It was pitch black.
After Mitchell switched on the flashlight he’d brought along, I realized we were in the employee break room Sonya had mentioned. Although we didn’t think anyone else had entered the building since Sonya had left, we drew our weapons and moved cautiously down the hallway toward the main warehouse area, stopping every few minutes to listen for anyone moving around inside.
The building was hot and stuffy and smelled like a combination of sweaty gym clothes and sourdough. The condition of the building didn’t seem to bother the rats, who scattered in every direction once the light hit them.
When we entered the manager’s office, the first thing I noticed was Sonya’s handprints in the layers of dust covering the heavy wooden desk. I grabbed some newspaper off the floor and smeared the prints. Then, I laid the crumpled newspaper back on top of the desk in an attempt to cover up anything I’d missed.
“Really?” Mitchell commented in a half-whisper. “You’re also a neat freak?”
I was.
But, that wasn’t why I’d cleaned the prints off the desk.
I whispered back, “If they decide to come back for the Durango, I’d rather no one notice someone’s been in here recently.”
I took one last look around the office and then signaled for Mitchell to open the office door leading out to the main area of the warehouse. We moved along the interior walls, skirting around a bunch of wooden shelves, which, despite their rickety condition, were still standing.
When a couple of large, slick rats surprised Mitchell by scurrying across the path in front of him, he readied his weapon as if to shoot, but then, when he recognized the rodents weren’t a threat, he started breathing again.
It was soon evident no one had been left behind to stand guard, so, once we reached the warehouse floor, I had Mitchell switch his flashlight to full mode.
For a few seconds, both of us stood there in the silence looking at what the men had taken out of the car’s interior in order to get at the weapons inside.
On the floor in front of us were the SUV’s backseats and most of the floorboards, along with whatever remained of the side panels. Scattered among the various parts were food wrappers, water bottles, and soda cans—residual remains of Ahmed and Ernesto’s cross-country trek.
“See what’s left in the trunk,” I told Mitchell. “I’ll take the front seat.”
As I slid in the passenger seat, I took out my phone and used the light from the screen to examine the interior.
I spotted a can of Mountain Dew sitting in a cup holder.
But, that was it. There was nothing else in the front seats.
I searched beneath the seats.
Still, nothing.
However, when I opened the glove box, I saw it contained several maps, and I took them out and spread them across my lap.
At that moment, Mitchell stuck his head through the driver’s side window. He was holding a Smith & Wesson revolver.
“They missed this.”
“Sloppy.”
“Also these.”
He showed me two boxes of .50-caliber cartridges.
“Obviously, we’re not dealing with the brightest bulbs in the chandelier.”
“Heavy duty stuff,” Mitchell said, hefting the boxes of ammo in his hand, “but I didn’t see a .50-caliber weapon in Sonya’s photos.”
“Put those back exactly where you found them. If Ahmed carried some type of inventory list, someone will show up here looking for them, and like I said, I don’t want them to know anyone was here.”
I continued to sift through the maps, looking for any markings or notations on them. However, it didn’t take me long to realize I needed to do a more thorough examination in a location with better lighting.
The moment I walked around to the back of the vehicle, Mitchell’s phone started vibrating. He listened for only a few seconds, and then he immediately hung up.
“Let’s go,” he said, moving toward the manager’s office. “Sonya said a car just pulled into the parking lot.”
* * * *
When we arrived back at Mitchell’s Jeep, Sonya said the older model black Mercedes she’d seen had never even pulled up to the warehouse doors. It had simply turned around in the parking lot and exited onto Avenida Pacifica.
“Sorry,” she said, “I guess I blew that.”
“No,” I said, “alerting us was the right thing to do.”
Sonya pointed to the maps in my hand. “Did you find something?”
“I’m not sure. Right now, I’m convinced our best chance of locating Ahmed is to identify the men in the pictures you took.”
Mitchell said, “I’ll upload the images and send them to the Ops Center as soon as I get back to the embassy.”
“While you’re at it, send Toby a copy, and I’ll let him know what happened here tonight. Make sure you maintain surveillance on this place and the safe house for at least the next forty-eight hours.”
As I pulled away from Los Mojitos, I phoned Bledsoe. After I’d summarized the evening’s events, I asked, “Can we still meet for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Come out to the house. I’ll fix us an omelet.”
“Are you sure? It’s almost midnight.”
“I’m sure. My wife’s in California, and except for George, I’m all alone out here. The address is 222 San Rafael. That’s about seven miles due west of the embassy.”
“I’m on my way.” Just before hanging up, I added, “Check your computer. Ben is sending you some photographs, and I’m sure they’ll keep you awake tonight.”
“Why should tonight be any different? I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I heard you were coming to Costa Rica.”
Chapter 10
When I located the address Bledsoe had given me, I wasn’t surprised to see he lived in a gated complex behind a concrete brick wall. In fact, I expected it.
Bledsoe was an American Embassy employee, and he looked like a rich American, which made him the perfect target for terrorists and kidnappers.
What I didn’t expect, however, was the massive house and gardens behind the wall. It appeared as if the Bledsoes were living the good life in Costa Rica.
As soon as I parked in the circle drive, Bledsoe appeared at the front door holding the collar of very large, black Doberman.
He must have noticed my hesitation when I got out of the car.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “As long as you’re not threatening me, he’s a very friendly dog.”
“Should I say something like ‘I come in peace’ so Fido can be assured of my true intentions?”
“Like any good bodyguard, he can read your true intentions.”
When I crossed the threshold, I carefully eased my way past man and beast in what I hoped was a non-threatening manner.
After entering the house without incident, I followed Bledsoe through the marbled-floor vestibule and down some steps to a sunken living room, where a contemporary L-shaped sofa took up the majority of the space. The couch faced a big-screen television set, and just before Bledsoe picked up the remote control and turned it off, I saw a late-night comedian smiling at the audience and scratching his head.
“You’re free to make yourself comfortable here,” he said, “or you can come out to the kitchen with me.”
I pointed at the dog sniffing at my leg and asked, “Where’s your friend going to be?”
“George, come here.”
The dog immediately walked over and stood beside Bledsoe.
“Get in your bed.”
George headed toward an overstuffed pillow in a corner of the room. After making a couple of tight circles—as if he were chasing his tail—he plopped down on the bed with his head between his paws. While the dog no longer appeared menacing, his eyes continued to track me.
“George? You named your dog George?”
Bledsoe shrugged. “Margaret named him. When she and the trainer went to pick him up from the breeder, he was fighting with all the othe
r puppies in the litter, so she named him George after George Foreman. He’s never lost his aggressiveness, especially when he’s crossed.”
“In that case, I’ll come out to the kitchen and watch you cook.”
I followed Bledsoe through an archway into a very large and very white kitchen.
Bledsoe picked up a half-filled wine glass, and after taking a sip, he pointed over to a wine bottle and said, “Pour yourself a glass, and I’ll finish up our omelets.”
As he started to take a drink, he stopped himself. “I just remembered. You don’t drink, do you?”
I shook my head. “Not really. But I’d love a cup of coffee.”
“Help yourself.”
I walked over to a black coffeemaker sitting all by itself on the white countertop and brewed myself a cup of coffee.
Then, I took a look around the ample kitchen.
The simplicity of its design appealed to me.
The cabinets were white, and against the backdrop of the black appliances, looked especially stark. Besides the coffeepot, no other small appliances, containers, or utensils were on the gleaming white countertop. The color palette, plus the uncluttered look, was futuristic, minimalist, and seemed out of sync with Bledsoe, who was wearing a stained knit shirt, lounge pants, and looked worn out.
I slid onto a barstool. “I have to admit, Toby, I never would have pictured you living in this type of house.”
He chuckled. “Me neither. We bought this place from the owner of a coffee plantation who went bankrupt. When Margaret’s father passed away three years ago, she kept his houses in New York and Los Angeles, but, even so, she decided she wanted a much grander house for us here in Costa Rica.” He shrugged. “What can I say? It’s her money.”
He glanced over at me, as if he thought I might like to make some comment about his wife or her money.
I didn’t.
He shook his head. “The funny thing is, now that she’s been trying to run her father’s businesses in the States, she’s seldom here.”
He transferred the omelet onto a plate. “Her father would be so proud of her now. She’s finally become the son he always wanted.”
When we’d worked together in Nicaragua, Bledsoe had never had many kind words to say about his wealthy father-in-law, who, according to him, seldom missed a chance to berate his only daughter for marrying a government employee and rejecting the kind of life he’d always planned for her.
Bledsoe laid a plate in front of me. It was filled with a large omelet covered in salsa, along with a couple of fresh pineapple slices dripping in juice. He brought an identical plate over to the kitchen bar for himself and sat down beside me.
“What about your father?” Bledsoe asked. “Are you still estranged from him?”
The question stunned me for a moment.
I seldom talked about my father now, but, when I’d first gone to work for the Agency, the childhood memories were still painful, and I wasn’t as hesitant to share them. Since Bledsoe and I had been stuck together for long stretches of time, my relationship with my father had made it into many of our conversations back then.
My father, Gerald, had been an alcoholic, and even though he hadn’t been physically abusive toward my mother, my sister Carla, or even me, I had always felt his emotional detachment was a form of cruelty.
He had worked on an assembly line at a GM plant in Flint, Michigan, where I’d grown up, and he’d provided a good living for us. However, on his way home from work each evening, he would always stop off at a neighborhood bar. When he got home a couple of hours later, he would have a few more drinks, and then he’d finish off the evening by drinking himself to sleep.
My mother blamed his drinking on the three years he’d spent with the Army in Vietnam.
Growing up, I’d desperately wanted my father to pay attention to me, and I’d often wondered if I was the one responsible for his aloofness. Later, I realized drowning his memories in booze was his own choice, and it had absolutely nothing to do with me.
In my late teens, my father and I had stopped speaking to each other altogether. By the time I’d joined the CIA, we were completely estranged.
I answered Bledsoe’s question. “He passed away in ’92 of liver cancer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Where were you? Were you able to attend his funeral?”
“I was in Iraq. It happened during the first Gulf war, and Douglas had just been named to head the Middle Eastern desk. He brought me home when he got the notification. He didn’t know me very well then, and at the time, he didn’t explain why I was being pulled out. If he had, I would have insisted on staying and finishing the operation. There was no need for me to be at my father’s funeral.”
Bledsoe surprised me by reaching over and placing his hand on my shoulder. “No, Titus, you would have regretted not saying goodbye. I’m glad you had closure.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
I didn’t really agree with him, though.
Determined to change the subject, I said, “This is a great omelet. Not as good as the steak you promised me, though.”
Bledsoe started to reply, but then, his computer beeped, and he immediately got off the bar stool and walked across the room to read the flashing red alert message.
“Time to get to work,” he said. “Ben just sent me the photographs from Sonya’s camera.”
* * * *
While Bledsoe pulled up the images on his computer screen, I brewed myself another cup of coffee. Then, I sat down beside him and viewed the photographs for the second time.
Looking at the images on his computer screen—instead of the tiny monitor on Sonya’s camera—gave me a better feel of how the men had worked together to strip down the Durango and unload the weapons. I suspected this wasn’t the first time the men had engaged in such an activity.
Each one appeared to have an assigned task, with the oldest guy in the group inspecting the guns as they were hauled from the vehicle’s secret compartments. I noticed he was also the one who appeared to be giving the orders.
After we viewed the last frame, I asked Bledsoe, “Recognize any of those guys?”
“No, but the tat on the big guy’s bicep is a Zeta symbol.”
“So the drug cartel has expanded its operations into gun smuggling now?”
“Well, sorta. I knew they were supplying arms to the FARC guerillas in Colombia in exchange for a cut of the drug trade—that’s probably where those weapons are headed—but, I didn’t know San José was one of their transfer points. The smugglers usually stay away from the big cities and stick to the countryside.”
“Hezbollah might have made them a special deal because of Ahmed.”
“Or maybe this shipment is the first of many more to come.”
“That’s possible. It didn’t look like the warehouse had been used for a long time, yet, someone had installed new entry and exit doors just recently. That should tell you something.”
Bledsoe took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “When Salazar hears the cartel is running guns through Costa Rica, I may get the extra personnel I’ve been requesting.”
I took my empty coffee mug over to the sink and rinsed it out. “Look, Toby, as much as I’d like to help you put these drug traffickers out of business for good, I’m only here to find Ahmed. My only interest in the cartel is their connection to him. The analysts at the Agency believe Hezbollah made an agreement with the cartel to get Ahmed into the States, and now, it would appear Ahmed’s part of the bargain was to pick up a load of weapons and transport them here for the cartel’s operations in South America.”
“It’s a typical exchange of service contract and a cartel trademark. Unfortunately, they’ve been having lots of success building their illegal enterprises this way.”
“Ahmed didn’t come down here for the sole purpose of making a weapons’ delivery. Ernesto specifically said Ahmed was here to pick up a new passport.”
“Like I told you earlier, some
one in the Venezuela government is supplying either the Syrians or the Iranians with illegal passports, and this could be how Ahmed is getting his new one.”
“Maybe there’s a problem with Ahmed’s new passport, and he refused to release the weapons shipment until he had it in hand. That may be the reason he’s been here for over a week now.”
Bledsoe nodded. “So you think he has his new passport now?”
“That’s certainly possible, but my gut says no. Ernesto’s death messed things up for him, so he may have given up the weapons in exchange for another safe house. When Ernesto talked about the passport, the impression I got was that Ahmed was still waiting for it to arrive.”
I gestured at the images on Bledsoe’s computer. “Either way, Toby, I believe the key to finding Ahmed is for you to meet with your cartel asset. You need to show him Sonya’s photographs and see if he recognizes any of the men in them. Ask him if he knows where they’re staying. And be sure to show him a photo of Ahmed. Tell him—”
“I know how to run my own asset, Titus.”
Whether it was Bledsoe’s angry voice or the sudden movement he made when he got up from his chair, the Doberman in the next room suddenly lunged from his bed and headed toward me.
Bledsoe rushed over to the archway and ordered the dog to stand down, and George immediately turned and headed back to his bed.
“I apologize, Titus,” Bledsoe said, “He thought I was being threatened.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve been operating solo for a long time now, and I’m used to running my own show.”
“And giving orders.”
“Well, that too.”
“No harm done. Besides, I always get cranky when I haven’t had enough sleep.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve already signaled Hernando I need to meet with him, and I can’t do more than that without putting him at risk. In the meantime, the Agency analysts may turn up something on the men in those photographs. It could take a few days, but I’m sure we’ll find Ahmed eventually.”
Two Days in Caracas Page 7
