The Venezuelan

by Bill King

  “Sure thing. I just need to drop off my bag and take a quick shower first,” she said, inserting her key and opening the front door. “Is there anything I need to be prepared for?”

  “No. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  She walked inside and closed the door behind her.

  Forty minutes later, she depressed the button that automatically opened the garage door. She backed her car out onto the street and hit the remote button again to close the garage. She waited for it to fully close before heading off toward the embassy. Even in the nicest of neighborhoods—perhaps even especially—petty crime was not exactly unheard of.

  It was only a ten-minute drive from her house to the embassy on a Sunday, especially that time of day when most Brazilians were sitting down to a family lunch.

  She showed her identification credentials to the blue uniformed guard at the vehicle gate into the embassy. Even though the man recognized both her and her vehicle, he still went through the full protocol before motioning to the other guard behind a bulletproof glass window to open the gate and allow her to drive through and into the main compound.

  This being a Sunday, she easily found a close parking space in the diagonal lot just to the right of the main entrance to the low-slung two-story white building that housed the U.S. Embassy. Carpenter, dressed in khakis and a light blue polo shirt, was waiting for her in his second-floor office.

  He smiled and rose to his feet when he saw her enter the room.

  “It’s good to have you back, Clarice,” he said, smiling broadly. He rarely smiled—it just wasn’t in his personality—so she figured something was up. “Have a seat and kick up your feet. Can I get you something to drink? Coke? Water? Guaraná?”

  “I’d love some water…with gas, and ice if you have it,” she said, putting on her best happy face.

  He opened a fresh liter glass bottle of San Pellegrino, plucked a couple of ice cubes from the ice bucket using the stainless-steel tongs, and poured her a tall glass of water. He walked over and handed it to her before sitting down in the armchair beside her.

  “I was partially successful in convincing Washington to accept the fact that the fiasco involving the Venezuelan was not your fault,” he said, choosing his words carefully while striving to maintain a soothing smile on his face. It was not an easy balancing act for someone like him, who was not by nature an extrovert.

  “And before you say anything,” he continued, “I agree with you one hundred percent that the program was being run out of Langley, not Brasilia, and that your primary involvement was simply being aware of its existence.”

  She pursed her lips and grimaced. “So, why is it so hard for them to understand that?”

  “When it comes to butt-covering, those people in Langley are world class artists,” said Carpenter. He pronounced the word as are-TEESTS. “Our job—yours and mine—is to not allow them to pin the blame on us…and the best way to do that is for you to maintain a low profile.”

  She wasn’t totally convinced that he was now on her side, but then again, she wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t either.

  “So, how do we do that?”

  “We’re going to keep you out of SOARING CONDOR,” he said, fidgeting with the arm of his chair. “Margaret Donovan thinks it would be best…to just keep the paper trail away from you during the whole Venezuelan thing. A year from now, most people will have forgotten about that fiasco in the jungle.”

  “What about HIMALAYAN VULTURE?”

  “That program has been officially shut down. That means all access has been terminated and all records have been sealed…as if it never existed.”

  ◆◆◆

  Carlos Briceño took a healthy swig from his bottle of Shiner Bock beer, using his free hand to block the sun from his eyes.

  “Emma, play nice,” he called out to his eight-year old daughter, who was playing in the backyard with about fifteen other kids, mostly girls. It was her birthday and the girls were working off some excess energy while their moms helped Carlos’ wife get the cake and ice cream ready to be served.

  It was a warm winter afternoon in Katy, Texas, a middleclass suburb on the western edge of Houston. The temperature was in the low seventies and the leaves and flowers were beginning to bud out, despite it only being early March. In another month, they would probably start using the swimming pool again, although it was already better swimming weather in Houston in wintertime than it would ever be on Memorial Day in the northern parts of the country.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m not sure that I’d ever want to return home to Venezuela, even if things went back to the way they were when we were kids,” Carlos said to Roberto Lazarus, one of his oldest friends going back to when they were growing up together in Caracas.

  The two men were both petroleum engineers who had left Venezuela about eight years earlier to work in Houston, the energy capital of the world. Briceño would have described their departure as “fleeing” rather than leaving, but then what word would one use to describe people leaving Venezuela nowadays? At least back then, they had been able to bring their families and ship some of their household belongings with them.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Lazarus, a twinge of regret in his voice. “It’s still our home. Our ancestors have lived there for dozens of generations. I still have family in Caracas and I hope that one day I’ll be able to see them again…in the country where I was born.”

  Both men were now approaching their mid-thirties and their careers in the oil industry were on a steady upward path. Lazarus, despite his fondness for his new life in Texas, still harbored thoughts of one day returning to Venezuela. While his brain told him Texas was his future, his heart still yearned for the old Caracas, the city he had known growing up.

  “Roberto, that country you pine for no longer exists,” said Carlos, shifting their conversation into Spanish. “Now it’s like something out of an apocalyptic movie. Whether or not they meant to or not, the people running the country have taken it back to medieval times.”

  “Hey, you two, what’s with the serious talk,” said a heavyset man about their age, one of their neighbors who owned an interstate trucking business. He had been sitting in a cluster of lawn chairs about five feet away with three other men, whose wives were also in the kitchen helping with the cake and ice cream. “It’s a party, after all…not to mention that the ladies asked us to gather the girls together and bring them into the house for cake and opening the presents.”

  “You should face reality, Roberto,” said Carlos, getting up from his chair. “That Venezuela, the one you still long for, no longer exists.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Lazarus, taking one last swig of his beer before standing up. “At least not as long as those maggots continue to infest our country. Their time is coming, though. Mark my words. Their time is coming.”

  ◆◆◆

  Marco had secretly returned to Ciudad Bolivar several days after his trip there with the Venezuelan colonel. This time, though, he was meeting with someone he was not yet ready to let the Venezuelans know about.

  “So what is it that you felt was so important to show me?” the unusually tall man asked in Spanish.

  He rubbed the uncomfortable whiskers on his chin. The itch wasn’t physical, though. It was mental. He had sworn after his long months of captivity that he would never grow another beard. However, since he was still a wanted man with the intelligence resources of the most powerful nation in the world looking for him, the personal comfort of his face was less important than the comfort of his neck…and keeping it attached to his head.

  They were in the warehouse district, two blocks in from the Orinoco River. A light breeze was coming in from the west, clearing away the putrid smell from the water that had caused him to gag the day before. He had come better prepared today, bringing with him a handkerchief and a bottle of inexpensive cologne to hold over his nose.

  The Venezuelan colonel had told him he would eventually get us
ed to it, but Marco figured that day would probably not come much before his eightieth birthday.

  Marco noticed Calderón still needed to hold on to the steel handrail to steady himself as he walked up the five steps to the loading dock. He’s getting stronger, but still has a way to go, he thought to himself.

  He reached into his pocket and removed a ring with about a half dozen keys on it. The lock eventually turned with the third key he inserted. He pushed it open and walked over to the light switch inside, flipping it upward. The lighting in the room initially took on a murky beige, gradually brightening until, about forty seconds later, the three-thousand square foot storage room was brightly lit.

  “This is just one of several weapons storage facilities we have positioned throughout Venezuela,” he said. “Some of them are for you, should you choose to use them.”

  That last bit of information would be news to Colonel Cuellar, who was under the impression that the weapons and ammunition were all for him.

  “For me?” he asked, more than a little bit suspicious. “What did you have in mind?”

  Calderón had never completely trusted Americans, especially this Marco, or whatever other made up name he happened to be employing at any particular moment.

  “The people I represent feel strongly that Venezuela has long since gone beyond being merely a disaster,” said Marco. “It has become a danger to international stability, almost apocalyptic in terms of the misery being inflicted upon its people.”

  “Since when did the Americans give a damn about the people of Venezuela?”

  “Look, Mateo, I’m not going to stand here and try to blow smoke up your butt by trying to convince you of something you’re not wired to believe anyway. The important thing to remember is that we are offering to help you.”

  “Help me how?”

  “We see you as an alternative to the current regime. An improvement, actually.”

  The Venezuelan tilted his head and gave the American a perplexed look, as if the man had just grown a giant unicorn horn in the middle of his forehead.

  “Not to bring up bad memories, but you do remember I tried to detonate a nuclear weapon in the middle of Dallas less than a year ago?”

  “Yeah, I remember…a real buzzkill to our relationship, no doubt about it,” said Marco somberly. “But only if we allow it to be. Practical men must be practical. We both want something that the other can help provide.”

  Calderón was quiet for a moment but his brain was racing, mulling over what he had just heard. He doubted he would ever be able to trust this man, not even for a second, but one thing the American had said was unquestionably true. Practical men must be practical.

  “Alright, I see you have some weapons stored here,” said the Venezuelan. “Not nearly enough to overthrow the government of a nation the size of Venezuela, though.”

  “Don’t worry, my people will make sure you have all the weapons you need,” said Marco, reassuringly. “We’ll begin by seizing control of a slice of Venezuela, then expand from there.”

  “So, when do we begin?”

  “Slowly at first,” said the American. “We need you to burnish your image, much like Castro did in the late fifties in the Sierra Maestra mountains of Cuba, after he returned from exile in Mexico.”

  “Conduct raids and ambushes?”

  “Specifically, we want you to break into some police armories,” said the American. “Steal a bunch of weapons and then publicly claim responsibility. We’ll help make sure it gets splashed all over the news around the world. We’ll turn you into a heroic figure, someone the people of Venezuela will welcome with open arms when the time is right.”

  A broad smile broke across Calderón’s face.

  “Tell me more.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was just past three o’clock in the morning when the first of three Breaux Bridge fire engines arrived on scene, sirens blaring, lights flashing. By that time, Robideaux Hardware was already completely engulfed in flames, with virtually no chance of saving the eighty-year old structure.

  The family-run business had been a longtime fixture on Reese Street ever since its founding nearly seventy-five years earlier by a young army veteran returning home from the Pacific following the Second World War.

  Since then, three generations of the Robideaux family had grown up working there, among them the youngest daughter of the current owner. Clarice Robideaux last worked behind the counter fifteen years ago, during the summer between her junior and senior years at Louisiana State University.

  Her brother, Bobby, was slated to take over the business after their father retired later this year.

  The fire was finally extinguished just before sunrise, after which investigators from Breaux Bridge Fire Department began to meticulously comb through the debris, looking for answers to what caused the complete destruction of an iconic local business.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 18

  Houston, Texas

  “Clarice Robideaux sent me a coded text message last night letting me know that she was safely back in Brazil,” said Cortez, taking a bite from the breakfast burrito he had just picked up at the Sonic drive-through. It was a morning ritual for him…a bacon breakfast burrito with mild salsa and a large Coke.

  He had picked one up for Gonçalves, too, who also shared his penchant for healthy and nutritious food.

  Generally, he struggled through Monday mornings, particularly the first hour or so, until he was able to get back into the swing of things after a weekend away from the job. Gonçalves suffered from the same defect. That’s why they had gotten into the habit of meeting in his office at six on Monday mornings…to burn that hour before most folks arrived at work.

  That was the theory, anyway.

  “You want me to make you a cup, too?” asked the SSA, walking over to the Keurig and loading a k-pod.

  “Yes, please,” said Cortez, opening up his burrito and squeezing a couple of salsa packets over the bacon, egg and cheese inside before wrapping it back up. “I’ll take a dark if you’ve got one.”

  “Have you had a chance to talk to Lucinha Baker since she returned to Brasilia last week?” asked the SSA.

  “Yeah, Baker and I have exchanged a couple of routine emails to establish a paper trail of our working relationship on the human trafficking task force,” said Cortez, taking a big bite of his breakfast burrito and wiping some salsa from around his mouth with a napkin. “She and Robideaux are meeting for dinner on Friday. That’ll give Clarice several days to try to find out what Carpenter and Donovan are up to.”

  He checked his tie for errant drops of picante sauce. So far, so good.

  “When is your flight to Brasilia?”

  “In two days, on Wednesday, first thing,” said Cortez. “Lucinha will be picking me up at the airport. I’ll be staying at a hotel near the embassy.”

  “Well, remember not to get in the way of her establishing a relationship with Robideaux,” said Gonçalves, removing his cup from the Keurig machine and replacing it with an empty cup for Cortez. He inserted a dark brew k-cup and pushed the button.

  “It’s hard to believe we have to engage in such subterfuge just to keep the Agency out of our business. It’s a crying shame, as my dad used to always say, that things have degenerated to this point.”

  “Well, Pete, to be honest with you, I’m not sure there was ever a time when they didn’t read our mail. We just assumed they wouldn’t, so we never really worried about it.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Cortez. “The trick has always been to keep them from suspecting us because, once they do, there’s really no countermeasure we can take that we’re confident they can’t overcome.”

  “Welcome to my world, Pete,” said the SSA, returning to his desk and sitting down. “Sooner or later—usually sometime in our thirties—we all eventually become jaded. Call it a rite of passage…by the way, your coffee is ready over there. Don’t forget to leave a tip in the jar.”

  ◆
◆◆

  It was just before ten in the morning when the white Piper Seneca V carrying Marco landed back at the small airport just outside the town of Santa Elena de Uairén. The sun was already high in the sky and the air was completely still.

  The American grabbed his small duffel bag and hopped down from the plane. He headed straight for the terminal where the snack bar and rest rooms were located. He felt as if his bladder was about to burst and the bumpy landing hadn’t helped matters. In his line of work, a strong bladder was a necessity.

  The pilot taxied the plane over to the fuel pumps to refill the tanks before tying down the aircraft on the apron nearest the terminal building. Like Marco, he had also been eager to set down on the ground, but he would most likely take his leak by the fuel pumps.

  After leaving the restroom, Marco walked over to the counter and bought a Coke and bag of chips before heading back outside to where his rental car was parked. It had been a productive trip and he had managed to tie up a few loose ends in Guyana and Venezuela.

  Now it was time to get back to Brazil.

  He climbed into the old blue VW Passat and fired up the engine. It turned over the first time, as the engine roared to life. Well, maybe not roared. Purred might be a better word. He guided the vehicle onto the two-lane highway and headed south toward the border at Pacaraima. He needed a good meal and a good night’s sleep and he planned to make the two hour drive down to Boa Vista for both.

  Hopefully, he thought to himself, there won’t be too many refugees walking in the middle of the road to slow him down.

  ◆◆◆

  “So, my friend, what brings you back to Pacaraima so soon?” Roberto Lima asked his counterpart, Lieutenant Colonel Arturo Sanchez, who was dressed in the dark green military fatigues of the Venezuelan army. “Thinking about requesting political asylum in Brazil?”

  Sanchez remained expressionless as Lima escorted him out the side door to the outdoor smoking area that Lima’s sergeant major had recently set up especially for the chain-smoking Venezuelan.