Border War

by Lou Dobbs

Marty shook his head frantically and said, “I’m trying to make this right, Curtis.”

  Now Eriksen had to hold up his hands to calm everyone down and say, “Your name is Curtis Lopez? I gotta ask how you came by that moniker.”

  “Any family that lived on the border a long time has a mix of Mexican and American heritage. Just because my last name’s Lopez don’t mean my mama didn’t want to give me a family name, too. Now I’m telling you to get out of the way and let us teach this little shithead a lesson.”

  Eriksen lowered his voice and turned to Marty and said, “Jesus, what are you involved with?”

  “Nothing illegal, I swear. Just a little side job that’s slow in paying, and now I owe Lopez Supply a few grand that I don’t have.”

  All three men moved closer to them, and Curtis said, “A few grand! Try thirteen thousand bucks. And we’ve let this slide for over nine months. Just like Marty over here, we went through the whole deal without telling our pop what we were doing.”

  Now Eriksen had a clear picture of what had happened. It was a case of the younger generation of two established businesses trying to strike out on their own. Eriksen doubted Marty had that kind of money. Without consulting Marty he said, “What if you took his new Camaro until he gets the money together?”

  “We’re not in the car rental business. We want our cash, and the interest is gonna be a few broken bones.” Now all three of the men rushed forward.

  As Curtis Lopez reached across with both hands to grab Eriksen by the shoulders, the more agile FBI agent used his years of karate and seemingly endless self-defense training from the Bureau to slip to one side, twisting one of Curtis’s arms behind his back as he did. Instead of releasing Curtis, he ran the big man forward like a battering ram into the second man, who was advancing on Marty. The two men crashed into each other, sending the second man against the hood of the Camaro. Eriksen pulled Curtis back a few feet and then slammed him into the man again. Then Eriksen released Curtis’s arm, stepped back, and kicked him hard on the side of the leg between the knee and the hip, striking a vital nerve and causing the big man to tumble to the ground.

  Without waiting for the second man to react, Eriksen threw a left elbow across his jaw, knocking him across the hood of the Camaro and onto the ground near his brother. Now the third man completely ignored Marty and rushed Eriksen, who easily sidestepped him and brought a foot up into his solar plexus. When the man bent over and exhaled violently, Eriksen grabbed him by the shoulders and redirected him between his two brothers already sprawled on the ground.

  Eriksen straightened to his full six feet and tried to stay as calm as possible as he said, “Now are you guys ready to listen to reason?”

  Each of the men was holding a different part of his body as Curtis looked up and said, “Dang, you didn’t have no reason to do that to us. We were just trying to collect what’s ours.”

  “But I can’t have you beating up on Marty here. His family’s been too good to me.”

  “What are we gonna tell our pop when he sees the loss of inventory?”

  Eriksen slowly helped the men to their feet one at a time, even brushing off dead grass from their clothes. He was still ready to send a more serious message, but at least these guys weren’t on alert for another attack. He led them back to the giant pickup and noticed a computer on the front seat.

  “You got the store ledgers and inventory on the laptop?”

  The men all nodded. The three brothers looked at each other sheepishly. Finally Curtis said, “Yeah. We put a password on the files so Pop didn’t get a shock seeing them. We need to look at them for big jobs, so we always have a computer handy. Pop won’t worry about it until he wants to look them over. That’s gonna happen any day now.”

  Eriksen said, “Can I take a look? I’m good with finances. Maybe I can help, and we’ll get you the money as soon as we can.”

  It took some more convincing and a lot of conversation between the brothers, but Curtis fired up the machine and opened the files.

  Eriksen had spent his years at Harvard learning the ins and outs of finance and accounting. The FBI had shown him what to look for if someone was hiding money. This was simple. He just did what he was trained to do in reverse. The language of finance and numbers had always come easily to him, and compared to some of the records he had seen, these were simple.

  Lopez Building Supply was a profitable family business with what must have been a giant warehouse. Eriksen looked down and moved several numbers around until the total inventory and sales balanced. He showed it to Curtis, who stood slack-jawed at the speed and effectiveness of Eriksen’s little changes. Curtis said, “Oh snap, bro, where’d you learn to do that?”

  “It’s a magical place called college.”

  “Don’t be a dick, we all three went to college.”

  “What school?”

  “Texas A&M.”

  Eriksen managed to withhold any witty comments. Instead he said, “So are we all good?”

  Curtis used his size and glare to show his concern. “We still need to get paid.”

  Eriksen said, “What if I give you my word we’ll figure out a way to pay you?”

  “And what do we get in return for waiting?”

  “Right off the bat, you won’t get any more black eyes and I won’t toss you around the front yard like old furniture. How’s that sound?”

  Slowly Curtis nodded. “What are we supposed to do for money till then?”

  “You still have your job at Lopez Supply. And if we have to we’ll go to Marty’s dad to see about getting an advance on his salary.”

  Tentatively Curtis stuck out his hand, and as Eriksen shook it, the big man said, “We ain’t in no position to argue with you right now.”

  Eriksen stood his ground until all three men had piled back into the big pickup truck, backed carefully out of the yard, and headed down the street. Marty stepped up behind him and said, “I can’t thank you enough, Tom.”

  Eriksen didn’t even look back at him as he said, “Shut it. I don’t know what kind of scam you were running, but you’re sure as shit gonna pay those guys back so we don’t have to go through this exercise again. Understood?” He turned to give Marty a hard look.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I just committed a felony to keep all of you in good with your parents. I gotta get back to work. I’m turning into a day care teacher.”

  SIX

  Tom Eriksen took in his surroundings as he followed his FBI supervisor, Mike Zara, into his new post of duty. For the first time since he had been with the FBI, Eriksen had a chance to use his degree in international finance to assess the situation. He decided the building they were in looked like either a really nice Charles Schwab office or a run-down Merrill Lynch office. Dozens of neatly but casually dressed men and women worked in cubicles, and each window gave a decent view of downtown El Paso. Every government worker’s dream is to have a view of El Paso, Texas.

  The building itself gave no outward sign that it was related to the federal government. There was nothing on the inside that indicated it was a law enforcement office. In fact, in Eriksen’s mind, it wasn’t. It was an intelligence unit. A unit that looked into rumors and didn’t make arrests. They handed off the operational cases to other agencies and moved on to the next assignment to determine the connections between narcotics-trafficking groups and terror groups, or whatever someone dreamed up. The old-timers in the Bureau called it “the rubber gun squad.” Great.

  Zara could barely contain his glee at Eriksen getting an even shittier assignment than his last. He wasn’t that much older than Eriksen, probably his midthirties, but he had the attitude and demeanor of a sixty-year-old, coupled with the pettiness and jealousy of a five-year-old. And he always spoke a little too loudly.

  As a supervisor, Zara was probably what federal agencies liked. He tended to be a micromanager and insisted on knowing every detail of Eriksen’s day. He was terrified of tactical operations because he didn’t have any
experience in them. That was probably one of the reasons Zara looked so happy. By definition, an intelligence unit didn’t participate in tactical operations and therefore had very little chance of bringing attention to itself with a shooting or something else that Zara would find distasteful.

  Most of the personnel in the drab but comfortable commercial building were analysts who could navigate computers and public records to make connections between people and groups. Eriksen recognized their work was vital and difficult; he just didn’t want to be part of it. He was surprised at the number of agencies represented in the office. Even the secretive National Security Agency had analysts working at computers in an office in front of a room filled with equipment that monitored a number of communications satellites and radio transmissions. As they walked along what felt like a quarter mile of plush carpet, Eriksen noticed rooms with computers that searched keywords entered into the different search engines in real time. An attractive blond woman looked up and smiled as he lingered at the door, marveling at the computers, which generated so much heat they required extra air-conditioning pumped into the secure room.

  He couldn’t say he wasn’t impressed by the computers, and he’d told himself he would adopt John Houghton’s positive attitude about seeing the good side of any assignment. Then the smile on Zara’s face turned more menacing as they rounded a corner and he said, “This is where you’ll be working.” He had the sound of a man about to open the door on a surprise party.

  Eriksen stepped into the room crammed with desks and felt like he was stepping into the seventies through a time portal with cheap carpet, a popcorn ceiling, and Formica desktops.

  Five men and three women turned to see who had entered their lair, but only one showed any interest. A striking young woman with long dark hair stood from the nearest desk and said in a curt tone, “I’m Lila Tellis, DEA. Welcome to the Island of Misfit Cops.”

  * * *

  After the harrowing border crossing, Dr. Luis Martinez, sitting in the clean one-bedroom apartment, couldn’t believe how comfortable the U.S. authorities had made him and his wife. The building had been built in the sixties, and it had thick walls and a sturdy fire escape that ran up to their fifth-floor apartment. The deep carpet was new, and the bed felt like a cloud. It was the perfect way for the U.S. government to show gratitude for his efforts to save the wounded Border Patrol agent.

  The Border Patrol in particular appreciated how hard he’d worked in his futile effort to save the agent shot by the human traffickers. Once they had heard the story of his former employer, Pablo Piña, other agencies were very interested in speaking with him. He was careful not to let out too much information at once, and now that he and his wife were secure in the pleasant apartment near the Federal Building in downtown El Paso, he would use the information to keep this level of comfort.

  Of the people that had interviewed him so far, he liked a young female DEA agent who spoke Spanish well but with an odd accent he couldn’t place. Her business card indicated that she was in some kind of special intelligence task force, and he could tell by her sharp dark eyes and intensity that the girl was intelligent herself.

  Even with the beautiful DEA agent, Dr. Martinez had held back information. The time would come when he would have to remind U.S. authorities how valuable he was. For example, he still had not told them anything about his U.S. employer, and he hoped to keep that secret unless revealing it was absolutely necessary. If he was somehow able to wrangle a long-term visa, he still hoped to work for them.

  He had been careful during the debriefing not to mention his friend Enrique, or, as he had confided in the doctor, Eric. Eric already lived in the United States and had to cross the border frequently, but his employer wanted no record of it. Dr. Martinez wondered if his young computer friend was safe. He was going to call the special phone Eric had said only a few people knew about. He didn’t want to trade his friend to the government, but he would if he had to. Family meant too much to him.

  Luis Martinez had called his daughter to tell her she could cross legally with her husband and their two children. The Border Patrol had worked out all the details. But her husband insisted that his family be allowed to come as well, and that made the crossing more problematic. Soon, with extended family, he wanted to bring more than forty people with him and refused to leave without all of them. Dr. Martinez’s daughter didn’t feel she could cross without her husband, and so now they were at an impasse.

  Dr. Martinez made a few notes and looked down, wondering what information he could trade for visas. He didn’t think three or four visas were any issue at all, but once he started multiplying it and including cousins and aunts, he knew he’d have to come up with something good.

  In the meantime, he’d settle down on the comfortable couch and watch a few more minutes of ESPN on the big-screen TV. Not only was it relaxing, but he justified it by telling his wife it was helping him with his English.

  * * *

  Driving his Cadillac in downtown El Paso still felt odd to Cash. The Caddy seemed more at home in Boston or even L.A. Here all he saw were sport utilities and Jeeps. The cold General Motors air-conditioning fought to overcome the heat of the day but did nothing against the stench of garlic coming off his new partner, Ari.

  Cash had never felt he was anti-Semitic. In Jersey and New York, he had lived and worked with Jewish people his whole life. He also recognized that most people south of Philly couldn’t tell the difference between a New York Italian and a New York Jew. But Cash had decided that if he had to spend too much more time with Ari, he might summon some righteous prejudice.

  Now Ari was saying, “Ari’s hungry.” Not I’m hungry. He sounded like a conceited NFL wide receiver.

  “We ate two hours ago.”

  “Is there a law we can’t eat again? Ari needs protein to fuel these legs.” Ari patted his thick thighs. He let his gaze linger on his lap as if he were admiring all the work he did in the gym.

  Cash sighed and said, “They want us to tie up loose ends. That means finding the doctor and his wife, as well as the goddamn computer guy named Eric we lost track of.”

  “And you’re sure they didn’t go back to Mexico?”

  “The computer guy is from Chicago originally, but he spends a lot of time in Juárez.”

  “Got any other ideas?”

  Cash said, “No one has seen them. The boss gets info somehow. He was checking around. But the whole reason the doctor was willing to come across the border was that his life wasn’t worth ten cents in good old Mexico. The young computer guy is a different story. Maybe he slipped past the Border Patrol agents and made it to the U.S. I screwed up not keeping better track of him. If he shows up at the main office, there’s no problem. That means he’s loyal, but if he’s trying to leverage information, he’ll end up on the shit list on both sides of the border. Seems like a lot of people think they can get over on the company lately.”

  Ari turned and looked at his partner, who was a good five inches taller, and said, “Ari wants to handle DiMetti’s wife personally.”

  “We don’t even know if there’s anything to handle yet.”

  “Why risk it? Are you going soft on us? Ari would kill them all and be done with it.”

  “But Ari’s not in charge.”

  Cash could hear the young Israeli mutter, “Yet.”

  * * *

  Tom Eriksen had a twinge of apprehension about Lila Tellis. He suspected a lot of men felt that way based on her looks, but his impression was based on her attitude, which she showed without hesitation. The squad bay they were sitting in didn’t ease his anxiety. The walls were a tad too close and the puke green paint was anything but calming.

  When Mike Zara started to sit down at one of the desks, Lila said, “You have to go through a class and sign a confidentiality agreement before you have authorization to stay in this room. This is the most classified of all the offices in the building. That’s why the maintenance and cleaning crews can’t come in.”
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  Zara said, “But I’m his supervisor.”

  Lila winced at his loud voice but shot right back, “And he’s mine.” She jerked her thumb to a giant man sitting at the rear of the room, wearing a short-sleeve shirt with a tie that came about halfway down his chest. The man’s massive arms were matted with thick dark hair, making him look like an extra from a Planet of the Apes movie.

  The man made a sound like thunder rumbling up from the desert. “She’s right.”

  Zara stammered, “But I have a top secret clearance and I’m with the FBI.”

  “And I’m with Homeland Security, but I still had to take the class and sign the agreement to come into this room.” He turned his massive head to look at Eriksen and said, “He can update you on anything you need to know. That’s how it’s always worked around here, Mr. FBI.”

  Zara hesitated, the way he often did. Indecision wasn’t acute in the porcine FBI supervisor, it was chronic.

  The Homeland Security supervisor said, “What’s it gonna be? Class or leave?”

  Flustered, Zara looked down at his watch, then mumbled, “I gotta go.” As soon as he was out of the room, the big DHS supervisor chuckled, “Just like I thought, no class.” He looked at Eriksen and said, “My name is Andre.”

  Immediately, Eriksen had to wonder if it was a nickname after the wrestler Andre the Giant. He was about to laugh when the big man said, “Make any jokes about my name and you’ll fail the class and have to follow your supervisor right out of here.”

  Eriksen nodded, stifling any comment he’d thought he might make. Finally, he said, “How long is the class?”

  Andre looked at Lila, who waved her arm across the office and said, “This is where we work. End of class.” She slid a sheet of paper onto the desk next to him. “Sign this agreement and you’re good to go.”

  “That’s it?”

  Lila said, “Yep. You see, Mr. FBI, we’re all here for stepping on our dicks, at least figuratively. Our agencies think we’re harmless over here. But we wear it like a badge of honor. Usually the Bureau handles its screw-ups by itself. You’re my first FBI agent.” She cut him a sly sideways glance with those beautiful eyes and added, “In here, at least.”