“Apologies, Sargento. There is no ‘numb nut’ involved, and I suspect your superiors may be equally upset when they learn of our presence. Now that we can’t be sent back, I will tell you the truth. We invited ourselves, knowing that you were observing radio silence and gambling that if we just appeared, you would accept us at face value.” He shrugged. “I will face any consequences when we return.”
Garza stifled a curse, then said, “All right. You’re here now, but you’re strictly observers. Got that?”
Reyes looked the American in the eye. “I may have to disappoint you there, Sargento. I have a promise to keep.”
Garza studied the ground. “It’s your wife, isn’t it?”
Reyes stiffened. “How do you know that?”
“I overheard your men. I can’t let your hard-on for Rodriguez compromise the plan.”
“The plan is to kill Rodriguez, no? Who has more right to shoot the bastard than myself?”
“Shit,” Garza said as he sat on the porch step. “I suspected as much. You only know part of the plan. Sit yourself down, Lieutenant. No one is going to shoot Rodriguez.”
Rodriguez gazed down as the King Air circled, glad the FARC men were waiting in formation. A quick tirade against the yanquis while his people checked the warehouses and he’d be off. His men did the checking, of course, so he could honestly say he saw nothing. Honesty was important.
He sighed. Not everyone was so honest. His deal with FARC called for payment of 10 percent of the value of the cocaine transiting. Amazing how revenue increased after he began these impromptu visits to the camps.
Even without the drug money, the camps were assets, placed to terrorize his opposition. Initially FARC had traded muscle for havens to rest and rearm, but as US aid allowed Colombia greater resources to disrupt drug traffic, FARC moved distribution under Rodriguez’s protection. For a fee, of course. Free muscle and cash to boot.
His mood was transformed in the anxious weeks since Panama, with the media diverted by the Bosphorus attack and news of Braun’s death bringing the welcome realization that the lone thread linking him to the attacks was severed. Confident now, he was on the offensive, his speeches condemning the attacks as an American plot, a pretext to exert control of global choke points with the ultimate aim of reclaiming the Panama Canal. He ended his speeches with a pledge of “the honor and treasure of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela to resisting to the death American hegemony.”
Rodriguez scowled, his mood dampened by the close confines of the King Air. Runway length precluded the use of his jet and reduced his security detail to six. But they were his best, and, he thought, smiling back at the last row, there was the sacrificial lamb.
“Navarro,” he taunted, “are you ready to take a bullet for your presidente?”
The sullen face staring back was a copy of his own, down to the smallest scar. The men were dressed identically in chinos and bright-red open-collared shirts.
“Really, Navarro,” Rodriguez said, “so morose. You have a handsome face that required little surgery; I provide a fine life and ask only that you smile and wave. Yet you sulk. Perhaps your daughter would be better company. She is what? Fifteen now?”
“Forgive me, Excellency. I would be honored to fall in your service.”
“Much better, Navarro,” Rodriguez said, then grinned at the bodyguard next to him.
The man grinned back. “As usual, Señor Presidente, Navarro goes first. When we’re sure all is secure, he’ll reboard and you deplane in his place.”
Rodriguez sighed. “If the fool could speak, I wouldn’t take these tedious trips at all.”
Reyes stood at attention as the door opened and six men deplaned, forming a circle into which a red-shirted man emerged. The bogus guerrillas stood at present arms, safeties off their weapons. A shot inside the plane drew the bodyguards’ attention as the man in their midst dove to the tarmac. The Americans’ guns came up as one, and the six bodyguards were dead before they hit the ground.
Garza and his men circled the plane as Red Shirt’s twin stumbled down the steps, followed by the copilot with a pistol.
“The pilot?” Garza asked the copilot.
“Dead,” the man replied. “He was loyal to Rodriguez.”
“I am not Rodriguez,” said the man beside the copilot. “I am Victor Navarro. He is Rodriguez,” he pointed to his approaching double.
“Really?” Garza asked. “What is the countersign?” The man looked panicked as Garza continued. “The rain in Spain—” Garza stopped. “Complete the phrase.”
Rodriguez smiled. “Falls mainly on the plain.”
“Actually, I made that up.” Garza turned to the second Red Shirt. “Pass phrase, Señor?”
Navarro smiled. “Rodriguez is an asshole.”
“Mucho gusto, Señor Navarro,” Garza said, nodding for his men to bind Rodriguez.
“Now,” Garza said to the copilot, “I suggest you and” — he smiled at Navarro—”Señor Presidente here coordinate your stories. We’ll add authenticity with bullet holes in noncritical areas of the plane.”
“Un momento, Sargento,” said Navarro before Garza turned away, “perhaps you should also shoot me in some ‘noncritical’ area.”
“Hardly necessary, Señor Navarro.”
“To the contrary. I can blame a difference in my voice or gestures on the stress of being shot. In this case, I am only too happy to ‘take a bullet’ for the president.”
Garza shrugged. “OK, then. A grazing wound to the arm. Just before you leave.” Navarro nodded, and Garza moved to Rodriguez, kneeling on the tarmac, encircled by two Americans, Reyes, and Perez as the rest of the force staged the bodies.
“What now?” Reyes asked Garza.
“Presidente Rodriguez/Navarro returns, plane shot up. He is enraged, so everyone keeps their heads down. Suspicion will fall on the vice president, who will be allowed to resign and be replaced by an obscure member of Rodriguez’s clique, a secret member of the opposition.
“Then,” Garza went on, “Navarro will undo the worst abuses: restore term limits, ease press controls, et cetera. In a few months, he’ll have a fatal heart attack, and the vice president will take over. Navarro and his family will be smuggled to the US for plastic surgery and new identities. And Rodriguez here” — Garza looked down—”will have a state funeral.”
Muffled protests came from Rodriguez’s taped mouth as he struggled.
“Good,” Reyes nodded. “No assassination. No conspiracy theories.”
“An embalming table and cold storage await in Colombia,” Garza said.
Rodriguez struggled harder as a soldier produced a syringe. Garza nodded to Reyes.
“You want to do the honors, Lieutenant?”
Reyes hesitated. “For days, I’ve dreamed of little else but putting a bullet between his eyes, but this… this pathetic piece of shit sickens me. I had not envisioned putting him down like a rabid dog.”
“Just remember Miraflores,” Perez said softly, “and the many more has he killed just with the filth in these warehouses. He is worse than a rabid dog, Manny, for the dog has no choice in the matter.”
Maria’s agony filled Reyes’s mind, and in seconds, he was over Rodriguez, the needle deep in the man’s neck. Long after the body stopped twitching, Perez pried his fingers away.