The Venezuelan

by Bill King

  “You guys ready?” he asked as Pete and Clarice approached him. “The car’s out front.”

  The Range Rover was waiting for them just outside the front door, the engine running. Leonard climbed into the front seat, Robideaux and Cortez in the rear. The driver turned his head around to introduce himself. It wasn’t Dexter.

  “Hi, I’m Ted Schmidt with Flat Range Energy,” the man said.

  “Ted is their chief of security,” said Leonard. “He and I have worked together from time to time.”

  Cortez had never heard of Flat Range Energy and was pretty sure it didn’t even exist. It’s probably just another CIA front company, he thought to himself.

  “I left Dexter back in the office to coordinate things with Langley,” said Leonard without even the slightest hint of irony. “The only downside is that we also won’t be able to keep an eye on him.”

  “It’s your call, man,” said Cortez. “You know him best.” He and Robideaux had already decided to cut Carpenter out of the loop until it was all over.

  “Flat Range owns a small house about two miles from Morrison Plantation,” said Leonard. “Ted has been kind enough to allow us to use it as a base of operations for the next day or two, or however long this takes.”

  Schmidt slipped the transmission into drive and proceeded down the driveway to the street.

  “According to Dexter,” said Leonard, taking a sip from the cup of coffee he had picked up ten minutes earlier at the Oasis Café. “Langley believes that Mateo Calderón and the property owner, a wealthy Brazilian named Paulo Almeida, will be among those attending the summit today.”

  “Did they mention any Americans?” asked Cortez.

  “No, no mention of any Americans,” said the chief of station. “If there were any Americans involved, Langley would have definitely mentioned that, don’t you think?” The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

  There was no doubt in Cortez’s mind now that Jellico was at the top of the conspiracy food chain.

  “And by Langley, you mean…?” asked Robideaux, leaving the sentence hanging.

  “Most likely Margaret Donovan. She has been our only contact on this operation…she even established codeword access to the program.”

  “When was this compartmented program established?” asked Cortez.

  “About ten weeks ago.”

  Cortez looked over at Robideaux, who also understood the significance of the timing.

  “That means this was all set up around the same time Calderón was broken out,” she said. “It appears the Guyana element has always been part of the plan.”

  “I wonder why they would give up Mateo Calderón,” said Leonard. “Unless, maybe, it’s just a diversion.”

  “Or maybe he’s already served his purpose,” said Cortez.

  “Man, that woman is cold,” said Schmidt.

  They were all in silent agreement on that last statement.

  “What about Zachery Jellico?” asked Cortez. “Does that name ring any bells?”

  Leonard shook his head.

  “No, never heard of the guy. Who is he?”

  Cortez ignored the question.

  “How about Dominic D’Angelo?”

  Leonard had a surprised look on his face.

  “Yeah, I’ve actually met him a couple of times down here in Georgetown. He and Dexter worked together at Langley, or at least that’s what the two of them said.”

  “Okay,” said Cortez, sliding back in his seat. “I think we now have a much clearer picture of who the pawns are and who is actually running this thing.”

  “Yeah,” said Robideaux. “If they’re willing to burn Calderón and the Brazilian, it looks like Jellico, the guy from Houston, is most likely the man behind it all.”

  “What about any Guyanese participants in the conspiracy?”

  “No names, only that one of them is a senior member of parliament and that one or more senior military officers may be involved,” said Leonard.

  “Well, it looks like the only way we’re ever going to find out for sure what’s going on is to get in on that meeting,” said Cortez.

  “We’ve had a drone up since about fifteen minutes before sunrise,” said Schmidt, speaking for the first time since he had introduced himself. “If they ever go outside for some fresh air, we can probably ID them.”

  “Too bad we don’t have any listening devices inside,” said Robideaux.

  Leonard looked back in the backseat at her and smiled knowingly.

  “We’re old school down here, Clarice. Why put in a bug when you can put in a body?”

  A couple of minutes later, the Land Rover turned left off East Bank Public Road and onto a dirt road that led to the Flat Ridge Energy compound. It was now seven-twenty-five.

  ◆◆◆

  The white Mercedes sedan carrying Timothy Wilson and Lieutenant Colonel Cedric Bostwick pulled up in the circular drive in front of the big house on Morrison Plantation at nine o’clock sharp.

  “Well, who do we have here?” asked Cortez, scooting his chair closer to the video monitor in the makeshift operations center on the Flat Range property.

  “That looks like Timothy Wilson, a high-ranking member of Parliament and a staunch opponent of the President,” said Leonard, who had made it a point to meet all of the members of parliament during his time in Georgetown. “See if we can get a better look at the face of the other man getting out of the car.”

  The man controlling the overhead drone from the ops center zoomed in on the man, trying to catch a glimpse of at least part of his face before the two men walked into the big house.

  “Damn,” said the operator at the console. “All we could get was his profile from the rear.”

  “Any ideas as to who he may be?”

  “It doesn’t look like one of his security guards,” said Schmidt, rubbing his chin as if it was a control knob to make his brain work better. “I know all of them, and unless he hired someone new in the last couple of days, that man is not part of his regular security team.”

  “What about a military man?” asked Cortez. “He has the look and demeanor of a soldier.”

  “Could be, but without a uniform, it’s hard to narrow it down,” said Leonard.

  “Wow, Martin,” said Schmidt, a grin spread across his face. “With critical analysis like that, it’s hard to imagine anything getting by you guys in the Agency.”

  “Asshole,” said Leonard, trying to hide the smile from his own face.

  “What about your guy inside the house, Martin?” asked Cortez. “Do you have comms with him?”

  “No, unfortunately not,” he replied. “They must have some sort of signal jammer in operation.”

  “Well, at least we’ll know after the fact what transpired inside,” said Clarice. “Let’s just hope that’s good enough.”

  “Assuming he survives, that is,” said Cortez.

  ◆◆◆

  An hour had passed since the arrival of Timothy Wilson and the unidentified man. The drones had picked up no activity outside the main house, save for the eight security guards they had been able to identify over the past couple of hours.

  “What about Mateo Calderón?” asked Robideaux. “Do you think he’s already in the house?”

  “That would be my guess,” said Cortez. “That is, assuming our information is correct and that he is, in fact, one of the attendees.”

  Although neither wanted to say so out loud, both knew it was also possible that Carpenter and Donovan were simply playing them. To what end, they didn’t know. Not yet, anyway.

  “We don’t want to go in too soon, just in case he’s coming to the meeting but is just not there yet,” said Schmidt. “I have a team of fifteen men surrounding the compound, keeping a watchful eye. I say we at least wait until after eleven, the reported start time for the summit, before we move in.”

  “Yeah, we don’t want to tip off any of them prematurely,” said Cortez. “How long will it take to move your folks into final assault
position, Ted?”

  “Two, three minutes at most.”

  “Well, it’s your party, Martin,” said Cortez. “What do you say?”

  “Let’s wait.”

  ◆◆◆

  “There he is,” the man at the console operating the drone shouted excitedly. “There’s Calderón. That has to be him.”

  Everyone in the room quickly scurried to the video monitor. Two men, one seemingly half a foot taller than the other, were walking casually toward the front door to the main house. Their backs were to the drone’s camera.

  Both were wearing grey sweat suits with green and yellow ballcaps, as if they had just finished a workout.

  Cortez looked up at the red lights on the square, digital clock that was mounted on the wall above the computer screens. It was ten-fifty-five.

  “Let’s give them a couple more minutes to get inside and settle into the meeting before we burst in on them,” said Leonard, who as chief of station in Georgetown, was in operational control of the mission onsite.

  He looked over at Tim Schmidt.

  “Tim, get your men into position,” said Leonard. “We’ll go on my command.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 40

  Morrison Plantation, Georgetown, Guyana

  Although it is a cardinal rule in situations like this to turn off your cell phone, wealth permits arrogance and overconfidence to set in. At least, that’s what Margaret Donovan was counting on when she placed a call to Zachery Jellico’s personal phone.

  It turned out to be a good guess on her part, as he answered after the second ring.

  “Try to remain calm and act normal,” she said. “Pete Cortez from the Houston FBI office is down there in Guyana, along with some unfriendly Agency types. Your entire compound is probably surrounded by armed men.”

  “Holy crap,” he said angrily.

  He got up from his chair and walked over to an empty corner of the room, waiving his free hand to shoo away anyone who approached.

  “Calm…remember to remain calm,” she said in a steady voice. “I have arranged for a diversion—trust me, you’ll know it when it happens—during which time a helicopter will land on the grass about fifty feet from the house. When you hear the sound of the rotors, you will need to sprint outside and jump on it.”

  “Understood,” he said simply. “Anything else?”

  “No, just keep your eyes peeled,” she said. “Speed will be critical.”

  “Thank you for letting me know,” he said before terminating the call.

  Now that the initial shock had worn off, he was cool as a cucumber. He had been in tight spots before, although this one probably had to rank right up there near the top.

  “Is everything alright?” Paulo Almeida asked when Jellico returned to his chair next to him at the hand-carved wooden dining table that was currently serving as a conference table.

  “Uma joia,” the American said dryly, using a common Portuguese idiomatic expression that basically means fine and dandy.

  Almeida gave a perfunctory nod but said nothing. The phrase was their private emergency signal that everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket and that the Brazilian should follow his lead.

  ◆◆◆

  “Are your people in position, Ted?” asked Leonard, who had just refilled his coffee mug and continued pacing back and forth in the operations center.

  “Just waiting for you to give the go ahead.”

  Without warning, alarm bells suddenly began blaring, completely shattering the serene calm that had hung over the operations center for the past couple of hours.

  “What the hell is that?” said Cortez, jumping to his feet and looking around the room.

  “Unknown activity on the compound, approaching the building,” said the operator who was monitoring security video for the Flat Iron Energy site. “Looks like four…no, make that five, armed men coming fast on foot. They should reach the building in less than twenty seconds.”

  “That son of a bitch, Carpenter, must have sold us out,” yelled Robideaux.

  Schmidt keyed his microphone headset and said, in a calm but urgent tone, “Ops under attack. Ops under attack. Reinforce ASAP.”

  For people who liked to think they had considered all the possibilities, this was one possibility none of them had even remotely considered…that their command center would be attacked by their quarry, by the very people who weren’t supposed to know they were there.

  Cortez glanced at the video monitor showing the drone coverage over Morrison Plantation. He watched as the team from Flat Range Energy fell back with military precision. Five of them remained onsite, taking up overwatch positions and monitoring activity around the house.

  The other ten men jumped into two of the three black SUVs they had left parked behind an old, abandoned storage shed at the edge of the property.

  The vehicles then sped down a dirt access road toward East Bank Public Road, kicking up a thick cloud of dust behind them in the process.

  “They ought to be here in under five minutes,” said Schmidt reassuringly. “In the meantime, everyone should grab a weapon from the cabinet over there. Be prepared to defend ourselves.”

  He tossed a small ring of keys over to his man operating the video monitor, who unlocked a large wall cabinet containing a dozen or so Glock 19 handguns. He swung open the doors and stood to one side, saying, “Grab one…ammo’s over there.” He pointed to a box packed with dozens of fifteen-round Gen5 magazines, all preloaded with nine-millimeter ammunition.

  While the others scrambled for their weapons, Cortez continued to watch the video monitor.

  “That son of a bitch,” he muttered to no one in particular.

  There, standing just outside of their building, an MP-5 submachine gun in his hand and a grin on his face, was none other than Mateo Calderón.

  ◆◆◆

  “We got bad news, Ted,” said the man monitoring the video screens in the ops center. “A helicopter is landing on the lawn in front of the old Morrison house. I see two…no, make that three men running from the house toward it.”

  “Damn,” said Leonard, doing his best to remain calm. “This sure turned into a pile of crap real damn quick.”

  “Do you think we can hold out in here until the cavalry arrives?” asked Cortez, referring to Schmidt’s assault team that was now scrambling back from the Morrison Plantation.

  “If they’re stupid, yeah, we can probably hold out, but these guys don’t appear to be stupid,” said Schmidt. “Fortunately for us, we don’t have to wait to find out.”

  “Please tell me you’ve got a tunnel that will lead us out of here,” said Cortez, looking around the room for any telltale signs.

  “Yeah, under the table, beneath the rug.”

  Cortez and Schmidt got on either end of the table, lifted it and moved it to the side, shoving it against the main door into the room in hopes of at least slowing them down a bit once the intruders had finally broken through the lock. While they were doing that, Robideaux rolled up the rug, revealing a steel trap door that covered a three-by-five opening into a concrete-walled tunnel.

  “The far end of the tunnel comes out inside a tool shed about fifty yards to the east,” said Schmidt. “I’ll go first because I know how to pop the hatch on the other end. The rest of you follow behind me. The tunnel is only five feet tall, so you’ll have to stoop over while you run.”

  The intruders were slamming loudly against the outside door to the room as, one by one, the five Americans dropped down into the tunnel and scurried toward safety.

  ◆◆◆

  “Where is Colonel Bostwick?” Zachery Jellico shouted into the headset microphone. The noise inside the helicopter made it impossible for them to communicate otherwise.

  “He stayed behind to cover our escape,” said Wilson. “Don’t worry, he’s a very resourceful man. They’ll never find him, or even know that he was there.”

  “You seem very confident of that,” said Paulo Alme
ida.

  “I’ve known him all his life, since he was just a boy, and he would do anything to protect me.”

  Jellico smiled.

  “You’re a very lucky man,” he said. “Loyalty like that is a precious commodity.”

  ◆◆◆

  It took Calderón and his men less than two minutes to finally breach the door into the operations center, with a little help from a thirty-pound fire extinguisher and a sledgehammer they had found in the utility closet.

  Although the initial opening was only about five inches, it was enough for them to toss in a flash-bang grenade and quickly step aside before the device exploded.

  It took a few extra seconds for them to push open the door, which was blocked by a wooden table the Americans had wedged against it.

  Once the opening was wide enough for a man to slip through, they were then able to slide the table out of the way and enter the room. Shards of glass from the demolished computer monitors were everywhere. Visibility was difficult, at least initially, until the smoke cleared.

  There was nobody inside the windowless room, but it was clear how they had escaped. The hatch to the tunnel entrance had been left wide open.

  “You two, climb down in there and find out where that tunnel goes,” Calderón shouted. He noticed they were looking at him as if he was crazy.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re not going to hide inside a hole in a facility they built for themselves. This tunnel is not a dead end. It leads to safety…or so they hope.”

  The two men looked at each other, reassured, and both dropped down into the tunnel.

  “Be careful at the exit point, though,” Calderón called out to them, laughing, his voice echoing against the walls of the tunnel.

  The tall Venezuelan stood back up and turned to the other three men remaining with him.