“But nine hundred and fifty people? With global headlines involved? Whatever happened to a good old sniper round, or maybe a poisoned omelet?” the fisherman groused.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Peter took another strong pull on his soda, then belched. “Party over, just like that. No more loose ends. And may I remind you that if we had been more surgical, then the Mossad would have been curious as to why one of their top agents was offed.”
“But we still don’t know who else he might have told. Assuming that he knew anything.”
“Oh, he knew. Ryker did the interview, and he’s the best. When he smelled a rat he called in two more to confirm – and they all agreed. They were sure of it. The only question is how much the Arab told the Israeli before eating a bullet sandwich.” Peter spat his disgust onto the riverbank. “Frigging raghead idiot,” he lamented. “You sure you don’t want one of these?”
“Quite sure.”
“Anyway, it’s too late to second guess this. We had to move fast. Frankly, it was a kind of small miracle that we were able to line it all up in time. You should be saying congratulations. Besides which, what if we’d tried for him and failed? Ever think of that? Then we’d have an even bigger problem – one of the more dangerous operatives I’ve heard of, on the loose, gone to ground, and wondering why someone is trying to end his stay on the planet. It wouldn’t take him long to figure it out, and then…well, suffice to say we already have our hands full with the botched bio-attack. Which, may I remind you, I had argued for handling differently.”
“I couldn’t involve you. Nobody domestic. That was essential.”
“I know. I’m just saying that you now have a big fat nothing on that,” Peter said.
“Not completely. We got a huge PR win with a terrorist getting that close.”
“Have you seen the internet coverage? There are at least a dozen sites openly questioning whether or not Iran is a set-up, à la Iraq. Like it or not, a lot has changed in the last decade, and people aren’t sucking up whatever CNN preaches as gospel anymore. There are too many groups openly questioning whether Iran actually has any nukes. Personally, I think that’s an uphill battle.”
“Noted. And while I appreciate your scintillating wit and charming company, that’s not your problem. What about the contractors who blew up the boat? Any liabilities there?”
“No. There are no loose ends. Nothing leads back to us.”
The older man shook his head and cast his lure again. It hit the water with a pop, and he started reeling.
“You’re sure? The ferry was far too high-profile to take chances with.”
Peter finished the soda and crushed it on the ground, flattening it, and then tossed it back into the cooler. “And you say I’m cold-blooded?” he asked.
“You got it from your mom.”
“I don’t know about that, Dad.”
“My concerns are valid. I want your assurance nothing’s left to chance.”
“I told you. I handled it. They’ve all been neutralized. At considerable expense.”
“Fair enough.” The older man looked at his watch again. “Dinner is still on for seven. Don’t be late. And next time, be on time when we have one of our meetings.”
“I told you – traffic sucked.”
“You should have planned for that,” the older man said with clear menace, steel in his voice. He looked about to continue with his scolding when his rod arched and the reel screamed as he hooked a fish. He grinned, his annoyance at his son momentarily forgotten.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Peter said, then retrieved his cooler and tackle and made his way back up to the parking area. The old man distrusted phones for his more sensitive affairs, and Peter had inherited his caution in that regard. These were high stakes they played for, and even though he liked sticking it to the grumpy old bastard now and then, he wasn’t foolhardy – if anything, he was even more calculating and clinical than his father.
He popped the trunk of his BMW sedan and collapsed the fishing rod, then tossed it in the back before sliding behind the wheel, taking care to wedge the cooler under the glove compartment on the passenger side, where it wouldn’t slide around.
As the engine purred into action, he checked his reflection in the mirror. His close-cropped hair was a remnant of his early military days, but other than that, he looked like an innocuous manager – which is how his import-export company card described him: CEO of an obscure firm nobody had ever heard of. His true career was less socially acceptable but paid extremely well. His father saw to that. The last ten years had been a goldmine for him, handling special projects in Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Egypt…
He slipped the car into gear and gave the powerful motor some gas. It leapt forward obediently. For all of his faults, the old man had clout in some amazing circles, and Peter had long ago learned to follow his orders to the letter, even if he resented his iron-fisted approach. His father could no more change his style than he could, he mused. And rule number one was, never screw with something that was working. Regardless of what anyone thought, Peter was highly effective at his chosen profession – a fixer, like his dad, roaming the corridors of power without standing out, and yet capable of changing the world if it suited his purpose to do so.
Peter passed his father’s parked car, the driver engrossed in his newspaper, studiously avoided noticing him, and pulled onto Canal Road heading south. Accelerating, he stabbed a button on the car stereo and a wailing guitar blasted from the speakers. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he gave the car yet more throttle, enjoying the satisfying feel of power at his disposal as he contemplated the rest of his day, which included a lunch meeting with a contact at the Department of Defense – but he could easily fit in a few hours with one of his favorite girls that afternoon. Maybe two. After all, he had cause for celebration – another problem had been solved, another pawn removed from the board.
He twisted the volume knob and cranked the music, then opened the sunroof so the warming rays could soothe away any residual stress.
Indian summer was on its way.
And it was turning out to be a beautiful day.
Might as well enjoy it.
Chapter 14
Clothes shopping for Alan took no time at all; they were in and out of the shop in ten minutes, with several pairs of jeans, a hygiene kit, underwear, and three shirts stuffed into an airline carry-on bag. The phone purchase took only a few minutes longer, and they were back at the park across from the motel in short order saying their goodbyes.
Hannah and Jet hugged for a long time, as both tried to make their special, elemental connection as indelible as possible. Jet assured her that she would be back in just a little while – a fanciful notion she hoped was more truth than fiction. Magdalena watched as they separated, both of their eyes brimming, and then took Hannah’s hand and held her as she watched her mother and Alan head to the car.
Jet’s throat was tight as they pulled away, her tiny daughter waving at them as they rounded the bend and pulled onto the road leading to Montevideo, and neither she nor Alan spoke for a long time, the dull rumble of the uneven pavement beneath the Ford’s wheels a rhythmic monotone.
She had to slow as they came upon a group of the local cowboys riding their horses down the two-lane blacktop. A short honk of the horn alerted them to pull over and allow her to pass. The scene reminded her that they were in farm country, a region where agriculture was the predominant way the locals made a living. Nobody would be looking for Mag and Hannah there – it was about as far off the beaten path as one could get. Their safety was her overriding concern, and the sight of the gauchos trotting down the rural road reassured her.
Alan shifted in his seat and cleared his throat as they breezed past the last pony.
“Time to figure out where we go from here,” he began.
“Yeah. I’m thinking we hit the bank and find out what sort of security they have in place, and then I drop in and pay a vis
it to my trusted attorney. I’ve mulled this over, and the leak had to have come from one of them. There’s no other way a hitter could have tracked her to Maldonado.”
Alan opened her purse and pulled out one of the pistols they’d acquired from their attackers, inspecting the silencer before ejecting the clip and eyeing the rounds.
“The shells were hand-loaded. You can tell. And the silencers are custom. This American company obviously had no trouble getting weapons here on relatively short notice. That speaks to considerable resources.”
“The borders with both Argentina and Brazil are pretty porous. And there are lots of guns in both countries. Same with Uruguay.”
“My hunch is that these were brought in from the States.”
“You could be right.”
“Have you given any more thought to accessing your money? Doing your account bouncing thing?” Alan asked, watching as an ancient farm truck stacked at least two stories high with bales of hay crawled in the oncoming lane, black exhaust belching from the makeshift pipes on either side of the cab.
“Sure. Since I’m going to be in the bank, and since I know that account is compromised, I’m going to get a hundred grand out while I’m there. They should have that many dollars – they’re the largest bank in Uruguay. That will buy us some breathing room. And I have three million in diamonds with me. Once we’re out of Uruguay, I can convert some or all to cash.”
“That’s right. I keep forgetting that most of your riches are in diamonds.”
“The point is we have resources. I’ll take care of the account bouncing later, and just won’t worry about the account Matt gave me until I understand who’s behind this.”
“Maybe we’ll get a lead from the bank or the attorney,” Alan offered hopefully, but his tone sounded glum.
“It’s really the obvious place to start. I don’t have any better ideas. Do you?”
He shook his head, then put the pistol back into her purse. “Not really. And don’t forget that we have the niggling little problem of my passports being at the bottom of the bay.”
“I haven’t. We can always buy you something in Argentina or Brazil.”
“That will take a while. And there are no guarantees that the quality will be good enough to travel on. I can’t afford to have a diligent immigration clerk flag me.”
They rode another few miles in silence, then Alan rubbed his face and sat up, more alert. “I can get another ID. I left an emergency kit with an attorney in Jerusalem that has two passports in it, along with a couple of credit cards. They’re unused. But it will take a few days for them to get to South America.”
“How much do you trust him?”
“Implicitly. He’s had the package for almost four years, and he’s done me other favors. He’ll send it wherever I tell him to. No questions asked. But that doesn’t solve one of our problems – we’ll need to be somewhere for a few days for us to get the package, and I can’t cross any borders without documents.”
“Not necessarily true. But one problem at a time. If you have a kit you can have sent, that simplifies matters. In the interim, getting you into either Brazil or Argentina should be straightforward.”
She had told him earlier that the borders weren’t heavily patrolled, so a motivated, skilled operative would easily be able to slip across.
“And then what?”
“Let’s see what comes up in Montevideo.”
~ ~ ~
Alan entered the bank first and approached a window to change some dollars into pesos – a routine transaction that wouldn’t require ID in the small quantities he was converting. His eyes roved over the tellers and the interior, and he noted the security cameras mounted in the corners of the room, as well as the tell-tale mirrored half globes strategically positioned all over the ceiling. There was no chance of evading the cameras, but the possible exposure was a necessary evil, which is why he was separate from Jet. There would be no linkage – the bank had at least thirty people in it as he claimed his pesos and exited.
When he got back to the car, parked around the corner, Jet eyed him as he slipped into the passenger seat.
“I didn’t see anything. Nobody obvious watching the bank. Nobody inside but the staff and customers. A few security guards. But there was nothing suspicious,” he reported.
“Okay, then. I’m going in. This will probably take a little while, so relax. I’ll leave one of the guns, with an extra clip.” She extracted a pistol from her purse, popped the glove compartment open, and handed him a fully loaded magazine. “Let’s hope you don’t need to use it.”
“My middle name is hope.”
He smiled, and she felt a sudden surge of emotion. She leaned over and kissed him softly on his cheek, his freshly scrubbed skin smelling of soap and masculinity. A nice combination. He turned his head and his lips brushed hers; and then they were consuming one another, the dam burst, the cumulative tension of the last days coming to a head.
When she finally pulled away she was flushed, her breathing accelerated. It had been too long since she’d felt that way.
“I’m glad you didn’t blow into a million pieces on the boat,” she said, her voice husky.
“Me too. I’m glad the Russian didn’t carve you like a turkey.”
She smiled, her jade eyes glittering in the afternoon sun. “We both have something to be happy about, then.”
The moment slipped from them, and after another, briefer kiss, she opened the driver’s door and stepped out, narrowly avoiding being clipped by a bus roaring by.
“I left the keys in the ignition. If you want to get a cup of coffee, just lock it. Like I said…this could be a while.”
“I’ll stay put. Good luck in there.”
Alan watched her stride to the corner and admired the fit of her jeans as she disappeared into the sparse early-lunchtime crowd. They broke the mold when they made her, he mused, and then punched the radio on to hunt for a news station.
Jet entered the bank and made straight for the manager, a different man from the one she’d dealt with the last time to arrange for the trust account. Short, paunchy, almost completely bald, with a feeble comb-over of oily black hair that matched his bushy moustache, he was nonetheless professional and courteous, and motioned for her to take a seat in his cherry wood paneled office. She did, and he closed the door and rounded the desk, pausing to catch his breath before beginning.
“How may I help you today?” he purred.
“I will be making a cash withdrawal, in dollars.”
“Very well. That doesn’t require anything special from me. We can just go to one of the tellers…”
“For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Jet finished, having decided to up the amount she withdrew while she had the chance.
The manager’s eyes narrowed for a nano-second, and then he smiled, his eyes unreadable. “Of course. I’ll have to get it from the vault and counted. That will take a few minutes. I hope you’re not in a hurry.”
“Not at all.”
“I’ll need your passport and account information.”
“Certainly. I transferred over a million dollars a few weeks ago.”
She slid a slim blue plastic card to him along with her Thai diplomatic passport. He dutifully recorded the information, then swiveled and placed her passport on a small scanner sitting on his credenza, making a copy before studying the image on the flat screen monitor at the edge of his desk.
“Ah, perfect. Here is your document back. I’ll have some forms for you to sign, and if you’ll excuse me for a moment…” He gestured at the telephone.
“No problem.”
He dialed a three-digit extension and spoke in rapid-fire Spanish, then hung up. “It will take no more than half an hour. May I offer you some coffee? Soda? Water? A snack?”
“A bottle of water would be good. Thank you.”
He pushed a button on his intercom and requested two bottles, and a secretary came in with them a few moments later.
Jet glanced at the nameplate on the desk. “Well, Señor…Garmindo. Where’s the other manager I met the last time I was here? I think his name was…”
“Tamarez. Ah, a sad story. He passed away recently. Only a few days ago, actually.”
“But he was so young!”
“Yes. It was a great shock to us all. A car accident. He was struck by a hit-and-run driver as he left the bank at night. Probably a drunk. Dead on arrival. Tragic.”
“You say probably a drunk. Did they ever catch the driver?”
“No, alas. But they’re still looking, I’m sure. Then again, you know how that is. They can only do so much.”
“What a shame. Did he have a family?”
“Si. Two young daughters.”
They sat in silence.
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question about your security. How could someone find out account information? Things like where withdrawals are being made from a specific account, or other transactional details?”
“It’s impossible. And against the law to reveal. That, and the screens the employees use limit the amount of information they can access. Even a vice president would not be able to discover all the details. Things are compartmentalized to keep the information secure. We are very serious about our bank secrecy here. We have to be. Uruguay has the reputation as the Switzerland…”
“…of South America. Yes, I know. I was just wondering. With identity theft, and pre-texting. I mean, it’s theoretically possible that someone could buy the information, someone like a private detective, isn’t it?” Jet asked.
He sat back and studied her more carefully.
“No. What you describe would never happen. There are too many safeguards.” His tone was firm – if there was a way, he didn’t know it, or wasn’t talking.
“I was hoping that was the answer. It’s just with different countries, it’s so hard to know how the banks handle their affairs,” Jet back-pedaled.
“I can assure you that Uruguay has among the most stringent standards in the world. Probably better than most other countries.”
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 10