“It’s me. I’m starting to see chatter on the encampment in southern Belize. We need to meet. Soon.”
“Does now work for you?” the voice on the phone asked in a neutral tone.
“Fifteen minutes. The usual spot.” Terry terminated the call.
He was stirring sweetener into his coffee at the Starbucks three miles from headquarters when he sensed a presence behind him.
“Five bucks for a cup of coffee. This society is doomed,” a deep baritone lamented from over his shoulder.
Terry didn’t comment, but instead walked up the stairs that led to the secondary seating area. A few students were huddled over their computers, taking advantage of the wireless facility. Other than that, in the middle of the afternoon, they had the place to themselves.
“I’ve been asked to provide what amounts to intelligence and logistical support to our rogue Mossad operatives, and I agreed to do so, but I want to understand how far I should be prepared to go,” Terry said after the two men had taken a seat.
“I would say that you should provide all reasonable support. Give them what they need, and then sit back and see what happens.”
Richard Sloan held a key position at the Defense Department. Theoretically, neither man was even remotely responsible for any sort of an active op in Belize. But in practice, both were not only cooperative with each other’s agendas, but also enjoyed substantial financial reward from bending the rules to the whims of powerful corporate interests with expansion plans that required exceptional levels of understanding from the nation’s armed forces and intelligence apparatus. Between Sloan, Terry and a few select others, they represented a powerful secret affiliation of like-minded men, unified by the most powerful bond in existence: cash.
“He asked about weapons.”
Sloan nodded. “It would be hard to take on an armed camp without weapons. Who do you have in the region?”
“That’s not the problem. We have plenty of contacts in Honduras. It’s lousy with guns from the millions we and the Russians shipped there. I just question how much active support we want to provide. If the shit hits the fan and anything leaks out about this…”
Sloan moved closer to Terry and leaned in.
“All facts aren’t going to become known. I would say no harm could come from you making an introduction. Provide some sat photos. These are small things. You know the strategy. If they are successful in stopping whatever our Russian friend is up to, then we’ll be in a position to win. If they aren’t, then we’ll still win, only via a different route. But we have to manage things so we appear to be disinterested observers.”
Terry nodded. “Of course. Is there any chance we get sucked into this in an official capacity later?”
“None at all. We’re just trying to grease wheels here. Sort of like benevolent guardian angels. We can’t appear to intercede or favor anyone, and we have to be able to claim ignorance no matter what happens.”
Terry switched gears. “What do you make of the death of the governor general?”
“A stroke of good luck. If the Russian is successful in his scheme, he believes he will get the concession for the new field and that the current interests in the region will be rejected. But I’ve already had assurances that the new governor general, a gentleman who’s predisposed to our preferences, will request British and American troops to help the beleaguered nation battle the drug cartels responsible for the heinous violence — that’s in actuality the Russians. That will result in a U.S. military presence in Belize for the first time, and will pave the way for U.S. companies to help the country extract and refine its oil.”
“Grigenko will go nuts. That’s a double cross…”
“Indeed it is. But nobody said life was fair, and it’s not our deal — we never gave Grigenko any go ahead to pull this stunt. Once the governor general has made the request for assistance, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, and it is a fait accompli. Doesn’t matter what deals the Russian had before with the prospective new administration, the following one will trump it and set in motion a completely different course than the one he’s banking on. A course that’s good for us.”
“And if the pair is successful?”
“Then the governor general will take actions that still ensure our interests prevail. Either way, we win.”
“If that’s the case, then why help the Israelis?”
“The Russian is getting too big for his britches, and if someone can cut him off at the knees, that saves us the trouble down the road. He’s pissed off the wrong people. But the important thing from our perspective is that we don’t really care who wins. Either outcome will result in a positive for us.”
Terry took a swig of his nonfat soy latte and shook his head. “Kind of astounding that coffee is more expensive than gasoline.”
“So is bottled water. Amazing what you can convince people to spend their money on, isn’t it?” Sloan sipped his tea. “Anything else?”
“We didn’t have anything to do with the late governor general’s untimely demise, did we?”
“Of course not,” Sloan said, his face stony, impossible to read. “Is there anything else?”
Terry’s stomach lurched at the response. He was almost sure the man was lying.
“Not really. I just wanted to hear it straight from you.”
“Have no fear, Terry. This is just another skirmish — a relative non-event. Oh, and funds will be transferred to the usual account tomorrow. As always, the group is grateful for your efforts.”
Terry was low-key about his occasional windfalls, but they helped his lifestyle. With a wife, three kids, private schools and a substantial mortgage, he was usually strapped. An extra tax-free hundred grand a year nobody knew anything about enabled him access to the platinum-level escorts that he couldn’t have dreamt of on his pay grade. And the world was being kept safe for capitalism. Everyone got what they needed out of the deal.
Terry stood and, without saying any more, descended the stairs and left the establishment, walking slowly to his car.
Sloan waited five minutes and then departed by the rear entrance, making a stop at the bakery next door to get a chocolate chip bagel for a pre-dinner snack.
Neither man had any guilt about renting his station to shadowy representatives of mega corporations. After all, the same companies paid hundreds of millions every year to lobbyists to push for amendments to legislation that would have cramped their style, or to agitate for this country or that to be invaded or overthrown. All Terry and Sloan were doing was taking a small slice off a loaf that had been their good fortune to be offered. If it wasn’t them, it would just be someone else. You couldn’t fight human nature.
Pragmatism was the philosophy of survival, and Sloan had learned the hard way that any other belief system was misguided foolishness. He’d watched enough of his more ethical peers fall by the wayside during his career. Let someone else save the whales or protest injustice. His stay on the planet was scheduled to be all too brief, and job number one was to get what he could and make himself happy.
In the end, well-intentioned ideologies were developed for those without access to money.
Fortunately, he had access.
End of story.
Jet and David pulled themselves up onto the dock at the St. Raphael resort marina and waved goodbye to the deckhand, who was already gliding away in the tender, returning to the yacht a few kilometers offshore. The water was dead calm near the island, and within a minute, he diminished into a dot moving out to sea.
They shouldered their bags and walked to the main hotel building, where they could get a cab. No customs or immigration officials were in evidence, and whether that was typical or had been arranged, they didn’t know, but they were grateful for it. From this point on, things would get easier — it wouldn’t be necessary to skulk around.
Cyprus was a good choice as a gateway. A member of the European Union, the island nation was a business and banking center, and had a d
ecent number of flights departing any given day. They could blend into the crowd of business or holiday travelers and not raise any eyebrows — key to a safe getaway from the region.
They approached the waiting taxi line, and a bellman blew his whistle, signaling the next in the queue to pull forward. The trunk popped open, and they dropped their bags in, then gave the driver instructions to take them to the airport thirty miles away.
Traffic was sparse along the well-maintained road, passing through modern towns as well as villages that had been there since before the birth of Christ. The driver had the radio on low — listening to music that sounded like someone had tied percussion instruments to a cow then set it running down an alley. Jet took David’s hand and leaned into him as they watched the rugged countryside go by.
Once at the airport, they booked a flight to Madrid that was due to depart in an hour. They carried on their bags and submitted to the cursory and uninspired security precautions before settling themselves into their seats near the front of the plane.
Soon they were airborne, watching the island disappear beneath their wings as they banked west on the long route to Europe, the surface of the Mediterranean shimmering in the sun’s glow.
They dozed en route to Madrid, and David seemed better rested once they landed. After checking the departure schedule, they bought tickets on an Iberia direct flight to Mexico City departing the following day — the first nonstop available.
The eleven-hour flight to Mexico City was uneventful, and customs posed no problem. Within a few hours, they were boarding a flight to Cancun. From there, they would take a bus to the border, a six-hour ordeal, and then fly from Corozal to Belize International Airport, where they would rent a car and drive the hundred miles south to Punta Gorda. With any luck, they would make it by dark.
When they got off the plane in Cancun, the heat and humidity slammed into them, and within minutes, their shirts were soaked through with sweat. As David checked with the information booth on flights to Belize City — on the off chance one was departing that day — Jet chatted with a friendly baggage handler about the weather and the road to Chetumal, on the Belizean border. When David returned, he had a grin on his face.
“We’re in luck. Flight leaves in two hours to Belize City. An hour flight versus seven hours of bus and prop plane hell. I’m going in to book the tickets. There’s an internet cafe inside — can you go online and see about rental cars and hotels?”
“Sure. I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of choices in Punta Gorda. What is it, population sixty-five hundred?”
“If that. But I looked before, and there’s a handful to choose from. Pick something private,” he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the terminal.
She located the computers and booked a Jeep, then searched for hotels. As she had suspected, the options were limited, and she eventually selected one a few blocks north of the cemetery, on the water. Even if they weren’t there for pleasure, it would be consistent with their cover to play the role of tourists on a romantic interlude.
Which brought her up short.
Feelings had been rekindled in her that she’d believed long dormant, and if anything, the attraction between them was more powerful than ever. She hadn’t pressed him on the idea of a future after they dealt with Grigenko, but it was on her mind. Would it be possible to settle somewhere and have a normal life together? Something that didn’t involve being on the run, or killing, or being ready to bolt at a second’s notice? They hadn’t discussed it, but with all the downtime she’d had traveling, an image of a life as a couple had gelled in her mind and now seemed attainable.
Jet hadn’t told him about the baby. There would be time for that. The scar from the caesarian had faded into the natural fold of her abdomen, and he hadn’t noticed it in the gloom of the rooms they’d been in, saving her a hurried explanation — an esoteric plumbing problem, perhaps: one of the mysteries of the female anatomy. Her physique had quickly returned to her pre-pregnancy fitness due to her rigorous exercise regimen and diet, and she’d been fortunate to inherit good genes — like her mother, who’d always leaned towards a slim, well-muscled figure.
David returned from the ticketing area a half hour later, interrupting her ruminations, and she beamed a warm smile at him as she rose from the screen and moved to pay the girl at the counter.
Whatever the future held, for the first time in a seeming eternity, she felt happy, even headed into the lion’s mouth.
For now, that was enough.
Chapter 25
The Jeep was a black two door with a soft top, and thankfully, the air-conditioning worked. The laconic agent at the rental car desk told them it would take around four hours to reach Punta Gorda and gave them a stained brochure with a map inside to guide them.
“Doesn’t seem to be too difficult,” Jet said as she studied it. “Head south. Keep going. Take the coastal road. Stop when the road ends. You are there…”
“You want to drive or shall I?”
“Either way. How’s the stomach?”
“Better every day.”
They placed their bags in the back, and Jet elected to drive, following the highway across the Belize River and into Belize City.
“What a dump,” Jet remarked as they threaded their way through the afternoon traffic. Most of the homes they passed had an air of disrepair and poverty that was completely unexpected after the relative order at the airport. Dazed inhabitants shuffled down the street in the heat, wearing little better than rags, and many of the cars surrounding them would have made a junkyard blush.
“I guess we can cross Belize City off our dream destination list.”
“But I hear the rents are affordable,” she observed.
“And there’s no shortage of opportunities to keep your combat skills sharp.”
David craned his neck, looking at the rough downtown business district with cautious trepidation.
“Pull over whenever you see an electronics shop. I want to get a phone so I can make calls. I have no idea how remote Punta Gorda is, but if this is any example of Belize’s biggest city, we’ll want a working cell.”
“Assuming there’s coverage there.”
“Good point.”
She braked in front of a shop with stereos and computers in the window, and David hopped out.
“I’m not going to leave the car unattended. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t blame you. Be back in a minute.”
He returned, holding a cell phone aloft in a gesture signaling victory, and they got under way again. Once they were south of town, they were able to make decent time, although they would go for a mile or so at the posted speed and then come to a beaten vehicle chugging along at barely above walking pace.
“Look. Coastal Road,” she said, pointing at a small sign.
“What? That?”
“I…I think so…”
They turned onto the red dirt road and bounced along its rutted surface. A few miles from the highway, they passed an olive-colored horse-drawn buggy with rubber tires. The couple driving it were from a bygone century — the woman wore a long country dress, hair covered with a bonnet; the man in long-sleeved black in spite of the oppressive heat.
“Am I seeing things?” David asked.
“You mean the horses?”
“What was that?”
“Mennonites. A religious group. Like the Quakers. There are a lot of them in Belize.”
He looked at her without expression before returning his attention to the dirt road.
“I’m not going to ask how you know about obscure religious sects here.”
“I had time to kill after booking the car and hotel,” she explained.
David grunted.
Daylight was fading by the time they reached PG Town, as Punta Gorda was called by the locals, and after a couple of wrong turns, they found their hotel. Four hours of marginal roads in barely tolerable seats had taken their toll, and they were glad to stretch t
heir legs, although when they opened the doors, the blistering humidity assaulted them with full force.
“It’s not the Ritz, is it?” David commented.
Jet shrugged and grabbed her bag, lifting his out of the back and hitting the door lock button as she made for the front entrance.
The room turned out to be comfortable, the air-conditioning efficient and cool. Jet used the bathroom to rinse off while David made a call from one of the payphones in the front of the hotel, preferring a landline over the cell out of habit. When he returned to the room, Jet was waiting for him, glancing through the local paper that had been left for their entertainment.
“I’ll meet up with our man here in an hour over by the cemetery,” he reported.
“Seems fitting. I’ll come with you.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t. That way only one of us is at risk if he’s not playing completely straight.”
“And you’re going to meet him alone because…?”
“I should be able to manage this.”
They finally agreed that she would scope out the meeting place, which was easy walking distance from their room.
At the appointed time, David was waiting near the junction by the cemetery, eyes roving over the weathered grave markers in the small cemetery, when a Seventies-era Nissan truck rolled to a stop. The driver lowered the window and looked David over before gesturing for him to hop in.
“Tom?” David asked.
“The one and only.”
“Don’t suppose your air-conditioning works.”
“Sorry.”
David returned to the room half an hour later, apparently no worse for wear.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Good. We’ll meet again tomorrow afternoon, and he’ll have the weapons. He’s not sure about the MTAR-21s, though. The Hondurans use them, but the Guatemalans use the larger TAR-21. It’s whichever he can more readily get his hands on. I told him either one was fine, although we wanted them with silencers if possible. He also wasn’t sure about the 9mm versus the 5.56 NATO round. Again, whatever they have lying around is what he’ll get.”
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