“You know who I am?”
“Of course I do.” The young man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
When the vendor reached into his waist pack, Juan saw a forearm covered with expensive tattoos. A street vendor could never afford something like that. It looked like gang ink.
“I think I’ll pass on the water. Thank you, though.”
The man’s smile widened. “But I insist.”
Before Juan could roll the window up, the man pulled an odd-looking brick of tan clay from his waist pack.
What the hell are those wires? Juan thought.
The man pressed something attached to the brick.
Then, as casually as throwing birdseed, the guy tossed the brick through the open window and sped away.
That’s when Juan saw the batteries.
“Shit! It’s a bomb!”
His aide reacted quickly but fumbled with his seat belt.
“Throw it out the door! Hurry!”
Five seconds after the device entered the limo, it detonated.
Juan’s mind couldn’t register the event. He had a vague sense of searing heat and impossible pressure.
Two pounds of plastic explosive tore him apart, vaporizing most of his flesh.
In a millionth of a second, the warm air entering the limousine reversed its course.
The explosion ripped through the sheet-metal floor and careened off the concrete.
As if suspended by an invisible cable, the limo lifted off the road. Before it came back down, fire erupted from every window, including the windshield.
Juan’s driver had managed to get his door open, but it was too late. The force of the blast sent his charred body cartwheeling across several lanes of cars.
Tempered glass from hundreds of car windows shredded flesh. Storefronts blew inward, awnings went up in flames, and scorched pedestrians tumbled down the sidewalks.
Ten seconds after the blast, an eerie calmness descended, broken by blaring car alarms, the crackle of flames, and moans of agony.
Bill Stafford knocked on Cantrell’s door before entering. Seeing she wasn’t on the phone, he told her there’d been an explosion in Caracas. “Some kind of car bomb. Local authorities are saying it was a limo.”
“A limo?”
Stafford nodded. “It went off in the middle of a traffic jam.”
“Contact our station chief down there, and see what he knows.”
“I’m on it.”
“Anyone claim responsibility?”
“Not yet.”
“How many?”
“At least several dozen.”
“When was the last major terrorist bombing down there?”
“I’ll find out.”
“Keep me updated.” Cantrell turned on her TV and started channel surfing. Most of the cable networks were covering it. A helicopter shot showed a circle of destruction at least a hundred feet wide. A black smoke column leaned toward the ocean. She picked up her phone and called the director of national intelligence. She had to wait several minutes until he came on the line.
“We’re on it, Rebecca. It’s probably overkill, but I’m going to recommend that Secretary Martinez quietly lock down the embassy there until we sort this out.”
“How many marines do we have guarding it?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll also ask her to increase the number just to be on the safe side. The last thing we need is another Benghazi. I want to be able to tell the president we took immediate action to secure the place.”
“Any official statement from Caracas?”
“Nothing yet… Rebecca, I’ve got to take another call. I’ll get back to you once I hear something.”
She hung up and tapped Nathan’s phone number.
After ten rings, she sent a text.
call me asap
CHAPTER 17
At 8:25 PM, Franco stepped out of his hot tub, toweled himself dry, and strolled toward his house. Compared to his boss, he lived in a modest place, but it still ranked inside the top 1 percent of Managua’s elite homes. The plantation-style villa was surrounded by exotic landscaping, complete with ponds and small waterfalls. He’d paid a small fortune re-creating the old-growth forest that once thrived here. Although his trees were significantly smaller because they’d been grown in a nursery and transplanted to his yard, they were still the correct species. Following the path of flagstone pavers, he glanced toward the lights of Managua below. He didn’t resent civilization; he just didn’t care for it much. He wondered if he could be just as happy living in a remote cabin with no bills to pay, cars to maintain, or telephones to answer.
Answering the phone wasn’t always annoying because he’d just received an intriguing call from his well-paid insider within NNP’s headquarters. Several years ago, she’d installed a sophisticated tickler program designed to alert her to inquiries on specific individuals. He and Macanas were two of the names she’d linked to her program. The woman was highly skilled, and the program she’d written was nothing short of ingenious. Franco knew his way around computers, but this woman’s abilities were downright scary. She’d called to tell him that earlier this morning someone had accessed the NNP database, seeking personal information on his boss and a second person within the same inquiry. That in itself wasn’t overly alarming, what had gotten the technician’s attention was the fact that the IP address associated with the inquiry was a bogus number in Malaysia. It had looked too suspicious to overlook, so she’d called Franco.
The second person within the data stream was none other than Pastor Tobias Delgado.
Franco knew this couldn’t be a coincidence. What were the odds of an inquiry with only those two names occurring at the same time? Hundreds of millions to one? For now, he’d keep this morsel to himself and not share it with Macanas.
He turned the music down and located his prepaid cell phone. The cheap flip phone had been purchased and registered to a wholly owned Paulo Macanas shell company created by a crafty lawyer who’d left no ties back to Macanas or himself. Franco knew he should drive a few kilometers away from his house before using the phone, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he’d used the phone all over Managua. No single cell tower would show more activity than any other one. He wasn’t worried.
He opened the phone, powered it on, and made the call to Santavilla. As always, he let the other end of the line ring once before hanging up. Thirty seconds later, he did the same thing again. It usually took just under two minutes before getting a return call. He began locking the house. Methodically moving from room to room, he closed all the windows and left the interior doors in precise yet random positions, depending on their locations within the house. He used the pattern on the hardwood floors to act as a guide. If anyone entered his house in his absence, they might return the doors to their approximate positions, but they’d never be able to get them back into their precise locations. He had a state-of-the-art security system, but as with any electronically based system, it could be defeated. As he’d learned long ago in kilo training, old-fashioned security methods remained the best, and such methods included his two tactically trained Belgian Malinois. The dogs weren’t big, but they packed plenty of punch. They followed him through the house during his routine, having seen it hundreds of times.
His flip phone rang ninety seconds later. He relayed his instructions to Antonia about thoroughly searching the church. “Call me back within the hour no matter what you find.” He ended the call and looked at his dogs. “Good boys.” Their expressions relaxed.
In the kitchen, he poured himself an iced tea and leaned against the counter. The call from his NNP insider about the dual inquiry required immediate investigation. Perhaps there had been more to the good pastor than met the eye. He settled into his easy chair, looked at his watch, and turned on the TV. He smiled when he found the breaking news in Venezuela.