The Grace Bay Agreement Page 17

  He picked up the phone. But at last he put it down again. No, there was a better way. He would call his FARC friends to visit Ramon and extract some payment. The money could help his operation.

  Tuesday

  0955

  14 December, 1999

  El Paso Intelligence Center (EPIC)

  El Paso, Texas

  Christopher Monk dropped his 250 pounds down into the cheap office chair, so different from the captain’s chairs in the NSA listening posts. He no longer smelled the bathroom around the corner. On his second day, he stayed late and then left to get dinner at the Golden Corral.

  When he returned he had an armful of cleaning supplies. Since it was after midnight, only the one guard sat on duty in the EPIC. For two hours he labored in the crusty restroom, cleaning every surface as he had been taught during his tour as a Marine. He wondered if anyone even noticed that he had scrubbed the stinking toilet, sink, and floor. But at least now he could sit at his console without gagging from the stench.

  No one took note of his comings and goings, so he started coming in late and staying late. This gave him a chance to keep up with his favorite pastime of reading hacked emails. Not that he had anything else to do.

  When he received this assignment (or was it banishment?) he had asked what he was supposed to do in El Paso.

  “Listen in and report anything unusual. Send us a weekly report about the happenings around the station. Most of all, we don’t want to be surprised at anything.” He suspected that Donna Miller, the big boss, just wanted to get rid of a problem and so exiled him as far as she could from DC.

  The reports each took less than two hours to write, and sometimes he sent in more than one letter per week. This gave him a great deal of time to surf the internet. When things were busy or the EPIC deserted, so that he could be sure no one would be looking over his shoulder, he checked some of his favorite sites in Latin America.

  Back in Florida, the night he begged his boss to warn Peter Dolan, he knew his job would change when Jason came in to help him finish his watch. Jason soon snored over in another recliner, giving Chris a chance to access the administrator setting of his workstation. No one knew that Chris had hacked his own computer. In just a few minutes he copied website locations, the code for the back doors for three encryption programs, and a firewall program to make his computer invisible to normal trackback programs. He put the disks in the bottom pocket of his backpack, hoping that he could smuggle them out. No one even searched him when he left that night.

  He loaded the disks on his personal computer at home, and after coming to El Paso, installed them into his work computer late one night after hacking into those administrator settings. He knew he could get fired and perhaps even go to jail, but overcoming crushing boredom can sometimes be a bigger incentive than even money or danger.

  This morning the rest of the EPIC was consumed with following an aircraft that had popped up on radar in southern Arizona, caught when Customs had turned on their ANC-74 radar mounted on a tethered balloon. Of course, they all knew there was a leak in Customs. Every time the radar went down for scheduled maintenance, Border Patrol would report seeing and hearing several low-flying aircraft headed north.

  So, the EPIC commander recommended a plan. Customs turned off the radar, and reeled in the balloon for the scheduled maintenance as normal. But instead of pulling the balloon down, they faked a glitch in the winch. After an hour, they restarted the radar, and now they were tracking a bogie south of Phoenix.

  This distraction gave Chris a perfect opportunity to check his favorite websites. First, the “Don Humo” email account. Having been 36 hours since Chris had a look at the traffic, he was mesmerized at the messages from “El Pecador” (the Sinner) about the planned capture of Jose Leal. The next message described Jose’s suicide and the arrest of another mole named Mary. Even more disturbing was the message about the arrival of the two DEA chiefs in Santa Marta.

  Don Humo used his email extensively. He even mentioned not trusting the cell phones. El Pecador had warned him about the Unit using aircraft to monitor mobile phones as well as wiretaps. The next message laid out his plan to capture the men as they drove from the airport into town. The final message was a confirmation that three prisoners were sequestered in a warehouse. And one is a woman. He forwarded the emails to his civilian account so that he could study them in his apartment.

  A cheer went up in the EPIC. Apparently a chase plane forced the druggie to land at Payson, Arizona. The police and sheriff were already on the airport waiting. The excitement started to die down.

  Chris punched the close button, knowing that he had set up Explorer so his browsing session would be deleted automatically. He leaned back in the chair. It fit him better after losing his first 30 pounds. I guess walking every evening and eating healthier is just the ticket, he thought. Don’t fool yourself, Chris. You don’t have any friends here so you don’t have anyone to drink beer with.

  But he wanted a purpose. More than drinking beer with friends. What can I do to get back in the game? Those agents in Colombia need me. I need to get this information to someone who can get in there and rescue those three guys. His heart pounded nicely, and he felt important again. But he knew he couldn’t go through channels like last time. He’d get himself fired for sure, maybe even indicted. Did the NSA still have secret trials like the rumors said? He shuddered.

  He picked up his backpack and weaved his way between the bodies that were watching overhead monitors with moving maps and CNN feeds. No one noticed.

  Did one of those emails mention Peter Dolan? I thought he was dead.

  Fifteen minutes later he arrived at his apartment. Chris sat in front of his triple monitor, lost in thought as several feeds played in front of him. CNN.com on the right, hacked emails scrolled in the middle and his personal email account up on the left. Two of the newest Dell twin processor computers hummed over in the corner. Now who can I contact?

  He looked over his computer system the way a yacht owner takes in his new ship. I wish I had someone to tell how I scored these great boxes. I need a girl friend. I’m gonna lose some weight and get me a woman.

  Two weeks ago, on his way out to El Paso, Chris made a detour to Round Rock, Texas to the Dell Computer Factory Outlet. He needed a new machine. He wanted a bigger, faster unit. But he only had a thousand dollars budgeted for computer equipment this month. Hard to get a new machine for a thousand. His old box was now just a collection of parts. He had upgraded and added in different cards and memory chips. With different brands and more powerful components, he was having reliability problems. Trouble with stability and overheating.

  “Remember, don’t go over a thousand dollars,” he said to himself walking up the stairs to the store.

  “I want to see your biggest capacity machine in a regular chassis,” Chris said as he walked in the door.

  “We have a nice 250 MHz machine on sale,” said an old bald man pointing to the display near the door.

  “No, I need something a lot faster.” Chris swiveled his head, mesmerized by the flood of computers stacked on shelves and overflowing onto the floor.

  “We’ve got a couple of machines in the back. Overruns on a bank order. But they’re UNIX machines. Would you be interested in those?” the salesman asked tilting his head toward the warehouse.

  “Tell me more.” Chris started to walk toward the back room.

  “The Air Force wanted to update the computers on Air Force One. So we developed a twin processor server light and small enough to fit into a regular PC frame. Two 500MHz Intel processors, strapped together…”

  Chris listened as the clerk rattled off the specifications. “Wow. I’ve got to have this. It’d be perfect for my new place. But I wonder what they cost,” he said under his breath.

  “One of our bank customers heard about the custom machines and ordered twelve for their branch banks. These two are extras we built in case one of the originals didn’t pass quality control.”


  Now they’re all the way in the back of the warehouse, Chris thought. The old man breathed hard and hitched his pants up over his belly. He touched two plain boxes with DELL printed across them. Chris bent down and read the spec sheets attached. These were even better equipped than he’d hoped.

  “How much?” Chris asked.

  “These machines retail for $4,998.”

  “I can read that on the sheet. How much do you want today? Now.” Sweat flowed down Chris’s back, not from the heat, but from the excitement of the deal.

  “We can let you have one of these for $2,500.”

  “Look at the dust on these boxes. Nobody wants these things except a power user like me. And all the big guys want a custom machine. You’ll never sell these things if you don’t sell them to me.” Chris looked at the spec sheet again.

  You have got to stay within your budget. You have got to stay within your budget. The mantra played in Chris’s head.

  “Make me an offer.”The old man straightened his back and prepared to do battle.

  “I’ll give you five hundred.”

  “Sir, be reasonable. The mother board on one machine is worth twice that!”

  “Look at the dust on these boxes. No one’s interested in these machines. I’ll bet these two are on a report of stale merchandise that has to be moved.” The look on the salesman’s face told him that he hit pay dirt.

  “Go find your boss and tell him my offer.” Chris stared at the older man, watching him decide.

  “I’m the boss, sir. And you’re right. I need to move these machines. But I need to move both. Take the pair for twelve hundred, and we’ve got a deal.”

  Delight exploded in his brain, but Chris kept the shine off of his face. Taking a deep breath, he looked around, already planning on how he would network the two and create a monster system.

  “I’ll give you a thousand for both, but you’ve got to throw in a 17 inch flat screen monitor. Do we have a deal?” The old man gave a pained smile. They shook hands.

  Now Chris had a better system at home than he had at work. All of the software lifted from the NSA office in Florida fit and ran with no problem. He was over budget on the T-1 connection to the internet that he had brought to his house. But he didn’t have any friends to drink with, so he was actually money ahead.

  Now, back to the problem of the DEA folks kidnapped by Don Humo. It had been weeks since he had been this happy. He was in the middle of a big operation and he had this great system to hack into anybody’s email.

  “Pete Dolan. Where is he? If he’s still alive, he’s got an email address,” Chris said aloud.

  Using the NSA search site, Chris pulled up Peter Dolan’s old email account. Checking its status, he saw that a notice had been sent that due to nonpayment, the account would be closed in less than ten days.

  Several individual emails had been forwarded to a Mail City account, PilotPete55@mailcity.com. That’s his new email, Chris thought. He’s transferring old emails he wants to save before he loses the account. At least that’s what I’d do. The server also had stored several unanswered emails to a server in Switzerland. A man named Henri Nikolas. Why is he sending out emails to Switzerland?

  I’ll send him a message. I wonder how often he checks his mail.

  His fingers flew as he typed his urgent message to Pete Dolan. How much do I tell him? How can I convince him I’m legit and his friends are going to be killed? The familiar nausea gripped his guts as the reality of his adventure hit.

  Tuesday

  1100

  14 December, 1999

  Dos Hermanos Moving and Storage

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Peter Douglas sat at his desk and wondered how he would find Ramon Menchaca, and then how he would kill him for ordering the murders of his wife and daughter, and Lillian. The man destroyed his life. His only joy now was the thought of making that monster suffer. Sometimes the darkness fell on him as from a great height. He would then run into the bathroom and weep, his grief unbearable. Andres Gonzales would glance at him and pretend not to notice. Pete was grateful he didn’t pry.

  Waldo became a separate entity again, distant and uncommunicative. What a strange bird he is, Pete thought. Just as I thought I was getting to know him, he goes into seclusion in that hotel room doing who knows what. When are we going to get started?

  A ratty motorcycle pulled up in front and the rider brought in a manila envelope. Andres signed for it.

  “It’s from Drummond Coal,” Andres said as tore the envelope open and pulled out the check. “We’ve done it! You and me, Peter. We have money in the bank thanks to you.”

  Pete smiled, but he knew it looked faked.

  “We should go out tonight and celebrate.”

  “Maybe we should wait until the weekend.” Pete took the ledger out and entered the check as payment for the account. Their largest account now paid in full. “All we had to do was present an invoice. Why are you making such a big deal?”

  “No, my brother. You’ve brought my business back from the brink. So we’ll party tonight. And discuss your employment and pay.” Andres took the check back and kissed it.

  “I am off to the bank to deposit this beauty.” Pete nodded and watched Andres pick up his briefcase and head out the door.

  “Cheer up, brother. Everything’s good,” Andres called back.

  Pete started up the computer, wanting to see if Waldo had anything for them yet. The only messages he had been getting were from Joan Merkam. He just answered that he couldn’t say anything yet, and he missed her too. One new message in his Inbox.

  “I can’t take another message from that woman,” he said under his breath as he opened the email. He didn’t recognize the sender. He gasped as he read the message. He looked at the ceiling and then read the message again.

  Mr. Dolan,

  I am the analyst who has been tracking your enemies for several months. I tipped off Steve Joiner so that he sent the body guard for you when you were on the island. I have urgent information for you. You must believe me and act or three people will be dead soon.

  Since this is not a secure method of communication, and I am not supposed to be contacting you, I will be talking in sort of a vague fashion. If you need clarification, email me back and I’ll specify.

  This morning, Steve Joiner and Tuffy Dupree landed in your city. They were kidnapped, along with a woman, by the same man who is after you, the boss of your city’s crime syndicate. He goes by the name of Don Humo. The cartel was tipped off by a mole in the DEA. Are you aware of this man, Don Humo? Can you get to him?

  Also, your finger prints were found inside J.L.’s house. You may also be a target. If you understand this message, please hit reply.

  Skinny Girl

  Pete’s fingers tap danced across his keyboard.

  Skinny Girl,

  We know the man. But we can’t seem to find him. Thanks for the info.

  Pete

  Pete called the Continental Hotel, and asked for room 1001. Waldo answered on the second ring.

  “We’ve got a problem. I got an email that my fingerprints were found at Jose’s house.” Waldo spent the next half minute swearing.

  “That’s bad. Joiner knows you were in town. I’ll bet they’ve tracked you back here. We’ve got to move.”

  “Worse. The bad guys know about it.”

  “You sure? How can you know that?”

  “I’ve got someone inside. High, high up.”

  “Alright. We’ve got to get some money. Get cash from your moving company. They owe you. Go to the ATM and draw out the max. Be sure you’re not followed. Meet me. You know where.”

  Pete eased the phone down on its cradle. Contrary to the outward signs, his mind spun like a dizzy child on the playground: wobbly, aimless, and in danger of falling. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. I’m tired, he thought. I want to rest. An insistent voice inside called out, as if from a distance--Move or die. Move or die.

  He
pulled a blank sheet of paper from the printer and wrote a note of apology to Andres for the money he was about to take. He was so upset that he signed the note “Peter Dolan” by mistake. He took out the cash box and grabbed all the large bills. Three US hundred dollar bills and 650,000 pesos, equal to four hundred US. Around seven hundred dollars. Stuffing the money in his pocket, he went out the door and turned toward his hotel. He stopped and went back toward the office pretending to have forgotten something.

  A tall man stood next to the back table at the open air café just down the street trying to pay. The young man’s bearing and lean body caught Pete’s attention. That’s my tail, he thought. Back out the door and toward the ATM at Banco de Colombia, Pete resisted the temptation to turn around and look.

  No use trying to lose him until after I go to the hotel. I’m sure they’ve figured out that’s where I’m living. Do I really need to go back there? Yes. I’ve got to get my passport. Without it, I’d have a hard time getting out of the country. It’s close enough to lunch that it’d be normal for me to go to my room. I need my passport and a few clothes.

  At the ATM, Pete scanned back, and caught sight of the tall man looking in the window of a bakery across the street. Yep, he’s able to watch me in the reflection of the window. The daily maximum that Pete could draw on his credit card was seven hundred dollars in pesos. He had to use the other pocket to fit the money into.

  He crossed the street and bounded up the stairs to his room. Picking up his small bag, he first found his passport, then some toiletries and two shirts and some socks. He picked up a hat he had bought to keep off the sun and a pair of sunglasses, but knew that those items wouldn’t throw off his tail. His heart hammered in his chest. He peeked out his window to see his follower sitting at an outdoor restaurant across the street. Funny, he doesn’t look like a bad guy: Short hair, too tall, and in much too good physical condition.