PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (17 page)

He shrugged. “It sounds reasonable. But, I’m interested to know the details before we commit.”

She nodded in agreement. “Start talking, Wesley.”

“Fine. As you know MVI has raised a shitload of capital for the project in Venezuela. Assets have been liquidated, investments sold off, and now there’s half a billion dollars in cash sitting in a number of corporate accounts.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think we can steal it.”

Saneh leaned forward. “Go on.”

“OK, MVI has three directors and a chairman. Each of us has a ten digit code that allows us to authorize the transfer of funds from the corporate accounts. You need three codes to move money.”

“So we need to find two of the others,” said Saneh.

Wesley shook his head. “Thing is, if you have the chairman's code you only need one other.”

“All we need to do is work out where the chairman will be.”

The banker smiled. “That's the easy bit. In two day’s time he's going to be in Venezuela.”

“That’s good to know,” said Mirza.

Wesley clapped his hands. “So do we have a deal?”

Saneh lifted her chin. “We’ll think about it.”

***

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

Bishop
spent the night in a tiny hostel in the favela. In the morning he caught a cab back to Leblon and staked out his hotel. After two hours he hadn’t spotted any sign of Pershing, his men, or their SUVs. Confident he was in the clear he grabbed his bag, checked out, and destroyed the fake passport he’d used as identification to book the room. He bought new clothes down by the beach and changed in a public restroom. Dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, sandals, and a floppy hat, he looked like a regular tourist.

Wandering along the street that housed the internet café he scanned for the GES crew. Unable to spot anyone of interest, he picked a location on a bench and sat down with an ice-cream watching people come and go. After thirty minutes he walked into the café.

“Excuse me.”

The girl behind the counter glanced up from her computer and smiled.

“I'm looking for my friend. I was wondering if you've seen him.” He held out his phone with a photo of Kurtz on the screen. The German wore a broad smile and had his arm around Bishop’s shoulders.

The woman frowned. “Why is everyone trying to find him?”

He glanced around. “When were the other men here?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I told them he was staying at the Leblon Castle hotel with his friends.” She lowered her voice. “I think they were police. They went and talked to his friends at the hotel.”

“Where is that?”

“Up the road, but you don't have to go there. One of his friends is over there in the corner, the American.”

Bishop looked in the direction she pointed expecting to see one of Pershing's men. Instead he spotted an old guy hunched over one of the terminals.

“He's in here every day. Your friend was working with him on something.”

Bishop walked over and sat at the terminal next to the man. “Excuse me.”

The man turned to him. “Yes?”

“I'm trying to find a friend of mine. I think you might be able to help me.” Bishop showed him his phone.

The man shook his head. “Hey, I don't want any trouble. I already told the other guys what I know.”

“Other guys?”

“Yes, the CIA contractors. They said your friend was a terrorist.”

Bishop laughed. “A terrorist? Kurtz isn't a terrorist. He's just a former soldier with some issues. I need to find him before he hurts someone, or himself.”

The American studied Bishop's face. “You're a soldier too aren't you?” He didn't wait for Bishop to reply. “Find Kurtz, he's a good man but he needs help. I told the others where he went. I'm not sure if it was the right thing to do.”

“Where did he go?”

“Foz do Iguacu, the tri-border area. He’ll be working with one of the counter sex trafficking teams. Probably Escape, they're all ex-military guys. You need to hurry, they've got a big head start.”

“Escape, eh? Do the contractors know about Escape?”

“No, I only told them Kurtz was heading to Foz.”

He contemplated the information before standing up. “Thank you.” He left the shop and used his phone to search for a car hire place. There was one nearby in Barra De Tijuca. Flagging a cab, he gave the driver the address and a one hundred dollar note. “I need you to drive as fast as you can.”

CHAPTER 20

FOZ DO IGUACU, BRAZIL

Kurtz
was impressed. The team from Escape were thoroughly prepared for the raid. He was standing in a field five miles out of town inspecting a tape mock-up of the target building. Using Google Earth and knowledge obtained from a ground recce the four-man team had constructed a full-scale replica including a basic floor layout. Arnie was talking them through the entire operation in what was essentially a Rehearsal Of Concept or
ROC drill
. It was a procedure they used in PRIMAL.

“So you happy with how it's going to go down?” asked Arnie.

“
Ja
, my job is easy.”

“Yeah mate, sorry. We needed another driver and you're the new guy. We'll get you more involved on the next job.”

He nodded. “It's fine. I understand.”

“Awesome, well if everyone is happy we'll pack up and head back to the house.”

It didn't take them long to pull the sticks from the ground and bundle the tape into the back of their battered sedan.

“Lads, I'm going to take Kurtz for a final recce then I'll drop him back at his hotel,” said Arnie as they drove through town. The three others got out of the vehicle leaving Arnie and Kurtz inside. “The route’s pretty easy, mate,” he said as they drove through the suburbs. “The brothel’s down near the lake. It gets a constant stream of locals and tourists. Some of them just shag the regular hookers but a lot are there for the very young girls.”

They followed the road along the river, past resorts and hotels. It was a part of the city Kurtz was yet to see and he understood now why it was a popular tourist destination. The pockets of jungle between the golf courses and swimming pools were lush and green.

“We're not going to stop but I'll slow down a little.” Arnie nodded out the window as they passed a villa with a jetty that extended out onto the river. There was a parking lot in front of it filled with sedans and pickups.

Kurtz took a mental snapshot as they continued down the road. The mock-up they had rehearsed with was perfect as far as he could see. “So, no guns?”

“No, not that we've seen. But the guys that run these things aren't nice guys, you know what I mean? They've probably got guns but don't carry them around. We're going to be in and out before they know what’s going on.” Arnie turned the car around and they headed back toward town. “Hey, if you're not confident about this no one’s going to think less of you for sitting it out.”

“No, you've planned everything well. I am perfectly comfortable with it.”

Arnie grinned. “Good, because tomorrow morning we're going to change these girls’ lives.”

Kurtz couldn't help but feed off his energy. “
Ja
, this is going to be good.”

“Better than good, mate, it's going to be epic. Just wait till you see their faces when they realize they're finally going to be free.”

Arnie pulled up outside Kurtz's hotel. “So we'll be here at 0700 tomorrow morning with the vans. Make sure you’ve got your game face on.”

“I will.” Kurtz hopped out and closed the door.

As the car drove off he decided to go to the corner store across the street. He would get some dinner then hit the sack. There was no way he was going to drink; he didn't want to let Arnie and his team down.

***

The
two SUVs stopped at the CIA safe house fifteen miles from Foz do Iguacu. The former farm had been converted to a CIA facility in the mid-90's following an increase in operations in the tri-border area. It had a twelve hundred yard grass airstrip, a hardened farmhouse with all the security trappings, a barn filled with vehicles and maintenance equipment, a boathouse on the estuary of the Lago Itaipu, and a caretaker staff of three.

Surrounded by dense jungle it took considerable effort to maintain both the grass runway strip and give the impression the farm was functioning. Pershing happened to know it was a backwater posting where the CIA’s screw-ups and non-swimmers were often sent to contemplate their future.

“Sir, welcome to Camp Cayman.” The caretaker that greeted them at the steps to the safe house was young, bookish, and female.

“I'm not a sir, I'm a mister,” Pershing drawled. “My men are going to need somewhere to put their gear and then we're going to need local vehicles.”

“Yes, Mr. Pershing. There are vehicles in the barn. You should be able to find something that suits your needs.” She directed him to the porch. “The upper level of the facility is configured to accommodate twelve. I've set aside two bunk rooms for your men and a master bedroom for yourself.”

Pershing stepped inside and glanced around the living room and the kitchen. The place was basic but functional. “I was under the impression this was a rendition facility.”

“It is, if you'll follow me.” She opened a door in the hallway and led him down a flight of stairs.

The basement was a workshop complete with a bench and tools hanging on the wall. He turned to the caretaker with a frown.

She winked and slid a shelving unit sideways to reveal a steel door. She punched a code into the digital lock and it opened with a clunk. “We've got a completely self-contained operations room along with an interrogation cell and more accommodation.” She led him down the single corridor that had doors off to each side. He glanced inside one and saw it was an observation room for the interrogation cell.

She finished the tour at the operations room. “There are remote cameras around the perimeter along with ground sensors. On top of the house we've got a high-resolution thermal camera and a comms array.”

“OK, I'm impressed…” He raised his eyebrows.

“Clare.”

“OK, Clare, I'm impressed. Where are your colleagues?”

“One of them has gone to town for food. We didn’t expect another five mouths to feed. The other is out mowing the runway.”

“Once my people are ready I'm going to need your help to track someone down.”

Clare smiled. “It would be my pleasure. I don't get much of a chance to practice my fieldcraft.”

“Well then today’s your lucky day.” As they climbed back upstairs Pershing had another thought. “Clare, by chance are you a coffee drinker?”

“Yes, Mr. Pershing, I am. There's a French press in the kitchen.”

“Excellent, can you make a pot and bring it down to the ops room. We've got some planning to do.”

Thirty minutes later Pershing had Shrek and his team gathered around a map of Foz do Iguacu. Clare was standing at the back of the room watching with one of her colleagues. Pershing had marked the location Howard had provided him for the two counter sex trafficking operations located in the vicinity of the area. Fortunately they were situated less than a kilometer apart.

“The plan is simple. We have a snatch team loitering on the outer perimeter and two surveillance operatives in close. When we identify Objective Red Sox the surveillance team will maintain observation. Once he goes firm in a location the snatch team will move.”

“What if he makes a run for it?” asked Shrek.

“Then we've got the surveillance guys on the ground to block or pursue. I'll be coordinating the operation with the snatch team.”

“OK, but what about the river? Both locations are close to the river and if he gets onto it we're up shit creek,” continued Shrek.

“We've got a boat,” said Clare from the back of the room.

“Good, Clare, you’re on the river. Shrek, send one of your boys with her. It’ll be just the three of us in the snatch team so we need to stay flexible,” said Pershing. “OK, gear on, comms check, and let’s roll.”

***

KINGSTON, JAMAICA

The
US embassy in Jamaica was a modern three-story complex surrounded by sweeping lawns and tall palms. King doubted the CIA contingent had much on its plate. Jamaica was hardly the frontline when it came to espionage and counter-terrorism operations. He waited at the security checkpoint until a staffer arrived to escort him to see the Chief of Station. As he entered the man’s plush office he noticed numerous photos and plaques adorning the wall. It told him something about the chief. He was all about show.

“Mr. King, it's a pleasure to have you here. My name’s Adrian.”

King shook his hand firmly and sat at the desk. “Pleasure is mine, Adrian.” The senior CIA officer was slightly overweight with collar length blonde hair and blue eyes. King had him pegged as a career officer; the type who played the game and never stepped on any toes.

“I just got off the phone with Thomas Larkin. He asked me to do everything I can to help you.”

King was a little lost for words. How the hell did Larkin know about Jamaica and why was he getting involved? There was only one answer, Howard.

Adrian continued, “As you requested, I've had the port facilities monitored and the airport under surveillance for the last few hours.”

“And the C-130?”

“Inquiries indicate it spent time at one of the air freight hangars. A logistics company have hired it but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“The terrorists we’re dealing with are very capable. They’ll have strict operational security.”

“Yes, well I guess the only way to find out is to send people in.”

“When's the earliest we can do that?”

“I've spoken with the Deputy Commissioner of the Constabulary. It's taken a few favors but we've arranged for a raid at dawn tomorrow.”

King nodded. “Perfect, have you coordinated with the Coast Guard regarding the vessel of interest?”

“Already done. They have a base opposite the airport.” Adrian rose from his desk. “Everything is well in hand, Mr. King. We may not handle many counter-terrorism operations here but that doesn't mean we're not capable. Now, if you don't mind I've got some other matters to attend to. One of my people will take you down to the armory and have you kitted out. I'm guessing from your background you’ll want to observe the raid.”

He rose. “Greatly appreciated.”

Adrian shook his hand again. “Just be sure to tell Mr. Larkin how helpful we were.”

“I will certainly do that.”

As he followed a staffer through the building he tried to work out why Larkin was helping GES, when he’d made it clear he was watching Pollard like a hawk. Was he trying to muscle his way into the company or did he want leverage? One thing was sure; he needed to deal with this problem quickly and effectively.

***

CARACAS, VENEZUELA

Antonio
knocked on the door of the two-story mansion and waited. The area was one of Caracas’s most affluent. It was a part of town that, until now, he’d never visited. He ran his fingers along the door jamb and noted that like Camilla’s place it had been recently repaired. A minute passed before someone spoke from behind the heavy wood.

“Who is it?”

He cleared his throat. “I was a friend of Dante. I want to talk to you about what happened.”

There was a pause. “I don't know what you are talking about. Go away.”

Igor had told him this may happen. “I was attacked by the same men. I just want to ask you some questions.”

“Go away!”

He took a deep breath. “If you were a friend of Dante, I know you are a friend of the people. I want to help stop the men that killed him. I want to give him and so many others the justice they deserve.”

Ten seconds passed before the voice spoke. “What is your name?”

“Antonio, I’m a member of the
Movimiento
.”

“Dante spoke of your group. Caitlin Bracho was with you when she was taken.”

“Yes, they murdered her. They beat me and they raped my girlfriend.”

The door opened. “Come inside,” said a middle-aged man.

Antonio winced as he spotted the bruising on his face.

“It looks worse than it is.”

He took the seat he was offered in the kitchen as the man poured him a cup of tea. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The man shrugged. “They burst in through the front door. It was just after dinner. Half a dozen thugs, maybe more. I don’t remember much after they hit me. They killed Dante and assaulted my wife. Then they stole some of our things and left.”

“Can you describe any of them?”

“They were big, muscly men, and wearing balaclavas. Americans, I think.”

“Why do you say they were Americans?”

“One of them spoke English, sounded American. I don't know what he said but he used the name Jimmy.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

He shook his head. “No, you can't trust the police. They said it was a robbery. An unfortunate accident according to the detective. Liars.”

Antonio finished the tea. “Thank you for your time.”

“Be careful, my friend,” said the man as he walked with him to the door. “These men are brutal animals. They killed Dante without the slightest hesitation.”