FIFTY-TWO
El Helicoide prison in central Caracas had originally been designed as a shopping mall, in a time when the Venezuelan government felt shopping malls were more important than prisons. That time had long passed, so the massive three-sided, pyramid-shaped structure had been converted into a detention and interrogation facility, some one hundred thousand square meters in size.
Venezuela had a lot of political prisoners, after all, and the numbers were growing all the time.
On a sweltering-hot morning a car pulled up to the entrance on Nueva Granada, and an attractive blonde with a large Coach purse climbed out. She headed for the outer-perimeter fence on foot and spoke poor Spanish to the guard, but he found it good enough for him to confirm that her name, or at least her alias, was on the day’s visitors list.
He had her step through an X-ray scanner while her purse was placed on a conveyor belt so they could get their own scan.
On the other side of the gate, more guards took her purse over to a table, and the woman strolled over after a quick pat-down.
The contents of the purse were checked carefully, a phone was taken and placed in a small locker, and the woman’s passport and visa were looked over for a moment. A large manila folder was pulled from the purse; it was stuffed full of something, so the guard unfastened and opened it.
He found stacks of twenty-euro notes, wrapped in bundles of one hundred notes each.
The man glanced up at the woman, but almost immediately a guard refastened the folder and placed it back in the purse.
Bribes passed through this security checkpoint all day long.
Zoya Zakharova was welcome here at Helicoide under the alias Tatiana Pankova. She’d been here a few times over the years while working with SVR, and there were still some people in the intelligence circles who owed her favors.
Or at least she thought they did.
She’d find out soon enough if her clout remained, even after her work with Russia’s foreign intelligence service had ended. She was betting that her alias had not been burned in the few months she’d been out.
She wasn’t trying to pass herself off as a current SVR employee—she wouldn’t have been able to pull that off—but rather as a former SVR employee, here to collect on a favor.
And it certainly didn’t hurt that she’d brought a manila envelope full of cash.
Zoya was escorted into the building proper; she walked through the halls to a staircase, since the elevator bank had an Out of Order sign on it, and with her minders she made it up to an office on the fourth floor.
The common areas of the entire building had a shopping mall feel to them, but the anteroom she entered gave off a typical developing-world government-installation vibe. Everything was metal and pressboard, file cabinets looked like they’d last been dusted in the 1980s, and other than a pair of large, cheaply framed photos of Venezuela’s president and some general Zoya didn’t recognize, the paneled walls were unadorned.
Her minders opened a door to a similarly shoddy office, and she went inside. They shut the door behind her, and she stood alone for a moment before she heard the flush of a toilet and then, thankfully, a sink running. Soon a middle-aged man with a big gut entered the room from a small side door. He wore the uniform of the Fuerzas Terrestres, the Venezuelan army, and carried the rank of colonel.
In English he said, “Colonel Hector Salerno, at your service.” The two shook hands, but Zoya felt no warmth from the man.
“Tatiana.” She didn’t bother with a last name, because this man would know it wasn’t real.
“Tatiana,” he repeated. And then, in an almost bored and disinterested voice, he said, “I was told to extend you every courtesy.”
Zoya only nodded curtly. Let’s get on with it, she thought. This man clearly didn’t like that he’d been told to do this woman’s bidding, and for her part, this woman did not give a shit.
Salerno said, “I was also told you wanted us to release one of our prisoners into your custody.” He stepped over to his desk and made a show of looking through some papers. She waited patiently while he pretended to read the name for the first time. “Zachary Hightower. The American.”
Zoya imagined Salerno had thought of nothing else other than Zack Hightower since the day before, when her contact reached out to Salerno with the bribe offer.
Just as nonchalantly, he asked, “What is your interest in the prisoner?”
“I have no interest in him. I’ve been sent on an errand. Doing my job. As are you, Colonel Salerno.”
The older man regarded the comment, seemed to think it over, as if there were a chance he wouldn’t hand over the man. In truth, she knew full well that he was just beginning the process of jockeying for more money.
Zoya had been down this road a time or two.
She said, “The prisoner. How is he?”
“You have concerns about his health?”
“Only in that I would like him to be able to walk under his own power, and talk when necessary.”
The colonel smiled. “It’s not a health spa I’m running.”
Zoya said nothing.
“I am told he is fine. He’s only been here a number of days. Give him a month, maybe, and he’ll be . . . different.” The man smiled.
Zoya opened her purse and put the thick folder on the metal desk. “I’ll take him as is. Now, as far as a holding and handling fee for Mr. Hightower, I am certain you will be pleased with this generous offer.”
Salerno did not touch it at first. Instead he winked at her. “I don’t accept rubles.”
“Then it’s good I brought euros. Fifty thousand.”
He made a face as if he had been insulted by her offer. “One hundred,” he countered.
Without hesitation, Zoya said, “Forty-five thousand.”
“What?”
“Forty thousand. I’m on a mission for someone else, I don’t care if you say yes or no.”
“Wait. Wait! Okay! Make it fifty again, and I agree.”
The woman shook her head. “Forty. I leave with him now and you get the money. I leave without him and you don’t.” The two of them stared at each other for a time, and then Salerno looked away, down at the folder, and he opened it.
Counting the money, he found exactly forty thousand euros. “How did you know—”
The woman interrupted. “I need to get him on a plane to Moscow by noon. May I have him delivered to exit processing? I can bring my car directly to the tunnel if you will ask your security officer to allow my entrance.”
Salerno raised an eyebrow. “You know our system, and you know the layout of our facility. Interesting. Obviously, you’ve been here before.”
“And I’ll probably be here again, Colonel. Until that time, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
She shook his hand; again there was no warmth, but Salerno was, at least, pleased with himself for scoring the big payday for some American, one whose own nation hadn’t even asked about him.
Forty-five minutes later Zoya stood at the open back door of her Toyota Camry looking down a long, dark tunnel. A few guards stood around; Salerno hadn’t left his office but he’d had one of his people bring her vehicle down from the parking garage while two more escorted her through the warren of hallways and staircases to make her way here.
She’d waited only a few minutes when she heard a heavy metal door clang, and then the rattling of chains, somewhere deep in the tunnel. Soon she saw Zack, shuffling along, with a pair of guards flanking him. He wore a light blue jumpsuit and his blond hair was disheveled but, Zoya noticed, he moved along at a strong pace.
As he got closer she noticed that his eyes were downcast, his face had no discernible expression, and, as near as she could tell, he hadn’t even looked up to see her.
At the Toyota his shackles were removed, he was shoved closer to her, and still he stared down to the ground.
Zoya snapped her fingers in the man’s face; he looked up at her and displayed no recognition.
“Hey!” she said. “Can you speak?”
After several seconds he said, “You won’t get me to talk, either.”
Only now did Zoya realize what was going on. She wore a blond wig, makeup that made her eyes look larger and her face appear older than it was.
He didn’t recognize her.
She slapped him hard across the face, stunning him, and he didn’t speak again.
One of the guards said something about the prisoner being “loco,” and Zoya led him to the front passenger seat.
Minutes later the two of them were on the open road. They were clear of the prison gates, and yet the silence remained.
“You won’t get me to talk,” Hightower said again.
Zoya turned to him. In English, with no Russian accent now, she said, “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Usually I can’t get you to shut up.”
Zack cocked his head, and his eyes cleared in an instant. “Anthem? I’ll be damned.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” She kept driving. “Why the slap back there? That shit hurt.”
“Had to sell it, didn’t I?”
After a long pause, Zack laughed. “Nah. You wanted to get a free lick in, didn’t you?”
“You won’t get me to talk, either.”
They drove through the thick traffic. Zack squinted in the sunshine, the first he’d seen in days.
“How did you pull this off?”
“When I was with SVR I worked Caracas for a short time. Made contacts. One of those contacts is now in charge of SEBIN. I reached out to him; he was under the impression I was still affiliated with Russian black ops, contractually, anyway. Probably because I told him I was still affiliated with Russian black ops. I also gave him a bribe. My contact in SEBIN put the fear of the Lord into the warden, but I had to pay him just now, as well, to make sure it all went smoothly.”
“Where’d you get all that money?”
She turned to Zack. “The money came from Hanley.”
“Did you just get me in trouble?”
“I just got you out of trouble. Remember?”
“How much did Hanley have to pay?”
“One hundred thousand euros.”
“That’s it? Stingy bastard.”
“Actually, Matt Hanley didn’t offer a cent. I used his money without his knowledge.”
“Figures. Well, I owe you.” He reclined his seatback, closed his eyes. “Can’t wait to be outta here. Gonna take a few days on my back porch with a beer in my hand and my feet up.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to Berlin. Now.”
Zack raised his seat again slowly. “What the hell’s in Berlin?”
“Court, and he’s got his hands full.”
“He’s in the field? I thought he was out of commish.”
“He should be. He’s not.”
Zack conveyed that he understood what she meant. “Fuckin’ Hanley.”
The Toyota rolled on to the airport in thick rush-hour traffic.