They piled into the truck as riot policemen appeared from the laneway. One of them raised his shotgun and fired. The beanbag round slammed into the tailgate with a clang.
“Jesus Christ!” yelled Carlos as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The truck took off like a startled gazelle.
“Watch your mouth,” said Emilio.
The teenager weaved the truck through the traffic. “They killed people. They opened fire with no warning.”
“They wanted us.” Roberto shook his head. “They were searching for us.”
“The Chaquetas have friends in high places,” said Emilio.
“Not the Chaquetas. The miners.”
“So now we’re fighting the police as well as them? That’s too much. We don’t even have proper guns.”
“You’re right.” He sighed. “Maybe for now, we just need to find a way to hurt the mine.”
“How are we going to do that without guns?”
“By destroying their machines,” Roberto said with conviction. “If they can’t get the gold out of the ground they can’t pay the Chaquetas or the policia. Without the gold they’re weak. We need to go to the mine and see how we can stop them from digging.”
Emilio looked thoughtful. “The mine will have explosives, we may be able to use them. But, it will also be heavily guarded by the Chaquetas.”
“We can sneak past those fools. They’re criminals, ill-disciplined, and soft.”
They arrived at the back of the safe house and Carlos tooted the horn twice. A sliding steel door opened an inch before the man inside identified them and dragged it open.
“Perhaps it’s time to go to the Sinaloa for help,” said Emilio as his son parked the truck and they climbed out.
Roberto tried to flex his arm and winced. “Not yet. We hide out here till things quiet down. Then we go look at the mine.” He followed Emilio through the back door of the house into the kitchen. “If we need help, after that we can go to the Sinaloa.” He sat at the computer in the corner of the room and logged in to the email account that Christina had set up for him. He hit reply to the test message she had sent and started typing.
***
FORT BLISS, TEXAS
Terrance Howard scratched his crotch as he guzzled from an oversized can of energy drink. He was having a shit day. His boss, the director of Joint Task Force South, had issued him with an official warning regarding his dress and attitude. The director was a relic, he thought. A moron who believed that wearing a suit and calling everyone sir made you a better analyst.
It was the second warning he’d received this month and it meant he was not going to be promoted anytime soon. That pissed him off. He ran rings around his colleagues and yet they had all been promoted a pay grade, or even two, above him.
Despite his boss, Howard had enjoyed his two years at the Task Force. As a CIA analyst he loved his role supporting the multitude of CIA activities across Latin America. Currently the focus was on cartel activities and border control, his areas of expertise.
One of the NSA signals analysts attached to the JTF stuck his head over the partition that separated them. “Hey, Howard.”
He dropped his feet off his desk and rotated his chair to face the junior analyst. “What do you want, dipshit?”
“I got a hit on that email address you put on cover.”
“Well then, what are you waiting for? Flick it over.”
“You sure this shit’s legit, man. I mean, this chick’s an American citizen.”
“Yeah but I bet the douche bag emailing her isn’t. She’s got herself linked in with a bunch of nasty mofos down in Chihuahua.”
“I still think this should go past the director.”
“We don’t need to do that, Sam. Otherwise, we might have to let him know about the illegal tap you put on the guy who was banging your ex.”
“You’re an asshole, Howard.”
“I’m the asshole who tailed the bitch and found out she was messing around on you.”
“Whatever.” Sam disappeared back into his own cubicle.
A few seconds later the email Roberto sent Christina appeared in his inbox. “Boom!” After scanning the email, he pried himself from his chair, grabbed a packet of cigarettes, and waddled out of the secure office. Outside in the designated smoking area he dialed the number for Source 88 as he smoked. “I just got a very interesting email on that journo’s account you wanted monitored.”
“What’s it say?” drawled Pershing.
“That’s not the way this works, George. You give me some information, then I give you some information, remember?”
“I’m already paying you…”
“Dude, stop right there. There were terms to this agreement and they were pretty simple. Information needs to flow both ways so I can justify the support you’re getting.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know a lot of things. I’m more interested in what you know.”
“Does the new Sinaloa plaza boss for Chihuahua state interest you?”
Mexican police had killed the Chihuahua representative of the Sinaloa Cartel eight months earlier in a raid. His successor was someone that JTF South had been unable to determine. Pershing knew very well the name was a highly valuable piece of intel.
“That would do it.”
“The name I’ve been given is Ramon Ramirez. Now, what have you got for me?”
“Your journalist just received an email from some guy called Roberto. He gave her a heads-up on a demonstration in Chihuahua that went bad.”
“That all?”
“No, she replied within a few minutes. She’s coming down to Mexico. They’re going to meet in an unspecified location on the outskirts of town. Somewhere she’s been before.”
“Can you forward me the emails?”
“That might be pushing our friendship a little far.”
“Fine, keep an eye on it, and tell me if you get anything else.”
The call ended. Howard stubbed out his cigarette, went back to his cubicle, and opened the file he had on Ramon Ramirez. He wanted to cross-reference Pershing’s claim against what they knew. They already had him pegged as a mid to high level player, a businessman who made savvy decisions when it came to both narco-trafficking and the cartel’s more legitimate operations. If he’d been promoted, it meant the Sinaloa Cartel was angling away from violent criminal activities. It also meant they might be more willing to work with the CIA against the other cartels.
Howard locked his computer and went to the change room. He hardly ever used his locker. Fumbling with the combination lock, he opened it, and found the shirt he had hung up almost a year ago. It was an off-green color and short-sleeved but at least it was a shirt. He swapped it for the Simpsons T-shirt he was wearing, wet his hair, and tucked the scraggly ends behind his ears. On his way out of the locker room he spotted a glossy red tie hanging on the towel rack next to a neatly-pressed suit. He grabbed it and managed to tie it into something resembling a Windsor knot. Then he left the locker room and knocked on his boss’s door.
“Come in.” Everest Palmer, the Director of JTF South, had a booming voice.
Howard pushed open the door and stepped into the spartan office of one of the most influential men in Latin America. The Director was almost completely bald. What hair he did have, at the back of his head, he kept clipped short. He had a strong beak of a nose and his forehead was constantly wrinkled with frown lines. Howard thought he looked a little like a vulture.
Palmer’s gaze fell on the green shirt and bright red tie. “What can I do for you, Terrance?”
“Wanted to bring this to you straight away, sir. One of my sources has identified the new head of the Sinaloa Cartel in Chihuahua.”
“That’s good news. Who is it?”
“Ramon Ramirez.”
Palmer rocked back in his chair. “That actually makes sense. Sinaloa has been transitioning
to a more business-centric model. He’s the perfect man to take that forward. Who did this come from?”
“Source 88, sir.”
Palmer nodded. “That means it’s pretty likely.” He was aware of Howard’s source in Chihuahua. In fact he had worked with Pershing when the contractor was still in the CIA.
“Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“We’ll convene a working group later in the week. I want you to lead it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all.”
As Howard stepped out of the office the director spoke again. “I appreciate the effort with the tie, Terrance. But in future it would be better if it wasn’t one of mine.”
***
CHIHUAHUA
Felipe Guzman threw a shot of tequila down his throat and slammed the glass back onto the table. “Two dead students and at least a dozen more wounded! The Mayor is screaming for answers.”
Pershing was nursing a tumbler of scotch. “Tell him the narcos infiltrated the demonstration and killed the students. You control the evidence, Felipe, you can make it say whatever you want.”
The two men were drinking in the Loco Poni, a dive of an establishment a few miles from the police headquarters. It was a private club the police chief frequented. It had seven types of tequila, fifteen varieties of cigars, and a stable of young women who, for the right amount of money, provided all manner of services.
Pershing thought it was a shithole. He hated the rancid stench of cigars. The scotch tasted like brake fluid, and the women were peasants dressed in cheap stockings and ill-fitting underwear. It represented everything he hated about Mexico and none of the things he loved.
Felipe chopped the end of a cigar with a knife and lit it with a match. “What about your magic cameras? They saw everything.”
“Delete the footage, you idiot. Do I have to hold your hand, twenty-four-seven? Surely with the amount of money I’m paying you can take care of a few little problems.” Pershing studied the liquid in his glass. “I mean, you failed to even bring me the damn rancher.”
“You talk to me like a dog?” Felipe snapped and furrowed his thick brows. “Don’t forget who helped you get approval for that hole you’ve dug.”
Pershing placed the glass on the table and made a sour face. “This scotch tastes like horse piss.” He looked the cop in the eye. “Listen, Felipe, I’m not ungrateful for everything you’ve done. I’m just saying you’re not being helpful regarding this particular problem.”
“Then why don’t you get your Chaquetas Negras pets to sort it out for you?”
“Because, my dear friend, I don’t trust them.” He reached into his jacket and took out a thick wad of hundred dollar bills. “But I do trust you.”
“You better watch those idiots.” Felipe slid the cash into his pocket. “Before you know it they’ll turn on you.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got the Black Jackets well in hand. I just need you to find the rancher and his little posse of troublemakers.”
“My men will find them.”
He stood and brushed the creases from his pants. “There’s another ten K in it if you get him before the end of the week.”
“You’re not going to stay for some fun?” Felipe waved over a pair of young girls from where they were waiting at the corner of the bar.
They were dressed in knee-high stockings with lacy panties and push-up bras. Their faces were heavily plastered with makeup. Pershing judged their age at eighteen, barely legal. “No thank you, I’ve got work to do.” He grabbed his Stetson from the hat stand at the door. “I’ll see you in a few days when you’ve got the rancher.”
Felipe already had one of the girls on his knee. “Of course, mi amigo.”
Pershing waited for the bouncer to open the door and stepped out onto the street. His driver was waiting in the Chevy. “Take me to the farm,” he said as he jumped into the back. He retrieved his thermos from the seat pocket and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He needed his wits about him, and more importantly, he needed to wash the taste
of cheap scotch from his mouth.
CHAPTER 8
NEW YORK CITY
Brian Kestrel walked into the Resources and Environmental Development Group’s reception area at exactly eight o’clock. “Mr. Premiji, sorry about the early meeting.”
Mirza looked up from his phone. “No problem, I’m an early riser.” He had turned up his Indian accent a notch for the benefit of the RED Group’s chief of operations. The usually lean PRIMAL Operative was wearing his new suit complete with a few extra inches of padding taped around his waist. His hair was slicked back and he’d shaved his beard leaving a thin moustache.
Mirza offered his card and the broad-shouldered Canadian gave him one in return.
“If you’d like to join me in my office.” Kestrel directed him down a narrow corridor into a spacious corner office with a view over the Hudson River.
Mirza sat in a plush leather armchair. “I’m so glad you found time to fit me in at such short notice.”
“I made room in my schedule. Your project sounds very interesting.”
“Very interesting and very lucrative.”
The miner smiled. “Well, we’re in the business of making money. Before we get started, would you like a drink? Coffee or tea?”
“Yes, thank you. Black tea with one sugar.”
Kestrel lifted his phone and placed the order with his assistant. They made small talk until she delivered the beverage.
“Your email mentioned the old copper mine in Bougainville,” said Kestrel.
“The Panguna mine. You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course. Not many in the industry haven’t. One of the largest copper deposits on the planet. Shut down in ‘89 due to a civil war.”
“Correct. My company has successfully negotiated the rights to re-open the mine.”
“That’s very interesting. I hope you don’t mind but I had my assistant look into your company. She tells me you’ve got fingers in some very lucrative pies but nothing that approaches the complexity of Panguna. We’re talking hostile elements on the ground, adverse environmental conditions, and very large-scale mining operations.”
“True, this is much larger than anything we’ve worked on previously. That’s why we want to partner with organizations that have the required experience and expertise.”
“Well you’ve come to the right place. RED has all of the necessary skills to run a project like this. We can develop the infrastructure and our people are the some of the best when it comes to open pit mining.”
“What about logistical services?”
“We can cover it top to bottom. Everything from accommodation and catering for the workers, through to the shipment of ore and on-site refining if required. If you like I can arrange for you to inspect one of our mines in Indonesia. The conditions would be similar.”
“In the future, that may be a good idea. I’ve also done my research and your projects are impressive. The only real risk factor from my point of view is the security environment. The locals in Bougainville are unlikely to be completely compliant.”
Kestrel’s brow furrowed. “True, it’s a significant concern considering the circumstances that shut the mine down previously. But RED has overcome similar issues before.”
“So your organization is able to provide security services in addition to infrastructure, operations, and logistics?”
“Not directly but we do have a partner we work with to ensure a stable security environment. We can integrate the costs directly into the operational budget.”
“And they’re experienced at dealing with non-compliant indigenous elements?”
“They have a proven track record. Most of their employees are former US Special Forces and intelligence. They’ve extensive experience in influencing the local population in hostile environments.”
“But now they’re civilians. Can a private company achieve similar outcomes?
“I can a
ssure you that they’re an outcomes-based organization. They’ll do whatever it takes to ensure the project is successful.”
Mirza smiled. “That’s exactly what we need.”
“So, when do you expect the project to be finalized?”
“We have PNG government approval already. We’re just tying in contractors and investors at the moment. I anticipate initial infrastructure development to commence early next year.”
“If you’re interested in international investment, there’s a firm I can put you in contact with here in New York. We’ve worked together on a number of projects. I think you’ll find them a good fit.”
“I’d be grateful for the introduction.”
“I tell you what. I’ll give them a call today and find out if we can arrange a meeting in the next day or so.”
“That works for me. Though I have to be back in India by Friday.”
“I’ll do my best. Now, I’m sorry this has to be short but I’ve got another meeting in a few minutes. I hope this has been useful for you.”
“Yes, very. I think we’ll have to continue talking.”
“Definitely. What are you doing for the rest of the week?” Kestrel asked, leading him out of the office.
“I was hoping to see a few of the sights while I’m here.”
“You’ve chosen the best time of the year to visit. It starts getting humid in a month.”
“Humidity isn’t so much a problem for me.” Mirza laughed. “India and Papua New Guinea are not like Canada.”
Kestrel nodded. “Indonesia damn near kills me every time I visit.”
“Maybe you should start mining in Siberia?”
“Hell no. Colder than a polar bear’s scrotum. Nope, New York suits me just fine.” He shook Mirza’s hand. “I’ll have my assistant let you know the time and place for the investor meeting.”
“I look forward to it.”
***
Bishop paused at the entrance to the café opposite his hotel and scanned the room. He spotted Christina sitting the corner dressed in a T-shirt, with her hair in a ponytail. He dropped into the seat in front of her.
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