Requiem, page 16
“Luca’s such a sweet-looking boy,” Roha said after she finished viewing, then passed Hanna’s phone to Wyatt. “Isn’t he sweet, Ray?”
Turning in his seat, lowering Hanna’s phone to his lap, Wyatt silenced his click-sound feature on his phone as he secretly recorded the photos and the video, his brain and heart thundering.
This is Danny. This is my son.
In one close-up photo, Wyatt noticed a scar on the boy’s temple.
Is that from the hotel fire?
Wyatt ached to reach into the phone and pull Danny from it, to bring him home. But he concentrated, working fast, while Roha continued talking to the Becks. He swiped deeper into Hanna’s photos in a futile effort to find a hint of where they might be headed. Instead, he found selfies of Hanna and Deiter, copied them, then turned and returned the phone.
“He’s a good-looking boy,” Wyatt said. “Deiter, tell me again about his history. You were saying his parents were killed.”
“We were told they were missionaries from Canada, working deep in the country. A couple years ago, their car crashed off a mountain road and burned. They were killed, but Luca survived. But there were bureaucratic complications returning him to Canada. He had no other family, so the agency arranged to take him and, well, here we are.”
“Poor Luca. That’s so tragic,” Roha said.
“It tore me to pieces,” Hanna said.
“Help me understand the process,” Wyatt said. “You’re German. Luca’s Canadian, or Honduran. So how do you leave the country, and then enter Germany with him? I mean, how does it all work—passport, documentation—immigration-wise?”
“The agency takes care of all of that,” Deiter said. “That’s why they’re so exclusive, and so expensive. Their skill is streamlining the process. I expect our exit with Luca will not be entirely traditional.”
“What do you mean?” Wyatt said.
“You know about Ernesto?”
Wyatt glanced at Roha, who gave a little nod, and then said: “Do you mean Ernesto Ayala?”
Hanna nodded.
Wyatt glanced at Roha again, indicating a confirmation.
“No. I mean, we’ve heard his name,” Wyatt said.
“Perhaps it’s early in the process for you.” Deiter looked out to the buildings. “When you get further along and meet him and Emma, you’ll know more about their connections and how the agency operates.”
“I hope we make it that far,” Wyatt said.
“You both got this far, through your channels,” Hanna said. “Getting to this stage is a sign that you’re in. It just takes a little time.”
“And a lot of money, as I’m sure you already know,” Deiter said. “Here we are.”
The taxi stopped at the Diamond Sky Plaza, and the Becks got out.
“Hold it.” Wyatt and Roha got out with them, but the taxi waited. “You’ve been so helpful. Please, let us buy you lunch, or drinks?”
“That’s very kind, but not necessary,” Hanna said.
Deiter shook Wyatt’s hand.
“Have a safe trip back to America, Ray, and don’t give up hope.”
“Thank you for your help and your understanding,” Roha said, hugging Hanna. “Good luck with Luca.”
“Don’t be discouraged, Sabrena,” Hanna said. “Be persistent with the agency, and it will happen for you.”
After watching the Becks enter the hotel, Wyatt and Roha had their taxi take them a block away. They got out, paid the driver, and then hurried back to the Diamond Sky Plaza.
Roha went to the front desk. She confirmed that the Becks were registered as guests and got their room number. Then she joined Wyatt, sitting on a sofa in a far corner of the lobby behind potted palms, offering cover but with a view to the hotel’s main doors.
Wyatt’s heart raced as he swiped through the photos of Danny he’d copied from Hanna Beck’s phone. Staring at them he saw his son at six, recognizing Lisa’s features in Danny’s face. Watching the video, hearing Danny’s voice, Wyatt’s eyes filled with tears.
“We can’t lose them, Sabrena. They’re our only lead to Danny. We’ll do whatever it takes. We cannot lose them.”
Keeping her eyes on the desk and the hotel doors, Roha had taken up her phone. “We’re not going to lose them, Ray.”
“Who’re you calling?”
“Gabriela Diaz. We need all the help we can get.”
A moment later, Roha, speaking quickly in Spanish, told Diaz everything. After the call, she turned to Wyatt.
“She’ll help us. She said to sit tight right here.”
“We’re not moving.”
As time passed, Wyatt assessed their surroundings.
“Sabrena, this place must have several exits that we can’t cover.”
“I know, but if they check out or get a taxi, the front’s our best bet.”
Pulse pounding, Wyatt ran through scenarios and options, deciding to text his friend Tony DeCastilla, to see if he’d learned anything further on Ernesto Ruiz Ayala. While waiting, Wyatt, now verging on desperation, considered calling Jill McDade at the FBI, but dismissed the idea. As he waited, his phone vibrated with DeCastilla’s response.
“You could be onto something. Let me keep working on it, Ray.”
Wyatt texted: “Tony, need an address for Ayala ASAP.”
DeCastilla responded: “Hang tough, buddy.”
Twenty minutes went by when Roha’s phone rang.
She spoke in Spanish, mouthing to Wyatt that it was Diaz. After a short conversation, she relayed the information to him.
“Ray, the Becks used the hotel’s service to book two airline tickets on a flight to Guatemala City tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 49
Los Angeles, California
Francisco Sousa’s eyes shone, like falling stars.
Such a sweet-looking boy, Special Agent Jill McDade thought.
Francisco was three when he disappeared while with his family at a mall in São Paulo, Brazil. Next on the screen: Becky Layne, aged two, when she went missing from a grocery store parking lot in San Antonio, Texas. Next: Martin Wakeman, aged four, disappeared while with his family near the London Eye. Next: Sophie Hernandez, three, when she vanished while with her father on the Madrid Metro. Then Danny Wyatt, vanished in a hotel fire while on vacation with his family in Banff, Canada.
Ray’s son.
Five angelic faces.
Variations—all age-progressed—staring back at McDade from her screen.
Then Wanda Stroud’s warm, friendly face appeared—a widowed, retired librarian, loved by everyone who knew her.
And here is her killer.
McDade clicked to the handsome, white-haired man in his 50s. His alias was José Luís Garcia, one of more than a dozen that he used—alias Alberto Aiza, alias Felix Neri, alias Victor Nyllev….
But the FBI had only recently zeroed in on the name Ernesto Ruiz Ayala, tracking it to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, and Servicio De Manera Clara, an agency that offered private legal assistance for foreign nationals, asylum seekers, refugees, and adoptions.
McDade reviewed the latest reports out of Honduras. It was early in the investigation. No overt move had yet been made on the agency by Honduran police, who’d kept their surveillance covert.
There was no trace of Ayala.
On the surface, all services at the agency appeared to be legal, so police had nothing yet to support warrants, charges, or arrests.
Working with Honduran police and drawing on support from the FBI, and law enforcement from other countries, an undercover operation was recently launched. The objective was to get inside Servicio De Manera Clara, and gather intel and evidence that would lead to the children and Ayala.
“Ready, Jill?” Special Agent Cal Banner said. “We’ve got something.”
McDade collected her tablet, notebook, and phone, and went with Banner, joining other investigators in the room down the hall for a hastily called meeting.
“Let’s get to it.” Banner made a quick survey of the room. “Ernesto Ruiz Ayala has been located in Guatemala City.”
A soft cheer rippled around the table.
With his laptop linked to the flat screen at the end of the room, Banner tapped the keyboard. The big screen displayed the photos Cristina Yaqui had taken of the man at the house in Zone 15, and then the images of him and Wanda Stroud from LAX security.
“Our legal attaché in Guatemala City has received a critical lead, placing Ernesto Ruiz Ayala in the city operating a childcare center.”
Banner then displayed the photos Yaqui had taken of children in the yard at the house. He outlined how the anonymous lead came in response to the FBI’s Interpol notice for the subject using various aliases, and how Ayala was tied to the house.
“All of this is unfolding now. A lot of high-level geopolitical pressure is being exerted,” Banner said. “Guatemala’s National Central Bureau is working on getting the warrants needed to launch an arrest-and-rescue operation. The Guatemalans plan to go full throttle on this to demonstrate cooperation with the U.S. and other countries. Our sources tell us Ayala may be protected by elements within law enforcement. We expect more information soon. Meanwhile, in Honduras, we have an update on the undercover work.”
Banner then showed photos of the small shopping plaza in Tegucigalpa and the storefront Servicio De Manera Clara. The Hondurans, with help from the FBI and others, had agents posing as couples seeking services, including adoption services.
“Not a lot of progress to report there,” Banner said. “Here is a gallery of photos taken covertly of their international clients.”
He flipped through images of couples in the waiting area of Servicio De Manera Clara. This was new, McDade thought, as she studied photos of the couples.
McDade caught her breath.
Ray Wyatt.
She glanced round the table, and then back at the photo just as Banner clicked to another.
How did Wyatt get onto this so fast? My God, he’s in deep. So deep he could interfere with all of the operational work. He could bring it all crashing down. And I’m the one who tipped him.
CHAPTER 50
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
The next morning, Wyatt paced at the preboarding gate to Toncontín International Airport.
Roha was on her phone, talking softly, updating Chase Lockner, their editor in New York.
Wyatt continued pacing, watching jets and small planes taxi and take off. His thoughts returned to Gabriela Diaz’s advice from the previous night.
First, Diaz had convinced Wyatt and Roha to leave their vigil of the Becks at the Diamond Sky Plaza and return to their Marriott, where she met them and updated them with her strategy.
“Do not get on the same flight as the Becks tomorrow,” Diaz had said. “It would be disastrous. Fly to Guatemala City in advance of them.”
“What if they cancel or change plans?” Wyatt said. “We’ll lose them.”
“I have reached out for help. I have sources at the Diamond, and people here who will watch them.”
“So,” Roha said, “when we get to Guatemala, what do you advise, since we don’t know their destination?”
“I have some friends in Guatemala, but it will be tricky,” Diaz said. “You have the Becks’ flight number and arrival time. Keep in touch with me. Follow the Becks in a taxi. The taxis at Guatemala’s airport are radio-dispatched. I have friends with the taxi service there, so when you have a lock on the Becks’ vehicle, give it to me, and ensure your driver—and I hope you get a good one—is aware of your need to pursue the Becks. We both can help keep eyes on them.”
It was good advice.
So, Roha booked them an early morning flight, and they checked out of the Marriott to pursue the Becks in Guatemala City.
Now, the public address crackled with a preboarding announcement as Roha stood next to him.
“Chase,” she said, extending her phone.
He took it, and said, “Hey.”
“Ray, how you holding up?”
“Good.”
“Great work. That you’ve gotten this far is amazing.”
“We’re not done yet.”
“Listen, these people are killers. Ray, please be careful.”
“We know.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Find my son, rescue him. Then alert police to rescue other children, and make arrests. There will be a story to tell.”
A moment passed, followed by another boarding announcement.
“I think that’s us,” Wyatt said.
“Keep me posted, Ray.”
CHAPTER 51
Guatemala City, Guatemala
Ernesto Ruiz Ayala looked into the mirror.
A good face, he thought.
Thick, wavy, white hair; arched eyebrows, to accentuate the fine lines that gave him character. At 52, he still carried the charisma and confidence earned from a life of calculated risk and immense reward.
Ernesto Ruiz Ayala.
One of the identities he was currently employing.
But not for long.
He leaned over the sink in the bathroom of his big house in Zone 15 and splashed water on his face. Rivulets webbed down his skin. He grinned at the memory of how he’d used his charm to convince that silly American woman he was a screenwriter working on a movie.
Unfortunate for her that she hadn’t minded her own business on their flight.
Foolish of me to have been so sloppy with my work on the plane.
He looked hard at the deepening creases around his eyes, evidence his carelessness had taken a toll. He’d lost a measure of his self-assurance after the misadventure in Los Angeles.
We took every precaution to eliminate the problem, but we were rushed.
The authorities could be coming.
He glanced at the bed and his half-packed suitcase.
His worry had necessitated the need to reevaluate his operation, expedite the process, accelerate transactions, clear inventory, and pull out.
Besides, he’d done well here in the past years, earning $75 million in U.S. dollars, deposited in banks around the world. He’d converted several million into cryptocurrency.
His underground adoption network of corrupt lawyers, counterfeiters, corrupt social services, health workers, corrupt security, hunters, and other players needed no advertising.
Word of its services floated on the dark web.
He started with Guatemalan babies, obtaining them from impoverished women in the mountain villages and city slums, convincing them to sell their children, or telling them after they’d given birth that their child had died.
While babies secured a high price, not everyone wanted an infant. Some clients were looking for children of specific genders or ages, even as old as nine or 10.
To meet that specific demand, he relied on “hunters” around the world, contracted to act on opportunity to ensure a good supply of valuable inventory. The people he used were skilled, and over the years they’d had some remarkable successes. Among them was the boy from São Paulo, Brazil; the girl from Texas; the boy from London; the girl from Spain; and the boy, to be processed in a few hours, obtained by an extraordinary hunter during a hotel fire in the Canadian Rockies.
He’d pay the hunters a generous bounty and draw upon his connections with document forgers, cartels, coyotes—all who were expert and experienced at delivering the stock to him, to enhance his inventory and be added to his catalog.
Physically, he fronted his operation with legitimate childcare and adoption services, using a “hide-in-plain-sight” strategy while paying off high-level police officials to thwart any attempt to infiltrate it.
But his worry increased with each day since he’d returned from Los Angeles. Online, he studied news reports of Wanda Stroud’s case. Her body had been discovered faster than he’d expected. While most reports indicated police had no leads, he knew LAX had security cameras everywhere.
His worry evolved into fear with each new call he received from Isabel at the Tegucigalpa office. Recently, more strangers were appearing at Servicio De Manera Clara—strangers who said they were interested in adoption, people that made Isabel suspicious. The most recent was an American couple, claiming to be writers, one from New York and the other from Los Angeles.
“I have a sense they’re journalists,” Isabel said.
A journalist from Los Angeles. A journalist from New York.
He splashed more water on his face.
Stay calm.
They were winding down operations quickly.
We’ll be gone within hours.
CHAPTER 52
Guatemala City, Guatemala
The one-hour flight in an Airbus A319 from Tegucigalpa was a smooth one.
Wyatt and Roha cleared Guatemalan Immigration and Customs easily. But when they checked the Arrivals board, Wyatt’s stomach tensed. The arrival status for Flight EZ5716 from TGU—the Becks’ flight—was delayed one hour.
Wyatt cursed.
“Hang on, Ray,” Roha said as they went to seats in the waiting area. “You stay here with our bags. I’ll check with the airline at the desk.”
“I’ll text Gabriela,” Wyatt said.
Within in two minutes, Diaz responded, texting confirmation her people had seen the Becks boarding Flight EZ5716. Then Roha returned.
“It was mechanical, an unsecure latch. Fixed already,” Roha said. “Their flight will only be thirty minutes late.”
Biting his bottom lip, Wyatt nodded.
Still jittery, he left Roha to check the situation concerning taxis, rental cars, limo services, and shuttles. He wanted to get a sense of things, given they didn’t know how, or where, the Becks would travel after landing.
“Well?” Roha asked when he returned.
“Pretty much like any other airport.”
In the time they waited, Wyatt and Roha continually monitored their phones for messages from Diaz, or responses from their sources on Ayala. Nothing came. Then Roha went to the stores at the terminal’s far end.
Minutes passed.
