. Gonçalves was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone.
Both looked up when Pete entered the room.
“Welcome home, Pete,” said Applebaum, motioning for him to come over and sit down on the couch. “Sit down and take a load off.”
Gonçalves finished up with his phone call and walked across the room to join them in the more comfortable sitting area over in the far corner of his office. The ASAC spoke first.
“I was tickled to death to hear that everyone involved survived your latest knife fight,” he said, a smile on his face. “That’s definitely a step in the right direction. Your therapist will be proud.”
Cortez’s skill with a fighting knife, while the stuff from which legends are made among the rank and file, created uncomfortable problems for the Bureau hierarchy from a public perception standpoint.
The reason why shooting a bad guy with a gun was considered more socially acceptable than sticking him with a knife was a mystery to him. It just was.
“See, all you have to remember is to not instinctively go for the neck,” said Gonçalves. “Go for the arms. That’s usually where the weapons are, anyway.”
Cortez was not sure what to make of their banter, so he just kept his mouth shut. After all, they were talking about life and death and he certainly did not want to give the impression that he thought it was a joking matter. Besides, in his case, the subject matter struck just a bit too close to reality.
Still, this was the first time in a while that he’d been in a knife fight where nobody died. He understood his career probably couldn’t withstand another slashed throat. This wasn’t Jacobin France, after all. Yet his instinct was always to go for the jugular in a fight.
He just hoped his change of preferred target wouldn’t result in him getting himself killed instead.
“Jack tells me he thinks our Amazon jailbreak has the fingerprints of an Agency black op.”
Cortez was taken aback. His jaw dropped momentarily.
“What?”
“You know that photo you sent me of that Marco character,” said the SSA, sliding a manila folder across the coffee table to Cortez. “It turns out that the guy bears an uncanny resemblance to a former Agency deep cover operative named Bud Smallwood.”
“You say former?”
“According to my contact, Smallwood—if, in fact, that really is his name—supposedly left the agency’s employ less than a year ago. My contact was vague as to the exact timing and circumstances.”
“You seem surprised, Pete,” said Applebaum, studying the expression on his face.
“Surprised would be an understatement. That possibility never really entered my mind.”
“So now that the possibility has entered your mind, what are your initial thoughts?” asked Applebaum. The two older men were each studying Cortez’s face, looking for telltale signs. It revealed nothing but surprise and confusion.
Cortez was silent for a few moments, trying to process the unexpected information he had just received.
“But why would they then ask for our help with the case?” asked Cortez, looking first at Applebaum, then at Gonçalves. “And why would they request that I travel down to Brazil to assist them in their search? It makes no sense to me.”
“Nor to us, either,” said Gonçalves. “Give us your impression about Carpenter and Robideaux.”
“I only met Carpenter once, right before Robideaux drove me to the airport for my flight back to Houston, so I didn’t get much of a read on him. Early- to mid-forties, I’d say. He seems more like a bureaucrat than a field operative, though.”
“How about Robideaux?”
“Mid-thirties. Very professional. She was pretty ticked off that we got pulled off the search. She seemed especially pissed at Carpenter, much more so than at the Polícia Militár. The Brazilians were probably just worried about blowback from their higherups if something were to happen to two U.S. government officials while in their city.”
“Do you think either one of them—Carpenter or Robideaux—could be playing us?” asked the ASAC. It was an awkward question, but one that needed to be asked. “Eventually, I’m going to have to let the SAC and the folks back in Washington know about what we’ve learned, but I want to make sure I have my stuff together first.”
“No, I spent nearly a week in close quarters with Robideaux and I don’t think she is playing us,” said Cortez, rubbing the stubble on his face. He hadn’t shaved in over twenty-four hours. “She seemed pretty intent on finding the Venezuelan, and when we toured the prison compound, she was pretty pissed at what she saw. She definitely wants to get to the bottom of this. She said she had only been out to the camp a couple of times before and knew some of the people who were killed there.”
“What about Carpenter?”
“I really have no idea.”
“Well, something’s not adding up,” said Gonçalves, propping his feet up on the edge of the coffee table. “The boss and I want you to figure out what.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Pete,” said the ASAC, a serious look of concern on his face. “Be careful. Whoever is behind this has already left a trail of bodies. One more, even an FBI agent, probably wouldn’t bother them much.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 10
State of Roraima, Brazil
The extended trail of the military convoy as it made its way north up Brazilian federal highway 174 seemed to straggle on for miles. The tactical intervals between vehicles varied from ten vehicle-lengths to virtual tailgating.
The 25th Jungle Infantry Battalion was making its way north to the border with Venezuela on the only north-south blacktop highway in the region. The battalion, a part of the Tenth Jungle Infantry Brigade, was deploying to the chaotic border with Venezuela on a humanitarian assistance and security mission. Their orders would keep them there for the next ninety days, at which time they would rotate back to Boa Vista after being replaced by another army unit.
“Roraima Three, this is Roraima Six. How are we looking back in the rear? Over,” Lieutenant Colonel Roberto Lima asked in Portuguese over the tactical radio. He was riding in the lead vehicle, at the head of the column.
Being a dismounted jungle infantry battalion, the unit had few organic vehicles. Most of its soldiers, along with their equipment and supplies, were being transported in old American deuce-and-a-half trucks, while the commanders and staff officers rode in AM2 light utility vehicles, a Brazilian-manufactured vehicle that resembles the old Willis Jeep.
“Six, this is Three,” said Major Rodrigues, his operations officer, who typically rode in the middle of the column during administrative movements like the current one. Normally, the battalion executive officer would take up the rear of the column, but he had already gone up to Pacaraima a couple of days earlier to make sure the facilities were prepared for their arrival. “Looks good so far. No stragglers. No breakdowns. Over.”
It was a boring trip, one that Rodrigues had made dozens of times before over the years. The highway was a two-lane paved road with narrow shoulders. The terrain was flat, with scrub trees and brush for as far as the eye could see. The faded yellow double line running down the middle of the road was barely visible for long stretches at a time.
