Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  If the son had inherited his father’s personality, then it didn’t surprise me I’d seen flashes of anger and ill temper in the younger Mitchell.

  The older Mitchell was known for his offensive remarks and his impatience. The adjectives most often used to describe him were “abrasive” and “brutal,” and those comments usually came from his friends.

  However, the Senator appeared to be an equal-opportunity offender, angering both sides of the Senate floor and holding both Democratic and Republican presidents alike to his unyielding standards, especially when it came to any legislation involving the intelligence community.

  I had the privilege—or misfortune—of meeting the man once.

  My encounter with the Senator had come in the Situation Room of the White House following the 2008 terrorist attack in Mumbai, India.

  For three days, extremists, who had been trained in Pakistan, had carried out attacks on two luxury hotels. When it was all over, 170 people had been killed.

  After it was determined the terrorists were members of the Lashkar-e-Taiba or the LeT group, an offshoot of Al-Qaeda operating out of Pakistan, I was brought into the White House as part of a CIA crisis management team.

  The reason I was asked—or ordered—to join the DDO’s crisis team in the Situation Room was because I’d just returned from a deep-cover operation into Pakistan.

  But, my presence at the White House was simply window dressing.

  My Pakistani mission had not involved LeT, nor was I acquainted with any of its members. However, since the Congressmen were notorious for wanting to speak face-to-face with a covert operative who had been in country, the DDO and Carlton had grabbed me and headed over to the White House for a briefing with members of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees on events happening in Mumbai.

  On our way over, Carlton had told me what I should say if anyone decided to ask me any questions.

  Senator Mitchell was the only senator to do so.

  Before entering the Situation Room, I was told to sit along the perimeter wall, an area dubbed The North Pole.

  The North Pole was so named because those seated at the rectangular table in the center of the room were essentially giving the cold shoulder to anyone seated away from it. Those occupying the North Pole were also expected to keep their mouths shut, frozen shut so to speak, unless they were asked to speak by those in the inner circle.

  I planned on meeting everyone’s expectations and keeping my mouth shut. However, Senator Mitchell had other ideas.

  After patiently listening to several lawmakers pontificate on what they thought was going on in India, I’d grown bored with all the bloviating.

  Really bored.

  And, I wasn’t the only person feeling that way.

  In the midst of another nonsensical speech, Senator Elijah Mitchell suddenly interrupted his colleague’s one-way dialogue.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” he said. “It’s time we heard from someone who should know the motivations behind these attacks, and I’d much rather hear from them than from a bunch of guys sitting around a table running their mouths.”

  Senator Mitchell pointed over to the North Pole and asked, “Have any of you spooks ever been to Pakistan? Anyone?”

  Carlton, in his impeccably tailored suit, rose to his feet.

  “Well, Senator, we have one of our finest intelligence officers with us today,” he gestured toward me, “and he has just returned from Pakistan. I’m sure he’d be happy to answer any questions you may have.”

  The Senator looked pleased and pointed at me.

  I stood to my feet.

  “I’m not going to ask you your name,” he said, “because, unlike some of my esteemed colleagues here, I value your service to this country, and I don’t want your covert status to be put in any kind of jeopardy.”

  There were a few groans of protests in response to the Senator’s statement, but he ignored them. Then, as if he expected me to respond in some way, he peered over his bifocals at me without saying a word.

  I waited a beat or two, and then I said, “Thank you, sir.”

  He picked up a bunch of papers from the table in front of him. “I’m Elijah Mitchell, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise.” He glanced at the papers in his hand. “If you don’t mind, just for the record here, I’ll address you as Agent A.”

  “Actually, sir, I’m an intelligence officer. For the record, Officer A would be more accurate.”

  The people around the table snickered, and I heard Carlton draw a deep breath.

  The Senator, though, gave no indication he’d heard me.

  He slapped the papers down on the table. “Tell me, what’s the mindset of these LeT terrorists? What do they hope to gain by their actions?”

  I proceeded to give the spoon-fed answers I’d been handed by the Agency, and Senator Mitchell appeared satisfied by my recitation.

  However, as I was about to walk out the door after the meeting, he pulled me aside.

  Leaning so close to me I could smell the stale coffee on his breath, he said, “I know you were only spouting off what the DDO wanted us to hear. But let me give you a piece of advice. The next time you have an opportunity to speak to me, give me your own opinion. If I’m not mistaken, you appear to be someone who wouldn’t mind doing so.”

  “In that respect, sir, I guess I’m a lot like you.”

  There was a barely perceptible pause, and then he burst out laughing.

  The noise reverberated throughout the room.

  A few seconds later, he put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Officer A, I’m going to give you the same advice I often give my son, ‘Never mind what people want you to say, tell them what they need to hear. If you do, you’ll both be better off for it.’”

  * * * *

  Now, as I sat in the boathouse digesting Jim’s revelation, I considered how Ben Mitchell’s pedigree might affect the mission.

  I contemplated every possible angle.

  All I could see were sharp edges everywhere.

  Jim said. “Since you and Ben are here at The Gray together, then I have to assume you’re also headed out to the field together, and according to his PDS, this will be his first run.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “If anything goes wrong, it won’t be Junior who gets blamed for the failure of your mission.”

  “Unfortunately, I think you’ve also got that right. If this mission goes south, I’ll be in the Senator’s crosshairs.”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

  “Yeah, they’re beginning to feel a little tight right now.” I drained the last drops of coffee from my mug. “What else can you tell me about Ben? Anything in his PDS jump out at you? What kind of student was he?”

  “Why don’t you ask me yourself?”

  Like a creature from out of the deep, Ben Mitchell emerged from behind the shadows of the gigantic metal sea monster in the building’s entryway.

  He stood there, staring at me.

  Without saying a word, Jim got to his feet and slipped out a hidden panel in the wall. The secret door was located a few feet from Danger On The High Seas and led down to the tunnel connecting the boathouse to the main house.

  As I watched Jim go, I glanced over at the sailors in the painting. Along with them, I felt as if a gigantic wave might suck me under.

  I wasn’t going down without a fight, though.

  “Ben,” I said, “I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat.”

  Chapter 27

  Mitchell walked over and took the seat just vacated by Jim. “So you were expecting me?” he said. “It certainly didn’t look that way to me. In fact, as pale as you are right now, I’d say you were pretty shocked to see me.”

  Even though I was still fighting back the nausea I’d experienced when I’d entered the boathouse, I said, “I’m fine. Listen, Ben, I don’t know what you think you overheard, but
I was just—”

  “I heard you mention my PDS to Jim, and I know it’s a breach of security for him to reveal what’s in there. He could be fired for telling you, and you could be disciplined for asking him about it.”

  Once again, I sensed an anger in him that seemed totally out of proportion to our circumstances.

  I said, “I’m sure you’re right about that.”

  “Why were you asking him about my PDS? Don’t you know everything about me already? Didn’t my father brief you?”

  It took me a moment, but then it dawned on me what he was implying. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Until five minutes ago, I didn’t have a clue about your genealogy, nor did I particularly care about your parentage.”

  Mitchell’s face registered disbelief. “You’re lying.”

  “And you’re being a Class A jerk.”

  Mitchell looked confused. “I know my father must have pulled some strings to get my Level 2 status changed and have me reassigned to your operation. I’ve been at the Agency long enough to know all that couldn’t have happened without someone’s direct intervention. Are you telling me you knew nothing about it?”

  The sound of water lapping up against the side of the boathouse suddenly increased in intensity as a large motorboat made a turn in front of the property. When it neared the boathouse, its headlights flooded the windows, casting shadows everywhere.

  Mitchell and I stopped talking and gave it our full attention for several minutes. After it made a sweeping turn, spraying water in its wake, the motorboat disappeared into the night.

  Although I knew it couldn’t be true, as the boat sped away, I felt as if I were being tossed to and fro just like the fishing vessel in Danger On The High Seas.

  My stomach lurched; I felt bile welling up in my throat.

  I said, “No, Ben, I’m not saying I don’t know anything about that.”

  “That’s what I—”

  “I know exactly why you were vetted for Level 1 status and why you’ve been reassigned to this operation.”

  I got out of my chair and quickly walked over to the safety railing surrounding the luxurious boat. The gleaming vessel was resting in the boat slip just above the water line.

  I looked at Mitchell. “I’m the one who intervened on your behalf,” I said. “I’m the person who asked Carlton to have you vetted for Level 1 status.”

  Seconds later, I turned and emptied the contents of my stomach into the water below, barely missing the yacht’s deck beneath my feet.

  * * * *

  “Whoa,” Mitchell said, rushing over to the railing. “You okay?”

  “Just something I ate.”

  I walked over and grabbed a towel from the bar. After I wiped the spittle from my face, I said, “I’m fine.”

  “We ate the same thing at dinner. I don’t feel sick.”

  “Maybe I’ve caught some kind of bug, or maybe it was the food at the airport.”

  Mitchell laughed. “Or maybe you’re one of those landlubber types and get seasick whenever you’re around water.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said and headed over to the bathroom.

  Once inside, I doused my face with cold water and vigorously rubbed it dry with a hand towel. When the color finally returned to my face, I told myself I was feeling much better and started to leave.

  Then, I paused at the door and wondered if God would mind hearing about my problem?

  It wasn’t a big deal, but I decided to say a short prayer anyway.

  * * * *

  When I came out of the bathroom, Mitchell said, “Give me a heads up the next time you’re planning to do that.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  Before I sat back down in the armchair, I angled it away from the oil painting. Now, I was no longer able to see the intensity of the storm or the distressed look on the sailors’ faces.

  “We’d better wrap this conversation up before someone up at the big house comes looking for us,” I said. “Greg is a nervous kind of guy, and Jim can’t cover for us indefinitely.”

  Mitchell ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture I’d seen him make back at the embassy when Bledsoe had dismissed him from the room. He’d also made it at the airport when I’d called him out about dating Sonya.

  I thought it might indicate his lack of enthusiasm about doing something.

  His next statement bore that out.

  “I think I owe you an apology,” he said. “For the past two days, I’ve been under the assumption the Senator called in some favors at the Agency, and that’s why I was suddenly vetted for this operation. I thought he’d also exerted his influence over you in some way, and that’s why you were being so solicitous toward me this afternoon.”

  He shrugged. “To some people, that way of thinking might have been a stretch. But I know how much my father loves to control people, and he’s certainly capable of doing what I’ve just described. I’ve seen him do it hundreds of times.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” I waited a couple of beats, and then I added, “Apology accepted.”

  Mitchell nodded and pointed toward the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  I shook my head, and he walked over to the bar and grabbed a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator.

  After he’d resumed his seat on the couch, I said, “I had a father who barely paid any attention to me at all. Until a short time ago, I wasn’t able to forgive him for that.”

  He looked surprised at my admission.

  It surprised me as well.

  “But you forgave him?”

  “I did.”

  He shook his head. “The Senator and I aren’t close—at least not in the way I imagine most fathers and sons are—but he’s always been interested in everything going on in my life. I’m pretty sure that’s the reason I decided to join the Agency.”

  Mitchell took a swig of his soda, and when he didn’t elaborate on his statement, I asked, “Would you care to expand on that?”

  Mitchell smiled, and I realized it was the first time I’d seen him do so all day.

  He said, “I knew if I became involved in clandestine work, he wouldn’t—at least theoretically—be able to control me. I would be beyond his reach. It would be illegal for him to know everything I was doing. That’s the reason I lost it when Salazar told me I was being bumped to Level 1 status. I figured my dear old dad had finally found a way into the Agency, and I thought he’d done so because he was trying to help me out after Toby’s death.”

  When Mitchell spoke Bledsoe’s name, there was a slight catch to his voice, and I realized the old station chief had probably been more of a father to him than his own father had.

  “Have you spoken to your father lately?”

  “He called me in Costa Rica shortly after he was briefed on Toby’s murder. He told me he was going to insist the DDO bring me back to the States immediately.”

  “Yeah,” I said, shaking my head at the man’s arrogance, “well, the DDO was going to bring you home with or without the Senator’s intervention. That’s normal operating procedure after losing a station chief in the field.”

  “I knew that,” Mitchell said, “but I didn’t tell him. Crossing the Senator usually brings unpleasant consequences.”

  He slouched down on the couch, resting his head on the back of the cushions and letting out a heavy sigh, as if discussing his father had completely drained him.

  Seconds later, though, he raised his head and said, “By the way, you’ll be happy to know I broke it off with Sonya.”

  He chunked his Diet Coke can toward a nearby wastebasket. “Of course, I was leaving the country anyway, but you may have been right about her. She didn’t seem too brokenhearted to see me go.”

  “I was right about her. That relationship was going nowhere.”

  I’m not closing the door; I’m doing everything I can to keep it open.

  Chapter 28

  Saturday, June 9

  The next morning,
Mitchell drove us over to Langley in an Agency vehicle reserved for guests of The Gray. Along the way, I quizzed him about the maps I’d left with him back in San José.

  “Did you find anything on those maps I grabbed out of the Durango?”

  My question seemed to amuse him. “Trying to get a jump on our briefing this morning?”

  “Of course I am, and after you’ve worked with Carlton for a few days, you’ll understand why. He expects his operatives to know more about an operation than he does. And, if they don’t, he expects them to make something up. To say he’s a driven man is an understatement.”

  “Salazar’s personality is completely the opposite of Carlton’s. He’s so laid back he drives me crazy.” Mitchell shook his head. “But, if he’s targeting one of the head honchos in a drug gang, then he’s a slave driver.”

  Because Salazar and Carlton were working together on Operation Clear Signal, I suddenly realized Salazar’s operational persona might become a problem, especially since my mission centered on stopping an assassin and not on obliterating some drug lord.

  If my prayers were answered though, my field operations handler—the person on the ground in Venezuela running the operation—would be Carlton and not Salazar.

  I said, “Carlton told me the two of them were acting as a duo on this one.”

  “Salazar told me the same thing, and he didn’t seem too happy about it.” He glanced over at me. “I don’t think he likes you very much.”

  I chuckled. “We had a slight disagreement during that last conference call back at the embassy. I suggested Ernesto could have become radicalized by Islamic jihadists during a visit to Syria, and that was why he was helping Ahmed. On the other hand, Salazar kept insisting the drug cartels had something on Ernesto’s father, and they were threatening him in some way. He thought that was the reason Ernesto was traveling with Ahmed.”

  “I’m not sure I’d describe that conversation as a slight disagreement.”

  I steered the conversation back to the maps I’d discovered in the glove compartment. Mitchell told me he’d found markings on a street map of Caracas.