Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “And he’s at Fort Bliss? That must feel like home to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m retired army too,” Boucher said. “Still hear from old buddies from time to time. One of them mentioned the First Armored Division’s redeployment to Fort Bliss from their previous base in Wiesbaden, Germany. So this General Moore must feel like his old unit has followed him. Just like home.”

  “I suppose. I don’t know whether the ‘home’ analogy is all that fitting. It seems to suggest a degree of comfort that I don’t think is appropriate. This man has spent his life on the front line. He was in Germany staring down the Soviets. Now he’s facing the threat on the border. From the cold war to the drug war. He’s also an extremely intelligent man, a Ph.D. in international affairs from Georgetown, an alumnus of the National War College at Fort McNair, and like us, he has a passionate interest in history. Difference is, he doesn’t just study history, he makes it. He is one of the few who recognize the need for a fundamental change in America’s foreign policy. He’s a visionary. I just wanted you to know that he’s used to a bit of deference. With what he has done and is doing for this country, he deserves it.”

  “Yes, of course. Is that drink offer still open?”

  “Absolutely.” Dumont walked to a large antique world globe and flipped it open, bisecting the planet at the equator. It contained crystal decanters and matching crystal glassware. “I’ll call for some ice,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll take my first one neat.”

  “As will I,” Dumont said. “Let’s get a jump start on the boys, shall we?”

  Carl Benetton was the next to arrive. When the butler showed him into the study, Dumont ordered a serving cart to be brought in. This was not to be the cardroom, just a place for drinks and conversation. Senator Farmer followed a few minutes later, and he and the lawyer began ribbing each other.

  “Ah,” the senator said, “here’s our lawyer for the Mexican drug cartels.”

  “I was asked to represent a dual-national U.S./Mexican citizen,” Benetton said facetiously, “who is innocent of the crimes alleged against him until proven guilty. He is a confused young man who lost his way and is now suffering unspeakable indignities at the hands of his captors in Mexico City.” He punctuated his flippant remark with a quick nod.

  “Do you think you’ll get him extradited here?” the senator asked.

  “Actually, it’s a done deal. I’ll be accompanying him to the maximum-security federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, on Monday.”

  “Maximum security? Is he a threat?”

  “No. He fears for his life. He could be the most valuable informant we’ve ever had. It’s for his protection.”

  The room turned still as a tomb when the final two guests arrived. All heads turned in their direction. For all his power, Gary Quaid seemed to walk in the shadow of General Cyrus Moore, though the two men entered side by side. The latter wore a light gray linen suit, a white cotton broadcloth shirt with a button-down collar, and a solid black tie. The general stood about six feet tall, was of medium build, and could have been well described using only metal-related metaphors: ramrod-straight backbone, gunmetal-gray hair, a steely-eyed look that would freeze lesser men in their tracks. General Cyrus Moore didn’t look, didn’t stare, he glared; and as he walked into the room, his glare was directed at Jock Boucher.

  Dumont hastened to Boucher’s side. “Let me introduce you,” he said, and did.

  The general offered his hand. Boucher matched the grip. “It’s an honor to meet you, General.”

  “I’ve been informed of the judge’s recent activities,” the general said, staring into his eyes but addressing the others in the room. “Ray, I’m glad you have invited such a man to join our group.” Then to Boucher: “You are most welcome, sir, and among us here, it’s not General. It’s Cyrus. Now I seem to have interrupted your conversation.” He turned to the lawyer and the senator.

  “Cyrus, can I get you and Gary a drink first?” Dumont said. “We’ll be doing plenty of talking tonight, but we have to get the game started soon.”

  Drinks were served, and Boucher was left on his own with a moment to consider the obvious. Everyone here was deeply involved with the Mexican drug war; it was not just an interesting object of conversation among them. He looked at Dumont, the affable host to this influential group, and wondered again just how the wealthy entrepreneur fit in.

  “Gentlemen,” Dumont interrupted a few minutes later. “Everything is ready. Let’s play some poker.”

  The cardroom continued the wood-dominated decor of the study but was smaller and hexagonal in shape, its dimensions proportionately larger than the green-felt-covered card table in the center. The serving cart was wheeled in behind the men, and the door was closed, the players thus insulated. It was not unlike being inside a bank vault or a military situation room. The men topped off their drinks, then took their seats. Dumont was on the button as dealer; General Moore, to his left, had the small blind and put in his chips. Boucher, to the general’s left, had the large blind and followed suit. The game was under way.

  These men knew one another well enough to know their style of play. Boucher was new, but his own manner was pretty quickly gleaned, he was sure. He played a tight-aggressive game, folding with bad cards, pushing with good—which didn’t come his way too often. He was conservative when his hole cards were strong—hitting one monster with three kings and a pair of eights in the community flop—but believing in the maxim that the best players always know when an opponent has the better hand, he bet conservatively. He won that pot, though it was far from the biggest. But it led to his moment. Three hands later, he had nothing but king high, a pair of tens in the community. But he had instinct, and his instinct told him it was time to raise. He raised on the turn. The other players folded. Gary Quaig stayed in, holding a pair of jacks. Boucher raised again on the river. Quaig hesitated; couldn’t get a read. He caved and folded. Boucher won the pot. Quaig saw his hole cards.

  “You raised on that? Why the hell did you raise on that?”

  “You paid for a look,” Boucher said dryly. “Lessons cost extra.”

  Cyrus Moore guffawed, his loudest exclamation of the evening. “Cincinnati Kid, right? I loved that movie. Damn, this is a good game.”

  Dumont smiled. He looked at Boucher. The initiation was over, his eyes said. Boucher was in. As if to prove him right, General Moore seemed to relax and opened a familiar topic of conversation.

  “Sorry I missed the last game,” he said. “Gary told me the conversation was pretty interesting; the legal doctrine of hot pursuit as justification for a U.S. incursion into Mexico.”

  “What do you think about the idea?” Dumont asked.

  “I leave law to the lawyers,” the general said. “My justification for any military action tends toward national security first and geopolitical doctrine second, not legal precedent. I assume such educated gentlemen as you are familiar with the term ‘sphere of influence.’ ” He looked up from his cards. His question was directed to each man at the table. All eyes were on him. “You want the brief version or the unabridged?”

  Boucher spoke. “General, I am very interested in what you have to say.”

  Cyrus Moore closed his cards and set them facedown on the table. “I’ll begin by stating my case, as you lawyers say. I believe that after spending billions of dollars and far too many American lives, we have virtually no influence in the Middle East, and anyone who thinks we do is the kind of fool who believes you can pick up a piece of shit from the clean end.” There were dry chuckles. “For our first two hundred years as a nation, we rose to become a global power without involvement in that part of the world. I think it’s time to return to what has worked best for us.”

  He took a sip of his Scotch, then continued. “Our Middle East foreign policy has been confused and paradoxical for the past fifty years, and we have been at war for over two decades in a part of the world that
will never be within our sphere of influence. Constant and unrewarding military conflict is ruining our economy and weakening our status as the world’s dominant superpower. We have commitments we must honor, but we need to drastically reduce our follies there and focus our attention here—on the western hemisphere. From the Arctic Circle to Tierra del Fuego, our dominion over this part of the world should be predominant and unchallenged.

  “To protect our access to the oil of the Arabian Peninsula, we’ve fought multiple wars in Iraq and in Afghanistan. For America, Saudi oil has been the most expensive source of energy on the planet—while we have abundant, undeveloped resources right here in the U.S. And in Mexico. And in Canada. Here is where we need to devote our efforts. Not the Arabian desert.”

  “We are already investing in Canada’s oil sands,” Boucher said.

  “I’m not talking about oil from Canada. Canada has unlimited water in their glacier lakes. It is the oil of this century. Canada has twenty percent of the world’s supply of freshwater, and they can’t deny us access forever. A member of the Alberta provincial government once told me, and I’m quoting him verbatim: ‘If the U.S. and Canada ever go to war, it will be over water.’ The southwestern U.S. is drying up, as is northern Mexico. Drought gets worse every year. Nobody can tell me that the drought in Mexico does not contribute to economic problems there, which in turn contribute to the rise in crime. The water’s in Canada; Mexico has oil and gas. Tell him, Dumont.”

  “There are fields in Mexico that may exceed those of the Middle East,” Dumont said. “Some are in areas where the current criminal insurgency has made it impossible to even think about investment and development. My son, as I believe you all know, was a geologist and consultant. He was retained to study an area just south of the border and found what he believed to be one of the largest oil and gas fields in the western hemisphere. He was killed shortly after his discovery. Decapitated. His body heinously abused.”

  There was a hush that hung so heavy over their heads that it almost seemed to filter the light cast by the chandelier.

  Boucher turned to Cyrus Moore. “General, Canada has made the bulk export of water illegal, and Mexico has excluded foreign investment—specifically, product-sharing agreements—from its energy sector since the industry was nationalized in the thirties. Are you suggesting armed intervention with our neighbors to the north and south?”

  Moore didn’t bat an eye. He glanced from Dumont to Boucher. He cracked a thin-lipped smile, then said softly with full dramatic flair, “I’m suggesting we make them an offer they can’t refuse. If Canada wants to sell us oil from their tar sands, we tell them we’ll buy it only in proportion to the amount of water they sell us. We build two pipelines instead of one. In Mexico, much of the northern tier of the country has been lost to criminal elements. It is a conservative estimate that more than sixty thousand people have been killed over the past six years from cartel violence in Mexico. If that number of civilians were killed in a natural disaster, like a flood or an earthquake, this country would be considered inhuman if we did not try to help. That’s what I’m suggesting: help. We cannot sit by and do nothing.”

  “The Mexicans have a saying,” Boucher said: “ ‘Poor Mexico; so far from God, so close to the United States.’ I think they have a far greater fear of the U.S. doing something than they do of the U.S. doing nothing. Recalling what Mr. Benetton shared with us at our last game, it would seem to me that our first priority should be to address the problems on our side of the border, not theirs.”

  “Oh?” The general’s eyebrows arched as he fixed his gaze on the lawyer. “And what did you have to share, Mr. Benetton?”

  “I believe I used the term no-man’s-land,” Benetton said. “American ranchers and farmers claim that there’s a ten-mile strip along our side of the border, often crossing their land, where there is no protection, no security. Some say the Border Patrol ignores any call for help within this no-man’s-land. The ranchers have pictures of trespassers carrying automatic rifles. They stumble across drug deliveries on their own ranchland. They claim cartels have set up lookout posts in the mountains on U.S. territory. And they say the U.S. government is failing them.”

  “And I agree with them,” General Moore said. Suspended breathing resumed around the table.

  “The U.S. Border Patrol as our first line of defense against territorial incursion? Who came up with that idea? Gentlemen, I grew up in El Paso. I grew up with farmers telling neighbors and friends when they were bringing in truckloads of illegal farm laborers from Mexico like they were talking about a trip to the grocery store. There is a long-standing tradition among those guarding our border of looking the other way when it serves local interests. No, we need men and women with the best training, the best equipment, experienced working in difficult terrain.”

  “It sounds like you have something in mind, General,” Benetton said.

  “I do. I’m thinking of our forces returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. What better mission could there be for these highly skilled veterans?”

  “Posse Comitatus Act?” Benetton asked. All at the table were familiar with the federal law prohibiting use of U.S. troops on state land.

  “National Guard is exempt,” Moore said, as if that were answer enough.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Senator Farmer said, “the only way you can keep me from winning my fair share this evening is to talk the night away. May I suggest that we get back to poker? Or you could just hand over your money to me now and continue this discussion into the morning hours. Whichever you prefer.”

  “Let’s play poker,” General Moore said. “I’ve said my piece.”

  The game continued with intense focus and little conversation. More than enough had been said. It was past ten when they took their first break.

  “We’ve got snacks and a bar set up in the observatory,” Dumont said, and led his guests to the glass-enclosed pavilion. He pulled Boucher aside. “Let me show you those paintings you were looking at earlier.”

  They walked to the front entry and climbed the circular stairway. “I keep my impressionists up here,” Dumont said. “Other areas of the home are dedicated to different periods.”

  “Is that a Cassatt?” Boucher was drawn to a large canvas.

  “Ray, can we talk?” Benetton stood at the foot of the stairs.

  “Of course, Carl. Come on up. Excuse me for a second, Judge.”

  Dumont met Benetton at the top of the stairs, and they walked to the other side of the gallery, perhaps thirty feet away and separated by the hanging chandelier. Boucher studied the masterpiece. He was suddenly aware of another phenomenon. Though Dumont and the lawyer stood whispering in low tones on the far side of the open entry, he could hear them as if they were next to him. He looked up. The domed cupola acted like a parabola. Their voices were bouncing off the marble floor, then up to the dome, and were directed to where he stood. He remembered a schoolboy tour of the U.S. Capitol. The room off the rotunda, which had been the early chamber of the House of Representatives, had the same effect: a whisper on one side of the great hall could be heard on the other side—which the opposing political party had employed to their benefit at the time and which contemporary guides used to entertain their groups of tourists.

  Boucher listened carefully. It was as if they were whispering in his ear.

  “I don’t like discussing our business in front of a federal judge,” Benetton said.

  “What business? Last week you lectured us on border history. This week the general touched on the Monroe Doctrine and his version of Teddy Roosevelt’s Big Stick, if you didn’t recognize them.”

  “It’s too risky. I’ve received word. They want their next shipment of weapons. When can you get your vessel under way?”

  “I can load tomorrow night. She’ll sail at high tide. And don’t worry about Judge Boucher. To repeat the general, I’m making him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  Benetton nodded. “Hey, Jock,” he yelled, though Bou
cher had heard every whispered word, “let’s play some poker.”

  When the game resumed, Boucher sensed that Benetton had conveyed his concerns about him to the other players. In the forced silence, Boucher studied his hole cards. A pair of queens. Another pair of queens in the community. He took a deep breath, closed his cards, and laid them carefully on the table, then spoke.

  “The president’s director of intelligence has publicly stated that he does not feel Mexico presents a national security concern to the United States; that the drug lords have no political agenda and are interested only in shipping and selling the drugs, which, to our national shame, we buy and consume in large quantities.” He paused. There were frowns around the table. Only Dumont kept his poker face. “I do not agree with the director’s assessment. As Mr. Benetton previously pointed out, their own government has acknowledged that they have lost control of a large area of their own country; territory contiguous to our border. Mexican civilians have been shot, many by random gunfire; hospitals and drug rehabilitation centers have been raided and patients murdered. Raging gun battles have taken place outside of public schools. Law enforcement officers and elected local leaders have been assassinated, some forced to seek asylum and anonymity in the U.S. If they have lost control of their country to apolitical criminals motivated by greed, it offers fertile ground for terrorist elements intent on harming our country and its citizens. I think the situation on both sides of our southern frontier presents a clear and present danger to the security of the United States. I salute you gentlemen for giving this matter your consideration. I am in total agreement with you. My bet is two hundred dollars.”

  He won the hand and hoped that, with his declaration, he’d put to rest any doubts they had over him. That’s what bluffing was all about.

  CHAPTER 22

  “YOU PLAY CHESS?”

  Fitch recognized the voice on the phone he had grabbed without opening his eyes, but the question didn’t compute at this hour. Sunday mornings were for sleeping, not for competitive intellectual challenge. The sliver of sunlight slicing through the closed drapes made his digital alarm clock hard to read. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and frowned. “No,” he said. “Or should I say hell no.”