By the time Eddie had entered college, his hairline had started receding, and now, his shiny top was bordered on both sides by a slight fringe of gray hair. He’d been a big guy in high school, but today he had less muscle and more fat on his large frame.
His son, Brian, who was built like him but had his mother’s blond hair, followed his dad out to the redwood deck. I waited for Uncle Harold to maneuver himself out of his chair, and then both of us followed Brian outside and stood around Eddie’s enormous gas grill.
The guys bantered about the nice sunny weather, the neighbor’s new swimming pool, and the bad economy. About the time I’d exhausted my repertoire of banality, Carla opened the patio doors.
“Titus,” she said, “the funeral home just called. They want to meet with us this afternoon, and I told them we’d be there at two o’clock.”
No one spoke for several seconds, sobered by the reality of why we’d all been brought together in the first place.
“So the funeral will definitely be on Friday?” I asked.
Carla pushed the door all the way open and stepped out on the deck. “Yes, the funeral director confirmed everything last night. It’s going to be at ten o’clock Friday morning in their chapel.”
“Which funeral home are you using?” Uncle Harold asked. “I hope it’s not Guthrie’s. They didn’t put out enough chairs at Scotty Welborn’s funeral, and I had to stand for the entire service. I got so tired, I just knew I was gonna pass out.”
“No, Uncle Harold,” Carla said, “I told you yesterday we’re using Brown’s on East Hill Road. If you remember, they also did Dad’s service.”
I asked, “Why are we meeting with the funeral director this afternoon? I thought everything had already been planned.”
“Mother just chose her casket and arranged for her burial plot to be next to Dad’s. You and I will need to sit down with the director and decide about the music and who’s going to speak at the service.”
“I’ll say a few words,” Uncle Harold said.
“Titus and I will figure everything out this afternoon, Uncle Harold, but thank you for your offer.”
When Carla turned to go back inside the house, I saw her give Eddie a knowing look. I wasn’t exactly sure what that look meant, but, if I had to guess, I would say having Harold speak at the funeral was the last thing she wanted.
I asked Eddie, “How’s your work going?”
I tried to think of the name of Eddie’s pharmaceutical company, but it completely escaped me, and I wondered why I could remember an entire line of refrigeration units and not remember the name of the company where my brother-in-law had worked for the past fifteen years.
Eddie smiled. “It’s been great. I was made district manager a couple of years ago. Now, I’m in charge of twenty sales reps, and I don’t have to travel as much as I did before.”
Brian said, “Dad won a trip to Las Vegas last year, and we all went with him.” He leaned over and punched his dad’s arm. “All the players on the team were totally jealous.”
I said, “Good for you. I hadn’t heard that.”
Of course I hadn’t heard that.
I’d been living in Iran at the time, and during the two years I’d been there, I hadn’t spoken to Carla, although I’d arranged for the Agency to send gifts in my name at the appropriate times—a fruit basket at Easter and gift cards at Christmas.
After Eddie had finished flipping the burgers on the grill, he asked, “And you? Are you still working at that think tank in Maryland?”
“Yeah,” Uncle Harold said, answering for me, “he’s still doing research at some place called CIS.”
Brian shook his head. “That’s not right. That’s not what Titus does.”
My heart did a couple of cartwheels.
“Yes, it is,” Harold insisted. “He told me so yesterday.”
I tried to sound calm. “I’m still with CIS.”
“Yeah, okay,” Brian said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
“It sounds like you don’t think I work there anymore.”
“Oh, I know you still work at CIS, but the last time I looked you up, their website listed you as a Senior Fellow instead of a Research Analyst.”
I immediately relaxed. “You’re right, Brian. I was recently promoted to Senior Fellow a few months ago. You’ve been checking up on me, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say I was checking up on you, but since my major’s in political science, I was hoping to do an internship in Washington this summer, and I thought you might know someone there. That’s why I looked you up. You’re listed under Middle Eastern Programs in the CIS directory. That’s not my focus, and I decided you probably didn’t know anyone important enough to help me find a job.”
He was right.
I didn’t know anyone important.
And what’s more, no one important knew me.
I planned on keeping it that way.
“I can’t think of anyone right now, but I’ll certainly give it some thought.”
Harold said, “Congratulations on your promotion.”
My promotion to Senior Fellow had been engineered by Support Services at the Agency, because all senior fellows at CIS were required to publish scholarly works on a regular basis. To that end, I’d been teamed up with a professor at the University of Oklahoma to coauthor a book on the Middle East, thus giving me a plausible reason for my relocation to Norman during my medical leave.
Later, the Agency made sure that book never saw the light of day.
I said, “Thanks, Uncle Harold. I know you received your share of promotions while working for Knoll.”
The moment Harold began describing how he’d been a top salesman for the company, my Agency phone started vibrating. I decided it was probably not the best time to answer it.
“I believe these puppies are done,” Eddie said, transferring the grilled meat patties to a plate. “Brian, tell your mother lunch is served.”
I crossed the deck and opened the patio doors. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay for lunch. There’s some work I need to get done back at the hotel.”
When I showed up in the kitchen, Carla asked, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve made some lemonade.”
“Thanks, Carla, but I’ve got to get back to the hotel. I promise I’ll meet you at the funeral home this afternoon at two.”
“You’re not staying for lunch?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
As I walked out the front door, I heard Uncle Harold say, “I guess he didn’t like his burgers burnt.”
Chapter 15
As soon as I got inside the Navigator, I checked the caller ID on my phone. The screen indicated the call had come in from Bledsoe. Since he hadn’t called me back immediately, I knew whatever he had to tell me wasn’t red-flagged, so I drove the short distance back to my hotel before returning his phone call.
The moment I got inside my room, though, I sat down on the edge of the bed and punched in Bledsoe’s number.
I told him, “I was with my family when you called. I’m clear now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“We caught a break.”
“What happened?”
“When Hernando arrived at the restaurant this morning, he was called into Luca’s office and given a package to deliver. His instructions were to go down to the docks at Limón at six o’clock this evening and present the package to a Señor Montilla. He’ll be aboard a yacht there.”
“Montilla? Ernesto’s last name? That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Not likely.”
“Does the yacht ring any bells for you?”
“Yeah. It’s El Mano Fierro, and it belongs to the cartel, but the port authorities have a hands-off attitude toward it.”
“I’m assuming you had Hernando meet you somewhere before he delivered that package?”
“Yes, and when we opened the pack—”
Bledsoe stopped himself in mid-sentence
and started speaking to someone.
“Who’s with you, Toby?”
“Ben’s here. We’re driving to Limón now. We want to be in place before Hernando arrives at the yacht.”
I felt frustrated I wasn’t in the car with them and started pacing around the cramped room. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What was in the package?”
“It contained a Venezuelan passport for Ahmed. The passport identified him as Alberto Estéban Montilla. Along with the passport, there was a substantial amount of Venezuelan currency—about fifty thousand in U.S. dollars—and a semi-automatic pistol.”
“So it’s confirmed Ahmed is headed for Venezuela.”
“Unless the package is some sort of ruse, there’s no doubt about it.”
“It’s no ruse. I’m certain Ahmed has a job to do in Venezuela.”
“When I gave the Ops Center this information, they said I’d be hearing from them shortly. That makes me think Douglas is putting together a snatch and grab for tonight.”
I sat down on the bed and took a deep breath.
“That can’t happen, Toby. As much as I want Ahmed in custody for killing Simon Wassermann, I’m convinced the Agency would gain some valuable intel if he were allowed to make the trip to Venezuela.”
“If that’s what you believe, then you’d better get on the phone and make your case to Douglas right now.”
“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“Good luck with that.”
I heard him chuckle when he said goodbye.
* * * *
After I got off the phone with Bledsoe, I took a few minutes before getting in touch with Carlton. Even though I knew my time was short, I also knew I needed to make a few preparations before making the phone call.
Winning an argument with Carlton was never easy; however, preparation was the key to doing so.
The first thing I did was boot up the computer Support Services had so thoughtfully nestled among the fresh shirts and underwear in the suitcase Chuck had left for me.
Then, after pulling up the Agency maps of the Caribbean, I located the city of Limón on Costa Rica’s eastern coast and traced the route the yacht’s captain might take if he were told to set a course for Venezuela.
Although I wasn’t completely convinced Ahmed planned to use the yacht to get to Venezuela, I wanted to see what coastal cities were located along the way and where the boat might find safe harbor if he did.
The possibilities seemed endless.
Besides Venezuela’s numerous coastal cities, there were several large islands belonging to Venezuela, and any one of them could be potential destinations for the yacht.
I didn’t come to any conclusions from my search, but I definitely formulated some ideas about where Ahmed might be headed.
The next thing I did was use my Level 1 access to get into the Agency archives. I went back two years and did a search for field reports from Sam Wylie, the chief of station in Venezuela.
When Bledsoe and I had been reminiscing about our Nicaraguan days, he’d mentioned that Wylie, who had worked alongside the Sandinista rebels, was now the COS in Venezuela. If anyone had any insight about Ahmed’s target in Venezuela, it might be Wylie.
There was no way for me to talk to Sam Wylie directly—at least not officially—because the Agency had strict rules regarding a covert officer from one division contacting a station chief from another division about operational matters. It could be done, but permission had to be granted first.
In my case, that permission would have to come from Carlton, who, in turn, would have to contact C. J. Salazar. The reason Salazar would have to be involved was because Sam Wylie was C. J.’s man in Venezuela.
Of course, the Sam Wylie I knew in Nicaragua would dispute that he was anybody’s man.
I didn’t have time to go up the chain of command, so I did the next best thing—I looked through Wylie’s field reports for the past two years and scanned them for any references to Hezbollah.
There were plenty of notations.
This didn’t surprise me, because I knew Iran had been fostering close ties with Venezuela for years, encouraging Hezbollah to build mosques, community centers, and neighborhood watch groups throughout the region. Refugees from Lebanon and Syria—all loyal to Hezbollah—had also been allowed to immigrate to Venezuela, and most of them had settled in areas where there was already a substantial Muslim population.
In several memos, Wylie appeared alarmed at how many people in high government positions were supportive of Hezbollah, professing hatred for both the U.S. and Israel. He described how Hezbollah had been increasing its money-laundering activities on behalf of Iran because of international sanctions imposed on them for their continuing nuclear program.
While all the reports were disturbing, Sam Wylie’s main concern seemed to be a training camp Hezbollah had built. It was labeled a “youth camp” by a Venezuelan cabinet official and was located on Margarita Island, just off the northeastern coast of Venezuela.
When I picked up the phone to call Carlton, I noticed I had less than forty minutes before I was due to meet Carla at the funeral home.
I made the call anyway.
* * * *
The conversation with Carlton didn’t get off to a good start.
First, I had to wait a long time before he came on the line. Then, there was a definite note of irritation in his voice when he greeted me.
“Why aren’t you with your family?”
“I’m meeting my sister at the funeral home in a few minutes. What’s wrong, Douglas?”
“Nothing’s wrong, but you need to make this short. I was just about to start a briefing with the Clear Signal operations team when I had to excuse myself to take your call.”
Not good.
Douglas Carlton hated to be interrupted.
The only thing he hated worse was keeping someone waiting.
Despite the odds of reaping a good harvest, I plowed ahead anyway. “That’s why I called you, Douglas. I wanted to discuss the operation with you.”
“Proceed.”
Carlton always required facts before making a decision, so I began by reciting what we both knew.
“When Ahmed flew into Mexico City, the Zeta cartel immediately took charge of him. They provided him with a weapon and helped him enter the States. When he returned to Mexico after killing Wassermann, the cartel took care of him again. Then, when he and Ernesto headed to Costa Rica to pick up his new passport, he transported a carload of weapons for the cartel. When he—”
“Titus, why did you call me? I already know the cartel is helping Ahmed. What’s going on?”
I reversed engines and switched over to a different track.
“When you go back to your briefing, I’d like for you to ask the team a question: Whose face will Ahmed be putting in the crosshairs of his rifle if he makes it to Venezuela?”
I paused a few seconds to see if he wanted to comment.
His silence indicated otherwise.
I hurried on. “The person he’s after is either an enemy of Hezbollah or one of our own; perhaps even someone from our own embassy. If his target is Hezbollah’s enemy, that person could potentially be our friend or, at the very least, an interesting contact for us. On the other hand, if Ahmed is after an American, then security procedures need to be put in place, because grabbing him tonight isn’t going to stop Hezbollah from trying again, and the next time, we might not have the advantage of knowing the identity of the assassin.”
“So you—”
“Or consider this: what if Ahmed has been hired to assassinate the president of Venezuela and then blame it on the U.S.? I know it’s way above my pay grade to decide such things, but I believe it would be in our country’s best interests to discover the identity of Ahmed’s target as soon as possible.”
Whenever Carlton disagreed with someone, he had the ability to make his eyes look twice their normal size. At the moment, I found myself praying for his eyes to be so small that ti
ny pinpricks of light would find it impossible to find their way inside.
I waited.
All I heard was silence.
I added, “I’m finished now.”
“Let me see if I heard you correctly.”
He recited the points I’d made in a slow, methodical voice. “Although we know exactly where Ahmed will be at six o’clock tonight, you’re convinced it would be more expedient for us to let this terrorist go to Venezuela and make his hit. Is that correct?”
“Yes, except for the part about making the hit. I want to prevent Ahmed from carrying out his contract.”
“So, if we let Ahmed leave Costa Rica, you want us to track him to his destination, identify his target, and—forgive me if I’m being too presumptuous here—send you in to save the day before he assassinates someone. Am I still correctly defining your wishes?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
When he hung up, I barely had ten minutes left before I was to meet my sister at the funeral home.
Chapter 16
When I entered the lobby of Brown’s Funeral Home at exactly two o’clock, my senses were immediately assaulted by the overwhelming smell of cut flowers.
They were everywhere.
A fresh bouquet—as tall as a fire hydrant—was positioned on an elaborately carved wooden table in the center of the foyer. Smaller arrangements were decorating end tables in the seating area.
Carla was seated all by herself on a small couch in a corner of the room, and I noticed she’d changed out of her jeans and frumpy shirt and put on a pair of black slacks and a flowery blue blouse.
“You’re right on time,” she said, scooting over and making room for me on the couch.
“You sound surprised.”
She smiled at me. “Not really. You may be a busy man, but you’ve never broken a promise to me.”
“What about the promise I made back in the third grade—the one about building a rocket ship to fly us to Mars?”
She laughed. “You were nine years old then. That one doesn’t count.”
“Give me some points, though. I did give it a try.”
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