Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  Bledsoe said, “I know the cartel must be involved in this, and I’ll tell you why.”

  He opened the red folder and removed a single sheet of paper. “About a year ago, after I made several unsuccessful attempts to obtain any intel on the drug cartels operating here, I finally recruited an asset inside the Zeta ring. His name is Hernando, and although he’s a very low-level employee, he’s a solid source of information.

  “Right now, all he does is take care of administrative details and run errands. I’ve been very cautious about using him because I want his bosses to trust him completely. That way he can work his way up the ranks and be privy to the kind of information we can use to bring down the cartel’s entire network. I’ve been carefully grooming him for over a year now. It’s been a slow process, but I’m certain we’re going to get some results soon.”

  “I haven’t forgotten your cautious nature, Toby.”

  He stared at me for several seconds, probably trying to decide if my remark was meant as a compliment or a criticism.

  I tried to look noncommittal.

  He went on. “For the past six months, the cartel’s been ferrying drugs into the States using couriers who pose as tourists from San José. Since my asset arranges visas and airline tickets for them, I asked him to photocopy the passports of the mules they were using to move their product north. Here’s the list I made after he gave me the passport copies.”

  He handed me the sheet of paper he’d been holding in his hand.

  As I scanned the contents, he asked, “Anything jump out at you?”

  My eyes ran down the list of Hispanic names and countries of origin gleaned from the passports of the people working for the cartel.

  “More than half of them are from Venezuela.”

  “Move to the head of the class.”

  He opened a second folder and pushed several sheets of paper across the table toward me. “I know these aren’t the best quality photos, but tell me what you think.”

  I flipped through several pages of passport photos. There were no names identifying the faces, but it didn’t take me long to draw a conclusion.

  “As a group, I’d say all these men and women appear to be of Middle Eastern descent, probably from Syria.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said. “However, all the Venezuelans on this list,” he held up the first document he’d given me, “belong to these people.” He held up the pages containing the passport photos of the Syrians.

  “So you think Venezuela is supplying false passports to various Syrian men and women, and then letting the cartel use them as drug runners?”

  He nodded his head. “That’s exactly what I think.”

  He gathered up the documents he’d shown me and shoved them back inside his briefcase. “You can see why your operation linking a Hezbollah operative from Syria and a Venezuelan student got my attention. That’s why I wanted— “

  Mitchell suddenly opened the door and entered The Bubble.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Titus said to let him know the minute there was any activity at the house on Alturas.”

  “What happened?”

  “A man just walked out the front door.”

  Chapter 4

  I rode with Mitchell back over to the Calle Alturas neighborhood. Along the way, he called in a second surveillance team so we could meet up with Josué and his partner in the parking lot of El Supermercado, a grocery store located a block away from Ahmed’s safe house.

  Within five minutes of our arrival, Mitchell’s first surveillance team pulled in and parked beside us. Josué stayed inside the SUV while his partner, a young woman with a long black ponytail, emerged from the passenger side.

  After she slipped in the backseat of the Jeep, Mitchell introduced her as Sonya. She gave me a curt nod, and then she handed Mitchell an expensive-looking camera with a telephoto lens on it. He clicked through several shots on the camera’s LCD monitor.

  As I waited for him to finish, I noticed Sonya was staring at me from the backseat. When I glanced back at her, she smiled and looked away.

  Mitchell shook his head as he handed the camera over to me. “Not much there. The next to the last shot is the best one.”

  As we were leaving the embassy, Mitchell had told me his watchers hadn’t noticed any activity at the house until an old man was seen coming out the front door. He’d walked the short distance down the block to a bus stop—using a cane for support—and then boarded the next bus pulling up to the curb a few seconds later.

  I looked at the camera’s monitor while scrolling through the photos.

  Sonya had managed to snap several frames, but the one showing the old man’s face was only a profile of him. It was taken at the moment he was boarding the bus. However, with his beard and sunglasses, it was hard to note any distinguishing characteristics.

  Mitchell asked, “Is it possible that old man is Ahmed?”

  “Possible? Sure, it’s possible, but I can’t be positive from these shots.”

  I turned around and addressed Sonya in Spanish. “What impression did you have of the man in the photographs?”

  Costa Rican women are called ticas. They’re known throughout Latin America for their extraordinary beauty, and Sonya was a true tica in that sense. In fact, I found it hard not to be distracted by her expressive brown eyes as she answered my questions.

  “Well …” she said, pausing as she gave some thought to my question, “he was walking to the bus very slowly.”

  “Could you tell if he needed the cane for balance or do you think it was just a prop?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure, but it looked as if he were leaning on the cane as he walked.”

  “Where was the bus headed?”

  “It was El Central, so it was going downtown.”

  Mitchell interjected. “From there, he could have caught a taxi or taken another bus to almost any place in Costa Rica. However, if the old man were really Ahmed, why would he be taking the bus? He’s got the kid’s Durango parked right outside the house.”

  I said, “Perhaps he wanted to arrive at his destination in the guise of a harmless old man who takes the bus.”

  I handed the camera back to Sonya. “Thanks for your help. You did the right thing by continuing your surveillance on the house and not following him. If he suspected someone was watching the house, getting on the bus might have been a ploy to draw you away.”

  She looked over at Mitchell and nodded. “That’s what Ben instructed us to do.”

  Mitchell glanced back at her and smiled.

  I couldn’t help but notice their eye contact continued for several seconds longer than necessary.

  As Sonya started to get out of the car, she turned back to Mitchell. “Didn’t you say there were at least two people inside the house?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “So why did he lock the front door when he left?”

  Both of us considered her question for a moment, and I waited to see if Mitchell might work it out for himself.

  A few seconds later, he looked over at me and asked, “Why would he lock the front door from the outside if there were still people inside the house?”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  * * * *

  Sonya got out of the Jeep and walked back over to the Toyota after Mitchell had instructed her to tell Josué to stay in place until he called them.

  Once Mitchell had pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic, I asked what he’d learned about the owners of the house on Alturas.

  “Property ownership here is not as transparent as it is in the States. The owner of record is listed as Banco Nacional, but that doesn’t mean an individual doesn’t own it. I’ve asked one of the property analysts at the Agency to access the bank records and find out who really owns it.”

  “That may take awhile, but I’m betting someone from one of the cartels is the real owner, and it’s one of their safe houses.”

  When Mitchell turned onto Call
e Alturas, he parked the Jeep across the street from the pastry shop, near the spot where I’d purchased the CD earlier in the day. As we sat there observing the house, he used his cell phone to check in with his second surveillance team, and I decided it was a good time to phone Carlton and get an update on Ahmed.

  After I’d verified my code with Communication Services, Carlton came on the line.

  “Did your flight arrive early?” he asked.

  “About five hours early.”

  I knew Support had already told him I’d changed my ticket, and that he wasn’t really surprised to hear from me so soon.

  But, Carlton was Carlton, and playing mind games was a specialty with him.

  He also had control issues and micromanaged his office down to the last detail, requiring all staff—from data analysts to support technicians—to give him hourly updates whenever his operatives were in the field.

  I never took exception to my handler being a control freak—except when he decided to delve into my personal life.

  He asked, “What’s your assessment? Have you seen any activity?”

  “Nothing definitive yet. No clear sightings of either Ahmed or Ernesto. An elderly male was seen leaving the house and boarding a bus about an hour ago, but he hasn’t been identified yet.”

  “What about the vehicle?”

  “It’s parked outside the house. I’m looking at it right now.”

  He asked me some additional questions about the location, specifically wanting more details on the neighborhood around Ahmed’s house. Finally, he asked if I thought there needed to be any changes in the number of team members on the extraction team.

  When I’d answered everything to his satisfaction, he said, “What’s going on with you?”

  Was it something in my voice?

  Did I give off a certain vibe when something was bugging me?

  I asked, “Did Ernesto text his girlfriend in Austin last night?”

  I heard papers rustling as Carlton shifted through the printouts. I knew he could immediately lay his hands on the reports, because, even though he was simultaneously running several covert officers, he had his oversized desk arranged in what he called his stacks.

  “I have the information right here.”

  There was dead air between us for a few seconds.

  I knew he wanted me to make some observation about how efficient he was in finding the information so quickly.

  I kept quiet.

  After a beat or two, he continued. “Yes, he contacted her last night around midnight, but he also texted her earlier today. He was texting her about an hour ago.”

  “An hour ago?”

  “That’s right,” he said. “An hour and twenty minutes ago, he texted her again. What bothers you about—”

  “I need to go. I’ll get back to you soon.”

  * * * *

  After Mitchell finished talking to his surveillance team, I asked if he had any binoculars in the car. He pointed to the floorboard behind my seat.

  “Did Carlton give you anything?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, pulling out the binoculars.

  I slowly scanned the three windows facing the street. Venetians blinds were covering all three windows, but I still tried to see if I could detect any shadows or signs of movement behind them.

  It was an exercise in futility.

  I said, “Call Josué and Sonya and get them over here. I want to send Sonya up to the front door and see who answers it. She can pretend to be a neighbor who needs to borrow something.”

  “I don’t think she—”

  “Scratch that. Have her grab some advertisements from El Supermercado and tell her to look as if she’s delivering them around the neighborhood. We’ll see if she gets a response when she delivers one to Ahmed’s door.”

  Mitchell sounded hesitant. “She’s strictly surveillance, Titus. Nothing more. She’s had no training for anything like that.”

  “Call her. I think she’ll do it.”

  Mitchell hit the speed dial on his phone, and after, listening to his conversation with her, I could tell Sonya had agreed to do it.

  The moment he hung up, he said, “She’ll do it, but I think you’re putting her at risk. What happens if Ahmed answers the door?”

  “Ahmed is not going to answer the door, Ben.”

  “How can you be certain of that?”

  “Because he dressed up as an old man and left the house an hour ago.”

  Chapter 5

  While I made my way down Calle Alturas toward the alley running behind the safe house, Mitchell and the other members of his surveillance teams positioned themselves at various locations at the front of the house.

  Even though I wasn’t particularly worried about Sonya’s safety, I still kept an eye on her as she walked down the street, holding some kind of flyer in her hand. Playing the role I’d assigned her, she stopped at a residence along the busy street and tucked one of the flyers inside the front door.

  I watched her for any signs of nervousness.

  I didn’t see any. Not one.

  Although Mitchell had indicated she wasn’t a trained agent, she nonetheless followed prescribed tradecraft. She even acted as if she didn’t know me when we passed each other on the narrow sidewalk.

  Once she’d turned the corner and headed toward the safe house, I disappeared down the alley running behind it. Barely thirty feet in, I came across a shed at the back of the property and crouched down behind it, waiting to hear from Mitchell.

  From this position, it was easy to observe the rear of the house. It looked almost identical to the front, with iron bars running across three sets of windows. The only difference appeared to be the back door. There were no iron bars protecting it, but it looked to be a solid piece of wood protected by a single deadbolt.

  Five minutes went by, and then I received a call from Mitchell.

  He sounded relieved.

  “Sonya’s leaving. No one answered the door.”

  “Just as I expected.”

  “Shall I meet you at my car?”

  “No, hold your position. I want to check something out.”

  While waiting for Mitchell’s phone call, I’d noticed the blinds covering one of the back windows were either broken or hadn’t been closed properly. Either way, there was an opening about an inch wide at the bottom of one of the windows.

  Abandoning my position near the shed, I covered the backyard in a few quick strides. Then, I cautiously moved along the side of the house in order to take a look inside.

  Suddenly, I heard a dog growling.

  I immediately looked around for any sign of the animal, but no pooch appeared.

  After a beat or two, I approached the window. The opening I had observed was low to the ground, so I squatted down in a half-crouch and attempted to look inside.

  That’s when I heard the growl again.

  This time, I realized the noise was coming from inside the house.

  However, peering through the opening in the blinds proved useless; it was simply too dark inside to be able to see anything.

  Within a few seconds, though, I realized the sound I’d heard wasn’t the sound of a dog growling.

  It was the sound a human being, someone who was dealing with an intense amount of pain.

  * * * *

  I immediately called Mitchell and had him meet me at the back of the house. While waiting for him to show up, I called Toby Bledsoe.

  He quickly agreed to do everything I asked of him.

  When Mitchell arrived in the Jeep, he pulled a crowbar out of his trunk and ordered the other members of his surveillance crew to watch the front of the house while we approached the rear.

  I withdrew my firearm and covered Mitchell, while he used the crowbar to breach the back door. As soon as we were inside, he set the crowbar down and pulled out his handgun.

  We had entered the house through the kitchen. It was in shambles, but there was no one in there to greet us.

 
; However, the smell of unwashed dishes and rotting food was almost a presence in itself. The odor permeated everything. Flies hovered over food-encrusted plates and cockroaches scurried across the countertop.

  Mitchell and I moved from the kitchen into a narrow hallway. From there, I could hear the distressful sounds I’d heard earlier. I quickly determined the noise was coming from a room at the end of the hallway.

  The door was closed, but, if the Disney poster covering the doorway were any indication, the room must have been a child’s bedroom at one time.

  I used hand signals to let Mitchell know I wanted to check out the rest of the house before entering the bedroom. He nodded his agreement, and in less than a minute, we’d cleared a sparsely furnished living area, a bathroom, and a second bedroom.

  All were unoccupied.

  As soon as we’d regrouped in the hallway, I gave Mitchell a nod, and he slammed his foot into the Disney poster. His heel hit the spot right above Mickey’s head, and the flimsy wooden door shattered.

  * * * *

  Once inside, we discovered a man writhing in pain. He was curled up in a fetal position on a blood-soaked mattress, holding his abdomen.

  That area appeared to be the source of all the blood.

  When we came through the door, his eyes popped open. Seconds later, he raised his arm as if he were beckoning us to his side or trying to fend us off—I wasn’t sure.

  I knelt down beside him and felt his pulse.

  It was weak.

  “We need to get him out to your Jeep,” I told Mitchell.

  When he didn’t answer, I turned around and saw him staring down at the body, seemingly paralyzed by the ghastly sight.

  I realized he hadn’t seen a lot of wounded men before.

  When I repeated the order, he immediately grabbed his phone and told Sonya to get the Jeep ready.

  After he hung up, I said, “See if you can find some towels or a bed sheet, anything we could wrap around his middle and stop the bleeding.”

  Mitchell went across the hallway to the bathroom and returned with a couple of dirty towels. I pressed them against the man’s wound and helped him sit up.