The Powers That Be r5-1

by Cliff Ryder

  A dozen miles outside the city, he found one of the in-numerable side paths that led into the jungle. They were little more than trails that had once led to fields or an old sugar mill, now long overgrown. He pulled onto it, wincing as the Lada bottomed out in the ruts. He prayed not to get stuck, for it would impossible to explain why he had come out all this way. The little car seemed to sense his need, however, for it rose to the occasion and didn’t bog down once.

  When he was sure he wouldn’t be seen by anyone, Damason pulled over and got out. Walking to the trunk, he opened it, removed the package, then closed it and placed the bundle on top. He carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a slender, long-barreled rifle with an unusual, skeleton-ized stock featuring a built-in pistol grip. A long scope was mounted on top. Included with the rifle were two magazines full of 7.62 mm ammunition.

  Damason lifted the Russian-made Dragunov SVD sniper rifle, feeling its weight, its balance, relishing the texture of the wood and stamped steel. It felt right in his hands.

  It felt like a weapon that could kill a dictator.

  Jonas sipped an excellent Australian Zinfandel and dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then placed it over the remains of his delicious blackened-snapper lunch. “There is something about everything in America, although I enjoy my homeland, everything here somehow just tastes better.” His accent had thick-ened, the guttural Germanic tones coming through on each word.

  He was dressed in a new, tropical-weight, beige linen suit with a white, raw silk shirt underneath. A pair of Christian Dior sunglasses covered his eyes, lending a cool gray tone to everything he looked at. His dining companion—a Room 59 operative on temporary loan from a long-term assignment in the Florida Keys—was dressed in a strapless, light blue, hibiscus-print sundress and a straw hat.

  “Glad you think so. Has our target arrived yet?” Karen Mulber was tall, blond and tanned—the perfect accessory for a foreign businessman on vacation. She also had a mind like a titanium trap, which made her the perfect partner to watch his back during this meeting. While Jonas was making contact, she would be locating Castilo’s car to plant a minuscule tracking device on it.

  They sat on the topmost tier of the five-level restaurant, which had been built to allow all of its guests an unobstructed view of the track below. The bright Florida sun bathed the arena in golden light, making it a perfect racing day. While pretending to discuss the day’s races, they casually scanned the rest of the restaurant.

  Jonas finished his wine. “Not yet, but the matinee begins in twenty minutes, so unless he’s stuck in traffic, I expect him to walk in any moment now.” The Room 59 hackers had accessed Castilo’s computer calendar. Every Wednesday afternoon was blocked off for the greyhound races.

  Karen pressed a slender finger to her ear, making the movement look perfectly natural. “Hold on—his limousine has just arrived, along with another car. Looks like he has company.”

  “What about the driver?” Jonas asked.

  She leaned forward, revealing a lush swell of cleavage along with a wicked grin. “Just leave him to me.”

  “Say no more.” Jonas studied the racing program for that afternoon. “Let me guess, Mr. Castilo’s animal is number six in race ten.”

  She followed his pointing finger. “Cuba Libre? Nothing like displaying certain political views in plain sight.”

  “Let’s just hope he’s a winner. It’s a Class B race, and old Cuba Libre has just slipped a ranking, so he should outclass the others. Unfortunately, he got box six, but he’s an inside dog, so he’ll need to do some hard running to get ahead of the pack before the escape turn.” Jonas slid three onehundred-dollar bills across the table. “Put this down on him across the board.”

  “Am I your beard now?” Karen asked.

  “Someone’s got to stay and watch for him. Besides, it won’t seem suspicious if you head out to bet and also scout the parking lot to see where their car is.”

  She scooped up the bills. “And here I thought you’d only go for the win—you know, that kind of all-or-nothing macho bullshit.”

  “A smart man hedges his bets whenever he can,” Jonas said with a smile.

  “Looks like he’s coming in.”

  Both Karen and Jonas kept up their idle chatter while watching the party of three men and three women enter the restaurant. The maître d’ greeted Castilo effusively and escorted the party to a pair of reserved tables on the first tier, a good distance from Jonas’s table. They were all dressed well, but Jonas only had eyes for one man.

  Rafael Castilo had a bit more gray hair than in the picture Kate had sent to him, and his suit was probably tailored to hide a few additional pounds, but otherwise he’d aged well.

  He laughed and talked with his party and was affectionate with the woman at his side, a beautiful Cuban-American woman at least twenty years younger, and from the looks of it, trying not to age any faster than necessary. She was Castilo’s second wife, his first having passed away seven years ago. Jonas noted that the man’s eyes were always in motion, sweeping the room as if constantly evaluating who was there.

  Jonas swept the party with his gaze, while his Dior sunglasses recorded everything through a quarter-inch color, closed-circuit lens built into its frame. Unlike other spy glasses, which still required relatively bulky battery packs, this model, reverse engineered by a cutting-edge technology firm in California, had modified lithium batteries installed into the temple bars, so that the glasses were ready to go when put on.

  “Hope you’re getting all this, Kate,” Jonas muttered.

  Everything was being transmitted back to Room 59’s on-line suite for analysis. He hadn’t bothered to bug the reserved table, as it was doubtful that Castilo would be discussing anything regarding his personal crusade there.

  Loudspeakers around the track blared into life, the sound distorted and muted by the thick glass windows. Jonas kept an eye on the small LCD screen at his table as the greyhounds came out for the post parade, guided by the lead outs. The people at Castilo’s two tables cheered and clapped when Cuba Libre appeared in the lineup. By the time the last dogs were walked out, the first ones were in the boxes, ready to go.

  With ten races before the action would really begin, Jonas still kept an eye on Castilo’s group, but his thoughts kept returning to that long-ago mission. Seeing the island last night, even through the darkness, had brought back more memories, and they were proving increasingly hard to dismiss.

  June 19, 1973

  THE BACK OF JONAS’S NECK itched as rivulets of sweat ran down it and his sprained ankle throbbed, but those were the least of his worries at the moment. The twelve men taking up ambush positions around the clearing a dozen yards away were another matter entirely.

  After squirming far enough through the jungle to be sure that they wouldn’t be seen, Jonas and his contact took cover in a copse of blue mahoe. He turned to the woman. “What’s your name?”

  “¿Qué?”

  “Your name. Or should I just say ‘Hey, you’ when I need your attention?”

  “Marisa,” she whispered.

  “I’m Karl.” Jonas hated having to lie to her, even under the circumstances, but his team couldn’t be connected with this operation in any way, so he needed the alias. “We have to alert my team.” He eased out his radio, but turning it to the secure channel only got him static. He hit the squelch button three times, the prearranged signal for contact, but there was no reply. Jonas tried again, with the same result.

  He switched it off. “I cannot raise them,” he said.

  “That isn’t surprising—there are too many hills around here. Radio transmission is spotty at best. Why don’t we strike out and find the route they are going to return by?

  Then we could warn them off and head right for the coast,”

  Marisa said.

  “That assumes they’ll be coming back via the primary route. Anything might cause them to deviate to a secondary.

  Without communication, I cannot coordi
nate a rendezvous.

  No, it is up to us to neutralize these soldiers before they return,” Jonas said.

  He felt her stare, even in the darkness. “Has that injury affected your brain, as well? There were at least a dozen men back there. We have you—crippled—and me, and I’m not throwing my life away in a fruitless gesture for anyone.”

  Jonas shifted position, scratching his back against the tree trunk. “Believe me, I don’t want to be buried here, either.

  I’m not advocating a frontal assault. We just need a distraction, or to trick them into thinking they’re being attacked by a larger force—anything to make them give up their position. If only I hadn’t gotten injured.”

  “If you hadn’t, then you and your team would be walking into an ambush, and I’d be dead right now.” Marisa put her hand on his arm. “What about the truck? If we could gain control of it, perhaps that could be put to use.”

  “Perhaps—if we can find it.” Jonas took out his compass, taking bearings. “They’re to our left, about fifteen yards away. Here, hold this.” He took her hand, which still rested on his arm, and pressed his compass into her fingers. Shrugging off his pack, he opened it and carefully removed his night-vision scope. Turning it on, he waited for it to warm up, then looked through it at the clearing, watching the jungle night appear in grainy green and black. Through the trees he could just make out the larger image of the sugar mill, with the Cuban soldiers still moving around it. He also took a long look around their current location, fixing trees and other foliage in his mind. He switched the scope off and rewrapped it for protection before putting it away. “All right, we have to walk parallel with the road until we find the truck, then we’ll reconnoiter and figure out a plan.” He sliced off a few tree fronds to cover his pack, taking his can-teen, radio, the spotting scope, rifle, pistol, ammunition for both, a machete and his double-edged commando knife.

  Marisa didn’t say a word, but slipped her head underneath his shoulder again. “It’s going to be a long walk.”

  “Not this time.” He handed her his machete. “See what you can do to clear a path while making as little noise as possible.”

  “Where will you be?”

  Jonas eased himself to the ground. “Crawling right behind you. It’s the best way. Otherwise we’ll both be exhausted by the time we reach our objective.”

  She nodded, then began slicing her way through the foliage. They carefully made their way through the thick jungle, with Marisa wielding the razor-sharp blade like a tree surgeon, clearing enough of a path so that Jonas could follow without getting caught in the low bushes.

  The insects, however, were another matter. Each time Jonas put his hands down, something crawled over them, and he spent as much time trying not to get bitten or stung as moving forward. Every ten yards or so, he sat up and took another look through his scope, comparing their surroundings with what he remembered.

  When they had covered what he thought was about one hundred yards, Jonas hissed at Marisa to stop. He tried his radio again, but got nothing. Then he removed his commando knife and tapped the young woman on the shoulder.

  “Here. This is going to be dangerous, and I don’t want you unarmed.”

  She strapped the sheathed blade on her belt. “Thank you.”

  Jonas took another look around with the scope. “I don’t know how far they might have gone to be sure they wouldn’t be seen.”

  “Why don’t I cut over to the road—surely we’re far enough away now—and see what I can find out.” Before he could stop her, Marisa darted off between the trees without a sound, her lithe form swallowed up by the darkness.

  Jonas hissed in frustration and hunkered down, his pistol drawn, for all the good it would do him. One shot would bring the soldiers running. Every sense alert, he sat and waited for her to return—or for her to be discovered.

  “HEY, YOU ALL RIGHT? The tenth is about to start.” Karen slid back into her seat.

  Jonas tuned back into his surroundings with a blink. “Just waiting for the lead to go. Any problems?”

  “Nope. The GPS is in place, and if I were that kind of girl, I’d have a date for the weekend.” She smiled. “But I’m not.”

  “He’ll be very disappointed, I’m sure.” Jonas focused on the monitor as the tenth race started. Cuba Libre got off to a quick start, but was caught on the outside coming into the escape turn, and couldn’t make up the lost ground. It was in the middle of the pack on the far turn, and put on a final burst to finish second. Castilo’s table celebrated quietly, accepting the second-place finish with good humor.

  “At least you didn’t lose,” Karen offered.

  “True, true.” Jonas handed her several more hundreds.

  “Go collect my winnings, would you? When you return, hand me the whole thing at their table.”

  “Just make sure you’re there when I come back.” Karen stood again and pecked him on the cheek, then walked through the room, her poised stride drawing stares from every man she passed.

  Jonas flagged a passing waiter. “I’d like to send a bottle of Perrier Jouet Fleur Blanc de Blanc ’99 over to Mr.

  Castilo’s table, with my compliments on a well-run race.”

  “Certainly sir, whom shall I say it is from?”

  “If he asks, point out this table and mention that it is from a gentleman who shares his love of freedom.” The message was vague enough to rouse curiosity instead of suspicion.

  At least Jonas hoped that would be Castilo’s reaction. Making contact with a target didn’t happen like a James Bond film—there was no script indicating how it would go down.

  The businessman might simply drink the champagne with the rest of his party, then leave.

  Jonas sat back and watched as the chilled bottle was delivered to Castilo’s table. He received it with a smile, and tilted his head to listen to the waiter deliver the message. The waiter discreetly pointed out Jonas’s table, and when Castilo looked across the floor to the upper tier, Jonas raised his wineglass in salute. The Cuban inclined his head and motioned for the waiter to pour for his delighted wife and guests.

  Jonas watched Castilo summon a bodyguard to his table and whisper in his ear. The stocky man returned to his position, opened his cell phone and began texting, or at least that’s what he wanted to appear to be doing. Jonas knew he was being photographed, and he also figured that they would be getting his name from the reservation book, as well. So far, everything was going according to plan.

  After several minutes, the waiter returned. “Mr. Heinemann, Mr. Castilo requests the pleasure of your company at his table.”

  Here we go, Jonas thought, pushing his chair back and rising. “I would be delighted.”

  “Jonas has initiated contact with the target.” NiteMaster spun around in his chair, the piercings in his eyebrow glittering in the light. “We’re getting hits on the cover story, as well.” He brought up various Web pages, one a relatively bland corporate site, one from the ATF and several from other foreign news sites, each of which had an article on Mr. Ferdinand Heinemann. The company site was for a European import-export business, similar to Castilo’s, but the other mentions of Heinemann’s name told a very different story.

  Watching in the virtual ops center, Kate only nodded, scanning the wealth of created electronic data available on their operative. With the Web becoming an instant background resource available to anyone with a cell phone or laptop, it was vital for Room 59 to provide an in-depth history for each operative’s cover story. For this, hackers worked behind the scenes in the world’s major search engines, tweaking hit algorithms to ensure that the false pages would pop up immediately in any search. A company Web page was easy, but faking news reports and other believable media usually took time. However, the three hackers had smoothly established Mr. Heinemann as a living, breathing person—at least on the Internet.

  What a story they had woven, Kate thought. According to reliable sources, Mr. Heinemann operated a successful import-and-expo
rt company out of Munich. However, a bit more digging revealed that he had been investigated—but never charged—for illegal arms smuggling and sales by the U.S., German and French governments, and had been rumored to be involved in various black-market deals for the past twenty years.

  It’s amazing how the Internet gives instant credibility to things, simply by letting people find it for themselves on a computer screen, Kate thought. What could be located by a simple keyword search would be enough to plant the notion in anyone’s mind about Mr. Heinemann, but there was one final straw that anyone seriously checking a cover story would probably think to do, as well.

  “Incoming call for Rhienland I.E.” KeyWiz adjusted his headset mike and looked to Kate for confirmation.

  She let it ring three times—after all, it was a thriving business—then nodded.

  “Guten Tag, Rhineland Import/Export, how may I help you?” Kate winced at KeyWiz’s accent—he was laying it on a bit thick. “I’m sorry, sir, but Herr Heinemann is on vacation. I’m afraid that I am not at liberty to say where he is at the moment. Yes, I can confirm that he is overseas.

  Yes, he does enjoy greyhound racing—it’s a life-long hobby of his. May I inquire as to whom is calling? Very well, sir.”

  While KeyWiz was handling the phone call, El Supremo traced the cell phone call to its source.

  “Originating in the Palm Beach Kennel Club restaurant,”

  he reported.

  “I think he may have been outside the bathroom—I thought I heard someone flush. No message. Guy said he’d call back later. Damn, I love this Mission Impossible stuff,”

  KeyWiz said.” He held up his hand, and NiteMaster and El Supremo did the same, in a virtual high-five.

  “Good work, gentlemen. Let’s keep monitoring the sites for any other hits—who knows, this bait may attract some other targets, as well. Also, I want analysis done on everyone at that table, who they are, their relationship to Castilo, anything and everything we can dig up on them,” Kate said.