The Green Cathedral

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The Green Cathedral Page 6

by Kerry Mcdonald


  Ochoa actually appreciated how well José was carrying through with his innocent DEA asset sham. It was saving the colonel the hassle of having to gag the man and actually force him into the plane and allowed him to show in plain sight to the many eyes out in the jungle that a man looking just like Abel Nowinski was now boarding the Cessna. His secretary had done an excellent job on the man, even using some of her makeup to make José’s face look more Caucasian.

  “You are helping Agent Nowinski to be safer,” remarked Ochoa. “This way, if anyone is watching, they will report that the agent has gone back to Colombia, and in the meantime, he will escape San Jeronimo and continue on his mission without harassment.”

  “That sounds dangerous to me,” whimpered José, sweat now beading on his face.

  “Of course it’s dangerous,” replied Ochoa, “but you are a fine, patriotic asset of the DEA and the Colombian National Police, no? You help them clean out the cockroaches, right? I’m sure your bravery will be noted and rewarded. In fact, let me reward you myself for being so cooperative with the PNP. Here are ten thousand American dollars.”

  He handed José a pack of money that Abel recognized had come from his backpack.

  So Ochoa wanted everything to be in the backpack, huh? Everything to be just the same as if José was really Abel.

  Abel could only wonder what Ochoa had done with the other $30,000. Probably stashed it in some safe back in that office somewhere. The guy was as corrupt as anyone in this putrid part of the world.

  Ochoa continued. “I suggest that you get away immediately. The airport is safe, but there could be cartel spies about or perhaps a bounty hunter. You know the clan in Cartagena has put a price on this agent’s head. When you’re seen, you don’t want to be around long enough for anyone to do anything about it. Then, once you’re home, you may ditch the clothes and go on with your life as if nothing happened. You should be fine!”

  José did not look fine. In fact, he looked sick. Ochoa closed the cockpit door, and Abel passed by it as the colonel and his orderlies headed inside. He looked in at José.

  “Thanks for everything, amigo,” he said wryly.

  ***

  Abel watched with Ochoa and his office staff as the little Cessna rolled to the near end of the runway, then leaped to life as José began a very aggressive trip down the runway and took off well ahead of where such a plane would typically become airborne.

  “He’s making a run for it,” remarked Ochoa. “If he can get high enough quick enough, he just might make it.”

  As the plane rose, the jungle all around the runway suddenly erupted with automatic rifle fire, making it sound like the area was a giant popcorn machine. Mixed in were lower, more ominous booms from what were probably .50 caliber sniper rifles that had been propped up by their gunners to operate more like anti-aircraft guns. Tracer bullets gleamed faintly in the morning sunlight and crisscrossed near the plane. Suddenly, the plane’s landing gear was shredded off. Then a single RPG round streaked out of the jungle, wobbled around a bit, and dropped short of the aircraft before exploding. Two more such rounds followed within seconds as it looked as if the plane, even minus its landing gear, was about to make it. Seconds later, though, one of the RPGs found its mark. The plane disintegrated in the thunderous explosion, and its parts rained down onto the jungle perhaps a half mile from the end of the runway.

  “Good,” said Ochoa grimly. “This is good.”

  The popping of weapons had not ceased with the explosion, though. In fact, it sounded to Abel like it was increasing. “What’s that all about?” he inquired.

  “Oh, it is just my patrolmen. They are going in now to exterminate the cockroaches, or at least sweep them out the door. It should give us some peace around here for quite a while. Operator,” he called to the radioman. “Contact Lieutenant Garcia and tell him to break off in fifteen minutes if he hasn’t chased them all away by then. Any dead should be laid out in the hangar here for identification. Any wounded or those who surrender should be taken to the processing center in town as usual.”

  “Sí, señor!” replied the radioman.

  “The rest of you carry on with your duties. You are dismissed.” The office staff got back to work.

  Ochoa now turned to Abel. “Agent Nowinski, I have received word from your acting commander that your two aliases, complete with passports, credit cards, bank account information, etcetera, will arrive by tomorrow morning along with some cash. The secretary will show you to a room upstairs that we often use for guests. It has an air conditioner and a bed, and the restroom is at the end of the hallway. You may use the office break room for snacks and drinks, and when you want a meal, just ask the secretary, and she’ll send an orderly to get whatever food you’d like in town. Please limit your time outside. We don’t want some suspicious sniper who still might be around to discover that the fox hasn’t left the chicken coop yet, as you Americans say. I’d also like to have dinner with you at my headquarters in town at seven o’clock. An orderly will drive you there.”

  “Is all that an order, sir?” Abel smirked. He was still more than a little peeved about the fate of the contents of his backpack.

  Ochoa softened slightly. “For the most part, no, just suggestions and information. The dinner at my headquarters, though, that is an order. Not only because I’d like to treat you to a nice dinner, but I have much information to pass on to you about the situation with the cartels here in Central America. Things are changing fast, and not for the better. Enjoy your stay in San Jeronimo, Agent Nowinski.”

  ***

  The next morning, not long after sunrise, Abel found himself in a cushy swivel recliner in Colonel Ochoa’s personal turboprop, with its customized-for-comfort interior, lifting off from the same runway as José had the day before, sans the flying bullets and RPG rounds. Apparently, the ruse had worked. The airport and San Jeronimo itself were clear of cartel assassins and other mercenaries. Tourists were crossing the footbridge and climbing into river canoes for guided tours, and hikers were geared up and catching ferries to the far side of the Chucunaque just as always.

  Abel wore a new pair of quick-dry khaki cargo pants and one of several Coolmax tees. He’d also been given a utility vest, a standard PNP bulletproof vest, another Glock 19 with extra ammo and magazines, and another Navy SOG SEAL knife. He also had a new backpack stocked with standard rain and survival gear, and $20,000 in cash to buy food, more clothes, and a serviceable vehicle once he touched down in Costa Rica. Colonel Ochoa had made a point to take Abel to the safe in his headquarters the night before, open it, and hand him the two packs of $10,000 from it. It was all contraband recovered from captured or killed cartel dons, bounty hunters, or other criminals, he’d said, and he was allowed to use it for government business subject to strict accounting and auditing.

  “We are not thieves here, Agent Nowinski,” he’d said, “nor do we assume that we deserve some kickback from all the money that we confiscate. Corruption is insidious. In the PNP, it is not allowed to take root. If and when it does, the perpetrators are executed by firing squad the minute guilt is established.”

  Ochoa had seen Abel’s smirk and said that if Abel was wondering about the money in his old backpack, most had been consumed in the explosion of José’s plane, though some $5,000 had been recovered after the criminals had been driven away from the airport and the plane’s wreckage had been found. Ochoa had pointed out several packets of partially burned bills in the safe.

  Abel called to the pilot about how long it would be before they reached their destination. The pilot had replied that it would be over an hour, maybe two, and that they’d be passing over much beautiful country, including several volcanoes and lakes. Abel thanked the pilot, then pulled out his new Apple smartphone and began to set it up using the plane’s secure Wi-Fi network.

  ***

  At the same time, Colonel Ochoa had watched the plane take of
f and then followed it with his eyes all the way until it disappeared. As he returned to his SUV and headed to his headquarters, he contemplated the decision he’d made. The routine search he’d made of Abel’s backpack had told Ochoa all he needed to know about why the cartel was following Agent Nowinski and hiring assassins and posting bounties. This man had made a deal with the cartel devils, and something had gone wrong. Now, they would never let him go. Even despite the ruse that they’d successfully executed, which could buy him considerable time, eventually, they’d find out. They always did, and perhaps even sooner than later in this case. If Agent Nowinski was going to where he said he was going in Costa Rica, things could become complicated very quickly. The small-time don he was to “inspect” for the DEA was a man much more clever and slippery than one would believe, and he’d also become much more ambitious. He may have even made contact with the clan in Cartagena already. If so, Agent Nowinski would once again become a dead man walking.

  Ochoa had briefly considered arresting Nowinski, but his evidence, other than the blood money, was nonexistent. Also, his old friend Victor Garza must undoubtedly have known of his agent’s corruption. The man could smell it, like an ugly stench, as Ochoa remembered. For some reason, in the case of Agent Nowinski, Garza had chosen not only to ignore it but also to send his corrupt agent on an assignment to Costa Rica. Ochoa was sure that, in the older man’s mind, there must have been a reason—a very compelling reason—to act in the way that he did, and he, Rafael Ochoa, would not stand in the way of whatever higher purpose his old friend had seen in this very flawed man.

  PLAYA DE PALMA

  7

  —

  Caleb Forrest signed his name on the papers, authorizing his use of the older-model Jeep Wrangler. He was checking it out of the DEA post garage in Jacó, Costa Rica. Abel was still having trouble getting used to signing that name naturally, without thinking twice or having to make a correction.

  “You’re getting better,” said Commander Lopez, the agent in charge of the Jacó post, “but I still saw some hesitation. You really need to practice more, Agent Forrest. You’re heading out into the field again, and if you’re still thinking somewhere that you’re Abel Nowinski, one day you’ll be signing your death warrant doing what you just did.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Caleb as he caught the keys that Lopez tossed to him. What he really wanted to say was, “Yes, Mr. Lopez. I’ll do exactly as you say, Mr. Lopez. And fuck you, too, Mr. Lopez.” Abel had felt like a schoolboy ever since he’d arrived in Jacó a couple of weeks ago. Lopez had told him his new alias for this mission. Then Lopez had given him his new passport, credit cards, driver’s license, and other identifying information as well as his legend. Lopez had instructed everyone on the post staff to call Abel by his new name, Caleb Forrest, and ask him questions about his new identity. So, Abel would pass through the office every morning, and the receptionist would ask him about where he grew up (California, not Iowa), what the name of the high school he graduated from was (Joseph Gregori rather than Mason), and what its mascot was (jaguar instead of Mohawk Indian). Others in the briefing room would ask him how long he’d been in the DEA, what had he done before (he still was a former Navy SEAL), and where his first posting had been (South Florida). And, yes, he had been there when a new recruit, Abel Nowinski, had been briefly assigned there before being sent to Colombia. He knew Nowinski had come from a Navy SEAL background also and seemed a bit smug about it. He was sure that once this Abel got to Colombia, it wouldn’t be long before he’d either be dead or corrupted. He was repeatedly asked to write down his birthdate (February 26 rather than September 17) and to say his social security number or give them its last four digits (9899, one of the more natural things to keep in mind). Everyone, at virtually every moment, systematically uninstalled Abel Nowinski from Abel’s inner hard drive and replaced it with the fictitious Caleb Forrest.

  Of course, Abel knew that all this was a critical—potentially lifesaving—process, and he did his homework. The DEA had been very generous about helping Abel recover from the trials of his recent escape from Colombia and the ever-spreading tentacles of Don Vicente Galvan and the Clan de Cartagena. There was an expansive Marriott resort outside Jacó. Abel was given a suite there, complete with a kitchen and free run of the resort’s many pleasures for two weeks. Abel had spent several days snorkeling and one day learning to surf, and taken several jungle tours. In these, he’d seen all sorts of wildlife and ridden zip lines underneath the rainforest canopy that reminded him of his old SEAL days. He’d even tried his hand at golf, but it proved to be so slow and frustrating that he’d quit after just nine holes. He’d been allowed to buy his own car, a 2014 Kia Soul he’d seen at a used car dealership and snapped up immediately. To do it, he had to use the lion’s share of the cash Rafael Ochoa had sent with him to make the purchase quick and easy, but it was worth it. He took himself out to simple restaurants where he could get used to ordering basic American foods again. It was all so enjoyable that a side of Abel began to feel like a normal person again.

  But there was another side that hadn’t even approached becoming normalized. It made Abel chafe at this new situation almost as much as he had with the old one in Colombia. He knew that everything was temporary, that soon he’d be back out into some backwater excuse for a town doing a lot of mostly tedious DEA work. He knew that his money would run out and that his salary wouldn’t be enough to pay for the expensive, action-packed lifestyle that he craved. With Abel Nowinski officially dead, he wasn’t sure if he could even access the account that contained the money that Don Vicente had paid him, much less spend it.

  And speaking of Don Vicente, he might actually be there as well at some point. In briefing Abel about his new assignment, Commander Lopez had mentioned that Abel’s contact, a fat, lazy-looking don of surprising cleverness and ambition named Monti Ruiz, had talked recently of Colombians reaching out to Costa Rican dons.

  “Knowing him, they’ve probably reached out to him, too,” Lopez had quipped.

  The Colombians needed waystations to refuel and resupply the ships, planes, and subs that now carried cocaine up the Pacific coast instead of crossing the Caribbean, where the Colombians were tired of losing money. Costa Rica’s many offshore islands apparently were ideal locales for such depots. The eventual involvement of Don Vicente Galvan seemed inevitable.

  All these things made Abel feel trapped and angry.

  “Once you’re in, you’re either in or you’re dead,” Garza had said. That truth was now becoming all too real. Everything—the DEA, the drug lords, the financial instability, the security that he’d had so briefly, and that security being lost all in one night—it all clung to Abel’s mind like a ball and chain.

  Damn! he thought. Damn the DEA and the whole fucking mess. Garza and Dolan and the other Boy Scouts at the Cartagena post had ruined everything.

  What he left out, of course, was that it was he who had gotten himself into this inescapable mess, he and his overarching restlessness, loneliness, and need for some kind of security, which expressed itself these days mostly through greed, envy, and bitterness. Feeling emotionally bereft and confused by the puzzle of himself, Abel chose to simply ignore it all.

  And thus, he was, inside at least, one very angry man, whether it be Abel Nowinski or Caleb Forrest.

  ***

  Abel drove the Jeep back to his suite at the Marriott and geared up for a short pre-mission that he’d planned. The village that this Monti Ruiz worked out of was called Playa de Palma, a tiny little speck of a town, like so many along the central Costa Rican coast. Each was mostly dedicated to the service and comfort of foreign adventurers, tourists, and surfers, who came in droves during high season to kick back, surf, or explore old jungle trails that locals would guide them through. Abel wanted to visit Playa de Palma clandestinely first so he could get a feel for the place before he returned a few days later as Caleb Forrest, DEA agent looking for wea
pons caches and stores of cocaine. He decided to go in a full camouflage outfit and face paint, but to carry only his sidearms and his compact range-finding monocular so he could look things over more precisely from afar. He didn’t want to burden himself with anything else. Since the jungle virtually met the ocean along this part of the coast, he’d try to sneak his way in toward the village as far as he could and not be seen.

  After about forty minutes of bumping down Costa Rica’s Pacific coast “highway,” he came to his destination. It was an intersection with a tiny dirt road marked by a small sign that said Playa de Palma was three kilometers off to the right. Abel pulled his Jeep onto the rutted road and quickly found a space to pull into the jungle and hide his vehicle. Cramming on a camouflaged cloth hat and securing the chin strap, he headed into the jungle, roughly paralleling the road on his left side and the Rio Palma, the river that gave the community its name, on his right. It was the kind of hike where he’d usually use a sharp machete to hack through the thick rainforest shrub layer, but that would make his stealthy approach impossible, so he soldiered on without one—and got soaked as he did from the moisture of the dense undergrowth.

  It was not long, though, before he came upon something that looked like an outbuilding next to a small wooden structure, a cottage or maybe an office that someone lived in. A perimeter was cut into the jungle around the facility, but not so much as to expose it. Abel peered through the monocular and saw several men hanging out on the porch that surrounded the wooden cottage, which was built on stilts.

  Abel suddenly heard the sound of a motor, and the three men got up and walked toward the outbuilding, a mostly corrugated-metal structure with a double door. An old US Army–style Jeep emerged from the jungle near the building, and Abel could see a barely visible track that it had apparently been following. The driver got out of the vehicle with a clipboard. A man from the house signed it, then was given a paper by the driver. The man stuffed the paper into a pocket, then both he and the driver joined the other two men, who were unloading heavy crates from the rear of the Jeep. The double door of the building was thrown open, and the men carried the crates into the dark mini-warehouse.

 

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