by Fred G Baker
While online, he noted that Langley had responded to his message the night before. He opened it and was angry that, instead of an answer, he had received more questions about the surveillance he had proposed.
He sat back and thought about the mission that he and Madeline were planning for later that night. He had described it as surveillance, to minimize this sort of bureaucratic second-guessing of his plans. He did mention that he was coordinating with Lightchurch’s people, and that they were on board with it. He did not mention that it involved trespassing, breaking and entering, and possible use of weapons. If he brought all that up, it would be stuck in bureaucratic limbo until Christmas. Like all good agents, he realized it was better to limit knowledge of his operations until they were over. Then, if they went well, he would share the results. Otherwise, nothing would ever get done.
The agency had also responded to his request for background information about Madeline Caron. He had asked for her training and operational status as an agent for Grenada. After all, he would be going into the field with her and needed to know her capabilities.
He opened the dossier the agency had on her and found it illuminating. She was a well-trained operative with eleven years’ experience in Grenada and other Commonwealth nations. She was born in Grenada thirty-one years ago, the daughter of a prominent business family. She had excelled in school and won scholarships to study in England. She had been an athlete at university in swimming and some track and field events. She had studied at Oxford University and was apparently recruited there. She received training at the British Intelligence Agency, but no details were given. There was mention of several covert assignments, but details were classified. His impression was that she was a highly qualified professional, and he was glad to have her on their team.
He decided to respond minimally to the agency’s questions and to mislead them as much as possible about when things would happen. He would not touch his emails until the mission was over.
He had just enough time to walk to the bar and flag Gordon for a table before the charming Ms. Vargas arrived. She was wearing a stylish, broad-brimmed straw hat, a bikini barely covered by a beach wrap, and sequined flip-flops. She was breathtaking, and many heads turned to take in her visage and sleek form.
“Roberto! I am so happy that you suggested lunch today instead of drinks last night.” She sat down next to him and took off her hat, placing it carefully on the extra chair beside her. “I was very tired by the time the sessions finished yesterday, and I would have been boring company.”
“Yes, I was out quite late myself. I would not have made interesting conversation either.” He eyed her bathing suit. “You didn’t attend the conference this morning?”
“Oh, I went to the first lecture—but decided I could not be so close to this beautiful beach and only work. So, I swam and sat in the sun a little.” She leaned forward and brought her tanned shoulders close for him to examine. “Here, feel my skin. It is still hot from the sun.” She was very coy about it and let him touch her delicate bronze. “You see? I feel nice, don’t I?” A devilish grin.
“Yes, Ms. Vargas. You are definitely hot.” He smiled as she blushed—just the right amount to show her pleasure.
“Call me Tori.”
“Tori, shall we order drinks?” He waved to Gordon, who approached their table. “Maybe a rum punch? Have you tried them here? They’re very tasty. A friend of mine swears by them.”
“Oh, that sounds delicious.” Gordon left to fill their drink order.
“What will you have? Shall we eat lunch or just talk for a while?” Tori was all smiles—a vivacious companion.
“Let’s eat something light, shall we? Maybe one of their crab salads? Or an empanada?” He hoped she would choose a simple meal. He must move on to other things in the afternoon.
“Oh yes. Crab salad sounds very nice, Roberto. Will you have the same?” She reached over and touched his arm as he searched the simple lunch menu. “Then, you can tell me what it is you are writing about.”
Gordon appeared at the table with two rum punches, and they ordered their food. Wilson led her in a toast, and then said, “Tell me about your conference first. Is it about economics in Venezuela? Or about some economic topics that apply everywhere?”
“Oh, I see.” She straightened up in her chair and worry lines appeared around her eyes as she composed her thoughts. “It’s about both. You know our economy is not doing very well right now, but that is because the United States has cut off much of our banking access to world markets. The great leader will overcome these problems, but it is very difficult. The lectures are about how we can work around some of the conflicts with the US banking system, and other issues.” She finished and uttered a sigh of relief—now that she had done her patriotic duty by defending the indefensible.
“I see.” Wilson almost felt sorry for her and her unfortunate position. “It must be difficult to keep positive under those conditions. Are you giving a paper here? Or just attending the conference?”
“I am just a facilitator for the conference,” she said prettily. “I am here to make sure that everything goes well, and that people behave. I am sort of a chaperone for some of the attendees.”
“Oh, really? Do they need watching over?”
“Yes, they do. Some might try to stay here longer than they are allowed to.” She looked worried. “I mean . . .”
“You mean they might get an offer to work somewhere else?” He tried helping her out. “Get recruited by another company, or government?”
She looked relieved, the worry retreating from her face. “Yes, that’s it. I am supposed to look for anyone who has too much interest in our people—for just that reason. We can’t have our best people stolen away, or our secrets compromised.” She scooted her chair a little closer to his and reached for his arm again.
He wondered if anyone would really hire any of these people—who had managed to drive a thriving economy into the ditch so badly. No one would hire them. But the Venezuelans might try defecting to the United States, as so many of their countrymen had already done. It was like the old Iron Curtain days, during which the USSR had minders keeping their citizens from running away to the West. Chavez and Maduro had created the same type of socialist dictatorship with extensive help from the Cubans—those models of world citizenship.
Wilson caught Gordon’s eye and ordered more drinks. Tori slurped down the remainder of her first tasty rum punch. They carried on a pleasant conversation while he sipped his punch and Tori gulped down two more. She began giggling by that time and became more forward in her manner toward him.
He wondered if it was her assignment to get him involved in a personal relationship. She certainly acted like it was a setup and he might be a target. Or was he getting ahead of himself? Maybe she was just a lonely woman who never got out of the country, so was having a good time for herself. In either case, her beach wrap had slipped down, revealing more than enough cleavage to interest any man walking by the bar, and also holding Gordon’s attention whenever he came over to check up on them frequently. She seemed genuine in her behavior, or perhaps she was not a scripted professional who was used to seducing men for their secrets—at least not as a profession.
Wilson did learn some interesting things from Vargas. A few people at the conference were real economists. Many of the other people attending the conference were, in fact, security personnel. They had rented a conference room at the Hempstead, and some staffers like Vargas had rooms there. Most of the other Venezuelans were staying at another hotel further down the beach, which offered cheaper rooms but few other facilities. The people staying there had to double up or triple up on rooms. Many of them did not attend the meetings, as at many conferences everywhere, but spent the time sightseeing instead. They had rented a sports facility for two weeks, but Vargas said she did not know why. After so many drinks, she had become sleepy and chatty about her personal life and the difficulties of living in Caracas as a single woman. S
he was an engaging person. He felt sorry for her troubled life in Venezuela.
Wilson checked his watch. He had to leave by 2:00 p.m., meet Madeline, and continue preparing for their excursion that night. Suddenly, having a romantic lunch with Vargas and pumping her for information seemed like a poor use of his time.
“Say, Tori,” he said brightly. “Maybe it’s a good time to move this somewhere else.”
She seemed to like the idea. “We could go to my room. I have a bottle of rum there. I could change into something more comfortable.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a suggestive curve of her lips.
He signed for the lunch and stood up, helping her to unsteady feet. Three rum punches were way past her usual lunch intake. They wobbled out of the bar and toward the other wing of the hotel where she said she had a room—number 319. They found their way there slowly, stopping to admire the bougainvillea she liked, and then stood outside her room as she dug in her beach bag for the key. Once the door was open, he helped her inside and she turned toward him for a kiss. He intercepted her and gave her a hug instead, but he still got a wet kiss on his neck as they turned.
Then, she passed out in his arms—and he dragged her to the bed. He tripped on a huge, square, green-flowered suitcase and nearly fell on top of her. He placed her on the bed, ensuring that she would not roll off the side in her sleep. She looked very happy and relaxed as she lay there—a smile on her lips.
She was out cold, so he took a moment to snoop around the room. He checked her purse and found that her driver’s license and passport identified her as Tori Vargas, employee of the Venezuela Department of Social Information. It sounded like the propaganda arm of the government, which fit her role at the conference. He found nothing more nefarious than that, except for a sheet of paper listing the conference venues, including the rented sports facility. He shot a photo of it with his phone and replaced all the papers as they had been before.
She had fallen into a deep, drooling sleep.
He left the room and gently closed the door.
Chapter 6
Thursday
As Wilson drove slowly through the afternoon drizzle and the wet streets, he made the decision to move ahead with the operation for the break-in at the Wong job site. He still had no confirmation from Langley, but he felt he had no choice. His mission to Grenada had grown in scope from information gathering and analysis to active involvement in a timely and dangerous situation. The need to find out what was really happening forced him forward on his own, without agency support on the ground. His only allies were an aging lord turned diplomat, and a capable local agent named Madeline. Time was crucial. They had to risk the danger and solve the mystery that confronted them and, perhaps, the independence of this island nation. There was no turning back.
At 2:00 p.m. he arrived at a warehouse where Madeline was assembling the gear they would need for their break-in to the Wong Construction site. He knocked on the rear door and then waited for her to open it for him.
The day was warming up into the low eighties. He wished he had worn shorts for the afternoon heat. At least the guayabera shirt kept him relatively cool.
“You’re late, Robert.” She looked outside to ensure that he had not been followed and then locked the door. “Come over here and see what I’ve been doing.” She led him to a side table, sauntering along in shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops.
He stepped up to the table that was covered with small items. She looked at his face. “You have lipstick on your cheek. Here.” She threw him a shop cloth and grinned. “I hope your lunch was rewarding.”
“It’s not what you think. Vargas didn’t have much information to share.” He wiped his face and threw the cloth on the table. “Nice toys you have here.”
Two Sig Sauer semiautomatic handguns with extra clips of 9mm ammo lay on the table, along with tactical vests and two sets of black clothing. Ski masks would be too hot to wear in this weather, so they had opted to blacken their faces and wear black ball caps instead. There were low-light photographic cameras and handheld radios. They had been set to rare frequencies that reconnaissance told them were not used by the Wong guards. Flashlights, flash-bang grenades, and rucksacks filled out the materials they would need.
“I had Nash drive over and sit by the site for a while last night and again this morning to verify the frequencies of the guard radios, so we should be good. We have pistols with forty rounds of ammo, even though we won’t need them if all goes as planned.”
“And the bolt cutters?”
“Over there.” She pointed to the side of the room. A huge pair of cutters lay on the floor. He walked over to check them out and lifted them up. “Geez,” he said. “These will do the job, but they’ll be hard to conceal and drag through the brush.” He tested the gape on the cutters. “They’ll cut through those padlocks easy enough.”
“I brought flash bangs in case we get in trouble, but I hope to hell we don’t need them.” She handled them carefully. “There are a few smoke grenades, too.”
“If we get caught with all this stuff, it will be impossible to claim we’re just burglars.” He laughed at the thought of two people dressed in black, at night, arguing that they were just stealing a few tools.
She stopped to look at him and then laughed too. “Right. So let’s not get caught.”
“My source says he can get about twenty people together at the front gate at nine p.m., and they can make a hell of a racket,” Wilson said. “They’ll start with a protest of the foreign company coming in and stealing local jobs. After thirty minutes, they’ll start getting nasty and take it up to riot level. They’ll even throw things at the guards and set a fire by the fence. That’s when we must get in and get out. They’ll disperse as soon as police reinforcements show up.”
“So, we’ll have about twenty minutes for cutting the fence, dropping down, and taking a look. Good.”
“But they can’t get it organized until tomorrow night. We’ll have to wait for it.” Wilson was disappointed that they couldn’t get into the containers until then. “We can use the extra time for surveillance, and to make sure we know the site operations.”
“Shit,” Madeline said. She leaned her butt against the table’s edge and crossed her arms over her chest, a disappointed look on her face. “Too bad. I’m up for it tonight. Shame to wait.”
“I have something else we can do tonight. I found out that the Venezuelans have rented a building they’re using for some sort of meeting place. Might be worth seeing what they’re doing there.”
“What do we care? They have their conference at the Hempstead, don’t they?” she asked, irritated. “Why would they need another place for meetings?”
“I don’t know, but I think there’s more going on than just meetings. I’ve seen some of them at the Hempstead bar. They don’t look like any economists I’ve seen before. Too young and fit. Vargas said some of them don’t even go to the conference.”
“That’s odd. What about her? Is she an academic?” Madeline asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“No. That’s just it.” He stood and walked back and forth a few times before speaking again. “She said she’s a minder. Not directly, but she’s keeping tabs on people so they don’t defect. They used that in the Eastern Block during the Cold War—so she’s acting as part of the security team.”
“Maybe that’s why they have young men with them. Security can keep an eye on the others.”
“I asked at the hotel, and they said the Venezuelan conference takes a break for the weekend and then continues through Tuesday of next week. A long conference for seventy attendees.”
“Seems suspicious, but maybe they have a lot of economic problems to discuss.” She broke into a chuckle. “Hell, their economy needs all the help it can get.”
Wilson laughed. “You seem to have everything ready here. I think I might go catch a certain Marine at his shop. Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll do a little surveillance at the Wong site
tonight. Check on their schedule.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
***
“He should be back in an hour if you want to wait. He took out a group diving on the reef west of here. It shouldn’t be long,” Chris said.
Chris “Wet Dog” Thatcher was Captain Jimmy’s number two—his right-hand man. He had been a Navy SEAL in his day but had adapted to the island lifestyle and married a local woman, who he adored. He had been with Jimmy for nine years and ran half of the dives the company made. He had many stories to tell—most of which were still classified, if you believed his tales.
“I think I’ll drive up to the point and watch for them from there.” Wilson walked to the door. “I’ll see you soon.”
He headed to his car and out to the Morne Rouge Road. He drove up the hill, passing the Wong site as he went. There was a lot of activity, with trucks coming and going. Every third truck was a cement mixer. They must have been pouring a foundation to use so much concrete. He noticed that two trucks were bringing in fresh containers and one was hauling another away. He wondered where it was going.
He drove slowly to the little picnic area on Quarantine Point and parked. Then he walked out to the same viewpoint he had been at the day before. He saw the Varoushka in the same spot as before—a Zodiac just leaving with two men in diving gear on board, plus two other men, one driving the boat and one talking to the divers. They headed out to sea and then swung left to follow the coastline west.
He lay down in the shade for comfort during the long wait. A warm and gentle breeze blew over the point, ruffling the leaves of the trees and feeling pleasant on the warm day. He kept an eye out for Jimmy’s dive boat and nearly fell asleep. He awoke just as Jimmy’s 30-foot Sportcraft rounded the point with seven or eight people on board.