Hunting for Caracas

by Anthony Fox

  ‘It’s about Phil Connelly,’ whispered Kemi, taking a glance at the closed bedroom door.

  Nina now changed from her comfortable position, lying on her back, as she shuffled up onto her elbow, and moved to the end of her own bed, facing Kemi.

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  Kemi looked at Nina. ‘Before I say anything, understand I can’t tell you how I came by the information.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you remember the story they told us about Connelly?’

  ‘You mean Connelly’s mission Paxman told us about?’ said Nina.

  Kemi nodded.

  When the five members of Operation Matterhorn first got together Paxman joked about Phil Connelly that the rest of them were in the presence of greatness. Later on the others asked what he meant, and he told them about a covert military operation that had been all over the news back in the States about a super-soldier that’d saved the lives of tens of thousands of people.

  As Nina remembered it the story went that, initially out on a mission to help sabotage a section of Iran’s nuclear program, Connelly’s unit was trapped in the hills near the Pakistani border, and all but Connelly himself were killed. Although the original mission was now in tatters, rather than surrender or try to run, Connelly continued on alone, somehow managing to sneak right under the noses of an enemy camp to recover secret plans for an imminent missile strike aimed at Fort Bragg, a military base in North California that was home to nearly forty thousand people. The story was that the attack was completely unknown to American intelligence agencies, and without the plans that Connelly recovered, the attack would have gone off before they’d been able to stop it. After the Bush administration served its term, the events were declassified and Phil Connelly apparently became a bit of a celebrity within US army circles before his honourable discharge.

  ‘Anyway, let’s just say unofficially there was all kinds of conflicting information over what happened and in one report that was later discarded, it suggested Connelly might not have turned out to be the white knight everyone has been making him out to be.’

  Kemi paused as there was a bump outside their bedroom door. Both women instinctively froze. They waited. Nothing followed. Only silence. Nina put a finger to her lips and Kemi lowered her voice even further. ‘I’m not sure how much more I should say until I have the facts.’

  Nina narrowed her eyes and looked at Kemi.

  I need more information here.

  ‘Well, you have to give me more than that.’

  ‘I just wanted to sound out your opinion,’ said Kemi. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, if it’s true, it’s unbelievable,’ said Nina guardedly. Kemi was looking uncomfortable, and Nina knew now was the wrong time to push, so she added, ‘Do you think Connelly seemed a little strange tonight after the surveillance operation this afternoon?’

  Kemi thought about it for a moment. ‘Maybe, but I’ve been on watch most of the evening, so I don’t know. He was seconds away from being caught by Luque. I don’t care who you are, that’s got to shake you up a bit.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Nina thought about Connelly, the strong, handsome face and the well-trained physique. She’d not allowed herself to become attracted to him, but Nina saw the way he looked at her, and knew she could bend him around her little finger, it was just about doing it the right way. You needed to be subtle in an environment like this. Connelly was a man used to feeling in a position of power. If he felt himself being manipulated, he could turn to anger.

  She thought about Paxman.

  He doesn’t interest me, but with his dumb wit and flabby belly, is he a pushover, or is it all for show?

  Nina hadn’t fully made her mind up on that yet.

  He could be easily underestimated.

  Matthews, on the other hand, was a little clearer to read.

  A grumpy old git who stumbles around listening to music on his iPod. If the shit hits the fan, he’ll be the first one to go.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door that made both women jump.

  ‘It’s Bob,’ called Paxman from the other side of the door. They looked at each other and relaxed.

  ‘Come in,’ Nina called out.

  Paxman entered and closed the door behind him. He told Nina and Kemi that Connelly was back from speaking with the White Wolf again. Their employer said before they made a move on Luque he wanted them to try and get eyes on this new lead, Jenkins, when he or she landed in Innsbruck, and see if they could follow them to a location. Paxman told them the White Wolf would make some calls, but with the flight number it shouldn’t be too difficult to check through the names on the manifest and come up with a link to Jenkins.

  ‘So we keep an eye on Luque at the restaurant for now. When Jenkins lands we see where he or she goes. Then we move in and take Luque down,’ said Paxman.

  ‘And job done,’ said Nina.

  ‘Job done,’ agreed Paxman.

  Unbelievable. After all this time, they were nearly there.

  24

  That night Nina fell sound asleep but awoke in the early hours after some strange dreams and in need of a glass of water to soothe her dry mouth. She quietly got out of bed without disturbing Kemi and headed into the kitchen. On her way Nina noticed Connelly’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. Peering through, she saw his room was empty. Phil Connelly was out on watch, Nina knew. She quickly decided to return after getting a drink.

  As she reached the kitchen Nina could see a figure through the dark slumped over at the dining table. On tiptoe she moved closer to see Matthews sat in one of the seats, his body resting on the table top and his eyes closed, his breathing loud and heavy. Nina walked up to him. Matthews’ head was flopped at a funny angle. She could see the nasty scar on his neck facing up towards her. She looked at her watch and realised he must have come back from his shift watching Luque, replaced by Connelly, and instead of heading for bed he’d fallen asleep here.

  There was an empty coffee cup on the table with the brown stain of coffee granules in the bottom. Hidden under Matthews’ arm Nina saw a scrap of paper.

  She was able to slide it out far enough to read.

  A list of places.

  New Zealand, South China, India and Spain.

  Then South America, with an arrow pointing to the word Venezuela, followed by another arrow pointing to the word Caracas.

  Nina knew from Luque’s file that the target was from Maracay in Venezuela, but she’d never heard of any link to the capital.

  Pulling back, Nina saw that next to the paper lay a pair of earphones. They ran along to Matthews’ iPod which was resting on the table next to his hand. She held her breath in the night’s silence and thought she could just hear through Matthews’ heavy breathing the small sounds from the earphones that indicated the iPod was still playing.

  She couldn’t resist.

  Nina reached down and lifted one of the earphones so she could listen, expecting to hear nothing but music. She felt a flash of excitement as she raised the earphone to hear the voice of a man, talking.

  ‘...was when we knew how to reach Caracas. In truth we should have made the connection far sooner, and perhaps, if we did, lives could have been spared. But what you...’

  Nina moved the earphone away as a noise came from outside the kitchen window. A rustling in the trees. She paused a moment with her mouth open, not daring to move so much as an eyelid. The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened.

  It’s just the wind, isn’t it?

  Frowning, she thought of the voice on the recording. The low, strong tone of an old man. Something in the short speech reminded Nina of an old professor lecturing his students. There was also something Nordic about the accent, perhaps, but it was faint. She was certain she’d never heard that distinctive voice before. She brought the earphone back up to her ear.

  ‘...remember, when you think you’re safe is when you’re at your most vulnerable. Begin with Luque. Follow him: he’s
the key to finding...’

  Suddenly the speaking stopped dead and was instantly switched to the beginning of a song as a bass guitar quickly kicked into rhythm. Nina pulled the earphone away from her head, her breathing trapped. Her stomach did a flip. She stood still. Matthews didn’t seem to have moved a muscle. His breathing kept the same rhythm. Looking down, Nina saw his right hand was resting on top of his iPod.

  Has he just moved his hand and changed the track I was listening to? Has he intentionally switched away from the professor-voice I heard?

  The face of the iPod was lit up to show the band and the track that was now playing.

  Was it lit before, or was the screen black?

  ‘Matthews,’ she called softly.

  Nina quickly put the earphones back down on the table. She moved to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She thought back and wondered if Matthews’ hand was resting next to his iPod, not on top of it, when she’d first walked over to him. She cursed herself for not being able to be certain one way or the other. Nina finished filling the glass and headed back across the kitchen straight to her and Kemi’s bedroom. On her way she looked down at Matthews’ position. He certainly hadn’t moved since she went into the kitchen and appeared to be deeply asleep. Nina continued, thinking about the voice on the recording, thinking about what the voice said, wondering if she’d misheard the reference to Luque.

  Nina left the room and closed the bedroom door.

  ***

  After a long moment, Matthews opened one eye and looked at the door Nina had exited through. He picked up the scrap of paper and folded it, grabbed his iPod and turned it off. Standing up from the dining table, Matthews headed for his room. He wondered what Nina had heard, trying unsuccessfully to remember the point at which he’d fallen asleep. He needed to get a grip of himself. Bottling up his emotions like this was never a good idea, he knew, because now it was making him careless. Matthews felt like an elastic band being stretched too tight.

  Soon he was likely to snap.

  25

  Edinburgh, Scotland.

  In Edinburgh, near the Scottish National Gallery and the Balmoral Hotel, sat a thin, tall building much like any other. Passers-by paid this building no more attention than they did the others in the area, and much less than they did to the shops, cafes and restaurants. The building, or tower, as it was often referred to, consisted of twelve floors, each floor narrow, with double-height ceilings. The plaque on the front of the building read ‘Jones and Associates’, indicating it as a workplace for solicitors and legal staff. The ambiguity, like the anonymity of the tower, was a calculated intention.

  The first eleven floors of this tower were identical. Cubicles and corner offices occupied the majority of the space with men and women made to look like the everyday nine- to-five people of the world. Outsiders were not welcome without an invitation. And invitations were rare. Jones and Associates was really a clandestine private security firm. The tower was, in fact, a fortress.

  This fortress for the most part centred around one man. On the twelfth floor the lift doors opened out onto a huge reception area. In the reception sat only two secretaries; one male, one female, at identical desks. Behind the secretaries was the twelfth floor’s only office. On the door to the office was a frosted-glass window with smooth gold letters laminated onto the glass in Rosewood font. The letters spelled out Alan T. Pincer.

  Inside the office, on the twelfth floor, a huge bay window jutted out from the back wall and gave fantastic views over Princes Street Gardens. To the right of the office, a door led to a large private bathroom. On the left a door led to a large private dressing room. In the centre of the office Alan T. Pincer sat at an enormous antique desk, smoking a thin cigar.

  A hardened British war veteran, he appeared to have the upper body of a man six feet tall, yet if he were to stand and straighten up he would reach only five feet nine. With short, spiky hair as white as fresh snow and which, at the age of sixty-eight, was only now thinning. Well-maintained silver eyebrows guarded his murky brown eyes. He wore tortoiseshell reading glasses. His white moustache continued into a beard covering his cheeks and jaw. The beard was thick and full and came together in a point an inch below his chin.

  Pincer didn’t own a passport or driver's licence, and wasn’t registered on any website. He believed no photographs of himself still existed. As for the ‘T’ in Alan T. Pincer, the last person to know what it stood for was Rudy, and he was now gone. With Rudy dead, there were only two people left alive able to link Pincer to his other name. For whenever Pincer set up an operation using outside personnel, he only allowed himself to be known as the White Wolf.

  ‘Is it done?’ Pincer growled into his private phone. Despite running ‘Jones and Associates’ for thirty years from his Edinburgh fortress, Alan T. Pincer was not Scottish. He’d been born in Kent, near the white cliffs of Dover, and still retained his English accent.

  ‘It’s still snowing here.’ The voice was scratchy and distant. Howling winds crackled over the line. ‘It’ll have to wait a few more days,’ replied one of Pincer’s personal hunters, Jonas, on the other end.

  ‘I don’t give a damn if it’s raining molten lava. You have one day. We aren’t shifting the deadline for a bit of snow. Call me back when it’s done,’ the White Wolf told him. He set what little was left of his cigar down in the mosaic ashtray.

  ‘Understood,’ replied Jonas in defeat.

  ‘Good.’ Pincer slammed the phone down, as he always seemed to do these days – or had it always been like that? – and raised his mug to his mouth. Tasting the black coffee, Pincer’s mouth twisted with displeasure and he set it down, reached over his desk to the whisky tumbler filled with golden amber liquid as clear as the tropical sea, and poured a hefty glug into his mug. He took another sip.

  His intercom buzzed as he rose from his heavy leather chair and turned toward the bathroom. He reached forward with a grumble and pressed the speaker button.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Agent Roger Clayton on line two,’ said the chewy female voice of his secretary.

  ‘I need a piss,’ replied the White Wolf loudly as he headed for the bathroom. He left the intercom on as he considered the nature of the call whilst relieving himself. He flushed and headed back to his desk. Taking his seat, he slowly lifted the telephone receiver, taking a sip from his mug before answering.

  ‘Clayton,’ said Pincer flatly.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ intoned Roger Clayton.

  ‘I have a job for you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s an American Airlines flight leaving out of Baltimore. The name Jenkins is linked to the flight somehow. I need to know the full details ASAP.’

  ‘I’ll look into it. My usual fee, through the usual channels.’

  ‘Then I’ll consider it done. My secretary will give you the rest of the details.’

  With that, the White Wolf hung up.

  26

  One year earlier…

  New Zealand.

  Caracas and Luque reached Port Taranaki, in New Plymouth on North Island, early the next morning. They left the yacht out to sea and took the tender to shore. In half an hour a hole would blow in the bottom of the yacht and it would sink to the bottom of the ocean. The tender was arranged for a complete refit when they arrived, with a full clean-down, all-new interior, and a fresh coat of paint. The man at the port apologised because the work might take a day longer than planned. Since they’d no intention of collecting the tender afterwards, this wasn’t a problem.

  The contact was still there, the ocean liner having been delayed. With the money Caracas was paying the man, he guessed the man would probably have waited all week.

  Caracas walked away from Luque then, and boarded the ocean liner transporting cargo from New Zealand alone. Two weeks later he arrived in Fiji. From there he was able to fly on a private jet direct to Hong Kong. In Hong Kong Caracas was easily able to travel to Shenzhen in mainland China. In Shenzhen he re
ad online reports that the international authorities were in meltdown over the assassination in New Zealand, coupled with Ambassador Marshall’s change of policy regarding climate change and over-population. As expected, they’d thrown everything at the investigation. But they would look in all the wrong areas, he knew. He’d slipped through the net unnoticed. In that respect, all the planning and effort were successful.

  With this news, all he had to do from Shenzhen was get a train to Kunming and then a bus to the town of Lijiang. In Lijiang Caracas would hike up to the rice terraces and through the mountains to the city of Chengdu. Once in Chengdu he felt it would be safe to fly from the international airport all the way back to Spain – back to his sanctuary.

  So he took the next train to Kunming followed by the local bus to Lijiang, looking forward to stretching his legs on the long hike.

  Caracas was high up in the rice terraces of Lijiang when they found him.

  At first all he could think was that it was impossible. Every step taken was carefully calculated.

  Yet here they are.

  The individual who had ordered and paid for the hit on Ambassador Marshall’s family had also positioned people along the journey, keeping Caracas informed and hidden. Some of these people were in Lijiang, and they spread news to Caracas of the pack that was closing in. They gained on him, until they were right on his heels. He didn’t think they were the usual government agencies or Special Forces teams, with their procedures and their hierarchy and rules and laws. This was a different beast altogether. As they closed in around him, Caracas could sense them. They were like a living, moving, evolving organism specifically designed to hunt and eradicate him.

  It was when he was resting up in a small Chinese hut high in the hills that the attack happened. Tactical reasoning suggested they’d sent their best man on ahead. Like a tracker releasing his lead wolf. In order to catch him they would send their most experienced, their most advanced. And the man was the best Caracas had ever come up against. Never was someone able to approach him unawares. Only Caracas’s supernatural speed, and the bright moonlight, saved him.