Tailing Applewhite to Albuquerque had been a breeze, but he'd been forced to break off contact when she entered Kirtland Air Force Base at a guard checkpoint station. Bobby waited away from the gate and down the street to avoid raising suspicion. Over the years Sloan had trained dozens of new detectives in undercover and surveillance techniques. He'd always hammered away at the mantra to observe, record, take nothing for granted, and get the details. Bobby practiced what he preached.
Only a few cars entered the base while Bobby waited. He used his time spotting license plates through binoculars, running MVD record checks on the laptop, and writing down the information. It was a boring task, but it kept him focused. His interest jumped when a car approached the gate, flashed its headlights, and got waved through without stopping.
Somebody important was in a hurry.
Sloan ran the plate, got the name of the registered owner, and searched motor vehicle files for driver's license information. The likely driver of the car was a. Timothy Ingram. Sloan saved the information, which came with a color photograph of the subject, on a floppy disk.
After spending all night poring over the Mitchell evidence, Kerney allowed himself two hours of rack time and fell asleep immediately. The alarm jarred him awake. He cleaned up, spooned down a bland-tasting bowl of instant oatmeal, and played back Sara's telephone messages.
Message 1: "You sounded edgy the last time we spoke. Call me. I'm worried about you."
Message 2: "Are you busy? Should I cancel the weekend trip? Call me."
Message 3:
"Nobody at your office knows where you are. I can't spend all day trying to track you down. Dammit, Kerney, where are you! I'm flying in. Meet me at the airport if you can."
Kerney winced. Sara was justifiably pissed at being ignored. He'd put Molina and Sloan deep undercover. That meant no contact with their families or the department, no disclosure of the assignment, and no communication that could compromise the operation. Stupidly, he'd been operating with the same mindset, which was exactly the wrong thing to do. He needed to act like everything was normal.
Kerney checked the clock. Because of the difference in time zones it was an hour later at Fort Leavenworth. If Sara was true to form, she would be out on her morning run before heading off to classes. He called and left a message. The week had been hellishly busy, he couldn't wait to see her, nothing was wrong, and he was sorry he hadn't called sooner.
He'd pick her up at the airport.
He went to the bathroom, ran the shower, and called Reynaldo Valencia, a professor of Latin American studies at the university in Albuquerque.
Mitchell had phoned the professor a number of times from Brother Jerome's office. He woke Valencia up and explained his reasons for calling. Valencia agreed to meet with him immediately.
His house phone rang before he could leave. He picked up and Helen Muiz asked him if he was ever planning to come into the office again.
"What's up?" Kerney asked.
"Mr. Demora, the city manager, is eager to see you."
"About?"
"He wouldn't say. But he left three messages last night after six P. M."
"You're at the office early."
"Someone has to hold things together in your absence."
"I have a deputy chief now, Helen."
"Yes, and thank goodness he's here to assist me. You also have other tasks waiting that need your attention."
"Can they hold?"
"I suppose so." Helen sighed.
"Call Demora and ask him if this afternoon would be convenient."
"And where will you be until then?"
Kerney thought fast.
"I have a doctor's appointment in Albuquerque."
"Is something wrong?"
"Just the knee acting up again."
"You should get it looked at," Helen said sympathetically.
"You've been limping rather badly lately. I'll put you down on sick leave for the morning."
Even though he had no visible tail, Kerney ditched his unit in front of his orthopedist's office in Albuquerque and called a cab to pick him up at the back of the building. Reynaldo Valencia lived near the university on a street named for one of the early presidents. The house was a fifties post-war, Santa Fe-style single-story residence sheltered from the street by mature shrubs and large trees.
Valencia was a tall man with graying hair that matched the color of his neatly trimmed mustache. He greeted Kerney with a serious, questioning expression and guided him to a family room that proclaimed an enjoyment of books and learning.
Shelves crammed with books filled walls from floor to ceiling, magazines, journals, and newspapers filled table tops and thick dictionaries and atlases rested on pedestal stands.
"I don't know if I can help you," Valencia said. He gestured at a comfortable chair and took a seat in a rocker. He spoke perfect English with a slight Spanish accent.
Kerney sat down.
"I'm sure you'd like to see Father Mitchell's killer brought to justice."
"Very much so. But my experience has made me rather distrustful of police officers."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Kerney said.
"Have you had some bad experiences with the police?"
"Indeed, I have.
For example, it was the police who inadvertently introduced me to Father Mitchell," Valencia said.
"We met in jail, after having been arrested during a peaceful, nonviolent demonstration at the entrance to Fort Benning. The police roughed us up, handcuffed us, put us in paddy wagons, and locked us in a cell for hours. They had no cause to do it."
"That doesn't sound pleasant," Kerney said.
"Unfortunately, not all police officers are competent or well led.
Would a belated apology from an officer who had nothing to do with taking you to jail make it better?"
"You're joking," Valencia said
"Only partially," Kerney replied.
"I don't appreciate cops who make the rest of us look bad. It destroys the public's trust and makes the job more difficult."
"Why should I assume that you're really any different? How can I be sure of your motives?"
"Perhaps if we talk for a while, you'll be able to form an opinion or make a judgment about those questions," Kerney said.
Valencia studied Kerney for a few seconds.
"That's fair enough. But if I think you've come here to investigate my political beliefs and actions, or those of my friends and associates, I will cut you off."
"That's more than reasonable," Kerney said.
"I take it you came to know Father Mitchell fairly well after your time together in jail."
"Yes, we were both active in the School of the Americas Vigil Committee."
"From what I've learned, he seemed intent on discovering the specifics about his brother's death."
Valencia took a pipe from a side table and toyed with it.
"It was constantly on his mind. He spent a year in Venezuela and Colombia searching for answers."
"What did he uncover?" Kerney asked.
Valencia filled his pipe.
"He believed that his brother had been put in charge of establishing a secret training facility for assassins who were to be sent into Colombia to murder members of the drug cartels."
"Funded and operated by our government?"
Valencia nodded.
"Using the same ruse that failed so miserably in Vietnam, military advisors."
"Father Mitchell was convinced of this?"
"Yes. His brother was an experienced intelligence officer who specialized in training field operatives."
"Did he have proof?" Kerney asked.
Valencia lit his pipe and the scent of tobacco filled the room.
"He was never able to corroborate his theory. Most of the information came to him as rumor or supposition."
"What did he learn about his brother's death?"
"Supposedly, the murder was arranged by drug lords who learned of the
colonel's mission from a bribed Colombian army officer. As I understand it, Colombian police were to be trained in Venezuela by the U. S. Army, then sent home to infiltrate the cartels and kill the jefes and their associates. At the time a commonly held belief among American intelligence agencies was that the cartels were nothing but a large-scale version of common street dealers. In fact, the cartels had a superior intelligence-gathering apparatus."
"Did the mission go forward after the colonel's death?"
"Yes, but not quite the way it was supposed to," Valencia said.
"Our government unwittingly placed in the hands of the cartels a cadre of qualified assassins who were used against the supporters of the American-backed drug interdiction program."
"The jefes infiltrated the project?"
"No, they simply identified the recruits, waited until they were trained, and bought the services of most of them. Jump ahead in time.
The police assassins who refused to serve the jefes are murdered one by one. Car bombs kill ranking federal prosecutors. Politicians running on anti cartel platforms disappear. The federal official in charge of drug interdiction, a man of impeccable reputation, is killed by a sniper's bullet. Journalists sympathetic to the anti cartel movement are found burned to death in tragic automobile accidents. Judges are kidnapped, held for ransom, and then shot. Are these the acts of untrained, unsophisticated street thugs?"
"I doubt it," Kerney said.
"But weren't some arrests made?"
"Of course. Teenagers mostly, with no knowledge of the inner workings of either the cartels or the hit squads."
"So, you believed Father Mitchell," Kerney said.
Valencia tamped out the tobacco in his pipe and laid it aside.
"I was born and raised in Colombia, Chief Kerney. I know how the rich, the powerful, and the privileged are treated because of the resources they possess. I've seen firsthand how money can purchase special favors.
Even though Father Joseph had not one shred of proof to back up his contentions, I believed him."
"It seems as though Father Mitchell was trying to uncover much more than just the truth about his brothers murder."
"He was an expert in modern U. S. military history with an emphasis in Latin American affairs," Valencia said.
"He had strong fears that something more was at hand."
"Such as?"
"The people of Colombia are poor, the government is corrupt, and the elite rule.
Rebels and bandits roam the countryside, where the army refuses to go.
The country is only partially under the control of the government.
Cartels earn billions of dollars from the illicit American drug economy.
Growers are now raising opium to get a share of the North American heroin market. Counterfeiting of American currency is rampant. The United States has overthrown governments, supported dictators, and started wars in South America for fewer reasons than that."
"Can you be more specific about Father Joseph's concerns?"
"He thought that a number of federal agencies were participating in a clandestine plan to eliminate the drug cartels, install a new government in Bogota, and support a full-scale ground war against the rebels."
"Did he ever mention a secret American trade mission to South America?"
Kerney asked.
Valencia looked quizzical.
"No, and I've heard nothing about it from any other sources. Does one exist?"
"I've been told that one does."
"Interesting," Valencia said.
"How so?" Kerney asked.
"If Washington's goal is to overthrow the Colombian government and make war on the cartels and the rebels, it would be wise to have a compact with countries bordering Colombia that supported U. S. intervention."
"Would such a compact be possible?"
"Criminals give bribes to achieve their goals, governments call it foreign aid.
And all of South America is in desperate need of economic assistance."
"Do you know a woman named Phyllis Terrell?" Kerney asked.
Valencia reached for his pipe.
"The ambassador's wife who was murdered in Santa Fe? I never met her."
"Did Father Mitchell know her?"
"I don't know if he did or not. Last fall he gave a talk about the growing threat of military intervention in South America at a peace forum in Santa Fe.
He called me to talk about it a few days later. He said a woman had come to the meeting specifically to meet him, and that she might have some highly sensitive information that would be helpful to his research. He never mentioned a name.
But he sounded very excited about it."
"Do you know of any earlier attempts on Father Mitchell's life?"
Valencia stood up.
"We never talked of such matters, although I'm sure he knew he took some risks. There must be a dozen government agencies that would find his research bothersome. You must excuse me. I have a class at the university within the hour."
"Yes, of course," Kerney said, getting to his feet.
"Did Father Mitchell stay in touch with you only by telephone?"
"Most of our communication was by email."
"Do you have his e-mail address?"
Valencia nodded and reached for an address book from a bookcase shelf.
"I have little faith in computers. They crash far too often, so I always write e-mail addresses down. Joe had two: one for general use and another for more private communication."
Valencia read off the information.
"Did you have copies of Father Mitchell's e-mail letters?" Kerney asked.
"Or perhaps keep them stored in your computer?"
Valencia shook his head and smiled.
"Copies, no, and I make it a practice to have very little about my private or personal life in the computer. I trust them even less than I trust most police officers."
"Thank you for your openness, Professor."
"You strike me as a sincere, fair-minded man, Chief Kerney. I wish you well in your investigation. Father Joseph deserves justice."
One of Mitchell's Internet service providers was an Albuquerque based company with corporate offices in a business park adjacent to the Interstate. With walls of glass facing the outside world, the building presented what passed for a sleek, modern look. To Kerney it seemed nothing more than a five-story rectangular box, plopped down next to another equally unattractive box, with nice landscaping designed to hide its pedestrian dullness.
A directory inside the lobby next to the elevators listed the various company suites. Kerney found his way to the ISP's offices, where a young woman smiled genially as he approached the reception desk. She wore a bright yellow lapel pin that read ASK ME ABOUT SWAMI. On the wall behind the desk a poster proclaimed SWAMI: THE NEXT GENERATION OF INTERNET TOOLS. A swirling, modernistic, multicolored turban served as the logo.
He showed the woman his shield and asked to speak with the person in charge of the subscriber database. A young man no more than twenty-five answered the receptionist's call and introduced himself as Wallace Brooks. He guided Kerney into an office cluttered with computers and thick black notebook binders.
Kerney asked for Joseph Mitchell's e-mail records.
"Do you have a court order?" Brooks replied.
"Can't we dispense with the details?" Kerney asked.
Brooks smiled and shook his head.
"That's not possible, especially now. We're re tooling our subscriber list is frozen, and we can't release any information."
"Why is that?"
"Our current customer base is being used to test the SWAMI software.
With the trade secrets involved I can't possibly give you access to anything without a court order. Even then, our attorney would probably challenge it immediately."
"What can you tell me about SWAMI?" Kerney asked.
The young man's eyes lit up.
"SWAMI stands for Systemwide Application for Managing Informati
on. It's a breakthrough tool for Web content management that's going to revolutionize how people use the Internet. And it's scalable, which means it can accommodate everyone from home computer users all the way up to major corporations."
"How does it work?"
"Right now the World Wide Web is a monster. There are millions of sites with astronomical amounts of data and information getting added at an exponential rate. SWAMI allows users to filter and organize the stream of information. And its a server add-on software package, so users won't have to worry about upgrading to new versions."
"Sounds like a good investment," Kerney said.
"Tell me about your corporate structure."
"We're a subsidiary of an investment corporation. The technology we've developed is based on research done at the national science laboratories right here in New Mexico."
"Isn't this a risky time for a new start-up?" Kerney asked "We're not worried about the dot com or the technology stock shake-out.
Everybody is going to use SWAMI."
"Who supplied the venture capital?"
"We're wholly owned by APT Performa, a subsidiary of Trade Source."
"Does Trade Source own the rights to SWAMI?"
"Clarence Thayer, the CEO of APT Performa, owns the rights to SWAMI."
"When does SWAMI hit the marketplace?"
"In three months, max. We believe the trade name is going to be as well known as Intel and Microsoft."
"What are the royalty arrangements?"
"A fee will be passed on to consumers by the server companies. But we're talking about tens of millions of users worldwide paying a small monthly add-on charge."
"I hope you have some stock options," Kerney said.
Brooks smiled gleefully and said yes.
Kerney left, questioning silently if SWAMI's software tricks might be used for intelligence gathering. The FBI already had Carnivore, an Internet wiretap system, in service. Wasn't that enough? Or did the feds want something that had a more global reach?
He followed the connection that ran from Phyllis Terrell to Father Mitchell, and on to the ambassador and Clarence Thayer. Could the murders have had anything to do with SWAMI?
Under the color of law kk-6 Page 18
