First, I removed all the family photos of the missionaries and stored them in an empty drawer in the dining room—I didn’t want Roberto to be thinking about any family but his own during our talk. After that, I lowered the blinds and turned on a couple of lamps. Finally, I went around the living room and tested out all the chairs, trying to decide which one of them was the most uncomfortable. It turned out to be a high-backed armchair, and I set that chair aside for me to use.
I planned to give Roberto his choice of the other three, including the sofa, because I wanted him to be as comfortable as possible during our little visit.
However, since I knew he wouldn’t be in any kind of shape to make such choices immediately, I removed a straight-backed chair from the kitchen table and placed it in the middle of the room. The last thing I did was make sure all the breakables were moved out of the way.
Mitchell would be in the living room with me during the interrogation, but I had already made sure he understood he wouldn’t be the one questioning Roberto.
That would be my job.
Around eleven o’clock, I went down the hall to the girl’s bedroom to let Mitchell know his naptime was over. When I looked inside the room, I noticed his head was resting on a pillow with a pink floral pillowcase and teddy bears were sharing the bed with him. That picture made the semi-automatic pistol at his side look out of place—like Carlton sitting at a messy desk.
When I walked in the room, Mitchell opened his eyes and grabbed for the gun. When he recognized I wasn’t a threat, he holstered the weapon and asked, “What time is it?”
“Time to get to work.”
“Did you get the coffeepot fixed?”
“Yeah, it was complicated, but I finally got it working.”
I walked over to a corner of the room and picked up the guitar. “Did I hear you playing this earlier?”
He nodded. “I took some lessons when I was in high school.” He pointed toward the posters. “I thought I might become a rock star and embarrass the Senator.”
“What stopped you?”
“For one thing, I had no talent. Secondly, I realized I didn’t really want to embarrass the Senator as much as I wanted to belong to something he couldn’t control. I figured the CIA fit the bill, because as much power as he wields on the Intelligence Committee, he can’t govern what I do during an operation.”
“Never mind what the Senator wants from you, Ben; do what’s best for yourself. You’ll both be better off for it.”
He laughed. “Would you believe the Senator used to tell me almost the same thing about being honest with people? ‘Ben,’ he’d say, ‘Never mind what people want you to say, tell them what they need to hear. If you do, you’ll both be better off for it.’”
Yes, I believe the Senator used to say that, Ben, because he told me so himself.
“It sounds like the kind of advice we both need to remember.”
The Agency van rolled inside the garage at 1:48 p.m. with Roberto Montilla in the rear cargo compartment.
Previously, I’d instructed Olivia to inform the operatives they should maintain complete silence from the moment they grabbed Roberto to when I told them otherwise. I also told her to tell them I’d be communicating with them through hand signals once they brought Roberto into the house.
This was a standard disorientation technique, which, in Roberto’s case, meant he would not be hearing any voices from the moment he was whisked out of his house until he heard my voice approximately one hour later.
I had no way of knowing whether they’d followed my instructions on their way over to the safe house, but, when they opened the van’s cargo doors and pulled Roberto out, none of them uttered a word.
Roberto, on the other hand, was anything but quiet.
Despite the gag in his mouth and the hood over his face, he managed to make enough noise to let it be known he didn’t like what was being done to him. Then, when they brought him through the utility room, he struggled against his constraints and ended up kicking the washing machine so forcefully, he was able to send it crashing into the wall behind it.
At that point, the two guys on either side of him picked him up, brought him into the living room, and deposited him on the chair I’d placed in the middle of the room. Afterward, one of them pulled a piece of cord from his back pocket and secured his legs to the chair.
That done, they checked his hands—already bound together by zip ties—and once they’d determined he was still securely cuffed, they gave me a thumbs-up and left the room.
The moment his legs were tied to the chair, Roberto stopped struggling. I saw this as an indication he’d moved from the first tier of responses experienced by a hostage—fighting against a captor—into the second tier—trying to figure out how to survive the ordeal.
As I stood there observing him, I decided he looked heavier than he did in the professional photograph I’d seen of him—the one where he was wearing a suit. Today, he was dressed in jeans and a shirt and had on a pair of jogging shoes.
I slowly walked around his chair a couple of times and looked at him from every angle.
Finally, I stopped and stood in front of him, waiting to see if he would utter some protest, even attempt a word or two—despite the gag inside his mouth.
He didn’t.
I signaled for Mitchell to keep an eye on him, and then I walked in the kitchen where Roberto’s kidnappers had congregated. The team leader introduced himself as Buck, but he didn’t bother introducing the rest of the team to me.
“Any problems?” I asked.
The beefy guy in the group spoke up. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Did you have to—”
“We never laid a hand on him,” Buck said, giving Mr. Beefcakes a harsh look. “He was more or less cooperative until we drove inside the garage.”
The youngest team member, the guy who’d been driving the van, said, “He was packing a suitcase when we showed up at the house. There were several passports, a wad of cash, and some airline tickets in there. We brought those with us; plus, we grabbed his cell phone.”
I said, “I’d like to have his cell phone, the passports, and the airline tickets.”
He nodded. “They’re in the van. I’ll get them.”
When he went back out to the garage, I asked, “Anything else I need to know?”
The only woman on the team spoke up. “Before we gagged him, he kept saying, ‘Don’t hurt my family.’ He repeated it several times.”
After the driver came back in and dropped off the backpack full of the stuff they’d retrieved from Roberto’s hideout, he and Mr. Beefcakes left the house and moved the van down the street where they could maintain surveillance on the neighborhood.
Once they were gone, Buck and the woman walked down the hallway to the master bedroom, where they could monitor the recording devices and maintain communications with Olivia back at the embassy.
Even though Olivia was connected via video to the Ops Center at Langley, I’d informed her I didn’t want to be micro-managed, and unless there was an emergency, I didn’t want to speak to her until I’d finished interrogating Roberto.
She’d agreed.
She hadn’t liked it, but she’d agreed.
After a quick examination of the passports and the airline tickets, I picked up Roberto’s cell phone and returned to the living room. Mitchell was leaning against the wall about ten feet away from Roberto’s chair, and when he saw me, he shook his head.
Roberto hadn’t given him any trouble.
In fact, it looked as if all the fight had completely gone out of the man now. He was slumped down in his chair with his chin resting on his chest, and his breathing was slow and steady.
I gestured at Mitchell, who immediately stepped over and pulled the black hood off Roberto’s head.
When that happened, Roberto’s head jerked up, and even though I’d dimmed the lights, he blinked several times at the sudden brightness. A f
ew seconds later, his eyes darted about the room as if he were trying to memorize his surroundings.
When he turned and looked at me, I saw a mixture of fear and defiance there.
Although I knew I might hear a barrage of expletives, I motioned for Mitchell to remove the gag from his mouth. However, once Mitchell did so, Roberto didn’t utter a word.
I said, “I know this may be very hard for you to believe right now, Roberto, but we’re here to help you. We brought you here to save your life.”
He leaned forward as far as he could and spat in my face.
Chapter 39
Even after I repeated my assertion I was there to help him, Roberto didn’t say a word. I offered him something to drink, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard me.
Finally, in an effort to demonstrate my good will toward him, I removed the zip ties from around his hands. However, this gesture also proved ineffective in getting him to talk.
Just when I’d made up my mind to wait him out, Mitchell—without asking my permission to do so—walked over and knelt down beside him.
“I was with Ernesto when he died,” he said. “I was with your son when he took his last breath.”
Roberto gasped in astonishment, and tears suddenly filled his eyes. “There was no need to kill him. He wasn’t a threat to you.”
Mitchell shook his head. “I didn’t kill Ernesto.” He pointed over at me. “Neither did he. Both of us tried to save your son from Ahmed Al-Amin. It was Ahmed who killed your son, not us. That’s why we’re here. We want to make sure it doesn’t happen to you or to your family.”
Roberto’s face softened. “What did my son say before he died?”
I wasn’t sure Mitchell could answer that question, but he did.
“Ernesto talked about fishing,” Mitchell said. “He wanted to go fishing with you.”
Roberto looked grief-stricken when he heard those words, and the tears behind his eyes immediately started flowing down his cheeks.
“Why did Ahmed kill Ernesto?” he asked. “Ernesto was a good boy. He never harmed anyone.”
As Roberto continued describing his son, the intensity of his sobs made it impossible to understand what he was saying.
I noticed Mitchell was moved by the man’s anguish, and I was not unaffected by it myself.
I motioned for Mitchell to untie Roberto’s legs, and as soon as Roberto became aware of what Mitchell was doing, he tried to regain his composure.
Once he was freed, he looked over at Mitchell and said, “We were planning a fishing trip this month to Cumaná or Maracaibo. Ernesto had studied the tide charts and told me June was the best month to book a charter.”
I asked, “Were you planning to take him with you the next time you visited those chemical storage units in Cumaná or Maracaibo?”
My question seemed to take him by surprise, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”
I pointed toward the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable first. Then, I’ll answer your questions.”
I kept my eye on him when he got up and walked over to the sofa, but he gave no outward indication he might make a mad dash for the front door or do something equally as foolish.
After Roberto sat down on the sofa, Mitchell took the chair Roberto had just vacated and placed it beside the chair I was occupying. When he sat down next to me, I knew it might appear to Roberto that Mitchell and I were equal partners in his interrogation.
After his success in getting Roberto to talk, I decided I was okay with that.
Olivia was sure to voice a different opinion, however.
* * * *
My conversation with Roberto began when I gave him a couple of phony names for Mitchell and me—Mark and Timothy. Then, I told him we were employed by the American government—I didn’t say which branch or organization. After that, I gave him the semi-truthful details of how and when we’d discovered his son had been killed by Ahmed.
First, I outlined how American law enforcement agencies had discovered Ahmed Al-Amin had been working with a Mexican drug cartel to provide left-wing guerillas in Colombia with sophisticated weapons. After that, I explained the State Department had decided that arming the Colombian rebels wasn’t in America’s interests, and a joint US/Colombia operation was underway to find Ahmed and turn him over to the Colombian government.
For my purposes, these facts were close enough to the truth to make our presence in Caracas credible. I wasn’t about to tell him Ahmed was responsible for the deaths of two CIA officers.
“Last week,” I said, “we located Ahmed in Costa Rica. He was staying in a house in San José owned by one of the drug cartels. But, when we forced our way inside, Ernesto was the only person there. We found him dying from a knife wound to his stomach, and on our way to the hospital, he told us Ahmed had stabbed him. When we—”
“Did he say why Ahmed had stabbed him?” Roberto asked.
“No,” Mitchell said, “but it’s possible Ernesto had been texting his girlfriend back in Texas. Ahmed probably told him not to use his cell phone, because he knew Ernesto’s texts could alert the authorities to his whereabouts. We believe that’s why he killed him.”
Roberto said, “Ernesto said he was in love with this girl and wanted Marianna and me to meet her. I would never have imagined Ahmed would have killed him for texting her.” He shook his head. “I thought Ahmed had killed him for another reason.”
“What other reason?”
In what seemed an obvious attempt to look in control of the situation, Roberto threw his arm across the back of the sofa and leaned backed against the cushions. After doing so, he said, “I’m not answering any of your questions until you tell me how you’re going to protect my wife and daughter.”
When I didn’t answer him immediately, he leaned forward and asked, “Did you kidnap them also?”
“Your wife and daughter are with your sister-in-law getting their nails done. When they return home, there’s a note at the house explaining your absence, and it’s written in what appears to be your handwriting.”
Mitchell added, “You can relax, Roberto. We have your family under surveillance. I promise you they’re safe—at least for now.”
He nodded when he heard Mitchell’s answer. Then he asked me, “Are you going to answer my question? How will you protect my family from Ahmed?”
“If I knew what was going on with you, it would be easier for me to protect them. When you heard Ernesto was dead, why did you think Ahmed had killed him? And why does Ahmed want you dead? When you answer those questions, I’ll tell you how we plan to keep you and your family safe.”
Roberto shook his head and looked away a moment.
When he finally looked me in the eye again, his anguished expression was one I’d seen in other assets. It was a look of resignation brought on by desperation.
It meant Roberto was ready to tell me everything.
* * * *
Roberto began by explaining how he’d met Ahmed in Syria. Much of what he said was information Katherine and her analysts had already retrieved from the data stream.
I didn’t tell him that, though, because I wanted him to open up and start talking to us, and I was hoping Mitchell would take his cue from me and not interrupt Roberto’s flow of thought by asking him too many questions.
“About four years ago,” Roberto said, “I went to Damascus to finalize a trade agreement between Venezuela and the Syrian government. The talks between our two countries had been going on for several years, and the president of Venezuela sent me there to formalize the deal. At that time, Ernesto was in his last semester of high school, and I received permission for him to accompany me to Damascus.
“I did this because I wanted Ernesto to have a much broader view of the world than the one I’d been given. When I mentioned the trip to him, I was surprised by how excited he was about traveling there. Later, I learned he’d become friends with several Middle Eastern boys in his high scho
ol, and that was why he was so interested in the trip. Until we got over to Syria, though, I didn’t realize he’d also become very interested in the Muslim faith.”
Roberto paused and rubbed his eyes, and I wondered if he was trying to keep himself from breaking down again.
A few moments later, he continued. “The trip was a huge success, and the deal I brokered greatly benefitted Venezuela, particularly our mining industries. The talks, though, were pretty boring for a teenager, so my interpreter arranged for Ernesto to be entertained by some of his family members during the day. That’s how we met Ahmed Al-Amin.
“Ahmed was my interpreter’s cousin. He was also connected to Hezbollah and the Syrian government in some capacity, but that was never made clear to me. What did become clear to me, however, was that Ernesto had developed a great admiration for Ahmed after spending just a few days with him. I believe he did so because he saw how devoted Ahmed was to Islam, and how many of the men around Ahmed looked up to him.
“At the end of our visit, Ahmed took me aside and told me he saw great potential in my son and suggested I consider sending him to a university in the United States for his college education. When I mentioned I couldn’t afford that kind of education for Ernesto, he assured me he knew people in Hezbollah who would be willing to help pay for Ernesto’s education in exchange for my help in developing some of their members’ business interests in Venezuela.
“Since such ventures were part of my portfolio in the Venezuelan government, I assured him I would be happy to help Hezbollah in any way I could. Before Ernesto and I left for Caracas, Ahmed introduced me to Rehman Zaidi, a mathematics instructor, who was scheduled to join the faculty at a new Muslim school run by Imam Raza here in Caracas. Ahmed said he would be communicating with me about Ernesto’s education through Zaidi. When I arrived—”
“Describe Rehman Zaidi for me,” I said.
He looked puzzled at my interest in Zaidi, but he said, “I believe he’s originally from Syria. He doesn’t look Syrian, though, because he has blue eyes and fair skin. He’s of average build, but he has only one arm. He said he lost it in a boating accident when he was a teenager.”
Two Days in Caracas Page 29