Mike Scardino spoke to J.W., jogging on his left. “Five, six sets. She brought the full gang.”
“Yep,” the former representative said as he slowed.
They walked down into a gully, navigated another rocky streambed, and climbed the dirt-and-mud track on the far side. Here, a massive felled log just to the side of the trail made a good place for J.W. to sit down, while Scardino remained standing, his eyes on the lights still coming from the west.
The lights converged on the two men, and then, one at a time, they were flipped off. Westwood and Scardino turned off their own headlamps, and in the low light of the predawn inside the dense trees, the men were able to make out the group around them.
Four men and two women, though it was tough to tell because they were all bundled in running gear that included neck gaiters that covered the lower part of their faces.
Some of the darkened figures fanned out on the path, climbing higher to have a better view of the area. Scardino noticed their backpacks, wondered if they were carrying submachine guns in them.
As for J.W., the sixty-year-old regarded the woman next to him in the dim light. Her hair was hidden under a knit cap, her face mostly covered by a wrap. She was short, maybe five-three.
He couldn’t see much of her now, but he had met her before in other settings, and he knew she was in her early thirties, attractive, and of Asian descent.
All the others’ faces were covered, as well, but Westwood didn’t need to see their faces to know who they were. They, like the woman standing next to him, were Asian, young, fit. And they, also like the woman standing next to him, were not American citizens.
These were Chinese intelligence officers. Spies living here, among Americans, using false identities, operating away from the Chinese embassy, existing under the radar.
Westwood unzipped his jacket, took out his phone, and handed it over to one of them. Scardino gave up his device, as well, then pulled a radio frequency scanner out of his pocket, a small device with a retractable antenna on it, and held it away from his body as one of the men wanded both Americans with a handheld metal detector.
He repeated the movements, this time holding a radio frequency scanner, making doubly sure the Americans weren’t recording the conversation that was soon to come.
Everyone here on the scene gave off the impression that this wasn’t the first time for any of them.
When all the checks had been completed, the woman standing next to the felled tree looked to J.W. “Hello, James.” Her English was perfect. To Scardino she said, “Michael.”
Big Mike just nodded, but J.W. spoke. “Morning, Gracie. How’s the run?”
She didn’t answer the question; he’d never known her to engage in small talk, but he needled her with it just for fun. Instead, she said, “Thank you for the information yesterday.”
J.W. replied, “I didn’t see anything in the news yet. Does that mean nothing happened, or does that mean it was kept quiet?”
“Something happened. It will not remain quiet for long.”
“Shit,” J.W. said softly.
The woman he’d called Gracie said, “We heard from the Nicaraguan embassy at four thirty this morning. Your intelligence was vital and extremely useful. Unfortunately, however…our operation was not executed properly, and there were some unfortunate setbacks.”
This was exactly what J.W. had spent most of the previous day worrying about. He sat down again on the fallen tree, put his head in his hands, and rubbed his eyes with his gloved hands. “Keep talking.”
Gracie sat down next to him, then leaned forward to stretch her hamstrings, one at a time. “One man from the United States was sent down by the CIA. He linked up with local agents to assist with the extraction. Nicaraguan intelligence set a trap based on your intelligence. They used a group of local gangsters called the Renazco outfit. Heavily armed, but not terribly well trained.”
“Never heard of them.”
“If you watch the news out of Central America today, you might. Anyway, the American and his Nicaraguan agents killed many of the Renazco outfit, but nobody cares about any of them. It was the other two that are something of a problem.”
“Whatother two?”
“A sniper team. MSS operatives.” She held a beat, then said, “Chinese nationals.”
Scardino was standing in front of the pair, and now he all but shouted in surprise. “Chinese intelligence was there?” Quieter, but with no less intensity, he added, “What the fuck weretheydoing at the scene?”
“They were there to kill the American and the asset, obviously. They didn’t trust the Renazco people to do it on their own.”
“Why not? It was just one American and some local agents.”
Defensively, the woman said, “I don’t know why not, but clearly therewascause to worry. The snipers’ bodies were found near their vehicle a few hundred meters from the extraction site. It looks like they were ambushed by the American after they’d been wounded and were trying to get away.”
