waves. Guiterrez claims the prototype he snatched can make
“My god…” Jack rubbed his neck as he considered the possible uses of a handy little package like that one. “If smugglers can use this technology to fly across America’s borders undetected, then so can terrorists. Only they’ll be delivering weapons of mass destruction, not nose candy.”
“That’s affirmative.”
“No cartel could have invented something like that.” Jack stared at Henderson, waiting for him to say more, but he simply shrugged. “
“We’ll know more once we get hold of the device. We can take it apart, analyze its components, reverse engineer the little sucker if necessary—”
Jack considered pressing harder, but instead took another tack. “Do you know where Gordon Guiterrez is now?”
Henderson shook his head. “On the run, somewhere in Colombia… I had to come up with an extraction plan on the fly. Guiterrez is paranoid — not that I blame him — but he gave me less than five minutes before he broke off communication and went dark, this time for good.”
“A rural extraction would be best,” Jack noted. “Far away from the urban areas a strike team could move without detection. We wouldn’t need much.
A Delta squad, a Pave Low helicopter, a Little Bird, maybe a reconnaissance team on the ground to secure the perimeter—”
Henderson waved aside Jack’s suggestions. “No can do. Security all over Colombia has been compromised. Half our agents are dead or on the run, the rest we can’t trust for fear they’re under surveillance — or on the cartel’s payroll.”
Jack released a breath. He wanted to help his old mentor, but… “This is a job for
“If we send a big team into Colombia — or anywhere down there for that matter — word will get out in a minute. Anyway, Guiterrez isn’t prepared to hump the boonies like you and me. He spent his childhood in Colombia, but he was educated at Princeton before coming to us. Nineteen years ago he won a collegiate fencing title, and he’s had our standard weapons training, but that’s the extent of his martial arts skills. In other words, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez wouldn’t last two days in the jungle.”
“What did you tell him?”
“He claimed he had a safe way to get out of Colombia, so I told him to go to Nicaragua, to the capital. There’s a construction site on the corner of Bolivar Avenue and Calle De Verde in Managua. The site is managed by Fuqua Construction, which is really a CIA shell company.”
“Why Nicaragua?”
“It’s a quiet assignment since the Sandinistas were tossed out of office in 1990. I doubt the Colombian cartels have a reach long enough to touch someone in Managua.” Henderson paused, leveled his gaze. “I want you to go down there and bring Guiterrez back. I’ve already cleared it with Walsh.”
Nodding, Jack reached toward the keyboard of his computer. “I’ll assemble a team immediately—”
“No team. I told you, a large group will attract unwanted attention. Take
“What do I tell the case officers in Managua?”
“Concoct some cover story as the reason for your visit. You’ll think of something. But, again, I can’t stress this enough. Don’t mention the device — not even to other Agency personnel. It’s small enough to hide in a suitcase or backpack. Chances are nobody will even notice Guiterrez has it with him when you bring him in.”
Even before he opened the dented cab’s squeaking door, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez sensed he was being watched. He clutched the attache case just a little bit tighter. Under the sweat-stained band of a worn baseball cap, perspiration painted his forehead.
More than anything, Guiterrez wanted to shift his gaze and check his six. That would, of course, be a fatal error. If he really was being tailed, turning around would alert his pursuers that he was on to them— which would no doubt force their hand. They’d take him out right then and there, before he had a chance to get near the CIA safe house.
Feigning indifference, the undercover agent paid the driver with a fistful of
His senses were jangling from the amphetamines he’d been swallowing like candy for far too many days, and Guiterrez realized he could no longer trust his judgment. Lifting his bloodshot eyes, he squinted at the hazy blue sky. Strong sunlight shimmered above the ten- and twelve-story structures that flanked this commercial street. Almost all of Managua had been rebuilt since the mid ’70s, after an earthquake killed tens of thousands and leveled ninety percent of the Nicaraguan capital. Unfortunately, the graceful precolonial buildings were replaced by boxy, utilitarian structures that made much of the city resemble a particularly decrepit American strip mall.
Even worse, this time of year Managua’s air was hot and sticky under a scorching sun. Moving through the crush of office workers, food vendors and street merchants was painfully slow — made worse by blue-gray puffs of car exhaust fumes, and clouds of charcoal smoke, redolent with the scent of charred meat.
On busy Bolivar Avenue, a long thoroughfare between Lake Managua and the muddy Ticapa Lagoon, the humidity was especially thick and uncomfortable. Buffeted by the crowd that hemmed him in, Guiterrez had trouble catching his breath. His grimy, unshaven neck itched, and the cotton shirt clung to sweat that trickled down the small of his back. Perspiration dampened his scalp as well, but Guiterrez dared not take off his cap.
His Anglo features had helped him with the Rojas family. They’d more willingly bought his cover story — that he was a pissed off software engineer who’d gotten sick of his American company passing him over for promotion. But he was on the run now, and his shock of light blond hair would stick out in this homogenous crowd like a
Sun glare blazed off a shop window. Guiterrez’s eyebrow twitched uncontrollably. The simmering heat, his lack of sleep, the drugs, days of constant movement and ceaseless vigilance were finally taking their toll on the overweight agent. Even worse, the amphetamines no longer kept Guiterrez alert or focused — only twitchy and paranoid
But at least he’d gotten out of Colombia, with the device intact. Now that he’d reached Managua, the odyssey was nearly over. Guiterrez was almost home. Five days ago he’d stolen a pleasure boat in the Colombian seaport town of Barranquilla and sailed up the Atlantic to the shores of Panama. He scuttled the engine and sunk the boat in a lagoon, then hiked to Panama City where he hot wired a car. Guiterrez drove north, across the Costa Rican border, all the way to Nicaragua.
The car died outside the town of Upala, so he ditched it and paid off some farm workers to stow away in a vegetable truck. Guiterrez bailed at Galpa, a tiny Nicaraguan fishing community transformed into a housing development for middle-class government workers. There the agent mingled with the workers’ morning rush hour to board a rusty commuter ferry, which crossed Lake Managua.
Once in the capital, Guiterrez lingered near the harbor until lunchtime, waiting for the streets to be filled with traffic so his movements would be less noticeable. When lunch hour rolled around and the sidewalks were jammed, he hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to Bolivar Street.
The car deposited him a block from the CIA safe house. Over the heads of the crowd, Guiterrez could see the steel-girded skeleton of a building, a large white sign halfway up that read
Guiterrez limped down Bolivar until he was just across the street from the construction site. Near the corner, the door to a small bistro opened, blocking his path. Two women emerged, laughing and talking. Guiterrez paused
