by Unknown
Chapter 8
The Word Gets Out
Caracas, Venezuela
It was after midnight when Rojas was awakened by a call from Colonel Messina. He had barely gotten out of bed and put on some clothes when he heard the knock at the door. Messina was still dressed in his uniform.
“Carl, what is so important?” asked Rojas as he ushered Messina to a chair. Messina held up his hand. He was carrying a briefcase which he opened and took out a device. Aiming it around the room he studied the display. After a few moments he sighed and placed the device on the table. He took out another device, plugged it in, and turned it on.
“I had to make sure we were not being listened to,” Messina said softly.
Rojas suddenly got very tense. Something was wrong and Messina was taking no chances. Worse yet, it must involve him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I would probably be shot telling you this, but I can’t let things go on as they are,” Messina said. “Today Parente and his Secret Police Chief went to the compound. The intercom was broken. About half way there, I started hearing their conversation.” He took a deep breath. “It seems our Presidente is the one who kidnapped the Americans.”
Rojas took in a breath. He wasn’t sure how to play this. It could be a trap. “What did you hear?”
“They were going over the plans and what would happen to them. They are being held at that compound in the mountains near his little retreat,” Messina said referring to where Parente held his rituals. “But that’s not why I came.” He said as he took Rojas’ arm. “Juan, they are planning on blaming this all on you.”
“Me?” exclaimed Rojas, his eyes bulging at the prospect.
“Yes, my friend. They have evidently faked documentation where you gave all the orders and were doing this to start some sort of coup. When the Americans come looking, all they will find are those documents and a bunch of dead hostages. Parente plans to shoot you and turn it all over to the Americans. I overheard them anticipating that the Americans would then look at Parente as some sort of savior, giving him support,” Messina said. He smiled weakly and looked at his friend. “I knew right away there was no way you could be involved like this.” The he straightened up. “Of course, if you are, then I am ready to be arrested.”
Rojas looked down at his hands. They were trembling. It seemed the nightmare only got worse. He looked up at his friend and smiled. “No arrest for you. If I have to endure this, I guess, it’s better not to be alone,” he said. “Parente told me the morning he took me with him to the compound. His main goal is to gain power, one way or another. It looks like he’s made plans to have it go his way no matter what. Ever since then, I have been pounding my brain to try and find a solution to this. Our Presidente is clearly on the knife edge of insanity and it could bring our nation to ruin,” he said mournfully. “I’m not sure what to do.”
Messina was feeling better now. He knew his friend was innocent and he was now sure he was doing the right thing. He sat back in his chair. “Then we work on this together. Somehow we have to let the Americans know about this without getting shot. I must confess, I have been thinking about this all afternoon and haven’t come up with a solution either,” he said, “at least not a solution that didn’t end up with me in a grave. I thought about just going to their embassy, but it is constantly watched, and the way he was talking, it seemed like the American ambassador was in on it. It at least sounded like he was working with other Americans.”
Rojas thought a moment. “That means we can’t just hand the information over. We have to be careful who we give this to. The Secret Police are very efficient in watching most places.” He glanced over at the devices on the table. “I see you aren’t taking any chances. What are those?” he asked pointing to the equipment.
Messina smiled. “We have to debug aircraft and sometimes places where El Presidente wants to meet with people. The first one will let me know if there is an eavesdropping device. The second is putting out some sort of electronic noise that will prevent us being heard. We keep them stowed in the aircraft just in case.”
Rojas nodded in approval. Messina was a smart man. “Good idea. Now where do we go from here?”
Messina threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’m sure we’re being watched, how closely, I don’t know. So we will have to be careful.”
“Agreed,” said Rojas. “For the time being, we will just have to sit tight and wait. Something is bound to open up. You are now the third person I know who knows about all this. With our Presidente liking to brag, I’m sure we won’t be the last. The only other ones are his personal guard and secret police. Somehow I don’t think going to them would be appropriate.”
“The way our superiors like to curry favors, I don’t think we need to share this with them either,” said Messina.
“Then we wait and look for opportunities,” said Rojas. “The problem we will have is the distance between us, you being at the air base and me in the palace.”
Messina thought for a moment. “You like fútbol?”
Rojas smiled. “Since I was twelve.”
“Parente does too. Maybe we should arrange to go along with him. We’ll go to the general seats while he goes to his box. I understand he prefers female company there anyway,” said Messina. “Then the occasional lunch, maybe my son’s lacrosse games, maybe drinks after work, the normal things.”
“He’s planning to go to the fútbol game day after tomorrow. I’ll let you know how it goes,” said Rojas.
“Good,” said Messina as he stood to leave. “By the way, what do we say if someone saw me come in here tonight?”
Rojas thought a minute. This was a real possibility. There would have to be some plausible explanation. He looked around the room. In the corner was his old lacrosse gear. Messina had mentioned a couple of weeks back that his fourteen year old son was getting interested in the sport. Rojas had gotten it out to give it to him. He walked over and gathered up the equipment. “Here, take the sticks,” he told Messina.
A smile crossed Messina’s face. He chuckled, “You just gave us an excuse and saved me a ton of money,” he said.
After gathering up the equipment and the briefcase, the two men went down to Messina’s car and loudly placed it all in the trunk. Thanking Rojas profusely, Messina started the car and backed into the street. Rojas gave a friendly wave as he left. That was when he saw what appeared to be someone in a parked car just down the street. Rojas turned and slowly made his way back to his apartment. Now he knew.
U S Embassy, Caracas
Ambassador Craig Jonas looked up from his desk to see Pete Wilson as he came into his office. Wilson was from the FBI and was down to work with the local agencies in the current crisis. Although Jonas didn’t really want him there at all, he had to keep the President happy. “Good morning, Mister Wilson. I take it you are here to brief me on yesterday’s activities?”
Wilson smiled. It was a fake smile because he wanted to keep Jonas off balance as far as the FBI was concerned. He had been there for two days and had already been looking at some irregularities in the embassy. The offices and quarters had been clean of bugs and he had installed measures to trace calls from the buildings. One of the communications staff had told him of a private line the ambassador had installed in his office outside of the normal security set-up. He also found out about a small, secluded private entrance and exit from the compound from the ambassador’s quarters which had been installed just one month after Jonas had been assigned to the embassy. The fact that it was there, was not so bad, but that he had insisted that there be no monitoring of the entrance was a little suspicious. It had been explained that on occasion, the ambassador wanted some privacy. Otherwise, there were some of the usual things, lax message procedures, no monitoring of some of the regular staff when they interacted with local dignitaries, even some questionable purchases or expenses. Those kinds of things could be found in most embassies around the world. He would mention these to the supervisors
, but not the ambassador. Supposedly, Wilson was visiting with government officials to solicit their aid. He had done that the first day and simply kept up via the phone. The real mission had been detailed when Jonas had mentioned something to the Secretary of State about his very close ties with Parente. The Secretary had thought they might be a little too close. They all hoped that it was just bragging, but with the current conditions, everyone wanted to make sure.
Wilson handed over a sheet of paper. “I thought you would like a detail sheet of who is doing what at their defense and foreign relations sides. These guys are turning up the heat against the FARC in this country. Although they are a little distant when we talk, they are being very helpful. I can understand the distance, since we haven’t had the greatest track record down here,” he said.
Jonas smiled at the man. He hated having the FBI in his back yard, but at least he wasn’t doing much more than what a policeman would do. “Yes, we haven’t always been the best friend around here. Have you heard anything from your side in Washington?”
He always asks that question, thought Wilson. Maybe now would be a time to let out a little line. “They’re still in the dark except for the video and now a letter restating what we already know. The President is hoping that the governments down here can find our people and get them back, but I did hear he’s looking at some military options of some kind. It might even involve the Navy,” he said nonchalantly.
Jonas sat back. Now there was some interesting news, he thought. “Doesn’t make much sense, but who am I to second guess our President,” he said. “Anything else?”
Wilson shook his head. “No sir, I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he said.
“Good. Thanks for keeping me informed,” Jonas said as he dismissed Wilson.
Wilson turned and left the office. He was beginning to dislike Jonas more and more. His suspicions were getting deeper. He had already decided to monitor all communications coming out of the embassy, including one phone line he had found that led solely to the ambassador’s desk. With enough rope, there would be a fine hanging.
The Compound
The young guard was a new one. Unlike the others, he didn’t pace back and forth or simply glare through the bars at his captives. This one was sitting opposite the barred doorway. His rifle was lying across his lap and his head was down. There was almost a pained look on the young man’s face. On occasion, he would look up from his thoughts and peer at one or two of the mayors sitting in the sweltering heat.
Patricia noticed the young man. She noticed that this one was a little different and decided to take a chance. She eased over and sat next to the bars of the door. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly in Spanish.
The young man nearly jumped off the seat, springing to his feet. His rifle was swept up and he pointed it toward the door. His eyes glued to Patricia. Suddenly, as if realizing what he was doing, he stopped and the rifle was pointed toward the floor. His shoulders slumped slightly as he relaxed. After taking a breath he slowly placed a finger to his lips, then he gave a glance toward the door. After a moment he sat back down.
“I must not allow you to talk to me,” he said almost in a whisper.
Now it was Patricia’s time to relax. For a moment she thought it was the end, but after seeing the understanding in the young man’s eyes, she eased back and nodded. “I’m sorry, but you looked so troubled I wanted to help,” she said.
A slight smile appeared on his face. He shook his head. “I do not think you are able to do so.”
Patricia shrugged her shoulders. “I’m willing to listen,” she said.
He waved her off. “It is something I saw that bothers me,” he said. “As a soldier, I am not allowed to let these things upset me. My father would tell me to ‘be a man,’” he said. By now his smile had grown larger.
“How old are you?” she asked.
He straightened up. “I am nineteen,” he said proudly. “In my village many of my friends are already married,” he said.
Patricia nodded. “Yes, but even as old as I am, sometimes things happen that make me upset as well. A lot of times, it just takes a friend to talk to.”
The sound of footsteps was heard outside and the young man sprang to his feet once more. Patricia moved away from the door. After a moment, the footsteps faded.
Patricia glanced back at the young guard. He saw her and let out a slow breath with a grin. With one hand he indicated the conversation was over. But he looked down at her and whispered, “Gracias, Señora.”
Patricia nodded and moved away from the door. Despite the fact she was a captive and he was a captor, she felt closer to the young man. At least it made for a more pleasant morning.
The Mountains of Venezuela
Carlos Verdes was driving his old Chevrolet pickup along the dusty mountain roads heading toward the last of his village pickups. For nearly twenty years he had plied between the small villages in the western part of Venezuela picking up the handmade mountain wares and then selling them as souvenirs in Caracas and the coastal resorts. As it was, this made a very lucrative living for the villagers and kept him busy while performing his main job as an in-country operative for the Central Intelligence Agency. Verdes wasn’t sure who had come up with the cover, but it made a real difference for the mountain people and allowed him the freedom to travel almost the entire country without being noticed. He had grown to love the work and the people, despite the governments they had to live under.
The old Chevy took a big bounce in one of the many potholes along the dirt road. She squeaked and rattled, and it appeared the rust would finally consume the body at any moment, but the engine just kept on going. Verdes was quite proud of his truck. Made in the late 1980s, it was probably one of the last ones still doing real work. Never mind that the Agency made sure it was always in top shape even though it looked decrepit. Never mind that it was like a Bond car with its little tricks. There was even a small switch under the dash that caused the engine to run rough if inspected. Despite it all, he had grown to love it and rely on it every day.
In the back of the truck was a load of woolen blankets and ponchos for trading and sale. Once he made this last stop, he would head toward the capitol and deliver them to his distributors for sale in the shops. But there was one more reason for this stop. Since the kidnapping, the Agency had been screaming for information on the FARC and anything else going on in the region. Today he would meet with Oro Etosa, a longtime friend and one of the original leaders of the FARC. He had long since retired and had moved back to his home in Venezuela, but Carlos knew he still kept up with the organization.
After another half hour of bouncing along the roads, Verdes pulled into the very small village of Llanuras de Montaña (Mountain Plains), which sat on a wide open area overlooking several deep gorges. For centuries, the villagers had hunted in the gorges and farmed what little would grow on the mountaintop. There was one electric line going to the village, which would occasionally provide power. The poles also carried the one telephone line that led to the village store. The simple homes were adobe, occasionally whitewashed, with the only color coming from the doorways which the owners would decorate. As the truck pulled up, children ran beside it and several of the villagers came out to welcome Verdes.
“Welcome back Carlos!” shouted one of the men under a wide straw hat. His handshake was rough but firm.
“Esteban, it is good to be back. How are Elesa and the children?” asked Verdes.
“Much better this time. Little Paco finally healed up. The medicine worked well,” Esteban said proudly. Paco had gotten an infection when stepping on a sharp splinter. Verdes had acquired some antibiotics from a doctor he knew and it had made all the difference.
Verdes beamed. Little things like that made his work much more enjoyable. “That’s good. Just make sure he stays away from the old trash heap before it is burned. Now, what have you got for me this trip?” he asked.
As the two men talked, several villagers ca
me around them, several with items they wished Carlos to sell for them. Before long there was a large crowd, all sharing stories and eager to hear more news from the cities and other villages. Within an hour, Verdes had pulled out his ledger and began handing out the money from everything that had sold. For the villagers, it was like Christmas.
As the sun began to set, Verdes made his way to the home of Oro Etosa. Located at the far end of the village, it was a little more substantial than the others, but Carlos noticed there was a bustle of activity inside and a large truck sat to one side partially loaded with the family’s belongings.
As he approached, the towering form of Etosa appeared in the lit doorway. “Thank God it is you, Carlos. I was afraid they had come for me,” Etosa said.
The two men embraced like the good friends they were. “Who would be coming for you, my friend?” asked Carlos. “Better yet, who would have the courage,” he grinned.
Oro laughed heartily. “Only you,” he said between laughs. “I heard you were distributing the earnings. I hope it’s not the last time.”
“Not if I can help it. Now what’s going on? Why are you moving?” asked Verdes. The concern in his voice was real.
Etosa shrugged his shoulders. “The government is rounding up FARC members all over the country. My source says they are disappearing from all the villages. We don’t know why, unless Parente has decided to equal some old score. They even took old Hernando in Pueblo Cielo. I am taking my family to an old place higher in the mountains. Hopefully they will leave us alone there.”
So that’s what’s going on, Verdes said to himself. These people don’t know what they are accused of. “Then you need to know the news,” said Verdes as the two men sat down. He told Etosa about the kidnapping and how a video with the hostages claimed that they had been kidnapped by the FARC.
