by Vince Milam
The voice, American. Delivered from a man in his midfifties, gray hair, slouched nearby in a padded leather chair. Rumpled, he wore a brown blazer and a sincere smile.
“Bogart and Bergman have nothing on you two. Well done, sir. Well done.”
Spookville had announced its presence and the CIA entered the hunt.
Chapter 22
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” he said and groaned as he pushed from the comfortable lounger. “I have found a good cup of coffee a solid starting point.”
We did. No point avoiding the reality of the Company’s presence with the Amsler chase. Bound to happen. Too much information plucked from the shadows. A Manaus shoot-out. Possible communiqués between the CIA and Mossad. Intercepted calls—the conversations between Kim Rochat and her home office sufficient for NSA’s algorithms to blink a few red lights. This guy would attempt a subtle wringing of information from me. I would reciprocate, albeit with less nuance. We both ordered cafezinhos from the coffee bar while I wrapped my head around the reality of a major clandestine player brushing against my gig. One upside—the Company might provide useful information for the chase. And it was a chase, with rescue no longer on the table.
“I should start with introductions.” He patted a few pockets, rummaged about his attire, and found a small and well-used leather business-card case. He fumbled with the extraction but got around to handing me one.
“My card. And I go by Ski. Always have.”
Jack Kowalewski. Operations Officer. US Embassy. Brazil. Everything but the CIA designation spelled out. At least the card didn’t claim Agricultural Liaison or other such rubbish. We sat at a small corner table, isolated.
“I would appreciate it if you entered my number into your phone,” he said. “A best practices sort of thing. So you know who is trying to reach you.”
Ski wore a Cheshire cat smile and bushy gray eyebrows raised with expectation. His buzz cut poked upward like short bristles on an inverted hairbrush. And his statement carried the usual Company BS. He didn’t ask for my number. He already had it. A know-all, see-all opening gambit right out of the chute.
I slid his card into a cargo pocket. Yeah, I’d enter the number later. But not in front of this guy—I wouldn’t play trained monkey. He knew my phone number—encrypted and privy to only a handful of people—because of one reason. Marilyn Townsend. The director of clandestine services within the CIA. We knew her from Delta Force days. Myself and my blood brothers: Catch, Marcus, Bo. Townsend had been a CIA field agent years ago, and a damn good one. Delta acted as hammer for her pointed-out nails. We separated for years, although we knew she’d climb high. I reengaged with her during a New Guinea job, where we’d exchanged private contact information. She’d used me a couple of times since. Used wasn’t the right word. Played me like a Steinway. The world’s top spook. Her identity known to few people. I could guarantee this guy sitting across from me didn’t know her. Four or five levels above his head where shadows become pitch-black. Congress critters didn’t know her name, and I wasn’t sure the president did either. It allowed for a separation of knowledge. Plausible deniability.
“So how is the director?”
No pronouns. No clues. Man or woman, this guy wouldn’t know. But it laid an insider-information card on the table, evened things up. Childish, I know, on both our parts. But games were played, promises made, and few if any gifts exchanged. The ledger entries with the Company showed a large deficit regarding the Case Lee account, and they owed more than a shovelful or two of help. Hell, they owed a dump truck or two, the way I saw it. High odds Marilyn Townsend would disagree.
“Fine.”
As if you’d know, bud. A passing thought how he’d known that I’d land here, at this time. I flew commercial into Manaus. They’d know I was in Brazil. But the timing of this meeting could have been driven through several avenues. A big bird positioned over Coari, perhaps. High-resolution photos of me and Kim captured. Or my photo faxed or emailed to the Coari airport manager with a phone number and price tag. If you spot this man, call the below number immediately, $1000 US reward. However it happened, here sat Ski, doing his hail-fellow-well-met Company routine.
“And you should know,” he continued, changing the subject. “I read your dossier. It is very impressive, and I’d like to offer a personal note of gratitude for your service.”
“Thanks.”
He grimaced and flexed his right knee. His trouser leg cuff flopped down. It required a few tailored stitches. I didn’t think he’d get around to it anytime soon.
“I should have this knee replaced. I’m thinking about doing it once I return stateside. This is my last assignment, and it’s a fine place to end a career.” He stopped the leg extensions and resituated again, slouched and smiling. “It’s quiet here, and I like Brazilians.”
“Okay.”
“Because of your service and sacrifice, I want to be frank with you.”
“I like frank. I like honesty better, but I’ll take what I can get.”
I lifted the tiny cafezinho cup as mock salute and drained it. He chuckled.
“You do have an Indiana Jones thing going. Your appearance. It fits you, but you may consider a shower and shave in the near future.”
Another chuckle. My bosom buddy, Ski. Man, I missed the clarity, the no-white-noise focus of a jungle search. And I already missed Kim. But hard reality smiled at me from across the table. Accept it and plow ahead.
“Tell me about MOIS. Here in Rio,” I said.
“Straight to the point. You can take the man out of Delta, but you can’t take Delta out of the man.”
“MOIS.”
A lounge employee wandered over and asked if we’d like another. I declined. Ski replied in the affirmative and ordered a brandy on the side. He draped his forearms along the table, the genial countenance still pasted in place.
“The first we heard of them was a report from Manaus,” he said. “Apparently there was quite the kerfuffle at the opera house.”
“Oh, yeah? The tenor have a bad night? People rioted?”
My gut said he’d heard from Mossad before it made the Brazilian news. Uri Hirsch. It wouldn’t bowl me over if the Company worked the Amsler rumor with Mossad. But the Israelis weren’t chumps. They’d work the Company as hard or harder than they were worked.
“A bit more severe than the poor delivery of an aria, I’m afraid. A touch of the Wild West deep in Amazonia. Can you tell me about that?”
“Nope.”
He sat back and stretched his leg again. The Company weren’t cops. Information gatherers, they focused on the obtainable and manipulation and, when needed, hard action.
“I’m telling you, this knee is a pain. So how’s the Dr. Amsler pursuit going?”
“She came here. Rio.”
Tossed out as an operational truth card, joined with a vague hope of reciprocity. A credit entry in the ledger.
“Did she? I’m sorry we didn’t know about it.”
Translation—he wouldn’t share what he knew about her location, if anything. The usual malaise settled. Similar to a bad cold’s onset. Cotton brain. Playing three-dimensional mental chess with spooks always triggered it. Nothing as it seemed. Straight answers sprinkled across the conversation, adding validity to the lies. Man, it flat wore me out. An internal sigh, situational acceptance. Push through this, Lee. You have a horror-packing crazy Swiss scientist to catch.
“Where do you work, Ski?”
I required clarity on the Company’s Rio assets. Strong odds they were minimal.
“Why, the embassy is in Brasilia.”
A non-answer. Brasilia was the capital, fair enough. Hacked from scrub and savannah in the 1960s. Built with the sole purpose of establishing a new capital and opening up the interior. Two-and-a-half-million folks lived there. Sure, he’d sniff around when the Brazilian congress was in session. No doubt. But the seat of Brazilian power nested in São Paulo, an industrial city of twelve million and Brazil’s
source of influence, money, and string-pulling. Dollars to doughnuts he lived there. And traveled to Rio de Janeiro when required. His coffee and brandy arrived. A slurp, a sip, and back to business.
“Were you able to confirm the rumor of Amsler’s discovery?” he continued. Another lane change performed without the blinker.
The inevitable question. I’d prepped for it long before Rio. Developed a fallback position if and when things spun well outside my purview, my control. At such a point, I’d reveal the reality. Not the dead zone location, but the potential of Amsler’s package. And Amsler’s hatred of the US. But not now. Not with the fresh scent of a trail.
Chapter 23
I walked a fine line, settling on giving this guy a heads-up and leave it at that. For now.
“Yeah. I can confirm the rumor. She discovered some nasty stuff.”
“An organic compound, obviously.”
His tone was borderline dismissive, although the pleasant smile remained. Well, here’s the deal, Ski, old buddy. Whatever “double, double toil and trouble” you’ve got cooking in Company labs can’t hold a candle to this stuff. Nossir.
“Yeah. Organic compound.”
“Did you find the source?”
“No. But I have a strong inkling Amsler is toting around a sample.”
“Ah.”
Yeah. Ah. Company Man wheels turned, played the odds. And played cat versus mouse. A newbie with such affairs, to sit-downs like this, wouldn’t notice. But get shoved through the Company’s wash-and-spin cycle a few times, and it became beyond obvious.
“What have you got on Amsler?” I asked, testing the waters for a whiff of quid pro quo.
He returned a slow blink, his facial expression pleasant as could be.
“This situation would make a good movie. Something with a noir feel, I would think. A brilliant Swiss scientist. A mysterious organic poison. And, of course, our intrepid sleuth on her trail. Although the love interest would appear to be finished halfway through the tale. That was Dr. Rochat, I assume.”
“Yeah. So what does the Company have on Amsler, Ski?”
“Dr. Rochat is quite attractive. And I’m not kidding about the kiss. It was borderline epic.”
“Ski.”
A shrug. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“How about a few dots? I’ll do the connecting.”
His smile widened until he shifted position and emitted a light groan. A sip of brandy followed.
“We owe you, Case. Your past service with Special Forces. And your more recent endeavors with the Company, although I’m not privy to those activities. Whatever they were, activities and actions of a sufficient nature to prompt this gathering.”
Translation—word had filtered to Marilyn Townsend. Case Lee is mucking about in Brazil, chasing the Swiss rumor. As is MOIS and Mossad. Orders issued. Go talk with him.
Time for my own quick lane change. “Should I call Mossad? Maybe they could fill me in.”
A bluff. Tactical details aside, my statement threatened loss of Company control. Control of me. Wouldn’t look good on Ski’s ops report.
“We heard about the rumor in Basel.” As expected, he ignored the Mossad reference. “As did every other Tom, Dick, and Harry. It piqued a mild interest. You know, borderline white noise.”
“Okay.”
“Now, I don’t wish to be too obtuse, my friend. But there is something else. A dot or two, as you call them.”
My friend. Another bosom buddy. I was collecting them like rare stamps. But the “something else” put me on high alert.
“As I’m sure you know,” he continued, “she spent several weeks in Basel before her Brazil return. But she did make a little side trip while home.”
He was as pleasant as the Uncle Phil you saw every Thanksgiving. The one from Des Moines. I waited for Ski’s grand reveal.
“Amsler visited the Russian embassy in Bern, the Swiss capital. A quick sixty-mile trip from Basel.”
It didn’t come as a blinding light of clarity, no mountaintop epiphany with a crescendo soundtrack. More of a “sit back and consider the hazy picture presented.” Spookville’s own Ski flung paint across a canvas. Called it a picture. A Jackson Pollock delivery—interpretation dependent upon the viewer, the recipient.
If you bought into my jaundiced view of the world, the interpretation was evident. It was confirmation of my suspicion that Amsler used a back door. A conduit of information that triggered the frenetic Iranian actions. The Russian embassy in Bern greeted Amsler as it would any other wingnut. Polite nods as she explained her discovery’s vast potential. Loony sprinkles on top as she no doubt detailed the vast US conspiracy. She perceived Russia as the offset to the evil US plans. A counterweight.
The Russians, having heard her tale, fired up the street organ. Handed the speculative information off to their proxy and quasi-ally, Iran. And inferred, “Chase it, monkey.” The Iranians, with visions of a grand terrorist tool in-hand, headed toward Brazil.
While the Russians smiled. A solid move and a safe bet on their part. They’d dangle assistance with the synthesis of Amsler’s find if it proved valuable. The Iranians might not have the capability. The Russians would track, at a distance, MOIS. Let the Iranians get their hands dirty, expend the requisite effort. And watch, wait. I wondered if they were watching now.
“The Russians triggered MOIS,” I said.
Ski shrugged. As close to an affirmation as I’d get.
“Mossad followed,” I continued. “And now, the Company. Any other players I should know about?”
“An organic toxin—as yet undefined—isn’t enough stink to draw many flies,” Ski said. “But I will tell you we’re not burning a great deal of calories on it. But then again, that’s your job.”
He chuckled, sipped brandy. Funny guy. With a point. It was my job, and the Company knew it.
“She blew in here a couple of days ago. Did she visit the Russian consulate?”
“I have no idea. It’s not much of a consulate. The Russians opened it for the 2016 Olympic Games and have kept it open since.”
He had no idea. I believed him.
“Do the Russians know I’m here?”
Important question—the Russian version of the CIA, the FSB, would kill me on sight. Or try to. The last time they attempted such an action in New Guinea, they came out on the short end of the stick. Big time. It was a long shot that the Russians would unleash assets to Manaus or Coari or the jungle merely to settle a score. But hanging out where they had a consulate, a presence, was another dance floor. And if given the chance they’d dance with me in Rio.
“Again, I have no idea. My apologies, Case.”
I halfway bought it. He might not know. It was possible this whole sit-down with Ski constituted a Company finger-snap in the air accompanied with “Go fetch” directed my way. Do their bidding, find Amsler, and keep them informed. Man, I hated dealing with spookville.
My next steps were clear. My lone viable escape from shadowland would be to focus on the mission. Track Amsler. Don’t sweat the smoke and mirrors. Start with the Russian consulate. Work the exterior players. Street vendors, taxis, nearby shops. The few Amsler photos in her dossier revealed a storklike appearance. Tall, thin, angular, blond. The still photos of her in motion lacked grace. Symmetry. All elbows and knees and hunched-over focus. A street vendor or shopkeeper in Rio would recall her.
“So what are your next steps?” Ski asked. He again flexed his leg, rubbed the knee.
“Find Amsler.”
“Good, good.” His smile increased. “Please call me if I can help. I mean it.”
BS. Please call him if I found her or discovered any salient info he could feed the beast. He signaled for the check.
“Let me give you a ride into town.”
“No, thanks. Appreciate the offer.”
We shook hands and he departed. Back to the hunt, the chase. A city of six million. One crazy scientist. Yeah, you’ve been good at running, Amsler. But
the running is over. And you can’t hide. Because there’s one fed up former Delta operator on your butt.
Chapter 24
As Ski drove away I considered immediate plans. A room in Leblon waited. A hot shower, shave, and clean clothes the first order of business. The Company confab could have gone worse. I’d learned a truth nugget or two, gotten a feel for the playing field. Not bad. The Russian reveal had promise. While the Iranians and Israelis owned the immediate sharp elbows, they were now a borderline sideshow. Ski’s information constituted a search anchor, a starting point. This was down to me and Amsler. Yeah, I’d watch my back. But the intrigue and shadow dance remained outside the job. The mission.
I caught a cab and headed for the hotel. Three prime beach/promenade areas define Rio. Copacabana stretches south for two miles until a rocky point of land. Around this point and running east to west lies the mile-long Ipanema beach followed by the smaller Leblon beach area, a quieter section of Rio with tree-lined streets and distanced from Copacabana’s hustle and bustle.
Deadbolt thrown, chair under the door handle, Glock placed near the sink. Hot water pounded, cascaded. I kept the shower curtain half-open. An old and solid habit. The Russian consulate was priority one. Amsler may or may not have been given a contact number when she visited the Russian embassy in Bern. A Russian contact in Brazil or a MOIS contact. I doubted either one occurred—it would have dirtied Russian hands. The Russians would have given MOIS her contact information, but the virulent reaction from MOIS the last several days indicated no contact between the Iranians and Amsler. No peace and love fostered.
Amsler was clever enough to have kept her phone off the last week. She’d focus on face-to-face, with another Russian visit the likely port in the storm. Her perceived ally for combating the US-led global conspiracy to, well, control the world or foster hemorrhoids or promote tooth decay. Who knew? One item stood clear—she had crossed the Rubicon. Carried ill and evil intent. She wouldn’t see it that way, but crazies never do.
