by Ross Sidor
“Now that it’s clear where we stand,” Flores said, “what do you want from me?”
“You will do two things for me. You will give me Carnivore. I do not care what you have to do or how much it costs you, but this man is mine to do with as I please. Is that clear?”
Already a plan began to formulate in Flores’s mind, his thoughts shifting back to the problem of the spy who had betrayed Emilio Reyes in Venezuela. Flores thought that perhaps he could remove two birds with the same stone.
“What else?”
“I think you know. You will give me the weapons.”
“These aren’t some M16s or RPGs. Each unit will be inventoried, accounted for, and tracked.”
“Then it’s a good that you are now well motivated to help me,” the Viper replied.
“If you use those weapons, you will destroy the peace talks.”
“You’re only encouraging me, Andrés. The so-called peace talks are a complete farce. The old men on the Secretariat are selling us all out. You know it, too. Why else would you need to sell drugs and negotiate with the Cubans?”
“I can have you killed, you know.”
“You have no one better than me to do the job, and there will be nowhere you can hide after they fail. Stop wasting time. If you cross me, I promise I will slice your throat. Do what I ask, and you will never see me again and you can start thinking about buying real estate in Havana.”
Flores weighed his options. There wasn’t much to consider, really. He envisioned a hacienda in Cuba, overlooking the beaches along Nipe Bay, a young wife, a new name, and a modest fortune. If he wanted that future to become a reality, then he had no choice. And what did it matter to him? He had no stake in the peace talks. Either way, he had too much blood on his hands for the Colombian government to ever grant him amnesty. He’d either spend his life in a prison, where FARC’s right wing enemies could reach him, or he’d have to spend the rest of his life hiding in the jungle. And Arianna was right. Flores didn’t trust the Secretariat not to turn him over to the federal government as a concession in order to save themselves.
“I will arrange contact for you with the arms supplier and the transfer of funds, and then you will be on your own, and you will make no further demands of me. The Central High Command and the Secretariat will disavow you, you know. There will be no protection for you.”
“Do you think I care?”
“You will become the most hunted person on the planet. Wherever you go, the Americans and their proxies will pursue you until you are dead. Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia, even they will not harbor you. Maybe North Korea will take you in, but I do not believe you’d like it there very much.”
The Viper was accustomed to operating alone. She’d never had use for anyone in her life other than her brother. They’d always been so much more than siblings. Aarón had been the first and remained the only man she’d ever given herself to. He was the only human being in this world to ever love her. They’d shared, since her birth, when Aarón was five, a deep spiritual connection, unbroken even now, that she believed she would never possibly know again. Without that, she saw little meaning in life.
Arianna Moreno had nothing but her anger and hatred now. She felt it radiate within her, simmering, fueling her. The overpowering, primal desire to unleash her fury on the world gave her purpose.
FOUR
Six days later, Pablo Muňoz shoved a wad of cash into the driver’s hand without counting it. Then he climbed out of the taxi with his suitcase. He shut the door, turned, and was nearly struck by a speeding motorcycle. He heard the crack of the four cylinder engine and saw the flash of movement as the bike whipped past him, less than three feet away.
For a split second he’d thought that this was it, the moment he’d been expecting every day for the past decade, but then he realized the Central High Command would not execute him on a public street in a foreign country. Drivers, motorcyclists especially, on Panama City’s notoriously gridlocked streets were simply reckless and aggressive.
It didn’t much matter, though.
Death no longer held any fear for him. Death would come as a release from the perpetual cycles of mental anguish and inner torment. Although raised Catholic, Pablo had never been a believer until, in a desperate time, with nothing else, he’d turned to his Savior for guidance and comfort. He’d done terrible, deplorable things. He’d become a traitor and a terrorist because someone convinced him that was how he could best serve his country. Innocent people were dead because of him.
He knew that Hell waited to receive him.
Pablo Muňoz had never been an introspective thinker, a trait that made him a desirable candidate for Deep Sting, but ten years living a double life of secrets and treachery was enough to take its toll on any man, and Pablo had gradually deteriorated into a neurotic mess. He felt his physical and mental wellness decline by the week. There was no longer a single person he trusted, not even himself. There was nowhere he felt safe, neither from FARC nor his masters in the intelligence service. Even his own wife, the woman who gave birth to his children, a committed Marxist and FARC loyalist, would gladly put a bullet in his head if she knew what he really was.
When he truly felt trapped and without hope for the future, he considered putting a bullet through his own head, not only as a means of escape, but maybe as a path to redemption, too, for the things he’d done. He’d held the gun to the side of his head with his finger over the trigger; so simple and easy, but somehow the mental blocks were still in place and wouldn’t allow his finger to comply with his desire to pull the trigger.
Pablo already lost thirty pounds. His once toned, fit military physique and endurance withered away, and he looked much older than his thirty-five years. Most nights, he could barely sleep, and when sleep did finally come, he re-lived, with vivid and painful clarity, the execution of the army captain. He drank constantly to keep his nerves settled, less he become overwhelmed and struggle with placing the gun in his mouth again. He even indulged in cocaine in the times when his survival was dependent on a sharp, focused mind.
When Daniel first approached him for Deep Sting, Pablo had no idea that it could possibly go on this long. He’d anticipated spending a year or two undercover, and then collecting the money Daniel promised. But every year, when he was ready to come out, they pressed him and pushed him to stay on. After four years, when he thought he could take no more, and the stress and burden became too much, the black American from the DEA promised him American citizenship and a brand new life. All he had to do was continue a little while longer.
Last time Pablo saw Daniel in person, four months ago, the ANIC case officer called him a national hero, but the days were long past when Daniel could simply talk him up, boost his spirits and keep his mind centered, remind him that he was simply a soldier on a mission. Pablo didn’t feel anything like a hero or a soldier, and he no longer believed a word of Daniel’s bullshit. He cared less and less about the mission. He’d considered so many times cutting off all contact and ties with Daniel, to make his role of deserter turned FARC officer a reality in the interests of ensuring his personal survival.
Pablo checked in at the front desk at the Trump Ocean Club, where he always stayed when he was in Panama. Key card in hand, he carried his own luggage and proceeded directly to his room on the thirty-fourth floor. It was a luxury suite, with full amenities. The Secretariat could afford it. FARC was one of the world’s richest terrorist groups in the world, earning its income, $500 million annually, from the drug trade, kidnappings and ransom, mercenary work for groups in neighboring countries, and enforcing taxes on the drug cartels and mining and gas companies.
Pablo powered up his laptop and connected to the Internet.
Unknown to anyone, even Emilio Reyes, Pablo had acquired the passwords from Reyes’ personal files to the assorted shared e-mail accounts used by senior members of the Secretariat and the Central High Command to communicate amongst themselves and with third parties. A shared e-mail acco
unt served as a virtual dead drop, where multiple parties knew the password and left messages saved in the draft folders. Nothing was transmitted, so the messages were completely secure from NSA eavesdropping.
FARC’s senior commanders were hidden in the jungle and often relayed messages by human courier or spoke via satellite phone, but Pablo knew that Andrés Flores often used the virtual dead drop to communicate with Durante, his contact in Venezuela’s intelligence agency.
Even in the remotest stretches of the jungle, far from civilization and cities, it was still possible to connect to the Internet. The easiest way is to tether a Bluetooth-enabled cell phone to a laptop. This method, however, wasn’t secure and had led the army to more than one terrorist camp. It was best to make the connection near villages and hamlets where Internet and cell phone traffic, though sporadic, wasn’t inherently suspicious. Many villages even had wireless broadband base stations, capable of powering multiple devices and becoming Internet hubs for roaming FARC commanders, and the Venezuelans had recently supplied FARC with the equipment to establish encrypted connections.
There were several new messages saved in the drafts folder, dated after the Colombian raid in Venezuela. Reading the first message from Andrés Flores, Pablo’s mind became focused. This looked like it could be significant, something that Daniel needed to know about right away. Pablo thought it could even be his ticket out of here to US citizenship, $100,000, and a new identity.
He continued reading, clicking onto the response from the Venezuelan, and then the final message from Flores, confirming and finalizing the proposal.
It made little sense to Pablo. He thought there was no way the Central High Command or the Secretariat would authorize this, but here it was right in front of his eyes. It had to be some kind of rogue or independent operation, he thought.
Pablo read the other messages and logged out of the account. He laid his suitcase on the bed, opened it, and produced a cell phone from a hidden compartment. It was an encrypted phone provided to him by Daniel. No one in FARC knew he had it. He began to compose a new text message. In his eagerness, his thumb slipped a few times, entering the wrong character, and he’d backspace and correct it.
Someone knocked on the door, and Pablo gave a startled jumped.
He knew it wasn’t hotel staff. He’d left the “do not disturb” card in its slot on the exterior door handle. Only two others knew to find him here, and he knew that Daniel never sent anyone unannounced.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His sixth sense screamed at him that there was something wrong, but he was trapped. There was no way out of here, except through the sliding glass doors, onto the balcony, and thirty-four floors down.
Pablo heard someone manually working the lock on the door from outside, and quickly composed the text, franticly now, without stopping to correct typos. He heard the door open with a thud when it struck the interior wall. He dropped the phone and snatched the Beretta from his suitcase with a trembling hand. He got onto his feet and stepped out of the bedroom into the living room space and kitchen.
There were three of them coming through the door. Two men armed with pistols. A woman came in behind them, and kicked the door shut.
They shouted at Pablo, commanded him to drop his gun. He hesitated for a second, looked once more at the guns in their hands, and then set the Beretta down on the nearby table and raised his hands in the air.
The intruders converged on him. One of the men landed an uppercut into his solar plexus, knocking the air out of him and bending him forward, opening him up for a punch to the face.
Pablo didn’t struggle. The fight had long since ebbed from him.
From the tattoos on one man’s neck, Pablo recognized them as Los Perros, Panamanian gangbangers.
Although he didn’t recognize the woman offhand, her reputation proceeded her and, from the messages he’d just read between Andrés Flores, he easily surmised that she was the one they called the Viper.
The men hit Pablo more and pushed him down into one of the armchairs. The woman walked past him, her eyes covering every inch of the room, and she stepped into the bedroom. She came out ten seconds later, holding the cell phone, with Pablo’s message still composed on the screen. She smiled with satisfaction, as if this was confirmation she sought and her job suddenly became easier.
Pablo didn’t understand why they would send her here.
As far as he knew, the Viper wasn’t used to ferret out sapos—and why use Los Perros as muscle—but he knew that the past ten years had somehow just caught up with him, and it was finally over. For that, despite the pain he knew he was now set to endure, he was grateful.
___
A vibrating chirp alerted Daniel to the incoming message from Canastilla. He knew it was the message he’d been waiting for all week. No one else would contact him at this hour, unless it was an emergency, in which case they would have called. His hand snapped out, nearly knocking over the third-full bottle of aguardiente, Colombian liquor derived from sugarcane, and snapped up the phone from the desktop, where it sat near a sticky shot glass and the file folder containing Pablo Muňoz’s dossier.
After Operation Phoenix, Daniel decided to stay on at Palanquero until the business with Canastilla was resolved, rather than shuttle back and forth between here and his home in Chia, a suburb of Bogotá. He stayed in one of the base’s spare civilian apartment units with sparse amenities and just a week’s worth of clothing. He hadn’t turned on the TV or radio once during his two weeks here. He passed the rare downtime, which he sought to avoid at all costs, thinking and drinking.
At least he’d held himself back tonight. It wasn’t uncommon for him to drink himself into a stupor, and then revisit the faces of the dead, those he’d failed, a dozen men and women like Pablo Muňoz, compromised and tortured by FARC or the cartels, or even his own son, another victim of Daniel’s work. The demons were always close, but at least tonight he had managed to keep them from coming too near to the surface.
As his thumb worked the touch screen on the phone, he noted the time. He thought, without animosity or resentment, that his wife was presently fucking one of her colleagues from the National University of Colombia, where she taught biology. Once, coming home early from a trip to Ecuador, he’d walked in on them in his bed. He hadn’t been angry or even surprised, just disappointed, and embarrassed for himself, but he understood and came to terms with it. Now, he didn’t mind what she did as long as he didn’t have to see or hear about it. Nothing had been the same between them since the day, three years ago, when their son, Julian, aged twenty, asphyxiated himself. His son suffered severe depression, enduring a self-imposed hell, and Daniel had never known that anything was wrong. Daniel had been in Washington when he heard the news, and since then he’d taken every opportunity to distance himself from home, but he understood his wife’s needs for love, affection, and physical contact.
Daniel took a few seconds to focus his eyes. His vision was still blurry from the alcohol intake, and he already felt a headache and dried, strained eyes from the dehydration, but once he read the message, his mind became suddenly sober. A tight knot wrenched his gut.
___
At 1:07AM, the atmosphere in the conference room was grim, and the fluorescent lighting excessively bright. Avery, who was awakened and summoned just twenty minutes earlier by an unapologetic Culler, wore sweat pants, a tank top, and a pair of loose, untied Timberlands, apparently the only one to have not bothered putting half an effort into getting dressed. Coarse black stubble shadowed his face.
“Attempts to contact Canastilla have so far been unsuccessful,” Daniel said, concluding the briefing. “However, tracking software indicates that his ANIC-supplied cell phone is turned on and remains stationary within the vicinity of the Trump Ocean Club in Panama City. It hasn’t moved in over six hours, and not since he sent his last message.”
“He could be dead already,” Culler noted.
“Then I’ll snoop around and see w
hat I can find,” Avery said. He yawned. “If Canastilla’s in danger, then we need to move now. Work out my travel arrangements and cover for action. I want a sanitized weapon, preferably a Glock, waiting for me in Panama City.”
Avery started to get up. He hoped to be in the air within the next couple hours. At least he’d be able to sleep on the flight.
“Wait,” Daniel said, and Avery froze. “There’s something else we need to take into consideration. In his message, Canastilla requested that we specifically send you.”
“Me?”
“Not you personally, but he used your codename. He asked for Carnivore.”
Avery slumped back into his chair.
“What? How the hell is that possible?” Culler said. “He’s no reason to even know that name.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Daniel said. “I’m the only one from ANIC who knows your man’s codename, and I was only informed of it last week, before Operation Phoenix. I’ve spoken to no one about it.”
“Okay,” Culler said, trying to control his temper, “but how many people have access to the Phoenix after-action briefs and mission analysis reports? How many transmissions were made during the mission containing Carnivore’s codename?”
“Carnivore was not identified by name in the reports disseminated throughout my government. His name also has not been mentioned in any transmitted cables that the Venezuelans may have intercepted. We took operational security very seriously.”
“Not seriously enough,” Culler said, “because we’re obviously compromised.”
“Daniel,” Slayton said, “tell us again, what were Canastilla’s exact words?”
The Colombian consulted the sheet of paper in front of him and read, “Compromised. Initiate Omega protocol. Send Carnivore. Carnivore is the only one we can trust. Central High Command discussing possible terrorist attacks inside US.”
“Okay,” Slayton said, trying to make sense of it. “Canastilla is on the Central High Command’s operations staff. It stands to reason that he’d have access to information coming in from FARC intelligence networks. Maybe Canastilla knows just how badly ANIC’s compromised and doesn’t trust your people. Maybe FARC’s already received the Phoenix after-action reports from their source, and Canastilla knows there’s a specialized, lone wolf American operator in the theater, someone who he knows isn’t compromised.”