by M C Rowley
“We’ll have something back from Langley in the next few minutes,” Rose said, pulling out his phone and swiping. “Scrap that. It’s here.”
They went to Rose’s laptop and watched it boot up. Rose opened the mail app, and clicked the first message and then the attachment. The Panama Papers exposé.
“I’ll run a search. If Reynolds is in here, we’ll find him in seconds.”
Rose held “Control” and “F” and typed “R-E-Y-N-O-L-D-S.”
Three seconds passed and the document shifted, jumped, and reloaded to show a list. Right there, in between Rey Compras and Reyna Holdings, were three words: Reynolds Shipping Co.
“He did want us to find it,” said Jean.
“Click it.”
Jean did, and a small report opened. A few details of an account held in Panama, opened in the name of Reynolds Shipping Co. They scanned the first part and found nothing. Then they scrolled down and kept reading.
“It can’t be,” said Rose.
Jean looked closer. Under the subtitle “Legal Representative” was a name.
Robert Andino, General Accountant.
“Holy shit,” said Rose. “That’s him.”
“I’m on it,” said Jean, and she pulled out her phone.
A tired-sounding operator answered, “Records?”
“This is Agent Jean Santos.”
A delay. Security checks. Then the operator said, “What can I do for you, Agent Santos?”
“We need to run a name through every database you can get your hands on.”
The operator said, “Every one?”
“Yes.”
“I take it you have authorization.”
“Do it.”
“Agent Santos, I can access the police database, the FBI, DEA, the lot. Are you sure you want to proceed?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, what’s the name?”
“Robert Andino,” said Jean. “Call me if you get a hit.”
And she hung up.
Rose nodded. A smile crept across his face. “We’re nearly there,” he said. “How’s Mrs. Dyce doing?”
Jean didn’t lie to Rose. She omitted the fact that she’d passed info to the DEA, but she told Rose about Eleanor. He went from berserk to shouty to seething, and then got a whole lot calmer when Jean told him about the Nokia phone she had passed to Eleanor.
“We can track their progress. Just in case this comes to nothing.”
In the end, Rose nodded. He could smell the real prize, after all. Reynolds. Or Robert Andino. Whoever that was.
When Jean’s cell started purring and vibrating on the desk, she picked it up. It was Langley.
“We ran the search,” the same operator said.
“And?”
Rose was staring at her.
“You guys had better come in to see this.”
She hung up.
“We’d better go,” she said, and they packed up their things, went down to the street, and hailed a taxi.
After an hour in the DC morning rush hour, they checked in, passed security, and went to the second floor. Awaiting them was Rose’s direct boss, Finchley, a man in his fifties with excellent skin and a handsome jawline.
“Come in,” he said as a greeting, and Jean and Rose shook Finchley’s hand and passed into a neat, modern conference room. At the end was a projected image of a black man with one arm wearing a suit.
“Sit down,” said Finchley. “We’ve a lot to go through.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
In the end, we found five churches that could have passed as the one in the photo of Jairo and Luciana. All had the same green dome, the same gold trim, and the same rusty-red-colored walls.
Eleanor clicked the first image, and a website dedicated to pilgrimages opened up. The church in that picture was on the hit list of religious fanatics the Catholic world over. It was also in the Bajío region of Mexico. Way too far north.
We clicked the second image. Same result. Different location.
The next, same thing.
Then the fourth. Nothing.
We came to the fifth and last one. It was an identikit copy of the church in the photo. We clicked it. The website that opened was for fresh honey products being sold out of a town called El Pacayal in Chiapas, Mexico. Twenty kilometers from the Guatemalan border.
“Wait,” I said, pulling the note Jairo had left me from my pocket. “Yes, this is it. Or El Pac. Pac was supposed to say Pacayal.”
We clicked on Google Maps and requested driving directions. It came back with 46 hours if you drove straight. 4,335 kilometers in total.
Far, far away.
Eleanor rose and hugged me. “All those years. He was there.”
I nodded and held her tight. I was thinking about Estrella. Still young enough to save.
“Let’s figure out how we get there,” I said.
Jean and Rose recognized the man in the photo instantly. It was the same man who had been photographed at the graveyard after Jairo’s girlfriend was buried alive. And the same man Dyce had described as “Pastor Robert” down in Texas.
“This,” said Finchley, “is Robert Andino. Or as he likes to be called these days, Mr. Reynolds.”
“We got him,” said Rose, smiling.
“Not yet,” said Finchley. “When you gave us the name, we found his file in the DEA database.”
“DEA?”
“Yes, amongst other places.”
Rose shot Jean a look.
“First off,” Finchley said, “you should’ve gone through us before you passed the info to them.”
Rose stared at Jean, something close to hatred in his eyes.
“It was me, sir,” she said. “Agent Rose didn’t know anything.”
Finchley almost smiled. “Well, Agent Santos, there will be implications. Agent Rose was right to hold that information back until we could ascertain our position on this.”
Jean nodded.
“But we’re happy. Starting this morning, the DEA will make nearly a thousand busts. The entire drug distribution network will go into a Great Depression as of tomorrow. This is a big score for them.”
Rose nodded, looking away from Jean now.
Finchley went on, pointing at the photo of Robert Andino, “The real question is, why the hell would this man help set up a new cartel, fund them to death, and then throw them under a bus?”
Rose and Jean shook their heads. God only knew.
“So,” said Finchley. “Andino. He started out as an accountant in a firm in New York State, working for some medium-size enterprises for a few years. Then he found out that one of them was owned by the drug cartel the Sons of No One. Shortly afterward, we understand, he began doing private work on the side for the Sons. Before long, he’d moved the family to Mexico, and the DEA think he laundered up to fifty billion dollars over a ten-year period.”
“So this is about money, or revenge,” said Rose.
Finchley ignored the comment from his subordinate and continued: “Thing is, the DEA got on to him, during a trip back stateside in 2007. They told him he was already a rat because they knew about him. Gave him a choice: tell the cartel he was working as an informant and end up chemical soup, or keep quiet and pray for witness protection. No choice really. He chose the latter.”
Rose shot a look with raised eyebrows at Jean.
“Over the next year or so, he dropped details of the Sons’ operation and the DEA built a case. They busted Miguel Angel Duran and Rafa Casas, and the cartel fell apart.”
“Okay,” said Rose. “So how the hell did Reynolds, or Andino, or whatever, set up a fund for Código X?”
“I’m getting there,” said Finchley. “Thing is, the Sons found out. They captured Andino and…well.” He gestured to the photo on the projector of Andino without even looking at it. The amputated arm. “They did what cartels do to rats.”
“Cut his arm off? Seems light.”
“No,” said Finchley. “They cut his arm off aft
er having raped and murdered his two daughters and his wife in front of him.”
“Why not him?”
“That’s where the story ends for us. He escaped, obviously. But the guy is officially dead. We don’t know how he escaped or how he managed to get back into the States and start his operation as Mr. Reynolds. The US government presumed him dead and forgot about him. The Sons fell apart, and all concerned considered it a job well done. Mission successful.”
“Until Código X rose up.”
“Exactly.”
The room went quiet. Outside, the trees moved around in the midday breeze.
Rose said, “And now he throws the cartel he helped to set up into disarray.”
Jean spoke. “There’s something else.”
Finchley looked at her like she’d suggested they go on vacation together. Rose looked at her like an older brother trying to control a snitching sister with his eyes.
“The Founders. The group Reynolds set up to fund Código X.”
Rose knew his glory had faded away. “We have some of them, sir. We can get the rest.”
Finchley nodded. Nothing more. His experience meant he had seen it and heard it all before.
“Send that to the FBI by this afternoon, Agent Rose.”
“Yes, sir.”
Finchley stood. “I have another meeting. I take it this has helped you well enough?”
Rose and Jean stood. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Now just bring this son of a bitch in. Or make him disappear. Whatever works.”
“Yes, sir.”
And he left.
Rose turned to Jean. “Dammit, Santos, don’t let that old dinosaur intimidate you.”
Jean nodded, holding back the words spinning around in her mind.
They sat back down at the table and looked at the image still projected on the white screen.
Reynolds. Robert Andino. All this time.
Jean said, “So it’s revenge after all.”
“Not necessarily,” said Rose. “He still has control of nearly ten billion dollars.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I had forgotten that Eleanor had the debit card from before.
We had logged on to Expedia.com. The flights cost $777 each. One way. We’d fly from Dulles to Detroit, then to Mexico City, and finally to Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The trip would take twelve hours.
But we had decided to buy the tickets at the airport in cash. So we left the motel, took the old truck, and headed for the airport. There, we abandoned Casas’s automobile in the long-stay car park, drew out three thousand dollars inside the terminal, and bought tickets for the early afternoon. We checked in, waited for a few hours, and now were in the air. It was 2 p.m.
On the penultimate leg of the journey, on our way to Mexico City, we noticed how dead the plane was. Less than half capacity, which was strange. Then a number of security announcements came over the tannoy imploring passengers to take precautions while in Mexico. Mexico was now on the recommended no-fly list of the United States government due to a social uprising—“fly at your own risk” was the message.
Little did they know that my son and his story had played a huge part in the current turmoil washing over the country.
We landed in CDMX and transferred to the last plane, which was quieter still. I counted fifteen people on the 737, making it feel more like a private charter than an airline.
After three hours, our feet were on the ground and we were renting a car, in cash again. Eleanor got us a Jeep Cherokee with GPS. Once in the lot, we got inside, typed “EL PACAYAL” into the display, and set off.
It was 2 a.m.
Two states to the west, Reynolds was sitting in the back of a Suburban next to X04. He was resisting the urge to smile to himself. He had known that this last part would be the trickiest of all. The most precarious. And he’d managed to find a way to travel through Mexico with the new boss. Almost untouchable. Although that would soon change. He stroked the door handle.
Código X’s leader had been on the phone for almost the entire trip, barking orders and becoming more and more panicked. Reynolds had warned him it would be wise to bring as many men as possible to the docks. That Jairo had organized quite the band to meet them. To expect a gunfight at the very least.
And X04 had taken the bait.
From what Reynolds could gather, X04 had called all of his lieutenants, plus a hundred municipal and state cops.
Outside, Reynolds saw streets covered in more graffiti than ever, all running a similar thread. Calls to end the chaos and corruption. To end the cartel’s power over the country. A true uprising. The most common message was, “¡BASTA!” Enough!
This was the true reason for X04’s agitation. The cartel was losing its grip on Mexico. Reynolds had read about the new president elect, a young, vibrant, and independent candidate. The people were forming an alliance.
Everything Reynolds had planned was working. He looked out the window at a ninety-degree angle and smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
“¿Cuanto más, cabrón?”
How much longer?
The driver told X04 it would be one hour. And as if on cue, they hit traffic. Which was strange. They were on the coastal highway that ran to Veracruz and Mexico’s eastern port. It was a toll road and usually pretty deserted. But they’d hit a wall of cars. Three lanes wide, and unmoving.
“¡Chingada madre!”
They came to a stop.
This was not part of Reynolds’ plan. Not at all.
This was not Jairo’s first roadblock. He’d stopped traffic before, maybe on five separate occasions. And Luciana could handle herself just fine. They had stolen a double trailer truck from the port, driven an hour out of town along the toll road, and parked at the side. When a decent-sized gap in the traffic revealed itself, they had done half a U-turn and parked across all three lanes and the emergency shoulder to boot. And waited.
The first cars stopped and people came out to shout and ask what the hell was going on. Jairo and Luciana ignored them. After five minutes, the traffic was ten cars deep.
Together, they walked to the side of the road, and Luciana passed Jairo an AR-15, part of Reynolds’ inventory in Veracruz.
They walked past the cars and saw terrified faces staring back at them. They kept the guns up, at chest level, so everyone could see.
Chapter Forty
We arrived at the outskirts of the town at 4 a.m.
The road was crude concrete with ridges and the Jeep bounced along with small vibrations. At each side of the road was thick jungle. We could make out small structures nestled in what would be green in the daytime but was now light gray in the moonlight.
I killed the lights and we went on.
The street got a little wider, and soon bigger structures came into view and turned gradually into a town. There wasn’t a soul on the streets, but every wall was covered in graffiti: “¡BASTA!” It was everywhere, like a disease had infected a place. The uprising was in full flow. On one wall I read, “BASTA CON EL GOBIERNO. BASTA CON LOS NARCOS.” Then I saw “X”s with red lines painted over them.
Código X had lost control.
We rolled on. And we saw the church.
“There,” said Eleanor.
I stopped.
There was no doubt about it now. It was the church from the photo. This was where our son had grown up and become a cartel member.
We stared at the structure, trying to work out from which angle the photo had been taken. We didn’t notice the five figures appear from the plaza and walk toward us until it was too late.
Eleanor let out a little scream, muffled and instinctive.
“Stay still,” I said. “Put your hands on the dash.”
The five figures were armed. With rifles. They walked to the car and one of them tapped the driver’s window hard with the butt of his weapon.
I nodded and wound the window down.
I could just make out his features in the gloom of the shadows
, a weathered and thin face. He said in southern, rural Spanish, “What are you doing here?”
The others behind him were anxiously moving about.
I said, “Jairo Morales. We are looking for Jairo Morales.”
I could feel Eleanor’s breath next to me. Short, sharp intakes.
The man stayed still and then called back to the other men. I didn’t catch what he said.
“Morales?”
I nodded.
“Get out of the car,” he said.
One minute later, Eleanor and I were kneeling on the concrete road beside the Jeep. One of the men got in the car and drove it away.
“Please,” I said. “We’re not the enemy.”
Then the man put a hood over my head. I felt my hands being tied behind my back. We were hustled to our feet. I could hear Eleanor breathing next to me as we walked. I concentrated on controlling my own.
We marched for five minutes, but it felt like thirty. I stumbled as we moved along, until I had my head pushed downwards and my ass hit the seat of a car. I heard Eleanor being put in the other side. Then the engine started and we rode along.
After ten more minutes, the maneuver was reversed and we were extracted from the car. We were led down some steps and through a door, and sat down on what felt like plastic chairs.
Then the hoods came off.
We were in a small room, with nothing in it but a plastic Coca Cola table and the two accompanying chairs we were sitting on. A single bulb lit the space.
I looked at Eleanor. Her face was a picture of fear, and I nodded at her.
We knew what this could be, I tried to say with my eyes. Keep calm.
Then the men left.
“Don’t talk too much,” I said. “You okay?”
Eleanor nodded, tears coming down her cheeks.
“We wait,” I said.
It took hours but finally the door opened and a señora of about sixty years came in. She was dressed in a battered indigenous dress that had seen a lot of use. On her feet were well-built and equally well-used sandals. Her hair was thick and brown with lines of gray running through it and tied back in a long ponytail. Her eyes were small and her face covered in lines.
