Pete felt an icicle of fear in his stomach. This guy is no slouch.
“Furthermore, he’s a recluse. He has several homes and apartments, and he rotates almost every night. The newspapers are told that he’s afraid of being kidnapped, but this just keeps him out of sight. There are no current photos. He pays the news guys to stuff any photo that gets taken. Rumor is he’ll kill any man who publishes a current picture.”
“OK. Then how do we find him?”
“Patience. We’ll wait for him around some of the better places in town. Pick up bits of news. Maybe we’ll see him.” Waldo leaned back to let the waiter set a platter of grilled redfish on the table. “Meanwhile, we let our intel guy work, and we listen. It may take us a few weeks, but we’ll smoke this guy out.”
They ate in silence. Pete enjoyed watching the women inside the restaurant and those walking the lush garden outside the plate glass window. Waldo pushed his plate aside, motioned to the waiter, and got up.
“Aren’t you gonna pay?”
“I’ve left them a signed slip. They just add it to my bill. Let’s go for a walk.” Waldo led Pete through two double doors and into the kitchen. The cooks looked up and then paid too much attention to their cooking. Waldo must have paid them off to not see him. He then led Pete out the service entrance to a narrow alley. He turned left and took off at a quick pace. Waldo swung his arms so wide Pete had to walk behind.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Pete, in this business, you always need a way out. The guys we’re dealing with are big players. Someday they might find us. If so, we’ve got to have a ‘bug out’ plan. We need a place to go to ground. I’ve found one here close to the hotel.” About a hundred yards farther, Waldo stopped and touched a door. The maroon door featured a large cartoon painting of Bart Simpson, the yellow hair a jolting contrast to the brownish purple background. Above the door a sign proclaimed: Mo’s Bar.
“Remember this door. If we have to run, we’ll meet up here. If we miss the first day, we’ll try again each day. After three days, assume I’m dead.” They went inside. The owner came over and embraced Waldo.
“Let me present my friend, Pete,” Waldo said in perfect Spanish. “Pete, this is Mo, the owner.” They shook hands.
The dark narrow establishment had an entrance to the street on the far end. The wooden bar ran almost the full length and small booths lined other wall. The owner led them to the last booth, well hidden from the other patrons. He turned and went for two beers.
“This is the place we’ll meet. Then we’ll get transportation out.”Waldo looked up and down the hall. “My kinda place.”
“This owner sure likes you,” Pete said.
“Amazing what five hundred US will get you.”
Chapter Seven
Monday
1730
13 December, 1999
Escuela Abraham Lincoln
North Santa Marta
“Hedley-Fields here,” Renee said as she answered her STU-III. Fielded first in the late ‘80’s, the STU-III secure telephone provided the first economical, compact encrypted communications device to small units in the field.
“This is Rainer. Up at Bragg.” She remembered the skinny geek who worked in the IT department of the Unit. “You put in an alert for Peter Douglas, right?”
“Yes. What do you have?”
“The DEA’s doing a full-on scan for him, his passport number and his credit card number. Their request states that he’s traveling to Santa Marta. Not for pick-up. Only location.”
Renee cursed under her breath. I knew he was DEA, she thought. Unbidden, she remembered the feeling of his lean body against hers when they danced last week.
“Are you still there, miss?”
“Yes. Email me the contact info and I’ll call right now. We’ll see if we can’t help the DEA locate him here in Santa Marta.”
Renee sat back and remembered her first operation. The DEA had been a small part of the mix.
She was twenty-one and an honors student at the University of Southern California. Her father, England’s Ambassador to Malaysia, was paying for her to study cinematography. He believed it to be a worthless degree so he insisted she also major in European history.
Her beauty and the novelty of her minor aristocracy were tickets to the best parties in Los Angeles. She met and drank with movie stars, directors, producers, rock bands, and politicians. It was 1977 and the Hollywood elite stood firmly in the corner of communism, liberation theology, and legalization of all drugs. While this provided her some entertainment, her conservative upbringing blocked her from buying into all that.
Then an older gentleman called her apartment one Wednesday night.
“Renee, my name is Oliver Seton. I used to work with your father. Both of us served together in the war.”
“I’m glad to know you, sir. What can I do for you?” Renee said, hiding behind the formalities.
“I’d like to take you to dinner and discuss an employment opportunity.”
“Well, sir. I thank you, but my focus is to graduate next year, and my workload is such that I can’t manage any other work.”
“I’d still like to see you. Only daughter of a fellow infantryman, and all that.” Renee knew that her father worked in intelligence in WWII. Never in the infantry. Perhaps this guy was trying to send her a message.
“All right. Daddy told me to never pass up a free meal.” They both laughed.
“Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Oliver Seton showed up at her apartment dressed in a gray tweed jacket and black pants. She could tell this was his uniform. His bald head and round face showed signs of a little too much Scotch, and the years had bent his spine forward. But he still projected an air of elegance and power.
“You look lovely,” he said, taking in her designer black dress. “I have a taxi waiting outside. I thought we’d go to Stony’s tonight.”
“That’s my favorite,” she said.
Twenty minutes later, the waiter pulled out her chair at a corner table, and she wondered at the power of this man who could command the best table at one of LA’s trendiest restaurants. Oliver just smiled and they made small talk for a few minutes.
After their first cocktail, he ordered for both of them. Artful salads appeared and then the steaks, perfectly grilled.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked as he took their plates.
“I’ll have another Scotch and soda. The young lady will have…” Oliver looked at her with a sideways glance, and then said, “She’ll have a cappuccino with a shot of Amaretto.” Renee grinned, amazed that the old gentleman knew her favorite after-dinner drink. After the waiter brought their drinks, she saw the old man decide that it was time to get to the reason for the dinner.
“Renee, I told you that I worked with your father. I am still active in that business. We need you to do some work for us.” He took a sip of his third highball.
“You have access to the inner parts of the entertainment establishment. We need to know what goes on in there. About every other week, or whenever something interesting comes up, I want you to write up a gossipy letter about what you hear at the parties you attend. In return, we’ll make sure that you get a nice piece of cash every month.”
“I need a clothing allowance in addition to the cash,” she said, a little too quickly. Oliver threw back his head and laughed.
“So much like your father.”
“Dresses, shoes, and jewelry cost money, and I’ve already gotten some catty remarks about wearing the same dress twice.”
“Of course. I understand. I’ll get you the funds for the clothes. Necessary expenses and all that.”
She wrote her first report that week, and went shopping with the expense money. Some people took drugs, some were addicted to sex, but Renee knew her weakness was designer clothes.
Now, twenty-two years later, she still worked for the Agency. No longer a contractor, she was a senior field
agent on loan to the Defense Department. Her current assignment was chief of an unnamed task force seeking out the leader of the Santa Marta cartel.
She looked at her phone. A few more minutes and she’d have this Peter Douglas kicked out of her arena.
“Mr. Dupree, this is Renee Hedley-Fields. I hear you’re seeking Peter Douglas.” Now on her fourth phone call, Renee had finally worked her way to the DEA intel boss.
“Yes ma’am. But this is DEA business. How did you get this phone number?”
“Senator Richards told me that you were the man to talk to.” At the mention of Chairman of the Judiciary Committee, Renee could almost hear Dupree become pliable. “I’m running a combined agency operation, and Peter Douglas will be interfering. I want you to call him off.”
“Miss Hedley-Fields, first of all I have no idea who you are. Second, I don’t have any control over Peter Douglas. We want to question him about the suicide of a suspected cartel operative in Houston.”
“I don’t have time to spar with you over my bona fides. I need him out of Colombia. He’ll ruin everything.” Renee felt her anger rise, but fought to keep civil.
“He’s a private citizen. I can’t force him to come or go anywhere. We just want to talk with him.”
“I know how to find him. If I give you his location, will you ask him to leave my work area?”
“Yes, I think that we can convince him to leave.”
“He is living at the Hotel del Mar on Calle Quatro, in the old section of Santa Marta.”
“We’ll be down there tomorrow.”
“I’ll have my man meet your plane.” Renee put down her phone. Now, would it be better to interview him personally before Dupree made it down, or go in together?
Monday
2215
13 December, 1999
Penthouse, Alas de Mar Apartments
Santa Marta, Colombia
Ramon Menchaca untangled himself from his mistress. The ringing pushed into his head, and his anger pushed back. One of the few nights I get to sleep with Margarita, and I get a cursed phone call. He rolled upright and answered the phone beside his bed.
“Yes, I’ll be right there.” He looked over at his true love of twenty three years, and shook his head. He could never marry her since she was just a maid when he met her, no fortune, no family connections. Too bad modern society does not recognize concubines today, he thought. Even though his son by her would be his heir, he could not be seen at any public functions with her. Even so, she was a genuine companion and confidant.
When Ramon was but twenty-five, he met a lovely woman eighteen years his senior. Her first husband, the owner of several office buildings and apartment complexes, had been kidnapped and killed the year before. Patricia Gomez needed some companionship. They fell in love that night. Ramon convinced her that they should be married, and soon.
Her grown children tried to talk her out of the marriage. First they tried reason, then arguments, and just before the wedding, huge shouting matches. When Patricia was married to Ramon, the only thing that dimmed her joy was that none of her children attended.
She was diagnosed with breast cancer seven months after they married. Within a year she was dead. At the reading of the will, no one was surprised to hear that she had left him her entire estate.
Now with the money from his wife’s estate, Ramon expanded his business into distributing cocaine. His legitimate offices buildings and apartments gave him a way to launder his profits.
A few years later, Ramon took a second wife to get her family’s businesses. He brought Margarita to his bed soon after. She gave him peace and physical joy. She worked in his businesses and proved herself to be fearless, loyal, and a quick learner. But most of all, she gave him a son!
My son. What will I do about my son? Ricardo Menchaca attended the exclusive San Marino University in Geneva, Switzerland. Next month he will turn eighteen. When will I tell him about my true business? He thinks that I have a real estate and movie theater empire. I do, but they don’t bring in one tenth the money that the cartel does.
At least he has accepted his status as my heir. When Ramon first told the boy that he wanted to adopt him and change his last name to Menchaca, the boy rebelled. He wanted me to marry his mother. Good for him. But we had a man-to-man talk about women, marriage, politics, and business. Then we spent some time together on his last break.
Right now, he is consumed by the drama department, and thinks he wants to be a film producer. Don’t all boys have some fantasy like that? A couple of years in Hollywood will let him mature. But I don’t have too much time.
He pulled on a pair of black exercise pants. The guard popped up from his seat as Ramon walked into the spare bedroom that served as his command post when he was in this apartment.
“Sir, you have an email marked ‘Return to Sender’,” his guard said.
“Good. Thank you, Freddy. I’ve got it now.” Freddy started for the door. When it closed, Ramon threw the deadbolt, double checked it, and sat down at the computer. Even though Freddy was his most trusted body guard, no one but himself could know of El Pecador.
Ramon opened a Yahoo mail account used only to communicate with El Pecador. There was the message in his inbox. He fired up his encryption program.
Don Humo,
I felt it my duty to inform you that Tuffy Dupree and Stephen Joiner are planning to arrive at Santa Marta Airport tomorrow morning. They are flying in the DEA Gulfstream IV.
ETA 0800 Local.
I have no idea of their mission. However, fingerprints of Peter Dolan were found in Jose Leal’s house after he committed suicide.
Respectfully, your servant,
El Pecador
Ramon cursed. He reread the message and stood up, his hands on his hips. Heart racing, he knew he was only a step away from panic. I thought Peter Dolan was dead. He never showed up after that botch job of Jose’s.
“Just calm yourself, Ramon. Calm yourself,” he kept repeating. Deep in thought, he walked to the closet. A rush of fury took him. He reached high above his head and pounded the door with both fists. The deep reverberation surprised him, but he felt better having taken some action, even if it was just against a door.
“Are you alright, Lord?” the guard called from the hallway.
“Yes. I’m fine. Just heard that a friend has died. I’m fine.” He hoped the lie would calm them down.
Now, what to do? I have two of the top DEA men coming to my town. Are they after me? Of course, they are. But what do they know?
I have only a few hours to make a decision, or they will be in my backyard to disrupt my operation or worse, to look for me.
.
Tuesday
0800
14 December, 1999
Santa Marta International Airport
The Gulfstream G-IV, the DEA’s flagship jet, landed at Santa Marta’s airport exactly on schedule. Tuffy Dupree went toward the front as the airplane taxied to the parking space, even though the flight attendant motioned him to stay in his seat. Steve Joiner sat looking out the window, and Tuffy could see his sad fascination at the beaches just to the side of the runway.
Could Steve be the mole? The suspicion popped into Tuffy’s head unbidden. He knows everything I do. He could have warned Leal. Tuffy looked at his old friend. They can get to anybody. Offer enough money, threaten your family, or find some way to blackmail you. Or a combination. I’ve got to watch him.
“Come on, old man. We have a meeting with Peter Dolan/Douglas.” Tuffy put his hand on Steve’s shoulder.
“Are you sure we know where to find him?”
“We’ll see. This Agency woman says she has him under close surveillance.”
They walked down the stairs gripping the rail to keep the stiff ocean breeze from blowing them off. From their height, Tuffy could see the white Suburban, over a mile away, racing toward the plane.
“Here comes our ride now.” As they got their bags down from the rear cargo compart
ment, the armored SUV pulled up. All of the windows except the windshield were blacked out. Tuffy shook his head. The heavy-duty tires, reinforced window frames, and three radio antennas might as well be a sign proclaiming that this is a government car, probably DEA.
Renee Hedley-Fields came around the car, the wind blowing her blonde hair around her neck. Tuffy drew a breath and held it. No one had warned him of her beauty.
“Get in the car! This is no place to stand around like tourists,” she said.
Yep, that’s her alright, Tuffy thought, recognizing her from the phone call. How could such a beautiful woman have such an angry voice?
Tuffy and Steve wedged into the back seat with a muscular body guard sitting on the far right. The Suburban roared off toward the back entrance of the airport. Renee, sitting in the right front seat, turned around, put her arm across the seat back and shot a brilliant smile. Tuffy noticed the diamond ear rings. His eye moved down her long neck to the tight white blouse and down her arm to see that there was no wedding ring.
“Sorry to hustle you off, but we can’t afford to expose you out on the ramp like that. You know you DEA types aren’t very popular here in Santa Marta.” Her demeanor now exuded welcome and professional courtesy.
“Is customs over this way?” Steve asked.
“No, I’ve taken care of customs and immigration. They’re working with us on this project. We’re going straight to our compound. There’s some safety for you there. My goal is to get you and Peter Douglas out of Santa Marta so that my operation can continue.”
“Well, if I knew we were skipping customs, I would have brought my weapon,” Steve said.
“No, you couldn’t. The ambassador’s firmly against any US agent having a personal weapon here.”
The Grace Bay Agreement Page 15
