The Venezuelan

by Bill King

  “Not so far,” said Baker flatly. “My contact with the national police told me the man was under intensive interrogation. I shudder to even think what that terminology means.”

  “I can probably guess,” said Robideaux, a smile on her face. “Hopefully, he’ll be able to fill in some of the missing pieces.”

  “Well, be that as it may, we’ve got a lot to figure out in a short period of time,” said Carpenter, sliding back his chair and standing up. “Lucinha and I have to meet with the ambassador at ten. Now, if you will excuse me for just a moment, I have a quick phone call I need to make.”

  Carpenter walked next door to his private office, closing the door behind him. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk and dialed a number he had called so many times over the past few months that he knew it by heart.

  “Good morning, Ryan,” said Margaret Donovan brightly. “What do you have to report today?”

  ◆◆◆

  When the citizens of the Venezuelan cities of Ciudad Guayana and Ciudad Bolivar awoke and began making their way into work that morning, they noticed armed soldiers stationed at all the key intersections, as well as at most key transportation and governmental facilities.

  Even in today’s Venezuela, this was a disconcerting sight.

  Although word of the military training exercise had been in the local newspapers several times during the past few weeks, actually seeing men in uniform, every one of them armed for battle, was an unsettling sight. Not necessarily bad—indeed, for some Venezuelans, it was a welcome sight—but it was certainly unsettling.

  The preannounced purpose of the exercise was to practice protection of the Essequibo River ports in the region’s two major cities. Therefore, most people expected to see soldiers in and around the port areas.

  What they were not prepared to see was two infantry battalions, each blanketing key infrastructure points throughout the two most heavily populated regions in the southeastern part of Venezuela, near the frontier with Guyana.

  Most people had no idea that a third battalion—a parachute infantry battalion—was also staged just outside of Ciudad Guayana, within easy distance of the regional airport.

  It was not yet seven in the morning when Army Major General Alberto Trujillo Escobar received a frantic phone call from the regional commander of the Bolivarian National Police.

  “General, I have been receiving reports from my officers that the Army is occupying Ciudad Guayana, as well as Ciudad Bolivar,” said the policeman in a reasonably calm voice.

  “It’s nothing, Ramón, simply a port security training exercise,” said Trujillo in a matter-of-fact tone. “You and I have spoken about it many times over the past month.”

  “That may be true, Alberto, but I was not expecting your men to be spread out so far from the main port areas. My people are telling me that you have soldiers stationed at key positions throughout the two cities. Is there something going on that I need to know about?”

  “No, my friend, we are simply testing our ability to extend our security reach, in the event it ever becomes necessary to assist the National Police.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Alberto,” said the policeman in a calm, though sarcastic, voice. “Perhaps you could also explain to me why you have soldiers positioned just outside my headquarters?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to be concerned with, my friend. They will be gone before you know it…certainly not more than a day or two at most.”

  “Perhaps I should repay your courtesy by sending some of my people from the Special Action Force to protect your headquarters, as well?” The National Police’s special action force is a well-trained tactical assault unit similar to SWAT.

  “I wouldn’t advise it, Ramón,” said Trujillo, almost nonchalantly. “My people are armed with live ammunition and we certainly wouldn’t want one of my young soldiers to get excited and open fire. You know how impulsive young people can be, especially these days.”

  There was a moment of silence, where neither man spoke.

  “I hope you understand what you’re doing, Alberto,” said the national police commander finally, a touch of resignation in his voice.

  “Everything will be fine, Ramón,” said the army general. “Everything will be fine. Trust me. Trust me.”

  ◆◆◆

  The level of violence had ratcheted up sharply on the second day of disturbances in Georgetown, thanks largely to the effect of car fires along the streets of the capital city.

  “Burning automobiles leave a visual imprint unlike any other symbol of rage,” said Timothy Wilson, sipping his coffee as he casually surveyed the chaos unfolding on the street below him.

  “I don’t understand how you can be so calm, with all of this turmoil surrounding us,” said Ashok Persaud, who was visibly nervous as he watched three automobiles burning out of control on Brickdam Street, not more than a hundred yards away.

  The two politicians were standing on the second-floor porch of Parliament Building, a safe distance from any of the countless objects being hurled about by agitated protestors on the street in front of them. An expanse of well-manicured lawn separated the building from the angry crowd on the other side of the tall wrought iron fence that surrounded the property.

  They were perfectly safe up there…unless, that is, someone introduced a long rifle into the melee.

  A young female staffer carrying a pink iPad seemed to appear from out of nowhere.

  “Excuse me, sir, but the Prime Minister’s office called to request your presence at ten this morning,” said the young woman, who looked to be in her early twenties.

  “I assume it’s about the demonstrations,” said Wilson, who continued to stare at the mob in the distance. “Did they say anything else?”

  “No, sir. Calvin says that things are really heating up on Young Street,” she said excitedly, her voice sounding almost like a squeal. Calvin was Timothy Wilson’s chief of staff.

  “Have any deaths or injuries been reported?”

  “There have been no reported deaths as of yet, at least that I am aware of, but there have been plenty of injuries,” said the young woman, who was clearly excited about the pandemonium that was gripping the city. “The bully boys are probably out in force, knocking heads and trying to impress people with how tough they are.”

  Wilson smiled a knowing smile.

  “Everyone seems tough when they’re beating up on smaller women and children,” the old man said. “However, they won’t be quite so smug when the even bigger fellows make an appearance and decide to reestablish the public order.”

  He looked down at his wristwatch.

  “Well, I’ve got to be off,” he said in an upbeat manner, as if this was just another day at the office. “The prime minister awaits.”

  ◆◆◆

  “Tell me again how stirring up trouble on the border with Brazil helps our cause?” the tall man asked the man standing next to him.

  He had stopped for a moment by the side of the refugee column to watch the miserable passage of humanity, so desperate that they would walk the length of Venezuela for a better life in the largely desolate north of Brazil.

  “It creates a distraction, Mateo,” replied Marco, whose long experience working undercover helped him blend in with the disheveled mass of humanity trudging by the two men. “Our best ally in pulling this off is to sow as much confusion as we can…to mask our true intentions until it is too late for the rest of the world to react.

  They watched as a mother carrying two infants—one in each arm—trudged by. Two more children, neither more than ten years old, clung to her dress as the family made its way south. Their expressions were vacant, almost zombie-like, as they plodded along…left foot, then right foot, then left. If there was a father accompanying them, he was indistinguishable in the crowd.

  It was at that moment that one of the young men in the crowd recognized the tall man.

  “It’s him,” the young man shouted excitedly, grabbing the arm
of the man walking beside him and pointing in the direction of Calderón and Marco. “It is Fósforo. It is Fósforo, here to liberate us.”

  Word spread like wildfire throughout the excited crowd. Most of them probably had no idea who he was, only that he appeared to be someone important. The young man who was excitedly shouting his name certainly thought so.

  A growing crowd began to gather around Calderón and Marco, chanting the Venezuelan’s name.

  “Fósforo! Fósforo! Fósforo!” they shouted, slowly enunciating each syllable. The effect was mesmerizing, especially since most of the crowd could not even remember the last decent, filling meal they had had. Their minds were numb. Hunger has that effect on people.

  Soon, several hundred people circled the pair, with more gathering by the minute. Calderón could not resist the opportunity.

  “Compañeros,” the tall man called out in a loud, strong voice. “The time is nearly upon us. Gather your strength. Go to Brazil and nourish your bodies. Soon you will be able to return to Venezuela as a free people, with purpose, with honor, with dignity.”

  The crowd began to cheer loudly, causing even more people to turn around to see what all the commotion was all about. The crowd surrounding them grew ever larger.

  “Soon, our oppressors will be cast aside into the ashcan of history,” Calderón continued, his booming voice growing stronger and more dynamic by the sentence. “Once again, Venezuela will be returned to the people. It will be ours.”

  Again, the crowd went wild. For the first time in a long time, they had hope. False hope or real hope, it really did not matter. The important thing is that they had hope for the future.

  “Fósforo! Fósforo! Fósforo!” they shouted, the sound echoing for at least a mile…all the way to the border crossing.

  “Rise up, Venezuela,” he shouted, sending the crowd into a fever-pitched frenzy. “Rise up, Venezuela. Rise up. I am coming…we are coming.”

  Roberto Lima, standing several hundred meters beyond the border, heard the muffled sound of shouting and cheering off in the distance and wondered what was coming next.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 37

  Georgetown, Guyana

  Cedric Bostwick was not looking forward to the next hour or so, but he knew it had to be done. Timothy Wilson had called him an hour earlier to let him know that his worst fears had been realized.

  Wilson was on his way to a leadership meeting with the prime minister to discuss the disturbances, but his concern was far more personal, and therefore, more urgent. The old man felt that Ashok Persaud, one of their co-conspirators, was growing more weak-kneed by the minute and was very likely to spill his guts to the prime minister…and soon.

  “You know what you must do, my boy,” Wilson had said in a fatherly tone of voice.

  Although he had never served in combat during his twenty-year career in the army, Bostwick was not new to killing. Twice before, he had had occasion to end someone’s life.

  Once was at Timothy Wilson’s behest…a smalltime criminal who had come across compromising pictures of Wilson accepting a sizeable bribe in return for doing a political favor.

  The other was more personal. A junkie had accosted him and his wife at gunpoint as they were leaving a restaurant one evening, demanding their money and jewelry. The man was shaking all over—he probably needed a fix—and Bostwick was afraid the man might accidentally shoot his wife, so he decided to remove that possibility altogether. He shot the man with the pistol he had concealed under his sports coat.

  Still, this was different. He had known Ashok Persaud all his life. They had grown up together, gone to school together. They had been close friends at one time, although they had drifted apart as adults, to the point where their childhood was the only thing the two men now had in common.

  Persaud was not among the leadership in parliament and so had not been invited to the meeting with the prime minister. Therefore, he readily agreed to Cedric Bostwick’s offer to meet for coffee just down the street from Parliament Building.

  The streets were teeming with demonstrators, but nobody recognized Persaud. Even in a tiny country like Guyana, it was possible for a public figure to be unknown. Possible, but not likely, though. The fact that Persaud could remain anonymous was a strong indication that his political career—at least as an elected official—was going nowhere fast.

  The heat from the early afternoon sun made wearing a suit uncomfortable, so he had chosen to wear an untucked, open collared shirt over his suit trousers. Still, patches of sweat soaked through the white cotton shirt. It annoyed the fastidious Persaud, who was so preoccupied with his appearance that he did not notice the oncoming man with his head tucked down, his face covered by a Panama hat pulled low, as he approached, brushing against him as the two men passed.

  Persaud suddenly felt dizzy, his head seemingly spinning as he dropped to the ground. He would no longer present a risk to the operation.

  ◆◆◆

  Jack Gonçalves pulled out the business card from his wallet and dialed the number.

  “Brent Sawyer,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Mr. Sawyer, this is Supervisory Special Agent Jack Gonçalves. We met the other day in my office.”

  “Of course, I remember you,” the lawyer replied in a polite, almost friendly tone of voice. “It’s not every day that one of my clients is invited to the FBI to answer questions about his business dealings.”

  “The reason I’m calling is that something has come up and I’d like to speak with your client again.”

  “Would you care to share with me the topic?”

  “It’s a continuation of the matter we were discussing the other day.”

  “Well, of course, Agent Gonçalves, we would be delighted to speak with you again,” said Sawyer. “Unfortunately, Zachery flew down to Brazil last night on business and won’t be back for two weeks, give or take a day or so.”

  Damn, thought Jack, that’s the problem with investigating the super-rich. That bit about not leaving town doesn’t work as well for guys whose lawyer’s suit costs more than I make in a month. They tend to make the Bureau’s legal guys extra cautious.

  “How about if we have our legal attaché down there meet with him? She can come to him wherever and whenever it’s convenient.”

  “You know I’d love to accommodate you, Jack, but I’m afraid my client would insist upon me being there, right beside him, and I’m tied up in court all next week. Besides, it’s hard to say where he will be on any given day. He has business investments all over the continent.”

  Unfortunately, Gonçalves had nothing but a gut feeling that Jellico was involved in anything illegal. It wasn’t something he could even begin to prove, though.

  Not yet anyway.

  ◆◆◆

  Marco nudged Calderón with his elbow and pointed up at the sky.

  “That looks suspiciously like a Brazilian military helicopter to me,” he said, pulling a cigarette from the rumpled pack in his pocket and lighting it.

  “But this is Venezuela,” said Calderón, blocking the sun with his right hand as he looked up. “The Brazilian military can’t just fly over Venezuelan sovereign territory any time they want to.”

  Marco smiled and shook his head slowly side-to-side.

  “And who exactly is going to stop them?” he asked, a sardonic laugh in his voice. “And with what?”

  The Venezuelan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “So, this is how low we’ve fallen? That no one respects our borders, our airspace…respects us?”

  “Well, we can stand here and reflect on life’s injustices, or we can get the hell out of here,” said the American. “That was quite a crowd you drew a little while ago. My hunch is the Brazilians heard the ruckus and decided to come find out what all the excitement was about.”

  “Yes, but they’ll never suspect that I am here.”

  Again, Marco smiled.

  “They were chanting your name, for
Christ’s sake…and the border station is, what, less than a mile from where we’re standing. I think the odds of them not knowing you’re over here now are somewhere between slim and none.”

  Calderón shrugged his shoulders.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Let’s go find the vehicle and drive back to the airport.”

  They reached their car a couple of minutes later. They had left it parked it in a small clearing on the side of the road, about a hundred meters to the north.

  “I’ll call the pilot and let him know we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  After five rings, the call went to voicemail.

  “Damn,” said Marco, disconnecting and then hitting the redial button. This time, the pilot answered on the first ring.

  “We’re on our way back now,” said the American. “Have the plane ready to go as soon as we get there.”

  “No need to hurry,” said the pilot matter-of-factly. “They just informed me that the airport is now closed until further notice.”

  Just then, Marco’s satellite phone rang. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

  “Digame,” he answered.

  “It’s me,” said Dominic D’Angelo. “I need you and our friend to meet me at Morrison Plantation tomorrow.” Morrison Plantation was their base of operations in Guyana, just south of Georgetown.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a big powwow tomorrow.”

  “Well, we may need some help with getting there,” said Marco. “Our ride out of here just went up in smoke when they shut down the airport.”

  D’Angelo thought for a moment.

  “Do you think you can you make it up to Las Claritas?”

  Las Claritas is a gold mining town of about six thousand people in the mineral-rich Orinoco Mining Arc, located midway between Ciudad Guayana and Pacaraima on Venezuelan highway 10. Although only one hundred fifty miles north, the drive would probably take them at least four hours.