Guardian of Lies (41 page)

Thorpe thought about it for a couple of minutes and then picked up the phone again. He dialed a number for one of the offices in the intelligence directorate downstairs and then waited while it rang.

“Bob, Zeb Thorpe here. You know, I was trying to recall last week when we had that briefing on the Madriani surveillance. You guys had run up a dead end on the encrypted phone they were using.

“Yeah, that’s what I remember you saying. I don’t imagine you’ve had any luck since?

“I didn’t think so. Let me ask you a question; forget for the moment cracking the encryption code. I assume the phone puts out and receives a signal to and from the nearest cell tower, just like any other cell phone.

“It does.

“So is there any way we can identify the signal that these phones are putting out when they’re being used?”

According to the techno wizard on the other end, the answer was yes. Every cell phone, as long as the phone was powered up, must maintain contact with the nearest satellite tower. It does this by emitting a roaming signal, a periodic electronic handshake so that the cell system can determine which is the best tower for the phone to use in the event of an incoming or outgoing call. The roaming signal is traceable and its signal strength will identify the general location of the person carrying the phone. Using equipment that can zero in and triangulate on the signal, the precise location can be fixed. It is the reason world leaders are usually not allowed to carry cell phones on their persons, and their protection details use only secure radio frequencies for communications.

“So you can track him if the phone is powered up. You’re sure about that?

“Okay, good. One last question. After you find the location, can you jam the frequency so they won’t be able to communicate? You can? If I asked you to set that up in San José, Costa Rica, how long would it take?

“Do it,” said Thorpe, “and call me the minute your people pinpoint the signal. Tell them to jam the line so they can’t talk, and call me immediately.” He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.

All I can feel is the hard concrete under my behind as some great weight pushes on my back, pressing my head between my knees. I begin sucking in large quantities of air as the weight is suddenly removed from my shoulders and back.

“Stay there.” The sound of Herman’s voice, and the feeling that it is snowing, light flakes dusting my forearms and the ground all around my feet.

As I lift my head I realize that what is falling is not snow. It is ash. There are pieces of burning wood, broken glass, and bits of plaster all over the street.

I am sitting on the curb at the other side, fifty yards down the block from Katia’s house. As I look up I see flames and black smoke billowing from a gaping hole where the roof and the front of the house used to be. The white exterior, what is left of it, is scorched, turned black in places by flames and soot. The front door is blown off its hinges and still burning as it leans up against the iron gate at the entry.

I sense motion on the sidewalk behind me. I am still dazed. I look, and Herman is working on Katia’s mother. She is stretched out on the cement sidewalk next to her purse. Herman is giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, punctuated by compressions to her chest with his powerful hands. He is pushing hard enough to break ribs.

I start to struggle to my feet.

“Stay down before you fall! I got my hands full right now.” Herman struggles between bellows of breath and pressure on her chest to tell me what to do.

“I’m all right,” I tell him.

“Right.”

Neighbors from the other houses are milling around on the street, some of them looking at the burning house. A small group gathers around us, watching Herman as he works on the woman.

“
¿Ella está muerta?
” Some woman asks if she is dead.

“No sé
,” whispers another voice. He doesn’t know.

One lady, a neighbor, wants to help, but isn’t sure what to do. Herman doesn’t have time to show her.

“I’ll do it,” I say. I give up on the idea of getting to my feet and instead I roll to my side and crawl on my hands and knees. I kneel over her torso and start doing the compressions on her chest so that Herman can concentrate on filling her lungs with air. Within a few seconds we get a rhythm going. A minute or so later her legs kick, she coughs up fluids, turns her head to the side, and vomits.

Several of the women clap and smile.

Herman holds her on her side with her head down as she retches several times. He gently pats her on the back. “
¡Bueno!
” Then he says something else in Spanish up close to her ear that I cannot hear.

“Here, hold her on her side,” he tells me. “Don’t want her breathing fluid into her lungs.”

I hold her while he heads across the street. I watch as he kicks the flaming front door away from the iron gate, then uses the bottom of his shirt to grab the metal gate and opens it. He disappears into the house.

The woman takes a couple of deep breaths. Finally, she turns her head, looks at me, and says, “Who are you?” in perfect English.

“You are Katia’s mother?” I say.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“We are friends of Katia from the United States. She is in a great deal of trouble. We need your help.”

She is breathing heavily now, making up for the deficit of oxygen. “What kind of trouble?”

“We must find a place where we can talk,” I tell her. “Not here.”

When I look back, Herman is out of the house, coming this way.

Katia’s mother has now boosted herself up so that she is sitting on the sidewalk. She is talking to one of the other women in Spanish, then turns to me. “She is a friend. She lives down the street. We can go to her house.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Herman overhears the conversation as he approaches. He gestures with his head to the left, up the street.

When I turn and look, I see people in white hospital smocks. Apparently they have wandered down from the hospital up the hill. Next to one of them is a motorcycle cop. He has parked his bike and is propping his helmet on the seat. Then we hear the sound of sirens in the distance.

“We need to talk somewhere else,” I tell her. “Do you have any friends outside the neighborhood?”

She thinks for a moment. “Yes. There is someone else.”

“How are you feeling?” says Herman.

“My head hurts,” she says.

“That’s the fumes from the gas,” he tells her. “You’re going to have a headache.”

“What about you?” He looks at me.

“I’m fine.”

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. “Here.”

“What’s that for?”

“Your head’s bleeding.”

I reach up and sure enough there is blood on the side of my face, dripping onto the shoulder of my shirt. I remember hitting the countertop just before I blacked out in the kitchen.

I press the handkerchief to my head and hold it there.

“Why did you go back in the house?”

“Wanted to see if I could grab her luggage,” says Herman. “But it’s flamed. I snagged her purse on the way out, but that was all because I had my hands full with the two of you.”

“Could have left me and gotten the suitcase,” I tell him.

“Thought about it,” he says. “But then who’s gonna pay my bill?” He winks at me. “If we help you up, do you think you can stand?” he asks her.

“I will try.”

He hands her purse to her. We each get under one arm and help her to her feet. The blare of a siren suddenly fills the air. The bright red of the first fire truck turns the corner at the other end of the block, followed by two more cops riding Suzuki dirt bikes.

The cops quickly busy themselves directing traffic. The crowd around us suddenly disperses as their attention is drawn to the truck. With their backs to us, they watch the firemen as they come off and start hauling hoses.

Katia’s mother takes a few steps and says something to the lady who offered to allow us to use her house.

“What did she say?” Herman didn’t hear it.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

Within seconds the three of us are hobbling down the street in the other direction, away from the crowd. As we reach the stairs at the end of the block, Herman takes the lead, helping Katia’s mother down the steps.

I stand above them on one of the steps, my eyes just at street level for a few seconds, making sure that no one is following us.

Looking back I see a cop in a dark blue uniform talking to some of the people who had gathered around us on the sidewalk. He is taking notes. A woman who is talking to him gestures toward the sidewalk behind her without bothering to turn to look.

He says something to her.

She turns and starts to point at the curb where I had been sitting, and then suddenly stops. She looks around as if she is confused. She knows we were there. She turns back to the officer and they continue to talk. Just as the cop begins to lift his eyes from his notebook to glance down the block in my direction, I drop down one more step and disappear below the level of the street.

Nitikin went to bed at his usual time, eight o’clock, but he didn’t sleep. He tossed and turned for hours, troubled by the thought that what he had been told was wrong. Ten days earlier, he had been shown a copy of a fax by one of his friends in the FARC. It was a bill of lading from a Panamanian shipping company. It had arrived at the FARC communications hut earlier that day.

The bill of lading was a contract for the shipment of a single cargo container by sea from the Port of Tumaco on the Pacific coast of Colombia to the container terminal at Balboa, Panama, at the western approach to the Panama Canal.

As Nitikin lay tossing on his bed he was troubled by the fact that according to the bill of lading, the shipment was scheduled for the following morning, with the deadline for loading containers set for two A.M., sailing by four.

The distance between the FARC encampment in the Tapaje River valley and the Port of Tumaco was more than sixty miles as the crow flies, an hour by car on a fast highway. But there was no highway, only dirt roads that wound through the deep river gorges and over the mountains. Because one had to dodge Colombian military patrols, the trip could take more than a day; that is, if none of the bridges over the rivers was washed out.

By early afternoon, when no truck had arrived to transport the container with the device, Nitikin was forced to conclude that the information he had seen on the fax was wrong; either that or Alim was playing games with him.

Yakov had set everything up premised on the one assumption that thirty-six hours after departing the harbor at Tumaco, he and the device would be in Panama. Whether this was their final destination he had no way of knowing. But through some FARC friends he had managed to obtain a cell phone with a Panamanian GSM chip. It was useless in the jungles of Colombia, but at the Port of Balboa, near Panama City, he would be able to get a cellular signal. The chip contained just enough minutes for a brief long distance call to his daughter’s cell phone in Costa Rica. Nitikin was desperate to be sure that she was safe, and to tell her one last time that he loved her.

It was a three-story concrete building just two blocks south of the Sportsmens Lodge. But it took us the better part of an hour to get there hauling our luggage and helping Katia’s mother, Maricela Solaz, along the way. She introduced herself as we walked. I filled her in as much as I could concerning Katia, the fact that she was charged with serious crimes and in the hospital following an attempt on her life.

She said she had never heard the name Emerson Pike, but after what had happened she was not surprised that an attempt had been made on Katia’s life. It was the photographs she had taken in Colombia. Though her father had told her almost nothing, she was certain that the people she had accidentally caught in the pictures were dangerous. “Whoever tried to kill my daughter also tried to kill me.”

“Did you see him? Could you identify him?” I ask.

“No. But I can identify the man in Colombia,” she says. “And I am certain that he is the one who ordered it.”

“What man?”

“I will tell you when we get there.”

We took a wide berth around the lodge, walking several blocks out of our way, up the hill and around the hospital to avoid the police and any FBI who might be lingering around our hotel.

She pointed out the apartment building as we approached. It looked as if it dated to the thirties. The gray concrete structure curved with the street and incorporated elements of Art Deco, concrete columns with molded threads in the form of a winepress set into the facade.

“The yellow house across the street behind the fence is the Casa Amarilla, it is the
ministerio
of exterior relations. How do you say?”

“The foreign ministry?”

“Yes. That’s it. My friend lives on the second floor in the apartments across the street.” She leads the way. When we arrive in front of the curving iron gate at the door, she takes hold of the bars with one hand and rattles it, then steps back a few feet to the curb and hollers up to the window overhead, “Lorenzo. It’s Maricela. Open the door.”

For a few seconds there is nothing. She rattles the gate again. Then a voice overhead. “Who is it?”

“
Es Maricela y sus amigos
. Let us in.”

The man who sticks his head out the window a couple of seconds later looks no more Costa Rican than I do. “Where have you been? I have been trying to reach you for the last six weeks,” he says. “Katia is in trouble.”

“I know,” she tells him. “Lemme in, please.”

“Give me a minute to find my key.” He disappears from the window.

“Your friend is an American,” I say.

“Yes. His name is Larry Goudaz. He calls himself Lorenzo. He is from California. The Silicon Valley,” she says.

“I see.” I remember the name Lorenzo Goudaz from one of our meetings with Katia at the jail. “I think Katia mentioned him as a friend.”