by Tom Clancy
“When a guy goes missing, it generally means that he wants to be missing.”
Tim shook his head. “Nah, not Ding. He’s a lifer, I don’t even think he’ll stop at twenty. He’ll retire as a command sergeant major. No, he’s no bugout.”
“Then maybe somebody dropped his file in the wrong drawer,” Robby suggested.
“I suppose. I’m still new at this,” Tim reminded himself. “Still, it is kind of funny, turning up down there in the jungle. Enough of that. How’s Sis?”
About the only good thing to say was that it wasn’t hot. In fact, it was pretty cool. Maybe there wasn’t enough air to be hot, Ding told himself. The altitude was marginally less than they’d trained at in Colorado, but that was weeks behind them, and it would be a few days before the soldiers were reacclimated. That would slow them down some, but on the whole Chavez thought that heat was more debilitating than thin air, and harder to get used to.
The mountains—nobody called these mothers hills—were about as rugged as anything he’d ever seen, and though they were well forested, he was paying particularly close attention to his footing. The thick trees made for limited visibility, which was good news. His night scope, hanging on his head like a poorly designed cap, allowed him to see no more than a hundred meters, and usually less than that, but he could see something, while the overhead cover eliminated the light needed for the unaided eye to see. It was scary, and it was lonely, but it was home for Sergeant Chavez.
He did not move in a straight line to the night’s objective, following instead the Army’s approved procedure of constantly veering left and right of the direction in which he was actually traveling. Every half hour he’d stop, double back, and wait until the rest of the squad was in view. Then it was their turn to rest for a few minutes, checking their own back for people who might take an interest in the new visitors to the jungle highlands.
The sling on his MP-5 was double-looped so that he could carry it slung over his head, always in firing position. There was electrician’s tape over the muzzle to keep it from being clogged, and more tape was wrapped around the sling swivels to minimize noise. Noise was their enemy. Chavez concentrated on that, and seeing, and a dozen other things. This one was for-real. The mission brief had told them all about that. Their job wasn’t reconnaissance anymore.
After six hours, the RON—remain overnight—site was in view. Chavez radioed back—five taps on the transmit key answered by three—for the squad to remain in place while he checked it out. They’d picked a real eyrie—he knew the word for an eagle’s nest—from which, in daylight, they could look down on miles of the main road that snaked its way from Manizales to Medellin, and off of which the refining sites were located. Six of them, supposedly, were within a night’s march of the RON site. Chavez circled it carefully, looking for footprints, trash, anything that hinted at human activity. It was too good a site for someone not to have used it for something or other, he thought. Maybe a photographer for National Geographic who wanted to take shots of the valley. On the other hand, getting here was a real bitch. They were a good three thousand feet above the road, and this wasn’t the sort of country that you could drive a tank across, much less a car. He spiraled in, and still found nothing. Maybe it was too far out of the way. After half an hour he keyed his radio again. The rest of the squad had had ample time to check its rear, and if anyone had been following them, there would have been contact by now. The sun outlined the eastern wall of the valley in red by the time Captain Ramirez appeared. It was just as well that the covert insertion had shortened the night. With only half a night’s march behind them they were tired, but not too tired, and would have a day to get used to the altitude all over again. They’d come five linear miles from the LZ—more like seven miles actually walked, and two thousand feet up.
As before, Ramirez spread his men out in pairs. There was a nearby stream, but nobody was dehydrated this time. Chavez and Vega took position over one of the two most likely avenues of approach to their perch, a fairly gentle slope with not too many trees and a good field of fire. Ding hadn’t come in this way, of course.
“How you feelin’, Oso?”
“Why can’t we ever go to a place with plenty of air and it’s cool and flat?” Sergeant Vega slipped out of his web gear, setting it in a place where it would make a comfortable pillow. Chavez did the same.
“People don’t fight wars there, man. That’s where they build golf courses.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Vega set up his Squad Automatic Weapon next to a rocky outcropping. A camouflage cloth was set across the muzzle. He could have torn up a shrub to hide the gun behind, but they didn’t want to disturb anything they didn’t have to. Ding won the toss this time, and fell off to sleep without a word.
“Mom?” It was after seven o’clock, and she was always up by now, fixing breakfast for her family of early risers. Dave knocked at the door, but heard nothing. That was when he started being afraid. He’d already lost a father, and knew that even parents were not the immortal, unchanging beings that all children need at the center of their growing universe. It was the constant nightmare that each of Moira’s children had but never spoke about, even among themselves, lest their talk somehow make it more likely to happen. What if something happens to Mom? Even before his hand felt for the doorknob, Dave’s eyes filled with tears at the anticipation of what he might find.
“Mom?” His voice quavered now, and he was ashamed of it, fearful also that his siblings would hear. He turned the knob and opened the door slowly.
The shades were open, flooding the room with morning light. And there she was, lying on the bed, still wearing her black mourning dress. Not moving.
Dave just stood there, the tears streaming down his cheeks as the reality of his personal nightmare struck him with physical force.
“... Mom?”
Dave Wolfe was as courageous as any teenager, and he needed all of it this morning. He summoned what strength he had and walked to the bedside, taking his mother’s hand. It was still warm. Next he felt for a pulse. It was there, weak and slow, but there. That galvanized him into action. He lifted the bedside phone and punched 911.
“Police emergency,” a voice answered immediately.
“I need an ambulance. My mom won’t wake up.”
“What is your address?” the voice asked. Dave gave it. “Okay, now describe your mother’s condition.”
“She’s asleep, and she won’t wake up, and—”
“Is your mother a heavy drinker?”
“No!” he replied in outrage. “She works for the FBI. She went right to bed last night, right after she got home from work. She—” And there it was, right on the night table. “Oh, God. There’s a pill bottle here ...”
“Read the label to me!” the voice said.
“P-l-a-c-i-d-y-l. It’s my dad’s, and he—” That was all the operator needed to hear.
“Okay—we’ll have an ambulance there in five minutes.”
Actually, it was there in just over four minutes. The Wolfe house was only three blocks from a firehouse. The paramedics were in the living room before the rest of the family knew anything was wrong. They ran upstairs to find Dave still holding his mother’s hand and shaking like a twig in a heavy wind. The leading fireman pushed him aside, checked the airway first, then her eyes, then the pulse.
“Forty and thready. Respiration is ... eight and shallow. It’s Placidyl,” he reported.
“Not that shit!” The second one turned to Dave. “How many were in there?”
“I don’t know. It was my dad’s, and—”
“Let’s go, Charlie.” The first paramedic lifted her by the arms. “Move it, kid, we gotta roll.” There wasn’t time to fool around with the Stokes litter. He was a big, burly man and carried Moira Wolfe out of the room like a baby. “You can follow us to the hospital.”
“How—”
“She’s still breathin’, kid. That’s the best thing I can tell you right now,” the second one s
aid on the way out the door.
What the hell is going on? Murray wondered. He’d come by to pick Moira up—her car was still in the FBI garage—and maybe help ease the guilt she clearly felt. She’d violated security rules, she’d done something very foolish, but she was also a victim of a man who’d searched and selected her for her vulnerabilities, then exploited them as professionally as anyone could have done. Everybody had vulnerabilities. That was another lesson he’d picked up over his years in the Bureau.
He’d never met Moira’s kids, though he did know about them, and it wasn’t all that hard to figure out who would be there, following the paramedic out of the house. Murray double-parked his Bureau car and hopped out.
“What gives?” he asked the second paramedic. Murray held up his ID so that he’d get an answer.
“Suicide attempt. Pills. Anything else you need?” the paramedic asked on his way to the driver’s seat.
“Get moving.” Murray turned to make sure he wasn’t in the ambulance’s way.
When he turned back to look at the kids, it was plain that “suicide” hadn’t yet been spoken aloud, and the ugliness of that word made them wilt before his eyes.
That fucker Cortez! You’d better hope that I never get my hands on you!
“Kids, I’m Dan Murray. I work with your mom. You want me to take you to the hospital?” The case could wait. The dead were dead, and they could afford to be patient. Emil would understand.
He let them off in front of the emergency entrance and went off to find a parking place and use his car phone. “Get me Shaw,” he told the watch officer. It didn’t take long.
“Dan, this is Bill. What gives?”
“Moira tried to kill herself last night. Pills.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Somebody has to sit with the kids. Does she have any friends we can bring out?”
“I’ll check.”
“Until then I’m going to hang around, Bill. I mean—”
“I understand. Okay. Let me know what’s happening.”
“Right.” Murray replaced the phone and walked over to the hospital. The kids were sitting together in the waiting room. Dan knew about emergency-room waiting. He also knew that the gold badge of an FBI agent could open nearly any door. It did this time, too.
“You just brought a woman in,” he told the nearest doctor. “Moira Wolfe.”
“Oh, she’s the OD.”
She’s a person, not a goddamned OD! Murray didn’t say. Instead he nodded. “Where?”
“You can’t—”
Murray cut him off cold. “She’s part of a major case. I want to see what’s happening.”
The doctor led him to a treatment cubicle. It wasn’t pretty. Already there was a respirator tube down her throat, and IV lines in each arm—on second inspection, one of the tubes seemed to be taking her blood out and running it through something before returning it to the same arm. Her clothing was off, and EKG sensors were taped to her chest. Murray hated himself for looking at her. Hospitals robbed everyone of dignity, but life was more important than dignity, wasn’t it?
Why didn’t Moira know that?
Why didn’t you catch the signal, Dan? Murray demanded of himself. You should have thought to have somebody keep an eye on her. Hell, if you’d put her in custody, she couldn’t have done this!
Maybe we should have yelled at her instead of going so easy. Maybe she took it the wrong way. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
Cortez, you are fucking dead. I just haven’t figured out when yet.
“Is she going to make it?” Murray asked.
“Who the hell are you?” a doctor asked without turning.
“FBI, and I need to know.”
The doctor still didn’t look around. “So do I, sport. She took Placidyl. That’s a pretty potent sleeping pill, not too many docs prescribe it anymore, ’cause it’s too easy to OD on. LD-50 is anywhere from five to ten caps. LD-50 means the dose that’ll kill half the people that take it. I don’t know how much she took. At least she isn’t completely gone, but her vitals are too goddamned low for comfort. We’re dialyzing her blood to keep any more from getting into her, hope it’s not a waste of time. We’ve put her on hundred-percent oxygen, then we’ll zap her full of IV fluids and wait it out. She’ll be out for at least another day. Maybe two, maybe three. Can’t tell yet. I can’t tell you what the odds are either. Now you know as much as I do. Get out of here, I got work to do.”
“There are three kids in the waiting room, Doctor.”
That turned his head around for about two seconds. “Tell’em we got a pretty good chance, but it’s going to be tough for a while. Hey, I’m sorry, but I just don’t know. The good news is, if she comes back, she’ll come all the way back. This stuff doesn’t usually do permanent damage. Unless it kills you,” the doctor added.
“Thanks.”
Murray left to tell the kids what he could. Within an hour, some neighbors showed up to take their place with the Wolfe children. Dan left quietly after an agent arrived to keep his own vigil in the waiting room. Moira was probably their only link with Cortez, and that meant that her life was potentially in danger from hands other than her own. Murray got to the office just after nine, his mood still quiet and angry when he arrived. There were three agents waiting for him, and he waved them to follow.
“Okay, what have you found out?”
“ ‘Mr. ’Díaz’ used an American Express card at The Hideaway. We’ve identified the number at two airline ticket counters—thank God for those credit-checking computers. Right after he dropped Mrs. Wolfe off, he caught a flight out of Dulles to Atlanta, and from there to Panama. That’s where he disappeared. He must have paid cash for the next ticket, ’cause there’s no record of a Juan Diaz on any flight that evening. The counter clerk at Dulles remembers him—he was in a hurry to catch the Atlanta flight. The description matches the one we already have. However he got into the country last week, it wasn’t Dulles. We’re running computer records now, ought to have an answer later this morning—call it an even-money chance to figure his route in. I’m betting on one of the big hubs, Dallas-Fort Worth, Kansas City, Chicago, one of them. But that’s not the interesting thing we’ve discovered.
“American Express just discovered that it has a bunch of cards for Juan Diaz. Several have been generated recently, and they don’t know how.”
“Oh?” Murray poured some coffee. “How come they weren’t noticed?”
“For one thing, the statements are paid on time and in full, so that dog didn’t bark. The addresses are all slightly different, and the name itself isn’t terribly unusual, so a casual look at the records won’t tip anyone off. What it looks like is that somebody has a way to tap into their computer system—all the way into the executive programming, and that might be another lead for us to run down. He’s probably been staying with the name in case Moira gets a look at the card. But what it has told us is that he’s made five trips to the D.C. area in the past four months. Somebody is playing with the AmEx computer system, somebody good. Somebody,” the agent went on, “good enough to tap into a lot of computers. This guy can generate complete credit lines for Cortez or anyone else. There ought to be a way to check that out, but I wouldn’t be real hopeful about running him down fast.”
There was a knock at the door, and another young agent came in. “Dallas-Fort Worth,” he said handing over a fax sheet. “The signatures match. He came in there and took a late flight to New York-La Guardia, got in after midnight local time on Friday. Probably caught the Shuttle down to D.C. to meet Moira. They’re still checking.”
“Beautiful,” Murray said. “He’s got all the moves. Where’d he come in from?”
“Still checking, sir. He got the New York ticket at the counter. We’re talking with Immigration to see when he passed through customs control.”
“Okay, next?”
“We have prints on him now. We have what looks like a left forefinger on the note paper he left Mrs.
Wolfe, and we’ve matched that with the credit receipt from the airline counter at Dulles. It was tough, but the lab guys used their lasers to bring ’em out. We sent a team to The Hideaway, but nothing yet. The cleanup crew there is pretty good—too damned good for our purposes, but our guys are still working on it.”
“Everything but a picture on the bastard. Everything but a picture,” Murray repeated. “What about after Atlanta?”
“Oh, thought I said that. He caught a flight to Panama after a short layover.”
“Where’s the AmEx card addressed to?”
“It’s in Caracas, probably just a letterdrop. They all are.”
“How come Immigration doesn’t—oh.” Murray grimaced. “Of course his passport is under a different name or he has a collection of them to go with his cards.”
“We’re dealing with a real pro. We’re lucky to have gotten this much so fast.”
“What’s new in Colombia?” he asked the next agent.
“Not much. The lab work is going nicely, but we’re not developing anything we didn’t already know. The Colombians now have names on about half of the subjects—the prisoner says he didn’t know all of them, and that’s probably the truth. They’ve launched a major operation to try an’ find ’em, but Morales isn’t real hopeful. They’re all names of people the Colombian government’s been after for quite a while. All M-19 types. It was a contract job, just as we thought.”
Murray checked his watch. Today was the funeral for the two agents on Emil’s protection detail. It would be held at the National Cathedral, and the President would be speaking there, too. His phone rang.
“Murray.”
“This is Mark Bright down at Mobile. We have some additional developments.”
“Okay.”
“A cop got himself blown away Saturday. It was a contract job, Ingrams at close range, but a local kid popped a subject with his trusty .22, right in the back of the head. Killed him; they found the body and the vehicle yesterday. The shooter was positively ID’d as a druggie. The local cops searched the victim’s—Detective Sergeant Braden—house and found a camera that belonged to the victim in the Pirates Case. The new victim is a burglary sergeant. I am speculating that he was working for the druggies and probably checked out the victim’s place prior to the killings, looking for the records that we ultimately found.”
