Bogota, Colombia (0900 Thursday, 19 September 1991)
At 6 p.m. in Baghdad, the Colonel sat at his desk wearing earphones as Brandon dialed a number he remembered well.
“DEA,” answered the receptionist in Spanish.
“Eddie Ramirez, por favor.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ramirez is no longer at this number.”
“No? What is his new number?”
“I am not at liberty to divulge that information.”
“I see. Connect me with any agent in his old office, please.” Brandon made his request in a casual way that belied his inner turmoil. The Colonel’s face showed concern and suspicion. Brandon smiled and rolled his eyes. Covering the mouthpiece he mouthed to the Colonel, ‘Bureaucratic nonsense’, and shook his head with impatience. The Colonel’s concern made it clear to Brandon that he had followed the conversation in Spanish.
“Parsons here. May I help you?” came a voice from across the world.
“Yes, this is Sergeant Brandon Stiles. I don’t believe we’ve met but I was stationed in Cali as a military advisor a couple of years back; I worked closely with Agent Ramirez. I’m trying to locate him.” Brandon held his breath as he awaited an answer.
“I don’t believe I ever heard Eddie mention your name.”
“Did he ever mention the town of Soltis where he nearly got his ass shot off and where he would be pushing up daisies if I hadn’t ridden in on my white horse to save his butt? Or does he have brushes with death every day?” Brandon worked at hiding his desperation but sweat beaded on his upper lip and coursed down his temples.
“Oh, sure. I heard about that. You’re Special Forces right?”
“Right.”
“Hang on, I’ll transfer you.”
Brandon expressed his thanks and observed the Colonel visibly relax. I wonder if I’m that transparent, he thought. He had no time to dwell on that possibility as Eddie’s voice rang out.
“Brandon Stiles, well I’ll be. How the hell are you, and where are you?”
The Colonel watched and waited for Brandon’s answer.
“Couldn’t be better and nine time zones later in the day, but enough about me. I need a favor.”
“You got it pal. Name it.”
“You do remember the recording regarding a drug shipment out of Cali that I mailed to you, don’t you?”
“But of course! Eddie Ramirez never forgets. Now what was it we were talking about?” Eddie laughed at his joke.
“The Chibcha?” Brandon asked, his voice rising with the question.
“The drug kingpin?” Eddie exaggerated.
Perfect, Brandon thought as he noticed the Colonel’s reaction. Fortunately, he didn’t understand Eddie’s brand of humor. So far, so good. “I need to speak with him. Can you arrange that? It’s important.”
“Muy importante, huh? Roger, copy that. How do I reach you?”
Brandon eyed the Colonel who scribbled the phone number on an index card and extended it toward Brandon who quickly retrieved it. He read off the long string of numbers.
“Where the hell is 9-6-4? I don’t recognize the country code.”
“Iraq. 9-6-4 is Iraq,” Brandon answered and added, “very hush-hush and muy importante.”
“Okay, old buddy, no more questions. Maybe over a beer someday you’ll fill me in, but I won’t hold my breath. I will get Jose on the line, and I’ll dial you up this time tomorrow.”
“Deal,” Brandon drawled his Muleshoe best. “Muchas gracias, Senor.” He severed the connection.
The Colonel removed his headset saying, “Tomorrow then.” Absently he added, “Return to your room, Sergeant.”
“May I get something to eat from the kitchen?” Brandon asked with hopeful exaggeration.
The Colonel pressed a buzzer and Massoud appeared as if by magic. In Arabic he ordered, “Escort Sergeant Stiles to the kitchen. Keep an eye on him and lock him in his room after he has eaten.” Massoud snapped to attention, and followed Brandon from the room. He did not salute.
Hosni, the cook who had identified himself as a Kurd, was on duty as Brandon knew he would be. There had been many such impromptu meetings during the past two weeks and discussions of espionage, demolition and escape. As they plotted they fingered the petals of flowers, sniffed the ingredients of a meal, and peeled leaves from cabbages. Anything. Nothing. The words and actions didn’t fit, but the Arabic speaking guards understood the actions and assumed they understood the words.
“Within days, a week, no more, I will have a visitor from South America. When he departs, so must I. Can you arrange it?” Brandon asked as he inhaled the aroma of a simmering stew.
“I will need specifics,” Hosni answered as he frowned and added salt to the pot and stirred.
Brandon smiled as he licked the spoon. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”
Massoud yawned and signaled Brandon to follow him.
The Compound (1800 Friday, 20 September 1991)
Precisely at six o’clock, the satellite phone emitted a series of chirps. Bogota was calling. The Colonel motioned for Brandon to answer the call as he donned his headset and pressed record. Jose Esteban greeted Brandon as “Mister Stiles,” saying he was pleased to hear from him, even though that was the farthest thing from the truth. Brandon immediately slipped into a Cali dialect that surprised Jose for he had only heard Brandon speak eloquent Spanish before.
Brandon asked, “Agarraste boleto por llegar tarde?” a local idiom referring to their first meeting and Jose’s late return to work. Brandon sounded more like a dockworker than a college professor and that was fine with Jose. It was more comfortable to hear, and he replied in kind, saying that he had not gotten into trouble, but was nervous about this call, “Habla de una vez por todas, me tienes con el alma en un hilo.” (“Speak once and for all; you’ve got my heart in my throat.”)
Brandon glanced at the Colonel and saw the consternation written on his face. Clearly, he was not following the conversation. “Jose, I need your help and I ask you to keep the promise you made to me. The man who contacted you will assist you. Tell him you need a fine set of clothes worthy of a successful businessman, an offshore account in my name, pocket money, and a wardrobe of expensive, cool, leisure wear for your short stay in Iraq.”
Jose looked puzzled. He replied, “Iraq? You are joking.”
“No, Jose, I’m dead serious. You and I are both dead if you aren’t convincing. The Iraqi intelligence service will provide travel documentation, false passport and passage to Baghdad. You must pretend to be an executive in the cartel, a boss, and you must be convincing. When you are asked questions be secretive and arrogant. It is expected. Once here you will argue, then accept a deal offered to you but you will insist that five million dollars be wired to the offshore account. The man who called you will know where, and he will give you full instructions. Do you understand?” Brandon paused as the Colonel strained. He understood ‘comprende’ and little else.
Jose asked, “Is this a game?”
“No, and always remember that. Tell Ramirez we’re even if he pulls this off. He’ll know what that means. Call again tomorrow, same time, and I’ll tell you when and how you’ll be met by the Iraqis from Bogota.” With that, Brandon cut the connection and spoke to the Colonel who was peeling the headphone from his head with the look of total confusion.
“Jose is suspicious, as expected, but he knows better than to screw with me. I’m the one man other than Pablo that he fears. He will call again tomorrow for instructions. He will need a passport and identity papers in the name of Jose Escobedo and transport. You must cater to this man.”
“I cannot do this. I cannot involve Mukhabarat.”
“Colonel, as you said, it would be foolish not to use your position and name to further your ambitions. You don’t know who this man is. Do you? I know you’ve heard of the Mede
llin Cartel, and Pablo Escobar. Jose is Pablo’s lieutenant, his right hand. He is the only man empowered to speak for Pablo. Do you think this man will come to Iraq to do business with just anyone? We are talking about a man who is as feared and respected in his country, as you will be in yours. If you are to achieve greatness you must rise to the challenge. If one day you are to say to the drug lords, ‘Me importa un carajo lo que dices. Aqui mando yo!’ then you must take these small steps now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, ‘I don’t give a damn what you say. I am the boss here!’”
“Yes! I will be the boss. I will do it.” The Colonel’s enthusiasm peaked and vanished. He stood at his desk like a statue as scenes played behind the screen of his eyes. It lasted only a moment. “Why should a man of such power fear you, Sergeant?”
“Se quinceo! He screwed up. And, even though that was years ago, if I shared his indiscretion with Pablo, he would be killed in a most horrible way. To protect myself from Jose, I have arranged for friends in South America to send the evidence to Pablo if I am murdered or have an unexplained accident. He now prays for me each night.”
The Colonel laughed at the intrigue and the impossible bind Jose found himself in. “I see. I will call the agent who handled the El Pais order. He is a good man. I will promise him a promotion.”
Brandon spelled out exactly what was needed before saying, “Jose will call tomorrow at six. You must have this arranged so that I can relay the instructions. I have no doubt your influence can accomplish much in a short time.”
The Colonel accepted the compliment and built upon it. “Of course, these are things we in Mukhabarat can do quite easily. I will make the arrangements. When this druguero calls tomorrow, I will be ready. Have a drink with me, Sergeant Stiles; I’m feeling quite ebullient. I know I am on the verge of greatness and only you know that and can toast my good fortune.”
“Colonel, I would be honored to drink to that.” He smiled. “Yes, sir, I’ll drink to that.”
22
Flt 620 Is Lost; Cartel Negotiations Begin
The Energizer Bunny had just finished drumming his way across the screen when another familiar face returned to the screen. Peter Jenson began by saying, “Global Flight 620, en route from Dallas-Fort Worth to San Francisco has disappeared from radar and is feared lost in the rugged Rocky Mountains.”
Smitty fumbled with the remote to increase the volume and inadvertently changed the channel to a rerun of Cheers before switching back to Peter, who looked appropriately cheerless, as the volume swelled.
“Officials at the FAA reported to ABC News that Global 620 had suffered an explosive decompression and was making a recovery when radio and radar contact was lost. Here’s more from our Aviation Correspondent Morton Deal in Washington.”
Morton looked miserable standing outside a gray limestone building where apparently answers were hatched. Raindrops on the camera lens heightened the intended effect. A no nonsense reporter was enduring hardship to bring viewers the latest news. “Peter, the news is not good but we remain hopeful. Apparently, a horrendous event took place at thirty five thousand feet in the clear, Colorado sky. Officials inside this building…” he turned and pointed, “describe the event as catastrophic. There was a rupture of some kind, and disparate pressures, isolated only by the barest of aluminum and glass, suddenly and forcefully rejoined. The plane made an emergency descent but the FAA lost contact. Search and Rescue teams have fanned out across the Front Range of the Rockies, and as I said, Peter, we are still hopeful.”
Peter wore his worried look, but was somehow enlightened by the report. He asked Morton a follow up question. “Would you compare this explosive decompression to a bomb?”
“Peter, I would and I wouldn’t,” Morton pontificated.
Smitty shouted, “Which is it, you simpleton!”
“Normally, quick action by the crew in descending to a lower altitude makes the nightmare survivable, Peter. Unlike a bomb blast, it is possible to survive without casualties. However, it is also possible that a too rapid descent could tear a structurally damaged bird apart. Without knowing the cause of the decompression, Peter, we can only guess at its effect. What we do know at this point in time is that Global 620 has not been heard from and is feared lost. Peter?”
“That was Aviation Correspondent, Morton Deal in Washington.” Peter made his segue to the next item on his teleprompter by smiling wryly, and saying, “In other news, what do a chimpanzee and Perrier Water have in common? We’ll have the answer to that and more when we return. Stay with us.”
Smitty surfed the channels but could glean no additional information. He pressed the mute button, and began dialing. Willy answered on the second ring. “Global 620 has disappeared from radar somewhere over the Rockies.”
“Oh, my God,” Willy replied in a low whisper.
“Where are you now?”
“Raul and I are approaching Big Spring, Texas, on I-20.”
“Head north toward Lubbock and press on to Pueblo. The target is Colorado now. You may not be going to Phoenix, but the mission is still go until I say otherwise. I’ll be in touch.” Smitty spoke with Phil in Dallas, and then upped the volume on CNN hoping to learn something new.
“We have information regarding Global 620 from our affiliate in Denver; we’re taking you there now. Gavin, what have you learned?”
“Bob, we know that Global 620 was in communication with the Air Route Traffic Control Center in Denver as it spiraled down from thirty five thousand feet to a more habitable altitude after an explosive decompression. It had received vectors toward Colorado Springs for an emergency landing, but, sadly, as we now know, it never got there. Global acknowledged a descent to sixteen thousand feet but continued descent below that altitude and radar and radio contact was lost. ATC immediately initiated a search and rescue effort that is now underway. We are awaiting word from Air Search Rescue and will keep you informed of developments in this tragic situation. This is Gavin Rapp in Denver.”
Global’s disappearance in Colorado at this point was just a repetitious sound bite. There was no new information, and a minute later the focus had shifted to the Balkans. “Serb forces on the Macedonian border…”
Smitty silenced the talking head and sat staring at the flickering images on the screen.
Global Freight, San Francisco Airport
Jerry Peppers parked outside the Global Freight building at 8 p.m. and walked inside.
He wore the same khaki uniform Willy and Raul wore but with a different mortuary patch sewn on his sleeve.
“Speaking of mortuaries,” Jerry thought, “this place is depressing.” He stopped just inside the receiving office to look around. The walls were painted the color of a whale, and the yellowing linoleum floors were worn through to a black subsurface. Jerry was no stickler for neatness, mind you, but even he noticed the windows were so dirty they appeared to be painted. The room would have been totally dark but for the six, bright, unshielded bulbs that dangled on long cords from the high ceiling. Jerry was thinking this would be a terrible place to work until he reached the chipped, Formica counter and saw the woman approach from the far side of the room. She was tall and curvaceous, with long, blonde hair pulled around to fall across one shoulder of her black blouse. The red mini skirt and the plunging neckline added to the vision. Jerry was rooted to the spot and his mouth was open in wonder. She was a stunner. Frozen in time, speechless and indecisive, he simply stood at the counter and stared at this vision of loveliness whose beauty evaporated the moment she opened her mouth. Her voice and face—incongruous.
“May I halp you?” came the shrill and nasal greeting.
“Well, ahh,” Jerry stammered.
“What? What? Can’t you see I’m busy here? Are you going to stand there all day or do you have a question?”
“Yes, ma’am, I have a question.”
“Well, I can tell you, the anticipation is killing me. I’m dyin’ to know. So, ask already!”
“What’s the status of Global 620?”
“Do I look like a Passenger Service Representative? I don’t care about flight numbas, sweethaaht; I care about invoice numbas. Ask me if an invoice is in, and I’ll tell you. That’s what computers are for. That way I don’t have to guess or just pull it out of my ass. Now ain’t that a novelty?”
Jerry’s mouth was agape. He glanced around for a hidden camera. This had to be a prank.
“Move aside,” she ordered, and to a new entrant she said, “What?”
“22A643BV,” he answered.
She typed furiously and replied, “2-2 Alpha 6-4-3 Bravo-Victor is unloaded at dock 12. It’s been here an hour sweethaaht; better get your ass in gear; this ain’t a parking lot.” She snapped her gum for emphasis.
The man left without a word as Jerry rifled through his papers.
“5-4 Charlie 3-7-8 Papa Mike,” Jerry declared, now with the program.
She typed. “5-4 Charlie 3-7-8 Papa Mike. Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why dint you say so in the foist place; you cudda saved us both a lot of time, and don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel too frickin’ old, ya know?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean… yes, I won’t.”
The gorgeous babe with the dreadful voice was silent. Jerry waited before speaking.
“So, what’s the answer?”
“To what, sweethaaht?”
“To 5-4 Charlie 3-7-8 Papa Mike.”
“It ain’t in.”
“Jesus!” muttered Jerry.
“Don’t take that tone with me, and if you must blaspheme, do it outside my hearing.”
Price For A Patriot Page 23