THIRTY-FOUR
At least the news from California was good. Alim read the handwritten translation in Farsi from the original computer e-mail printout. It had been sent in Spanish from San Diego that afternoon. Like all of the communications with the Mexican, the message was cryptic, but the code words were clear. The Russian’s granddaughter was dead-mission accomplished.
He lowered the paper and took a deep breath. There would be no trial. The investigations surrounding the American’s murder would end, and with them the fear that someone might trip over Katia Solaz’s family background.
So far they had managed to stanch the leak from the photographs and the fumbling interference from an aged American, probably one of Satan’s agents. Alim knew that without the assistance of the FARC rebels, none of this would have been possible. It was their intelligence source in Costa Rica who had first alerted them to Pike’s activities and the fact that he had the photographs as well as Nitikin’s granddaughter.
“Do you have any message to send back?” said the Farsi interpreter. They were in one of the small huts used by the FARC for communications. It was situated on a hillside under the dense jungle canopy.
“Yes. Give me a few moments to think.”
The interpreter had been sent over by Alim’s government, a necessity in the tower of babel that was the jungle hideaway. The man had been pulled from a university post because of his ability to speak Farsi and to teach Spanish. The skills were a combination of increasing importance, not only to Alim’s government but to others in the region as they probed for weaknesses in the armor, the southern soft underbelly of the Great Satan.
For the moment, Alim was walking a diplomatic tightrope. He could not afford to alienate the FARC, which had formed a trusting and loyal relationship with Nitikin. The Russian had lived with them in the jungle for decades. Still, each passing day saw Nitikin becoming more and more difficult to deal with. He continued in his refusal to assemble the device until his daughter was returned safely, under the protection of the FARC, to her home in Costa Rica. This was now becoming a problem, threatening to interrupt the time line for Alim’s mission. He could wait no longer. Fortunately the Mexican was now free for another assignment.
“Tell him we have another job, this time in San Jose, Costa Rica.”
The translator scribbled with a pencil on a pad.
“Yes, sir.”
“One other thing.” It was something that had been bothering Alim for some time now, one of those nagging loose ends. “Tell him that the digital camera he sent us from the agent Pike’s house was the wrong one. Tell him that according to the Russian’s daughter, the real camera may still have the original pictures in it, and the last time she saw it, it was at her house in San Jose. I want the camera and those pictures. Tell him not to contact us again until he has them. And here, copy this and send it to him.”
Alim unfolded a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to the interpreter. It was the directions to Maricela Solaz’s house in San Jose. Alim had gotten this from Nitikin in preparation for sending her home, so that he could arrange to have the FARC make sure that the place was not under surveillance before she got there.
THIRTY-FIVE
Harry and I hoof it toward the parking lot at the hospital and Harry’s car.
“Make sure whoever we hire as Katia’s doctor has hospital privileges here,” I tell him. “We want a treating physician who has full access to all the facilities. Somebody who can keep an eye on her. Also, call the nurses’ registry. Set up a private nurse around the clock, three shifts, so somebody is in the room with her at all times. That way, if the feds try to question her at least we’ll know about it.”
“That’s gonna be expensive,” says Harry.
“That’s all right. We’ll negotiate the bill with Rhytag when we finish with him.”
“I’ll see if I can get a female physician. Katia might communicate a little better,” says Harry, “and a nurse who can speak and write Spanish if I can find one. That way she can talk to her on a pad once she’s functioning again.”
“Good idea. My biggest regret is that we never had time to press her for information concerning her grandfather. I thought I’d have more time,” I tell him.
“Well, at least she’s not dead,” says Harry.
“True. But she is unavailable, at least for the moment. If she can’t help us, we can’t help her.”
“If she comes to tomorrow, she’s going to have one hell of a headache,” says Harry.
“Be sure and stop by to see her.” I pull the cell phone from the holster on my belt as we walk. I fish the phone’s small, flat battery from my suit-coat pocket.
“Where are
“Depending on what time the flight arrives, probably in Costa Rica.”
“What?”
“Gimme a second.”
Harry and I have been forced to pull the batteries from our cell phones. The things you learn from reading cases. We now know that the FBI can use cell phones as a remote bugging device. With a wiretap warrant they can order the service provider to switch on a phone without the owner’s knowledge, even if the power is turned off. They can activate the speaker on the phone and record private conversations, anything within earshot of the cell phone, yours or somebody else’s. They used the technique to take down the mob. What this means is that every one of us is constantly wearing a wire, whether we know it or not. The only protection is to jerk out the phone’s battery. What they say is true: you should always speak as if the world is listening.
“Who are you calling?”
“Herman. He should be home packing for his flight this evening.”
“You know you’re going to be broadcasting,” says Harry.
“I know.” I punch the quick dial for Herman’s cell.
It rings three times before the voice on the other end says, “Hello.”
“Herman. It’s Paul.”
“I know who it is. You need to talk, we should meet,” he says.
“That’s all right. Are you packed?”
He hesitates.
