Horns of the Devil - Jeff Trask [02]

by Rainer, Marc

  You may need oven mitts for that one, Puddin’.

  “About a quarter of the country’s income comes from money mailed home by Salvadorans still living and working in the US,” Murphy whispered to Trask. “They like to keep us happy, so we won’t be waiting long.”

  “Please come in, gentlemen.”

  The distinguished figure of Ambassador Juan Carlos Lopez-Portilla stood in an open doorway in front of the couch. After introductions, they followed him into the ambassador’s office, but instead of sitting behind his desk, he joined them around a coffee table in front of it. A steaming pitcher and five cups had already been arranged on the table.

  “One of El Salvador’s specialties, of course,” the ambassador said. “I always take my coffee black, but I can have cream and sugar brought in if anyone requires it.”

  “Black is fine, Mr. Ambassador,” Trask said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the flavor of excellent coffee with cream and sugar any more than I’d want to ruin a good Canadian whiskey by mixing it with soda.”

  “I’ll accept that, Mr. Trask,” the ambassador said, “with the qualification that the sugar is also excellent, having also been grown in El Salvador.”

  “My mistake,” Trask said. “Perhaps I should try a cup sweetened with Salvadoran sugar.”

  “You may have a career ahead of you in diplomacy,” the ambassador replied. His smile was brief. “You are here, of course, on much sadder business.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. Mr. Doroz has some photographs for you to look at, if you don’t mind. We’d like to know if you recognize any of these individuals.”

  Doroz removed the spread from a manila envelope and handed it to the ambassador. Six photographs of young Hispanic males, three above three, were arranged on an 8x10 sheet of paper. The face of the late Diego Morales appeared in the fourth photograph.

  “I’m afraid I do not know these people,” Lopez said after looking hard at the spread. “There is a member of my staff who might, however. Do you mind if I ask him to look at them?”

  “Of course not,” Trask replied.

  “Excellent. I’ll show the photos to him later, then, and—”

  “Mr. Ambassador, our courts have rules of evidence which require that we witness any identification which your staff member might make. We would need him to sign and initial any photograph he recognizes. We can’t just leave this with you.”

  “I see.”

  The ambassador was silent for a moment. He rose from his chair and opened the door to the waiting room.

  “Marissa, please have Señor Rios join us.”

  The ambassador returned to his chair. He did not speak, and stared vacantly at the photo spread on the table until the door opened again. A man dressed in a black suit and wearing a black patch over his left eye entered the room.

  Trask had always heard cops talking about their antennae, their investigative intuition or sixth sense that let them know when somebody was just “wrong.” If I’ve actually managed to grow a pair of the things, they’re about to overheat with this guy.

  “Gentlemen, may I present José Rios-García, my deputy chief of mission?” the ambassador said. “I’m afraid he may have been more familiar with my son’s activities than I have been lately, with the pressing duties of my office. Much to my regret, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Trask said.

  Rios merely nodded to them, not offering a handshake. The ambassador handed him the photo spread. Rios scanned it and looked at it again. Trask noticed a small hesitation on both passes, at the point where the man’s good eye was focusing on the fourth photo. Rios handed the sheet back to the ambassador.

  “No, Señor. Lo siento mucho.” Rios gave a nod to Trask and turned and left without another word. Trask had the feeling he had just been x-rayed.

  I need to ask the ambassador the hard question. No sense in sugarcoating it.

  “There was an eighteen tattooed on your son’s right shoulder, Mr. Ambassador,” Trask said. “Was he involved in Barrio 18?”

  Lopez-Portilla shook his head. “Not really. Ten years ago, I was working on my master’s degree at UCLA. Armando was eight years old. We didn’t live in the barrios, but my son naturally gravitated to others from our home country. His mother and I were not happy with the tattoo, of course, but it was my impression that Armando got it simply out of desire to identify with the other boys. If he was actually involved in any gang activities, I never knew it. Perhaps I was too busy.”

  “I’m sure you did your best, sir,” Trask said.

  “I am sorry, gentlemen,” the ambassador rose, signaling they were being dismissed. “We do not seem to have been of much assistance.”

  “Thanks for trying, Mr. Ambassador,” Trask said. “We’ll keep you posted. Would you have a set of your son’s records from school on hand? There may be something there that gives us some leads.”

  “I have some papers at home. I’ll have them brought in today. Leave your contact information with my secretary, and she’ll see that you get them. Let me know if there is anything else you think might be of assistance.”

  They left the way they had entered, each leaving a business card with the ambassador’s secretary on the way out. Trask noticed that the lovely Marissa’s smile lingered twice as long on the face of Special Agent Michael Crawford as it did for either Doroz or himself.

  “I think old eye patch recognized one of those photos,” Trask said as they walked back toward Dupont Circle.

  “How do you figure that?” Murphy asked.

  “Just a feeling. Don’t you guys keep some sort of roster of personnel for foreign embassies?”

  “Yes. It’s called the Diplomatic List. Why?”

  “I’d be interested in seeing whatever information you have about the deputy chief of mission,” Trask said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Call it a feeling again, Murph. Call it whatever you want to. Is there a problem furnishing us that info?”

  “Probably not, but I may have to get the Secretary’s approval. It’s on a need-to-know basis, that sort of thing.”

  “See what you can do, please.” Trask looked at Murphy and smiled. “Tell the Secretary that my US Attorney is personally interested in the matter, and that we’d appreciate being kept ‘in the loop’ on our own investigation.”

  “Of course.” Murphy was not smiling now. The train slowed. “This is my stop. I’m heading back to State. You fellows have a nice day.”

  “I’m with you, Jeff,” Doroz said after the doors closed again. “Darth Vader recognized that photo. The fourth one, Morales.”

  “What’s up with the State Department wanting to guard this Diplomatic List?” Crawford asked.

  “State has always operated under the theory of ‘don’t make waves.’” Doroz said. “When you have to try and solve problems by talking them to death, you don’t want to see the problem in the first place. A lot of times, the messenger who brings the problem in gets shot—figuratively, of course. State hates real bullets.

  “Murphy was probably hoping it would be either a quick solution—photo recognized, case closed—or a case of random violence with no repercussions for anyone. The last thing he wants is complications, especially complications over which State has no control. Don’t sweat the info, though. We’ll get it. If not from State, then through some of our other sources.”

  Meaning CIA, Trask said to himself. That’ll stir the pot.

  “Speaking of sources,” Doroz continued, “it seems that our man Puddin’ here was really cultivating one in the embassy. Think you can handle her, Mr. Crawford?”

  Crawford was blushing again.

  “Just remember to register her on the appropriate official Bureau forms when she starts providing you information,” Doroz prodded. “You did have your cell phone number written on the back of your business card, didn’t you, Mike?”

  “You told me to put it on all my cards,” Crawford protested.

  “Good man,
” Doroz said as the cell phone on Crawford’s belt began to chime. “Wonder who that could be.”

  “I better stop and take it here,” Crawford said as they neared the down escalator to the Metro.

  “Yep, wouldn’t want to lose that signal,” Doroz agreed.

  Trask started humming a song.

  “What’s that?” Crawford asked, holding the Blackberry to his ear.

  “Hot Child in the City. Nick Gilder. 1978. Before your time.” Trask’s fingers drummed the beat on the handrail as he descended into the Metro.

  Trask and Doroz walked back through Judiciary Square, reached the FBI field office, and took the elevator to the squad room. Trask saw Lynn at her computer terminal.

  “Hi, babe. Violate any international protocol this morning?” she asked.

  “He did fine, as usual,” Doroz said, slapping him on the back. “The ambassador said he ought to go into the foreign service.”

  “Not without me,” she said.

  “No worries there,” Trask said. “But with the permission of the squad supervisor, I’d like the squad analyst to see what she can find out about a couple of things.”

  “Granted,” Doroz said.

  “Give me a rundown on anti-gang initiatives undertaken by the ARENA party before they lost the election in El Salvador. See what you can find out about any internal conflicts within the FMLN. And finally, since Very Special Agent Doroz assures me he can get some documentation from somewhere, I need to know all you can find out about one José Rios-García, the deputy chief of mission who doesn’t seem to want to extend the courtesy of speaking English to American visitors to his embassy.”

  Lynn looked up at Doroz.

  “Again, granted,” he said.

  “Did you recognize any of the photographs?” asked Juan Carlos Lopez-Portillo.

  “The one who killed Armando was the fourth on the sheet,” Rios said. “We have already dealt with him.”

  “And the one who ordered it?”

  “My information is that it was ordered locally by the head of a Mara clique here in Washington, Esteban Ortega. He probably got orders from someone in La Esperanza.”

  “How reliable is your information?”

  “The parasite who gave it to us thought he was saving his life by doing so. He was also wrong about thinking he would be allowed to live. I believe the information is accurate. The Americans seem to have arrived at the same conclusion, otherwise the photograph of Armando’s killer would not have been on their page of photographs.”

  “How long do you think it will take to deal with Ortega?” the ambassador asked.

  “Not long.”

  “Good. But José,” the ambassador continued, “use your English when we have American visitors.”

  The man with the eye patch grunted, then turned away.

  Crawford paced nervously in front of the red panda exhibit at the National Zoo. She had told him to meet her there, but she had only said “after work” with no time specified. He had already been around the exhibit twice, had stayed there long enough for one of the keepers to remark that he “must really like red pandas.” He still wore the suit he’d worn to the ambassador’s office, not wanting to miss her by taking the time to change. He’d already sweated enough to require another dry cleaning despite the two snow cones he’d gulped down trying to fight the heat.

  Her call had been just to inform him that she would meet him here to deliver Armando’s school records. Or had it been just that? She had seemed eager to see him again after the glances exchanged in the embassy. He recalled the smile…and those eyes!

  When he saw her coming down the walk from the visitor center entrance he noticed that she had changed clothes. The skirt and blouse from the office had been replaced with a sundress that did nothing to hide the shape that wore it. He knew he was staring but couldn’t help it, although he managed to close his mouth after a moment. She giggled as she reached him and handed him the large envelope.

  “Am I that funny looking?”

  “That thought never entered my mind,” he said.

  “A penny, then, for the ones that did. As long as they’re not too evil.”

  “N…nothing evil at all,” he stammered. He looked at her, summoning all the composure he could muster. “There are some women a guy looks at because they’re flaunting it. He thinks the way she makes him think by how she dresses, how she carries herself. Then—I hope you won’t mind me saying this—there are the true beauties, like you. My thoughts had only to do with appreciation of what I saw. Like when I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time, or a beautiful car like a Ferrari.”

  “I’m like a canyon and a car?”

  “Only the awe-inspiring ones.”

  She laughed again. Her laughter calmed him, made him feel more confident. They walked through the other exhibits, not really looking at the animals.

  “You should have changed clothes into something cooler,” she said.

  “I didn’t know exactly when you’d be here.”

  “I didn’t know myself,” she said. “I finished my work and locked up when it was done—no set time. I come here a lot after work, almost every day. I feel like I know some of the animals. Do you like them?”

  “I like them more in the spring and fall. They smell a little worse this time of year.”

  She laughed again. He loved her laugh. He had decided some time ago that if he didn’t like a woman’s laugh, there was no future in the relationship.

  “Which ones are your favorites?” he asked.

  “Probably the pandas—the ones from China. They’re like big stuffed toys, and they always seem to be playing, just rolling around, even when they’re eating. How about you?”

  “The big cats, I guess.”

  “So you’re a predator?”

  Crawford paused and thought for a second. Should he give a macho yes or…

  “I like to study them, like I study the predators we hunt. The criminal predators.”

  “I see.”

  She was nodding.

  I think I made the right call there, he thought.

  “Should we go see them then?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your big cats, silly.” She was laughing again.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Sure.”

  They walked at a relaxed pace to the zoo’s great cat exhibit. A solitary Sumatran tiger paced back and forth at the front of his cage. They stared at the huge animal for a moment, and then walked to the next exhibit, which held a couple of African lions.

  “Which one would you bet on?”

  He thought for a moment. “The lions.”

  She was laughing harder now.

  “What?” he asked, laughing himself.

  “I asked which one, and you said, ‘The lions.’ The tiger is bigger.”

  “That’s why I’d bet on the lions. There are two of them.”

  She laughed again, and she turned and held his hand for a moment.

  “This was fun,” she said. “Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

  “Of course.”

  He watched while she walked toward the entrance, not moving until she was out of sight.

  Chapter Seven

  August 16, 2:00 a.m.

  As the two vans pulled into the rear of the Qwik Shine Car Wash in northeast Washington, DC, a small army of Hispanic males emerged from the building and began removing crates from the truck beds. As each worker entered the building, he was directed up the pull-down stairs by another man. After climbing the stairs with his load, the Mara soldier was met by Esteban Ortega, who looked at each crate and then told the worker where to place it.

  Ortega was pleased with himself. The car wash was the perfect front. It was a defensible structure, solidly built, and the long, cavernous attic—covering the building’s office, wash track, and waiting area—was big enough for the grow operation. Best of all, the legitimate commercial purpose of the building was the perfect cover, both for the massive a
mounts of electricity and water that would be consumed, and for the laundering of some of the profits that would be generated by the hydroponic marijuana.

  He had plenty of seeds for the “white widows”: high-yield, hybrid marijuana plants with an extraordinarily high THC content, the product of years of experimentation and grafting by some of Amsterdam’s most dedicated disciples of horticulture.

  The Mara commanders in La Esperanza, El Salvador’s largest prison, had suggested the switch to the marijuana from cocaine. The seeds were easily concealed and transported across the border from Mexico, the “white” was now selling in the United States for between $4,000 and $7,000 a pound, and it didn’t carry the heavy penalties that coke or crack did if the workers were arrested. Five kilos of cocaine powder, or just an ounce of crack, meant a ten-year mandatory sentence in an American federal prison, followed by deportation back to El Salvador and even more time in La Esperanza. To get a ten-year mandatory sentence for marijuana trafficking, the feds had to put 1,000 kilos on a defendant—a whole metric ton of weed—or find him with a thousand plants. Accordingly, Ortega’s grow would only contain eight hundred plants at any one time.

  Ortega wasn’t concerned about deportation himself. Like several members of his Mara chapter, he had been born in Los Angeles and was an American citizen by birth, even though both his parents had been Salvadoran immigrants. He had spent enough time in El Salvador with the Mara chieftains learning his trade and fighting the ARENA government’s forces, but his US citizenship had been a factor in the commanders choosing him to head the Washington clique. The less jeopardy a subordinate faced, either in jail time or through other government leverage, the less likely he was to fold under the pressure of a federal prosecution if caught.

  The crates were all unloaded. Ortega barked an order, and the worker bees began lugging the lengths of copper tubing off the trucks and into the building.

  From the green Buick parked behind a strip mall about one hundred yards to the south, Detective Dixon Carter raised his eyes just above the bottom edge of the driver’s window and focused his binoculars on the activity in the rear of the car wash. He was alone.