Then the new administration was elected into power, Leger became secretary of defense, the rise in profile started to make people nervous again.
Apparently Sammy Bell had good sources within the FBI or the prison system-maybe both-and about a week ago, those sources told him that Guinn was ready to cut a deal in return for protection. He was driving a hard bargain, too-he’d give everything if his conditions were met, and nothing at all if they weren’t. Mitch had heard rumors that the ultimate decision went all the way to the White House, and part of him really hoped that Leger was in the room when the attorney general or FBI director made the pitch. That must have triggered a special breed of panic.
It certainly triggered an urgent phone call to Sammy Bell, who then passed the urgency to Mitch. At the end of the day, this mess was his loose end to be tied, and everybody expected him to finish his job.
So, how do you keep a man from spilling his guts to people who are willing to give him whatever he wants? You threaten his family. The tactic works just as well with big shots as it does with peons like Jose. Family in general-children in particular-are everybody’s Achilles’ heel, from hero to sociopath. The tricky part was to make the threat viable, and to keep it perpetual. It’s the threat of violence that motivates silence in a case like this, not violence itself.
They knew that Guinn had a kid somewhere, and research led them to a school in a little Virginia town that no one had heard of. The most logical solution was to grab him and hold him hostage, but that strategy came with huge risks-not the least of which was the involvement of the FBI, whose mission it was to solve kidnappings. This one would be rendered even more challenging by the need to constantly remind Guinn of the stakes. Snatching someone and disappearing with him was difficult but doable. Keeping them disappeared while at the same time remaining in frequent contact raised the stakes enormously. Each new communication created an opportunity for the FBI to dial into the chain of evidence-and there was always a chain of evidence, no matter how careful you were to prevent one.
The solution came from Troy Flynn, the man who nominally succeeded Arthur Guinn after his arrest. (Jesus, you think too much about this stuff, and it starts to sound like a royal chain of succession.) Flynn suggested an offshore kidnapping. He said that he had assurances from very reliable sources that if they chose the country carefully, the FBI would be unable to follow, and if they did, they’d be unable to secure extradition.
And wouldn’t you know it? One of the leading countries suggested was the very one in which Mitch Ponder had a number of existing business interests that were always looking to prosper from an addition to the labor pool.
Mitch read that as a guaranteed safe zone to spirit the kid off to after they snatched him. But first they had to get their hands on him, and for that Mitch needed a team. He hated working with teams. The extra players posed that many more opportunities to screw things up, and that many more people whose loose lips could sink the Steamship Ponder.
In this case, though, having a third party involved actually helped Mitch with another problem. Because of the complexity of what they were attempting to pull off, and the fact that Leger and his contacts were going to be giving him some backup, he needed a way to communicate directly with the secretary. Troy Flynn and Sammy Bell didn’t want to be seen in the halls of the Pentagon any more than Leger would have wanted them there. For all the same reasons, the further away Mitch could stay from direct contact, the better off he was going to be.
Enter Jerry Sjogren, the hulking Bostonian who, as far as Mitch could tell, feared no one. Mitch had never worked with him before, but he certainly knew the name. Sjogren looked and sounded like a barroom bouncer. He’d approached Mitch, in fact, and, without actually saying the words, made it extremely clear that he considered himself to be Secretary Leger’s go-to guy.
Sjogren was the one who’d first noticed that Marilyn Schuler’s kid went to the same school as the Guinn kid, and brought word that his boss wanted the Schuler boy snatched at the same time. Mitch had argued against it if only because of the daunting logistics of snatching two at once and getting them out of the country. When you double the scope of an operation like that, you square the logistical hassles. To risk success with a high-value target like the Guinn kid by snatching a low-yield target like the Schuler boy-honestly, what were the chances that the kid knew anything that could hurt Leger? — was a special brand of foolishness.
But Sjogren had been firm. Besides, he’d argued, Mitch would never have to worry about the second kid because they were going to pop him after they snatched him. For Mitch’s little corner of the operation, nothing would change.
Yeah, right. Never in the history of Murphy’s Law had so many things gone perfectly wrong at precisely the worst moments. Everything Sjogren touched had turned to shit, up to and including the capping of a child. Good God. And he’d already been drugged, to boot.
The litany of things gone wrong swirled through Mitch’s mind with such intense clarity that he nearly missed the arrival of his guest, who announced himself by casting a shadow over Mitch’s untouched beer.
“Good evening,” said the new arrival in heavily accented English.
Mitch looked up, at once pleased that his guest had finally arrived, and concerned that he had allowed himself to drift so far away from the present. Inattentiveness was a fine way to get yourself killed.
Mitch rose to greet the man and shook his hand. “General Ruiz. How are you sir? Thank you for joining me.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Please sit.”
General Ignacio Ruiz was the head of the PNC- Policia Nacional de Colombia — the Colombian national police force. He had risen through the ranks, as had most of his predecessors except for a brief period in the late nineties and early 2000s, on the corpses of assassinated and disgraced former leaders. Given the brief tenure of most incumbents in his position, they tended to live large and fast during the time allotted to them. This evening, the general had shed his uniform in favor of beige linen pants and a white guayabera.
Ruiz looked around uncomfortably. “I think this is perhaps the wrong place,” he said.
Mitch resumed his seat. “With all respect, sir, I think this is exactly the right place. You’re not in uniform, we can converse in English, and I will remain in a public place during my meeting with a man who is so… renowned for his skills.”
Ruiz hesitated a moment longer, then produced a smile as he lowered himself into his chair.
“State what is on your mind,” the general said.
The waiter returned. The recognition was both instant and awkward. Having clearly been made, the general told the young man in Spanish to leave them. Two seconds later, they were alone.
“You were saying,” Ruiz reminded.
Mitch smiled. “Yes, I suppose I was. I came here to alert you to an invasion that is ongoing in your country.”
Ruiz’s expression darkened. “What kind of invasion?”
“Small but important. It involves my business interests in the Santa Marta.”
Ruiz’s expression reflected a foul odor. “I’m not a fan of your business interests,” he said. “They are ugly and violent.”
“And profitable,” Mitch reminded. “Profitable enough to be of great interest to your bosses.” He let that sink in. He and the general had had this discussion before. While they stood on different sides philosophically, each understood that philosophy paid no bills. “If the businessman in you does not care, then I appeal to the patriot within you. Do you really want these invaders to return us to the nineties?”
“These invaders as you call them. They are Americans?”
Mitch nodded.
Ruiz waved his hand dismissively. “I do not believe it. We have assurances from the U.S. government that-”
“They still don’t care about the factories, sir. Their official incursions are over. This is a smaller invasion than what you have seen in the past, but if I’m not mistaken some of the players are the same.”
Ruiz shot annoyed glances over both shoulders, then leaned his forearms on the table. “You’re speaking in riddles, Mr. Ponder. I have neither the desire nor the time to figure them out.”
Mitch gave an understanding nod. “Of course, sir. At one of my business establishments, I have some rather specialized business going on. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to know too many of the details. This is above and beyond the manufacture of our usual product. It is for this expanded product line that these commandos are invading your country. They entered on commercial flights from the United States under false passports, but unfortunately, I don’t know under what names they arrived.”
