by David Faxon
A century before, Thomas Harding, a London dealer in artifacts, hunched over his desk on Pall Mall Lane. Before him was a leather wallet, dried with time. It belonged, originally, to his great- great- grandfather. He had come into its possession through an inheritance when his aunt died. Harding opened it carefully. Inside, yellowed papers in danger of crumbling into pieces, rested in its folds.
This could be of great significance, he thought. With trembling hands, he used tweezers to spread the papers. Before him were five pages written in Spanish. The letters were compact and neat, yet flourishing. He didn’t have to read beyond the first line to know that it was written in the sixteenth century.
Fifteenth of November, In the Year of Our Lord, One Thousand Five Hundred Forty One
I thank Our Lord Jesus Christ, who has delivered me safely from harm. I only regret that my men were not to return with me from that treacherous place and guilt lies forever in my soul…
The document went on to describe the horrors experienced by the small group of Spanish explorers who were the first to enter the deep interior of the Amazon. Harding read of their struggles and deprivation, finally coming to what he was looking for, an account of an incident that would become legend.
We met them in battle on a sandbar…merciless… relentless in pursuit… only a few of my men survived. I have naught evidence to give that will convince you, save this medallion I retrieved that day. Study its markings. In all my journeys, I have not seen another like it.
Harding could not believe his good fortune when he saw the signature at the bottom.
Francisco D’ Orellana
Soldier of the Queen
1541
On the reverse side, D’Orellana had made a sketch of both sides of the medallion in minute detail. A tiny marking, hardly visible, appeared on the helmet of the javelin carrying warrior. The explorer had sketched it also. But where was the medallion itself? To his chagrin, someone had obviously removed it long ago. When Harding died, Orellana’s account was left to a relative of the client that Melendez hoped to sell the medallion to. The relative lived in Luxembourg. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, family possession of the documents remained a secret. Melendez, and his client, would travel there to make comparison with the intricate sketch and confirm Connery’s find.
About to gain sufficient financing, Connery’s confidence increased. He went directly to the Nacional where he summoned the maitre d, gave his name as Stanley Provencher and told him he would be returning in a few days to register. Could he please leave word with the desk to take any phone messages? An overly large tip brought a smile to the man's face. He wouldn't forget when the time came, and he would make sure that the desk knew that Mr. Stanley Provencher would be back in the city within a few days, should he receive any calls. Connery lacked cash and sufficient identity, but made it seem like he had both. All he needed was the forged documents from Pacho, then a quick sale of the medallion, and he would have plenty of cash.
“Certainly, Senhor Provencher. I will take care of everything, personally.”
By late Thursday, Connery made several inquiries about Melendez and verified his very solid reputation in the antiquities business. He was adequately licensed, insured, and bonded. Melendez had probably called the hotel by that time. It was time to make another appearance. The door attendant, who remembered the large tip, recognized him.
“Good evening, Senhor Provencher, There is a message for you at the desk.”
“Thank you, I appreciate your service.”
“Not at all.”
He asked the clerk for the message. It read simply”
Call me. Here is my cell phone number. You can reach me at any time.
Raul Melendez
114-244-6541
The call to the hotel, made by Melendez, assured the broker that indeed, a Stanley Provencher would be a guest there shortly. Connery thanked the desk clerk, tipped him and said he would return that evening with his luggage. Satisfied that Melendez met all his requirements for credibility and bonding, he called and arranged for a time to deliver the medallion. Melendez immediately booked a flight to Sao Paulo.
Next evening, Connery went back to Franco’s at 10:30 pm, hoping that Pacho would show up with the documents. Success or failure of his plan depended on two men at that moment, Raul and Pacho. He ordered a beer, chatted with Carlos, who recognized him right away, then waited; and waited some more. A full hour later, there was no sign of Pacho. With his carefully laid plan in jeopardy, he asked Carlos where his friend was. Carlos shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Give him time. If he said he’d be here, he will.”
He ordered another beer, deciding to wait as long as it took. If Pacho was a no show, everything was over. He was running out of ideas when Pacho walked through the door, sat on the bar stool next to him and calmly asked why he looked so worried. They went to the same corner booth.
“You have the money, senhor?”
Connery reached for the envelope in his pocket and gave it to Pacho, who didn't immediately produce the documents.
Damn! Now he's got a thousand bucks of mine, and I've got nothing to show for it The bastard scammed me!”
Pacho took a long drag on his cigarette and saw the look on Connery's face. He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and smiled.
“You worry too much, senhor. I would take it as an insult if you didn’t trust me.”
Connery reached for the envelope, Pacho pulled it away.
“Not too fast. Because I give you special service, my man has to work overtime. This will cost you another $500. I'm sure you will understand, no?”
“We had a deal, Pacho.”
“I know, I know, but business is business. You want them or not?”
“Let me at least see them, OK?”
Pacho held them up. They were decent forgeries. Connery thought if his deal with Melendez went through, $500 wouldn't matter much. Besides, he knew when he was being squeezed. He couldn't win this one, so he handed Pacho the money. Now, all he had to do was get out of that neighborhood without losing what little he had left.
On Monday, he went to a branch of one of Brazil's largest banks, presented his newly forged documents, and with a minimum of cash, opened an account under the name of Stanley Provencher. He explained that a large amount would be wire transferred within a week to ten days. All he had to do was wait for Melendez’ call and hope that his dwindling cash held out. He called him with wire instructions as he had promised.
Three days, four days, five days passed. He was flat broke when Melendez called him on his cell, telling him the medallion was sold. He asked if it was possible to meet in the lobby of the Nacional that afternoon.
The news came as a great relief. Meeting at the Nacional…well, that might present a problem. He hadn't registered as he told them he would. Either the maitre’d, or a desk clerk, might recognize him. He preferred to avoid any possibly embarrassing moments at this late stage.
“I would prefer to meet at your office. Is there any problem?”
“Not at all. I was merely thinking of your convenience. Two o'clock at my place, then.”
At two, a buoyant Melendez greeted him at the door.
“Mr. Provencher. I am so pleased! I apologize for some last minute delays. But everything proceeded as I expected.”
He handed Connery a briefcase with $40,000 cash. Along with it, confirmation of a wire transfer in the amount of $160,000 to his account at Banco Santander.
“Senhor Melendez, you have done well.”
“There is no doubt as to the authenticity of the medallion. It will provide valuable clues to what has remained a mystery for centuries.”
“I’m pleased.”
Connery shook hands and then went directly to the Nacional where he booked one of their more expensive rooms, making apologies for his delayed arrival. He had an ID and more than enough cash. After two nights he checked out, opting for another hotel. He paid the twenty on
e hundred and left, thinking he shouldn't have stayed even one night. It was stupid. On the way out, he gave the concierge another fifty.
Less than twelve hours later, Jaime and Santos approached the desk attendant with police badges and a very professional sketch of Connery; with and without a beard.
“Yes, I have seen a gentleman who resembles this man. He checked out yesterday. One moment please.”
There was the clicking of a keyboard as the desk attendant entered information.
“Ah yes, here it is. Room 529, Senhor Stanley Provencher. He was with us a short time only. I remember him”
“Stanley Provencher? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And not Cedric Hawkes?”
“No, Inspector.”
They showed the sketch to the concierge and asked if he could identify the man.
“I remember someone who looked very similar. He left me a good tip.”
“You remember his name?”
I believe his name was Provencher.”
“It wasn’t Hawkes?”
“Yes, I'm sure. I would remember the name of someone who tipped me that well. That's how I earn my living.”
They were on to something, but Castelo Branco was losing patience. Were they looking for Dan Templeton, Cedric Hawkes, Stanley Provencher, or someone else? Connery's trail of false identities had gained him valuable time.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
Cash, an identity, money in the bank; Connery could now focus on his plan to neutralize Castelo Branco. It was ambitious. He would spare no effort to bring this man down. In his possession were copies of letters from De Santana and a voice recording that proved his complicity in Reyes' death. But much of that could be contested since the letters weren't in his hand, and the cassette recording might not stand up to voice recognition analysis. If he tried to stay within the law, his own credibility in a Brazilian court wouldn't be great. Castelo Branco had powerful forces at his disposal. Any attempt to follow a strictly legal route would be lengthy and most likely, futile. There was the big question of his surviving any lengthy legal process. It must be done another way; the method foolproof, the execution perfect.
He began by hanging out in Internet cafes. His choices were limited since their popularity was not yet widespread in Brasilia. Nevertheless, he did find a few and devoted a full morning to checking them out, carefully studying the clientele. He wasn't looking for the business type or even college students. He was looking for the offbeat character, the unconventional computer whiz, expert at breaching firewalls and security systems. A mental image developed in his mind of exactly who he was looking for, his dress, his mannerisms. The first three cafes proved disappointing. None felt right. After a quick lunch, he continued searching. Late afternoon brought him to 1710 Rua Marcilo Padilla, a place called simply, Café Net. Inside, it was clean, the coffee strong, the atmosphere laid back, and there was something different about the clientele. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He knew he found the place he was looking for.
Next day, he bought a Toshiba laptop with carrying case, a pair of faded jeans and a few casual tee shirts. At Café Net he ordered coffee and a bagel, opened the laptop and accessed the wireless network effortlessly. For the next few hours he studied the people, a routine that wouldn’t vary for the next five days. By the end of a week, he got to know the regulars, picked up their language and engaged some potential candidates in friendly conversation. He explained that he wasn’t a computer expert, just someone who liked to explore the Internet while relaxing in an engaging atmosphere that offered outstanding coffee.
Café Net turned out to be frequented by American expatriates; a hangout for “techies” who looked like they might be running away from something. Most kept to themselves as they pounded keyboards or studied laptop screens, fully absorbed except for the occasional sip on a coffee cup. By the third day of the second week, two or three of the regulars seemed to fit Connery’s qualifications. He was undecided, however, about which one and how to introduce his offer. He wondered if they would think he was nuts. The problem was solved for him when his table was accidentally bumped, almost spilling coffee on to his laptop. The man apologized profusely for his clumsiness. Connery assured him everything was all right, no damage done. Then he noticed the man almost duplicated the picture of the guy he had in mind; late twenties or early thirties. He had a scraggly sort of beard as if he had forgotten to shave for the past three days and wore a faded red tee shirt proclaiming Fiesta Cancun ’89. He was offbeat but intelligent looking. The café had filled rapidly, leaving no vacant tables, so Connery asked if the man would like to share his.
“Thanks partner! My name is Ted. Some guys in here might be a little more up tight if their laptop almost had coffee spilled on it.”
Ted immediately opened the conversation. It didn't take long for him to grow more relaxed when the subject turned to technology. Connery asked questions he knew the answers to but soon steered the topic toward software, saying he knew the owner of a company whose computer security was breached. It had caused all kinds of problems. He wondered how such a thing could be done. The subject struck a chord. Ted's face changed to a look of intense interest, and it soon became evident he that had a high level of expertise in that arena.
“Do you really want to know?”
Connery said he did.
“I knew this guy once who was pretty good at it, hacked some FAA stuff, but they were on to him, had to blow town.”
“What kind of FAA stuff?”
Ted's face lit up.
“Ha! It was beautiful! He hacked the system in Atlanta that creates airlines' flight plans and traffic management. There were ground delays from coast to coast. This was big, man. A coup!”
For the next hour, Ted talked excitedly about remote site access, password encryption, file structure, remote access trojans, use of the Internet, and other aspects of hacking. He displayed a high level of knowledge that could be used in skills of a criminal nature. Oblivious to the disruption and cost of the misadventure he described, he went on at length about the talent it took to penetrate the FAA's system. For him, it represented a supreme achievement. Connery listened, fascinated. As the story deepened, it became obvious that Ted was talking about himself. Connery interrupted the conversation and played a hunch.
“Is that why you're here in Brazil, Ted?
“What do you mean?”
“It’s you that you're talking about, right? You did those things. Your name isn't Ted, is it?”
The man pushed away from the table; suddenly realizing he got carried away and shot off his mouth to someone he didn’t know. He abruptly closed his laptop and prepared to leave. Connery had found the right person, but was about to lose him.
“Hey wait! Wait! Hold on! There's money in it for you. Sit down, let's talk.”
Hey, I don’t know, man! I don’t know you from nuthin’! Who the hell are you anyway?”
The loud talk was starting to draw attention. Connery had to act fast. He reached in his pocket and placed a hundred reals on the table.
“Hear me out for five minutes. If you don’t like what I have to say, pick up the hundred and leave, it’s yours, no strings. Deal?”
Ted pondered a moment, stared at the bill then sat down reluctantly. This time he was closemouthed, wanting to hear more before he said anything else; intrigued by the idea of an easy hundred.
“I don't want to know your real name, and you don't need to know mine, so I'll continue to call you Ted, OK?
Look, I need someone with your talent. I’m willing to pay as much as ten thousand to the right person. I think you may be the one. What you have to do is no more than what you do here every day, except you’ll be highly paid. I’m buying information. All you have to do is get it, and I know you can. Here’s my first question. How difficult was it to tap into a system as sophisticated as the FAA’s?”
“OK, you nailed me on the FAA crap, but I didn't do it for the money, man. I di
d it for the thrill. I would have gotten away with it except for one small mistake I'll never make again. Anyway, I had to leave the U.S. That's why I'm here. The FBI came this close to hanging me out to dry. Like I said, I didn't do it for the money, but now I'm here, broke. Ten thousand would buy me some time.”
“Why here?”
“Not my first choice, but it’s big city life in the middle of nowhere, plus I know the language. But like I said, I don’t know squat about you.”
“You don’t need to know anything about me, except my money’s good. Always cash.”
“Why should I trust you? How do I know you won’t turn me in?”
“You don’t, but you're going nowhere without someone like me. It's you're decision.”
“Used to be a lot easier, but now with sophisticated firewalls, passwords that are changed frequently- stuff like that. It's gotten tougher. Once you figure it out though, it's like everything else.”
“Show me what you got.”
Ted opened his laptop. A few minutes later, Connery saw what could be done using remote access software. Software that could be bought almost anywhere for under $200. He was amazed at Ted's high level of skill. His fingertips flew over the keyboard, and he obviously was excited for a chance to get back into the game, to impress, and make some money doing it. Ted and others like him were dangerous. They had the potential to collapse huge systems. Obviously, the FBI, Interpol, and everyone else was looking for him. If Ted went down, Connery could go with him. What the hell, he thought. He decided to win Ted’s confidence.
“Listen! For different reasons, I may be on the same side of the fence as you- where the law is concerned anyway. The last I knew, my firm was being investigated for large-scale fraud. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. I won't go into it. All you need to know is that there is a company here that I need access to; its data files, everything you can get with that laptop of yours. You have to trust me when I say it will do many people a lot of good. The stuff you were into didn’t do anyone any good. Once you have what I need, I'll find a financial guru to spell things out for me. I intend to take this place down, but they're big enough to have sophisticated computer security. It won't be easy.”