by Alan Lee
“It’s getting worse every year,” said Weaver. “With cell phone documentation. We can’t blow our nose without outrage online. Thus, the extreme importance of JFIC.”
Manny scanned the various other photos. “Not all these involve drugs, Director. But you’re with the DEA.”
“The reason I accompanied Special Agent Weaver today is that our current situation does.”
Weaver slid him another collection of photographs, of an impressive mountain chateau, taken from above. Struck Manny as a modern day castle. Extremely isolated. Surrounding walls, a courtyard at the middle, four large superstructures connected by covered walkways…he looked closer and found a second and thicker security wall circumventing the campus through the trees. She said, “This is the aforementioned fortress. Built near Pine Mountain in Kentucky, near the Virginia border.”
“Not many people in that part of the state,” mused Manny. “Three hours from here?”
“Four,” she replied. “We nicknamed it the Appalachian Palace. Built in the late 1960s by gangsters from New Jersey, and then sold in the 80s to a shadowy umbrella group loosely connected with various organized crime syndicates around the globe. A completely self-sufficient and almost entirely impregnable compound. If we wanted to force our way in, we’d need military-grade munitions. There is at least one bunker going fifty feet into the mountain, and potentially many others so even if we had legal reason to invade, and even if we brought enough firepower to knock down the doors, those inside could slip out the back easily and then we’d be chasing them all over the East Coast. And avoiding that scenario is precisely the reason for JFIC’s existence.”
Douglas rumbled, “We know for a fact Whitey Bulger stayed there in the 90s, and we suspect El Chapo took up residence in 2010 for nearly six months, though we only discovered it after the fact. Other guests include Meyer Lansky and Fuentes, plus lesser-known but more powerful overseas criminals.”
Manny nodded, his hackles rising. He felt like a hound held on a leash, ready to pounce. “Who is the shadowy umbrella group who owns the Palace?”
“We don’t know,” said Weaver, vexation imparted between her syllables. “I refer to them as APOG, for Appalachian Palace Ownership Group. Organized crime syndicates get more and more sophisticated the higher up the ladder they go. This ownership group does everything legal, even pays their property taxes ahead of time. Their money gets lost quickly in overseas accounts, making it hard to trace. We have no legal reason to get a warrant. From what we can tell, residents pay ten grand a night.”
Manny whistled. “I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“Eleven days ago, Data Intercept started getting tower pings from the Palace. Sudden increased cellphone usage. PRISM captured fragments of encrypted phone calls and texts; we decoded enough to conclude an international terrorist has moved in.”
“Who is he?”
“She,” said Douglas, handing him yet another file. “Calls herself El Gato or sometimes Gato Rico. We don’t know her true identity but we know she’s a broker between various governments in Central America and drug cartels. The DEA attempted an arrest four years ago and failed. Spectacularly. Local news picked it up but thankfully the national networks didn’t. Else I’d be out of a job.”
There was very little information. Manny stared at the words El Gato and Honduras and deep within his subconscious chimes began to ring. Old memories he couldn’t immediately place.
“The Cat,” he muttered.
“Yes.” She watched his reaction. “She fled after the DEA came close but it appears she recently returned. We want to know why, and preferably ask her that question inside a holding cell.”
“That fortress is heavily fortified, with both a permanent security staff and El Gato’s private detail,” said Douglas. “She travels with an armed guard of ten men, based on our previous experience.”
“Good thing I’m expendable,” said Manny. “Why me? Why not one of your other sleeper agents? Because I speak Spanish?”
“There are two reasons why I decided to approach you, Sinatra,” she said, trying out his codename. All parties in the room at once decided it fit and bore no further comment. Her fingers drummed absently on the final manila folder, one she hadn’t given him yet. “The first reason is the clock I mentioned. We don’t have much time. APOG reserved a private jet through one of its subsidiary financial companies, scheduled to depart Saturday morning from Roanoke’s airport. Five days from now. APOG doesn’t know we’re aware of the subsidiary. Our best guess is, she plans to fly out on that jet. But that’s merely a guess. Because we aren’t positive El Gato is truly at the Palace, because we don’t know conclusively who the private jet is reserved for, and because of the previous disaster when we tried to arrest her, we don’t want to attempt capture at the public airport. Her involvement with cartels and foreign governments makes this extremely sensitive. We need another plan. That’s why you’re being activated.”
“That flight could be a decoy,” said Manny.
“Certainly. But for what?”
“What is the second reason you choose me?” he asked, though he’d already guessed the reason. And it was a doozy.
Weaver slid a large glossy photograph free from her manila folder and handed it to him. A beautiful Hispanic brunette smiling at a cocktail party. “This is El Gato. Our only confirmed photograph.”
Manny nodded, his lips pressing together.
“The second reason I choose you is simple. El Gato contacted the DEA and invited you to dinner tomorrow evening.”
7
Manny paced the FBI’s conference room, hands on his hips. He cut an angry and striking figure—Special Agent Weaver was forced to remind herself she was his superior officer, and he was her operational field agent; she was not a woman and he was not a man, a reality usually not difficult to maintain. Then again, not many men were made like Manny Martinez.
Sinatra, that is.
She said, “As soon as we received the request, we suspected you two have a history.”
“I knew El Gato,” said Manny, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “In Los Angeles. She was small time then, or so I thought. Her real name’s Catalina García.”
Weaver punched that enormously important detail into her phone. He’d just blurted out a fact they’d unsuccessfully spent hundreds of hours researching.
“Romantic?” asked Douglas.
“Obviously. Look at her.”
“Normally this would disqualify you from the assignment,” said Weaver. “But under these special circumstances, your relationship is our biggest lead.”
“What does she want with you?”
Manny waved away the question. “I don’t know. We didn’t part on good terms. And we haven’t communicated for a decade.”
“You still want the assignment,” said Weaver. It wasn’t a question.
“Sí. I always thought Catalina needed a good spanking, set her straight.”
Douglas’s eyes narrowed. “Good hell, Deputy, this day and age, your choice of vocabulary—”
“Venga!” snapped Manny. “You know what I meant. Maybe we don’t bicker over word choice, Director, when more serious matters press.”
Douglas turned a faint shade of purple.
“She’s quite attractive,” said Weaver.
Manny paused by the photograph. “Looks like she had her nose done since I saw her. Old one looked fine. I told her so.”
“Here’s how this will work, Sinatra. Director Douglas leaves on a flight tonight. He was never here. I leave tomorrow. I’m working on eight projects at the moment, but I will coordinate with local law enforcement if absolutely necessary. However, my sleeper agents don’t work entirely alone. You need support in the field and we’ve already cleared Noelle Beck. She’ll be your technician.”
That stopped Manny. “Noelle Beck? The cute computer geek in my office? Mormon señorita?”
“She’s not there by accident. She was already on loan to the Marshal’s office f
rom the NSA, cyber division, so I transferred her to Roanoke. She assisted one of my agents a year ago and she already has top secret clearance.”
“Does Beck even carry a gun?”
“She graduated from Georgetown and went into the Air Force, then the NSA. She’s a brilliant analyst and technician. At my request, Marshal Warren will deputize her or you can do it yourself. She had military training in the Air Force and she’s perfect for your assignment. You’ll both be granted a Supremacy License, a government wide discretionary permit pursuant to the national security clause.”
Manny didn’t know such a license existed and he said so.
Weaver replied, “A little known subsection in the 2012 National Defense Authorization Act. The licenses were proactively issued by the President himself, and the FBI’s authorization to distribute them remains in place until the law changes. It’s a posse comitatus workaround. The current man in office, I imagine, doesn’t know the Supremacy Licenses exist.”
Douglas stood and handed Manny an iPad. “This device erases itself in five days and has no ability to transfer data. Everything we know about El Gato and the Appalachian Fortress is on here. You have five days before that plane leaves. Five days to prevent a costly embarrassment for the American government. We need answers. Is she really there? Why did she return to American soil? What are her plans? And how can we arrest her without a costly and violent showdown?”
“I’ll read it tonight,” said Manny, accepting the iPad. “Brief Beck in the morning. Attend the dinner tomorrow evening at the Palace, give Catalina a good spanking, and deliver her to you trussed up like a pig.”
“Good hell,” said Douglas again, rubbing at his eyes.
8
Ten Years Earlier
Manny Martinez stood on the tarmac at the Los Angeles International Airport, the whistling wind searing his scalp, which he kept shaved. Hands in his pockets, chin set stubbornly.
A small queue of passengers formed a line, boarding a turboprop Dash-8, a small airliner bound for Honduras. So small the airport didn’t bother with a jetway. A brunette woman, about his age with fiery brown eyes, squeezed his arm.
In Spanish, he said, “Don’t get on that plane, Catalina.”
“Don’t let me go alone, Manuel. I am out of words to plead with you.”
“You are flying to a land of lies. Trust me. I tried it.”
The woman’s brothers waited near the small plane, bags slung around their shoulders, arms crossed. She shouted over the swirling airport noises, “Not lies. A land of gold.”
“Gold? Everyone there is poor.”
“Not if you know the right people.”
“And you do?”
She nodded. “I am the right people. Come with me. You’ll be rich.”
Finally he turned his eyes onto her. Hurt, angry eyes. “I’m a cop. You go to join a cartel.”
“Not a cartel, a revolution.”
“A coup,” he snapped.
“If necessary. Don’t call yourself a cop, Manuel. You are more than that.”
“That’s the thing, Catalina. I’m not. And it’s all I can do, right now.”
They made a dramatic scene, the beautiful woman tugging at her handsome lover. Nearby passengers had no choice but to stare. Her brothers glared murderously at them.
With her free hand, she wiped her eyes. “When you grew up in those lands, you were nothing. Fate brought us together. You’ll return as a king, now.”
“King of the nothings.”
“If it helps, think of it as business.”
“Another lie.”
She struck him in the face. Openhanded. He winced and bore it, the way he’d learned growing up. “I waited my entire life to tell a man I love him. And he betrays me.”
“I’m not the one leaving.”
“I have to.”
“You choose to. Remain here and I’ll take care of you.”
She made a scoffing sound. “On your salary.”
“It’s enough.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Not to me. To me, it’s everything.”
She snaked a hand inside his jacket and jerked out a polaroid of a beautiful woman smiling. “This photo, always this photo. You stay for her. But she abandoned you. The same way you abandon me.”
“It’s not just for her, Catalina. If I return, it’ll be the end. Of me.”
“The only reasons my brothers haven’t killed you is because of me, you know that.”
“It’ll take all of them.”
Despite the anger, she smiled. “You’re right, you know. It would. You are special, Manuel. You know it. I know it. We need you.”
“I can’t go.”
“I can’t stay. And you need me, pendejo. When I’m gone, you’ll have nothing. You’ll be nothing.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Her words clanged against the truth, loud, causing internal reverberations. He shook off the sense of falling and said, “My job. That’s what I’ll have.”
“Pathetic.”
“I know. But it’s enough.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Long as I can.”
The pitch of the airplane’s engine changed and the ground service guys called for her. Time to go.
She said, “You’ll never see me again.”
“I believe you. Because if you go, they’ll kill you.”
“Not if we kill them first.”
“That life is nothing but pain. Trust me.”
Catalina was close. Manny read it—the indecision and fear in her face. She did trust him. She didn’t want to get on that plane. No one prefers Honduras over Los Angeles, he thought. And she loved him. She was close…but she needed him to beg. Needed to be needed. She needed him to swear fealty and plead and promise…she needed the one thing Manny couldn’t give. Groveling felt tantamount to quitting, to surrender. Might as well ask him to fly. He’d begged as a kid and got nothing.
Manny Martinez would never need anyone ever again. He’d asked her to stay and she said no. Any woman who wanted to be begged? To hell with her. He felt his face harden, especially around the eyes.
She saw it.
She threw the polaroid down in disgust. He pinned it with the toe of his boot before the tarmac vicissitudes plucked it away. “So long. Cop. Good luck finding her. Or yourself.”
“Go,” said Manny with a jerk of his chin. He let the anger swell like armor to keep the pain at bay. “Your brothers wait. Enjoy your short life. Maybe they’ll bury you with your money.”
“What will they bury you with, Manny? Nothing but that photo. You don’t even know who you are. You will regret this, Manuel Martinez.”
He already did. He already regretted everything.
Only after she boarded the plane did he allow his heart to shatter.
9
Noelle Beck parked in front of his house the following morning. He came out on the lawn, choosing not to comment on her Honda Accord, the base LX sedan, which was underpowered.
Manny maintained strict rules about office coed fraternization and he’d forced himself to see Beck merely as someone to annoy. She was tall and trim, like she ran cross country. Her face bordered on being too thin but it gave her good cheekbones and an excellent jawline. She always kept her brown hair in a bun and her shirt buttoned to the top. He’d never seen her without the same fitted blue blazer.
She looked pretty, Manny decided as she got out of the car, even if he’d prefer she ran track instead of cross country. Short distances produced rounder muscles. Fury over stamina.
“Buenas dias, Beck.”
She smiled and Manny was charmed. “I’m new to town and know very few people. It’s about time you invited me over.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. We’re not allowed.”
“I’m a Latter-day Saint. I strictly see you as a terrifying masculine threat in danger of eternal damnation. But I like your house. They must pay you more.”
�
��They should. Do you even carry a gun?”
“As of this morning, I am deputized. I was given a service piece. Do you even know how to debug lines of Java?”
“Shut up, Beck. Don’t bring that computer jargon to mi casa. Also, my housemates and I share the mortgage. Also, sorry for saying shut up.”
She stopped and indicated the lawn. “Wow, look at your flower beds. Clean lines. Trim shrubs. No weeds. You’re quite the gardener.”
“I do not garden. Come inside.”
Beck followed him in, ignoring years of careful religious grooming that taught her this situation was fraught with peril. Alone in a man’s house! She grinned to herself, enjoying the scandal. She just wouldn’t look at him, that’s all. This was the first time she’d seen him wearing a t-shirt, because he usually came to work dressed for an active businessman’s fashion show. If she had to guess, the black v-neck t-shirt he wore now cost more than her jacket. It looked buttery soft…
…she just wouldn’t look closely at him, that’s all, she told herself again.
“Manny.” She stopped in the television room. From her position she could see the entire level, including the cozy reading nook, the television room, the gleaming kitchen, the back deck, and both staircases. Hands on her hips. “Your house is…”
“Yes?”
“Breathtaking. Do you have a cleaning service?”
He frowned. “No. We are grown-ass men. We clean up after ourselves.”
“Did you hire an interior decorator?”
“Of course not.”
“Manny, be serious.” She pointed at the oriental rug, the built-in shelves, the floor in the kitchen. “Someone vacuumed recently. The corners are clean. This wooden sculpture thingy has no dust. Your marble counters shine. Your books are exact. This looks like a model home.”
“You live in a pig sty?”
She gestured at the coffee table. “Even the television remotes are lined up. And…” She paused to take a deep breath. “This place smells like…cologne and leather.”
“The men who live here, we are fast idiots.”
