by Ross Sidor
Even wearing a bandanna, with camouflage paint concealing face, Avery recognized the Colombian army NCO. There were two more soldiers spread out behind Castillo, holding Galil rifles.
There was the flash of white in the darkness when Castillo’s lips parted in a wide smile.
“What the fuck are you doing out here, Avery? You’re supposed to be hunkered down in your little shithole until we tell you it’s safe to come out.”
“I would be,” Avery said, cocking his head to indicate Moreno, “if you hadn’t let this one get by you, dickhead.”
Castillo stepped past Avery and looked down at the body.
“Oh fuck! Do you know who you just nailed? That’s Aarón Moreno. CO will be pleased. He was worried that cocksucker slipped away.”
“Nearly had,” Avery said. Castillo handed him back his M4. “But he made his getaway just a dozen meters from my OP. Bad luck for him.”
“Nice shooting,” Castillo said. “I owe you a beer when we get back to base. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
They’d done a lot of hard drinking fourteen years back. The memories were fresh in Avery’s mind, felt like a lifetime ago, but he didn’t tell Castillo that he no longer drank, fought hard not to when it was put in front of him.
“I’m not sure I’ll have the time. They want me back at Palanquero right away.”
“Well, I still owe you one. Come on. Let’s head back to the camp. We need to egress before we have the whole Venezuelan army coming down on us.”
Approximately six minutes elapsed since the Apria gunships descended upon the camp and commenced the assault. Aguilar’s team would take an additional fifteen minutes to perform the requisite intelligence sweep of the camp. Aguilar didn’t want boots on the ground for more than twenty-five minutes total. Longer than that, they were pushing the time it’d take the Venezuelan army to reach the site. They had to assume that FARC had sent a distress signal to the Venezuelans that they were under attack or that Venezuelan air defenses had spotted the helicopters
The FARC dead would be counted at thirty-three, including Reyes and the second-in-command of FARC’s Eastern Bloc. Aguilar’s team suffered five injuries, three minor.
Following Castillo back to the camp, Avery smelled cordite, burning wood, and hydraulic fluid. The campground itself was illuminated by the blazing fires of smoldering huts and trees. He felt the warmth of the fires.
Avery watched the precision and deliberation with which the spec ops troops moved as they went from hut to hut, while others tore down the camp tents to clear a space for the Mi-17 to set down.
As Aguilar’s soldiers went about their business, Avery waited onboard the helicopter with the wounded. He chugged water and poured the remains of the last bottle over his face and wiped way the camou paint, mud, and sweat. Then he removed some of his layers of clothing and kit, and went after the numerous bugs crawling around and biting his body.
The search of the camp produced three laptop computers, including Reyes’s, hundreds of documents, and several USB drives. Aguilar’s troops also took photos of all the FARC dead.
Minutes later, an American AWACS plane on station in Colombian airspace reported that four Venezuelan Su-24 fighters had taken off from a nearby base and were on a course for Táchira. They were barely ten minutes out, and communications intercepts indicated they had orders to pursue and shoot down any aircraft in violation of Venezuelan airspace. Venezuelan ground forces were likewise being mobilized.
Aguilar ordered his troops aboard the choppers. They took with them Reyes’ body, now sealed in a plastic pouch. They left Aarón Moreno’s corpse to rot where it lay on the rain-soaked jungle floor.
TWO
Looking out the forward cabin window as the pilot shifted the collective and gently lowered the Blackhawk, Avery inwardly groaned when he spotted Matt Culler and Special Agent Mark Slayton standing on the rain-swept tarmac below.
It was unlike Culler to be on hand to personally greet him. They knew each other well, having worked together the better part of the past decade, but their relationship wasn’t particularly cordial. If Culler was there waiting to see him, it meant he already had another job lined up, and the presence of the senior DEA agent not only served as confirmation but indicated it was in-country.
Slayton ran the American end of Operation Phoenix and was the man to whom Culler had essentially subcontracted Avery, since the Special Activities Division and Latin American Division chiefs at the National Clandestine Service, CIA’s operations arm, unequivocally refused to authorize sending a paramilitary operator on a black mission into Venezuela at the request of the DEA. The Drug Enforcement Administration was essentially the US’s primary intelligence collector for all things Colombian or FARC.
Avery had worked with DEA the previous year, running security for one of their teams in El Salvador. That had been the overt part of the job, which was cover for a black op, completely off the books, to neutralize an MS-13 crew assassinating DEA agents and Salvadoran cops.
Exhausted, dirty, starving, and still wearing the same clothes with soaked socks and blistered feet, Avery sighed, flung his backpack over his shoulder, and jumped down from the Blackhawk. He kept his head bent forward beneath the blades whipping around above him as he stepped clear of the rotor wash.
“Welcome back, Carnivore,” Slayton said.
Avery nodded in acknowledgement of the DEA agent and then said to Culler, “What’s up, Matt?”
“We’ll talk inside. You’re not going home as soon as planned.”
It didn’t matter to Avery. Home for him meant a small cabin in the backwoods of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. He liked it there, but aside from the tranquility and the scenery, there was nothing and no one waiting for him. After a week or two, he invariably grew anxious and irritable, waiting for Culler to call with a job.
Passing American airmen and marines along the way, Avery followed Culler and Slayton to the building where the DEA’s offices were housed. Avery was so fatigued and dehydrated that just walking the short distance felt like a grueling workout.
“Good job on Phoenix, by the way,” Culler said.
“Aside from that bit of excitement in the jungle, it was simple, went down as planned.”
“Whatever you say,” Slayton said, “but the Colombians are fucking ecstatic about Moreno. And so are we. That son of a bitch personally raped, tortured, and killed Pamela Schreen two years ago in Belize. She had two kids. She was one of ours, DEA, and we never forgot what happened to her.”
With his shaved head, thick neck, and hooked nose, Mark Slayton had the straightforward, authoritative attitude of a big-city cop, which is what he’d been prior to DEA. Tall, black, and a Bronx native, he’d done eight years in NYPD’s Detective Bureau and three more in its Emergency Services Unit before being recruited by the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Office of National Security Intelligence. DEA agents fired more shots than any other federal agency, and Slayton had seen his share of action across North and South America, as well as Afghanistan. He’d also led the sting that arrested Russian arms dealer Victor Bout, the Merchant of Death, in Bangkok.
“I owe you big time when we’re both back in the States, beer, a steak, whatever you want,” Slayton added. “We couldn’t have pulled off Phoenix without you.”
Avery didn’t intend to take Slayton up on the offer, but he nodded anyway.
He didn’t view a killing as an achievement. Once, his Ranger chalk came to the rescue of a wounded navy SEAL, the sole survivor of a chopper crash in the Safed Koh Mountains. By luck, Avery’s Rangers managed to reach the SEAL before the Taliban’s Chechen mercenaries found him, and he lived to see his first daughter born. Avery thought that was an accomplishment, something of which to be proud.
Moreno meant nothing. Killing always came easy.
Slayton took them to a secure conference room that had been electronically swept for audio surveillance within the past hour. The room was air conditioned, and the
re was a platter of assorted mini-sandwiches and tortilla chips with salsa, plus coffee and bottled vitamin water.
Avery took a seat and helped himself to the food without waiting for an invitation. His body craved the calories and hydration, and the cool air felt refreshing after the time spent in the sweltering jungle. He untied his boots and slipped them off. He took off his jacket and stripped down to his t-shirt, unconcerned with the odor.
“The Colombians are worried about blowback from Operation Phoenix,” Culler told Avery. “We’re waiting on Daniel from ANIC, who will explain the situation.”
The Agencia Nacional de Intelligencia Colombiana, or ANIC, was the new agency formed after President Santos shut down the controversial and scandal-ridden Department of Administrative Security (DAS). DAS waged a notoriously ruthless and brutally effective war against FARC, ELN, and M-19 terrorists, and the drug cartels, until its dissolution in 2011, when the agency was caught spying on the president’s left-wing political opponents.
While Avery worked on stuffing food down his throat, Culler and Slayton filled the silence by making small talk. Soon as Culler started asking about the best restaurants in Bogotá, and Slayton went on about the coffee he’d sent back home to his wife, Avery tuned out. With his stomach filling up, his next priority was a shower to wash the jungle filth and grime from his body and a bed.
The doors to the conference room opened three minutes later.
The Colombian man who entered had light skin, indicating that he was likely of mixed European descent, most likely Spanish or Italian. The graying of his black hair was partially concealed by its short cut, and he sported a trimmed mustache. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, with the top two buttons undone.
Culler and Slayton rose from their chairs to greet the man. Perfunctory handshakes were exchanged and verbal back-patting over the success of Operation Phoenix, like men in a bar celebrating a sports team’s victory, but the Colombian lacked Culler and Slayton’s enthusiasm.
From his seat, Avery watched quietly and with disinterest, waiting for the relevant bit.
“This is Daniel from Colombian intelligence,” Slayton introduced. He did not provide Avery with the man’s surname, and Daniel likewise wouldn’t get Avery’s full name. That’s how it was done at this level, even among friendly services.
Avery made no move to stand up to greet the man, did not offer his hand, and Daniel likewise sat down at the table across from Avery without acknowledging him beyond giving him a quick appraising look, seeing the dirty camouflage and the mud-caked boots and the patchy, smeared remains of grease paint on his face, and the Colombian likely smelled the filth and the cordite still fresh on Avery.
Daniel had a serious demeanor. Deep stress lines and tired, strained eyes made him appear older than he probably was, and he smelt of fresh tobacco. He had a long and angular, almost gaunt, face.
Avery immediately sized him up and assessed him as an intelligence type, definitely not a shooter, but he also wasn’t an analyst or staff officer who spent his time in an office. No, Avery pegged him as a field officer doing undercover work out of Medellin or Cali, finding and running agents and living his life in the shadows, probably hard and cynical, and he was probably more committed to his work than his wife—Avery noticed the wedding band around the left ring finger—if she was still around.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, gentlemen.” Daniel addressed Culler and Slayton, but his eyes stayed on Avery. “I must admit that I’m a little confused. I specifically requested that this meeting be kept between the three of us, did I not?”
“Sorry, Daniel, but I asked Avery to sit in on this,” Culler said. “I don’t like keeping my people in the dark, and if we are to proceed with the extraction, then Carnivore is the man who will be sent in again.”
Daniel’s face displayed his displeasure, but he opted not to argue about it.
“So what’s the situation?” Culler asked.
“I am concerned about the security of our agent codenamed Canastilla.”
“Canastilla was the source that provided us with Emilio Reyes’ cell phone number,” Culler explained to Avery.
“We knew from the beginning this was a possibility,” Slayton said. “Only a handful of people would have had access to Emilio Reyes’ travel plans or communications. The FARC Secretariat will realize they have a traitor in their ranks, and it won’t take them long to narrow down the list of suspects. We discussed this before, and your people accepted the risk to Canastilla and agreed to proceed with Phoenix.”
“Indeed, and our concerns are now realized. We’ve started analyzing the computer files recovered from the camp. So far, it is clear that FARC was already suspicious that we have penetrated their organization at the highest levels. And Canastilla was already named and put under watch as a possible suspect even before Operation Phoenix. It seems that Reyes still personally and implicitly trusted Canastilla and used his position and influence to protect Canastilla from investigation. He’s served under Reyes for the better part of the last three years, after all.” Daniel smiled at the irony. “If only Reyes had known.”
“So with Reyes dead,” Culler finished, “the other FARC leaders are going to turn their attention to Canastilla in their inevitable hunt for the spy.”
“I do not want to overreact or take any action prematurely,” Daniel said. “It would be most unfortunate to lose such a uniquely valuable source, but we owe this man a great debt, and we must do everything within our capabilities to bring him out, if and when he appears to be in danger.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Slayton said. “I’ve met Canastilla. I’m not going to cut him off and leave him and his family to be tortured and executed by terrorists.”
“He’s your agent,” Culler told Daniel, “so why are we having this conversation? Why am I going to potentially risk one of my people to get your agent out?”
“Canastilla is not my unilateral asset. The DEA played a key role in his operations, and we shared with you everything Canastilla provided us the past ten years. Our respective services share equal responsibility for him.” Daniel paused as he weighed his next words. “Additionally, it may not be suitable for my agency to make the extraction.”
“Oh, why’s that?” asked Culler.
“My superiors hoped to keep this information to themselves, so I will not elaborate in detail, but from examining Reyes’ files, it’s apparent that FARC has its own sources within ANIC.”
Culler exchanged uncomfortable looks with Slayton.
Even Avery sat up a little straighter, stopping in mid-bite of a sandwich, and listened more intently now.
Culler cleared his throat. “It’s a bit disconcerting to think that a terrorist organization can so easily penetrate your agency, Daniel.”
“It is more likely that the source belongs to Venezuelan intelligence, who shares the product with FARC,” Daniel explained, as if that made any difference.
“Regardless,” Culler said, “I’m sure as hell not sending someone into an op that may already be compromised before it even gets off the ground.”
“Nor would I ask you to. We know the source is not someone who was briefed on Operation Phoenix. Reyes would never have gone to that camp if he knew we were preparing to attack, and the Venezuelan military would have been waiting to ambush the assault team. FARC would not have sacrificed someone as senior as Reyes to protect their source.”
“No,” Culler agreed, “but SEBIN wouldn’t think twice about sacrificing Reyes to protect their source in Bogotá. The Venezuelans have stabbed FARC in the back before when it suited their own agenda. The Colombian attack on Venezuelan soil also gives Caracas a nice little international incident to exploit. They’re already complaining at the UN, and they’ve got Russia and China, plus most of Latin America, on their side.”
“Where’s Canastilla based?” Avery asked Daniel, steering the conversation back on topic, at least far as it pertained
to him. His body sure as hell wasn’t up for making another trek through the jungle, deep into FARC country.
“Presently, he is at a jungle camp, where he’s unreachable, but he is due back in Panama City in five days. That is when we will have access to him.”
Avery nodded and reached for another sandwich from the tray.
“My superiors and I would be most grateful for any assistance you may offer us in this matter, as will Canastilla and his family,” Daniel told Culler and Slayton.
Culler stood up, and Slayton took his lead, indicating that the meeting was over.
“We will discuss it and look into the options we have at our disposal,” Culler promised Daniel.
“I can’t make guarantees, Daniel,” Slayton added, “but I feel the same way you do. Canastilla has been an invaluable asset and has always been there for us, often at great personal risk. We owe him a free ticket out, but I’ll have to run this up the chain of command.”
Daniel left, and the Americans returned to their seats.
“What do you think?” Culler asked Avery as soon as the doors shut and locked.
“Is this guy Canastilla really as important as everyone’s making him out to be?”
“Absolutely,” Slayton replied. “The intelligence Canastilla has provided has been first rate. Men have died to protect Canastilla’s identity. Look, what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. The Colombians would have my ass for this. Canastilla is one of their most closely guarded secrets.”
Agent Canastilla’s real name was Pablo Muňoz, a former rifleman in the National Army of Colombia. When he enlisted at age eighteen, he’d never intended to enter the world of espionage and deception. But given the immense difficulty in cultivating informants within FARC, the Colombian security services implemented a clandestine undercover operation, codenamed Deep Sting, to recruit, train, and insert agents into FARC’s Central High Command. Pablo Muňoz, twenty three years old when he was first approached by Daniel, then a DAS case officer, fit the mission profile requirements.