First Thrill

by Steve Richer

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. I need your help in identifying a man. I work for the RCMP, up in Canada, and there’s a matter with which we really need your assistance.”

  He produced a RCMP badge which he had found in the gadget box. It was a nice thing to have on a mission, it lent credibility. He had thought about flashing the badge at the receptionist, but he was afraid that a member of the security team would be sent to greet him. He wanted to identify the man in the picture quickly without having to talk to every member of the management team.

  “Are you with the embassy?”

  “Yes, I am.” Jeff knew that he would certainly check with the embassy after he left, but didn’t care. He put the badge back in his pocket and retrieved the picture. “Do you know who this man is?”

  The reporter’s eyebrows sank as he took hold of the photograph. He searched his memory and Jeff could tell there was a hint of recognition in his eyes.

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “Si,” the man said in a half whisper. “There is something familiar about this man.”

  “Do you know his name?” Jeff could barely contain his joy.

  “Let me ask a friend.”

  Before Jeff could give his agreement, the man hurried away with the picture. He went to a desk across the room and showed the 4 X 6 to a woman who was, until then, furiously typing. She looked up and said something that Jeff couldn’t hear. It sounded like she was stating a fact that was as evident as the wetness of water. The man came back.

  “This is Gustavo Morales, he is a vice president at Banco MYGL, the big corporate bank. He is one of the most influential businessmen in Venezuela.”

  “You are a godsend, muchos gracias.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about? Why is the Canadian police interested in a Venezuelan citizen?”

  Jeff had thought the question might come up. Any reporter that had attended one class in journalism school would smell a rat and would pursue this story for all it was worth. For all he knew, involving the press could help him with his mission.

  But he was convinced nothing would come out of it since they wouldn’t know what to look for. He had considered the fact that they might spook Morales, but it was an unlikely possibility. They wouldn’t have enough to get to him.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, sir. It’s just a routine check, something we do from time to time.”

  The explanation was bullshit and all Jeff could think about was that his most difficult mission had been accomplished. He knew who G.M. was.

  Chapter 28

  Morales’s number was unlisted. Jeff had been sure of it ever since he had first rummaged through the phone book earlier that day, but he wasn’t hopeless.

  He knew where the man worked and it was all he needed. He found the address of the bank in the same wounded phone book and decided to drive by. It was beyond normal working hours, but Jeff had nothing to lose. He parked across the street and entered the downtown high-rise.

  The country may have been poor but this bank had spared no expenses. The floor was granite and there were huge marble pillars scattered through the lobby. Jeff took his time to go to the reception desk and made sure to take in everything he could see. It was probably useless, but he was developing instincts as an intelligence officer.

  “Holà,” Jeff said before the burly man looked up from his magazine.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man’s Spanish was too fast and Jeff regretted having begun in the local language. He switched to English.

  “Would you know if Gustavo Morales is in the building?”

  If the man had been out of the country for a few days, and if he was as important as the reporter had claimed, then Morales would certainly have some catching up to do at the office. If he wasn’t there, Jeff was prepared to stay the night and wait for him in the morning.

  The security guard’s English was far from perfect, but he understood the key words making up the name of one of the vice presidents. He punched a few keys on his computer and read off the screen with his glasses perched on his nose.

  “Si, he’s still in.”

  It was in Spanish that the man spoke but Jeff had gotten the gist of it.

  “Do you want me to call up and announce you?”

  Jeff didn’t really understand what he was asking, but smiled nevertheless and shook his head. He turned around and began walking toward the exit. It was suspicious that someone would ask if a person was present when they had no intention of seeing them. Jeff was taking his chances. What could the security guard do, arrest him for pointless questioning?

  Riley jogged back to his rental, pushed the seat back to allow more room for his legs, rolled down the windows, and began waiting.

  It could be a long time until Morales walked out, but Jeff would wait. The sun was waving goodbye but the heat lingered. It took forty-five minutes until the tall Venezuelan businessman came out.

  Jeff was mostly keeping an eye on the parking garage exit, but it was through the front door that Morales appeared. The thrill of having his mark within sight made Jeff forget how rough this day had been.

  A top-of-the-line Mercedes came to a halt right in front of the vice president and the man got in. The windows were tinted and Jeff couldn’t even see the driver.

  Jeff was afraid that making a U-turn on the boulevard would alert his mark of his presence, but looking through his rearview mirror he saw that it was common practice in Caracas. He followed the Mercedes out of the city, making sure to always stay a few cars behind.

  Chacao was one of the wealthy suburbs that he had identified on his maps earlier. While some of the most luscious mansions were on the beach, the Mercedes drove through the hills.

  Jeff was still following when the German car pulled off the main road and went through large iron gates. Jeff kept on driving but he glanced and saw the villa a hundred feet up the road. A man in a suit was waiting next to the door. He was too well built to be a butler.

  Jeff didn’t slow down and drove past the stately home. When he got to the next street, he decided to carefully inspect the mansion and its security measures. He pulled the pen/camera from the gadget case and hooked it up to his laptop, like he had done in Paris. He tied the pen to the roof of the car using duct tape. He drove again past the house.

  He parked again on the next street and inspected the video he had just made. There was a surveillance camera at the top of the gate but it didn’t cover all angles. There were two bodyguards patrolling the perimeter and there was something on the lawn that Jeff swore was a chew toy. The guard dogs must have been in the back.

  A number of options were opened to Jeff. But because of the heavy security, he would have to resort to hacking the telephone system.

  The best way to intercept Morales’s phone calls would have been through a land tap. Even turning the phone into a microphone would have required more knowledge of the system, not to mention the number. So Jeff decided to try something new.

  Cellular phones were the best friends of all intelligence officers. Because they used the airwaves to transmit conversations, they offered an array of possibilities when it came to intercepting calls.

  The most efficient method would have been to switch the cellphones present in the mansion into diagnostic mode. This would have allowed Jeff to listen to everything that was said in the house without him planting a bug.

  The main problem with this technique was that when the person wanted to place a call, the phone had to be cycled off and turned back on again. This would alert the user he was being monitored and Jeff couldn’t take the risk, especially with Morales’s security personnel.

  What was more in the realm of possibilities was to simply monitor the calls. The gadget case contained a radio frequency scanner. Armed with it, Jeff walked up Morales’s street from the South to avoid being caught by the camera.

  He approached the gate, glad foliage was providing cover, and he slipped the scanner behind some bushes. He had no sp
ecific phone numbers to monitor, but because radio waves were not directional he would be able to spy on any calls made in the vicinity.

  Jeff drove back to his hotel and crashed on his bed.

  Using his laptop, he tried listening in on a conversation, but all he got was digital noises. He dug inside the gadget case again and found a digital data interpreter which he plugged into his laptop. The noise became a conversation, but Jeff realized it wasn’t Morales’s voice. For all he knew, the cook was arguing with his wife about where to go on their next vacation.

  He concluded that it might not be such a good idea after all. He decided that he would drop by the embassy before he went to bed to inform Bellamy of the new developments and see if someone at the embassy could monitor those frequencies.

  For a moment, Jeff wondered if he was thinking too highly of himself. Was he too important to do the grunt jobs now?

  AUGUST 8

  THURSDAY

  Chapter 29

  Jeff didn’t know if it was the cachapas that were denying him sleep or whether it was because he had slept until noon the day before, but he couldn’t doze off. Bellamy had ordered Jeff to stay on Morales’s trail and it was probably the boredom that was keeping Jeff awake.

  It was close to one in the morning and there was nothing on TV anymore except for the Spanish version of lame infomercials he had already suffered through at home.

  He returned to his laptop and hooked it up into the phone line. Using the skills he had perfected at his Bermuda hotel, he dialed into the bank’s phone system and accessed Morales’s unit, switching it into monitor mode. He had expected the security to be tighter, but within a half-hour the vice president’s phone was turned into a microphone.

  Instead of making him more nervous, Jeff felt a wave of relief wash over him. He soon fell into a deep sleep.

  Half past eight. From the voices, Jeff estimated that there were three people in Morales’s office.

  The first one was familiar and seemed to be in control of the situation. The second one was the person having a conversation with Morales. On a few occasions, the third voice chimed in, but for the most part it remained silent. They all spoke English and all had accents.

  “The only way we can do business on this deal is to abide by my rules.” Morales’s voice was stern. It was his office and no one would dictate his actions.

  “I understand, but you have to see it from my point of view.” The second voice had an Oriental inflection. The man was definitely Asian.

  “I do see it from your point of view, believe me my friend. But my bank is in the same business as you are; we are in it to make money. Let’s be realistic, you are here because Chase Manhattan and every other major bank refused your project. My bank is willing to participate, but we will not work for charity. The terms have to be satisfactory for everyone. What I’m offering is only that you include us on the project at the managerial level. We think you have a great idea and…”

  “Yes, you do.” It was the third voice which had a Spanish accent also.

  “You have a great idea,” Morales continued, “and we are all going to profit.”

  There was silence for what must have seemed like an eternity for the people waiting for an answer. Jeff could hear glasses tinkling and sips taken.

  “I will have to talk about it with my partners.”

  “Yes, of course. Take all the time you need, if we are to be partners then we need to make sure the project succeeds.”

  “Absolutely!” The third voice again.

  Jeff heard as the men stood up and walked a short distance. Compliments and other good wishes were exchanged and a door was heard being shut.

  “Hacete cojer, pinche pendejo,” Morales whispered.

  Jeff didn’t need his Spanish dictionary to understand what that meant. The tone alone sounded like cursing. The banker held his client in contempt. So it’s like that all over the world, is it?

  The phone rang just as Jeff heard Morales’s ass slump into his leather chair.

  “¿Si?”

  “Is this Gustavo Fuente?”

  It was spoken in English and the voice was definitely American. Jeff started his recorder.

  “Only on my mother’s side.”

  “You still want to meet me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Great. I don’t travel, you’ll have to come to Raleigh.”

  “When?”

  “I have an opening tomorrow. You remember the procedure?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s how we’re gonna do it.”

  The line went dead and Jeff stopped the recorder. It looked like he had to travel again. But why?

  Each new phone call was bringing in new pieces of the puzzle, but the picture wasn’t getting clearer, it was just getting bigger. There were so many people involved that Jeff had difficulty keeping track.

  Who were the principal players and which actors only played a supporting role? Who was the headliner?

  It had started with Ledoux. The man was a corrupt politician who was in the process of accepting a bribe to allow an American company to strip-mine the French countryside. He had met with a Canadian, a former CSE agent at that, and it seemed like this man was the leader of their little operation.

  During a meeting in Bermuda they had discussed selling something that would bring them a lot of money. Morales had also attended the meeting and from what he had heard, Jeff gathered that he was the one who would orchestrate the sale. Ledoux was financing the operation.

  But what about the cryptic phone call Morales had just received? Was there another level underneath this whole business? Why did Morales have to go to North Carolina? Why had he used a code name?

  Jeff didn’t even have to call the office; he knew the answer. He was flying back to North America as soon as Morales would.

  Morales felt uncomfortable in his first class seat. The leather felt nice against his body and the food was as tasty as he had ever savored. But his personal wealth had always bothered him.

  The reason he was enjoying this prosperity was that it was only a means to an end. It had been decided more than twenty years ago that he would be the legitimate face of the organization.

  He had been groomed to act and talk like a capitalist pig.

  In nearby Columbia, one of the most active terrorist groups on the planet was the FARC – the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. It was the military branch of the Colombian Communist Party. With the ongoing border wars with Venezuela, Ecuador, and Panama, the group felt that a way to achieve their goal would be to expand their work to neighboring countries.

  Before 1830, Venezuela had been part of a larger country called Gran Columbia. A special faction of the FARC believed it was time for the reunification to take place.

  In one big country, with their members in positions of authority, establishing their regime would prove easier and it could be the first step in becoming a major player on the international scene. The Soviet Union had done it years before.

  Morales was the leader of the Venezuelan branch of this faction. His executive position with a top financial institution not only made him a good source of information, but it also allowed him to have a hand in dictating his country’s economic policies.

  He had to play the part to a T and that meant flaunting his riches. He felt bad for the poverty his countrymen had to endure and it was what was driving him. He often said that he would be the first one to get rid of his possessions when their goal would be achieved.

  In the meantime, the lobster was good.

  After changing planes in Miami, Jeff arrived at Raleigh Durham International in time for supper. He scuttled to a rental car service counter hoping he wouldn’t lose Morales again.

  It took some time to process his request and Jeff made a mental note to apply for a frequent user membership card; he would then be able to simply pick up his car when he had a reservation.

  Jeff burned rubber as he left the parking lot and he
was afraid that he wouldn’t get out in time to see Morales enter a taxi. But just as he was leaving the lot, he noticed the Venezuelan banker enter a rental car of his own.

  It surprised Jeff that the man was driving a Honda. He slowed down at the exit and allowed Morales to get in front of him. He followed him into the city.

  Morales parked in front of the Sheraton Raleigh Capital Center Hotel on Salisbury Street. Jeff left his keys to a valet and followed the man inside. From the lobby, Jeff observed as Morales checked in. He also made a point to notice where the clerk grabbed the key that he gave him. He approached the counter.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Hi, I would like to rent a room.”

  He was now close enough to see that the key that had been given to Morales was for room 215.

  “May I have your name please?”

  “Jeff Riley.” He didn’t see any harm in giving out his real name to this employee.

  The clerk typed on his computer and frowned at the results. “I don’t see a reservation.”

  “That’s because I don’t have one.”

  “Well, the thing is that we’re booked.”

  “The entire hotel is booked?”

  “Yes, we’re hosting an international conference on education development in Third World countries.”

  “It’s booked, really completely, totally booked? But if I were to slide over a humongous bill it wouldn’t be as booked, right?”

  “I suppose I always keep my options open. But I don’t see any humongous bills being slid over.”

  “Sorry, fresh out.” Jeff really needed to get some cash, he realized. “Would President Jackson be satisfactory?”

  “President Jackson isn’t important enough to sit at my table.”

  “Come on, I really need a room. Just charge me an extra hundred dollars on my bill.”

  People were starting to line up behind Jeff and the pressure was mounting.

  “I can’t do that, sir. We always encourage our guests to make reservations.”

  “Then is there any hotel you can recommend?”