“You mean that part where we used to fight to win?”
Irene gave a wry smile and shook her head. “We still win,” she said. “It’s just that the strategy has changed. We pretend that our enemies like us now, so that takes all of the pressure off.” She sighed and took a long sip of water. “Speaking of pretending, that was a clever bit of work this morning. George Washington’s birthplace, for God’s sake.” The chuckle became a laugh.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jonathan said, but he made no effort to bluff with his eyes. Given what these two had on each other, neither had any cause to play that game.
“Did you get any good information from him?” Irene asked.
A waitress approached from the area of the kitchen, but when she saw Jonathan shake his head, she turned on her heel to become scarce.
Jonathan leaned on his elbows and beckoned with his fingers for Irene to lean closer. “We’ve had a lot of interesting times, Wolfie. Please don’t start gaming me now.”
She recoiled, offended. “What do-”
“They came into the school I built,” Jonathan said. He felt his temper fraying. “They shot the place up, critically wounded one of the most decent men on earth, and they took two boys in the middle of the night. Don’t. Play. Games with me.”
Irene’s veneer of disgruntlement faltered just long enough that even she knew that her bluff had been called.
“You know who did this,” Jonathan said.
Irene glared at the table as she considered her options. “No,” she said. “We think we know who planned it. And we definitely know why.”
“Are you squeezing Arthur Guinn?” Jonathan asked, cutting straight to the heart of it all.
This time, her face showed genuine surprise. “Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”
Part of him worried that she would lose respect in him if he ’fessed up to how ridiculously easy it had been to figure out. “Is it Sammy Bell?”
Irene’s eyes darted around the room, no doubt searching for eavesdroppers. “Honestly, Digger, no one’s supposed to know any of this.”
“And Evan Guinn and Jeremy Schuler are supposed to be in English class now. Funny how things don’t always turn out the way you want.” He was careful to imply that Jeremy was still missing. “Sammy Bell?”
Irene sighed. “We think it’s him. Obviously, if we had evidence to that effect, we’d have him in custody. But yes, we’ve reached a deal with Arthur Guinn that would get him a new identity if he came clean with his activities for the old Slater operation. On the second day of questioning, the kidnapping happened. We’ve already received a picture of Evan in custody holding today’s Washington Post.”
“I want a copy,” Jonathan said.
“I’ve got the best photo analysts in the world-”
“I want a copy,” Jonathan repeated, this time more forcefully.
She took a second. “Fine.”
“And I want to speak with Arthur Guinn.”
“Not possible.” She raised a finger as he inhaled to argue. “Don’t bother. That is one thousand percent off the table.”
Jonathan had expected that to be the case. When people went into witness protection, the secrecy had to be absolute, or else what would be the sense? “I want transcripts, then.”
Irene shook her head. “No.” Her eyes were hard as obsidian. Another nonnegotiable point. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want your help.”
“On the record or off?”
Her expression said, “Don’t be an idiot.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She swept the room again with her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “I want you to get Evan Guinn back.”
Jonathan laughed. “Oh, well, if that’s all…” Then he saw she was serious. “Irene, you’ve got the full power and authority of the United States government at your disposal. Why don’t you get him back?”
“Because we’re not allowed to go there anymore.”
“Where’s there?”
“Your old stomping grounds, I believe. Colombia. They won’t allow us on their soil anymore, and the president won’t approve a covert op. The secretary of defense won’t even recommend it. Hell, he won’t even approve the intel.”
Jonathan cocked his head. “So, what do you want me to do?”
She shrugged. “What you always do. Ignore the law and do what needs doing.” When her levity didn’t earn a smile, she said, “Look, Digger, I’ll say it again. The rules have all changed now. The rules are real rules. I can’t ask my people to break them. Not like this. It would mean jail.”
Jonathan laughed. “Well, thanks a lot.”
“This is what you do. This is your gift. I’m only asking you to do what you’d do anyway if I told you you couldn’t.”
Jonathan rubbed his forehead to make the confusion go away. “How is your sanctioning me doing it different than you actually doing it?”
She looked away, and then he got it. “Jesus, Irene. I have to pay for it, too? At least half this op belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
She waved that idea away. “No, I can find funds from somewhere. The administration is too new to know where all the hiding places are. That way we can go to jail together if it comes apart. Does that sound better to you?”
Jonathan chuckled. “Actually, it does. Both parts-the money and the company in jail.” He shifted gears. “Colombia’s a big place for a small country. Do you know where he is?”
“I have a contact there. He’s generally pretty reliable, and he tells me that a guy named Mitchell Ponder is the kidnapper, and he’s got the boy with him.”
“Who’s Mitchell Ponder?”
“A bad egg. He used to do some wet work for the good guys back in the day, and then he went after the bigger money. We’ve never been able to catch him, but he’s suspected in a number of shootings from years ago. Now we think he runs Sammy Bell’s cocaine operations in Colombia with a wink and a nod from appropriately grafted politicians. But again, in official Washington, this is none of our business.”
Jonathan was confused. “Why would they take the boy there? I mean of all the places in the world, why there?”
Irene shrugged. “I think it makes sense. It’s out of the country, in a corner of the world that is safe from America’s prying eyes. And it’s a place they have to be anyway. Why not?”
Jonathan felt the weight of the challenge bearing down on him. “So out of hundreds of little factories dotted all over the mountainscape, how are we going to find one boy in one place?”
“Now, there we got a break. Because the Colombian government is a willing partner in the drug trade these days, we hear that Ponder has been able to consolidate his operations into just a few good-sized factories.”
“You mean slave farms,” Jonathan corrected.
Irene showed her palms. “Truer than false. By all accounts, Ponder is a butcher when villagers don’t cooperate. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but my contact tells me that Ponder’s MO is to gain cooperation by killing the men and teenage boys of a village, and then putting the younger boys to work in the fields and the factory.”
“And the girls?” Jonathan asked. The instant he heard his own question, he knew the nauseating answer.
“They become the playground for the men. It’s a disgusting business.”
Jonathan inhaled. “Tell me what you know about someone named Bruce Navarro.”
Irene’s eyes grew large again. “Jesus, I’ve got entire field offices that are slower on the draw than you,” she said. “He was a lawyer for Sammy Bell. He’s one of my dream witnesses, but he pulled a Jimmy Hoffa and disappeared on us. Why?”
Jonathan smirked as he recalled his debriefing from Gail. “Did you know that he was Marilyn Schuler’s boss?”
Irene scowled. “Who’s Marilyn-” Then she got it. “Holy shit. No, I didn’t.”
Jonathan filled her in on the details of Gail’s jailhouse interview. “I
think if we can find him, we can get some nifty answers.”
Irene got a faraway look. “He’s got a sister in New Jersey,” she said. “We’ve always suspected that she knows where he is-at least if he’s still alive-but she won’t say a word to us.”
Jonathan raised his eyebrows. “To you. I wonder if she’ll speak to me.”
“I doubt it. But from what I know of Gail Bonneville…” She let him finish her thought for her.
Jonathan liked that idea. “We’ll give it a shot.” He snorted a laugh. “What an honor it is to be the boss. She gets New Jersey, and I get the armpit of the world.” He shook his head at the irony. “Tell me about your Colombian contact.”
Irene hedged, “I can give you a name, but you need to understand that he’s an independent contractor.”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s done good work for me,” Irene said. “Problem is, his loyalties are not predictable. He likes chasing the highest bidder.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jose Calderon. He lives in Panama City now, but he-”
Jonathan’s face brightened. “Jammin’ Josie? Guerrilla fighter, used to work out of Cartagena?”
“You know him.”
Jonathan chuckled at the memory. “Sure, I know him. He led us to Pablo back when I was with the Unit. Twitchy little guy, but he knew his business. I thought he was PNG in Colombia now.” He knew that Irene would understand the acronym for persona non grata.
“Did I not mention that he runs to the highest bidder?”
“Has he worked for you guys recently?”
Irene shook her head. “Not for us. Not for years. He did some work with the DEA toward the end of the last administration, and I heard he was trolling for work with the Agency in Nicaragua, but all of that has dried up. This getting-along business is putting a lot of contractors out of business.”
“How do we know the other side hasn’t picked up where we left off?”
“We don’t. In fact we don’t know a lot anymore.”
Jonathan always did admire blunt honesty. He’d also had a lot of good fortune with Jammin’ Josie. The man knew everybody, was trusted by people who counted, and was able to raise a small army, complete with weapons, on relatively short notice.
“And you know where you can find him?” Jonathan asked.
Irene gave a coy smile as she reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and handed him a card, complete with name and number. “He’s waiting for you to call,” she said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The jungle had grown progressively thicker during the four-hour ride from Evan’s first prison compound. Mile after mile, the foliage pressed ever closer to their SUV as the road disappeared to little more than a trail. All the jungle had to do was take a deep breath, and the road would disappear completely.
Evan rode in the backseat next to a white man who seemed nearly as out of place as Evan did. He didn’t say anything, but he kept casting glances to the boy and then returning his eyes to the front as soon as Evan caught him looking. Stare away, Evan thought. No harm in that. But if he even thought about touching him, he’d wish he hadn’t.
As Evan had told Father Dom in the past, there wasn’t much good to come out of a shitty childhood, but you learned how to take care of yourself. If those assholes back at the school had attacked when he was awake instead of sound asleep, he wouldn’t be here right now.
He might not be alive, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be here-wherever here was. And the people who took him would be blind and walking funny.
“I am Mitch,” his seatmate said, extending a friendly hand. “And you are Evan, no?” The English was fine, but he had a different kind of accent. Sort of a cross between Mel Gibson (when he was being Aussie) and Michael Caine being Alfred the butler.
Evan looked at the hand, but didn’t move to shake it.
“So, you are fourteen?” Mitch pressed.
“Don’t talk to me, you fuckin’ perv,” Evan spat. He turned away to look out the window. He’d seen guys like this before. If you let them believe for even a second that you were an easy mark, they’d think they could do whatever they wanted.
The hand remained outstretched, unmoving. “Believe it or not, Evan, I am your friend.”
Evan tried ignoring him, but when the words wouldn’t dissolve into the air, he turned back around to face the man. “My friend, huh? Well, Friend Mitch, how ’bout you take me home?”
Mitch rolled his hand closed and replaced it on his lap. “I know that is what you would like me to do,” he said, “but for the moment that is not possible.”
The SUV hit a huge rut, jarring all of them, and making Evan feel good about putting his seat belt on. He kind of hoped that the bump might have knocked the others out, but was disappointed that they’d been wearing their seat belts, too.
“If you wanted it, it would be possible,” Evan said.
“Actually, no,” Mitch corrected. “I’m sure it’s difficult for you to understand, but even I could not make that happen.”
“ Even I could not make that happen,” Evan parroted, mocking the accent. “It really sucks to be a victim, doesn’t it? Just you and me, sharing a jail cell.”
Mitch looked amused as he folded his arms and legs and nestled himself into the corner near the door. “Has anyone put you in a jail cell?” he asked.
The sudden change in demeanor made the boy uncomfortable. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Mitch was projecting a new air of menace.
“It’s a real question, Evan. Have you seen the inside of a cell here?”
“I’ve seen my share,” Evan grumbled.
“I mean since you’ve been a guest with us. Have you seen a cell?”
“Yeah. That shitty little room where I woke up.”
Mitch raised a forefinger and wagged it slowly, duplicating the movement of his head. “That was a hut,” he said. “Every bit as nice as all the other huts in the camp. Only, unlike the others who live there, you had accommodations to yourself. You were being treated not as a prisoner, but as a guest.”
“Bullshit.”
“Such foul language from such a little boy.”
“I’m not as little as you think I am,” Evan said.
The smile returned. “Indeed. Have you been bound and gagged? On this trip, I mean.”
“Worse. I’ve been drugged.”
Mitch acknowledged the point with a twitch of his head. “But since you’ve awakened. No ropes? No handcuffs?”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not a prisoner,” Evan said. He genuinely didn’t like this man.
Mitch held his gaze for a few seconds, then turned to the men in the front seat. “Tito,” he said, drawing the driver’s eyes to the rearview mirror. He said something in Spanish.
The driver looked surprised, and Mitch repeated himself.
The driver spoke to the guy in the shotgun seat, and then brought the vehicle to a stop, right in the middle of the trail.
Mitch gave another command, and the electric lock on Evan’s door popped up. “Okay, go,” Mitch said.
Evan looked at the door, and then at Mitch, unsure what to do.
“Go ahead,” Mitch said, making a shooing motion toward the door. “You say you’re a prisoner, and I say you are free to go. So go.”
It had to be a scam, Evan thought. He’d open the door, and they’d shoot him. Or maybe they’d just drag him back inside and punish him for having failed some half-assed loyalty test.
“Go on,” Mitch said again, shooing more energetically this time. “Get out. Be free.”
Evan shifted his eyes back and forth again. What was he supposed to do? If he stepped out, then what? He was in a goddamn jungle, for God’s sake, nowhere near the top of the food chain anymore. He didn’t move.
“It’s no longer your choice,” Mitch said. His tone had turned harsh. “Get out of my fucking car.”
Evan felt the panic building. If he stepped out of the car now, and if they drove o
ff, he’d be dead in days-sooner if the snakes and cougars and whatever the hell other creatures out here had anything to say about it.
Mitch unclasped his seat belt and leaned across Evan’s chest to pull the latch on the door and push it open. “If you make me physically throw you out, it will hurt you. Badly.” He popped the latch on the boy’s seat belt and pushed him toward the open door.
Evan shot his arms out to the side, bracing himself against the doorjamb with one hand while the fingers of the other tried to find something to grab onto in the leather seat. But his fingernails weren’t long enough. “No!” he yelled.
Mitch pushed harder. “I said get out of my car!”
The man turned in his seat and used the sole of his shoe to push him. Evan tried to hold on, but he could feel his butt slipping. One cheek cleared the seat, and he kicked out with his foot, snagging the map pocket behind the shotgun seat with his toes.
But it wasn’t enough. After three more inches, it was all about gravity. He felt himself slipping toward the ground. His right elbow and hip rebounded off the filthy chrome running board, and then he was surrounded by weeds. It was like drowning in green. For a moment, there was no up or down; leaves were everywhere.
He heard the door slam and felt the percussive thump that went with it. They gunned the engine. Not knowing where the tires were, Evan dropped to his side and curled up, trying to make himself the smallest possible target so that he would not get hit by the heavy vehicle. In his mind, he imagined his legs being slowly crushed under the tires. For the first time since he awakened in that shack, he felt real fear. Paralyzing fear.
“Don’t leave me!” he yelled, still curled in a fetal ball. His feet found the ground, and he stood. He could barely see the top of the truck above the high foliage. “Please don’t leave me!” He shrieked it this time. To his own ear, his voice sounded high and squeaky, like a girl’s.
He had to find the road. Without that, he knew he’d be lost forever. And once he found it, he could run after the truck and convince them not to leave him behind.
The road-the path, really-couldn’t be but a few yards away, but as he took his first step toward where he thought it was, a vine or some damn thing snagged his ankle and made him fall. Everything here was wet. The whole world smelled of mildew and rot.
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