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Overholt was sitting at his office desk with the blinds on the window behind him drawn. Although the CIA administrator was well into his seventies, he still carried himself with the patrician air of a banker and wore three-piece suits to match. He came from old money tracing back to the first traders who’d settled New England, and he’d been with the Agency for so long that he knew where all the bodies were buried, both figuratively and literally. His revered status and reputation made it impossible for political appointees to get rid of him, so he was allowed to stay on in an advisory role far past the normal retirement age. Overholt, as usual, looked alert and fit, his vigor maintained by regular jogs and games on the racquetball court.
But he also looked troubled.
“I’m sorry to intrude on your well-deserved rest,” Overholt said in his gravelly baritone. “I’m aware that it’s been only two days since you completed your last mission for us, but I knew you were in the region, and there aren’t many people I can trust right now.”
Juan exchanged a worried glance with Max. Normally, Overholt would have made a clever comment about Juan’s damp hair and casual clothes. It wasn’t like him to be so anxious.
“Did something happen with the terrorists we captured?” Juan asked.
Overholt shook his head. “It’s much worse. It looks like we have a mole in the Directorate of Operations.”
“Why do you think that?” Max asked.
“Three days ago, a cargo ship called the Mantícora was lost in the Atlantic not far from where you were operating. Survivors in a lifeboat were spotted this morning by airplane, and a ship is on the way to pick them up. We don’t know yet how it sank, but the Mantícora never reported making its appointed rendezvous. A large shipment of weapons is now unaccounted for.”
Juan leaned forward. “And you think it’s because of a leak in Langley?”
“We’ll question the survivors when they’re recovered, but it can’t be a coincidence that we’ve had another maritime disaster in that vicinity in the last two days.”
“Another?” Max asked.
“It hasn’t been publicly announced yet, but the Los Angeles–class nuclear submarine Kansas City seems to have gone down with all hands. It was operating along the coast of Brazil, and a Navy SEAL team on board was scheduled to conduct a CIA mission under the guise of a training op. We’re still looking for signs of wreckage. The emergency beacon was never activated.”
“It could just be a communication glitch,” Juan suggested.
Overholt shook his head. “We doubt it. The covert op was supposed to take place twenty-four hours ago. Needless to say, it didn’t. Attempts to establish contact with the KC have gone unanswered.”
“I’m not sure we can help much,” Max said. “The Navy and NUMA are far better equipped to handle a seafloor search than we are.”
Overholt sighed. “Sad to say, I’m calling you because we’ve had a third critical situation arise today. It’s the reason I’m convinced the other two incidents are the result of a leak.”
Juan and Max remained silent while Overholt gathered his thoughts.
“We discovered that an electronic file has been stolen from our mainframe. It contains the names of three operatives on deep-cover assignment to infiltrate some very nasty groups in South and Latin America. From what we’ve been able to ascertain, the encrypted file wasn’t read by the thief, but it was copied onto a thumb drive and sent by regular mail. We believe the recipient will be a man named Ricardo Ferreira, a Brazilian who supplies technology to organizations throughout South America. Many of them are legitimate, but he also deals with anyone who has the cash to buy his illicit products, no matter how dirty they are, including drug cartels, rebel groups, and corrupt governments. One of the compromised agents, Luis Machado, is embedded in Ferreira’s company.”
“You want us to intercept the package?” Max asked.
“Not possible,” Overholt answered. “Although we think it will arrive at its destination in forty-eight hours, we don’t know where. Once the package has been received, it won’t take them long to decrypt it and identify the agents. Machado and the others will be tortured mercilessly.”
“I assume you can’t warn them to leave,” Juan said.
“Any attempt to contact them from our end could tip off the mole to their true identities.”
“Where are they?”
“We caught a break and know exactly where each of them will be in two days based on their last updates. We’re lucky all three agents will be in Rio for the Copa América, South America’s international soccer championship that is held every four years. That’s why I’m calling you. I want you to get them out. You’re the only ones who can do it.”
Juan took a deep breath, then said to Max, “Looks like we’re going to have to cut the R & R short and call everyone back to the Oregon for a mission planning session.” He turned back to Overholt. “Where will the agents be?”
“This is where it gets tricky,” Overholt said. “Luis Machado will be on Ferreira’s yacht in Guanabara Bay. Diego López will be at a soccer game at Maracanã Stadium. And Jessica Belasco will be expecting a dead drop at the visitor center on top of Sugarloaf Mountain. I’ll send you a file with the information and photos.”
Max whistled in amazement. “Let me get this straight. We need three different extraction teams operating simultaneously in three different areas of one of the biggest cities in the world?”
Overholt solemnly nodded. “Or all three agents are going to die.”
4
RIO DE JANEIRO
