The Oshkosh Connection (Max Fend)

by Andrew Watts

Max could see the two narco gunmen glaring at him, holding their weapons. They were probably friends with the dead.

  “But there is a more important matter I need to resolve. I want only to find my associate. It is imperative that I find him. Now, my belief is that your arrival here in Mazatlán, and your past employment history, are much too coincidental. But…by the same token, I will grant you that any man of your experience, Mr. Fend, would be a complete fool to stick around after last night’s fiasco occurred, if they were indeed a part of it. So, maybe you really were here for innocent reasons? Let me ask you.” He looked at Renee. “Both of you. Do you know where my associate, Hector Rojas, is located?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t,” Max answered.

  Renee shook her head, “No.” Her voice was soft.

  Williams just nodded. “I thought so.”

  Williams turned to one of his gunmen and nodded towards the beach. The gunman headed through the lobby, towards the hotel’s street entrance.

  Max watched Williams’s expression grow dark. He recognized this look. Men like him felt the need to demonstrate power. Whatever was about to happen was a warning.

  Heads turned at the sound of a woman’s scream. The double doors to the hotel’s front entrance flung open as two of the sicarios walked back in, rifles slung over their backs. In their arms, the men carried a bloodied woman. She had deep lacerations along her back and breasts, and her dark hair was matted with dried blood. She swayed and whimpered as they carried her through the hotel lobby and restaurant area, then out towards the beach.

  Renee’s hand went up over her mouth, and Max noticed her eyes watering. As the men hauled the woman through the restaurant area, some of the patrons let out gasps. But many just looked away, not wanting to be a witness to whatever the narcos might do. Max moved to stand up, but the sicario behind him forced him back into his seat and pointed his weapon at Max’s head.

  They dumped the woman on the beach, just twenty yards in front of the restaurant, a disturbed flock of seagulls clearing the area as they did. One of the gunmen propped her up on her knees.

  Williams said, “Now, I think there’s a good way to determine if you are or are not working with the American intelligence or drug enforcement agencies. This woman here, Miss Sanchez. Is she a spy?”

  Max didn’t answer. Neither did Renee.

  Williams nodded, his tone sterner. “Do you know where Rojas was taken?”

  No answer.

  Renee was beginning to breathe heavy as she watched the woman on the beach kneeling down like she was about to be executed. Williams saw Renee’s reaction and leaned towards her. “Miss LaFrancois, I put this girl’s life in your hands. Tell me where Rojas is, right now, and you can save her.”

  Max said, “We don’t know. Is this really necessary?”

  Williams nodded to one of his men, who came up behind Max fast and placed him in a headlock, pulling him away from the table.

  Max knew better than to fight too hard.

  Renee was crying. “I don’t know. I don’t know where…”

  Williams used his thumb and forefinger to make a gun shape and then pointed to the girl on the beach.

  Several loud shots rang out. There was a collective shudder from everyone in the restaurant, and then quiet. Anonymous weeping and cursing in the restaurant. Angry squirming from Max. But mostly just quiet. The narcos had all the power here.

  Max could see Ines Sanchez’s lifeless body, now filled with bullet holes. Dark crimson blood painted over white sand.

  Williams stood.

  “This is the way business is done in this place. There is a code which must be followed. A balance to be kept. Eye for an eye. That sort of thing. If you break the rules…if someone betrays us, this is what happens.”

  Max glared at Williams. “She was a girl.”

  Williams shrugged. “The rules apply to everyone. Otherwise we are just a pack of wild dogs.” He walked over to Renee and caressed her neck, allowing his eyes to wander. He clicked his tongue. “Still, dogs need to be fed. Fed in all sorts of ways.” Williams backed away from her and motioned to his men.

  Max was released. The gunman trained his rifle on Max and forced him to sit back down.

  Renee, her eyes red and watery, gritted her teeth, saying, “Everyone here saw…”

  Williams laughed. “You think that matters here?” He leaned forward. “Now, I don’t know with total confidence that you were involved last night. And…let’s face it. Max, your father is famous. You can thank him for your safety. It would cause me headaches if you were to go missing. But don’t think that because I show you leniency today, this can’t happen to you, Max. Or her.” He looked towards Renee.

  Max clenched his jaw and forced himself to slow his breathing. Control his anger, before it endangered them all. He decided right then and there that someday soon, he would kill this Ian Williams fellow.

  One of the guards approached and whispered something in Williams’s ear. He looked up and smiled. “It appears that our breakfast has come to an end.”

  Max could hear a distant rumble of helicopters. Big ones, by the sound of it. Someone whistled, and the Mexican gang emptied the bag of cell phones onto one of the central tables in the hotel restaurant. Then they left the hotel, getting back into their trucks.

  Williams pointed to Max and Renee. “For these two, make sure you take their phones and electronic devices with us. Don’t give them back.”

  The man nodded. “En el auto.”

  Williams rose and said to Max, “If you’re working for him, tell Caleb Wilkes I said hello. And tell him that his agent was a delicious lay for my men.”

  He strode towards the door. Before walking out, Williams turned and yelled, “Max, you have two hours to leave this city. If I see you again, I’ll come for Renee and feed her to my men as their next meal.”

  With that, Williams turned and left.

  Three army-green Chinook helicopters landed on the beach. Dozens of Mexican military troops poured out, marching up to the hotel and securing the perimeter. A man wearing sunglasses, a blue polo, and khakis walked up to Max and Renee.

  “You Max Fend?” he asked in American-accented English.

  “Yeah.”

  “Phone call.”

  He handed Max a cell phone, which he held up to his ear.

  “My God, are you two alright?” Wilkes’s voice.

  “Hello, Caleb. How are you?”

  “I got notified you were in cartel custody there and moved as fast as I could. I had to call in a lot of favors to get the Mexicans to send in the cavalry. You’re both lucky you weren’t chopped to pieces. You have any idea what they do to their enemies down there?”

  Max knew he was right, and he was furious at himself for letting it happen. It was reckless of him to bring Renee to Mexico, and even more stupid to come back to the hotel. Not that he’d had a choice. He looked at Renee standing on the pool patio, the wind from the helicopter rotors blowing her dark hair into streamers.

  Max noticed that Renee didn’t look scared.

  She looked pissed.

  And not at him, for once, which was nice. Max’s intuition told him that their little meeting with Ian Williams had cemented Renee’s resolve.

  Max said into the phone, “We found out Blanco’s name. Or at least an alias that you can look up. Ian Williams. We actually just sat down with him. I watched him execute Ines Sanchez, Caleb.”

  Wilkes swore on the other end of the line. Then he said, “Okay, thank you for letting me know.”

  “Where’s Rojas? When can we get there?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  He was right. Max was stupid to have said that. If the cartels or the ISI were able to hack into this phone call, Max would have just confirmed that Rojas was in US custody. There was no excuse for the error. Max was rattled after witnessing that poor woman’s death, and seeing Renee so close to a murderer.

  He tried to keep his conversation more vague. “Caleb, I wan
t to see this through.”

  Wilkes ignored him. “The guy that handed you the phone is DEA. He’ll see that you get out of the country safely. And soon. I’ve assured State Department that you had nothing to do with last night, and that my request to protect an agent in Mazatlán this morning is purely coincidental timing. Keep out of trouble. I’ll talk to you when you reach the States. Goodbye, Max.”

  Max handed the phone back to the DEA man, who said, “I have orders to get you back to the United States. Do you have transportation?”

  Max nodded. “It’s at the local airport.”

  Thirty minutes later, Max and Renee were once again flying in his father’s private jet, this time north, towards the US. The aircraft cabin was long, thin, luxurious, and empty. Two pilots up front, with the cockpit door closed. Max knew both of them by name. They had been on his father’s personal staff for decades. A single steward sat just aft of the cockpit, blending in with the wall, his senses attuned to the tiniest glance from one of his passengers.

  Renee and Max sat facing each other near the back of the cabin, out of earshot of the steward. Max said, “I’ve asked the pilots to fly us to Texas. I’m hoping to get in touch with Trent. Or see if Wilkes will let me join Rojas’s interrogation.” He paused. “Are you alright? Look, I understand if you want to head home. We did what was asked.”

  She had been looking out the window, but now she turned to face him. “I’m with you now more than ever.”

  Max knew that she was thinking of the female agent executed on the beach, perhaps holding herself responsible. Or maybe she was thinking of Josh Carpenter’s little boy. Josh had been killed, in a way, by the same men.

  Max said, “I want to find out more about Ian Williams.”

  “No problem. Give me a few hours once we touch down.”

  “I just wish we still had our phones,” said Max.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m getting the feeling that Wilkes is putting us on ice. He used us for what he needed and will use other assets now that he thinks we’re a known quantity to Williams.”

  Renee shook her head. “What’s that got to do with our phones?”

  “We no longer have the encrypted phones. And you don’t have your computer. We needed them so that we could contact Trent and meet up with him. Otherwise we’ll just have to wait for Wilkes to decide whether he wants to keep using us.”

  Renee gave him a funny look.

  “What?”

  “Max, I made a clone of each phone and uploaded it to my secure cloud storage. I always do that. Same with all of the data on my computer. Come on. What year are you living in?”

  “So, we’ll be able to contact Trent?”

  “Yes. What do you think I’m here for, eye candy?”

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Caleb Wilkes sat in the corner of the room, his legs crossed, and mouth shut. He was still a bit groggy from the red-eye to DC, but thankfully he wouldn’t need to do much talking. This was the FBI’s show. Wilkes was here as a courtesy. He was, however, very interested in the discussion.

  Senator Herbert Becker, a member of the Select Intelligence Committee and the Judiciary Committee, was now being interviewed after the mysterious death of his chief of staff. In his preliminary statement to the FBI, Becker had told investigators that he had information related to his chief of staff and Joseph Dahlman, the dead lobbyist.

  Senator Becker sat next to his lawyer. His lawyer opened up a leather-bound case and took out a stapled document, which he slid forward on the table.

  The FBI agent leading the interview said, “What’s this?”

  “Please read it.”

  Three copies were circulated, and Wilkes’s eyebrows shot up when he began reading his.

  Senator Becker,

  If you are reading this, then the worst has happened. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.

  A few years ago, I became aware that Joseph Dahlman’s clients were not simply businessmen representing multinational corporations, as they were initially advertised to you. Dahlman had connections to Pakistan’s intelligence agency, the ISI. I should have told you, and I should have informed the FBI. I didn’t, because I knew that it could ruin everything we have worked for.

  Whoever reads this should know that Senator Becker is innocent of any wrongdoing. He knew nothing of Dahlman’s relationship with the ISI. I was overzealous and cowardly. I take full responsibility for any improper actions.

  This document serves as my insurance policy against personal harm. If I am killed, it will be sent to Senator Becker. He may do with it what he likes.

  The following is a list of names, dates, activities, and bank accounts which implicate me and the ISI in illegal activity.

  Ronald Dicks

  Wilkes read through the document. He recognized a few of the names. No one stuck out, but they would cross-reference everything against the intelligence files of the CIA and other agencies. The FBI agent handed the document to one of his colleagues, who left the room looking grim. This would reach the director’s desk within minutes.

  One of the agents in the room muttered, “Seems like the insurance policy didn’t work.”

  The lead FBI agent sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. The whole room sat on pins and needles.

  “Let’s start with the relationship between your former chief of staff and the lobbyist, Dahlman. Why did they meet?”

  “Mr. Dahlman’s firm represented business interests that were important to my constituents.”

  “Important to your constituents?”

  “That’s correct. They represented companies that did business in Wisconsin.”

  “What kind of companies?”

  “Several types. Health care-focused, mainly. Medical device manufacturers. Pharmaceutical manufacturers. However, I fear that Mr. Dahlman’s clients’ interests diverged from my own policy stance in recent months.”

  “How so?”

  “I am the coauthor of the Opioid Epidemic Act. It’s the most aggressive legislation Congress has ever put forth to fight the opioid crisis in our country. But some pharmaceutical companies fear that the bill will hurt their bottom line. These drugs are very profitable. Naturally, some are upset. But it appears that I was ill-informed on just who these people were, and how upset they had become.”

  “You thought Dahlman’s lobbying firm represented Big Pharma?”

  The senator shifted in his seat, looking around the room. “Until I received this letter, this insurance policy from my chief of staff, I believed Dahlman’s agency represented multinational corporations that benefited from legal narcotic production, among other things.”

  “Multinational?”

  The senator’s lawyer spoke up. “Mr. Dahlman’s firm was in full compliance with the Foreign Agents Registration Act, and the senator’s campaign contributions were in accordance with campaign finance law. This conversation is about the senator’s recently deceased chief of staff. I would ask that we narrow the questions to that subject.”

  “But while you thought the clients of this lobbyist were—to use your term, multinational—you also knew they were upset with you. What made you think that Mr. Dahlman’s clients were upset with your legislation?”

  “Ron told me as much.” The senator cleared his throat and looked at his lawyer, who nodded. “Approximately three weeks ago, Mr. Dicks received a phone call that threatened the both of us if I didn’t change my vote.”

  Caleb Wilkes leaned forward in his chair, waiting for the FBI agent to dig.

  “Threatened you? How so?”

  “The man on the phone said that Mr. Dicks and I were likely to be physically harmed. I don’t remember the exact wording, but it was vulgar.”

  The FBI agent looked incredulous. “Did you report this to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We didn’t take it seriously at first. At the time, I didn’t know what was in the contents
of this note. I didn’t know that these people represented a foreign intelligence service. When we read that Dahlman was shot, Ron and I both were of course alarmed. Ron especially so. But I didn’t imagine in a hundred years that…” His voice trailed off. Wilkes could tell the senator was upset.

  “Take your time, Senator. Would you like some water?”

  “No, I’m fine. You have to understand my position. If the papers get a hold of this, I’ll be part of a scandal. And regardless of the fact that I have done nothing wrong, it will hurt me.”

  Wilkes wrote down a question and handed it to the special agent conducting the interview. The special agent looked at Wilkes and nodded.

  Wilkes addressed the senator. “Senator Becker, did Ron Dicks have access to classified intelligence?” Wilkes knew the answer, of course, but he wanted to hear Becker’s response.

  “Of course he did.”

  “How often did he access the CIA’s high security research room in Northern Virginia?”

  “I’m on the Select Intelligence Committee. Ron was crucial in making sure that I was informed on all matters pertaining to my work on the committee. He went to that site regularly to get information and would share the top-level findings with me prior to committee meetings and hearings.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe he would have shared that information with a foreign national? Or with anyone who wasn’t cleared and appropriately read in?”

  “If you’d asked me that question a few days ago, I would have said of course not. Now, I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Thank you, Senator.”

  Wilkes stayed for a few more moments and then politely excused himself from the interview. The senator seemed truthful. He was a politician, motivated by fear and ambition. But it was Ron Dicks, his senior aide, who had been regularly accessing the classified intelligence that Wilkes now knew contained Ines Sanchez’s name.

  Ron Dicks had likely passed that information on to Dahlman, who had in turn passed it on to his ISI handler, Abdul Syed. Syed had gone missing two days ago, just before Sanchez was rolled up. Just before Ron Dicks was killed.