The Venezuelan

by Bill King

  Most were smoking, a few were still munching on the last of the bread they had liberated from the bakery counter downstairs as they made their way to the M-28 leadership summit.

  “Gentlemen, we have the opportunity in front of us to go down in history, to have future generations speak our names in reverential tones,” said Mateo Calderón, his voice modulating like an old-time minister. “We will be seen as the liberators, as the men who brought Venezuela back from the brink of ruin.”

  A rousing chorus of cheers rocked the room. “FOS-for-o. FOS-for-o,” they shouted, stomping their feet as they chanted his name.

  “We will do what those who came before us could not do,” he continued, raising and lowering his voice like the master orator he was. “The people’s misery did not start with us, but it will end with us.”

  More cheering. More foot stomping.

  “Now, my friends, we have much to discuss,” said Calderón, lowering his voice to a more conversational tone. He pointed toward a wooden easel just to his left. “Domingo, please remove the tarp from the map board.”

  Domingo walked over and removed the tarp, revealing a map of Venezuela. M-28 was organized into nine regions spread across the nation, with each region prominently outlined in red. Color coded map tacks marked the headquarters location of each M-28 region. Each region contained three-to-five blue tacks representing additional targeted cities.

  “What you see is phase one of our operation,” said Calderón, his eyes scanning across the room to gauge the reaction of his subordinate leaders.

  They would be the men on the ground who would execute the broad-based attack on the ruling regime. It was important that each was fully invested in the plan. Truly committed.

  For the next fifteen minutes, he detailed the planned operation that would involve thirty-seven distinct targets, spread out among nine operational cells. He would occasionally stop speaking in order to make sure everyone understood the overall mission, and more importantly, their role in carrying it out.

  As he was about to continue, they heard a loud crash coming from downstairs, followed by shouting and the sound of three shots being fired. Then came shouts of “Policia, Policia,” followed by the sound of boots crashing on the stairs as two Venezuelan policemen stormed up the stairs, believing they were interrupting a burglary in progress.

  It was all over but the crying within a matter of seconds.

  Both policemen now lay dead, sprawled across the stairs, victims of submachinegun fire from the M-28 lookout who had been standing at the top of the stairs as part of the security force. He had aimed high, knowing the police would most likely be wearing body armor protecting their chests.

  “Mierda,” said Calderón, as he stood at the head of the stairs, surveying the carnage before turning around and walking back into the big room. “Let’s get out of here before more police show up. Antonio, grab the map and burn it. The rest of you, help clear a pathway on the stairs so that we can get past the bodies.”

  In the distance, they could hear the wailing sound of sirens.

  “Come on, compañeros,” Calderón shouted. “Let’s get moving.”

  ◆◆◆

  “I was instructed to make sure you understand that the new arrangement is for both the original target and the woman,” said the man wearing a blue and white striped tee shirt that didn’t quite cover his pot belly, which hung over his belt and completely covered the buckle.

  Olivier Gauthier, who was checking out the Glock 19 handgun the man had just supplied him with, looked up from his weapon with a quizzical look.

  “And the terms?”

  “Triple the originally agreed upon price, provided you successfully take care of both Americans.”

  “Take care of?”

  “Kill.”

  The Canadian pursed his lips and nodded his head up and down a couple of times, grunting softly.

  “So we are agreed?” the man said nervously. “I was instructed to make sure there is no misunderstanding, no ambiguity.”

  “Understood,” said Gauthier, returning his attention to his examination of the weapon. “Did you also bring the ammunition?”

  “Absolutely,” said the man, relieved that awkward part of the conversation was over with. “I don’t know who is ultimately behind this contract—and I don’t want to know—but whoever it is, he has some serious juice. It’s enough to worry my boss and he doesn’t worry easily.”

  “I don’t come cheap,” said Gauthier, setting the Glock on the table and looking up at the man. “That’s because I never fail an assignment.”

  The potbellied man, now sweating profusely, swallowed nervously.

  “My instructions are to make sure you have everything you need,” he said.

  “Good. If I need anything else, I know how to reach you.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 31

  Georgetown, Guyana

  Cedric Bostwick, resplendent in dress uniform, sat comfortably in the Parliament House office of The Honorable Timothy Wilson, MP, a senior member of the National Assembly of the Parliament of Guyana and an ardent foe of the current prime minister.

  Joining them in the room were two other members of Parliament, Jessica Carruthers and Ashok Persaud.

  “So, Cedric, is everything proceeding according to schedule?” asked Wilson, the senior member of the group and the man likely to become the next president should their scheme succeed. Most likely but not certain, that is, because the very nature of a coup d’état revolves around duplicity.

  “Yes, Mr. Wilson, it is,” said Bostwick respectfully. He took a sip of his coffee and carefully set the cup and saucer back down on the end table beside him. Wilson had been a close friend of the colonel’s father back in the old days, back when Bostwick was only a child. “I have spent the past week meeting in person with each of the major participants in the plan and have received reassurances from each of them that there are no complications on their end.”

  “We’re taking a significant, and I might add dangerous, risk,” said Mrs. Carruthers, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. Her two children were currently attending college in the United Kingdom. “Everyone in this room, yourself included, could be arrested for treason should this plan fail…or should it prematurely come to light.”

  The other two members of parliament somberly nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Yes, we all have a lot at stake here, Cedric,” said Persaud, looking for added reassurance. He appeared to be tense and was clearly worried.

  “As do I, Ashok,” said Bostwick, a look of mild distaste on his face. “I don’t mean for this to sound as if I’m admonishing you, but now is not the time to go weak in the knees. All four of us have put everything on the line.”

  Wilson sensed that the atmosphere in the room could rapidly descend into a tailspin.

  “My friends, let’s not be at each other’s throat,” the older man said firmly. “I realize that this is a critical time and that we may be feeling uneasy. That’s completely understandable. However, remember that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”

  That seemed to calm the nerves of Persaud, but Bostwick had reaffirmed something important about one of his co-conspirators. The man was dangerously weak.

  For that reason, he decided not to mention anything about the meeting scheduled for that afternoon at the old Morrison Plantation.

  ◆◆◆

  “Colonel Lima, thank you for meeting with us,” said Cortez in makeshift Portuguese, which was actually an amalgamation of Brazilian Portuguese and his native Spanish.

  “We can speak in Spanish, if that’s easier for you, Agent Cortez,” said Lima, who was still wearing his PT clothes from that morning’s workout. He looked over at his Venezuelan counterpart. “Colonel Sanchez here speaks a version of Portuguese that sounds more like a mixture of Chinese and Martian.”

  Cortez and Robideaux laughed, while Sanchez rolled his eyes.

  The four of them were seat
ed around a wooden picnic table just outside the commanding officer’s private exit at the 25th Jungle Infantry Battalion’s forward deployed headquarters building in Pacaraima.

  It was mid-morning and the temperature was already in the nineties. The overhead camouflage netting provided some degree of shade from the sun, but the swarming mosquitoes effectively negated any level of comfort the shade may have provided.

  “Thank you as well, Colonel Sanchez, for making time to meet with us, too,” said Robideaux, whose Spanish had a light touch of Louisiana Cajun thrown in.

  Sanchez nodded and smiled but said nothing.

  “We’d like to talk about Mateo Calderón,” said Cortez, looking first at Sanchez and then at Lima, searching for any reaction to the mention of the Venezuelan terrorist’s name.

  Lima looked over at Sanchez and said, “I believe that question is for you, Arturo.”

  The Venezuelan officer said nothing for a moment, clearly measuring how he would answer that question.

  “Calderón, or Fósforo, as his sycophants call him, is a terrorist who founded a group called M-28 four or five years ago,” he said finally. “He disappeared from sight almost a year ago, but has recently resurfaced, as I’m sure you already know. I assume that reappearance is why you’re here, correct?”

  Cortez and Robideaux both nodded their heads in the affirmative.

  “Yes, there’s been a lot of coverage in the newspapers recently,” said Cortez, removing his sunglasses and hooking them over the collar of his polo shirt. “What do you think he’s up to with these assaults on police armories?”

  “Who knows for sure?” said Sanchez, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe he’s rearming, or maybe he’s trying to embarrass the police or the government. I’m just a simple military man assigned to a remote outpost on the border with Brazil.”

  “Let me turn the question around,” said Lima. “What do the Americans believe he is up to?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not good,” said Robideaux. “Pete here is the man who arrested him last year just before he could set off an explosion in Dallas, Texas.” The fact that it involved a nuclear device was still a closely guarded secret, so she kept her language vague.

  “Mateo Calderón and I go way back,” said Cortez. “I grew up in Caracas and the two of us—me and Mateo— went to school together, up until I returned to the States for college. At that point, we clearly went in opposite directions.”

  Less than an hour earlier, Lima had spoken privately with Cortez while they waited for Sanchez to arrive at the Brazilian headquarters. Lima mentioned his counterpart’s concern that something strange was going on in Venezuela. Cortez’s challenge was to get Sanchez to open up to him about his concerns.

  “So, Colonel Sanchez, getting back to my original question, what do you think he’s up to?” asked Cortez, leaning forward toward the Venezuelan. “What does your gut tell you? Surely, there are internal alarm bells going off in your head?”

  Again, Sanchez said nothing for about five seconds before finally responding.

  “The obvious answer is that he’s laying the groundwork for overthrowing the government of Venezuela,” he said finally. “My gut tells me there’s more to it than that. Sure, I think part of it does involve Calderón taking over the government, but I think that’s only a part of what is going on.”

  “For example?”

  “Rumor has it that Calderón has been based in Guyana for the past month or more,” said the Venezuelan. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I assume you have a theory?” said Cortez.

  “Perhaps Venezuela may be planning to seize the Essequibo region at the same time?” he said. “To us, it has always been a part of Venezuela, even after the British stole it. It’s been a matter of dispute for four centuries, going all the way back to the Dutch.”

  “You’re not making sense,” said Cortez. “I get how Calderón may be able to take over the government in Venezuela. What I can’t conceive of is how he can also take over Guyana?”

  “There are military exercises in Ciudad Guayana that are scheduled to begin in three days,” said Sanchez. “Two infantry battalions and an airborne battalion are already in position…sitting just a little more than three hundred miles from Georgetown, Guyana.”

  “Do you really think the Venezuelan army is in cahoots with Calderón?”

  “It pains me to say this, but yes, my instincts tell me they are.”

  ◆◆◆

  The magnificent home at the old Morrison Plantation south of Georgetown was in remarkably good condition, especially considering the equatorial climate and the age of the wooden building.

  It was two stories tall, with wide wraparound porches enveloping each floor. Wide, round Georgian columns held up the porch, while also giving the building a majestic look. A fresh coat of white paint was applied every two years, top to bottom, to protect the wood from deteriorating.

  Dominic D’Angelo and Marco were already on their second drink. Mateo Calderón was having coffee.

  “Have you had any luck disposing of that American bitch…Clarice Robideaux, I believe you said her name was?” asked the Venezuelan.

  “Not yet,” said D’Angelo, lighting a cigarette and exhaling the smoke slowly. “Other than torching her family’s business back in the States.”

  Calderón stood up, clearly angry.

  “What is so difficult about doing this simple favor? Cortez, I can understand—he’s FBI—but this is just a woman.”

  “She’s also an experienced CIA operative with years of experience,” said D’Angelo. “Besides, we don’t want to do anything that will cause the Americans to shine a spotlight on our activities. Be patient, Mateo. There will always be time for retribution after we accomplish our task.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up in front of the stately home.

  Cedric Bostwick was running a few minutes late for his appointment. Normally punctual to the point of obsession, he had made sure to leave Parliament House in sufficient time but had run into unexpected traffic resulting from a bus accident along the main highway.

  “I apologize for my tardiness, gentlemen,” said Bostwick. “A bus tried to pass around a slow-moving farm tractor on the highway and ran head on into an eighteen-wheeler.”

  “Yuck,” said Marco, his face grimacing. “I’ll bet that’ll be a mess to clean up.”

  “Fortunately, the traffic was so dense at the time that they were most likely traveling at no more than ten or fifteen kilometers an hour,” said Bostwick, smiling. “The visual image is much worse than the actual damage.”

  “Just another day in traffic here in Paradise,” said D’Angelo, shaking his head. The traffic in Trinidad and Tobago, where he lived, was no better.

  The four men sat down at a round, glass-topped table on the deep front porch. An outdoor ceiling fan overhead provided a slight breeze and helped keep the insects at bay.

  “So, Colonel Bostwick, how was your meeting with the politicos?” asked D’Angelo, a jovial tone to his voice.

  “I’m confident they’ll do their part,” Bostwick replied. “I’ve known Timothy Wilson since I was a young boy. He is a good man, a strong man who will keep the others from wavering, should the thought ever arise…which I am sure that it will. They are politicians, after all.”

  “What about the woman, Jessica Carruthers?” asked D’Angelo.

  “She has a will of iron and will bring her followers along and into the fold,” said the colonel. “Of that, I have no doubt whatsoever.”

  “How about the other guy?” Marco interjected. “Persaud is his name, right?”

  “Of the three, he is the only one I would have any concerns about,” the colonel responded, his eyes locked on those of Marco. “He and I grew up together and he is a follower, not a leader. The only reason he is in politics is that he probably could not hold a regular job.”

  He noticed a look of concern in the eyes of the Americans.

>   “Don’t worry about him,” said Bostwick, a wry smile on his face. “He’s more afraid of Mrs. Carruthers and what she might do to him if he does anything stupid.”

  A look of seriousness replaced the smile on Bostwick’s face.

  “And he also knows that I will kill him if he gets out of line.”

  ◆◆◆

  Jack Gonçalves was eating a sandwich at his desk when his telephone rang.

  “Jack, this is Veronica Enfield,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “I just learned of something I believe will be of interest to you.”

  He took a big swig of his Coke and set the can back down on the coaster on top of his desk. He turned his mouth away from the phone receiver and let out an involuntary burp.

  “I’m all ears, Veronica,” he said after taking a deep breath to control his breathing.

  “I just had lunch in Georgetown with an old friend of mine from State,” she said, referring to the neighborhood in the District of Columbia. “When I brought up the name, Margaret Donovan, my friend’s eyes lit up. Apparently, one of her people had come to her a few days ago and reported a strange conversation he had recently had with Donovan.”

  “Go on,” said Gonçalves, eager to hear more. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “Apparently, Donovan asked her man a question—a hypothetical question, as she kept stressing to the guy from State—about the process of government recognition following a coup in a nameless foreign country.”

  “Hmm…that is interesting,” said Jack, pursing his lips and staring up at the ceiling for a few moments. “Was the guy from State able to get her to say which country, or which region, Donovan might be referring to?”