Sears said in an aside to Deauville, "Here's where I start earning my salary." He took a deep breath, exhaled, and started walking, a briefcase full of money in hand.
* * *
Across the bridge, the more modest-sized masked man, the one not holding Garros by the neck, held a gun pointed at Sears. Sears wondered how many other guns were being leveled at him, by gunmen he couldn't see.
Unconsciously squaring his shoulders, he went toward the center of the bridge. Walking not too fast, not too slow, his movements deliberate. He halted at the span's midpoint, the empty knapsack at his feet.
He went down on one knee. This wasn't the kind of operation he could carry out standing up, trying to juggle the briefcase with one hand and the knapsack with the other.
He set the briefcase down on the planks, facing the masked men. Opened the lid, holding the attache case so those on the opposite bank could see the stacked money packs lining the inside of the case to the rim.
Setting the briefcase down on the bridge, he began transferring the cash into the knapsack, feeding packets into the bag's open mouth. Continuing until the briefcase was empty and the knapsack full.
Done, he lifted the briefcase, turning it upside down and shaking it to show that it held no more money.
He could have tossed it over the handrail into the water but decided against it. Too much violent motion might spook the other side. He closed the briefcase, leaving it on the planks. Gripped the knapsack by one of the straps and rose, standing up.
With a sideswipe of his foot, he half-kicked, half-slid the briefcase across the planks and over the edge, into the water. It raised a splash. It didn't sink but floated downstream on the slow, idling current.
The masked behemoth holding Garros by the neck started forward, bringing the captive along with him. Garros staggered along like a drunkard. He looked ghastly. Under his tan, his skin was taut, sallow. Shiny with sweat. Cold sweat.
Sears wondered if he looked any better; he could feel some of that cold sweat rolling off himself, too.
Captor and captive neared the midpoint of the bridge. Where Sears waited.
A red bandana covered the kidnapper's face below the eyes, like an old-time Western bad man. He was so close that Sears could see his thick, bushy eyebrows that almost but not quite met over the bridge of his wide, flat nose. His eyes were dark brown, a warm chestnut color.
He halted within arm's-reach of Sears, holding out his free hand, the one that wasn't holding Garros by the neck.
Sears handed him the knapsack by the strap. The other hooked it with a pawlike hand and released Garros, giving him a hard shove forward. Garros stumbled, getting tangled up in his own bare feet.
Sears caught him to keep him from falling. Garros stank, a rank smell of fear and stale sweat wafting off him.
Sears gave him a quick once-over, pat-down frisk, checking to make sure that he hadn't been wired with hidden explosives that would have turned him into a human bomb. That would have been a cute trick, an added refinement in the theory and practice of terror.
He found none. This wasn't about terror, it was about crime and profit. Ransom money.
The masked man turned, holding the knapsack by the strap, and walked away, unhurried, ambling along.
Sears turned toward the west end of the footbridge, feeling like he had a big bull's-eye drawn right between his shoulder blades. Garros stumbled, almost falling, and for an instant Sears thought the other was going to faint. He said, "Buck up, Mr. Garros, you're almost there."
Garros replied, saying something, the duct tape sealing his mouth making his words a garbled muddle.
Sears did not run, but hustled Garros across the bridge as quickly as he dared, expecting at every second a bullet to come crashing into him. His pace did not slacken when he'd reached the end of the span and the wooden planks gave way to ground beneath his feet. He did not look back.
Deauville stood waiting. Beyond him, in the middle ground, were other members of the security squad. All were standing in place, motionless, a frozen tableau; as if time stood still.
* * *
Came a blast. Several blasts, in a series of flat, crumping booms. Concussion. Pressure waves.
Sears and Garros were swept forward by an invisible hand, hurling them forward for several paces before knocking them to the ground.
Smoke, noise, heat, and fire rose in a fiery column where the bridge had been. Debris rained down, pelting the scenery.
Sears raised himself on hands and knees, reversing position to see what had happened. The footbridge no longer spanned the canal, it wasn't there anymore. The middle of it had been blown up and the two ends had collapsed into the canal.
Water fell, splashing, raining down rank canal water.
Hissing sounds now began issuing from the east side of the canal. Not falling water, but something else — smoke bombs.
On the opposite side of the canal, the weedy slope, knoll, and graveyard all became obscure through an ever-expanding pall of thickening smoke. Not from the blast that had destroyed the bridge but from a point centered in the cemetery.
Smoke clouds increased. Brown, black, gray. Billowing, streaming, screening the canal's east bank with a pall of darkness.
Sears could guess what had happened. The kidnappers had blown the bridge to foil any foot pursuit from that direction. It had been done with neatness and dispatch. A nice pro job of demolition, wiring explosive charges to the main support beams and blowing them via remote-controlled detonation. More a case of collapsing the bridge than blowing it up, though the blast had shoved the center span skyward.
The demolitions were not the source of the ever-growing smokescreen rapidly fogging the east bank. That had been caused by several smoke bombs.
The murky clouds were thickest in the graveyard area; that's where the smoke bombs must have been set. To cover the escape of the kidnappers.
The dull, fading echoes of the bridge blast were now crosscut by several high-pitched whining sounds, like the buzzing of motorized mosquitoes.
Unless he missed his guess, Sears reckoned that the buzzing blats were the sound of motorcycles being used by the masked men to make their escape. Dirt bikes probably; quick, lightweight, with fat, knobby tires designed for off-road riding. Ideal for the rugged terrain. Easily hidden and handled.
The smoke bombs were added insurance, covering the getaway, screening the fugitives from the guns of Sears's men. Helpful in case a helicopter should suddenly show up, too. A clever ruse.
Raoul Garros was battered, bruised, scared half out of his wits, terrorized — but alive. Susan Keehan had gotten her fiance back.
The kidnappers had gotten away with a million dollars in ransom money.
As far as Sears was concerned, the other side had gotten the better of the deal.
16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
Sad Hill, New Orleans
Not two men but three — Rubio, Torres, and Moreno — handled the Garros ransom exchange. They were the trio of action men supplied earlier by Supremo cell commander Monatero in response to Beltran's demand for top enforcers to carry out his plans. His plans, not Havana's — a vital fact unknown to Monatero until it was too late.
Rubio was the leader, the ramrod of the team; Torres, the muscle; and Moreno, the all-around utility man.
Rubio was the one who'd been in contact with and taking his orders from Beltran by cell during the exchange. Torres, a bull of a man, had "escorted" Garros across the footbridge and picked up the money. Moreno had been held in reserve, lurking unseen in the graveyard, covering the footbridge with an assault rifle.
Overseeing all, directing the action, was the phantom plotter and puppet master, Beltran.
He, the Generalissimo, had conceived the kidnap plot; it was he who'd spoken to Sears throughout every step of the way, giving him his instructions. Just as he'd given the Supremo action men their instructions.
Both Sears and the trio, and f
or that matter, Monatero, knew him solely as a voice over a phone, an unseen and intangible presence hovering over all. Sears and the EXECPROTEK contingent had obeyed him because he had Garros; the Supremo trio had obeyed him because their boss, Monatero, had told them to do so.
During the ransom exchange, Beltran had overseen the action, safely hidden in his observation post in the brush at the west side of the ridgetop power trail, overlooking the canal area below.
He was comfortably nestled in a hollow, concealed by a clump of bushes. He had several cell phones, one for communicating with Rubio and another for Sears; a pair of binoculars, and a semi-automatic pistol with several spare clips of ammo tucked in his pocket. Not neglecting minimal creature comforts, he also had a plastic bottle of water and several candy bars.
All had gone according to plan. Garros had been swapped for the ransom, the footbridge had been blown, the smoke bombs detonated. Three dirt bikes hidden in the graveyard had been started up and mounted by the action men, now beginning their climb up the east slope to the power trail. Hidden from the guns of Sears's men by the smokescreen.
Time for Beltran to get moving. He started into motion when the bridge blew, well before the motorbikes had started up.
In a sense, for him this was the hardest part of the plan, because it required him to move fast, and at his age, that just wasn't a strong suit anymore. But he could handle it.
The power trail was long but not wide, about thirty yards across.
This was the part that Beltran liked the least, not only because of the demanding physical activity, but also because it required him to expose himself in the open, however briefly.
The hour was late, dusk was at hand, deepened by the gloom spread by the low, overcast sky.
Utility company maintenance crews kept the power trail cleared of weeds and brush; a dirt road ran along its length. Beltran didn't run, didn't jog, but hustled along in a kind of quick time, bent low, making a beeline across the trail toward an opening in the bushes lining the far side of the trail.
Overhead, high-tension lines hummed, buzzed, spat, and crackled. Winds blew, rattling the wires against the condensers that linked them from tower to tower.
The mosquito whine of the motorbikes loudened, nearing. Beltran did not look back. Reaching the far side of the trail, he ducked through a gap in the wall of foliage. The gap stood at the head of a dirt path leading down the side of the slope through the brush.
Beltran forced himself to slow down. That's all he needed, to trip and fall and maybe break something right in advance of the oncoming motorbikes. They sounded very loud, very near.
Beltran went down the dirt path in a controlled slide. About a third of the way down, on his right, a white plastic sack of the kind used for carrying groceries was stuck in the branches of a bush.
It looked like it might have been blown there by the wind, but he'd placed it there earlier, spearing it through the twigs to hold it in place and make sure that it was not blown away by the rising winds.
It was a marker, a signpost. Behind the bushes lay a game trail, hemmed in on all sides by scrub brush. Beltran ducked into it, holding his arms in front of his face to keep from being scratched by twigs and branches as he made his way deeper into it.
Several paces within lay a small clearing. He ducked down below some waist-high branches and crawled on hands and knees into this hiding place. He was drenched with sweat, his clothes soaked through; his heart hammered and colored spots flickered before his eyes. Gratefully he sat down, panting.
He reached under some bushes, groping for and finding the package he'd left there earlier. It was a rifle inside a gun-carrying case, a form-fitting plastic sheath.
He unzipped it, hauling the rifle out of the shroud. It was a high-powered deer rifle with a telescopic sight. He sat on the ground with his legs crossed, laying the rifle across the tops of his thighs. While he panted for breath, trying to recover.
A gap in the greenery surrounding him gave him a view of his surroundings. The east side of the power trail embankment was a gentle slope tilting downward for about thirty yards before leveling out on the paved lot of a mini-mall.
The mini-mall's main feature was a Kwik-Up Konvenience store whose rear faced the bottom of the slope. Behind the back of the building stood several Dumpsters and a pile of wooden pallets. To the right could be seen part of the parking lot, crowded by a fair amount of vehicles. People were doing their prestorm stocking up on food, water, flashlights, batteries, portable radios, and so on.
Standing atop a twenty-foot-pole, shaking and swaying in the wind, was a marquee reading KWIK-UP KONVENIENCE STORE.
The building fronted a highway that ran north-south, parallel to the power frail.
The strip was lined on both sides by big-box stores, discount appliance centers, fast-food joints, car stereo installers, and the like.
* * *
Apart from the vagaries of operational details, Belfran's master plan had only one potential flaw, but that was a big one: namely, that Rubio, Torres, and Moreno might decide to go into business for themselves and abscond with the ransom money.
The rifle and sniper's nest was his insurance against their going rogue. Their honesty was about to be put to the test. Belfran waited for their arrival; he would not have long to wait.
The sound of motorbikes was very near, a jarring physical presence. They were almost upon him. Should they fail the test, he was prepared to deal with the contingency.
Belfran's gut feeling was that there was little likelihood of that happening; by all accounts, the three men were dedicated soldiers of the revolution whose loyalty had never been called into question. Of course, his masters in Havana had reposed a similar confidence in him, and look what had happened.
* * *
Spymasters are a dangerous breed. Both to their foes and to those for whom they work. Their business is to ferret out secrets; they can't help but find out the way things really operate. Everyone's dirty little secrets, especially those of the high and mighty.
Making the spymasters potentially the most dangerous threat to those who employ them. What keeps them in check is the nature of the job itself. Secrets are their business, currency, and pleasure.
Beltran was no exception to the occupational hazard of his profession, that too much knowledge is a dangerous thing. Once, long ago, he'd actually believed in the revolution.
He could look back on that period with amused tolerance; it was like a child believing in Santa Claus. Beltran had never believed in Santa Claus, or the saints, either. But he had once believed in the revolution. That naivete had died early.
One didn't have to be a spymaster, not even back in the days of his youth, to realize that the revolution was a lie. Without the massive influx of aid, material and financial, from the old Soviet Union, the Cuban socialist regime would have gone bust virtually overnight.
By the time the Soviet Union had itself failed, swept up in the dustbin of history, Cuba's Fidelista regime had already consolidated its police state apparatus to such an extent that its overthrow was a virtual impossibility. For one thing, the majority of the populace subsisted on a near-starvation diet that kept them too weak to resist the police state whose control reached into every level of Cuban society.
Beltran had long moved past that, into a higher realm of awareness. His professional duties had kept him out of Cuba for most of his life; in all honesty, he preferred it that way. The creature comforts of the arch-capitalist American state where he was posted far transcended the economy of scarcity and privation on the home island.
For long years now, decades, his true devotion had been reserved for skullduggery itself, intrigue, the clandestine. The spy game was his true love; the cause itself was immaterial. Ridiculous, really, if one gave it a moment's thought.
He'd carved out a special niche for himself, one allowing him extraordinary freedom of movement, open comm lines to the top of the leadership, and the authority to commandeer vast resource
s of the state and the spy service. His virtually unique position of trust had offered him limitless opportunities to feather his own nest.
Why had he gone into business for himself? Why not?
Age was the main reason. Time was overtaking him. He'd lasted longer than most, but no one lasted forever. Retirement beckoned. A tricky proposition, for one in his profession. At his rarefied level.
The best-case option was that his masters would put him out to pasture somewhere in Cuba, under close surveillance, to make sure he didn't get gabby in the manner of senile old duffers who were best put to sleep. Which was no option at all, as far as he was concerned.
He'd banked away a fair-sized fortune over the years. Cuba's illicit drug trade with the United States generated mountains of money. He oversaw the Gulf Coast part of the operation. It had been child's play to divert masses of cash into his offshore and Swiss bank accounts — he had both. What he'd come to think of as his retirement fund.
To enjoy it, he had to be somewhere other than Cuba, out from under the watchful eyes of the police state. He'd been looking to make a break for some time. To close out accounts by making one last big score before jumping down the rabbit hole and closing it behind him.
Then, as if in answer to his prayers, along came Vollard. Major Marc Vollard, of mercenary infamy. The go-between had been Dixie Lee, killer and gunrunner. He was scum, but useful scum, whose connections in the extremist militia movement included sympathizers in important positions in U.S. military arsenals and National Guard armories.
Dixie Lee had come to Beltran's notice through the Generalissimo's dealings in the drug trade. One could never have too many weapons, especially not in the narcotics business. Guns and bombs were much-valued currency, and Dixie Lee was a dependable supplier of both.
Beltran made it a practice to know as much as he could about the people with whom he did business. In recent months, it had come to his attention that Dixie Lee had a new client. A rich and powerful one, whose needs had come to monopolize more and more of the gunrunner's professional attentions.
24 Declassified: Storm Force 2d-7 Page 24
