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ISLA LA BONITA, VENEZUELA
IT’S A PERFECT sunny day on the Caribbean Sea as Liam Grey gently maneuvers his large paddleboard off the sandy coast of Isla la Bonita. This tourist resort in Venezuela is one of its few places worth visiting as its government keeps on learning the harsh lessons of running an economy into the ground. Liam wishes he could relax in these warm waters, but he can’t, since he’s deep in work, although any observers out there would have a hard time thinking so.
Which is just perfect, he thinks, as he keeps on slowly paddling, sitting down on the board like he’s tired. He’s been here on this small island for a week, his dark-brown hair dyed blond, working on his tan and enjoying the nightlife, fitting in with the British, European, and other travelers attracted to these beautiful beaches, waving palm trees, and the ridiculously low prices as the struggling government in Caracas tries to attract more foreign dollars.
Including, he thinks, as he slowly paddles, other visitors who aren’t from Britain or Europe, and who don’t care much about the beach bars, restaurants, palm trees, and beautiful Venezuelan women.
On the paddleboard is a small black knapsack. Liam removes a bottle of water, takes a satisfying sip, and then grabs a pair ofbinoculars, gives a quick glance to the rocky promontory at the end of the tourist beach. There’s a stone cottage with four black SUVs parked out front, and for the past week, Liam’s worked to keep it in view.
The house looks empty, since there are no tourists out there, sunning themselves on the large rocks or splashing around in the tide pools or playing volleyball. Or driving along the dirt road that runs through a collection of boulders and rocks, emerging onto the single-lane paved road running parallel to the beach and the tourist cabins and bars.
No, no tourists.
Just an outpost of the Hezbollah terrorism empire.
He puts the binoculars back into the bag, which is secured to the paddleboard by a set of Velcro straps. He recalls the briefing he received from the president two weeks ago.
“This cell has been active there for at least eighteen months,” President Barrett said. “They support drug smuggling, kidnappings for ransom, and killings of tourists, and have attacked numerous diplomatic, military, and business targets throughout Central and South America. Various protests and diplomatic notes haven’t caused Caracas to expel them and send them back to Lebanon. I leave it up to you and your team, Liam. Get the job done.”
A pleasure,he thinks. Hezbollah’s been on both the official and unofficial CIA hit list for more than forty years, ever since the terrorist group kidnapped the Agency’s station chief in Beirut and tortured him nearly daily for a year and a half before killing him and dumping his remains on the side of the road.
Ever since then, those assassinations, air strikes, and car bombings against Hezbollah usually blamed on Mossad actually came from their cousins in Langley, though it was never officially or unofficially reported from Washington or Jerusalem.
Some at Langley have very long memories.
Including Liam.
A voice comes to Liam in a flesh-colored earbud via anAgency-owned fishing vessel barely visible on the northern horizon, encrypted with the Agency’s latest communications equipment. “Liam, you on station?”
“I am,” he says.
Benjamin Lucas, one of his operators back at Saint Petersburg, says, “We’re ready, but you need to know there’s a Venezuelan Navy patrol boat snooping around about two miles away. If we’re a go today, it’s gotta be in the next few minutes.”
Liam checks his watch. “All right, let’s start the countdown. At the mark, now … two minutes.”
“Two minutes, roger that,” Benjamin says.
Liam takes out a small instrument that looks like a monocular device used by birders, but this device is just a bit more advanced and complicated. He turns it on, checks its vitals as it hums into action, and Benjamin says, “One minute, Liam.”
“One minute, roger that,” Liam says, stretching out on the paddleboard like he’s trying to relax for a moment, the monocular device in his hands.
“Starting countdown,” Benjamin says. “Fifty seconds.”
“Fifty seconds.”
“Forty.”
“Forty seconds,” Liam replies, bringing up the monocular to his right eye. A light-green reticle with a cross appears, and he adjusts it so that it’s aiming at the near window of the cottage. Interior and advanced GPS software ensures it remains centered on the target, even with the motion of the waves against the paddleboard.
“Thirty seconds,” Benjamin says.
Liam repeats, “Thirty seconds,” and his finger goes to the trigger.
Something’s wrong.
A flash of movement catches his attention.
What?
