Captive Dove. Judith Leon
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She smiled at his urgent attempt at persuasion. But it was true that it did tick her off that people who simply took a trip to the jungle to soak up some of the Earth’s beauty were being brutally mistreated. And she knew the Bennings. They were real to her, names and faces and voices. She could not say no and live with herself. She gave Smith an exaggerated smile. “Oh, well then, that decides it.”
He grinned and leaned back. “Just jerking me off, right?”
“Right.”
Smith set his glass on the table and clasped his hands together as if warming them over a fire, ready to get down to business. “Okay, then. Your cover will be that you are the sister of one of the San Diego women, Linda Stokes, and you’re looking for her on your own dollar. You don’t trust the government, and so on. I have people setting up your cover as her sister as we speak. Another reason you’re ideal for the op is that you already know San Diego, which will save the preparation time we’d otherwise have to spend with someone else.”
“It does look like saving time would be a good idea,” she said in understatement.
“Absolutely. Today is the nineteenth of December. The kidnappers have given us two days, until midday Washington time on the twenty-first, to wire-transfer the fifty million to an offshore account in the Bahamas before they start killing a hostage a day.”
“Will the government or her family pay the ransom?”
“I don’t know. The negotiators are taking a position initially that they won’t pay any ransom and will not negotiate with terrorists. To stall for time, they eventually will start negotiating. But no one is actually counting on the bastards releasing the hostages whether a ransom is paid or not.”
Smith took another shot of his drink. “They claim they’ll save the VP’s niece until last, but no one’s counting on that either. The State Department has been assured complete cooperation by the Brazilian authorities. At least four FBI men are on their way to Manaus. The Company has only one man on station there. Until now there’s been no big action we needed to watch; one pair of eyes has been sufficient.”
“I want to do a quick stop with whoever is in charge in Brazil to get their stats on Brazilian terrorists or other illegal operations. I presume that person is not in Manaus.”
“That would be Leila Munoz, head of station in Rio.”
Nova felt mental gears hitching up, her pulse increasing. “If I’m to stay completely undercover, I’ll have to avoid being honest with the FBI guys or anyone official. So who will you get to cover my back and worry if I don’t check in?”
“Your backup is in the works. Joe Cardone again. You two already know each other, always a plus when you’re undercover and in a rush, as we are. No time wasted getting familiar with your partner’s habits and MO. We’ve already contacted him.”
Smith said it casually, but she thought he was studying her. She kept a straight face, but her pupils had likely done a quick dilation from an extra-sudden squirt of adrenaline. Smith was a trained observer. Did the Company know about her affair with Joe after their last op together? Was Smith expecting her to be pleased? Or did they also know that her budding romance with Joe had ended in a head-on collision of wills?
Neither she nor Joe had made any special effort to hide their intimacy from the Company, or anyone else. But they hadn’t volunteered information on the subject, either.
God, sitting right in this hotel she suddenly smelled cinnamon and apple pie, felt again the panic tightening her chest. She was back in Julian on that last day. Joe had said, “Marry me or it’s over,” or words to that effect. To marry meant loss of freedom. Compromise. Always compromise. So many things could go wrong if they tied the knot that bound their lives together, presumably until “death do us part.”
Joe had said, “You can’t always control everything.”
She’d fired back, “I can’t control the creeps of the world, but I do control my private life. And giving that up scares me.”
“You’re saying no because you’re scared? I don’t buy it. You aren’t afraid of anything.”
That’s what he’d said. And he’d taken off angry and hurt because he’d believed that and thought she didn’t love him. He’d been wrong.
“Cardone,” she said to Smith in what she hoped was a sufficiently neutral tone.
“Right. It also works out well because we can get him there quickly. He’s currently in Texas, not on the other side of the globe. But this time we want the two of you to use separate identities. Make no public contact. Joe will be doing a freelance article on terrorism and money laundering. His cover name will be Joseph de los Santos. He speaks Spanish and Portuguese fluently.”
She couldn’t sit still, not while thinking about seeing Joe again. Hell, working with him again. She stood and went to the makeshift bar Marvin had set up and added two ice cubes and fresh Scotch to her drink. To protest would look strange and unprofessional. Joe was a top agent. She should be relieved to have him back her up.
Piss all.
She sat again. Both Smith and Marvin were waiting for her reaction, no doubt about it. For years she’d felt that someone at the Company kept close tabs on her private life. Joe had more than once claimed that Claiton Pryce, the deputy director of operations, had the hots for her. Maybe so. Or maybe this was all just her imagination and no one from the Company had any idea how much she loved Joe.
She stirred her drink with the tip of her finger, making a concentrated effort to do it oh so casually as Smith added, “We’ll have him on his way ASAP directly to Manaus.” To Marvin, Smith said, “Let’s see the map.”
Marvin rose and flipped open a laptop sitting on the table, already booted up. One click and a screen showed a map of South America. Smith pulled his chair around so he could also see the map. Her eyes went first to one of her favorite places, Iguazu Falls, located on the spot where the northern border of Argentina, the eastern border of tiny Paraguay and the western border of Brazil met, halfway down the continent, right below the bulge—the tri-border area, famous for rampant crime. Her first trip to South America had been to Iguazu Falls, so she tended to use it as her South American orientation point.
Her gaze quickly moved north, though, to the equator, to the Amazon River, which lay just below the equator and ran parallel to it. Smith pointed to Manaus, a rundown city that hugged the north shore of the Rio Negro seventeen miles up from the Amazon.
“You ever been to Manaus?” she said, looking first at Smith and then Marvin.
Marvin shook his head. Smith said, “God, no. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“It’s a surreal experience. Here you are, dead in the heart of the world’s biggest jungle in a city that has beautiful black and white inlaid stone sidewalks, elegant old mansions and a central market with wrought ironwork that looks like something designed in Paris. But everything’s gone totally to seed. Rubber built Manaus, and when someone smuggled out some rubber tree seedlings to Southeast Asia, the boom busted. And the place is always hot as Hades with a miserable ninety-five percent humidity.”
“So you won’t need much luggage,” Smith said, smiling. “Only light clothing.” He set his glass down, earnest again. “The kidnap took place on the Amazon River, not far below something called the Meeting of the Waters, a few miles downstream from the last little town that has a road into Manaus.”
“Ceasá,” she said.
“Correct. So tell me what you’ll need.”
“This is an isolated area.” She turned ideas over in her mind a moment. “I need to anticipate whatever might come up. There’ll be no getting anything special quickly.”
“I’ll have Operations working on it tonight. You’ll have everything you want before you fly out tomorrow.”
“A