by Bob Mayer
Ariel drew his Walther PPK and walked over to the prisoner. The man's eyes followed him until Ariel went behind him and knelt down with a knee in the man's back. "I'm afraid your friends have caused us much trouble. Plans have changed and you are excess baggage I can no longer afford to carry around."
Ariel placed the muzzle of the PPK in the back of the American's head. The man was jerking with all his might, trying to throw Ariel off, but he was too securely bound for that. Ariel released the safety. As his finger started to tighten on the trigger a thought occurred to him.
Ariel stood up and went into the next room. He picked up the phone and asked for the operator.
UNITED STATES EMBASSY, BOGOTA
1:10 A.M.
Strom was still half asleep as he walked over to the phone the duty officer indicated. He didn't appreciate being woken out of a sound sleep to take a phone call from an anonymous person. The duty officer said that the man wanted to talk to someone who knew something about Jameson.
Strom grabbed the phone. "What do you want?"
The voice on the other end had a strange accent. "Are you a person who is able to make decisions?"
Strom rolled his eyes. "Who the hell is this?"
"Are you aware of what really happened this past Sunday night at Barranquilla when your commando team was ambushed trying to destroy a cocaine-processing factory?"
Strom was quickly waking up. "Who is this? What do you want?" He put a hand over the phone and hissed to the duty officer. "Can you trace this?" The man nodded and ran from the room.
"Who I am doesn't matter. What does matter is that I have the fifth man from that team in the house here with me and he's still alive. I want to give him to you in exchange for a little something."
"How do I know you really have him?"
"You don't. But you have nothing to lose. If you don't give me what I want, I will simply blow his brains out and go on my merry way, and neither of us will be very happy. But if you take a chance and come here, we can both be happy."
Strom gripped the phone harder. What the hell was the duty officer doing? "What do you want?"
"An American passport. I know you have spares there in the embassy for travelers who have lost theirs. I want to go home and I can't get there with my present passport. So you will give me one made out in a new name and appropriately stamped. You have forty-five minutes to be here."
Strom looked at his watch. Getting Powers back would be a nice feather in his hat, especially after all the screw-ups on this operation over the past week. "What name on the passport?"
"I'm glad you're a reasonable man. The name doesn't matter."
"Where do I meet you?"
"Go down Bolivar Boulevard until you pass the Memorial Park on your right. Turn right on the first street after the park. Go two blocks and turn left. Third house on the right. Come alone. Try anything stupid and the American dies. You can make it in forty-five minutes if you hurry."
The phone went dead. Strom took a second to memorize the directions. The duty officer came running in, followed by another man with a case under his arm. "What line do you want traced?"
Strom sighed. "You bloody fools. You're too damn late." He turned to the duty officer. "Where do you keep the blank passports and official seal?"
BOGOTA
1:33 A.M.
Riley looked through the windshield down the darkened street. "She didn't know which one exactly?"
Westland shook her head. "She said it was either the second or third in."
Riley checked the action on his MP5 one more time. "Shit. I don't want to bust into the wrong house. It'll cause a ruckus and warn the people in the right one."
Westland pulled out her Beretta. "How about we each take one?"
Riley considered that. He didn't like it. The sicarios were sure to have a lot of firepower in whichever house they were holding Powers, especially if they were planning on assassinating the president. Going in alone would be almost suicidal.
He looked at the two houses in question one more time. Both were similar one-story structures surrounded by a low wall with a small gate facing out into the street. "Sure is damn quiet here. You'd think they'd have more cars or something." There were a few cars parked in the street. One was in front of the third house in. He didn't recognize the car from his surveillance at the villa. Still, this Israeli had to have wheels. Neither house had a garage.
"The third one in. We'll both ..."
He paused as headlights turned the corner behind them. He pressed Westland down into the seat as a car drove past slowly. Riley peeked over the dash. The newcomer parked behind the car Riley had just been watching. "What the hell is going on? That's an American embassy car from the license plate."
Westland popped up next to him and they watched a man get out. "That's Strom," she whispered.
Riley had no idea what was going on, but he knew that it could not be a coincidence. The third house had to be the one. He watched as Strom pushed open the front door of the house and disappeared inside.
"Let's go."
1:34 A.M.
Ariel turned on a light in the living room and examined the passport carefully. "Very good."
Strom spoke from his position across the room. "Where's Powers?"
Ariel looked at the American. "Did you record this passport into the log at the embassy?"
Strom nodded. "If I didn't it would be reported as stolen."
"Good." Ariel looked at the passport one more time, then put it into his pocket. Getting a photo would be easy. This passport would at least get him back into Israel. After that he could assume a new identity. He had enough money squirreled away in various world banks to live comfortably for the rest of his life. If he had killed the American that would have just added another group of people who would have been after him. This had worked much better for everyone.
"Your man is in the kitchen. He's tied up on the floor. He's been quite a pain in the ass." Ariel headed for the door. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
1:36 A.M.
Riley had heard enough. He kicked the door open and drew down on the Israeli. Westland slid in behind him and to his right. The Israeli froze with his pistol halfway up.
Riley spoke. "Don't move an inch."
Strom started to intercede, but Westland shoved him back out of the field of fire. The CIA man put out his hand. "Don't do anything stupid. Powers is alive in the kitchen. Let this man go and Powers is ours."
Riley nodded at Westland. "Check the kitchen." He kept the muzzle on Ariel. "You stay there until we find out if he really is alive."
The tableau stayed frozen for thirty seconds. Then out of the corner of his eye Riley spotted a familiar figure in the doorway to the kitchen. "You all right, compadre?"
"Yeah. Little sore and hungry."
"Who's this I've got under my gun?" Riley was pretty sure it was Ariel, as described by the girl, but he wanted to confirm.
Powers sidled across the room followed by Westland, making sure to keep out of Riley's line of fire. "That's an ex-Israeli scumbag named Ariel. He's the Ring Man's main security man. He was about to kill me when he came up with the brilliant idea of trading me for the passport."
Riley squeezed the trigger. The chugging of the silenced weapon was the only sound in the room as Riley's rounds slammed Ariel into the wall and held him there momentarily. The Israeli slowly slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood behind him.
Riley looked up at Strom, who was staring at Ariel with a mixture of shock and outrage. Riley reloaded his MP5 and turned for the door. He stopped in front of Strom. "No more deals."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER
BRONX, NEW YORK
8:10 A.M.
Riley stared at the old building across the street. Students were streaming toward it from all directions. It was a beautiful fall day with the sun warming away the night's coolness.
He turned and smiled at Kate as she linked her a
rm through his and gave it a squeeze. They'd driven up to the city yesterday. The previous evening had been taken up with introducing Kate to his family. Riley thought his mom liked her.
"So that's where you went to high school?"
Riley nodded. "Evander Childs. Graduated more professional basketball players than any other high school in the country, although I think some school in Philly says otherwise."
Kate laughed. "That's something to be proud of."
Riley gave her a mock serious frown. "Well, actually it is. You got to have something. For a lot of these kids the future isn't too bright." He tugged her. "Come on. Let's cross."
They dashed across Musholu Parkway and walked past the front of the school. Riley was feeling pretty good. The last couple of weeks had been rough, but things were sorting themselves out. Pike had been forced to retire but nobody was anxious to make waves. There were several reasons for that. The people in power in Washington couldn't argue with success. The Colombian government hadn't done any complaining. Keeping the whole thing quiet seemed to be the best route.
Riley's thoughts were interrupted by two black youths who stepped in front of them. Riley had let go of Kate and was already moving into his ready stance when he realized that it wasn't a rip-off.
The taller of the youths leaned forward. "Yo, man. Want some stuff? Got good stuff and it's cheap."
Riley doubled over the tall one with a side kick. His leg swept the second boy down and he slammed an elbow into the prone youth's stomach, leaving him gasping for air. Riley returned his attention to the first one. He spun the kid over his hip onto the concrete, knocking the wind out of him.
Riley knelt over and did a quick check of the youth's pockets. The search yielded several sandwich bags of various drugs. Riley looked up threateningly at the gathering crowd of students.
Westland grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. "Let's go."
Riley paused, then followed her as she pushed her way through the crowd and headed off. When he caught up with her, Westland turned and angrily faced him. "Why did you do that?"
Riley shook his head. "I didn't go through all that shit down south and have my friends killed just to have some punk try to sell me drugs in my own hometown."
"That's great, Dave. What the hell are you going to do? Clean up New York City by yourself? What did you plan to do to those kids? Break a few ribs? Maybe an arm?" Riley paused. He hadn't really been sure what he was going to do.
Westland grabbed him and looked into his eyes. "This isn't Colombia, Dave. You can't go around beating up on people and killing them because they're drug dealers."
Riley felt the energy seep out of his body. "What the hell are we supposed to do, then?"
Westland looked back at the school. "We've done what we can. If they want it they're going to get it from somewhere. It's time you and I spent some time and energy on us."
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
12:10 P.M.
Carlos Ramirez twirled his Harvard ring as he watched the various military and political figures he had invited to the luncheon enjoy themselves. They were all pigs in his opinion. Eating and drinking without a single brain among them. The women he had brought were circulating and Carlos carefully noted as couples disappeared off to the right, where the bedrooms in the house were located. His video cameras would be recording the action in those rooms for posterity.
His attention was distracted as his brother came over and sat down next to him. Jaime grabbed a glass of champagne and offered it to Carlos for a toast. Carlos clinked his glass indulgently. "And to what are we toasting, my brother?"
"The general agreed to let us have the old airfield at Punto Fijo. We can run both aircraft from the airstrip and our boats from the docks. There's plenty of room for the lab." His brother smiled at him. "This was a brilliant idea of yours, moving here to Venezuela. It is a perfect setup."
Carlos smiled back at his brother. They were back in business again.
THE END
Next in the Series
Dragon Sim-13
PURCHASE
Also by Bob Mayer is the bestselling series Atlantis. Bob is a master at blending facts with mythology. There are six books in the series. Read an excerpt below:
FLIGHT 19 AD 1945
FORT LAUDERDALE AIR STATION
“Sir, I request stand-down from this afternoon's training flight.”
Captain Henderson looked up from the papers on his desk. The young man standing in front of him wore starched khakis, the insignia of a corporal in the Marine Corps sewn onto the short sleeves. On his chest were campaign ribbons dating back to Guadalcanal.
“You have a reason, Corporal Foreman?” Henderson asked. He didn't add that Lieutenant Presson, the leader of Training Flight 19 had just been in his office making the same request. Henderson had denied the officer's immediately, but Foreman was a different matter.
“Sir, I've got enough service points to be mustered out in the next week or so.” Foreman was a large man, broad shouldered. His dark hair was swept back in thick waves, flirting with regulations, but with the war just a few months over, some rules had waned in the euphoria of victory.
“What does that have to do with the flight?” Henderson asked.
Foreman paused and his stance broke slightly from the parade rest he had assumed after saluting. “Sir, I--”
“Yes?”
“Sir, I just don't feel good. I think I might be sick.”
Henderson frowned. Foreman didn't look sick. In fact his tan skin radiated health. Henderson had heard this sort of thing before, but only before combat missions, not a training flight. He looked at the ribbons on Foreman's chest, noted the Navy Cross and bit back the hasty reply that had formed on his lips.
“I need more than that,” Henderson said, softening his tone.
“Sir, I have a bad feeling about this flight.”
“A bad feeling?”
“Yes, sir.”
Henderson let the silence stretch out.
Foreman finally went on. “I had a feeling like this before. In combat.” He stopped, as if no further words were required.
Henderson leaned back in his seat, his fingers rolling his pencil end over end.
“What happened then, corporal?”
“I was on the Enterprise, sir. Back in February. We were scheduled to do an attack run off the coast of Japan. Destroy everything that was floating. I went on that mission.”
“And?”
“My entire squadron was lost.”
“Lost?”
“Yes, sir. They all disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No survivors?”
“Just my plane's crew, sir.”
“How did you get back?”
“My plane had engine trouble. The pilot and I had to bail out early. We were picked up by a destroyer. The rest of the squadron never came back. Not a plane. Not a man.”
Henderson felt a chill tickle the bare skin below his own regulation haircut. Foreman’s flat voice, and the lack of detail, bothered the captain.
“My brother was in my squadron,” Foreman continued. “He never came back. I felt bad before that flight, Captain. As bad as I feel right now.”
Henderson looked at the pencil in his hand. First, Lieutenant Presson with his feelings of unease and now this. Henderson's instinct was to give Foreman the same order he'd given the young aviator. But he looked at the ribbons one more time. Foreman had done his duty many times. Presson had never been under fire. Foreman was a gunner, so his presence would make no difference one way or the other. “All right, corporal, you can sit the flight out. But I want you to be in the tower and work the monitoring shift. Are you healthy enough to do that?”
Foreman snapped to attention. There was no look of relief on his face, just the same stoic Marine Corps stare. “Yes, sir.”
“You're dismissed.”
Atlantis by Bob Mayer on Amazon
THE CELLAR
SERIES
Bodyguard of lies
Praise for Bodyguard of Lies: “Thelma and Louise go clandestine.” Kirkus Reviews
“Heart-racing non-stop action that is difficult to put down.” Mystery News
CHAPTER 1
The old man sat alone in the darkness contemplating failure on a scale that historians would write about it for centuries, and the subsequent inevitable need for change. He was one of the most powerful people in the world, but only a few knew of his existence. His position had been born out of failure over sixty years previously, as smoke still smoldered above the mangled ships and dead bodies in Pearl Harbor. For over six decades, he had given his life to his country. His most valuable asset was dispassion, so he could view his own recent failures objectively, although recent was a subjective term. He realized now it had all begun over ten years ago.
His office lacked any charm or comfort. There was a scarcity about the room that was unnerving. The cheap desk and two chairs made it look more like an interview room in an improvised police station than the office of a man so powerful his name brought fear throughout the government he served in Washington. The top of the desk was almost clear. Just a secure phone and a stack of folders.
There were, naturally, no windows. Not three hundred feet underground, buried beneath the ‘crystal palace’ of the top secret National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. And not that he could have used windows. The few who knew of the organization sometimes wondered if this location was what had led to its name. While the CIA made headlines every week, the Cellar was only whispered about in the hallowed halls of the nation's capitol. It might have been located underneath the NSA building but it was an entity unto itself answerable only to its founding mandate.
The room was lit only by the dim red lights on the secure phone. They showed the scars on the old man’s face and the raw red, puckered skin where his eyes had once rested. There was track lighting, currently off, all three bulbs of which were over the old man’s head and angled toward the door. When on, they placed his face in a shadow and caused any guest to squint against the light. The few who had the misfortune to sit across from him didn’t know whether the lighting was placed in such a way to blind them as if he was, or to hide the severity of his old wounds.
