“Hey, Mitch, my knees are goin’. Ever think it might be nice to fight sittin’ down once in a while? Besides, that twenty-five-millimeter chain gun makes for a nice equalizer. What can I do for you?”
“Trying to track somebody down. One of my E-6s checked out a couple of weeks back, and we have to ship some shit to him, and he ain’t where we thought he was.”
“Oooo-kay. Wait while I punch up my magic machine and we’ll find the lad for you. What’s his name?” Stankowski asked. Mitchell gave him the information.
“Eleven-Bravo, right?” 11-B was Chavez’s Military Occupation Specialty, or MOS. That designated Chavez as a light infantryman. Mechanized infantry was Eleven-Mike.
“Yep.” Mitchell heard some more tapping.
“C-h-a-v-e-z, you said?”
“Right.”
“Okay, he was supposed to go to Benning and wear the Smokey Bear hat -”
“That’s the guy!” Mitchell said, somewhat relieved.
“- but they changed his orders an’ sent him down to Mac-Dill.”
But he ain’t at MacDill! Mitchell managed not to say.
“That’s a spooky bunch down there. You know Ernie Davis, don’t you? He’s there. Why don’t you give him a call?”
“Okay,” Mitchell said, really surprised by that one. I just did! “When you going to Hood?”
“September.”
“Okay, I’ll, uh, call Ernie. You take it easy, Stan.”
“Stay in touch, Mitch. Say hi to the family. ‘Bye.”
“Shit,” Mitchell observed after he hung up. He’d just proved that Chavez didn’t exist anymore. That was decidedly strange. The Army wasn’t supposed to lose people, at least not like this. The sergeant didn’t know what to do next, except maybe talk to his lieutenant about it.
“We had another hit last night,” Ritter told Admiral Cutter. “Our luck’s holding. One of our people got scratched, but nothing serious, and that’s three sites taken out, forty-four enemy KIAs -”
“And?”
“And tonight, four senior Cartel members are going to have a sit-down, right here.” Ritter handed over a satellite photograph, along with the text of the intercept. “All people on the production end: Fernández, d’Alejandro, Wagner, and Untiveros. Their ass is ours.”
“Fine. Do it,” Cutter said.
Clark was examining the same photo at that moment, along with a few obliques that he’d shot himself and a set of blueprints for the house.
“You figure this room, right here?”
“I’ve never been in this one, but that sure looks like a conference room to me,” Larson said. “How close you have to be?”
“I’d prefer under four thousand meters, but the GLD is good to six.”
“How about this hilltop right here? We’ve got a clear line of sight into the compound.”
“How long to get there?”
“Three hours. Two to drive, one to walk. You know, you could almost do this from an airplane…”
“Yours?” Clark asked with a sly grin.
“Not on a bet!” They’d use a four-wheel-drive Subaru for the drive. Larson had several different sets of plates, and the car didn’t belong to him anyway. “I got the phone number and I got a cellular phone.”
Clark nodded. He was really looking forward to this. He’d done jobs against people like this before, but never with official sanction, and never this high up the line. “Okay, I gotta get final approval. Pick me up at three.”
Murray hustled over from his office as soon as he got the news. Hospitals never made people look glamorous, but Moira appeared to have aged ten years in the past sixty hours. Hospitals weren’t especially big on dignity, either. Her hands were in restraints. She was on suicide watch. Murray knew that it was necessary – could scarcely be more so – but her personality had taken enough battering already, and this didn’t make things any better.
The room was already bedecked with flowers. Only a handful of FBI agents knew what had transpired, and the natural assumption at the office was that she’d taken Emil’s death too hard. Which wasn’t far off, after all.
“You gave us quite a scare, kiddo,” he observed.
“It’s all my fault.” She couldn’t bring her eyes to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time.
“You’re a victim, Moira. You got taken in by one of the best in the business. It happens, even to the smarties. Trust me, I know.”
“I let him use me. I acted like a whore -”
“I don’t want to hear that. You made a mistake. That happens. You didn’t mean to hurt anybody, and you didn’t break any laws. It’s not worth dying for. It’s damned sure not worth dying over when you got kids to worry about.”
“What’ll they think? What’ll they think when they find out…”
“You’ve already given them all the scare they need. They love you, Moira. Can anything erase that?” Murray shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“They’re ashamed of me.”
“They’re scared. They’re ashamed of themselves. They think it’s partly their fault.” That struck a nerve.
“But it’s not! It’s all my fault -”
“I just told you it isn’t. Moira, you got in the way of a truck named Félix Cortez.”
“Is that his real name?”
“He used to be a colonel in the DGI. Trained at the KGB Academy, and he’s very, very good at what he does. He picked you because you’re a widow, a young, pretty one. He scouted you, figured out that you’re lonely, like most widows, and he turned on the charm. He probably has a lot of inborn talent, and he was educated by experts. You never had a chance. You got hit by a truck you never saw coming. We’re going to have a shrink come down, Dr. Lodge from Temple University. And he’s going to tell you the same thing I am, but he’s going to charge a lot more. Don’t worry, though. It comes under Workers Comp.”
“I can’t stay with the Bureau.”
“That’s true. You’re going to have to give up your security clearance,” Dan told her. “That’s no great loss, is it? You’re going to get a job at the Department of Agriculture, right down the street, same pay grade and everything,” Murray said gently. “Bill set it all up for you.”
“Mr. Shaw? But – why?”
” ‘Cause you’re a good guy, Moira, not a bad guy. Okay?”
“So what exactly are we going to do?” Larson asked.
“Wait and see,” Clark replied, looking at the road map. There was a place called Don Diego not too far from where they were going. He wondered if somebody named Zorro lived there. “What’s your cover story in case somebody sees us together?”
“You’re a geologist, and I’ve been flying you around looking for new gold deposits.”
“Fine.” It was one of the stock cover-stories Clark used. Geology was one of his hobbies, and he could discuss the subject well enough to fool a professor in the subject. In fact, that’s exactly what he’d done a few times. That cover would also explain some of the gear in the back of the four-wheel-drive station wagon, at least to the casual or unschooled observer. The GLD, they’d explain, was a surveying instrument, which was pretty close.
The drive was not terribly unusual. The local roads lacked the quality of paving common in America, and there weren’t all that many guard rails, but the main hazard was the way the locals drove, which was a little on the passionate side, Clark thought. He liked it. He liked South America. For all the social problems, the people down here had a zest for life and an openness that he found refreshing. Perhaps the United States had been this way a century before. The old West probably had. There was much to admire. It was a pity that the economy hadn’t developed along proper lines, but Clark wasn’t a social theorist. He, too, was a child of his country’s working class, and in the important things working people are the same everywhere. Certainly the ordinary folk down here had no more love for the druggies than he did. Nobody likes criminals, especially the sort that flaunt their power, and they were probably angry that their police and army couldn’t do anything about it. Angry and helpless. The only “popular” group that had tried to deal with them was M-19, a Marxist guerrilla group – actually more an elitist collection of city-bred and university-educated intellectuals. After kidnapping the sister of a major cocaine trafficker, the others in the business had banded together to get her back, killing over two hundred M-19 members and actually forming the Medellín Cartel in the process. That allowed Clark to admire the Cartel. Bad guys or not, they had made a Marxist revolutionary group back off by playing the urban guerrilla game by M-19’s own rules. Their mistake – aside from being in a business which Clark abhorred – had been in assuming that they had the ability to play against another, larger enemy by the same set of rules, and that their new enemy wouldn’t respond in kind. Turnabout was fair play, Clark thought. He settled back in his seat to catch a nap. Surely they’d understand.