Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (46 page)

Skimming through this pass—it was more of a saddle, really—didn't make it any easier.  A ninety-six-hundred-foot peak was to the south, and one of seventy-eight hundred feet to the north, and a lot of Pacific air was being funneled through as the Pave Low roared at two hundred knots.  They were heavy, having tanked only a few minutes earlier just off
Colombia
's
Pacific
Coast
.

“There's Mistrato,” Colonel Johns said.  The computer navigation system had already veered them north to pass well clear of the town and any roads.  The two pilots were also alert for anything on the ground that hinted at a man or a car or a house.  The route had been selected off satellite photographs, of course, both daylight and nighttime infrared shots, but there was always the chance of a surprise.

“Buck, LZ One in four minutes,” PJ called over the intercom.

“Roger.”

They were flying over
Risaralda
Province
, part of the great valley that lay between two enormous ridgelines of mountains flung into the sky by a subductal fault in the earth's crust.  PJ's hobby was geology.  He knew how much effort it took to bring his aircraft to this altitude, and he boggled at the forces that could push mountains to the same height.

“LZ One in sight,” Captain Willis said.

“Got it.” Colonel Johns took the stick.  He keyed his microphone, “One minute.  Hot guns.”

“Right.” Sergeant Zimmer left his position to head aft.  Sergeant Bean activated his minigun in case there was trouble.  Zimmer slipped and nearly fell on a pool of vomit.  That wasn't unusual.  The ride smoothed out now that they were in the lee of the mountains, but there were some very sick kids in back who would be glad to get on firm, unmoving ground.  Zimmer had trouble understanding that.  It was dangerous on the ground.

The first squad was up as the helicopter flared to make its first landing, and as before, the moment it touched down, they ran out the back.  Zimmer made his count, watched to be certain that everyone got off safely, and notified the pilot to lift off as soon as they were clear.

Next time
, Chavez told himself, next time I fucking walk in and out!  He had had some rough chopper rides in his time, but nothing like that one.  He led off to the treeline and waited for the remainder of the squad to catch up.

“Glad to be on the ground?” Vega asked as soon as he got there.

“I didn't know I ate that much,” Ding groaned.  Everything he'd eaten in the last few hours was still aboard the helicopter.  He opened a canteen and drank a pint of water just to wash away the vile taste.

“I usta love roller coasters,” Oso said. “No more, 'mano!”

“Fuckin' A!” Chavez remembered standing in line for the big ones at Knott's Berry Farm and other
California
theme parks.  Never again!

“You okay, Ding?” Captain Ramirez asked.

“Sorry, sir.  That never happened to me—ever!  I'll be okay in a minute,” he promised his commander.

“Take your time.  We picked a nice, quiet spot to land.” I hope.

Chavez shook his head to clear it.  He didn't know that motion sickness started in the inner ear, had never known what motion sickness was until half an hour earlier.  But he did the right thing, taking deep breaths and shaking his head to get his equilibrium back.  The ground wasn't moving, he told himself, but part of his brain wasn't sure.

“Where to, Cap'n?”

“You're already heading in the right direction.” Ramirez clapped him on the shoulder. “Move out.”

Chavez put on his low-light goggles and started moving off through the forest.  God, but that was embarrassing.  He'd never do anything that dumb again, the sergeant promised himself.  With his head still telling him that he was probably moving in a way that his legs couldn't possibly cause, he concentrated on his footing and the terrain, rapidly moving two hundred meters ahead of the main body of the squad.  The first mission into the swampy lowlands had just been practice, hadn't really been serious, he thought now.  But this was the real thing.  With that thought foremost in his mind, he batted away the last remnants of his nausea and got down to work.

Everyone worked late that night.  There was the investigation to run, and routine office business had to be kept current as well.  By the time Moira came into Mr. Shaw's office, she'd managed to organize everything he'd need to know, and it was also time to tell him what she'd forgotten.  She wasn't surprised to see Mr. Murray there, too.  She was surprised when he spoke first.

“Moira, were you interviewed about Emil's trip?” Dan asked.

She nodded. “Yes.  I forgot something.  I wanted to tell you this morning, Mr. Shaw, but when I came in early you were asleep.  Connie saw me,” she assured him.

“Go on,” Bill said, wondering if he should feel a little better about that or not.

Mrs. Wolfe sat down, then turned to look at the open door. 
Murray
walked over to close it.  On the way back he placed his hand on her shoulder.

“It's okay, Moira.”

“I have a friend.  He lives in
Venezuela
.  We met . . . well, we met a month and a half ago, and we—this is hard to explain.”

She hesitated, staring at the rug for a moment before looking up. “We fell in love.  He comes up to the States on business every few weeks, and with the Director away, we wanted to spend a weekend—at The Hideaway, in the mountains near Luray Caverns?”

“I know it,” Shaw said. “Nice place to get away from it all.”

“Well, when I knew that Mr. Jacobs was going to be away and we had a chance for a long weekend, I called him.  He has a factory.  He makes auto parts—two factories, actually, one in
Venezuela
and one in
Costa Rica
.  Carburetors and things like that.”

“Did you call him at his home?”
Murray
asked.

“No.  He works such long hours that I called him at his factory.  I have the number here.” She handed over the scrap of Sheraton note paper that he'd written it down on. “Anyway, I got his secretary—her name's Consuela—because he was out on the shop floor, and he called me back, and I told him that we could get together, so he came up—we met at the airport Friday afternoon.  I left early after Mr. Jacobs did.”

“Which airport?”

“Dulles.”

“What's his name?” Shaw asked.

“Díaz.  Juan Díaz.  You can call him there at the factory and—”

“That phone number goes to an apartment, not a factory, Moira,”
Murray
said.  And it was that clear, that fast.

“But—but he—” She stopped. “No.  No.  He isn't—”

“Moira, we need a complete physical description.”

“Oh, no.” Her mouth fell open and wouldn't close.  She looked from Shaw to
Murray
and back again as the horror of it all closed in on her.  She was dressed in black, of course, probably the same outfit she'd worn to bury her own husband.  For a few weeks she'd been a bright, beautiful, happy woman again.  No more.  Both FBI executives felt her pain, hating themselves for having brought it to her.  She was a victim, too.  But she was also a lead, and they needed a lead.

Moira Wolfe summoned what little dignity she had left and gave them as complete a description as they had ever had of any man in a voice as brittle as crystal before she lost control entirely.  Shaw had his personal assistant drive her home.

“Cortez,”
Murray
said as soon as the door closed behind her.

“That's a pretty solid bet,” the Executive Assistant Director(Investigations) agreed. “The book on him says that he's a real ace at compromising people.  Jesus, did he ever prove that right.” Shaw's head went from side to side as he reached for some coffee. “But he couldn't have known what they were doing, could he?”

“Doesn't make much sense to have come here if he did,”
Murray
said. “But since when are criminals logical?  Well, we start checking immigration control points, hotels, airlines.  See if we can track this cocksucker.  I'll get on it.  What are we going to do about Moira?”

“She didn't break any laws, did she?” That was the really odd part. “Find a place where she doesn't have to see classified material, maybe in another agency.  Dan, we can't destroy her, too.”

“No.”

Moira Wolfe got home just before eleven.  Her kids were all still up waiting for her.  They assumed that her tears were a delayed reaction from the funeral.  They'd all met Emil Jacobs, too, and mourned his passing as much as anyone else who worked for the Bureau.  She didn't say very much, heading upstairs for bed while they continued to sit before the television.  Alone in the bathroom she stared in the mirror at the woman who'd allowed herself to be seduced and used like . . . like a fool, something worse than a fool, a stupid, vain, lonely old woman looking for her youth.  So desperate to be loved again that . . . That she had condemned—how many?  Seven people?  She couldn't remember, staring at her empty face in the glass.  The young agents on Emil's security detail had families.  She'd knitted a sweater for Leo's firstborn son.  He was still too young—he'd never remember what a nice, handsome young man his father had been.

It's all my fault.

I helped kill them.

She opened the mirrored door to the medicine cabinet.  Like most people, the Wolfes never threw out old medicine, and there it was, a plastic container of Placidyls.  There were still—she counted six of them.  Surely that would be enough.

“What brings you out this time?” Timmy Jackson asked his big brother.

“I gotta go out on Ranger to observe a Fleet-Ex.  We're trying out some new intercept tactics I helped work up.  And a friend of mine just got command of
Enterprise
, so I came out a day early to watch the ceremony.  I go down to D'ego tomorrow and catch the COD out to Ranger.”

“COD?”

“The carrier's delivery truck,” Robby explained. “Twin-engine prop bird.  So how's life in the light infantry?”

“We're still humpin' hills.  Got our clock cleaned on the last exercise.  My new squad leader really fucked up.  It isn't fair,” Tim observed.

“What do you mean?”

Lieutenant Jackson tossed off the last of his drink. “ 'A green lieutenant and a green squad leader is too much burden for any platoon to bear'—that's what the new S-3 said.  He was out with us.  Of course, the captain didn't exactly see it that way.  Lost a little weight yesterday—he chewed off a piece of my ass for me.  God, I wish I had Chavez back.”

“Huh?”

“Squad leader I lost.  He—that's the odd part.  He was supposed to go to a basic-training center as an instructor, but seems he got lost.  The S-3 says he was in
Panama
a few weeks ago.  Had my platoon sergeant try to track him down, see what the hell was going on—he's still my man, you know?” Robby nodded.  He understood. “Anyway, his paperwork is missing, and the clerks are runnin' in circles trying to find it. 
Fort
Banning
called to ask where the hell he was, 'cause they were still waiting for him.  Nobody knows where the hell Ding got to.  That sort of thing happen in the Navy?”

“When a guy goes missing, it generally means that he wants to be missing.”

Tim shook his head. “Nah, not Ding.  He's a lifer, I don't even think he'll stop at twenty.  He'll retire as a command sergeant major.  No, he's no bugout.”

“Then maybe somebody dropped his file in the wrong drawer,” Robby suggested.

“I suppose.  I'm still new at this,” Tim reminded himself. “Still, it is kind of funny, turning up down there in the jungle.  Enough of that.  How's Sis?”

About the only good thing to say was that it wasn't hot.  In fact, it was pretty cool.  Maybe there wasn't enough air to be hot, Ding told himself.  The altitude was marginally less than they'd trained at in
Colorado
, but that was weeks behind them, and it would be a few days before the soldiers were reacclimated.  That would slow them down some, but on the whole Chavez thought that heat was more debilitating than thin air, and harder to get used to.

The mountains—nobody called these mothers hills—were about as rugged as anything he'd ever seen, and though they were well forested, he was paying particularly close attention to his footing.  The thick trees made for limited visibility, which was good news.  His night scope, hanging on his head like a poorly designed cap, allowed him to see no more than a hundred meters, and usually less than that, but he could see something, while the overhead cover eliminated the light needed for the unaided eye to see.  It was scary, and it was lonely, but it was home for Sergeant Chavez.

He did not move in a straight line to the night's objective, following instead the Army's approved procedure of constantly veering left and right of the direction in which he was actually traveling.  Every half hour he'd stop, double back, and wait until the rest of the squad was in view.  Then it was their turn to rest for a few minutes, checking their own back for people who might take an interest in the new visitors to the jungle highlands.

The sling on his MP-5 was double-looped so that he could carry it slung over his head, always in firing position.  There was electrician's tape over the muzzle to keep it from being clogged, and more tape was wrapped around the sling swivels to minimize noise.  Noise was their enemy.  Chavez concentrated on that, and seeing, and a dozen other things.  This one was for-real.  The mission brief had told them all about that.  Their job wasn't reconnaissance anymore.

After six hours, the RON—remain overnight—site was in view.  Chavez radioed back—five taps on the transmit key answered by three—for the squad to remain in place while he checked it out.  They'd picked a real eyrie—he knew the word for an eagle's nest—from which, in daylight, they could look down on miles of the main road that snaked its way from
Manizales
to Medellín, and off of which the refining sites were located.  Six of them, supposedly, were within a night's march of the RON site.  Chavez circled it carefully, looking for footprints, trash, anything that hinted at human activity.  It was too good a site for someone not to have used it for something or other, he thought.  Maybe a photographer for National Geographic who wanted to take shots of the valley.  On the other hand, getting here was a real bitch.  They were a good three thousand feet above the road, and this wasn't the sort of country that you could drive a tank across, much less a car.  He spiraled in, and still found nothing.  Maybe it was too far out of the way.  After half an hour he keyed his radio again.  The rest of the squad had had ample time to check its rear, and if anyone had been following them, there would have been contact by now.  The sun outlined the eastern wall of the valley in red by the time Captain Ramirez appeared.  It was just as well that the covert insertion had shortened the night.  With only half a night's march behind them they were tired, but not too tired, and would have a day to get used to the altitude all over again.  They'd come five linear miles from the LZ—more like seven miles actually walked, and two thousand feet up.