by Gary Ponzo
“You really want to do this?” Matt asked the Russian.
The Russian eyed him with suspicion, maybe not sure where the question was leading. “It will be much better for you if I do.”
“All right,” Nick said, coming beside Matt and fist bumping his cousin. He looked at Anton Kalinikov with a neutral expression. “You do understand the arrangement, right?’
“Yes,” the Russian assassin said. “I receive five million dollars.”
Nick glared at Tommy. “Five million?”
“What?” Tommy shrugged. “You said to offer whatever I thought would secure a guide for the trip. That’s what I did.”
Nick resumed his conversation with Kalinikov. “What I was speaking about was the immunity you will receive. No matter what the circumstances, you will not be charged with anything from the American government.”
“I see,” the large man said. “However, that will not help me down in South America.”
“No, it won’t.” Nick glanced at Kalinikov’s duffel bag. “What’s in there?”
“My gear.”
“You have weapons?”
Kalinikov dropped his bag and examined the two agents while Tommy took a seat and crossed his legs.
“I’m ready for a nap,” Tommy said, working the toothpick with his tongue.
Kalinikov folded his arms across his chest, “I did not bring any weapons. I figured you would have plenty of that. What I brought was gear that will keep us alive. Your government might not care about your well-being, but I am not ready to join a suicide mission.”
Neither Nick nor Matt had anything to say so Kalinikov kept going. As if he could translate their suspicious glares, Kalinikov gestured to Tommy and looked at Nick. “He is very smart, your cousin. If someone like him could find me, then others could too. That is the reason I am doing this. If I survive this risky maneuver, I want your government to offer my family complete twenty-four-hour protection. I will not live the rest of my life with a pistol in my hand.”
Nick didn’t even bother to glare at Tommy for this one. “We can do that.”
Matt was still standing at attention, eyeing the Russian as if inviting him to engage in a war of words.
Kalinikov met the agent’s gaze. “The last time we met, you were lying on the ground. Wounded. I could have killed you, but I did not.”
Matt’s intense stare softened. He said nothing.
Kalinikov was about to continue, but Nick interceded.
“I think we need to focus less on our past and more on why we’re here,” Nick said.
“Agreed,” Kalinikov said, then looked at Matt.
Matt stood rigid for a moment, then finally relaxed his stance. “Agreed.”
Kalinikov then set his attention on the three SEALs. He looked underwhelmed with their presence.
“What?” Nick asked. “Not enough SEALs?”
Kalinikov looked away and lowered his voice. “Too many.”
“Too many?” Matt said. “These are the finest soldiers in the world.”
“I know,” Kalinikov said. “That is the problem. They are too aggressive for—”
“That’s enough,” Nick said. “We’re not debating the value of SEALs out here.” He pointed to the jetway leading to the DOJ plane waiting for them. “Let’s get on board. We have plenty to discuss while waiting for our stuff.”
The SEALs gathered their bags and took the lead as always. First in. Last out.
As Nick passed in front of Tommy, he dropped a large manila envelope into his cousin’s lap. “You know what to do?”
Tommy frowned. “You kidding?”
“He is not coming with us?” Kalinikov said, a look of concern on his face.
“He’s coming,” Nick said. “He’s going ahead of us and trying to get some intel. Maybe make our job a little easier.”
Kalinikov seemed to assess the news. He half-shrugged. “You must know what you are doing.”
Nick wanted to tell him how little they knew and how much risk they were taking, but he was speaking to a master assassin with decades of experience. The man knew how dangerous short notice operations were, so he didn’t even try to mask the truth.
“We’ll see,” Nick said.
Chapter 17
President Merrick stood behind the podium in the Rose Garden and gripped the side of the structure with both hands in a firm and confident manner. Every president who’d ever given a speech was coached to do two things: stand tall and grasp the podium with an aggressive hold. The very best at this was former Secretary of State Colin Powell, who at six-foot-two towered over the raised platform with a fierce grip and spoke down to the reporters from a lofty angle which automatically assured him of a sense of authority.
Now, Merrick stood tall and greeted the throng of reporters with a terse smile. Sam Fisk stood beside him with his hands clasped together, making eye contact with the reporters and acknowledging them with a quick nod.
It was overcast and breezy as Merrick began with his traditional greeting. “Good afternoon. As you know my brother Trent has been missing in the jungle of southern Colombia for the past couple of days. I’ve already spoken with his wife and we are currently attempting to piece together as much information as possible to decipher exactly where he might have been before we lost contact with him. Trent is a very independent soul. He was in the Amazon Rainforest to film a documentary about the plight of the native Indians who’d been losing their homeland to cartels who were tearing down precious forest land to grow more cocaine plants.”
Merrick took a bottle of water from the shelf under the podium, unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. You would have to have known Merrick as long as Fisk did to recognize the signs of stress. To the casual observer, he appeared to be taking the situation with his brother with great poise. But Fisk could see his eyes occasionally wandering off into the horizon, or his foot constantly tapping to an unknown beat.
Now, he returned the bottle to the shelf and grasped the podium once again, digging his thumbs into the wood platform as if trying to leave an impression behind.
Merrick continued, “The President of Colombia, Carlos Santoro, has assured me his people are doing everything in their power to find him. Tomorrow morning I will personally be making the trip to Bogota to meet with the president to offer my gratitude and extend whatever assistance we can to the search. We are hopeful that someone will be able to assist us with any information which can lead us to him. We have a special website set up, ‘Helpfindtrent.com.’ Anyone can leave an anonymous message and we’ll be sure to follow up on any leads which can lead us to him.”
Merrick glanced down at his watch at the precise moment in the speech in which he’d choreographed his exit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a scheduled meeting with a young girl in the Make-A-Wish Foundation who wanted to have lunch with the president and I have no intention of keeping her waiting.”
He backed away from the podium and gestured for Fisk to take the stand. “Secretary of State Fisk will answer any questions you may have. He is quite familiar with the situation and will be able to brief you on any new information.”
There was a smattering of questions thrown at the president as he walked off into the back door to his private office. He didn’t turn, nor did he hurry his steps.
Fisk took the podium and placed his hands in the traditional two-hand stranglehold and with a pleasant expression said, “Okay, I’ll be glad to answer any questions you may have.”
The swarm of reporters took the opportunity to raise their arms and barter for Fisk’s attention with a wave of their hands. Reporters are supposed to be impartial when it comes to questioning cabinet members of the administration, but everyone inside the beltway knows which ones had liberal tendencies and which leaned more to the right. Fisk decided to begin with a reporter who favored his own political persuasion.
“Kevin,” he pointed to a balding man with oversized glasses. “What do you have for me?”
The man p
ut down his hand. “Mr. Secretary, shouldn’t the United States be allowed to send troops to the area to help facilitate the search for Trent Merrick? And has President Santoro denied any such request?”
“First of all,” Fisk said, “President Santoro has been nothing but gracious with his time and assistance in the search for Trent. Our visit to Colombia is being received with great compassion for the Merrick family’s troubles.”
“But is it true that President Santoro is refusing any American troops in the area?” the reporter added.
“No,” Fisk said. “That is untrue. We have not been denied access anywhere. However, you must remember this is a very hazardous part of the world. It’s the natural habitat for some of the most dangerous creatures known to man. There’s piranha and anaconda and poisonous frogs just to name a few. So we’re very cautious about who we send and where.”
As the mass of reporters buzzed once again for attention, Fisk pointed. “Jessica.”
A young woman with brunette hair tied back into a bun said, “How did the president know his brother was missing?”
“Yes, Trent’s wife had a designated timetable to receive messages from her husband. When the latest timetable passed, she became concerned. She waited a few hours, but since no further contact has been made, she contacted the president.” Fisk held up a hand. “Let me make you aware of the fact that Trent’s wife, Jaqui, is not only extremely upset over this situation, she is also pregnant with their first child. So, please respect her privacy as she goes through this very difficult time. She is currently under doctor’s care and having a tough time with the absence of her loving husband.”
Fisk pointed. “Brian.”
A middle-aged man with gray sideburns said, “Exactly how much support is the Colombian president offering?”
“More than enough,” Fisk said, then pointed to a young woman with brunette hair tied back into a bun. “Veronica.”
“There was a report that Trent Merrick has been kidnapped by the FARC who control much of the southern part of the country. Is that true?”
Fisk was ready for that one. “Where was that reported?”
The reporter kept a somber face. “TMZ.”
Fisk smiled widely. “Was that the lead story?”
The reporter seemed to be thinking about the answer. “Is that important?”
“Well, the reason I ask is because I read that story on TMZ’s website as well. It was right under the headline story, ‘Donald Trump Gets a Butchered Facelift.’ When you have a report from a credible news source, I’d be delighted to respond.”
Fisk quickly pointed to an older woman with very pale skin. “Chelsea.”
“Mr. Secretary, is there any indication of foul play of any sort?”
Fisk had several dispositions he would use for his press conferences. There was the smart-aleck one liners to keep things light whenever undue pressure was placed on the White House to reveal something they had no intention of revealing. Then there was the terse adversarial disposition whenever the opposing side of the aisle would accuse the president of playing politics with a certain policy. Now, Fisk was going to be the grandfather who spoke to his grandchildren with endearing words to keep them calm and composed.
He took a big breath and leaned forward. “Folks,” he said, “the main reason President Merrick is visiting Colombia is because of what he brings with him when he goes.” Fisk held out a finger and wagged it side-to-side. “You. He knows that whenever he travels to a foreign country, he brings the media with him. He hopes the trip will shine an intense light of attention to the region and possibly ignite enough interest to uncover information that would otherwise be overlooked. And this is precisely what he is after.”
Fisk went on answering questions for another twenty minutes, but the question which never came up was, “Is it possible this was a ploy to lure the president down to an unsecure part of the globe?”
It was the one question Fisk wondered about himself.
Chapter 18
Pablo Moreno’s office complex was in the middle of the textile district in downtown Medellin. It was one of the more affluent sections of town with most of the city’s fashion designers passing by his office window each day with a rail-thin model on each arm. Moreno’s opulent taste in art was in full display around the tall white walls, with Salvador Dali’s work prominently displayed. Paintings of melted clocks and psychedelic butterflies mingled with a gold sculpture of a small, bald man wearing a toga and a life-size statue of an ancient soldier about to launch a spear.
Moreno’s desk was a large semicircle slab of marble, cut to his precise measurements. Now, he sat behind his desk and checked the current inventory on his laptop computer. The coca fields were yielding more than anticipated this harvest and he expected profits to soar over the next quarter. Sitting across from him were CIA agent’s Tevin Martinez and Chris Garber. Both of them were slouched in their seats, as comfortable as American football fans watching Monday Night Football.
“So when are they arriving?” Moreno said, busy scanning the spreadsheet on his monitor.
“They’re scheduled to land around midnight,” answered Agent Garber.
“Good,” Moreno said absently.
“We should just ambush them right there,” Agent Martinez said with a little gusto in his voice. “Why wait?”
Moreno suddenly looked over at the man. “At the Palmaseca International Airport? Is this your idea of a smart plan?”
Martinez looked away.
“Answer me,” Moreno raised his voice for emphasis.
Martinez made eye contact. He spoke softly. “No.”
Moreno cupped a hand behind his ear. “Excuse me? What did you say?”
Martinez matched Moreno’s volume. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, El Patron.” The CIA agent said the words as if it hurt his larynx as speak them.
“That is correct,” Moreno said. “That is why we set up the ambush in the Amazon where the only witnesses will be a few alligators and some vultures.”
The agent nodded, seemingly wanting to say more, but his partner placed a hand on his arm, saying, “Tevin gets a little anxious sometimes, Mr. Moreno. That’s all. Please don’t take that as insubordination.”
That satisfied Moreno’s ego enough to return his attention to his spreadsheet. He glanced up momentarily at Garber to let him know he needed to keep Martinez in check or they would both pay for his defiance.
Moreno waved his hand at the two agents. “All right then. Go get ready for your meeting. Make sure there are no mishaps.”
“Yes, El Patron,” Garber answered.
As the men left the massive office, Moreno noted that Tevin Martinez did not respond to the command.
Once he was alone, Moreno dug deeper into his files. His income had been trending significantly upward, but so had his elaborate spending. Security alone took up almost a quarter of his payroll. Every time he entered a new market, the resistance had been such that he was forced to devote more time and money to alleviate the conflict. Growth meant investment and he was beginning to think they were growing too fast. Maybe he should keep his current lines open and scale back the new ventures until his receivables picked up. Being a cartel leader required much more business sense than pure violence. He’d seen less sophisticated men try to power their way to the top, only to stumble under their own damaged policies.
Moreno didn’t operate like most organized crime syndicates. He was a shrewd businessman who provided funds to the needy in the Medellin community. He’d set up a soup kitchen for the poor and a shelter for those without a place to live. He would have a crew visit local restaurants each morning and pick up stale bread and slightly overripe fruit to bring to the slums for nourishment. His reputation on the streets of Medellin was one of generosity and most citizens didn’t care where the charitable money came from, as long as he provided for them, he was considered an ally. Fewer enemies meant less need for muscle.
Now, he scrutinized his spreadsheet and searched for the next payment schedule. He was trying to avoid a serious examination of his little gambling habit. Something which did not show up on his file. He’d always kept it at arm’s length so he wouldn’t have to face the reality of his poor betting decisions. It was like a deficit which kept piling up and the only reason he didn’t have to shell out his full payment was simply because of who he was. Most of his collectors were simply too afraid to demand full payment, but the amounts were becoming astronomical and he needed to secure funds before it became a Camenos problem as well as a Pablo Moreno problem.
He considered a source of revenue which had recently fallen into his lap. Moreno picked up his cell phone and decided to make a call to their southern outpost and check on his current prisoner.
A prisoner with a large price tag.
* * *
Manny Padilla stood under the treetops of the rainforest and held the phone to his ear while Pablo Moreno gave instructions. He could practically hear Moreno sipping expensive wine with his feet on his marble desktop. And why not? Moreno was hundreds of miles away in the comfort of his office in Medellin, while Padilla’s fuse was shrinking. He was losing his ability to maintain his composure in this waterlogged campsite with a portable generator as their only modern convenience.
Padilla could see the open coca field in the distance, expanding as their business grew. The field had been under Padilla’s supervision the entire time, which meant he was the one accountable for how much pure cocaine the field yielded. And since Padilla knew his product could never be accurately audited, no one else could possibly discover how much harvest he’d skimmed for himself over the past two seasons. Only he and his two partners, who drove the product to his brother’s place in Brazil. They’d already sold the finished product a week ago and over two million dollars awaited his arrival. Except that’s when Moreno ordered him into this muddy hole in the middle of the Amazon to keep the American prisoner locked away. As soon as Padilla was back in Medellin, he could escape to Brazil to gather his money and move to Portugal with his wife and children where they would begin a new life. Who knows? Maybe even an honest one.
