Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

She nodded, then began slicing her way through the foliage. They carefully made their way through the thick jungle, with Marisa wielding the razor-sharp blade like a tree surgeon, clearing enough of a path so that Jonas could follow without getting caught in the low bushes.

The insects, however, were another matter. Each time Jonas put his hands down, something crawled over them, and he spent as much time trying not to get bitten or stung as moving forward. Every ten yards or so, he sat up and took another look through his scope, comparing their surroundings with what he remembered.

When they had covered what he thought was about one hundred yards, Jonas hissed at Marisa to stop. He tried his radio again, but got nothing. Then he removed his commando knife and tapped the young woman on the shoulder.

“Here. This is going to be dangerous, and I don’t want you unarmed.”

She strapped the sheathed blade on her belt. “Thank you.”

Jonas took another look around with the scope. “I don’t know how far they might have gone to be sure they wouldn’t be seen.”

“Why don’t I cut over to the road—surely we’re far enough away now—and see what I can find out.” Before he could stop her, Marisa darted off between the trees without a sound, her lithe form swallowed up by the darkness.

Jonas hissed in frustration and hunkered down, his pistol drawn, for all the good it would do him. One shot would bring the soldiers running. Every sense alert, he sat and waited for her to return—or for her to be discovered.

“HEY, YOU ALL RIGHT? The tenth is about to start.” Karen slid back into her seat.

Jonas tuned back into his surroundings with a blink. “Just waiting for the lead to go. Any problems?”

“Nope. The GPS is in place, and if I were that kind of girl, I’d have a date for the weekend.” She smiled. “But I’m not.”

“He’ll be very disappointed, I’m sure.” Jonas focused on the monitor as the tenth race started. Cuba Libre got off to a quick start, but was caught on the outside coming into the escape turn, and couldn’t make up the lost ground. It was in the middle of the pack on the far turn, and put on a final burst to finish second. Castilo’s table celebrated quietly, accepting the second-place finish with good humor.

“At least you didn’t lose,” Karen offered.

“True, true.” Jonas handed her several more hundreds.

“Go collect my winnings, would you? When you return, hand me the whole thing at their table.”

“Just make sure you’re there when I come back.” Karen stood again and pecked him on the cheek, then walked through the room, her poised stride drawing stares from every man she passed.

Jonas flagged a passing waiter. “I’d like to send a bottle of Perrier Jouet Fleur Blanc de Blanc ’99 over to Mr.

Castilo’s table, with my compliments on a well-run race.”

“Certainly sir, whom shall I say it is from?”

“If he asks, point out this table and mention that it is from a gentleman who shares his love of freedom.” The message was vague enough to rouse curiosity instead of suspicion.

At least Jonas hoped that would be Castilo’s reaction. Making contact with a target didn’t happen like a James Bond film—there was no script indicating how it would go down.

The businessman might simply drink the champagne with the rest of his party, then leave.

Jonas sat back and watched as the chilled bottle was delivered to Castilo’s table. He received it with a smile, and tilted his head to listen to the waiter deliver the message. The waiter discreetly pointed out Jonas’s table, and when Castilo looked across the floor to the upper tier, Jonas raised his wineglass in salute. The Cuban inclined his head and motioned for the waiter to pour for his delighted wife and guests.

Jonas watched Castilo summon a bodyguard to his table and whisper in his ear. The stocky man returned to his position, opened his cell phone and began texting, or at least that’s what he wanted to appear to be doing. Jonas knew he was being photographed, and he also figured that they would be getting his name from the reservation book, as well. So far, everything was going according to plan.

After several minutes, the waiter returned. “Mr. Heinemann, Mr. Castilo requests the pleasure of your company at his table.”

Here we go, Jonas thought, pushing his chair back and rising. “I would be delighted.”

“Jonas has initiated contact with the target.” NiteMaster spun around in his chair, the piercings in his eyebrow glittering in the light. “We’re getting hits on the cover story, as well.” He brought up various Web pages, one a relatively bland corporate site, one from the ATF and several from other foreign news sites, each of which had an article on Mr. Ferdinand Heinemann. The company site was for a European import-export business, similar to Castilo’s, but the other mentions of Heinemann’s name told a very different story.

Watching in the virtual ops center, Kate only nodded, scanning the wealth of created electronic data available on their operative. With the Web becoming an instant background resource available to anyone with a cell phone or laptop, it was vital for Room 59 to provide an in-depth history for each operative’s cover story. For this, hackers worked behind the scenes in the world’s major search engines, tweaking hit algorithms to ensure that the false pages would pop up immediately in any search. A company Web page was easy, but faking news reports and other believable media usually took time. However, the three hackers had smoothly established Mr. Heinemann as a living, breathing person—at least on the Internet.

What a story they had woven, Kate thought. According to reliable sources, Mr. Heinemann operated a successful import-and-export company out of Munich. However, a bit more digging revealed that he had been investigated—but never charged—for illegal arms smuggling and sales by the U.S., German and French governments, and had been rumored to be involved in various black-market deals for the past twenty years.

It’s amazing how the Internet gives instant credibility to things, simply by letting people find it for themselves on a computer screen, Kate thought. What could be located by a simple keyword search would be enough to plant the notion in anyone’s mind about Mr. Heinemann, but there was one final straw that anyone seriously checking a cover story would probably think to do, as well.

“Incoming call for Rhienland I.E.” KeyWiz adjusted his headset mike and looked to Kate for confirmation.

She let it ring three times—after all, it was a thriving business—then nodded.

“ Guten Tag, Rhineland Import/Export, how may I help you?” Kate winced at KeyWiz’s accent—he was laying it on a bit thick. “I’m sorry, sir, but Herr Heinemann is on vacation. I’m afraid that I am not at liberty to say where he is at the moment. Yes, I can confirm that he is overseas.

Yes, he does enjoy greyhound racing—it’s a life-long hobby of his. May I inquire as to whom is calling? Very well, sir.”

While KeyWiz was handling the phone call, El Supremo traced the cell phone call to its source.

“Originating in the Palm Beach Kennel Club restaurant,”

he reported.

“I think he may have been outside the bathroom—I thought I heard someone flush. No message. Guy said he’d call back later. Damn, I love this Mission Impossible stuff,”

KeyWiz said.” He held up his hand, and NiteMaster and El Supremo did the same, in a virtual high-five.

“Good work, gentlemen. Let’s keep monitoring the sites for any other hits—who knows, this bait may attract some other targets, as well. Also, I want analysis done on everyone at that table, who they are, their relationship to Castilo, anything and everything we can dig up on them,” Kate said.