CHAPTER 11
Chihuahua, Mexico
Within a few minutes, Stoker and Rivera took more than a hundred pictures of lab reports.
"There's got to be more to this epidemic," Stoker said. His investigative intensity was peaking. "Somewhere in this laboratory, there's documentation or some other clue about why this cluster of people has the same illness. For some reason, someone wanted all these people to get Guillain-Barre at the same time."
Then, without notice, they heard a key in the door. Stoker and Rivera had nowhere to hide when a lab technician entered the room. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" the man said in stern, punctuated Spanish. He was wearing typical hospital scrubs.
"The door was open," Rivera lied, also speaking Spanish. "I'm Doctor Hernandez, and this is my colleague Dr. Gunter. He's a neurologist from Germany. I am an epidemiologist from Mexico City. We've been friends for years. We both did our residencies at the same school." Rivera was convincing as he contrived a cover story. Stoker noticed how easily he improvised, how practiced he was as a deceiver. "Dr. Gunter has always had a special interest in Guillain-Barre syndrome. And of course, my curiosity is always piqued whenever potential clusters of illness occur anywhere in Mexico."
The lab technician eyed Stoker and Rivera warily. "So why did you need to come into our lab—and without advanced notice or an invitation?"
"Well, I heard you had a unique cluster of Guillain-Barre syndrome cases here. The rumors always get to me before the actual statistics do. In any case, I called Dr. Gunter, and he flew out only eighteen short hours ago. He has a very limited window of opportunity. So, what can you show us?"
"I know nothing of a Guillain-Barre epidemic. I'm sorry you have come all this way, and in such haste. The rumors are false."
"Look. We've already toured through your hospital." This part of Rivera's story was true. But, he quickly resumed the fabrication. "We rounded on many of those patients with the attending physicians here. There are more than twenty cases of Guillain-Barre syndrome in Hospital de Los Santos."
"I have strict instructions from administration to avoid discussing information with people I recognize as outsiders. If you would like access to my laboratory data, you must be properly introduced by our medical director or administration. Now I'm instructing you to leave this lab."
"Listen, my friend,” Rivera said. “Earlier today, one of your hospital administrators introduced us to all the doctors and nurses in your intensive care unit and on your medical floor." Rivera's fictional stories grew and grew. Ironically, they sounded ever more believable. "We're sorry they’ve not provided the proper introduction or communication to you here in the lab. I assure you. It was only an oversight." Rivera removed two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from his back pocket and laid them on the countertop to the side of the lab technician. "We just need a few minutes of your expertise and access to some of your data."
"You can keep your money," replied the technician. "Now get out of my lab."
Rivera placed 800 additional dollars on the countertop.
"Take your dirty money and leave right now."
Stoker, ever the analyst of human behavior, observed how the man's body language had just shifted from resolute to potentially violent.
"What's really going on here?" Rivera asked. "Nobody refuses $1,000 for a little lab data."
The lab technician's reply was wordless and swift. He reached his hand back under his scrubs into the small of his back. In one fluid motion, he withdrew a small knife and thrust it toward Rivera's torso.
The man never knew what hit him. Stoker's straight punch landed squarely on the lab technician's cheekbone, violently snapping his head to the side and sending the lab technician sprawling to the floor unconscious.
"Oh man!" Rivera complained. "I was looking forward to a good brawl, and you had to go and wreck it."
Stoker laughed. "Only Errol Rivera would ever complain about an amigo saving his life."
Rivera stepped over to the lab technician and rolled him onto his back. "You didn't save my life. I was milliseconds away from blocking his stab." He found the man's pulse.
Stoker bent over him, pushed his eyelids up one at a time, and checked his pupils. "No, I clobbered this guy in the head before you could block it. And, that guy had some training. That was a well-executed move, not a desperate slash attempt."
"If you would've let me block his well-executed move," Rivera continued, "I could've subdued the guy."
"And then what?" Stoker asked. "Interrogate him for hours here in the lab without anybody noticing?"
"It would've been a very short interrogation," Rivera insisted.
"Let's wait for him to return to consciousness."
"No longer an option," Rivera said. "You've left too much evidence on his cheekbone."
Rivera reached around to the only pocket in the unconscious man's scrub pants and pulled out his phone. "Here's our canary in the coal mine. When people start texting him." He pushed the phone's home button. The screen reported it was locked, which was no surprise.
Stoker grabbed the unconscious man's hand and pressed his index finger against the button. But, there was no response. "This phone's touch ID isn't active. We need the passcode."
"I'm not surprised," Rivera answered. "As much as I want to know what's on his phone, we're not going to figure it out right now. The best thing we can do is to bring the phone with us. When this guy eventually remote wipes it, we'll know he's awake, and his people are onto us. Again, our canary in this coal mine. We've got to get out of here. This guy spoke excellent Spanish—for an Iranian."
"His body language and gestures were definitely not what I've observed in most Mexican men. But, how do you know he's an Iranian?"
"His Spanish accent was close to perfect. I sensed some slight variations that reminded me of other Spanish-speaking people from the Middle East. Someday I'll tell you a story about working with lots of Arabs and Iranians who had dominated Spanish. It involved an undercover operation with oil in Venezuela."
"And how Hugo Chavez got cancer?"
"That wasn't me! Let's get that straight right now. What did Z tell you?"
"Touchy, touchy, Rivera," Stoker said. "Relax man. That was just humor. I joked myself right into a coincidence that struck a raw nerve with you. Z and I never discussed the subject."
"There are no coincidences," Rivera responded. "Like us interacting with so many Shiites here in Chihuahua. And now, bumping into an Iranian who knows how to run a lab, just 230 miles south of the border."
"Yes, about him. He didn't take your money. So, we can conclude the security of his operation is certainly much more valuable to him than a healthy sum of cash."
"It's evident working as a Mexican lab technician is not his highest priority. Keeping a big secret was. That's why we need to get out of here, Troy. He is hiding a lot of information, including his true identity. Our safety is critical to unraveling this mystery. If we're dead, so is any chance of putting this puzzle together."
"When he comes to, he'll immediately communicate with his superiors. We're marked men. They don't know who we are, but they'll assume we know a lot about their little secret."
Stoker and Rivera dragged the lab technician into a closet and removed his scrub top. Stoker reached into Rivera's large backpack. He removed some zip ties and fastened them around the man's wrists and ankles. "Let's make this look like a robbery," Rivera said.
"You mean, instead of the inception of an international conflict between an extremist pocket of radical Shiites and Americans, on Mexican soil?"
"Exactly. The conflict is happening. But, we don't want these would-be terrorists to know just how much we're learning about them. This needs to look like a robbery. They probably won't report any of this to the police. But if they do, this robbery scenario is a gift for the extremists. These terrorists don't want to tell the Mexican police what's really going on here."
Stoker and Rivera finished binding the lab technic
ian's wrists and ankles. "It will take him a few minutes to get himself untied," Stoker said. "He'll kick through that door in about thirty seconds."
"But the dark, cramped space in the closet will slow him down a few more minutes," Rivera responded. "Let's make it harder for him to turn on the light." Rivera took a quick picture of the knocked-out lab tech then flipped off the light switch in the closet. After rolling his shoulders forward twice, Rivera made a fist, smirked, and delivered a roundhouse punch to the drywall next to the light switch. The drywall caved in. With his other hand, he grabbed the light switch plate and yanked it out of the wall, with disconnected wires trailing. "Now it will take him way longer than thirty seconds." Rivera smiled at Stoker. "Besides doing a little demolition was very therapeutic. So, Stoker, How do you like that aggressive therapy?"
"No, we call it aggression therapy. But with you, it's regression therapy. You've now reverted to the ripe old age of nineteen again. I'm detecting very pronounced role confusion issues with you, Rivera.”
"Well thank you very much. When I was nineteen, I was a boxer in the Army hoping to fly helicopters."
We don't have much time," Stoker said pointing toward a counter on the other side of the lab. "But I think we should use two minutes to collect any these patients' blood specimens we can."
Rivera stepped quickly in the direction of the refrigerators that held the blood specimens. "Good idea. These must have recently arrived. Grab any names you're familiar with."
Out of instinct, Stoker and Rivera put on surgical gloves and started sifting through the various tubes of blood. They found specimens that belonged to patients they knew to be battling Guillain-Barre syndrome. Carefully but quickly, the doctors wrapped the test tubes and other samples in paper towels to protect them from breaking. Then they put them in a box they located at the end of one of the counters.
"Vamanos," Rivera said gesturing with his head toward the door. Rivera grabbed his survival and tactical backpack and the lab technician's phone. Stoker took the box containing the many blood samples, and they exited the lab and started walking down the corridor. As they neared a door to a stairwell, the lab technician's phone vibrated in Rivera's pocket.
"Look at this," Rivera said showing the phone to Stoker. Even though the phone was locked, alerts still appeared on the screen. This alert announced a text.
"It's in Farsi," Stoker replied. "It's just a friend checking in, asking if the lab tech guy saw a recent soccer match."
"I wish we could answer," Rivera said." We might be able to capture a clue or two."
"It's moments like this when we really need Z," Stoker said. "It seems like you can get ahold of FBI agents anywhere; but where's a good hacker when you need to crack a smartphone?"
Rivera slipped the phone back into his pocket. "We'll have to do our best as active listeners. That's one of your shrink skills, right?"
"Speaking of doctor skills, I think I need a good internal medicine physician to discharge me from this hospital."
"You're in luck," Rivera replied. "Mr. Paul, by the power vested in me by my long-expired Mexican medical license, I hereby discharge you from this fine medical institution. I further stipulate that remaining here would be deadly, given the trouble you've managed to get yourself into—again. You stand a better chance dancing with a snake again."
Stoker laughed as he opened the door to the stairwell and waived Rivera through. "Thank you, Doctor. You're a fine internist." Stoker and Rivera scaled the stairs and came to the hospital's main floor. They followed the signs to the hospital's main entrance and exited into the warm night air of Chihuahua, Mexico. They made a beeline for the closest grocery store.
"We need to keep these lab samples fresh. Let's pick up Ziplock bags and some ice. I also need some tinfoil for a little experiment with this phone."
It was a quick trip to the store. In and out in about five minutes. As they started to check out, the lab tech's cell phone vibrated again in Rivera's pocket. "It looks like this friend really wants to talk about soccer. He's asking the same question. Did he see the soccer match earlier today?"
By the time they had the Ziplock bags and tinfoil in hand, the friend had texted about the soccer game one more time. "This time the friend is almost demanding to know about our sleeping friend's opinion of the game."
"Soccer is only a code," Stoker said. "Whoever is texting the lab tech is actually requesting a status report."
While walking out of the store, another text came in. "Now the friend's demanding to know the score. I'm sure that's an escalation code. It's as if they're saying, 'We think you're in trouble. Respond now, or we'll assuming something's wrong and come rescue you.'"
"Let's put some distance between the hospital and us."
"Better yet, let's gather more information before we get out of town. We've got some samples to analyze, and I think we can work on this puzzle better from the safe and objective viewpoint of Fort Sam Houston."
"We'll also have access to a good laboratory there."
Rivera hailed a taxi. "Where to?" the driver asked.
"Take us to the hottest nightspot in town. Where do you recommend?"
"That would be La Sotolería."
Stoker only understood a little of the conversation in Spanish.
"A little sotol sounds perfect," Rivera said referring to the locally distilled spirits. But tonight, he would not be drinking any. He needed perfect clarity. "Take us to La Sotolería."
The driver sped away. "It's not for everyone. But it may be entertaining for your American friend. A local novelty a lot of the clubs will sell by request, we call it the soltol with a snake."
Rivera allowed himself a hearty laugh.
"It's so good to hear you belly laugh," Stoker said. "It's a strong indicator you're not a psychopath. But, I didn't pick up on your conversation in Spanish. What did he say?"
"He says they have great drinks with snakes in them!"
"Hey! Aversion therapy. Bring it on, Rivera!" Stoker leaned up to the taxi driver, and in broken Spanish, he said, "Take us to the snakes." Then he held his bandaged arm forward to show the taxi driver. He could not figure out how to explain that his arm injury was a snake bite, so he just used his other hand to gesture and imitate a snake biting his injured arm. The taxi driver understood him instantly, and the realization a snake had recently bitten Stoker made him uncomfortable.
"It was a Mojave," Rivera said. The driver winced. "My friend likes your entertainment suggestion. He wants to confront his fears. But I won't let him drown his sorrows."
The driver made a brief artificial smile and then decided to direct his attention to navigating traffic.
Rivera sent a text to his helicopter co-pilot ordering him to take the team to the helicopter and be on alert. The lab tech's cell phone was receiving texts every thirty to sixty seconds asking him to report the score on a soccer game. "I suspect someone is tracking this phone's position at this point. Fortunately for us, we can choose when we want to be tracked and when we do not want to." Rivera removed the aluminum foil from a grocery bag, tore three pieces from the foil roll, and wrapped the foil around the cell phone. "There we go. Radio silence." Three layers of foil were enough to block any signals to or from the cell phone. If somebody was tracking the cell phone, they just lost their trace.
When they arrived at La Sotolería, Rivera paid the driver the taxi fare in pesos. Then he gave him fifty American dollars and instructed him to wait. "We may be a little while. And, when we come out of that bar, we may be in a huge hurry. When we jump in the car, just go! We'll give you instructions once we’re moving."
Stoker and Rivera entered one of Chihuahua's hottest night spots. "Do you happen to have a table for five? One where we can be facing the door that also sits right next to a wall?" Rivera asked the host. After a ten-minute wait, Stoker and Rivera were led to a table that allowed them to see every person who entered the establishment. Rivera hid his backpack under the table. They ordered appetizers and Cokes for fo
ur people. Having food for four people made it appear they were part of a larger group—a hoax that would prove helpful in a few minutes. They chose appetizers because they wanted the food to be served quickly. When the food arrived Stoker and Rivera started to eat.
Rivera removed the lab tech's cell phone and unwrapped the phone from its tinfoil cocoon. "Let's give them thirty seconds of insight into this phone's whereabouts." Then he flagged down their server. "Can we have two of those bottles of soltol? One with the viper inside, but the other with no snake? And, four glasses if you please? We have friends joining us." After the server stepped away to fulfill Rivera's request, he wrapped the phone in the foil again.
A minute later the server brought the bottles. "We're doctors, and we may need to leave quickly. We're on call this evening." Rivera said. Then he handed her ten twenty-dollar bills. "I just want to make sure the tab is settled if we have to rush out of here." The server smiled. "And might I borrow a pair of tongs? You know, the metallic type chefs often use with the hinge at the back? I know it's a strange request." The server had no problem accommodating the strange request after the large tip she had just received.
Rivera poured soltol into four glasses, but he did not fill them completely. He wanted to enhance the illusion that a few good men accompanied him. "I need to get this snake out of this other bottle."
"I think I see where you're going with this. I'll handle the snake extraction," Stoker said, "as soon as the waitress brings those tongs you requested." A minute later, the waitress brought the tongs. Stoker took them and the bottle and made his way toward the restroom. He stepped into the bathroom and dumped the soltol into the toilet, leaving just the snake in the bottle. Then he smashed the bottle on the inside of the garbage can and used the tongs to fish the dead rattlesnake out of the garbage can. Stoker rinsed off a few glass shards in the sink. Holding the snake behind his back, Stoker returned to the table. "Here you go, Rivera," as he handed off the rattlesnake carcass and tongs discretely.
Silent Strike Page 8
