Jack’s statement brought a chorus of groans and sharp words.
“Back that up, Counselor,” Snowden snapped. “It’s no one’s fault that we have nothing to go on. We did not overlook one single detail. All things considered, we’re right where we should be at this point in time. Yes, our other missions lasted only days or, at the most, a week, from start to finish. Each mission is different. You work with what you have. And you’re right about at least one thing—we don’t have much. We have the Sanders condo bugged and under surveillance. We know Sanders has one of Delgado’s guards living in the condo with her, even if it is under duress, as we suspect, so it stands to reason she is not going to make any cell-phone calls that would incriminate her in any way.
“I think we can safely assume that Delgado does not trust her and she doesn’t trust him. We have been privy to the calls she has made to her business manager, to take-out restaurants, dry cleaners, and so on. We’ve even heard sharp words exchanged between her and her guard, who, by the way, does not speak any English. None of this has helped us. Her routine is the same. She shops during the day, she banks, she lunches by herself, and she goes back to the condo and has lengthy conversations with Carlie Fisher, her business manager. The pageant is on schedule. There is nothing else to report on her.
“I have over a dozen of my operatives tailing Delgado and his people. All they do is ride around, stop at fast-food places, meet up with people who look just like themselves, where they talk for five minutes, then disappear. His people are very careful not to stand out in any way or go places where they might cause suspicion. We do know they use burner phones, because we’ve seen them pitch them in the Potomac. We’ve also seen them buy new ones at different drugstores, usually two at a time. We tried Dumpster diving for their throwaway trash to check for DNA. We got two hits. Lowlifes imported from California. They’re getting their ducks in a row. In a week they’ll all be headed for Miami. We know this because Sanders assigned Carlie Fisher to make the arrangements for the van she herself will be driving to Miami. The dancers are going to be flying down as a group. Reservations have been made at a ritzy hotel. First class all the way.
“All the venues have been confirmed. All their publicity is in place. It’s just waiting it out. The plan is for them to leave here December fifth. The two big events will be held on the ninth and tenth of December. Charles and Fergus also made our reservations, and we will be at the same hotel. So, in that sense we’re talking two weeks till this closes out. What I meant earlier was we have a little more than a week to get ready to travel. We’re using Annie’s plane as our mode of transportation. That’s my report.”
“What has Delgado been doing?” Ted asked.
“He pretty much hangs out at that fleabag motel where they’re all staying. There’s a roach-infested little coffee shop in the lobby, and he sits in there for hours with his laptop, which, by the way, looks to be state of the art, and when he isn’t working on the computer, he’s talking on his cell. He’s been our biggest problem as far as surveillance goes. We have to change operatives two, sometimes three times a day so he doesn’t get suspicious. Let me tell you, that guy has eyes in the back of his head.”
“What about Tom Fazio? What’s going on in Tahiti?” Dennis asked.
“Absolutely nothing. The search parties located the plane but said there was no sign of a body. Tom is convinced Sanders had help once the plane went down, and at this point in time, he could be anywhere in the world or right there under Tom’s nose, in disguise. He’s perfectly willing to stay on. It’s costing us, just so you know. He’s been flying back and forth around the islands, showing the guy’s picture and asking questions. It’s all been a dry well so far. If I have a vote on this, I say let him stay until December, when this gig goes down. He might appear around that time or make some kind of move in regard to his wife.”
The boys and Maggie all agreed.
“I guess that covers it then, except for Ted’s colleague Zack,” Snowden said, relieved to be out from under the accusing stares everyone had directed at him throughout his disquisition on the current state of their mission and the reasons for it.
“Zack was called back to Miami yesterday. He’s on his way, as we speak. He called me as he was leaving, saying he’d be our eyes until we got there. He seems to think the action is going to start there momentarily. He’s a loner, but he is also a team player, if that makes sense. Too many people here tailing each other. He said it was getting harder and harder to tell the good guys from the bad guys. That’s it in a nutshell, guys, Maggie.”
Harry threw his hands in the air. “That leaves us exactly where we were when we got here this morning. This is a total waste of time.”
Hearing Harry’s words, Cyrus bolted to his feet. It was time to leave, he had decided. He nudged Jack’s leg to show he was ready.
“Not yet, soon.”
Cyrus settled himself at Jack’s feet as he looked around to see what the delay was.
“I see no reason to meet every day unless there’s an emergency. We can all be in contact via our cell phones, and Avery will forward all reports, and that goes for the rest of you. Does anyone have a problem with that?” Charles queried.
No one did, not even Cyrus, who barked twice to show he was in complete agreement.
Ten minutes later it was just Jack, Harry, and Cyrus left in the building. They quickly cleaned up, turned off the lights, and headed for the exit.
“I don’t know about you, Harry, but I’m not liking any of this. You getting any bad vibes?” Jack said.
“Yes and no. I understand what Charles is saying. Past missions, we went full bore, barely able to catch our breath. This one . . . we can take a five-hour nap in the middle of the day and not miss a thing. We’re just not used to being this inactive. Too much time for the bad guys to perfect their deal and not enough time for us to figure it out. I think that guy Zack nailed it when he said there are too many players in this game.”
The heavy security door closed behind them with a sharp hiss. Cyrus took off in a dead run, barking at the top of his lungs. He was back within minutes, panting and nudging Jack’s leg.
“I still say we should have snatched the Sanders woman and sweated her,” Jack said. “We know that once we have her, we’re not going to let her go. Even though we have nothing on her, better safe than sorry. Toby’s info has been spot on from the very beginning. What reason is there to think that’s going to change?”
“It is what it is, buddy,” Harry said, straddling his Ducati. “You know where to find me if you need me,” he called over his shoulder just as he was about to pull away.
Cyrus barked as he raced to Jack’s car, then waited patiently for him to open the passenger-side door. He hopped in and buckled up.
“I guess we should head on home, with a pit stop for a couple of burgers. You good with that, pal?” This time, Cyrus didn’t bother to bark. He simply pawed Jack’s arm to show he was okay with the burger deal.
Jack let his thoughts take him to Pilar Sanders and how no one but him wanted to do a snatch and grab. His gut instinct was telling him that if they didn’t do something soon, the mission was going to go south in a big way. The thought made him cringe. He wondered where she was right now and what she was doing.
* * *
What Pilar Sanders was doing was trying to shake her tail, a man named Santos. She had hated him the moment she set eyes on him. He smelled like garlic and onions and hair tonic. Her entire condo smelled like him, and no amount of air fresheners could fight the smell. She was now in Neiman Marcus, in the lingerie department. She’d been certain he wouldn’t follow her or, at the very least, wait by the elevator. But he did. He was right behind her as she walked from rack to rack. Her arms full of nothing she had any intention of buying, she headed for the dressing room. She stiff-armed him at the entrance to indicate he could not follow her. She pointed to the sign. He shook his head, his expression belligerent.
Pilar raised h
er voice loud enough for the floor manager to intervene. “This man will not leave me alone. You need to call store security and get him away from me.”
Santos started to protest in Spanish just as two sharply dressed men approached.
“Get this creep away from me. He’s been following me all over the store. Check your security cameras, and you’ll see I’m right. And I think he’s carrying a gun!” Pilar told them.
Seeing that any resistance on his part was going to start a scene, which would probably result in his arrest, Santos waved his hands and turned around, but not before he fixed his beady eyes on her. If looks could kill . . .
The minute the two security men and Santos set foot in the elevator, Pilar dropped the lingerie she was carrying and raced for the EXIT sign and the steps beyond. She literally ran down the steps to an outside door and around the block, where she hailed a cab to take her home. She had to get her manila envelope and its contents out of the safe and secured somewhere in her bedroom before he returned. Time was moving too fast, and it scared her. She’d tried to find a way during the past two weeks to retrieve the envelope, but the safe was built into the wall just off the living room, where Santos sat every hour of every day. She knew there was going to be hell to pay once Santos called Zuma Delgado, but she could not bring herself to care. The manila envelope was all she had left. It was her only security. Damn it, Gabe. Where are you?
Pilar climbed from the cab when it reached her building. She tossed a twenty-dollar bill at the driver, thinking it was the best twenty dollars she’d ever spent, and hit the ground running. She was glad she’d worn low-heeled boots, because it made for easier running. She hit the lobby, sprinted across to the bank of elevators, where one stood invitingly open. She stepped in, hit the button, and muttered, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
By the time the elevator stopped at her floor, Pilar was breathing hard. It took her three tries before she was able finally to open the door. Inside, she set the dead bolt and ran to the wall safe. Her hands were shaking so badly, it took her four times to spin the numbers until the safe hiccuped and she could swing the door open. She clutched the envelope like it was her lifeline, which, in a very real sense, it was. She slammed the safe door shut, spun the dial, then replaced the picture, careful to make sure it was hanging perfectly straight.
Still breathing hard, she ran to her room, her eyes going everywhere. She needed someplace safe, but where? Where? Every thought that entered her mind was negated. No place was safe. Maybe, maybe not. There was one place that might be safe. Just one. She opened the door to Gabe’s closet and looked around. Neat as a pin. Just like Gabe himself. She looked at his golf bag, which hung from a special heavy-duty hook on the wall. She couldn’t reach it. She needed a chair. She ran back to the study and dragged the desk chair back to the closet. She started to gasp for breath. For one wild moment, she thought she was going to black out. She leaned against the wall, trying to force a calmness she hungered for. Five minutes turned into ten minutes before she felt like she could climb on the chair. She yanked at the clubs and then stuffed the envelope down, but not down so far that she wouldn’t be able to reach for it if she was in a hurry to retrieve it.
Pilar was back to breathing hard when she hopped off the chair. She sat down and dropped her head between her knees. She wished she could pray, but she no longer remembered the childhood prayers she’d been taught. She started to cry then, when she remembered how Gabe had always said God didn’t make deals. Especially for people like her and him. She remembered being surprised that he had included himself. And yet she knew Gabe prayed. Daily.
I am so sorry, Gabe. I am so sorry, so very sorry. I wish I could unring the bell. Wherever you are, I hope you know this.
Her breathing almost back to normal, Pilar realized she had another problem. If she took the chair back to the study, she would have to drag it back out when she went to retrieve the manila envelope. Better to leave it here, push it in the corner, pile stuff on it, and beady-eyed Santos might not even notice. It was the only solution she could think of. Minutes later, she was satisfied with the way Gabe’s closet looked. She walked out, closing the door behind her. That wasn’t strange; she’d closed it after he left. Nothing out of the ordinary.
She was in the kitchen, watching the coffee drip into the pot, when her doorbell chimed to life. She felt her heart skip a beat as she headed for the door. She opened it wide and stood staring at Zuma Delgado and Santos. She stepped back for them to enter, then walked back to the kitchen.
“Pull a stunt like that again, Senora Sanders, and you’re dead meat.”
“And why is that, Mr. Delgado? The baboon doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak Spanish. I tried telling him men are not allowed in women’s dressing rooms. Even a lowlife like him should know that. He kicked up a fuss, and security took over. I came home. That’s the beginning and the end of it. Oh, one more thing. Stop threatening me. Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to drink my coffee in peace and quiet. Tell the baboon to go watch cartoons.”
“I do not care for your tone or your attitude, Senora Sanders.”
“And I do not give a good rat’s ass whether you like it or not. I’d say this is a stalemate. Get out of my house. It’s bad enough the baboon over there is stinking it up. I don’t need that cheap cologne you’re wearing to add to the smell.”
Pilar turned her back to pour her coffee, certain Delgado was either going to shoot her or knock her out cold. All she heard was rapid-fire Spanish from both men, then “Adios, Senora Sanders. I will see you this evening at the club.”
Pilar whirled around and almost blacked out when she saw that her kitchen was empty. She sat down, because she knew her wobbly legs wouldn’t hold her up a moment longer. She gulped the hot coffee, not caring that she was searing her throat. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t cry. If only she could turn back the clock. If only. If only.
* * *
Jenny Wentworth, one of Avery Snowden’s best operatives, sat two tables away from Zuma Delgado. Spanish was Jenny’s native tongue, so she could understand everything he was saying on the phone. She had been sitting here for well over an hour and had never once raised her head from the book she was studying. She was posing as a university student doing research and living on the cheap, hence her stay at the fleabag motel. A sloppy-looking egg salad sandwich and a cup of putrid coffee were in front of her. From time to time, she would scribble something in a small notebook. She could feel Delgado’s eyes on her every so often. His voice had a tone that carried, even though he was speaking in Spanish and thought no one could hear or understand. She knew he had discounted her immediately due to her Waspy look and pale blond hair. So many stupid people in the world. She slipped her hand into her pocket, fingered the cell phone, and pressed the number three for her replacement.
Jenny scribbled a note to herself that was meaningless. She had to get out of here and report to Avery what she’d just heard. All these past days of sitting here, trying not to eat the tasteless food and to stay alert, were taking a toll on her. She couldn’t wait to get outside in the fresh air, so she could take a deep breath. Hopefully, this would be her last stakeout of the scuzzy Delgado. She didn’t make a move, though, until fifteen minutes later, when a tall, lanky, jeans-clad street guy walked in and headed to the counter. Her replacement. She was out of the door in a flash and headed to a white Volkswagen Beetle with peeling rusty paint. She chugged out of the small parking lot, smoke belching from the tailpipe, and headed to the nearest garage, where she settled down to call her boss and report on the day’s activities
“He’s heading out tonight, Mr. Snowden, as soon as it gets dark. He’s leaving only someone named Santos and Juan Carlos behind. He got a call from someone, but I could hear only his end of the conversation. He’s going to be staying at a place in Miami Beach called the Pink Pelican. It’s in a seedy part of town, where no one pays attention to anyone else and the cops don’t go, just SWAT teams. He repeated that, so
I’m sure I got it right. If I heard right, and I’m sure I did, I know how he’s going to get the drugs delivered to him. They’re going to be delivered to the kitchen of the Pink Pelican, packed in crates of lettuce and boxes of jarred salsa.
“He’s nervous about being here. He thinks people are onto him and his gang. He is also worried about the Sanders woman. He said she’s forgetting her place, and she has gotten too lippy to suit him. He told whomever he was talking to on the other end that he was uploading a picture of Gabe Sanders, and they were to show it around in case he showed up. He said to whoever was listening that the gringa—that’s what he called her—lied about everything, so she was probably lying about her husband’s having skipped out on her. He laughed then and said if she was his woman, she’d be barefoot and tied to the stove.
“One other thing, Mr. Snowden. Delgado was snarly mad. I say this because he cursed a lot. Very angrily. He’s never done that before. He’s very, very worried about Ms. Sanders. He said that before this is over, he’s going to put his fist through her face and knock out all those pretty teeth of hers. That’s it. Call me if you need me. I need to go home and take a bath to wash the stink off me from that place.”
When Avery Snowden powered down, he clapped his hands in relief. Finally, some action. He immediately sent off an encrypted text to everyone, requesting an immediate urgent meeting. The return encrypted texts were immediate. Avery slipped his car into gear and pulled into traffic. His destination, the BOLO Building.
Ninety minutes later, the conference room was full, everyone seated as they talked among themselves. At last, a break in the mission, and it was all they could talk about.
“No time for coffee and refreshments,” Snowden said as he repeated in detail what his Spanish-speaking operative had told him. “That means we all need to head to Florida. We need to get Annie’s plane ready, and we need to make reservations at the Pink Pelican and do our own surveillance. Delgado and his people are driving, so we’ll have the edge by flying and getting there well ahead of time.”
High Stakes Page 22