The Grace Bay Agreement Read online

  ****

  Tuesday

  2125

  21 December, 1999

  Waterwalk Apartments

  El Paso, Texas

  The loud knock startled Chris. He glanced at his wall clock. Who would be knocking on my door at this hour? Looking though the peephole, he saw two men dressed in dark suits.

  “This is it,” he said under his breath. He thought about breaking for the back door, but realized they probably had men stationed there too. Well, I played a dangerous game. And it looks like I’ve lost, he thought.

  He took a deep breath and opened the door. The cold air felt good.

  “Good evening. May I help you?” Might as well play this till the end.

  “Mister Monk, My name is Ray Olstead. This is Mr. Williams.” The man paused and peered behind Chris, checking to see if any danger lay in the room beyond. The other man’s right hand hovered near a poorly concealed pistol.

  Professionals, Chris thought, as he noticed the careful observation combined with their exceptional physical condition. A cloud of silence drifted around the three of them, each waiting for the other to speak.

  “May we come in?” Chris nodded and stepped back. After they were seated, Mr. Olstead took a deep breath and started on a prepared speech.

  “Christopher Monk. We’re from the Unit and we’ve been keeping tabs on your operation as ‘Skinny Girl.’” Chris nodded.

  “We like the way you work. You’ve kept our assets informed without releasing any methods of collection. We know how you were instrumental in the rescue of three agents in Colombia. Are you interested in working for us?”

  Chris felt faint. He had answered the door expecting to be handcuffed. Now, someone from the Army’s most secret organization was offering him a job. He looked away to hide his relief.

  Mr. Olstead rushed ahead, thinking Chris’ hesitation was due to his worries about the NSA. “We’ve already cleared this with the Agency. They’re not happy, but we convinced them that people like you are the future of special operations. Real time intelligence delivered directly to the operative without going through the delays caused by normal channels.” Mr. Olstead smiled, having recited his lines perfectly.

  Chris couldn’t keep the grin off of his face. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just stay working right here. It’s a great cover. You will continue to receive your regular NSA paycheck. We’ll contact you for the next operation.” Mr. Olstead looked over at Mr. Williams. “I think we’re done here.” Mr. Williams nodded. They stood as one and strode toward the door.

  ****

  Tuesday

  2247

  21 December, 1999

  Santa Marta Cathedral

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  The door creaked and clicked shut, and then he heard the priest sit down. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Ramon Menchaca knelt in the ancient confessional and clasped his hands in front of his face. It was dark and he could smell the centuries. The stone hurt his knees, but he did not move. Fear strangled him and he fought to breathe. Would the priest hear his confession? He must hear my confession. Ramon heard the priest sigh.

  “Bless me, Father for I have sinned. Father, I must confess my sins and thank the Most High God for sparing my life.” Ramon felt the spasm in his back, yet he maintained his rigid posture. At this late hour the cathedral was almost deserted. The only other worshipper was an old woman who prayed at the altar and lit another candle. He heard the antique clock tick out the seconds.

  On the other side of the screen, Father Lazaro smiled. What irony that Ramon would show up at my confessional again! And request me as his confessor. Hasn’t the Lord been good to both of us? Didn’t he spare me during the raid last Saturday? Lazaro remembered the line of bullets hitting the tree not two inches from his face. He touched the bandage over the cut. Not only am I alive, but Ramon still doesn’t know of my involvement with the FARC.

  A small spear of anger tried to emerge, but Lazaro quashed it. He sought for peace and sucked in a deep breath. Ramon was still the enemy. He still owed the FARC for guarding his coca fields. Lazaro remembered the scripture, “A time to love and a time to hate.”

  Who am I to judge this sinner? Don’t I have sins enough of my own? His throat tightened and a tear welled up as he thought about his three friends killed trying to kidnap this very man. I am at fault because I coveted his wealth. Don’t their deaths belong to me? Am I not responsible?

  I will do my duty as a priest, he thought. I will be a true intercessor for this man and let the Lord deal with him. I have enough sins of my own.

  “My son, the Lord has forgiven you. He is gracious to us all. Now, go in peace. Do your penance. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord’s face shine upon you, and give you peace.”

  They both stepped out into the cathedral. For several moments they stared at each other. Then they embraced.

  Tuesday

  0745

  28 December, 1999

  Hotel Dann Carlton

  Bogota, Colombia

  A tiny shaft of sunlight struck Joan Merkam in the right eye and she woke up. For a second she struggled to remember where she was. Then she felt Pete’s arm resting on her shoulder and his body pressed against her back. She smiled.

  After the investigation finished, Pete invited her down for the Christmas celebration in Bogota. He now lived in this hotel and smuggled jewels to the States once every two weeks for Levi Fernandez.

  I don’t know how long this will last, she thought, but I have fallen in love with this man. I don’t know why. He is troubled and still screams out in his sleep. He has no financial stability. He doesn’t even own a house. But I can’t help myself, I want him.

  She snuggled closer and went back to sleep.

  Friday

  1103

  31 December, 1999

  102 Main St.

  Montgomery, Texas

  Although he had only been out of the hospital for a week, Steve Joiner wrote a note to his wife that he must go and tend to some DEA business. He went to an internet café in Montgomery, west of Houston. When he sat down pain shot through his jaw. He was still wired together. He couldn’t talk and still ate through a straw. Every tiny bump or jar brought agony, but he couldn’t operate in the fog of painkillers. He needed his full mental capacity.

  He waited until no one else was close and opened his most secret email account. This service guaranteed to forward his messages through servers in Portugal, then Egypt, then Paraguay. At each stop, his message would be transcribed into a new message. Trackback was impossible without going to court in each country.

  He composed easily in Spanish.

  Lord,

  Steve Joiner is making a full recovery and will be back at work 14 January, 2000.

  The DEA now has your name but no photos or addresses. The ambassador has forbidden CIA operations in Santa Marta until further notice.

  Happy New Year,

  El Pecador

  This was only the second message since his capture. Last week he had to convince a nurse to let him use her terminal. He plead with her (by writing it out on a notebook) that an agent might die if he didn’t get his message out. It was true, in a way. If Don Humo saw that messages from El Pecador stopped when Steve Joiner was in the hospital, he might put two and two together.

  He leaned back in the chair assured that now the payments would continue. He restarted the computer and waited for the reboot so that he could check that everything was erased.

  Soon he would have enough money to retire far away from the grasp of American extradition. Over the last couple of years he had watched his real estate holdings and bank accounts in Paraguay grow. While he was hospitalized, his agent bought another apartment complex in Asuncion, the capital. He should clear three thousand a month from that source alone.

  It was a scare to get captured and tortured. I could have died. But now, no one will suspect that I, El Pecador, am the deepest mole ever
in the DEA. Don Humo will pay me lots of money for the next six months. Then I will escape with my mistress and live the life of freedom and wealth.

  Will I miss the game? Of course. But I’m getting old and the pain and risk are getting worse. Time to cash in my chips and enjoy

  He checked the browser history. It was clear. He walked back to his car and tried to smile.

  Table of Contents

  The Grace Bay Agreement

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Book Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter 2

  Chapter Three

  Chapter 4

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Book Three

  Chapter One