Two Days in Caracas

by Luana Ehrlich

  “I agree, but so far, our analysts haven’t been able to come up with very much on his background. He came here from Syria about three years ago. He lives in Caracas and makes his living teaching mathematics in a secondary Islamic school run by Imam Wajdi Raza. He’s the highest-ranking Imam in Venezuela. Nothing in the Venezuelan Islamic community gets done without his approval.”

  I took one last look at the photographs. “Would you mind doing me a favor?” I asked. “Copy all your files on Rehman Zaidi and Campamento Laguna and put them in an encrypted email to Douglas Carlton. Use this address.”

  I quickly scribbled down an email address Carlton and I had used before to bypass internal security.

  As I handed it over to Wylie, I said, “If there’s any other information you think Douglas should know about Hezbollah’s activities in Venezuela, write it up as a separate document.”

  Wylie slipped the piece of paper in his jeans pocket. “Douglas is a division head. He has access to all my field reports. Why would he need to see what’s in these files?”

  “I once promised him that if I ever came across intel I knew he didn’t have, I’d let him know immediately. Those photographs weren’t in the Agency archives. Maybe that’s the result of a backlog or a simple oversight on someone’s part, but, since I know my Ops Officer is missing intel, I’m keeping that promise.”

  “Okay, sure, I’ll get it to him immediately. Technically, though, Douglas isn’t your Operational Officer for this mission. Olivia McConnell is.”

  “Douglas Carlton may not be in country, Sam, but believe me, he’s my handler for this mission. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be in Venezuela.”

  Chapter 35

  After Mitchell and I arrived at Concorde Marina on the east side of Porlamar Bay around three o’clock, we stayed hunkered down inside our rented Nissan for over an hour.

  The whole time, though, we had our eyes on El Mano Fierro. It had anchored in Porlamar Bay along the sea wall approximately two hundred yards away from our location.

  We were waiting for the arrival of the port captain, a man named Miguel Cobos. As soon as Cobos arrived and boarded El Mano Fierro, Mitchell and I would get on a fuel boat and make our way over to the yacht to begin the task of refueling—not to mention the task of leaving behind some electronic listening devices.

  Earlier, Wylie had made arrangements with Juan Ortiz, the owner of one of the refueling stations, to use his boat and deliver fuel to the yacht. I wasn’t sure what kind of story Wylie had told Juan, but I knew it involved a great deal of cash—American dollars, not bolivares.

  As we sat there observing the yacht, I told Mitchell about watching Hernando come aboard El Mano Fierro in Limón while I was at the Holiday Inn Express in Grand Blanc, Michigan.

  Mitchell made a joke about my lounging around a hotel room in my pajamas while he was out doing all the work. I smiled, but all I could think about was saying goodbye to Nikki Saxon in that same hotel room.

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

  “Does it make you sick?”

  For a split second, I thought Mitchell had asked me a question about my relationship with Nikki.

  I tried to refocus. “Does what make me sick?”

  “Being so near the water; seeing those boats bobbing around out there on the waves like that.”

  “No, it doesn’t make me sick. I got sick at the boathouse that night because of something I ate on the plane.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of you know. A college buddy of mine had the same condition. He got sick every time he got near the water. In fact, he always took a Dramamine whenever he went to the beach.”

  Even if a pill would take care of my nausea. I wouldn’t take anything that would make me drowsy—especially when I was about to be in the same neighborhood as Ahmed.

  Once again, I told Mitchell I didn’t have a problem.

  I don’t think he bought it, and I felt sure, when we took the fuel boat out to the yacht, he’d be watching me for any sign I might be ready to empty the contents of my stomach into the waters of the Caribbean.

  That wasn’t going to happen, though, because I’d found a way to deal with my situation.

  Earlier in the day, when Olivia had first announced Carlton’s plan to use the fuel boat to get aboard the yacht, I’d experienced a few moments of panic at the thought of being out on the water. But then, I tried what Javad had once told me he did whenever he thought the Iranian secret police had him under surveillance.

  “I breathe a prayer and keep on walking,” he said.

  When I’d questioned him about how that worked, he said, “You just ask God to help you. With every breath, you ask God to help. Focus on breathing and asking. Just breathe and ask. Breathe and ask and keep on walking.”

  Since I was up on the seventeenth floor of the Wyndham hotel when I’d remembered this, I kept my seat and didn’t walk anywhere.

  But, I did take a deep breath and ask God for help.

  Then, I did it again.

  And again.

  Within minutes, it felt as if my heart rate had returned to normal, and my nausea had disappeared.

  Would breathing a prayer work when I was on the fuel boat and headed out to a rendezvous with Ahmed’s yacht?

  “There he is,” Mitchell said, pointing to a car pulling up to the pier.

  It was time to find out.

  * * * *

  The government lettering on the side of the late model vehicle indicated it belonged to Customs and Immigration.

  The person getting out of the car, who I assumed to be Miguel Cobos, looked like a typical Latin American bureaucrat. He was wearing a light green guayabera shirt, wrinkled brown khakis, and a pair of slip-on loafers. In his hand was a battered brown satchel.

  I said, “We’ll stay in place until he goes aboard the yacht.”

  “Works for me.”

  Cobos didn’t appear to be in any hurry. As he made his way along the pier, he stopped and greeted several people, and then he had an extended conversation with some men working on a fishing boat.

  A few minutes later, he walked over to a soft drink machine. Before depositing his money, though, he turned his head in the direction of El Mano Fierro. Then, as if he’d changed his mind, he put the coins back in his pocket and continued making his way down the boardwalk toward the yacht.

  Mitchell said, “What was that all about? Couldn’t he afford a soda?”

  “Maybe he decided to keep his hard-earned cash, since someone will probably offer him a free drink on the boat.”

  As Cobos approached the yacht, a man suddenly emerged from the shadows of a bait shack on the other side of the boardwalk. Carrying what appeared to be a large black golf bag, the man quickly crossed the short distance to the boat and followed Cobos up the gangway and onto the bridge of El Mano Fierro.

  I said, “Or maybe he was just killing time until his golf buddy showed up.”

  When they arrived on the bridge, a man in a red ball cap greeted the two men. Then, the three of them walked past the Jacuzzi and under a white awning near the pilothouse. Seconds later, they disappeared from sight.

  “What just happened?” Mitchell asked. “Who was the guy with the golf bag?

  “Let’s go find out.”

  * * * *

  Earlier in the day, when we’d been at the hotel mapping out how to get on the yacht, Mitchell had volunteered to pilot the fuel boat out to the yacht. He said he knew his way around boats because of the summers he’d spent on Martha’s Vineyard.

  I had voiced no objections to his wearing the captain’s hat. Better him than me.

  The moment we boarded the rickety old vessel at the refueling station, Mitchell immediately went inside the pilothouse and started fooling around with the instruments.

  Whether or not he knew what he was doing was yet to be determined.

  Meanwhile, I checked out the two large diesel storage tanks at the back of the boat. The dials and hoses
looked exactly like the photographs Wylie had shown me back at the hotel.

  As I inspected the boat, the phrase “old rust bucket” came to mind. The odd-looking vessel resembled a cross between a small barge and a medium-sized houseboat and was in need of a good paint job, not to mention a few structural repairs.

  When Mitchell powered up the motor, the noises from the engine made me wonder if the thing was even capable of pulling away from the dock. Within seconds, though, we were moving out across the water with the smell of diesel fuel trailing in our wake.

  Suddenly, the disturbing scene from Danger On The High Seas fired across my neurons, and a familiar feeling threatened to engulf me.

  I tried breathing a prayer.

  Breathe and ask.

  I glanced up and saw Mitchell watching me from the pilothouse.

  I gave him a thumbs up.

  Breathe and ask and keep on walking.

  The boat picked up speed and rapidly closed in on El Mano Fierro.

  Breathe and ask.

  When we were within a hundred yards of the yacht, a man wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes and watched our approach from the bridge.

  His actions didn’t surprise me.

  Ahmed was a cautious man.

  As soon as Mitchell started maneuvering the fuel boat alongside the yacht, the Red Sox fan lowered the binoculars and yelled at us.

  “Cuidado. Cuidado,” he cautioned, warning us not to allow the diesel-laden boat to ram the expensive yacht.

  Mitchell handled the cumbersome boat like an expert, and within five minutes or so, I was attaching the hose from the 20,000-gallon tank to the yacht so the refueling process could begin.

  The Operations Center had told Olivia if the pump gauges were set at the lowest possible setting, then refueling the yacht should take at least an hour. I followed her instructions and adjusted the pump speed and the flow rate. Then, I calculated I had just enough time to plant the listening devices before the yacht’s fuel tanks were topped off.

  As soon as I gave Mitchell a nod, he came out of the pilothouse and handed the crewman an invoice, joking with him about the island’s nightlife. Once the two of them had started exchanging stories, I announced I was headed inside the pilothouse to take a snooze.

  I made sure the Red Sox fan had his eyes on me the whole time.

  While waiting inside the cramped quarters, I listened for Mitchell’s pre-arranged code that would let me know the guy had turned away from the pilothouse and was no longer interested in my whereabouts. Once I heard the words we’d agreed on, I grabbed the toolkit supplied by Wylie, slipped out the door, and scampered up the yacht’s side ladder.

  After determining no other crewmen were on the bridge, I made my way over to the stairs leading down to the lower deck and the crew’s quarters.

  From there, I’d planned to access the rest of the ship and plant the devices.

  Within minutes, though, my plans were a distant memory.

  * * * *

  When I reached the lower deck, I inserted an earpiece from my toolkit and activated the wireless communication feed between Olivia and me.

  She and Wylie had left the hotel and gone to a safe house on the island in order to establish a direct hookup with the Ops Center back at Langley.

  Olivia said, “We have you on the grid.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Are you a go?”

  “Affirmative.”

  As I moved down the passageway toward the guest suites, I told Olivia about the man who’d boarded the yacht with Cobos. She sounded dissatisfied because of my sketchy description of the man, but I didn’t respond because I’d reached the first guest room by then.

  I listened outside the door for a few seconds.

  Nothing.

  I went in, attached a bug to the lamp on the bedside table, and I was out of there in ten seconds. I did the same to the second guest room.

  The hard part came next.

  “On my way up to the main deck now.”

  “Copy.”

  As I got near the stairwell leading up to the main deck, I could hear someone coming down the stairs toward me. I quickly moved over to a tiny lavatory near the crew’s quarters and squeezed inside.

  I clicked my comms unit once to let Olivia know I was going silent. Moments later, I heard the voices of two men in the hallway outside the lavatory.

  As they passed by the door, I heard them arguing. At that moment, I realized I’d either hit the jackpot or been dealt a losing hand because they were communicating with each other in Arabic.

  I opened the door a crack.

  Down the hallway, about thirty feet away, I saw Ahmed Al-Amin approaching the guest suites where I’d just finished planting the bugs. Following closely behind him was the guy who’d come onboard with Cobos. He still had the black golf bag over his shoulder.

  But now, as I saw Ahmed reach inside the bag, I realized it didn’t just contain a set of golf clubs. There was a high-powered rifle in there as well. And, what I hadn’t been able to see before was clear to me now. The man’s upper arm, which he’d placed against the outer strap of the bag, had been severed at the elbow.

  Rehman Zaidi, the Hezbollah commander of Campamento Laguna, had come aboard the yacht to deliver weapons to Ahmed.

  As the two men entered the guest suite, Ahmed asked Zaidi, “Why hasn’t he checked in yet?”

  He shut the door before Zaidi answered him.

  “Activate number two,” I whispered, “and send me the feed.”

  “Copy.”

  Seconds later, I was able to hear Zaidi’s reply being transmitted by the bug I’d just planted inside the guest suite.

  “He hasn’t cancelled the reservation. He may still show up tomorrow.”

  “No, if he’s not taking your calls, then something must have happened.”

  “He could have been in an accident.”

  “Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

  “I have men in place. We’ll find him.”

  “There are only two days left on the timetable. If it’s not done by then, I won’t get paid. It’s imperative I get to Caracas and find him immediately.”

  “The last flight to Caracas has left for the day.”

  “Then book me on the first flight in the morning.”

  “Will you still need the rifle?”

  “Once I’ve assessed the situation, I’ll let you know my requirements. Take the weapon with you, though. Don’t leave it here.”

  “Of course.”

  “You understand I must get to Caracas in the morning?”

  “I will arrange it. I would be most honored if you would stay at my apartment while you’re in Caracas.”

  “Of course, but you must book separate flights for us. I’ll take a taxi from the airport and meet you there.”

  “I’ll write down the address for you. It’s apartment 1705.”

  “There’s no need to write it down. I know the address.”

  While the conversation between Ahmed and Zaidi was taking place, I was fighting an overwhelming urge to enter the guest suite and deliver the kind of justice I knew Ahmed deserved, not only for the murder of Simon Wassermann, but also for the horrible atrocities he’d committed against Ernesto Montilla.

  That desire had become almost overwhelming to me.

  The moment I realized I’d removed the Glock from my holster and chambered a round, I decided it was time to abandon ship.

  I quickly put away my gun.

  Then, I retraced my steps up the stairwell and back across the bridge, making it inside the pilothouse without being seen by the Red Sox fan, who was still engaged in a conversation with Mitchell.

  A few minutes later, I came out of the pilothouse.

  As I made my way over to the storage tanks, I stretched my limbs and rubbed my eyes as if I’d just been awakened from a nap. The look on Mitchell’s face told me I might have been overdoing the drama a little bit.

  Once I’d di
sconnected the fuel hoses from the yacht, Mitchell waved goodbye to the Red Sox fan and fired up the engines, navigating us away from the ship and back toward the refueling station.

  The moment we were out over the open water, Mitchell turned and yelled at me, trying to make himself heard above the racket of the engine.

  “Did you have any trouble?” he shouted.

  I shook my head. “Not a bit.”

  “Good. Maybe now we’ll know where Ahmed’s headed when he leaves the yacht.”

  “He’s headed to Caracas.”

  Mitchell cupped his hand to his ear. “What?”

  “We’re on our way to Caracas.”

  Chapter 36

  Once Mitchell and I returned to the pier, Olivia instructed us to head over to the Agency’s safe house, which was located on the outskirts of Porlamar. Along the way, I filled Mitchell in on the conversation I’d heard between Ahmed and Rehman Zaidi.

  As he maneuvered the Nissan up a narrow mountainous road, he said, “They had to be talking about Roberto Montilla. If Ahmed is so desperate to find him, he must be more important to Ahmed’s mission than we first thought.”

  “Or maybe Roberto is the mission,” I said.

  Before Mitchell had a chance to respond, he pulled in the driveway of a sprawling Caribbean style villa with a magnificent view of the ocean.

  “Impressive,” he said.

  It wasn’t the three-bedroom bungalow I’d pictured when Wylie had first mentioned a safe house on the island, and its open landscaping and access to the ocean made me wonder how secure it was. However, I couldn’t deny it was a beautiful piece of property.

  One of Wylie’s surveillance guys met us at the door. “They’re in the dining room,” he said, pointing down a long hallway.

  We found Olivia at the head of a rectangular wooden table that that could seat at least sixteen people. She had a yellow highlighter in her hand, and she was scrutinizing some documents.

  Wylie was standing by the windows at the other end of the room. Behind him was a spectacular view of an infinity pool surrounded by a terraced garden, and on the horizon, just beyond the pool, I could see sailboats skimming across the water.