“To not screw up.” Bernadette said.
Winston nodded her head. “Yeah, you got it; obviously you understand police department politics.”
They pulled up in front of the Best Western Mayan Hotel. “Sorry about the accommodations, this is the best we could do on short notice. The Hyatt was booked with some Morticians’ Convention from Guadalajara. Who knew this was such a busy place?” Winston said.
They pulled their suitcases out of the trunk and Valdes, now somewhat subdued, told Winston he’d park the car, and see them later. Winston spoke to him in whispered tones; he nodded his head and drove off.
Winston said, “Anton, you go ahead and check in. You’ll be sharing a room with my partner, Valdes. Yeah, don’t worry,” she said on seeing Anton’s worried look. “He’ll be fine. He has this asshole complex he can’t quite manage when he first meets people, kind of like Tourettes Syndrome, but he’s manageable with my boot in his ass. Now run along and enjoy. You young boys will have lots to talk about.”
Bernadette was about to follow Anton into the hotel, and she felt Winston’s hand on her arm, a request to talk. She stopped and looked the short lady in the eyes.
Winston looked up at Bernadette. “Now, detective, I have a strict directive from your boss to my boss . . . now how did he put it? Yes, the technical term was he didn’t want you fucking up while you’re down here.” She put her hand up, as Bernadette was about to say something. “Now let me finish, and you can get all up in my grill, but here’s the deal. I’ve spent almost 20 years in the FBI and I’ve seen every alpha male and kick-ass female who’s shot up the ranks and wants to flash their brilliant intuition like a shining meteor to the detriment of those of us in the rank and file.”
She squeezed Bernadette’s arm just a bit tighter. For a little lady she had strength. “Now I’m not saying you’re one of those people who want to show the rest of us up. No, you don’t seem like the type, but I’m here to tell you I’m your handler—yes—that’s right—handler.” She leveled her brown eyes at Bernadette’s liquid green. “That means while you’re down here, when you have ideas, you bounce them off me. You have concerns . . . likewise. You get no gun, and a short lease . . . is that understood?”
Bernadette stuttered out, “Yeah . . . I get that . . . but I . . .”
Winston let go of her arm, “Hey, you and I are going to get along fine, and by the way I got you your own room, just kind of worked out that way. Let’s get you checked in.”
Bernadette checked into her room, unpacked and took a long shower, letting cool water run over her to try to wash off the long hours of airplane travel. There was always something about the long hours in a plane that reminded her of visiting prisoners in a jail cell. They had nowhere to go until their sentence was up. And to her, this assignment was like being cooped up on a plane. You were there, with nowhere to go until the thing landed . . . stuck in space.
She turned on her phone and checked her messages. There was another text from Chris. He said he had a message from his detachment that he was needed—duty calls . . . and he added a happy face with a wink. He added . . . stay safe . . . I love you.
She texted back stay safe. Her finger hovered over the I button. It should have been an immediate reaction to say I Love You back. She hit send, and went to bed.
Sleep took a long time coming. The thoughts of Chris, the thoughts of the case, the hunt for McAllen, and her Grandmother’s chilling warning of Bernadette’s death in bright sunlight. All of this made for a multiple bout of tossing and turning before sleep finally came.
She woke a 6:30 a.m., dressed and found Anton in the lobby. “How are your bunking arrangements going with our angry Mexican-American?” she asked as they found a table for breakfast in the hotel restaurant.
Anton laughed as he stirred his coffee. “You know, I think we’ll get along just fine. We had a few beers last night, and a few laughs.”
“Really? I thought that guy was a serious piece of work with no sense of humor. How did you get him to lighten up?”
Anton leaned forward over the table and lowered his voice. “I told him that we Canadians are very similar to Mexican-Americans. You know how they call them wetbacks, because they cross the Rio Grande River? Well, I told him Americans call us frost backs, and he laughed so hard beer came out his nose.”
Bernadette laughed. “My God Anton, I thought you could just charm women, but you probably should enter politics when you get back home. Huh, who would have thought of frost backs?”
“Hey, on another note, I got us our own car, because my new friend Luis Valdes thinks we should have our own wheels to roam Merida, and he pulled a favor with the FBI guy in charge of rentals, and voilà!” Anton pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket.
“How’s that going to sit with Agent Winston? I got a chapter and verse on how we are supposed to be on tight leash and not screw up late last night.”
“Things change quickly down here. Agent Winston just got assigned to assist some other higher-up agent and we got set free. Speaking of that, here’s Winston now.” Anton motioned with his head at Winston approaching their table.
“Good morning Agent Winston, perhaps you’ll join us for coffee . . .”
“No time for that, I’m here to tell you the housekeeper’s arrived back home, and we’re interviewing her now. Be ready to roll.” Winston hesitated for a moment, and bent over towards Bernadette. “Look, just because I’ve been reassigned, doesn’t mean you get free rein to do whatever you want—you copy that?”
“Copy that,” Bernadette said. She gulped her coffee and headed for the lobby with Anton.
Bernadette and Anton followed several FBI agents out to a fleet of rental cars. They found their car, and joined the fleet of FBI speeding through the rain-drenched streets of downtown Merida. They reached the address of the aunt in 20 minutes. The scene at the aunt’s place was a Spanish-speaking FBI agent grilling a terrified old lady. The old lady was wild-eyed and wailing. She had no idea that the kind, elderly gentlemen she did housekeeping for was a wanted felon. She gave them the address, and crossed herself several times as the legion of FBI agents left her home for their vehicles.
Now a larger cavalcade of cars careened around narrow Mexican streets. Bernadette sat in the passenger seat of a rented Chevrolet Malibu and wondered what it would be like to actually meet the Professor. The man who had eluded her a year before and made a mockery out of the RCMP and combined Canadian armed forces. She relished the chance to see cuffs on him. It would feel good. It would feel like closure.
She decided she would put the cuffs on him, and then tell him he’d been pardoned, and given a walk on all his past and present crimes. She knew she’d feel better that way—if only for a few seconds.
The place they arrived at was a solitary large blue door on a narrow street just past the center of Merida’s Historic district. Two FBI agents armed with door rammers took care of the door, and a tight cord of agents covered in body armor made their way into the villa with guns bristling.
Bernadette walked into the villa followed by Anton. They found the FBI giving the “all clear.” There was no sign of the professor. A desk where his laptop had lain showed a slight cover of dust, a wallboard where notes had been tacked was stripped, showing all the signs of a hasty exit.
An exhausted FBI agent dressed in black coveralls and bulletproof vest came over to Bernadette and Anton. “Looks like someone tipped off our man. Maybe got wind the RCMP was on his tail.” He smiled towards Bernadette.
The lead FBI agent turned to several other agents and started giving orders to check every rental unit in Merida. He wanted a photo of McAllen circulated to every rental agent in Merida, and every hotel canvassed. He yelled, “We’re going to track this man down.”
Bernadette took Anton aside. “You know that isn’t going to work.”
“Why is that?” Anton asked.
“Well for one thing, McAllen is ex-military. I doubt if he’ll be hiding out in
this same neighborhood, especially if he knew we were coming. Either someone close to his housekeeper tipped him off, or someone from the university who knew we getting close to his Mexican hiding place.”
“So, you think he’s left the country, split for Belize, Costa Rica, or somewhere else in Latin or South America?” Anton asked as he watched the FBI take apart the place looking for clues.
“No, he’s in another small town close by, probably a little fishing village,” Bernadette said.
Anton shook his head. “How can you be so sure of that?”
Bernadette motioned for Anton to follow her outside. When they were out of sight of the FBI, she showed him a post card. It was a photo taken of McAllen’s friends, Sebastian, Percy and Theo with Grace and Margaret in the background. They had fishing rods and fish. The caption read, Hey Mac, we’ll get some of these out at Cris when we return next month. The postcard was dated July 23rd, and the postage stamp was from Costa Rica.
Anton flipped the postcard over. “Where did you get this?”
“It was on the floor as we walked in; McAllen must have dropped it on his way out. All these guys stepped over it storming in. I can’t help it if these guys can’t bend down to pick up easy evidence,” Bernadette smiled as she stuffed the postcard into her pants pocket.
Anton motioned for Bernadette to come outside, “Look, great . . . you got another postcard. You can add that to your collection.
“Just a minute, I’m going to type in Cris, Yucatan, Mexico, on my cell . . . and . . . I got nothing.” Bernadette looked up at Anton with a frown.
“What if it’s code for something?”
“Yeah, of course, these guys were ex-military. There’s no way they’d use the exact name of a place. I’ll bring up Google Maps—he’s got to be somewhere close by if his buddies were coming back.”
“Look at small villages on the coast and see if anything might have a name starting with C.”
Bernadette’s finger flew over her phone. “I got nothing on villages with a C. Wait . . . what if it’s the second name, and they shortened it?” Bernadette looked up, her face beaming. “San Crisanto is a little fishing village on the coast. And it’s a short drive from here.”
Anton shook his head. “You think they’d use the Cris for San Crisanto? My God, Bernadette, how do you get that kind of thought train? Why couldn’t Cris be some guy or girl’s name?
Bernadette’s’ brows furrowed. “Look Anton, when you spell the name Chris for a man or women, you use an H. This has only the C R I and S. And they say, they’ll get some of these fish out at Cris; they don’t use the possessive form, which would indicate a person. You see that, it’s code. Hey, and at this point . . . it’s all I got . . . I say we go with it.”
Anton sighed, “Okay, I’ll inform our Agent Winston we have a lead . . . a strange lead, but a lead anyways, and see what she wants to do with it.”
Bernadette grabbed Anton’s arm, “Are you kidding? Look, first they’ll think we’re crazy, and if they go along with it they’ll bring in a team of FBI and all these Mexican Federals with M16’s which will get McAllen killed. I want him alive.”
“So, you suggest we just go off on our own in search of McAllen without informing the FBI?” Anton asked the question to be sure of the depth of the trouble he was about to get himself into.
Bernadette patted Anton on the shoulder. “Look, the lead FBI agent gave instructions to the others to comb the area for McAllen . . . we are just combing in another direction . . . and we’ll call them when we find him . . .” Bernadette stopped in mid sentence. She watched a blue Chevrolet drive by slowly with two occupants.
There was something about the woman in the passenger seat that looked familiar. The woman’s eyes shot straight ahead as the car passed. The driver was looking straight ahead as well. To Bernadette that was odd behavior. Most people would be curious as to all the cars parked at funny angles on the street, and a bunch of men and women running around in black coveralls and jackets that said FBI on them.
Anton watched the car as it drove down the street. “What is it?”
Bernadette shook her head. “You know it’s weird, but I’ve seen that woman before, the one that just drove by—she looked similar to Zara Mashhadov.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, her hair was completely different . . . I’m probably seeing things. She was last reported to be in Barcelona.”
Zara turned to Adlan. “Do you think anyone recognized us?”
“How could they? They don’t know we’re in the country. They think you’re hiding in Spain, and half of Europe thinks I’m in Russia. No one knows us here.”
“But that woman, I’m sure she was police. I saw her look at me, and she stared at me, like she was trying to put a name to my face.”
“Ha . . . Zara, it is because you are pretty, and she is probably a lesbian. Don’t worry, you’ll see, no one knows we are here.”
Zara sat back in the car seat and adjusted the car’s front vent to blow cool air on her face. The exchange of looks from the woman on the street suddenly made her very hot. Also, it was the first time in a very long time that Adlan had called her pretty.
She pulled out the notebook she had stolen from Paul Goodman’s neighbor and looked at the page. The address they just passed was compromised, and obviously the professor was not there. Otherwise they would have seen him being dragged out of the house. That was the reason they had made the slow drive by, just to be sure.
“We will have to try the other address; it shows it is a small village on the coast . . . I think some 70 kilometers away.” Zara pointed to a map as Adlan navigated the narrow streets.
“Good, we will head there in the morning. We both need some rest. A tired warrior is not a good warrior.” Adlan smiled at Zara as he narrowly missed a Mexican coming out of a house with his wife.
Ramón the Russian fixer shuffled back and forth wringing his hands, watching the gleaming white private jet pull into the hanger. He had pulled many strings, paid many bribes to get this jet to arrive at this hanger.
Again he was out of his league. The Mexican Customs Agents at the Private Executive Terminal in Cancun knew what he wanted. He wanted no checks of luggage or passport checks of the passengers, and no checks of passengers on the return trip. They simply smiled and said, “It could be arranged.” The arrangement was twenty thousand US Dollars.
The Chevy Suburban the Russian wanted to rent came all the way from Tulum. There was an additional cost of five hundred dollars, plus fifteen hundred dollars for the week minimum. Ramón was out of pocket some twenty-three thousand dollars what with the GPS locator he’d placed on the rental car of the Chechen’s. He was hoping the arriving Russians had a quantity of cash on hand. He’d take US dollars or Euros, and hoped they didn’t carry rubles.
Rubles he could exchange at only a few moneychangers in Cancun, and they would be sure to beat the hell out him on the exchange. He always got taken by at least 20 percent on rubles by those low-life bastards.
The door of the plane opened and out stepped a short heavyset man with a scowl. He looked around, sniffed the air, and ventured down the tarmac towards Ramón. After him came a tall man who looked like a weightlifter with biceps bulging out of his jacket and a barrel chest. He carried a large duffle bag that looked heavy even for him. A young pretty girl exited last with a briefcase. She had a slight smile and looked out of place with the other two.
Ramón came forward to introduce himself to the first man getting off the plane, “I am Ramón. I am your contact here in Mexico,” He said in halting Russian.
The short dark man came forward. He produced a fist of thick round fingers in a strong handshake. “I am Viktor . . . the tracking device we asked you to place is on their car? I understand from your text message that you did not have the manpower to have them followed.”
“Yes, yes, I have it here.” Ramón produced a USB stick. “You will find the activation codes and the program on this . . . it
is all as you requested.” He took a moment, breathed in deeply to hide his nerves. “I have had many expenses for your requests, and perhaps we could arrange your payment.”
Viktor handed the USB stick to the young lady walking behind him, “Payment? You will get payment when we find out if this tracking device works, and we have found who we are looking for. We should be done with this mission in 24 hours. Meet us at the airport, and we will double what you paid in expenses.”
The man carrying the duffel bag came up to Ramón.” You have the vehicle we ordered?’
“Yes, I was able to get the latest Chevy Suburban,” Ramón said.
The man’s face brightened. “In black?” he asked.
“Ah, no, there was only white available,” Ramón, offered. He could see the man’s disappointment.
Viktor said something to the man in Russian, and then turned to Ramón. “It’s okay . . . my friend likes the black ones because he sees them driven by the American CIA. Not to worry. White will be fine.” Viktor patted Ramón on the shoulder.
“Now, I have one more thing for you to help us with.” Viktor said, jerking his thumb back in the direction of the plane, “Our friend got a bit air sick . . . doesn’t like planes . . . perhaps you could help him off the plane.
“Of course, certainly,” Ramón said. He hurried past the two men and the woman to the plane. Two pilots were hauling a man down the stairway. They stood him up, and for a second he seemed erect, then he crumpled to his knees and landed on his face. The pilots shook their heads in disgust and walked away.
Ramón knelt beside the man. The smell of alcohol rose off him in the hot sun. Ramón gagged and coughed. His eyes watered. “Ay, dios mio!” Ramón muttered to himself. “This man smells like he’s been marinated in alcohol.”
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 20
