Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

Blancanales pretended to mull their demands for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said finally. “You want the customer’s ID? I’ll share it. But I’ll share it with Escobar.”

  She leaned back. Her smile faltered.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but he doesn’t usually do that.”

  “Well, tell him to think it over. It’s a lot of money.”

  “I’ll let him know,” she said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Blancanales slid into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes sport coupe and slammed the door shut. The vehicle had been parked in a secure garage located underneath Castillo’s building.

  Ortega climbed into the passenger’s seat, shut his own door and fished inside his jacket for a cigarette.

  As Blancanales turned over the engine and backed the vehicle out, Ortega torched the end of a cigarette with his disposable lighter, took a long drag from it and blew twin plumes of smoke out his nose. Blancanales watched from the corner of his eye as the agent slid the hand clutching the lighter back inside his jacket and searched for something else. The warrior, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, felt his body tense.

  Ortega’s hand came back into view, this time holding a cell phone. He thumbed a number into the phone and brought it to his ear. Blancanales could hear the phone ring, followed by a voice answering on the other end of the line.

  “We’re clear,” Ortega said. “See you in a few.” He ended the call and slipped the phone back inside his jacket.

  Blancanales guided the vehicle onto a ramp that led out of the underground garage and hesitated for a couple of seconds before pulling into traffic.

  “So,” he said, “what do you think? Do you think they bought it?”

  “Guess it depends on how you define ‘bought it,’” Ortega replied. “I think they’re willing to give you a second listen. But are they suspicious? Hell, yeah, they’re suspicious. I would be, too, if I were in their shoes. You made a convincing case in there...”

  “But they don’t trust easily. I got it. Look, I just want to get close enough to Escobar that we can take them out. I’m not looking for a marriage proposal.”

  “That’s good because I think Escobar’s already taken.”

  “Speaking of taken...” Blancanales said. “What’s the deal with Nikki Vargas?”

  Ortega’s lips tightened into a hard line. He leaned forward, stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray and glared at the Able Team fighter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which part of the question don’t you understand? Look, I saw what happened when she came into the room. I thought your heart was going to jump out of your chest like some kind of a love-struck cartoon character. So what’s the deal?”

  “No deal. There’s nothing there. I’d be dead meat if I even thought about it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Hey, she’s Escobar’s woman. Look, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and I gawked. Everyone in the room looks when she comes in. What’s your point?”

  “Don’t jerk me around.”

  “What? So now you’re a human polygraph?”

  “I’m just not an idiot. I haven’t lived this long without learning a thing or two along the way. One of those things is to trust my gut. My gut tells me that there’s something going on between you and this woman. If there is, and it’s legit, fine. But I need to know about it. The last thing I need is to get blindsided because you can’t control your dick.”

  Ortega’s hands had clenched into fists, but he was staring through the Mercedes’s windshield, avoiding Blancanales’s gaze.

  “Nothing’s happening,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Bullshit. Now, we can do this in the honest way or...”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’m going to take you out of the picture. And by that I don’t mean put you on a plane back to Wonderland. I may seem like a nice guy. But if you’re putting my team or me at risk, I’ll bury you.”

  “I can’t believe you’d even suggest I’d compromise this mission. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’m a professional.”

  “You’re being defensive. That’s strike one.”

  Blancanales saw an open stretch of curb. He jerked the wheel to the right, pulled the vehicle up to it and slammed the car into park. As his hand rose from the gear selector, he curled his fingers into a fist and snapped a quick back-fist into Ortega’s nose. The guy cursed and his hands flew up protectively to cover his nose.

  “Your focus getting better?” Blancanales demanded.

  Several tense seconds passed as Ortega glared at him. Blood was seeping out from underneath his hands, and Blancanales wondered whether he’d broken his nose. Blancanales waited to see how the agent would respond. He’d obviously been walking a long leash for years and was used to being in charge. Would he take a swing? Pull his gun?

  “I’m going to kill you,” Ortega said.

  “Not likely. Now, talk straight or I’m going to beat the truth out of you.”

  Ortega peeled away one hand from his face and reached around his back. Blancanales tensed. The guy’s hand came back into view, clutching a handkerchief, which he pressed gingerly to his nose.

  “You could’ve broken it,” he said.

  “There’s always a next time.”

  Ortega turned away and, the handkerchief still pressed to his nose, angled his head downward.

  “Okay,” he said. “There’s some interest there. There’s been some talking. Maybe a little more.”

  “How much more?”

  “Just a little. Not what you think.”

  “And you don’t think your interest in this woman has compromised you?”

  The agent shook his head.

  “Like I said...”

  “I know. You’re a professional. It practically oozes from your pores. Now answer the question.”

  “I know what I’m doing. This hasn’t clouded my judgment at all. You’ve got to believe me on that. She’s just another way to get inside Escobar’s head.”

  “Get in his head or her pants?”

  “If you’re not going to listen...”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It was a good decision. I’ve got it under control. She’s given me some great information. I can show you the reports. Great stuff.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  Ortega shrugged. “Apparently she was a spook, technically, at least. From what she’s described, she spent more time filing and organizing things than anything else. She had a low-level security clearance, which means she probably never saw anything important along the way. She got frustrated and left the organization she was working for and got picked up later by Escobar.”

  “You check all this out?”

  Ortega scowled. “Yes.”

  “With?”

  “My controller.”

  Blancanales nodded his head slowly, though his gut told him the guy was lying about that last part.

  “If I asked your bosses, they’d confirm all of this?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re an awful liar, Ortega,” Blancanales said.

  “Who the hell are you calling a liar?”

  “Spare me the righteous indignation,” Blancanales said. He turned in his seat, started the car and wondered what he’d stepped into.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Arlington, Virginia

  Leo Turrin reached into the trunk of his red BMW and, with a grunt, pulled out his golf bag by its carrying strap. He set the bag on its end on the steaming hot asphalt of the parking lot of the Army Navy Country Club and slammed the two-seater’s trunk closed.

  He started to lift the bag onto his shoulder when his phone rang. Swearing under his breath, he glanced at the
phone’s display and realized he didn’t recognize the number flashing there. He debated for a moment whether to answer the call or to drop the phone into his golf bag and proceed with eighteen holes.

  Reluctantly, he decided to pick up. Though semi-retired now, he still was one of the U.S. government’s high-level undercover guys in La Cosa Nostra. Sure, it could be someone trying to sell him vitamins through a multilevel marketing scam. Or it may be a matter of life and death.

  If he didn’t answer, he’d be testing his luck. And, considering his last few outings on the golf course, Lady Luck had turned her back on him a while ago. So he’d answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “This Leo Turrin?” asked a man with a heavy accent.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m a friend of Michael Ortega.”

  Shit. Could be nothing. Could be bad.

  “How is Mike?” Turrin asked, keeping his voice bright. “I haven’t heard from him in a year, maybe more. He still working in Mexico?”

  “Yes,” the man said.

  Turrin waited for the guy to say more.

  After several seconds of dead silence, Turrin said, “Wow, you really know how to spin a tale.”

  “I need information.”

  “Bully for you,” Turrin replied. “Give me your name and maybe I’ll feel more talkative.”

  “Hector Castillo,” the other man said. He let the words hang in the air, as though they should mean something. They did, though Turrin had to pretend otherwise.

  “What can I do for you, Hector?” An edge was creeping into Turrin’s voice. “Not that I don’t love standing under the hot sun, listening to you breathe into the phone, my tee time kicks off in fifteen minutes. I don’t want to be late. My kitchen pass expires quickly and I need to get home.”

  “Kitchen pass? What the hell? You work in a kitchen?”

  Turrin rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Just ask your question.”

  “Michael has introduced us to a new client. His name is Alonzo Perez. Do you know him?”

  “Sure,” Turrin replied. “I know Alonzo.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Did Michael vouch for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why call me?”

  “We like to be thorough.”

  Damn.

  “Not much to tell,” Turrin said. “A while back, a couple of our guys got nabbed by the Feds for importuning. Dumb shits. We eventually bought their way out of trouble. But it took time. The case drew lots of media coverage. The district attorney wanted to show off a little. We let him run a dog-and-pony show for a few months. Eventually he decided it was, um, in his best interest to pull the plug. Don’t ask me why. I got nothing to say on that. Anyway, while all that worked itself out, we had a hole to fill. Mike was working for us at the time. He met Perez through a friend of a friend and convinced us to bring Perez on board.”

  “You trusted him?”

  “Perez? I wouldn’t let him skinny dip with my wife. But I trust him okay,” Turrin said. He was trying to recall details from the legend Stony Man Farm had given him about Blancanales. “He had good skills. He still had the military discipline. Showed up on time and was polite to the boss. Worked hard.”

  “Why’d he leave?”

  “He got frustrated. Some guys are happy to watch someone else make a lot of money. He was a good sport, but you could tell he wanted a piece of the action. I had to sit him down, explain he was an outsider and tell him he wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “Like a champ. Nodded. Said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Went back to work. But when the time was right, he left.”

  “He was ambitious.”

  “He wasn’t a knuckle dragger. Guy’s smart and, yeah, ambitious. We’ve hired him since to do some, um, procurement for us.”

  “That work okay?”

  “Never a problem. Hey, not to be an asshole, but the clock’s ticking. You good?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good,” Turrin said, and hung up.

  The longer he stayed on the phone, the greater his chances of saying the wrong thing. Besides, he didn’t want to oversell Blancanales and make Escobar’s people suspicious. Best to cut it short. Later, he’d contact Stony Man Farm with an encrypted phone he kept at the house and let them know about the conversation. In the meantime, he gathered up his clubs and started across the parking lot. He silently wished his brothers in arms good luck as they again put their lives on the line for their country.

  * * *

  “WHAT DO YOU make of this guy Perez?” Escobar asked.

  Nikki shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she replied. “He seems legitimate.”

  “Seems? That’s not very reassuring.”

  “I know. But we checked out his references. I checked them. Castillo did, too. We found documents to back up every word he said.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I wouldn’t stake my life on it,” she said, giving him a weak smile.

  Escobar nodded slowly. “Interesting choice of words,” he said. “Anyway, what do we know about him?”

  Something in his voice made her body shudder and she immediately felt exposed.

  “Jesus, Seif, turn down the air conditioner in here,” she said, trying to cover. “It feels like a damn meat locker.”

  “I like the cold,” he said. “Come to think of it, I like meat lockers, too.”

  Freak.

  “Hey,” he said, “answer the question.”

  “Sorry.” Douche bag. Her throat suddenly felt tight. “He’s an American. He spent time in the military, in the Army. He spent a lot of time in Central and South America while he was in the Army. When the U.S. supplied weapons to a country, he was one of the guys who went there to train the soldiers.”

  “He Special Forces?”

  “Yes.”

  “What, you didn’t think that was important to mention?”

  “I was getting to it. What’s wrong with you today?”

  He gave her a cold smile and shook his head gently. “Nothing, babe. Why you so on edge? Keep going.”

  “He was in Colombia for a few years. Trained their antidrug forces. Once he left the military, he decided to go for the real money. He started selling weapons. There’s a list of customers in the file I prepared for you. It’s not comprehensive, of course, just what I could piece together through various sources.”

  Escobar leaned back in his chair and stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. Didn’t this SOB ever blink? Finally he said, “I read your report. It’s good. You should be a spy.”

  “I was a spy,” she replied. “You know that.”

  “Right. Was. He say why he wants to meet with me?”

  “The usual thing. He’s spending a lot of money. He wants to meet with the boss. I’m guessing he wants his ego stroked.”

  “Not going to get that from me.”

  “I know.”

  “He knows about the UAVs. That bothers me. It’s been circulated among a few people, but we’ve controlled it pretty well.”

  “We have.”

  “So how does he know?”

  “You told a few of our clients. Maybe one of them said something to him.”

  “Maybe,” he muttered, sounding unconvinced.

  “Okay, what’s your theory?”

  He leveled his gaze at her. “Someone inside the organization leaked the information.”

  “It’s possible,” she said.

  “I don’t see any other way.”

  “Who are you thinking?” she asked.

  “The guy that brought him here, of course.”

  “Ortega? He told me the whole UAV
thing was a surprise to him.”

  “And of course he’s telling the truth.”

  “That’s not my point. I’m just telling you what he told me.”

  He jerked his chin at the door. “I need to think. Get the hell out of here.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  By the time Nikki left Escobar’s apartment, her breath was coming in shallow gasps, her heart raced and blood thundered in her ears. She replayed the conversation with him over and over in her head, trying to think of where she might have misspoken or drawn suspicion. He was a paranoid bastard, yeah, but rightfully so. Everyone really was out to get him—the law, the competition, even some of the families of those killed by his weapons.

  Hell, even she was out to get him.

  He thought she’d come out of nowhere, a rogue spy with a knack for organization and planning. She’d sold him on the idea that she was so fed up with her life that she’d willingly betray her country for money and excitement. She really was an agent with Israeli Mossad, part of a team that targeted gunrunners who sold firepower to terrorists.

  She hadn’t entered his inner circle immediately. Instead she’d been given such jobs as coordinating small arms shipments to a handful of Escobar’s legal clients, militaries that purchased the arms from front companies without knowing the true source. Escobar even sold weapons to the Mexican military and some local police forces. Even though most government officials knew who and what he was, the kickbacks made doing business with him too lucrative to ignore. And he kept the deals in the country small enough that anticorruption investigators focused their energy elsewhere.

  As she’d gained his trust, though, he’d brought her into his inner circle and eventually started sharing more information.

  It had taken time.

  The relationship had developed into more than professional, with them eventually sharing a bed. Unlike some spies, the sex never clouded her judgment or left her conflicted about whether to take him down. Escobar was the enemy; a stone-cold killer. She could feel it in his touch, which felt detached, almost clinical. The contact seemed to drain something from her. While she didn’t consider herself a prude, the sex always left her feeling unclean and diminished somehow. Even the memory of his hands on her, his eyes regarding her like an object to be exploited, caused her to shudder.