Unconventional Warfare. Don Pendleton
Garcia regarded him over the top of the little blue folder. “What brings you to Nicaragua?”
“Sunny weather, beautiful women, the beaches. All the usual. Is there a problem with my passport?”
The customs agent carefully put the blue folder down. He ignored the question and tapped the passport with one long, blunt-tipped finger. “There are many countries in Central America with beautiful beaches and women.”
“But only one San Hector Del Sur—it’s world famous,” Lyons replied in flawless Spanish, referencing Nicaragua’s most popular tourist destination.
Garcia’s eyes flicked upward sharply at the linguistic display. His eyes looked past Lyons and toward the large reflective glass Lyons knew from his own experience as a police officer was where the customs officer’s superiors were watching the interrogation. Garcia let his gaze settle back on Lyons. He offered a wan smile.
“I’m sure this is just an administrative error,” the officer said. “My people will have it sorted out in no time.” Garcia rose to his feet. “Please be patient.”
“Okay.” Lyons nodded agreeably. “But, man, am I getting thirsty.”
GARCIA LEFT LYONS and walked toward the interrogation room containing Hermann Schwarz. As he moved down the hallway he saw the tall, cadaverous figure in a dark suit standing off behind his commanding officer. The man met Garcia’s gaze with cold, dead eyes, and the Nicaraguan customs officer felt a chill at the base of his spine. What was he doing here? Garcia wondered. He stifled the thought quickly—it didn’t pay to ask too many questions about the internal security organization, even to yourself.
As he entered the room he saw a burly sergeant had Schwarz pinned up against the wall, one beefy forearm across the American’s throat. The officer was scowling in fury as Schwarz, going by the name Miller, smirked.
Schwarz looked over at Garcia as the man entered and grinned. “Hey, Pedro,” he called. “You know why this guy’s wife never farted as a little girl? ’Cause she didn’t have an asshole till she got married!”
The sergeant rotated and dipped the shoulder of his free hand. His fist came up from the hip and buried itself in Schwarz’s stomach. The Stony Man operative absorbed the blow passively and let himself crumple at the man’s feet. He looked up from the floor, gasping for breath.
Schwarz looked at Garcia. “You know what this pendejo’s most confusing day is? Yep—Father’s Day.”
His cackling was cut off as the sergeant kicked him in the ribs. Garcia snapped an order and reluctantly the man backed off. “Leave us!” he repeated, and the officer left the room scowling.
Garcia moved forward and dropped Schwarz’s passport on the table. He looked down as the American fought his way back up to his feet. Garcia watched dispassionately as the man climbed into his chair.
“This is a hell of a country you got here, pal,” Schwarz said. “Tell a few jokes and get the shit kicked out of you. I should get a lawyer and sue your ass.”
“You’ll find Nicaraguan courts unsympathetic to ugly Americans, Mr. Miller.”
“Yeah, well, your momma’s so fat when she walks her butt claps.”
“Why have you come to Nicaragua, Mr. Miller?”
“I heard a guy could get a drink. I think it was a lie. Seriously, I’m here with some buddies to check out the sites, maybe see the senoritas on San Hector Del Sur, but instead I get this?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t insult my officers?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t lock an innocent turista up for two hours in a room with a trained monkey like that asshole.”
Garcia sighed heavily, a weary man with an odious task. “I’m sure this is just an administrative error. We’ll have it sorted out shortly.”
“You’re damn well right you will,” Schwarz snapped, playing his role to the hilt.
“In the meantime perhaps you could refrain from antagonizing my officers? Yes?”
“Hey, Pedro—is that your stomach or did you just swallow a beach ball?”
Officer Garcia turned and walked out of the room, studiously ignoring the thin man standing outside in the hall next to the doorway.
“Hey, who do ya have to screw to get a drink around here?” Schwarz demanded as the door swung closed.
From behind the two-way mirror the thin man watched him with inscrutable curiosity.
AS CUSTOMS OFFICER Garcia entered the final interrogation room, Blancanales, whose own passport was made out under the name of Rosario, rose from his seat, manner eager and face twisted into a mask of hopeful supplication.
“Listen,” he began babbling, “I’m really, really, really sorry about what happened on the plane. I know I should have waited till I got to San Hector Del Sur but this is my first vacation in years and I guess I got carried—”
“Shut up and sit down!” Garcia snapped. “Yes, I know, I know. You are all here innocently. You are all planning to go to San Hector Del Sur, you are all thirsty and need a drink because you are just typical ugly American’s here to screw our women and drink tequila!”
Face frozen in a look of sheepish innocence, Blancanales settled back in his chair. He blinked his eyes several times. “Well, er, I guess…yeah.”
Face red, Garcia spun on a heel and tossed the blue passport on the table in disgust. He left the room and slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled in its frame. Blancanales called after him, “Actually, I am kind of thirsty, amigo.”
OUT IN THE HALLWAY Garcia marched up to his superior, who stood waiting next to the thin man in civilian clothes. “Sir, their paperwork checks out. Everything checks out perfectly. They’ve obviously rehearsed their story—or it’s the truth. Should I toss them in a holding cell?”
“That won’t be necessary,” the thin man said. “Let them go. Apologize for the mistake, wish them well.”
Garcia slid his gaze over to his commanding officer, who glanced over at the man next to him, then nodded. “Yes, we have enough. Let them go.”
Brazzaville, Republic of the Congo
THE ROTORS OF THE Blackhawk helicopter were still turning slowly as the side door to the cargo bay opened and the men Colonel Kabila had been sent to greet emerged. He surveyed them with a critical eye, noting the athletic physiques, flat affects and nonregulation weaponry hanging off their ballistic armor and black fatigues.
Kabila had seen enough special operations soldiers in his life to recognize the type, French, American, British. As much as they might have liked to think otherwise, nationality mattered little—the elite always had more in common with each other than even with others of their own country or military. Kabila was wise and realistic enough to know he himself did not belong among their ranks. It was no matter of ego for him; his interests lay in other directions.
At the moment it remained focused on gaining these mysterious commandos’ trust, leading them into hostile terrain beyond the reach of help, and then betraying them—making himself a little wealthier in the process.
The first man to reach Kabila was tall and broad with fox-faced features and brown eyes and hair. Having spent the past five years operating alongside British forces in Brazzaville the rebel police officer recognized an Englishman even before he spoke and revealed his accent.
“You Kabila?” David McCarter asked.
Kabila nodded, noting the man did not identify either himself or his unit. Behind the Briton his team paused: a tall black man with cold eyes, a stocky Hispanic with a fireplug build and scarred forearms standing next to a truly massive individual with shoulders like barn doors and an M-60E cut-down machine gun.