The Heaven Trilogy (128 page)

“No word?” Friberg asked.

“No,” Ingersol said.

“Then we move. Quickly,” Friberg said, facing them. His jaw muscles flexed. “Under no circumstances can we allow this man to live.”

David blinked. “Sir, I'm not sure I understand why he poses such a threat. He's off on his own, and I can understand your frustration with his pigheaded attitude, but—”

“Shut up, Lunow,” Friberg said quietly. “The only reason you're sitting where you are now is because you know the man better than anyone else. You played a part in his leaving and now you'll play a part in his elimination. You're not here to express your reservations.”

Heat flared up David's neck. The warning Casius had spoken on the phone rang through his head.

“Of course, sir. But without knowing more, I'm not sure I can be effective. It seems he knows more than I do about what's going on.”

“He's after Jamal,” Friberg said. “And to get to Jamal he's going through Abdullah Amir. That's all he knows and it's all you need to know.”

“I'm not sure that's all he knows. He at least suspects more.”

“Then we have even more reason to take him out.”

David sat quietly now. He'd stepped into deep waters, that much was now clear.

“Perhaps it would help if we knew your concerns,” Ingersol said. “I'm just as much in the dark here as David. Casius has become a liability, but I'm not sure either of us understands just how much of one.”

Friberg turned back to the window and leaned on the ledge. He spoke out to the lawn. “I don't have to tell you that this is ‘need to know' only. And as far as I'm concerned, you're the only two who need to know.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “Casius has inadvertently stumbled into an operation we were involved in eight years ago.” He turned back to them. “We know about Abdullah Amir. We know about his compound, and suffice it to say we can't allow Casius to compromise our position in Venezuela because he has some hairbrained notion that Jamal is involved.”

Ingersol shifted in his seat. “We have an operation involving Abdullah Amir?”

“It was before your time, but yes. Let's leave it at that. Under no circumstance is Casius to reach that compound. Am I making myself clear? We pursue him at all costs.”

David sat stunned. He wasn't sure they knew what they were getting into with Casius. He'd never known a more dangerous man. The man was born to kill. “I'm not sure pursuing him is the best option, sir.”

“Because?”

“He may do more damage defensively than he would otherwise.”

“It's a risk we'll have to take. This man of yours may be good, but he's not God. And now that you've blown our chances of dealing with him cleanly I need your recommendations for bringing him in.”

David ignored the comment and considered the request.

“I'm not sure you can bring him in, sir. At least not alive.” He lifted his eyes to Ingersol. “And there certainly aren't any operatives I'm aware of who could kill the man easily.”

“That's ridiculous,” Ingersol said. “No man is that good.”

“You can try,” David said. “But you better take the cavalry with you, because there's no way a single man will have a chance against Casius in his own backyard.”

Ingersol turned to Friberg. “I've already alerted all our agents south of the border. We have eyes in every major town in the region. Why can't we insert two or three teams of snipers?”

David answered, “You could, but I doubt he'd ever give them a shot. You have to remember, the guy grew up in the region. He knows the jungle down there. His father was jungle trained, a sniper himself. Trust me, Casius would put his father to shame.” David shook his head. “I still think going after him will be a mistake. You'd have a better chance taking him once he reemerges.”

“No. We waited once; we won't wait again!” Friberg's face blotched red. “I want Casius dead! I don't care what we have to send in there after him; we send it all. I want some strategic options for a takeout here, not this quibbling over snipers. You just tell me how we can get to this guy and let me worry about the execution.”

“What about sending troops, David?” Ingersol asked softly. “If you don't think snipers can reach him—what about cutting him off?”

“Troops? Since when does the CIA order troops around?” David asked and immediately regretted the question. Ingersol's left eye twitched below that slicked-back hairline, as if to say,
“Get off it, David. Just answer the question
.
”

“Yes, well supposing you could get troops, they would have to be Special Forces. Jungle trained with combat experience. You insert them in a perimeter around this plantation Casius is presumably headed for and you might have a shot at him.”

“We can do that,” Friberg stated flatly. “How many do you think it will take?”

“Maybe three teams,” he replied uncomfortably. “Provided they're jungle trained. I think he'd have a hard time getting around three Ranger teams. But it won't be pretty.”

A new light of hope seemed to have ignited behind Friberg's eyes. “Good. I want specifics on my desk in three hours. That's all.”

It took a moment for Ingersol and David to realize they had been dismissed. David left with words buzzing through his head. They weren't Friberg's words. They were the words spoken by Casius a day earlier and they were suggesting he go away for a while.

Far away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“HELLO, MARISA. Sorry to wake you. I missed you last night and I woke early.”

“It's okay. I just got up. Where are you?”

Sherry hesitated and shifted the receiver. “I had the . . . vision again last night—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat.

The phone sat silent at her ear.

“I'm leaving for a few days. Maybe a week. Maybe longer, I don't know.”

“
Leaving?
Where are you now?”

“Well, that's just it. I'm at the airport. I'm going to Venezuela, Marisa.”

“You're doing
what?”

“I know. It sounds crazy. Like going back into the snake pit. But I had this talk with Helen, and . . . well, there's a flight that leaves at eight. I have to be on it.”

“What about passports or visas? You can't just hop on a plane and take off, can you? Who are you staying with?”

“My parents got me dual citizenship, so actually, yes—I can just hop on a plane. I'll be there in twenty-four hours. It's just a trip, Marisa. I'll be back.”

The phone went silent again.

“Marisa?”

“I can't believe you're actually doing this! It's so sudden.”

“I know. But I'm going. Something's . . . going on, you know? I mean, I don't know what, but I've got to go. For my own sanity, if nothing else. Anyway, I wanted you to know. So you don't worry.”

“Don't worry? Sure, okay. You're going back into the jungle to look for a boyfriend who's been dead for ten years, but hey—”

“This isn't about Shannon. I know he's dead. This is different. Anyway, I've gotta get to the gate.”

Marisa sighed. “Watch yourself then, okay? Really.”

“I will.” Sherry smiled. “Hey, I'll be back before you know it. No big deal.”

“Sure you will.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sunday

“I DON'T
know, but I don't think it's about the boy,” Helen said.

“It never was about the boy,” Bill replied. “Besides, I thought he was dead.”

“Yes. So they say. But it's not about Tanya, either. Not really.”

“So you've said. Tanya is a Jonah, and it's really about Nineveh.”

“I know, but I'm not sure it's about Nineveh anymore either.”

“So now we don't even know who the players are in this chess match of yours?”

“We know who the players are. They are God and they are the forces of darkness.
The white side and the black side. What we don't know is which players they
are prodding and whether those players will actually move. But I have this feeling,
Bill. The black side doesn't have a clue about what's really happening. This is an
end run.”

“As long as the players cooperate.”

Helen was silent for a moment.

“Have you ever wondered what kind of man embraces evil, Bill?”

“What kind of man? Every man. What do you mean?”

“I mean, what kind of man would kill others?”

“Many men have killed others. I'm not sure I follow.”

“It's just something that's been gnawing at me. One way or another Tanya is
going back to confront the same evil that killed her parents. I was just thinking about
what kind of evil that was. That drove those men. And I think you're right . . .
I think it's the same kind of evil that's in every man. But not every man embraces
it.”

“And the death of Christ destroys it.”

“Yes. The death of Christ. Love.”

THE VALLEY would have looked like any other valley in Venezuela's Guyana Highlands, except for the black cliffs jutting to the sky. As it was, the stark contrast between the green jungle and the sheer rock served as a reminder to the Indians that the men occupying the valley were men with black souls. Death Valley, that's what they now called the region that had only eight years ago been occupied by messengers of God.

In a fortified complex within the mountain at the plantation's northern border, Abdullah Amir sat with folded arms, like a sentinel overseeing his brood. A shock of white split his black hair at the crown, accentuating a sharp nose that jutted from a naturally dark face. His eyes glistened black, casting the illusion that no iris, only pupil, had formed there. His right cheek blistered with a long scar rising from the corner of his mouth.

The room he occupied was nearly dark, plain, with stained concrete walls. But mostly it was damp and smelly. The smell came from the large black insects in the room. He had long ago given up with the bugs, and now hundreds of them occupied all four corners, climbing over each other to form small mounds, like hanging wasp nests. Not that he minded them. In fact, they had become like companions to him. No, he didn't really mind them at all.

What he did mind was Jamal. Or more pointedly, Jamal's orders—he had never actually met the man. As far as he was concerned, Jamal had hijacked his plan and was taking the glory for it. Yes, Jamal had made improvements, but they were not critical. It hardly mattered that he was a highly respected militant in the Mideast. He was not here, in the jungle where the plan was hatched. He had no business controlling anything.

Abdullah sat in a metal folding chair and gazed through a picture window to blazing lights illuminating the processing plant one story below. Three large vats used for cocaine refinement stood like swimming pools against a backdrop of five chemical tanks strung along the far wall. Beyond the concrete wall, two helicopters sat idle in the hangar. The operation ran like a well-oiled machine now, he thought. Here in the jungle where the days ticked by with only cicadas keeping cadence.

Sweat leaked down his temple, and he let it run. His life had been a living hell here in the jungle, but by Jamal's tone, that would soon change.

A fly crawled lethargically across his forearm. He ignored it and let his mind fall back to the first time Jamal had made contact.

Abdullah had come to this coffee plantation as part of a well-conceived plan the Brotherhood had plotted years before his arrival—a plan that would eventually change history, they were sure of it. It was brilliant for its simplicity as much as its extravagance. They would develop links within the drug trade south of the United States and exploit the traffic routes for terrorism. South America was certainly much closer to the United States than Iran. And for the kind of acts they had in mind, close was critical. The whole world had set its focus on North Africa and the Middle East after Osama bin Laden's rampage anyway. South America was a far safer home for such an extraordinary plan.

After spending two years in Cali, Colombia, Abdullah had struck his deal with the CIA to occupy this valley.

And three years after that, Jamal had entered his world. Jamal, an unknown name then, had somehow persuaded the Brotherhood to let him take control of the plan. He had the money; he had the contacts; he had a better plan.

It was then that Abdullah had begun the construction of the underground fortress, at Jamal's insistence, of course. Abdullah had already built a perfectly sufficient building, yet he had been forced to scrap it in favor of Jamal's plan.

Hollowing the caverns from the mountain near the plantation had been a harrowing experience in the terrible heat and humidity. And keeping the operation undercover meant they had to get rid of the rock without alerting air or satellite surveillance. The CIA had agreed to allow them a modest drug operation— not one that necessitated the hollowing of a mountain. The CIA had no clue what they were really up to.

They'd moved 200,000 tons of rock. They had done it by drilling a three-foot tunnel right through the mountain and depositing the dirt in the Orinoco River far below in the adjacent valley.

Using the same tunnels to deliver the logs to the river had been Jamal's idea as well. Everything, always, Jamal's. It wasn't the plan itself that bore into Abdullah's skull; it was the way Jamal held him by the neck. The way he toyed with him, demanding this and questioning that. One day Abdullah would have to kill the pig. Of course, he would have to find him first, and finding him might be harder than killing him.

A knock sounded on the door.

Abdullah answered without moving. “Come in.”