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Juan spotted discarded food wrappers in the corner. Food used to be Kevin’s Achilles’ heel. At one point, he weighed almost two hundred and seventy-five pounds, but successful stomach bypass surgery and a special diet prepared by Oregon’s gourmet chef brought his now solid frame down to a slender one eighty-five.
“I hope you’ve been careful with the local cuisine,” Juan said to Kevin. “Nothing like Montezuma’s revenge to make a sea voyage unpleasant.”
“Tell me about it,” Linc said, rubbing his belly. “I hope I never go back to Mozambique.”
“Nothing but bottled water and prepackaged food for me,” Kevin replied. “Now, let’s get you in the chair. We have some work to do.”
Part of Linc’s time in Venezuela the previous week had been spent observing the suspected warehouse from afar. Covered wide-load trucks went into the facility night and day—presumably with armaments on them—through a razor-wired security fence and a well-guarded gatehouse before disappearing into the building. Sentries walked the perimeter on random schedules, and cameras monitored both the dock and the fence, ruling out stealthy infiltration.
The only other option was to go through the front gate. Twice Linc noticed the same captain going into the facility. The long-lens photos were sent to the CIA, where he was identified as Captain Carlos Ortega. He spent most of his time at the main naval base in Puerto Cabello, where he was now. Although Ortega was similar to Juan in height and build, they looked nothing alike. Whereas Juan was fair-haired and clean-shaven, Ortega was swarthier, with dark hair, bushy eyebrows, brown eyes, a trim mustache, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken.
That’s where Kevin came in. He had several of Linc’s photos of Ortega taped to the mirror. He would transform Juan into the Venezuelan Navy captain.
Juan dried off and sat in the chair while Linc went over the Humvee to make sure it was in good running order. They’d need to depend on it to get back to the Oregon in a hurry once their reconnaissance was complete.
Normally, Kevin would put on laid-back alt-rock music while he worked, but the unusual location demanded quiet so as not to attract attention. With an expert touch, he applied the glue for the latex nose, weaved on a thatchy set of eyebrows, and dusted Juan’s face with makeup. The final touches were the black wig and colored contacts. When Kevin was finished, Juan felt the odd sensation that a stranger was staring back at him from the mirror.
“Excellent work as usual, Kevin,” Juan said. “I can’t recognize myself.”
Linc, who was already in his Navy kit, complete with sidearm and FN FAL assault rifle slung across his shoulder, clapped Kevin on the shoulder. “Wow! I don’t know whether to salute him or recommend a plastic surgeon for that ugly mug.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Kevin said. “You look perfect, if I do say so myself. Try on the uniform.”
Juan put on the tailored outfit, including the cap. When he was fully dressed, Linc and Kevin appraised him.
“I’d say you’re an inch or two taller than Ortega,” Linc said, “but I doubt anyone will notice.”
“Then we’re set,” Juan said. “You’ve outdone yourself again, Kevin.”
“It looks like my work is finished here,” Kevin said, and started
packing up his cosmetic supplies. “I’ll head back to the Oregon as soon as you go.”
He’d leave the less portable items behind and walk to the Oregon. Though the Venezuelans were watching for anyone leaving the ship, they wouldn’t stop Kevin from getting on, especially because he had all the proper documentation to rejoin the crew.
Since Linc was playing the lower-ranking officer, he would act as the driver. They got in the Humvee and Kevin opened the shed doors. Linc started it up and eased out onto the road.
They didn’t have far to go. It was a two-minute drive to the warehouse and dock.
When they reached the gatehouse, a guard armed with an assault rifle similar to Linc’s waved them to a stop behind the lowered bar. A second guard stood behind him. The first guard leaned in and saluted when he saw Juan’s lapel insignia and face.
Juan returned the salute and handed him the ID card that Kevin had forged for him. Although the guard clearly recognized him, the check was required.
The guard handed it back and motioned for the other guard to open the gate.
“Welcome back, Captain,” the first guard said. “If you’re here to see Lieutenant Dominguez, he’s in the security office.” The guard pointed, leaving no doubt as to their destination. It was a door at the corner of the warehouse. The huge garage doors were closed and no light leaked from underneath. Aside from the arc lamps around the compound, the only other lights shone on the deck of the giant oil tanker docked behind the warehouse. Workers swarmed around the front of the ship, where they were connecting pipes to feed the holds from the nearby refinery, one of Venezuela’s largest.
Juan used his Spanish to order the guard not to announce their arrival, and Linc pulled away from the gate.
“So we have a host,” Juan said. “We were hoping for a skeleton crew at this time in the evening.”
“You know what they say,” Linc replied. “No plan survives contact with the enemy.”
“True, but I’d hoped it would last longer than this. We may have to act more quickly than we expected. Follow my lead, and remember to let me do all the talking.”
Linc just laughed. While Juan was fluent in Spanish, Arabic, and Russian, Linc could speak and understand only English. Using a parabolic microphone during his surveillance, Linc had captured enough of Ortega’s speech to give Juan time to practice mimicking the Venezuelan’s cadence, tone, and accent. Although limited to a Saudi accent when speaking Arabic, Juan could modify his Spanish with ease to match virtually any accent in Latin and South America.
But the usefulness of the makeup and mimicry was predicated on cowing enlisted sailors and noncommissioned officers. If this lieutenant was very familiar with Ortega, it would only be a matter of time before he saw through the disguise.
