indulged in cocaine in the
times when his survival was dependent on a sharp, focused mind.
When Daniel
first approached him for Deep Sting, Pablo had no idea that it could possibly go
on this long. He’d anticipated spending a year or two undercover, and then collecting
the money Daniel promised. But every year, when he was ready to come out, they
pressed him and pushed him to stay on. After four years, when he thought he
could take no more, and the stress and burden became too much, the black
American from the DEA promised him American citizenship and a brand new life.
All he had to do was continue a little while longer.
Last time Pablo
saw Daniel in person, four months ago, the ANIC case officer called him a
national hero, but the days were long past when Daniel could simply talk him
up, boost his spirits and keep his mind centered, remind him that he was simply
a soldier on a mission. Pablo didn’t feel anything like a hero or a soldier,
and he no longer believed a word of Daniel’s bullshit. He cared less and less
about the mission. He’d considered so many times cutting off all contact and
ties with Daniel, to make his role of deserter turned FARC officer a reality in
the interests of ensuring his personal survival.
Pablo checked in
at the front desk at the Trump Ocean Club, where he always stayed when he was
in Panama. Key card in hand, he carried his own luggage and proceeded directly
to his room on the thirty-fourth floor. It was a luxury suite, with full
amenities. The Secretariat could afford it. FARC was one of the world’s richest
terrorist groups in the world, earning its income, $500 million annually, from
the drug trade, kidnappings and ransom, mercenary work for groups in
neighboring countries, and enforcing taxes on the drug cartels and mining and
gas companies.
Pablo powered up
his laptop and connected to the Internet.
Unknown to
anyone, even Emilio Reyes, Pablo had acquired the passwords from Reyes’
personal files to the assorted shared e-mail accounts used by senior members of
the Secretariat and the Central High Command to communicate amongst themselves
and with third parties. A shared e-mail account served as a virtual dead drop,
where multiple parties knew the password and left messages saved in the draft
folders. Nothing was transmitted, so the messages were completely secure from
NSA eavesdropping.
FARC’s senior
commanders were hidden in the jungle and often relayed messages by human
courier or spoke via satellite phone, but Pablo knew that Andrés Flores often
used the virtual dead drop to communicate with Durante, his contact in
Venezuela’s intelligence agency.
Even in the
remotest stretches of the jungle, far from civilization and cities, it was
still possible to connect to the Internet. The easiest way is to tether a
Bluetooth-enabled cell phone to a laptop. This method, however, wasn’t secure
and had led the army to more than one terrorist camp. It was best to make the
connection near villages and hamlets where Internet and cell phone traffic,
though sporadic, wasn’t inherently suspicious. Many villages even had wireless
broadband base stations, capable of powering multiple devices and becoming
Internet hubs for roaming FARC commanders, and the Venezuelans had recently
supplied FARC with the equipment to establish encrypted connections.
There were several
new messages saved in the drafts folder, dated after the Colombian raid in
Venezuela. Reading the first message from Andrés Flores, Pablo’s mind became
focused. This looked like it could be significant, something that Daniel needed
to know about right away. Pablo thought it could even be his ticket out of here
to US citizenship, $100,000, and a new identity.
He continued
reading, clicking onto the response from the Venezuelan, and then the final
message from Flores, confirming and finalizing the proposal.
It made little
sense to Pablo. He thought there was no way the Central High Command or the
Secretariat would
times when his survival was dependent on a sharp, focused mind.
When Daniel
first approached him for Deep Sting, Pablo had no idea that it could possibly go
on this long. He’d anticipated spending a year or two undercover, and then collecting
the money Daniel promised. But every year, when he was ready to come out, they
pressed him and pushed him to stay on. After four years, when he thought he
could take no more, and the stress and burden became too much, the black
American from the DEA promised him American citizenship and a brand new life.
All he had to do was continue a little while longer.
Last time Pablo
saw Daniel in person, four months ago, the ANIC case officer called him a
national hero, but the days were long past when Daniel could simply talk him
up, boost his spirits and keep his mind centered, remind him that he was simply
a soldier on a mission. Pablo didn’t feel anything like a hero or a soldier,
and he no longer believed a word of Daniel’s bullshit. He cared less and less
about the mission. He’d considered so many times cutting off all contact and
ties with Daniel, to make his role of deserter turned FARC officer a reality in
the interests of ensuring his personal survival.
Pablo checked in
at the front desk at the Trump Ocean Club, where he always stayed when he was
in Panama. Key card in hand, he carried his own luggage and proceeded directly
to his room on the thirty-fourth floor. It was a luxury suite, with full
amenities. The Secretariat could afford it. FARC was one of the world’s richest
terrorist groups in the world, earning its income, $500 million annually, from
the drug trade, kidnappings and ransom, mercenary work for groups in
neighboring countries, and enforcing taxes on the drug cartels and mining and
gas companies.
Pablo powered up
his laptop and connected to the Internet.
Unknown to
anyone, even Emilio Reyes, Pablo had acquired the passwords from Reyes’
personal files to the assorted shared e-mail accounts used by senior members of
the Secretariat and the Central High Command to communicate amongst themselves
and with third parties. A shared e-mail account served as a virtual dead drop,
where multiple parties knew the password and left messages saved in the draft
folders. Nothing was transmitted, so the messages were completely secure from
NSA eavesdropping.
FARC’s senior
commanders were hidden in the jungle and often relayed messages by human
courier or spoke via satellite phone, but Pablo knew that Andrés Flores often
used the virtual dead drop to communicate with Durante, his contact in
Venezuela’s intelligence agency.
Even in the
remotest stretches of the jungle, far from civilization and cities, it was
still possible to connect to the Internet. The easiest way is to tether a
Bluetooth-enabled cell phone to a laptop. This method, however, wasn’t secure
and had led the army to more than one terrorist camp. It was best to make the
connection near villages and hamlets where Internet and cell phone traffic,
though sporadic, wasn’t inherently suspicious. Many villages even had wireless
broadband base stations, capable of powering multiple devices and becoming
Internet hubs for roaming FARC commanders, and the Venezuelans had recently
supplied FARC with the equipment to establish encrypted connections.
There were several
new messages saved in the drafts folder, dated after the Colombian raid in
Venezuela. Reading the first message from Andrés Flores, Pablo’s mind became
focused. This looked like it could be significant, something that Daniel needed
to know about right away. Pablo thought it could even be his ticket out of here
to US citizenship, $100,000, and a new identity.
He continued
reading, clicking onto the response from the Venezuelan, and then the final
message from Flores, confirming and finalizing the proposal.
It made little
sense to Pablo. He thought there was no way the Central High Command or the
Secretariat would
Similar Books
