by Jace Killan
“I can read your thoughts,” Junior said. “I’d do the same. You’re smart, Joaquin. You got a long life ahead of you. You’d want to start making some real dough, wouldn’t you?”
Joaquin hoped that Junior couldn’t read all his thoughts. But it’d be best to play along. He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’ve got an opportunity for you.”
“What sort of opportunity?”
Junior shrugged. “Doing the same thing as you’ve been doing, just...” he paused, “with more commitment.”
Joaquin tried to imagine what that meant.
“So far you’ve just been doing as you were directed. That’s fine. You’ve done good. You haven’t asked too many questions. Probably because you don’t want to know the answers. There’s risk in knowing the answers. You’ve got... how do they say it in English? Plausible deniability. Well, with greater risk comes greater reward. We can keep up the same relationship we’ve always had, or you can assume more risk. With more risk, you’d be entitled to more return.”
Joaquin masked the excitement for the moment he’d hoped for. He could care less about the return. He wanted the risk. What Junior didn’t know is that Joaquin hedged that risk a while ago by teaming with the feds. Risk now translated to intel. He could nail these bastards and get on with running from them for the rest of his life.
Junior had kept him in the dark. Had he been more in the know, maybe he could’ve protected Emma. He should’ve protected her. He should’ve aspired to more sooner. But that didn’t matter now. With this greater risk he’d get a chance to do some good. Maybe he could find enough dirt to put Guzman back in prison and damage the cartel.
He milked this moment. He needed to make it count. He looked up, meeting Junior’s stone cold eyes. “Hell yeah. What kind of return are we talking about?”
Junior smiled and nodded. “Millions. Understand that there’s no coming back from this decision. If you’re in, you’re in or you’re dead.” The last almost sounded like a joke, but the beefy Mexican was as serious as Joaquin had ever seen him.
“I’m in.” Joaquin nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get some rest. You’ll have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.” Junior stood and left.
“You’d better get your men together on this!” Askari yelled into the phone. He’d never used such tones with Guzman before, but the situation demanded it. He had struggled far too long, putting his plans in motion for some two-bit hit man to muck them up now.
“Calm down, Ericson.”
That name. He hadn’t been called that in over a month, since leaving Mexico and settling into his chateau in France. The name reminded him of prison. To his people, Ericson didn’t exist—he was Askari, soldier for Islam.
“Just promise me you’ll take care of it.”
“It’s taken care of.” Guzman’s tone indicated that the conversation was over.
But Askari had one more issue to discuss. “Before you go, have you considered my proposal?”
“Yes, and I’m intrigued. But I don’t get it.”
“You want to know why?” Askari asked.
“Well, yeah. You want to buy my drugs. A lot of them. One hundred million dollars worth.”
“I will spend one hundred million, but I was hoping to get a little discount for purchasing in bulk.”
“But you don’t want the drugs.”
“No, jefe. I’m trying to help you out. It’s a good business model. They call it a loss leader. Only in your business, you need new clientele. Cause your product naturally causes attrition. Your clients end up dead or in prison, so, I’m purchasing your drugs. You’re street runners don’t have to charge. They give the drugs away for free and then you’ll end up with new clients.”
Of course he only told Guzman part of his plan. Those clients would become addicts. Drugs more than war, more than terror, more than a recession or even a depression would cripple a society and thus an economy. Drugs would lead to degraded morality. Murder, theft, violence, and above all, dishonesty. Dishonesty would beget mistrust.
“Are we agreed?” Askari asked.
“Can my guys still sell if they want to?”
“They must. You don’t want to give the free drugs to existing addicts. Go to recovery meetings, go to schools, clubs, women book clubs, whatever you can think of to get rid of the drugs to people who are not currently your clients. To the junkies that already purchase your stuff, you keep selling to them. And none of that soft shit, got it? I want Meth and heroine, I’m buying the hard stuff, understand? Oxy, that sort of opiate stuff, that’s all right, because that leads to heavier stuff. But no pot.” He had another plan for that. He’d invest tens of millions in state legislations to get marijuana legalized.
“Okay. It’s your money.”
In a well functioning society, you’d find those members contributing through service, payments, ingenuity and more. At the same time, those contributing would benefit from one another’s contributions. Interject drugs into that model and suddenly those addicts would stop contributing, being otherwise incapacitated.
But not only would these members not contribute, they’d also take from that society. They’d suck up resources.
Askari, when he was Ericson, had owned a house that sat vacant for about a month while transitioning to a new tenant. During that time, some jackass broke into the home and ripped out all the copper he could find. When he scrapped it, he probably got about thirty bucks. But it cost Ericson six grand to put the house back together.
Addicts can drain a society’s resources. Theft, loss of life, rehab, prison, all of it costly resources that some would argue would be better spent in education or scientific research.
This was the long play in Askari’s plan. If he other efforts failed, this one would continue, right in front of western society’s nose.
Askari, ended the call and sat the burner phone into a glass of water. He’d gone to Madrid when he learned of the assassin mishap. There he reached out to Guzman through their prearranged channels. He didn’t dare communicate directly while living in France. Askari wouldn’t let Guzman’s other life as a cartel boss jeopardize his operation, the reason he’d left Mexico in the first place.
Now he wished he were back at the chateau rather than the street café eating supper. His surroundings only reminded him of Guzman’s incompetence. The fat Mexican hadn’t a clue what Askari had actually done over the past year, not in earnings, not in schemings.
Guzman had been a tool. A means to an end. His people, their network, provided Askari with the manpower in the right locations to make an enormous amount of money.
At one point in his life, Ericson would have killed for such wealth. He had aspired to that lucrative, gluttonous life. But not Askari. Ericson had been lost. Chasing the carrot. Doing what he was supposed to do. Now, Askari was free of all that. He did what he wanted to do. What Allah showed him to do through the lightning strikes.
He retrieved another burner phone from his coat pocket and punched in a different memorized number.
“Yes.” Junior sounded groggy.
Askari looked at his watch. It would be about noon in New York.
“Did I wake you?”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve got to sleep sometime.”
Askari paused, letting Junior come to full consciousness. “I don’t blame you.”
“That’s good to know,” Junior said.
“Is Joaquin up for it?”
“I think so. In another life maybe, he would have fit in with the best of them on Wall Street.”
“And in this life?” Askari asked. “Will he play ball?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know?”
Junior stammered out a reply. “I don’t know what he knows. He’s smart so I suppose he’ll put two and two together about Jared, if he hasn’t already. And I mostly told him about Mayhew tonight.”
“How do we manage him?”
“Same way you manage me,”
Junior said. “Money.”
Askari considered the words. Junior had actually proved more loyal than a hired hand. “Problem with that route is the risk of someone paying more.” He meant that more to feel out Junior than as a comment about Joaquin.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Junior said.
“Ah, you are smart Junior. I couldn’t have asked for better. But tell me why I shouldn’t worry about someone hiring you away?”
“If Guzman knew, he’d kill me. And I don’t know anyone else that is in need of my expertise. Also, you’ve already made my life extremely lucrative. I could bail on you, but that’s not who I am. I have to see something through once I’ve started it.”
Askari smiled. “Thank you my friend. Keep it up and your life will continue to be lucrative. Now, Joaquin?”
“Joaquin wants a shot at being in charge. This is a life he never imagined he could have, so he’s excited. He knows he can’t go to anyone, because he’s complicit. That would land him back in jail and that’s the last thing he wants.”
“What about this girl you told me about?”
“They’re a thing now. Which will keep him more grounded here.”
“Love has a way of persuading the conscious to morality. Is she a problem?”
“No. If the shit hit the fan, she might be in line for jail time too. She’s earned her licenses, placed trades, received bonuses, spent the money. No, I think we let them be the fall guys when this does unravel.”
“You’re a smart one, Junior. But I can’t have it unraveling just yet. I need a couple more months at least for the big hoorah.”
“And Guzman?”
“If Joaquin’s smart, he’ll sell him out. But either way, he won’t be our problem. You’ll have enough to disappear. I can show you how, when the time comes.”
Askari ended the call and placed this burner in his cup of coffee, dropped a few euros on the table and walked down the street.
He’d taken nearly three hundred million out of Northern and wired it to followers of Islam like him. They needed money for weaponry, and Allah had blessed him with a source for both. The NIS in Syria were able to purchase some significant firepower with their nearly hundred million.
He’d sent another hundred million to Georgia, the country, on behalf of the US government through a number of shell accounts, in order to push back against the Russian military ever encroaching on their borders. Aksari had some allies in the Georgian government, beholden to Islam. When he gave word, they’d make sure his investment followed the plan.
The last bit went to the Ukraine, more specifically, Crimea, in the form of weaponry, for much the same reason as Georgia, though Russia had already assumed possession of the country. Not long after President Obama drew the line in the sand for Assad, who assumedly crossed the line, though the US did nothing on its idle threat, Russia too called the US’s bluff and invaded the Ukraine.
Three hundred million was only a drop in the bucket compared to the billions the US and Russia would spend in a war effort. It’d be better if they spent it fighting each other.
But Askari, too, needed more. The thought of his venture with Northern ending, caused his stomach to turn.
He withdrew another burner to call his contact at the firm in London. They hadn’t needed to blackmail Nazir Bastian—he believed in the cause. Though they were careful not to raise eyebrows with the European Securities and Market Authority.
They’d made a few extra million here and there, unbeknownst to Guzman, but on the efforts of his men. The real money came from European market manipulations. Askari had organized acts of terror through the cells living across Europe.
An airliner downed by his brothers. A shipping vessel attacked by Somali pirates. Killings on a train messed with travel and stock prices, and on and on.
It had grown to nearly four hundred million—his contingency fund. But still, he needed more.
“We’re moving into the final stages,” Askari said. “I’ll send you more trades when I get back to the office.” He meant France. “But it won’t be long now.”
They ended the call with the saying, “God is great.”
Next, Askari had a planned phone call with his disciple Raiya. They’d never met face to face, but Raiya had become a devout follower and friend. He’d grown up in Syria, amidst the wars and bloodshed. His father had been killed by Assad’s people, his mother raped by Russian soldiers.
He hated the Russians, but he hated Americans more. He’d been skeptical of Askari at first, until he heard the plan. Askari was surprised at how Raiya had caught on despite his lack of formal schooling.
Askari’s cell rang. He answered and introduced himself to Raiya’s unnamed friend. After a few pleasantries, Raiya introduced Askari as a soldier for Islam and compared him to Bin Laden. To this the friend snickered and said something crass in Arabic.
“Bin Laden was a fool,” Askari cut in to their back and forth. Silence followed on the other line. “Yes, it was a great loss of life, but he kicked the sleeping bear. The bear returned and leveled Iraq and Afghanistan, hunting Al Qaeda and the Taliban. All the while military contractors have been getting fat from the spoils.
“He shook the airline industry. He dented their markets. No doubt, 9-11 helped the US into the worst financial period since the great depression. But, it wasn’t enough. If he had any sense, he could have made billions off the US recovery. But Osama had a one-track mind. He didn’t see past this one event and his eventual death.”
“But you do?” the friend said.
“Of course I do. I see everything. I see that killing five people with Anthrax will be more frightening and more financially devastating than killing a thousand with a plane. With a match I can take away people’s fortunes. I can stall industries and rob natural resources. I see that burning down the White House will spur greater fear than downing two skyscrapers. And most of all, I see that in fear, there is money. Money is what runs their country. Drain the country of its lifeblood and it will fail. Osama didn’t understand the financial ramifications of his plan on 9-11, particularly the cost of a full out war on terror. He didn’t think that far ahead. But I have.
“My plan will bring the US economy to its knees. And in that status, others will want to get in on the action. China, Russia, they can’t wait to push the US aside and capitalize on its fall.”
Raiya chimed in, “You’d let Russia...”
“Russia can’t afford a war. They’re still recovering from the cold one. They don’t have the manpower or the funds. And when they’ve spent their wads, we’ll be there to end their existence just like the Americans. Allah has shown this to me.”
“How could we ever defeat two superpowers?” the friend wasn’t arguing, just questioning, wanting to believe, but failing to connect the dots.
“We won’t have to,” Askari said. “They will defeat themselves. There’s a story in the bible of a man named Gideon. Gideon and his three hundred frightened an army of Midianites, to the point that they turned on each other. The army was defeated, not by three hundred soldiers, but by fear. They killed themselves.
“This is not our one play, my friend. When they begin to topple, I will have amassed an even greater fortune, enough to empower our oppressed brothers and call them all to arms. It will be an uprising like the Western world has always feared. They call it the end of times. It will be for them, the Christians, the Jews, infidels. We call it the Caliphate.
“Allah has shown me this. We are the three hundred. We with our meager millions will bring to pass the caliphate. Allah has willed it. I follow him. I am his soldier. I am Askari.”
42
The next couple weeks were a blur. A surreal, nightmarish blur.
For a moment Joaquin sat in a Baptist chapel, an elderly black man stood at the pulpit wearing a white shirt and black jeans, accented with a large silvery rodeo buckle. The man read from Saint John and Proverbs.
At the time Joaquin thought it a beautiful sermon
but later couldn’t recall a single word of it.
Emma’s mom sat on the front row with all five of Jared’s children lined up beside her, smallest to oldest. The sight pulled at Joaquin’s heart. No child should have to bury a parent so young. And no mother should have to bury her child.
Joaquin’s thoughts turned to his own mother. They hadn’t spoken in over a month. His only justification was that Spencer kept tabs on her for him. He actually wished he could visit her in Arizona. Introduce her to Kristin.
She sat to his left, holding hands and occasionally crying into his shoulder. Kristin had known Emma for a few years.
As sad as the scene was, sadder still was the absence of Jared, husband and father to her children.
The general public knew Jared had attempted suicide soon after Emma’s death, and then checked into a treatment facility where nobody, not even the kids had heard from him since. But from what Joaquin knew, Jared was fine, and now helping the FBI. Though for his own safety, his actual whereabouts would remain undisclosed.
Most in the chapel were solemn, sad but not in despair, hurt from their loss but hopeful.
A week later, Joaquin attended another funeral. This one for Mayhew. It felt like a dream change in a single night’s rest. Joaquin sat in the back, Kristin again at his side, though he seemed more aware of that now. More worried really, that the cartel had eyes there and would see his budding relationship, not that they didn’t already know, but they’d know more, giving them greater leverage over him.
All of this—the scheme, the money, the feds—it would eventually hit the fan and he’d have to abandon Kristin for her own safety. But he loved her deeply. He negotiated with the more logical parts of his mind, begging for peace. He could run away with her. Disappear. She wouldn’t go, his mind suggested. There’s no way she’d choose him over her grandparents. Especially when she found out that he was an ex-con and recovering meth addict. And that he’d killed the last person he loved. He didn’t deserve Kristin.
The logic side won every time. So he’d slip back into pretend, burying his head in the sand and trying to convert his reality to reinforce the lie he’d been living for the past year or so. He wouldn’t hurt her feelings now, so why not just enjoy it. All good things in his life had come to an abrupt end before. He’d enjoy the ride until he ran out of track and then he’d survive. Just as he had in Graham.
