Biscotti left the confessional quietly and walked out of the rapidly filling cathedral into the evening air. Taking a few breaths, he made his way back to his car and then to the embassy grounds, careful not to speed or do anything out of the ordinary. In his training he had once been told that any member of the diplomatic staff might be singled out to pass along information, but he had never expected it from a Catholic priest. Upon arrival at the embassy, he made his way to his office in the communications section. There was an isolated computer there with all the bells and whistles. He called in the local station agent and checked the drive for viruses while he waited.
Rick Lozier had been up for days trying to get information to help out with the hostage situation. When he came into the communications section he looked bone tired. Biscotti waved him over and he pulled up a chair next to him. “What’ya got Steven?”
Biscotti went over what had happened at the confessional. With every word, Lozier sat up a little straighter. “Let’s see what we have then,” Lozier said turning to the screen.
Biscotti opened the drive to see twenty jpeg images and a Word document. “Open the document first,” Lozier said.
The only thing was a latitude and longitude, and a note saying all photos taken from this point. “The camera was looking to the east,” it said.
Opening the first photo, the image showed the courtyard with the people dancing beneath the obelisk with what looked like a high priest facing toward it with his hands raised. The second showed the old man being led out to be tied to the post. The third showed the old man struggling against the ropes and the high priest facing him.
Lozier suddenly sat up. “My God! That’s one of our hostages,” he gasped.
Biscotti was pointing to the other figure. “Isn’t that Parente?”
Lozier got closer to the screen. “Holy shit,” he said in astonishment. “Open more.”
The next photo showed Parente holding up the black dagger. The next saw it embedded deep into Mitchell’s chest, still clasped in Parente’s hands. It was the photo of Parente holding up Mitchell’s still beating heart that infuriated Lozier. “That son of a bitch. He’s a goddamned murderer. I want you to make copies of these and send them on a secure line to Langley immediately. I know some people who want to see these pictures.”
“Shall I show them to the Ambassador?” asked Biscotti.
“No. As of now, these are the property of the CIA and have a classification far above his level. I’m going to ask you to keep this all to yourself. You say a priest took these?”
“Yes, he was born in America and takes a lot of nature photos,” said Biscotti.
Lozier chuckled. “Well, after this me may just get a medal. Now show me the rest of these images.”
The rest of the photos were opened rapidly. Again, the details were damning. They proceeded until few were left in the compound. The last one showed something that really got Lozier hopping. It was the sight of a small lighted compound with a white panel truck sitting under the branches of a large tree.
Chapter 9
Deployment
It only took ten minutes to transmit the images via a secure satellite link to the CIA in Langley, Virginia, and for them to be enhanced, printed and on the Director’s desk. During that time, Lozier had called personally and relayed the information. Jeff Dunning immediately picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. Two voices later and he was talking to the President.
“Boss, I know where they are.”
The President nearly jumped out of his chair. “Jeff, what have you got?”
“The whole thing, Mister President. A latitude and longitude and photos. But you’re not going to like the worst part.”
The President sat back down. “Okay, give me the bad news.”
Dunning took a breath. “Sir, I also have one of our hostages being massacred in some sort of ceremony.”
“What do you mean massacred?”
“I mean someone plunging a knife into his chest,” he paused a second, “and cutting out his heart.”
“Oh my God,” gasped O’Bannon on the other side. “Who was it?”
“It looks like Jim Mitchell. The photos are quite clear and detailed. It also shows the man who killed him. It was President Parente.”
Now even O’Bannon was angry, but he held it back while collecting his thoughts. “Jim, make copies of those photos and come to my office. I’m calling an emergency meeting with you, the FBI, State and the Joint Chiefs. Be here in an hour.”
“Yes Mister President,” said Dunning as the line went dead.
O’Bannon hung up the phone and looked down at the desk. How could this be happening? The man was murdering the hostages. That meant time was extremely limited. He reached over and hit the intercom. Beverly, get hold of the FBI, State, and the Joint Chiefs and tell them I want them here in one hour. Include General Richardson and Admiral Hammond in that meeting if they are available. Can you arrange some coffee and a few snacks? This may be a long meeting,” he said calmly.
“Yes, Mister President,” came the reply.
“Thanks Beverly. And call the Chief of Staff to my office.”
“Yes sir.”
It only took a minute before the door opened and Jim Butler stepped into the room. He could tell by the look on the President’s face that something was happening. “Bev said you were on fire. Who do I shoot?” Butler said in a joking manner.
The President grinned slightly. “Hammond was right. Damned if I know how he does it, but Hammond was right. We’ve found the hostages. They’re in Venezuela.
“Damn! Now we can get somewhere,” Butler said rubbing his hands together. “That explains the meeting Bev mentioned. Are they all safe?”
The President looked more somber and shook his head. “Dunning says he has photos a Parente killing one of our people. He’s coming over with them now.”
Butler got a stunned look. “It wasn’t Patricia was it?”
Again, the President shook his head. “No, it was Jim Mitchell. Dunning said it was some sort of ceremony.”
Butler got a stern look. “You know what this means. It means Parente is planning on killing all of them. We need to get hot on this. At least the team is ready. Just a day to brief them and they will be on their way. Is Claire on her way to this meeting?”
O’Bannon nodded. “She and Hammond both.”
Butler shook his head. “No, Roger is on his way from Panama. He’s stopping at Davis Monthan to talk to the General there. He told me how he plans on getting those people back. It’s tricky, but should work. At least they won’t have to walk home.”
“I hope you’re right. We’re sticking our necks way out on this one. It means everything has to go in our favor. If it doesn’t, there will be a whole lot of dead people and a new president in the next 30 days.”
Roger Hammond walked into General Brinson’s office and extended his hand. “Richard, how are you? Thanks for waiting up,” Hammond said. It was nine in the evening and Brinson had waited for Hammond’s plane to come in.
General Richard Brinson came around his desk to greet his friend. “Not bad Roger. How was the flight?” Brinson had been in charge of the 309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group (AMARG), better known as the “Boneyard,” at the start of the last war. After one meeting with Roger Hammond he was flying high bringing all his old warbirds back to life. That alone had earned him his star and command of Davis Monthan Air Force Base. They had become good friends.
“I’m getting too old for all this flying. Give me something that floats,” Hammond joked. “Did you think about what I mentioned in my call?”