Chasing the Ghost

by Bob Mayer

"Would you have loved her Chase? Knowing what she did? Besides, he was porking Lisa at the office. It was all a big pile of shit with everyone only giving a damn about what they wanted and themselves." Chase had rarely seen Porter so worked up. "She wanted more; he wanted more. Everyone wants more. Fuck 'em all," he slurred.

  "I don't think I want more," Chase said, unsure of why that thought occurred to him.

  Porter calmed down a bit. "Hell, Chase, then why couldn't you be happy with anything you had? What about Sylvie? Wasn't she good enough for you to work a bit on keeping her? Most guys would be more than happy to have Sylvie in their life." He held up a hand. "And I'm not talking about sex, either there bud."

  Chase had done a lot of thinking the past couple of days about what had happened between him and Sylvie. "Sure I made mistakes, but she should have stuck with me. She had her share of mistakes in the relationship too. She should have opened up to me more. I wanted to hang in there."

  “Did you open up to her?”

  “What?”

  “Chase, you haven’t even really talked to me about what happened in Wyoming—you told me sort of what happened, but not how you felt about what happened-- and I’m your partner and that was work and you haven’t said word one about how you felt about it. Did you tell Sylvie what happened in Wyoming?”

  “I was ordered to--”

  “Which was more important? Your job or her? You got pissed because she didn’t tell you she was married, but you didn’t tell her about Wyoming. What’s the status of your divorce, by the way? You didn’t tell her about what happened in the Barnes’ house, did you? I know for damn sure there’s shit you aren’t telling me. I see you making those phone calls and locking those files in your desk. Who the fuck just called you now on the fucking high-speed phone of yours? I’m sitting right fucking here and you don’t say anything.” When Porter was on a roll, he couldn’t be stopped.

  “What the fuck happened in Afghanistan? What’s going on with your mother? That fucking letter you keep reading all the time? The one you keep in your breast pocket? You’re dying on the inside, Chase, because you’ve got all this black crud stuffed in there and you can’t handle it yourself. It’s fucking poison.”

  That was the longest speech Chase had ever heard Porter make. It was doubly remarkable considering their current state of inebriation.

  Porter leaned his head close and Chase felt his beer-drenched breath wash over him. "You need to get your act together, Chase. You're losing it. You're boozing it up too much. You're all alone." He slid a thick arm over Chase’s shoulders. "Get it together partner."

  Chase realized that when someone he was drinking with was telling him that he was drinking too much and that he needed to get my act together, then he was bellying out on the bottom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Once more Chase had beaten the alarm, even though little gremlins were running around his skull drilling for intelligent life. He cracked an eye and tried to focus on the ceiling. The cracks were familiar so he knew he was in his basement hovel but he could barely remember getting here. He tried to recall his last conscious thought of the previous evening. It was something vaguely to do with challenging Porter to either a game of pool or a fight.

  Chase sat up slowly, holding onto the mattress while his head did loops. Finally, he managed to gain his feet. Chase peered at his watch, trying to make sense of the numbers. Damn. He had to meet the DEA agent and he only had an hour to get his act together and make it to the airport. He skipped the workout routine and went straight for the shower, popping a couple of Advil on the way.

  Louise was outside with a puppy scampering about her feet. "Hi, Horace!"

  Chase paused in his rush. The puppy ran over and rubbed its nose on his pants leg. “Who is this?” It was a German Shepherd-mixed-with-something-else-big puppy with short hair, big eyes and a broad chest.

  “That’s Star,” Louise said. She came up; her wrinkled face just inches away. "Horace."

  He paused, fumbling for his Jeep keys. "Yes?"

  "You're in a bad place again," she said. "You're closed off. I've checked your stars. You have to be open."

  "Open," Chase repeated. "Right." He climbed in.

  Louise smiled at him as he backed out. "Open, Horace!"

  “Open. Got it.”

  The smile disappeared and he stopped the Jeep, surprised at the seriousness of the look on her face. She leaned down, close to the window. Chase felt a pang, remembering his own mother doing that, a long time ago, when he was driving away from her trailer after graduating West Point, heading for the Infantry Officers Basic Course at Fort Benning. It was the last time he ever saw her. Eighteen years ago. She’d been beautiful, but worn down from life.

  “Be careful, Horace Chase.”

  Chase’s reply to her was just as serious, all bantering gone. “I will, Louise. I promise.”

  She suddenly smiled. “Star’s got brothers and sisters. Their mother is still in the pound. She’s German Shepherd and Chow mix and we’re not sure about the father but very good breeding. Very calm. You need calm. I have a friend who works there. You can get one of the puppies. I asked her to keep one hidden for you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think too long. She won’t be able to hide the puppy forever.”

  Chase headed for the airport. They called it Denver International, but it was about twenty miles northeast of the city itself, in the middle of the Plains. As he drove along the perfectly straight road that was 104th Street, he could see the tower twenty miles away on the horizon. As he got closer, the white peaked ceiling of the terminal began to appear. The roofs were supposed to represent the white-capped Rockies, but to Chase they always looked more like big circus tents.

  Chase parked and made his way into the terminal. The agent had a layover between flights. He had arranged to meet Chase at the sports bar in Concourse B. Chase flashed his badge and cut through security. He was a little early when he slid into a booth with a good view of the entrance.

  The DEA guy showed up exactly on time. He walked like a man who had a lot of enemies, his eyes shifting constantly. Chase stood as the agent entered the bar and he looked Chase over for a few seconds before coming to the booth.

  “Horace Chase.” He held out his hand.

  “Let me see you badge,” the agent demanded, instead of offering his own hand.

  Chase flipped his wallet open for him. He checked the badge number, then Chase’s Federal ID card. Chase knew he must have run the number and then he finally seemed satisfied. He nodded. “Rico Cardena,” he introduced himself.

  He was dark-skinned, short and wiry. His hair was prematurely gray and his eyes had that tired, haunted look Chase had seen in covert operators who’d stayed on when they should have retired five years ago. A nerve on the left side of his face twitched as he ordered a cup of coffee from the waitress.

  “I’ve got to catch a flight in eighty-four minutes,” he said.

  “I know.” That was some pretty exact timing. Reminded Chase of Fortin.

  “What do you want? Your friend wasn’t very specific on the phone.”

  “Do you know Agent Fortin in the F.L.I. program here?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know Colonel Arty Rivers in Afghanistan?”

  Cardena’s eyelids drooped down, giving his face a hooded look. “Colonel Rivers was the coordinator for Central Command for military forces operating along the Northern Border from May 2003 through June 2005.”

  “On counter-drug operations,” Chase amplified.

  “On all military operations,” Cardena said. “But the majority of what they did was counter-drug stuff. Mostly training local forces to fight the drug war.”

  “Rivers was relieved of command,” Chase noted.

  Cardena nodded. “Yeah, he was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he tried doing his job.”

  Chase waited out Cardena, wanting more. Chase stirred some sugar
into his coffee.

  The DEA man sighed. “Why do you want to know about Rivers?”

  “Because I think he’s hooked up with the Patriots now.”

  “They’re in Wyoming,” Cardena noted.

  “They killed a cop here in Colorado. I think they might have also killed a family in Boulder. Husband, wife and six-month-old baby. The husband and wife were dealers.”

  “Killing babies.” Cardena looked past Chase. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Chase who was surprised, knowing the entire airport was non-smoking. Chase shook his head. Cardena shrugged and fired one up. “Drugs are dirty. And anyone who operates around them ends up getting dirty eventually. It can go either way. You can get dirty trying to do the right thing or trying to do the wrong thing.”

  His eyes came back to Chase, still half-lidded as he smoked. “The money that’s involved is out of the realm of reality for most people. I’ve seen rooms full of money. A new wrinkle is to buy a top of the line plane, maybe a Lear or a Gulfstream, costing millions, and fly it in to the States, the pilot parachutes out with the drugs in bundles and lets the plane crash-- that’s how much money is involved. There are customs guys I’ve arrested who’ve been bribed with a million dollars cash to look the other way to let one shipment through.”

  “Rivers was dirty?” Chase was confused. Cardena had said Rivers had been relieved for trying to do his job.

  “It’s complicated,” Cardena said. “Let me tell you what happened. As part of the training, Rivers would send nationals to the School of the Americas. Some were people his office recommended who should go, but a lot were pushed down the military’s throat by the country team. You were in Special Forces. You know what that means.”

  The country team was the state department, the CIA, the NSA, a whole bunch of spooky people hanging around the Embassy. Chase also knew about the School of the Americas. It was a hot topic with peace activists. Located on Fort Benning it trained foreign nationals in military and police techniques and some said torture and illegal interrogation. The American way of spreading democracy.

  A waitress came over. “Sir, you can’t smoke here.”

  Cardena slapped his badge down on the table. “Call a cop.”

  The waitress looked at the badge, confused. She opened her mouth to say something, but then didn’t as she met Cardena’s eyes. She went away, over to the manager, they whispered, and Chase knew nothing would happen. It wasn’t the badge. It was the look in Cardena’s eyes. They would wait it out until he left; and hope he’d never came back.

  “It’s a question of objectives,” Cardena said. “Rivers saw his orders in black and white.” He shook his head, flicking ash on the floor. “Things aren’t black and white, especially not when drugs are involved. The CIA had different goals. The war on terrorism. It’s more about leverage, politics, economics. And politics in Afghanistan-- like everywhere else-- means power and money. And power and money in that part of the world equals drugs. It’s the number one cash crop. Opium. It’s like oil is to the Arabs. Eighty percent of the world’s opium supply comes from Afghanistan. And production has been rising steadily since we went in there. One thing the Taliban did do was crush the opium warlords in the name of Islam. Now that we’re in charge, in the name of democracy, they’re flourishing again.”

  “Is that by chance or plan?” Chase asked.

  “Good question. We estimate the street value of the last harvest was 176 billion dollars, US. When you consider that Ford, GM and Chrysler combine for 75 billion, you get an idea of what’s involved.”

  Cardena’s voice was low and steady. Like he was on the stand testifying about a case that he’d investigated long ago and no longer had any feelings about. Chase really felt like asking him for a smoke. More, he wanted to order a beer. And he noticed that Cardena has sidestepped his question.

  “I worked with Rivers for a while in the ‘Stan. There was a man named Vladislav. From Russia. I don’t know if that’s his first name or last name. It’s the only name he goes by. Former Soviet Spetsnatz.”

  Chase knew that was the Soviet form of Special Forces, but he was confused about the abrupt switch in topics.

  Cardena continued. “Vladislav decided he’d rather be rich than in a military that was deteriorating. Went into the Russian mafia as an enforcer. Worked his way up. He became notorious for his torture techniques.” Cardena gave a wan smile. “Vladislav liked violent movies. Especially American movies, because we make the best. Scarface was one of his favorites. He always carried an M-203, just like Pacino at the end. But his all time favorite was Marathon Man. Watched it over and over. Thought the dental drill scene was the greatest thing he ever saw. Bought his own hand drills and other dental gear and brought it with him to Afghanistan. Carried it around in a little black bag, just like a doctor.”

  Chase felt his skin go cold. He remembered Hanson’s words about the Barnes’ baby.

  Cardena continued. “I saw him work with the drill a couple of years ago. I don’t think he cared about the information he extracted--” Cardena grimaced at his poor choice of words.

  Chase blinked. “You saw? But—“

  “Oh, Vladislav was an opportunist. When we invaded Afghanistan, he saw an excellent opportunity. The Taliban were a pain in the ass as far as the opium market. Islamic law and all that. So Vladislav worked it perfectly. He offered his services to the Agency, the CIA,” he clarified, “which of course, had nothing in place in the ‘Stan, right after nine-eleven. They paid him, and paid him well. Even sent him to the School of the Americas for a little special training. More importantly to Vladislav, they promised to turn a blind eye to his drug operations. A pact with the devil.”

  Cardena put out the cigarette and took another sip of coffee, before continuing. “He was doing the job I saw under contract to the CIA. He liked doing it. The CIA rep took me with him when he got the information he wanted. Left the suspect with Vladislav. Guess he tortured him to death after we left.”

  Cardena beckoned at the waitress for a refill. She immediately came over and did it silently, then quickly retreated. Cardena looked tired, but Chase had the feeling he always looked that way. Chase needed more. He needed to know how Vladislav ended up in Boulder. He needed to pull all this together-- the Barnes, the CIA, the Patriots, Colonel Rivers. “How was Vladislav connected to Rivers?”

  Cardena lit another cigarette. “There was an aid program designed to help farmers switch from drug crops to other cash crops. Kind of like asking the Arabs to invest in solar power. But Rivers saluted and did as ordered in support of that program. He sent his Special Forces MEDCAP teams to help the villagers out.”

  Chase forgot about his coffee as the second chill of the morning passed over him.

  “Just so happened one of the SF medical teams stumbled across a big opium shipment in transit in a village from Afghanistan to Kazakhstan, where it would get cross-loaded onto a plane and end up, of course, in various forms, in the States. The mules the opium was loaded on were in the village, the guards taking a break.

  “They began shooting as soon as the Americans walked in-- hard to say which side was more surprised, but there was no doubt who was better trained. The Special Forces team wiped out the guards. After opening packages, they called us-- the DEA-- in. We found four thousand kilos of opium there. Depending on market value you’re talking somewhere around forty-five million dollars street value worth.”

  Chase shook his head. That much, loaded on donkey’s backs. He’d seen a lot of weird shit in the ‘Stan.

  Cardena drained his coffee and checked his watch. “The results? Rivers got relieved and all MEDCAP missions canceled. The opium was appropriated by the Afghanistan military under orders of the CIA rep. Most of it was returned to Vladislav, some of it siphoned off by the hands that touched it between. A lot of people got very rich and most of the opium ended up here in the States anyway.

  “And the village where the opium was seized…” C
ardena paused. “Vladislav led a group of his mercenaries there. They killed every man, woman, child. Over two hundred people. They didn’t just kill them. They raped every woman, every girl. They buried some people alive. They hacked many to death. Burned some alive.

  “Rivers and I flew in to the village the next morning, just before he was sent out of country. We saw the results. And no one gave a shit. No one reported it. The CIA put a lock-down on everything to do with it.” Cardena stood. “That is all I can tell you of Colonel Rivers. I have a plane to catch.”

  Chase stood. “What happened to Vladislav?”

  The nerve on the side of Cardena’s face jumped once more. His eyes were moving again, scanning the crowd. “He disappeared from Afghanistan. Rivers made a big stink and even the CIA felt it was best to do a little damage control. Some reporters were sniffing around.”

  Cardena flicked his cigarette into the coffee and headed out of the lounge. Chase was beside him. “Where is he now?”

  Cardena didn’t break stride. “Here.”

  No shit, Chase thought. “Dealing?”

  “It’s all he knows.”

  “How did he get here?”

  Cardena snorted. “How do you think? The CIA got him out and relocated him. He did a lot of nasty work for them and they rewarded him. Plus, they still use him when they need a dirty job done.”

  “Is Fortin CIA?”

  “Told you I don’t know the man, but if he’s stopping you from going after Rivers or Vladislav, then, yeah, he’d have to be.”

  That explained Fortin.

  “Does Colonel Rivers know that?”

  Cardena smiled for real for the first time. “Yes. I told him three months ago.”

  That explained Rivers.

  Cardena pulled a ticket out of his pocket, walked to an entryway and disappeared.

  * * * * *

  By the time Chase got to municipal court, he was almost ready for some food. So naturally, for the first time, things were on schedule. Chase was the leadoff witness for the prosecution this morning, so he went on the stand and did his act for an hour while his stomach growled and his head pounded.