by L. D. Beyer
As they left the police station, Sartori sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I ruined all of your fun. Big federal agent tries to break up a purse snatching only to find that the assailant has already been subdued by the intended victim.” She patted his arm and smiled. “I am so sorry.”
“I was going to say the same to you. I’m sure you wanted to beat the crap out of those two. You probably would have if I hadn’t shown up.”
“Well then, you can make it up to me and buy me dinner.” She made a show of checking her watch. “My date probably gave up on me by now.”
Richter laughed. “Oh, I’m sure. But what the heck. I’ll buy.”
By the time he got back to his apartment, it was after two in the morning and, although they had only eaten burgers at a nearby bar, he realized that he had enjoyed the time with Stephanie.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Once McKay made his decision, he surprised himself by how quickly he shifted to the logistics of what he had to do. He was, after all, a survivor. He would find a way to do what Jane wanted and, somehow, still come out on top. He needed to focus on it, to think it through. There was always a solution if he took the time to look for it. If he could get his hands on the right supplies, it was possible. The big issue was what he did after. Well, he thought, he had two more days to come up with a plan before he would see Jane again.
___
They met in a large park and walked in silence to the middle of a soccer field. Despite the cold morning, a group of kids was playing flag football two fields away. Other than that, they were alone.
“You were very well behaved this week.” Jane gave him a playful smile as she put her hands on his chest and feigned surprise.
“Have you been working out?” She let her hands play over his chest for a second, then the smile vanished.
“What I want to know, Frank, is…” she paused, “…are you on board or not?”
It was scary how she could turn it on and off. The woman was either mentally unbalanced, he realized, or very good at what she did. She had the resources and means to watch him, and probably a lot more. But she also needed him. Two can play this game, he thought. He let his anger show.
“Why don’t you drop the psycho shit? Okay, Jane? Or whatever the hell your name is.”
Her smile returned. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
She was very, very good. But he was prepared.
“There are some conditions that we need to discuss first.”
“My, my, my, Frank. Did you get your balls back?”
McKay ignored the jab.
“What do you want?”
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Jane studied the list. It was cryptic but she had no problem translating.
“So, you want a safe place to hide for a while, stocked with food and supplies. You want a new identity. And a way out of the country.” She looked up.
“Those are the big items. I’ll also need your help in obtaining the materials I’ll need.”
“We have to trust you. Is that it?” Her sarcasm was obvious.
“Yes. Just as I have to trust you. It can’t work any other way.”
She considered this for a moment. “Okay. Let’s assume that we agree to your requests. How soon can you do this?” She was matter-of-fact, as if she were negotiating to have her house painted.
“It depends on how quickly you can get me what I need. Then probably a month or two to finalize the plan. And, of course,” McKay added, “the final date depends on his schedule.”
“Okay, Frank. I’ll get back to you. Tomorrow.” Jane smiled again and kissed McKay on the cheek. “Now walk me back to my car, my big muscle man. You know some of these parks aren’t too safe for a girl.”
McKay didn’t move. “There’s one other thing.” He paused and matched her stare. “I want five million dollars.”
Once again, he was surprised at her reaction. She neither smiled nor threatened. Her face was neutral.
“Let’s talk tomorrow.”
___
They met again, the following morning, in a park in Alexandria, Virginia. Once again they chose an open field.
Jane studied him for a minute. “So you plan to be on board? How do you plan on escaping?” The tone was casual as if they were discussing the weather.
McKay’s response was curt. “Let me worry about that.”
There was an empty playground on one side and, on the other, two teenagers tossed a Frisbee back and forth. One of the kids yelled, and McKay and Jane turned to watch as the cold wind caught the Frisbee and it flew off course.
“We will meet your demands. Half up front and the other half after you complete your assignment.”
McKay nodded. He had thought through several possible answers she might give him and had rehearsed various responses. He needed to show her that he was in control. Well, not in control exactly, but that he was….what? A formidable competitor? Regardless, her response told him they were serious. Jane, he reminded himself, was a hired gun.
“In exchange,” she continued, “we have one additional requirement.”
McKay waited.
“We want you to take on an associate. A partner if you will.”
He had not expected this but was able to mask his surprise. One of her weapons, he had realized, was to try and keep him off balance. Sudden personality changes, shifts in direction, new demands were all part of her approach to keep him under her control. He knew that now and was prepared.
“What type of partner?”
“Someone to help you get the supplies you need. Someone to act as facilitator. Someone to protect our investment.”
“Who?” McKay stood defiantly, arms folded across his chest.
Jane smiled. “Well, why don’t we go meet him right now?”
Jane made a quick phone call. When she hung up, she hooked her arm through his and they started to walk towards the deserted playground. She made small talk along the way. McKay’s mind was racing and he tuned it out.
Abruptly, Jane stepped in front of him.
“Why, Frank. You’re ignoring me.”
McKay was about to respond when she looked past him, her eyes twinkling.
“Cal! What are you doing here?”
McKay turned and was hit by a sudden wave of panic as he stared into the face of Agent Cal Mosby.
___
When he thought about it later, McKay realized that he had missed the obvious clues. He remembered the flood of panic, certain that he was about to be arrested. All the clandestine meetings with Jane were a charade. She had set him up, and now he was going to jail. In the silence that followed, however, Mosby just stood there, looking awkward—no different, McKay realized, from himself. Jane’s smile had been as bright as ever as she looked back and forth between them. When she spoke, her tone was conspiratorial, as if they were sharing a secret.
“I believe you two know each other.”
He and Mosby stood there like fools, while Jane seemed to enjoy the moment.
It was clear that she was in charge.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The motorcade pulled up below the North Portico of the White House. The doors of the lead and tail vehicles opened, and Mexican security and U.S. Secret Service agents jumped out. A dozen Mexican agents surrounded the limo and, after a quick radio conversation, the door was opened. Kendall walked forward and extended his hand to Mexican President Felipe Magaña.
“Señor Presidente. Mucho gusto. Bienvenidos a la Casa Blanca.” Mr. President. It is nice to meet you. Welcome to the White House.
Magaña smiled broadly. “Igualmente, Señor Presidente. Es un placer estar aquí.” Likewise, Mr. President. It is a pleasure to be here. Magaña switched to English. “I’m impressed. Your Spanish is very good.”
Kendall laughed. “Thank you. But, I’m afraid those are the only words I know.”
Magaña laughed and put his hand on Kendall�
��s shoulder. “Somehow, I think we will manage, Mr. President.”
“Please. Come in,” Kendall said, escorting President Magaña up the steps into the entrance hall.
___
A short while later they were seated in the Map Room.
Magaña held up a box. “I have something for you, a gift from my country to yours; something to express our friendship.”
Kendall smiled. He opened the box and pulled out a dagger. The silver blade was about five inches long with an ornate, swirled hilt where it met the handle. The handle itself was about three inches long made of some sort of black stone carved into the face of an Aztec god, Kendall guessed. He ran his hand along the blade, noticing that although it was pointed, it wasn’t sharp. It took a moment before he realized he was holding a letter opener.
“This is beautiful, Felipe. Thank you very much.” Kendall turned the gift over, admiring the craftsmanship. “The handle represents an Aztec god, correct?”
Magaña nodded. “It is Quetzalcoatl, hand-carved from obsidian onyx. He was a patron of priests and the god of creation. Some say this meant that he was the creator of mankind. Others say he was a male symbol of fertility. He is also associated with vegetation and the harvest. Like much of Mayan and Aztec mythology, his role, his manifestations, and his powers evolved and changed over the centuries. You can see that the figure represents a winged serpent. It is said that he ruled the boundary between the earth and the sky, possibly as one of the sun gods.”
Magaña sat back. “It is interesting, David. I am a Roman Catholic. Similar to the Christian belief in Jesus’s divine birth, the Aztecs believe Quetzalcoatl and his twin brother were born to a virgin.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. No matter what you believe, I think the symbolism is appropriate. He is a god of life.” Magaña smiled. “Such a fragile thing, life is,” he continued, his smile gone. “The drug problem that is affecting your country as well as mine has done so much to destroy lives. Working together, Mr. President, I hope you and I can change that.”
___
After lunch, Kendall poured a cup of coffee and handed it to his guest.
“Felipe, I hope we can speak frankly. I would like to discuss our joint operation. While I agree with our predecessors’ intents, I am worried that it is only a matter of time before the cartels begin to retaliate. I am afraid that this could be devastating to the citizens of your country and possibly mine as well.”
“I agree.” Magaña responded. “I know that there has been cartel activity in Arizona and Nevada, some drug related killings and kidnappings. It’s only a matter of time before it spreads to other cities…maybe even to Washington.” Magaña crossed his legs, his hands pressed together below his chin as if in prayer. “I think we have made a start, but unless we look at this systemically, we will have done nothing more than, what is your saying, waking the sleeping bear?”
Kendall nodded as Magaña continued.
“There are some in my country who applaud what we are doing. But many more are not happy. They see the same thing that you and I do and fear the violence will get worse. There are also some who are upset that I am allowing foreign soldiers to operate on Mexican soil. They point to your country and ask why more is not being done about the demand for drugs. And about the weapons and guns your citizens smuggle into my country and sell to the cartels.”
Kendall nodded again. He had been briefed and had been expecting this. “I understand your position, Felipe, and I agree it’s something that we need to discuss further. I also think we need to consider what we can do to address the support your police and your armed forces provide to the cartels. My country believes that it will be difficult to make meaningful progress unless that issue is confronted.”
So much of this is a dance, Kendall thought. Although he was no stranger to negotiation, the diplomatic exchanges between nations were very different from deal making in the business world. Today, their initial dance was part of the mating ritual, the intent to see if, hopefully, they were compatible dance partners. The goal was to inform each other of their respective viewpoints and the key issues affecting each of their nations. The real discussions would come later between their diplomatic teams. First though, Kendall and Magaña had to find a way to dance together without stepping on each other’s toes. That was difficult when both men wanted to lead.
“Yes, David. We can discuss that too. But there is a related issue that is equally as important. There are many in Mexico who are not happy with the wall that you have built between our countries.”
“We are concerned about the immigration issue as well,” Kendall responded. “I believe there are challenges on both sides of the border. What can be done to develop more economic opportunity within Mexico?”
“I have some thoughts.” Magaña frowned. “But to make a difference—a real difference—well, it’s not possible without your help, David.”
“No,” Kendall agreed. “But it will require significant changes in how both of our countries approach this problem.”
Both men sat for a moment, sipping their coffee. Magaña put his cup down and Kendall held up the silver urn. Magaña nodded.
As Kendall refilled the cup, Felipe Magaña smiled. “I think you and I can work together, mi amigo.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
March
The black Ford Taurus made its way down the dirt road. The driver, dressed for a day of fishing, looked like an ad for L.L. Bean. A coffee thermos sat on the passenger seat next to a wicker fish basket. As the car bounced over the ruts in the old logging trail, the driver glanced at his mirrors.
Despite recent forecasts, the sky was overcast and held the threat of rain. Typical mid-March weather, thought the fisherman. He glanced out the side window again and sensed that the forest was about to come alive. The trees would bud soon, and the many varieties of fern and groundcover would soon blanket the forest floor. The car rounded a bend, entered a small clearing, and coasted to a stop about fifty feet from a stream. He turned the car off and listened to sounds of the stream and the occasional ping as the engine cooled. It wasn’t quite 7:00 a.m. He was early.
The fisherman inspected his mirrors one more time and, confirming that he hadn’t been followed, grabbed his fish basket and thermos and stepped out of the car. He turned, as if admiring the scene. Satisfied that he was alone, he opened the trunk and grabbed a fishing rod and tackle box. He glanced once more down the dirt road then shut the trunk.
He carried his gear over to the stream. The spot he chose was a large flat boulder, overhanging a deep pool of gently flowing water. Perfect, he thought as he laid his gear on the rock. He had a view of both the stream and, with a small turn of his head, the dirt road. He poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and then began preparing his pole. He took his time rigging a new fly. When he finished, he stood and pulled some line out of the reel with his left hand while he swept the pole back and forth in long arcs with his right. Each arc began behind him and finished out over the water, and with each cycle, he let out a little more line. He let the fly fall gently into the stream. He fed more line as the current pulled it downstream.
Although he had never been fly fishing before—in fact it had been eighteen years since he last held a fishing pole, and that time it was an inexpensive spin-cast model his father had given him on his tenth birthday—he appeared adept at his task. The thirty minutes of instruction he had received at Bass Pro Shops had paid off. But he had no interest in catching fish.
He glanced at his watch again, adjusted the slack in his line, and then squatted to pick up his mug of coffee. He hesitated, the coffee mug inches from his mouth. As the steam swirled below his chin, he glanced down the road. After a moment, he bent down, placing his mug back on the rock. He didn’t have to wait long. A green, late-model Crown Victoria rounded the bend in the road and pulled up next to his car. Two men climbed out and, like him, admired the scene before retrieving their gear.
; ___
He studied the men as they walked toward the stream. One was short with olive skin, his Mediterranean heritage evident in his features. His companion was a tall black man, powerfully built. Like him, both men were dressed for fishing. Each carried a pole and a tackle box. The black man also carried a wicker fish box, similar to the one by the fisherman’s feet.
“Good morning,” the black man called with a smile. “We’ll head upstream a bit so we’re not in your way.”
The fisherman smiled tentatively. “Be my guest.”
The black man placed his wicker basket on the rock next to the fisherman’s and scratched the back of his head. “Any luck?”
“None yet”
“How long have you been out here?”
“About an hour.”
The Mediterranean remained silent, his eyes darting around. The black man made a show of hitching up his pants with his right hand while he balanced the rest of his gear in his left. There was a red band wrapped around the handle of the man’s pole, before the reel.
“Is that a White River pole?”
“Sure is! First time I’m using it, though. It’s a present from my wife.” The black man’s mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t.
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I think she just wants me out of the house.”
Both men laughed, finally relaxing. The exchange had confirmed their identities.
“My name’s Vernon, by the way, and this here’s Mike,” the black man said, extending his hand.
“I’m Bob,” the fisherman replied as they shook. Both knew these weren’t their real names. The Mediterranean, Mike, smiled weakly, but didn’t offer his hand. Vernon bent down and picked up one of the wicker baskets.
