Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  “What kind of markings?”

  “There were X’s on some of the streets. I’m sure the Agency has the specifics pinpointed by now, but, to me, the marks were tagging residential locations.”

  Mitchell drove up to the security gate at Agency headquarters. Although it was Saturday, the line of cars waiting to get in was long. Checking individual identities and license plates made for a slow crawl through the gate.

  Very few Agency employees ever complained about this.

  While we waited, Mitchell said, “On another map, I found X’s marking two cities. They were both port cities, but that’s the only thing I saw they had in common.”

  “Let me guess. The cities were Maracaibo and Cumaná.”

  He looked surprised. “You’re right. Did you notice the X’s before you gave me the maps?”

  “No, I was just taking an educated guess. A few days ago, Carlton shared some intel about a couple of buildings under construction in Maracaibo and Cumaná.”

  “What kind of intel?”

  I waited while we cleared the second checkpoint to answer him.

  Once we were through, I said, “According to the chief of station in Venezuela, the buildings could be facilities capable of housing chemical weapons.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “That doesn’t surprise me. Toby said he thought Venezuela was involved in chemical weapons research.”

  “While that may be true, the buildings appear to be storage facilities only. Carlton said our analysts thought Venezuela may have agreed to accept chemical weapons from another country.”

  “Iran or Syria?”

  “My guess is Syria, because the international community has been pressuring them to get rid of their chemical weapons.”

  Mitchell pulled into a parking spot on the west side of the Old Headquarters Building where the Operations Center was housed.

  He turned off the engine. “Why would a Hezbollah assassin be carrying around maps with those construction sites marked on them?”

  “Let’s hope our briefers know the answer to that one, because I don’t have a clue.”

  * * * *

  After clearing security in the lobby, Mitchell and I parted ways. He headed over to C. J. Salazar’s office on the third floor of the east wing, while I took the elevator up to Carlton’s office on the fourth floor.

  We were due to meet again in one hour for a briefing session in one of the Operations Center’s conference rooms.

  On my way up to Carlton’s office, I thought about the briefing and tried to anticipate what might happen, since I knew Carlton wasn’t going to be conducting the briefing by himself.

  An operational briefing could take many forms, but, at its most basic level, it involved a division head and some analysts. However, I didn’t expect this to be the case with Operation Clear Signal, because the operation now encompassed both the Middle Eastern and Latin American desks.

  To complicate matters even further, since the death of two Agency operatives had initiated the operation in the first place, the big guns from the DDO’s office would want to be represented. That meant the DDO would probably send the Admiral, his right-hand man, along with a bunch of analysts from Katherine’s office.

  No matter how many people were present, the only role Mitchell and I would play in the briefing would be to keep our mouths shut and listen.

  Protocol dictated covert field officers keep their thoughts to themselves, while the higher-ups imparted their considered opinion, research, and analysis on the Plan of Action, the POA.

  Once everyone in the briefing room had been able to have their say, then Mitchell and I would be invited to speak.

  When I entered the reception area outside of Carlton’s office, Sally Jo Hartford, Carlton’s secretary, looked up from her computer.

  “Good morning, Sally Jo. You’re looking gorgeous as always.”

  She beamed at me and pushed aside a few wisps of gray hair from her forehead. “Titus Ray, you know flattery won’t get you any special favors in this office.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”

  Sally Jo—or Mrs. Hartford as Carlton insisted she be called—was a few years past retirement age but looked at least ten years younger. She had a soft Southern accent and resembled a slightly slimmer version of Mrs. Claus, the wife of the famous man who lived at the North Pole.

  Her organizational skills and ability to anticipate Carlton’s every move had probably secured her employment at the Agency for as long as she wanted.

  I gestured toward Carlton’s office. “Is he ready for me?”

  “I’m sure he is, but he’s not in his office. He’s over at the Ops Center. You’re supposed to meet him in Conference Room B in one hour.”

  “He told me to meet him up here so we could prep for the briefing.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Plans are always subject to change, Titus. You know that.”

  “What’s going on, Sally Jo?”

  She wagged a finger at me. “I know you don’t really expect me to answer that.”

  “Could you at least give me a hint?”

  “Well,” she said, motioning for me to lean in toward her as if there were a roomful of people, and she didn’t want them to hear our secret, “remember, not all change is bad. You might decide you like this change. Just keep an open mind.”

  I tried keeping an open mind as I headed downstairs for the briefing.

  It wasn’t easy.

  * * * *

  The Ops Center was located in the basement of the Old Headquarters Building. It consisted of a labyrinth of conference rooms, offices, and Real Time Management (RTM) Centers where the Agency’s day-to-day operations took place.

  Ordinarily, I was on the receiving end of intel coming out of an RTM Center; I was seldom part of a team running an operation.

  However, one time, when Barnabas Chandler, an operative in Yemen, had to hand over a bundle of cash to a Pakistani military officer through a Spanish-speaking intermediary, I was called in to translate for the Spanish-speaking embassy official who couldn’t speak a word of Arabic.

  When I’d first entered one of the RTM Centers back then, I’d found myself mesmerized by the wall of video screens encircling the room. The numerous screens seemed to cast a bluish hue, which reflected off the faces of the men and women working at their computer consoles in the center of the room.

  Unlike Hollywood depictions of the Agency’s Operations Center, it was not a hustling, bustling kind of place. Although telephones occasionally rang and voices sometimes grew loud, overall, there was an air of professionalism and calmness throughout the facility, even though Agency employees were fulfilling urgent requests for information and analyzing mounds of data coming in from around the world.

  Now, as I entered Corridor B, I decided to peek inside the RTM Center located across the hallway from Conference Room B. Strictly speaking, it was against RTM procedures for a covert intelligence officer to be present in an RTM Center, unless he or she were accompanied by a division head.

  However, since Carlton had been willing to have one of the tech officers in the room send me the video feed of Hernando’s meeting with Ahmed in Limón, I thought the rules wouldn’t matter. Still, I made sure the lanyard attached to my shirt—indicating my Level 1 security clearance—was clearly displayed.

  Then, I slipped inside RTM Center—Room B.

  I did so as quietly as possible, and no heads turned in my direction when I shut the door behind me.

  Instead, all eyes were on a gigantic multi-screen video monitor encircling the room, and I immediately recognized the image being displayed there.

  It was El Mano Fierro.

  As indicated by the time stamp in the left corner of the screen, the video was in real time, and everyone in the room had a bird’s eye view of the yacht’s deck. It was literally a bird’s eye view because the picture appeared to be coming from a UAV flying overhead.

  A smartly dressed woman, standing in the shadows to my le
ft and wearing a headset, was quietly whispering orders to an unseen drone operator located halfway across the United States. She asked for a clear shot of a certain passenger, who, at that moment, was leaning over the starboard bow.

  A few seconds later, the young man’s face suddenly filled up the entire screen as he turned his head toward the sky and squinted up at the sun.

  I recognized him as the iPod guy from Limón who had reminded me of Ernesto. Now that I could see a close up of his face, the resemblance was even more striking, and I doubted he would have any trouble using Ernesto’s passport to enter Venezuela.

  The camera quickly pulled away as the iPod guy ripped off the shirt he was wearing and flung it aside. The moment he lowered himself into the Jacuzzi, another figure appeared on deck.

  For the second time in three days, I found myself staring at a real-time image of Ahmed Al-Amin.

  Ahmed walked across the deck to the spot previously occupied by the iPod guy. The moment he reached the railing, he began moving his head from left to right, almost as if were searching for something on the distant horizon.

  Seconds later, he turned and disappeared below deck. The whole episode lasted less than a minute.

  The RTM manager, who was giving orders to the drone operator, sounded frustrated. “We didn’t get a close-up shot. That might have been our one chance, and we didn’t get it.”

  Although it had been ten years since I’d heard it, I suddenly realized the voice belonged to Olivia McConnell, a woman who had once told me she never wanted to see me again.

  I turned to leave the room.

  The moment I headed toward the door, she called out, “Titus?”

  I turned around.

  “Hi, Olivia.”

  She strolled over to where I was standing.

  As soon as I saw her emerge from the shadows, I was surprised at how little she’d changed since the last time I’d seen her. Her porcelain skin was still smooth and wrinkle free, and she wore her coal black hair in the same short, boyish hairstyle as when we’d first met as new recruits at Camp Peary years ago.

  She was a tall woman, almost as tall as I was, with the body of a fashion model. Her slender frame didn’t surprise me, because I’d seldom seen her eat anything except an occasional omelet and maybe a slice of pizza every now and then.

  She lived on coffee.

  There was a look of astonishment on her face. “What are you doing in here?”

  I gestured toward the screens. “Have you figured out where the yacht is headed yet?”

  Olivia sounded surprised. “What’s your interest in the yacht?”

  I glanced over her shoulder at the room full of people who, though seemingly occupied at their consoles, were now fully aware of my presence in the Ops Center. Being noticed made me nervous, and I was hoping she hadn’t forgotten that.

  Olivia quickly removed her headset. “Let’s take this discussion outside.”

  I opened the door and allowed her to exit first, and then I followed her down the corridor into an employee break room.

  There was no one there.

  “Now,” she said, “explain what you were doing in my Ops Center, and what you know about El Mano Fierro.”

  I gestured toward a coffee machine. “I need some caffeine. Do you want some?”

  “You know I do.”

  Olivia sat down on an uncomfortable-looking sofa, while I filled two Styrofoam cups with coffee. It smelled strong; exactly the way I knew she liked it.

  After handing her one of the cups, I said, “First of all, I didn’t know it was your Ops Center. The last I heard you were handling political footballs for the DDO’s office.”

  She shook her head. “That was three years ago, and I hated every minute of it.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me. I can’t see you working for Robert Ira.”

  She smiled. “We had our differences, but I also understand you had your own troubles with Robert.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “In fact, there was a rumor going around that he forced you to go on medical leave for a year.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true.”

  “So, once again I’m asking you. What were you doing in the Ops Center? I know you’re aware this is a restricted area, especially for an officer on medical leave.”

  “I recently got reinstated for a special ops assignment, and since I was on my way over to a mission briefing, I dropped in to the RTM Center to see if I could pick up some additional intel. You know me, Olivia, always out for that extra bit of intel.”

  She didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. When she finally spoke, her speech pattern was hesitant, as if she might be reluctant to ask me something.

  “So ... ah ... let’s go back to the yacht. Are you ... ah ... interested in the yacht as part of your briefing?”

  While she was asking the question, I noticed she was pulling on her earlobe—a nervous gesture I’d seen her make before when she was making an effort to mask her true feelings.

  I found both her nervous tic and the way she’d asked her question very disturbing, but I couldn’t decide whether to respond to her question or to ask her what was making her so jittery.

  However, as it turned out, I didn’t have to make that decision because her beeper went off, and she started moving toward the doorway almost immediately.

  “Look, Titus, I’m sorry about all this. I had no idea.”

  Seconds later, she was out the door, and I was left standing there with only her apology to keep me company.

  I had no idea.

  No idea about what?

  Chapter 29

  Even though I was a few minutes early, I headed down the hallway to Conference Room B. I thought Carlton might give me a few extra points for being on time, and now that I’d seen Olivia, I had a few questions for him before the briefing began.

  However, when I entered the room, it looked as if everyone, except Carlton and Salazar, had already arrived.

  Mitchell was seated at the far end of a long conference table all by himself. He looked up from his iPad as I entered the room and nodded at me.

  On the right side of the table was Paul Grogan. He was in the center seat—the power seat—studying a thick blue briefing binder. However, when he saw me, he looked up long enough to give me a quick salute.

  Before coming to the Agency, Grogan had been with the Department of the Navy, and his staff sometimes referred to him as the Admiral. However, he didn’t seem to mind the nickname. In fact, I’d often heard him joke about it, which made me wonder if he’d encouraged them to call him that in the first place.

  Representatives from Support Services and the Agency’s Legal Services were along the outer wall directly behind Grogan.

  Legal was responsible for providing covert operatives mounds of paperwork to sign before they embarked on an operation. Support Services covered all the physical elements required of the mission, including an operative’s legend.

  I much preferred dealing with Support Services rather than Legal Services’ mumbo jumbo, probably because Support Services tried to make sure I stayed alive on the field, whereas Legal Services tried to make sure all the documents were filled out correctly in case I died on the field.

  Huddled around a computer screen at the end of the conference table were three intelligence collection analysts. The group consisted of two women and one man—all members of Katherine Broward’s team. Katherine was seated at her own computer away from the group, but, as soon as she saw me enter the room, she got up and walked over to greet me.

  She squeezed my arm and said, “We were sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. Did the funeral go okay?”

  “Yes, and thanks for asking.”

  She gestured toward the analysts. “We sent flowers. I hope they arrived in time.”

  I remembered seeing baskets of flowers at the funeral home, but I hadn’t taken note of where they’d come from or who’d sent them.

  Was I
supposed to do that?

  “The flowers were perfect. Thanks so much.”

  Having successfully maneuvered my way through yet another awkward social situation, I gestured toward a beverage table at the end of the room. “Could I get you something to drink before the Admiral gets us underway?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks.” She glanced at her watch. “He needs to get started. My analysts have given him a ton of data, and we uncovered a—”

  “Ms. Broward,” Grogan called from across the room, “could I have a moment of your time?”

  When she excused herself, I grabbed a bottle of water and sat down next to Mitchell.

  “Any idea what’s keeping Douglas and Cartel Carlos?” I asked. “It’s not like Douglas to be late.”

  “No idea. I spoke briefly with C. J., and then he told me to meet him down here.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Mitchell didn’t respond, because he was giving his full attention to the conversation going on between Grogan and Katherine—not necessarily to the conversation itself, just to Katherine herself.

  So much for the heartache I thought he felt over his break-up with Sonya.

  Katherine returned to her computer and another fifteen minutes passed. Mitchell and I spent the time speculating about what was causing the delay. Our guesses ranged from a crisis erupting in another part of the world to Salazar and Carlton having it out in the courtyard outside the cafeteria.

  As it turned out, we weren’t too far off the mark on that last one.

  * * * *

  After Grogan received a message on his phone, he stood to his feet and said, “We’ll begin with the preliminaries now. The other parties will be joining us shortly.”

  The preliminaries consisted of several legal forms Mitchell and I were required to sign. The documents indicated both of us fully understood the dire consequences of revealing any classified material related to Operation Clear Signal to anyone outside the Agency. In addition, there were forms for us to sign absolving the Agency of any legal responsibility regarding our own personal injury, disease, or death as a consequence of our mission.