by Bill King
A woman in her late-fifties, dressed in a traditional black dress and white apron, poured coffee while a silver haired man, perhaps five or six years older than the woman, held a large white porcelain serving platter of chilaquiles, which are corn tortillas cut into small squares, scrambled eggs, cheese and either green or red chili. He stood behind and to the left of, first, Graciela, then López Navarro, then the Frenchman, extending the platter and serving food to each in the English style. He was the old woman’s husband.
The two of them had worked at the Rancho Buena Fortuna for nearly forty years, when the then-owner had first hired them as young teenagers. They had remained on the staff for the three changes in ownership that had taken place during that timeframe.
A colorful, hand-painted platter containing freshly cut tropical fruit was already setting on the table, along with a large silver serving spoon and fork.
“Have you heard from Mateo?” El Indio asked once the woman and her husband had left them alone and returned into the house.
“Yes, he is already back in Dallas,” said Graciela, pushing her black sunglasses up on the top of her head.
“Are there any problems?”
“No. He said everything is going according to plan,” she replied.
“What about the Dallas team?” asked the Frenchman.
“He will lead them personally,” she said.
“Have you sensed that he might be having second thoughts about the plan?”
“No, Tío Memo. He seems to be willing to do whatever is necessary. Perhaps eager would be an even better word.”
“Good, good,” said López Navarro, reaching for the large silver serving spoon and scooping up several slices of chilled mango. “Now, for the real reason we’re here today. It’s time for us to step up the kilo-tonnage.”
This was the first Graciela was to hear about the precise details of their scheme to monetize acts of terror.
◆◆◆
Pete Cortez had planned to sleep until noon before going in to work at the Laredo FBI office. He had not gotten back at his hotel until almost six that morning and had just dropped off to sleep when his cell phone rang.
“Pete, it’s me, Bobby. We need to get our butts over to the Webb County Sheriff’s office ASAP. I just got a call from him saying that Chucho’s lawyer wants to trade some information concerning the federal reserve bombings.”
Cortez sat up and slid his legs over the side of the bed. Why do breaks like this always seem to happen when I’m dog tired, he wondered. The red lights of the digital clock on the hotel nightstand read eight-fifteen.
“What can a smalltime thug like Chucho possibly know about the Fed bombings?” he asked, standing up and putting the phone on speaker so that he could grab a dark suit and dress shirt from the small hotel closet.
He knew that, once word leaked out, the national press would be descending upon Laredo, cameras in tow, and he didn’t want to be caught on film out of his dark suit uniform. He was still under investigation for the knife incident and didn’t want to aggravate matters with a serious dress code violation.
“Beats me, Pete, but I got to tell you, I’ve run across stranger things in my time down here,” said Janak. “How about you? What does your gut say? Do you believe him, or do you think he’s just stringing us along?”
“You know, Bobby, this guy, Chucho, has always seemed to me to be more than he appears on the surface,” said Cortez, searching his drawer for a clean pair of dark socks. “Give me about ten minutes to take a quick shower and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
◆◆◆
The Webb County sheriff’s office was located cattycorner to the county jail in downtown Laredo where, for the moment at least, Chucho was being held. Given the Federal Reserve connection, though, it was likely the Feds would take him into custody before the day was out.
The morning traffic was light and by the time Cortez and Janak arrived at the sheriff’s department, it was a little after nine. Waiting for them in his office were the sheriff, Frank Diaz from the Border Patrol and Leo Bustamante, who lumbered to his feet when the two FBI agents walked through the doorway.
“I’m Leo Bustamante, attorney for Jesús Ramirez Colón,” he said, shaking hands first with Cortez, then Janak, both of whom were now wearing dark business suits and looking more like regular FBI agents. Leo was still in his jeans and black tee-shirt, while the sheriff appeared to have recently changed into a clean beige khaki shirt matching the one he had been wearing during the chase and apprehension several hours earlier.
While the men were settling in, the Assistant U.S. Attorney stuck her head through the doorway.
“Sorry I’m late,” said the AUSA, who ran the Laredo office of the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Texas. She was a strikingly good-looking woman, tall and thin, with strawberry blonde hair, green eyes and an olive complexion that reminded anyone who saw her that America was still the world’s melting pot. Recognizing most of the men in the room, she walked over to Cortez and extended her right hand. “I’m Gretchen Contreras. I believe I already know everybody else.”
“Pete Cortez,” he replied, grasping her hand lightly and shaking it once. “Houston FBI. I’m down here …”
“I know why you’re down here,” she said, setting her briefcase and purse down on the big table, as if she had been in this office a thousand times before.
He gave her a puzzled look.
“Don’t worry, Agent Cortez,” she said, noticing the look of concern on his face. “Between you and me, I’m glad you’re here.”
The six of them sat around a heavy wooden conference table the sheriff’s wife had bought years ago at an antique furniture store in the small Mexican town of Anáhuac, about fifty miles south of the border, on the highway to Monterrey. Bustamante was the first to speak.
“My client has certain information concerning the recent rash of bombings of several Federal Reserve Bank buildings throughout the Midwestern United States,” he said. “He wishes to make a deal in consideration for this information.”
“You know the drill, Leo,” said Contreras, folding her hands on the table in front of her and leaning forward. “Why don’t you start by outlining, in very general terms, what information your client is prepared to offer? We’ll see where that takes us.”
“My client is prepared to show you the location where the terrorist bombers enter and leave the United States.”
“Is that all?” the sheriff blurted out, his agitation clear to everyone in the room. “That ought to be good enough to exchange death by hanging with a bullet through the brain. This man killed one of my deputies in cold blood. Executed him. I knew this was all bullshit.”
“Leo, I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t have made us skip breakfast just for that drivel,” she said, ignoring the sheriff’s outburst, which she understood perfectly well. In fact, she was in full agreement. “What else do you have?”
Leo inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.
“He also knows that there are currently, as we speak, four separate teams that entered the United States over the past week,” he said slowly for dramatic effect. “He knows where each team is and what its target is.”
This time, it was the AUSA’s turn to inhale deeply, then slowly exhale. Her green eyes were stone cold, studying the lawyer’s face for any sign this might just be bluster on behalf of a client who would do anything to save his skin. Leo didn’t so much as blink.
“And just how does he know this information?” Contreras asked. She focused her attention on the lawyer’s face, looking for any sign of deceit or doubt. She had been in hundreds of meetings like this and she knew from experience exactly what telltale signs to look for.
“He says he stumbled across their border crossing point about three weeks ago, for reasons not germane to this discussion. Several days ago, he had the opportunity to speak with one of the workers at the crossing point.”
“Speak to?”
“Yes, they s
poke for about twenty to thirty minutes. My client said that the man was very forthcoming, especially once they had gotten to know one another.”
Nobody in the room required more detail to imagine what that conversation must have looked like.
“Is this person available for us to talk to?” she asked, already suspecting the answer. “To corroborate the information your client provides us?”
Leo paused for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. “No, my client indicated that the man had disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” she asked, leaning forward, an angry look on her face. “What, did your client happen to kill him?”
Again, Leo paused for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know, Gretchen, and I didn’t ask him…beyond the availability question. I’m his lawyer, not his priest.”
“Anything else?”
“My client says that the man he spoke with was some kind of computer technician who indicated that the place he worked, the place with the surreptitious border crossing, possessed a very sophisticated electronics capability.”
They all looked around the table at each other. Eventually, all eyes settled on Gretchen Contreras, since the decision on how to proceed would rest with her.
“Alright, Leo, you have piqued our interest,” she said finally, her words slow and measured. “What is it that your client wants in return for this information?”
“He wants complete and total immunity for any crimes he may have committed up to the moment the agreement is signed,” said the lawyer. “That includes the alleged killing of Deputy Morales.”
The sheriff flew up in a rage, his chair rocketing backwards, where it crashed against the wall and toppled over, ending up sideways on the floor.
“That’s bullshit,” he shouted, spittle spraying from his mouth as he spoke. He looked directly at the AUSA. “You can’t seriously be considering letting this animal go free. Are you people insane?”
Gretchen Contreras rose from her chair and calmly picked up her leather notebook portfolio. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she walked toward the door, stopping in the doorway and turning around to face the five men.
“I’ll have to run this by the U.S. Attorney in Houston,” she said, pursing her lips. “I’ll have an answer for you by the end of the business day.”
◆◆◆
“Gracie, you might want to come downstairs and look at this,” said Rhonda Shaughnessy, who had called Graciela on the green point-to-point hotline.
Graciela was relaxing in her favorite wingchair in the library on the main floor of the hacienda, reading a book by Leonard Susskind on theoretical physics. The antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room had just sounded its second solid chime moments earlier, indicating it was two o’clock in the afternoon.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said, closing the hardcover book and setting it on the end table next to her. She stood up and headed toward the kitchen.
Eight minutes later, she buzzed open the door into the Bunker, where Rhonda was seated in one of the four reclining leather theater chairs in front of the large video display board. The padded chairs had been installed a few days earlier to enable Graciela and any VIP visitors to sit in comfort during any briefings and future operational activities.
Rhonda had also installed soundproofing panels on the walls and industrial carpeting on the floor to both upgrade the appearance and muffle the noise in the room. The result was a much more sleek, professional look to go along with its expanding technical capabilities.
Graciela sat in her usual chair, just to Rhonda’s right, and folded her arms across her chest. She nodded her head, a signal for them to begin.
“Lucia, please play the border patrol video from half an hour ago,” said Rhonda, who was wearing white shorts and a red Stanford tee-shirt. She crossed her legs and leaned back in the big comfy chair.
The video on the wall showed a split screen. On the left screen was the operations center at the Laredo CBP headquarters, a room with which they were all familiar. On the right was the operations center in the Border Patrol’s national headquarters in Washington, DC. Seated at the table in Laredo were two men she recognized as Frank Diaz and Bobby Janak.
“We should be hearing back from the AUSA within the hour on whether or not they plan to offer a deal and, if so, what the parameters of the deal will be,” said Diaz, who was wearing an olive-green border patrol uniform with short sleeves. The headstone-shaped patch on his right sleeve read U.S. CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION in yellow letters on a black background, arched above a Homeland Security emblem. The round black patch on his left shoulder read U.S. BORDER PATROL in yellow over the outline of the lower forty-eight states. Janak, who remained silent throughout, was dressed in a dark business suit.
“And this man called Chucho claims to have information on the people behind the recent rash of bombings at Federal Reserve Banks in the Midwest?” said a woman on the Washington end of the video teleconference, who was dressed in a light blue business suit.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Diaz. “He offered to tell us the location and timing of the next round of attacks, which his lawyer indicated were imminent.”
“Can you define what he means by imminent?”
“He didn’t specify, except to say that he thought it was likely to happen within the next week, possibly even days,” said Diaz, wiping perspiration from his forehead with the white cotton handkerchief in his right hand.
Graciela sat bolt upright, the look on her face reflecting her complete shock at what she had just heard.
“Good Lord,” she said in horror, her left hand now covering her mouth. She returned her attention to the large video screen.
“I can’t imagine that they won’t make a deal,” said the woman from Washington. Graciela had no idea who she was, but she appeared to be the senior person in this conversation. She made a mental note to have Rhonda find out who she was.
“You would think that—what with you being out in Washington—but here in Laredo they look at it differently,” said Diaz. “The sheriff’s deputy he killed was pretty well known and liked throughout the local community and people are very upset. They want justice. To be honest, they want blood.”
The big screen in the Bunker faded to black.
“The rest is just random chitchat unrelated to the immediate subject at hand,” said Rhonda, who turned slightly in her seat to face Graciela, sliding her left foot under her right thigh. Graciela had a look of grave concern on her face.
“I will call El Indio and let him know what’s going on,” said Graciela, rising to her feet, her cell phone clutched in her right hand. “Please keep me informed if you hear anything more on this matter, no matter how slight.”
“Gotcha.”
“And, Rhonda, see if you can find out exactly where they are holding Chucho.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 28
THE CALL FROM AUSA Contreras came at shortly after three in the afternoon. The Justice Department had instructed the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Texas to begin negotiations immediately, with authority to grant up to full immunity should the information given by Chucho prove fruitful. The FBI would be the lead investigative agency, with all other federal, state and local law enforcement directed to provide full and complete cooperation as requested.
Given the urgency of getting started, it was decided that the first round of interrogations would take place immediately at the Webb County jail. For added security, the entire facility was placed on lockdown, with no visitors or outside vendors permitted until further notice. The sheriff’s department put out a press release stating that this was simply a routine training exercise and nothing to be alarmed about.
At precisely three-thirty, Chucho was escorted into the interrogation room, accompanied by Leo Bustamante, who by now was wearing a dark blue business suit with deep purple tie. Chucho, on the other hand, was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit.
The observation room behind the large one-way mirror was another story, though. There were probably at least fifteen people crammed into that room, each with a specific role to play in support of the interrogation that would be taking place in the adjacent room.
“Mister Ramirez, my name is Special Agent Pete Cortez. This is Assistant U.S. Attorney Gretchen Contreras to my left and Special Agent Bobby Janak to my right.” He looked across the table at Leo and said, “I also note that you are represented by counsel, Mister Emilio Bustamante.”
Chucho and Leo both nodded in the affirmative. Leo glanced down at his black leather cowboy boots, which were now highly polished, in stark contrast to earlier in the day. His mind was preoccupied, most likely calculating his life expectancy, since he wasn’t exactly sure who was behind the people his client was preparing to sell out. He hoped that, in the hierarchy of evil, his employer ranked higher than the sponsors of the terrorist bombers.
His gut, though, told him the odds of that were somewhere between slim and none, and that concerned him. Greatly.
“We will conduct the questioning in English, with Mr. Bustamante translating into Spanish for you, should that be necessary,” Cortez said, pretty sure that Chucho understood every word he was saying. “And, Leo, don’t forget that everyone at this table has been speaking both English and Spanish since the time we were in diapers.”
He could tell by Chucho’s reaction that, even if he didn’t understand every word he had said, he got the gist of it.
“Mister Ramirez, I believe we met early one morning about a month ago, while I was fishing along the Rio Grande,” said Cortez, for no apparent reason other than to let him know that he recognized him from the violent incident. He was also establishing the fact that he was not some passive bureaucrat who would cower in Chucho’s menacing presence.
