The Venezuelan

by Bill King

  Although now he was technically a bureaucrat, he had a hard time staying away from the action of the old days. The adrenaline of the hunt kept him going, memorialized by the tattoo on his right forearm that read CAÇADOR, which is Portuguese for hunter.

  “I expect we’ll stumble across something pretty soon now,” he said.

  Nascimento’s English was flawless, the result of having attended several law enforcement training courses in the U.S. over the past two decades. He spoke English with an American accent and could easily pass himself off as an American.

  “Do you really think he’s coming to Brasilia? He certainly has to know that we’re on to him…that he would be walking into a trap.”

  Nascimento laughed.

  “Let’s try not to overthink this, Lucinha,” he said. “He came down here to kill your man, not to hide from him, and yes, I’m certain he has already entered the country and that he is on his way to Brasilia…assuming he’s not here already.”

  “Is there any record of him ever operating in Brazil before this?” she asked.

  “No, not that we’ve been able to piece together so far,” the Brazilian replied. “According to Interpol, he plies his trade mostly in Europe, and occasionally, in the United States. They say that, although he lives in Canada, he hasn’t worked there, so to speak, in well over a decade.”

  “Has he ever been caught?”

  “No, this guy’s pretty lucky in that regard. What Interpol knows about him comes solely from informants.”

  “So, what makes you think you guys will have any better luck?’

  “Because we’re not as concerned with his theoretical civil rights as you Americans are,” said the Brazilian policeman. “We’re more interested in stopping him in the first place rather than simply catching him afterwards.”

  Now it was Baker’s turn to laugh.

  “I guess that’s why we call each other foreigners, huh?”

  ◆◆◆

  “Tim, it’s so nice of you to make time to see me,” said Margaret Donovan, her face displaying her best false smile.

  Timothy O’Hara was a senior—but not that senior—diplomat at the State Department. Not seventh floor senior, but nonetheless pretty high up the ranks. Since he was not quite as senior at State as Donovan was at the Agency, though, he was somewhat flattered that she would take time to visit him…and at his office, no less.

  “Of course, Margaret,” he said, waiting for her to sit down before sitting back down in the chair behind his government desk. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Well, Tim, I happened to be in the city on another matter and thought I’d stop by and ask you a few questions concerning a project we’re working on at Langley,” she said, her face giving no indication that she was lying through her teeth. “And because sometimes these things are better done in person, if you know what I mean.”

  That last sentence piqued his interest, and the expression on his face definitely showed it.

  “Actually, Tim, it’s really just a training exercise we’re working on,” she continued, sensing his excitement and wanting him to think that this was simply another boring contingency plan that she was working on. “You know the Agency. We try to be prepared for any eventuality, even the ‘fat chance in hell’ ones.”

  “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” he said, smiling and laughing. “Sometimes we all seem to spend more time on the farfetched contingencies while overlooking the obvious ones.”

  She laughed, a polished, contrived laugh that seemed so genuine, except to those who really knew her well, which he did not.

  “Anyway, in this contingency, a friendly third-world nation with significant natural resources is overthrown in a coup,” she said, contorting her face in a manner to suggest that she, personally, thought the chances of such an eventuality actually occurring were extremely remote, despite the fact that the scenario described the vast majority of government overthrows over the past century or two.

  “Sounds like the type of thing you guys have been involved with since your founding,” he said. “So, what is your question?”

  “Well, it involves the process of initial recognition of the newly installed government by the United States. I assume there’s a more lengthy, formal process involved, but what I’m interested in is the first twenty-four hours.”

  “Yeah, that’s usually when we send our public signal as to which side we’re going to back,” said O’Hara, setting aside the paperclip he had been unconsciously playing with while she spoke. “That would be when either the president or the secretary of state, in most cases, would issue a short statement—nowadays, it’s more likely to be a tweet—to give an early indication as to which side of the fence we are on. Most of our friends usually follow suit within twelve to twenty-four hours after our initial signal.”

  Donovan pursed her lips and nodded her head several times in understanding.

  “What are the main factors that go into our decision?” she asked. “Say in a case where we have diplomatic relations with a particular government, but not necessarily warm, enthusiastic relations?”

  “Well, I think you’ve just described probably eighty percent of the nations in the world today,” he said. “Perhaps even more.”

  She smiled as if he had just said something enormously clever.

  “Let’s say we have important commercial relations with the country, even if we’re not particularly best friends with the government?” she asked.

  “That’s pretty easy, assuming that our own internal partisan politics don’t get wrapped up in it,” he said. “The key factor would be whether or not our commercial relationship would be changed as a result, and if so, in which direction? That is, if it’s for the better or for the worse?”

  They spoke for another few minutes, with Donovan asking questions she either already knew the answer to…or didn’t care what the answers were. At an opportune lull in the conversation, she reached down to grab her purse before standing.

  “Thank you so much for indulging my crazy questions, Tim,” she said, extending her hand to shake his. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  With that, she turned and walked toward his office door to leave. She was smiling.

  ◆◆◆

  “I’m telling you, Roberto, something strange is going on,” said Lieutenant Colonel Arturo Sanchez, snapping shut his cigarette lighter and slipping it back into his front pocket.

  Roberto Lima was completely taken aback. The two men shared a mutual respect for each other, and to a certain extent, had become friends. They trusted one another. They shared information on a regular basis, particularly concerning the current situation at the border between the two countries and how best to diffuse confrontations that routinely had the potential for conflict.

  Still, Lima did not expect this level of confidence when it came to internal Venezuelan military and political matters.

  “What do you mean, Arturo?” he asked his Venezuelan counterpart.

  “There’s something that just doesn’t feel right.”

  “How so? These refugee caravans have been going on for several years now.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” said Sanchez, taking a drag from his ever-present cigarette and blowing the smoke out through his nose. “I’m talking about the rash of raids on police armories and the stealing of weapons.”

  “I mean this with all due respect, Arturo, but is that really so unusual in your country these days?” Lima asked, not wanting to offend his friend, but simply stating the obvious. “Maybe not with this frequency, but you have to admit there’s been a lot of disruption going on, especially since Hugo Chavez died.”

  Sanchez shrugged his shoulders.

  “There’s a big military training exercise scheduled to kick off in the next few days in Ciudad Guayana,” the Venezuelan said, hesitatingly. “It’s been in the newspapers several times this week.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “It involves all of
the army units in the region…all of them, that is, except mine,” said Sanchez, obviously concerned with being the odd man out in something potentially this important. “I fear my commanders may not trust me anymore.”

  “But your unit is deployed to the border, Arturo,” said Lima. “They can’t very well pull you away from an important real-world mission to participate in a training exercise.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said grudgingly, even though he did not even remotely believe that was a plausible explanation.

  Lima gave him a curious look.

  “Tell me, my friend, what’s really bothering you?”

  Sanchez fumbled for his rumpled pack of cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it, turning his head to the side to blow the smoke away from the Brazilian.

  “I’m troubled by the army’s indifference to the rash of armed attacks against the established order of the nation,” he said finally. “Especially considering the role of Mateo Calderón in all this.”

  “Why?” he said, starting to laugh. “Do you think he and the army are in cahoots?”

  Lima noticed that the Venezuelan wasn’t joining him in laughter.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 30

  Zurich, Switzerland

  AFRESH BLANKET OF snow covered the ground in Zurich that Saturday morning, the remnant of a heavy snowstorm that blew in the night before.

  Zhang Wei stood in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows in the private library of the palatial estate overlooking Lake Zurich. The snow-capped Alps in the distance added to the sense of calm and serenity he felt.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door to the room. He turned and nodded his silent ascent to his security chief, a short, stocky man sporting a closely cropped butch haircut, who opened the door and motioned for the two men just outside in the hall to enter.

  “Gentlemen, please, join me,” said the CEO of Shanghai Petroleum, smiling as he walked over toward them, his right hand extended. “I was afraid you would not make it.”

  “Oh, the roads weren’t all that bad,” said Zachery Jellico, shaking hands with the man.

  “The Swiss have been clearing snow for centuries, my friend,” said Paulo Mendes Almeida with a smile as he, too, shook hands with Zhang. “Now, snow in Rio de Janeiro? Words cannot begin to describe the chaos that would ensue from that.”

  The three men laughed as a white-jacketed butler carrying a silver tray entered the room and walked toward them.

  “Coffee, gentlemen?”

  They sat down in the leather armchairs in front of a massive stone fireplace. The sound of the crackling fire only added to the sense of warmth. The butler set the silver tray down on the hearth momentarily while he tossed another couple of logs onto the fire. Then he retrieved the tray and made his way to the heavy wooden doors that led out into the hallway of the home.

  When they were finally alone, it was Zhang who spoke first.

  “So tell me, gentlemen, how is our plan proceeding?”

  “So far, everything is going as we anticipated,” said Almeida, rubbing his hands together to warm them. One of the downsides of having tall ceilings is that it’s difficult to balance the temperature in the room because, as even children and politicians know, hot air rises.

  “Paulo and I have been personally making the rounds one last time to ensure that everything is on track,” said the American, who was holding his coffee mug with both hands.

  “As we all know, it is absolutely essential that this appear to have been an organic, homegrown series of events,” said the Brazilian, reiterating what the three men knew all too well. “It’s a delicate operation, one that requires great care and sensitivity in both the planning and the execution.”

  Zhang smiled. “My people transformed intrigue into an art form several millennia ago. To me, this entire matter is just another day at the office.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Jellico, waving his hand as if swatting away a gnat. “We all have a lot riding on the success of our plan. It is critical that everything happen in the manner it’s supposed to happen…and at the precise time it’s supposed to happen.”

  He was anxious to complete their business as quickly as possible. They had a private plane waiting to fly them back to Houston for opening day of the baseball season. The Astros were hosting the Royals at Minute Maid Park on Monday and he hadn’t missed a season’s opener since he was a child attending games at the Astrodome with his father.

  “Which brings us to why we are here,” said Paulo Almeida. “Is your government prepared to back our play? Can we expect immediate diplomatic recognition?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Zhang. “It has all been arranged.”

  “And will that recognition be accompanied by others?” asked the American.

  “Most assuredly. I believe you may expect at least forty other nations to extend their formal recognition within the first twelve hours.”

  “Excellent,” said Almeida, a broad smile breaking across his face. “I knew we could count on you.”

  ◆◆◆

  As the plane carrying Cortez and Robideaux approached Manaus, Cortez stared out the window at the spectacular sight of the two major rivers merging. For several miles, the dark waters of the Rio Negro and the light waters of the Rio Branco traveled side-by-side in the same current until the waters eventually blended into one.

  “Lucinha arranged for a friend of hers from the National Police to meet us at the airport when we arrive,” said Cortez, turning his attention back to Robideaux, who was sitting across the center aisle from him in the King Air.

  “Once we receive a rundown on the border situation from them, I’d like to talk with the military, as well,” she said, stretching her legs out under the seat in front of her.

  “Yeah, maybe even take a firsthand look for ourselves,” said Cortez. “I’ll see if we can catch a ride up to Boa Vista…maybe even drive up to Pacaraima for a real close up look.”

  “Good idea,” she replied. “I’d like to talk to the battalion commander up on the border and hear what he thinks about the steady stream of refugees.”

  “And get his take on the likelihood of more violent incidents as a result,” said Cortez. “I don’t think anyone really believes that the recent violence was a one-off. I have no doubt this is going to be a reoccurring event.”

  “My question is still how this is related to Calderón and whoever broke him out of captivity,” said Robideaux.

  “Yeah, and put a contract on my head…and set fire to your family’s business. Too much coincidence is no coincidence at all.”

  She looked at him, a look of concern on her face.

  “How long do you think it will take before the Canadian realizes we’ve left Brasilia?” she asked. “That we’re now traipsing around the Amazon? You realize that we’ll be a whole lot more vulnerable up there, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had somehow managed to sneak onto the plane with us,” he said. “This guy is a pro…and God only knows who or how many contacts he has helping him down here in Brazil.”

  “Yeah,” Robideaux replied, smiling. “He could even be the pilot for all we know.”

  He laughed, nervously, at the preposterousness of the idea.

  “Well, lucky for us, we’re going to be surrounded by police and soldiers everywhere we go,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Don’t worry. There’s no way he can get to us.”

  “I’d really be worried if I thought you actually believe that,” she said, a smirk on her face.

  ◆◆◆

  Lieutenant Colonel Roberto Lima stared at the virtually deserted border crossing about fifty feet in front of him, his hands on his hips. His operations officer, Major Rodrigues Antonio de Melo, stood next to him.

  “What do we hear about the latest refugee column headed our way, Major?” he asked.

  “According to the man we imbedded with the column, they should be arriving at the Pacaraima
border crossing in four days, five at the most.”

  “What about its size? How many people can we expect?”

  “Our man says it has expanded to as many as five thousand people…and getting larger every day,” said Rodrigues. “They passed through Las Claritas three days ago and are now probably about one hundred-thirty kilometers away.”

  “Well, unless some kind soul miraculously appears with buses or trucks, they’ll probably average about thirty kilometers a day, if past experience is any indication,” said Lima.

  “Yes, sir, that’s how I figure it, too.”

  “Well, I hope Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez and his men are present for this one,” said the Brazilian battalion commander. “I have a feeling that, given the miserable weather, those people will be pretty irritable by the time they reach the border.”

  ◆◆◆

  A dozen men were gathered in the sparsely furnished room on the floor above a small neighborhood bakery in El Tigre. All were senior leaders in the Movimiento Veinte-Ocho de Julio revolutionary organization, commonly known throughout Venezuela as M-28.

  The room had gone momentarily silent moments earlier when Mateo Calderón had walked through the open door, accompanied by two trusted bodyguards. Calderón towered over everyone else in the room, who erupted into cheering and applause upon seeing him in the flesh.

  “Fósforo, it is good to have you back among us once more,” called out a bearded man in his thirties who went by the name, Alberto. “I feared that none of us would ever see you again after you were captured by the Americans.”

  The tall man laughed, a hearty laugh that was largely for dramatic effect.

  “We must always maintain our faith in the struggle, Alberto,” said Calderón, now in full inspirational character. “The people are depending upon us and we must not let them down…no matter the difficulty of our struggle.”

  Just about all of the men in the room had traveled a great distance for this leadership summit. They were energized, eager to resume the revolutionary struggle in the Bolivarian Republic. Almost none of them had seen their leader since his return from wherever it was that he had been the past ten months. Each grabbed one of the rickety wooden chairs leaning against the wall and formed a circle around their newly returned leader.