Andrea said, “Well, the jungle is dense, but Cimil has infrared cameras at several key locations. That's why I said three or four people. Me and Simon and one of those marines would probably be the ideal team.”
“How do we know he's at the compound?” This from Andrews.
“We don't. But it's the best lead we have, and if he's not there, we may be able to find someone who can tell us where he's gone.”
Yarrow sat down, some of her nervous energy gone. “That makes sense. I'll tell Davidson. I can't leave the country. Can't have the DSS gone while the President is being held by a kidnapper. They need to have me close by in case they wanna fire me on short notice. But Jason, I'll tell your boss you're following up on something to see if the serial killer is tied to the kidnapping. I'll say you're in hot pursuit. That should buy you two or three days. And if we don't shake something loose in two or three days, all bets are off anyway.”
Braxton clapped his hands together and grinned. At heart, the man was a manager, and few tasks gave him more satisfaction than the proper delegation of roles in a project. “OK, well if we do have a Special Ops unit with us, then that will take care of the extra manpower. If not, I can find one more agent to go with Andrea and Simon. Let's figure out what equipment we need and how soon we can leave.”
Thirty minutes later, they had a concrete plan that included one special forces solider going with Andrea and Simon. Unless the Marines had another alternative, by mid-afternoon, they'd board one of the “black” CIA jets, used for transporting prisoners who didn't exist to locations that weren't on the books. Within the Agency the jets carried the unofficial designation “Rendition Airways.” Before they left to carry out their assigned tasks, Yarrow looked at Andrea.
“One more thing, Ms. Schmidt. We do still need to talk about Amos and Arthur.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
December 14, 2012: Guatemala City
At six in the morning, Amos Schmidt made it through Customs in six minutes. His passport carried a different name, but his forger did good work. If you pay enough money, you can get something that would fool even the issuers in the State Department. He hailed a cab, his fluent Spanish easing the transaction. He'd booked a room at the Radisson, opting for the security of a known chain rather than going for something more local. As the cab navigated the death-defying traffic common in most Latin American cities, his mind churned with his mission.
The murders weren't getting the President's attention. He'd figured that out months ago. He also knew the FBI was onto him, and he watched with amusement as they followed him and monitored his house. Once they stopped, he killed the last woman just to mess with them. Inside he burned, not to commit more murders, but to be with Susan Richards. He knew she loved him, but she was too busy, too powerful to make time for him. He understood how it was, and he knew he'd have to take the initiative.
First, he'd arranged to kill the previous President and Vice President. The timing was the difficult part, how to kill both of them. If one went down, protection of the other one would increase. Ironically enough, the President wound up as the easy one.
Amos had long dreamed of doing it. The previous President had liked to eat out, especially on Sundays after attending an eight AM church service. He only ate at three different places, and he rotated them so none of the three would feel slighted. Unless he was out of the country, you had a pretty good shot at knowing where the commander-in-chief would be at ten in the morning on any Sunday. The Secret Service didn't like the predictability, but they loved the fact that they could vet every member of the staff at these restaurants, as well as conduct regular searches.
Amos researched the employees of these establishments and found two likely candidates. Busboys who had been through Secret Service checks, and who were built approximately like him. These two were also loners, never spending time with their co-workers. This allowed him to use what he called “Mission Impossible technology” to take their place when the time came. Lifelike masks and voice boxes like those used in the movies could be had for a price. Over a period of several months, Amos had visited each restaurant half a dozen times. His business led him to Washington on two occasions and he made two other trips under different names. He observed the two employees, learning their mannerisms, and memorizing their voices and faces. He could take their place on a few hours notice.
Of course, he had to take out the Vice President as well. Otherwise, Richards would remain Speaker and some other loser would be sworn in as second in command. And the V.P. made fewer public appearances. When the man had announced that he'd be following the example of Al Gore and running the Marine Corps Marathon, Amos allowed himself to hope. With two-hundred thousand runners and spectators and a finish in Arlington away from the tight spaces of the Capitol, he couldn't imagine a better place for a sniper to make a shot and get away clean.
It all came together. At five AM, he'd strangled the busboy in his sleep. By six, he had taken the man's place at the restaurant. By ten, he'd doctored the President's huevos rancheros with a variation of ricin engineered in the lab to be uniformly lethal when ingested. Ricin is more potent when inhaled or injected, but that wasn't practical in this case.
Of course, the Secret Service searched him an hour before the President arrived. But he'd come in the night before and hidden the little pellet in a cabinet. Also, the President did have tasters. But the ricin took three hours to take effect, so the taster was fine and the President dug right in. Amos slipped out of the kitchen as soon as the man took the first bite, a busboy who would never return from his break.
Forty-five minutes later, he sat near the twenty-five mile mark in Arlington. The V.P. would finish a little before one PM, so Amos had plenty of time. Shooting with his father as a boy combined with recent months of dedicated practice made this an easy shot from two hundred yards. Five seconds after firing, he disappeared into the crowd.
Everything went according to plan. Except one thing. Focused as he was on helping Richards get ahead, he hadn't considered what this would do to his chances of a reunion. Now she was guarded around the clock by the Secret Service, and she didn't read any of her own mail. That's when he hit on the idea of the killings. It was like a private code that only she would understand. He felt sure that sooner or later, the Secret Service or FBI would tell her about it and she'd find a way to get in touch with him.
It didn't happen. Then she lost the election. In some ways, he felt relieved. Surely an ex-president would have more time and freedom. He was counting the days until January twentieth.
That was before the kidnapping.
When he saw the clip of her being slapped, something hardened inside him. This was no longer about him, it was about saving her. He knew something he suspected the Secret Service didn't. In the background on the video, barely visible in the corner, he could just make out a blurry logo. The Cimil Corporation. He recognized it, because it was on the letterhead of the last letter he'd gotten from his sister Andrea three years earlier.
So he flew down here. It never occurred to him that he might be wrong. Nor that one man couldn't hope to succeed against someone who could kidnap a president. After all, he'd taken on the whole Secret Service and won. All he knew was that Richards needed him. First he'd track down some weapons, possibly the most dangerous activity of the whole endeavor. He'd look for drug dealers and hope they could point him in the right direction without shooting him first. After that, he'd go to Cimil's headquarters in the city and try to find Cimil. He'd have to be careful and find the right person to “persuade” to help him.
He would succeed. He had to. Because even though she didn't know he was alive, Susan Richards was his mother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
December 13th, 2012: Guatemala
This time, their arrival in Guatemala City attracted far less scrutiny. The CIA plane was registered to a shell corporation and bore no logos to speak of, one more private jet for the business elite. The five of them walked down the st
airs and out to Customs. A comfortable seventy degrees met them, nearly the same weather they'd encountered during the August visit.
Yarrow had explained Andrea's concerns to Davidson, who conferenced in Admiral Cummings and the leader of the Marine unit. The Guatemalan President had told them that he could not publicly allow U.S. troops to go after Cimil. Privately, he assured them that he would have no problem with any small-scale arrangements they needed to make.
They decided to go with Andrea's plan to include one soldier from the unit on the three person team that would go to the compound. He would travel with them, while the remaining thirteen members of the unit would make separate travel arrangements and rendezvous with Andrews by that evening. That allowed enough time for the entire team to make its way to Guatemala City. No one liked the short notice and lack of detailed planning, but they had little choice.
Jason Andrews traveled with his own passport. His name wouldn't raise a flag for Cimil. The others used false identities, all prepared by the Agency except for Andrea's. Major Michael Crowder, a marine with twenty years' experience, accompanied them. He spoke fluent Spanish and his combat training rivaled anyone in the armed forces. At six foot one and under two hundred pounds, he was lean rather than muscle-bound, with light brown eyes now hidden behind sunglasses. His skin was about as dark as Simon could remember seeing on anyone.
Customs proved a formality, less than five minutes to get through. They disguised the specialized communications equipment as a laptop and a pair of large stereo speakers. They brought no weapons; Andrea assured them she could get what they needed in-country. Simon didn't like it, but circumstances left them little choice. After they cleared Customs, Andrea made a call, and five minutes later their vehicle arrived.
The gray Ford Econoline van had seen better days, with multiple dents and paint chipped in several spots. The engine sounded fine, and inside they found a generator to run the communications equipment. Also a couple of remote controlled cameras set up for viewing through Simon's Blackberry. The technology wasn't common, but apparently Andrea's sources could get just about anything.
The van also contained sufficient artillery for their task. Five M95's, Andrea's preferred suppression weapon. Five Sig 229's. A few grenades and two pounds of plastique with half a dozen detonators. Aside from leaving one of each gun with Andrews, they'd carry all this with them, so it would have to be enough. Simon's confidence increased as he examined each weapon and handed it to Andrea or Crowder to do the same. You didn't go into the field without checking everything more than once.
During the flight down, Andrea had gone over her thoughts on how best to get into the compound.
“First, let's assume he'll know we're in the country and are coming for him. We need to make sure we shake any surveillance after we land, but even if he can't see us, he'll be ready for an attack. And he knows that I know the place inside and out. He'll have patrols in the woods and all the sensors on the top of the wall turned on. Cameras too. There's a couple of tunnels that come out further down the hill, but those are alarmed as well.”
“Motion-sensors?”
“None outside, Simon, too much wildlife around. We'd have gotten false positives all the time. But you probably noticed that the part of the wall visible externally is only half of a double wall, with about twenty feet of space in between. There are motion sensors in that space. No way to vault over the wall without setting them off. And of course there are no trees or branches within twenty feet of the perimeter, so no way to drop in.”
Crowder looked at her. “So how the hell do we get in? If we even fart near this place, he'll know.”
She smiled. “Simple. We set all of the alarms off.”
She explained her whole plan, and Simon smiled. Simple and likely to succeed, requiring only patience. He'd waited this long to get Cimil, he could wait a few more hours. As they now drove toward the mountains, he prepared himself once more for combat. They'd have to kill some guards for sure, and he didn't ever want that to become so routine that he didn't think about it. In this case, the image of the mushroom cloud in Billings was all he needed for motivation.
They didn't detect any surveillance. A couple of times, they turned onto side roads and waited to see who came by, but in both cases, no cars followed for more than two minutes. Eventually, they stopped the car at a small turn-off about a mile from the the dirt road. On a mission like this, undertaken on short notice with minimal force, a lot of little things could go wrong. A lot of opportunities to make a bad decision.
For instance, where should they park the van? Parking out towards the road to the compound provided the illusion of safety with its proximity. But Andrews wouldn't be coming after them if something went wrong. At most, they'd be calling in the standby team who had not yet even arrived in Guatemala. With communications encrypted via satellite, they could set up almost anywhere and the easy answer was for Andrews to return to a parking garage in Guatemala City after dropping them off.
Before getting out, they did a quick test of their headsets. Then Simon, Andrea, and Crowder headed into a small opening in the jungle next to the road, not even looking back to watch the van disappear. Andrea led the way up a trail that climbed a steady grade and in places narrowed down to a few inches. The jungle closed in, making Simon feel like the world was a thousand miles away. He didn't care. He focused on each step that took him closer to Cimil.
Half an hour later, Andrea crouched down and pointed through the vegetation. Fifty yards away and quite a few feet below them lay the dirt road to Cimil's compound.
“It's about two miles through the jungle from here. The trail goes up and down, but never strays too far from the road. Let's take five, then push on.”
None of them felt tired, but you take rest when you can. Five minutes later, they continued to make their way through the jungle.
Andrea explained that Cimil's people didn't patrol on a regular basis, but he might do so if he expected an attack. They couldn't split up, because only she knew the route, but grouped together they remained more vulnerable to a patrol. To minimize the chances of this, she led them off the main trail every five to ten minutes. They'd stop for a minute and then double-back, hoping to flush out any potential followers.
They reached the compound without incident. Crouched behind a giant Guatemalan Fir, they looked at a small door painted dark green to blend with the jungle.
“So first we set this one to blow, right?” Simon looked at Andrea.
“Yep. You can't see it, but there's a camera recessed above the doorway. It rotates side to side, but it won't see anything under three feet tall right in front of the door. There's also a little dead zone to the left and right, though we can't count on those. Basically, we're playing the odds. Get close under cover of the canopy, then burst to the door on all fours, place the charge and come back.
“We set our own hidden camera over here, and monitor it with the Blackberry.”
“Let's hear it for Canadian technology.” Crowder showed no embarrassment when Andrea and Simon stared at him. “Hey, just trying to keep it light.”
Simon chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, but these things are made in China like everything else.”
He took out one of the cameras and settled it into a spot on some sort of palmetto bush. Huge compared to the ones in the American south, at nearly eight feet tall. He took care not to shake the bush so much that someone monitoring Cimil's camera would pick up the movement. In the meantime, Andrea mashed together a small charge of Semtex and a detonator sensor. She made her way as close to the door as she could get without exposing herself to the camera. Crowder covered her, M95 pointed towards the door.
Andrea lunged.
The whole thing took less than eight seconds. No telling if she got picked up by a sharp-eyed guard monitoring the camera, but her exposure time was minimal. She returned to Simon and Crowder, out of breath more from the tension than from the effort.
“Time to go, boys.”
>
Simon had seen his share of trained female soldiers in the Army. Even Rangers, every bit as deadly as their male counterparts. But he could always tell the difference between the way they moved and the way the men moved. Something he couldn't put his finger on. The men—at least the ones who made it through the hellish training—seemed more aggressive in the movements, in subtle ways. Andrea Schmidt moved exactly like those men as she placed the charge.
Another thought flitted across his mind. He recalled Andrews and Yarrow questioning her. About her brothers, Amos and Arthur. Could it possibly be? He looked at the square jaw and shoulders. Maybe. But the idea of her doing that and then joining the armed forces …
He dismissed these thoughts. It didn't matter now. He followed Andrea and Crowder to their next stop, about ten minutes away via terrain that could only loosely be described as a trail. More like bushwhacking with brief interludes of open space. They once again peered through vegetation, this time at the massive gate guarding the main entrance to the compound.
“This one's gonna be tougher. He's got four cameras and there's no dead zone. The good news is, we want them to see us this time. But we'll have to move fast to get down to the other door. You guys'll have to follow at almost a dead run.”
Simon set up another camera and confirmed that he could monitor it through the Blackberry. They looked at each other and nodded, fingers curling around the M95's. They exploded into the open, eating up the thirty yards of space in seconds. They each placed a charge, two of them on hinges and one on the massive handle and lock. Then they ran back to the safety of the jungle.
Simon looked at Andrea. “There's no going back from this.”
She smiled, all intensity and no humor. She pressed the button on the detonator.
“Que?” The guard watching Cimil's security monitors unconsciously jerked his head towards the screen. He saw the three intruders sprint in and drop back. The video didn't provide enough clarity to identify what they carried.
The Mayan Legacy (A Simon Gray Thriller Book 1) Page 19