by Howard Upton
“How you doing today, Young Buck? You don’t look so good.”
“Never better, Buddy. Just happy to be above ground one more day, you know? How about you? ”
“Finer than a two-dick dog, my man. And that’s pretty good right there.”
Evers laughed quietly at his colorful euphemism. Buddy pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and looked at Bill inquisitively. Bill chuckled and nodded as Buddy cut the end of the new Cuban Cohiba. He pulled a box of matches from the same shirt pocket, struck one across the gritty portion of the box then lit his cigar. The pleasant smell of the finely cured Cuban tobacco mixed with the rich odor of sulfur filled the air. Buddy waved his hand to push away the smoke.
“You give any more thought to my little proposal?”
“Yeah, I’ve given it a lot of thought, Buddy. But before I agree to anything, I need to understand what you want me to do. Is this a recovery or kill mission? What are my objectives?”
“Those are good questions, Young Buck. Here’s where we are with this – get the cartouche and bring it back. If we never hear from Brother Dugan again after you retrieve the item, well, that’s okay too. It is what it is, Billy. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Evers didn’t reply to the question, Buddy’s meaning was obvious. Not ever hearing from someone again, didn’t mean sending them away on an island vacation. “Where am I going? Do you think the cartouche is still in Mexico or has it already left the country?”
“We have every reason to believe it’s still in Mexico, but we don’t know for how much longer. Naturally, you’ll travel under an assumed passport. Anything else you will need will be held for you once you cross the border. Comprende?"
“Yeah,” said Evers.
They both watched a blue heron sweep across the lake, pull up suddenly and land on the bank. It stepped into the water, graciously standing on one leg while looking for its next meal.
Buddy took a long, deep pull on his cigar then exhaled a giant plume of smoke. “Billy, I don’t need to remind you that Dugan is dangerous. He’s in bed with drug cartels and smugglers from all over the world. We both know why he’s interested in this cartouche thing, and that makes him even more dangerous.”
“Money?”
“Yeah, but it’s not just any amount of money. He’ll have enough cash to buy a third world country. If our military or government wants this thing that badly, Dugan will try to empty Fort fucking Knox into his personal bank account. But I think it’s more than that. He knows something about this damned cartouche and the power it holds. That makes him very dangerous.”
Bill nodded his understanding then replied, “I’ll fly into Mexico City. Has anyone from our side checked the surveillance tapes yet?”
“No. I wanted to wait until you got there,” he said with a slight smile on his face. “I didn’t want to scare Dugan this early in the game, plus I figured that would be your first move.”
“What made you think I’d take this gig, Buddy?” Evers asked, his eyes cut toward his old friend.
“I know you, Billy. You’re a man of conviction. You’re a man interested in ‘what’s out there', and you’re a man who can get the job done. You’re also a man who will get the shit done right, especially when there’s a large sum of money involved.”
Evers laughed. “Give me one of those cigars; it looks pretty good.”
Buddy handed him one he took from his shirt pocket. “Easy does it with that, big daddy. That there is contraband.”
Evers lit the Cohiba with the matches Buddy handed him. He took a long draw on the illegal cigar then exhaled a large puff of white smoke. “I’m going to need a few things when I get there, Buddy. I’ll give you a list. But before I go to the airport, I’m going to need that money wired to my account. I’ll give you the account number for the direct wire. No dinero, Bill, no leave-o.”
“Done,” Buddy replied. “What else?”
“Per diem. Two hundred dollars a day wired to my account each day I’m in the field. I’ll pay my expenses while I’m out. The per diem will cover anything I spend. Anything required beyond the per diem pay I’ll let you know, but I expect to be reimbursed. Also, no questions asked. I control this thing, got it?”
“The per diem is no big deal, Buck, but the no questions thing isn’t going to fly. I’m going to need updates periodically.”
“I’ll give you those updates, Buddy. I’ll set up a protected bulletin board account that you can sign into to ask questions. I’ll check it periodically; you do the same. But I can assure you, if someone from Christians in Action tries to surprise me, I’ll kill him. Then I’ll come after everyone else involved!” Evers bluntly replied.
“Fair enough. What else?”
“That’s it for now,” Evers said as he took another drag off the big cigar. “I’ll have the list ready in an hour. Why don’t you go down to the lake and fish? You look a little stressed. Uncle Sam must have you working overtime. I’ll pull my list together while you’re drowning worms. Grab a rod and reel in the garage. The door is unlocked.”
He tamped out his cigar after Buddy gathered some of Evers’ fishing tackle and walked to the lake. Bill needed time to create his list and get a few things in order before he left. Buddy respected his desire to be alone for a while.
He went to work immediately on the list of things he would need while in Mexico, jotting down basic necessities and items that would allow him to travel lightly. Beyond what he wrote down, he figured he could pick up most anything he would need, without drawing attention to himself, on the streets.
Next, he checked his off-shore account in the Caymans, making sure the untraceable account number he would give Buddy would route and link up with the real account he kept in Belize. The series of dummy account numbers he linked to one another gave him some assurances that his money wouldn’t be messed with while he was away. Once the money was safely transferred to his fake Cayman account, it would automatically be forwarded to his secure account in Belize, far from the greedy hand of the United States government.
Finally, he packed a light carry-on bag with a few changes of clothes. He figured Buddy was already working on his pseudo-passport and travel itinerary to Mexico City, assuming in advance that he would take the job.
The thought of taking the cartouche from Dugan, and more than likely having to take Dugan out of the picture enticed him too. Dugan was indeed dangerous, not just because of his alliances with cartels and drug overlords, but because he was a highly trained spook, well versed in the ways of how things worked in the harshest of areas in the world, as well as D.C. That made him a hard target and a very valuable one.
There’s no backing out now. I reckon this is what you get for being interested, he thought to himself. He grabbed his list and waited for his old war partner to walk into the house.
Benito Juárez International Airport
Mexico City, Mexico
July 15, 2013 11:20 A.M.
Kevin Roper stepped off the plane and headed toward customs, bag in hand. He stuck his customs declaration he completed during his connection from Dallas inside his passport. Traveling a little over five hours to his arrival destination had left him groggy, both from his early flight and from the decreased amount of oxygen available on all those damnable airplanes.
He approached the customs desk and handed the paperwork to the customs agent.
“Hola, Señor. What is the nature of your visit to Mexico, Señor…er…Roper?” the agent asked while studying his papers.
Roper gave the standard reply, “Business.”
“What type of business do you do, Señor Roper?” he asked as he watched the American.
“Textile industry. I work with a distributor here in the city who purchases from a manufacturer in Oaxaca who, in turn, exports to the States.
“I see, Señor. And how long will you be staying in Mexico?”
“One week,” replied a hopeful Roper.
The attentive customs agent eyeballed h
im again then moved his gaze back to the passport. He passed a black light over his identification checking for the watermarked government seal. He frowned then looked back at Roper. Roper’s pulse quickened, but his face remained calm.
“Have a nice stay in Mexico, Señor Roper,” the agent replied as he stamped the passport.
“Gracias,” he responded as he reached for his identification, a forced but relieved smile given to the agent. It was at that moment he appreciated Buddy’s connections in the world of identification forgery.
The agent nodded and Roper made his way toward the rental car center. He filled out the required paperwork, purchased renter’s insurance, and then headed directly to his hotel.
Roper checked into the Camino Real, a hotel only 750 meters from the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. His keycard unlocked his room, and he walked in and opened his suitcase.
His dark hair was a plus, although his complexion was anything but stereotypical Latino. He put on jeans and a blue button down shirt with some embroidered decorations that so many of the Mexican men wore. Next, he put an older cowboy hat on his head and a pair of dark sunglasses to mask his eyes. The sneakers he wore were for practical purposes. Roper needed to blend into his environment, not make a fashion statement.
Out of habit, as he exited the hotel, checked his three and nine, to assure no one was waiting for him. He had gotten an address for a local internet café from the desk clerk when he checked in and decided to walk the short two-and-a-half kilometers to get a feel for the surrounding cityscape.
The downtown area of Mexico City ebbed and flowed with traffic and pedestrians. Roper made several turns and cutbacks to cover his ass. He also ducked into a local trinket and souvenir shop, staying close to the window, to see if anyone’s direction had changed or if a person had stopped as though searching for someone. Most would consider his actions borderline neurotic, but his survival skills were in high gear. Besides, most had not been involved in the things he had been a part of in his life.
The internet café stood in the heart of the downtown financial district. The street median was lined with palm trees, the sidewalks clean, and restaurants were packed with business people anxious to taste the glorious Mexican wares fanning over the downtown streets. Bar owners were sweeping entrances to their establishments as they prepared for the nightlife and early revelers. Roper could smell stale beer and human urine from the alleyways as he passed the nightclubs.
Across the street he saw a couple of middle aged men duck into a strip club called the Tahitian. A small smile crept across his face because he knew that men everywhere were similarly hardwired. A tall brunette with dazzling blue eyes and sexy long legs flashed into his mind, but he quickly relinquished her for another more appropriate time.
Roper walked down the sidewalk, an extra block, before reversing course. More often than not this simple act would bring about a sudden motion from anyone tailing him. An amateur would turn around after his target, course corrected, so as not to lose him. He watched on both sides of the street for anyone but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Confident he was alone, he opened the door to the internet café and walked in.
Inside he found an open terminal and sat down. He opened the internet browser and entered the URL for the secure bulletin and message board he had set up before leaving the States. He sent a message that read:
Arrived. Need supplies and pick up site. Advise asap.
Will engage museum after I get supplies.
He sat at the terminal reading news from various websites for ten minutes before checking the bulletin board again for a response. Remarkably, Roper saw that there was a response.
Good to hear. Meet contact at Tamazula, District of Mexico,
6:00 p.m. your time. Tortas are excellent there. Don’t eat too many. Ask for Javier at the desk. Report back findings asap.
The address for the torta and deli shop was at the bottom of the message. He did a fast search on Mapquest and found that it would take him at least an hour by car to get to the pick-up site. He jotted down the address, took a quick look around the shop, saw nothing out of the ordinary, then closed out the browser and purged the history. Better safe than sorry.
Before leaving, he checked the time on his watch – 3:15 p.m. There was plenty of time to walk a thorough counter-surveillance run before leaving the hotel to meet up with his contact. He checked each direction as he left the café and began walking toward his hotel. Although his destination was to his left, he turned right on the sidewalk heading southeast on Eje Pte Florencia. He crossed over the busy intersection at Florencia and Londres passing in front of a palm tree standing tall and proud in the south Mexico heat. After crossing the street, he made a left, heading in the general direction of his hotel. From his peripheral vision he kept a check to see if anyone made an amateurish movement across the intersection to catch up with him.
He saw a Latino fellow with a white t-shirt and jeans make a sudden turn on the opposite side of the street. Fuck he thought to himself. I’m here a couple of hours and I have a shadow already? What have I gotten myself into?
Roper focused his mind on the task at hand. He told himself to keep his stride steady and not get in a hurry. He would cross the street at some point and time, but he needed to get a feel for how far away his shadow was. He walked across a construction site where the sidewalk was being dug up and a newer version put back in its place. Quickening his pace, he crossed Hamburg Street before slowing enough to give his shadow some time to catch up. Without warning, he stopped in front of a restaurant and acted like he was just a hungry passerby interested in the menu taped to the window.
His attention focused on the reflection; he waited a moment to see if his follower would pass by the window or stop to wait on him. He saw the man stop and act like he was looking in a window across the street. Okay, I have a tail. He’s an amateur. I need to get him to cross the street, Roper continued thinking to himself. Forcing his breathing and heart rate to slow down, he calmed his emotions and continued strolling down Florencia, his stride steady.
Roper stopped at the intersection of Florencia and Berna then turned right, taking him on the path back to his hotel, and more importantly, forcing his shadow to cross the street to catch him. He figured his tail was a few steps behind him trying to look inconspicuous.
He stepped into a quiet alley and pushed his back against a dumpster. With this much sunlight, he would have to be as silent as possible to keep from drawing any attention. He could hear the man panting heavily as he ran to catch up to him.
His follower turned the corner to the alley, and Roper’s hand shot out executing a shuto, or knife hand strike to the side of his neck. The meaty part of his hand struck the man’s brachial plexus, stunning and dropping him to his knees. With little thought, Roper moved behind him cupping one hand around his chin and the other behind his head. In a blur the man’s neck was snapped and he fell dead to the ground. Roper looked around the alley for onlookers but saw no one. He dragged his victim behind the dumpster and propped him against the wall, his head lying at a ridiculous angle on his shoulder.
He gave the corpse a fast pat down, checking for any identification but found none. He did find a phone number written on a piece of scrap paper. He didn’t recognize the area code or the international dialing code, sixty-three, but assumed it was Mexico’s. Roper stuck the paper in his pocket then checked his victim one more time.
The adrenaline rush that came with killing a person was wearing off which meant his body would begin shaking uncontrollably soon. A man with a severe case of the shakes in close proximity to a corpse was certain to garner attention he didn’t want. He had to finish and get out of the area before someone saw him in the same vicinity of the now dearly departed Juan Doe. A quick look around to make sure no witnesses had seen him gave him some assurance that he could get out of the area before the body was discovered.
Roper proceeded out of the alley back to Berna just as his body b
egan trembling. His breathing quickened and he sucked in raspy breaths. Instead of heading directly to his hotel, he made several more switchbacks and a couple of stops in local shops to see if he was being tailed again. Meeting up with any of the dead guy’s friends was not on his wish list.
He didn’t see or feel anyone else he considered a threat, and now, with the adrenaline rush subsiding, his hands and arms began to tremble. He needed to find a place to sit down and relax for an hour or so before the meet with his contact.
A small, quaint cantina advertising cold Sol beer caught his attention. He stepped into the bar, sat down at a table with his back to the wall, faced the tinted window so he could watch for anyone that looked threatening, and ordered the refreshing Mexican beer complete with a lime.
A cute Mexican waitress brought him his beer and held it out for him to take. He smiled and nodded his head toward the table for her to place it there; he didn’t want her to see his hands shaking. She smiled back, put the beer on the table and walked back to the bar.
Mariachi music played quietly as he and one other patron sipped their beers. This gave Roper some time to think about the craziness that had just happened. He let the waves of thought ebb and flow as his shaking hand picked up his beer. The bitter beverage had a hint of sweetness followed by just the right amount of bite at the end.
I’m in the country for four hours, find an Internet Café and get tailed. I had to take a wannabe street thug out because I couldn’t risk taking him down and questioning him in the daylight. Who knows I’m here? Dugan? How did he find out? Did Buddy tip him off? Why would he involve me in something like this just to try to have me killed when I was essentially off the grid? That doesn’t add up. Something else is going on here. Fuck!
He took another long drink of his beer, the shakes lessening now, his heart rate slowing now that his brain had time to start deciphering this damn cluster-fuck. After finishing his beer, he decided to order another. The pretty waitress smiled as she brought him a second Sol. He nodded his appreciation and took a drink.
