Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  He uncrossed his arms. “I had no idea she would go inside that warehouse.”

  “You showed her how to pick a lock, though, didn’t you?”

  He nodded his head. “She was always asking me to show her stuff like that.”

  “Encourage her to go back to school and take some law enforcement classes. Remove her from your watchers, Ben, and end the relationship before it ends your career.”

  He thought about my statement for a minute.

  Then, like any good operative when cornered, he went on offense.

  “You were involved with someone, weren’t you? What happened? Did you get caught? Did something happen to her?”

  Although he was closer to the truth than he probably imagined, I refused to answer his questions.

  I said, “You need to date someone who works for the Agency. They encourage in-house relationships just to avoid this problem.”

  I heard the flight attendant announce the boarding process, so I picked up the newspaper from the adjoining chair and grabbed my luggage.

  Mitchell said, “I have to assume all this advice you’re dishing out means you’re married. Does your wife also work for the Agency?”

  “I’m not married, Ben, at least not anymore. But no, she didn’t work for the Agency.”

  My admission brought a smile to his face. “It doesn’t sound as if you’re an expert on relationships then.”

  “I’m not,” I said, as I turned and headed toward the boarding area, “but I learned an important lesson when I was married.”

  When Mitchell caught up with me, he asked, “What was that? Don’t get married?”

  I smiled. “No, I wouldn’t mind getting married again one day, but I learned it’s best to marry a woman because you’ve fallen in love with her. Don’t marry a woman because you’ve fallen in love with her family.”

  He was quiet for a few moments. Finally, he asked, “Are you saying that little nugget of wisdom applies to Sonya and me?”

  I stopped and faced him. “Sonya doesn’t love you, Ben. She loves the work you do. She doesn’t find you irresistible. She finds your career irresistible.”

  As I walked away, I wondered if my confrontation with Mitchell would have any lasting consequences.

  It would, but not in the way I imagined.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 12

  I had a two-hour layover in Houston, so I called Communication Services at the Agency and gave them clearance code 4976. Seconds later, I was listening to the painful voicemail left by my sister.

  I was immediately struck by the sadness in Carla’s voice, but I was also chastened by the frustration I heard there.

  “Hi, Titus. It’s Carla. I guess you must have turned off your cell phone. But, come to think of it, when have you ever picked up when I’ve called you at this number?”

  For several minutes, all I heard were her sobs.

  After a couple of attempts to speak, she finally said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. What I’m calling to tell you is ...” She stopped and started over again. “What I wanted you to know was ...”

  Finally, she said, “Titus, our mother passed away this morning.”

  Then, although there was a slight catch in her voice, she no longer sounded hesitant.

  “The nurse said she died peacefully in her sleep, so I don’t believe she suffered. It’s early Tuesday morning here, and I haven’t been able to talk to the funeral home yet, but Eddie and I think the service will probably be on Friday.”

  For several seconds, she said nothing, and I couldn’t tell if she was crying again or just searching for the right words.

  Maybe it was a little of both.

  Then she said, “I know Mother would want for us to be together at a time like this, so I hope you can come home. Okay, that’s it ... goodbye.”

  I found a corner where I could have some privacy and after taking a couple of deep breaths, I called my sister.

  “Hi, Carla, it’s Titus.”

  “Oh, Titus, I’m so glad you called. You got my message?”

  “I did. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I think so. I’ve been busy trying to take care of everything, but that’s a good thing. I never knew there would be so much to do. It wasn’t like this when Daddy passed away. Mother took care of everything then.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot to think about.”

  “You have no idea. My house needs cleaning, and there are phone calls to make, and meals to think about, and, well ... it just seems pretty overwhelming to me right now.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Oh, thank God you’re coming. Do you need Eddie to pick you up? Are you flying into Flint?”

  “There’s no need for him to do that. I’m flying into Detroit, and I’ll rent a car and drive up to Flint. I should be at your house around ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  The PA system in the Houston airport announced the boarding of a Southwest flight, and Carla immediately asked, “Are you at the airport now?”

  “Yes, I just flew in from Costa Rica. I was down there doing some research for CIS.”

  “I know you’re a busy man, Titus. Thank you for coming.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  When I hung up, I felt unsettled, and I couldn’t tell if the cause of my discomfort were the lies I’d just told my sister, or the fact I was being forced to spend time with my family.

  * * * *

  After my plane landed in Detroit, I took my time disembarking from the aircraft. By doing so, I managed to be the last passenger off the airplane and the last one to arrive in the baggage claim area.

  My fellow passengers were all bunched together around a motionless carousel, waiting to see if their luggage had been one of the lucky ones and had made it to Detroit. But, since that wasn’t my problem, I focused my attention on the faces in the crowd.

  Seconds after the carousel began moving, a heavyset man, wearing a dark blue suit, appeared on the scene. He had a lanyard around his neck with a badge attached to it. The badge itself was solid black with the name “Chuck” printed in large white letters.

  Chuck was headed in the direction of the car rental counters, and he was wheeling a medium-sized gray suitcase behind him.

  I left the baggage claim area and followed him.

  Near the Hertz counter, Chuck sat down in a row of cushioned seats, and I took a seat in the same row, leaving a few spaces between us.

  He placed the gray suitcase directly in front of the vacant seats.

  As soon as I placed my copy of La Nación on the empty seat beside him, along with my bag, he slipped his hand inside his coat pocket and removed a brown manila envelope. He placed it next to the newspaper.

  Then, without saying a word, he picked up the newspaper, grabbed my bag, and walked away, leaving the gray suitcase behind.

  The Agency required a strict protocol when an intelligence officer returned to the States, especially while in the middle of an assignment. Resuming one’s real identity in the States, with plans to return to an ongoing operation as a different person, was always a bit risky.

  Although I doubted the exercise in tradecraft Chuck and I had just experienced was really necessary, Carlton’s earlier instructions to “follow the usual procedure” indicated he expected me to adhere to these safety precautions.

  Chuck had followed Agency protocol to the letter—unlike several couriers who could never resist attempting some kind of conversation with me. For whatever reason, I suspected Chuck enjoyed the small role he had just played in America’s intelligence game.

  After Courier Chuck had left the terminal, I moved to a different set of seats and opened the bulky manila envelope he’d left me. Inside, I found all the necessary documents for me to resume my life as Titus Alan Ray, an employee of CIS. There was a wallet full of cash, my current driver’s license, two credit cards, and several CIS business cards.

  The combination to the gray suitcase was attached to a me
mo—supposedly written by my secretary at CIS—informing me of the hotel reservations she’d made for me near my sister’s home in Flint. Included in the memo was the name of the car rental agency holding my reservation for an SUV.

  The last item inside the packet was my cell phone. It was the same iPhone I’d purchased for myself a few months before when I’d been forced to relocate to Norman, Oklahoma. It had some personal contact numbers on it, which I assumed was the reason Support Services had included it in the packet.

  I was tempted to use the cell phone to cancel the hotel reservation the Agency had made for me in Flint. However, I could think of no valid reason—other than sheer operational paranoia—for doing so.

  Besides that, I noticed the booking was for the Holiday Inn Express, and the thought of having their cinnamon rolls on my breakfast plate the next morning was enough to convince me to keep the reservation.

  * * * *

  After picking up my Lincoln Navigator, I programmed the GPS with the hotel’s address, located on the outskirts of Flint in a suburb called Grand Blanc. If I remembered correctly, it was not far from Carla’s house.

  I made the trip from Detroit to Flint in about an hour, and I checked into the Holiday Inn at around eight o’clock in the evening. Then, I went across the street to an I-Hop, where I devoured a huge plate of pancakes and sausage.

  As I was paying the check, one of my phones started vibrating.

  It was the Agency sat phone, and the caller ID indicated Toby Bledsoe was on the line.

  “Can you talk?” he asked.

  “Give me a second,” I said, and then I quickly walked out of the restaurant and over to a wooden bench facing the parking lot.

  “I’m clear now.”

  “I called to give you an update on my meeting with Hernando.”

  “Did he know anything about Ahmed?”

  “Not directly, but he said something big went down yesterday.”

  “Like what?”

  “The cartel conducts its business at a seafood restaurant in the San Rafael district, and Hernando said his boss left the restaurant around three o’clock in the afternoon and didn’t return until after closing at two this morning. He told me such behavior was unusual for Luca—that’s his boss’ name—because he always tries to be there for closing. Hernando said Luca didn’t give him any kind of explanation for his absence when he returned.”

  “That’s not much to go on, but his absence does fit the timeline of when Ahmed left the safe house and when Sonya saw the men unloading the weapons from the Durango. What about Sonya’s photographs of the men in the warehouse?”

  “Hernando was a big help there. He recognized all four of them. They all work for Luca. He didn’t know their addresses, but he said he could probably find them.”

  “Did Hernando recognize Ahmed when you showed him his photograph?”

  “Negative. He also said they hadn’t received any passports from Venezuela in over a month. I told him to call me if anything unusual occurred, or if a passport arrived with Ahmed’s picture on it.”

  “So the flow of passports from Venezuela has dried up?”

  “It looks that way. That probably means Ahmed hasn’t left Costa Rica yet.”

  “That’s good. My job will be a whole lot easier if I know the name Ahmed will be using once he gets to Venezuela.”

  Bledsoe was quiet for a moment, and then I realized what I’d said.

  Long-distance travel sometimes skewed my focus, and I knew if Bledsoe hadn’t lost his edge, he’d catch my slip.

  He asked, “Are you thinking of letting Ahmed leave Costa Rica and travel to Venezuela?”

  Obviously, Bledsoe was still sharp. However, I detected only curiosity in his voice, no disapproval, so I just ran with it.

  “I might as well confess, Toby. I’ve been giving it some thought. I realize it’s going to be difficult to convince Carlton not to grab Ahmed while he’s still in San José, but it could be beneficial to find out what he’s up to.”

  A family had arrived at the I-Hop in a mini-van, and when they got out of the car, two of their four kids started chasing each other around the bench where I was seated.

  “What’s your rationale for letting him go?”

  Before I could answer his question, one of the kids accidently ran into my bum leg, the one I’d shattered in Tehran. When I groaned, Bledsoe must have heard me.

  “You don’t want to discuss it?” he asked.

  “No, that’s not it. Just a second.” I got up from the bench and started walking down the street toward the intersection.

  “To put it simply, Toby. I’d like to know who’s going to be Ahmed’s next hit. It would be useful to identify the person Hezbollah considers to be an enemy, especially since I believe Ahmed has been hired to assassinate someone in Venezuela.”

  “I see your point. Why would Hezbollah send an expensive hit man halfway around the world to assassinate someone in Venezuela? His target would have to be someone important, someone the Agency might be interested in.”

  “Right, and if I’m hearing you correctly, you don’t think it’s a bad idea to follow Ahmed to Venezuela.”

  Bledsoe didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he said, “Look, Titus, I don’t think it’s a particularly bad idea, but I’m not sure it’s a particularly good idea either.”

  I crossed the intersection at the green light and turned into the hotel’s parking lot. When I opened the door to the hotel lobby, I asked him, “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

  “For starters, even if you knew the name Ahmed was using to get into Venezuela, you’d have no idea where he was headed once he got there. If you ran into trouble with the Venezuela authorities—who, by the way, are extremely hostile to the U.S. right now—they’d put you in prison and forget about you. I doubt the Agency would have much success in getting you out either.”

  “Something to consider.”

  “On the other hand, although Costa Rica would undoubtedly slap your hand if you got into trouble here, they would simply send you home. I think it might be far more prudent for you to capture Ahmed here in Costa Rica and then let the interrogators at Gitmo uncover the name on Ahmed’s hit list.”

  I pushed the elevator for the second floor and replied, “You’re not telling me—”

  “Titus? Is that you?”

  I turned around to see who’d called my name.

  There was a note of alarm in Bledsoe’s voice. “Did someone recognize you?”

  “Yes, I just ran into someone I know here at the hotel. We’ll talk later.” Just before hanging up, though, I referenced the weather, an Agency code assuring him there was no danger. “I’m glad it’s not raining there today.”

  As I ended the call, Uncle Harold encompassed me in a bear hug.

  “Uncle Harold,” I said, trying to extricate myself, “I had no idea you were staying here.”

  “We got in about an hour ago,” he said, looking me over. “What kind of shirt is that? Are you living in the Bahamas now?”

  Before heading over to the I-Hop earlier, I hadn’t bothered to change out of the wardrobe, which Legends had chosen for me for the persona of Rafael Arroyo. Now, I realized I must have looked out of place this far north of the border.

  “I’ve been down in Costa Rica doing some research for my job,” I said.

  “Are you still working for that consortium thing?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I still work for the Consortium for International Studies. It’s called CIS.”

  Even though I’d already pushed the elevator button once, Harold reached over and pushed it two more times in quick succession. “It’s in Maryland, right?”

  “College Park.”

  The elevator arrived, and we both got on.

  “Which floor?” he asked.

  “The second.”

  “Dorothy and I are up on the third floor,” he said, pushing buttons two and three. “I believe that’s the floor above you.”

  “You�
��re right,” I said. “The third floor is one floor above the second floor.”

  Uncle Harold had aged a lot since I’d last seen him, and I briefly wondered if his mental capacities had undergone some changes as well. While his hair was still full, it was now completely white, and multitudes of short white hairs were pushing their way out of his ears. He had probably put on at least thirty pounds.

  After manning the elevator console, he turned towards me, and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Titus. I know Sharon’s death didn’t come as a shock, but it’s still hard to lose your mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the elevator reached the second floor, I quickly stepped off.

  Harold shouted after me. “Maybe Dorothy and I will see you downstairs at breakfast in the morning.”

  “Maybe,” I said, waving goodbye.

  Seconds later, when the elevator doors were just inches shy of closing, Harold stuck his hand between the narrow opening.

  The doors immediately jerked opened again.

  “You know,” he said, holding the doors at bay, “I can’t get over how much you remind me of your father. You look just like him. Same hair. Same features.”

  I mumbled an incoherent reply, and Uncle Harold nodded his head, as if my words made complete sense to him. Once the elevator doors finally closed, I escaped to my room and collapsed on the bed.

  Right then, a Venezuelan prison cell didn’t sound so bad.

  Chapter 13

  Wednesday, June 6

  The next morning, after a few seconds of fiddling with the room’s mini-coffeepot, I brewed myself a cup of coffee. Then, I took the Gideon Bible from the nightstand drawer and opened it to one of the Psalms.

  Reading the Bible was a habit I’d developed after returning to the States from Tehran. Every morning, I’d go out to the sunroom in the house the Agency had rented for me in Norman, and I’d begin my day by reading a chapter from the book of Psalm and a chapter from the gospel of John.

  When I’d been living with the Iranian Christians in Tehran, I’d noticed that reading the Bible had seemed to make a difference in their lives, and I believed it would make a difference in mine as well.