Family Matters Page 11

  General Fischer’s face remained expressionless. “Mr. Black,” he stated into the phone, “You’ve been AWOL for two days. I assume you can give a good accounting of your irresponsible behavior?”

  “Aye-aye, General,” replied Derek. “I was unexpectedly detained by six very enticing Mexican nationals. I seem to have misplaced my phone during all the revelry.”

  A hint of a smile flickered across Fischer’s face. “Put it in the report, Grimsrud. I’m sure it will make for an interesting read.”

  “Copy that, General,” answered Derek with a smile of his own. “What are your orders, sir?”

  “Gunny will fill you in, Mr. Black,” said Fischer. “You’ll be working on a special project for a sub-contractor; goes by the alias Chameleon. I believe you’ve met, though I’ve never had the pleasure.” Fischer paused for a moment.

  “Come to think of it,” he said thoughtfully, “you would think the Director of Covert Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency would have met this contractor by now.”

  “No shit, sir,” said Derek; his voice void of inflection. “That’s weird, wouldn’t you say?”

  Fischer grunted into the phone. “Yes, Mr. Black, that’s exactly what I would say.”

  “Copy that, General,” said Derek. “Mr. Black, out.” He ended the call and tossed the phone to Gunny who caught it without looking. He was busy skimming the tree-tops to avoid radar as they flew through Guatemala, heading back to Costa Rica.

  General Fischer stared at the phone – smiling. “What else was I expecting?” he asked himself as he flipped the phone closed. “Kristofferson,” he called out.

  His aide was through the door in 5 seconds. “Yes, sir.”

  “Get me the Chief of station in Mexico City on the line.” He glanced at the wall. “If he gives you any shit about it being four o’clock in the morning, tell him I said he should stop fucking his cook.”

  Kristofferson’s face lost all color. “Sir?” was all he could get out.

  “You heard me. Get his ass on the phone,” snapped the General as he pulled a notepad out of a drawer and began making a list.

  His phone rang 45 seconds later. “Good morning, Pete. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  Pedro López de Ayala practically grew up in the Agency. His father had been an operative as was his mother. He was born and raised in Mexico City, quickly working his way up to section chief by the age of 35. He was young, but even the most seasoned agents respected him – many simply because of his father, Felix.

  “No, sir,” replied Ayala. “I was already up, reading the Times and watching CNN.”

  “Alone?” asked the General with no attempt to hide the inference.

  “Certainly, sir,” said Ayala. “My wife doesn’t dream of getting up before 0700.” He ignored the inference, although he knew it wouldn’t do him any good.

  “I recall that about your wife, Pete. Isn’t she vacationing in Spain, though?” He wasn’t about to let the section chief off the hook.

  “She took the staff with her…sir,” adding a touch of frustration to the ‘sir’.

  Fischer laughed. “That woman is hell on earth, Pete. What the fuck were you thinking when you married her?”

  “Apparently I wasn’t, Nick,” laughed Pete in reply. “It’s not really logic that convinces a Hispanic male to marry a former Miss Brazil. A Miss Brazil who happened to come in second in the world competition at that.

  “I swear by the Lady of Guadalupe it was the swimsuit that did me in. I’d rather tell you it was her Oxford education, or her grasp of world politics – but that’s just good old-fashioned bullshit, sir. Galiana Sequeria was simply the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. To this very day, Nick, I still wonder why she said yes when I asked her out.”

  “I’ve always wondered the same thing, Pete,” said the General. “I ran four background checks on her myself. I figured any woman that hot, willing to date you – no offense – had to be a mole or plant of some kind.” He laughed. “Couldn’t find a damn thing on her, though. She’s smart as hell, the Oxford thing and all, and is more knowledgeable on foreign affairs that our current President, whose name I shall not mention. Hell, my grandson has more on the ball then him.

  “Okay, Pete, enough small talk,” said General Fischer as he looked at the pad in front of him. “You’ve got a serious leak in your station.”

  That got Ayala’s full attention. “With all due respect, general, that’s bullshit.”

  “I wish it was, Pete,” he said, and meant it. “I wish I was wrong because this one is going to sting.”

  “Do you know who it is, Nick?”

  “I do, Pete. It’s Weaver. Weaver is your problem child.”

  “Weaver?” asked Ayala incredulously. “I have to assume you have confirmation or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Still; Phillip fucking Weaver? That guys been in for decades. He’s been handling Camacho, the new Zapatos boss for 5 years now.”

  “Was handling, perhaps,” said Fischer. “At one point, he probably was. That isn’t the case now.”

  Ayala didn’t answer. He was running everything he could remember about Weaver through his analytical mind, trying to see what he missed.

  Fischer knew what Ayala was doing. “Pete,” he said calmly into the phone, “this isn’t on you. I know you feel that way, hell I would. It doesn’t change a thing. Weaver did this, not you, not me – an neither of us saw it coming. We don’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for ourselves or second-guessing. We need to act.”

  Ayala took a deep breath and cleared his mind. “Yes, sir,” he said crisply. “What are my orders, sir?” Even men like Ayala, who had never served in the military, responded to General Fischer like a Marine. “What are my orders, sir?” Every time.

  “I’ve sub-contracted this one, Pete. It’s gone too far for an ass-chewing or early retirement for Weaver.” There was no doubt in Ayala’s mind what Fischer had in store for Weaver.

  “May I ask one question, sir?”

  “Always, Pete. You’ve earned the right,” replied Fischer.

  “No gray areas?” was his question.

  “None,” was his answer.

  “Understood, sir. I will start looking for his replacement.” Ayala spoke clearly and confidently into the phone. “I will send you a list to vet.”

  “It will get top priority, Pete,” said Fisher. “You’re a good section chief, Pete, and a good man. You simply married out of your league,” he added with a grunted laugh.

  That eased the tension for Ayala. “What the hell was it that Perry something-or-the-other agent from Wisconsin said?”

  “Agent La Crosse; Perry La Crosse. His exact words were, ‘Damn, Pete. You really outkicked the coverage on this one.’ It’s a football thing,” added Fischer.

  “I still don’t get it,” said Ayala, “but then again, that shit ain’t real football either.” He hung up before the General could reply.

  General Fischer let out a slow breath as he cradled the phone. “Sometimes, Pete,” he said to himself, “I think you might just be right about that.” He went back to his note pad.

  Thirty minutes later he stepped out of his office and handed it to Kristofferson. “Need to know,” he said as he laid the hand-written notes on Kristofferson’s desk. “Nothing in writing; all verbal through back channels.” He walked out without waiting for a reply. Kristofferson would carry out the orders to the tee. He pulled a key out of a desk drawer and walked over to a picture of the Washington Monument. It swung open on silent hinges and he slipped the key into the locked safe in the wall. The first door guarded a second. This one was a combination lock; old-school with 7 tumblers. That opened to a digital scanner that Kristofferson placed his right hand on for a scan that opened the third and final door.

  Kristofferson pulled out an envelope, a satellite phone, a Remington Rand 1911 .45 caliber single action; manufactured in 1943 without a serial number and a leather shoulder holster. He reversed the process, closing
the wall safe and swinging the painting back in place.

  He sat down in an overstuffed arm-chair in the corner of his office and began making calls; dialing every number from memory.

  Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, he made seven calls in 6 languages, not counting English. The wheels were in motion, and not even Derek or Lazarus knew what was headed their way.

  ~14~

  November 12

  5:10 am – CST

  Derek called his parents while inbound to tell them he was okay. The team all looked away to give him spatial privacy; as much as they could all crammed together in the MI-35.

  The conversation didn’t last long. The tears in his eyes said volumes to Lazarus who, unlike Derek’s team, felt no need to give Derek any privacy. It wasn’t rudeness, it was curiosity. He wanted to see the look on Derek’s face. He wanted to feel what Dan and Mary Jo must have been feeling at that moment in time. The moment they heard their son’s voice must have filled them with happiness and relief. The corners of Lazarus’ mouth pulled themselves back into a smile. He wasn’t even aware of it as another tumbler fell into place.

  Eno and LJ had a meal waiting for them in the house. They ate well. Steaks, seafood and all the trimmings were arranged around a centerpiece. It was simple; a Yeti cooler filled with beer, sodas and water.

  They laughed through dinner at almost anything. The relief of having their team-leader back was like speed to them. At that moment they believed they could take on anyone in the world, and win. It’s the comradery of soldiers; men and women who would lay down their lives for their second families. Lazarus knew it from conversations with French resistance fighters while growing up in Chateaurenard, many who had known his father and mother. They knew more about Jared then he did. The stories helped Lazarus understand a lot about the father he had lost at the age of seven.

  They finished the meal with 4 Key-lime pies, Eno’s specialty when it came to baking deserts. They were a major hit with the team, especial Elijah who ate one pie by himself. No one could keep a straight face when he started licking the pie-plate and asked, “Hey, Reichart, you gonna eat that piece you got there?” The response was quick, loud and in German, but there was little doubt as to the meaning. Elijah just grinned and shrugged. “Can’t shoot a brother for asking.”

  Lazarus stood. “Not to put a damper on things, but I’ve still got a lot on my plate,” he looked Mumphord in the eye, “so to speak, that is. I have business to attend to in Chihuahua, as you know. I will remind you all this is not a government sanctioned operation. I am entering a sovereign nation to carry out an act of war. There’s no other way to describe what I’m going to do to Andres Camacho and Los Zapatos.”

  The room had fallen silent as he spook; all eyes were on Lazarus.

  “Derek would rather the situation be handled through proper channels.” He looked at his friend and nodded. “That isn’t going to happen. It isn’t a matter of respect for Derek’s wishes, it’s a matter of principle; my principle. It’s simple. Fuck with me and you will get an eye for an eye. Fuck with someone important to me and I will destroy your life before I take it.”

  His voice never rose; never changed pitch. The expression on his face indicated nothing of the rage flowing within. Andres Camacho was going to die, but not before Lazarus tore his world apart.

  “I am grateful to every one of you for coming with me this far. This isn’t going to be a simple operation like recovering Derek. There were six men, and one of them was mine. They didn’t know we were coming. The entire op took less than two minutes from when the arrow hit the wall until Marcos ran into Mr. Mumphord. Two minutes – five lives. That’s a damn good day in my book.” He nodded his thanks to each.

  “The decision to come with me or return to your families is yours. It’s simple. That’s where you should go. Going after Camacho is personal, and he will be ready with two hundred men in a compound half-buried in the Sierra Madres. He has excellent security systems and they are stand-alone. He cannot be cut off from water supply and has enough provisions to withstand a three-month siege.”

  “Excuse me, Herr Kameleon for interrupting,” said Reichart, his feet on the table and a toothpick dancing back and forth on his lips. “The information you are sharing is quite precise. I would speculate you have a spzieg; a spy inside the compound. Though, as my towarzysze broni (comrades in arms) can tell you, I am not given to speculating.”

  “You speak Polish, Herr Reichart,” stated Lazarus. Mówisz po polsku biegle?” (Do you speak polish fluently?)

  “Moja mama to Polski, Pan Kameleon,” (my mother is Polish), answered Reichart. “I picked it up along the way.” He gave Lazarus a wink as his toothpick returned to dancing.

  “I will keep that in mind, Pan Reichart, and to answer your question, yes, I have a connection inside Camacho’s organization. I have for seven years and have no way of contacting him. I’ve no doubt he will know I’m coming. He may very well die at my hand.”

  Johnson shook his head. “You’re okay with that? You’re okay with the high probability of killing a man who has worked seven years for you?”

  Johnson flinched visibly when Lazarus’ eyes met his. They were black; black as coal. All the color was gone from them.

  “No, Mr. Johnson, I am not okay with killing a man who has served me well. He knows me, really knows what I am capable of. He will, by now, be expecting me to come. Those wheels were set in motion 5 minutes after I got the call from Derek’s father. He will do whatever he can to weaken Camacho’s defenses and undermine him. He will also die if necessary. That is the measure of the men that work for me. To a man, or woman,” his gaze flickered across Wilson’s face, “every one of them is prepared to die for me.

  “They’d die for me because I’m the only reason they’re still alive. A life for a life. That’s what it means to know me, to work for me. You surrender your life to me. I give it back to you; no strings attached.

  “My man is free to leave if he wishes and knows I won’t hold him accountable. I will not hunt him down. I will not seek vengeance on him or his family.” Lazarus’ voice was cold now; his words cutting through the minds of those listening. There was no more façade. The Chameleon was on full display.

  “He knows I will kill or die to protect him. Every man, every woman who works for me, knows it. Eno knows, LJ knows, Derek and his parents know. That’s the reason I’m here, and it’s the only reason; Derek. I don’t mean to offend you or lead you to believe I don’t appreciate each of you.

  “If it had been anyone other than Derek, I wouldn’t have come, unless he’d ask me.” No one doubted him. Shivers ran down more than one spine in a group of well-trained combat veterans.

  “You all know who I am. You all know what I am. You all now know what I look like and where my home in Costa Rica is. In my line of work, you are all officially liabilities to my continued health and welfare.” The air in the room was dead. Even the sounds of the night had faded away as the team members soaked in what Lazarus said.

  He didn’t speak with malice or even a whiff of disrespect. He said it with a level of casual indifference they weren’t prepared for. They had risked their lives for Derek, too. To realize the Chameleon might have left them all to die under similar circumstances was a bucket of ice-water on their souls. The emotions ran from mildly surprised in the case of Gunny, to outrage in the case of Johnson. No one spoke. They knew the Chameleon wasn’t finished. Most believed he would have no qualms killing them where they sat. Derek knew he wouldn’t do it. Young Bear was about 90% sure. As a gambling man, he liked those odds, so he sat back and let it ride. He pointedly looked away from the team, seemingly engrossed in something outside the window.

  What came out of Lazarus mouth next surprised almost every one of them. “Regardless, you have nothing to fear from me. You are free to go. You can call the FBI, Interpol, the CIA or any law enforcement agency that tickles your fancy. It doesn’t make one damn difference to me. You are important to Derek
, which gives you a lifetime pass from retribution.”

  Lazarus took a long pull on a Corona before speaking again. “I assure you no one will find me if you choose to turn me in. They’ve been hunting me over twenty years. I’m used to it. After we leave, Eno will destroy this house, then make all necessary preparations to eliminate the airstrip and buildings, should the need arise.

  “There’s a reason I bought this old plantation. It’s isolated and I have no neighbors for five miles in any direction.

  “Are we good to go on that, Eno?” Lazarus asked the man who had been standing by the door for three hours.

  “Si,” he replied; nothing more.

  “Time?” asked Lazarus

  “Cuarenta-sinco minutos, Hefe. That would be 45 minutes, Senior Reichart,” said Eno as he opened the door and headed out into the early morning air.

  “We will be wheels up in 30 minutes; destination to be determined once airborne, just in case one of you gets a wild hair up his ass and decides to drop a dime on me.” Lazarus ended the statement with a smile that washed the blackness from his eyes. “You are welcome to come along if you want, it’s your call.

  “I cannot understate my gratitude for you being here, for what you did getting Derek back. You risked your lives, and your careers. Something I don’t have to worry about. There’s always going to be some asshole who wants some other asshole gone – so I have a steady supply of clients.”

  Lazarus went around the table, each rising to meet him as he held out his hand. He gave Derek a hug to go with the handshake and a nod of his head to Gunny that carried an unspoken air of respect.

  LJ nodded to the team and followed Lazarus out the door, heading for the airstrip.

  They all turned as one to Derek.

  “He’s right. You should go home to your families. This isn’t our fight any longer. When the Camo-man says its personal, well, it’s best to walk away.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Reichart.

  “I’m going with him,” said Derek as though it should be understood.