Running from the Devil

by Jamie Freveletti

  Margate snorted. “I do not.” He pointed a finger at Barkett. “What makes you think these people were telling the truth?”

  Barkett hesitated. He shook his head. “I can’t be sure of anything they said. I’m just telling you what happened.”

  Margate took Barkett’s arm and steered him toward the conference room door. “Thank you for that information. Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to determine if what those criminals said was true. Also, be assured that at no time before your actual rescue did we know how to find you. If we had, we wouldn’t have failed to act.” He ushered Barkett through the door and closed it behind him. He turned to Stromeyer. “Quite a story.”

  “One that I intend to follow up on,” she said.

  Margate gave Stromeyer one of his fake smiles. “Of course you must. But I’m pulling the plug on this operation and I want everyone out of Colombia now. You will not conduct your investigation from inside that country, is that understood? And Banner had better not be there.”

  Before Stromeyer could respond, her BlackBerry started beeping with an incoming text message. She watched it scroll across the screen.

  “Is that Banner?” Margate indicated the buzzing device.

  Stromeyer nodded. “He said to tell you that Emma Caldridge has been rescued. That she claims to have destroyed a terrorist cell operating out of the States that was intent on getting her to create a new weapon for use against Americans.” She continued to read the unfolding message. “Ms. Caldridge says the ringleader of the group was her former boss. He was preparing to sell the weapon to an unidentified member of the Department of Defense.”

  Stromeyer watched Margate and Whitter closely as they digested this information. Whitter looked shocked, Margate, not so shocked.

  “Did she say who the person was who was attempting to buy it?”

  Stromeyer shook her head. “We’ll debrief her when she gets back.” Stromeyer thought she detected speculation in Margate’s eyes, like he was running names through his head.

  “That’s a serious claim,” he said.

  “So was Barkett’s.”

  Margate turned to Whitter. “Sit in on the debriefing. I want to hear everything this woman knows. I won’t have a turncoat in my operation.”

  Stromeyer disliked Margate, but at that moment she almost admired him.

  “What is this weapon she can make? Maybe she can make it for her own government?” Margate looked intrigued.

  Stromeyer’s brief moment of warmth toward Margate was extinguished. His obvious desire for a new weapon of death was more like the man she’d come to know and dislike. She read the text. “Banner doesn’t describe it, but he says she destroyed the ingredients for it. No one can make it anymore.”

  Margate shook his head. “That’s a shame.”

  “Guess it’s lucky that she was able to avoid such an outcome, despite the damage to the pipeline.” Stromeyer couldn’t help but stick it to Margate a little. She could see the gears in his head turning as he considered the new information from all angles.

  “It’s still tough, losing the pipeline like that. Repairing it will cost hundreds of millions,” he said, but now he sounded like he was already trying to backpedal from his earlier outrage.

  “Shall I write a memo describing how the DOD and Darkview successfully thwarted a major terrorist arms purchase?”

  Margate gave her a look that told her he knew exactly where she was headed. “You do that.” He left the conference room, trailed by his assistants and a thoughtful Whitter.

  57

  EMMA SAT ON A DECK CHAIR, WATCHING SUMNER FISH OVER THE side of boat. Miguel slept beside her on a deck lounger. The attached canopy protected him from the sun. Boris dozed on the deck next to him. The dog was never far from Miguel’s side. Miguel slept the day away. His injuries didn’t allow for much else.

  Emma watched through slit eyes as Sumner sat in the fishing chair and played out the line of his fishing rod. The boy, a fourteen-year-old orphan whose name was Enrico, sat next to him in the jump seat, also watching. Enrico was well on his way to idolizing Sumner. He didn’t say much, and they didn’t ask him too many questions.

  Sumner fished every day without fail, and he always managed to catch something good to eat. The cruiser was well stocked, but not with the type of food required for their long journey. It was jammed with alcohol, high-end vodkas and whiskeys, cigars from Cuba and the Dominican Republic, as well as some of the finest armament that money could buy. The tinned food was adequate, but Sumner’s daily catch inevitably made dinner something special.

  They’d been cruising for a week, informing no one of their location or their destination. Only they knew that they were in the Caribbean Sea, headed to Key West by way of Puerto Rico. The radio crackled, starting Emma from her reverie. She grabbed the receiver.

  “Banner?” she said.

  “Yes. Everything all right there?” Banner’s smooth voice came over the line. A few days before, Emma had used the radio to call him and ask for a favor. Now he was reporting in.

  “Fine. All clear.”

  “Good. How’s Miguel?”

  “Sleeping. The wound is healing and the pain seems to be receding. Tell Perez thanks for the assistance. It’s not every day that a doctor makes a cartel cruise-ship house call.”

  “I will. And I have some new for you. Gladys Sullivan says hello. She’s in Bogotá recovering from bypass surgery. She told me to tell you that she still prays for you every day, in between cigarettes.”

  “What! They’re allowing her to smoke?”

  Emma heard Banner’s chuckle over the line. “I doubt it. Her brand of humor, is all. Vivian’s doing well also. She’s no longer in Colombia, but reunited with her family.”

  “And Maria? Were you able to find her?”

  “I was. She asked to be moved to another location. I arranged for her and the children to be relocated to the Christian ministry formerly run by Gladys’s sister. They didn’t know what to make of Maria at the mission.”

  “Why is that? Maria is a wonderful woman, and very pious.”

  “They said that she is the first indigenous woman they’ve ever met who wears red lipstick.”

  Emma laughed out loud. “My Engine Red.”

  “I assumed you had something to do with it. Rest assured, you have a convert. Maria wears it every day. I have to say, it suits her.”

  “I’m glad I could give her something.”

  “Maria says that she always knew that God would protect all of you. Between Gladys’s prayers and Maria’s faith, you seem to be well protected by the powers that be.”

  “I’ll take any protection I can get,” Emma said.

  “And you? Are the headaches and nightmares getting any better?” Banner’s voice was concerned.

  Emma was suddenly uncomfortable. She’d been having debilitating headaches along with recurring nightmares. The dreams revolved around Rodrigo. He’d walk toward her. His head was cut off, and he cradled it in his arms. When the head saw her, it turned into White and it would scream at her. Emma would start awake, sweating. In the last seven days, she’d had the dream four times.

  “Still there, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s post-traumatic stress. When you reach the States, if they haven’t resolved, I’ll arrange for you to attend some therapy sessions. Southcom holds them weekly for soldiers returning from Iraq.”

  “Thanks, I’ll consider it.” To Emma’s great relief, Banner changed the subject.

  “I’ve arranged for a crew to relieve you of the weapons before you hit United States territory. Until then, you may need them. We’ve been unable to pinpoint who the American businessmen were that you saw, but they’ve got to be furious at the loss of their cargo.”

  “What about this yacht? Perhaps it is registered in their name?”

  “No. It’s actually owned by one Miguel Estanga della Petroya, known throughout Colombia as ‘Estanga 60.’ The most notorious drug cartel leader in Col
ombia. Word is he was shot twice and his boat stolen in a siege orchestrated by the United States’ DEA.”

  “Smoking Man,” Emma said.

  Emma heard Sumner chuckle from his seat. “A siege? Mr. Della Petroya is embarrassed to admit that two men and a woman shot him and stole his yacht?”

  “That you, Sumner?” Banner asked.

  “It is.”

  “Well, both of you, listen up. I was wondering if you would care to ditch your day jobs and join Darkview. The pay’s good and the excitement just about nonstop.”

  “Banner, I was just relishing the lack of excitement,” Emma said.

  Banner laughed. “Well, give it some thought. You don’t have to decide now. I’d better ring off. Don’t want anyone tracking you guys. Emma, you turned off that GPS wristwatch I gave you?”

  “It’s off. But I thank you for it. I’ll never go anywhere without a compass again.”

  “Keep it. I’ll get another one.”

  Emma hung up. She settled down on the deck chair to think about Banner’s offer and to watch Sumner fish. Despite her ordeal and the lingering effects, she had a feeling of lightness that she hadn’t felt in years, perhaps not ever. She knew it was because she had faced the worst that life had to offer, and the ordeal had given her a greater appreciation of the best. And that moment, sitting on the sunny deck, in a cool breeze, on the gently rolling boat, and watching the sun reflect off the undulating sea, was definitely one of the better times. She smiled.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Emma Caldridge’s story is, of course, fiction, but many of the various plants and techniques she uses exist. Thankfully, the key item, the weapon with the ingenious disguise, is a figment of my imagination.

  I especially love the medicinal maggots. I’d read about their use in sores that appear intractable. My thanks to Ronald A. Sherman, MD, MSc, DTM&H, Department of Pathology, University of California, Irvine, for his assistance in explaining the collection and application of these amazing creatures.

  Emma’s use of scopolamine, or “devil’s breath,” its Colombian street name, is based in fact. Scopolamine is a chemical that contains antinausea properties and in commercial use is a favorite of scuba divers. It’s derived from the datura plant, a member of the nightshade family commonly called jimsonweed. All parts of the plant are toxic. When ground to a fine powder and blown in the face of the victim, it is said to create hallucinations and a “zombie” effect that renders the victim completely suggestible. While the hallucinatory effects are well documented, and the drug can cause the victim to fall into a stupor, I have my own personal doubts about the zombie reports. My cynical trial attorney’s antenna started vibrating after I read the claims of a politician who denied responsibility for stealing cash by claiming that he did so only while in a zombie state after thieves used devil’s breath on him. Be that as it may, jimsonweed is no joke, and it can kill.

  The leaves and branches of the neem tree are used the world over as an antiseptic, and the indigenous people of Colombia chew coca leaves to settle an upset stomach and as a tonic to impart energy. Coca tea is sold legally in some countries in South America.

  The traveler’s palm exists, though it is not indigenous to Colombia, and one can drink from it as described. My thanks to the Landscapers at the CuisinArt Resort in Anguilla, British West Indies, for teaching me how to drink from theirs, showing me the neem tree, and describing the many other edible plants growing on the acreage under their management.

  Cameron Sumner’s job is fictional, but is loosely based upon a former joint program between the United States and Colombia called the Air Bridge Denial program. For an in-depth look at how the real program worked, read the study issued in 2005 by the United States Government Accountability Office (GAO) at www.gao.gov. In fact, read anything listed on the GAO’s site. I am continually impressed by the quality of the reports that I find there. My thanks to Jess T. Ford, director, International Affairs and Trade, for his update on the report.

  The Lost City exists, but the elusive plant that Emma destroys does not. The city, discovered thirty years ago by grave robbers, continues to be a six-day hike through paramilitary-controlled coca fields, past indigenous villages, and into areas that even a donkey cannot navigate. A group trekking to the Lost City was kidnapped in 2003, but I could find no other reports after that date.

  Kidnappings in Colombia have settled down quite a bit in recent years thanks to the Uribe administration’s crackdown on the paramilitary organizations. The arrests have reached into the highest echelons of Colombian society and include some officials considered to be Uribe’s allies, as well as a cousin. However, FARC, Colombia’s best-known paramilitary organization, has vowed to once again increase its efforts. One can only hope FARC changes its stance, because Colombians are some of the nicest people I have ever met. My thanks to all who assisted me with this book.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the support and assistance of an entire army of people.

  To my agent, Barbara Poelle at the Irene Goodman Literary Agency, whose great advice and good humor set me on the right track, kept me laughing, and helped me through the publishing gauntlet.

  To everyone at HarperCollins/William Morrow who was willing to take a chance on a debut thriller writer.

  To my initial editor, Carolyn Marino, whose editorial expertise was so good that reading her suggestions was like taking a condensed writing class. Two years ago I created a short “wish” list of thriller editors for the book and Carolyn was on it. When Barbara called to tell me whom I’d be working with at Harper, I was speechless. I was also ski-less, as I was just getting on a lift when the call came through and in my excitement forgot to strap on the skis.

  To my second editor, Lyssa Keusch, who caught the pass from Carolyn Marino without missing a beat and who guided me through the next stages in editing the manuscript.

  To Wendy Lee and Johnathan Wilber, who helped me with the myriad of details required in preparing the manuscript.

  To Angela Swafford, Colombian author, journalist, and intrepid adventurer, who obtained clearance to ride with the Colombian army and tour the Cano-Limón-Covenas pipeline and generously shared her experiences with me.

  To the professionals and friends who gave advice on technical matters, some mentioned in the Author’s Note at the end of this book. Any errors are mine. George E. Boos, retired commercial airline pilot; Ronald A. Sherman, MD, MSc, Dtm&H, Department of Pathology, University of California, Irvine; Jess T. Ford, director, International Affairs and Trade, United States Government Accountability Office; Sergeant Brandon Verstat, United States Marine Corps; Bill Edler and his wife, Carolina Diaz Osorio; and the woman scientist on the other end of the line at the University of Chicago Department of Molecular Genetics and Cell Biology who didn’t treat me like a nut when I called out of the blue and asked how to genetically reconstitute burned plants.

  To Robert Thorson, Jill Griffiths, and Darwyn Jones, who taught me how to write copy, helped me create the perfect pitch, and edited my query letter.

  To the other writers willing to give me their feedback: Lisa Rosenthal and the writers in her “Dig in” revision workshops, the Buck-town Library Writers’ Group, and the “Chicago Contingent.

  To Dana Kaye, Darwyn Jones, and Marcus Sakey, who invited me to join the Contingent.

  To my father, who enthusiastically read anything I mailed to him.

  To my mother, who was willing to drop everything to read drafts of troublesome chapters, and who raised me to follow my dreams.

  To my children, Alex and Claudia, who helped me run off the ski lift in my boots and still weren’t embarrassed to be seen with me.

  And to my husband, Klaus, whose ultramarathon running inspired part of the book’s premise. Klaus encouraged me to write and didn’t flinch when I told him I was going to take a sabbatical from my law practice to do it. His love, support, and willingness to travel to questionable areas to help research
my settings make life a blast. Thank you, my love, for driving the getaway car.

  About the Author

  JAMIE FREVELETTI is a trial lawyer and a runner. She lives in Chicago, Illinois. This is her first book.

  www.jamiefreveletti.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Credits

  Jacket design by Mary Schuck

  Jacket illustration © by Hubert Ayasse/Sygma/Corbis

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  RUNNING FROM THE DEVIL. Copyright © 2009 by Jamie Freveletti. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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