Warriors in Paradise (23 page)

My uncle responded, “No, we cannot do that until we find out how deep this goes. If a CIA agent and a DEA director are involved, other federal and local authorities might also be involved. This might be just the tip of the iceberg. So, no, we cannot bring in the police until we find out how deep this conspiracy and corruption extends.”

My mother asked, “So the only course of action left to us is to continue doing this ourselves?”

I said, “Unfortunately, Mom, you are absolutely right.”

Always the pragmatist, my mother asked, “Is there anything I can do? How can I help?”

My uncle responded, “Yes, of course you can help. You can manage our communications. Find safe Internet servers and buy some clean, disposable cell phones.”

“That I can do,” answered my mother.

We decided to meet back in the breakfast room in an hour to decide on a plan of action. My uncle was going to contact his friend in the DEA. My mother was going to locate a network of safe Internet communications servers and buy the cell phones. We were going to brainstorm on how to get to Alexander Coombs and get him to answer our questions.

Planning the plan

My uncle took us to his studio and opened a wall closet with a combination lock. He showed us his weapons collection. He had everything a black ops wouldn’t leave home without, from firearms and knives to ropes and flex-cuffs. We selected a knife each, noise suppressors for our Glocks, duct tape, and plastic restraints.

We went down to the basement.

We knew we needed more clothes. We decided to risk it and go to our apartment in Arlington, Virginia, and get what we needed. I went up and told my uncle where we were going and that we would be back within the hour.

***

We took my mother’s 2008 Toyota Camry and drove to the local supermarket. I went around to the employees’ parking area. We selected the two dirtiest cars we could find that were far from each other, the ones that looked as if they had been there the longest. We took their license plates off. We put the plates of the first car onto the second, and the second car’s plates onto my mother’s Toyota.

That way, in the unlikely event that the missing plates were discovered before we returned, the police would be looking for the plates on the second car.

This procedure took five minutes.

***

After taking I-66 to Arlington, I let Santi out of the Camry two blocks away from my apartment building. I drove around the building and saw nothing suspicious. Two blocks on the other side, I let Caleb out. I drove around once more but did not see anything out of the ordinary. Santi and Caleb were making their way on foot back to the apartment building, watching for anything unusual. I parked the Camry behind the building and walked in through the garage. I took the stairs to the sixth floor. I looked around. The hall was empty and quiet. I walked to my apartment and placed my ear flat on the door. It was quiet.

I went back to the stairs and waited. Five minutes later, Santi and Caleb arrived. We all walked to the apartment. I opened the door, and Caleb and Santi rushed in with their firearms at the ready.

The apartment was empty. Nobody seemed to have been there since we had left for Mexico.

I suddenly realized we had not said a word since we left my uncle’s house. We had done everything on automatic pilot.

Santi broke the spell when he said, “These are nice digs! There is a great view of the Potomac, but the interior decoration could use some improvement.”

“What, are you offering to do something?” I asked while going into my bedroom.

Santi responded with a Cuban gay accent, “Of course. I am a decorator of the interior.”

We chuckled.

Santi went to Caleb’s room to pick out clothes and shoes that would fit him. They were both similar in size, and both wore size-twelve shoes. We needed at least four changes of clothes: (1) all-purpose casual, (2) dark-camouflage action clothing and shoes, (3) formal attire, and (4) exercise clothes and shoes.

I packed my clothes into my backpack, along with my laptop. Caleb came out of his bedroom with his own backpack, including his laptop. We took all the correspondence with us and left the apartment using the stairs and leaving the building through the garage.

We drove back to the supermarket and returned the license plates, reversing our earlier procedure. Each car now had its proper plates. We were back at my uncle’s home before the hour. We took the backpacks to the basement and then walked up the stairs to the breakfast room. My uncle and mother were waiting.

There were five chairs around the table.

A little help from a friend

“I called my friend at the DEA,” began my uncle. “I am supposed to meet him for a cup of coffee at Starbucks on K and Sixteenth Street in forty minutes. Charlie, would you please drive me to the Dunn Loring Metro station?”

“Would you like us to go with you?” I asked.

“No need. He will feel more comfortable just talking to me,” answered my uncle.

My mother said, “Before you go, I created a safe mail account for your communications with your friend.” She gave my uncle a yellow sticky note.

My uncle looked at it and returned it, saying, “Thank you. I have memorized the info. Come on, Charlie, take me to the station.”

I drove him in his Cherokee to the Dunn Loring Metro station. “What time would you like me to pick you up?”

“Give me an hour.” He opened the door and walked to the station’s entrance.

I drove back to the house.

Now all we had to do was to wait—a difficult proposition!

My mother was up in my uncle’s studio working on her computers. She had gotten six untraceable disposable cell phones. She was fine-tuning the network of servers. She was working through a series of relay proxies so that our e-mails could not be traced back to our IP. She had done her homework. Our communications were as safe as they could be.

We were not very good at waiting, and even though we were tired and had a serious sleep deficit, we decided to go for a jog in the neighborhood. We changed into shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes.

Vienna is quite a nice suburban neighborhood that has retained its rural character. There are several country roads, and, even though there are no sidewalks or jogging trails, you are pretty safe jogging on the road. The locals are well accustomed to joggers.

We were running in a single line. I was point, with Caleb behind me and Santi bringing up the rear. After twenty minutes, I turned and headed back. We were jogging smoothly, rhythmically, at an easy, fast pace.

Virginia was having an Indian summer. The weather was pleasant even though there was a lot of humidity and very little breeze. After forty minutes, we arrived back home not even breathing hard, but our running gear was soaking wet from the sweat.

There were three full bathrooms in my uncle’s home. Caleb took a shower in Jonathan’s bathroom, Santi used the one in the basement, and I used my mother’s bathroom.

I let the water pound my body for at least five minutes. I shaved, combed my hair, and wrapped a towel around my waist. I walked down to the basement. I could hear Caleb still enjoying his shower. Santi was already out of the shower and getting dressed in his action clothing. He looked a little intimidating. I guess we all did.

I heard Caleb coming down the stairs. I started getting dressed as well. I had eight minutes to get to the Dunn Loring Metro station to pick up my uncle. Santi accompanied me. We took Gallows Road and arrived at the station with a minute to spare.

My uncle had not arrived.

It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon.

My uncle arrived at ten minutes past four. He got into the jeep. The traffic was beginning to build up. After five o’clock, the rush-hour traffic would turn the main thoroughfares into parking lots. I started back to the house.

“How did it go?” I asked him.

My uncle responded, “He wasn’t happy, but he was receptive. What I am asking of him is huge. He’s aware of how vital this is for me and my family. I have served with him for many years, and he knew your father. I am sure he’s going to come through.”

We arrived home.

My uncle went up to his studio and checked his computer. He opened the e-mail account my mother had set up for him and his friend and checked the draft folder. There was an e-mail waiting with the title “As per your wishes.”

The e-mail contained a short bio of Alexander Coombs—his family origins, education, and employment record; his office and home addresses and telephone numbers; his two cell phone numbers; and the make and license plate number of his car. It also contained a section titled “Grapevine.”

The e-mail confirmed what Nancy Smith had told them in Mexico: that he was a bachelor and lived alone. The grapevine (gossip) suggested that he was arrogant with a narcissistic personality disorder. The e-mail did not contain the confidential telephone number that Toro and Nancy had used to contact him.

The five of us walked down the stairs to the breakfast room. As we sat around the table, I said, “I believe that the best place to get him is at his home. He lives in McLean, Virginia, which makes things easier for us because it is an upscale neighborhood of single-family homes on large properties. I think we could go in and out with very few neighbors, if any, noticing us. What do you think?” I ended up looking at my uncle.

He said, “You’re right. It is probably better to get him after he arrives. That way, we have all night to make him talk.”

I said, “OK. I propose to start by scouting his home and neighborhood to get acquainted with the layout. We can then return when it is getting dark and break into his house.”

“That sounds like a plan,” said my mother. “Don’t forget to take your new cell phones. If you need to communicate, text. Call only if it is an emergency; it’s more secure that way.”

Santi and I drove the Camry to the supermarket. Nobody was about. We followed the same procedure with the license plates, and we were off in minutes. We had left the screws loose.

Caleb did not accompany us. A black man might be too noticeable in an upscale, high-income neighborhood like McLean.

We went around past Coombs’s house twice. It was close to five o’clock in the afternoon, and the residential streets were mostly empty. I could see some commuters returning home early. Most of the working stiffs would be coming back home between six and seven.

At this time of the year, it started getting dark around seven, the time when we would be coming back and the time that most of the neighbors would be having dinner and watching TV. Only a few workaholics would be arriving home after that time. I hoped that would be the case with Mr. Coombs.

His home was a white-and-gray-brick construction with a two-car garage, sitting in the middle of a thick, lush, and professionally landscaped garden. The lot size was about a quarter of an acre. His street was quiet; nothing was moving, not even a breeze. If we wanted to come in from the rear, we needed to cross at least two backyards to reach his house. I hoped the owners did not have dogs. Just in case, we needed to bring Tasers.

We went back home. We did not stop at the supermarket.

Caleb flies again

Caleb and Jonathan were waiting for us dressed in their dark outfits. I said, “We need to take Tasers. We’re crossing two backyards, and there may be dogs. I doubt it, but better safe than sorry.”

My uncle said, “His house probably has a security system. We don’t have the security code to disarm it, but we can get in through the windows. These devices are magnetic guns. They will magnetize the alarm contact points in the windows. I will go first to see if there are any proximity and motion sensors. You will follow my lead. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” I responded. Caleb and Santi nodded.

We left the house in silence. I was driving, and my uncle was riding shotgun. I parked behind Coombs’s house, between two households in darkness. Their occupants were probably out. When they returned, each would figure that the car parked at the edge of the property belonged to somebody visiting one of the neighbors.

We could not be seen walking together. We would be noticeable and remembered. We lifted our hoodies, exited the car, and sneaked toward the shadows of one of the empty houses. Each of us had a Taser in case we ran into difficulties. The last thing we wanted to do was to tase some poor dog doing its job of guarding its territory, but there was no alternative. We needed to reach Coombs’s property without detection.

My uncle said, “I will be your twelve, Santi my six, and you, Charlie, follow ten paces behind. Caleb covers the rear, keeping the same distance.” He crouched and started moving quietly along the darkest corridors of shadow behind the backyards and trees of the other houses.

It was that time of the evening when light shares the space with dusk and darkness, just before the complete darkness of night takes over. It was that time when you cannot trust what your eyes see in the distance.

I saw my uncle stop at the fence of the property. He looked over for any telltale signs of dogs. He quietly lifted the latch and opened the gate. He waited, listening. Nothing happened. He pushed the gate partly open and slipped into the yard. Santi rapidly closed the gap and caught the gate before it latched closed. He followed my uncle, tracing his steps. I did the same, catching the gate before it closed, and trailed Santi. I could not hear Caleb. I knew he was behind me, and, of course, I did not hear the gate latch close. Not even a dog could hear Caleb.