Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Berets) (36 page)

"Were you stopped or followed?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Westland gave him a hard look. Riley raised his hands in surrender. "OK, OK. I believe you."

Westland began to relate the events of the morning. "The contact was the local embassy rep, Jameson. I knew him up in Virginia when he was stationed there."

"Shit!" Riley cursed. "That's great. I'm willing to bet better than even money that he was followed."

"He said he wasn't. From what I could see we weren't being watched. Also, if he was followed, it would make sense that they would try to follow me from the meet, and I'm sure I wasn't."

Riley waved at her to go on. "All right, I get the picture and I trust your judgment."

"Anyway. We met at the restaurant near the cemetery and all the safe signals were in place. Jameson said the area was secure. He also complimented me on my legs."

"Well, they are nice legs," Riley confirmed playfully.

Westland rolled her eyes. "He's an asshole. He tried hitting on me when we were stationed together in Virginia and I was still married. Not that any of that matters now.

"He said they had no leads on Stevens. They presume he's dead and the body was sunk out in the ocean somewhere or buried deep in the jungle. As for the video of the bodies, he says it's going to be released to the local media this afternoon and we can watch it just as well on TV as his getting us a copy. Plus there is a certain lack of a VCR in this room," Westland pointed out. "Local news comes on at six.

"As for Powers, Jameson said that his body was not shown on the video but they're pretty certain he was killed that same night."

"Oh, now it's 'pretty certain,' " Riley snorted. "Sounds like the story is changing. And they're up the creek without a paddle if he shows up alive. Sort of blows their cover story, which probably isn't doing too well now anyway."

Westland threw a copy of a local paper on the bed. "The official reply by Washington has been that your guys were killed in an aircraft crash, but obviously it was over land instead of water and that's how the bodies were recovered. Apparently the aircraft mistakenly strayed over land while on a training flight."

Riley rubbed his eyes. The government still wouldn't change their story and admit the truth. He wasn't sure what they were afraid of. Probably admitting they had lied. The media would jump all over that. There could be no such thing as a covert operation in the United States. The freedom of the press to keep the people informed guaranteed that. Of course, Riley always wondered why there was never any mention of the need for the press and media to make money by getting a scoop. News people rarely talked about money and ratings, but that was the bottom line for them.

"What about the hit? Any further intel?"

Westland shook her head. "Nothing other than the fact that Ring Man is still holed up in his villa."

"What about the guerrillas? Any information on how I can contact them?"

"Jameson thought that was the craziest idea he ever heard."

"I don't care what Jameson thinks. I want to know if there's any way I can make contact with them."

Westland shook her head. "He said he didn't know of any."

Riley didn't believe it. "You're telling me the CIA has no way to contact the guerrillas in a country? I'd think they'd be bosom buddies."

Westland got as sarcastic as Riley. "I think in this country the U.S. party line is to support the government. The guerrillas are somewhat communistic at times here."

Riley scratched his head. That avenue wasn't looking too promising. "Did you get the car?"

"It's out back in the hotel lot, fueled and ready to go."

"Good. Anything else?"

She reached inside her shirt and produced a piece of paper. "I've got the location of the cache with the equipment you wanted," she said, handing the paper to Riley.

"When did you put it in there?"

"I had to go to the bathroom. I can't make much sense out of it but I'm sure someone else might be able to. Figured it would be safer there if I was stopped."

Riley took the paper and looked at it, with Westland peering over his shoulder. "What does it say?"

"It's a cache report. Should contain the stuff I requested. I hope they didn't decide to delete anything."

Westland shook her head. "I doubt that. I gave it direct to the logistics branch at Langley before we left and didn't go through Strom. As far as log branch was concerned it was a priority request for one of our own agents. They sure were damn fast in putting it in though."

Riley nodded. It must have been emplaced overnight. He was surprised that the CIA was capable of such a feat. The equipment must have already been in country or flown in from Panama. "Did Jameson say whether he or someone else emplaced this?"

"He said the army military attaché did it. I got the impression that he didn't want to be too involved in this whole thing. He said the army guy was gone all night taking care of it."

Riley was relieved. Not only might Jameson have been followed, but he could have screwed up the emplacement. Hopefully the army man had done a good job.

"What do all those lines mean?"

Riley translated for her. "It's an UNDER report format. The fact that it's in this format tells me that the army attaché has some Special Forces experience or has worked with SF before. We use formats like this for all our radio messages because it keeps them shorter."

Westland nodded. "I've met the attaché during a couple of my coordination trips to the embassy over the past year. Lieutenant Colonel Turrel. Seemed like a pretty efficient man. He certainly has been forwarding good intel copy on the Colombian military."

Upon reflection, Riley realized it wasn't unusual for an attaché to have SF experience. Special Forces and also military intelligence officers had the language and intelligence training necessary for foreign service jobs. Riley also remembered Pike mentioning the army military attaché in Colombia as a good man.

Riley pointed to each line as he translated:

BBB—submersion: "That means the cache is underwater. It's faster than digging if you're in a rush. I just hope it's waterproofed well enough."

CCC—as req: "That means it contains what I requested."

DDD—one: "Means there's one container."

FFF—IRP = tgt Villa. 1.3 k. AZ 14 mag: "This gives the immediate reference point. Obviously, he used Ring Man's villa, so he must have gotten some idea from Jameson of where I'll be operating. The direction to the final reference point is 1.3 kilometers on a magnetic azimuth of fourteen degrees." Riley pulled out the geo map he had brought with him. He traced a line from the location of Ring Man's villa.

GGG—FRP = waterfall, rock in center: "The final reference point is a waterfall." He pointed. "Must be right here, where this stream crosses these contour lines. Rock in center indicates the final checkpoint. Must be the pool at the base of the waterfall."

HHH—N side: "I'm supposed to check the north side of the rock."

Ill—2 meters: "The cache is two meters under the water. I hope the water's not too cold."

KKK—3 Sept: "This last line indicates when it was put in."

LLL—knife: "This means that I'm going to need a knife to recover the cache."

Riley memorized the location. Then he went into the bathroom and burned the note, flushing the remains down the toilet. He knew that even having the geo map was a risk but he felt he could cover for that. Many campers and nature lovers carried such maps when they went out into the field, and being a nature lover was going to be his cover if he went near the Ring Man's villa during the day. At night it would be a different situation.

Time for him to be heading out to put some surveillance on the cafe. He turned to Westland. "I've got to be going. Here's what we in the army call a contingency plan. I'm going to be gone until about three this afternoon. If I'm not back by five, consider me compromised. Get your ass out of this place and go over to the embassy."

Westland nodded. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me where you're going?"

"You don't want to know."

12:45 P.M.

Riley closed the paper and laid it on the bench next to him. The old newspaper-on-a-park-bench routine was one of the oldest methods to survey a location and it seemed kind of hokey. Yet it allowed Riley to blend in with other people in the area and not arouse suspicion. Riley had learned the rudiments of surveillance in the Special Forces operations and intelligence course and he realized that perception played a key role in any covert operation. People tended to see what they were expecting to see.

Riley had been watching the Embassy Cafe for the last hour and fifteen minutes. In that time he had seen numerous Americans and a smaller number of Colombians enter and leave. He had yet to see anyone or any group of people that might pass as a reception party waiting to greet the foolish American.

Riley had hoped to get some reaction out of the Ring Man's people with his questioning of the worker in the bar earlier this morning. He knew, from the CIA intelligence reports, that the girl who worked there, Maria, was most likely the person who had set up Stevens. The fact that she had not been seen since Stevens's disappearance supported that suspicion. If he could get a handle on her she might lead him to Stevens. And Stevens might lead him to Powers. It was a tenuous chain at best, but it was the only thing he had. With the clock running down to Thursday night, Riley felt he had to try anything that held even the slightest chance of working.

Riley left the paper on the bench and meandered over to the cafe. Passing through the swinging doors he quickly scanned the dim interior. Some embassy workers finishing their lunch. A Colombian couple seated at a booth in a corner.

Riley walked up to the bar and took a seat that allowed him to watch both the front door and the entrance to the kitchen. The old man he had talked to the previous night was nowhere in sight. A teenage boy was tending the bar and acting as waiter. Riley ordered a local beer from the boy and settled in to wait.

1:12 P.M.

Riley figured he'd give it another ten minutes and then leave. The cafe was practically deserted. The Colombian couple had already left and the last Americans were paying for their meal and leaving. No one else had come in.

Hearing the door open, Riley didn't need a program to tell him the two men coming in were the emissaries from the Ring Man. The way the boy behind the bar quickly departed through the kitchen door told him that these men were trouble. Riley guessed the boy was going around front to make sure no one came in during the meeting.

Riley sized up the two men as they swaggered across the room toward him. The way the one on the left held himself told Riley that he was in charge. He was big, almost six foot two, and he showed off his muscles with a sleeveless sweatshirt. He seemed disappointed that Riley was so small. Riley spotted the bulge of a pistol under the man's sweatshirt, tucked into his front right waistband.

The second man wore a loose-fitting shirt over old army fatigue pants. Riley figured he was probably a knife man. His forearms and face were covered with the telltale tracing of old knife scars. The way he held his arms in close and kept his right hand near his side reminded Riley of some of the knife fighters he'd known in the South Bronx, plus there was no telltale bulge indicating a firearm. Riley knew a knife was harder to spot and at close ranges more effective than a gun. A good knife man could clear his sheath and gut a gunman standing less than five feet away before the other cleared his holster.

Riley turned to face the newcomers as they came up close, standing within a foot, flanking him in front. "Good day," Riley greeted in English.

The big man showed a gap-toothed smile and spoke in accented English. "Good day, gringo. I hear you ask too many questions. That is a bad habit."

"I did not mean to upset anyone. I am just looking for someone."

"It is not good for strangers to come here looking for someone. Especially American strangers. We do not like Americans here."

Riley saw the barely perceptible signal go from the big man to the other, yet he didn't react to it. They grabbed his arms and bent him backward over the bar. The knife Riley had anticipated was there at his throat.

"Stand still, gringo, or my friend's hand may slip."

The big man released his hold and quickly patted Riley down. Finding no weapons, he pulled Riley's wallet out of his pocket. He flipped through the contents.

"Gonzalo, heh? Who you work for, Gonzalo?"

"I'm a cabdriver in New York. My wife and I are down here looking for a baby to adopt. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

The big man looked at Riley quizzically and then at the wallet. The contents bore out Riley's story. The man struggled to read the English on Riley's taxi union card. This wasn't what he'd been told to expect. The American didn't act like any of the DEA or other American agents who ran around the city.

The big man signaled his partner to put the knife away, then stepped back, pondering the situation. His instructions had been to hurt the American. Kill him if he put up a fight. He hadn't been told to think or make a decision. "You are stupid. You have a very good story but I know you work for the DEA."