by Bill King
The FBI spokesmen neglected to mention anything about incidents in Dallas and San Francisco, probably because the local support contacts were found dead before the FBI could apprehend them. Any lead to the actual terrorists had died with them.
“That really sucks about San Francisco and Dallas,” said Gonçalves, loosening his necktie. The temperature in his office had been borderline uncomfortable ever since the new guidelines on energy conservation had come down from on high. Seventy-five degrees might be comfortable in the Northeast, but in Texas, especially in Houston, his office felt like being in a Comanche sweat lodge.
“Yeah, both cities appear to be dead ends,” said Cortez. “No pun intended. The contacts were both discovered dead from a gunshot to the head…the forehead, to be precise.”
“Not to go all paranoid here, but all four of the teams appear to have been tipped off that we were coming,” said Gonçalves, removing a white cotton handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “I’d say we were pretty darn lucky to have gotten to the logistics contacts in New York and Chicago, even though the New York bombers managed to vanish into thin air.”
While the FBI publicly took their bows for the captured terrorists in New York and Chicago, along with the four dead terrorists in Chicago, they chose not to mention that there almost certainly were three terrorist cells on the loose who may, or may not, still carry out their attacks.
They were under no illusion they had this thing all buttoned up. While the public perception was that things were finally under control, law enforcement remained on high alert in all four cities in a frantic effort to capture or neutralize the bombers before they were able to strike again.
“To my mind, it seems obvious that we have a well-placed leak somewhere,” said Gonçalves. “This job is difficult enough without having someone else taking a peek at our hand.”
◆◆◆
Leo Bustamante was feeling good about himself as he propped his shiny boots on the edge of the dark walnut coffee table in Gretchen Contreras’ office in the Federal Courthouse building, two blocks from the county jail. He had seen the news reports about the FBI rolling up terrorist cells in New York and Chicago, made possible by information provided by his client to federal authorities.
He had a signed agreement with the Assistant U.S. Attorney that would provide his client with immunity from any of the myriad crimes he had committed in his short but sordid life. He had lived up to his part of the bargain. Now it was the government’s turn.
“Leo, didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” said Contreras, a look of distain on her face as she stared at his boots resting on her furniture. “I’d ask if you were raised in a barn, but I really don’t want to know that much about your personal history.”
Leo smiled impishly as he grudgingly withdrew his boots from the coffee table.
“So, Leo, what can I do for you today?”
“I assume that you’re satisfied with the quality and accuracy of the information my client provided?”
“Leo, we have four dead bodies and a whole lot of just-missed-‘ems,” she said, already laying the groundwork for further negotiations. Old habits die hard, especially for prosecutors.
“Cut the crap, Gretchen,” he said. “You and I both know that, with the invaluable help of my client, you were able to stop four separate bombing incidents in New York, Chicago, San Francisco and Dallas.”
“I’ll have to take your word for the Dallas and San Francisco plots.”
“Look, it’s not my client’s fault that you all sat on highly perishable information for nearly twelve hours while your folks worked on the perfect plan,” he said. “By the way, how many people had access to that information?”
“It was very closely held,” she said, her tightly pursed lips reflecting her offense at his insinuation that it might have been the fault of law enforcement.
Leo smirked. “Closely held, my ass. How many people were standing behind the one-way mirror in the observation room? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? And most of them were representing various other law enforcement agencies. Don’t you think each and every one of these folks reported back to their bosses on the highlights of the deal, especially considering how high-profile this matter is? Hell, you may as well have put it out on Facebook.”
She paused to consider his point before responding. He’s probably right, she thought to herself, so she switched the subject.
“So, Leo, again, why are you here? We still need to confirm that the two people taken into custody were actually involved in a plot against the Federal Reserve Bank. It’s still way too early to hand your client his Get Out of Jail Free card.”
“My client is extremely concerned about his safety here in Laredo. It won’t be long before these people figure out that he was the source of your information. He’d like to be relocated to a more secure location.”
Of course, she knew the FBI had already been working on his transfer for the past twelve hours. In fact, they were planning to move him that very night, under cover of darkness, to the Federal Detention Center in Houston, an eleven-story prison building in downtown Houston that serves people awaiting trial in the Southern District of Texas, of which Laredo was part. Unfortunately, there was still a good deal of coordination with other agencies to arrange for the transfer and all that took time.
“That sounds to me like a reasonable request, Leo,” she said. She glanced down at her wristwatch. “It’s two o’clock now. I will get back to you by five with the date and time of the transfer, as well as the location.”
“May we request a specific location?”
“You may, but unless it’s the same location we’ve already chosen, I see nothing but heartbreak and disappointment coming from your request.”
Leo reached down to pick up his briefcase before standing up. “I’ll await your call.”
◆◆◆
It was nearly four in the afternoon and Pete Cortez was hoping to get a jump on the Friday afternoon traffic. With the foiling of the four terrorist plots earlier in the day, this might be his first opportunity for a free weekend since the fishing incident.
His phone rang. It was Gonçalves.
“Hey, Pete, what do you have going on this weekend?”
“Depends. Why are you asking?”
“We have a command performance wedding this weekend and, by we, I mean you,” said Gonçalves. “The Director called the SAC and told him he’d like an FBI presence at a VIP wedding this weekend. The daughter of the CEO of Shanghai Petroleum is getting married in Houston on Saturday and Rob Pettis’ daughter is the maid of honor. Apparently, it’ll be a who’s who of the energy world.” Rob Pettis was probably one of the ten richest men in the country, but his power and influence extended well beyond his extraordinary wealth.
“Since when did we get involved in wedding security?”
“Look, I know it’s not exactly our thing,” said the ASAC, trying to put a festive bow on what amounted to a crap detail. “Besides, there’ll probably be more armed security there than at a Beyoncé and Jay-Z concert. The Director just wanted to already have someone on scene in the remote chance that anything happens.”
“Are we expecting anything to happen?”
“Nah, at least not that anyone’s saying out loud. With all this Federal Reserve stuff going on, though, I think he’s just being prudent.”
Cortez grunted but said nothing. He wasn’t sure what to think. Granted, it was a meaningless detail, but weddings were also a great way to meet women. Besides, he really didn’t have anything else planned for the weekend.
The phone line remained uncomfortably silent for a few seconds before Gonçalves asked, “Any questions?”
“Do I get to kiss the bride?”
◆◆◆
Graciela always enjoyed her visits to Houston. These quickie weekend trips were ideal because, after a few days in a city that made Miami’s humidity seem almost pleasant, she was always glad to get back home
to Mexico. She hated having to leave the Rancho so soon after the Frenchman had delivered the package, but there was no way she could have skipped out on the wedding of one of her best friends from college. Besides, Rhonda would keep everything under control until she got back on Sunday.
She enjoyed the shopping and restaurants and entertainment in Houston, despite the fact the city was also the embodiment of everything she disliked about the United States. It was the energy capital of the world and, while her time in school in California had not turned her into a super-strident leftist, she was a committed environmentalist. She believed that global warming was being made infinitely worse through mankind’s insatiable thirst for oil and other carbon-based fuels.
Thus, it was more than just a little ironic that the reason she was in Houston was to take part in the wedding of one of her best friends from college, a woman whose father happened to be the chairman of China’s largest energy company. Not only that, the matron of honor, also one of her best friends from Stanford, was the daughter of the founder of one of the most powerful law firms in the entire global energy sector. Life was full of ironies.
“Graciela,” Zhang Ying Yue squealed in excitement, as they stood in the grandiose Old-World Mediterranean lobby of the Hotel Granduca. Her father had reserved the entire hotel for the week to accommodate the guests at her wedding, as well as to facilitate security for the rich and powerful guests who would be in attendance. “I am so happy you were able to make it.”
“You know I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Gerty,” said Graciela, using the nickname her friends had given the bride-to-be during her early years at Stanford because of her passionate desire to discover a cure for all the world’s ills. Doctor Gerty Cori was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize in the category of Physiology or Medicine.
The two women embraced and exchanged air kisses to each cheek in rapid succession.
“Have you seen Hanna or Gwen yet?” Gerty asked, her eyes scanning the lobby for any sign of her maid of honor, Hanna Pettis, and another friend from Stanford, Gwen Thompson. “I’ve run into everyone else.”
“No, I just now arrived,” said Graciela, her head turned toward two men standing about ten feet away. They were trying to appear nonchalant but clearly were on hair trigger alert, looking for even the slightest hint of trouble. “It looks like your father has spared no expense with the security guards. I’d say half the people in this lobby, to include the women, are armed to the teeth.”
Gerty laughed softly.
“Nothing gets by you, Gracie, does it?” said Gerty, reaching out and taking Graciela’s hands into hers. “I guess that comes from growing up in a house surrounded by armed guards.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Princess.”
“I suppose wealth does make a person a target,” said the bride-to-be, a broad smile on her face. “But it also opens the door to a world of opportunities.”
“Yes, it certainly does.”
◆◆◆
At the same time Graciela was settling in for the wedding festivities some three hundred miles away, a gleaming white Mercedes sedan pulled up underneath the front portico of the hacienda at Rancho Buena Fortuna. An unusually tall man got out of the passenger side of the vehicle and began walking straight toward the porch steps.
Two well-dressed guards were posted on either side of the front steps, their suit jackets covering their weapons.
“Señor Fósforo, it is good to see you again,” said one of the armed guards, a young man whose crooked smile revealed a rather large diagonal chip in his front tooth that probably resulted from using his teeth as a bottle opener.
Three others—two women and a man—also got out of the vehicle and followed the Venezuelan toward the front door, where they were met by Rhonda and The Frenchman.
“Welcome back to the Rancho, Fósforo,” said Rhonda in Spanish, shaking his hand formally before doing the same with Isabela. Although she did not know the names of the other two men, she recognized their faces from having been at the Rancho a couple of weeks earlier. “Everything is downstairs, just waiting for your arrival. As I’m sure Graciela has told you, I will be working with you concerning the arming and transporting of the weapon.”
“Perfect. Let’s get started, shall we?”
◆◆◆
Chapter 30
THERE WERE ONLY ABOUT seventy people at the small, intimate wedding ceremony, which was held outdoors at dusk on the grassy lawn beside the pool at the Hotel Granduca.
Nine rows of chairs, with a white-carpeted aisle running down the middle for the bride and the wedding party to slowly stroll down to the sounds of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. The beaming guests were seated in dark teak straight back chairs covered by white linen cushions.
Replicas of antique Roman columns, accented by landscape lighting and surrounded by an assortment tall palm trees, adorned one side of the seating area. The lighted swimming pool defined the other side, with the shimmering glow from the lights reflecting off the water.
The cozy, elegant setting reminded Cortez of his time in Italy, where he had served in the 173rd Airborne Brigade in Vicenza. It had been his first permanent duty station in the army. While there, he had enjoyed periodic weekend trips travelling throughout the country, especially his excursions to the Tuscany region, before the brigade deployed to Iraq.
Pete Cortez felt a bit like James Bond in his black tuxedo, except that he was carrying a standard issue Glock 19M rather than the iconic Walther PPK that the world’s greatest secret agent preferred. Not that the bride’s family and guests would need the extra firepower. There were at least twenty well-armed security personnel located throughout the Hotel Granduca.
The wedding went off without a hitch. Women cried, family members beamed with pride, and the male guests smiled and tried not to get caught checking the sports scores on their cell phones. Following the wedding, the guests made their way into the spacious ballroom for dinner and dancing. The large room was organized with round tables for eight, each covered with a starched white linen tablecloth. There were flowers everywhere throughout the room.
Since Cortez was not actually part of the security force, he was able to sit down and enjoy his dinner. He located his assigned table without much difficulty and found a place card with his name on it. Sitting in the chair next to his was a woman in her twenties, whose short auburn hair fell to just above her shoulders. Her attention was riveted on her phone, where her thumbs were moving at a hundred miles an hour. She was oblivious to his presence.
“Hi, I’m Pete Cortez,” he said, smiling as he extended his hand in greeting toward the woman. She looked up and smiled back. She placed her phone, face down, on the white tablecloth next to her salad plate.
“I’m Gwen Thompson,” she said, remaining seated as she shook his hand. “Welcome to the lonely-hearts table.”
The eight people at their table were all singles, as opposed to the table next to it, which was for married guests whose spouses couldn’t make it to the wedding. Gerty was funny that way. She didn’t want to be responsible, no matter how indirectly, for any marital breakups on her own wedding day.
She picked up her phone to finish her text message, pressed SEND and set the phone back down on the table in front of her. She shifted slightly in her seat to face him.
“Are you a friend of the bride or a friend of the groom?” she asked.
“Neither. I’m sort of working.”
“Oh? What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an FBI agent here in Houston,” he said, reaching for the ornately folded while linen napkin in front of him and placing it in his lap. “How about you?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this but I’m with Homeland Security, based in Washington,” she said. Then she recognized him. “Say, you didn’t happen to be in Laredo about a month ago, did you?”
A delayed look of recognition crossed his face.
“Ah, yes, of course,” he said, smiling sheepishly
as he remembered her. “The Border Patrol headquarters. You’re the technician who was down there on TDY to work on the communications system. You were wearing glasses that day, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I’d forgotten to pack my contact lenses for the trip,” she said, laughing and feeling more relaxed. “I was running late that morning. It was one of those quick in-and-out trips.”
“We’ve all been there before,” he said, smiling. He was beginning to feel glad that Gonçalves had forced him into this detail. “Are you a friend of the bride?”
“Yes, we went to Stanford together. Me, Gerty and Graciela. The three brainy misfits.” She laughed at the memory of three socially awkward girls who had blossomed into intelligent, successful women. “Gerty is our nickname for Ying Yue—the bride—and Graciela was an engineering student from Mexico. I’ll introduce you to both of them later on, once dinner and the speeches are over and the band starts playing.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be sitting up at the main table with the rest of the wedding party?” he asked, noticing that she was wearing the same dress as the rest of the bridesmaids.
“No, that’s another Gerty thing,” she said. “She wanted all the bridesmaids and groomsmen seated throughout the room to foster a sense of inclusiveness, a sense of family.”
“Nothing screams inclusiveness more than a roomful of women in twenty-thousand-dollar dresses,” said Cortez, amused at the innocence of billionaire egalitarianism.
The next hour or so went by quickly. The food, as expected, was excellent, the service superb, and Gwen Thompson was naturally talkative, especially as time went by and the wine continued to flow. By the time the desert was served, Cortez felt like he knew her entire life story. Gerty and her new husband were now making the rounds, slowly but systematically, to all the tables, stopping to chat with each of the guests and thanking them for sharing their special moment with them.
