“Wait a second.” The priest pulled the car to a stop in front of a large field. “Vacation spots.”
“What was that?” asked Maria.
Father Lopez felt far away in thought as he spoke. “When he was a kid, Miguel just loved this old cabin my family used to go to.”
“The one in Tennessee?” she asked. He nodded in agreement. “He mentioned it a few times.”
“We haven’t been back there in over twenty years. I don’t know if the place is still standing. I don’t think Dad ever sold that off, though.” He shook his head. “It’s crazy. Why would he go there?”
His brother’s wife looked out over the field. “It’s the only idea we have, Francisco.”
“Yeah, and a five-hour drive up into the Smoky Mountains on a wild goose chase.” She turned to him, and he could see the desperation in her eyes. “But, maybe one I should make, just to check it out.”
“Would you, Francisco?”
He smiled and patted her on the arm. “Of course.”
Two hundred miles away, sequestered in the green mountain massifs of Tennessee, a decrepit Ford Mustang pulled up to the Pine Ridge Motel. The vehicle matched the run-down establishment, its rusted metallic contours blending with the unpainted wood and corroded iron structure, the busted taillights a cousin of the broken-down “No Vacancy” sign that hung at an angle from the side of the building. The door of the Ford opened slowly, and a blond man in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt stepped onto the gravel lot. He seemed broad enough to be a lumberjack from one of the local logging companies, and he ambled into the reception area like a fatigued veteran of long hours with a chain saw and heavy pines.
Impatiently, he rang a small bell on the counter. A middle-aged man of about the same height but twice his weight ambled into the room and placed himself on the other side of the counter.
“Can I hep ya?” he said with a powerful drawl.
“Got any rooms?”
“Jist you?” he said, looking behind the man, expecting to see someone else, hoping to see something as well built as this man, but of the other gender.
“Yup.”
“All right. It’ll be forty a night, an’ we don’t ‘quire no credit cards.”
The blond man smiled. “That’s good. Ain’t got any.”
The visitor pulled out a fifty and dropped it on the counter. The clerk threw him back a ten with the room key, staring a moment as the visitor grabbed the keys and money.
“Looks like ya burned yer arm good.”
The man looked down to where his sleeve had moved up on his arm, revealing a brown region of skin above his wrist. It looked like a burn of some kind or a severely discolored birthmark.
“Fixin’ my engine.”
The man behind the counter nodded. “Number 8. Cable’s out, so there ain’t no TV. We got hot water in the mornin’s. You want breakfast, there’s Mary-Lu’s up the road.”
“Thanks.”
The visitor walked back outside to his car. He opened the trunk and removed what appeared to be a heavy suitcase, as well as a large tool case. Closing the trunk, he carried the cases to room eight, unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It was what he expected — filthy, broken down, and bug infested. An ugly sore and contrast to the beautiful vacation resorts that dotted the area. The mirror in the bathroom was cracked, and the toilet looked ready to be condemned by the health inspectors. But it was out of the way. Invisible. It would do.
He shut the door. His shuffling gait altered dramatically and took on an intensity and quickness uncharacteristic of the role he had just been playing. Leaving the cases on the bed, he opened the suitcase and removed a small leather satchel. He carried it into the bathroom and placed it on the begrimed sink. Reaching inside, he grabbed several bottles, as well as a large white tube. Uncapping the tube, he squeezed a toothpaste-like cream onto the discolored region of his arm, and rubbed the material over the brown spot until it was full covered. He then washed his hand. Removing a spool of plastic wrap from the bag, he cut off a clear square and taped it over the treated region of his arm. He then returned the materials to the satchel. Rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning his shirt, he examined his skin carefully. After several minutes, he shook his head nearly imperceptibly and buttoned his shirt. He had waited too long this time.
I’ve been busy.
Bending his head to the mirror, he examined his scalp. He combed through with his fingers, eyeing the roots carefully. There was no discoloration. His hair grew slowly.
He grabbed the bag and returned to the bed, leaving it beside the large suitcase. Reaching inside again, he removed a large plastic box, resembling those that fishermen use to carry tackle, and placed it on a table by the window. He pulled the shades together and then sat down and opened the case, revealing an assortment of devices and tools, as well as what appeared to be white putty wrapped in clear plastic. He looked over the detonators, counting them, and estimated the quantity of Semtex. More than enough.
He took the large box from the table and placed it back on the bed. Reaching into the suitcase again, he removed a laptop computer and a box about a foot wide in each dimension. He powered up the laptop, connected it to the box, and tapped into a classified satellite linkup. On the web browser appeared a screen for logging into a secure site of the Central Intelligence Agency. He smiled.
Passing through their security, he was soon interfacing with operations software. A real-time satellite image of the Gatlinburg area appeared on the screen, the data fed to him through the CIA surveillance network. He zoomed in on a cabin in the mountains. Once again, he was impressed with the resolution of the images. Good enough to read the nearly faded and damaged name on the mailbox — LOPEZ.
Over the next two hours, he mapped out the area around the cabin, noting the telltale signs of security cameras and motion detectors. The cabin itself looked ordinary, but he did not fool himself. Miguel Lopez had gone to a lot of trouble to secure this location, and he doubted that anything except for armor-piercing ammunition would make its way into the inside. He would have to get close, get through the security and defenses arrayed. It would require significantly more reconnaissance than this crude satellite feed before he would be ready. Up close and in the flesh, which carried its own risks.
There was much planning to do with a target this prepared. This would not be like the others. He might get bloody. He walked back to the brown satchel and removed a first aid kit. Bandages, sutures, disinfectants, needles, and more.
He’d likely need them.
9
Miguel Lopez scrolled through the news article online.
Billionaire Philanthropist Jorge Sapos Dead at 62
By Ben G. Scott, Associated Press
Shipping mogul and activist Jorge Sapos, who combined a life of big money, fast living, and passionate advocacy for political causes, died yesterday in Chicago of unspecified respiratory complications.
Known throughout the business world in the 1980s for an iron-willed dominance of rare-earth metal shipping, he came to be a household name after a series of massive financial donations during the Iraq War to libertarian causes emphasizing isolationism and human rights. His political interventions earned him friends and enemies in high places, and many leaders of both parties acknowledge the strong influence of his money and personality on American legislation.
Equally renown as an unrepentant playboy, Mr. Sapos had married four times, and was often photographed in the company of various high profile women. Frequently pilloried by conservatives and beloved by tabloids, his womanizing did not seem to adversely impact his business or activism. “He never apologized for being who he was,” said Mitchell Sapos, a son of his second marriage. “I think people can respect a man who lives by his own rules, is honest about who he is, even if they don’t like or approve of his lifestyle.”