“Move out,” Captain Ramirez told him quietly.
Chavez moved toward the treeline in the knowledge that behind him the squad would follow.
11. In-Country
THREE HUNDRED MILES away from SSG Ding Chavez, Colonel Félix Cortez, formerly of the Cuban DGI, sat dozing in el jefe’s office. El jefe, he’d been told on his arrival several hours before, was occupied at present – probably entertaining a mistress. Maybe even his wife, Cortez thought; unlikely but possible. He’d drunk two cups of the fine local coffee – previously Colombia’s most valuable export crop – but it hadn’t helped. He was tired from the previous night’s exertions, from the travel, and now from readjusting yet again to the high altitude of the region. Cortez was ready for sleep, but had to stay awake to debrief his boss. Inconsiderate bastard. At least in the DGI he could have submitted a hastily written report and taken a few hours to freshen up before normal office hours began. But the DGI was composed of professionals, and he’d chosen to work for an amateur.
Just after 1:30 in the morning he heard feet coming down the corridor. Cortez stood and shook off the sleep. The door opened, and there was el jefe, his visage placid and happy. One of his mistresses.
“What have you learned?” Escobedo asked without preamble.
“Nothing specific as of yet,” Cortez replied with a yawn. He proceeded to speak for about five minutes, going over what things he had discovered.
“I pay you for results, Colonel,” Escobedo pointed out.
“That is true, but at high levels such results require time. Under the methods for gathering information which you had in place before I arrived, you would still know nothing other than the fact that some aircraft are missing, and that two of your couriers have been apprehended by the yanquis.”
“Their story about the interrogation aboard the ship?”
“Most unusual, perhaps all a fabrication on their part.” Cortez settled into his chair, wishing for another cup of coffee. “Or perhaps true, though I doubt it. I do not know either man and cannot evaluate the reliability of their claims.”
“Two men from Medellín. Ramón’s older brother served me well. He was killed in the battles with M-19. He died bravely. Ramón has also served me. I had to give him a chance,” Escobedo said. “It was a matter of honor. He is not very intelligent, but he is faithful.”
“And his death is not overly troublesome?”
Escobedo shook his head without a moment’s pause. “No. He knew what the chances were. He did not know why it was necessary to kill the American. He can tell them nothing about that. As for the American – he was a thief, and a foolish thief. He thought that we would not discover his thievery. He was mistaken. So we eliminated him.”
And his family, Cortez noted. Killing people was one thing. Raping children… that was something else. But such things were not his concern.
“You are sure that they cannot tell the Americans -”
“They were told to get aboard the yacht, using the money as their bona fides and concealing their cache of drugs. Once the killings were accomplished, they were instructed to go to the Bahamas, turn the money over to one of my bankers, destroy the yacht discreetly, and then smuggle the drugs in normally, into Philadelphia. They knew that the American had displeased me, but not how he had done so.”
“They must know that he was laundering money, and they must have told the Americans this,” Cortez pointed out patiently.
“Sí. Fortunately, however, the American was very clever in how he did this. We were careful, Colonel. Beforehand we made sure that no one could learn exactly what the thief had done.” Escobedo smiled, still in the afterglow of Pinta’s services. “He was so very clever, that American.”
“What if he left behind a record?”
“He did not. A police officer in that city searched his office and home for us – so carefully that the American federales never noticed that he had been there – before I authorized the killings.”
Cortez took a deep breath before speaking. “Jefe, do you not understand that you must tell me about such things as this beforehand! Why do you employ me if you have no wish to make use of my knowledge?”
“We have been doing things such as this for years. We can manage our affairs without -”
“The Russians would send you to Siberia for such idiocy!”
“You forget your place, Señor Cortez!” Escobedo snarled back. *
Félix bit off his own reply and managed to speak reasonably. “You think the norteamericanos are fools because they are unable to stop your smuggling. Their weakness is a political failing, not one of professional expertise. You do not understand that, and so I will explain it to you. Their borders are easy to violate because the Americans have a tradition of open borders. You confuse that with inefficiency. It is not. They have highly efficient police with the best scientific methods in the world – do you know that the Russian KGB reads American police textbooks? And copies their techniques? The American police are hamstrung because their political leadership does not allow them to act as they wish to act – and as they could act, in a moment, if those restrictions were ever eased. The American FBI – the federales – have resources beyond your comprehension. I know – they hunted me in Puerto Rico and came within a hair of capturing me along with Ojgda – and I am a trained intelligence officer.”
“Yes, yes,” Escobedo said patiently. “So what are you telling me?”
“Exactly what did this dead American do for you?”
“He laundered vast sums of money for us, and it continues to generate clean income for us. He set up a laundering scheme that we continue to use and -”
“Get your money out at once. If this yanqui was as efficient as you say, it is very likely that he left evidence behind. If he did so, then it is likely that those records were found.”
“If so, then why have the federales not acted? They’ve had over a month now.” Escobedo turned around to grab a bottle of brandy. He rarely indulged, but this was a time for it. Pinta had been especially fine tonight, and he enjoyed telling Cortez that his expertise, while useful, was not entirely crucial.
“Jefe, perhaps it will not happen this time, but someday you will learn that chances such as you took in this case are foolish.”
Escobedo waved the snifter under his nose. “As you say, Colonel. Now, what about these new rules you speak of?”
Chavez was already fully briefed, of course. They’d had a “walkthrough/talk-through” on a sand table as part of their mission brief, and every man in the unit had the terrain and their way through it committed to memory. The objective was an airfield designated RENO. He’d seen satellite and low-oblique photos of the site. He didn’t know that it had been fingered by someone named Bert Russo, confirming an earlier intelligence report. It was a gravel strip about five thousand feet long, easy enough for a twin-engine aircraft, and marginally safe for a larger one, if it were lightly loaded-with grass, for instance, which was bulky but not especially heavy. The sergeant navigated by the compass strapped to his wrist. Every fifty yards he’d check the compass, sight on a tree or other object on the proper line of bearing, and head for it, at which time the procedure would begin again. He moved slowly and quietly, listening for any vaguely human noise and looking around with the night-vision scope that he wore on his head. His weapon was loaded and locked, but the selector switch was on “safe.” Vega, the second or “slack” man in the line, was the buffer between Chavez’s point position and the main body of the unit, fifty meters behind Vega. His machine gun made for a formidable buffer. If contact were made, their first thought would be evasion, but if evasion proved impossible, then they were to eliminate whatever stood in their path as quickly and violently as possible.
After two hours and two kilometers, Ding picked a spot to rest, a preselected rally point. He raised his hand and twirled it around in a lasso-motion to communicate what he was doing. They could have pushed a little harder, but the flight, as all lengthy helicopter flights, had been tiring, and the captain hadn’t wanted to press too hard. They were not in fact expected to reach the objective until the following night. Every other word in the mission brief had been “Caution!” He remembered smirking every time he’d heard that. Now the amusement had left him. That guy Clark had been right. It was different in Indian Country. The price of failure here would not be the embarrassment of having your “MILES” beeper go off.