Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [3]
"If we send a big team into Colombia — or anywhere down there for that matter — word will get out in a minute. Anyway, Guiterrez isn't prepared to hump the boonies like you and me. He spent his childhood in Colombia, but he was educated at Princeton before coming to us. Nineteen years ago he won a collegiate fencing title, and he's had our standard weapons training, but that's the extent of his martial arts skills. In other words, Gordon Harrow у Guiterrez wouldn't last two days in the jungle."
"What did you tell him?"
"He claimed he had a safe way to get out of Colombia, so I told him to go to Nicaragua, to the capital. There's a construction site on the corner of Bolivar Avenue and Calle De Verde in Managua. The site is managed by Fuqua Construction, which is really a CIA shell company."
"Why Nicaragua?"
"It's a quiet assignment since the Sandinistas were tossed out of office in 1990. I doubt the Colombian cartels have a reach long enough to touch someone in Managua." Henderson paused, leveled his gaze. "I want you to go down there and bring Guiterrez back. I've already cleared it with Walsh."
Nodding, Jack reached toward the keyboard of his computer. "I'll assemble a team immediately..."
"No team. I told you, a large group will attract unwanted attention. Take one agent besides yourself — someone you trust. But don't mention the stealth device. Let your partner think your mission is a simple extraction from hostile territory."
"What do I tell the case officers in Managua?"
"Concoct some cover story as the reason for your visit. You'll think of something. But, again, I can't stress this enough. Don't mention the device — not even to other Agency personnel. It's small enough to hide in a suitcase or backpack. Chances are nobody will even notice Guiterrez has it with him when you bring him in."
* * *
Managua, Nicaragua
Three days later
Even before he opened the dented cab's squeaking door, Gordon Harrow у Guiterrez sensed he was being watched. He clutched the attache case just a little bit tighter. Under the sweat-stained band of a worn baseball cap, perspiration painted his forehead.
More than anything, Guiterrez wanted to shift his gaze and check his six. That would, of course, be a fatal error. If he really was being tailed, turning around would alert his pursuers that he was on to them — which would no doubt force their hand. They'd take him out right then and there, before he had a chance to get near the CIA safe house.
Feigning indifference, the undercover agent paid the driver with a fistful of cordobas, exited the vehicle and melted into a loud and festive lunchtime crowd. Among the throng of Nicaraguan office workers, Guiterrez began to wonder.
Am I really being tailed?
His senses were jangling from the amphetamines he'd been swallowing like candy for far too many days, and Guiterrez realized he could no longer trust his judgment. Lifting his bloodshot eyes, he squinted at the hazy blue sky. Strong sunlight shimmered above the ten- and twelve-story structures that flanked this commercial street. Almost all of Managua had been rebuilt since the mid '70s, after an earthquake killed tens of thousands and leveled ninety percent of the Nicaraguan capital. Unfortunately, the graceful precolonial buildings were replaced by boxy, utilitarian structures that made much of the city resemble a particularly decrepit American strip mall.
Even worse, this time of year Managua's air was hot and sticky under a scorching sun. Moving through the crush of office workers, food vendors and street merchants was painfully slow — made worse by blue-gray puffs of car exhaust fumes, and clouds of charcoal smoke, redolent with the scent of charred meat.
On busy Bolivar Avenue, a long thoroughfare between Lake Managua and the muddy Ticapa Lagoon, the humidity was especially thick and uncomfortable. Buffeted by the crowd that hemmed him in, Guiterrez had trouble catching his breath. His grimy, unshaven neck itched, and the cotton shirt clung to sweat that trickled down the small of his back. Perspiration