Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  She suddenly had a faraway look in her eye. “You used to love astronomy. I remember how you saved for years to buy that huge telescope.”

  “Yeah, it took me six years to have enough.”

  “Whatever happened to it?”

  “Would you believe I still have it?”

  “Really? After all these years?” She shook her head. “You’ve always been a man full of surprises.”

  For years, I’d kept the telescope and a few other personal possessions in a storage locker near Langley, because I was seldom in the States long enough to have a permanent residence. However, when I’d been put on medical leave for a year, I’d retrieved the old telescope and taken it with me to Oklahoma.

  Now, I pictured it sitting in the sunroom in Norman, and I had a sudden flashback of Nikki standing next to it while I explained all the focusing options to her.

  “It’s nice to see you smile, Titus,” Carla said. “You look happier than the last time I saw you.”

  “Well, there’s a reason for that. It’s—”

  I stopped in mid-sentence because an impeccably dressed man in a dark gray suit suddenly rounded the corner and came toward us. His attire put my Agency’s clothes to shame. In fact, I felt downright shabby compared to him.

  The man had sharp, chiseled features, and the square glasses he wore did little to soften the angles of his face.

  He addressed Carla first. “Are you Carla Simpson?”

  Both of us got up from the couch, and Carla said, “Yes, and this is my brother, Titus Ray.”

  “I’m the funeral director, Marvin Brown. I’m the person taking care of your mother.”

  We shook hands, and then he said, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Please follow me.”

  * * * *

  The moment Carla and I were seated in his office, he gave each of us a packet of materials. The documents were placed inside a dark green folder with the name of the funeral home embossed across the front.

  Brown spent the next thirty minutes explaining the items inside, going over the details of what kind of casket our mother had chosen, of where the burial plot was located, and of all the expenses associated with conducting the funeral.

  After consulting a handwritten sheet of paper, he said. “When your mother planned her funeral fifteen years ago, she chose a non-denominational service.” He set aside my mother’s notes and picked up a second sheet of paper. “I’m assuming you don’t want to make any changes in your mother’s wishes.”

  Before either of us could answer him, he quickly ticked off a small checkbox on what appeared to be a funeral director’s “to do” list.

  “What is a non-denominational service?” I asked.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “I’d be happy to explain that.”

  Carla said, “Dad had a non-denominational service, Titus. You were there.”

  “I hardly remember it.”

  Brown ignored Carla’s remark and continued, “A non-denominational service is one that doesn’t employ any religious rituals or religious music. There’s no minister present. The deceased’s life is celebrated through the recollections and stories of family members and friends.”

  “We don’t want that kind of service.”

  Carla reached over and touched my arm. “Of course, we do. Mother wasn’t religious.” She looked over at Brown, “We won’t need a minister.”

  I turned sideways in my chair so I could face her. “Are you sure about that?”

  Brown quickly rose from his chair. “I’ll give you two a few minutes to work this out.”

  When he left, he was careful to close the door very softly behind him.

  * * * *

  “Why would Mother want a religious service?” Carla asked. “You know she never went to church.”

  “The last time I was with her, she kept trying to talk to me about God.”

  Carla waved her hand dismissively. “That was just the Alzheimer’s talking. She would say things like that to me too, but it never made any sense.”

  “Maybe it made sense to her,” I suggested, “and because of her disease, she couldn’t communicate those feelings to us.”

  Carla nodded her head and thought about what I’d said.

  “Well, you could be right,” she said. “A couple of church groups conducted services at the nursing home on a regular basis, and she always insisted on going to the one that met on Tuesday afternoons.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Carla laughed. “I always figured it was because their minister was so good-looking. Maybe that wasn’t it at all.”

  “What’s the name of his church?”

  She gave me a strange look. “I have no idea.”

  “I’m sure the nursing home could tell us.”

  “Why is this so important to you? You’ve never cared about religion before.”

  “You’re right, I’ve never cared about religion before and I still don’t. But what I do care about is my relationship to Jesus Christ.”

  Carla giggled. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

  For the next several minutes, I attempted to share with Carla how I’d become a believer.

  Since the circumstances and identities of the people who had led me to the Lord were classified, I simply told her I’d met some believers who, despite a difficult situation, were joyously happy. I also explained how committed they had been to studying the Bible and having regular times of prayer.

  “That’s incredible, Titus,” Carla said, reaching out and squeezing my hand. “You sound very sincere about this.”

  “I want you to know God’s love for yourself, Carla.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Are you trying to convert me?”

  “I’m just asking you to think about it. That’s all.”

  She nodded. “Okay, but what do your beliefs have to do with Mother babbling on about God?”

  “When I made a commitment to Christ, I remembered my last visit with her and how she’d wanted to engage me in a discussion about God. I believe he may have been touching her heart in the same way he touched mine.”

  Tears suddenly welled up in Carla’s eyes. She grabbed a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her face. “You could be right.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Brown opened it just wide enough to stick his head through the opening. “Have you been able to reach a decision on the type of service you’d prefer?”

  Carla grabbed her purse. “My brother will talk to you about the service. Whatever he decides is fine with me.” She got up from her chair and gave me a wave. “I’ll call you later.”

  Once Carla had left, Brown settled himself behind his desk and asked, “And what have you decided?”

  I made him wait a few more minutes while I made two phone calls.

  The first one was to my mother’s nursing home. The receptionist at the front desk gave me the name of the minister who conducted the Bible studies at the facility on Tuesday afternoons. The second call was to the minister of the Living Word Community Church.

  He agreed to meet with me at eleven o’clock the next morning.

  Although he sounded very pleasant over the phone, it was impossible to tell if he was as handsome as my sister seemed to think he was.

  Somehow, I doubted it.

  Chapter 17

  As soon as I left the funeral home, all I could think about was calling Toby Bledsoe. I tried to stifle my impulse for two reasons.

  First, I knew Bledsoe and Mitchell were still in the process of getting everything ready for Hernando’s arrival at the dock by six. Since Bledsoe was the cautious type, finding a location where he could watch Hernando as he boarded the yacht to meet with Ahmed might take awhile.

  The second reason I stopped myself from calling him was psychological.

  I realized the unfamiliarity of being with my family and dealing with my mother’s death had caused me to feel the need to touch base
with something familiar to me. Running an operation represented that. I knew how to function easily in that environment, whereas I had no idea how to relate to a crying sister or a senile uncle.

  Not to mention my own sense of loss.

  For the first time, I was beginning to understand why Carlton kept asking me how I was doing.

  * * * *

  Since I’d skipped lunch at Carla’s house, I pulled into the drive-thru of a fast-food restaurant and loaded up on burgers, fries, and lemonade. As I drove back to my hotel, my iPhone rang.

  It was Carla.

  “I’m sorry I had to run out on you like that,” she said. “I know it must be hard for you to understand why I’m so emotional when Mother hasn’t really been with us for several years now.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I took care of everything.”

  “Thanks so much for doing that.”

  “It wasn’t a problem. I wanted to help.”

  “Listen, Titus, some of our friends from the old neighborhood just came by the house and brought us over tons of food. Could you come and eat with us around seven?”

  “I’m sorry, Carla, I won’t be able to do that. I need to spend this evening wrapping up some loose ends on a project I’ve been working on. I should finish it up by tonight, though, and I’ll be free all day tomorrow. The funeral director said Mother’s viewing would begin at two o’clock. Why don’t you and I plan to meet at the funeral home then?”

  “Okay. Don’t work too hard tonight.”

  Working too hard was the least of my worries.

  * * * *

  After eating one of the burgers and half of the fries, I put the rest of my provisions in the small refrigerator in my hotel room and booted up my computer.

  The moment I pulled up the NSA aerial satellite photos of Limón, Carlton called me.

  He was using his stilted I’m-recording-this-so-don’t-ask-me-any-questions voice.

  “This call is your official notification. Operation Clear Signal has been revised.”

  I gave a fist pump and mouthed the word, “Yes.”

  But then, I adopted the more serious tone required for the official audio recording of our conversation.

  “Understood.”

  “Further discussions are ongoing, and you will be informed of your status in a few hours.”

  I continued to hold the phone after Carlton had disconnected, and within two minutes, it was vibrating again.

  “I know you have questions,” he said, using the voice he normally used when he wasn’t being recorded. “Ask me.”

  “Did you have a hard time convincing the team Ahmed should be allowed to leave Costa Rica and proceed to Venezuela?”

  “Probably not as difficult as you imagined it would be. While your arguments were compelling, I had already decided we should let Ahmed continue on to Venezuela, especially after I heard what the analysts had turned up on Roberto Montilla. In fact, I’d made my decision to let him go before I ever received your phone call urging me to do so.”

  I didn’t try to hide my frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me about your decision when I called you?”

  “I wanted to hear what you had to say. Besides, there wasn’t time to explain things before you left for the funeral home. Speaking of which, did you get everything taken care of there?”

  “Yes. Thanks for asking.”

  “Connecting with those from the past always has a way of giving us a new perspective on who we are in the present.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and for some reason, I knew Carlton wanted me to do so.

  Instead, I asked, “So, tell me about Ernesto’s father. What did they turn up on Roberto?”

  “I won’t give you a full briefing right now, but here’s the gist of it. In his trade ministry position with the Venezuelan government, he’s been overseeing construction of some very interesting buildings for a Syrian business enterprise. In reality, the whole enterprise seems to be a front for Hezbollah.”

  “What’s so interesting about the buildings?”

  “There are two of them, and both are located near port cities. One of them is in Maracaibo, west of Caracas, and the other is in Cumaná, east of Caracas. The buildings are storage units of some nature, but their construction is highly unusual because they’re made of reinforced concrete. There’s also a high wall around the perimeter with security barriers at each entrance. The refrigeration and heating systems being installed indicate the buildings have strict requirements for climate control.”

  “Have you been able to dig up any intel on them?”

  “Security at the construction site is tight, so it’s been impossible to ascertain much. Sam Wylie, the chief of station there, has been doing some preliminary investigation on the project though.”

  “Surely Katherine’s office has come up with some possibilities for this type of construction.”

  “It’s highly speculative right now, but one theory is these buildings could be used for storing chemical weapons.”

  It took me a few seconds to process this revelation.

  “Are you still there?” Carlton asked.

  “Yes. That’s not good, Douglas. Not good at all.”

  Carlton’s voice had a cautionary tone to it. “Because we have absolutely no confirmation of this right now, we have to be very careful when we start making assumptions. However, we’re reasonably certain Hezbollah has recently acquired some of Syria’s chemical weapons, and we know there’s a close relationship between Hezbollah and Venezuela. That means even the hint of their sharing such weapons becomes problematic.”

  “Did you find a connection between Ahmed and these warehouses?”

  “The analysts are still pulling the threads on that, but the fact that Ahmed is coming to Venezuela, and he’ll be using a passport with the same last name as the man who’s overseeing this construction is definitely suspect.”

  “Did you discover anything about the yacht or its destination?”

  “It’s owned by members of the Zeta cartel, the same two brothers who provided the safe house for Ahmed in San José. Since Toby arrived at the port, he’s been making some inquiries around the dock. So far, he’s learned there’s a five-member crew aboard, and they’ve been outfitting it with provisions for at least a week’s cruise. I think we have to assume Ahmed will be on that cruise, and most likely, its destination is Venezuela. As soon as it leaves Limón, we’ll be tracking it by satellite.”

  “Will you be monitoring Hernando’s delivery of the package to Ahmed tonight or is C. J. Salazar running the show from Langley?”

  “C. J. will be in attendance, but I will be at the helm and linked in to Toby and Ben.”

  Through the use of satellite and drone technology, most of the Agency’s operations could be viewed in “real time” in one of the Agency’s state-of-the-art Operations Centers. These facilities were identified as Real Time Management (RTM) centers. Observing the activities of intelligence operatives conducting an operation in a RTM center sounded exciting, but first-time team members often found the experience tedious, not to mention boring.

  Most ops consisted of several hours of surveillance with only a few minutes, maybe even just a few seconds, of any kind of action.

  However, when monitoring an event, I had never heard Carlton complain about his role as an RTM Operations Officer. In fact, I knew he relished the sense of control it offered him.

  Carlton was big on control.

  “Do you have any plans with your family tonight?”

  “No, I begged off having a family dinner with them. I wanted to be available to take your call as soon as Hernando’s drop occurred.”

  “I’ll do better than a phone call. I’ve instructed one of the techs here to send the feed to your computer. You’ll be able to observe everything happening in Costa Rica, as we’re viewing it here from the Ops Center. You won’t be able to comment, and I’m warning you; don’t try to communicate with me. I won’t take your call.”
>
  “Roger that.”

  “Your computer should connect automatically at 7:45. Can you secure your environment by then?”

  “That’s not a problem. I’m not expecting any company. Thanks for doing this, Douglas. I really appreciate it.”

  “I’m sure you do. I know control is very important to you.”

  Chapter 18

  To kill time before my 7:45 deadline, I got on my computer and studied all the Agency files on Limón’s port.

  I discovered that while it was a busy cargo and cruise port, it was also being used by cartel and arms smugglers, who were bribing the port authorities with cash and drugs in order to use the facilities for their illicit trade.

  As I read between the lines of the reports, I decided the Costa Rican government hadn’t made much of an effort to crack down on these activities. Although one of Bledsoe’s reports noted the national police had confiscated a boatload of weapons bound for the FARC rebels in Colombia the month before, it was obvious the shipment had only been detained because of intel Bledsoe had shared with the local authorities.

  Satellite photos of the dock area showed there were two piers—one for container ships, located to the north, and a larger one for big cruise ships and private yachts, located at Limón itself.

  Alongside the dock were restaurants, shops, and various kinds of businesses. And, in an apparent effort to grab the tourists’ dollars, a variety of tents and booths had been set up at the end of the Limón pier.

  Depending on where El Mano Fierro was docked, I suspected Bledsoe wouldn’t encounter any difficulty locating a suitable observation post where he and Mitchell could keep an eye on Hernando’s delivery of the package to Ahmed.

  I’d just finished making myself a pot of coffee when my computer sent out a ping, ping, ping.

  It was 7:45 in Flint, Michigan, and 5:45 in Limón, Costa Rica.

  Showtime.

  * * * *

  I sat down at the desk, adjusted the height of the hotel’s business chair, and studied the video feed coming in from the Operations Center in Langley, Virginia.