by Bill King
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Gauthier is an albino with pink eyes who reportedly shaves his head. He’ll most likely wear a wig or a hat or both, but there’s not much he can do about his pink eyes.”
“Except maybe wear tinted contact lenses or sunglasses.”
“Anyway, I wanted you to know about Gauthier,” said Carvalho, wordlessly conceding the obvious. “I’ll send you his photo, along with a dossier from Interpol. I’ll leave it up to you as to whether or not to reach out to your counterparts in Canada.”
“Is that all you can tell me about him?”
“Not exactly,” said the Portuguese policeman. “He reportedly entered the States nearly a week ago. One more thing. He usually uses a handgun, but he’s also known for his occasional handiwork with explosives.”
◆◆◆
The twin-engine plane carrying Dominic D’Angelo landed at a private airport on the western edge of Houston. It had only been two days since his last trip to Houston, when he had met with Roberto Lazarus and Carlos Briceño.
He had not expected to be back so soon.
A waiting limousine transported D’Angelo into Houston to an estate in River Oaks, an old money enclave off Westheimer Road. Forty minutes later, the vehicle pulled into the circular driveway and came to a halt by the front door. A muscular man wearing sunglasses and wearing a dark suit walked over and opened the passenger door for D’Angelo.
The well-tanned New Yorker stepped out of the vehicle and headed straight for the front door, which was being held open by an attractive woman wearing a dark business suit. He was escorted down the entry hall to a big room on the left. A matronly woman in her late fifties was standing over by a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out onto the back yard. When she heard him enter the room, the woman turned around to face him.
“Dominic,” said Margaret Donovan, a broad smile across her face. “Thank you for coming to Houston to meet with me on such short notice.”
She was in Houston for the day to speak at an international security symposium. She had asked for D’Angelo to update her in person on the progress of their special project.
There were three large wingchairs over by the stone fireplace, arranged at right angles to each other in the shape of a C. She motioned for Dominic to join her over there.
On the coffee table in front of the chairs was a silver service with three porcelain tea settings. An elegant looking man with thinning white hair was already seated in one of the chairs.
“Tiffany, can you step outside into the front hall for a few moments and give us some privacy?” he said to the young woman in the dark business suit. “Please make sure no one interrupts us.”
As soon as the younger woman left the room, closing the door behind her, Donovan nodded in the direction of the elegant looking man, who had by now risen to his feet.
“Dominic, I’d like to introduce you to Zachery Jellico.”
The two men shook hands and settled into the wingchairs.
“So, Dominic,” said Margaret Donovan, picking up her coffee and saucer and taking a sip. “Please bring us up to speed on how our little project is proceeding.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 24
Pacaraima, Brazil
The Brazilians had stretched rolls of razor-sharp concertina wire across the paved highway in hopes of at least slowing down the relentless advance of the refugee caravan that was coming down from the north.
Two rolls down to give it depth, one up to give it added height. The wire extended for half a kilometer beyond the road in either direction. It was anchored in place by heavy steel stakes driven into the ground every ten meters of so. A two-meter gap in the wire was left in the center of the road to permit crossing back and forth in single file.
“We have two platoons of infantrymen deployed to cover the length of the wire, one platoon to the left, one to the right,” Major Rodrigues said to his battalion commander. “Bravo Company is in reserve, staged in a marshaling area behind the medical station for if and when we need them.”
The two officers were standing off to the side of the road, about twenty yards behind the barbed wire obstacle, giving them a front row seat to the action. Lieutenant Colonel Lima looked at his wristwatch. It was five-thirty and sunrise was still another half hour away.
“Are the drones up yet?”
“Yes, sir, we launched two of them about fifteen minutes ago,” said Rodrigues. “I sure hope the Venezuelans don’t mind that we’re borrowing some of their airspace.”
Lima laughed. “Do we have one over the caravan yet?”
“Yes, sir. A large group of people is already awake and on-the-move, probably hoping to reach the border before it gets too hot.”
“How long until the first wave hits us?”
“I’d guess five or ten minutes, give or take.”
“Give or take what?”
“Give or take how much of a hurry they’re in to get the border crossing,” said Rodrigues, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. The phrase, give or take, was not quite as empty as repeatedly saying you know, but it was close.
It was at that moment when they heard a noise coming from the distance. At first, it was an indistinct rumbling sound. As the minutes went by, though, the sound became clearer, more distinct.
“Bo-li-var! Bo-li-var! Bo-li-var!” the crowd was chanting, growing ever louder as they approached the border crossing.
“Operations, report,” said Lima into his radio mic attached to his MOLLE harness. MOLLE, pronounced Molly, is an acronym for Modular Lightweight Load Carrying Equipment.
“The first wave is approaching the border now,” said the voice on the other end of the radio.
The battalion’s operations center was set up back at the field headquarters, about two kilometers away. The drones were the battalion’s eyes and ears on the refugee caravan and were being controlled by operators located in the operations center.
Rodrigues used his right hand to adjust his earpiece. He was also listening in on the conversation on the operations net.
“I can see that,” said Lima impatiently into his tactical radio mic. “Where is the main body and how many are there?”
“Our best estimate is that there are several thousand of them,” the operations sergeant replied over the radio. “Perhaps as many as five thousand.”
Lima whistled softly.
“Can you see the tail end of the caravan?” asked the battalion commander.
“Yes, sir,” the man on the other end of the radio said. “We had one of the drones fly another ten kilometers north along the highway just to make sure.”
“Can you figure out what all the commotion is about?” asked Rodrigues. “We’re hearing what seems to be chanting.”
“There appears to be a cluster forming about a mile north of your location,” replied the man from the battalion operations center. “It’s hard to tell what’s causing it. Maybe a fight, or possibly one of the women is in childbirth, or possibly one of the children is sick or injured. I really can’t tell for sure, sir.”
“See if you can figure it out,” said Lima into the radio. “Out.”
Lima and Rodrigues remained where they were, idly talking and observing as their soldiers methodically went through the process of checking identification and, one by one, allowing scraggly looking refugees to proceed to the main border checkpoint building.
Over the next hour, as the sun continued to rise in the sky and the temperatures began their relentless climb that would continue, unabated, until late in the afternoon. Refugees continued to straggle down the road to the Brazilian border until, around nine o’clock, the last of them finally arrived.
Five Venezuelan soldiers tried their best to keep the crowd calm on their side of the border while they waited their turn to cross into Brazil. It was an impossible task and they all knew it. So did Lima and Rodrigues.
“How long do you think it will be before they try to force their way across?” asked Rodrig
ues.
It was a rhetorical question, of course, although both officers knew it was only a matter of when, not if, the crowd got tired of standing in the hot sun, waiting to cross into Brazil…at which point they would simply continue with their relentless march to a better life.
Anywhere other than Venezuela.
“I’m surprised, not to mention a little disappointed, that Sanchez only sent five men to help contain the crowd,” said Lima, referring to his Venezuelan counterpart.
“I imagine this is tough on him, sir, watching his country implode before his eyes,” said Rodrigues, opening a half-liter bottle of water that one of their soldiers had just handed them. He gulped down the entire bottle in one swig.
It was the third bottle so far of what would likely be at least two dozen that he would consume before the day was out.
By one o’clock that afternoon, there was not a cloud in the ice blue sky. The temperature was already approaching triple digits. Less than a quarter of the caravan had been allowed to cross the border into Brazil by that time, and the crowd on the Venezuelan side was beginning to get restless and agitated.
A vehicle carrying the battalion’s command sergeant major pulled up behind Lima and Rodrigues. The man, who appeared to be in his late-forties, got out, and as he approached the two officers, he saluted sharply.
“Colonel, we have just about run out of supplies…food, water and medical,” said the battalion’s senior enlisted soldier, whose camouflage utility uniform was drenched in sweat. “Brigade says they won’t be able to send any supplies up from Boa Vista until their shipment from Manaus arrives the day after tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Lima, visibly upset at the news. “What the hell are we supposed to tell those two or three thousand people standing on the other side of the wire?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger, sir,” said the sergeant major, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
“Where is that damn Sanchez?” shouted Lima, frustrated that his Venezuelan counterpart had not seen fit to even show his face. “Somebody has to be in charge over there. They can’t just ignore them. They’re their own countrymen, for God’s sake.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s why we are in this situation in the first place,” said the command sergeant major. “They don’t really care. They want us to take care of their problem for them.”
Lima just stood there, hands on his hips, and slowly shook his head back and forth.
“You’re right, of course, sergeant major,” he said, a smile now breaking out across his face. “Have someone set up the public address system. I’ll let these people know that the border will be closed for the next thirty-six hours.”
Now it was Rodrigues’ turn to smile.
“I’m sure that’s going to go over well with everyone on the other side of the wire.”
◆◆◆
Veronica Enfield was surprised to receive a call at home from Jack Gonçalves.
“So, Jack, not that I’m not always tickled to death to talk with you, but what is so urgent that you felt the need to call me at home on the first Saturday afternoon in months with decent weather?” she asked. “I was just about to go out and take advantage of the early Easter sales.”
“I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, Veronica, especially about business,” he said apologetically. “I keep hearing the name, Dominic D’Angelo, come up in relation to matters in South America. What can you tell me about him?”
The line went completely silent. She said nothing for what seemed like an eternity.
“Did you hear me, Veronica?” he asked finally.
“Yes…yes, I heard you,” she replied in a soft, unsteady voice.
He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when he called her, but this was most definitely not the reaction he anticipated.
“Veronica, I need to know what you know,” he said, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. “Give me some insight. Tell me where to look. Warn me off. Whatever. I don’t want my investigation to inadvertently screw up one of your ongoing operations.”
“Then drop it,” she said simply. Simply and calmly.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” he said, realizing he was on to something important. He just didn’t know yet why it was important. “At least, not without a good reason. Give me a good reason and I will. Otherwise, help me out. Talk to me.”
Again, she was silent, mulling over how she would respond to her old friend’s request.
“Dominic D’Angelo is a well-connected consultant who, as far as I know, hasn’t been used by us for at least three years. From what I’ve heard, he’s out of the business.”
“Retired?”
“Who really knows?” she replied, trying to appear nonchalant. “What I do know is that we aren’t using him.”
“Why are you so sure about that?”
“Because his major champion, the man who usually brought him in for his periodic assignments, died three years ago,” she said. “Word is that D’Angelo is now retired and living in Port of Spain, on the island of Trinidad.”
“Which is, what, twenty miles or so off the Venezuelan coast?”
“Yes,” she replied softly. “Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
So, Mr. Dominic D’Angelo, thought Gonçalves, rubbing his chin pensively. What in the hell are you up to?
◆◆◆
Several hundred people, all dressed in what most would call business casual, were gathered in the well-manicured backyard of the U.S. ambassador’s home in Brasilia. They were there for the Ambassador’s annual family picnic for embassy staff and employees. Unlike most similar gatherings at the residence, this one was primarily for Americans.
Clarice Robideaux was talking with a group of women underneath a massive schefflera tree that dominated the far corner of the yard. Normally a tropical houseplant in the United States, it was not uncommon in Brazil for them to grow into trees exceeding fifty feet tall.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Ryan Carpenter was walking toward her.
“Clarice,” he called out to her as he approached the group of women. “Can we speak privately for a few minutes?”
Robideaux, who was dressed in a brightly colored sundress, murmured something to the women and walked over to where he was standing.
“What can I do for you, Ryan?” she asked pleasantly, a stiff smile on her face. Their relationship these days could be described as cordial at best, tense at worst.
They walked about fifteen feet away to ensure that none of the women could hear their conversation.
“Have you heard anything about Mateo Calderón lately?” he asked.
“No, Ryan, I haven’t,” she replied curtly. “As you remember, I am not read into that program.”
“Yes, I remember,” he said, wincing slightly at her tone. “What I am asking is whether or not you have heard anything from your other sources here in Brazil?”
Why is he asking me? she wondered. Maybe he’s being cut out of the loop, too.
“What about Margaret Donovan?” she asked sweetly. “Have you not spoken with her, or with her…designated representative?”
He was sensing the obvious sarcasm but decided to ignore it and press on.
“No, I haven’t heard even a peep from her and that worries me.”
“Why are you worried?” she asked, this time without the attitude. “Most of what happens within the Agency are things we never hear about. Just add this to the list.”
“Somehow, I think this whole operation is going to come roaring back from out of nowhere and blindside us.”
Now he had her full and undivided attention. This wasn’t an act. He seemed truly scared.
“So, Ryan, what do we plan to do about it?”
◆◆◆
Not quite two hours had passed since the Lieutenant Colonel Lima had informed the crowd of refugees that the border was being closed for at least the next day and a half. Several dozen soldiers, armed w
ith rifles, had stood around him as he made the announcement.
They stared into the restless throng, a fierce look of intimidation on their faces.
By now it was mid-afternoon at the Pacaraima border crossing. The sun had reached its zenith and the temperature was in triple digits. The desperate hoard of refugees was becoming increasingly agitated.
That was when the Brazilians noticed that the rear of the crowd was beginning to push the people in front of them forward, ever closer to the double-stacked rolls of barbed wire that separated them from at least the prospect of a better life.
The noise level from the crowd grew louder and louder as the front row of refugees were relentlessly pushed into the razor-sharp wire. Suddenly, blood curdling screams could be heard as men, women and children were being shoved into the concertina rolls, pushing the barrier backwards until the steel support spikes would not permit the wire to move any further.
Some in the front row of people were shoved to the ground on top of the wire as the mass of the crowd kept pushing relentlessly forward.
The terrified screams grew louder and louder as the desperate horde now trampled over the helpless people on the ground, whose prone bodies had created a breach in the barbed wire barricade. Dozens and dozens of refugees began flooding through the opening, trampling the now dying bodies of their fellow Venezuelans.
The sharp sound of gunfire caused the crowd to pause in their tracks, at least momentarily.
However, once the crowd realized the shots had been fired into the air and not at them, they again began to press forward, not willing to give up on this opportunity to escape the hellhole they had been trapped inside for the past decade or more.
As the desperate crowd reached the first row of Brazilian soldiers, a machine gun mounted on the roof of the headquarters building began firing several short bursts deep into the middle of the crowd.
Now it was the people in the back of the mob—the same ones who had been pushing the crowd forward—who began screaming, as their compatriots around them began to fall to the ground, saturated with blood.
