The Grace Bay Agreement

by D. Alan Johnson

  How can I lose him? I’ll go out the back. The manager will show me the back entrance. He started to pick up his bag then stopped. If they have a man on the front door, I’m sure they have someone at the back. And what if I don’t spot that one? They’ll follow me right to Mo’s Bar.

  No, I need to go right at the one in front. Better the enemy I see than the one I don’t. I’ve already made him as a tail, so it’ll be easier to know if I’ve lost him. Having made his decision, he hurried down the stairs and into the lobby. A gorgeous working girl named Mona lounged on the couch. She kept a room at the hotel and saw clients in the afternoons. At night she worked at a cathouse down the street.

  “Hi, Peter,” she said, brightening as he came into the lobby. She flicked back her long brown hair and unfolded her legs. Pete noticed the short skirt and her perfect figure.

  “Hi, Mona. Look, I’ve got to run.”

  She pouted. “When are you going to spend some time with me? You promised. Don’t you remember?”

  “I’ve really got to go,” he said rushing toward the front door. He froze and turned around. “But say, maybe you can help me. It would be worth a lot to me.” Mona’s eyebrows lifted. He saw the avarice in her eyes.

  “There’s a guy out there looking for me. I owe him a little money. He’s across the street.” She came and stood next to him. He could smell the trace of her shampoo and a light perfume. Her body heat soaked his left side as she leaned against him. Without thinking he put his arm around her waist. With the bright sun outside, he had no worry about the tail seeing into the darkened lobby. Pete bent down a little to get on her level and pointed across the street.

  “See the tall guy in the blue shirt? Short hair?”

  “The one sitting at the third table from the left?”

  “That’s the one. I need you to distract him. Kiss him. Whatever you need to do to keep his attention so I can get away.”

  “What will you pay?” she asked, looking sideways at him.

  “A hundred thousand pesos,” he answered quickly.

  “Make it two fifty.”

  “You don’t make that much in two days!” Pete said, pretending to be horrified, but secretly delighted at spending less than a tenth of his cash.

  “Two hundred. And you’ll love the show I put on. I guarantee success.”

  Pete nodded. Mona held out her hand, and Pete counted out two hundred thousand pesos, less than a hundred dollars. She smiled, gave the money to the desk clerk and started across the street. The clerk opened his big ledger book.

  “Mona is lucky that way,” he said as he made an entry in the book. “The owner was about to throw her out since she was a week behind on her rent. Now she’s almost caught up,” the clerk said, slamming the big book shut.

  Pete watched her sway over to the restaurant. The flick of her head, the thin dress, and her café con leche skin commanded the attention of the tall watcher. The head waiter came out to greet her and get his kiss on the cheek. She pointed to the table right behind the tail. Since the tall man was facing the hotel, she sat behind him.

  Mona took out a cigarette. The tall man turned and gave her a light. She said something and laughed. The tall man turned to her to talk. Now his back was to Pete. When she pulled her skirt up just an inch and pointed at some imagined blemish on her inner thigh, he knew it was time to go. As he walked out through the door, he put on his hat and saw the tall man bend over to examine Mona’s flawless leg. She looked up and flashed a perfect smile. In spite of himself, Pete waved.

  Chapter Nine

  Tuesday

  1400

  14 December, 1999

  Magdalena Boat Repair

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Tuffy Dupree woke up, his neck stiff from sleeping with his head hanging forward. He sat tied to a straight backed chair in the middle of a bare room. Once again, he took inventory of the empty warehouse that was now his prison. Concrete walls and floor, with steel pipe trusses supporting the asbestos roof tiles. Wind off the ocean roared through angled steel vents, keeping the inside a comfortable temperature. The plastic tie-wrap on his wrists was too tight, and he feared it would cut off the circulation and permanently damage his hands. He laughed.

  I’m going to be dead in a couple of days. What does it matter? They’ll torture me first, then kill me and drop my weighted body in the ocean. No one will ever find the bodies.

  How could Joiner betray us like this? When they were separated out, Tuffy watched Joiner for any sign. As they led him away, he seemed resigned. They must have threatened his family. He wouldn’t do this just for money. He’ll go back and tell of a miraculous escape and be right back in Houston passing information on our agents and operations to these scum. In his anger he clenched his muscles and shook his head.

  When will the interrogation start? Will they beat me first or at least give me a chance to answer their questions. I’ve managed to avoid this for almost forty years. Now just before I retire, I get snared. The irony caused him to chuckle.

  The heavy metal door rattled. There must be a hasp and lock on the other side, he thought. Two men came inside, both wearing light tropical suits with open collars. One of them wore a mask. How odd. Tuffy never would have imagined a mask. Another followed pushing a leather desk chair. A fourth man came in carrying a white plastic table and set it down in front of Tuffy. The man in the mask took his seat on the other side of the table, pulled out a manila folder and a spiral notebook. He opened both, and took out a pen to make notes.

  “Mister Dupree, I’m the head of the Santa Marta cartel. We need ask you a few questions. Let us know what we want, and you’ll live. Refusal to give us information will be met with violence. I don’t like to go that way. Do you understand? Answer quickly and truthfully, and you will live. So, let’s begin.” His English was not that of a native speaker, but it was almost unaccented. Tuffy looked around at the four men trying to memorize anything he could about them.

  “Could I have some water?” Tuffy asked. His thirst was real, but he wanted some time. The masked man threw up his hands.

  “How could I have been so rude? Tommy, get Mr. Dupree a bottle of water.” The youngest man hurried out.

  “Now, Mr. Theodor Anton Dupree, why are you in Santa Marta?”

  That folder must be a complete dossier on me, Tuffy thought. Mary Warner couldn’t have gotten that much information. Had to be from Steve. How could he do this? Tuffy decided that he would talk as long as he didn’t give out any agent’s name or compromise an operation.

  “We came down to take Peter Dolan into custody, and take him back to the States.”

  “Ah, Mr. Dolan. What a problem he caused you and me. So much better if Jose had been successful. Now, who is the woman with you? She carries a plastic card for opening high security doors. But it has no writing. She is very beautiful, yes?”

  The young man burst back into the room with an armful of plastic bottles and handed them around. Last, he put one in front of Tuffy.

  “You’ll have to cut his hands free,” the mask said gently. The young man pulled out a large pocket knife and flicked it open. Tuffy felt a tug, then his hands fell straight down. Pain lanced up his shoulders and back down to his wrists, but it was good. He could barely get his hands up to the table, flexing his fingers. The young man opened the cap on the water bottle and Tuffy had to use two hands to get it to his mouth.

  “Now, Mr. Dupree, you have refreshed. Let’s talk. I want to assure you I have no intention to kill you. You claim you are here for Peter Dolan. What do you know about my operation?”

  “Very little. We found Peter Dolan’s fingerprints in Jose Leal’s house in Houston. We want to talk with him. He was the last person to see Jose alive. Perhaps we could learn something from him.”

  “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Dupree. You give me Peter Dolan, tell me about the woman, and I will let you and Mr. Joiner free. But you must swear to return to US immediately.”

  Tuffy stared hard at t
he mask, trying to read the eyes through the holes. Don’t hope. You know you can’t trust him. I know he’s just playing me. He took another drink of water to stall for time.

  Can I trust him? We have reports that this guy runs his operation different than Escobar did. He tries to limit the bloodshed.

  “Why would you let me go? That makes no sense.”

  “Of course it does. I am trying to be a civilized man. I deal in contraband, but I am not a bloodthirsty. Besides,” he picked up the dossier, “we already have information on you. We kill you, we have to research a whole new file.” The mask laughed, and his men mirrored politely.

  “Peter Dolan is living in the Hotel del Mar on Calle 4,” Tuffy said with some faked reluctance. Renee said she had guards on him, he reasoned. They’ll protect him. Maybe they’ll intercept the bad guys, interrogate them and come find us. At least I’ve bought us some time.

  “You are a very reasonable man, Mr. Dupree.” The mask got up and then switched to Spanish. “Let him go to the bathroom. Find him a bed. He’ll be here a while.”

  “Have you let Joiner go?” Tuffy asked, stabbing in the dark. The mask turned at the door.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I think he’s your mole in our operation.” The mask laughed a long time. He motioned to his men and walked out.

  “That’s it. I knew it. Joiner’s the mole,” Tuffy said hanging his head.

  Hearing the door clang shut and the bolt slide home, Ramon Menchaca removed the full head mask. His hair was matted down and wet from his perspiration. He held out a hand and one of his guards gave him a handkerchief to wipe his face.

  “I hate wearing that mask.”

  “Why do you do it, Don Humo? They’ll be dead in a few days,” the biggest guard said with a grin.

  “No, they will not! Ordering a killing is what has gotten me into this mess. I will avoid killing from now on.” He knew his conscience was knifing into his brain, but he must not let his men see this weakness.

  “Remember, we are a business. These prisoners are in business also. Like competition. They will be reasonable. We will threaten their families and they will be pliable. We may even be able to turn this last one. Ironic that the one called ‘Tough-ee’ is the only one to speak.” Ramon laughed at his own joke and reached for the door of the armored Mercedes sedan.

  “Did you hear what he asked us about Joiner? He thinks that Joiner is a mole. We might be able to use that suspicion to turn him, or at least get some information out of him. That Joiner is hopeless. Even though we beat him, he won’t say a word.”

  *****

  Tuesday

  1440

  14 December, 1999

  Escuela Abraham Lincoln

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Phil Bragg leaned forward in his chair, holding his head in his hands. I’ve lost Renee and the two DEA big wigs. Slick as could be. Just a wrecked Suburban, empty, left to foul up the street. Plus Peter Douglas has disappeared. Can anything else go wrong? He sat up straight.

  Yes, he thought. Something else can go wrong. Get your head together. You have a small window of time to get them back. But now Peter Dolan/Douglas has disappeared. He was your bait. I should have put another man on him. But who would have thought he was good enough to elude two of my best men.

  His anger still burned from when Norbert called in just after noon to report that he’d lost Peter Douglas. Taken in by a common whore. Oldest trick there is. Distract a watcher with sex. At least Norbert recognized what was happening and caught hold of the girl. After a minute, she admitted that Peter paid her to distract the watcher, and that he’d gotten into a cab. He could be anywhere now.

  Phil reported the kidnapping just after he’d picked up the emergency beacon from the Suburban. But by the time his team arrived on site, there was nothing left except the bodies of the two Colombians, the body guard and the driver.

  With no ransom note, he had to assume that the cartel had them. They’ll be trying to get any info from them they can before they kill all three. How can I find them? Where can I turn?

  The STU-III rang. I hope this is the ambassador returning my call, he thought.

  “Bragg.”

  “Mr. Bragg, this is Ambassador Muzinski.”

  “Thank you for returning my call, Madam Ambassador.” Phil knew that she took great pleasure in being addressed by her full title. “As I said in my first message, we had three persons kidnapped. We feel that the cartel is involved. I’m asking your permission to deploy my military assets.”

  The Unit, deployed under the oversight of the Central Intelligence Agency, and relaying any signal intelligence to the NSA, included Army intelligence gathering assets such as surveillance aircraft, radio direction finding teams, and HUMINT specialists. But it also included a small team of shooters. Phil was under direct orders from the ambassador that he could never deploy the shooters without her specific permission.

  “Mr. Bragg, I think that is a hasty reaction to a sad turn of events.”

  “Madam, we must act now in order to secure release of these hostages. In a few hours they could be maimed from torture. In a few days they’ll be dead.”

  “Aren’t we being a little dramatic, Mr. Bragg.”

  “No Madam, we are not.” Phil fought hard to keep his anger in check.

  “I’m very afraid of the consequences of letting your mercenaries out to indiscriminately shoot up Santa Marta. The repercussions could be huge.”

  “We’ve got three US government law enforcement agents kidnapped by the bad guys!”

  “Mr. Bragg. Your emotional outbursts do not help the situation. Those three knew the risks when they came into government service. Setting your goons loose will only ignite more bloodshed. I allowed them in country only as a defensive force for your compound. Under no circumstances are you to allow them to leave the premises armed. And they are not allowed to try to rescue those three.”

  “But you don’t under—“

  “Mr. Bragg. You will do as I say or I’ll have your entire team removed from Colombia for exacerbating the situation. Do I make myself clear?” Phil heard the steel in her voice.

  “Yes, Madam Ambassador.”

  “We need to let this kidnapping take its course,” she said in a softer tone. “I’ve been assured by the Colombian National Police that they will have this situation in hand in a day or so.”

  “Thank you, Madam Ambassador.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as the Colombian Police have any news. Good day, Mr. Bragg.” Phil slammed down the phone and screamed out a curse.

  One of the sergeants across the room turned to his colleague. “I guess Phil just talked with the Ambassador.”

  *****

  Pete’s butt was getting numb from sitting on the hard bench seat of the back booth at Mo’s Bar. After the exhilaration of ditching his tail, he took a cab to a spot two blocks from the little bar and entered from the alley as Waldo instructed.

  The adrenalin wore off after a few minutes and he ordered a hamburger and a beer. He thought about ordering one for Waldo, but remembered that Waldo would never eat bar food. Good thing, he thought. It’s been over two hours and still Waldo’s not here. I dare not call him. What if his phone’s tapped?

  Just then Waldo came in the back door wearing a cream colored tropical suit with a black silk shirt open at the neck. He struggled to drag one of his huge suitcases up the step with his good hand.

  “I thought you’d never make it.”

  “I’ve been on the phone with my guy in Europe.” He took off his white hat and mopped his brow with a paper napkin. “We had to get whatever intel we could before I left. We might not have another chance. Besides, I needed to pack,” Waldo said glancing over toward his suitcase.

  “That thing is huge,” Pete said, trying to keep from laughing.

  “I only brought the minimum necessities,” he said, and Pete could tell he was serious. Waldo reached into his tropical suit jacket and pulled
out an old .45 Colt Government pistol.

  “You might need this.”

  Pete put the big auto into his bag. “How did you get this into country? I thought we left all our guns with Joan.”

  “Let’s just say this is from a local purchase. The disadvantage is that we’re limited on ammo. Don’t get in a firefight. You only have seven shots.” Pete nodded.

  “Did you buy one for yourself?”

  “No, I brought my Glock with me.” Waldo pulled back his coat to show the fat black grip of his weapon in the shoulder holster.

  “How did you get that into country? They x-rayed all our bags.”

  “I’ve got an old laptop that’s hollowed out, and the pistol fits right inside. There’s enough guts left in the unit to turn it on if any customs guys want to see if it works.”

  Pete smiled and marveled at his friend. Would he ever get Waldo figured out?

  “Now…” Waldo looked around, pleased that they seemed to be the only ones in the bar. “We need to stay here ‘til dark. Then we can move to another hotel. That’ll give us time to combine our intelligence sources and make a plan. I’m starving. You didn’t order me anything?” Pete just shook his head.

  Half an hour later, Waldo wiped his mouth. “That was the best burger I’ve had in Colombia.”

  “I thought you were only eating health food.”

  “Whenever we start an operation, I like to eat burgers and pizza. Don’t know why.” Waldo grinned. “Now, I’m ready for business.” He went over to his bag and pulled a notebook out of the big outer pocket.

  “The cartel caught Steve Joiner, Tuffy Dupree, and Renee Hedley-Fields.” Waldo pulled some photos out of the notebook and handed them over. “They’re not very good quality. I had to use the hotel printer.”