Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Don’t tell me what I’m thinking.”

  We went back and forth for a few minutes, and then, I committed the ultimate sin—at least in Olivia’s way of thinking.

  I said, “You shouldn’t be in Kuwait in the first place, Olivia. And, you certainly shouldn’t be planning to head up the road to Bagdad to run the general from there.”

  “And why not?”

  “You’re a woman, that’s why.”

  From that point on, the argument deteriorated into several inappropriate words that never should have been uttered by either one of us.

  Finally, she ended the disagreement by saying she never wanted to see me again. However, she didn’t stop there. She went on to say she was going to contact Carlton and have me reassigned.

  The next day, when I was told to head back to the States, I thought Olivia had followed through on her threat. But once I was airborne, I was notified that my father had passed away, and I was being sent back to the States to attend his funeral.

  Later, Saddam Hussein put the Iraqi general in front of a firing squad and shot him for treason.

  I blamed Olivia for that.

  I guess I still did.

  * * * *

  I picked up my phone to call Nikki. Whether I did so to get Olivia out of my mind, or whether I just wanted to hear her voice, I wasn’t sure.

  “Hi, Titus, mind if I join you?”

  I looked up to see Dr. Terry Howard staring down at me. He was balancing a dinner tray in one hand and holding onto a small medical bag with the other.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and pointed over to a bench opposite me. “Have a seat.”

  When Howard sat down, he said, “What are you doing here? I know the DDO put you on medical leave because I signed the papers myself.” He tore open a paper wrapping containing some plastic utensils. “In my medical opinion, you don’t need to be on medical leave, but since I’m about to retire, I do what I’m told.”

  Terry Howard was the in-house physician at The Gray and had given me a physical a few days after I’d made my escape from Iran. The two of us had known each other for years, but we weren’t really friends. He had a youthful face and a well-toned body and certainly didn’t appear old enough to be near retirement.

  “Ira temporarily reinstated me.”

  “He must have needed someone to do a dirty job for him.”

  “I wanted this assignment.”

  “Maybe Ira just made you think you did.”

  Howard was an old grouch, always had been. He wallowed in negativity; then he wrapped it around himself and wore it everywhere.

  We chatted a few minutes about the weather—too hot. Then he shared some tantalizing gossip about someone on the seventh floor—too immoral. He finally ended his grievances by talking about how the prisoners at Gitmo were being treated—too well.

  Howard had been one of five physicians assigned to Gitmo before he was transferred to The Gray, and I agreed with him about the place. I also agreed with him about the weather, but I knew nothing about the seventh-floor gossip, so I kept my mouth shut on that one.

  After he took a bite of his sandwich, he asked, “Do you remember the question you asked me when we saw each other at The Gray?”

  I thought for a second. “I believe I asked you if you’d ever considered becoming a follower of Christ.”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  Howard pushed his food off to the side.

  Since he’d barely eaten anything, I wondered if he’d chosen to sit at my table because he wanted to talk with me about my experience of faith in Tehran. However, when I’d shared the story with him before, he’d laughed at me and joked about prescribing me some medication for the types of hallucinations I was having.

  Now, as he looked down at the drinking straw he was twisting around his index finger, he said, “I haven’t been able to get that question out of my mind. It’s been haunting me ever since.”

  After he admitted this, he looked up at me, but I found it difficult to label the raw emotion I saw written across his face. The only word that came to mind was troubled, but that wasn’t it exactly.

  Because of the way he’d treated me before, for one brief moment, I thought about saying, “Well then, why don’t you take some medication for what’s bothering you.”

  A year ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to deliver such a retort.

  Instead, I said, “I asked you that question because some Iranian Christians asked me that same question, and since I’d never considered becoming a follower of Christ before, I decided it was time I did.”

  As Howard continued staring at me, I finally identified the emotion I saw there. I decided it was fear. Howard looked frightened and unsure of himself—something I’d never seen in him before.

  He said, “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing; I’ve been considering this. I’ve researched the subject by reading from my wife’s Bible, and I’ve occasionally watched some of those religious programs on cable.”

  I affirmed him for looking for answers in the Bible, and I told him the first book of the Bible I’d read all the way through was the gospel of John. I suggested he do the same.

  That’s when he remembered a verse he’d read in John, and he asked me a few questions about what I thought Jesus meant when he said he had come to bring joy to his followers.

  It wasn’t long before I’d exhausted my meager knowledge of how to be a follower of Christ, so I suggested he find a pastor in the area and make an appointment. I even pulled out my cell phone and gave him Pastor John’s phone number.

  After he’d finished putting the number on his contacts list, I decided to ask him a question.

  “Terry, what’s the one thing you need in this world in order to be happy?”

  He gave me a strange look. “Is that a religious question?”

  “No, it’s just a question someone recently asked me. How would you answer that?”

  “Well, that’s easy. Being healthy makes me happy. The one thing I need most in this world is to be healthy.”

  Because of Howard’s obsession with diet and exercise, I realized I should have known Howard would think his greatest need was his health.

  After answering my question, Howard picked up his black bag and said he was late for an appointment.

  Before walking away, however, he bent down and whispered in my ear. “Watch your back, Titus. In case you didn’t know it, your old nemesis, Olivia McConnell, is working for the DDO now.”

  Chapter 32

  Mitchell was waiting for me when I got off the elevator in the lobby of the Operations Center. As we headed toward Corridor B and the conference room, he began telling me about the conversation he’d had with the secretary in Salazar’s office.

  “She said Douglas and C. J. got into a heated argument in the cafeteria this morning. One of the other secretaries told her it was about which one of them was going to lead the operation. She doesn’t know what was decided, but once they left the cafeteria, they went straight to the DDO’s office.”

  “So you weren’t just flirting during lunch? You were actually gathering intel?”

  He frowned at me. “I thought you’d be interested in this.”

  “I don’t care who’s running the show while we’re in country. I’m only interested in identifying Ahmed’s target and shipping this murderer off to Gitmo.”

  I would later regret those words.

  * * * *

  When Grogan resumed the briefing, he immediately played the audio of the FBI agent who had contacted Ernesto’s girlfriend during our lunch break.

  In the recording, the agent described the questions he’d asked Charlie and the responses he’d received.

  When Grogan turned off the conversation, he said, “So, as you heard, Ernesto used a lowercase X for something he hadn’t tried yet, and that’s what he was doing when he marked the Chinese menu. Charlie also said Ernesto used that same method to pick out his classes. He used an uppercase X to designate cl
asses he’d already taken and a lowercase X to mark those he planned to investigate further.”

  Grogan flipped back to the screen showing X’s on the map of Caracas, and then he asked Katherine about the handwriting report. She said Faulkner was ninety percent certain Ernesto had made the X’s on all the maps.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Grogan said, turning first to Carlton and then to Salazar, “anything you want to add before I move on to the operation’s protocols? Since Ahmed never made those X’s in the first place, it seems pretty obvious the maps are irrelevant when it comes to determining his target.”

  Salazar nodded. “I agree.”

  Carlton looked off in the distance a moment, and then he shook his head. “I think it’s strange that Ernesto marked the Avenida Francisco district. According to his girlfriend, the manner in which he tagged this area meant this was a place he wanted to visit or that he hadn’t visited yet. But that doesn’t make sense. He just lived a block from this location. Surely he’d been in the Avenida Francisco district before.”

  Carlton glanced down at the other end of the table. “Olivia, what are your thoughts on this?”

  Olivia didn’t seem surprised by the question and responded decisively. “The X’s mark a couple of high-rise apartment buildings. Ernesto might know—or I should say he might have known—someone who lived there and planned to visit them when he returned to Caracas.”

  Carlton nodded. “I concur.”

  The Admiral couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. “Pursue that rabbit, if you must, Douglas, but to my mind, marking those apartment buildings appears to be a very minor detail in the overall picture of this operation.”

  Carlton didn’t reply; instead, he immediately went to work straightening up his pile of papers.

  Then, as Grogan clicked over to the final slide in his briefing and the word Protocols appeared on the screen, Carlton looked over at me and smiled.

  He’d obviously won some kind of victory. I had no idea what it was.

  * * * *

  The Protocols slide introduced the final section of the briefing. It outlined the mission’s objectives and the means to achieve those objectives.

  Grogan said, “There are three interconnected objectives to the mission.”

  He projected each one in a bulleted format on the screen, and then he addressed Mitchell and me.

  “Your first and primary objective is to confirm the identity of the UAT. You’ll achieve this objective with the help of Sam Wylie and the team he’s assembled on Margarita Island.”

  Grogan turned to Salazar. “Is Sam available for the conference call yet?”

  He shook his head. “I still haven’t heard back from him. He must be running late.”

  Evidently, Sam Wylie hadn’t changed. When we’d worked together in Nicaragua, he was notorious for being late.

  “Give me a heads up as soon as he’s connected,” Grogan said, and then he quickly went on to his next point. “Your second objective is to determine Roberto Montilla’s role in Ahmed’s plans.”

  Suddenly, I remembered standing in the rental house in San José and unfolding the newspaper clipping, which Ernesto had been carrying around in his wallet. For the very first time, I considered the tribute Ernesto had shown to his father by having this keepsake with him wherever he went.

  As I thought about their relationship, an idea came to me.

  But, like a tiny seedling when it takes root in fertile soil, it still needed time to germinate, so I left it alone, hoping it might become a full-blown plant or, better still, a plan.

  “The mission’s third objective is to stop Ahmed from carrying out the hit on the UAT and then take Ahmed into custody for the murder of Simon Wassermann.”

  Grogan glanced over at Mitchell and me again. “The Presidential Directive authorizes you to take whatever measures are necessary to achieve these objectives. However, please keep in mind our counter-intelligence guys would welcome the opportunity to conduct a thorough and long-termed session with Ahmed Al-Amin before he’s turned over to the Attorney General.”

  I would indeed keep that in mind. It wouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind, though. It would be relegated to its proper place at the back.

  Grogan closed his laptop and stood to his feet. Now that his role in the briefing had been concluded, it was time for him to turn the briefing over to the operation’s field officer.

  Would it be Carlton or Salazar?

  He said, “Now, I want to address the unusual nature of this mission, specifically, the extraordinary circumstances of having both the Middle Eastern desk and the Latin American desk working together on the same operation.”

  The Admiral widened his stance slightly, giving me the distinct impression he might be remembering a time when he was standing on the deck of a ship addressing the crew.

  “Because of these circumstances, the Deputy Director has made the decision to name an independent field operations officer, one who will be on the ground directing the operation, while coordinating with both division heads back in the Operations Center.”

  At that moment, in one split second of crystal clear lucidity, everything came together.

  Things change.

  Keep an open mind.

  I had no idea.

  “The person he’s named as field officer for this operation is Olivia McConnell. She’ll be directing the in-country aspects of Operation Clear Signal on the ground in Venezuela, while Douglas and C. J. will be coordinating the operational phases of the mission back here at Langley.”

  Suddenly, having Salazar as my field officer didn’t seem like such a nightmare.

  In fact, now that Olivia was my FO, it was more like a cherished dream that hadn’t come true.

  * * * *

  After Grogan made his announcement, events in the room accelerated. The slow methodical briefing led by the Admiral was soon replaced by The Olivia McConnell Show.

  First, the long-awaited hookup with Sam Wylie was initiated. Then, Olivia and Grogan got into a brief skirmish over who would conduct the conference call with him. However, when Olivia pointed out that Wylie would be under her jurisdiction when she was running the operation on site in Venezuela, Grogan relented and allowed her to direct the conversation.

  After Wylie had signed off, Olivia announced the schedule for the following day, and then she outlined how she saw the operation playing out once the yacht arrived in Porlamar.

  When she concluded the briefing, she addressed Mitchell and me. “It’s your turn now. Do either of you want to comment on Paul’s briefing or the operational game plan I’ve laid out?”

  Mitchell, who had been subdued ever since Olivia’s role in the operation had been announced, suddenly found his voice. “Sam mentioned his team had been able to wire Montilla’s suite at the hotel. Is there any chance hotel security might discover those listening devices?”

  To Olivia’s credit, she didn’t ridicule his inexperience in the field. Instead, she went into an explanation about backup contingencies, couching her doubletalk in the aura of newly developed technologies. However, in her closing remark, she managed to sound condescending.

  “If you’re still unclear on this, Support Services can supply you with some manuals on the subject. Reading those should get you up to speed.”

  She turned to me and asked, “Any thoughts, Titus?”

  “Just one.”

  My tiny seedling of an idea had now blossomed into a full-blown plan ripe for the plucking.

  “The floor’s all your’s.” Olivia said.

  As if to demonstrate she was sincere, Olivia resumed her seat beside Katherine.

  “I think we need to shake things up in Ahmed’s world,” I said. “Create a little chaos. Rock his boat, so to speak.”

  Olivia raised her eyebrows, but she looked more intrigued than surprised by my suggestion. “Sounds interesting. Did you have something specific in mind?”

  I nodded. “I believe it’s time for the American Embassy in San
José to contact Roberto Montilla and inform him his son has been found murdered. Instruct them to keep the report vague. They should say Ernesto’s death is under investigation by the Costa Rican authorities, but they should also hint there’s every indication his death was a homicide. Let Roberto know it was Ernesto’s girlfriend who contacted the embassy after she hadn’t heard from him in several days.”

  Salazar looked as if he wanted to say something, but Olivia raised her hand like a traffic cop and stopped him.

  He remained quiet after that.

  Olivia contemplated my proposal for a moment. “As soon as Roberto sees Javier, he’ll know this kid isn’t his son, so how does telling him about Ernesto’s death beforehand prove beneficial to us? Wouldn’t it make more sense to hear how Ahmed is going to explain Ernesto’s death to his father? Hearing his explanation might give us some insight into what his plans are.”

  I shook my head. “No, I disagree. No matter how Ahmed decides to spin the story to Roberto, we’ll just end up playing defense. The best way for us to identify the UAT is to play offense and take the initiative. Roberto Montilla is the unknown here. We have no idea if he’s simply a puppet in Ahmed’s game or if he’s the one pulling the strings. Let’s find out which one he is by letting him know his son is dead, and then we can observe how he reacts to that information.”

  Olivia looked thoughtful. “If Roberto thinks Ahmed is responsible for his son’s death, he might never let him off the island alive.”

  “Ahmed’s too smart and well-trained to let that happen. However, I’m confident once Roberto hears about his son’s death, things will start to get confusing. And whenever there’s confusion, people start making mistakes. I want to create an environment where Ahmed will start making mistakes. Otherwise, we might never identify his target until it’s too late.”

  Olivia surprised me by actually smiling. “I like this idea, Titus, and you’re right; whenever there’s confusion, people start making mistakes.”

  Having Olivia agree with me was unsettling, to say the least.