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CHAPTER 1
SEBIN Headquarters
Caracas, Venezuela

Hector Calderón’s plan to assassinate the sitting president of Venezuela had gone off without a hitch.
Michel Zarate had died in a spectacular plane crash facilitated by a surface-to-air missile, and Vice President Evelyn Acevedo was about to be sworn into office. The Director General of the Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional (SEBIN), Venezuela’s premier intelligence service, stood by his office window with his hand in the slacks of his grey Prince of Wales suit made by the prestigious Tom Ford. It was an exact replica of the one Daniel Craig had worn in the James Bond movie No Time to Die, and it was Calderón’s favorite suit.
After a moment, Calderón turned from the window and checked his reflection in the mirror above his liquor cabinet. He straightened his tie and ensured the proper placement of his tie clip. While he may have seemed calm, Calderón’s guts churned with nervousness about the events that lay ahead, not only for himself but for his country.
At fifty-seven, Calderón had been in the intelligence game for over thirty-five years. Through those tough decades, he’d managed to retain his jet-black hair without a hint of gray. His skin had a coppery glow despite his long hours in his office, and the only sign of his weariness was the bags under his deep-set brown eyes. Yet, he felt a new spring in his step. Finally, he could turn his intelligence apparatus against the ruthless criminals dominating his country instead of doing the bidding of a brutal dictator who wanted nothing more than to suppress dissidents and arrest his opposition to maintain his seat of power.
Calderón adjusted his tie knot at his throat again, then poured Aviator Gin into a tumbler before splashing rum into a second glass. After placing the gin on a coaster on his desk, Calderón stood at his window and peered down at Caracas again. The director prayed his country finally found peace, although he knew it would be a long struggle to rid themselves of the criminals deeply rooted in Venezuelan society. One of the most troubling of these elements was the Cartel of the Suns, a web of Venezuelan military officers who helped facilitate the shipment of cocaine from Colombia to sea- and airports across Venezuela.
But it was only a matter of time before they had the cartel under control. It was about stripping them of power and putting consequences on their actions. Over the years, Calderón had learned how to apply that kind of pressure on the people of Venezuela to support a ruthless dictatorial regime. Now, he wanted to use his powers for good.
It was all part of his plan. Once he had convinced Zarate to oust his trouble vice president, Delcy Rodríguez, and install the moderate Evelyn Acevedo in the office, Calderón knew he had an above-average chance of succeeding with his coup. Acevedo had been elected by popular vote to the National Assembly, which had been the swaying factor for Zarate after Calderón had explained that the president needed to polish his image.
The only blood shed to free the Venezuelan people from a crippling regime was that of Michel Zarate. Calderón’s minion, Marcus de los Rios, had fired a surface-to-air missile into Zarate’s plane as it took off from Simón Bolívar International Airport. While Zarate had been headed for exile in Cuba, Calderón wanted to eliminate any influence the man might retain. Zarate had been tight with the Cubans, and there were hundreds of Cuban commanders in the Venezuelan military and the SEBIN. The former president had used them for his Presidential Guard as he didn’t trust his own people not to kill him. Calderón smiled to himself, thinking about how wrong Zarate had been to believe his own hype.
Moments later, SEBIN Agent de los Rios escorted Doctor Evelyn Acevedo into Calderón’s office. De los Rios had been Calderón’s triggerman, putting Zarate down for good. He was also infatuated with the good doctor, which made it easier for Calderón to manipulate him.
Acevedo strode over to the window and extended her hand to the director.
Calderón smiled as he warmly clasped her hand in his. He peered deep into Acevedo’s soulful brown eyes. Today, she wore a hint of makeup and a dap of lip gloss to accentuate her youthful features. Even though she was in her late thirties, Acevedo was still highly attractive.
Since she was also the first female president in Venezuela’s history, Calderón felt she was the most beautiful president they’d ever had. Acevedo stood five-four, or 163cm, and was lean from working long hours at the hospital before becoming a full-time politician. Her dark brown hair hung loose and straight, having been professionally cut and styled before a tailor had fitted the black slacks and blazer to her. Her stylist had accented the outfit with a white blouse, several gold bangles, and a gold wristwatch.
“It seems I am no longer your boss, Hector,” Acevedo said.
“I look forward to working for the new vice president of your choosing,” Calderón replied.
According to Venezuelan law, the vice president was Calderón’s boss, and with Acevedo moving up, she would have to appoint someone to take her place.
“I suppose you have some candidates in mind,” Acevedo said.
“Of course, but that can wait until later,” Calderón said. “Right now, we have more pressing matters. I assume Agent de los Rios told you about the death of President Zarate?”
“He did,” Acevedo replied. “He was rather cryptic about what happened.”
“Well …” Calderón drew in a deep breath and arched his brows as if the news he was about to deliver was rather painful. “We suspect the assassin was John Phoenix.”
“No! How?” Acevedo demanded, shocked at the news.
“According to the intelligence we’ve gathered, someone tipped Phoenix that Zarate planned to defect. Phoenix got his hands on a Verba man-portable surface-to-air missile, and you know the rest. We’re still working to determine who gave it to him, possibly someone within Lieutenant Blanco’s sphere of influence.”
“I thought we trusted her,” Acevedo said.
“Trust is a subjective thing in our business, Madam President. But I digress. We found the missile crate and the discarded missile on a hilltop near the airport. It seems Phoenix took his shot and walked away. Might I suggest that after you are sworn in, you issue an immediate arrest warrant for him? Broadcast it on national television while the world is watching to show you demand justice.”
“Are you sure Phoenix was the culprit?” Acevedo asked. “He was a CIA case officer, after all.”
“I assure you he was working alone,” Calderón said. “The CIA was not involved in a plot to kill our president. They disavowed Phoenix after his operation to recover the Flying Jaguars ended in the death of his team.”
“You asked me to contact my former handler at the CIA. I did that in Mexico City,” Acevedo said. “Let me call Warbler now and assure her everything is all right. She can smooth the way for me to speak to President Mercia.”
“I agreed,” Calderón said. “I have your secure communications device in my desk drawer.” The director opened a drawer and removed the comms unit Warbler had given to Acevedo during their last meeting in Mexico City.
“What’s this number taped to it?” Acevedo asked.
Calderón smiled reassuringly. “Warbler told me it was her direct line.”
“You spoke to her?” Acevedo asked incredulously.
“I had to let her know you were in my care and that everything would be just fine,” Calderón said.
Acevedo eyed the intelligence chief as she dialed Warbler’s number into her comms device. Holding the phone to her ear, she listened to it ring, and then Sandy Delacroix, chief of CIA’s Latin America Division, answered.
“Warbler, this is Unicorn,” Acevedo said.
“Say identifier,” Delacroix replied.
Acevedo repeated the identification number she’d memorized.
Delacroix got right to the point. “Are you okay? I saw the news about Zarate’s death.”
“I’m fine. I’m about to be sworn in as the new president of Venezuela,” Acevedo replied. “You can watch the proceedings live on television.”
“What about the Flying Jaguars and Blanco and Phoenix?” Delacroix asked.
“I will release all American prisoners right after I have taken office—unless they committed a crime like your case officer, even if Zarate was his victim.” Acevedo glanced at Calderón, then said to Warbler, “Once I’m in office, I wish to come to Washington to meet with President Mercia.”
“I can arrange that,” Delacroix said.
“I’ll call right after the ceremony,” Acevedo informed her handler.
The two women exchanged a few more pleasantries and then ended their conversation.
“It’s all arranged,” Acevedo said to Calderón.
The director nodded. They toasted to the future of Venezuela, then rode the elevator down to the lobby, got into a waiting limousine, and rode across town to Miraflores Palace.
Acevedo and Calderón walked into what would be her new home and the office she would rule from. An aide joined them as they strolled past portraits of past presidents, famous military leaders, and the ever-present Simón Bolívar—the great liberator. Acevedo hoped she lived up to his legacy.
In the Ayacucho Room, Acevedo paused to take in the bright red carpet, the white walls gilded with gold trim, the various national flags, and the life-size portraits of Simón Bolívar; José Antonio Páez, the first president of Venezuela; and Hugo Chávez dressed to look like Bolívar in colonial-era clothing and a feathered hat.
With a seating capacity of 250, the president typically reserved the Ayacucho Room for official events or for addressing the nation. Today, the galley overflowed with newspaper reporters and local, national, and international television film crews.
Acevedo whispered to the aide, who immediately hurried off. Moments later, the aide returned with several other men and a ladder. Together, they removed the portrait of Hugo Chávez from the wall. It was Acevedo’s first official act, and the gallery buzzed with excitement as cameras clicked away.
Evelyn Acevedo waited for Juan Mendez, leader of the National Assembly, to join her, then stepped to the podium. Mendez swore Acevedo in as president and returned to his seat. Acevedo remained at the podium and took a deep breath as she savored the moment. She had dared hope to become president someday, and now she occupied the highest office in the land.
“My fellow Venezuelans, I want to tell you that I have heard your pleas for help and your cries for mercy. As a medical doctor, I witnessed firsthand the shortages in our economy and held the hands of your loved ones who died as a result of the ineptness of our former leaders. As you have just observed, I have removed Hugo Chávez’s portrait from this room. I believe it is essential not to look back on almost three decades of dictatorial rule but to look forward to the light of a renewed country. I pledge to you that we will make sweeping changes to cure the humanitarian crisis we face and to rid ourselves of the cartels and colectivos who dominate our neighborhoods. They have no place in our new society.
“When I leave this podium, my first call will be to President Mercia in Washington, D.C., to ask that he lift all sanctions against Venezuela, taking the first step in repairing our country. My next initiative will strive to bring businesses back to Venezuela. I issue a call to all who have fled our country to Colombia, Brazil, the United States, and anywhere else you might be in the world—please return. Venezuela needs you now. We need your technical expertise to restart our oil production and rebuild our factories, our infrastructure, and our neighborhoods.
“With your help, we will restore Venezuela as an example of what resilient people can do when their backs are against the wall.”
Acevedo paused and glanced around at the cameras. She hated to do this to John Phoenix, but she had no choice. “Like many of you, I do not mourn the loss of Michel Zarate, but I mourn the loss of his innocent wife and children. For them, I vow justice. We cannot allow their murderer to escape. I am therefore issuing an arrest warrant for a man named John Phoenix. We believe Phoenix murdered President Zarate and his family, and we will punish him to the full extent of the law. More details will be forthcoming on this situation as it develops, but I remain hopeful that amid this crisis, we, the people of Venezuela, will show the resilience and dedication needed to repair our country.
“Thank you all for coming, and I look forward to speaking with you more in the coming days.”
Acevedo stepped away from the podium as the reporters shouted questions. A SEBIN agent began handing out photographs of John Phoenix to the boisterous crowd.
Hector Calderón smiled appreciatively at the new president’s short speech. She nodded as she walked past the director and entered the presidential residence. Acevedo had been there several times to meet with Zarate and knew her way around, and his belongings still littered the place. Acevedo turned to the aide beside her and ordered him to have all of Zarate’s things thrown out, and the clothing of the former president’s family donated to homeless shelters.
After the aide left, Acevedo glanced around the opulent living room and smiled. Before she could enjoy a moment of relaxation, there was a knock on the door. Another aide announced that the president had a visitor.
Coralina Blanco stepped into the room. She wore black slacks, a blue blouse, and a pistol on her hip. The former Army lieutenant had jumped ship to Calderón’s SEBIN to work directly for Acevedo. She stood five feet, nine inches, or 175cm, and wore her brown hair cut shoulder length. The gaze of Blanco’s cool gray eyes shifted about the untidy room before settling on Acevedo.
“Madam President, what are your orders?” Blanco asked.
“Hunt down, John Phoenix,” Acevedo replied.