The Last Line

by Anthony Shaffer

  Teller and Procario were dressed as tourists, wearing the stereotypical bright floral shirts and with digital cameras slung around their necks. They still carried papers indicating that they were journalists with the Washington Post, but tourists would stand out a bit less in this part of the world. Neither man was armed for what they expected to be an initial look-see at the target. Too many complications could ensue if the local constabulary stopped them for one reason or another and found out they were carrying.

  “I wasn’t expecting a city quite this big,” Teller admitted as they stepped out onto the street named Héroes de Chapultepec and began their stroll down to the docks. “Or this clean.”

  “Population of a hundred thirty thousand and some,” Procario told him. “Capital of the state of Quintana Roo. Not your typical third-world border town, no. As for being clean … well, they have to keep it pretty for the gringo tourists, right?”

  “Well, tourism hasn’t let them forget about the Mexican-American War down here. ‘Heroes of Chapultepec?’”

  Procario chuckled. “Not by a long shot. These folks have long memories.”

  The street name was a reference to an incident in the U.S. invasion of Mexico back in 1847. Los Niños Héroes, the Boy Heroes, were six cadets of the Mexican Military Academy, aged between thirteen and nineteen. During the U.S. assault on Chapultepec Castle at the gates of Mexico City, they chose to die at their posts rather than surrender to the invaders. One, Juan Escutia, had wrapped the castle’s flag around himself and jumped from a parapet rather than let it fall into American hands. Mexico still celebrated the last stand of Los Niños with a national holiday in September.

  They turned left off of Héroes de Chapultepec and began the long stroll south on De los Héroes.

  Mexico, Teller reflected, was in an extraordinarily awkward position right now. Intensely proud, imbued with a soaring, patriotic love of flag and country, many modern-day Mexicans still deeply resented the Mexican-American War of over 160 years before, and its outcome—the loss of the northern part of their country from Texas to California. The unpleasant proximity of the norteamericano giant just to the north today both chafed and worried them; with the country on the verge of descending into anarchy, they must dread the possibility of U.S. military intervention—a second Mexican-American War.

  Chetumal possessed a single commercial pier, a concrete wharf extending south from the city a thousand feet into the bay. With two lanes of traffic, one going out and another coming back, and lined down the eastern side with palm trees, the quay provided docking for the water taxis and other local transport cruising the azure waters off the city. The quay was long enough to accommodate cruise ships, and Teller wondered if that was the idea. Since 2001, Disney World had run its own built-from-scratch native village at Costa Maya, on the Caribbean forty miles across the bay to the northeast, created just for the cruise-ship trade, and other towns in the area must have lusted for the influx of tourist dollars.

  There was also the seamy underside of the local economy. According to CIA reports, 37 percent of all of the South American cocaine headed for the United States passed through the port of Belize, less than seventy miles to the south. The port of San Pedro, at the southern tip of Ambergris Caye, was notorious as one of the filthiest, most corrupt towns in the area, where the police provided security for incoming drug shipments and human-trafficking operations without even bothering to change out of uniform. Chetumal was the main port of entry from northern Belize into Mexico, and it was a sure bet that a lot of those narcotics were coming across the border here.

  There were no cruise ships at the long quay, but there was a dilapidated-looking freighter streaked with rust—the Zapoteca.

  Their second mission objective was at last in sight.

  CENTRO DE CISEN

  MEXICO CITY

  1745 HOURS, LOCAL TIME

  Jacqueline Dominique smiled as Miguel de la Cruz took her hand and kissed it in courtly, old-Mexican fashion. “Mucho gusto, Señorita Dominique,” he told her. “I trust you’ve recovered from your … experience of last night?”

  “I’m just fine, Señor de la Cruz,” she told him. “Thank you.”

  “A terrible thing. My department can provide an escort for you immediately, if you wish.”

  “Not necessary, señor,” she told him.

  “It’s important that we maintain a low profile, Miguel,” Chavez added. “You know that.”

  Or at least, Dominique thought to herself, a lower profile than gun battles in the streets … or in city hotel rooms in the middle of the night.

  “I suppose,” de la Cruz replied. “But so beautiful a woman, openly assaulted by los narcotrafficantes…”

  “Let’s drop the machismo bullshit right now, Señor de la Cruz,” she said. “I can take care of myself, and you do not need to coddle me.”

  De la Cruz didn’t look convinced, but he seemed to resign himself to her attitude. He gave a small shrug. “Very well. I asked you to come here because we have some new information on one of the men in the Hotel Estrella last night.” He turned the monitor on his desk so that they could see. “We know this one.”

  Dominique leaned forward to read the display. The photograph of a bearded young man glared back at her, sullen and blunt.

  She read the name on the file. “Yussef Nadir Suwayd?”

  “His ID read Pablo Tomás Rios,” de la Cruz said, “but we’ve been watching him for a while. He’s Palestinian, almost certainly Hamas.”

  “That’s the one I shot in the stomach,” Dominique said. “He didn’t have the beard last night.”

  “No. Just so you know, we do suspect him of being al Qaeda.”

  Dominique suppressed an exclamation at this piece of misinformation. Hamas and al Qaeda hated one another and rarely could be found working together. Was de la Cruz genuinely misinformed, or was something deeper going on here?

  “He survived?” Chavez asked.

  “So far. He is in critical condition at Hospital de Jesús. Same for the other one, the man shot in the chest. We haven’t been able to question either of them as yet.”

  “You have them under guard?” Chavez asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And just why do you think he’s al Qaeda?” Dominique asked.

  “We’ve had numerous reports lately that al Qaeda is planning … something big here in Mexico. A terrorist plot. Something perhaps involving nuclear weapons.”

  “An extortion scenario,” Chavez said. “Threatening Mexico City with nuclear weapons, either for money or to make the government ease up on the drug cartels.”

  “Exacto.”

  “Which still doesn’t answer the question,” Dominique pointed out, “of why Yussef Sawayd here would be helping cartel assassins or kidnappers.”

  “Obviously, you have come under suspicion, señorita. We believe that this cabal wanted to kidnap you—and possibly Señor Callahan as well—for questioning.” He closed the computer file. “And that brings us to the second reason I wanted to talk with you. CISEN is going to insist, Miss Dominique, that you either accept a security detail, or that you leave the country. It is too dangerous here for you now.”

  “Now just a damned minute—” she began.

  “Lo siento mucho, señorita,” de la Cruz told her, “but the decision has already been made. At the highest levels.”

  “You’re throwing me out of the country?”

  “We are … urging you to leave. For your own safety. Trust me, señorita. The cartel interrogators are brutally vicious to a degree you cannot imagine, without mercy, without conscience. If you were to fall into their hands…” He shook his head. “Please do not force us to act diplomatically, Señorita Dominique.”

  “This is hardly necessary, Miguel,” Chavez said. “Your agency and ours—we have an understanding.”

  “As I say, the decision has already been made. It is out of my hands. ¿Comprende?”

  “Comprendo,” Dominique told him. “Yo com
prendo perfectamente.”

  Chapter Eleven

  CHETUMAL WATERFRONT

  YUCATÁN, MEXICO

  2134 HOURS, LOCAL TIME

  18 APRIL

  “I’m hungry,” Teller said. “Want to spell each other, get some chow?”

  “Sounds good,” Procario replied. “Nothing happening here anyway.”

  “From the sound of things,” Teller said, gesturing with his smart phone, “all the excitement is happening north of the border.” He’d been using his phone to pull down news from the United States. The riots in major cities across the Southwest sounded bad. Worse was troops firing into civilian crowds. Not good … not good at all.

  The two of them were sitting on a bench beneath a palm tree at Chetumal’s marine terminal just across the pier road from the Zapoteca. From here, they had a good view of the entire port side of the vessel, including the single gangway amidships. There was some minor activity on board—crewmen moving about inside the superstructure or on the aft deck—but for the most part the ship appeared to be empty and deserted. The line of white numerals down her rust-streaked bow at the waterline showed she was riding high in the water. They’d checked with a port authority official earlier, and for five hundred pesos under the table he’d told them that the ship’s cargo—jute from Pakistan—had been offloaded the week before. The Zapoteca had docked at Chetumal on April 10, eight days earlier. It had taken, the port authority official told them, two days to get the necessary clearances, and the cargo had been off-loaded over the next four days. Chetumal wasn’t a usual port for cargo vessels, which meant no cranes were available. The bales of plant fiber had been unloaded by hand.

  Which meant the Zapoteca had been standing empty for two days now.

  “I think if the bombs were aboard her,” Teller said, “they’d have been taken off by now. Eight days! Christ!”

  “Might not be that bad,” Procario replied. “The nukes would have been hidden, probably underneath all of that jute. They wouldn’t be able to get at them until the holds were empty.”

  “We’re talking about a couple of suitcases, Frank. Some seaman could have had them in his cabin and taken them ashore the first day they were in port.”

  “Maybe. But if they wanted to play it safe, those suitcases would have been kept someplace where a nosy customs agent wouldn’t see them. Like underneath a couple hundred tons of jute fiber.”

  “Well, Mexico City hasn’t been vaporized yet,” Teller said. “Or any city in the U.S.”

  “We’re still going to need to check that ship,” Procario said. “We can’t afford to make assumptions and miss the obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  “That the bombs might still be on board. And if they’re not, there might be traces of them, something to prove the bombs were there.”

  “Radioactivity.”

  “Which is why we brought the Geiger counters.”

  Teller frowned, knowing all the ways radiation could be shielded. You could spoof Geiger counters with kitty litter if you had enough of it.

  “We’ll need to be in close—real close—for that to work, Frank. Any idea as to how we’re going to get on board?”

  Procario looked thoughtful. “We might go back and talk to our new friend at the port authority. Maybe for a few hundred pesos more, he’ll let us pretend to be customs officials.”

  “Possibly,” Teller said, “but most of the customs people—and that includes our friend—are in the pay of one or more of the cartels. That’s the way it works in this little shithole corner of the world. I’m worried that he’s already reported us to Los Zetas, just because we were asking about the ship.”

  “Calculated risk.”

  As Jackie had found out last night, a calculated risk was a great way to get burned. Teller was about to say something to that effect when he saw movement on the ship. The sun had set some time ago, but the quay was lit by streetlamps, and there were lights on board the ship. A lone merchant seaman was coming down the gangway.

  “Well,” Teller said, “if we want to talk to someone who might have answers…”

  “I’m with you there. Not here, though.”

  “I think I’ll see where he’s going.” Teller watched the man amble past on the far side of the street. “You stay here and keep an eye on the ship.”

  “I’d feel better about it if you had backup.”

  “I’ll stay in touch. Besides, it’s easier following a guy one-on-one than with two. Less obvious.”

  When the seaman was a good hundred feet down the quay, Teller stood and started after him. He stayed far enough back to stay off the guy’s radar, remaining in the shadows where possible. At the shore end of the quay, the seaman turned right, walking along the coast highway on the northern, inshore side of the road. Teller followed.

  The streets were relatively deserted for a Friday evening, Teller thought. They’d seen a few tourists since their arrival, but between Cancún and Costa Maya, Chetumal was relatively off the beaten track for gringos.

  His target swung left suddenly and entered a bar-restaurant, El Cocodrilo. Teller waited on the street for a few moments, then followed him in.

  Inside, the place was smoke-hazed and dark. A twelve-foot crocodile, stuffed and blackened by years of cigarette and cigar smoke, hung from the ceiling above the bar. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light, Teller spotted his quarry, sitting alone at a table in a large alcove off to the right.

  Again Teller looked around for insurance in case he needed it, but no football-linebacker types presented themselves. He found a table where he could keep an unobtrusive eye on the target. When a waitress came to the table, he decided to go ahead and order paella de marisco and a beer. The place seemed clean enough, and there was no reason not to go ahead and take care of dinner as long as he had the opportunity.

  Halfway through his seafood and rice, a man in a rumpled suit walked into the restaurant carrying a briefcase. He walked up to the seaman’s table, they spoke for a moment, and then the man set his briefcase on one of the two remaining chairs and sat down in the other. Teller was interested to note that it was the weary-looking business traveler he’d seen on the flight down from Mexico City. The two talked for about ten minutes, and then the businessman abruptly stood, shook the seaman’s hand, and walked out.

  He’d left the briefcase on the chair.

  The seaman stayed there, nursing his beer, and Teller tried to decide which way to go. Clearly there’d just been a handoff, probably of money. If a covert payment was made in this part of the world, it had to do with drugs, smuggling, or bribery—and quite possibly all three. Should he follow the businessman or stay with the seaman?

  He decided to stick with the original plan, to stay with the sailor. It was dangerous changing targets midmission, and the businessman might be a mule, a courier or go-between who knew nothing. The seaman, on the other hand, if he’d just received payment, might know a very great deal indeed.

  There still didn’t seem to be an easy way to approach the man, who remained at his table, nursing a beer. If Teller confronted him, there’d be no way to force him to cooperate here in public.

  Inspiration arrived a few minutes later, however, in the form of two men, one heavyset, the other skinny and tall. Both were a bit unsteady, evidently well along into an evening of bar-crawling. The older, more portly of the two wore a white sports coat with an outrageously vibrant tie—the sort of neon-hued strip of painted silk sold in souvenir shops throughout those Mexican towns that relied on the tourist trade. The other, a kid barely into his twenties, wore a bright T-shirt advertising the Costa Maya resort.

  He thought for a moment, then nodded to himself. This could work …

  Leaving a tip at the table, Teller walked over to the tourist with the bright tie. “My God!” he said, grinning broadly. “Another couple of yankees! Damn, it’s good to see you!”

  “Well, not quite a yankee, mister,” the big man said with a soft drawl born in the
Deep South. He looked Teller over, head to foot and then back again, taking in the flower-print shirt and the expensive camera around his neck. “Name’s Sam Winters, of Peachtree, Georgia.” He indicated his friend. “This here’s my … partner.”

  “Greg Coleman,” the other said.

  “Callahan,” Teller told them. He let just a bit of Deep South into his own voice. “John Callahan. Can I buy you boys a drink?”

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t say no—”

  “Sammy, do you think that’s a good idea?” The skinny one sounded suspicious.

  “I know, I know,” Teller said, raising his hands. “Never trust a stranger! I just had a quick question for you. What’ll y’all have?”

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  “Sure. Me, too.”

  “Tabernero!” Teller called. “Tres cervazas, por favor!”

  “Hey, you speak the lingo real good.”

  “Thanks,” Teller said. He dropped his voice to a more conspiratorial level. “Listen, I know this’ll sound crazy as hell, me being a total stranger and everything … but … you see my friend at the table over there? Dungarees and a briefcase?”

  Winters squinted into the gloom. “Yeah…”

  “He was just telling me how very much he admires your tie! Where on earth did you get it?”

  “What … this?” Winters touched the neckpiece. Up close, Teller could see that it was decorated with flamingoes and palm trees—not exactly a coherent fashion statement. “Why, Cancún. Little shop on the waterfront. I forget the name.”

  “See, my friend is shy. I mean, really shy. He just couldn’t get up the nerve to come ask you himself, so I told him I’d find out for him.”

  “I wish I could help you, but there are so many little shops there.” He turned to Coleman. “Was it La Playa?”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter,” Teller said. Their beers arrived, and he picked his up, raising the glass to salute the two. “Hey, enjoy your stay, okay?”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Callahan.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Carrying his glass, Teller walked back across the restaurant, passing his own table and approaching the seaman, who was just starting to get up.