Rendition Protocol

by Nathan Goodman

  Jana grinned. “Already proving my point,” she said.

  “And what point is that?” He rose and stood beside her.

  “Your eyes. When I stood and walked over here, you could not keep your eyes off of me.” She turned to him.

  “And what is wrong with that? I told you before. My eyes are drawn to beauty.”

  “How do you think I lured Perez out of the bar and down an abandoned alley?”

  Rojas nodded. “There is no room for mistakes, Miss Baker. When a leading member of Oficina de Envigado disappears, there better not be clues lying about or a body for them to find. Or they will find your body, and do things to it.” The inference was vile, but Jana held her tongue.

  “You leave that to me. You’ll find I know quite a bit about how to make people disappear. And how to hide a crime scene.” She looked into the shimmering waters. “A hundred thousand.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, Miss Baker. What makes you think your services are worth that much?”

  She leveled eyes at him. “That’s half. That’s what I take up front. The rest is due upon delivery.”

  He took a step closer and looked at her chest without embarrassment. It was as though he was at an art gallery admiring a statue. But after a moment, his eyes settled on the three gunshot wounds on her sternum. He raised his hand and ran the backs of his fingers on the centermost one.

  A sharp, burning sensation caused Jana to pull back as flashes of Rafael’s face popped into her vision. “Hands off,” she said with more intensity than she had intended. “I may be on your payroll but I don’t do that for money. And I never mix business with pleasure. My price is two hundred thousand. Take it or leave it.”

  “No business with pleasure? What a pity. It is of no concern,” he said as he turned and waved his hand dismissively. “I have all I need of beautiful women at my disposal.”

  There was something in his tone that gave Jana pause. It was as if he was describing a broken cell phone or pair of torn slacks—an object to be thrown away and replaced. A tiny voice whispered from somewhere deep, a place of darkness. Show her again, the voice said as pain flared on the scar. Show her how much like her father she really is. Flickers of her nightmares popped in her vision, her father’s mugshot, the arrest warrant. Her hand shook harder and the edges of her vision began to blur, but she fought back and the voice quieted.

  A servant appeared with a platter in his hand and placed two glasses on the table.

  “But let us sit and drink.”

  “And what are we drinking?” Jana said as she eased herself into the chair.

  “Guaro. It means fire water, a Colombian specialty. Many like Aguardiente Antioqueño, but I prefer this,” he said as he held up a small glass of clear liquid and crushed ice, “Aguardiente Del Cauca.”

  Jana held her shaking hand in her lap and used the other to bring the drink to her lips. To her, it tasted something like delicate vodka, only sweeter.

  Rojas said, “Do you know what my men said when I told them to expect your arrival?”

  “What?”

  “Ya vienen los tombos. It means—”

  Jana interrupted, “The cops are coming.” She shook her head. “After I nearly killed one of your rivals, you still thought I worked for the US government, didn’t you?”

  “You continue to surprise me, Miss Baker.”

  “And upon my arrival, you had me swept for listening devices.”

  “In this line of business, one cannot be too careful.”

  “Show me the rest of your rancho.”

  Rojas walked her from room to room and described the history of the expansive property. He concluded the tour on the lowermost level, the immaculately appointed daylight basement, where dozens of wine barrels were stacked in a closed room. “The wine travels here from Colombia and is aged against the coolness of the earth.”

  “Very impressive,” Jana said. “Yet there are two rooms you have not shown me. The first is the room in which most men choose to end the tour.”

  Rojas grinned. “You made your feelings about the master bedroom crystal clear. And the other?”

  Jana pointed at a steel door off to one side. It appeared to lead to a hallway.

  “Ah, well, one can’t reveal all one’s secrets.”

  “Something to hide, Mr. Rojas?” She grinned.

  Rojas ignored the assertion. As they ascended the wide, brightly lit glass staircase to the first floor, Rojas said, “I have many information sources, Miss Baker, and I will be passing certain pieces of information to you. Information about your assignments.” He placed a hand on her arm. “You have earned your way into my rancho. The question remains whether you have what it takes to stay.”

  She started back up the stairs then turned and looked down at him. His eyes were on her backside.

  He laughed. “Very well played. You continue to surprise me. Please, don’t ever lose that quality.”

  “And you will tell me the source of your information. I do not accept facts blindly,” she said. Rojas sized her up, but she continued. “I know it takes a lot of intel to do what you do, but that doesn’t mean I trust it.” Once upstairs, Rojas led her to the front door. Gustavo Moreno stared at her from down a long hallway. His arms were crossed. “And I do not trust that man,” she said.

  Rojas glanced at Moreno. “The source of this information is mine and mine alone.”

  “This is not a negotiation,” she said.

  “You will find what you seek already waiting for you on the front seat of your car. We can discuss the source later. I want this to happen quickly, Miss Baker. Time is of the essence. Your assignment must be carried out tonight.”

  She walked outside, down the steps, and onto the crushed coral of the drive. She got in her car and thought about the one thing she had not expected: Rojas was on a timetable. Prior to entering the estate, she had felt incredible pressure to find Kyle and find him quickly. But now she suspected Rojas had another agenda, and the thought gave her pause.

  She picked up a large manila envelope, then opened it. Four thick bundles of brand-new one-hundred-dollar bills were inside along with a dossier. The dossier looked identical to an FBI file. It was made of the same file-folder material she was accustomed to seeing in government reports. When she opened it, she saw that it appeared to be identical to a government intelligence service report. A glossy black-and-white photo of a man Jana knew to be her target was affixed to the left panel. On the right were several sheets of background material, all neatly bound across the top with bendable metal strips.

  Where did they get this? she thought. This target is obviously a member of Oficina de Envigado.

  Just before she started the engine, she heard a sound about twenty feet behind her, like that of someone pounding a glass window. When she turned, she saw a woman at a window. Both of her hands were splayed against the glass and a look of terror painted her wide eyes. Her mouth opened into a scream and Jana’s heart rate accelerated.

  A hand jammed across the woman’s mouth and yanked her away. She was gone. A feeling of rage erupted in Jana’s gut and she reached for the door handle. But an unfamiliar Latin voice called out from the front steps, “So glad you could join us today, Miss Baker.” She turned to see Gustavo Moreno pointing toward the front gate. “It is time for you to depart our company.” Two armed guards flanked him.

  Jana knew the woman was being abused and the rage that had started in her gut spread. She started the car, then shifted it into gear.

  As she drove away, she tried to suppress thoughts of the woman but could not. She passed the entrance, where the guard had already opened the gate. He was standing, waiting for her to pass. The little grin on his face sickened her.

  Moreno may have placed a tracking device on my car, she thought. I can’t go back to the safe house.

  27

  Back to the Bungalow

  Side Hill Bay.

  Jana drove in the direction of her tiny beachside bu
ngalow. If Gustavo Moreno had a detailed dossier on her, they certainly already knew where she lived, so driving there wouldn’t be a problem. She wove her way down Gray’s Farm Main Road and turned left toward the water on PerryBay, then turned up the dirt road before stopping at Little Orleans, a dilapidated market often frequented by locals. The sun-beaten paint had once been the colors of peach, pink, and teal. The store blended into the surrounding village with ease. She hopped out and picked up the one working pay phone and dialed Stone.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m out.”

  “Thank God,” Stone replied.

  “I’m at Little Canton. Why don’t you come pick me up at my place?”

  “On the way.”

  “And make sure you’re not tailed.”

  Stone laughed. “It wasn’t too long ago that you were my student.”

  “I knew plenty before coming to you, jackass,” she said with a sarcastic tone.

  Her one-room bungalow was nestled in a halo of banana and coconut trees. It was more of a shanty than anything else. But the tropical colors that adorned the interior helped alleviate the notion of poverty in the surrounding area. The house, if one could call it that, sat within fifty yards of the water on a private ranch owned by a British family. The rent was beyond cheap. When Jana had arrived on the island the year prior, she’d sought out a simple existence, and simple was what she’d gotten. Compared to the average islander, Jana had money, so furnishing the sparse space had come easily.

  Ten minutes later, Stone’s Jeep arrived and she hopped in. “You didn’t go to Rojas’s place dressed like that, did you?” Stone said as he pulled away.

  “No, I just changed,” she said. “Kyle is alive.”

  He locked the brakes and the Jeep skidded as a plume of dust rose from underneath. “You saw him? Why didn’t you say so? If we’d have known that, we would have put the DEA team on standby.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  He slowly accelerated. “Then why do you—”

  “A hunch.”

  “NSA isn’t going to order an incursion on a hunch.”

  “He’s there. I’m telling you.”

  “Because of a hunch?”

  “Perhaps you’re not aware, but a lot of crimes are solved because of hunches.”

  “Yeah,” he chided, “but a lot are solved by actual evidence.”

  They pulled up to the safe house and walked inside.

  “Cade,” she said, “what makes you think the safe house isn’t being surveilled?”

  “Nice to see you too,” he said as he looked up from his laptop. He turned back to the monitor, where he was in the middle of a secure video conference with NSA. “Hold on, Uncle Bill. She just walked in.”

  Then from the laptop speakers, Jana heard voices. “Yeah,” the voice said, “we know. We could see her coming up the road.”

  Jana leaned over the monitor. “Hey, Uncle Bill. What do you mean you could see me? You have monitors on the road?”

  On the video, Knuckles leaned in. “They’re called satellites, Agent Baker. We’re watching.”

  “Knuckles,” Jana said as she stood tall and crossed her arms, “call me agent one more time and I’ll . . .”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Cade said, “And that answers your question about why we know we’re not being surveilled here. Knuckles has a team with eyes in the sky at all times. We’ll know if anyone comes within a quarter mile.”

  “They use kilometers down there, Cade,” Knuckles said.

  “Know-it-all,” came Cade’s reply.

  Stone shook his head. “Jana thinks Kyle’s still alive.”

  “What evidence do we have?” Uncle Bill said as he drew a hand to his cavernous beard.

  “None,” Stone said.

  “He’s alive,” Jana said. “How do you think we got this?” She held up the dossier. “It’s a complete workup of one of the members of Oficina de Envigado. They want me to take out a man named Carlos Gaviria.”

  “That name would have come from Gustavo Moreno,” Knuckles said. “We know he’s a heavy hitter in the intelligence community.”

  Jana shook her head. “Not where did the background information come from, where did the name come from in the first place.” She looked at the others. “None of you geniuses know, do you?” She was met with silence. “Rojas wants to remove Oficina de Envigado from the island, but these cartels have been doing business like this for decades. They know what they’re doing.”

  Bill said, “What are you getting at?”

  Jana said, “Even Gustavo Moreno would have a hard time finding out who was on the island from Oficina de Envigado. He would need to get that information somewhere.”

  On the video monitor, Uncle Bill leaned back in his chair. His fingers buried themselves deep into his hair, which had become more salt than pepper. “Kyle. Kyle was interrogated and that’s where they got the name Carlos Gaviria.”

  “Finally,” Jana said.

  “Oh, come on,” Cade said. “I don’t buy the fact that Moreno wouldn’t have known who from Oficina de Envigado was on the island. It’s his job to know stuff like that.”

  Stone put a hand on Cade’s shoulder. “Spent a lot of time working as a DEA Agent, have we?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  Stone continued. “Spent much time on the front lines? Making contacts? Doing undercover drug buys? In the line of fire, perhaps? Penetrating into the upper echelons of a drug ring?”

  “No, but—”

  “Believe me,” Stone said, “It’s a lot harder than you think. These people don’t just show up on an island and announce themselves. They come in quietly, under false identities. The whole thing happens slowly. The quality of the passports is unbelievable. Then, when the entire crew is assembled, they open up shop in perfect anonymity.”

  “Run a bio on that name,” Uncle Bill said to Knuckles.

  Knuckles smiled. “It’s already up, sir,” he said, pointing to screen number four. “Carlos Ochoa Gaviria, he’s the son of the commander of the MAS.”

  “Shit,” Uncle Bill muttered.

  “What’s the MAS?” Cade asked.

  Knuckles was all too happy to assist. “The Muerte a Secuestradores. It was a paramilitary organization. Started out as security to stabilize the region. In those days, it was comprised of members of the Medellín Cartel, the Colombian military, the Colombian legislature, small industrialists, some wealthy cattle ranchers, and even the Texas Petroleum.”

  Jana said, “Texas Petroleum? A US company? What the hell is a US company doing involved with the drug cartels?”

  Uncle Bill replied. “Cocaine had just become a bigger export than coffee. It takes a lot of land and workers to produce that much product. And locals were being attacked from all sides. The MAS was formed to fight off guerrillas who were trying to either redistribute their lands, kidnap the landowners, or extort money. Companies like Texas Petroleum needed the region to be stable.”

  “But the MAS changed its charter, didn’t it?” Cade said.

  Knuckles said, “It became an arm of the Medellín Cartel. They did enforcement, if you know what I mean. Stability of the region was no longer a problem. Anyone that got in the cartel’s way was dealt with.”

  “Okay,” Jana said, “So my target, Carlos Gaviria, was the leader’s son. So what?”

  “Remember,” Uncle Bill replied, “we’re talking about Colombia in the early ’80s. As the son, he would have gone with his father. He would have been witness to dozens or hundreds of killings. He was raised in that environment.”

  “Yeah,” Cade said, “wouldn’t doubt if he participated in some. Making a ruthless guy like that disappear isn’t going to be easy.”

  Jana turned her back. “Who says he has to just disappear?”

  “What was that, Jana?” Uncle Bill said.

  “She said,” Cade replied, “why does he have to just disappear? You don’t mean that, do you, Jana?”

  “I’m g
etting Kyle out of there. I don’t care what it takes.”

  Cade stood. “You can’t possibly mean you would be willing to commit murder.”

  Jana’s eyes were like stone.

  Uncle Bill spoke next. “If your grandfather was standing next to you, you wouldn’t have said that, Jana.”

  “It wouldn’t be murder,” she said.

  “Oh no?” Cade said. “And what would you call it?”

  “Someone getting what they deserved,” she said.

  There was venom in Uncle Bill’s voice this time. “There will be no assassinations on my watch. The subject is closed. Now drop it.” It was the first time any of them had seen the typically stoic man become angry. “Besides, we have more information,” Uncle Bill said. “Tell them, Knuckles,”

  “Tell us what?” Cade said.

  Knuckles stood. He was in his element now. “You won’t believe what we found in Kyle’s CIA file.”

  28

  Kyle’s CIA File

  Safe house, Gray’s Farm Main Road, Hawksbill Bay.

  “What’s in Kyle’s CIA file?” Jana asked.

  Knuckles replied, “They’ve obfuscated his federal identity.”

  “What does—”

  “They’ve falsified his file,” Knuckles said. He loved being the one who knew something others didn’t.

  “I know what it means,” Jana said. “I was going to ask, what does it say?”

  Uncle Bill said, “They’ve got him set up as if he’s a DEA agent.”

  Cade stood. “Why would they do that? Do they want to get him killed?”

  Jana turned and took a few steps as she processed the information. “They don’t want to get him killed, they want to save his life.”

  “That’s right,” Uncle Bill said. “And the data log shows this new identity went into the system four days ago.”

  “That’s about the time Kyle disappeared.”

  “Makes sense,” Jana said. “If Kyle was undercover investigating a drug connection, and he missed his check-in, CIA might have assumed he’d been compromised.” She turned to Cade who was still catching up. “I told you. Rojas got the name of my first assignment from Kyle. And the reason he knew Kyle would have that kind of information is because Gustavo Moreno ran Kyle’s background.”