Detachment Bravo

by Richard Marcinko

  When Gunny asked if there was any way he could repay the favor, I told him I needed some logistical help finding a small riverboat that was somewhere inside the territorial waters of the country in which I was currently sitting, and checking up on a pair of individuals who might have left Buenos Aires. He put me on hold for three minutes. Then he came back on line, gave me a name and a Montevideo phone number, and told me to identify myself as Mister John Jones from Newark, New Jersey.

  “That’s original,” I said.

  “Hey, it’ll work—and that’s all that counts,” Gunny Jarriel told me. “Semper Fi, Dick. Keep an eye on your six.”

  “I always do. Semper Fi, Gunny. Hoo Ya.”

  The name of the guy Gunny passed to me was Ray Lloyd. He turned out to be the U.S. Customs rep at AMEMBASSY Montevideo—or at least that’s how his office phone was answered. I identified myself to the secretary as Mister John Jones from Newark, New Jersey, and asked for Ray Lloyd. She put me through immediately.

  A friendly female voice came on the line. “Heeey, Jonesie, qué pasa?”

  Whoa, that was no guy’s voice. “Ray? That you?”

  “Yo, Jonesie, it’s me—Ramona.”

  Point taken. Another example of never assume. I hope she didn’t label me as part of the YAA-YAA brotherhood, YAA-YAA standing for Yet Another Asshole Times Two. “I’m just pasa-ing through, Ramona. Our mutual friend across the river suggested that we get together.”

  “Heeey, just call me Rae—that’s with an R-A-E,” she said in a North Joyzey accent that was pretty similar to the one I had as a ute. “We Joyzey kids gotta stick togedda.”

  “You got that right.” I asked if she had time to see me, like right now, as my schedule was pretty tight.

  “Heeey, can do.” I heard her rustling paper. “It’s twelve-twenty now. Meet me in twenty minutes in front of the Iglesia Matriz. It’s on the west side of the Plaza Constitución.”

  I checked to make sure my watch read the same as Rae’s, then glanced down at the tourist map under the scratched sheet of glass covering the top of the rickety-legged desk and found the PIQ.58 It was no more than a six- to seven-minute walk away. That would give me time to try and track down Nod and see what Gerry Kelley was up to. “Will do.” I paused. “How will I recognize you?”

  “Don’t worry, Jonesie,” Rae Lloyd said, her voice suddenly all-business. “I’ll know you.”

  1224. Nod was still unavailable. I had no idea WTF was going on but didn’t have time to do any checking, as my treff with Mizz Rae Lloyd was less than seventeen minutes away.

  What’s that? You say I just told you that the plaza was only a six- to seven-minute walk away. You are correct. But I never ever go straight to a meeting. Not when there’s the possibility of hostiles in the neighborhood. Did I know I’d be followed, or that Ramona might be shadowed? No, I did not. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. And to make sure, I planned to run a short SDR59 to see whether our presence had been noted by the local authorities—or the American Embassy.

  1227. I managed to make my way through the lobby without contracting a social disease. Then I pushed through the front door into the bright sunlight and started toward my meeting with Ramona, walking slowly. But I wasn’t alone. Thirty seconds after I left, Rotten Randy followed me out the door, playing the countersurveillance role, just to make sure I wasn’t taking any unwanted company to my rendezvous.

  Most of the streets and avenues of Montevideo are laid out in neat rectangles. So, I came out of La Cima, turned left, and made my way along Avenida Washington, walking east, toward the Plaza Zabala. I cut through the wide plaza and walked north. So far as I could tell I was alone, but then Rotten would be able to see things much more clearly than I from his vantage point a hundred yards behind me. I ambled onto Avenida 25 de Mayo, and walked into the coolness of a convenient museum that was housed in an old palacio. I peered at half a dozen eighteenth-century paintings without really noticing any of them, then came out and continued my saunter. Three blocks later I turned right, walked past a bank that was closed for lunch. (Yes, in South America, the banks close from noon to three so that the employees can take a long lunch, followed by a short siesta or, if they’re lucky, a long nooner.)

  1235. From the bank I continued east on 25 de Mayo, then turned right and walked along a shopping street that had a line of restaurants resembling French bistrots, or Italian trattorias—complete with sidewalk tables under awnings and umbrellas, surly waiters dressed like penguins, and what looked like terrific food. Then I crossed back over Avenida Washington and walked into the huge Plaza Constitución. On one side, vendors sold ice cream from carts. The benches were filled with lunchtime sunbathers. I crossed the plaza heading south, then turned to look behind me.

  1238. I spotted Randy on the edge of the crowded plaza. He was roughly a hundred yards away. His body language told me I was in the clear. And so, I swung west, crossed through the heavy traffic on Avenida Ituzaingo, then strolled down the crowded sidewalk, passing directly in front of the old cathedral. The watch on my wrist read precisely 1240.

  No contact. I slowed down. I stopped and admired the old church’s architecture. Still no contact. I stared upward for a few more seconds, then moved on, feeling conspicuously conspicuous. I marched to the corner of Avenida Sarandí, then stood in the knot of people waiting for the light to change. Since Ramona hadn’t identified herself, it was time to improvise. I’d keep going, cross the wide avenue, then turn around and sweep past the church one more time. Maybe she’d been held up. Maybe she wasn’t as good a friend as Gunny had thought. Maybe—well, who knew. I was mulling my options when an arm pushed into the small of my back. It’s an old pickpocket’s ploy.

  But before I could react, a smallish woman in a neat silk blouse, designer jeans, and sandals looked up at me and said, “Heeey, Jonesie—it’s me, Rae. Imagine running into you here, of all places.”

  She was right: I never would have picked her out. She was indistinguishable from any of the other hundreds of Latin females within a hundred yards. Her arm tucked tightly under mine, I allowed myself to be guided across Avenida Sarandí. There, we wheeled to the left, waited for the light to change, and then crossed back across Ituzaingo, walking in an easterly direction parallel to the plaza.

  She was about five foot five, maybe five six, with the classic olive skin of Italy—probably Sicily. She was about forty, with prominent cheekbones, dark hair cut short, and the sort of hourglass figure that Latin males find hugely attractive. She knew it too—because she swung her hips as we walked, taking in the sidelong glances with the panache of a pro. And a pro she was: we hadn’t gone a hundred yards, when Ramona looked up at me and said, matter-of-factly, “Y’know there’s some big bad ugly asshole following us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Big bald guy. Fu Manchu mustache. Ranger tattoo. I guess that makes him one of yours, huh?”

  I had to smile. Ramona was observant.

  I nodded. “Yeah—he’s mine.”

  “Figured.” We walked another fifty feet in silence, her arm still tucked tightly in mine. “Well, either you can send him back to wherever it is you’re staying, or he’s gonna have to stand around in the sun for about half an hour, and I hope he’s wearing sunscreen, because this sun is brutal.”

  “How come?”

  “How come? ‘Cause I’m hungry, an’ I wanna talk to you, not to him.”

  I used my left hand to tell Rotten that things were okay. Then Rae wheeled to the right, reached for the glass door to a confitería that was almost as traditional as the Café Tortoni in Buenos Aires, and beckoned for me to precede her inside.

  I demurred. I’m old-fashioned about these things. “Ladies first, please.”

  She smiled a warm smile that made her dark eyes sparkle, nodded graciously, and allowed me to hold the door for her. “This place is called La Pasiva. Nice, huh?”

  I looked around. It was classic South American café: marble-topped tables, marble floor, r
ococo design, and Art Deco fixtures. The walls, which were covered with an eclectic selection of oil paintings, had probably not been cleaned in fifty years—they were almost amber from the cigarette and cigar smoke. The only element that stood out like the proverbial sore thumb was a huge, computer-generated digital menu suspended in a four-by-six-foot frame on the back wall.

  “What a mood killer.”

  Rae nodded in agreement. “A concession to the twenty-first century.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I thought so, too,” Ramona said, her voice raised to combat the hubbub. She waved to the maître d’ and we were shown to a table against the side wall about halfway to the digital menu, and handed menus. Ramona looked up at the waiter and ordered a coffee. I asked for a Heineken.

  She looked impressed. “You speak good Spanish.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I think we’re better off in English.” The waiter returned with our drinks. While I poured my beer, Rae ordered an hamburguesa punto, con papas fritas.60 I did the same. “I like this place because the burgers remind me of the food I used to get at the shore when I was a kid.”

  “Where’ja go?”

  “Ocean City and Avalon.”

  “It must have been fun.”

  “Yeah—those were the days before syringes started washing ashore. You could actually swim.” She sipped at her coffee.

  I toasted Ramona with my glass. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  She shrugged. “Heeey, you’re a celebrity.”

  “Oh?”

  “You should see the cable traffic … Jonesie.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Oh, but I definitely do say. A lot of people with stars on their collars want your behind. Bad, too.”

  “Then why did you agree to meet?”

  She shrugged. “Heeey, it’s a Jarhead thing. I’ve known Gunny Jarriel since he was my ex-husband’s platoon sergeant. Even after we split up he kept in touch. He nagged me until I went to college. He kept track and made sure I did well. And after I got my degree, he bitched and moaned until I took the civil service exam and made it into Customs. So, when Gunny Jarriel calls, I always pick up the phone. When he asks for a favor, I deliver.” She sipped at her coffee, then put the cup down.

  Ramona looked at me piercingly, her dark eyes searching for exactly who I was and why I was in so much trouble. “Tell you what, Jonesie boy, let’s start with the truth. You tell me the story—toda la verdad; la pura verdad61—and I’ll try to help if I can.”

  There are times when straightforward is the only way to go. And this was one of ’em. Since both Ramona and I had total trust in Gunny Jarriel, it was time for me to put my cards on the table. Which is what I did for the next half hour, my head inclined toward hers, so we wouldn’t be overheard.

  And at the end of it, when I’d finished, Rae Lloyd looked down at her untouched hamburguesa and fries, and emitted a long, low whistle. She looked at me with an expression that combined incredulity with respect and said, simply, “Conjo—no shit.”

  I picked up my own untouched burger, took a bite, and chewed. It was like eating sawdust. I swallowed it anyway and washed it down with the last of my beer. “Es toda la verdad, Señora Ramona.”

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’m gonna go back to my office and do some checking. Where are you staying?”

  “The Cima.”

  She looked at me incredulously. “The Semen, you mean. That’s what we call that fleabag.”

  “It’s quiet. It’s friendly.”

  “Friendly, oh yeah—you could say that again.” She took a single bite of cold hamburger, made a face, and put the damn thing back on its plate. “They’re much better when they’re hot. Anyway, it’ll take me about five, six hours to dig up the kind of info you’re looking for.” She tore the corner off the paper placemat and wrote a telephone number down. “This is my pager number. If something comes up, use that to get in touch. Otherwise, I’ll call you in about six hours and we’ll set up a meeting.”

  I slipped the paper fragment into my pocket. “Will do.”

  Ramona looked at me quizzically. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I will be as soon as I can get moving.”

  “I get it. All you wanna do is get back to shooting and looting, right?” The Customs special agent read my expression. “Thought so.” She reached across the table and offered me her hand. “Heeey, good luck, Jonesie.”

  I clasped her hand in my own. “Thanks, Rae.” “De nada.” She stood and threw a trio of bills on the table.

  I started to protest, but Ramona would have none of it. “This has nothing to do with etiquette,” she said, a formidable edge creeping into her voice. “Today, lunch is on the taxpayers. Let’s let Uncle pay—after all, we’ve been discussing business, haven’t we, Jonesie?”

  Lemme tell you something: if you’re in law enforcement, or counterterrorism, and you want good information, get to know someone in the U.S. Customs Service. Customs does more than check your bags and collect duty when you come back from a vacation overseas. The Customs Service tracks everything from software piracy to organized crime to bank fraud. They confiscate more drugs than the DEA; they know more about the Russian Mafiya than the FBI; they have better informants than the CIA; and they have better relations with foreign law-enforcement than the State Department.

  And so, Ramona Lloyd was as good as her word. Six hours after we’d abandoned our uneaten hamburguesas at the confitería La Pasiva, I had the information I was looking for. The news wasn’t especially good, or encouraging. But it made me absolutely certain that a clock was ticking. Where the hell the clock was, or what the time frame might have been, I didn’t know. But it was ticking. I could fucking hear it in my brain.

  You say you want to know what Rae told me. Okay, I’m happy to give you the gist.

  First, Gwilliam’s VERB had flown alone to Paris. Gwilliam had seen her off at Ezeiza, then departed for destinations unknown. Second, Báltaí had anchored off Punta del Este for the past nine days. It had topped off its tanks and abruptly pulled out thirty-six hours ago, destination unknown.

  The crew was non-European. The captain and first mate were German. Three of the others had Iranian names. Rae had learned that particular factoid because the Iranians had been arrested in the red-light district. That certainly fit the Kelley pattern of hiring outsiders for the down-and-dirty work. Iranians made sense, too, because Iran’s navy used Exocets. And Germans? I asked Ramona to wash their names through the Customs database.

  There was more. At eight this morning, the Patricia Desens had docked at Colonia, the old port city just west of Montevideo, to take on fuel and water. Its deck was bare. The riverboat had sailed for Argentina at about the time Rae and I were having lunch. So much for running over to Colonia and interviewing el capitán.

  Now, as you will recall from my research back in London, Báltaí had a five-thousand-nautical-mile range and a cruising speed of thirty-three knots—its top speed was forty-one knots.

  So here’s what I knew by doing some simple math. First, Báltaí couldn’t get back to the North Atlantic (or even the Caribbean) without refueling. The most logical place for it to do that was Recife, a deepwater port on the northeast coast of Brazil. From there, the yacht could easily make the Canary Islands. And from the Canaries, they could go anywhere: Tangier, Lisbon, Genoa, Monaco, Southampton.

  Second, it would be impossible to track Báltaí’s course without doing something like diverting a satellite to do the job. And as both you and I know, diverting a satellite was not in the cards.

  So, how was I going to follow Báltaí’s progress? I was going to do it the old-fashioned way. I was going to use a network of port watchers. You remember port watchers, don’t you?

  You don’t? Well, then let me give you a nutshell explanation. Right up through World War II, the U.S. Navy had a network of paid wharf rats in just about every deepwater port in the world. These informants would pas
s along information about the ships that came and went. But after the war, the Warriors who ran the Navy were replaced by administrators and managers. And those apparatchiks decreed that the port-watcher system was unwieldy and impractical. Let Naval Intelligence handle things, they said, forgetting that Naval Intelligence is an oxymoron.

  And so the port watchers were let go. And since then, the Navy hasn’t had any decent intelligence about what’s going on anywhere in the world.

  That’s the bad news. Now there is the good news: the U.S. Customs Service has its own network of port watchers. So, if Báltaí put in at Recife, we’d find out about it. And with any luck, we’d be able to get a lead on the yacht’s next port of call.

  I gave Ramona the number of my cell phone and asked her to call the moment she had any hint of a lead on Báltaí’s whereabouts, or an ID on its German crew members. Then it was time to move our base of operations.

  1800. The KLM flights to Amsterdam were all booked solid for the next three days. There were seats only as far as Rio. But with the help of a carefully folded hundred-dollar bill I managed to secure us all business class tickets to Madrid on Plunca. The twenty-hour, one-stopover flight was bumpy but uneventful. And, once we’d been plunked down in Spain, the guys sat in the transit lounge tapas bar quaffing good Spanish wine and munching on braised octopus in garlic, stewed beef heart, cracked green olives, and hard cheese while Mick and I went off to book tickets to London and work the phones.

  Mick called a pair of his former SAS mates in Hereford to elicit some intelligence about our situation. From the way they dealt with him it was obvious that he and I were neck deep in merde. Then he tried his office at DET Bravo and discovered that his extension had been disconnected. He dialed the phone that sat on my desk and allowed me to listen in to the recording that told us that we’d reached a nonworking telephone number in the Home Office and please to dial the main number for assistance.

  Mick shook his head. “We are now officially declared as nonpersons,” he said gravely.