by Dale Brown
Jefferson looked at her grimly, then glanced at Ariadna. “Her attitude the same as yours, Doctor? You still want to go with her?”
“Si,” Ari said. “Usted dos es los comandos, no yo. You two are the commandos, not me.”
“All right, let’s do it,” Jefferson said. They checked their watches, and he and Pereira disappeared into the darkness at a fast trot.
“Here we go,” Kristen said, and they drove ahead toward the farmhouse. After about a kilometer on a bumpy gravel road, they came across a corral with two horses, a two-story barn, a small adobe cottage, and a low rock wall surrounding a very nice pink stucco single-story house with a tile roof. An older couple had been on rocking chairs on a tile-covered patio seated beside a low fire pit, and they got to their feet as the van approached. Two men who appeared to be farmhands approached the van, one in front left and one from the right rear, both carrying small-gauge shotguns—useful for scaring off coyotes or shooting snakes and not much else.
Kristen emerged from the front passenger seat. “Are you Miss Skyy?” the old gentleman called out from his patio.
“Sim,” Kristen replied. “Eu sou Kristen Skyy, SATCOM One News. Senhor e senhora Amaral?”
“Sim,” the gentleman replied. “That is Jose, and the other is Marco. They are my men. Who else is with you, menina?”
“My crew, Rich, Bonnie, and Ariadna,” Kristen replied. She motioned to the PME officer behind the wheel of the van. “Tenente Quintao is here just as an escort, not in any official capacity. He is from São Paulo. He won’t interfere.” The worker named Marco opened the van’s side door, stepped away, and waved the others out; the PME officer wisely put his hands atop the steering wheel so the first farmworker wouldn’t get too nervous.
Amaral saw the cameras and recording equipment and waved his hands. “Nao câmeras, nao retratos,” he said.
Kristen nodded to the cameraman, who put his camera back in the van—then, while the sound person Bonnie and the PME officer screened him, Rich put the camera up onto the glare shield pointing toward the farmhouse and turned it on. Thankfully the dome light didn’t work and Marco, intent on watching Kristen, didn’t notice. “Nao retratos,” Kristen said. She held up her palm-sized digital recording device. “I would like to use a recorder, but it is only for my own personal use—I will not broadcast your or your wife’s voice. Nenhuma transmissão de suas vozes, aprovação?”
Amaral nodded and waved for them to come up to his patio. His wife had a pitcher of cold guarana fruit juice and a bowl of salada de fruta on a small table between them. There was only one chair, but Rich and Bonnie were accustomed to melting away into the background while Kristen worked. One of the farmhands, Jose they assumed, stayed somewhere behind them in the darkness on the other side of the rock wall; Marco was nowhere to be seen. “Obrigado vendo nos hoje à noite, senhor, senhora,” Kristen said, taking a sip of the sweet green fruit juice.
“You may speak English, Miss Skyy,” the man said, “although your Portuguese is very good.”
“Muito obrigado,” Kristen said. “I believe we’ve met, senhor. You were a federal judge when Jorge Ruiz had his environmental workshops here, no?”
“I do not know where Jorge Ruiz is,” Amaral said quickly. “I have not seen him in many years.”
“But you do allow him to come back, don’t you, Advocado?” Kristen asked. “You know he comes and visits the site of his family cemetery, the Rocha da Paz, don’t you?” Both the Amarals’ eyes widened in fear, and they shook their heads—but it was obvious in their faces that they knew. Kristen held up a hand. “Don’t be afraid, senhor. We are not here to capture Jorge—in fact, we are here to help him.”
“We know nothing of Jorge Ruiz,” Amaral repeated woodenly. His wife shook her head, afraid to speak but anxious to support her husband’s claim.
“Has the PME or any agents of the government or of TransGlobal Energy come out here searching for Jorge, sir?”
“Muitas vezes. Many times. They think he still come here. I have not seen him in a very long time, since the days of his faculdade ambiental, his environmental college, here.”
“Do you believe Jorge Ruiz is a terrorist?”
The gentleman sighed deeply, then nodded somberly. “The police, the TransGlobal Energy corporation, they did terrible things to him and his family,” he said. “I believe his mind was torcido, twisted, by the violence. Any man would be filled with such horrible anger to see his wife and children burned alive in his own house.” But he shook his head. “But even this does not excuse his actions. Revenge is one thing: continued violence all over the country, possibly all over the world—this is not right.”
“You have heard of the nuclear bomb attack in the United States?” Amaral and his wife nodded fearfully. “Do you think Jorge could plan and carry out such a thing?”
“Nunca!” Amaral retorted. “Yes, Jorge and his followers have killed a few corrupt police, foreign security officers, and bureaucrats when he bombs dams and bridges—and yes, he has even killed innocent bystanders, for which he must answer to God and to the law. But Jorge would never, ever consider using a nuclear weapon! It is against everything he holds sacred.”
“I have reliable information that Jorge Ruiz’s organization, GAMMA, orchestrated both attacks.”
“I refuse to believe it,” Amaral insisted. “Nao. Jorge is strong-willed and dedicated, but he is not an assassino louco. Now you must leave.”
“Judge Amaral…”
“Nao. You are like all the others…you believe what you wish to believe to sell your papers and be on television! Marco! Jose! Vindo aqui! These people will be leaving now.”
Guns at the ready, Jefferson and Pereira approached the old gravesite, about a hundred and fifty meters east of the farmhouse. A few cows snorted and mooed in the darkness as they moved along, but except for a few lights at the farmhouse, it was completely quiet and still.
Jefferson listened intently to the walkie-talkie broadcast from the others as they moved. “Sounds like Skyy has just about worn out her welcome,” he whispered. Pereira could not understand him, but looked at him with an inquisitive glance. “We must hurry,” Jefferson summarized. “Hurry. Rapido.” He hoped Pereira knew enough English and his pidgin Spanish to make himself understood.
Through the night-vision goggles, Jefferson could finally make out the rock at the old gravesite, a huge boulder about the size of a large desk, with a bronze plaque embedded into the face…and, to his surprise, there was a man kneeling before it, his hands clasped atop the rock, his head bowed in prayer. He wore a simple farmer’s outfit of coveralls and frayed, muddy knee-high boots. “There’s someone there,” Jefferson whispered. “Un persona over there.”
“Jorge?” Pereira asked excitedly.
“I don’t know,” Jefferson said. “No sé. He’s praying. Praying.” He didn’t know the Spanish word, and Pereira didn’t seem to understand him, so Jefferson made the sign of the cross on himself with the muzzle of his .45 pistol. “Praying.”
“Deve ser Jorge!” Pereira said excitedly, and he trotted past Jefferson.
“No!” Jefferson hissed.
But it was too late—Pereira rushed past Jefferson before he could stop him. “Jorge!” he said in a quiet voice. “É você?”
“Manuel?” the man replied, half-turning toward him and rising to his feet. “Eu não posso acreditar que é você! I can’t believe it’s you!”
“Jorge, we must get you out of here,” Manuel said, stepping quickly over to him. “Khalimov is after us. He tried to kill me and my…”
Through the night-vision goggles Jefferson saw the man move, but it was too late to call out a warning. Just as Manuel reached him, the man spun, kicked Pereira’s legs out from under him, pinned his bad arm behind him, and ground his face into the dirt so he couldn’t cry out. “At least now I get a second chance to finish the job, Manuel,” Pavel Khalimov said. Pereira struggled, but Khalimov had the loop of a nylon handcuff already around
one wrist and was about to pull the other wrist through the loop…
“Hey, asshole.” Khalimov looked up at the unexpected American voice—and the steel toe of a leather combat boot caught him squarely in his right temple, knocking him unconscious.
“I believe Jorge’s innocent, Judge Amaral,” Kristen insisted. “Please believe me. I believe he’s being used as a scapegoat by one of the men in his organization.”
“I know nothing of any of this…!”
“You were a federal judge here in Minas Gerais, senhor,” Kristen said. “You were involved in almost everything that happened in Jorge Ruiz’s life since he returned from the United States. You presided as he built the environmental and human rights forum here in Abaete and founded GAMMA—I believe you even assisted in projects that helped grow that institution, such as expanding the regional airport and improving the roads so more people would come here from all over the world. You know him as well as anyone…”
“I said go!” Amaral shouted. “Marco! Jose! Onde estão você? Vindo aqui…!”
“Judge Amaral, I have information that one of Jorge’s lieutenants, a man by the name of Zakharov, engineered the nuclear attack in the United States,” Kristen said quickly. “I don’t believe Jorge knew about this attack beforehand. I believe this man did this under the name of GAMMA without Jorge’s knowledge or authorization. I don’t know why he would do this, but…”
“I know nothing of this Zakharov!” Amaral cried out. “Jose! Marco…!” He peered into the darkness, obviously wondering where his men were. “Vindo rapidamente! Eu necessito-o…!”
“Espera, pai,” they heard in a soft voice. Kristen turned…and saw Jorge Ruiz himself appear out of the darkness around a corner of the farmhouse.
“Jorge, nao…”
“Todos endireitam, pai,” Ruiz said. He clasped Amaral on the shoulder and gave Amaral’s wife a kiss on the forehead, then turned toward the others. “Kristen Skyy from SATCOM One,” he said in a soft, almost accent-free voice with a tired but sincere smile. “Nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.”
“I’m glad to see you’re alive, Jorge,” she said. “Why did you call Judge Amaral ‘father’?”
“Because he is my father, my natural father,” he replied. “He used his position to keep the adoption records secret, but he shared them with me after my adoptive parents’ murder.”
“And he used his position as a federal judge to get this land when the government seized it,” Kristen said, “knowing he could protect you and tell you when the PME had it under surveillance?”
“Sim,” Jorge said. “But after the attack in the United States, the whole world will have this place under careful watch. It is too dangerous for them to be here. I came back to warn them to leave.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Kristen said. “You are in serious danger. A Russian by the name of Khalimov was ordered to assassinate Manuel Pereira in Santos. I believe he’ll be after you next.”
“Is Manuel dead?” Kristen looked at Ariadna, then feigned a disappointed expression; Ruiz immediately interpreted it as a “yes.” “I am so sorry,” he said. “He tried to warn me about Zakharov and Khalimov. I thought it was just competição, Zakharov being a colonel and Manuel only being a sergeant. I thought…”
“Zakharov is a colonel?” Kristen asked. “A Russian colonel?”
“The questions can wait, Kristen,” Ariadna said. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulled the walkie-talkie from her jeans. “I hope you guys can hear me…”
“Now, who might you be talking to, menina?” a strange, heavily accented voice asked. Out of the darkness behind Ruiz walked Amaral’s two farmhands, Jose and Marco, with their hands on their heads, their shotguns nowhere in sight, followed by two men with silenced automatic pistols aimed at their heads. They were followed by a huge barrel-chested, square-jawed man in a dark hunting jacket, dark pants, and gloves, carrying an immense sniper rifle. “We must get acquainted. I insist.”
The Policia Militar do Estado Jeep approached the SATCOM One News jet in its isolated spot on the parking ramp at Abaete Regional Airport and stopped beside the outer perimeter guard, driver-to-driver as cops on patrol did all around the world. If the inner guard stationed by the jet had been paying any attention, he might have noticed two bursts of light inside the second Jeep, but he was standing behind the tail of the jet, a few meters away from the little blue vinyl tent erected there by the American engineers working on their device, having a cigarette and staring out across the ramp toward the terminal building, wishing he was inside having a beer.
The oncoming Jeep shut off its headlights, then briefly flashed its amber parking lights a few moments later, not enough to get the inner guard’s attention. Unseen by the lone guard, a man dressed completely in black, hidden in the brush just outside the airport perimeter fence, slipped through a cut already made in the chain-link fence, lay flat on the ground at the very edge of the tarmac about fifty meters from the jet, and raised his sniper rifle. The scope’s light-intensifying optics showed the lone guard in clear detail in the sniper’s crosshairs, his body illuminated only by his cigarette…
A few moments later, one of the men in the oncoming Jeep heard “Dal’she” in Russian in his headset. “The last guard’s been eliminated,” he told the driver. “Let’s go.” They dismounted from their Jeep and walked toward the vinyl tent quickly, trying not to appear rushed or excited, their Beretta M12 submachine guns with sound suppressors affixed slung behind them, readily accessible but out of sight. There was a dim light on in the cockpit, probably from a reading light. The entry door was open, and there appeared to be a light on somewhere inside the cabin. There was a powerful light on under the blue vinyl tent in the back of the plane, and they could see some instrument with blinking red lights and an occasional electronic tone, and what appeared to be a lone individual sitting on a chair inside.
The two men drew their weapons as they approached the jet. One crouched beside the open entry door, covering the interior, while the other stepped quickly around the left wing tip, his weapon trained on the tent. Once he was in position, the first assailant near the entry door said in English, “This is Sergeant Cardoso, Policia Militar do Estado, Minas Gerais. I need to speak with the pilot, please.”
“Just a sec,” a voice said from inside. “He’s in the lavatory.”
“It’s important,” the first assailant said.
“Okay. Stand by.”
The second assailant crouched low so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone inside through the windows and followed the trailing edge of the left wing, ready to fire. He had strict orders not to shoot the plane itself because the boss was going to fly it out of there tonight, so he didn’t want to fire toward the left engine, which was partially obscured by the tent. He could see and hear the jet moving as someone stepped down the aisle. Now he was almost at the fuselage, and he could see enough of the engine out the tent’s front opening that he knew he wouldn’t hit it. The footsteps behind him were louder—the pilot or whoever was inside was almost at the entry door. He could see the blinking test equipment, the canvas camp stool, and now the open baggage compartment door…
…but there was no one underneath. “Huyn’a!” he swore in Russian into his headset. “Poostoy!” He moved toward the tent—no one there at all. There was a duffel bag on the camp chair with a jacket placed atop it to make it look like a person sitting in the chair! “Bayoos shto nyet!” He dashed around it toward the tail, aiming his rifle back at the entry door, waiting for whoever it was to come out…and then realized that his comrade was gone.
He heard a rustling sound and quickly aimed his rifle at the sound. It was the lone PME guard who had been stationed near the plane, the one he thought had been shot by his sniper, kneeling beside the unmoving form of the sniper out at the edge of the pavement! The guard got to his feet and started looking around, unsure of which way to run. The Russian aimed at him and set the fire-select switch to three-round burs
t…
…when suddenly his Beretta submachine gun flew up and out of his hands before he could squeeze the trigger. He turned and saw a massive dark figure standing beside him…then a blur of motion, just before he felt the blow to the side of his head. His vision was obscured by a curtain of stars, then nothing.
Jason Richter, inside CID One, destroyed the Beretta submachine gun with one quick twist of his robotic hand as he made his way to the entry door. “Captain!” he shouted. The pilot appeared from behind a seat, a pistol in his hands. “Get this thing ready to fly! If anyone else comes near this plane, kill them!”
“Hey! Where are you…?” But the robot was completely out of sight before the pilot could even get out of the plane.
“Yegor!” Ruiz exclaimed. “What in hell is going on? Release those men! What are you doing here?”
“Weren’t you listening, Jorge? I’m here to kill you,” Zakharov replied matter-of-factly. The two men with Zakharov pushed the farmworkers toward the Amarals and made them kneel down, hands on their heads. Zakharov went over to Ariadna and took the walkie-talkie away from her. “But first I’m going to learn a little more about your new friends here. Miss Kristen Skyy of course needs no introduction. Who is this lovely lady in the bulletproof vest?”
“Mi inglés no es tan bueno, señor,” Ariadna said.
“Absurdo. Pienso que su inglés es excelente, señorita,” Zakharov said in very good Spanish. He quickly searched her and immediately found her pistol. “Reporters these days are armed very well, I see—body armor and a pistol. Who are you?”
“I…I’m with Kristen,” Ariadna said in English. “SATCOM One News. You must be Yegor Zakharov…Colonel Yegor Zakharov.”
“Kristen Skyy’s bodyguard? Lover? What?”
“Producer.”
“Producer. Ah, I see. And who were you talking to?”
