17
"The bloke's moving."
Yakov Katzenelenbogen didn't turn immediately, appearing to ignore McCarter's warning. He was dawdling along the sidewalk like a tourist, oblivious to the pedestrians and traffic all around him. Those who took the time to notice would have seen a man of average height with graying hair and hearing aid. American or European by the look of him, undoubtedly on holiday. None would have guessed that he was armed, or that the "hearing aid" was actually a small receiver, mated to the miniature transmitter that he wore — disguised as a Masonic pin — on his lapel. And if he muttered to himself from time to time, a casual observer might ascribe his strange behavior to the eccentricity of tourists.
Katz could see his mark now, a distorted image in the plate glass window, passing on the far side of the street. Ruiz had spent an hour in the bar beneath McCarter's watchful eye, and the Israeli had been on the verge of ducking in to find some shade when the former SAS commando had advised him that their man was on the move. Katz hoped that he was going somewhere for a change.
Five days on station in Tegucigalpa, and the men of Phoenix Force had come up empty. They had staked out local Contra leaders and shadowed them around the clock without discovering a link to General McNerney and his coconspirators. While Katzenelenbogen and McCarter followed Anastasio Ruiz, Gary Manning and Encizo were assigned to Luis Machado. Calvin James was odd man out, detailed to follow Raúl Gutierrez as best he could. The Phoenix warriors cheerfully agreed that Blancanales had the woman covered well enough already.
They had been on-site and waiting when Politician had made his contact with the Contra forces. The Stony Man team was set to pull him out if anything went sour, but Blancanales had come through in style. The woman, Esperanza, was a beauty, and the chemistry had sparked with Blancanales from their first encounter. Katz had felt a pang of envy, sure… until he remembered where their game was heading, toward inevitable violence of the body and the soul. If they were wrong, if local Contras had no linkup with McNerney's rogue machine, then Pol would still be forced to disengage himself from Esperanza. And if they were right, then the lady might be part and parcel of the problem.
Katz felt a sneaking admiration for the Contras and their lost crusade. As an Israeli, old enough to recall memories of Palestine when it was still part of Britain's empire, he could sympathize with anybody fighting to regain their homeland. As a warrior who had seen the Sandinista Front in action, Katzenelenbogen wished the Contras well. But if their war had crossed the line, subverting U.S. military missions and corrupting personnel, then he would strike against the local Contras with the same ferocity reserved for terrorists in general. Emotions had no place in plotting strategy.
McCarter had emerged from the cantina, glancing right and left before he fell in step a block behind Ruiz. Katz had already tagged their mark across the street, prepared to intercept in case of any unforeseen emergency. Ideally they would simply tail Ruiz, observing any contacts, noting any drops or pickups, and with any luck at all they would be able to find out what he was doing. And if luck held up, he might be doing more than simply killing time.
A phone tap could have saved some time, but Katz had scrubbed the notion after learning that Machado and his people used pay phones exclusively. If several calls were necessary, Anastasio, the woman or her brother made the rounds, calling from successive booths until the circuit brought them home again. If they received an urgent call, they would respond by reading off the number of the nearest kiosk, and one of them would be there, waiting when the caller dropped his second coin.
That left the roving tail, and so far it had come to nothing. From appearances, the Contras lived inside a bubble of their own creation, shunning any social contact with the locals, cleaving to their fellow refugees when it was time for R and R. They were a closed community, at least until Politician had slipped inside — and so far he hadn't produced a shred of evidence to link them with McNerney's operation, either.
Perhaps today.
Ruiz was making for a restaurant, McCarter on his heels. Katz started for the corner, then changed his mind and cut across in front of traffic, dodging as a taxi driver held the pedal down without attempting to decelerate.
"He's going in," McCarter said. "I'm on him."
Do it, the Israeli thought… and realized that he had actually spoken when an aging female tourist froze beside him, one hand raised to flag a taxi, staring at him curiously. Katz pushed on, determined to cover Ruiz in case he stopped for something other than an early lunch.
The Phoenix warrior sensed that they were running out of time. He couldn't have explained the feeling if his life depended on it, but experience had taught him to respect his instincts. They were working on a deadline, and the fact that they were ignorant of any limitations on the game would only make the play that much more dangerous. McNerney and his troops, Ruiz and his companions, might be on the verge of pulling something off tonight, tomorrow, which would take the SOG force by surprise. And in a combat situation, Katzenelenbogen knew, the slim advantage of surprise could make the difference between survival and sudden, violent death.
The restaurant was cool and dark inside. He spied McCarter in a tiny booth perhaps five meters from the table where Ruiz was seated with a tall American. Katz didn't recognize the contact, and he dared not push his luck by asking for adjacent tables. They would have to split the tail now, one of them remaining with Ruiz, the other on the tall man when he left. Katz waved the waiter off and found an empty bar stool, cranking it around until he had a glimpse of Anastasio Ruiz and his companion from the corner of one eye. He ordered a beer and settled down to wait.
* * *
Lane Travers hated dealing with his contacts in public. It violated every standard rule of operations taught at Langley, and it made him nervous, wondering who might be watching, listening, recording every word he said. The restaurant, for instance. It was nice enough, as foreign squat-and-gobbles go, but was it secure? He would have needed wire men, all the slick technicians who were readily available back home, to sweep the place and finally pronounce it clean. Of course, Lane Travers had no wire men or technicians at his beck and call. He had a staff of twelve, including secretaries, and a rather more extensive net of contract agents who were constantly on call. They served him well enough on simple break-ins, or to handle the elimination of an enemy from time to time, but they were strictly second-class.
Travers missed the States and drew no consolation from the knowledge that his present mission might be vital to American security for years to come. A ten-year man with the CIA in foreign posts, he knew how words like "national security" were tossed around to justify the most outlandish operations. Castro was a prime example. When they couldn't kill him, Langley's brains began extracting new proposals from the Twilight Zone. They made plans to sprinkle a depilatory powder on his clothes, to blitz the famous beard, to impregnate his cigars with LSD or to wire a clamshell to explode while he was swimming in the area. It was the kind of thinking that had made the Agency a laughingstock for years, and Travers was immediately cautious when the men upstairs began appealing to his love of country, Mom and apple pie.
The Nicaraguan deal was different, however. Three years in Honduras had convinced the Company that Daniel Ortega and his Sandinista Front were hell-bent on expansion. Soon, inevitably, they would cross the border, north or south, and start to gobble up their neighbors. When it happened, the United States would be confronted with another Vietnam in its own backyard. The Langley brains had hammered out a plan that would eliminate the middleman and take out the Sandinistas before they had a chance to call the play. Travers was enthusiastic when he learned that members of the army general staff were backing up the Agency, but his enthusiasm had been tempered by his first encounter with Brigadier General Mike McNerney.
Travers wouldn't say the man was absolutely nuts, but there was something in McNerney's eyes, his voice, that smacked of raw fanaticism. Travers dealt with him infrequently, pr
eferring to receive instructions and relay his answers through subordinates whenever possible.
The plan had sounded clean and simple at the outset. All they had to do was strike a spark and let the Sandinistas run with it, provoking an American reaction before Ortega's forces were strong enough to wage a protracted war. It would be like Grenada — in and out before the bastards knew what hit them. Stars and stripes forever, bet your ass. But somehow, over time, the plan had begun to change. Instead of waging war against the Sandinistas, one of Mike McNerney's boys was helping them interrogate their prisoners — in Nicaragua, yet. Another of his guys was playing footsie with guerrillas in the Costa Rican highlands, and who knew where it all would end?
For Pommeroy and Baker, it had ended with the grave, and Travers had been sweating ever since the word had come down. Two friendly dead, in separate operations, miles apart. Unless you were a firm believer in coincidence, you had to figure something had gone wrong, but it didn't deter McNerney from proceeding with the plan on schedule. Phase three, the final stage, was set to run the day after tomorrow, and here Travers was, killing time in a cafe with Anastasio Ruiz.
He didn't like the Contra second-in-command. The guy reminded Travers of a weasel, with his beady eyes and pointed nose. Each time they met, the man from Langley half expected Anastasio to have some chicken feathers dangling from his mouth. The other Contras were okay — and Travers wouldn't have objected to some undercover work with Esperanza what's-her-name — but he wouldn't trust Anastasio Ruiz out of his sight. For all he knew, the weasel might be working for Ortega's people, masquerading as a Nicaraguan patriot.
"Let's keep this brief," he said before Ruiz was even settled in his chair. You had to show the natives who was running things. "I've got a shitload of appointments, and I don't have any time to waste."
"I shall not waste your time, señor. I think you will be grateful that I called."
"Get on with it."
"Luis has taken on a new man named Rosario Briones."
"So?"
"He is not what he seems."
Lane Travers felt his stomach tighten, just a twinge at first, but there was worse to come. "Go on."
"I was suspicious of this new one when Raúl presented him to Luis. Last night I followed him."
There was an undercurrent to the Contra's tone, betraying some unspoken animosity, but Travers wanted solid information, and he didn't give a damn about emotions in the long run. "What's the punch line?"
"Punch?"
"Where did he go?"
"A rented car was waiting for him on the street. Calle Rivera. Two men in the front, one of them blond. American, I think."
"I don't suppose you got the license number?"
Ruiz held out a slip of paper. Travers took it gingerly, avoiding contact with the Contra's hand. It was a local plate, and there would be no problem making a connection to the rental agency. From that point on, however, he was likely to be dealing with an alias and phony address. Still, it was the only lead he had, and he would have to check it out.
"What tipped you off to this Briones?"
"His behavior," Anastasio replied. "The inappropriate advances that he makes to one of his superiors."
The woman, Travers thought, and in a flash he knew Ruiz wasn't concerned about the operation or Luis Machado's personal security. He had the hots for Esperanza, dammit, and the new man was about to beat his time. Ruiz pretended that he thought his rival might be pumping her for information, but if Travers knew his man, it was a different sort of pumping that the weasel had in mind. He was about to tell the bastard off… but what if Anastasio was right about the new boy? What if the rental car checked out? Could the covert meeting, the appearance of a new man on the scene, have any bearing on McNerney's plans?
It was a long shot, but the man from the CIA couldn't afford to let it slide without a closer look. He thought of Pommeroy and Baker, felt his stomach doing barrel rolls at the suggestion that their deaths might be connected with Ruiz, his unknown contacts in Tegucigalpa. If there was concerted opposition to McNerney's scheme, and if that opposition had progressed this far, all holy hell was going to break loose within the next two days.
Lane Travers didn't need this kind of grief. He definitely did not need another meeting with McNerney, not this close to the old man's explosion after Baker had bought the farm in Costa Rica. He would run the plate this afternoon and see where that might lead before he started blowing any whistles. In the meantime, Anastasio could keep an eye on this Briones character and tag him if the guy got too far out of line.
"Have you discussed this matter with Luis?" he asked the weasel.
"No. I did not wish to burden him with such a matter."
"Good idea," he said, and thought, You greasy bastard. Are you playing both ends off against the middle now? "You'll keep in touch?"
"Of course, señor."
He left a few lempiras on the table, trusting in Ruiz to separate his payoff from the waiter's tip. The weasel had a knack for taking care of number one, but he was getting too ambitious for Lane Travers's taste. Luis Machado was a patriot, committed to the liberation of his homeland and afflicted with the sort of tunnel vision that was not uncommon in the ranks of revolutionary freedom fighters. Focused on the common enemy with such intensity that he couldn't detect ambitious would-be traitors in the ranks, Machado might turn out to be an easy mark for someone like Ruiz. McNerney's operation could provide the perfect background for some sudden changes in the Contra leadership, and Travers cringed at the idea of Anastasio Ruiz in charge.
If things began to lean that way, he might be forced to take a hand, but there was time yet. This other matter with Briones required his more immediate attention. If he couldn't sort it out himself, he'd have to run the problem past McNerney, and he knew what that would mean.
Two days remaining. Travers wondered if his aching gut could take it, or if it would turn upon him like some kind of gastric Frankenstein and eat him up alive. Of course he had no choice. The man from Langley was committed. He had paid his money, and his ticket had been punched. Lane Travers was riding to the end of the line.
* * *
"Stay on Ruiz. I'll take the stranger."
Katzenelenbogen's quarry was already half a block away before he reached the sidewalk, veering right and falling into step. If he maintained his course, the mark would pass directly through downtown Tegucigalpa.
Katz had given up on guessing at the man's identity. He was American — that much was obvious. He wore a business suit despite the heat, which placed him in the realm of government or business. From his appearance, he might have been a junior diplomat or the assistant manager of a department store. Katz wasn't banking on the latter possibility, but anything was possible. In 1954 the CIA had helped to overthrow the Guatemalan government at the behest of the United Fruit Company. Twenty years later, in Chile, the price of copper had as much to do with the Allende ouster as did socialism and the specter of a Cuban foothold on the mainland. You could never tell, and Katz was making no assumptions as he trailed his quarry through the noonday traffic toward the heart of the Honduran capital.
It would be simpler if Katzenelenbogen's mark turned out to be a private citizen, with no connection to McNerney or the rest of it. Assorted U.S. businessmen were known to help out the Contras with gifts of cash, equipment and the like. Ruiz might very well have been arranging for a fresh donation to the coffers… or his meeting with the slim American might have a more insidious interpretation. Either way, the Phoenix warrior had to satisfy himself before he closed the book on Anastasio Ruiz.
And if the mark turned out to be a U.S. agent, it would still prove nothing. The American involvement in support of Contra forces was an open book. Indeed, it would have been surprising if Machado's team didn't have contact with the local embassy. A simple meeting would establish nothing with regard to Mike McNerney and his rogue commandos, but it might supply the Phoenix soldiers with a name, a place to start with their inv
estigation.
Once again he was oppressed by the conviction that they must be running out of time. For maximum effect, McNerney and his crew would need to move before the final votes were cast on the appropriations bill in Washington. If they could light the fuse while Congress was debating future funding for the Contra movement, they would have a captive audience. A border incident precisely timed — or, better yet, a border war — would force the undecided senators and representatives to make their choice, and it would doubtless swing a number of the "nay" votes over to the Contra side. Without a schedule or a blueprint of McNerney's plans, the gruff Israeli might be flying blind, but he had learned to trust his hunches in a combat situation, and this time out he knew for certain that the enemy was primed to strike.
The mark had reached his destination, disappearing through the double doors of the Honduran version of a high rise. Katz picked up his pace and was in time to spot his man before the elevator doors slid shut. The setup was Honduras "modern," with a pointer mounted on the wall above the elevator doors, which indicated six floors. The Phoenix warrior's man got off on five.
Katz doubled back to the directory, which he had passed on entering. The first three floors were occupied by lawyers and accountants. Number four was roughly split between an advertising agency and an investment firm. The fifth floor had a single occupant, identified as International Security Consultants: InterSec. And it was making sense already.
Katz didn't have to check the daily codes to know that InterSec was a facade for local operations of the CIA. The guy, whoever he might be, was working for the Company.
That complicated matters, but it didn't make the job impossible. He had contended with the CIA before, on friendly terms as well as under hostile circumstances, and the tough Israeli wouldn't mind if he was forced to step on Langley's toes. In fact, if any of the local spooks were dealing with McNerney on the side, Katzenelenbogen might enjoy it.
Rogue Force Page 17