Name of the Devil

by Andrew Mayne

  While I’m sitting in a car outside, Noriega gives me the play-by-play over the radio as Atilio gets progressively drunker and imagines his powers of charm are only getting more potent. “He just put a hand on her knee.”

  “Is she going to play along?” That kind of thing would last for a millisecond with me before I’d find an excuse to break his arm.

  “I think she’s motivated enough.”

  I’m not sure what that means and I’m afraid to ask. This operation is off the books. Atilio has diplomatic immunity. We don’t have anything on him other than a photograph and a hunch. We can’t take him in for questioning or even stop him without causing a minor crisis that could get back to Marta.

  “He’s taken the bait,” says Noriega. “They’re going outside.”

  His car, a silver Mercedes Cabriolet, is parked near me in a fenced lot. I wait a few minutes for him to come stumbling along. He drops his remote as he unlocks the car. This becomes the most hilarious event in human history to him and Val as he fumbles trying to pick it up.

  He never notices me getting out of my car and approaching them.

  Gallantly, Atilio opens the door for her, then makes a crude joke of trying to climb over her as she fastens the seat belt. He laughs hoarsely as he walks over to the driver’s side and climbs in.

  On cue, Val leans over and plants a kiss on his lips. Atilio returns the gesture and grabs the back of her neck, pulling her to his side of the car. His other hand cups her breast.

  He doesn’t see the camera flash the first three times I take a picture—even though I made sure the flash was much larger than needed. I step closer to his window and take another shot. Val reacts in a dramatic gesture.

  Atilio finally notices me. He looks confused for a moment then gets out of the car. “What are you doing, bitch?” he shouts at me in barely accented English.

  I snap another photograph. “I’ll bet your wife will love to see these.”

  He takes a step forward. “This is private business!” He flashes his diplomatic ID. “That is my wife!”

  “Sure. Whatever.” I take one more photo.

  He swats at the camera. I pull it away and shield it with my body. Frustrated, he grabs my free wrist with one hand and raises his other to slap me.

  I let the blow land on my cheek then smash the camera into the side of his head. Atilio goes to the ground cold.

  Noriega comes running from around the corner and gives me an approving smile.

  WHEN ATILIO COMES to, we’re in a motel room a half-mile away. He gazes up from the edge of the bed at Knoll and me. “What the hell?”

  “We’d like to ask you some questions,” says Knoll.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.” He gets up and heads for the door, a little wobbly.

  I stand in his way. “Mr. Baqueró, you step one foot outside that door and this is going live on every television station in Miami. It’ll be front-page news tomorrow in Guatemala City.”

  He waves me off and replies, “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been caught.”

  “We’re not talking about the girl. Have a look.” I point to the television.

  Atilio turns around and sees the image on the screen. It’s him grabbing my wrist and slapping me. At that point the camera is behind my back and out of view. The video was shot from an angle over a car. All you see is him argue with me then hit me.

  I could have blocked the blow easily. But that wouldn’t help me get Marta.

  Knoll puts a hand on Atilio’s shoulder and pushes him back onto the bed. “Agent Blackwood is a federal agent. We can request to have you prosecuted in Guatemala for that. At the very least, you’ll be recalled within twenty-four hours.”

  “This is a setup,” he protests.

  “Yes. Yes it is,” I admit. “But we’re not here for you. We want her.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who. Marta.”

  Atilio shakes his head. He glances at the television screen and thinks it over for a moment. “Fuck no. I don’t want any part of this.”

  “We just want to know where she is.”

  “Let me call my attorney.”

  “No. You touch your phone and that video goes out. You’ll never work in government again. Plus we’ll push for criminal charges.”

  He sobers up pretty quickly. “You don’t understand. This woman is very powerful. She is also a very good woman. I don’t believe the things you’ve said about her on television.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be afraid of her,” Knoll points out.

  Atilio ignores him.

  “Where is she?” I demand.

  His situation is dawning on him. He’s afraid of her, but even more terrified of getting fired and sent back home in disgrace. “It wasn’t my choice. She has many friends in our Congress. The vice president has been to her orphanages.”

  “Damn.” I suddenly get it.

  “What?” Knoll turns to me surprised.

  “Where she is. She’s on Guatemalan soil. Isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” says Atilio. “You cannot touch her. Without evidence, my government won’t release her. Not now, not ever. She has too many friends.”

  “She’s in Guatemala?” asks Knoll.

  Atilio stares at the floor.

  “No,” I turn to Knoll. “She’s in Miami. She’s hiding in the one place we can’t get to her. The one place she’s legally safe, the Guatemalan consulate. Isn’t that right?”

  Atilio gives us a weak smile. “She is our guest.” He points to the television. “This is beyond my control. But as I said, I don’t think this woman would do the outrageous things you say. To try to kill the pope? This woman is a saint. Only a monster would do that.”

  70

  THE GUATEMALAN CONSULATE is a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion in Miami that was bequeathed to the country by a wealthy produce importer. Protected by a ten-foot-high fence, a US security firm keeps watch over the grounds while a staff of ten people work inside the building. The day-to-day business of handling passports and visas is managed in a more formal office space downtown. The Miami consulate is more of a showplace for entertaining influential guests and US politicians.

  Our hopes of applying pressure on the consulate through political channels were dashed when Latin American newspapers started running stories about how we’ve wrongly ID’d Elena Lopez, a lowly widow of a Guatemalan physician who ran to the embassy when she was targeted by the largest manhunt in South Florida history.

  The real Marta Rodriguez, the newspapers explained, was killed in the airplane explosion that may or may not have been caused when an unidentified federal agent fired into the engine and struck the fuel tank.

  My bad.

  “This is bullshit,” replies Knoll as he reads another headline in the Spanish press.

  In our command post, a slightly smaller building a block away, we’ve been keeping watch and waiting for her to make a move for several days. Right now, it’s a test of patience. The news crews still show up to see if there’s been any change. We still man barricades and search every car that comes and goes from the building.

  By now, even the American press is entertaining the idea that this may be just some big FBI screwup and that we’re trying to cover our tracks and create a scapegoat out of poor old Mrs. Lopez.

  The fact that the Attorney General has said she’s free to leave the US if she’ll submit to a fingerprint test doesn’t seem to sway those that would rather be stirred by conspiracy theories than logic.

  The silver lining is this brought a tremendous amount of attention on X-20. The longer she’s inside the compound, the harder it is for her to maintain her empire. It’s only been two days, but we’re hearing reports of assassination attempts by rival captains on her people. That’s an indication they don’t think she’s going to get out anytime soon.


  “How long is this going to keep up?” Knoll asks rhetorically. “The neighbors are bitching up a storm and filing lawsuits. I know we’re going to get pressure to take down the barricades. Then what?”

  “I don’t know. The Guatemalan Congress has called three emergency sessions. Each time they seem to be bolstering more support for Rodriguez.”

  It’s frustrating to know you’ve caught your suspect, only to be hampered by red tape, politics and a sensationalist press.

  “And no fingerprint test?” He groans.

  “They’re convinced that would be faked.” I push one of the newspapers toward him. The front page shows two side-by-side photos. One is Marta’s Air Force picture. The other is the woman I saw in Tixato, but with slightly altered features, and shot in such a way to make her appear like a different person. She has much darker skin and different color eyes as well.

  Her people are working hard to push the mistaken identity claim. Frankly, it’s the smartest option. We’ve heard she’s secretly using the same PR firm as Hamas.

  Knoll and I have been kvetching about the situation for hours. He points to the consulate. “So what happens if we don’t let her go?”

  “That’s my biggest fear. Right now she’s using the diplomatic crisis to buy time. I’m certain she’s just not sitting there idly. She could be planning an escape.”

  He nods. “If it were anybody else I’d brush that off. But her, she could hire a small military.”

  “Yeah. If we let down our guard or the Guatemalan government indicates they’re losing interest, we’re in trouble. It might get messy.”

  “Can’t you do something magical?”

  “Not without violating the laws of two countries.”

  “My biggest fear isn’t that she tries to break out. It’s that she buys off some judge here to give her enough time to get away.”

  “Want to go throw rocks?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  It’s our way of describing standing on the perimeter. We take a walk down the sidewalk and through the protective blockade. The house is invisible behind the tall metal gates. A CNN reporter doing a stand-up, pans the camera in our direction. I quietly move to the other side of Knoll so I’ll be out of the shot.

  “Thanks for using me,” he mutters, noticing my tactic. “Get your fill from the helicopter-chase footage?”

  “I forgot he was rolling,” I protest.

  “That’s what they do. The funny thing on their shoulders? It’s called a camera.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “You talk to Ailes?”

  “Briefly. His wife wasn’t doing so good. But he says she’s improving.” Once we knew Marta was pinned down here, I gave him a call. He made me feel better about taking so long, telling me he wanted me to focus on the case.

  Knoll nods. “He’s a good man.”

  “He’s a great man.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. You know, Blackwood, you don’t do too bad when you don’t have adult supervision.”

  I point to the hidden mansion and shake my head. “She’s still not in custody. And now we’re worried she might buy a WMD or worse to threaten her way out. The monster isn’t dead.”

  “The pope is still alive. Nobody got killed at the stadium. I call that a good day. I can’t say as much for the assholes she had working for her that got blown up. But I think you did pretty good.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Shut up and take a compliment.” His voice gets serious. “Want to know why I’m the only one of a select few that can put up with you? It’s because you make everyone else feel bad.”

  “That’s stupid. You’re a great cop.”

  “I’m a good cop. I’m also a good father. I don’t think I’m great at both. Maybe a better dad than others. My point is, other people would have pat themselves on the back a while ago and let things carry on. You didn’t. Don’t go saying that’s because you’re a cop. We’re all cops. You keep at it for whatever tortured Bruce Wayne reason and don’t stop. It’s that drive that makes us all feel bad about ourselves.”

  I let his words sink in for a moment. Out of nowhere I speak up, surprising myself. “Did I ever mention my mother to you?”

  “No. I met your grandfather and your dad when you were in the hospital. Never your mother. Why?”

  “I . . . I just think sometimes that if I don’t keep pushing myself, trying to do good things . . . I’d . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’d do bad things instead of good ones.” I rarely talk about my mother. There’s a lot to unpack.

  Knoll has become a bit of an older brother figure to me. I feel okay telling him certain things. It’s a different relationship than the one I have with Ailes.

  “Bad? Now you’re scaring me.” He looks concerned.

  I’d been thinking this over and over. “Take a look at Marta. If her life had been slightly different, would she have been a killer?”

  “I think these things are born into us.”

  “Maybe. When she isn’t running a cartel that kills and tortures rivals and innocents over territory, she’s off saving orphaned kids.”

  “Capone liked to give out turkeys. Pablo Escobar threw money around. Hitler loved a parade.”

  “Yeah . . . but they did it out in the open. They did it to prove what good guys they were supposed to be. Marta does all this in secret. Noriega says they even found a trust designed to support those orphanages in case she dies. Does a bad person do that?

  “My dad liked to say character is who we are when nobody is looking.”

  “She’s done plenty of awful things. She’s complex. People are complex,” Knoll points out.

  “I guess that’s what I’m saying. I’m complex.”

  “Not as much as you think. You always do the right thing.”

  I think about how little I did to reach out to Ailes when his wife was sick. “Not always.”

  Knoll nods to the police and FBI agents watching the perimeter. “There are a lot of good Catholic men and women here. I don’t think they’re going to let her get anywhere. Time to go home.”

  71

  I’M LYING IN bed staring at the ceiling of my hotel room in Quantico. I still can’t bring myself to go back to my apartment. My biggest fear isn’t for my own safety, it’s for that of everyone in my building. At least here in the hotel, I’m surrounded by visiting agents that have all taken the same pledge to protect life as I have.

  I toyed with the idea of inviting the field agent from Wyoming I met in the bar back up to my room. He was cute, polite and capable of carrying on a conversation without making any kind of innuendo or reminding me that I was an attractive woman.

  As weird of a place as I am in, it just didn’t feel right. I’ve never been that type of girl. In the end we exchanged phone numbers and I decided to stick to old habits, rather than pick up new ones under stress.

  I didn’t pursue the agent for the same reason I never took up the pediatrician’s offer of a date. Like Max, they all seem like nice men, the kind of guys you eat with at some restaurant you found on Yelp and maybe, if things work out, one day end up discussing pet names while strolling through Ikea.

  I can’t image describing to them the decapitated bodies in Tixato, or what went through my mind when I thought the Warlock or his people were going to kill me—or when I think at night about what he still might try to do to me. These are dark things. Sharing them with men like that, nice men, that doesn’t unburden me, it weighs down on other people’s souls. I’m afraid they won’t understand, or worse, they’ll see me as an object of pity.

  Normally I’d put my nose in a case file. But Breyer has me in a holding pattern doing basic case cleanup, writing down all the reports, cataloging evidence. I wasn’t sure what the punishment would be for going around him. Right now it seems to b
e oblivion. I hope this is it, and not just a time-out while he thinks of something more severe. I could find myself railroaded out of the FBI if he really wanted, that or relegated to FBI liaison in the godforsaken hellhole of a foreign country’s secret rendition center.

  Maybe this anxiety is his real punishment. He’s letting me know how much power he has.

  Damn him and his ego.

  I thumb through the numbers on my phone and dial one.

  Not just any number.

  His number.

  I’ve been thinking about him a lot. I feel like I’m on the edge of a knife. I’ve tried to do what’s right and I find myself ostracized while my target is free.

  I never knew being the good girl was going to be this . . . this painful.

  Nobody picks up.

  Maybe that’s for the better.

  But as soon as I set my phone down, it rings.

  “Can’t sleep?” asks Damian.

  “No.”

  “You might find it a little easier now.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “What?” I bolt upright.

  “There was a fire at the consulate. Marta died an hour ago. They’re waiting for confirmation. But it’s her.”

  She’s dead? That’s it? I’m relieved and confused.

  I get an uneasy feeling. “Damian?”

  He knows what I’m thinking. “No. It wasn’t me. Trust me. Seriously.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sure your colleagues will have some more details in a few hours. I’m hearing on secure channels that people on the ground saw the fire spread from her room. She tried to climb out a window but it was barricaded.”

  “Who did it?” I can’t imagine a rival gang risking the FBI perimeter to do this.

  “Who do you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t try to kill the pope and get away with it.”

  “You can’t be serious?” I try to process all of this.