Covert Network (A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series Book 14)

by Trevor Scott

  “Yeah. He’s the Director of Central Intelligence. Once you reach that level, then I’ll give you my number. But by then I’ll be dead.”

  The driver shook his head. “So, you expect us to sit around holding our dicks?”

  “You guys can hold as many dicks as you like now. Don’t ask don’t tell is now anything goes in the military and the Agency.”

  “You’re a funny son of a bitch.”

  “Did you take out the insurance on this car?” Jake asked.

  “Of course, why?”

  “Because, if I want to lose your sorry asses, I can do so in a heartbeat. Chances are you’ll try to keep up with me. But you will fail and probably crash this car. I’d hate to hurt either of you, or this car. So, let’s play nice and save on the paperwork and embarrassment. We’ll call you when we’re done playing tourist.”

  “Let us give you our numbers,” the driver said, looking for a pen.

  Jake told them both of their numbers and smiled.

  “How the hell?” the driver asked.

  Tapping the roof of the car, Jake said, “I’ll get back with you.” He started to walk away.

  “Wait.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You mentioned a couple of Argentine cops who were on the ferry,” the driver said. “We tracked them down. Officially they’re on vacation. Unofficially, they’re on administrative leave for shooting a suspect.” He hesitated and then said, “Thirty times.”

  “Good to know,” Jake said. “Where are they now?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Bill followed the older one off the ferry and he jumped into a taxi and took off like a bat out of hell.”

  Jake smiled. “The other one, the younger man, went for a swim.”

  The young officer directed his attention toward Sirena. “Compliments of your partner?”

  “He attacked her,” Jake said. “I told you not to underestimate her. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait. How do we know you won’t just take care of business here and leave us out?”

  “Because I gave your boss my word,” Jake said. “A man is only as good as his word.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young officer said. His partner nodded agreement.

  Jake sipped his coffee as he walked back to their rental car. He got in to the passenger side and glanced at Sirena.

  “What’s the story?” she asked.

  “The story is we’re going shopping,” Jake said. “I’m buying you a bikini and we’re going to the beach.”

  She turned over the engine and smiled. “They bought that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I only use the bottom half,” she said. Then she pulled away and headed away from the ferry terminal.

  Jake kept checking the mirror for their tail, but the Agency officers had actually listened to him and were not following.

  He told Sirena what the men had told him about the Argentine cops being on administrative leave, which didn’t surprise her.

  “What’s our actual plan for today?” she asked.

  “We need to shop or wash clothes. Maybe both. I don’t want to approach Sten Larsen until tonight.”

  “So we can observe his house today,” she said, maneuvering the car around the outer edge of the pier area toward the oceanfront along the downtown of the capital city.

  They spent the rest of the day shopping for new clothes. Jake did buy her a bikini, but they didn’t find time to hit the beach. Instead, they found Sten Larsen’s house along the eastern area of the city toward the international airport. This part of town reminded Jake of a suburban area in any American coastal communities in California. Houses here were mostly owned by expats from America, Europe and Asia. Some were easy to identify based on style, where a German half-timbered house sat next to an Asian fusion home. Sten Larsen’s place was a two-story brick that could have been lifted right from Newport, Rhode Island. Only it was much less ostentatious. Jake suspected that if this man had enough money for this large estate, he probably had a decent security system and maybe security guards. After all, he was officially a fugitive from American justice. Had been, at least, until the presidential pardon. Now, Jake guessed, the guy was untouchable. Officially.

  Once they had sufficiently scoped out the man’s mansion, Jake and Sirena checked into a hotel in downtown Montevideo on the main street, Avenue 18 de Julio, a block from the Plaza Independencia.

  The hotel was nice enough for a door man, concierge, and bell hops, but not nice enough to scrutinize them too closely. Jake used his Austria passport and Sirena used her Spanish credentials—both of which were fake personas. Surprisingly, Sirena had asked specifically for a single large bed.

  While Sirena tried on clothes and came out to show Jake, the most girly thing Jake had ever seen her do, he got on the phone with Kurt Jenkins.

  “I’m glad you called, Jake. Bradford just called saying his men needed to talk with you and they had no way of making contact. I though you agreed to let them tag along?”

  “I did,” Jake said. “But we were only shopping for clothes today. I didn’t think they should waste time watching us buy new shirts and pants.” Okay, this was a partial lie. But what Kurt didn’t know he wouldn’t have to lie about to the current CIA director.

  “I understand,” Kurt said. “So, how does Larsen’s house look for tonight?”

  So, the guy wasn’t a total dolt. “We’re gonna need an in. Or at least a ruse.”

  Sirena came out wearing a skimpy white string bikini that was accented beautifully by her curvy, fit body and her naturally olive skin. Jake gave her a smile and a thumbs up. She looked disappointed. Jake shrugged.

  “I’m not sure if I can help on my end,” Kurt said.

  “Hang on.” He waved Sirena over to him.

  “Yeah. You like it?”

  He put his cell phone against his chest and said, “Yes, of course. Could you fire up your friend’s laptop?”

  “Is this some sort of strange fantasy?”

  “No. This is Kurt on the line. We’re looking for a way into Larsen’s inner circle. And I seem to remember something from his phone calls.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She found Maria’s laptop and logged on.

  Back to Kurt, Jake said, “We’re checking on something now.” He didn’t want to mention that they had acquired information from the NSA. That might hurt Kurt’s feelings. It was amazing how proprietary the intelligence community could be.

  Jake leaned over Sirena and couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting to her cleavage. Okay, maybe this was a little too erotic having her on the laptop in a bikini.

  Snapping his fingers, Jake pointed at the calls recently made by the former American CEO. Sirena checked out those while Jake backed away to keep from checking out her body.

  “I think we might have a way,” Jake said to Kurt. “I’ll get back with you once we have a little talk with Sten Larsen.”

  “You could just go knock on the man’s door,” Kurt said.

  “I don’t think so, Kurt,” Jake said. “By now the guy knows about the death of his friend in Buenos Aires. For all we know, Larsen had the man killed.”

  “You have the two men linked?”

  “That’s what the guy said to Sirena and our Argentine friend.”

  “All right. But remember to play nice with our Agency officers. They expect a call from you.”

  “I’ll get on that,” Jake said. Then he cut off his call with his old friend. In fact, Jake had a feeling the two young CIA officers could come in handy with his idea.

  “What does Kurt think?” Sirena asked, turning toward him.

  “He said to get back with him once we’ve tortured Larsen.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “It was implied.”

  She stood up. “Now, what do you think?”

  “The bikini is awesome.”

  With a quick pull on a front string, she pulled the top off, exposing her nice breasts. “And now?”

  “Wonderful.”<
br />
  She smiled and went back toward the bathroom, saying over her shoulder, “I don’t know what you’re looking for with that man’s phone records. Let me know after my shower.”

  Jake let out a breath of air. What in the hell had he gotten himself into this time? He sat down at the desk and looked at the phone calls Sten Larsen had made up until last night. The NSA had done Jake and Sirena a favor by not just marking down the number called and the numbers that called Larsen. They had put down a name or company associated with that number. The database was enhanced by the text message transcripts. All Jake had to do was click on the text and the entire conversation would pop up into another box. The only thing he didn’t have was audio conversations. Jake guessed the NSA had those, but he wasn’t about to go ask for them.

  He heard the shower in the bathroom and considered joining Sirena. He held back, though. They had agreed to keep it friendly. Getting too involved wasn’t going to happen. At least on his part. Although she had just exposed herself to him and walked off like a damn runway model. Now he was confused.

  Screw it. Instead of joining her in the shower, he found what was left of his rum bottle and poured himself a healthy shot and a half in one of the hotel glasses. Then he gulped more than sipped.

  17

  The problem in Jake’s mind was what Sten Larsen had learned from his associate that Sirena and Antonia had questioned in Buenos Aires. That man was dead, but what had he shared with Larsen before his death?

  Jake and Sirena sat now along the sea wall and beach of eastern Montevideo, the sun setting fast in the direction of Buenos Aires. The sea was calm, the warm night air slowly drifted through the windows of their rental car. On the main road next to them, which led to downtown Montevideo to the west and toward the international airport to the northeast, traffic slipped by sporadically.

  “What are you thinking?” Sirena asked Jake.

  “I’m thinking that the NSA needs to get back with you soon or we’ll be going at this guy blind.” Jake was in the passenger side of the car nearest the sea. He glanced up the road about a quarter of a mile where the two young CIA officers sat in their car facing them.

  Sirena pulled out her phone. “I’ll call them.” Just then her phone buzzed and she checked out the source. “Here we go.” She had to wait for the file to download and then she had to decrypt the file before opening it.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Give me a second.” She verified what they both were concerned about, and then she let out a heavy sigh. “I think we’re good. These are Larsen’s calls from our last file yesterday evening until just a few minutes ago. There was no contact between Larsen and the man we interrogated. Larsen tried to contact the guy a couple of times in the past few hours, but never got through.”

  “Makes sense, since the guy is dead,” Jake said. “Any other concerns?”

  She shook her head. “He could be concerned that he can’t contact his friend.”

  “Antonia said she would make sure they kept his death secret for a while,” Jake said. Then he pulled out his phone and texted the young CIA officer, saying they were good to go. The lights from their car blinked on and off twice.

  “Let’s go,” Jake said.

  Sirena put her phone away and started the engine. Then she slowly pulled out and headed toward Sten Larsen’s place less than a mile away.

  Earlier in the day they had purchased a disposable phone and with a little help from their friends at the CIA had cloned that phone to act as the phone of the dead guy Sirena had interrogated. Jake took out that phone now and quickly texted a simple message to Larsen saying, ‘We need to meet right now.’

  Larsen must have been sitting on the phone, because a text came back a few seconds later. ‘Where?’

  ‘I will be at your front door in minutes,’ Jake texted.

  ‘OK.’

  Sten Larsen lived right on the main road along the sea, but without beach access. Despite the size of the estates along this stretch, nobody had sea access. The sea belonged to everyone, after all.

  It was a risk running a ruse like this. But Jake hoped the man would have his security system off, knowing a friend was coming.

  Sirena pulled into the driveway that wound from a side street up to an overhanging entry in front of a three-car garage around the back of the house. They didn’t hesitate once they stopped. Both of them got out and walked just a few feet to a side door.

  If their intel was correct, Larsen didn’t have any security guards. His security system was quite simple, only giving off a loud sound and not going directly to the local police. Larsen had no children. He had a second wife who was in her early forties—a trophy wife with fake everything. He did have a dog, but it was just a killer Pomeranian.

  The dog yapped incessantly once they rang the doorbell.

  Larsen answered the door wearing a white T-shirt depicting Mao on the front of a twin bike, with Stalin on the back with his feet in the air getting a free ride. He held his dog under his left arm and wore either a pair of swimming trunks or baggy boxers. His beer belly stuck out between the T-shirt and the shorts. As far as Jake could tell, the man didn’t have a hair on his body. He was like one of those shriveled hairless dogs. He had obviously sat out in the sun too long since escaping to Uruguay. He had a confused look on his face exacerbated by the cloud of smoke coming from a cigar half smoked.

  Larsen deftly pulled the cigar from his mouth and took a drink of whiskey from a highball glass. “Who are you?” Larsen asked, slurring his words.

  Jake pulled his handgun from behind his right leg and said, “Mister Glock.”

  Sirena pushed past Larsen. Jake followed, his gun trained on the former CEO in exile. She closed the door behind them. The little dog growled fiercely.

  “Let’s have a little talk,” Jake said, waving his gun toward the living room.

  The house was gaudy and cluttered with the ornamentation of excess. It was like a bird of paradise had mated with a peacock and then shit all over the place. But actually the little turds around the perimeter were from the Pomeranian.

  “If this is a robbery,” Larsen said, “we don’t keep much cash. But I’ll give you what I have.” The man took another sip of whiskey and then chased that with his cigar. Considering the lethal combination, Larsen was lucky his breath didn’t blow up his face.

  “Shut up and sit down,” Jake said.

  The man followed Jake’s orders, nearly falling into the sofa. Christ, Jake thought, the man was piss drunk.

  Sirena went to the large picture windows with views of the sea and partially closed the thick curtains. Then she took the dog from the man and went off somewhere with it. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to strangle the little turd factory.

  “We have some jewelry,” Larsen said, and then puffed on his cigar.

  “Cuban?” Jake asked.

  “Yes, do you want one?”

  “If you reach for anything,” Jake said. “I will put a bullet between your eyes. Do you know that you won’t even hear the bullet leave the barrel?”

  “Of course,” Larsen said. “The bullet moves faster than the speed of sound.”

  Jake glanced at Sirena as she reentered the living room and took a position near the entrance. “Good, we’ve got a smart one. That will make things much easier.”

  Sirena went to the man and took his cigar away, tamping it out in an ashtray on an ornate wooden coffee table. She left him with his drink, though.

  “What do you want?” Larsen asked, a bit more defeat in his tone.

  They had discussed how they would go after Larsen earlier in the day. Since the guy wasn’t a trained intelligence operative, he would not know how to resist pain. Or even discomfort. The man had been pampered all of his life. Jake’s only concern was not how to get proper intelligence from this man, but to do so without letting him know who they were and what they really wanted.

  “You’re not American,” Larsen said. “Based on your accent, I would have to say
German.” The man looked proud of his assertion.

  This was exactly what Jake wanted. “We have a mutual friend,” Jake said. Then he waited for the man to come to the proper conclusion.

  “Ramos? Mateo sent you?”

  “You could say that,” Jake said.

  “He should be here any minute,” Larsen said.

  “Mateo Ramos isn’t coming. He sent us instead.”

  Larsen leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his thick bare belly. “If this is about the Caymans, I had nothing to do with that.”

  The Caymans? Now Jake was slightly confused. “We’re concerned about the American who died recently.”

  “The senator?” Larsen asked. “That’s an operational concern. I only work with logistics. Import and export.”

  Jake’s mind shifted quickly. Of course, that had been this man’s legitimate business concerns. So, he would naturally have ways of moving people as commodities. “That’s what I’m talking about. The supply chain. We’re afraid the American FBI has gotten involved. They will be linking the senator with the girl. We’re sure of that.”

  Larsen looked confused, and Jake thought perhaps he had said too much.

  Sirena’s eyes shifted toward their subject.

  “I have nothing to do with them once they get to Santiago,” Larsen said.

  “We understand that,” Jake said. But he didn’t understand. “The girl had too many distinguishing features. Tattoos are unacceptable. The girls must be more pristine.”

  Larsen shoved his hands out wide. “That’s what I’ve been saying for months. I know what the Asian market likes.”

  “Right,” Jake said. “Especially the Japanese. If they wanted tattoos they could find them in Tokyo. Maybe Ramos should go to smaller villages.”

  “Mateo Ramos is an idiot,” Larsen said. “Thank God we have better people working the pipeline.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Jake said. Then he had an idea. “You are American. We know you have contacts in their government, otherwise they would have pulled you back for prosecution.”

  “I know a few people,” Larsen said.