Sinclair Michaels looked as if he’d just emerged from a dive in a pool fully clothed. Water ran off his face and hair onto the tablecloth. He picked up a cloth napkin and wiped his face.
“When someone calls your mother a whore,” Maggie said calmly, “you don’t ever forget it. No matter how old you are. Consider yourself lucky. I should have used that steak knife on you.”
Sinclair Michaels continued to mop his face, glaring at Maggie. Outside on Mission a car horn blared.
The maître’ d approached the table and stood back a good few feet, hands folded defensively in front of her. “Is everything OK here, folks?”
“Just fine,” Maggie said, grabbing her red-leather coat. “Just taking care of something I should have done a long time ago.” She flung the coat over her shoulder. “Good luck to you, John Rae,” she said. “You’re going to need it.” She turned to go, wondering if she could still book a seat for tomorrow’s flight to Quito. She could resume her search for Tica there, somehow.
Hushed whispers of conversation broke the silence as she headed for the door.
“Cell two-thirteen,” she heard Sinclair Michaels say quietly behind her. “High Security Wing E.”
Maggie stopped, her back still to the table.
“Carcel de Mujeres,” he continued.
Maggie turned around, squinted at Sinclair Michaels. John Rae was blinking in apparent mystification.
“The women’s prison on the outskirts of Quito,” Sinclair Michaels said.
“I know where it is,” Maggie said.
“But you didn’t know the exact cell, did you? Or Tica’s status.”
“The question is: How do you know about her?”
Sinclair Michaels picked up his empty glass, held it out for the maître d. “What are you standing there for? Make yourself useful.”
The woman took the glass and left, blushing. Maggie walked back to the table, stood behind her chair. In the background, the pianist began playing again, the chorus to “On Broadway.”
“You think I didn’t read your debriefing report?” Sinclair said, looking up at Maggie. “That girl in the slums of Quito took one hell of a chance when she helped you out of that devilish situation. You wanted the department to do something about her cousin, Tica. And her six accomplices—the Yasuni Seven. The department, typically, gave you the cold shoulder.” He shook his head. “But I can make that kind of thing happen. I’ve got thirty years’ worth of contacts down there.” He raised one eyebrow.
Maggie sat back down, dropped her voice.
“Tica’s still alive.”
“For the time being.” Sinclair Michaels acted as if nothing had happened, even though his shirt and jacket were drenched down the front.
“You can get Tica out? And the rest of the Yasuni Seven?”
“Oil Minister Beltran certainly can. One phone call is all it would take.”
“Beltran,” she said. “The master of ceremonies at that shootout of a party? The one who appreciates women? Especially their asses? The one who tried to rip us off? You mean that Beltran?”
Sinclair Michaels gave a cynical smile. “Yes, Maggie. That Beltran.”
“I’m not getting it.”
“Beltran belongs to us.”
So Beltran was another louse owned by the U.S. government. Bought and paid for. Typical that a shady old op like Sinclair Michaels would be his handler. His drink arrived. He didn’t touch it for the time being.
“You can guarantee that Beltran gets Tica out?” she said. “And the rest of the Yasuni Seven?”
“If you help us.”
Maggie gazed over at John Rae. “If Sinclair says it’s going to happen, Maggie, it’s going to happen.”
“Yes, I believe that.” She turned back to Sinclair Michaels. “But, just for grins, tell me why he should, in this case.”
“Best fill her in, John Rae,” Sinclair Michaels said.
Maggie turned to John Rae.
“Oil Minister Armand Beltran has been kidnapped,” he said.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Who did it? I’d like to send them a nice floral arrangement.”
“Some terrorist group, calls itself Cosecha Severa. Right on the road not far from his palatial residence—where you jumped out of the window into the Olympic-sized swimming pool.”
“And you’re going to get him back.”
Sinclair twirled his untouched drink. “In the wrong hands, Beltran knows too much. And he’s in the wrong hands.”
“And you need me to help you with the financial stuff again. A payoff. Only this time, it’s to free him from terrorists.”
Sinclair took a sip, toasted Maggie. “You do pick it up quickly, Maggie. John Rae, why isn’t she one of us yet?”
“I’m working on it, Sincs.”
“Now I need a drink,” Maggie said, signaling for the waiter.
Fresh drinks eased the tension.
Maggie took a sip of Malbec and set her glass down and smoothed out the tablecloth in front of her. She looked around the room, where people were still staring at her. Meeting their gazes, they turned away.
“Cosecha Severa,” Maggie said. “The name translates to: ‘Grim Harvest.’ Sounds a little . . .”
“Grim?” John Rae smiled. “Yeah, you could say that. They shot his driver in cold blood, left his body on the highway. Middle of the day.”
Sinclair Michaels swirled his Scotch. “Grim Harvest have quite a reputation for doing environmental damage in the name of saving the environment. Blowing up oil pipelines in Colombia, that sort of thing. Tell me there’s not some irony there.”
“The end justifies the means,” Maggie said. But she liked the irony of Beltran having to be paid off, not to line his pockets, but to save his miserable life, better.
“Grim Harvest have moved their operation from Colombia into the Ecuador rainforest,” John Rae said. “Where your Tica is from. One of the last pieces of unspoiled Amazon the Chinese bought the oil rights to. Grim Harvest is holed up in the jungle somewhere. Headed up by some character who calls himself Comrade Cain. He’s no joke. Ex-Shining Path. They’ve got Beltran and are ransoming him off or they’ll send him back one body part at a time. Starting with a foot, ending with a head.” John Rae took a drink of his sparkling water.
“Like I said, ‘couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.’”
“Beltran’s a bum, Maggie,” John Rae said. “But he’s our bum. That’s why I’m going down there to rescue him. And that’s why I need your help again. On the money end.”
“How much do Grim Harvest want?” Maggie asked.
“Two million,” John Rae said. “Sound familiar?”
Maggie almost smiled. The irony was getting even better. “They must have heard there was two mil on the table—from Beltran. The money he didn’t get from us when he tried to screw us.”
“It’s the way diplomacy works,” Sinclair Michaels said. “Washington—and Commerce Oil—want Beltran out and back in office in Quito.” He sipped. “ASAP.”
“Where he can pave the way for oil exploration,” she said. “But it means he’ll do us favors.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s nuts, Maggie,” John Rae said. “But we have more say about what goes on down there with Beltran in charge. And we’re playing with the house’s money, anyway—the money you saved from Beltran. And Beltran can help you out. With Tica.”
“When the op is completed and Beltran is returned,” Sinclair Michaels said.
“And you’re sure he’s on board with getting her out of prison?”
Sinclair Michaels took a drink and nodded. “Beltran is going to be grateful. Grateful enough to place a phone call and have your poster princess of the Yasuni released. I’ve known Beltran for decades. From back when he was an officer in the military and I was Ecuador Station Chief. I groomed him and the Agency helped make him what he is. Although I haven’t been able to speak to him specifically about this—because he’s being held prisoner—I hav
e no doubts, Maggie. No doubts whatsoever. We’re engineering his release and he will do what we say.”
Maggie took a deep breath through her nose.
“I’m in,” she said.
“Excellent,” Sinclair Michaels said. John Rae beamed.
“Under one condition,” she added.
John Rae’s face dropped. As did Sinclair’s.
“That I’m going down there with you,” Maggie said.
Sinclair and John Rae traded glances. Sinclair shook his head. “Out of the question.”
Maggie said: “These money transfers look simple from a distance, but they’re a can of worms. Banking hassles, authorizations, network problems. You need me there. Besides, I’m not leaving there until I see Tica walk out of that prison with my own eyes.”
There was a pause while the pianist played the intro to “Bridge over Troubled Waters.”
“I think she means it, Sincs,” John Rae said.
“I think she does, too,” Sinclair said. “But she’s right. Banking in that part of the world is a dark art. And Maggie’s our witch.”
“I prefer the term sorceress,” she said.
“You better tell her the bad part,” John Rae said to Sinclair.
“Which is?” Maggie said.
Sinclair Michaels leveled his gaze at Maggie. “You leave for Colombia in the morning.”
-12-
“Colombia?”
John Rae explained, “We meet a few of Comrade Cain’s playmates in Bogotá, make the trade for Beltran, we’re done. We hustle Beltran back to Ecuador, right next door, then we take care of Tica.” John Rae turned, eyed Sinclair Michaels. “Back before the weekend.”
“You’ll do it in your sleep, John Rae.” Sinclair Michaels reached down by his chair, came back with his satchel, set it on his lap. He unbuckled the strap, opened it, pulled a manila envelope, handed it to Maggie.
“Everything you need to set up the money transfers. Access codes, web addresses, all that mumbo jumbo. You’ll have to get it all down tonight. You won’t be able to bring these docs with you.”
Maggie took the envelope. “Haven’t you people heard of zip drives?”
“Leaves too much of a trail.”
She didn’t agree, but it didn’t matter. “And the ransom money? The two million?”
“Sun Bank of Jersey.”
A nebulous offshore bank off the southern coast of England. “OK,” she said. “I’ll start setting things up as soon as I get home. I can hopefully work on the way down on the flight as well.”
“A car will pick you up at seven a.m. tomorrow,” John Rae said. “You’ll be given a passport, money, and further instructions. Get your things in order, Maggie. Most of all your trusty laptop. Otherwise pack light. Basically what you wear on your back. We’ll be a couple of days. No more. Anything we need can be bought en route. Keep your receipts.” He grinned.
“You make it sound like a business trip,” she said.
“Not even,” John Rae said. “It’s a . . .”
“Milk run?” she said with a smile. “I think that’s what you called the Quito op.”
John Rae returned a smirk. “We’re going to get more cooperation from Beltran on this one.”
“Because he’d like to keep his head.” Maggie stood, checked the time on her cell phone. She needed to call Kacha, per their email thread. “I’ll be ready by seven in the morning.”
“See you on the flight to Colombia,” John Rae said.
“It’s a pleasure to work with you, Maggie,” Sinclair Michaels said with apparent satisfaction—and relief. “Your father, when he hears of this—and he will—will be very proud of you. I’m sure that means something.”
She couldn’t deny that. But the likely outcome of this op left her with mixed feelings. With Beltran free, the company that had laid waste to the Amazon for decades, leaving oil-saturated muck where once there was fresh water, expanses of lifeless swamp where once there was a rich forest teeming with life, pushed the indigenous tribes out of their homeland, endangered their lives, would continue business as usual. That wasn’t good. But the mysterious Commerce One employee, the woman with the east coast accent—Maggie couldn’t leave her by the wayside, not after the risk she’d taken to expose a company—an American company—perfectly willing to destroy one of the planet’s lungs by falsifying reports, and bending the local authorities to kill people who stood in its way. People like Tica.
There was Maggie’s promise to Kacha, to get Tica out of prison.
People like Tica were the ones in the front lines, fighting for change.
Maggie saw the sly look in John Rae’s eyes as she got up to leave. He winked and she knew he was happy to have her along—and happy for her. She’d gotten what she was after: a guarantee to free Tica. Sure, her anger at Michaels was genuine, but getting what she wanted from the man made it that much sweeter.
But seeing the look before the wink, she couldn’t help but wonder if John Rae had something up his sleeve.
~~~
At the corner of Mission and 24th, at the entrance to the BART station, Maggie parked herself in the corner next to a homeless man curled up in a sleeping bag grimy from outdoor life in the city. With all the people coming and going, a blanket of white noise covered her and she dialed the number in Quito Kacha had emailed her.
The phone was answered on the first ring. “Dígame.” It was Kacha. She sounded breathless, a little nervous. More than a little.
“Hola,” Maggie said, switching to Quechua, her native tongue—and Kacha’s. “It’s me—your long lost cousin. Are you well?”
“So-so.”
Not good. “That’s what I thought.”
“It’s safe to talk?”
“Yes. But no names.”
“OK,” Kacha said as the roar of a large vehicle thundered in the background on her side of the call. She was outdoors as well.
“Have you heard from your other cousin?” Maggie said.
“No. Do you know anything yet?”
“I do, but it’s best not to tell you.”
“She’s in prison?”
“It seems that way. But she’s alive.”
“Which one?”
“If I tell you, and you try to do something about it, it will mess up my plans.”
“That’s your good news?” Kacha said, a little angry. “Now I just know I have to do something to help her.”
“Sit tight,” Maggie said. “Please.” She didn’t want Kacha getting her hopes up.
“No,” Kacha said bitterly. “I’m going to check all the prisons. I don’t care what happens. She’s my cousin. You sit there in your safe country, keep your secrets to yourself. I helped you!”
“Listen,” Maggie said. “I told you I’m going to straighten this out. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
There was a pause while a car honked somewhere in Quito. “How?” Kacha said, desperation creeping into her voice. “How?”
“Give me twenty-four hours,” Maggie said. By then she would be in South America. “I’ll call you. Is it safe to call you there—at the number you’re at now?”
“Yes, it’s on the Plaza . . .”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Maggie said, shutting her up, although anyone who traced the number could find out—eventually. “Be there tomorrow, this time. Does that work?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, be there in forty-eight hours. If not forty-eight, then seventy-two. But I will call you at some point. Do you understand?”
There was a pause. “Are you coming here?”
“I can’t say. Got it now?”
Now there was a long pause. “Yes.”
“In the meantime, if you go down to the Western Union on Mariscal Sucre tomorrow, there’ll be a letter waiting for you from your norteamericana auntie Ofelia Ruiz. Bring proper ID, so you can collect it, hmm?”
“Que weno!” Kacha said, her voice breaking. “Please thank her.”
“There is a condition to your auntie’s generosity, however. No more extracurricular work for your sister. She raises her baby, while you find a proper place for you to live. No more quick dates with men in the bushes.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem. Not at all.”
“Things will be up in the air for a while. Stay tough, chica. Añaychayki.”
“Imamanta,” Kacha said.
Maggie said goodbye and clicked off the phone. She walked over to the trash bin overflowing with garbage and shoved the cell phone into a rancid milk carton sticking out.
She wondered what the normal people were doing, then looked over at the man in the sleeping bag.
What normal people?
-13-
You’re the one who told me to take some time off, Maggie typed.
Ed’s response was quick. A day. Or two.
She sat at the computer in her home office, poised over the keyboard, wearing her beat-up denim jacket over a red turtleneck sweater, faded bellbottom jeans, and Doc Marten shoes. Her scruffy Swiss Army rucksack, with its shock-absorbing laptop compartment, sat by the side of her chair, with a change of shirt, socks, and underwear, cosmetic bag, air sickness pills, all ready to go. Back by the weekend. I need to take that vacation time stacked up anyway. I’m already at the max and losing it.
There was a pause while the chat window flickered. Fair enough, Ed typed. But this better not be time off for job interviews. I need to be the first to know before you jump ship and snag a slot with some high-paying multi-national.
Going up to Lake Tahoe, Maggie typed. Decompress. Go off the grid for a while. As if she could ever do that. Even so, she didn’t feel good, lying to Ed.
Just be back at work by Monday, Ed replied.
Plenty of time, she thought.
Maggie shut down her MacBook, stuffed it in the padded compartment, zipped up her bag, and stood up. Hands on her hips, she leaned back, cracking out her spine. She did a quick walk-through of her flat, making sure everything was turned off, thermostat down, windows shut. She cleared a few items in the sink, put them in the dishwasher, and set it to run. She walked over to the bay window in the living room and scanned Valencia Street. Early-morning San Francisco. Late-model luxury cars, the young and prosperous in hoodies, trendy clothes and flip-flops, heading to work at startups with laptop bags slung over their shoulders, sipping cups of Peet’s from the place on the corner.
The Cain File Page 12
