“And that’s why they may send you down to Caracas to negotiate with those socialists?” Samantha said.
“You get the picture.”
“But back on the Greyfield job. I’ve heard that many of those contractors end up in pretty dangerous situations. Were you in war zones?”
“Sure. I remember Joe and I, uh, Joe Campiello was one of my buddies at Greyfield. Joe and I got into all sorts of scrapes. He saved my ass a couple of times.”
“And you saved his as well?” She asked.
“I guess you could say that.”
The waiter came up to clear their dinner plates. “Would you folks like some coffee or dessert?”
Tripp looked at Samantha and raised his eyebrows? “Anything?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Dinner was great.”
“Just the check, please.”
Tripp paid the bill, they headed toward the stairway and heard a heavy metal song blaring from the juke box. “Listen to that one,” Samantha said, making her way down the stairs. “Isn’t it awful?”
“Sure is.”
“It makes ‘Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall’ sound positively lyrical,” she quipped.
Tripp burst out laughing and took her arm as they walked toward the coat rack. He helped with her coat and resisted the urge to touch her hair as she pushed it out of the way of her coat collar. He grabbed his overcoat, opened the door and they were met with a blast of frigid air. “Now where is this place of yours? I’ll walk you back.”
“It’s just two blocks down. Are you sure? I could just …”
“I’m not leaving you alone on a Washington street at night. And you shouldn’t be walking around alone either, my lady,” Tripp said.
Samantha liked the way he took her arm and led her down K Street toward her condo. No other man had tried to take care of her since Dexter. She hadn’t told Tripp about him. She’d told him enough tonight. That part of her life could wait until the next time. If there ever was a next time.
“I suppose you’re right about Washington streets,” she said. I read in the Post that there were nineteen robberies on Capitol Hill last week, but police have been spending their time enforcing dog leash laws at Logan Circle.”
“Figures,” Tripp said.
“Here’s my place,” Samantha said, stopping by a doorway. “It’s one of the smaller condos in this building. But I love the location.” She hesitated and then thought, why not? As he walked her into the lobby, she turned and said, “We didn’t have coffee at the restaurant. Would you like a cup before you drive home?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he said with his subtle grin.
Up in her apartment, she quickly made a pot of decaf while he stared out her living room window. It was almost an entire wall of glass, which helped to make the tiny condo less confining. Even in the small space, she had a beige couch with dark green throw pillows. The green fabric was repeated in a pair of simple side chairs flanking a wooden butler’s table.
Samantha carried a tray with two mugs of steaming coffee into the living room. “Cream or sugar? No, wait. I remember you had it black at my office.”
“Good memory,” Tripp said. He pointed out the window. “I can see my place from here.”
“Where?”
“Turnberry Tower. It’s one of the buildings across Key Bridge. Over to the right. Not quite as close to downtown as you are, but almost.”
They sat on the sofa, sipped their coffee and chatted about Washington real estate. Then they exchanged a few more stories about previous jobs, and Tripp realized he didn’t want to leave this woman. But when he looked at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was already after eleven.
He got up from the couch and caught a glimpse of a photo on a side table. It was a picture of Samantha and some guy. He wondered who it was and if he was still around. Tripp decided not to bring it up. At this point, he just wanted to get to know her. He didn’t want to screw it up by delving into her past. “Guess I’d better head out.”
As she stood up, he reached for her, drew her close, tipped her chin up and gazed into her eyes. “It’s been a nice night, Samantha Reid.” Then he pulled her to him and lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss was deep. Intense. She opened to him. Leaned into him. He tightened one arm, and with the other, he cradled her head and prolonged the kiss. Heat shot through her. She felt tense and weak at the same time as he molded his body to hers. She heard a slight moan and didn’t know if it came from her or from him.
She couldn’t think. Didn’t want to think. His mouth was demanding, hungry, probing. His hand was in her hair, pulling her ever closer. She didn’t want to break away. Didn’t want it to end. Then the jarring sound of his cell phone broke the spell.
He lifted his head and muttered an oath. “What the … sorry.” He fished the phone out of his pocket and with one arm still holding Samantha, he put it to his ear. He listened for a moment and suddenly pulled away. Samantha took a step back as she watched his face. It had turned somber, angry. She held up both hands as if to say, “What?”
He slammed the phone shut and turned to her. “There’s been another gas line explosion.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TEXAS BORDER–TUESDAY NIGHT
“What the hell?” an FBI agent said, staring at the email. “There’s been another one of those explosions of a gas line. Can you believe it?”
“Where? Not here in Texas, I hope,” agent Dotson asked.
“Nope. This one looks to be in Kansas. But Jesus! Storm is still raging up there too, and now they’ve got people with no gas and probably no power in two states.”
“Damn! With two now, I figure they’re going to call in a bunch of our folks and all sorts of local law enforcement on that one, wouldn’t you think?”
“Sure. At least it’s not on our local radar right now.” He hit another key and exclaimed, “Hey, Lee, we sure have something else that’s big on our scope tonight. We finally got some strategic intelligence on that new sub landing. Look at this. What do you think?” The agent printed out the report and handed it to his colleague.
“They finally figured out where the narco boys are taking their latest shipments?” Lee said, perusing the report. “Problem is, they offload the cocaine onto those cigarette boats, and we have no idea where they’re going to land.”
“Among other things,” the other agent admitted. “What we need now is tactical intelligence. We need to know when and where their convoys are crossing the border, in addition to the coastline where those boats do the off-loading.”
“At least we got the new cameras and seismic sensors installed at that last sendora.”
“Yeah, the opening. But as soon as the coyotes figure out we’ve got it covered, they move to another opening. This whole virtual fence thing just isn’t working. We need more guys down here. And a better wall.”
Lee’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it from the pocket of his jacket. “Agent Dotson here.” He listened for a few moments, raised his hand and made a circle sign with his thumb and forefinger. “Great … you sure? What about DEA and ICE? We got any Rangers in the area? They could help us too. Okay. Thanks for the tip. We’ll spread the word.”
“What’s up?”
“Convoy heading toward the Laredo crossing. This looks like a big one. A sheriff’s posse heard shots.”
“Warning shots, do you think?”
“Who knows? They could be fighting with each other again, but we’ve got our guys on the way this time.”
Juan Lopez sat, hunkered down in the humvee, and tried to check his watch. It was so dark he could barely make out the hour. 2:15 a.m. They had planned this run when they saw that clouds and a light drizzle would blank out any light from the moon. He was cold, shivering and scared. He was wearing the same light parka he had on when he left Venezuela, the same blue jeans, the same sweatshirt. They told him not to bring any big luggage because of space constraints. But he had to bring one large
duffel bag that he kept on his lap the whole time. It contained some special things, things that Diosdado Rossi had procured.
He didn’t know what they were. The fixer had told him they were a type of canister—two of them in metal cases of some sort. He had instructions not to open the cases under any circumstances. He was to bring them to Simon and Carlos and then keep them safe until they all received orders to use them.
Juan hadn’t thought much about them, he had carefully packed them in the bag along with his cell phone, some money, a hand gun, bullets, a few bottles of water and some sandwiches. The food and water were gone now, and he still had a long way to go. He wished he could have shoved in some warmer clothes.
He peered ahead at the battered army trucks making their way across the rough terrain. They told him the recruits had left their army posts to join the paramilitary group and brought the stolen trucks and humvees with them. The guys from MS-13 were better dressed. They all had fancy weapons and belts of ammo over their shoulders. They looked confident, cocky, as they guarded their precious cargo.
Suddenly there was a burst of gunfire. The Zetas were firing. But where? Was anybody firing back?
“Out. Get out and run,” the driver commanded.
“Where?” Juan said as he jumped out of the vehicle, hauling the bag with him.
“Over there. Fan out. Through those trees. The convoy will head left. You go right. Keep going. Don’t stop.”
Juan lifted the heavy duffel bag, threw it over his shoulder and stumbled as the humvee headed west. More gunfire. More commands. The voices were getting dimmer as the entire convoy veered away.
Juan tried to run, but it was hard carrying the bag. He jumped over clumps of cactus, caught his sneaker on the edge of a prickly plant and went down. His face hit the dirt. He heard voices off to the left and more gun shots. He scrambled to his feet, picked up the duffel and scurried toward the stand of trees. He kept running through the underbrush.
Where was the border? Where were the agents? He kept running. A mile, maybe two miles. He had no idea where he was. All he knew was that he had to get away. Away from the guns. Away from the drugs. Away from the coyotes, the Zetas and MS-13. The agents would go after those guys, not him. He was pretty sure of that. But what if there was a fence? What if there was a camera? What if he ran right into a policeman of some sort?
He stopped to catch his breath and check the time again. 2:47 a.m. They had told him they’d be across by 3:00. But across where? His shoulder was aching now.
The light rain had soaked through his jacket and into his sweatshirt as well as his pants. He had dirt on his hands and face and he was out of water. But he didn’t care as long as he could get across. He listened. Nothing. The guns had stopped. He could no longer hear the rumble of the trucks or the humvees or the shouts of the commanders and the coyotes. He was alone. He wondered if there were any real coyotes in these parts. And what about snakes and lizards?
He tried to shake away the fears. After all, he was on a mission. He had volunteered for this. He would make a lot of money if they could pull off their assignments. Assignments that were important for his country and bad for the American country. That’s what they had told him. And that was fine with him.
They all hated the Collousses del Norte, didn’t they? The North America that lorded over everybody in the hemisphere with their White House bullies putting on sanctions, touting their Monroe Doctrine and all the other ways they tried to maintain control over everybody. He had learned about that in school, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Now he had a chance to right some wrongs. Sure he was just one cog in the wheel. Simon and Carlos were part of the puzzle too, and once they were all together again, it was going to be great to watch the Americanos squirm and wonder how it all happened.
He picked up his duffel bag and once again ran for the border.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CARACAS, VENEZUELA–WEDNESDAY MORNING
“Did el presidente get his books and DVD’s?” Diosdado Rossi asked the attractive secretary sitting outside the suite at the Palacio de Miraflores, otherwise known as the Presidential Palace.
She glanced up at the short, slim man with the carefully groomed black hair and replied. “Don’t I always follow your wishes?”
“That’s what I like about you. You are very good at keeping me, and the big man happy.” He appraised her full figure and flashing violet eyes and added, “In more ways than one.”
“I don’t know why he keeps reading those books on English and French history though,” she remarked.
“It’s all part of his fascination with the way the old kings and queens ruled their countries.”
“But he’s accomplejado,” she said in an undertone. “I know I shouldn’t say that, but you know what I mean.”
The fixer, as he was called by everyone in the palace, gave her a knowing look. “We both know that. He grew up in a poor family and says he hates the ruling class.”
“He can study all he wants, but he’ll never turn his barrio beginnings into a renaissance village. And yet he reads about them. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Sure it does. Just because you hate somebody doesn’t mean you can’t learn how they got to be successful. And in the case of those books, he pours through them looking at the way those kings issued decrees and dealt with people they thought were traitors.”
“That’s what worries me. He put more students in jail yesterday. They weren’t doing much of anything. They were just having a meeting, talking about a possible election. I’m afraid that they could really rebel and get a big rally going. We’ve had so many protests and marches for food and medicine. We don’t need another one.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. We may have a lot of problems around here, but we know how to handle dissidents. We’ve learned from the pros.”
Rossi thought about his predecessors. Vladimiro Montesinos in Peru was the powerful enforcer for Alberto Fujimori back in the nineties. He knew how to be a combination chief of staff, handler of dirty tricks, briber of members of Congress and head of the intelligence service, all at the same time. A rather impressive list of credentials. His downfall came when he videotaped it all so he could blackmail his contacts later if need be. And he got caught. Rossi wasn’t about to be that stupid.
Then there was Lopez Rega, the brains behind Argentina’s Isabella Peron in the 70’s. A great case study on how to amass power and influence. Rossi had learned from them all. A man has to learn from mistakes. Hopefully, the mistakes of others.
His mother had not made any mistakes, though. He thought about the elderly woman who rose early to pray every morning in the little chapel in the village where he was raised. He had been told many times about the years that his mother had wanted a son, prayed for a son.
When he was finally born, she had named him Diosdado Rossi which meant Gift of God. He still went back to see her as often as he could, but now he had more pressing things on his mind. As el presidente had accumulated more power, Rossi’s portfolio had increased as well. It was all happening just as he had planned it.
He had figured out, early on, that his boss would rise to the number one job. Rossi had joined the team years ago and structured the president’s plan so that the people would see him as a reincarnation of Simon Bolivar. That is, if they didn’t have too strong a grasp of history.
The legacy was a popular one, especially with the peasants, since Bolivar was revered as a champion for the oppressed of South America over two-hundred years ago. Of course, Rossi knew that Bolivar would probably turn over in his grave if he saw the same kind of Latin American caudillo, or strongman, in charge today that he had fought against so many years back.
But that didn’t matter. Rossi and his boss had appealed to the poor, the oppressed, the underdogs with many programs for land redistribution, hand-outs, and promises of education and health care. The fact that price controls, mismanagement and corruption had thwarted some of those plans di
dn’t bother Rossi. They still had a firm grip on the economy and he also was building up a nice off-shore account in the Caymans while he was at it.
He strolled into the president’s office, a memo in hand. “Here is the plan to take over the last piece of that American company’s oil and gas division,” he said to the imposing man clad in his signature red shirt.
The president grabbed the paper and quickly read the summary. “I see you want to change the name from GeoGlobal to Petroleos Nacionales, S.A. That sounds good. We’ll call it PeNaSa for short. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“But, of course,” the fixer said.
“What about their people? Will any of them stay on to supervise the rigs?”
“No. I’m sure they will pull all of their people out, just like the others did. But our workmen are manning the rigs. They have learned how to handle the fields. And we’re training some of them to move up to be supervisors.”
“If we have more trouble, we can get some of the Russians or the people from Iran or Belarus to fill in the gap,” el presidente said.
“Good idea. I’ll pass that along to the Energy chief. He’s been negotiating an exit for GeoGlobal, offering them their initial cost as a payment to leave the country.”
“How’s it going?”
“Just like what you’d expect. They’re balking,” the fixer explained. “They say that if you buy a stock for ten dollars and then invest in the company and build it up so the stock is then worth fifty dollars, you should get fifty dollars for it. But we’re only offering them ten.”
Final Finesse Page 7
