passed the rare downtime, which he sought to avoid at all
costs, thinking and drinking.
At least he’d held himself back tonight. It wasn’t
uncommon for him to drink himself into a stupor, and then revisit the faces of
the dead, those he’d failed, a dozen men and women like Pablo Muňoz,
compromised and tortured by FARC or the cartels, or even his own son, another
victim of Daniel’s work. The demons were always close, but at least tonight he
had managed to keep them from coming too near to the surface.
As his thumb worked the touch screen on the phone, he noted
the time. He thought, without animosity or resentment, that his wife was
presently fucking one of her colleagues from the National University of
Colombia, where she taught biology. Once, coming home early from a trip to
Ecuador, he’d walked in on them in his bed. He hadn’t been angry or even
surprised, just disappointed, and embarrassed for himself, but he understood
and came to terms with it. Now, he didn’t mind what she did as long as he
didn’t have to see or hear about it. Nothing had been the same between them
since the day, three years ago, when their son, Julian, aged twenty,
asphyxiated himself. His son suffered severe depression, enduring a
self-imposed hell, and Daniel had never known that anything was wrong. Daniel
had been in Washington when he heard the news, and since then he’d taken every
opportunity to distance himself from home, but he understood his wife’s needs
for love, affection, and physical contact.
Daniel took a few seconds to focus his eyes. His
vision was still blurry from the alcohol intake, and he already felt a headache
and dried, strained eyes from the dehydration, but once he read the message,
his mind became suddenly sober. A tight knot wrenched his gut.
___
At
1:07AM, the atmosphere in the conference room was grim, and the fluorescent
lighting excessively bright. Avery, who was awakened and summoned just twenty
minutes earlier by an unapologetic Culler, wore sweat pants, a tank top, and a
pair of loose, untied Timberlands, apparently the only one to have not bothered
putting half an effort into getting dressed. Coarse black stubble shadowed his
face.
“Attempts to contact Canastilla have so far been unsuccessful,”
Daniel said, concluding the briefing. “However, tracking software indicates
that his ANIC-supplied cell phone is turned on and remains stationary within
the vicinity of the Trump Ocean Club in Panama City. It hasn’t moved in over
six hours, and not since he sent his last message.”
“He could be dead already,” Culler noted.
“Then I’ll snoop around and see what I can find,”
Avery said. He yawned. “If Canastilla’s in danger, then we need to move now. Work
out my travel arrangements and cover for action. I want a sanitized weapon,
preferably a Glock, waiting for me in Panama City.”
Avery started to get up. He hoped to be in the air
within the next couple hours. At least he’d be able to sleep on the flight.
“Wait,” Daniel said, and Avery froze. “There’s
something else we need to take into consideration. In his message, Canastilla
requested that we specifically send you.”
“Me?”
“Not you personally, but he used your codename. He
asked for Carnivore.”
Avery slumped back into his chair.
“What? How the hell is that possible?” Culler said. “He’s
no reason to even know that name.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Daniel said. “I’m the
only one from ANIC who knows your man’s codename, and I was only informed of it
last week, before Operation Phoenix. I’ve spoken to no one about it.”
“Okay,” Culler said, trying to control his temper,
“but how many people have access to the Phoenix after-action briefs and mission
analysis reports? How many transmissions were made during the mission
containing Carnivore’s codename?”
“Carnivore was not identified by name in the reports
disseminated throughout my government. His name
costs, thinking and drinking.
At least he’d held himself back tonight. It wasn’t
uncommon for him to drink himself into a stupor, and then revisit the faces of
the dead, those he’d failed, a dozen men and women like Pablo Muňoz,
compromised and tortured by FARC or the cartels, or even his own son, another
victim of Daniel’s work. The demons were always close, but at least tonight he
had managed to keep them from coming too near to the surface.
As his thumb worked the touch screen on the phone, he noted
the time. He thought, without animosity or resentment, that his wife was
presently fucking one of her colleagues from the National University of
Colombia, where she taught biology. Once, coming home early from a trip to
Ecuador, he’d walked in on them in his bed. He hadn’t been angry or even
surprised, just disappointed, and embarrassed for himself, but he understood
and came to terms with it. Now, he didn’t mind what she did as long as he
didn’t have to see or hear about it. Nothing had been the same between them
since the day, three years ago, when their son, Julian, aged twenty,
asphyxiated himself. His son suffered severe depression, enduring a
self-imposed hell, and Daniel had never known that anything was wrong. Daniel
had been in Washington when he heard the news, and since then he’d taken every
opportunity to distance himself from home, but he understood his wife’s needs
for love, affection, and physical contact.
Daniel took a few seconds to focus his eyes. His
vision was still blurry from the alcohol intake, and he already felt a headache
and dried, strained eyes from the dehydration, but once he read the message,
his mind became suddenly sober. A tight knot wrenched his gut.
___
At
1:07AM, the atmosphere in the conference room was grim, and the fluorescent
lighting excessively bright. Avery, who was awakened and summoned just twenty
minutes earlier by an unapologetic Culler, wore sweat pants, a tank top, and a
pair of loose, untied Timberlands, apparently the only one to have not bothered
putting half an effort into getting dressed. Coarse black stubble shadowed his
face.
“Attempts to contact Canastilla have so far been unsuccessful,”
Daniel said, concluding the briefing. “However, tracking software indicates
that his ANIC-supplied cell phone is turned on and remains stationary within
the vicinity of the Trump Ocean Club in Panama City. It hasn’t moved in over
six hours, and not since he sent his last message.”
“He could be dead already,” Culler noted.
“Then I’ll snoop around and see what I can find,”
Avery said. He yawned. “If Canastilla’s in danger, then we need to move now. Work
out my travel arrangements and cover for action. I want a sanitized weapon,
preferably a Glock, waiting for me in Panama City.”
Avery started to get up. He hoped to be in the air
within the next couple hours. At least he’d be able to sleep on the flight.
“Wait,” Daniel said, and Avery froze. “There’s
something else we need to take into consideration. In his message, Canastilla
requested that we specifically send you.”
“Me?”
“Not you personally, but he used your codename. He
asked for Carnivore.”
Avery slumped back into his chair.
“What? How the hell is that possible?” Culler said. “He’s
no reason to even know that name.”
“I don’t understand it either,” Daniel said. “I’m the
only one from ANIC who knows your man’s codename, and I was only informed of it
last week, before Operation Phoenix. I’ve spoken to no one about it.”
“Okay,” Culler said, trying to control his temper,
“but how many people have access to the Phoenix after-action briefs and mission
analysis reports? How many transmissions were made during the mission
containing Carnivore’s codename?”
“Carnivore was not identified by name in the reports
disseminated throughout my government. His name
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