Authors: Gary Ponzo
As he gestured to the security guard protecting the parking lot, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed his boss, the Director of the CIA, Ken Morris, to brief him on the bleak circumstances. He was in Egypt on assignment with a new director.
The guard opened the gate and Faust roamed the back of the lot while waiting for Morris to answer.
“What’s going on, Jeff,” Morris said.
“A lot,” Faust said, rolling to a stop in the middle of some empty spaces and putting his car in park. “How’s Raji doing over there?”
“Not good. He relies too much on technology.”
“But that’s why you hired him, because of his tech skills.”
“Yeah, well, he spends way too much time overlaying files for tendencies and not enough time in the field,” Morris said. “How goes the rescue operation?”
Faust leaned his head back against the headrest and sighed. “The command center is in Walt’s office.”
“And?”
“Well, doesn’t that bother you a bit?”
“Listen, the president has a hard-on for Bracco. You know that. So, who did you think was going to run the operation with Nick taking the helm? Langley?”
“No, but they should’ve at least made it a joint task force. We could’ve been working together on this.”
There was a pause. “Jeff,” Morris said in a deliberate tone. “What do you mean
could’ve
? Aren’t you part of the team?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Don’t, Jeff. Don’t sandbag the project just because you feel disrespected somehow. I’ve had my battles with Louis and Walt and I’ll probably have more down the road, but they’re good at their job and they’ll run a good clean operation.”
Faust gripped the steering wheel tight with his free hand.
“Jeff?”
“I’m here.”
“What do they want from us?”
“A small seaplane to drop off the rescue team in a lake in the Amazon.”
“Call Tevin down there. He’ll set it up.”
Faust thought about the bad information he’d received from Tevin about the president’s dislike for Pablo Moreno. This was before the photograph showed up with President Santoro on his knees kissing the back of Moreno’s hand. Faust thought about the disinformation Walt told him to give to his chief Colombian agent.
“Yeah,” Faust said, leaving out the details. “I’ll call him.”
“Anything else?”
“No, everything else is fine.”
“Well, send me a report tonight, okay?”
“Will do.”
Faust hit the end button. He refused to believe Tevin Martinez would’ve turned. He was Faust’s most trusted asset in South America.
He pushed a button on his phone and a few moments later, Tevin’s voice said, “How goes it, Jeff?”
“Good. Listen . . . Tevin . . .”
“What is it?”
“We’re going to be assisting the FBI in an emergency rescue mission in the southern part of the country.”
“Assisting the FBI? What’s going on?”
“Never mind. I just need you to set up a couple of things up for us.”
“Jeff, are you going to brief me on this or not?”
There was something deep down that bothered Faust. He’d never been pried for information from one of his agents before. Not like this. Each team member understood that information was purposely compartmentalized. The left hand didn’t know what the right was doing because it reduced the chance for contamination. Or treason.
“Your last report about President Santoro and his dislike for Pablo Moreno. Did you locate the asset who delivered that intel?”
There was a pause. “Why?”
“Because its veracity is being questioned from other assets in the area.”
“What other assets?” Tevin sounded annoyed.
Faust pressed his foot down hard on the brake of his car even though he was already in park. One of his best agents just asked the one question no agent should ever ask. He was being defensive and displaying every tendency of a double agent.
“Tevin,” Faust said, “you’re coming in.”
“What? Jeff, what are you talking about? I’m on the verge of infiltrating Moreno’s inner circle. You can’t pull me out now. I’ll be a target.”
“I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the Bogota airport by this afternoon. Be on the two-thirty flight to Dulles.”
There was a very long and very scary silence. Faust waited longer than he should have.
“Tevin, you’ll be safe. I promise.”
Nothing. He could hear breathing. And maybe just a little too much thinking.
“Tevin?”
The line went dead.
“Shit!” Faust slammed his phone against the dashboard. “Shit, shit, shit.”
A knock on his window.
Faust turned to see a security guard who’d just hopped off his golf cart.
“Is everything okay in there?” the guard asked, peeking into the interior of the car as he spoke.
“It’s fine, yes,” Faust answered.
“Well, maybe you should find a place to park.”
Faust didn’t recognize the guard, but his ears were about to explode off his head. He was about to rip into the guard, when he was capable of stopping himself. The guard was simply doing his job. Maybe even a bit too well.
“Yes,” Faust finally said. “Thank you.”
Faust put his car in gear and parked in his covered parking space near the employee entrance to the building. He thought about his options. How much did Tevin know? Very little. Faust breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t acquiesce and give Tevin the information he’d requested.
Faust was already relegated to a subordinate position in potentially the most important operation during his tenure with the agency, he wasn’t about to admit any more mistakes. If his conversation somehow derailed the FBI’s rescue mission, then he’ll look like Jimmy Carter did during the Iran Hostage Crisis. Carter was just one extra helicopter away from rescuing those hostages, yet the misstep inevitably cost him the election.
Faust pushed a contact button on his phone.
A minute later, Agent Chris Garber answered the call from somewhere inside Colombia. “Yes.”
“I need you to secure a seaplane for an emergency rescue mission. Have it available by the end of the day, because it will be leaving for the southern quadrant before dawn.”
“Okay.”
“We have a joint task force with the FBI landing in Bogota tonight. Nick Bracco is leading the team. I’ll need a car ready to take them to the seaplane the minute they land.”
“Got it. Am I part of the task force?”
“No, we need you working your contacts. I want to know everything I can about President Santoro’s relationship with Pablo Moreno. Maybe even any recent meetings they may have had.”
“Santoro is certifiable. He might want to kill Moreno one minute, then hug him the next.”
Faust was so relieved to hear that simple assessment come from his agent’s mouth. “Yes, I know. But dig deeper. See what you can find out about any connection between the two.”
“You got it, chief.”
“Thanks.” Faust thought about his next task. He rubbed his forehead in anguish. “Listen, there’s one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Tevin has turned,” Faust said. “I need you to find him.”
“And do what?”
“Do I have to say it?”
A pause. “Jeff. Really?”
“You have a better idea?’
An appropriate pause. Then, “No.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Okay.”
Faust hit the end button on his phone and lingered there in the parking lot, not wanting to leave his car. Not wanting to be in charge and make these terrible decisions. In all the years he’d been with the agency, he’d never had to deal with a rogue agent. And he’d certainly never been forced into a snap decision to have someone’s life ended. He stared down at his phone like it was a smoking gun. A moment later he pushed another button and put the phone to his ear.
“So soon?” CIA Director Ken Morris answered.
“We have to talk.”
* * *
CIA agent Chris Garber sat in a cafe beside the Plaza de Santander in downtown Bogota, sipping the last few drops of an hour-old cup of cold coffee. Across from him sat a man with slicked back hair, handmade Italian shoes and a five-hundred-dollar Gucci tie.
“Well?” the man said with a bit of anxiety in his voice.
Garber looked over at him with a sly grin. “I’m supposed to kill you.”
The two men bumped knuckles and shared a laugh.
“Screw Nick Bracco,” Garber said. “We’ll have a welcome wagon waiting for him.”
Chapter 15
In a very trendy section of Bogota known as Parque de la 93, the nightclubs and cafes were busy most any time of night or day. In this district, the lunch crowd at the swanky Dia de Noche, found many famous visitors, including professional soccer players, movie stars and on this particular day, the President of Colombia, Carlos Santoro.
Santoro, however, never mingled with the paying customers. He was invited to the very prestigious Captain’s Room, where the lunch was served by scantily clad young women who flirted as they dropped off plates of enchiladas and beans and every type of alcoholic beverage.
The Captain’s Room resembled an upscale living room, with carpeted flooring, a large sofa against the wall and small individual trays set up to place the plates of food. The lighting was constantly dim and dance music played overhead.
Since prostitution was legal, the menu also included additional services which could be provided for the appropriate fee. These services usually had a very happy ending for the male customers.
A curtain of glass beads hung from the doorway and jingled every time a server passed through. Standing outside the door was a team of security protecting their guest of honor.
President Santoro beamed with delight as a curvy brunette in a thong and pasties dropped off a tray of cheese and crackers.
“Enjoy, Mr. President.” The girl smiled conspiratorially, as if somehow they had shared a secret moment together.
“Yes, yes,” Santoro exclaimed. “How about a little love over here?” He spread his legs and patted his lap.
The young girl’s smile subsided, however, as she spotted a man stroll through the beaded opening to the room. He wore a white button down shirt beneath a tan sports coat and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Following him into the room were five armed soldiers in fatigues and assault rifles.
Pablo Moreno.
The girl scurried from the room as the gunmen set up a perimeter behind their leader. Moreno strolled over to Santoro with his hands in his pockets. He nodded toward the couch. “May I?”
Santoro wasn’t fazed by the show of force. He knew they weren’t there for him, but for anyone else who might be interested in doing their boss harm.
“Certainly,” Santoro said, waving a hand to his right.
As Moreno took his seat, he picked up a cube of cheese and popped it into his mouth like a piece of candy. “Mmm. Very nice.”
“How can I help you today, Pablo?”
Moreno placed his hands in his lap. “Mr. President, I have something to show you.” He pulled a picture from his shirt pocket and handed it to Santoro.
It was a picture of a very pretty girl with ample breasts peeking out the top of a skintight workout bra. Santoro began to smile as he viewed the image until his eyes finally descended to her lower body. Her legs were covered in fur and she had a fox’s tail curling from her bottom. She was half woman, half animal.
Santoro squinted in the dim lighting to see if he was actually seeing it correctly.
Moreno flicked his fingertip and instantly a small flashlight appeared in his palm. He handed it to the president.
Santoro clicked on the light and examined the photo with extreme scrutiny. The girl was stunningly beautiful and repulsive all at once.
“Creepy, eh,” Moreno said, his eyebrows popping up from behind his sunglasses.
Santoro looked up from the photo. “Who is this? Or what is it?”
“It is a fake, Mr. President. A computer was able to make the image look like she is half beast, but it is not real.”
Santoro held the picture closer to his face and shined the light again. “Really?”
“Really. Computers are capable of making anything look real anymore. Even the experts can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”
Santoro looked up again and handed the photo back to Moreno. “Then why do you show this to me?”
“Because, that picture of you in the Amazon. I understand you are concerned this photo might become a widespread embarrassment for you should it go online. If it ever gets released to the media, the public will be told it is a fake and half the people will believe that and half will not. But that does not matter. With fifty percent uncertain, it will be considered a phony. The believers will be considered kooks by the nonbelievers.”
Santoro frowned. “That is easy for you to say since you were not the one on his knees.”
Moreno took a breath. He seemed empathetic. “I understand. You were very engaged in the moment. We had just confirmed a productive and powerful collaboration. Between the two of us, we now control the entire country. It is no wonder you became so enthusiastic.”
Santoro lowered his head. “Yes, well, I have seen a professional about my behavior and it seems I am already cured from my emotional illness. I am much stronger now.”
“That is good, Mr. President, because I need you to be strong. Our alliance requires you to be firm in your dedication to this partnership.” Moreno removed his sunglasses and smiled. “You see, over half of the Colombian workforce makes their money from the drug trade. That is me. The reason we are so profitable is because the United States cannot grow their own coca plants. So they have to import it from a place that can grow their own. That is where you come in. You assure that our fields remain protected.”
“I do not understand what this has to do with the picture?”
“It has everything to do with the picture,” Moreno leaned over with his palms out. “Without it, we would not have the president of the United States coming to visit with you tomorrow.”
“I see.”
“And we would not be splitting fifty million dollars,” Moreno added with a sly grin.
“Fifty million dollars?”
“Yes. That is what President Merrick is willing to pay for the safe release of his brother. Half of that would be yours.”