by Jack Slater
So what, then? How much more of this waiting?
“Go for a walk, Jason,” Pope said a couple of minutes later as Conway’s car turned on to 6th Street. “You’re looking antsy. You’ll be the first to know if he does anything interesting.”
“That obvious, huh?” Trapp flushed.
“I guess I know you too well.”
“Um, sir…” Kelly ventured.
Pope turned, all signs of levity disappearing in an instant. “What is it?”
“He just stopped, short of Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Traffic?”
“Maybe…” She didn’t sound convinced. “Or he could be parking.”
“Parking where?” Pope wondered. “Do we have access to the street level cameras?”
“Bringing them up right away,” she said, typing a command into her laptop. All three of them huddled around the small screen, the two men watching as her dexterous fingers manipulated the flow of information in a way that both knew was well beyond the skills of their generation.
At least, Trapp did.
When it appeared on screen, the feed was from a traffic cam mounted on top of the lights at the intersection where 6th crossed Pennsylvania. Since the camera was only designed to give the city warning of traffic foul-ups, the quality was grainy. All three squinted at the screen, searching for Conway’s vehicle.
Trapp spotted it first. As Kelly had thought, their target was parking, and not doing a very good job at it, either.
They watched as finally, laboriously, Leo Conway brought his car to a stop and stepped out. He glanced left and right, then started walking.
“Wondering if he’s being followed?” Pope murmured.
“Probably. Like I said, a real James Bond type…” Trapp replied dryly.
Conway followed the sidewalk around the hairpin bend onto Pennsylvania Avenue, heading back toward the Potomac. Kelly was forced to switch camera feeds mid-stream, and they lost visual for about thirty seconds as she searched for one that might work inside the horror of an interface that looked like it was designed back in the eighties.
When the new feed appeared on the laptop screen, Conway was gone.
“Shit,” Pope murmured. “Where is he?”
Three sets of eyes switched to the map. The cell phone signal was still strong and hovering inside building 611.
“What’s that?” Trapp asked, gesturing at the screen.
Kelly, clearly of the same mind, queried the computer and came up with an answer no more than a couple of seconds later. “UPS store.”
“Dead drop?” Trapp asked. “Could be a PO box. Both of them have keys. Not exactly the most sophisticated operation, but then we know Conway’s no pro. He’s a DEA suit, not a field operative. Nothing in his file suggests he has any tradecraft experience. And besides – he’s DEA, not CIA or FBI. Who would bother surveilling him in the first place? I’m guessing this is it.”
“Either that or he’s mailing it somewhere.” Pope shrugged. “Either way, it’s a lead. And a damn sight more than we had a few moments ago.”
26
An enormous flag of the Mexican Republic was rippling in a crackling late-afternoon breeze in the center parade ground of the 22nd Military Zone, the lines running up the naval gray flagpole fizzing in the wind. Hector León, now attired in a dark blue dress uniform, beret tucked into his shoulder straps, let his head sink to his chest and sucked in one last, greedy breath before entering the headquarters building.
Outside it was painted a palm tree green, faded and weathered by the sun. Inside was similar, except for medical linoleum, and equally worn. The place had the feel of a 1960s high school that had never quite found the budget for a renovation. The setting fit León’s mood.
He found his way to the admiral’s office suite for the third time in as many days and steeled himself for much the same conversation to take place as each time before. Conversation was not the right word for it, he thought. Chewing out was better. Rant fit. And all three times, he was on the receiving end of Abalos’ anger.
The man’s shrewish secretary gestured him inside without a word. He didn’t know her name and only recognized her by sight. Her nose was permanently upturned, as though a speck of feces sat just beneath the nostrils. It was clear she didn’t like him. Or maybe she was just like that with everyone.
Either way, he didn’t bother to learn her name.
“Captain, sit,” Vicealmirante Abalos grunted in a curiously hoarse, guttural voice.
Abalos’ office was entirely unlike the functional nature of the rest of the military base and was mahogany-paneled and designed to impress. It had that curiously library-like ability to absorb and deaden sound and reminded Hector more of a temple than an office.
“Yes, sir,” he said, his words fading away among the heavy padded leather furniture that dominated the remainder of the room and its thick, expensive carpets.
He understood the effect on him that the industrial design was intended to achieve – a sensation that he was small, meaningless, insignificant in comparison to the grand matters of state that occurred in this place. And although consciously he knew that it was all a façade, it was hard to ignore the results. After all, Vicealmirante Abalos had the power to crush his career on a whim.
Worse, that was precisely what the man was attempting to do.
“Are you a traitor, Captain?” Abalos started, not pulling any punches.
Hector blanched, his eyes opening wide the moment he processed the unfounded accusation. At the last meeting, the admiral had ranted for hours, leaving his polished hardwood desk flecked with spittle and loose papers messily swept aside scattered all over the floor. But then the accusations had pertained to his decisions in the heat of combat and a supposed ineptitude.
This was different. And more dangerous.
“What –?” León spluttered before quickly composing himself. He was on unsteady ground, and he knew it. One slip could be the end of him. “Sir, of course not. I am a Marine. We were up against an overwhelming force, under fire from the air and ground. With reinforcements, perhaps we could have prevented the escape. As it is, we did the best we could.”
“Are you blaming me for that, Captain?” Abalos asked through thin lips, his voice husky with distaste.
“Sir, you must know that the operation never had a chance of –”
“I know no such thing, Captain. All I know is that you let Fernando Carreon slip through your fingers. And that leads me to wonder: why? Why would a loyal servant of the Mexican Republic do such a thing? Or are you not loyal after all, Captain León?”
“Admiral!” Hector shouted, standing up and pushing his chair back away from him. “You know that is not true. I am a loyal –”
The intercom on Abalos’ desk chimed, a strangely melodic sound amidst the tension of the moment, and the man held up one finger to stifle León, who fell silent, taken by surprise even as he was bristling with anger.
“I have received evidence, Captain, that you have taken money from the Federación in exchange for permitting the escape of a wanted man.”
“Who?” León choked through a rapidly closing throat, though he suspected he already knew what Abalos was going to say. His superior had his nuts in a vise, and he was beginning to apply pressure. It didn’t matter that the man was the real crook; he would railroad him regardless.
Abalos smiled. “Fernando Carreon.”
“But you know that isn’t true,” León protested. “Sir, you know who I am.”
“I know who you have pretended to be, Captain,” Abalos replied harshly. “I am ashamed to admit that you duped me and so many others.”
León’s cell phone chose that moment to warble a ring tone from inside his dress jacket. In particular, a nursery rhyme that had been chosen by his daughter. The incongruity of the sound in a moment of extreme tension, and in this environment, almost caused him to burst out laughing. Catching sight of the expression on the admiral’s face, he steeled his own.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s a personal call. Perhaps my wife. I’ll get rid of her.”
Hector reached into his pocket, his fingers trembling from the adrenaline of the moment. He knew that his entire career was on the line – and perhaps even his freedom. Abalos’ accusations were laughable and clearly intended to save his own skin – but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be enough to bury him. It would be his word as a junior officer against that of a man with flag rank. It was a battle he couldn’t win.
He turned the device in his hand to reveal the screen, expecting to see his wife’s name. Instead, it read: Burke, DEA.
León froze. The American narcotics agent’s warning echoed once again in his mind. The DEA believed Abalos to be in the pay of the cartels.
What should I do?
Recognizing the call for the lifeline it was, he made the only decision he could. “Sir, it’s my contact at the DEA. The man who was there at the prison. I apologize, but I have to answer it.”
Before Abalos had a chance to protest, León tapped the screen to accept the call and said, “Agent Burke, how can I help you? I’m sitting with Vicealmirante Abalos.”
The admiral, for his part, dropped his fists to his desk with a meaty thud and leaned back in his executive chair. The mechanism creaked, drawing León’s attention. His superior officer was glowering with frustration.
“Are you on speaker?” Burke asked without skipping a beat, his voice evenly measured.
“Not yet,” León replied.
“I’ll be quick. Hector, you and your family are in danger. I have reason to believe that your name and address have been leaked to Federación sicarios. I’m heading to your place now.”
For a second time in as many minutes, Hector Alvarez León froze. He fancied that he could feel the muscle fibers in his heart grinding against each other instead of sliding easily past. For a moment, he found it entirely impossible to breathe.
He choked out a single word. “What?”
Opposite, Abalos was motioning at him to either end the call or place it on speaker. It wasn’t precisely clear which he preferred. Hector stared dumbly at the man, and it was no act.
“Do you have anyone you trust? Anyone who will help you, no questions asked?”
“Some,” León whispered, his brain finally catching up with the gravity of the situation. His heart released, thudding wildly in his chest, and blood started rushing into his limbs.
“I suggest you get them moving. I’ll be there in under an hour. I was meeting a contact in Mexico City, or I’d be there sooner. I’m sorry.”
“I’m going now,” León said, taking an involuntary step back.
“Going where, Captain?” Abalos growled. “I insist you put the phone down. Now.”
“Hector – this is urgent. The man who leaked your name. It’s Abalos. I have proof. I’m sending it now.”
León killed the phone call. His arm dropped numbly to his side. A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind, all involving the same nightmare that haunted him night and day, of failing to protect his wife and daughter.
“What did he want?” Abalos rasped hoarsely. “Who gave you leave to interact with the DEA?”
In León’s numb fingers, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and saw Burke’s name flash up a second time, along with the icon that indicated he’d been sent an audio file.
For a second time, he asked himself desperately what course of action lay open to him. He was beset on all sides, fixed in the jaws of his decision by unknowns and hidden dangers. And the most dangerous of them all was the man still seated opposite him: Abalos.
Again, León acted on instinct, suspecting what he had without knowing for sure. He raised his arm, half offering up his phone while carefully keeping it out of the man’s reach and said blandly, “He sent me this.”
He tapped play on the audio file and brought it even closer to his body, just in case, under the guise of pretending to adjust the volume.
“Is that you?” asked a female voice, one that León was sure he recognized, without knowing whose it was.
Abalos frowned, his thick eyebrows joining a spiderweb of wrinkles on his lined forehead. It was as though his brain had recognized what this was before his ears were done telling him.
“It is,” a hoarse voice replied.
This time León recognized it without even a scintilla of doubt. It was Abalos’ own.
The woman’s voice spoke again, and again León strained to identify her. “Our… mutual friends have been in contact with me. They say the situation is delicate. They want to shift the focus.”
The vicealmirante rocked forward in his seat, the color draining from his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, his own disembodied voice echoed forth from León’s phone.
“I have what you want,” the recording of Abalos said. “A captain. The boy who failed to prevent Carreon escaping. I’m sending you his details now. I trust that will work?”
“Admirably, Admiral,” the woman trilled. “He will need to be dealt with, of course. I don’t like the idea of leaving loose strands for someone to pull.”
“I’m sure our friends will be happy to oblige,” the voice of Abalos said, followed by a short, humorless laugh. “You’re the golden goose.”
The recording ended, and for a long, hard moment there was only silence in the room.
“Where did you get that?” Abalos said, his customary growl momentarily truncated by a quiver of emotion that sounded perilously close to fear.
“I told you, sir. I was sent it. By the DEA.”
Those three letters carried with them an almost religious power in León’s mind, as though he were holding out some sacred artifact to ward off the dangers of the night. He recognized that he was still in deep peril, for there was nothing that Agent Burke, let alone his organization, could do for him inside the confines of a military base where Abalos’ word was king.
But nevertheless, simply uttering them inarguably changed the dynamic in the room. They shattered the hierarchy, and the two men in that moment, on that topic, were equal.
“I think this meeting is over,” León said, dispensing with the ordinary customs of rank and respect, for in his eyes this man deserved neither.
“Stay!” Abalos bellowed.
Strangely, though he was far from out of danger, León was somehow reassured by the man’s overt display of anger. It indicated a level of fear.
“You know I can’t do that,” León said matter-of-factly, as though the issue was already settled. “My family is in danger. I must be with them.”
“I’ll have you arrested!” Abalos said, lumbering to his feet and jabbing an accusatory finger. “You’ve taken bribes. Sold out your own men!”
By now, his voice was uneven and high-pitched, like that of a pubescent boy. Conversely, as he stood, his age and bulk caught up with him, and he was forced to grip his desk for support.
“We both know I’ve done nothing of the sort. You’re projecting, vicealmirante. And you sold out my family. I will tell you now, if anything happens to my wife and child, I will hold you responsible. And nothing will stop me from repaying the favor. No matter who your friends are. No matter where you hide.”
León shoved the phone into his pants pocket and began walking from the room without looking back.
“Captain León!” Abalos yelled again, his voice this time a choked moan. “You will –”
Hector paused with his fingers on the cool brass of the door handle.
“I’m leaving, Abalos,” he said, intentionally disregarding the man’s rank to illustrate to him exactly where he stood. “If you try and stop me, Burke will release the tape. I suspect you don’t want that. Good day.”
The second part, of course, was a lie. If he was arrested, or worse, Burke might very well release the tape, but there was no way to be sure. Perhaps it was even unlikely, given the explosive nature of th
e contents.
But, of course, there was no way that Abalos could know that.
And that was what León was counting on.
He didn’t acknowledge the thin-lipped secretary as he strode out of her master’s office, slamming the door behind him. She squawked a shrill complaint, but he didn’t acknowledge that either.
His pace subconsciously quickened until by the time he was back on the parade ground he was running for his car, holding his phone in front of his eyes as he narrowly navigated around obstacles in his path, texting everyone he could think of, anyone he trusted, with one simple instruction.
Help.
27
The sunset now only a distant memory, the desert heat was now beginning to rise up and out of the scrub. In the distance, the humidity bleeding out of the Rio Grande caused the lights of El Paso, about twenty miles away, to shimmer.
Geraldo Santos fixed his eyes upon them, reflexively clenching and releasing his fist as he leaned against a dusty pickup truck that was not his own. There was no breeze to alleviate the evening’s heat, and so the plumes of cigarette smoke currently being discharged by the man beside him hung heavy in the air.
He looked over at the man, a Venezuelan known only to him as Fidel. The ember at the tip of the drug runner’s cigarette flared, momentarily capturing his attention. He didn’t know much about the man. Only that he wasn’t someone you crossed.
“You want one?” Fidel grunted.
Geraldo looked away, his cheeks flushing in the darkness as he realized he had been seen. He thought about refusing the offer – he didn’t smoke – but tonight seemed as good an opportunity as any to start. He needed something to salve his nerves, or he might not make it through the night. “Sure.”
Fidel sucked greedily on what remained of his cigarette, then held it between his lips as he patted down both chest pockets of his flannel shirt in search of his pack. He found it, tapped its base, and retrieved two of the three white sticks that jumped out.
He placed each between a different set of knuckles, and – returning to the dying cigarette in his mouth – he lit each in turn before sacrificing the ember underneath his boot. He handed one over, and Geraldo grunted his thanks.
