Chapter 30
Alberto De La Cruz had been doing his homework. He was pleased with the way things were going, at least on his end. His end was marketing. Selling the product. He had no doubt that the product, the weapons systems data, would soon be in hand. The mole was smart and well connected. He would figure it out. Spike wasn't all that bright, but he was loyal and did what he was ordered to do without question. He always got the needed results.
Alberto had spent a great deal of time working his way into contact with representatives of mainly oil rich countries that were ran by ruthless, ambitious men. Men with vision and the desire control the world's oil supply. Men who wished to be the most powerful people in the world, and with control of all the oil, that's exactly what they would be. With the most modern, sophisticated weaponry in the world, even better than America's, this sort of man would be unstoppable.
Alberto De La Cruz would soon have just what that ruthless dictator would need to accomplish his goal, and that next world leader would be the one who gave Alberto the highest bid for the weapons systems.
De La Cruz had worked his way through the diplomats of the countries he had contacted to participate in his auction. He now had three dictators to whom he had personal contact. Three men, each of which was willing to throw in bids of no less that a billion dollars.
There was an element of danger in what Alberto was doing, and he was quite aware of it. He had to be careful to do exactly as he promised, and when the payee was chosen, he had to follow the agreement to the letter. His life would literally depend on it. These were not men who negotiated after the negotiating was over and agreed upon.
Alberto, like Spike, was just waiting for Susan to make a mistake, and they knew she would. She's just human. She's not a professional, and she didn't know what she was doing. This should be easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.
Alberto sat back in the luxury of the finest lounge chair made, sipping an espresso on his veranda, gazing out at the pristine sea, remembering his vow as a skinny, rag adorned child to get out of the poverty that surrounded him. To do it by whatever means possible, and to never look back. Alberto's dream was to be wealthy, very wealthy, and as his intelligence and leadership qualities began to bloom, he realized that power came with wealth, and was just as great on an elixir as the money that created it.
Alberto didn't really know what he was worth to the penny. He had assets. Warehouses with enough weapons to arm an army, much of it surplus arms left over wars gone to history books; AK-47's, M-16's, all of them secondary to today's modern weaponry, but no less lethal than they were, and in the hands of an army, adequate enough to conquer any third world nation and to be formidable against any larger nation.
He did not know how much he had tied up in product, but knew that he had less than a billion available in moveable money. As much as that was, it wasn't enough. Even a billion was not enough. With the right people in world power, and he would do what he could to see that they were, he would be one of the richest people in the world, and be respected and honored by the conquerors that he created. Dominance didn't always come with the position of a countries leader, a position that could lead to a nasty ending. Mussolini was hung in the street, allowing an angry populace the opportunity to beat his already dead body. Hitler committed suicide to avoid what he knew would come with his capture. Hussein met his end with a hangman's noose. No, Alberto didn't want that. He didn't have the ego for it. He worked in the shadows, oblivious to the people who would come after their leaders with pitch forks and machete's. After the brutal were brutalized, Alberto would still be here. Very rich. Very comfortable.
Without moving his gaze from the sea before him, he said, “Bring me a cigar. A Cuban.” Within moments a tray was placed on the mosaic table in front of him. The armed man attending him silently lifted the cigar from a silver holder, clipped the end with scissors before handing it to Alberto with a slight bow. He then placed an ornately carved crystal ashtray in front of him and then lit the cigar in Alberto's mouth with a silver lighter.
The attendant waited expectantly as Alberto puffed on the cigar, then swept the air with the hand, dismissing the servant. He bowed and stepped away from Alberto, moving to the back of the house. The servant placed the tray on a service table, turned back to the sea and Alberto's back, silently scanning the land on either side of the mansion as well as the sea. The man would do this for four hours, guarding Alberto's horizon's from invaders of any sort, and seeing that his desires and wants are met immediately. At the end of his shift another attendant would come on, and this would continue in 24 hour shifts. Each attendant, very focused for their entire shift. These men were Alberto's elite group. There were 12 of them, all well trained in defense and servant services. Though, seemingly an odd combination, they were the two requirements to be in Alberto's special guard unit, which paid very well.
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Joseph Eichmann sat in an old stuffed chair in which it looked as if he had spent many nights, and he had. Through a thousand cases and projects over a thirty year period, Joseph had sat in this chair exactly as he did now. His hair had gone from thick and wavy to thin and wispy in this chair. His athletic body had grown tired and soft here. A small fire blazed in the fireplace in front of him, it's light flickering over a face in heavy concentration. He puffed absentmindedly on a pipe, then held it off to the side, his elbow on the chair arm., his eyes following the disappearing flames as they reached restlessly for the rising air, then died into heat.
Joseph was a methodical man – always had been. It's what made him such a good spy. No detail was ever too small for him to study. He had solved a thousand riddles by looking at the insignificant and placing them into a puzzle, which is exactly what he was doing now.
He ran through his mind the last few meetings that he had with Susan's brother, Jeff Jenkins. That was when they discovered that there was a mole in the agency. They tried to set him up, but he was too smart and had paid a bum to place the stick in the pickup spot. Then, Jenkins took it upon himself to see what was on the memory stick. He had suspicions. He knew this was something very big, and he also knew that it came from the basement of a top secret facility. Joseph remembered the fear that Jeff showed when he realized what he had in his hands. How incredibly dangerous it was not only to have, but to be set loose on the world. Jeff decided he was dead from all sides, because, one, he had goods stolen from the U.S., and, two, he had not given it to the man who ordered it taken, Alberto De La Cruz. One was no less dangerous than the other under these circumstances.
Joseph was certain that Jenkins had not died at sea with the memory stick, just as De La Cruz was certain of it. But, there was something about his conversations with Brad and Susan – something very subtle in their body language and delivery when they spoke of it. Not only was he certain that Jeff Jenkins had left it with her before he disappeared, he was sure that she knew where it was, and he was also certain that Brad did as well.
Joseph was now in a position of discussion with Brad and Susan. To the point where they even trusted him a little bit. He smiled at that thought. Brad's trust in him was limited at best, which was understandable, but didn't really matter when this little adventure met it's end. Joseph had plans. Ones that nobody, not even his bosses were aware of. He would fulfill his obligation and his contract, but he would also take care of Joseph Eichmann. Nobody else would.
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