The Grace Bay Agreement Page 21

  Peter Douglas sprang the hostages! Steve Joiner is banged up. Sorrow welled up as he re-read the account of Waldo Baranski’s death. But it could not overcome Chris’s joy. He knew he made the difference in this operation. His skill and investigations opened the cage on those hostages. What a way to end a perfect day!

  After saving all the messages he found so far, he started the program that would erase his tracks to the different servers around the internet. That would take a few minutes to run. He got up and started a pot of coffee, sure that he would spend most of the night unraveling these new developments.

  Wednesday

  2100

  15 December, 1999

  La Escuela Abraham Lincoln

  Santa Marta

  Pete stared at the interrogator, not believing the question. The tiny soundproof cube once used for private English lessons served as a perfect interrogation room. For over two hours this slim soldier pounded him with questions, and Pete assumed that others were doing the same to Tuffy and Renee.

  “You’ve asked me this question three times already. I already gave you the answer.”

  “I know, but we just need to go over this point one more time.” Slim’s voice soothed Pete a bit, and after deep breath, he started again.

  “This woman, calling herself ‘Skinny Girl’ and claiming to be NSA, emailed me, warning me that my fingerprints were found in Jose Leal’s house.”

  “Okay. So what did you do then?”

  Pete rolled out the story like playing a tape recorder. As before, he left out Don Humo’s real name. He used only a fraction of his consciousness to regurgitate the events while the rest of his brain grappled with the death of Waldo.

  What would he do now? His life caused the death of so many, Lillian, his wife and daughter, Jose Leal, and now Waldo. Is revenge worth all this death?

  It is not revenge, he scolded himself. It’s justice. Don Humo has to pay for all these deaths. If Don Humo survived, those deaths are in vain. He knew he could never rest until Don Humo rotted in a cold grave like his love Lillian and his friend Waldo. But what if he was killed without giving the real name of Don Humo to these guys? Once again, Humo goes free. Where is the justice in that? On the other hand, if he gave the Unit the real name, they could ship him home against his will, his vow unfulfilled.

  The end of his recitation to Slim interrupted the inner argument.

  “And so we met up with your convoy in front of the Carulla grocery store. They transferred Steve Joiner into the suburban so the medics could work on him and then escorted us here.”

  “Can you contact this Skinny Girl? She seems to know more about Don Humo than we’ve been able to get in the last four months. And we’re living here in Santa Marta!”

  “Yeah, I’ll send her an email. Then it’s up to her to answer.”

  “Good, then you can go home and we’ll take over.”

  “Not on your life. If it’s going to be like that, I’ll just keep her email secret, and I’ll get Don Humo myself.” The soldier stared hard at Pete. Menacing.

  “We’ll find her email on your work computer at the moving company.”

  “You cut me out of this operation and I’ll email her and ask her not to deal with you. I’m sure she’s covered her tracks well enough so that you can’t find her.” Pete focused all his hate into the look he returned. Slim looked away for a moment, unable to hold his eyes, and Pete knew that the soldier weighed the two options: The hassle of Pete hanging around and the possibility of losing contact with Skinny Girl.

  Pete looked up at the two top corners of the room, and at last spotted the hole that hid the video camera. He smiled knowing that there would be a microphone somewhere close also. The slim soldier sat silent, undoubtedly giving some time for someone higher up to make a decision.

  “Wait here.” Slim got up and went outside. Pete heard the door being locked. A crooked smile crept onto his face. “Is it better to be with the druggies or the US Army? Sort of a toss-up, don’t you think?” he asked out loud, looking at the camera. “At least the druggies would give me a bathroom break before they locked me up.”

  A few minutes later, Slim unlocked the door and came in with a big fake smile glued across his mouth.

  “Good news. We’re going to be working together on this. Let’s get you set up with an apartment.”

  “What about my pistol?”

  “Your weapon is in the armory. You’ll be issued your pistol when we go out.”

  After a couple of sets of security doors, Slim handed him a set of keys and walked away. Pete let himself in and looked around his new apartment. It was small but well furnished. His clothes hung in the closet and his toilet kit rested next to the bathroom sink. Someone had gone to his rooms at both his old hotel and the room he rented last night. Must be a crew going behind the operation to clean up loose clutter.

  Pete sat down, thinking about burying Waldo, and the wall he built to hold back his emotion crumbled. He put his elbows on his knees and wept. He wept for his daughter, for Lillian, and when he thought of Waldo he fell deep into the pit of regret mixed with grief and fear. Could he go on by himself? He must. Waldo expected him to finish the job. Finish it.

  His grief took over, and he wept aloud. His wails echoed off of the bare walls and tile floors. A few minutes later, he got up and washed his face. He felt empty and exhausted, but better. Just like after vomiting up some rotten food.

  Looking over at the closet, he got up and went to his bag on the floor. In a side pocket he found the manila folder, and pulled out his copy of the “Grace Bay Agreement”. As he read, his vision blurred. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and he had to wipe his eyes and nose on his shirt to see to finish.

  “I won’t let you down. I’ll kill Ramon Menchaca with my own hands for what they’ve done to us. He can’t hide from me forever.”

  In a while, the tears stopped. He showered and dragged himself into bed, falling into the death of sleep.

  *****

  Hard bangs on his door and a distorted voice woke him up. After a few seconds he remembered where he was.

  “Just a minute. Wait just a minute.” He pulled on his pants and a clean tee shirt. Looking out the window, he could see it was full light. Probably around 0630.

  He jerked open the door, and Renee and Phil stood smiling in the hall along with a rolling cart loaded with breakfast. The coffee smelled like heaven, and Pete felt hunger poke his insides.

  Sweeping his hand, he motioned for them to come in. Renee first and then Phil pushed the cart in toward the dining table. All three worked to set the food on the table and then sat. Still not a word.

  After Renee served, they all ate.

  “Excellent,” Pete said after eating a croissant and washing it down with a slug of coffee. “It’s nice you guys decided to breakfast with me, but I can’t help but think there’s some other motive than just wanting to get to know me better.”

  “Renee thought we should all talk about our next move. We reviewed your debrief and we’re concerned about your…”

  “About your condition after all you’ve had to go through,” Renee said to complete Phil’s speech.

  Pete laughed for a long time, and he felt some of the emotional weight fall off. He realized he was glad to be alive.

  “I know you guys want me out of your hair. All you ‘professionals’ want to nail Don Humo, get your medal, and get on with your career. But you’re stuck with me. I know it doesn’t matter to you, but I swore an oath to kill Jose Leal and Don Humo for what they did to my family, my girlfriend, and Waldo.”

  “Yes, but you’re in over your head,” Phil said with his best college professor imitation.

  “Right. Ask your partner here who it was that figured out who this Don Humo is. And who found her and rescued her? Let’s see, you and your team have been here how long?” The befuddled look on their faces caused Pete to laugh again. Each time he laughed he felt better.

  “And how’s Steve doing?”
<
br />   “Good. We sent him out on a chartered air ambulance to Miami last night. He’s in the operating room right now. They’re going to reset his jaw. He got a helluva beating, and he’ll be in pain for a long time, but he’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” Pete leaned forward. “I am in on this operation. I’ll hook you up with Skinny Girl, and you will have me on the lead team going in to get Don Humo.”

  “And what if we think you’re a loose cannon?” Renee drilled him with her eyes. “You told us yourself that you’ve sworn to kill him. We need him alive to give us details about the cartel.”

  “Yeah, and so you can parade him to the world in an extradition and show trial in the states,” Pete added.

  “All part of the game,” Phil said with a shrug.

  “So, do we have a deal? Am I in?”

  Phil and Renee exchanged a glance. Renee leaned toward Phil, but he compressed his lips and shook his head “no”.

  “We need to talk before we can give you an answer,” Renee said to Pete.

  “No you don’t. I’m not a twenty year old kid that you can pull that crap on. Look at me, Renee. We risked our lives to get you out. Waldo gave his. Are you saying we were good enough to die for you, but not good enough to track down Don Humo?” The pair sat silent, but Pete saw a tear trickle down Renee’s right cheek.

  “Renee. Remember something. We found you. Your team didn’t. They had no idea. And they have no idea how to find Don Humo now. We do. Skinny Girl and me.”

  They sat at a stalemate and Pete felt bad that the coffee was growing cold. But he did not move, did not flinch.

  “Okay. Enough of this. We’re a team,” Renee said, holding out her hand. “And don’t think that I’m not thankful to you for getting us out. I am.”

  Later that morning, Pete and Renee stood on the ramp and watched the DEA King Air 350C taxi out with a plywood container on board holding Waldo Baranski’s body and two hundred pounds of ice. Tuffy Dupree rode inside along with all of Waldo’s personal effects.

  Except for the envelope. As they were loading Waldo’s baggage, a soldier came up to Pete and handed him a large manila envelope, triple sealed with tape, and bearing the message:

  To: William Peter Douglas 301 774-5986

  To be opened in the event of my death.

  Personal/Private

  Pilotpete55@mailcity.com

  “I guess this goes to you. I’m sorry, sir.”

  As they got in a new Suburban, Renee said, “You know he had a passport, ID, and credit cards in the name of Henri Nickolas.”

  “Yeah. I think that’s the name he used the most.”

  “I don’t know who to contact. There seem to be no living relatives.”

  “I’m sure there are, but I don’t have any idea what Waldo’s real name is. So it’ll be hard to track down anyone.”

  “Maybe you’ve got something in that envelope. I kept his knife as a memento.” She handed him the big folding knife. “I didn’t think he’d mind.”

  Pete folded out the blade, and then sliced the envelope open. Two bundles of hundred dollar bills slid out.

  “Must be twenty grand there,” Rene said. Next, Pete removed two sheets of lined note paper. Waldo’s handwriting graced the pages, exact and flowing like a scribe from the seventeenth century.

  Pete,

  I don’t know where to start. I sit here on my bed thinking about tomorrow. What would happen to my estate should I get killed in the effort to snuff Don Humo? I don’t need a fancy burial, but I do want you to do a few things for me.

  First, contact my lawyers at Capot & Associates in Geneva. They know what to do. Next, send emails to the following letting them know my situation.

  There followed a series of names and email addresses. Each name and email address had a note following saying, “Known as Terry Moyer” or “Known as Waldo Baranski” or “Known as Dean Bissle” or “Known as Henri Nickolas.”

  “What does it say?” Renee asked. The softness in her voice almost convinced Pete to tell her. But he hesitated, knowing that Waldo trusted him to keep his secrets even after his death.

  “Just some personal stuff. I can take care of it later.” Pete hung his head. Time to come clean with his new partners and get busy.

  “His name is Ramon Menchaca,” Pete said with his head still bowed.

  “What did you say?”

  “Don Humo is Ramon Menchaca.”

  Thursday

  1450

  16 December, 1999

  El Roble, Colombia

  Don Humo, also known as Ramon Menchaca, paced the floor of his vacation home above the little town of Fundacion. The view of the mountains out the full length windows could not distract him from pondering his next move. Margarita came out of the kitchen with a sandwich and fruit salad on a glass plate and motioned for him to come outside to sit at the table out on the deck. He loved to eat outside.

  Just coming out onto the deck soothed his anxiety. Jutting out over the canyon, the big porch gave the impression of being airborne. The mountain fell away, and he could see and hear the river far below.

  “Have you gotten ‘hold of my son?”

  “Our son,” she said, touching his forearm. “He’ll call as soon as he’s off of the set. You know he won’t leave the filming until they are finished.”

  Ramon let loose a cannonade, cursing the film school, the idea that his son should be a director, and then cursed anyone who would waste time watching such drivel.

  Margarita smiled. “Ramon. We make good money from those who go to our theaters to watch these movies. Calm down. He’ll call soon.”

  “Ah, my love, you soothe my soul. You don’t know what a treasure you are.” Ramon picked up his sandwich and started to eat. He worked at appearing calm while his mind bounced around to happenings of the last few hours.

  The DEA is on to me. I must hide now.

  I will tell my son everything, so when I’m killed, he can carry on the business and set our family toward generations of power and leadership.

  When they find me, how will I conduct myself? Will I be brave? I cannot let myself be captured and extradited to the USA. But they will never find all my investments. They will try and they will strip some from my family. But the majority is safe. He looked across the table. I must prepare Margarita.

  “You are the one to help our son. You’re the strength he needs. Put some steel in his backbone. Make him grow up. Tell him to marry well and have many sons.” Ramon reached for her arm. “One of them will be the president. The Menchacas will become a great family, remembered in the history books.”

  “Why do you say these things, my love? We’ll be fine in a few weeks. Let this storm blow over, and we’ll be back in Santa Marta and everything will be fine. And if not? It’s not important. We can run your whole operation from right here. This is a beautiful place, no?”

  But a sense of doom hung over Ramon like a gathering thunderstorm. He smiled at his mistress, but knew deep in his gut that he was already caught. It was only a matter of time before the DEA came. Worse, his best informant, El Pecador, knew nothing. He had not even heard of the rescue. Real professionals were running this operation against him, and they would find him.

  He looked down at his now empty plate and realized he had wolfed his food. His back bowed under the weight of his fears. Margarita got up and moved behind him, massaging his shoulders. He groaned, always surprised such a petite woman could have that kind of hand strength. Her gentle kisses on the side of his neck contrasted with the power she projected through her fingers.

  She hugged his head to her breasts and ran her fingers through his hair, pressing on his skull. Her slow rhythm and knowledgeable hands opened a valve and his tension flowed out through her. His desire bubbled up and he led her to the bedroom.

  Afterward, he was reborn. The fragrance from the massive rose bouquet on the table mixed with the scent of his lover. Confidence hung in the air, pushing out his f
ear. Shafts of afternoon sunlight fell on their clothing flung around the room. How could he still feel so much desire for a woman after twenty six years? He turned to his mistress and saw her beaming silent love from her eyes.

  You have no idea how much you’ve helped me, he thought. After caressing her face, he bounded out of bed and took a cold shower, screaming when the icy flow hit certain areas.

  Coming back to the bedroom, he saw Margarita in a white silk robe. He took her in his arms, and they enjoyed the quiet togetherness.

  “You passed me your strength. Thank you,” Ramon said. She hummed into his shoulder. He eased her away, aware of the hundred things he needed to coordinate before he slept that night. I can win this thing, he thought. A surge of energy flowed up through his legs and he felt like the King again.

  “Order a box of my cigars to be delivered here,” he said as he walked to his office to check his email.

  “Yes, my Lord,” she answered. He heard the pleasure in her voice.

  Across the valley, Father Lazaro took his eye away from the telescope. Even from three miles out, the instrument designed for viewing Mars and Jupiter made the living room seem but ten feet away. This whole side of the house was glass so the occupants could take in the spectacular views of the valley and the peaks above. But those huge windows let Lazaro look in as well as the owners look out.

  “That’s Ramon Menchaca, all right. Good work, Alcatraz.” Alcatraz basked in the light of the compliment.

  When Father Lazaro arrived a half hour ago to confirm the identity of Ramon, he started observing at the worse time. He felt dirty seeing his cousin and Margarita throw off their clothes and wished they had closed the bedroom door. Even Don Humo deserved some privacy. Lazaro was forced to return to the telescope every few minutes trying catch a good view of the face before his men moved in. He didn’t want to get the wrong man while Don Humo slipped away. Rumor had it that Ramon often used a doppelganger.