He’d suspected he was on an island. He just hadn’t realized how small it was.
Doesn’t matter, he told himself. You’ve still got to try.
He looked at the jungle for another few seconds, then lowered himself over the edge of the wall and started climbing down.
CHAPTER 43
Puerto Rico
It was after midnight by the time they landed in Puerto Rico. Earlier, while waiting for their connecting flight in Mexico City, Quinn had made a call to an associate living on the US territory. As arranged, Veronique Lucas was waiting for them when they exited the terminal.
“This way,” she said, leading them across a suspension bridge to a Suburban waiting in the nearby parking structure.
Orlando, in the backseat with Daeng, broke out her laptop as they drove away from the airport, and set to work on some items she and Quinn had discussed on the flight. Since most of their trip had been over water, her ability to log on midair had been greatly reduced.
Quinn was sitting up front next to Veronique. “Any problems pulling things together?” he asked.
“Had to sub a few items, but think you’ll be happy. Otherwise I took care of everything you wanted.”
“Thanks, Vee.”
“Is this something you need an extra hand on? If so, I’ve got some time.”
“I think we’re good. But if that changes, I’ll let you know.”
They drove through the sleeping city of San Juan, then west along the northern coast of the island. Quinn took advantage of the time to work his way through the Romero file. After a while he heard Orlando close her laptop. The look she gave him when he glanced back said she’d learned something she needed to tell him, but they both knew it was best not to say anything in front of Veronique. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust her. It was just always better to keep the information contained.
After forty minutes, Veronique turned down a two-lane road, followed it for a couple of miles, then pulled into the parking area for a small, private airfield. There was no terminal or control tower, just a runway with the appropriate strips of lighting for night operations, a cemented area for planes to park, and a windsock.
Tonight, there was also a Gulfstream G500 jet sitting there, ready and waiting.
The first thing Quinn did when they got out was to pull Orlando to the side. “Change of destination?”
“No,” she said.
“All right. Give me the rest once we’re settled.”
Veronique led them toward the plane.
“Crew?” Quinn asked.
“Two,” she told him. “Gogan’s the pilot; Unger, co. I’ve used them a lot. They’ll do what you need and not ask questions. You’ll be happy.”
Veronique’s word was good enough for Quinn. She’d always been buttoned up, and he knew she wouldn’t tolerate underperformers.
The intros were brief. Once done, Veronique held out her hand.
“I owe you a martini,” Quinn said as they shook.
“Just one?”
“Maybe two.”
She smiled. “Good luck.” She said goodbye to the others, turned, and headed back to her car.
While Orlando, Daeng, and Liz were strapping in, Quinn told Gogan where he wanted to go, then joined his team in the back.
As soon as the wheels left the ground, Orlando said, “Javier Romero was a very powerful man in Isla de Cervantes. It’s not a large place, but its strategic location has meant a lot of money flowing in. Officially, the island is neutral, but unofficially the US Navy has used it for years as an alternate port when needed. Romero’s family has owned most of the harbor since the 1800s. That was all fine and good when he stuck to business.”
“But he didn’t,” Quinn said.
“No.”
“Let me guess. Politics.”
“Right on one. And you want to guess who he chose for a mentor?”
“Surprise me.”
“Hugo Chavez.”
“Great,” Quinn said, meaning anything but.
Chavez was the egomaniacal, anti-anything-that-didn’t-promote-him leader of Venezuela. A man who had basically made himself president for life despite the occasional election, and who relished seeing others follow in his footsteps, as long as they remembered he was the one giving them the hand up.
“At Chavez’s urging, Romero decided to make a run for president. Some of the polls even had him comfortably ahead. How reliable they were, who knows? But apparently just the thought of him winning was something that couldn’t be tolerated.”
“Hence the termination order. CIA?”
“Not exactly, though I’m sure our intelligence community helped guide the decision.”
“Who, then?”
“Basically from what I can tell, an unofficial subcommittee of the Organization of American States.”
The OAS was made up of representatives from North America, South America, and the Caribbean. Their stated mission was one of supporting other member nations in areas such as human rights and democracy. Assassination, Quinn was sure, wasn’t on their official list of good deeds.
“So they’re the ones who hired Peter?” he asked.
“That’s what it looks like.” She hesitated, like there was something more.
“What is it?” he prodded.
“I, um, played a hunch. I’m not sure if it means anything, but the body on Nate’s last job-Senator Lopez-he was serving in the Mexican delegation to the OAS four years ago.”
Quinn felt a familiar burn at the base of his neck. “As what?”
“Special envoy for the president of Mexico.”
“Isn’t that what the Mexican representative to the OAS is supposed to be?”
“One would assume.”
“What were Lopez’s duties?”
“The few places I was able to check had no information. I’ve put out some discreet feelers, so maybe something will come back. But I don’t think it matters.”
“Why not?”
“When I found out about Lopez’s tie to the OAS, I checked around to see if there were any other OAS or former OAS personnel missing or recently dead. I focused on people who would have access to the highest levels of their government.” She paused. “I found three others for sure, all whose bodies have turned up in the last three weeks-a former ambassador in Chile, an economics expert in Brazil, and member of the Canadian parliament. There could be more, but it seemed unnecessary to keep searching.”
If Orlando’s theory was right, each was a member of a secret council of death who passed judgment on Romero, and then hired the Office to carry out the termination. That in and of itself was not surprising. They wouldn’t have been any different than the clients on most of the other jobs Quinn had worked on over the years, but the fact that members of that council were now being eliminated was unusual. Especially when you took into account the kidnappings-or worse-of the people they’d hired.
“Any idea who’s behind it?” he asked. “Could it be some of Romero’s former colleagues carrying out revenge on those responsible for their friend’s death?”
“Well, there’s no actual proof Romero did die.”
Quinn stared at her, wide-eyed. “Wait. What?”
“He was shot and severely injured, but he wasn’t killed outright.”
“Are you saying he’s still alive?”
“I’m saying I don’t know for sure. There were reports for a while about surgeries and hospital vigils. Then the election went on without him, and eventually he was no longer in the news.”
Quinn leaned back in his chair. “Peter’s notation in the file. The complication.” Another thought clicked in his mind. “Curson. He would have been the shooter.”