William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  Scanlan was already halfway to the car. Welsh broke into a sprint. The engine was roaring when he got there. He checked back down the street for any pursuers, but there were none. Welsh dove into the car and tossed the piece of glass out the window.

  "Let's go back to the hotel," he said, breathing hard but trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

  "Damn!" Scanlan exclaimed as she stomped the gas pedal onto the floor.

  Welsh's head ached, and his stomach was twisted with the sickening exhilaration that always followed him through a fight. His hands shook as the adrenaline subsided and let him down. "Slow down," he said, noticing the streetlights shooting by. "Hey, slow the hell down!"

  "Who were those guys?" she demanded.

  Welsh held a finger up to his lips.

  They got back to the hotel and parked in the underground garage.

  "Do you have a flashlight?" Welsh asked.

  "No, not with me."

  "Wait here." Welsh walked to the attendant's booth and told him that his girlfriend had lost an earring. He waved his room key, and the attendant let him borrow a flashlight.

  He trotted back to the car and without a word disappeared underneath. He rummaged around, and when he crawled out Scanlan was understandably curious.

  "Let's take a walk in the garden," Welsh suggested.

  On the way out he returned the flashlight to the attendant.

  "Okay," Scanlan said when they reached the hotel gardens. "Now, can we talk here?"

  "Sure," said Welsh.

  "What was the deal under my car?"

  "Those two guys came into the bar looking for us. Since I didn't see anyone following on the drive over, I was wondering how they found us. There's a bird dog on your car."

  "A what?"

  "A GPS transmitter. So while you're driving the wrong way down one-way streets trying to lose a tail, the guys following you are a couple blocks back, watching you on their laptop map display and laughing their asses off. It's state-of-the-art for law enforcement nowadays."

  "How did the Guatemalans get it?"

  "Probably bought it right from the manufacturer like everyone else. Either that or the DEA gave it to them, just like their rifles. I was wondering why I always picked up a tail in my Embassy car, but didn't in yours. The answer is that the Embassy vehicles get screened for gadgets like this when they come back to the motor pool every night."

  "And rental cars don't."

  "Hell, if you've got enough time you can even wire a bird dog into a car's electrical system, so the batteries don't run down. Yours is."

  "So is it the government?"

  "Intelligence, drug runners, anyone rich enough to afford the equipment; no way to tell."

  "Then what were those two guys in the bar after?" Scanlan demanded.

  "That I don't know either," said Welsh. "Just the two of them...the street wasn't covered...they moved on us in the bar instead of outside in the dark. Doesn't make sense. I'm thinking maybe they were just supposed to throw a scare into us." He smiled grimly. "And maybe I overreacted."

  "Just as well. I was scared enough the way it happened." Scanlan surprised him by giggling. "You know, not only did we destroy that bar, we didn't even pay our bill."

  "Don't worry," said Welsh. "The management didn't let those two hammerheads into the ambulance until they squared the damages."

  "Poetic justice. Do you mind if I ask why we had to go out the window?"

  "If two Guatemalans strolled into a cowboy bar in Oklahoma and kicked the shit out of a couple of the locals, how easy do you think it'd be for them to leave peacefully, never mind who started it?"

  "I see your point. You made up your mind pretty fast."

  "If you move before the other guy decides what he's going to do, you win."

  "I think what I heard about you was right, Mr. Welsh. You know how to handle yourself."

  Welsh really wanted to, but decided not to ask from whom or exactly what she had heard about him. "You're no slouch yourself, Ms. Scanlan. Now you've seen what you're up against, why don't you pack it in? It's only going to get worse."

  "Why don't you go home?" she said angrily.

  "I intend to. As soon as possible."

  "Run away?" she challenged.

  "Hell, yes! If there'd been a way to do it back in the bar, they'd have been eating my dust."

  "Before you go, you might hear what I have to say first."

  "I've been trying to," Welsh said patiently. "But we keep getting interrupted. As I recall, you were saying something about proof."

  She lowered her voice. "I've met a man who says he can tell you who killed the Marines."

  "What does he want?"

  "To meet with you, face-to-face."

  "No money, or anything like that?"

  "He won't discuss it with me."

  "Can I talk to him on the phone?"

  "No, he doesn't want that."

  "Of course he doesn't," Welsh said angrily. "The best-case scenario is that this guy is a simple con artist who wants to sell me the informational equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge."

  "And the worst case?" she asked, angry at him for doubting her, but also half curious.

  "I get recorded with some agent provocateur. Or get kidnapped, which has replaced soccer as the national sport. Or just get shot, which is an oldie but still popular."

  "You're sounding a little paranoid."

  "Are you kidding?" Welsh found it hard to keep his voice down. "I'm feeling a little paranoid."

  "I know what you're thinking. I'm the biggest Midwestern rube who ever got off the plane, right? But this guy is genuine. Make no mistake about it, he's crooked as the day is long. But he is genuine. I'm telling you, Welsh, this is the guy you were talking about last night. The one whose best interest is to spill the beans. He gave me this to give to you." She handed him a memory stick.

  That took a little of the air out of Welsh. "What the hell does he want?"

  "He won't tell me. Only you."

  "You've met him then?"

  "Just once in person. After that he insisted we talk on the phone. Pay phones. He told me to tell you his name, and that you shouldn't use it in any communication. He's just like you that way, paranoid about being bugged."

  "It's not paranoia if you're really being bugged. And this guy's name is...?"

  "Booker. Tom Booker."

  It was like a jolt of electricity, because Thomas Booker was the name Mike Longenecker had given him. From the alias Corporal Costa had given him. The well-connected ex-U.S. Army scumbag who showed such an interest in Corporal Brian Richardson. This put an entirely different spin on things. Not that Booker wasn't trying to set him up the same way he'd probably set up the Marines.

  "You haven't left this lying around or anything, have you?" Welsh asked, fingering the flash drive. "In your room or your car?"

  "If it's not in my pocket it's under my pillow when I'm sleeping," Scanlan replied.

  "How do you get in touch with this guy?"

  "Like I said, pay phones. A different phone and a different time for every day of the week. He calls a number every day, and if I don't want to talk to him I just don't go to the phone. He uses something electronic to disguise his voice. But it's the same fake voice each time."

  That made Welsh feel a little better. Only someone in fear of their life would go to such lengths. If it was a setup, he thought it would be much simpler.

  He came to a decision. "I've got to make some arrangements. Tell him that I'll set the conditions of the meeting. I'll give him the day and the time, but he won't get the place until right before we meet, with just enough time to get there."

  "He won't like that. He's a control freak too."

  Welsh ignored the jab. "That's tough. Then we don't meet."

  At that she smiled. "Okay, I get it. The side that has to make a deal is always at a disadvantage. Let's see how desperate he is."

  The conversation halted there, and they both stared at each other.
"Any more business to discuss?" Welsh asked.

  "Yeah, what are we going to do?"

  "I'll let you know before we do it."

  "You don't trust me, Mr. Welsh?"

  "No," he said. "I trust your guts, but I haven't known you long enough to trust your judgment. Don't take it personally. I recommend you don't trust me either—I might leave you hanging. Oh, and please call me Rich."

  She laughed and shook her head in bewilderment. "You're a strange guy, Rich, but I've already made my mind up about you. Oh, and you can call me Maggie."

  "How about some dinner, Maggie? I'll put it on my official U.S. Government credit card."

  "You're hungry?"

  "Sure."

  "Thanks, Rich, but I'm not."

  Welsh gestured toward the hotel. "A drink then?"

  "I appreciate it, but it's been a busy night. I'd better head back to my hotel."

  It was just business then, Welsh thought with genuine regret. Too bad.

  They exchanged hotel telephone and room numbers, and she agreed to meet him the next day. He walked her back to the garage.

  "Aren't you going to take that thing off my car?" Scanlan asked.

  "If we do that, they'll just know we're on to them and try something we might not like. Don't worry, we'll make good use of your bird dog."

  "And you'll tell me how when the time is right."

  Welsh nodded.

  Shaking her head again, Scanlan got in her car and drove off.

  Quite a woman, Welsh thought. If he wasn't really, really careful, she'd probably get him killed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With Margaret Scanlan's flash drive in hand, Welsh had need of a computer. He didn't travel with one, because it was the first thing criminals looked to steal—even if they had to kill you for it—and the first thing foreign governments looked to bug.

  He certainly wasn't going to stick the flash drive in one of the hotel computers, which were definitely bugged by someone. So he had the hotel doorman call him a cab and told the driver to take him to an electronics store that was still open. He bought a little net book laptop, a set of headphones, two hand-held GPS units, and ten prepaid cell phones.

  The purchases were assembled by the time the room-service pizza arrived. Welsh flopped down into a chair, inhaled a slice of pizza, and washed it down with a soft drink, not a beer. He felt he no longer had any margin for stupidity, and at least he could do something about the chemically induced kind.

  He plugged in the flash drive, and it contained all Windows Media files. A deafening blast of white noise had him raking back the volume control. Then a voice came through. It had that echo-chamber quality and the background sounds that usually indicated a listening device. The voice was speaking English with a Guatemalan accent.

  "He is dead!" the voice said emotionally. "Dead! The little son of a bitch!"

  Then another voice came in. Native English speaker, but there was a reason why Welsh couldn't be sure. Also pissed off, but not emotional. "You're planning to kill him, and you brought me here just so you could tell me about it? You're the son of a bitch!"

  Now the first voice dropped to a more soothing tone. "Don't be like that, my friend. If a decision concerns you, of course I have to tell you about it."

  "And make sure I'm involved. Don't insult my intelligence. You people always think you're going to take care of loose ends by killing someone, and all you do is attract a lot of attention. You never learn."

  "It is a national failing, to be sure," the first voice said coolly.

  "Pay him some more money, shut him up, and close out the operation."

  The first voice became hotly passionate again. "I'll shut him up. After what he has done? After betraying me? Never again!"

  "Bring him in and have a talk with him."

  "Impossible. He is stupid enough to threaten me, but not that stupid. He will not come near us now. He goes nowhere alone. He is dead."

  "He's trying to put the arm on us—we can put the arm on him just as easily. We can get him in as much trouble as he can us. Make him aware of this, give him a final payment, and close this out quietly. If you kill him, the problems could never go away."

  The tape hissed for a while. Then the first voice said, "No. But do not worry, my friend. We will take care of everything. You need know nothing about it."

  The second voice mocked him. "I need know nothing about it. So I can read in the newspapers after you cowboy it and leave the streets full of bodies. No, thank you. You put me in this, now you'll listen."

  "Of course, my friend," the first voice replied soothingly. "When have I not?"

  That was the end of the tape. Welsh thought that if it wasn't for the movies, the tough guys of the world wouldn't know how to talk.

  The first voice was that of his old buddy, Lieutenant Colonel Armando Gutierrez. The second had been electronically distorted, as if the tape had been run through a mixing program. Probably by Booker, the guy who gave Scanlan the flash drive. Why? Maybe because the voice belonged to an American.

  As proof of anything, it was useless. But as a teaser, it was damned effective.

  Well, what was it going to be? Get the hell out of town, or take it all the way? And if he took it all the way, he could end up dead even if he didn't make any mistakes. What did he owe three dead Marines?

  In everything he'd encountered thus far in his professional life, the absolute guiding principle had always seemed to be the avoidance of responsibility. And it had always made him sick to his stomach. Which led to an even better question: Are your principles worth dying for?

  Welsh took the hard drive out of the computer and smashed the disk in the bathroom. Then he got out his Guatemala City street map and started putting a plan together.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Welsh was standing in front of his hotel on the Avenida Reforma looking at his watch. Margaret Scanlan pulled up in her car, and he got in.

  It might have been the expression on his face that prompted her to say, "You're one of those guys that's never been late for anything in his life, right?"

  "Never when my life is on the line," Welsh replied curtly.

  "Sorry about that," she said. Then, as if trying to lighten the mood, she exclaimed, "But my goodness, isn't it a lovely day for sightseeing?"

  He'd told her to talk for the benefit of any microphones that might be in the car along with the beacon, but now it was irritating. It was fine to joke around before and after, but when you were doing something dangerous you put your game face on and focused, so you didn't miss a thing. She was either some kind of adrenaline junkie, or unable to appreciate what she was getting into. Neither boded well.

  With the GPS in hand, Welsh navigated them into north Guatemala City. He was glad he wasn't driving; it was the worst he'd ever seen with Naples, Italy, being the previous titleholder. There was a near-universal disregard for all signs, traffic laws, and normal standards of human conduct. All the traffic lights did was slow down the cars speeding into the intersections from all four directions at once.

  The spirit of the place had obviously infected Scanlan. Welsh thought she might as well have been driving a tank the way she charged right into the thick of things.

  When she horsed her way through a four-way horn-honking jam that he wouldn't otherwise have thought negotiable, a quiet but audible groan escaped from Welsh's lips.

  "Hey," she announced. "I'm from Chicago, the city of big shoulders...and sharp elbows."

  From then on Welsh resolved to keep his eyes on the GPS as much as possible. To add to his unease, Scanlan also cheerfully employed a full repertoire of the cruder Spanish adjectives and hand gestures. As they drove through the land of the macho, Welsh waited for one of the locals to come unglued at being dissed by a woman, grab his piece, and start blasting.

  Finally they reached their destination, a well-guarded parking lot recommended by his guidebook. The space he chose couldn't be seen from the street; someone would have to come looking f
or it.

  They left the car without comment and set out from the parking lot on foot.

  Welsh had ran his eye over the local clothing styles and gone shopping. You could pick a foreigner out of a crowd just by their clothes. But covering his local garb was a long cheap plastic raincoat. Scanlan had listened to him and done the same.

  They walked for a block and casually strolled into a large office building. They got on an elevator alone and got off on the second floor—after Welsh pushed a half-dozen buttons for the higher floors. They walked down the stairs and left the building by a rear fire exit that had no alarm, emerging onto another street.

  Welsh removed the raincoat, crammed it into a paper bag, and threw the bag in the trash. Scanlan did the same.

  They used the side streets and put some distance between themselves and the building. They came up on a bus stop, which in Guatemala City was usually identified not by a sign, but by a newspaper and candy stand and a group of locals hanging around for no obvious reason.

  "Now I get what you meant about using the beacon on my car," said Scanlan. "The people following us are probably back at the parking lot scratching their heads."

  "Or running into the office building trying to figure out which floor we got off on," said Welsh. "Our next move is to get the hell out of here before they can get enough help to check the whole area."

  "It really is kind of nice not knowing in advance. You don't get nervous at all."

  It was a conveniently short wait before a bus appeared and creaked to a stop at the street comer. They climbed aboard and grabbed a seat.

  "Very smooth," Scanlan said.

  "It ought to be. I spent the last two days rehearsing every step we took." Welsh didn't say so, but was relieved not to have run into the real professional surveillance he'd planned for. He knew he didn't have the skills to pick out a first-class team with several vehicles, radios, and a lot of followers constantly changing outfits.

  He and Scanlan were separated on the bus's bench seat by a mass of naked protruding springs. And God only knew what it would have smelled like if a defective tailpipe hadn't been blowing burnt diesel back into the passenger compartment.