by Lou Dobbs
THIRTY-THREE
After the show ended, Eriksen watched as Dempsey, the senator, and the comedian came down the three steps to the ground level and started to sign autographs for people standing behind the barricade. He wondered if those people had been prescreened, because everyone was well behaved. He could hear a few shouts, but they were mostly coming from people behind those seeking autographs.
The man who had drawn Eriksen’s attention had edged closer to the barricade and was still looking in all directions. He had on a loose shirt, but Eriksen couldn’t see much detail from this distance. He had to consider how far he could go with no probable cause. He could see himself explaining that any actions he took were based on a hunch. He wondered where he would get transferred from El Paso. As Eriksen pushed through the crowd faster, he realized the man’s right hand wasn’t visible—it was under his shirt. He started pushing harder as he lowered his shoulder and knocked people out of the way, trying to gain momentum. He would much rather explain bumping into someone and questioning him without probable cause than explain how he allowed a U.S. senator to be assassinated. This was exactly the sort of action his father and grandfather would’ve preached. Especially in connection with an assassination. It was never clear to him if their relation to the nation’s most famous presidential assassin was truly a source of shame or a way to motivate each generation to work as hard as they could. Right now it didn’t matter.
He was moving quickly through the crowd, ready to barrel into the much taller man like a pissed-off Ray Lewis, if there was any other kind of Ray Lewis.
* * *
Hector visualized the action he would take over and over in his mind as his target moved closer and closer, signing fewer autographs along the way. He noticed the differences between the three celebrities. Dempsey had stayed friendly and was still greeting fans. The comedian was doting on pretty girls, his reputation apparently enticing women to offer their breasts for his autograph. The senator was much more detached and had to endure several insulting shouts.
Twenty feet more and he’d have his shot. The insults would turn to screams. The first cop, the one leading the procession, had moved ahead toward a waiting car. The cop in the back was distracted by the women opening their shirts for the comedian’s autograph.
This was it.
* * *
Eriksen was almost to his target. But so were Dempsey and the senator. The comedian was hanging back, talking to someone. Eriksen had tunnel vision, zeroed in on the suspect, who looked up at the last moment.
Eriksen had to decide if he wanted to shout to distract the man or just lower his shoulder and drive into him hard. He decided not to give any warning and got ready for the impact. He turned and started to pick up speed like a bull aiming for a matador.
* * *
Hector tightened his grip on the handle of the Browning. Now he counted time in heartbeats. Just a few more steps for a clear shot. The only distraction he had was a woman who insisted on leaning into his lower back. He turned around once to give her a dirty look, but it had little effect. The rudeness of these Americans.
Just as he was about to pull his pistol, he saw movement to his side and realized someone was pushing through the crowd. People moved out of the way as the running man barreled into a tall, awkward-looking cabrón a few feet in front of Hector. The action completely broke his concentration and drew the attention of the cops on the other side of the barricade.
It took a moment to realize the man who had just tackled someone was the cop from the Martinez apartment. Hector had to control himself not to pull his pistol and throw a few rounds into him right this second. Despite his feelings, Hector realized this was not the job he was paid for. He could deal with the cop later. The man the cop had tackled was tall and could possibly hurt him, but Hector doubted it.
He turned to assess whether he could still take the shot at his target and live. With the cops rushing toward them and other security personnel shoving his target, he realized he would have to wait for another opportunity.
* * *
Even as he pushed through the crowd, Eriksen could see the dark-haired man reaching under his shirt and decided he had to hit him high and solid with a full body block. The man went down hard, and Eriksen landed directly on top of him. He grabbed the man’s right wrist. There was something in the man’s hand, but it wasn’t a gun. Finally, after struggling for a moment, the man grunted and dropped it. Whatever it was shattered on the ground, and Eriksen realized it was a glass jar. Then he smelled the odor. His first thought was that it was some kind of weapon of mass destruction. A cop leaped over the barricade, and Dempsey shouted to him, “He’s an FBI agent,” in an attempt to keep Eriksen from getting his ass kicked.
Eriksen called out, “I’m on the job.” It was an old NYPD expression cops across the country used to informally ID each other. Whether it was Dempsey’s warning or Eriksen’s comment, the cop understood instantly and helped him subdue the tall man on the ground.
The chubby sergeant looked at Eriksen and said, “What’s that smell?”
People shoved away in all directions and fled the area. Rather than start a panic by shouting a warning to the crowd, Eriksen looked at the now-handcuffed man and said, “What was in the jar?”
The man didn’t respond.
Now Eriksen shouted it. “What the hell was in the jar?” He wondered if the man spoke English. Was he really a terrorist? Another cop hustled the senator and Dempsey away.
The sergeant called out, “We need a hazmat team. He had a jar of something that spilled on the ground.”
Now the man seemed to come to his senses and looked at Eriksen with fear in his eyes. He cried out with no accent, “It’s pig poop. It’s just pig poop.”
Eriksen took a moment to assess the man. “What?”
The man tried to catch his breath as Eriksen pulled him up to a sitting position. “It’s not toxic. I was just going to throw pig shit on the senator and shout that it smelled like her views.” He swallowed hard as the heavyset sergeant jerked him to his feet. Then the man said, “It was just a way to get on TV. I swear to God, that’s all it is.”
Eriksen knew immediately the man was telling the truth, but there were certain protocols that went into actions like this. The fire engine pulling up on the street would probably provide some overtime for a few lucky firemen trained in the removal of dangerous material. It didn’t matter if it was anthrax or pig excrement, this idiot had just found a way to tie up fire rescue for a few hours.
THIRTY-FOUR
Eriksen maintained his cool as he listened to his supervisor, Mike Zara, become increasingly upset. They were in a conference room at the Border Security Task Force, and he was embarrassed to see people walking past the door and hearing Zara’s normally loud voice becoming more agitated and strident. His pudgy face had already turned red, then purple, and now had seemed to lose all color.
Zara said, “What exactly did you not understand about staying away from Ted Dempsey?”
Eriksen tried to counter the frantic tone of his supervisor by speaking in a near-perfect monotone. “With all due respect, I was only told not to appear on Mr. Dempsey’s show. And from the first time I met him I made it clear that I could never be on air. I don’t believe I’ve done anything unethical.”
“Can you explain the man in the county jail with two broken ribs, which he received from you?”
“You mean the man who was about to assault a U.S. senator? A man identified out of the crowd and disarmed without firing my weapon? I can explain anything you’d like about that situation.” It almost looked like the last statement might cause Zara to experience an aneurysm. He fumbled with words and appeared to have trouble sucking in enough breath.
Finally Zara lowered his voice and said, “I should’ve known a guy who would beat up his supervisor in Washington wouldn’t listen to his supervisor out here. There are going to be serious repercussions for this action.”
Eriksen didn’t back
down. He looked Zara directly in the eye and said, “It sounds like we should discuss this with the ASAC. I believe I’m in the right here, and I don’t know that a rational discussion is possible at this moment.”
“Are you calling me irrational?” Zara’s voice cracked with the accusation.
“No, sir, but I believe I acted well within my authority.”
“Did you make an arrest after you assaulted this man?”
“The El Paso PD made the arrest.”
“So you’re saying the FBI gets no credit for your heroic action.”
“I’m saying I was not in a position to transport a prisoner.”
“So you were off duty.”
Eriksen wondered how many of the subtle traps Zara was going to throw out before he got bored. “No, sir, I am always on duty.”
“Then what about your duties here at the Border Security Task Force made you attend the broadcast of the Ted Dempsey show?”
Just then a deep voice from the doorway attracted their attention. “I sent him over there.”
Eriksen was amazed at how the massive form of Andre seemed to eclipse all the light in the other room. He stepped into the conference room, then leaned over the table, staring directly at Zara.
Andre said, “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. FBI Supervisory Special Agent?”
Zara tried to hold Andre’s stare and said, “Why would you guys care what goes on at Ted Dempsey’s show?”
“It sounds like you don’t understand anything about intelligence. We gather it everywhere, including wherever there are protests. Dempsey was having Senator Ramos on the show, and she attracts protesters wherever she goes. I sent Tom over to get a feel for the crowd, and now it sounds like it was a lucky thing he was there. In fact, I’m thinking about putting him in for an award.”
Eriksen had to conceal a smile when he saw Zara swallow hard like a trainer facing a lion without a whip and chair.
Zara’s parting shot was, “I’m going to have to reevaluate Eriksen’s purpose over here at the task force. Maybe you guys aren’t up to FBI standards in investigations.” Eriksen knew that meant he had to start moving faster on the unofficial case he and Lila were working.
* * *
Herrera stood on a balcony overlooking the mountains in Creel, Chihuahua. It was just getting dark, and the fading sunlight turned the trees a moody green and cast long shadows along the valley floor. The ornate balcony and its decorative railing had been created by Italian artisans Herrera had flown over from Florence several years ago. He appreciated the cool breeze as he spoke on one of his safe phones to Hector, who was obviously stuck in Juárez traffic.
Herrera said, “I see our big mouth is still talking. Another opportunity was missed, no?”
Hector simply said, “I’m sorry, Don Herrera, but the time was not right.” Herrera appreciated the professionalism of the hulking assassin and had to respect his assessment of any given situation. But the more he heard his country insulted and the more the Americans were stirred to action, the more determined he became.
“Hector, have I not made the rewards of this assignment clear? You will have money and power beyond your comprehension.”
Hector, in his very understated way, said, “I don’t want power. I would just like some money. And you would be shocked at what I could comprehend.”
“Enough money so you could live comfortably in your villa in La Paz on the Gulf of California?”
Hector hesitated on the phone.
Herrera couldn’t contain a little chuckle as he realized the big assassin was trying to figure out how Herrera knew where he owned a villa. In addition, he figured the big assassin was already crossing the location off his list of retirement sites. Nobody wanted others to know where he lived after a career like his.
Finally, Hector said, “I promise I will complete the assignment, Don Herrera.”
“This I have no doubt, my friend. That’s why I’m paying you so much. But it’s all a big circle. I’m paying you that much because you are the only one who can do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re up at the border, I want you to be sure to pass on any information you might come across that relates to Pablo Piña, or Juárez or El Paso.”
“Yes, Don Herrera.”
Herrera liked his assassin’s easy agreement. Information could be more valuable than gold, and sometimes you didn’t realize how important it was. All the pieces had to fit together, and he needed to know what others heard and saw. It was the same with any organization.
* * *
Lila gladly accepted lunch from the handsome homicide detective who’d been working on the market shooting. He took her to an upscale sports bar with fifty TV sets stuck up on the walls and waitresses dressed like cheerleaders.
The detective was from Dallas originally and had stayed here after he flunked out of the University of Texas at El Paso. UTEP seemed to provide a lot of intelligent young people to the area. The detective was two years older than Lila, divorced, and had a four-year-old daughter. That didn’t bother her one bit, and she would’ve gladly accepted his offer of dinner following the lunch except for the fact that he obviously loved himself more than anyone else ever could. That could be a deal breaker.
At one point in her life it would’ve been an absolute deal breaker. But now, after moving around and having to keep all the secrets of her job, she was starting to feel the effects of loneliness. She went on the occasional date with the local stockbroker or lawyer, but they always proved to be boring or self-centered. There was never anything in between.
She’d heard a number of times that girls always look for men who remind them of their fathers. Maybe that was the problem. Her father had set a very high standard. Although she told people she was an army brat and that’s why she had lived in places as far-flung as London, Okinawa, Cairo, and Prague, the truth was that she was a legacy at the CIA. Her father, who was an engineer by trade, used that cover to help build bridges and meet the right people. She didn’t learn the truth until after she’d graduated from Virginia Tech. It was quite a realization at the time. She had no interest in any particular subject until she learned exactly what her father had done for a living. Then the CIA seemed like the only thing she was interested in.
She hated to admit it, but her father had streamlined the process for applying. She had a very clean background, and the CIA liked the fact that she spoke several languages, including Spanish. Almost as soon as she was finished training near Langley, Virginia, her immediate supervisor had proposed the idea of using the DEA as a cover. She went directly into the DEA Academy located on the Marine Corps reservation at Quantico, Virginia.
That was where she met a young man who interested her. He was a former marine helicopter pilot and a former San Diego police officer who was also very bright and extremely funny. The confines of the DEA Academy almost forced people into relationships, for better or worse. In this case, Lila thought she had found the perfect guy.
They kept their relationship quiet in the academy. Then he had been sent to the giant Los Angeles field office. For the purposes of her real job, Lila needed to be directly on the border. The long-distance relationship had worked for almost six months; then, for no real reason, it just fizzled out.
Now she was stuck with pale imitations, like this athletic and cute detective. The more time they spent together, the more certain she was that she would not be forming any type of permanent relationship with him. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be good for a night or two.
Now Lila looked directly at him and answered his question. “I can’t tell you when we’ll be done analyzing the thumb drive, but they’re working on it.”
He gave her a smug smile, and she said, “What’s that for?”
“I have some pretty interesting information myself.”
“What’s that?”
“Your friend the FBI agent went with Chuck and a crime scene tech over to the apartment of the HSI guy who died o
f a drug overdose.”
“John Houghton?”
“Yeah, that’s his name. Anyway, your pal insisted they take a print off the TV set on-and-off button.”
“And?” Lila hated playing games like this.
“And the thumbprint from the TV matches the thumbprint on the .380 casing found at the market.”
The news hit Lila like a slap in the face as she realized this was a conspiracy that was growing every day.
THIRTY-FIVE
Tom Eriksen sat at his desk in the drab Border Security Task Force office thinking about how his meeting with his supervisor had brought him up short. It also made him realize how much he appreciated working on this particular task force and with these particular people. Mike Zara’s parting comment about whether the squad’s investigative standards were up to the FBI’s supposed standards had tweaked something inside him.
Eriksen had always had a plan for his life. As a child, and if he had to admit it, even now, he loved the idea of medieval knights and codes of honor. He had read everything he could ever find about the Knights Templar and the wild injustice committed against them on Friday the thirteenth by the king of France. Whatever their shortcomings or their successes, the original idea of protecting pilgrims on the road to Jerusalem was almost a blueprint for how Eriksen felt about helping people. He wanted to change the world in a positive way and make a difference. And he recognized that many people around him wanted to do the same thing. He had no room for cynicism and the people who looked down at their feet while mumbling about how America’s best days were past and there was nothing that could be done to change the future. He just didn’t believe that. He didn’t believe that America was no longer relevant, and he didn’t believe that people wanting to do their best wouldn’t help the country. It was largely a perception created by columnists and other people in the media who were nearly as out of touch with the rest of the country as politicians.
He never knew if this feeling of wanting to help people was innate or instilled in him by his father, who took obligations and duties very seriously. Originally, Eriksen thought the military would be an excellent choice, but a scholarship to Harvard was too enticing. It was in his junior year he started considering law enforcement. The FBI had the best news coverage, movie heroes, and TV shows. The Bureau sucked him in and filled his need to contribute. But somehow he didn’t feel he was doing enough. Until recently. Now, with the conspiracy swirling around him, he had to see it through. He couldn’t give Mike Zara a reason to pull him off the squad.
