The Grace Bay Agreement Page 19

  Fear caught in Pete’s throat as he saw the picture of Renee. “I know this woman.” Waldo’s eyebrows went up.

  “I met her at a dance club. When I first came to Santa Marta. She asked me what three letter agency I worked for. We danced a little, talked out on the terrace, and then she left.”

  “This woman is the CIA handler for a big operation here in town to get Don Humo. She has been Agency since her college days.” Waldo motioned to the waiter. “Bring me some coffee,” he said in Spanish.

  “I am sorry, sir. We don’t have any coffee.”

  “I don’t care. Go next door, then, and get me some coffee. I have money.” He shook his head. “No coffee in Colombia. How stupid. Now, where were we? Oh yes. Joiner and Dupree were coming down to pick you up and take you back to the States.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Peter. Intelligence costs money. And this particular bit was very costly. This is why I was late getting here. My man in Europe tracks the DEA emails, among others, and he has a couple of people he can call. When he searched the emails, your name came up like a beacon. Both your old name and new name. So, I’ve told you what I know. How did you get the info that your prints were found at Jose Leal’s house?” Waldo’s coffee arrived just then in a Styrofoam cup. He put a little sugar in.

  “I got an email from an NSA operative. She signs her emails ‘Skinny Girl’. She claims that she’s been reading Don Humo’s emails for months. She warned Joiner about Leal, and that’s why he called you to come to Turks and Caicos.”

  “Interesting. And now that woman has tracked you here?”

  “Yeah. She told me about the kidnapping and the fingerprints. She also told me that there’s a mole in the DEA.”

  “Duh. The DEA’s always been full of druggies and informers.” Waldo laughed through his nose.

  “Is she going to get back to you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We need to get to an internet café then. But first we’ve got to find a new hotel.” Waldo motioned for the bill.

  Chapter Ten

  Tuesday

  1823

  14 December, 1999

  Magdalena Boat Repair

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Tuffy Dupree stood by the side of his cot and looked around the big warehouse one more time. Now dark outside, his corner of the expanse was lit by a single bare bulb. He swatted at a mosquito. A movement above caught his eye and he turned left. In the space between the top of the block wall and the roof, a sleek rat strolled toward the dark part of the warehouse. Tuffy had never seen such a big specimen. At least fourteen inches long, not including the tail, this guy must be eating good. Look how fat he is!

  The guards followed his gaze and babbled. Why hadn’t he studied Spanish when he’d been ordered to?

  The near guard drew his pistol and aimed. The second guard, obviously the one in command, barked out a negative. With some reluctance the younger man holstered his weapon. King Rat waddled on to his next meal and was lost in the darkness.

  This is not what I expected at all, Tuffy thought. I’m not tied up. I haven’t been beaten or tortured. Just threatened. He got up and went over to the wall, listening for any clue. Am I near the street? The ocean? The two armed guards talked just outside the pool of light.

  My office is surely coordinating some type of rescue mission. But can they find me? He remembered Kiki Camarena from 1984. The Mexican drug cartel had captured him in Guadalajara. At one point the FBI, CIA, and every DEA agent they could fly in were searching for him. He was tortured for days and then killed. Only when the narcos threw his body out in the street did we find him. He shuddered.

  I need to find the others. How can we link up? The door rattled and he heard the bolt being pulled back. The huge door opened eighteen inches and a Colombian woman came in carrying a tray. She set it down on the white plastic table, then stared Tuffy in the eye.

  “Your supper is ready, Mr. Dupree,” she said in slightly accented English.

  “This is a surprise. Why would they send in a beautiful woman like you?” She smiled at the compliment, then took the cover off of the plate. It was a simple meal of a whole fried fish, rice, and fried plantain. A large Styrofoam cup held a pink liquid, frothy on top.

  “Please, sir. Sit and eat before your food gets cold.” Tuffy kept his eyes on her and moved over to the chair nearest the tray. He sat and tasted the rice. It was excellent. Or perhaps I’m just hungry, he thought. The cook had prepared the fish well and the white flesh almost fell off of the skeleton.

  As he chewed, he studied the woman. Just over five feet tall, slender waist and curvy. About forty-five years old, he guessed. The big smile on her heart-shaped face put him at ease. She went to the other side of the table and sat.

  “What’s your name?”

  “That is not important. It is important that you eat. Drink the juice. It has lots of vitamins for you.” He tasted the red liquid.

  “What’s this?”

  “Juice of mora. It is a berry here. Very healthful.”

  “Do you work for the cartel?”

  “Shhhh. You do not know what you are saying.” She looked back at the two guards. “My boss wants to let you go, but he needs to find Peter Douglas. That is the only way he can know if he can release you.”

  “Have you talked with the others? The woman?”

  “Oh yes. I have talked with Miss Hedley-Fields. She speaks excellent Spanish, as does Mr. Joiner. But I am told that you do not.” He shook his head, and ate. So they haven’t released Joiner yet. That fact rolled around in his heard for a while.

  “What is your job with this group?” She laughed and leaned close to him.

  “Mr. Dupree. I am sorry, but only I get to ask the questions here.” After a pause, “Why did you and Mr. Joiner come to Colombia?”

  “You know. Mr. Joiner has already informed you. Isn’t that how you knew we were coming so that you could set up the ambush to capture us?”

  Margarita laughed politely. “You are excellent at getting information, but I cannot tell you these things. I am only the girlfriend of the boss.”

  Tuffy pushed his empty plate toward her. “Thanks. Thank you very much for the meal. I’ve been treated very well. Considering.”

  *****

  Tuesday

  1925

  14 December, 1999

  Waterwalk Apartments

  El Paso, Texas

  Sweat dripped off of Chris Monk’s nose as he opened the door and walked into his apartment. Even though it was a cool evening in El Paso, he sweated when he walked more than a block. Moving his amount of fat at a quick pace took a lot of effort. He had been tempted to skip his walk and monitor emails, but today’s tension tightened up his neck and he figured he should work off some of his stress. Now, after a walk around his neighborhood, he felt energized and ready for a big night. He peeled off his sweats and looked in the mirror. He knew he’d lost weight because his clothes were so loose. Now he could see some difference.

  “It’s nice to be seeing less of you,” he said and took a bow. He stepped into the tub for a quick shower. “All I have to do is keep moving, and soon I’ll look like a regular man. I’m going to start going to the gym and get in good shape. Maybe even get a girlfriend. As soon as I finish this op.”

  “Now, let’s see what the bad guys are up to,” he said as he plopped down into his oversized swivel chair and hit a couple of buttons to fire up his listening station. As he waited for his computer to boot up, he put a Mozart CD in the player and checked the volume. With a few clicks, he was into Don Humo’s email account.

  “Sent in Margarita, huh?” he said as he read her report to Don Humo. From past emails he knew that she was the mistress. Apparently, she’s also like an unofficial lieutenant. Sent in to soften up the boys. He opened his file cabinet and pulled out her folder. He jotted down her email address.

  “Well, that’s good,” he mumbled as he read Don Humo’s specific instructions
sent to the guards to keep them from roughing up Tuffy and Renee. “Strange. This is the same guy who ordered the hit on Peter Dolan. Why the change? Something’s happening here I don’t understand.”

  He picked up his house phone and dialed the Chinese restaurant down the street. He ordered the sweet and sour chicken with fried rice to be delivered. No time to go out for dinner tonight. We’ll be working late. He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

  A vague thought skirted his consciousness. What’s different? Why do I feel so good? He looked around his apartment and saw the narrow table in the alcove. Stacked on it were several different kinds of booze. Glen Livet scotch, Absolute vodka, several rums, and Bailey’s. Then he nodded as the realization took him. He hadn’t been drunk since he got relieved from Green Cove Springs. The trip, the new computer station, and now his mission to get the agents back have all filled him with a new purpose.

  “Maybe I should call someone. Let them know about what I’ve found out,” he said toward his reflection in the mirror above his booze table. If he did that, he’d go to jail for taking all the programs and files out of the office at Green Cove Springs.

  A sudden shaft of fear ran down his back. What if they trace my email back to here? He reviewed his setup. A fake IP address and an email address from a server in the Channel Islands that promised they never would yield to a US warrant. No one but NSA would be able to trace him. However, nothing was for sure. Look at how many people he’d uncovered. As soon as he finished this op, he’d erase everything he could and disappear for a while. That’s the best he could do.

  He put away his fear. These DEA agents were depending on him. Going into Margarita’s email account, he found her contact list and copied it into his file. Now, who are these recipients? Must be ‘high-ups’ themselves. He started to dig into their accounts. One by one, he looked into each one of their inboxes searching for something to help find the kidnapped agents.

  “How many girlfriends do these guys have?” he asked out loud. “Don’t they do any work?” Bitterness welled up as Chris compared his lack of a love life. Monk was an apt last name, he often told himself.

  The hours clicked by as Chris read hundreds of messages, one email account leading to another. His back hurt, and his eyes ached. He needed to get some sleep.

  “That’s more like it!” he yelled and punched toward the ceiling. “YES!” A guard mentioned a meeting with Don Humo for the next day. How could he be so stupid? Humo himself would never put something like that in an email.

  He rubbed his hands together and composed a message for Peter Douglas.

  Mr. Douglas,

  Don Humo has a meeting at Magdalena Boat Repair in the town of San Isidro. The address is Calle 5, 75-75. He will be there at 0800. However, I don’t have a physical description or know Humo’s real name. Good luck.

  Skinny Girl

  Chris looked at his clock. 0330. He could get six hours of sleep and get to the EPIC by 1030. That was good enough. No one would notice a late arrival. They don’t even know I exist.

  Wednesday

  0800

  15 December, 1999

  La Oficina Internet Bar

  Santa Marta

  Pete Douglas stood at the door of the internet bar sipping a coffee from the shop next door. His “man purse”, as he called it, hung by his right side. Lots of Colombian men carried this type of square canvas or leather bag with a long shoulder strap to keep papers and cash. His .45 fit well and its heaviness comforted him. He prayed the little internet café would open on time. Last night, he kept checking at the internet café until they closed, but no message from Skinny Girl.

  After leaving Mo’s bar just after dark, he and Waldo had taken a taxi to a cheap hotel south of the city. Waldo’s theory was the kidnappers would not want to go far from the site of the kidnapping. There were only mountains to the north, so they went south toward the location of the kidnapping mentioned in the paper and took a room at the hotel recommended by the taxi driver. The noise from the traffic kept them up most of the night.

  Across the street, Waldo sat in front of the hotel lobby watching Pete and keeping an eye out for any threat. He wore the same crème colored suit but with a white shirt and black tie open at the collar. His white fedora kept the morning sun off of his face. At 0812 the door opened and Pete took the computer all the way in the back so no one could look over his shoulder. The super slow connection ate up several minutes. Finally, he got his email to load. There was the message from Skinny Girl. If he was on time, Don Humo was already at Magdalena Boat Repair. Pete wrote down the address on a slip of paper, paid the five hundred pesos, and ran back across the street to Waldo.

  “Don Humo is having a meeting at Magdalena Boat Repair. The meeting started twenty minutes ago. We can hook up with him there and follow him. Maybe he’ll lead us to Joiner.”

  Waldo nodded, got up, and hailed a cab.

  “Do you know Magdalena Boat Repair in San Isidro?” Pete asked the driver.

  “Yes sir, but it has been closed now for over a year.”

  “We need to go there as fast as you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” The taxi jerked out and sped to the next intersection. Pete’s heart sank when he saw the heavy traffic inching across the river bridge.

  “Isn’t there any way around this traffic jam?” Pete asked.

  “No sir. They’re rebuilding the big bridge from the flooding back in October. The next bridge we can use is over 50 kilometers away. This will just take us a few minutes.” Pete sat back and looked to Waldo for a decision.

  “Just relax. Don’t waste your energy on something you can’t control. We’ll get there,” Waldo said.

  “Yeah, but what if—.” Waldo held up his hand and then glanced at the driver.

  Waldo leaned over and whispered. “Don’t mention the name. He might speak English or know him.” Pete nodded.

  Four lanes converged into two and after twenty-one minutes, the taxi crossed the bridge. The highway headed south, curving around the foothills, and finally leading onto the square in the village of San Isidro. Once again, traffic slowed to a crawl until they turned toward the ocean.

  After a few blocks, they could see the waves hitting the beach at the end of the street about a hundred yards ahead. They both noticed the faded sign for Magdalena Boat Repair on the left. Pete told the taxi driver to stop. Two old warehouses squatted perpendicular to the street with their backs to the river. Dust and dried salt covered the palms and towering trees, giving the compound the look of a desert more than a beach. Rusted tin roofs and junk in the yards told a tale of neglect and abandonment. A couple of shrimp boats, just hulks now, decayed in the back lot, and the once-impressive pier tilted from a rotten piling. But there were no cars in the parking lot.

  Pete looked at his watch--0908. The meeting was over, and they had missed Ramon. Sand, fine as flour, swirled across the road like dust, and the smell of rotting wood and fish came and went with the gusts of ocean breeze.

  “What do you want to do now?” Pete asked.

  “Let us off at the next corner,” Waldo told the taxi driver. They got out and went across the street to a little combination grocery store and restaurant and sat down under a mango tree at one of the tables. They both sat so that they could keep the warehouses in view. The short owner scurried out with hand-written menus. They ordered and the owner retired to the kitchen.

  “I guess we go back to the hotel after this, and wait for another email from my guy,” Pete said.

  “No, we’ll go over there and take a look. I think he’s keeping our boys in that warehouse,” Waldo said. “It’s perfect. Big and secluded. No one wonders about comings and goings. Why else would he come out here? There’s nothing to see here.”

  After their coffee and empanadas arrived, Waldo asked about the Magdalena Boat Repair.

  “Oh, you are too late, sir. Many people wanted that property, but Ramon Menchaca bought it along with the whole beach. He’s going to build a resort ho
tel there. Then I will be rich.” The store owner beamed and gazed across the street. Pete could imagine how a resort would fit on the fifteen acres, a hotel tower with gardens and its own beach. Then with the river frontage, they would also have docking space for yachts or sailboats.

  “What makes you think that we are interested in that?” Waldo waved his hand toward the mess across the street and smiled.

  “Why else would foreign gentlemen like yourselves be in my little village? We have seen many investors come in, but only Senor Menchaca could get the village to agree to his plans. He is paying for a new road, a new water plant, and more electricity. We will be a famous destination in a few years. I will have a great restaurant right here.” The old man looked over the dilapidated warehouses and jungle nodding his head.

  “Is there anyone else around selling their land?” Waldo asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Would it hurt for us to go look at the place? Do you think that the owner would mind? We might want to make an offer for it. My backers have an interest in oceanfront property.”

  “Oh, no problem. Lots of people look all the time. But you just missed Mr. Menchaca. I saw him over there this morning for about an hour.”

  “Thanks. We’ll go over after we finish our coffee.”

  “But sir, if you don’t hurry you will get caught in the rain.”

  “Thanks.” Waldo gulped his coffee, and then ordered another.

  “We’d better get going,” Pete said, eyeing the dark clouds building to the south.

  “The rain will give us better cover,” Waldo said, wiggling his moustache. In a moment, the wind shifted and water pelted the road. The dust, now mud, ran into the ditches, and the rain washed everything. Waldo threw too much money on the table and checked his pistol. Ignoring the big drops, he strode across the street swinging his arms in big arcs.