“Buck, LZ One in four minutes,” PJ called over the intercom.
“Roger.”
They were flying over Risaralda Province, part of the great valley that lay between two enormous ridgelines of mountains flung into the sky by a subductal fault in the earth’s crust. PJ’s hobby was geology. He knew how much effort it took to bring his aircraft to this altitude, and he boggled at the forces that could push mountains to the same height.
“LZ One in sight,” Captain Willis said.
“Got it.” Colonel Johns took the stick. He keyed his microphone, “One minute. Hot guns.”
“Right.” Sergeant Zimmer left his position to head aft. Sergeant Bean activated his minigun in case there was trouble. Zimmer slipped and nearly fell on a pool of vomit. That wasn’t unusual. The ride smoothed out now that they were in the lee of the mountains, but there were some very sick kids in back who would be glad to get on firm, unmoving ground. Zimmer had trouble understanding that. It was dangerous on the ground.
The first squad was up as the helicopter flared to make its first landing, and as before, the moment it touched down, they ran out the back. Zimmer made his count, watched to be certain that everyone got off safely, and notified the pilot to lift off as soon as they were clear.
Next time, Chavez told himself, next time I fucking walk in and out! He had had some rough chopper rides in his time, but nothing like that one. He led off to the treeline and waited for the remainder of the squad to catch up.
“Glad to be on the ground?” Vega asked as soon as he got there.
“I didn’t know I ate that much,” Ding groaned. Everything he’d eaten in the last few hours was still aboard the helicopter. He opened a canteen and drank a pint of water just to wash away the vile taste.
“I usta love roller coasters,” Oso said. “No more, ‘mano!”
“Fuckin’ A!” Chavez remembered standing in line for the big ones at Knott’s Berry Farm and other California theme parks. Never again!
“You okay, Ding?” Captain Ramirez asked.
“Sorry, sir. That never happened to me – ever! I’ll be okay in a minute,” he promised his commander.
“Take your time. We picked a nice, quiet spot to land.” I hope.
Chavez shook his head to clear it. He didn’t know that motion sickness started in the inner ear, had never known what motion sickness was until half an hour earlier. But he did the right thing, taking deep breaths and shaking his head to get his equilibrium back. The ground wasn’t moving, he told himself, but part of his brain wasn’t sure.
“Where to, Cap’n?”
“You’re already heading in the right direction.” Ramirez clapped him on the shoulder. “Move out.”
Chavez put on his low-light goggles and started moving off through the forest. God, but that was embarrassing. He’d never do anything that dumb again, the sergeant promised himself. With his head still telling him that he was probably moving in a way that his legs couldn’t possibly cause, he concentrated on his footing and the terrain, rapidly moving two hundred meters ahead of the main body of the squad. The first mission into the swampy lowlands had just been practice, hadn’t really been serious, he thought now. But this was the real thing. With that thought foremost in his mind, he batted away the last remnants of his nausea and got down to work.
Everyone worked late that night. There was the investigation to run, and routine office business had to be kept current as well. By the time Moira came into Mr. Shaw’s office, she’d managed to organize everything he’d need to know, and it was also time to tell him what she’d forgotten. She wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Murray there, too. She was surprised when he spoke first.
“Moira, were you interviewed about Emil’s trip?” Dan asked.
She nodded. “Yes. I forgot something. I wanted to tell you this morning, Mr. Shaw, but when I came in early you were asleep. Connie saw me,” she assured him.
“Go on,” Bill said, wondering if he should feel a little better about that or not.
Mrs. Wolfe sat down, then turned to look at the open door. Murray walked over to close it. On the way back he placed his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay, Moira.”
“I have a friend. He lives in Venezuela. We met… well, we met a month and a half ago, and we – this is hard to explain.”
She hesitated, staring at the rug for a moment before looking up. “We fell in love. He comes up to the States on business every few weeks, and with the Director away, we wanted to spend a weekend – at The Hideaway, in the mountains near Luray Caverns?”
“I know it,” Shaw said. “Nice place to get away from it all.”
“Well, when I knew that Mr. Jacobs was going to be away and we had a chance for a long weekend, I called him. He has a factory. He makes auto parts – two factories, actually, one in Venezuela and one in Costa Rica. Carburetors and things like that.”
“Did you call him at his home?” Murray asked.
“No. He works such long hours that I called him at his factory. I have the number here.” She handed over the scrap of Sheraton note paper that he’d written it down on. “Anyway, I got his secretary – her name’s Consuela – because he was out on the shop floor, and he called me back, and I told him that we could get together, so he came up – we met at the airport Friday afternoon. I left early after Mr. Jacobs did.”
“Which airport?”
“Dulles.”
“What’s his name?” Shaw asked.
“Díaz. Juan Díaz. You can call him there at the factory and -”
“That phone number goes to an apartment, not a factory, Moira,” Murray said. And it was that clear, that fast.
“But – but he -” She stopped. “No. No. He isn’t -”
“Moira, we need a complete physical description.”
“Oh, no.” Her mouth fell open and wouldn’t close. She looked from Shaw to Murray and back again as the horror of it all closed in on her. She was dressed in black, of course, probably the same outfit she’d worn to bury her own husband. For a few weeks she’d been a bright, beautiful, happy woman again. No more. Both FBI executives felt her pain, hating themselves for having brought it to her. She was a victim, too. But she was also a lead, and they needed a lead.
Moira Wolfe summoned what little dignity she had left and gave them as complete a description as they had ever had of any man in a voice as brittle as crystal before she lost control entirely. Shaw had his personal assistant drive her home.
“Cortez,” Murray said as soon as the door closed behind her.
“That’s a pretty solid bet,” the Executive Assistant Director(Investigations) agreed. “The book on him says that he’s a real ace at compromising people. Jesus, did he ever prove that right.” Shaw’s head went from side to side as he reached for some coffee. “But he couldn’t have known what they were doing, could he?”
“Doesn’t make much sense to have come here if he did,” Murray said. “But since when are criminals logical? Well, we start checking immigration control points, hotels, airlines. See if we can track this cocksucker. I’ll get on it. What are we going to do about Moira?”
“She didn’t break any laws, did she?” That was the really odd part. “Find a place where she doesn’t have to see classified material, maybe in another agency. Dan, we can’t destroy her, too.”
“No.”
Moira Wolfe got home just before eleven. Her kids were all still up waiting for her. They assumed that her tears were a delayed reaction from the funeral. They’d all met Emil Jacobs, too, and mourned his passing as much as anyone else who worked for the Bureau. She didn’t say very much, heading upstairs for bed while they continued to sit before the television. Alone in the bathroom she stared in the mirror at the woman who’d allowed herself to be seduced and used like… like a fool, something worse than a fool, a stupid, vain, lonely old woman looking for her youth. So desperate to be loved again that… That she had condemned – how many? Seven people? She couldn’t remember, staring at her empty face in the glass. The young agents on Emil’s security detail had families. She’d knitted a sweater for Leo’s firstborn son. He was still too young – he’d never remember what a nice, handsome young man his father had been.
It’s all my fault.
I helped kill them.
She opened the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet. Like most people, the Wolfes never threw out old medicine, and there it was, a plastic container of Placidyls. There were still – she counted six of them. Surely that would be enough.