Tom Clancy Support and Defend

  Albright closed the slide and slid the empty weapon into his waistband. “Of course. That is standard operating procedure.”

  “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

  29

  ETHAN ROSS WAS SPIRITED out of the Venezuelan embassy at 12:12 a.m., facedown on the floorboard of the backseat of an Infiniti sedan, driven out of the garage by the young female intelligence officer, with a security man in the front passenger seat. In the back with Ross, with their feet gently resting on his back, were two male IOs. Ethan lay on his backpack, protecting it and its contents with his body.

  The four Venezuelans had been instructed to do everything in their power to avoid losing the American NSC staffer, up to and including initiating high-speed flight from the police in the event there was an attempt to pull them over. A second vehicle, this one a Cadillac Escalade, trailed behind the Infiniti, serving as a chase care, ready to swoop in and take Ross away if necessary.

  But the Infiniti was neither tailed nor stopped, and after forty-five minutes of travel it pulled into the hanger of a fixedbase operator at Dulles airport. Everyone else left the car, but Ethan was told to sit up and wait a few minutes so the others could check the area to make sure they were clear before he walked to the plane.

  Ethan climbed off the floorboard of the car, checking the contents of his backpack even before he stretched his sore muscles. He put his hand around the battery pack for the phone Banfield had instructed him to purchase earlier in the week. He had removed it before heading toward the Venezuelan embassy the previous afternoon out of an abundance of caution, and now it, and the phone itself, were crammed into the bottom of his backpack.

  He suddenly realized this would be his last moment in the United States for an indeterminate amount of time. Gianna promised him his life would get back on track once a deal was reached with the United States, but that was before the assassination attempt. Now all bets were off that he could ever come home. He also didn’t know what would be waiting for him when he got to Venezuela.

  On a whim he snapped the battery back into the phone, powered it up, and dialed his mother’s house in San Francisco.

  It was ten-thirty p.m. there, and even if Ross hadn’t done the math to determine this, he would have been able to figure it out from this mother’s voice. She was tired and annoyed and concerned, all at one.

  “Who is calling?”

  “Mom. It’s me.”

  “Ethan? Ethan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Well . . . I just wanted to call.”

  “Why?” Emily Ross was wide awake now. “What’s happened?”

  “I . . . everything will be okay. I just wanted to tell you not to worry.”

  “Worry about what? I’m worried now! Talk to me.”

  The car door opened and the female IO looked at Ethan angrily.

  “I have to go. Forget I called. I’ll call you tomorrow if I can.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be able to—”

  “Love you.” He hung up just as the young woman yanked the phone out of his hand. She removed the battery, and Ethan got out.

  He took a moment to get his bearings, and he realized he was standing next to a Beechcraft King Air 350i.

  He was not impressed with the aircraft. It was a twin turboprop, not a jet. Ethan’s work both at State and in the NSC gave him a lot of experience traveling on smaller jets as he moved around the world, and he couldn’t help registering a little disappointment that his escape from the United States would be in a plane that flew slower than he would have liked. Ethan felt his contribution to Venezuela’s intelligence services would have earned him an aircraft of higher performance.

  The female Venezuelan spy took the phone to Arturo, who was conferring with others near the plane. He stormed back over to Ross by the Infiniti.

  Ethan held his hand up. “Don’t worry. No one can trace it. I bought it today in Reston. No one knows I have it. It’s not in my name. The call I just made was the only time I used it.”

  This placated Arturo somewhat, but the woman said, “We will have to frisk you before you board the aircraft.”

  “The hell you will.”

  She looked to Arturo. The older man asked, “Who did you call?”

  “My mom. I just told her I’d call her in a couple of days.”

  “You could have compromised this mission, Mr. Ross.”

  “The only thing compromising this mission, señor, is us standing out here in the open.”

  Arturo fought with his composure for a moment, then he just motioned for Ethan to climb aboard. He climbed the four steps to the cabin, still lamenting the fact his Venezuelan accomplices couldn’t come up with the cash for a last minute corporate jet charter.

  Once Ethan ducked his head into the small but surprisingly well-appointed cabin he saw six others already on board. Another man from the Venezuelan embassy was here, he introduced himself as a cultural attaché and shook Ethan’s hand at the door and then took a seat just behind the cockpit, directing Ethan to move to the empty captain’s chair in the back of the plane. Ethan knelt and moved to the back and settled into his leather seat, and here he found himself facing Gianna Bertoli. She reached out and squeezed his hand with a smile. “Are you okay?”

  Ethan nodded. He wasn’t okay, of course. But there wasn’t anything she could do about it right now.

  Seated next to her, pressed up to the window, was a small, young-looking man with pale skin and short dark hair. Ross assumed he was Venezuelan at first, although the rest of the intelligence officers in the cabin were in suits and ties and this man was dressed like a college student. He wore blue jeans, a blue flannel shirt with a red T-shirt under it, and Ethan saw a black ski parka tucked under his elbow.

  On the table in front of the young man a sub-notebook computer lay open, and he typed on it furiously, not even looking up as Ethan sat down.

  Gianna said, “Ethan, I would like you to meet my good friend Mohammed.”

  Mohammed? Ethan thought. Clearly not Venezuelan, then.

  Mohammed glanced in Ethan’s direction now and offered a hand, smiling nervously. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  Bertoli said, “Mohammed has been working with us for more than a year now.”

  “Really? In what capacity?”

  The question was directed at Mohammed, but Gianna answered for him. “He is one of our best hacktivists. He has been incredibly helpful.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Mohammed’s eyes danced around the cabin, everywhere but on Ethan. He answered, “Lebanon,” then looked back down.

  Ethan nodded. “And you will be traveling all the way to Venezuela with us?”

  “Yes, sir. If that is okay with you.”

  Ethan shrugged. The young man seemed odd. Uncomfortable. Ethan couldn’t put his finger on it, but despite the Lebanese man’s decidedly nonthreatening demeanor, he made Ethan a little uneasy.

  Ethan looked to Gianna, and she just smiled back at him. “We’re almost on our way. Your future awaits, Ethan. Please don’t worry, I will take care of you.”

  The plane’s engines fired, and soon they were rolling out of the hanger.

  THE BEECHCRAFT BOUNCED and bucked on its initial climb out over Virginia, but as it banked to the south the air smoothed out, and by the time they reached their cruising altitude of 25,000 feet, Ethan was drinking a Bloody Mary and picking at a bag of chips.

  By his second cocktail his attention returned to the Lebanese computer geek in front of him, and he began asking Mohammed questions to see if the man was, in fact, who he said he was. When Mohammed claimed he received his undergrad at the American University of Beirut, Ethan knew he’d be able to test the man’s truthfulness, as he knew several professors there through his work at the NSC. He asked the young man about his studies, and his suspicions were allayed when Mohammed mentioned some familiar names at the university.

  Next Ethan asked him about his work as a hacktivist, and even though he seemed a little strange an
d discomfited, from a computer science standpoint Mohammed had no problem discussing denial-of-service attacks, computer Trojans and worms, and several other technical aspects of computer hacking. Ethan decided the man was what he said he was, a Lebanese computer hacker, which put him somewhat at ease.

  As they talked, Ethan noted the young man’s edginess in interpersonal communication. In Mohammed Ethan recognized a unique intellect, and a familiar level of awkwardness that often came with true genius.

  Still, Ethan decided there was more there, something Mohammed was keeping to himself.

  Gianna Bertoli sat quietly while the two men talked, but when things quieted down an hour or so after leaving D.C., she put her hand on Ethan’s knee. “Ethan, you are not running away. You are removing from the American government their one option to end this on their terms.”

  Ethan nodded, but he bristled hearing Bertoli refer to the FBI as the “American government.” Hell, he was every bit as much a part of the American government as the Gs chasing him. Still, he let it go, and asked Bertoli about how they would approach the U.S. government in an attempt to get his life back.

  “Let’s get to where we are going today, and we will discuss our plans tomorrow. We aren’t safe until we get to Caracas.”

  The King Air landed at Miami’s Opa-locka Executive Airport to refuel. A customs official working there had a family member back in Venezuela serving in a low but lucrative position in the government, and the customs worker was accustomed to clearing government planes to Caracas without looking over the passengers or their luggage, thereby ensuring both her relative and herself a profitable career.

  By six a.m. they were back in the air, heading over the Gulf of Mexico.

  When they’d been in the air less than an hour, Arturo leaned over Gianna Bertoli, and woke her with a little nudge.

  “Hi, Arturo. Is something wrong?”

  The Venezuelan addressed Ethan now. “Mr. Ross. The information you have given us has been outstanding.”

  Ethan had been staring out over the water as they flew, his mind on his mother mostly. Now he turned to Arturo. “Of course it has.”

  “But in it we see a serious problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “If we fly you into Caracas right now, there are American agents who will know. People who need to be rounded up and arrested.”

  “Obviously. So get to work on that.”

  “Our security services are working as we speak. But what you have given us, there isn’t time to clean up this mess before we land. The Americans have agents in our police, in our security services, in our presidential administration.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I am suggesting, señor, that we go to a safe house in a third country.”

  “A safe house? Where?”

  “Panama. We can keep you secure there while we clean our organization of American inf luence. Two or three days at most.”

  Ross didn’t like it. “You can’t protect me from the U.S. government in Panama.”

  Oscar said, “We can, my friend. Don’t worry. Our location is quite secluded and secure. If there is any trouble, we can get you away by aircraft or boat very quickly. We have brought others there over the years.”

  “And the Panamanians?”

  “They don’t bother us.”

  Ethan looked at Gianna. She just nodded a little. Ethan turned to Mohammed to see if he had anything to say on the matter, but the baby-faced man was fast asleep.

  Arturo said, “Trust me, amigo. With the intelligence you just gave us, going to Caracas would be the worst possible move you can make.”

  Ethan looked out of the window. Events were moving so quickly. “Okay. But you won’t get any more intelligence from me until we reach Caracas.”

  “No problem,” Arturo said with a sly smile. “You have already given my organization all it can handle.” He turned away to go talk to the flight crew.

  DOM CARUSO HAD SPENT the evening thinking about Ethan Ross. He’d promised Albright he’d stay out of the way, but within hours of making that promise, the case had gone off the rails. As far as Dom was concerned, Albright needed some help, despite what Albright might have thought of the situation.

  He called David at eight a.m. “Did you hear about the murder of Eve Pang?”

  “Yes, and the disappearance of the two FBI men along with Ethan Ross. All very unfortunate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I am assuming this is the man you told me about yesterday. The person whose name you would not give us.”

  “One in the same.”

  “We might have been able to help. Our sources say there are no leads as of yet.”

  “I’m hearing the same thing,” said Dom.

  “Assuming this was not some random act of D.C. crime that these people stumbled into, we have to wonder who else would be so interested in Ross and what he knows that they would take such steps to keep him out of the hands of the American authorities.”

  Dom said, “If we find out where he went, I suspect we’ll have the answer to that question.”

  “Any progress on that end?” David asked hopefully.

  “I’m not in the investigation. Albright has pushed me away. I can only assume they are tracking his mobile phone and know where he went.”

  David hesitated, then said, “His phone hasn’t left his home. I’m sure the FBI knows that already.”

  Dom asked, “How the hell do you know that?”

  “We have some ability to look into the cell phone companies’ records.”

  “Is this where you tell me Israeli intelligence has hacked into a U.S. business?”

  “I’m not telling you anything of the sort.”

  “Right.” David was going to be coy about the specifics of Mossad’s capabilities, and Dom knew to let it go. At least the Mossad man was talking to him.

  David continued. “Anyway, his phone is still sending a signal to the mobile tower closest to his house.”

  Dom rushed over to his laptop and opened it. “I’ve got the SIM card number from a secondary phone he was using. He might have that one on him. Can you track it via the number?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out. Have you given this to the FBI?”

  “No. That would involve some questions I don’t want to answer.”

  “Ah. I understand completely. I’ll look into this and call you when I have something.”

  David called Dom less than an hour later and the Mossad officer asked Dom for a person-to-person meet at ten a.m.

  30

  THE BEECHCRAFT KING AIR landed in Bocas del Toro International Airport just after nine a.m., and it took all Ethan’s self-control to keep from pushing past the others to get out of the tight confines of the little cabin and into the open air. Once out onto the hot and humid tarmac, however, he realized he had been more comfortable inside the plane’s climatecontrolled cabin.

  The airstrip was located on the tiny island of Colón, and Ethan had seen on the flight in that the island was part of an archipelago, surrounded on all sides by a multitude of larger islands and cays. All of them were flat and overgrown with tropical vegetation, but Colón airport was surrounded by the ramshackle Bocas Town, with houses and businesses standing just fifty feet on either side of the runway past overgrown grasses and brush that ran along the airport property’s fence line. Palm trees blew in the afternoon heat, and the smell of gasoline and jungle filled the American’s nostrils.

  The Beechcraft was met on the already hot tarmac by a twelve-passenger van crewed by a pair of big, severe-faced Latin men Ethan assumed were more Venezuelan intelligence agents. The small amount of luggage from the King Air was transferred to the van, and everyone boarded for the ten-minute drive through dirty and congested Third World streets to the docks.

  Except for Arturo. He climbed back aboard the aircraft, intending to continue on to Caracas to help organize the roundup of American spies.

  As the van motored through the l
ittle town, it was explained to the three non-Venezuelans in the van—Ross, Bertoli, and Mohammed—that the safe house was on the nearby larger but more remote island of Bastimentos. They passed a few police cars and even a truck full of soldiers from the Panamanian Public Forces. This unnerved Ethan, but he recognized he could do little more but sit patiently and hope the Venezuelans knew what the hell they were doing, so he just continued looking out the window.

  At the docks he saw all manner of boats doing a steady business moving people and products between the neighboring islands and cays, but his sizable entourage walked past the ferryboats and water taxis and instead boarded two large speedboats. Almost immediately they headed off to the southeast over choppy water. They passed just south of Carenero Cay, and then turned to bisect a transportation lane full of ferry and cargo traffic, and then they motored into the calmer waters between Solarte Island and Bastimentos Island.

  At first Ethan thought Bastimentos looked completely uninhabited, but as they neared the shore and trolled along it to the south, every few hundred yards he could pick out the metal roof of a building sticking up from the thick jungle.

  Within minutes the two boats turned into an inlet and began cruising very slowly. On their left was thick mangrove, but on their right yellow sandy beach came out of the water and continued into thick palms. As they rounded a bend in the inlet, Ethan expected to see a dilapidated tin shack of some sort, but instead a large white colonial home appeared surrounded by a huge manicured lawn, some twenty-five yards back from the shoreline. The two-story building had a wraparound veranda on the second floor, and Ethan saw several men standing there, looking down at the approaching boats.

  Around the main building the neat green lawn ran all the way to the sandy water’s edge and the jungle on either side of it.

  A bald-headed man with a bushy mustache and a tropic weight suit stood on the dock, waiting for the boats. His smile was wide and inviting, but on either side of him younger, tougher-looking men stood with side arms on their hips.