PRIMAL Nemesis (Book 2 in the Redemption Trilogy, A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 6) (The PRIMAL Series) (11 page)

***

NEW YORK CITY

King had flown to New York first thing in the morning. The corporate helicopter transported him to the roof of the MVI office building and he took the elevator to his office on the tenth floor. He took a number of calls as soon as he was in the office. None of them were good.
There
was a saying King used when he was in the army; bad news didn't get any better with age. With that in mind he left his office and stabbed the button for the top floor of the building. When the doors opened he gave the receptionist a nod and walked past Wesley Chambers’ empty office to Jordan Pollard's, where he knocked.

“Come in.”

He pushed open the door and stood in front of the chairman’s desk. The former Brigadier glanced at him with cold gray eyes. “I trust things have been taken care of?”

“There's been a problem, sir. Wesley and his bodyguard are missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yes, that damn boat of his was last seen heading down the Hudson at 0500 hours. At 0730 Chambers rang the marina and told them he was sailing to the Hamptons.”

“And you've tried to contact your man?”

“I'm unable to reach him.”

Pollard shoved his chair back and stood. “Goddamn, what the fuck’s wrong with you people. You just keep screwing shit up, don't you? I mean, I give you basic tasks and you keep letting me down. Time after fucking time!”

He’d never seen an outburst like this before. The chairman rarely lost his temper and when he did it usually manifested itself in a brooding silence followed by calmly delivered threats.

Pollard turned his back and gazed out his office window. He sighed. “How much does he know about the Venezuelan project?”

“Next to nothing. He doesn't know about Jimmy and his boys.”

“But he does know enough to bring the Feds sniffing.”

He shrugged. “But they’re not going to find anything. Our
OPSEC
is watertight.”

Pollard spun to face him. “Watertight? We've got some kind of covert special ops organization breathing down our neck and you're telling me your operational security is watertight? What if they've got their hands on Chambers? What happens when he starts talking? In 48 hours I'm going to be in Caracas closing this deal. If anything interferes with that...” He clenched his fists by his side.

“Nothing will, sir. We’ll locate Wesley and neutralize him, and whoever is with him. I’m heading back home to Virginia tomorrow and I’ll manage this personally.”

Pollard dropped back in his chair. “Where is Pershing at with the German?”

“His team are inserting tomorrow. They’re ready to take this guy down.”

“We can't afford any more mistakes. If he screws this up, he's done.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, get the hell out of my office.”

King retreated down the corridor to the elevator. When he was back in his GES office he used a secure line to call Pershing at the intelligence facility in Virginia. They needed every asset available searching for the damn boat.

CHAPTER 12

CARACAS, VENEZUELA

Ivan
shrugged out of his smart suit jacket, turned it inside out, and put it back on. He ruffled his hair and pulled a pair of thick-rimmed glasses from his satchel. An armful of papers completed his outfit and he left the public toilets, crossed the road, and strolled along the shaded footpaths of the Central University of Venezuela.

His driver had dropped him three blocks closer to town at an expensive restaurant popular for business meetings. Slipping away had been as simple as finding the delivery entrance and ducking out. It was a short walk to the public restrooms opposite the campus.

As he strolled purposefully through the university grounds he was impressed by the sheer size of the campus. The buildings were old and a little tired but still functional. Throngs of students paid him no attention as they spilled out of classrooms and lecture halls. Others gathered in the shade of the leafy trees that grew in the spaces between the buildings. He stopped to inspect a poster taped to one of the broad trunks. It used bold communist era graphics to call the students to action against the government. He’d noticed them scattered across the campus.

He spotted the central library from a distance. The post-modernist structure had bright red walls and towered at least a half-dozen stories above the rest of the campus. Ivan angled toward it, following one of the paved footpaths that criss-crossed the green lawns. He reached the main entrance stairs, peeled off to one side, and sat in the sun. Pretending to examine his papers, he scanned the route he’d just taken. Anyone tailing him would have nowhere to go except into the library.

After five minutes he packed away his papers and strolled inside. He walked past the front counter, made his way up three flights of stairs and into a hall marked ARCHIVES.

The musty smell of old books hung in the air. Ivan found it comforting; it harkened back to a simpler era where information was written down and not stored in the cloud. It made him wonder how long it would be until people like him were completely replaced by technicians and computers.

He found the study area he was searching for past rows of bookshelves, tucked away in the back corner. Secluded and rarely used, it was a good spot for a meeting. What's more, Ivan had identified no less than three exit points including a fire escape and a window leading out onto the roof of the lower levels. He spotted a red baseball cap and sat in the cubicle next to the owner.

“Do you know when the library closes?” the baseball cap-wearing student asked.

He recognized the voice from their phone call. “Around five. You should probably check with the front desk,” replied Ivan.

The young man stood and stiffly attempted to pull his chair in next to Ivan. He was in his early twenties, slightly built, with collar-length wavy brown hair and a clean-shaven face. One arm was strapped across his chest in a sling.

Ivan reached out, grabbed the chair, and pulled it into his cubicle. He saw pain in the boy’s eyes. It was something he’d seen many times before. “You must be Antonio. You can call me Igor.”

“OK, Igor, what did you want to talk about?” Antonio said as he sat.

“I work for an organization with an interest in fostering democracy in Venezuela.”

Antonio lowered his voice to barely a whisper, “Are you CIA?”

He smiled. “No, I'm from a private organization.”

“OK, so what do you want from me?”

“I want to help you in your struggle.”

Antonio snickered. “Didn't the Voluntad tell you? You're too late. The
colectivo
has shut the
Movimiento
down. They killed a politician that supported us and raped my girlfriend.” He made to leave.

Ivan reached across and held his good arm. “And that makes you want to give up? Don't you want justice? Don't you want to fight back?”

The student slumped back in the chair. “What can you do to help?”

“I can help with security and intel. I can help you against your enemies.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Do you need cash? I can supply funding.”

Antonio's eyes narrowed. “What do you really want?”

“You're a smart man. I need eyes and ears on the ground. I need to know if there are any other foreigners working with the anti-government movement.”

“I have friends who may have met some Americans. You might have to pay them for information, but I will help you for free.”

“Whatever works for you.”

“But, I want you to find someone for me.”

“Who?”

He reached inside his backpack and pulled out a sketchbook. He opened to a picture and placed it on the desk. “I want you to find me the man with this tattoo. He was one of the
colectivo
who attacked us.” The hand drawn sketch was that of a dragon clutching a trident.

***

ATLANTIC OCEAN

The
twin-engine
Ocean Sentry
Coast Guard surveillance aircraft was cruising at 20,000 feet as it flew south along the eastern seaboard. Based in Cape Cod, the aircraft had been on a routine patrol when it was vectored to search for a vessel of interest.

“We've got a contact twenty five nautical miles out, south, south east,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Harley Neilson reported over the intercom. As the co-pilot of the aircraft he was watching the radar surveillance screen in front of him.

Lieutenant Frank Hadaway, the aircraft captain glanced across at the scope. “What about the AIS?” he said, referring to the transponder that all ocean-going vessels were required to carry. Each Ocean Sentry had direction finding equipment capable of locating the beacon.

“No reading.”

“Could be our ship. Let's go in and check.” He banked the aircraft bringing them on to a track that would take them within a few miles of the contact.

“Who the hell steals a 33 million dollar boat?” said Neilson as they leveled out.

“Someone with bigger balls than me.” The captain laughed. “Was there any extra info in the report?”

Neilson glanced down at the notes he had made on the pad strapped to the thigh of his flight suit. “Nope, US flagged ship
Nemesis
departed New York, heading south. Wallypower 118 class vessel stolen 0500 hours this morning.”

“Yeah, I saw a show on Discovery. That beast is capable of hitting 75 knots, it's powered by three turbines. Hell, it's got more horsepower than we do.”

“Well she's not traveling that fast at the moment.” He glanced at his watch. “It's 1245 now which means she's been underway for nearly seven hours.” He checked the distance from New York. “By my calcs she's only doing about twenty.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. When they were five nautical miles out from the target Neilson switched on the Electro Optical and Infrared search camera located under the nose of the aircraft. Using a joystick next to the screen he panned the camera, searching for the contact. “Hello my pretty.” He centered the screen on a black shape trailing wake and zoomed in. A low sleek vessel filled the screen. “Thar she blows.”

“You sure that's her?”

“No doubt about it. Look at those lines, she’s one seriously sexy boat.”

“Take a photo you weirdo.”

“Oh it's already in the spank bank. You want me to report it in?”

“Yeah, I'll hold off here so we don't spook them.”

Neilson thumbed the radio transmit button. “Cape Cod, this is Charlie Golf 4583, over.”

“Charlie Golf 4583 send, over.”

“We've located the
Nemesis
.” Neilson read out the lat-long from the camera feed. “She’s heading south at a speed of twenty knots.”

There was a moment’s silence before Cape Cod responded. “Acknowledged, Charlie Golf 4583. You are to remain on station, shadow, and report
Nemesis's
position every thirty minutes. Charlie Golf 7040 will replace you in three hours.”

“Roger, Charlie Golf 4583, out.”

The captain tapped his finger on the screen. “We're in for some rough weather. Wouldn't want to be onboard that sexy cruise of yours.”

Neilson shook his head. “You kidding? She loves it rough.”

***

GES FACILITY, VIRGINIA

Howard
clapped his hands and threw both arms in the air. “Boom, we've got a hit.” He was sitting at his desk in the front row of the GES SCIF in Virginia. “A Coastguard bird has located her thirty-five nautical miles off Delaware bay. She's heading south at a speed of twenty knots.” He plotted the location on the battle tracker screen.

Pershing was standing at the back of the room dressed in slacks, a golf shirt, and a floppy broad-brim hat. He was about to deploy to Brazil. “OK good, we've got a location, now we need intercept options.”

“Can't we leave this to the Coast Guard?” asked Howard.

“Negative, they can’t be trusted.”

“Sir,” one of the GES staff called out from his terminal. “We've got a vetted maritime services provider based in Charleston, South Carolina. We’ve used them before, they’re called MAROPS.”

“Get me the number.”

Pershing waited at the analyst’s shoulder, grabbed the note with the number, and strode back to his office.

Why is this boat so important wondered Howard as he turned back to his terminal. The intelligence team had dropped all work on Objective Yankee to locate it. Pershing had given them nothing other than the boat’s registration and known movements. That annoyed him. If it was linked to the operation then he should have all of the information. He had already worked out the owner was a MVI director but was not privy to any further details.

Pershing reappeared a moment later with his bag slung over one shoulder. “Howard, Charles King will be arriving in a few hours to personally oversee the operation. Till then I want you to keep the team focused on Objectives Red Sox and Yankee.”

“Dude, what about the boat?”

“Keep an eye on it. If anything changes give me a call.”

“That all?”

“Yeah, our priority is locating the terrorists. Hell, that's what the CIA are paying us for.” He turned and made for the door.

Howard waited till Pershing had left the SCIF then turned to the other analysts. “OK, team.” The room went quiet. “We've got the boat under control now so let’s re-focus on Objective Red Sox down in Brazil. We've got a general location but I want fidelity. Mr. Pershing hits the ground in twelve hours. We've got till then to come up with the goods.” He sat back in his chair and reached for the can of energy drink on his desk. It was empty. He rose and waddled from his desk to the door, swiped his pass, and entered the reception area. Rather than visit the kitchenette he grabbed his phone from its cubbyhole. He checked the screen. He had three missed calls from a number he didn't recognize as well as a text message.

Call me - Larkin

Larkin? The only Larkin he knew was Thomas Larkin, the CIA director responsible for outsourcing contracts. He bummed a cigarette from the guard behind the desk and walked out of the bunker. As he reached the perimeter fence he saw Pershing driving away in one of the buggies. He watched him disappear then dialed the missed number.

It connected after one ring. “Larkin. Speak.”

Howard was caught off guard and bumbled his way through an introduction.

“Listen Terrance, before we get started, I want you to know I've pulled your file. I've also spoken to your boss, Everest. Now that man truly is an uninspiring gentleman.”

“OK.”

“I can see real potential in you. You've got what others don't have, smarts. Most CIA employees are ladder-climbing assclowns. Those people don't find their way into my directorate. Now, you're probably wondering why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Ah, yes sir.”

“I'll cut to the chase. It's about GES. You're currently working for them?”

“Yes sir, I'm working the Mexico terrorist attack.”

Larkin grunted. “Is that what they're calling it. Between you and me, Terry, I've got serious doubts about GES. My gut feeling is they're neck deep in activities that are diametrically opposed to the CIA’s interests and… I want you to find out what they are.”

Howard swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“You do well, son, and you'll soon realize working for me is extremely beneficial to your career.” The call terminated.

He slid the phone back in his pocket and lit the cigarette as he contemplated what just happened. He knew Larkin was in charge of the contractors the CIA used for security and basic intelligence work. As far as manpower went he was only a small player. However, when it came to budget, well, he controlled close to a third of the CIA's money and that was real power. Howard finished his cigarette, dropped the butt and ground it into the grass with his shoe.