Читать книгу Silent Running - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Cancun

The mood in the main conference room of the Hotel Maya could only be called grim. It was approaching dawn, and raw nerves had kept most of the conference hostages from sleeping. The heavily armed, black-clad guards had reacted swiftly with rifle butts to any attempts at conversation, so the men had been left to stew in their anger.

Hal Brognola was an old hand at the crunch game and knew how to keep his emotions firmly in check. He, too, was outraged at being taken hostage. But he knew that wasting his energy on things he had no control over was a useless exercise.

He’d catnapped throughout the night while still staying alert to exploit any opportunity that might have presented itself. Unfortunately, though, the silent guards hadn’t blinked. With the dawn, additional armed gunmen walked into the room, which only increased the tension.

To some, the newcomers might have been a guard shift change, but Brognola had no trouble identifying that they were a command group. The head honcho was easy to spot. He was a light-skinned Hispanic who looked as if he had a Spanish grandee somewhere in his bloodline. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and had a relaxed, military bearing. His eyes swept across the roomful of captives but revealed nothing. The way the other men treated him, told Brognola that the show was about to get on the road. He was glad to see the newcomers settle at one of the conference tables.

Not having been able to talk to his fellow captives, Hal couldn’t even begin to guess what this was all about and he looked forward to going one-on-one with his captors. Being interrogated always worked both ways, and he should be able to pick up some information. There was no doubt that he and his fellow conferees had some perceived value as hostages. Were that not the case, they’d have simply been gunned down in reprisal for some real or imagined wrong done to someone, somewhere, sometime ago. The usual terrorist excuse for brutality.

They were considered valuable, so the only question was what they would be held ransom for.

He was a bit surprised when he wasn’t the first man to be taken over to the head table. The American representatives bore the brunt of the kidnappers’ displeasure so the others could see how tough they were on the biggest threat. His friend Hector de Lorenzo got first honors. Hal wasn’t close enough to overhear what was being said, but Hector didn’t hide the fact that he was royally pissed. The questioning was short, and de Lorenzo was led away.

When the A.G. of Panama was called out next, Brognola let himself relax. There was no point in getting amped up until his time came, but he automatically patted his empty coat pocket anyway.

He was catching another catnap on the floor when he was called for his turn in the barrel via a rifle butt in the middle of his back.

MISTER HAROLD BROGNOLA, the honcho read in almost unaccented English from what looked like a rap sheet. “Let’s see, you’re usually called Hal by your good friend the President, right?”

“And you are?” Brognola answered the question with one of his own.

The honcho’s eyes bore into him. “I would answer the question if I were you.”

Brognola met his eyes and shrugged. “You know who I am. You have my passport.”

The honcho nodded curtly, and the guard hovering over Brognola reversed his AK and slammed it into the pit of his stomach.

He’d seen it coming and tried to move with the blow, but it still took his wind. As soon as he could breathe again, he straightened.

The interrogator leaned forward. “Mr. Brognola, a man of your high position in government can’t be stupid enough not to recognize the realities of what is taking place here today. You are my prisoner and regardless of who you might be in your American Justice Department, or who your friends in Washington are, whatever may be left of your life is solely in my hands now.”

The honcho smiled. “You can play childish macho cowboy games with me if you want, but I can assure you that you will answer my questions sooner or later.”

Brognola knew that to be a simple statement of fact. He had no amateurish illusions about the realities of going through an extended interrogation. But he wasn’t about to play ball with this asshole until he absolutely had no other choice. If he was held long enough, or if they brought out the chemical interrogation gear, he’d have to talk. But he really didn’t expect to be here that long.

As the honcho had said, he had friends.

“We’ll see.” Brognola didn’t blink.

“Yes, we will,” the man replied. “And by the way, I am Diego Garcia. You are going to get to know me well before this is over.”

A feminine scream split the air and the captives, not knowing who’s woman was being mistreated, turned toward the sound. Brognola didn’t, however.

“You’ve got some real winners working for you here, mister,” he said, his eyes locked on Garcia’s. “It looks like they have to beat up the women to get enough balls to talk to the—”

Focused on Garcia, Brognola didn’t see the rifle butt coming this time, but he rode it out.

The Cuban turned to one of his gunmen. “Take Mr. Brognola to the jail.”

“Sí, Jefe.”

Garcia watched impassively as the Yankee was escorted out of the room. The report he had received from the Matador operative at the Latin American Desk of the U.S. State Department had been accurate. Hal Brognola was a force to be reckoned with, but he also had his weaknesses. What the American saw as his strength, the Cuban saw as something to be broken. His arrogance would also contribute to his downfall as would his protective instincts toward the women. Though the Yankee hadn’t turned when the woman screamed, Garcia had seen the anger flash in his eyes.

Though the “interview” had been short, it had told Garcia much and confirmed that he had chosen his man well. Had he wanted, he could have arranged for the attorney general of the United States to have attended the conference and taken him hostage instead. But the American A.G. was always a political flunkey who had been given his job as a payoff for services he had rendered to the party of the incoming President. Brognola was a career Justice Department officer, and he had more than likely forgotten more about the workings of U.S. law-enforcement agencies than the A.G. would have time to learn before he left office. And his intimate knowledge was the goal.

If it wouldn’t have tipped his hand, Garcia would have simply snatched Brognola and the Mexican de Lorenzo and let the rest go free. The other lawmen he’d gathered up were of little use to him except as expendable pawns as his plan played out over the next few weeks. And, to get what he needed from the Yankee, he fully intended to waste a couple of them. He would expend several of the women, as well, if that was needed to get what he wanted.

Except, of course for the delectable Señorita Martinez, Brognola’s dinner companion. He was very careful about not sacrificing his top operatives.

THREE OF DIEGO Y GARCIA’S goons escorted Brognola to an SUV parked out in front of the hotel, handcuffed him and tossed him into the back seat. A short drive brought them downtown to a three-story building with an ornate, cast concrete, pseudo-Mayan facade. The sign carved into the facade, though, told it all—Municipal Jail.

Brognola was hustled in, uncuffed and shoved into an empty cell. Being in jail in Cancun wasn’t like being locked up in the Mexican border towns traditionally seen in many movies. The resort town’s facility had been built to house inebriated young American tourists and was more of a cheap but clean motel than a jail. Since the resort was one of the Caribbean’s prime college break hangouts, they were aware that they had to treat their customers with kid gloves. If the cops traumatized a drunken frat boy, he and his brothers might not come back for spring break next year. So, for a jail, the accommodations in Cancun were first-class.

That was the good news.

The other side of that coin was that the jail had been built to modern security specifications. There would be no digging the flaking mortar from around a rusted iron bar and escaping from this place. The windows looked to be Lexan, the bars were stainless steel, the electronic lock on the door had been made in Dallas and the video camera watching him had originated in Pasadena.

At least, though, he had a comfortable place to lie down. That he was being housed alone in a four-man cell wasn’t a good sign, but he had to play it as it lay. The best thing a man in his position could do was to eat and sleep every chance he could get because he didn’t know when he’d get a chance to do either one again.

Brognola took off his coat, automatically checked his empty pocket one last time, placed it on one of the bunks, shook his thin blanket and stretched out for a nap.

He was asleep in minutes.

BROGNOLA WAS NOT surprised to be awakened only a few hours later. He hadn’t been deceived by the shortness of his initial interview with Diego Garcia. The classic “false hope” gambit only worked with morons and drunks, and he was neither.

A short ride back to the Hotel Maya confirmed his suspicion that he was on for another round with the “Boss.” The man was playing his hand by the book, chapter and verse. But since the big Fed had read the same book, he’d see if he couldn’t stall the process. He was in no bloody great hurry, as McCarter would say, to get his ass stomped into the ground. In fact, to make this come out right, he needed to delay that part of the program for as long as he possibly could.

It was apparent that he’d been included in the bag, because Garcia thought that he was “friends” with the President. On paper he was listed as a Special Justice Department Adviser to the President, but that was just a long-standing cover for what he actually did. And it was imperative that he keep his real job from Garcia for as long as he could. As far as the man’s thinking that he was one of the President’s personal friends, he had no idea where that had come from. But since it was on the table, he’d use it to buy himself as much time as he could.

This time, Brognola was escorted into what looked in happier times to have been the hotel management’s office suite. He was being taken to what looked to be the main office when the door opened and two goons walked out with Hector de Lorenzo between them. The Mexican’s face was bloodied, but he only gave Brognola a quick glance. Hector was playing the game, but with Garcia’s apparent intelligence sources, Brognola was certain that the bastard already knew of their long-standing friendship.

The office was large and tastefully decorated. A chunk of ancient Mayan carved stone was mounted on one wall, a minor Riviera painting on the other. Garcia was seated behind a huge, ornately carved, dark mahogany desk littered with enough electronic gear to run a fair-size war. Still working with an information deficit, Brognola knew whatever this operation was, it was no nickel-and-dime, hostage-taking incident.

“Mr. Brognola.” Garcia greeted him and pointed to a chair. “Please have a seat. It is time that I let you know why you are here.”

Brognola sat.

“Since it’s been almost twenty-four hours since you were last in communication with your government, I thought I’d fill you in on what has recently happened in Mexico and, of course, your own country.”

Brognola was interested but remained silent.

“You see,” Garcia continued, “since you went down to dinner last night with the lovely Miss Martinez, the Western Hemisphere has changed for the better. The government of Mexico is now in the hands of its rightful owners—the people. As, by the way, are the nations of Panama, Guatemala and Ecuador. As a result of this, your nation will no longer be able to manipulate the destinies of those who live in what you North Americans like to refer to as Latin America. The Yankee hegemony has ended for all time.”

“And how was this great feat accomplished?” Brognola asked.

“The will of the people is being brought to bear—and very successfully this time.”

“Under the leadership of what Communist party this time?” Brognola made a guess. “China’s?”

“Oh, no,” Garcia quickly replied. “This is completely our own affair. Our socialist brothers in China have assisted us in several ways, true, but this is a spontaneous true expression of the people themselves.”

“When pigs fly!” Brognola laughed. “Man, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that crap about ‘the will of the people.’ All you Communists are the same, but it’s never worked and it never will. The only thing that’s going to happen to the people is that they’re really going to get royally screwed now.”

Garcia didn’t rise to the bait. “Let me show you why it’s going to work this time. As I said, this revolution has come directly from the people themselves, and it’s long overdue. They have been repressed long enough and now they’re finally taking back what’s rightfully theirs.”

He picked up a TV remote from the desk, clicked it and the set mounted on the wall flashed to a San Diego channel. A helicopter-mounted camera was showing a scene of some kind of massive riot with tens of thousands of people involved. It was so large that it filled the entire field of vision of the camera. It took several moments before Brognola recognized that he was looking at what had been the U.S.-Mexican border crossing point at Tijuana.

The barriers that had controlled the endless streams of traffic coming and going were gone. The buildings that housed the Immigration and Customs offices were being literally torn down by bare hands. The vehicles waiting in line to cross the border when the onslaught struck were being looted or overturned and set on fire.

A clearly panicked young TV reporter sounded near tears as he did the voice-over. “We have just gotten word that the governor has called up the National Guard, but local authorities say that—” The transmission abruptly ended.

“Jesus!” Brognola said softly.

Garcia smiled. “Most of your country was stolen from my people and, as you can plainly see, we are taking it back now.”

“We have an army, you know,” Brognola said, “and we won’t let something like this happen without responding.”

“Most of your regular army is overseas fighting the so-called ‘terrorists,’” Garcia stated accurately, “leaving your reserves and National Guards at home to protect you. And, do you really think that those soft, part-time, citizen soldiers are going to fire on unarmed women, old men and children and kill them? You Americans are cruel, but even I don’t think they will do that.”

Brognola was stunned. The United States military could bring almost unimaginable force to bear on any armed enemy. The stronger the enemy, the greater the force. But firing on unarmed civilians, particularly women and children, went against everything America stood for. America extended a helping hand to such people, not a bayonet.

Garcia leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “Take a good look, Brognola. You’re watching the fall of the most corrupt government in human history, and it can’t come a minute too soon for me.”

The Cuban blinked and his hand flew to the side of his head. For a brief moment his eyes went unfocused, but it passed.

“And,” he continued, “California isn’t the only place where America is feeling the righteous rage of the people.”

He clicked the remote again and a scene from what had to be the beachfront of a city in Florida appeared. A flotilla of boats, both large and small, were drawn up close to the shore and their decks were filled to overflowing. The smaller boats were heading in through the surf to beach themselves while people jumped from the larger ones to swim ashore.

A huge crowd had gathered along the beach and were successfully holding the police at bay to allow the boat people to reach land. Tear gas canisters were flying and the riot squads were out in force, but they were too few and were being pushed back. Every time one of the boats ran itself up onto the beach, hundreds more jumped down to join the crowds fighting the police.

As Brognola watched, one flank of the police line broke and the crowd surged forward. When one of the cops slipped and fell, he was trampled into the concrete. As soon as the mob reached the shops flanking the street, they started looting. As the camera panned, he saw smoke rising over a mall as another crowd blocked the fire trucks.

“That is right outside Miami Beach, Florida,” Garcia said. “The boats are full of people from all over the Caribbean who have decided to immigrate to America so they can share the fruits of their ancestor’s slave labor. The world is coming to America to take what is theirs.”

“You’re one sick bastard,” Brognola stated.

The rifle butt to the back of his head sent him reeling into unconsciousness.