by Tom Clancy
Annie probed her mind for the basis of her hesitation. Could it be she was afraid of failing to discover the cause of the fire, and thus failing Jim as well? Or was there some other underlying reason she was holding back, a failure of a different sort that had kept her chained and manacled in a dungeon of self-reproach since the night Mark died. Maybe, just maybe, she was like a prisoner acclimated to captivity who shrinks from her cell door as it is opened in an offer of release, looking directly out into freedom, and feeling a sudden terror that she no longer knows how to live with it.
Unconsciously at first, then with growing awareness, she studied the picture of Mark and herself in Scotland again, two people exulting in the moment, and welcoming a future that was by its very definition uncertain. Studied the picture, and all at once knew what her response to Dorset would be.
What it had to be.
Taking a deep breath, she reached for the telephone and punched in Dorset's extension.
His receptionist put her through to him immediately.
"Yes?" he said, taut anticipation in his voice.
"Sir, I'd like to thank you for your offer," she said. "And also ask if I may have Roger Gordian's phone number, so I can express my appreciation for his support. And personally inform him of my acceptance."
An instant after reading Gordian's number off the display of his pocket computer, Dorset congratulated Annie Caulfield on her decision, hung up the phone, then rose from behind his desk and went over to the coffee machine on its small stand across the office. This would be his fourth--or was it his fifth?--mug of the morning and he'd only gotten in a bit over an hour ago. But what the hell, who was counting--he had enough to occupy his mind without keeping a tally.
He lifted the pot from its warming plate, filled his mug almost to the brim, and took a drink of the strong black brew while still standing at the machine. He began to feel calmer right away. How was it he always needed to be sipping a beverage loaded with caffeine, a stimulant, to relax? Though one could, of course, ask the same thing about chain smokers, nicotine being another notorious hyper-upper. Perhaps it was simply an oral fixation, as with overeaters. After all, what inherent calmative properties might there be in a sausage pizza, a Subway sandwich, or a cheeseburger with a side of batter-fried onion rings?
Dorset sipped the coffee down to a level where he could carry it without spilling any on his hand, then returned to his desk and sat. The affirmative answer from Caulfield was excellent news, especially in light of her initial reluctance to take on the job. An understandable reluctance too. She'd been through a lot in the past year. Her husband's cancer, and then her not making it to his bedside the night he'd passed on. That part of the tragedy--not being there at the end--had devastated her, and for a time afterward Dorset had privately braced for her resignation.
Yet she had rebounded somehow. The woman kicked ass, no two ways about it. Dorset presumed the demands of getting a crew trained and ready for the Orion mission must have helped keep her going. But now, to have lost Jim Rowland, who had been like a brother to her ... ass-kicker or not, there was only so much weight a person could carry. She had every reason to want to distance herself from the investigation, never mind refuse its leadership responsibilities. Which was a major reason he hadn't seriously considered her for the position until Roger Gordian's phone call.
Dorset raised the steaming mug to his lips and drank. Annie's acceptance had given him a lift, but he wondered why it hadn't proven greater than it was. He had no reservations about her being able to tackle the job, and indeed, felt her talents could not be overestimated. Maybe, then, the flatness of his mood had to do with Gordian exercising his clout. Not that he'd been heavy-handed. On the contrary, if there was a gentle way to remind someone you were holding him by the balls, Gordian had the touch. But from the moment he had suggested that Annie Caulfield head the Orion task force, Gordian had made it crystal clear his wishes were to supersede any other considerations Dorset might have about making the appointment. And also that, barring an outright refusal from Annie, he wouldn't take "no" for an answer.
Yes, Dorset thought with a swallow of coffee, it was largely his resentment over Gordian's intervention that had robbed some of the moment's luster. But that wasn't all of it. Not if he wanted to be honest with himself. There was also the troubling news about Brazil, and his deliberately having kept it from Annie when he ought to have done the opposite. The attack on the base might very well turn out to be unrelated to Orion. He was certainly hoping and praying it would--why assume the worst? But she'd had a right to know about it. To know what she was getting into prior to making her choice. Because once word of the incident leaked to the press, she would be barraged with a shitstorm of wild speculation, and any misstatement from her, however innocent, would be enough to raise suspicions of a cover-up from some of her questioners. Annie needed to be informed, to be prepared, and he would do it within the next hour ... but he had withheld the information earlier so that she couldn't factor it into her decision, wanting to stack the deck in favor of a positive response.
Wanting to make sure Roger Gordian was accommodated, Dorset thought with a mixture of irritation and guilt. And who's going to butter my goddamned bun?
He sighed. Orion, Brazil, the Kazakhstan launch ... he had the sense that events were moving too fast, getting too far ahead of him. It was as if he was Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton in an old silent comedy film, working the pump of a handcar while clownishly trying to catch up with a chugging, whistle-blowing locomotive. Funny. Hysterical even. If you happened to be in the audience, and not sweating it on the rails.
Now he reached for his mug again, and was amazed to discover that it was almost empty. Christ. What kind of abuse must he be heaping upon his stomach? His nervous system?
Dorset stared down at the remainder of his coffee and frowned. Really, he ought to reduce his consumption. Fifty-eight years old, heart palpitations, elevated triglycerides, a grab bag of other chronic health problems--you had to watch out. Get on a treadmill once in a while, take one of those stress-management courses, anything besides brewing pot after pot after pot. On the other hand, there were worse addictions. Italian roast couldn't be more harmful than cigarettes, booze, or prescription sedatives. He'd even heard some people got hooked on nasal sprays--what kind of habit was that? What the hell, right?
Expelling another breath, he pushed his chair back from his desk and went to pour himself a fresh cup.
TEN
QUIJARRO, BOLIVIA
APRIL 19, 2001
EDUARDO GUZMAN HAD BEEN JUST A BIT SURPRISED when the Land Rover in which he was driven across the border from Brazil had turned into the dreary village of Quijarro instead of swinging onto the highway heading west toward the Chapare region, but as they had wound through the town's mud-splashed, tumbledown streets, his driver had explained that he wanted to buy something to drink from one of the vending stalls near the railway station. Had Eduardo known of his intention to stop for a refreshment, he might have suggested doing so before they passed through the customs post in Corumba, where there had been many decent places to eat along the river promenade. Though a long ride and many miles of open country lay ahead, the filthy conditions outside their vehicle had squelched any hunger or thirst he might have worked up in the last few hours.
Still, he needed only to consider what he had left behind in order to cheer himself. There had been his betrayal by that damnable whore who had been working in league with the national police even as she worked his cock, performing brilliantly on both counts, tricking him into selling thirty kilos of cocaine to some "associates" of hers who turned out to be undercover agents. After his arrest, Eduardo had spent three days in lockup with piss-smelling thieves and drunks, sweating out the days and nights trying to remember everything he'd foolishly told the woman of his activities and waiting to see what charges would be pressed against him.
Thank God, someone in the organization--it was unclear to Eduardo whether this had b
een his uncle Vicente, or Harlan DeVane himself--had reached out to a government functionary and secured his release. Before dawn that morning, only hours before his scheduled arraignment, two plainclothes officers had appeared outside his detention cell, quietly removed him, and accompanied him into an unmarked sedan parked in front of the Sao Paulo jailhouse. They had taken him as far as the Corumba border crossing, exchanged some private words with the customs guards, and transferred him to the Land Rover in which his current driver, a barrel-chested man named Ramon, had been waiting near the checkpoint.
Once Eduardo had climbed into the front passenger seat and they were under way, Ramon had explained that they would be traveling to DeVane's ranch outside San Borja to meet with him and Vicente. This had caused a knot of apprehension in Eduardo's stomach, but speaking with the air of fraternal confidentiality common to rank-and-file members of any organization when discussing their superiors, Ramon had told him that a substantial payoff had been needed to compel the authorities to drop their case against him, and that the two bosses merely wanted to be shown proper appreciation for having interceded on his behalf.
After all that he'd endured, Eduardo had replied, he was prepared to demonstrate his gratitude and contrition with relish, even if it meant getting down on his knees to kiss their bare bottoms.
"Everything in life is easier to get into than out of," the driver had commented with a chuckle.
Now the Rover slowed as he guided it up a side street lined with grimy, leaning hovels that seemed on the verge of collapse, took a series of turns along nearly identical streets, then guided it onto a narrow gravel lane running between a stretch of empty lots. Eduardo, who had been paying little attention to their dismal course through town, suddenly furrowed his brow in puzzlement. A glance through the windshield showed that they were heading toward a dead end, their way blocked up ahead by a sentry gate, beyond which was a low, gray, flat-roofed structure with six or eight tractor-trailer trucks parked on either side of its cinder-block walls--presumably a warehouse of some kind.
"Perdoname, donde esta la estacion?" he said in Spanish. Asking where the railway station was.
The driver smiled and motioned to the right.
"Solo al norte de aqui, " he said, slowing as he approached the sentry gate. "It's just north of here."
Eduardo glanced in that direction, and saw nothing but the wide, muddy lot. Then he heard Ramon's pushbutton window roll down, jerked his eyes back toward him, and saw him reach out the window to swipe an identification card through a gatepost security scanner.
Eduardo felt a cold spark of alarm as it swung open to admit them and Ramon pulled to a halt several yards in front of the building.
"Que es esto?" he blurted. "I don--"
Its movement a blur, Ramon's hand had shot beneath the dash and come back into sight gripping a pistol that must have been clipped to the dash's underside.
"Open your door and get out," he said, brandishing the gun at Eduardo. "Slowly."
Eduardo swallowed thickly, dumbfounded. One look at the weapon had told him it was a Sig Pro .40 semiautomatic--a standard-issue DEA sidearm. The thought that he'd fallen for another anti-drug squad setup flashed through his mind, and was quickly dismissed. What sense did that make? He had not escaped from confinement, but been willingly freed by his jailers. Nor had he uttered a peep about his business dealings to his driver or the plainclothes men who had escorted him to the border crossing.
He decided that Ramon, if that was his real name, must indeed be with DeVane--but the suddenly aggressive look in the man's eyes, the deft speed with which he'd produced his concealed weapon, and the particular model of gun he was using were all indications that he was no mere chauffeur. While conducting anti-drug operations in Bolivia and elsewhere in South America, DEA and U.S. Special Forces units had recruited and trained in-country field commandos who knew the territory and were able to speak the language. After completing their mandatory one-year tours of duty these natives--many of whom had blood ties to the coca farmers and distributors--would often put their skills and inside knowledge of narco police tactics up for sale to the cartels they had once sworn to oppose.
Eduardo cursed himself for a fool. His uncle was a respected lieutenant in the DeVane organization, and he had assumed it was Vicente, acting out of familial loyalty, who had brought about his release. But it could have been DeVane who'd engineered it. Must have been. And for reasons that, it seemed, were far from benign.
His face paling, Eduardo did as he had been instructed. Almost before he had exited the vehicle, Ramon was out his own door. He hurried around to Eduardo's side, grabbed him roughly by the arm with one hand, and shoved him along toward the building's corrugated metal door, the Sig pistol jammed against the back of his head.
There was an intercom beside the entrance. Ramon leaned toward it, pushed a button under the speaker, and announced himself, his gun held steady. An instant later the door rose clankily on its metal tracks.
Ramon prodded Eduardo through the entrance with the Sig and followed him inside. Then the door rattled down behind them, shutting out the daylight. Eduardo found himself thrown into sudden gloom. The air was stale and warm. Incandescent lightbulbs on the ceiling, covered by simple metal grills, seemed to propagate rather than dispel the interior shadows.
Ramon forced him to keep moving. As his pupils adjusted to the dimness, Eduardo glanced from side to side, and noticed the shipping crates on wooden pallets stacked all around him. Just as he had suspected, a warehouse. He guessed it was a hundred feet deep and twice as wide.
Then he looked straight ahead of him, saw the group of men waiting in the cleared-out space at the end of the aisle, and felt a sharp jab of fear. Only two were seated, the backs of their chairs against the bare unpainted walls. Vicente was one of them. Although Eduardo had never met him in person, he knew the slightly built American in the incongruous white suit seated to his uncle's right was Harlan DeVane. On either side of them stood a pair of guards holding short-barreled Micro Uzi assault rifles.
The tall, muscular man standing rigidly in front of the others, his chiseled face impassive, was DeVane's chief lieutenant, Siegfried Kuhl.
"Eduardo," DeVane said, his voice carrying softly across the room. "How do you do?"
Eduardo tried to think of something to say, but thought was impossible, swept from his head in the whipping gale of terror generated from the group of men before him and the pressure of Ramon's gun against the base of his skull.
DeVane steepled his hands on his lap. His legs were crossed, his right thigh hanging loosely over his left knee.
"You look frightened," he said. "Are you?"
Eduardo still could not wring any sound from his throat. He felt a choking, breathless nausea.
"Tell me if you are afraid," DeVane said.
Eduardo opened his mouth in another unsuccessful attempt at speech, then closed it and simply nodded. The tiny projection of the Sig's front sight ruffled his neck hairs as his head moved up and down.
DeVane sighed.
"You know, my boy, I am as loath to be here as yourself," he said in his smooth, quiet voice. "I preside over a great many enterprises, and generally a small complication such as you have caused would be the sort of thing I let others handle. I cannot be everywhere at once. A leader must have confidence in those who work for him." His hand left his lap and fluttered toward Vicente. "Solid, honorable men like your uncle."
Eduardo glanced over at Vicente. A rail-thin man in his mid-sixties with a sweep of white hair over a high forehead, Vicente looked back at him for only a second, his wrinkled face grim. Then he dropped his eyes.
Eduardo's legs weakened underneath him. It was the expression on the old man's face. The way he had avoided his gaze.
"This isn't to say your situation hasn't been of interest to me, or that I feel it is inconsequential," DeVane went on. "The problem isn't your arrest. That happens. In any competition there are errors and setbacks. Times when the best of
plays are outdone by your opponent. Do you understand me so far?"
Eduardo nodded.
"Good," DeVane said. "And since you've admitted to your own fear, I'll tell you what scares me." He leaned slightly forward in his chair. "I fear the stupid and the weak, because history illustrates that their actions can bring down the most powerful. When someone like you is gullible enough to be duped by a common street-walker, letting her convince you to deal with men you do not know, men you do not bother checking out, there is no telling what information might slip to the other side. It doesn't matter how much or how little you have to offer, because one thing leads to another, and that to another, and so forth.
"For example, by contacting Vicente to bail you out of trouble, you put him in a position of having to ask a favor of me. Out of respect for your uncle, I then felt obliged to offer bribe money to a petty government bureaucrat, some of which filtered down to the magistrate in charge of your case, with smaller amounts trickling in dribs and drabs to a federal prosecutor, and then, I suppose, to a police clerk in an evidence control room who conveniently made the proof of your transaction disappear. These are markers, my boy. And they may lead an astute and determined opponent from you to Vicente, from Vicente up to me, from me down to a lackey officer, and then finally back to you--a connective loop that could theoretically cause me trouble without end."
He paused a moment. "Are you still following, Eduardo?"
Eduardo nodded agitatedly again.
DeVane's eyes bored into him with such awful, palpable force he thought his knees would finally give out.
"Open your mouth and answer me," he said. His expression was brittle. "Find that much strength."
Sick, dizzy, Eduardo again struggled to speak. He knew that he was standing at the brink of Hell, and if his silence were perceived as defiance, he was finished.
"Yes," he said in a faint, cracked voice. "I--I understand."
