Even if he could have found a way to continue to manufacture his amphetamine pills in Turkey, it had become clear that his chances of successfully distributing them in Europe or in the United States and repatriating most of the profits back to Venezuela were almost nil. Most of his associates within Venezuela’s government had been terminated or were rotting in jail. Ramirez had to give it to Arteaga. The new Venezuelan president was thorough and merciless.
The Americans, through their support of Colonel Arteaga, had made Ramirez a man without a country. Ramirez had always considered himself a businessman, never one to harbor ill will for long, but his current quandary resulted in a situation where he constantly fantasized about the deliberate, cold-blooded murders of Pierce Hunt and his traitorous bitch girlfriend, Anna Garcia. Over his years of service, he had taken no personal pleasure in killing his adversaries, but if he ever got his hands around Hunt’s and Garcia’s necks, he’d take great satisfaction in suffocating both of them. Until now, everything Ramirez had ever done, good or bad, he had done for Venezuela.
That was about to change.
Following his meeting with Kazak, and under an assumed name, Ramirez had traveled from Istanbul to Geneva. From there, he had rented a car and driven five hours to the Grand Hotel Villa Castagnola.
Set on the shores of Lake Lugano and nestled within a private, subtropical park, the five-star property had once been the home of a noble Russian family. He might have been there for business, but that didn’t prevent Ramirez from enjoying the hotel’s tranquil atmosphere and its discreet but friendly service. The scenery was spectacular, too, and while admiring the stunning views of the lake from his fourth-floor suite, Ramirez caught himself wishing he could simply disappear and start a new life here in Switzerland. To vanish for good, he needed money. Lots of it. Money he didn’t have.
Yet.
Sliding the patio door open, Ramirez stepped onto the balcony and leaned against the railing. His eyes settled on the majestic lake below. Several sailboats and a couple of fishing boats were moored not far from shore, tugging gently at their tethers.
The phone number Kazak had given him belonged to a man named Aram Diljen. There wasn’t much information available on Diljen. The only thing Kazak had said was that Diljen had his finger in many pies, including arms sales and drug dealing, and that he controlled most of the underworld in and around Lugano. Diljen had agreed to meet with Ramirez and was sending a car to pick him up.
Would Diljen be interested in what he had to sell? That was a tricky question. The chemical formula for the amphetamine pills could be worth something to the right buyer, but what Ramirez truly wished to sell was the intelligence he had. On a thumb drive, he had evidence of Colonel Arteaga’s direct link to the Americans and of the atrocities he had committed with the complicity of the CIA in order to solidify his position within the Venezuelan government. That thumb drive could easily bring down President Reilly’s administration. That could be worth a fortune. Ramirez doubted Diljen would himself be in a position to exploit the intelligence, but maybe he’d know someone who could.
Unfortunately, that leverage against the Americans was all Ramirez had for bargaining power. He had hidden the thumb drive containing the incriminating information in a safe place. If this first encounter with Diljen went well and the Swiss criminal was willing to pay, Ramirez would give it to him, but only once his own safety was assured.
Ramirez walked back inside his suite, closed the patio door behind him, and stood before the wall-mounted full-length mirror. He made an adjustment to his blue tie so it was evenly placed in the white space of his shirt between his dark jacket’s lapels. It was an old habit. Appearances were important. His pistol, a Beretta 92FS, was secured in a shoulder holster under his left arm. Two extra magazines were safely tucked away under his right arm, and a small combat knife was sheathed on his hip.
It was time to go. The car Diljen had sent for him would arrive any moment. His hand was on the doorknob when his cell vibrated inside his jacket pocket. Since Diljen was the only one who had his number, Ramirez answered.
“The man you’re about to meet isn’t who he says he is.”
“Who’s this?” Ramirez asked, not recognizing the deep, slightly raspy voice. If he had to guess, he’d say that whoever was on the other end of the line was using a voice changer.
“I’m the man who’s ready to pay you handsomely for what you have.”
“I already have a buyer,” Ramirez said.
Ramirez heard a dry laugh at the other end. “Aram Diljen is a CIA officer,” the man said bluntly.
“That’s impossible,” Ramirez replied without thinking. “He’s been vouched for.”
“Oh, I see. He’s been vouched for,” the man said with cold disdain. “Are you serious?”
The contempt and sarcasm pouring out of the man’s voice angered Ramirez, but he checked himself. He had to admit that the man had a point. Had he been played by his Turkish contact? This could also be a trap set by Diljen to test Ramirez’s loyalty. The thought sent a shiver down Ramirez’s spine. He would have to tread carefully.
“Can you prove it?” Ramirez asked.
“Does it matter? Can you take that chance? That’s the real question.”
The CIA had eyes everywhere. It was possible the man on the phone was telling the truth.
Ramirez wished he had half the resources he’d had only months ago. But he didn’t. Here he was in Switzerland, certainly not defenseless, but not in a position of strength either.
“How did you get this number?” Ramirez asked, stepping away from the door.
Instead of answering his question, the man said, “I want everything you have on Queen Bee.”
Ramirez froze in place.
Queen Bee. That was the CIA’s code name for Colonel Arteaga. Very few people knew that, and he hadn’t shared it with his Turkish contact. Whoever this was, he was well connected.
“If you’d called me earlier, maybe we could have worked together,” Ramirez said, seeing no point in lying. “Now’s too late, I’m afraid.”
“If you hang up now, you’ll be dead within the hour.”
It was Ramirez’s turn to laugh. “I’ve been in this business for quite some time. And I’m still here,” he said.
“Oh, is that so?” the man said. Despite the voice changer, Ramirez could feel that his tone had turned glacial. “Maybe I should have let the American kill you in Turkey.”
A lead ball had suddenly formed in his stomach. Kazak had been wrong. Ramirez had been the American assassin’s target after all.
“Let me tell you what will happen in the next few minutes, Jorge Ramirez,” the man said, making a point by using Ramirez’s full name and not the one he’d registered his hotel room under. “In two minutes, a three-vehicle motorcade will arrive at that fancy hotel of yours. Aram Diljen will come out of his SUV to greet you personally. You’ll then climb into the same SUV, and the motorcade will make its way to Ristorante AnaCapri. You’re with me so far?”
The lead ball had now morphed into a major cramp. Was he being watched?
“I’m still listening,” Ramirez replied, making his way to the closest window. He pushed the heavy curtain aside and peered out. He didn’t see anyone standing out in the garden, but his suite was facing Lake Lugano, not the street. There was no way to know if a surveillance team was already in place. He had to assume it was.