by Fred G Baker
He dropped his sun hat, stunned. “Wow!” was all he said, which thrilled her. “That is a lovely bikini, Tori. You look fabulous.”
She blushed and arranged her towel, before doing a full-body stretch that arched her back and drew the attention of everyone for a hundred yards. Even the beach dog came over to check her out, although for different reasons than the men on the sand. The man who rented chairs offered her a chair, even though she already sat in one. Then, a beach vendor tried selling her a cover-up, even though she already had one. Finally, a young boy came over and just stared at her boobs. It took a while for the spectacle to lose its fascination so that they could relax.
“That is what happens a lot,” she said. “Men just see my body and don’t even try talking sometimes.”
“So I noticed. There was a man at the bar who was staring at you. I think he might be with the conference.”
“What did he look like?” She seemed curious.
“He was tall, with black hair and a mustache. He looked like a military type. He had hard, black eyes.” Wilson described the man he had seen smoking at the window the night before.
Vargas looked at him and then quickly looked away, like she was hiding something. “Oh, him.” She stared at the sea and said nothing.
“Is he important? Someone with the conference?”
“No. He is just a man. He is in charge of our security and is very demanding. I don’t like working with him.”
They sat in the sun for a while, turning over frequently. Wilson had the pleasure of applying sunblock to Vargas’s back and shoulders, which elicited a low purr. They ran into the sea and swam for a half-hour just to get out of the heat. Finally, after two hours of fun in the sun, they retreated to her hotel room.
They made love for a half-hour and then rested under the sheet with the air-conditioning on. They had finished with small talk by then and were ready for round two. She had consumed another rum punch and was quite tipsy. She chattered happily but got a little dreamy now and then. She giggled and moaned when he touched her just right. Afterward, he lay on his back with her nestled into his side and his arm around her.
“I wanted to ask you more about the men here for the conference,” he said. “You told me that there were only about seventy people here for the conference—fifteen here, in this hotel, and about fifty at the other hotel. What’s it called?”
“The Best Beach Hotel, I think.”
“And how about the men at the sports facility by the airport? Why are they here?” He asked this casually and watched her face for a response.
“Oh, how do you know?” She turned her face toward him, searching for a response.
“You told me the other day when we were drinking. Don’t you remember?” He downplayed it as much as possible. “How many are over there?”
She didn’t say anything at first, except, “I did?” Her face was puzzled. “I don’t remember.” She seemed to struggle with her memory and what she should say.
“Are they all military men? Is the man who was at the bar one of them?”
Her features showed distress. She got up on one elbow and looked into his face. “How do you know this? Did I tell you?” Then a trace of fear crossed her brow. “Dios mio. Maybe I did. I have what you call blackouts sometimes.”
“Blackouts from drinking?”
“Yes, but what did I do? Did I really tell you about them? I could get in trouble for this.” She settled into his shoulder again for a minute or two while he stroked her arm with his fingers. “I do not know what the men are doing. It is for security. All I know is that one hundred men are staying somewhere else until the election is over. They will join with many of our people at the other hotel and work together on something. That is all they told me.” She stopped and rose on her elbow to look into his eyes. “Do not tell anyone, or I can get in trouble.”
“Why? Who would you get in trouble with?” He wanted to let her tell him her woes—slowly.
“That man at the bar is my boss here. He is mean to me. He is head of security.” She lay back down again with her head on his shoulder.
“What’s his name? Is he in the military?”
“He is Major Cortez. He is in charge of everything. He could punish me.” She looked up at him with fear in her eyes. “Did I really tell you? Oh, I am in trouble.” She looked away, her anguish etched on her features.
He tried being helpful and pulled her to him. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell anyone. It’s just you and me, OK?”
They lay there in silence for nearly three minutes. He rubbed her shoulder, and they kissed gently a few times. He told her how beautiful she was. Her face began to relax, and she turned back to him, her eyes hopeful.
“Can I trust you, Roberto?”
“Yes, Tori. We are lovers. We can share anything.”
“Well, I have a secret. Can I tell you?”
“Yes. What is so secret?”
“I hate my job,” she said firmly. She rose onto one elbow again, looking sideways at him. “I have a terrible job.”
“Why is it so terrible? You get to travel to nice places like this.”
“Yes, once a year, maybe more if you count going to Cuba. It is not so nice there—not where we stay.” She seemed to relax as she spoke. “At first, it was exciting—three years ago, when I started. There was more money then and we could do things. Go places—and I was just one of the women who arranged travel.”
“Then what happened?”
“My husband worked for the same department but in a different office. He was arrested for stealing papers.” Her voice broke and she was silent. “I don’t know what he did. He said he did nothing, but they did not believe him. He went to jail.” She stopped again and breathed deeply several times. “They threatened me into testifying against him, but I said I knew nothing about it. It was very bad.”
Wilson listened and wondered if this was a cover story she had prepared to gain his sympathy. It sounded plausible, and she seemed like she was speaking from the heart.
“Then what happened?”
“We had been getting help for my parents because of our jobs. My mother has a bad—what is the gland in your throat that regulates everything in the body?”
“The thyroid?”
“Yes, maybe the thyroid gland. She needed medicine every day or she would get very ill and die. So, the government gave us the medicine for our work. It was OK.” She became silent again.
“What happened?”
“When he was arrested, they said they would not do this for my mother anymore. They did not care about her. They would do it only if I testified against my husband. Do you understand?”
“I think I’m starting to. Did you testify?” He placed his face beside hers and saw the deep pain she felt.
She began to cry on his shoulder and he comforted her. She shuddered for a minute and then seemed to calm down. Her face was wet from tears running down her checks, her mascara ruined. He handed her a tissue, and she wiped away the tears.
“Yes, I did. But I said only that I did not know what he did. Somehow—I don’t know how—they turned what I said into evidence against him.” Tears ran down her cheeks again. “And then he was hanged in prison.” She sobbed loudly then—big, heartbreaking sobs that spoke of her misery and guilt.
She cried openly, spilling an ocean of tears onto his chest. She sobbed for a long time. He waited quietly. This is not what he had hoped to achieve. He felt he was using her badly.
“They buried him in a mass grave, so I can’t even go to his grave and beg for forgiveness. It is terrible.”
“It’s not your fault, Tori. You wanted to help him—and your parents, too. You had no choice.”
“But then, my boss told me I had to do more for my job in order to keep the medicine for my mother. They told me I must do things. Bad things—to help the state. To help my country.” She stopped sobbing and turned to look at his face. “They said I could use my beauty to help the government.�
� She was sniffling now, having run out of tears.
“What did they make you do?”
“I arranged things to make men happy. Find them girls for sex. Get them whiskey and drugs if they wanted them—and, for important men, provide the sex myself.” She looked up at him again. “I don’t like it, Roberto. Do not think too badly of me. I’m not a whore.” Her eyes showed complete devastation.
He thought about what she had said. She was confessing everything to him. Why? Was it a trap? Or was it real? He felt sorry for her.
“And you were supposed to sleep with me? Or is this real? Because you like me?”
She sat up with her legs crossed and faced him on the bed. She stroked her left breast with her fingers. “They told me you were an important journalist and I should get you to notice me. It is not so hard. Men always stare at my body—my face, my tits, my ass. I know it is only natural, but my trainer said I can learn to use this to make men talk about their work, to get their secrets.” She stopped.
“And then what?”
“Well, I watched you to see what you were like. Major Cortez said I should find a way to sleep with you. Make you fall in love with me, so that he could learn what you are doing here. He suspects you are not really a journalist.” She looked at Wilson in a strange way, her eyes searching his face for something.
“But I am a writer and journalist. I don’t work for any one newspaper, like most reporters. I do historical writing. Maybe that looked suspicious to Cortez.” Wilson wondered what she was getting at.
She got on her hands and knees and crawled over Wilson so that she could lie on top of him, their chests rubbing together, their faces inches apart. She stared at him and they kissed. Her eyes brightened.
“Roberto, he thinks you are a spy.” She smiled wanly then. Her eyes were locked on his. She stared right into him and smiled as if she had discovered something. Then, she kissed him warmly on the lips.
“I knew it.” She kissed him again. He could not help but kiss her, too—long, wet, warm, telling kisses.
“But I am not a spy, Tori. Just a writer.”
“No, I see it now—and he cannot be wrong. He is with the Cuban intelligence service. They make no mistakes.”
Wilson was shocked. How had they made him? And Cortez was a Cuban agent? Why didn’t Langley warn him? Now he thought back to the files he had read about this operation. Somewhere, they had mentioned Cuban involvement—but not at this level of operation.
She made love to him, making it difficult for him to think clearly as his body responded. She straddled him and rode him slowly. He couldn’t help himself. Then, she talked to him in a quiet voice.
“Now, we must finish with a good performance and show I am working,” she whispered. “I will make it last so we can talk. There is a camera in the room—but no sound, I think.”
“What?” he asked breathlessly. “Where is it?”
“I won’t tell you, or you will look right at it and they will know I told you. And don’t look around. Just enjoy the sex and listen.” She rode him harder, getting his attention, then slowed down again. “I am telling you this because I want out of Venezuela. I want you to get my parents out and then me out too. Do you understand?” Her voice was a whisper, and her face implored him for help.
He nodded. She leaned down and kissed him. It was a warm kiss, and he enjoyed it immensely. He felt ready to explode. How had this happened? How was he supposed to respond? Then, he came in a rush. She seemed to come, too. Or was she acting? She crashed down on top of him.
“I will do whatever you want,” she whispered in his ear. “I can get some information and take it with me. I can give you names—lots of names. I can tell you about Cortez and my boss, and the crimes they have committed. Cortez leads the secret police squads that make people disappear at night. He likes to burn people for torture. He is in the Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional, the SEBIN. You know of their work. I can bring you this.”
“Why me?” he asked softly as he rubbed his face against hers. “Why tell me all this?”
“Because they plan to kill you if you are a spy.” She pulled away a few inches; her eyes told him it was true. “You must help me now and I will help you. I must show them that you are not a spy. How to do this?”
“I’m not a spy. You must tell them that.”
“If I don’t have proof, they will think I lied. That would be bad for us both, Roberto.” Her face was against his, her lips warm on his lips.
“OK, I believe you—but I must think. I must go and find a way.” He kissed her. “I had better go and get a plan together. We can meet again tomorrow afternoon. By then, I will have something you can show them.”
“Good, Roberto—but no later. I see Cortez for a meeting in the morning.” Her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks. “He always fucks me rough during the meeting, but I can tell him we have a date tomorrow night. You can give me something then.”
They dressed slowly and kissed goodbye at the door. He left, his mind numb after their conversation. She stayed in the room looking grim. Wilson’s head was cluttered with thoughts about this new challenge. He had to sort this situation out. He had a chance to gain information from inside the Venezuelan intelligence service and to develop a mole in their organization, at least for a short while. But how to get them off his tail? Tori Vargas presented both a potential asset and a liability. Which would she become?
Chapter 10
Sunday
Wilson and Madeline were creeping quietly through the soggy forest just up slope of the Wong Construction site at 1:45 a.m. It was pitch black and raining heavily. The moon was completely shrouded in black clouds. Lightning was the only natural light, causing everything to appear frozen in motion in the strobe-like illumination. They wore headlamps that projected a weak, reddish hue onto the vegetation directly in front of them—enough light to see the trail, but not bright enough to make out details or to be seen from any distance.
They were humping along the trail that Wilson had covered three days before, and getting soaked from the constant contact with wet vegetation. Neither of them spoke out loud, although they both muttered under their breath about the quality of the wet conditions and the slippery ground. They turned off the trail and headed downhill toward the back fence of the construction site. He led the way because he had been here before—but, quite frankly, he couldn’t recognize anything in the rain. They both took turns falling when their feet skidded out from under them. The heavy packs and the awkward size of the bolt cutters made for an unpleasant stroll.
They came upon the fence quicker than expected, testing it to be sure it wasn’t electrified in some way. In the rain, that would have made their mission impossible. They both looked carefully all around the fence for booby traps as well as for any signs of guards or dogs that could surprise them. Then, Wilson pulled the bolt cutters from his pack and began cutting through the fence one link at a time. The cutters did their job well, but it took time in the rain.
Then, they backed away from the fence into the soaking bushes and waited.
At twenty seconds past two o’clock, they heard the first boom. Bang! Whoosh! Then another, and another—all coming from the front of the property. Then, they heard automatic weapons firing and the hiss of a fire burning out of control. Voices shouted, guns fired, car engines roared, and it sounded as though twenty Chinese men were yelling in pandemonium down along the fence by Morne Rouge Road.
There was noise from the warehouse just east of them in the forest. A metal door crashed open and three men ran outside, just a hundred yards from Wilson and Madeline. The two burglars waited for a few seconds, ensuring that no one came their way. Fortunately, the three men ran toward the front of the property, shouting in Chinese. When it was clear that no one else would head in their direction, Wilson stepped through the hole they had made in the fence, followed by Madeline. They hustled over to the closest of the hidden containers.
Madeline clamped the ja
ws of the bolt cutter onto the first padlock, and it snapped in two easily. The second one took all their combined might to cut the lock, but it yielded as well. They swung open the left door and looked inside.
The container was packed to the roof with pallets of green wooden boxes. Identification numbers were printed on each box, and many of them appeared to be part of a series of IDs.
“These are rifle shipping crates. Let’s open one up,” Madeline whispered.
Wilson pulled out a pry bar and worked on a box that was close at hand. Madeline helped rip the cover off it and then they both looked at each other. Inside each box were ten rifles. He pulled one out and examined it. “AK-74—the newer version of the AK-47. There are at least thirty boxes in here.”
Madeline took low-light photos of the open box, a close-up of the rifle, and a shot of the interior of the container, showing how many boxes were inside. Then, they stepped out of the container and closed the door. She took a photo of the container that showed its ID number.
They moved on to the next container and cut the locks off it. Inside were dozens of smaller, green wooden boxes covered with numbers. They cracked one open and found it packed with ammunition for the AKs next door. They documented their find.
“Holy shit, Maddie. They must have a hundred-thousand rounds of ammo in there.”
They opened the next container and found more ammo. Another container had more of the same type of rifles. A fifth had boxes of grenades and belts of ammunition for machine guns. Another had RPG rockets and firing tubes inside. They documented everything they saw with photos. They threw the cut padlocks inside each container so as not to draw attention to the unlocked doors.
Madeline grabbed Wilson’s arm and pointed toward her wristwatch. They were out of time and should retreat. She put her hand to her ear and pointed toward the front of the property. There were three loud explosions. Bang! Whoosh! All were about ten seconds apart—and then they heard rifle fire and loud shouting in Chinese. Several men ran out of the warehouse again, shouting and, in one case, waving a rifle in the air. This time, they left the large garage-like door open and light flooded out onto the vegetation behind the building.