Eye for an Eye (8 page)

“Yes, sir.”

Bhang quickly rescanned the dossier on Dewey. “Castine, Maine. Find out if he still has any family.”

“And do what?”

“Send them flowers, you imbecile,” said Bhang, seething. “Find out if he has family!
Period!
”

11

SIMÓN BOLÍVAR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
MAIQUETÍA, VENEZUELA

Two men moved through the central terminal at Maiquetía. It was early morning and Maiquetía was packed.

“I’m going to duty-free,” said Chang, the younger of the two. He had an easy way about him, unlike Hu-Shao, who, while only two years older, looked and acted like he was from another generation.

“Why?” asked Hu-Shao.

“Cigarettes.”

“You should stop smoking.”

“And you should start,” said Chang.

Chang walked toward a line of retail shops in the central terminal. At duty-free, he spent a few minutes ogling the exotic European vodkas, vodkas he could have purchased any day of the week in Caracas but that somehow looked more tempting here at the airport. Finally, he went and bought a carton of Marlboro reds. On the way back to the gate, he stepped inside a sunglasses boutique and bought the first pair he tried on, a pair of white Guccis that made him look, at least he thought, like a movie star.

At the gate, Hu-Shao did a double take as Chang walked up with his sunglasses on.

“You look like a fool,” said Hu-Shao. “Please. Pretend you don’t know me.”

Chang ignored him. He was sick of his colleague. Any man would be sick of someone they spent day and night together with, months on end, living and working together. In truth, Hu-Shao had taught him much. He’d taught him to be an operative: surveillance, infiltration, weaponry, how to kill. But sometimes his partner’s cold demeanor grew old.

On the LAN Airbus A320, they sat in first class. Bhang believed agents should be comfortable during operations. Once airborne, they took turns studying the fifteen-page briefing sheet on the American, Dewey Andreas. The file contained everything the ministry had pieced together about the former Special Forces soldier they were now going to find and kill.

Had anyone somehow gotten hold of the papers, even if they could read Chinese, what they would have found was illegible. The briefing papers had been sent in one of the three encrypted alphabets every agent was trained to memorize, alphabets that were reconfigured every six months. It was one of the hardest parts of being an agent.

The two men spent several hours reading about Andreas’s background. The summaries of his operations were staccato, devoid of wordy descriptions, in many cases incomplete. Yet even without the sort of descriptive detail that would have made the reading more pleasurable, the document was formidable and sent a wave of anxiety through each man.

Chang read the mission summary four times in a row, each time feeling increasingly sick to his stomach:

  1. Recent activities by Target resulted in the loss of key ministry assets. Target is an enemy of the State.

  2. Target is classified as a level 1 combatant. He should be considered extremely dangerous.

  3. Previous attempts by others to kill Target have failed, and the result has been, in virtually every known instance, the death of those attempting to harm him.

  4. Target has extensive combat experience. He is a gifted face-to-face combatant and received advanced training in various CQB systems, including KAPAP/LOTAR and Eskrima while in Delta.

  5. Target will be proficient with cold weapons, including knives and implements, and will be prepared to improvise with nonlethal objects.

  6. Target is expert in all aspects of firearms and explosives. If Target acquires arms, proximity to Target should be considered an active kill zone.

  7. Team should expect the mission to be highly treacherous and should take precautions, both in terms of settling up affairs at home as well as in-theater tactical design.

  8. Target is traveling with a woman who is a VIP in the United States government. Assume Target will be guarded and/or under surveillance.

  9. Team will rendezvous with Lima-based contractor in Córdoba. Contractor is a level 12 marksman and will have responsibility for the kill. Contractor will have all necessary weapons and materials for mission. The strike should take place at night.

10. Target is classified as a Priority 2 termination so directed by the minister. He should be terminated with prejudice.

11. Mission success will earn team members two level pay and one level rank promotion and two additional weeks of paid annual vacation.

After Chang and Hu-Shao finished reading, Hu-Shao removed a small object from his carry-on. It looked like a set of binoculars but in fact was a secure photo viewer. They took turns studying photos of Andreas as well as photos of some of his victims.

After they finished, Chang looked at Hu-Shao.

“What will the design be?” Chang whispered.

“Read the sheet,” said Hu-Shao. “A distance kill at night. The merc is a mark twelve.”

“Two level pay increase?” said Chang. “We must succeed.”

“Typical. You should be honored that, of all the agents in South America, you and I were selected for this mission.”

“I could live without the honor,” said Chang. “I could, however, live with two more weeks of vacation.”

12

VISTA TOWERS
1198 MALECÓN CISNEROS
MIRAFLORES DISTRICT
LIMA, PERU

Raul awoke to the sound of his cell phone. He reached to the bedside table and picked it up.

“What.”

“One hour. Be at the private terminal.”

“Where am I going?”

“Córdoba.”

Raul reached up with his left hand and rubbed his eyes. He reached behind him, to the wall above the bed, and flipped a switch on the wall. The curtains moved slowly away from the windows, which took up the entire wall. Sunlight exploded into the room, and he shut his eyes.

“Who?”

“China.”

“How long will I be gone?”

“Well, that depends now, doesn’t it?”

“What time is it?

“Five-thirty.”

Raul’s eyes opened again, as he became more alert.

“Who’s the target?”

“I don’t know. You’ll find out when you get there. You’re part of a team out of Caracas.”

“Who is it?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“You forget I know you, Pascal.”

“He’s American. That’s all he told me.”

Raul felt the naked backside of his girlfriend, Marisol, pressing under the sheets against his groin. He was thirty-one years old, still young, but compared to her, he was an old man. They’d had sex twice the night before.
How can she still want more,
he thought to himself as she continued to grind against him.

“Pascal, I’m back three days,” said Raul into the phone.

“I already wired a hundred thousand. You get another hundred on completion.”

“How much are they paying?”

Marisol turned her head and smiled at Raul.

“Two million.”

“I want half, or else get somebody else. Call me when you wire the other nine hundred.”

“Three hundred. I’ll give you all of it before you go.”

“One million. You heard me.”

Raul hung up. He pulled away from Marisol.

“I need coffee,” he said, throwing the sheets off.

He climbed out of bed. Marisol looked up at him.

“Come back to bed.”

“My God,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Did you not get enough attention when you were a child?”

“I still am a child,” she said. “Technically, seventeen is still a child.”

From the floor, he picked up a pair of black silk boxers and pulled them on.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “Can’t you get it up? My old boyfriend could do it like six times a day.”

Raul stared at her for a moment, then lurched forward and slapped her hard across the face, sending her flying to the side of the bed. She let out a scream. Blood trickled from her lip.

“Animal!” she yelled. She started to cry.

“Get out,” he said, calmly. “You’re going to be late for school.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Whatever. Get out.”

Raul walked to the window. He looked out at the ocean, a bold shelf of glimmering black that spread to the horizon. He walked out of the bedroom, down the hallway, into the kitchen. He flipped on the coffee maker. From the black marble countertop, he took a cigarette and lit it.

A minute later, Marisol came running down the hallway, dressed in a black miniskirt, high heels, and a blouse. She was disheveled. Her long brown hair was tousled, her makeup smudged from tears. She held a small washcloth to the side of her mouth.

“You fucking asshole,” she said as she walked by him. “When I tell my father—”

“When you tell your father?” asked Raul.

He reached for a drawer, then pulled out a Glock 18, with a stainless-steel suppressor screwed into the muzzle. He took three quick steps toward her. She put her hand up, between the tip of the weapon and her face. She cowered, crying, as he stepped closer, a maniacal look on his tan, stubble-coated face.

“If you tell your father, if you tell anyone for that matter—your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your priest, the police,” he whispered as he moved the suppressor to the side of her head, “if you so much as tell your parakeet, you’ll die. So will they. Got it?”

Marisol nodded her head, eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears, as she cowered against the door.

“Now leave,” he said quietly.

*   *   *

At the private terminal near Lima’s Jorge Chávez International Airport, Raul parked his red Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R. He wore a light green T-shirt that showed off his muscled arms. He wore jeans and red running shoes. He had a backpack. His hair was long, down over his shoulders, and unbrushed. He had on silver sunglasses that reflected the sun. He walked across the tarmac to a white-and-blue jet, a Gulfstream G280. He climbed up the airstairs.

Inside, he popped his head into the cockpit, saying hello to the two pilots.

Seated on one of the four white leather captain’s chairs inside the cabin was a tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, and smoked a cigar. He studied Raul as he climbed aboard, tossed his backpack in one of the empty seats, then sat across from him.

“Are you coming?” asked Raul.

“No,” said Pascal.

“Why are you here? Is it the money?”

“No,” the man said, “Ming-húa called back. He’s worried about blowback.”

“I’ve killed Americans.”

“Not ones connected to the government. Not ones who know the president.”

Raul smiled.

“I’ll be careful.”

“After he’s killed, the United States is going to investigate.”

“Are the weapons clean?”

“Yes, of course. The point is, don’t get caught.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Bhang has informants scattered all over Argentine Federal Police. You need to understand what I’m saying. If you get caught, you’ll die. I know Fao Bhang. If you’re caught, you’ll be dead before America has time to interrogate you and find out who sent you.”

Raul nodded at a large steel box lying across two seats.

“RPGs, M4s, UZIs,” said Pascal. “German, Russian. It won’t raise any eyebrows when they run the ballistics.”

“Is my rifle in there?”

“Yes, the Dragunov. You meet the agents in Córdoba. A guy named Hu-Shao has tactical authority, but you’re the shooter. Get it done as soon as possible, then get out. I wired the entire million.”

“Who’s the American?”

“His name is Andreas. He’s ex–Special Forces.”

“Why are we doing this?”

“It’s what we do. That penthouse apartment you live in?”

“I want more money.”

“You’re a greedy kid, you know that? I’ll get someone else.”

“Fine,” said Raul, standing up. “This sounds like a shit show anyway.”

“Sit down.”

Pascal was silent for several moments.

“I’ll pay you two million.”

“Okay,” said Raul.

“Call me when you’re done.”

13

CÓRDOBA, ARGENTINA

It was morning when Dewey and Jessica landed in Córdoba. The Córdoba airport was small, quiet, and nearly empty, despite the fact that it served the second-biggest city in Argentina.

Inside the terminal, after going through customs, a teenager stood, holding a small sign that said
ANDREAS
. The boy was tall with long brown hair, a cowboy hat, in khaki shorts, an orange polo shirt, and knee-high riding boots. Standing next to him was a beautiful girl, perhaps a year or two older than him, with long blond hair, wearing tan riding pants stained with dirt, knee-high black boots, and a white T-shirt. She had a big smile on her face. Dewey guessed she was seventeen or eighteen years old and that the boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen.

“Ms. Tanzer?” the boy asked as they entered the small lounge. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Alvaro Sabella, from El Colibri. This is my sister, Sabina. Welcome to Córdoba. How was your flight?”

“Hi, Alvaro,” said Jessica, shaking Alvaro’s hand, then Sabina’s. “It was great.”

“Mr. Andreas, nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” said Dewey, shaking their hands.

“Our truck is out front,” said Alvaro.

“Your mother said to tell you not to drive too fast,” said Jessica, looking at the boy.

“She did?” he laughed. “That’s embarrassing. I don’t drive too fast. Always she says this, but it’s not true.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Sabina. “Are you crazy? You’re insane. I’m driving.” She rolled her eyes and looked at Jessica. “He’s terrible. He drives like he rides. Crazy.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Alvaro. “And please don’t forget, Sabby, I have the keys.” He taunted Sabina by dangling them over her head.

Dewey glanced at Jessica, then smiled.

*   *   *

Alvaro drove the white Range Rover reasonably well, not too fast, except for a few times, at which point Sabina would scream at him to slow down.