Ultimate Deception

By John Boyd

BISAC: Fiction / Espionage
The follow up to “Twisted Fate,” days following the daring rescues and turning the FARC leader over to the FBI, the U.S. President decides to relocate the FARC leader to Guantanamo Bay, CUBA.
The FARC leader and team transporting him are all killed. Only a select few in the United States and Colombian governments knew of the capture. The President tasked Davis and his team to discover the source of the leak that led to their deaths.
Davis and team take on the job knowing that it had to be someone high up on one or both governments. While agreeing to the mission, Davis also tries to keep a promise to his future sister-in-law who was held captive for more than eleven years by the FARC, “to find the other hostages held by the FARC in the Colombian jungles.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329489998

Book preview

Ultimate Deception

Ultimate Deception

By

John R. Boyd

Four Pawns Publishing

901 N. Gadsden St

Tallahassee, Fl. 32303

www.fourpawnspublishing.com

© 2014, Four Pawns Publishing, All Rights Reserved

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife Mariana, a cancer survivor, who never ceases to amaze and encourage me.

Acknowledgments

To George Modric my best friend, for taking time away from life to help mine.

To my team and friends, Robert Ray, Donna Carver, Bernard Daley, Audrey Graves, Lars Bjerga and, the continued effort you have put into my brand is amazing and humbling.

Bonnie Hearn-Hill, for editing, advising and guiding this work, thank you, you’re a pro.

Thanks for everything.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

PROLOGUE

It was early autumn of 1973 when T.W. Wyatt decided to make his move. He was a recent graduate of Texas A&M University with a bachelor’s of science in geology. Though the degree took him an extra year to earn, it wasn’t because he lacked the brain power. He finished either first or second in his class, but that wasn’t important to him. In his sophomore year, his father had committed suicide, and he had taken time away from school to help his mother. After closing down their failed oil company, they were left with only a few oil leases and some property in West Texas that his father bought in the fifties.

The big companies had pushed his dad out of business, and Wyatt blamed them to this day.

He had sold almost all their equipment and tools to pay off debts. At least his parents’ home was paid for, and his mother continued teaching school, so she could survive.

Now, at twenty-seven years old, Wyatt was ready for the next step. Face it, he was bitter. It started upon his return from Vietnam, and to this day he harbored a great deal of resentment against the U.S. government and the American people for the treatment of the soldiers, both when they were fighting in that godforsaken hellhole and when they were ridiculed upon returning home. He had served his country in that war for four years, like his father in WWII; he expected better, but now he knew. It was up to him to pay people back and make his mark.

Today he was driving to Dallas to meet with his childhood friend, Milton Combs. Milt was the same age as he, but had gotten out of law school five years earlier and was now a partner at his father’s firm, one of the largest in Texas. Milt hadn’t charged him anything to close down his father’s business, and he had used his family’s influence to retain some leases and properties from the big oil companies that had attacked like vultures on road kill.

They were neighbors as kids and had gone to the same schools, played on the same football team, and even dated some of the same girls. Today he’d ask his friend to help again, but this time he could pay him back—he hoped.

Wyatt, how the hell are you? Milt said, as they met in the office waiting area. He was glad Milt had remembered how much he hated his real name, Toliver Wilson.

I’m good, Milt. How are your folks?

They’re fine. Dad’s in his office. We’ll stick our heads in later so you can say hello.

Great. Damn it’s good to see you.

Well, come on back to my office so we can tell lies in private. Milt winked at the receptionist and patted him on the back. You want something to drink?

No thanks.

They sat in Milt’s office and Wyatt set his briefcase down next to him. They chatted about old times for a few minutes and then they got into the reason for Wyatt’s visit. He had come to ask his friend to be his partner in the oil business. He knew that Milt’s family was very wealthy. Besides, he trusted Milt and, to him, that was more important. He probably could find money elsewhere with the current oil crisis, but he was loyal to those people who were loyal to him.

Well, I know you didn’t call to come over to hear about my love life, so what’s up? Milt asked.

You and I have been friends forever, he said. I’ll never forget what you did for me and mother after dad had passed.

Wyatt, you would have done the same for me.

I’d like to think so, but I’m here to tell you that I’m going into the oil business on my own.

Milt frowned.

I know, I know. You might be thinking that I’m doing this out of some kind of revenge or following in a dreamer’s footsteps.

No, it’s not that. It’s that I know how hard it is for independent small oil companies to make it. And now with the shortage, a great deal of pressure is going to be put on the U.S. oil companies to produce now.

He put up a hand. Listen, he said. The two large West Texas properties that you helped us keep from the big oil companies are winners. Since I left school, I took Dad’s last drill rig and a few of his old Mexicans. We went and drilled some test wells, and although I can’t afford the proper equipment now, we hit oil in ten areas. Based on the soil borings, that strata is consistent to a large field rich in both natural gas and light sweet crude.

Sounds promising.

More than that. He opened his briefcase, pulled out the survey of the property, and laid it on the desk. See the small circles. This is where we found oil. And see these circles over here, this is where old Standard Oil drilled in the early fifties, found nothing, and moved on. But my dreamer of a father bought it for a song in fifty-five because no one thought there was any oil there. They never checked the end of the property.

Milt leaned back in his chair. What do you want me to do?

A couple of things. We will need some money to do more testing before we put in production wells, but more important... He pointed to a spot on the map. ...I would like you to buy this property or at least get it under contract, so I can drill some test wells. I believe the oil field starts here on our property and continues into that one.

Let’s say I do this, Milt told him. What kind of deal would you want to work out?

Well, here’s what I think. Our property is about twenty-five hundred acres, and the adjoining tract is about ten thousand acres. They have an asking price of two million dollars and we’ll need about one million to verify what I believe to be true. I’m sure that based on my test wells, I could go to the big oil companies at worst case and sell the property to recover the three million. But if the field is as large as I expect it to be, we’ll need even more money to harvest the oil and pipe it. With your contacts, I don’t think that will be a problem.

Wyatt, it’s Friday, and my calendar is free. Milt grinned. Let’s take a trip. I’d like to kick some dirt.

Milt had been a pilot since he was eighteen and loved to fly. He’d just bought a new twin engine plane and jumped at any excuse to get hours in it. And he was more familiar with the oil companies than even Wyatt knew.

The firm specialized in providing legal services for the oil and gas industry. In fact, he would be taking over as partner of the Houston office which currently had over one hundred lawyers concentrating in the oil and gas field, both in and outside the U.S.

Even though the firm was founded by his father, he had already made a mark in his own right; he graduated from Harvard Law School at twenty-two and had recently negotiated landmark oil leases between the U.S.’s largest oil company and the U.S. government. He was interested in putting what he had learned through that exercise into use for himself.

They landed in Rio Lobo a little after 2:00 in the afternoon. They were able to look at both properties via air so Milt could get a feel before landing.

They were met by one of Wyatt’s men and took the tour of the property by sunset. They decided to check in at a local motel and spend the night before heading back. Besides, they both wanted to go over a plan. During the tour, Milt caught oil fever and already had something in mind, but he’d let Wyatt talk first. One of the things he learned in law school was you can always counter a bad offer and accept a good one with a handshake.

They found a Mexican restaurant close by and, with an open bottle of tequila, they got down to business.

So, what do you think, Milt?

If it’s even close to what you think, it probably will be a good deal.

I know it. It just got overlooked by the big boys once they put those test holes in the ground in the wrong area.

What kind of deal do you want to do, and how long will it take to figure the size of this animal?

Well, I’ve been thinking about that. If you can put up the money and I do the work, I’d like to do a 50/50 deal. I’ll throw the property we own in up front as a little security. Once we prove what I believe, help me put the money together and get the oil to market, then I’ll pay you back first for any funds we can’t get a bank to loan us. Then, we’ll split the profits equally. You can have any part you want in running the business if it takes off. I’m an oil man, and that’s what I want to do.

Milt looked at his friend, glad that he let him do the talking first.

Wyatt, I like the deal in principle. I can get the money. We’ll talk to someone tomorrow about that and I’ve got a banker friend who owes me. But, I want to be in the background. With our law firm handling all the big oil companies’ work, it can’t be known that I’ve got a financial interest in one.

How will we handle it then?

My cousin John, he said. He just graduated from law school and passed the bar. I’ll set him up with his own people to handle all of the legal work, under my supervision of course.

Well, I guess that settles it, Wyatt told him, and they reached out to shake hands.

One last thing, Milt added. What’s the name of our new company?

I like Universal Oil Company, Wyatt said.

"Universal Oil Company. Sounds good. Now, where are the señoritas in this one-horse town?"

***

A year later, in the small offices of Universal Oil Company, Wyatt, Milt, and his cousin, John Rodgers, sat in their small conference room.

During that year, the adjacent property was purchased in Universal Oil Company’s name. Fifty percent of the shares had been issued to Wyatt and fifty percent to a Cayman Island holding company where only a local lawyer appeared in the documents.

It had taken Wyatt and his small crew until that week to finish mapping the oil reserves under both properties. Wyatt had called the meeting to lay out the news and hoped these two could help him figure what he had gotten himself into. Up until now he had kept the findings to himself, only letting his partner know that there was oil there. But he had to finish all the tests to run the calculations to quantify the reserves. He didn’t tell them that he had triple-checked everything because there had to be some kind of mistake with his numbers.

Okay, what’s the verdict? Milt asked, looking up from his numbers. You’ve been awful quiet for weeks now.

Uh, excuse me. I’m sorry it took so long, but it’s been a lot of drilling to get the results. I’ve got them now.

Well?

We have 1.2 billion barrels of recoverable oil and 3.6 trillion cubic feet of natural gas, Wyatt said, smiling.

Goddamn, are you sure?

Yeah, don’t worry. I rounded on the low side. There’s probably more.

The three of them looked at each other then jumped up, hugging, laughing, and dancing. The party continued days.

ONE

In the Oval Office, President Philip Wilson Stevens sat at his desk talking to Nelson Harris, Director of the FBI.

Mr. President, Harris said. We have plenty of information to indict Gilberto Rodriguez. The murders, kidnappings, and the terror plots against the U.S. are damning, but the drug trafficking charges alone will put him away for life. Though, he won’t tell us anything about his involvement in 9/11. Nothing.

What is your sense about his knowledge of the attack? asked the President.

He knows, and I want him moved to Guantanamo soon. I believe the CIA maybe can do something with him.

You mean torture? asked the President.

No, not necessarily. They’re using some drugs that may work.

I don’t want to condone torture, even with that animal.

I understand sir, but all we get out of this guy now is ‘take me to trial’ and nothing else.

Okay, send him to Guantanamo, in isolation, of course. Have you shared your reports with Major Davis’ team?

No, sir, but I’ll see that it happens. I understand he’s recovering now.

Yes, he is. Keep me in the loop. I’m heading to Iraq in a couple of weeks. I’d like to know something before then, if possible. I’m bringing the VP into the loop so you can contact him if a problem comes up. From his old CIA days, he might be someone good to talk to.

Thank you, sir.

Vice President Milton Combs was an ex-CIA Director, Congressman, and Washington insider. He was put on the ticket only because he came from Texas and Philip Stevens knew he would not have won the presidency without Texas.

So far in his term, he had tried to keep the Vice President out of the loop on many matters, but had allowed him to have a foreign policy role in the Middle East since 9/11. President Stevens didn’t like his good ole boy contacts and attitude, but politics did make for strange bedfellows. He had no choice but to discuss Gilberto Rodriguez with him, since he would appear on the Gitmo detainee list, which he knew the Vice President was privy to.

Hey Milt, how are you? Thanks for coming on such short notice. I’m heading to Iraq soon, as you know, and I wanted to bring something to your attention before I leave. Sit down.

They shook hands, but Milt appeared to be keeping his distance.

What’s up, Philip? he asked.

Three months ago, I sent a team into Colombia to try to pick up a terrorist and stop an attack against the U.S., he replied.

I read the intelligence about our dead agents in Colombia, the Vice President said, but that was some time ago.

Yes, that’s connected. The black team I sent picked up the terrorist a few days ago and stopped the planned attack.

Is this connected with the mini-subs in Cuba? That report said that we received news of the subs from unnamed sources.

Yes, it’s connected, and the reports were doctored to protect those sources. With tension high, we couldn’t let it be known that we went into Colombia without their knowledge. We brought the terrorist here, and the FBI has been interrogating him to no avail. So, I decided to send him to Guantanamo and let your old CIA friends have a go at him.

This is the first I’ve heard of it. His look was accusatory.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, he said, but I was walking on shaky ground and wanted to give you an out. You’ve had enough press lately.

He ignored the remark. Who is this terrorist, Philip?

His name is Gilberto Rodriguez, head of the FARC in Colombia.

Milt just sat there not believing what he was hearing from this lightweight. How dare he keep me out of the loop?, he thought.

I told Nelson Harris I was going to discuss it with you, so call him if you get any ideas on helping this guy talk.

I’ll do that, Philip. Thanks for the heads up, and have a good trip.

The Vice President headed back to his office in the old Executive Office building. Upon entering, he told his secretary he didn’t want to be disturbed, but to get the FBI Director on the phone first.

Milton Combs had known the FBI Director for years. He thought he was weak and basically worthless and a poor choice to head the FBI. He had argued against the appointment, wanting to get one of his own people. Now he had to get some information from him.

The Director’s on line one, Mr. Vice President, his secretary said over the intercom.

Thank you. Then, forcing friendliness into his voice, Nelson, how have you been?

I’ve been well, Mr. Vice President. And yourself?

Fine. I just left a meeting with the President, and I understand congratulations are in order for the capture of the Colombian terrorist.

Well, thank you, but we’ve only been interrogating him. One of those Delta teams got him.

Good work anyway. I’m told that we’re sending him to Gitmo. I think that’s a good idea. The CIA may have better luck getting info from him.

We’ve been stonewalled with basically nothing and we’re hoping they can do something. Our hands are tied here, you know.

Well, we better take extra precautions transporting him, Milt said.

I don’t think that will be a problem. He’s at our most secure VA safe house that has a helicopter pad, so he won’t be in public.

That’s good news. If I can be of any help, let me know. We need these guys off the street.

I agree, said the Director.

After they hung up, Milt dialed a secure private number only he had. On the third ring, it was picked up.

Mr. Vice President, how are you?

Probably better than you, Mr. Vice President, said the Vice President of the United States.

With that, Libardo Pastrana, the Vice President of Colombia, leaned forward in his chair to find out what his old college roommate meant.

I don’t like the sound of that, Milt. What’s going on? Libardo said.

When is the last time you spoke to Gilberto Rodriguez?

A few days ago, I think, just before the failure. I’m sure he went underground, but he’ll pop up, as he always does.

I just left the President’s office. He told me that a Delta team captured him three days ago, and that the FBI has been interrogating him since then.

Oh shit. Libardo broke into a sweat. What have they learned?

Nothing yet, but they are going to transfer him to Guantanamo Bay and to the CIA. They’ll make him talk.

Milt, we can’t let that happen!

I know. That’s my next call.

Libardo had known that Gilberto Rodriguez was gone a day after his abduction, but since his guards had been killed, it was assumed that he had done it, especially when the girl wasn’t found. He would have never left her, Libardo thought.

The U.S. Vice President called a second number.

In a private office in Reston, Virginia, Harold Macey, President of White Knight Enterprises, was reviewing the latest contract his firm just received from the Department of Defense for the manpower and services that his firm supplied to the U.S. military in Iraq. It was primarily for security services along with a growing number of covert operations. His company had more than five thousand employees, many of them ex-military, mercenaries and general risk-takers. The business started after the first Gulf War, mainly working for the CIA on covert missions and for a private company, Universal Oil, protecting employees, drill sites and pipelines, along with the occasional special job off the books when necessary.

He picked up his secure phone on the first ring.

Harry, it’s me. Only Milton Combs called him that.

Hello, Mr. Vice President.

I have a job for you.

On the books or off? Harold asked.

Way off. Combs said. There’s a terrorist the FBI is holding in our old farm house. You remember the one?

Yes, sir. That’s the old company house.

That’s the one. There’s going to be a pick-up by copter soon. I need him erased.

What about collateral damage?

The more the better, Combs said.

Do we have the subject’s photo?

No. That’s why the collateral damage is needed.

Understood.

Let me know when it’s done. I will also have another job for you soon. Is Telly Matlock still with you in Iraq?

Yes, sir, he’s always ready.

After hanging up, Harold wondered what his friend wanted with ex-Delta sharpshooter Telly Matlock.

TWO

It had been three days since their rescue and the capture of Gilberto Rodriguez, the now ex-FARC leader. It was six o’clock in the morning when Robert Davis answered the phone. General Tim Stoddard’s raspy voice met his ear, summoning him to the White House to meet with the President in an hour. The U.S. military’s Head of Intelligence informed him only that a situation had arisen and nothing else.

His brother Luis was staying with him at his townhouse in Georgetown. He was already awake when the phone call came, which was a good thing, since he would have to drive Robert to the White House meeting. Robert could barely sit up without wincing in pain from the injuries he’d received during his capture and short captivity. He wasn’t so sure about Diana, Ana Vallejo’s sister. Held hostage for eleven years by Gilberto Rodriguez, Diana was still in the hospital recovering from malnutrition. Ana, who was now engaged to Robert, hadn’t left her side since her admittance.

What’s up, bro? Luis asked, watching him limp by him on the way to get some coffee in the kitchen.

"I’ll need a ride to the White House