by Gary Ponzo
“It’s fine, yes,” Faust answered.
“Well, maybe you should find a place to park.”
Faust didn’t recognize the guard, but his ears were about to explode off his head. He was about to rip into the guard, when he was capable of stopping himself. The guard was simply doing his job. Maybe even a bit too well.
“Yes,” Faust finally said. “Thank you.”
Faust put his car in gear and parked in his covered parking space near the employee entrance to the building. He thought about his options. How much did Tevin know? Very little. Faust breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t acquiesce and give Tevin the information he’d requested.
Faust was already relegated to a subordinate position in potentially the most important operation during his tenure with the agency, he wasn’t about to admit any more mistakes. If his conversation somehow derailed the FBI’s rescue mission, then he’ll look like Jimmy Carter did during the Iran Hostage Crisis. Carter was just one extra helicopter away from rescuing those hostages, yet the misstep inevitably cost him the election.
Faust pushed a contact button on his phone.
A minute later, Agent Chris Garber answered the call from somewhere inside Colombia. “Yes.”
“I need you to secure a seaplane for an emergency rescue mission. Have it available by the end of the day, because it will be leaving for the southern quadrant before dawn.”
“Okay.”
“We have a joint task force with the FBI landing in Bogota tonight. Nick Bracco is leading the team. I’ll need a car ready to take them to the seaplane the minute they land.”
“Got it. Am I part of the task force?”
“No, we need you working your contacts. I want to know everything I can about President Santoro’s relationship with Pablo Moreno. Maybe even any recent meetings they may have had.”
“Santoro is certifiable. He might want to kill Moreno one minute, then hug him the next.”
Faust was so relieved to hear that simple assessment come from his agent’s mouth. “Yes, I know. But dig deeper. See what you can find out about any connection between the two.”
“You got it, chief.”
“Thanks.” Faust thought about his next task. He rubbed his forehead in anguish. “Listen, there’s one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Tevin has turned,” Faust said. “I need you to find him.”
“And do what?”
“Do I have to say it?”
A pause. “Jeff. Really?”
“You have a better idea?’
An appropriate pause. Then, “No.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Okay.”
Faust hit the end button on his phone and lingered there in the parking lot, not wanting to leave his car. Not wanting to be in charge and make these terrible decisions. In all the years he’d been with the agency, he’d never had to deal with a rogue agent. And he’d certainly never been forced into a snap decision to have someone’s life ended. He stared down at his phone like it was a smoking gun. A moment later he pushed another button and put the phone to his ear.
“So soon?” CIA Director Ken Morris answered.
“We have to talk.”
* * *
CIA agent Chris Garber sat in a cafe beside the Plaza de Santander in downtown Bogota, sipping the last few drops of an hour-old cup of cold coffee. Across from him sat a man with slicked back hair, handmade Italian shoes and a five-hundred-dollar Gucci tie.
“Well?” the man said with a bit of anxiety in his voice.
Garber looked over at him with a sly grin. “I’m supposed to kill you.”
The two men bumped knuckles and shared a laugh.
“Screw Nick Bracco,” Garber said. “We’ll have a welcome wagon waiting for him.”
Chapter 15
In a very trendy section of Bogota known as Parque de la 93, the nightclubs and cafes were busy most any time of night or day. In this district, the lunch crowd at the swanky Dia de Noche, found many famous visitors, including professional soccer players, movie stars and on this particular day, the President of Colombia, Carlos Santoro.
Santoro, however, never mingled with the paying customers. He was invited to the very prestigious Captain’s Room, where the lunch was served by scantily clad young women who flirted as they dropped off plates of enchiladas and beans and every type of alcoholic beverage.
The Captain’s Room resembled an upscale living room, with carpeted flooring, a large sofa against the wall and small individual trays set up to place the plates of food. The lighting was constantly dim and dance music played overhead.
Since prostitution was legal, the menu also included additional services which could be provided for the appropriate fee. These services usually had a very happy ending for the male customers.
A curtain of glass beads hung from the doorway and jingled every time a server passed through. Standing outside the door was a team of security protecting their guest of honor.
President Santoro beamed with delight as a curvy brunette in a thong and pasties dropped off a tray of cheese and crackers.
“Enjoy, Mr. President.” The girl smiled conspiratorially, as if somehow they had shared a secret moment together.
“Yes, yes,” Santoro exclaimed. “How about a little love over here?” He spread his legs and patted his lap.
The young girl’s smile subsided, however, as she spotted a man stroll through the beaded opening to the room. He wore a white button down shirt beneath a tan sports coat and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Following him into the room were five armed soldiers in fatigues and assault rifles.
Pablo Moreno.
The girl scurried from the room as the gunmen set up a perimeter behind their leader. Moreno strolled over to Santoro with his hands in his pockets. He nodded toward the couch. “May I?”
Santoro wasn’t fazed by the show of force. He knew they weren’t there for him, but for anyone else who might be interested in doing their boss harm.
“Certainly,” Santoro said, waving a hand to his right.
As Moreno took his seat, he picked up a cube of cheese and popped it into his mouth like a piece of candy. “Mmm. Very nice.”
“How can I help you today, Pablo?”
Moreno placed his hands in his lap. “Mr. President, I have something to show you.” He pulled a picture from his shirt pocket and handed it to Santoro.
It was a picture of a very pretty girl with ample breasts peeking out the top of a skintight workout bra. Santoro began to smile as he viewed the image until his eyes finally descended to her lower body. Her legs were covered in fur and she had a fox’s tail curling from her bottom. She was half woman, half animal.
Santoro squinted in the dim lighting to see if he was actually seeing it correctly.
Moreno flicked his fingertip and instantly a small flashlight appeared in his palm. He handed it to the president.
Santoro clicked on the light and examined the photo with extreme scrutiny. The girl was stunningly beautiful and repulsive all at once.
“Creepy, eh,” Moreno said, his eyebrows popping up from behind his sunglasses.
Santoro looked up from the photo. “Who is this? Or what is it?”
“It is a fake, Mr. President. A computer was able to make the image look like she is half beast, but it is not real.”
Santoro held the picture closer to his face and shined the light again. “Really?”
“Really. Computers are capable of making anything look real anymore. Even the experts can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”
Santoro looked up again and handed the photo back to Moreno. “Then why do you show this to me?”
“Because, that picture of you in the Amazon. I understand you are concerned this photo might become a widespread embarrassment for you should it go online. If it ever gets released to the media, the public will be told it is a fake and half the people will believe that and half will not. But that does not matter. With fifty percent uncertain, it will b
e considered a phony. The believers will be considered kooks by the nonbelievers.”
Santoro frowned. “That is easy for you to say since you were not the one on his knees.”
Moreno took a breath. He seemed empathetic. “I understand. You were very engaged in the moment. We had just confirmed a productive and powerful collaboration. Between the two of us, we now control the entire country. It is no wonder you became so enthusiastic.”
Santoro lowered his head. “Yes, well, I have seen a professional about my behavior and it seems I am already cured from my emotional illness. I am much stronger now.”
“That is good, Mr. President, because I need you to be strong. Our alliance requires you to be firm in your dedication to this partnership.” Moreno removed his sunglasses and smiled. “You see, over half of the Colombian workforce makes their money from the drug trade. That is me. The reason we are so profitable is because the United States cannot grow their own coca plants. So they have to import it from a place that can grow their own. That is where you come in. You assure that our fields remain protected.”
“I do not understand what this has to do with the picture?”
“It has everything to do with the picture,” Moreno leaned over with his palms out. “Without it, we would not have the president of the United States coming to visit with you tomorrow.”
“I see.”
“And we would not be splitting fifty million dollars,” Moreno added with a sly grin.
“Fifty million dollars?”
“Yes. That is what President Merrick is willing to pay for the safe release of his brother. Half of that would be yours.”
Santoro liked the financial benefit, but was still leery of the political downside to the photo’s release. “Is the brother still alive?”
“Yes, and it is important he stay that way, so please do not undermine my authority by telling my men to kill the president’s brother.”
Santoro felt a surge of embarrassment. He glanced at the soldiers watching the event unfold. “I do not think I like your tone right now, Pablo.”
“Mr. President, it is imperative you understand something,” Moreno said. He waved his sunglasses at the group of soldiers watching over them. “These men are here for your protection as much as mine. If the FARC ever heard of our arrangement, they will come after you. They control most of the southern part of the country where our new coca fields are being planted as we speak. I need you alive.”
Somehow Santoro zeroed in on the last sentence. Pablo Moreno needed him alive. This one phrase gave Santoro a sense of overwhelming pride, to be needed so badly by such an important man.
“I see,” Santoro said with a genuine smile. “Twenty-five million dollars?”
“Twenty-five million dollars,” Moreno reassured him. “When he comes to visit tomorrow he will want to meet with you first, but we need you to be the instrument of introduction. We will have a car waiting at your office. Once your meeting with him has concluded, I will call you on your cell phone. You will hand the phone to the president and I will speak with him. I will instruct him how to exit the building without being followed.”
“But Pablo,” Santoro said, “certainly the president will have the complex surrounded.”
Moreno was already nodding. “Yes, yes, of course, but he will want to save his brother’s life. I have a feeling he’ll take more chances than is necessary. The Americans will be protecting your building from intruders getting in. They will not be prepared for someone trying to sneak out.”
Santoro pointed to the ceiling. “And they will rule the sky with spy devices.”
Moreno raised his hand. “Please, Mr. President, you must understand, these Americans believe we are all ignorant simpletons who do not use strategy as a weapon. I would like to think I am a little bit smarter than they suspect.” Moreno looked around the room with impunity. “We will be bringing multiple identical cars and only one will have the American president. It will go exactly as we planned.”
Santoro had to admit, he was impressed. His allegiance with Moreno was probably the best decision he had ever made. He smiled, careful to hold back a little bit of his enthusiasm. Showing the man that he has grown in his ability to maintain his demeanor.
“Do not worry,” Moreno added. “Once the president has the money wired to my account, I will have both of them killed.”
“You will kill the President of the United States?”
“Yes.” Moreno grinned. “This is our backyard. I know President Merrick is stalling. That is why he set up the meeting for tomorrow instead of earlier. He is attempting a rescue mission. A mission that will fail.”
“But, Pablo, if the American president is killed while in Colombia, it will bring sanctions and scrutiny we will not want.”
Moreno had a paternal look on his face. “Yes, my friend. However, on the way to our meeting, the president’s car will be ambushed by men dressed as FARC guerillas. There will be a shooting. The president will not survive this terrorist attack. You will then announce a message from the FARC taking responsibility for the assassination. The new American president will then offer support to fight the FARC. Our common enemy will now become America’s enemy. Do you see how this all works?”
Santoro thought of reasons why this would not work, but couldn’t. He held out his hand and smiled when Moreno returned the handshake. “It is a pleasure to be your partner,” Santoro said.
Chapter 16
The FBI had borrowed a small room in Miami International Airport’s Homeland Security office where Nick and Matt were briefed on their trip by several local agents. They’d also changed into light fabrics and were given instructions on how to use special equipment Stevie Gilpin had prepared for them.
Now they sat at an open seating area left by a vacant gate in front of a large window overlooking the runway. They were waiting for an FBI staff person to bring the appropriate vaccinations and duffle bags full of gear. Sitting in the empty section of seats next to them were three Navy SEALs with their gear all assembled meticulously beside them. Two were busy texting on their phones while the third stared out the window at the planes passing by.
Matt was struggling with a sloppy hamburger while Nick ate a premade turkey sandwich from a nearby kiosk which was probably made the day before.
Nick watched Matt strangle his burger with both hands while shredded lettuce and beef juice leaked out onto the carpeted floor between his legs.
“You realize how bad that is for you?” Nick said. “That’s like two thousand calories all by itself.”
Matt didn’t appear to hear the comment, he went on unabated.
“And that drink,” Nick added, pointing to the oversized cup of Pepsi.
Matt placed the lump of meat and bread onto the open wrapper in his lap and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I figure I’m going to enjoy my last meal.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Nick said, eyeing his wilted sandwich.
They’d spent the last two hours of the flight on a direct video conference with the team of department heads assembled in Walt’s office. The prospect was certainly gloomy. They’d spent more time discussing dangerous jungle creatures than locating the president’s brother. Although Walt was trying to keep them alive, he managed to sound more like a concerned parent than the head of antiterrorism for the FBI.
Nick’s phone vibrated. He looked down at the text message from Julie and instantly smiled. There was a picture of Thomas standing up in his pajamas, arms outstretched, with a gigantic smile. The caption read: “He wants a big hug.”
The minute he read the caption, Nick began to feel the emotion swell inside of him. He needed to take a couple of deep breaths to gather himself. The exuberance in his son’s eyes was so captivating, he wanted to run back to the plane and immediately rush home.
“Look at that innocence,” Nick said, almost choking on the words as he handed Matt the phone.
Matt saw the picture and grinned. “Beautiful.”
&nbs
p; When Nick got his phone back, he went over into the corner of the gating area right up against the window and dialed home.
“Hi, sweetie,” Julie answered.
In the background Nick could hear his son whining for his mother’s attention. Nick broke out into a severe smile.
“How’s my team doing?” Nick asked.
“Oh, we’re hanging in there. How about you two? Are you on the way to South America yet?”
“I miss you,” Nick said.
“I miss you too.”
“No, I mean I really miss you. Both of you. I’m not . . .” he covered his eyes and tried to choose his words properly. He put the phone by his side for a second and took a couple of deep breaths.
“Nick?”
“I’m fine. I just dropped my drink.” Nick found the courage to fight off his bout with PTSD which was trying to crawl up his guts and shatter his willpower.
“Honey, they’re saying the president is going down there tomorrow. Something is really wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, baby, something is really wrong. But it’s nothing we can’t fix.”
“You’re such a bad liar.”
“Yeah, but I’m your bad liar.”
Nick was feeling better now just hearing his wife’s voice.
“Want to talk with him?” she asked.
“Of course.”
A moment later Nick could hear his son breathing into the phone.
“Thomas,” Nick said. “Thomas, it’s Da Da.”
“Mama.”
“No. Da Da.”
“Mama.”
Julie took the phone and said, “Don’t worry. He’ll get there, Dad.”
He wanted to say, “Yeah, but will I be there for it?” Instead, he said, “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to say, I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When he turned, he saw two men walking toward their empty gate. One was tall and thick and walked with a quiet confidence, like a jaguar on the prowl. The other was Nick’s cousin Tommy gimping along with a tired expression and a Starbuck’s coffee in his left hand and a purple toothpick peeking out the side of his mouth,
Matt saw them first. He quickly licked his fingers, wiped them on his pants and stood to greet the two men. He shook Tommy’s hand, then was pulled into a bear hug before breaking away and eyeing the large Russian. Nick was right behind them now.
