by Jace Killan
“Could you offer Guzman a deal?”
Spencer eyed Jared. “We’d be open to it, but what about you? Would you be okay with that? I mean, Guzman is certainly the guy that had Emma killed.”
As much as he’d love for them all to hang, there was much more at stake here. “It’s all building up to something, Spence. We need to get Askari before whatever he’s planning happens.”
“You’re a better man than me, Jared. But what if Guzman doesn’t take a deal? A cartel boss turned rat would do a lot of damage to the organization. Guzman’s got to know that.” Spencer walked for the door. “Oh, we’ve got a meeting in five minutes, upstairs.”
Jared stood and unplugged his laptop. “About the embassy in Russia?”
“No. It’s about the anthrax attack on the White House.”
46
Raiya Sabir crawled on his belly. He and twenty-six others had crossed the US border a couple miles ago and had made decent time on their feet. But about a half an hour later, La Migra showed up in two, green and white SUVs.
They hadn’t spotted the group, from what Raiya could tell, as they were shielded by the dark of night. The half-moon afforded just enough light to not need flashlights, but dark enough to let them blend into the shadows of the desert landscape.
Yet the SUVs wouldn’t leave. They drove through the desert, haphazardly flashing their high beams about in search for border crossers.
So Raiya and his team of two dozen soldiers crept on their bellies, following two Mexican Nationals through the desert, inching their way North.
The cold ground and gritty smell reminded Raiya of the mountains of Afghanistan where he’d fought with the Taliban. To think that his enemy enjoyed such a land, free of the bloodshed he’d experienced in Afghanistan, angered Raiya, but that would change now.
After another half hour the vehicles left, allowing the six to return to their feet and continue their quicker march toward the mountains. The pack, Raiya carried seemed heavier than before they’d slowed on their bellies, but he pushed through and eventually regained his stride.
By morning, they’d arrived and headed up a footpath leading across the base of some odd shaped hills. The nationals wanted to rest, citing danger for their reason to be lazy. But Raiya and his men were on a mission with a deadline. They couldn’t sacrifice that for comfort.
The two nationals rested under the shade of a scrub mesquite tree, eating carne seca. Frustrated, Raiya turned to his phone, relieved to see they’d travelled close enough to civilization to get a signal.
He pulled up the map and in his broken Spanish pointed at the screen. “Donde Yo voy?”
One of the nationals zoomed out, pointing at and highlighted a dot near a town named Sahuarita, Arizona. “Casa. Bano. Cama. Sleep. Carro. Entiende?” The Mexican made the gester of laying down on his hands.
“Direccion?” Raiya handed the national his cell phone. “Write. Escribe.”
He looked confused, but eventually got the gist of the request and began to tap his fingers on the screen then handed it back. Raiya looked at it. The distance stood some forty kilometers further. It would be difficult sharing the load between four, but the nationals were more of a liability now than a benefit.
With a nod to one of his men, Raiya pulled a desert eagle from his side and leveled it at the national’s frightened gaze. He the trigger. Raiya’s man who carved an orange flicked his knife across the throat of the nearby national. The man grabbed hold though it spilled blood too fast to do anything but panic for a couple dozen seconds until he bled out and fell to the earth.
Raiya holstered his sidearm. Perhaps firing it had been a mistake. Border Patrol could be just around the bend and come after them from hearing the shot. He hated himself for being so small minded and blamed the oversight on his lack of prayer. They hadn’t prayed in three days. And it would be several more before he would. He couldn’t possibly approach Allah with his hands dirtied from the foreign earth, without even a rug to kneel on.
Allah would understand, wouldn’t He? He’d know of Raiya’s dedication through his actions even if he didn’t show it through prayer? Or would he not consecrate their journey because they had neglected to praise Allah? Askari had told them not to worry. That he would pray for them.
Raiya retrieved the two rucksacks of ammo from the fallen nationals. He handed one away and elected to carry one himself even though he carried the heaviest tote as it was. Without a word, his men stood and they continued their march Northward.
Getting into Turkey proved easy, though he missed his chateau. Askari had grown soft there, slowly, he’d lost some control over his mind. He slept on the cement floor and fasted the prior day in penance.
The compound looked like an abandoned warehouse from the outside, situated near the edge of Istanbul. Inside, it was full of vehicles and weapons and seven sets of bunk beds. In one corner, within a small locked office, Askari sat in front of a computer with two forty eight inch screens mounted to the wall.
His Turkish friends had set up the Internet, relaying the feed through several computers across the globe. He remotely logged into a similar computer somewhere in Northern Arizona. If it lost connectivity, while engaged with Askari in Turkey, it would go into self-destruct mode, frying the components. The same would occur if the system sensed a hacker or if someone merely typed in the wrong password. Askari had five other locations that he could log into if such a thing happened. Raiya would be arriving in the next day or two. He’d check in and then make his way to the White House.
The anthrax efforts had launched the world into a global scare worse than Ebola, the swine flu and all others combined. The death count reached hundreds now, with thousands infected. Soon those numbers would double, then double again and again. In truth it didn’t matter at this point how many actually died from the outbreak. It had served its purpose. Fear. Fear and greed were the two most powerful emotions in the world and each drove the markets.
The US economy would fall because people were afraid. Afraid to travel, afraid to take a business trip, or afraid to spend money because they desired security. Fear could even cause run on the banks that would develop more panic.
His thoughts turned to Allah. He hadn’t prayed for Isha. Somehow he knew that if he prayed, Allah would bless that all his efforts to this point wouldn’t be in vain.
He went to wash his hands and find his prayer mat.
After praying he felt refreshed as if he’d slept a week. Allah had heard his prayer, just as he had in prison and ever since.
Guzman had sent for him. Joaquin stepped off the private jet, squinting at the brilliant sunlight. A chilly wind caused him to shiver as he hurried down the steps to the tarmac and over to the car waiting for him.
Two men patted him down, checked his pockets and shoes, more thorough than the airline. They didn’t catch the small flash drive he’d embedded in the knot of his red power tie.
He climbed in back, next to Guzman, fatter than he remembered. Joaquin was a different person from the last time they’d seen each other. Now he felt comfortable in a suit and around money. Now, he better understood his self-assigned mission.
“Jaqui, como fue el viaje?”
“Good, Jefe. Thank you.” Joaquin didn’t notice that he’d answered in English. But the old Mexican didn’t react as he spoke fluently in both languages.
They made small talk as they drove to Guzman’s mansion a few miles away. A tall, twelve foot fence shielded any view of the home from the outside. On top, there appeared to be broken bottles, cemented into the block fence. The jagged edges would keep anyone from trying to climb over. Two armed men in jeans and t-shirts guarded the front of an equally tall metal gate. Upon seeing the approaching car, they slid open the gate and nodded as Joaquin passed. Beyond the gate stretched a wide driveway, sided with skinny palm trees and greenery.
In front of the adobe mansion, a nude statue poured water from a clay pot, into a cup held by a boy statue. The image made for a
beautiful fountain and the sound of running water pulled at Joaquin’s thirst. He licked his dry lips and followed Guzman to the front entry, a couple guards right behind.
Guzman almost reached the front door when it swung open revealing a view to the back yard oasis, through the window nearly filling the far wall.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Before Joaquin could answer, Guzman waved his hand at a woman, standing in the foyer.
She disappeared and returned with a tray sporting a silver teapot and a few cups as well as a couple bottles of water. Joaquin took a water bottle and nearly drank all of it. The woman poured each of them a cup of tea, then another servant brought in a tray holding a mountain of delicious looking pastries.
“Facturas,” Guzman said. “Silvia here is from Argentina where they make good pastries.”
Joaquin took one and sat in the sofa facing the back window. The pastry was soft and it smelled fantastic. The yellow flaky bread held a dollop of cream and a slice of kiwi. It tasted better than it looked. Silvia offered him another, this one with dulce de leche, a caramel like center, instead of the cream and fruit.
Guzman instructed that the servants leave the tray and go away. Men guarded each of the room entrances though they ignored Guzman.
“Jefe,” Joaquin stood, “do you mind if I use the restroom?”
Guzman nodded with a mouthful of pastry and pointed to a door half opened at the far end of the room. Joaquin hurried to it. He really did have to go and he also needed to take the small flash drive from his tie. He wasn’t sure just how he’d insert it into a computer; Guzman’s men had him pretty well guarded. Still, he needed to be ready if the opportunity presented itself. If it didn’t, the Feds would have to get their info another way.
He washed, dried, and fixed his tie before returning to Guzman. He held the drive in his pant pocket.
“You’ve done well for me, Jaqui.” Guzman leaned forward. “You’ve made me a lot of money. It gives me hope that someday we can be more legitimate in our financial efforts.”
Joaquin didn’t believe that for a second, but he went along with Guzman’s ruse. He didn’t have to remind himself that his father died at the hand of Guzman’s men.
“I got you something.” Guzman stood and retrieved a laptop from the counter.
At first, Joaquin wondered if the laptop was the gift, until, Guzman opened it and typed. A second later he tilted the screen toward Joaquin. It showed an account summary of the Antigua Sure Bank and Trust.
Joaquin read his name as the account owner, and nearly choked when he saw the amount--$1,000,026.32.
“It was a million yesterday. As frugal as you live, you could probably survive just fine off the interest. But there’ll be more to come. It’s a drop in the bucket compared to what you’ve made me this past year.”
Joaquin couldn’t believe it. Could he accept it? Accept it yes. Keep it? No. The FBI would surely make him surrender the account to the US government as it came from either drugs or illegal manipulation of the markets. He’d nearly forgotten about the drive in his pocket, he only needed to insert it for a second, but without Guzman seeing.
“Gracias, Jefe,” he finally stammered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Gracias a tí, Jaqui.” Guzman took the laptop and with a little typing turned the screen back to Joaquin.
Joaquin withdrew the flash drive. He scooted the laptop closer to him, simultaneously inserting the drive. He wondered if the computer would respond with a window or chime despite being told that nothing would happen. Nothing did. He covered the drive with his hand while examining the screen. It showed one of several client accounts at Northern. Joaquin’s name appeared on this page too, listed as the Advisor to the managed account. With the brief glance, Joaquin was surprised to see the airline stocks continued to fall from the anthrax scare, only strengthening their option position. But how much lower could they go?
“You’ve made me over a hundred million,’ Guzman said. “I owe you at least that.”
Joaquin thought for a moment. Over a hundred million? This account held just over four hundred million. The other should have about the same, even after the withdrawals.
“I appreciate it, Jefe, and not to sound ungrateful, because I am, very much, but just making sure you know that you made more than a hundred million on the Euro trades alone. I think the firm’s made you over a half a billion.” Joaquin withdrew the drive as he pushed the laptop away, back toward Guzman.
Guzman furrowed his brow and Joaquin wondered if he’d seen the drive. “Euro trades?” He hadn’t.
“Yeah. It was a pretty ballsy move. I mean, really risky, but it paid off well. We executed the future options this last year after the terrorist attacks across France and Europe”
Guzman looked confused even though the events had occupied the news for months last summer. “I see.”
Joaquin needed to dig. But Guzman wasn’t someone to patronize. “I guess the Muslim’s are getting their cut.”
Did he not know about the NIS connection in his own scheme? Had one of his grunts hijack the deal?
“Que dices?”
Suddenly nervous, Joaquin cleared his throat. “Um, the Muslims. I mean, I assume you’ve partnered with them because of some of the transactions and some of the things going on in the world.”
“Like what?” Guzman looked irritated, but not with Joaquin.
“Like the attacks in Georgia and the Ukraine against Russia. Some of the currency trades we’ve done lately would suggest that we anticipated those actions.”
“I’m not following you. What does that have to do with the Muslims, and what does any of that have to do with me?”
He’d taken the bait. “Junior arranged for draws totaling $300,000,000 starting six months ago and ending a few weeks ago.”
Guzman didn’t indicate whether this information was a surprise to him or not.
“Soon after we placed options on currencies, their futures, and took heavy positions with some defense contractors. Recently, we’ve settled out the currencies and sold the defense contractor stocks after a sudden spike, making like thirty million last week. I’m not a smart guy, but I can follow the logic, that you were behind the activity. I figured to really make it happen you had to have a Muslim contact. Forgive me if I’ve pried too much.”
Guzman’s face softened and he reached out a hand, patting Joaquin’s cheek. “Have I ever told you how much I admire you, Jaqui? No one else would have the balls to talk to me as you do, but you are so loyal to me that you know I need to hear it. And you’re kind enough to not accuse me of being blind or stupid. But here it appears I’ve been both.”
Joaquin didn’t know how to respond. Guzman didn’t wait for him to figure it out. “Do you remember Ericson?”
“From Graham?”
Guzman nodded. “He’s my Muslim contact.”
Ericson? A Muslim? Master behind the market manipulation? The more Joaquin thought about it, the more it made sense.
“It looks as though he’s played me.” Guzman scratched his scruffy cheeks. “All of this was his idea, you see. Well, I thought it was my idea, but he tugged my strings.” Guzman stood and turned away. “You say he pulled three hundred million?”
“Yes.”
“And Junior? It appears he has aided our old friend, unbeknownst to me.”
Joaquin didn’t answer. Ericson
“That is smart of Ericson, I suppose.” Guzman turned back around and began to pace. “Buying away my man. Tell me, did you know of Ericson?”
Joaquin shook his head. “No. But I don’t get it. Ericson’s not Muslim.” But then he thought back to a few years ago when they’d drive out with Ranger Rick. The conversations they’d have. Joaquin had thought Ericson a liberal, but a radical follower of Islam made more sense. And the guy never ate pork. “Actually, I believe it.”
“He moved to Europe a year ago. I’ve only talked to him one time since. We were supposed to split the funds once our pla
n terminated. I gave him a couple hundred thousand to live on until then.” Guzman snorted laughter. “The bastard. So there must be other accounts?”
Joaquin reached for the laptop. “Yes.” He punched in the login info for the other account. With the latest actions, it hovered above $500,000,000. Joaquin spun the screen to show Guzman.
“Wait, this is mine, too?” Guzman sat back down.
“We opened the other account with three hundred million. Then this account with another two hundred and fifty million. We doubled it.”
“And Ericson pulled out three hundred.”
Joaquin nodded. “Yeah. But we thought it was you.”
“Well, Jaqui boy, this has been very enlightening. What would it take to combine these accounts and go on the straight and narrow?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I told you I want to go righteous. I just needed enough seed money. Nearly a billion ought to be enough, don’t you think?”
Joaquin smiled and nodded. He felt sorry for the old guy. There’s no way the FBI would ever let him spend a dime of that money, regardless of how righteous he wanted to go. For a fleeting moment, Joaquin wondered if he should warn the Jefe. Or try to get him to cut a deal with the Feds. But it was too late for that. He’d given up Ericson. Now he’d have to account for his sins. One being the murder of Joaquin’s father. Another being the murder of Jared’s wife.
“Sure, Jefe. I can make it happen.” He thought a moment. “What about Junior?”
“Leave that bastard to me.”
“And Ericson?”
“Just make sure to secure that dinero. I’ll handle Ericson too. But be careful. It seems he’s got some powerful friends.” A strange observation coming from a cartel boss.
“I will, Jefe. Don’t worry about me. I’ll make sure the money is safe and nowhere he can touch it. How do I communicate with you?”
