The three men pushed past the core of the facility and continued down the hallway.
“Why are we here?” Logan finally asked.
After the events at the Atlantis Resort, Logan, Cole, and Santiago had spent Saturday night and Sunday morning at the US Embassy in Nassau. Commander Henderson had run point with local law enforcement and the security on Paradise Island. The official story was that the carnage in the room had been a rare robbery attempt gone wrong, which had spilled out onto the grounds of the resort and ended with one subject falling into the lagoon, to the dietary benefit of the three great hammerheads. The American couple on the bridge had provided a description of Logan to security, which Commander Henderson had personally obtained and then buried. No official report of Logan’s presence existed. While the story was messy, it was good enough for the Bahamian government.
By Sunday afternoon, Santiago had been able to secure safe passage to a private airfield south of Caracas. The location was remote and guarded by a unit from the SEBIN. Various Venezuelan government agencies utilized it for discreet travel both in and out of the country. The fact that the Gulfstream jet—dispatched at CIA Director Toomey’s request—was from the US hadn’t even fazed the security personnel. They’d been there long enough to see aircraft from all over the world arrive and depart.
Once in Caracas, the team had established contact with the chief of station at the US Embassy, who had been personally briefed by the CIA director. It was full crisis-management mode, and analysts at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, had been ordered to determine exactly where Hugo Sanchez had been the previous week. Until that intelligence was obtained, Logan and Cole were in a holding pattern, staying inside the US Embassy compound at a residence that was used by the ambassador for personal guests. It was also how they found themselves at the medical facility, invited along by Santiago for a purpose he refused to reveal until they were at the location. With little else to do but wait—the worst part of any mission, Cole had commented, more than once—they’d accepted.
Santiago stopped at a room with a light-colored oak door partially closed. A placard read ROJAS above room number 504. He turned to Logan and Cole, his features softening, and said, “This is why we’re here. Be pleasant, and no foul language, understand?” He emphasized the point by raising his first finger in front of his face.
Logan suspected what lay inside, nodded, and followed Santiago into the room of nine-year-old Camila Rojas.
CHAPTER 9
Logan studied the beautiful little girl who slept peacefully on a slightly elevated hospital bed. A high-definition monitor displayed her heart and respiration rates, but there were no visible wires or electrodes. Wireless monitoring? Impressive . . . and not cheap.
The girl had shoulder-length, jet-black hair—like her father—sharp features, and a cute button nose that would one day drive boys crazy, at least Logan so hoped. An immediate wave of empathy engulfed him. Children were sacrosanct in his worldview, even though he knew thousands suffered horrible illnesses and death on a daily basis. There was no stopping it, a part of the cruel cycle of humanity, but in his opinion, there was no purer motivation than to prevent the suffering of children.
“This is why I found you,” Santiago said, as he stood over the bed and brushed the hair off the side of her face, causing it to cascade across the pillow. “Her name is Camila, like her mother, who really did die of cancer two years ago, like I told you,” he said, looking back at Logan. “And she’s sick. She has acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She fought it once, with traditional chemotherapy, but she relapsed, which is usually terminal.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cole replied.
“You said ‘usually,’ ” Logan noted.
“You are perceptive,” Santiago said. “In Venezuela, due to the economy collapsing, medical care has become so poor that not even lifesaving prescriptions are available. I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do. When the hospital informed me that her cancer was back, I was devastated. This is something I pray to God you never have to go through. I researched our options, which all lead to just one possibility—something called CAR T-cell therapy, which uses the patient’s own T cells to fight the cancer. It’s been successful in multiple studies, especially for Camila’s type of cancer. I’d started to look at possible programs in Venezuela, but the trials and waiting lists were long. My supervisors at the SEBIN knew what I was dealing with. It was shortly afterward that I was approached by the director with an offer—find you, and they would begin treatment immediately.”
Logan understood, empathizing with Santiago. He knew that given the same predicament, he would have made the exact same choice Santiago had made. It wasn’t even a choice, not to any parent who felt the emotional pain of a suffering child. “Is it working?” he asked.
“This kind of stem-cell therapy takes several stages,” Santiago said. “Before I left to track you down, they drew several pints of blood to separate the T cells. Those T cells are being genetically engineered, kind of like a computer program, the way it was explained to me, to produce a certain kind of receptor that will attack her cancer. Once they’ve finished the engineering, they then have to reproduce the cells into hundreds of millions. And once that’s done, they’ll be ready to infuse them into her body.”
“How long will that take?” Cole asked.
“Normally weeks, but the doctors here have reduced the weeks to just seven days, which means that tomorrow they should be able to start the targeted treatment,” Santiago said.
“When will you know if it works?” Logan asked.
“It depends on her body. It could be a week; it could be a month, but regardless, it’s the best chance she has, and this place was the only option I had,” Santiago explained.
Logan watched silently as Santiago leaned down and kissed his daughter’s forehead. “You did the right thing,” Logan finally said. Patriotism, politics, and national security aside, Santiago had protected his family, which says all you need to know about him as a man, he thought.
“I know, and one day you will too,” Santiago replied.
Logan’s encrypted iPhone buzzed in his rear pocket. He slipped the phone out, saw the initials “JQ” displayed, and hit the talk button.
“How’s your Venezuelan vacation coming along? Hit any nightclubs? Start any protests?” John Quick shot in rapid-fire succession.
“Hold on, smartass,” Logan replied. He glanced at Santiago and said, “It’s my work. I need to take this. I’m going to step out into the hallway and find someplace I can talk.”
Santiago nodded, and Logan pulled on Cole’s shoulder to indicate he should follow. They exited the room and entered the cream-colored hallway. An empty room lay directly across from Camila’s, and Logan and Cole entered, leaving the door open in order to see the little girl’s room.
“Okay. I’ve got Cole with me. We’re in a secret medical facility for the rich and powerful in Venezuela. It’s a long story, but we’ve got some privacy. What do you have?” Logan asked.
“No small talk? I get shot almost three weeks ago, nearly died, and there’s no ‘Hey, brother. How you doing? How you holding up?’ Nothing. Always mission, mission, mission. You know what they say about all work and no play. So sad,” John finished.
A little less than three weeks earlier, in an ambush by Vice President Baker’s elite Secret Service detail at Task Force Ares headquarters on Marine Corps Base Quantico, John had been shot in the stomach. He likely would’ve died, had it not been for the FBI’s HRT Black Hawk helicopter that had arrived on-site to transport him to Inova Fairfax Hospital, which had a premier Level 1 trauma center.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Logan retorted.
“No thanks to you,” John replied.
“Whoa, killer. All thanks to me,” Logan said, reminding his best friend that he’d been the one to execute a kamikaze maneuver against an armored Secret Service SUV, a move that had ultimately saved both of their lives thanks to its braz
enness.
“Fair enough. I won’t argue the point. Okay. Let’s get down to business. Here’s what Jake just called to tell us that analysts at Langley discovered,” John said. “Hugo Sanchez, also known as dead bad guy number . . . fuck it, I can’t count that high.” While it was meant as a joke, the truth was that the shadow war in which they’d been engaged for the past two and a half years had racked up a body count on all sides equivalent to a third-world insurrection. “Anyhow, Mr. Sanchez apparently traveled north of Caracas to El Ávila National Park. And here’s the crazy part—he stayed for three days at the Humboldt Hotel.”
“Why is that crazy?” Logan asked. “It’s a hotel, right?”
“Because the Humboldt Hotel, what I could get from the wonderful world of the internet, has been abandoned and shut down for decades. It stands atop Avila Mountain, and supposedly, the government has been remodeling it for years. Bottom line—whatever Hugo was up to is up there. The analysts also identified an increase in HF and satellite communications activity, although they weren’t able to break the encrypted signals. They sent it over to the boys and girls at Fort Meade,” John said, referring to the National Security Agency, “but they had no luck either. Whatever encryption they’re using is beyond our capability to break.”
“Great,” Logan said. “More unknowns.”
“At least we—and by ‘we,’ I mean you—have a place to start. It could be worse,” John said. “And it sounds scenic. I’m sure you’ll love it. Take a selfie from the top. King of the world and all that jazz.”
“And I’ll post it on fucking Twitter and Instagram,” Logan said.
“You have to start somewhere. Before you know it, you’ll be the social media Taylor Swift of the spy world. You’re so cool,” John added for good measure.
“Go fuck yourself. Wonderful. A stroll up a mountain. Just what we need.”
“Hey, at least you can get your cardio in. Stop complaining. Doctors told me no working out for several more weeks. Don’t want to risk tearing the wound. The good thing is that Amira is here to take care of me,” John said.
“I’m sure she’s loving that,” Logan said sarcastically.
“Could be worse. At least we’re getting out of the city the day after tomorrow. We’re having dinner at her dad’s place.” Amira’s father, a retired DC homicide detective, had left the city after her mother had passed away and retired in the suburbs. “Should be a nice break from hanging out here all day.”
Two men much older than Logan and Cole suddenly appeared in the doorway, stared at them, and turned to enter Camila’s room. That’s our cue, Logan thought.
“Brother, I have to go. Take it easy, no kidding. I need you back at full strength,” Logan said to his fellow warrior and brother-in-arms. “Say hi to Amira for me.” Logan paused for effect, surreptitiously hitting the speaker button. “And Cole sends his love. Says he misses you every moment of the day.”
“Go fuck—” was all either man heard as Logan hit the end button.
“You know, sometimes you’re as much of a child as he is,” Cole said in mock exasperation.
“I know, but it’s still fun. Let’s go see who the new old guys are.” Logan slid the iPhone back into his pocket and crossed the corridor to meet the newcomers.
CHAPTER 10
“Logan West, Cole Matthews, allow me to introduce the director of the SEBIN, Manuel Caballero, and President Oscar Silva, the president of the Supreme Tribunal of Justice of Venezuela, what you would call your Supreme Court,” Santiago said.
“Chief Justice,” Logan said, shaking the hand of the older, white-haired man first. He’d seen his picture in the news during the protests, aware of his precarious position occasionally in opposition to the president.
“Mr. West,” Justice Silva replied. “I’m glad you were able to join us.”
Logan nodded and turned to the director of the notorious SEBIN. “Director Caballero,” he said, and extended his hand. The bald man with short-cropped black hair on the sides gripped his hand firmly, but there was something bordering on hostility in the eyes that assessed Logan and Cole.
“Mr. West,” was all Director Caballero said.
As Cole repeated the exercise in formality, Logan spoke. “Gentlemen, your man here found us and relayed your message. I need to inform you both that our president is completely aware of where we are and what we’re doing, as you must know, since the existence of our task force is only known by two groups of people—a very select handful inside the US government, including the president, whom we work directly for; and the rogue elements of the Organization, which we are systematically hunting down, dismantling, and destroying. More importantly, do you understand what that information means for the two of you?”
“As a matter of fact I do, and I’m glad to see you realized it before we had to tell you,” the chief justice said.
“What’s he talking about, Logan?” Cole asked.
“These two distinguished public servants either were or are members of the Organization,” Logan stated.
“It’s actually a little of both,” Director Caballero said, his expression never changing as he met Logan’s gaze.
“How so?” Cole asked. “The Organization doesn’t strike me as the understanding type, especially of traitors. Just ask the former NSA director—former, of course, because the Organization had him gunned down in the middle of a highway.”
A slim smile formed on Justice Silva’s face. “Mr. Matthews, you are correct, but you’re missing the bigger picture. Thanks to you and your associate here, right now no one is running the Organization. Your crusade and the Founder’s death have triggered a protocol that he set up. Once he died, a message went across our global network, a message with one purpose—to instruct every member to temporarily cease and desist all operations, to go dark until further notice. As of two and a half weeks ago, the entire Organization went dormant, waiting for a reactivation order that only the Founder can authorize.”
“But he’s dead. He won’t be issuing any orders from beyond the grave,” Logan said, “which means his network should remain dead with him.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, except for one thing,” Justice Silva said.
“What’s that?” Cole asked.
“When the network went dead and we saw the news out of your country, I became concerned,” Justice Silva said. “The way the Founder died, the rebellion on the Council—it put all of us at risk. As a result, I asked the director here to target all of the Organization’s communication links we either used or knew about. It was precautionary, more than anything else.”
“And while our SIGINT methods may not be as robust as your NSA’s, they are effective,” Director Caballero interjected. “Like you, though, we thought the network would stay dark. But last week, one of the links, a satellite channel, went live again, and it’s been active intermittently since.”
“There are only two people I know of who could possibly have that kind of authority delegated by the Founder—General Jack Longstreet, the Founder’s head of security operations, who is actually working with us, kind of; and our vice president,” Logan said.
“That’s exactly what we thought, considering whom the channel is dedicated for,” Director Caballero replied.
“And who exactly is that?” Logan asked, slightly apprehensive at the possible answers. It’s got to be someone in power. I pray to God it’s not the Venezuelan president. That will be a nightmare. I can only take on one traitorous executive branch member at a time.
“Lieutenant General Victor Cordones, Commanding General of the National Army,” Director Caballero replied, the weight of the words heavy on the hospital room air.
“That doesn’t sound like a very good thing, not one bit,” Cole said drily.
“We felt the same way, which is why I contacted a very sensitive source the SEBIN has inside General Cordones’s inner circle,” the director said.
“Wait a second. You have a source inside the army?
” Cole asked, somewhat incredulously.
“I do, and be thankful for it,” the director said defensively. “He told us that while he’s not sure when, the general is expecting a very ‘sensitive shipment’ in the next few days. All he knows is that it’s from North America, and that the general believes it’s critical to Venezuela’s national security.”
“Does he know where or when?” Logan asked quickly.
“No. He does not,” Justice Silva replied.
“Which is when we decided to reach out to you, Mr. West,” Director Caballero said.
“But how the hell did you find out who we are? Who I am? You can’t exactly find me or my team on Facebook,” Logan said.
Director Caballero smiled. “Why, the Founder, of course.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he out us to you?” Cole asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Logan laughed slightly, catching himself in order not to wake Camila, who had slept through the entire exchange among the four men. A perceptive man who had a preternatural talent for assessing a situation, he also reached conclusions quicker than most. “The smart bastard knew this would happen, didn’t he? And he trusted you just in case. You’re his fail-safe, aren’t you?”
“You’re right on all counts, Mr. West. Constantine said you were smart, and you don’t disappoint,” Director Caballero said, using the Founder’s chosen first name. “For the same reasons that we decided to monitor all Organization communication networks known to us, he chose to tell me about you and your team. He suspected that once the rebellion on the Council began, it might spread, like a cancer, to other regions of the world. As a result, he chose one representative, for lack of a better word, for every major region of the globe, and I was his trustee for South America. He told me that the president had created a task force after the Cain Frost business two and a half years ago, a task force whose purposes had aligned with that of the Organization, even if that task force wasn’t aware of it. He told me who was in on it, as well as who was running it. He said that if events reached a catastrophic tipping point, I should reach out to you, and you would ultimately help or die trying. You may not have known him, but he knew who and what you are, and he respected it.”
Rules of War Page 6