The bed screeched when Maggie sat down on it. She wasn’t about to get under the soiled covers. She opened a bottle of cold sparkling water she’d purchased in a tienda next door and fired up her MacBook, plugging it in to a wall socket to charge.
Three emails from Ed, one dated the day she left the U.S., two today. Yesterday actually, because it was now past midnight.
Just checking in read the subject line of the first. She skipped that.
Where are you? read the second.
Need to talk to you ASAP was the third. It requested an acknowledgement receipt, but she declined, opening it anyway. Ed, she thought, you are such a newbie sometimes.
Maggs-
I just heard a scary rumor about that cowboy you worked with last week. I actually swung by your place tonight but you weren’t home. Please tell that woman who lives downstairs I’m not a stalker. I know you said you were going to take off for the mountains but now I’m hoping those mountains aren’t the Andes. Don’t do anything foolish. We’ve been friends a long time and you can always talk to me. Give me a call as soon as you get this. Notice I didn’t use the word ‘please’ there.
Maggie took a drink of fizzy water. She needed to contact Sinclair. Donning her headphones she Skyped his number in Alexandria, Virginia.
Sinclair Michaels answered, looking groggy and ruffled. He was sitting in a home office, wearing a robe. The green shade of a banker’s lamp cast light on a Redskins pennant pinned to the wall behind him.
“I’m clean,” Maggie said. Safe to talk.
“Hello, Maggie,” he said in a voice clotted with sleep. Or Scotch.
She brought him up to speed. Sinclair nodded from time to time, hands folded in front of him on his desk. He seemed to take her news in stride, even the part about the Coca safe-house rescue and the deaths of two terrucos, and the arrests of Abraham, Yalu, and Ernesto, although she could see that he was aggravated. Most likely because the op had derailed and been taken over by Ecuadorian intelligence. They’d scored well enough. Sinclair Michaels, for his part, hadn’t delivered. It was results that mattered, especially for a contractor.
She didn’t mention Ernesto being Cain’s son. That information she would keep to herself for the time being.
“And where are Yalu and her son now?”
“Achic is going to have them moved.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”
Sinclair frowned. “It’s unfortunate we weren’t able to complete the transaction,” he said. “But good work.”
“Not exactly.”
“Never mind,” he said. “Can you get to Coca airport? I’ll have a ticket waiting and a diplomatic letter to speed you through to Quito and then out of the country. You still have your Alice Mendes ID?”
“I do,” she said. “But I can make my own way to Quito. I know the country pretty well.”
“Of course you do.”
“And I’m not ready to come back yet.”
He gave a squint. “No?”
“I’m meeting Cain,” she said.
Sinclair Michaels eyed her sideways in the webcam.
“I’m going through with the transfer,” she said. She told him about the phone call she had Abraham make to Cain.
“And Cain is willing to follow these new measures?”
“Why not? He’s changed gears on us three times so far. He wants this money. It’s within his grasp. He has no idea his people were arrested. He thinks it’s business as usual and that we just want to keep a low profile. So the operation continues. Simply another change of venue. One that that benefits him, actually.”
She watched Sinclair pick up a glass with an inch or two of amber liquid in the bottom and take a slug. He set it down, out of sight. For the first time ever, she saw him smile. Not much of one, but still.
“Are you really prepared to go through with this, Maggie?”
“I want Tica out—remember? And the rest of her cohorts. I need Beltran back in Quito where he can get that done.”
“I’m not sure I can get anyone there in time to assist you.”
“I don’t need anyone. Don’t want anyone. No more cowboys. We just need to make sure the actual trade takes place somewhere safe.”
“Most definitely.”
“I’m thinking Quito. National Bank of Ecuador. Main branch.”
“Good choice. Our part of the world. On the plaza, so we can cover it from multiple angles.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said. “Probably within the next twelve hours. Right after I meet Cain. How’s John Rae? Or rather, where is John Rae?”
“Bogotá. But I’m told he’s going to be released. You know South America. They have fifty terms for the word delay.”
Yes, she knew all about that. “Where, exactly? What facility?”
“Just a moment,” he said, clacking away on his keyboard, reading from a screen to the side of the webcam. “Penal Corporativo. But he’s being processed. It’ll just take longer than expected.”
“That’s great news,” she said.
“John Rae’s going to be impressed when he sees how you’ve held up. And with what you’re about to do—single-handed.”
“It’s a milk run.”
Sinclair gave up another tight smile. “Performed by someone who has just shy of three operations under her belt. Who weathered a serious firefight. Two. You’ve got quite a career ahead of you. If you want it.”
Did she? She’d think about that later. For now, she was focused on the op—and springing Tica. “I better sign off.”
“Good luck. Not that you need it.”
Yeah, she would. But she felt lucky enough.
She could also smell something. Something that bore the hint of rat.
Once Maggie logged out of Skype, she opened Iggy, the chat client she wrote back in grad school with her compadre Enzo, and pinged France.
@Enzo99 hola - ayt?
It was late afternoon in Paris. She knew Enzo lived in an electronic cave where lights flashed and screens flickered 24/7. He never went outdoors. He was a cyber-vampire.
A reply began to appear:
Enzo99: Hey, ca va?
Magdalena: looking for some info on a friend
Enzo99: aren’t we all
Magdalena: so true ☺
Enzo99: is this the one that disappeared? – nothing new sori to saye
Magdalena: no, another one
Enzo99: oh, sori to her that
Magdalena: ‘Bogotá international airport, American, arrest, Jack Warren, Penal Corporativo’ – there are your search parms, bro
Enzo99: Got it, 1 sec . . .
Magdalena: he was supposed to have been released this am, FWIW
Maggie waited while the bed next door banged against the wall amidst the horrendous overacting on the part of the female.
Finally, a response came back.
Enzo99: not Penal Corporativo - La Picota Prison - Bogotá
Magdalena: not Penal Corporativo - u sure?
Enzo99: y wud I lie to u?
Magdalena: not intentionally – at least I hope not ☺ is he being released, can you tell?
A few seconds passed.
Nothing here about that. hes in max security
Huh? Maggie thought. Huh!
Magdalena: muchas gracias, eh?
Enzo99: de nada
Magdalena: ciao
There was a silence before Enzo responded.
Enzo99: u know, one of these days . . .
Magdalena: Yes, I know. We have to meet in person. But how r u going to keep a brave ☺ on your face when you see i weigh 300 pounds? That’s 140 kilos to u BTW
Enzo99: lol - I no u r a fether. I cn tell by the liteness of your kystrokes.
Dude was talking about her strokes now.
Magdalena: ic. well, i think u might be dee-luded, mon
Enzo99: I think you’re beautiful.
She took a deep breath through her nose.
Magdalen
a: You don’t really know me. I am not so nice.
Enzo99: disagree
Magdalena: I’m so sorry, Enzo—this is a really bad time. I’ll ping u when I get back, k, and we can chat up then?
There was a pause. A long pause. She felt a pang inside for hurting his feelings.
Enzo99: My bad. I am the 1 sori. I will kep look for your friend. friendz. Check with me in a day. b safe.
An ICE ping alert popped, startling her with its warning window.
ciao she typed again and hit the shutdown button post haste.
Yes, she could definitely smell a rat from her earlier call to Sinclair.
Or was it a mole?
Next door the bed was starting to squeak again. Maggie checked the time. A few hours to go before she would head to the dock and find a boat to the Yasuni.
She could try for sleep, but sleep didn’t seem likely. She lay back and shut her eyes.
-23-
Early morning, the moon still shining overhead, Maggie strode down to Coca’s boat dock, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The air was cool and fresh. Even with all the questions racing through her mind, it was calming.
On the way, she dumped the pistol she’d taken from Abraham in a fifty-five-gallon drum overflowing with trash. She wouldn’t get away with bringing a gun to meet a terrorist group that would be armed to the teeth. They would search her and the gun would only make matters worse.
She still needed to talk to Ed. But she wasn’t going to risk another ICE alert just yet and give away her location to whoever might be watching.
Long narrow riverboats bobbed idly on the piers, all but one of them unmanned. At the end of the dock two Indians in bare feet and baggy shorts were provisioning a boat. One young man lugged a huge red Jerry can of gas across the boards, while an older man hunched over the motor with a long screwdriver. He looked up as Maggie approached, cigarette dangling from his mouth. His face was bronzed and deeply lined from sun and water.
“Are you for hire?” Maggie asked him in Quechua. The Indians in this part of the Amazon spoke it as well. Even though the sun had rendered the man’s face to look much older, he was probably just shy of middle-aged.
“Booked,” he said in voice thick with phlegm. “Taking a group of Germans up to Napo at nine.”
“Napo—the Yasuni. That’s where I’m going. Maybe I can ride along. I’m willing to pay. Cash.”
“Private party,” he muttered. “Eco-tourists.” He gave a frown, apparently not aware how such travelers were keeping people like him alive.
“How much are they paying you?”
He told her.
A peacock sauntered up to watch the interaction curiously.
“I’ll pay double,” Maggie said, pulling out a roll of U.S. dollars, peeling off bills. “It’s just me—no one else. I won’t get drunk, ask a lot of stupid questions about the wildlife, or make you stop so I can take photos. I won’t get sick or fall out of the boat. All I want to do is get to Napo as soon as possible. Have your boy run to the Germans’ hotel now, before they get up, and tell them to relax, lie in, that your boat needs some part and you’ll be ready by this afternoon. You can be back by then, I’m sure. But we leave now.” She raised her eyebrows.
He eyed the wad of money in her hand.
The peacock’s feathers splayed.
The driver gave a single nod.
~~~
The long motorized canoe chugged upriver, water splashing over the wooden hull when the boat hit a swell. The torn green awning flapped in the early-morning breeze with its sweet scent of rich wet earth. The sun was rising over the rainforest in a rush of orange. Birds picked up their singing, echoing across the water.
Maggie couldn’t help but wonder how many such mornings were left in the Yasuni.
In front of them, a huge barge came into view, slogging upriver, stacked high with 36-inch thick lengths of pipe. To carry away the black gold. Destined for one of the two last pristine remnants of Amazon rainforest. The report of the canoe’s engine popped off the giant metal hull of the barge as they swept by and Maggie saw the name stenciled on the sides of the pipe: Commerce Oil.
Halfway to Yasuni, they stopped at a tienda, the last store before the jungle, to gas up, where there was cell-phone coverage. Maggie helped the driver lug a can of fuel to the boat and he accepted her offer of a cold drink.
Inside the store, originally built decades ago by nuns who ran a nearby mission, when all that lay beyond here was unspoiled jungle, Maggie found numerous shoppers, oil-workers stocking up on beer, cigarettes, and other luxuries, although traveling water-bound shops would fill in—at a handsome markup. The inane musical drone of a video game and ringing cash register, along with the thumping of the generator outside, killed what had once been relative silence.
She purchased a couple of dripping Inka colas, a sandwich roll stuffed with ham, and a pack of American smokes for the driver, a tube of toothpaste, and two large bags of boiled sweets she would jam into her knapsack. There would no doubt be children where she was headed.
Over at a grubby dairy case popping with fluorescent light, two men in dungarees examined a stringy slice of red monkey meat dripping blood out of its homemade cellophane wrapper onto the wood floor. Illegal. The sisters would never have allowed it.
Back out on the river Maggie drank neon yellow soda as the manmade breeze of the boat heading upriver helped erase the stickiness of the coming day.
Back in San Francisco, Ed would be up by now. She wasn’t going to risk another logon just yet. She got out Abraham’s mucky cell phone as she chewed her stale sandwich, wiping the phone off with a paper napkin. The phone was a preload, so nobody would be tracking it.
She called a number in San Francisco, California.
On the second ring, Ed answered.
“Did you order a pizza?” It was a standing joke between them and a quick and dirty way to give Ed a head’s up to assess the situation before giving a name. Static crackled across the virtual wires as the boat bounced off a surge of water.
“Last night before I went to bed, I did,” he said. “Extra-large Hawaiian. With extra pineapple. Where the hell is it?”
“I’m eating it now.” She tore off a hunk of dry roll and not-so-fresh meat with her teeth. She was starving. She pulled the phone away from her ear while the screech of a PJ–pocket jammer–was plugged into the phone on the other end. Ed was cleaning the line.
Then: “It’s good to hear your voice, Maggs.”
“Ditto.” Chewing.
“But it sounds a little in and out. I’m going out on a limb here and guessing it’s not coming from your apartment. Mostly because I keep stopping by your place and you’re not there.”
“These South American cell-phone providers are less than excellent.”
“Christ,” Ed said. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
They passed an open gas flare in dense jungle, burning high above the tree line, a byproduct of oil production. Left uncapped, it scorched the last dark blue of night away.
“Better lay it on me, Maggie.”
She did. When she was done, she heard Ed light a cigarette, take a deep suck of poisonous smoke, and say: “Turn that damn boat around. Now. That’s an order.”
“You’re not exactly a ‘that’s-an-order’ type, Ed. Nice try, though.”
“How about ‘please’?”
“Sorry, Ed,” she said. “I’ve got to see this through.”
Even with the splashing of the river, she could hear Ed’s deep sigh of exasperation. “You know I always go to bat for you, Maggs, but do you have any idea what this is going to do to your career? If you survive, that is?”
“It might sound glib,” she said. “But career is the last thing on my mind right now. Perhaps it should be. But it’s not. There are other things taking priority—people. Seven of them. Tica and her six compadres. Maybe they can do something about this insane, illegal, oil exploration.”
She heard Ed take another puf
f of cigarette. “Yeah,” was all he said in a tone that made her realize he understood completely. “So I can threaten you and it doesn’t make any difference?”
“You’re just not that scary, Ed. It’s one of the many reasons I like you. You’ve survived in a pack of people who care about nothing—except starting wars all over the globe. You’re head and shoulders above the rest of the Agency.”
“Great. Will you put that down as a recommendation in my LinkedIn profile? When I have to go looking for another job?”
“Sure.” Maggie chewed some more dehydrated sandwich. It was a good thing she had strong teeth. “So I guess it comes down to this. You’re duty-bound as my friend to help me in any way possible. Since I would do the same for you.”
“That’s pretty low, Maggie.”
“Yep. But I am going to see the Yasuni Seven freed. And you might as well be part of it. You know how fickle the Agency is. When it happens, they’re going to be pushing each other out of the way to take credit. So you might as well be first in line.”
“You never used to be this cynical.”
“I need you to get John Rae out of jail. Something funky is going on there. But with your connections, I bet you can pull it off. I also need you as a contact point, because I’m not trusting Sinclair Michaels anymore, so you get to be de facto leader of this op now.”
“Come on, Maggs.”
“Admit it,” she said. “It makes total sense.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to end up working for you in a year or two. Where’s John Rae being held?”
“La Picota Prison,” she said. “Bogotá. Maximum-security wing. He’s going by the name of Jack Warren.”
She could hear Ed scratching it down old school on a pad of paper. “What else?”
“I’m meeting Cain out here in the Amazon, planning to do the exchange in Quito. Beltran for the two mil. By tomorrow.”
“You got the money transfers all set up, ready to go?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?”
“I’ll get a team of goons together to monitor the transfer. Doesn’t give me a lot of time.”
The Cain File Page 21