Forgive No More

by Seb Kirby

  “You mean the FBI put out a wanted call for me.”

  “You should not be surprised. You should understand that those who think that Mexico is, as you say, a soft touch, when it comes to evading authority are mistaken. The days when Tijuana was a byword for lawlessness are coming to a close. I am here to see that those days are in the past once and for all. I think you understand?”

  Miles knew of Pedro Martinez. He was aware of the personal risk the man was taking in seeking to overcome the cartels running this town. There were constant threats to himself and his family and corruption inside and outside his own force. He was a brave man who had achieved much in the short time he’d been there. Yet it was clear he was overstating the case.

  The time had come to tell Martinez who he was. “James is my brother. I’m Miles Blake.”

  Martinez was surprised but not fazed. “I have bad news, Senor Miles Blake. There is also a notice from the FBI regarding you.” He paused. “Tell me, why do you travel with your brother’s passport?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Try me.”

  “We swapped passports.”

  “So he could leave the US as you?”

  Miles nodded. “That’s a crime here in Mexico?”

  “It is not regular. So, tell me Senor Blake, why are you here in Tijuana?”

  “I’m seeking a man. Luiz Reyas. I’m hoping you can help me find him.”

  Martinez frowned. “A man of that name died in a shooting in East Texas. His body is due to return here this week.”

  Miles was lost for a moment. He was back in the abandoned train station in East Austin cradling Luiz Reyas in his arms as the Mexican died. He turned his mind back to the matter in hand. “No, not him. His son. He is also called Luiz Reyas. I need to speak to him.”

  “About what?”

  “About his father.”

  “And why would you expect me to want to help you contact him?”

  “Chief Martinez, I know about your stance against drugs. How you are the best chance this town has had in years. If we work together I may be able, in some small way, to help you beat the cartels.”

  “This is the investigative reporter talking?”

  “You know about that?”

  Martinez smiled. “It’s on your record.” And then he continued. “How is Luiz Reyas a part of that?”

  Miles told Martinez about the investigation he was carrying out on the Lando operation smuggling drugs out of Tijuana for the European market. “They’re not working alone. The people they’re working with are the same people you’re trying to root out here. We can help each other.”

  Miles knew this was a risk. Martinez was not the first police chief in this town to have been appointed on a wave of optimism that he was going to make a difference. The corrupting power of the cartels was everywhere. Miles did not know if Martinez would be just another amongst the many who’d tried and failed.

  Martinez had not rejected Miles’ offer out of hand. “And why would Luiz Reyas make a difference?”

  “He has a reason, a motivation that means he could succeed if we decide to help him.”

  “We know more than enough in this town about revenge, if that is what you mean. It is the biggest part of where we are today.”

  “This is about more than revenge. It’s about a man’s right to control his destiny.”

  “And your motivation, Mr. Blake? What do you get out of it?”

  “A story. Just a story.”

  Martinez was silent for a while, leaving Miles in doubt about the outcome. When the man spoke it was clear he’d made up his mind. “Well, Miles Blake, tell me what I can do to help.”

  Chapter 12

  To travel to Florence I needed a passport that wasn’t being tracked.

  I phoned Alex Bishop using the number Miles had given me and he agreed to meet me at the Miller and Ploughman, a pub overlooking the Thames at Wapping. It was one of the oldest in London with parts of the building dating back to the 1500s and Henry VIII. It was known for a checkered history involving all manner of skullduggery as it served as a meeting place for sailors, smugglers and just about every kind of criminal lowlife in the city of London.

  Knowing this did nothing to calm my fears as I approached the building.

  It was evening, already dark, by the time I made my way there via Shadwell Underground station. As I walked in, no heads turned. They were used to ignoring strangers here. The cramped bar area was peopled with the expected array of drinkers absorbed in their own conversations. The building had been rebuilt after a fire in the eighteenth century. Dark mahogany wood from a salvaged ship had been used. This explained the gloomy, nautical feel of the place.

  There was no surprise either when I asked at the bar for Alex Bishop. “His table’s out the back.”

  Bishop made me as soon as I set foot on the terrace. He called me over with a wave of the hand.

  He’d taken control of a prime position, looking out across the Thames towards the bankers’ towers of Canary Wharf with their lights shining out across the river as if there was no tomorrow. There was no need for sailors or smugglers in Bishop’s entourage nor amongst the boys on the opposite bank of the Thames – their skullduggery was all of the digital kind.

  Bishop looked me over, eyeing another payday, calculating how much he thought he could take me for.

  I tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I need a passport.”

  He smiled. “You’ve come to the right place, then. When do you need it?”

  “As soon as.”

  “Affects the price.”

  “One day.”

  He exhaled. “Makes it different. That’s five thou, that is.”

  “Make it four.”

  He looked at me long and hard. “Cash up front.”

  The cash I had left was running low. There was nothing yet from Adam Weston. This was going to be a problem. “I can give you five hundred up front.”

  He leaned back and looked away, across the Thames. “Then it’s no deal. It has to be cash up front. What if you don’t come back?”

  “What if you run away with my money?”

  He feigned being offended. “And damage my reputation? I don’t think so.”

  “You know I’ll come back with the money. I need the passport.” He was gazing at my Rolex, the gift they’d given me when I’d left the radio station. “Must be worth a couple of thou.”

  I removed the watch and handed it to him. “I want it back.”

  His hand was still outstretched, palm open. “And the five hundred.”

  I handed him the notes. “Adrian Gillespie. Use it as the name on the passport.”

  He smiled again. “OK. I expect the other two thou on delivery. Four thou if you want the watch back. Be here same time tomorrow.”

  He paused and nodded to two of his men. “Oh, and you’ll need to go with Mr. Spinks and the other gentleman to get a head and shoulders, won’t you?”

  They walked me away from the pub along deserted and dark East End streets. I didn’t know where they were taking me. The further we walked the less I was any longer sure that the whole thing wasn’t a setup to relieve me of my money and my Rolex. I cursed myself for being this foolish, leaving myself in such a defenseless position, trusting those who I had no instinct to trust.

  When we reached the all-night pharmacy on Wapping Lane, they walked me inside and sat me down in the photo booth. One of them, the ugliest, Spinks, was in control. “Now, make sure the seat is the right height so your face fits the frame. And let’s make sure the curtain is out of the way so there’s a nice white background. You wouldn’t want people to think this wasn’t a proper passport photo now, would you?”

  They fed the machine money. I sat still as the four shots were taken. When the photos popped out, Spinks dismissed me. “You can go now.”

  I walked away, heading back towards Shadwell Underground and the light.

  Back at the hotel, I couldn’t resist any longer the impulse
to call Julia on the mobile phone. She picked up.

  “Just to check you’re all right.”

  It was good to hear her voice again. “Everything’s fine. Mark Stone is serious about protecting us and Faith’s property. He’s got a couple of local men with him. It’s helping me feel secure. Faith took me to the postnatal clinic. That’s all fine, too.”

  “Baby Simon is progressing well?”

  “He’s doing fine.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Jim, you’re not taking risks?”

  “I’m OK. No need to worry. I’m going to get off the line now. Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  I closed the line.

  I hadn’t told Julia what I still needed to do to get the passport to allow me to travel to Florence. There was no need to worry her with the details.

  Chapter 13

  Agent Michael Bedford congratulated himself that he’d found a way to get his life back again. He’d gained enough information from Adam Weston to keep Maynard off his back. And he’d found a way of dealing with Craven.

  The first step back to control was to make sure the recording of the conversation between Weston and James Blake was placed in an encrypted location on the FBI database where Bedford alone would have access. Bill Maynard knew only that Blake was in London and was under surveillance. Bedford wanted to keep it this way. This was his insurance policy. The information that would be key to his future. Hiding the recording was a simple enough task for someone with his computing knowledge.

  The second step was to contact Nate Craven and let him know the game had changed.

  Craven picked up as soon as Bedford accessed the secure line.

  He was in no mood to talk. “What is it, Bedford?”

  Bedford took his time. “I have something you should hear.”

  He placed the phone close to the speaker of the computer so Craven could hear the recording Bedford had brought back from Adam Weston’s apartment.

  It was Adam Weston’s voice.

  “The key is to understand that the Town Lake bombing was not down to East Africa terrorists. It was about something much nearer to home. I’ve found the real reason for the atrocity was known within the organization but that’s being covered up with the terrorist claims. Someone has been working hard to erase the real record. They’re good but they’ve left telltale signs.”

  And now James Blake.

  “Such as?”

  Back to Weston.

  “Such as the details of how the FBI first got involved with protecting Elmore Ravitz and his family.”

  Craven’s voice sounded tense as he interrupted. “Just what are we listening to, Bedford?”

  Bedford stopped the playback. “Can’t you tell, Nate? That’s Adam Weston talking with James Blake. About what happened at Town Lake.”

  “The hacker?”

  “The very same.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “By doing my job, Nate. It’s from my surveillance of Weston.”

  “And James Blake was there?”

  “Like I said. OK, so listen to this.”

  Bedford resumed the playback.

  Weston was speaking.

  “Franks was in possession of information that was deadly to others within the organization. Part of that was fortune. The rest was good solid deduction. The combination was enough for someone to want to eliminate him.”

  Now Blake.

  “Can you tell who’s behind the cover up?”

  Weston’s reply.

  “Whoever’s been cleaning up has been good enough to stay concealed.”

  And more from Blake.

  “Any mention of Craven? Agent Nate Craven?”

  Craven called a halt once more. “OK, Bedford. What’s this got to do with anything?”

  “It’s got to do with the fact that I want out. You understand. If you don’t want to hear about this again, you count me out of Mexico and you stop treating me as if you own me.”

  “On the basis of hearsay from two English targets under our active surveillance? I don’t think that’s any kind of threat.”

  “So you’re prepared to take a chance?”

  “On what?”

  “On what happens if I give this to Bill Maynard. I can’t think he’ll do anything but draw conclusions from this, not if he hears the whole conversation.”

  “What else is on it?”

  “That’s what you’re going to have to pay to hear, Nate.”

  Craven hesitated, making it clear that the mention of Maynard’s name had affected him. “Where’s the recording now, Bedford?”

  “I have it secured. For my sole use.”

  “You have a way of not revealing it to Maynard?”

  Bedford was relishing the feeling of getting the upper hand, just like he felt when he’d pulled the Glock on Weston. “Maynard doesn’t know any more than I was tailing the target. He doesn’t know there is a recording. Not yet. It can stay like that if you want. I have a one-to-one meeting with him just about now.”

  “OK. OK. Let’s say we keep this between us. Tell me what you want.”

  “That’s better, Nate. I want what I asked you for, nothing more. I want out. I want you off my back.”

  Bedford closed the line. There was no need for anything further. Craven had got the message. He had no way of knowing what else was on the recording. It had real power over him. He would have to agree to Bedford’s terms.

  Bedford sat back and congratulated himself once more. It felt good to have stood up to Craven. The second step along the way to getting his life back had gone well.

  The third step was Maynard. The one-on-one meeting was sure to be a trial. But this time it would be different. Tracking down Weston was a success. Maynard needed to know about that. But Bedford would not reveal the recording. He wanted to tell Maynard enough to build the pressure on Craven, nothing more.

  Maynard was his usual blustering self when the one-on-one started and Bedford was not surprised when the man piled straight in. “OK, you had a brief to do something about the Adam Weston target and to make progress on Miles Blake. So, Bedford, what progress have you made?”

  Bedford would not cower this time. In fact, he felt a confidence in dealing with Maynard he hadn’t felt before. “I have a success to report, sir. I traced the target Weston to an apartment in Pimlico and put it under surveillance. A farther key target was identified arriving at the premises.”

  He tabled a print out of a photograph of the target.

  Maynard gave it a skeptical glance. “The target is Miles Blake?”

  “No, sir. In fact it’s the brother, James.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The facial recognition software is clear on this, sir. This is James Blake.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Under half an hour.”

  “You had them bugged?”

  Bedford lied. “No, sir. I wasn’t set up for that. I wasn’t expecting they would both be there.”

  “So what use is this?”

  “When Blake left, I paid Weston a visit. He became cooperative when I showed him a little extra attention.”

  Maynard smiled. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you, boy.”

  “As we thought, he’s scared stiff we’re going to take him in. He’s prepared to co-operate. It should be no problem to get him to wear a wire when he next meets Blake.”

  “You know where and when that is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So if he makes a run for it, you’ve lost him?”

  “That’s not the case. I took the precaution of sprinkling RFID dust on the floor where he’d walk. Those little transponders will be stuck to the soles of his shoes. Whenever he goes near enough to a strong enough magnetic field and electricity can be scavenged, we’ll get back a radio signal that gives us his location.”

  “If it works so well, tell me where he is now.”

  Bedford pull
ed out the tablet he was carrying and called up the custom locator app. He had to hope that the tagging system on Weston was active. Much to Bedford’s relief, the screen showed a blinking blue dot indicating the target. “He’s on the move, sir. He’s in the West End.”

  Maynard looked impressed but didn’t show it. “Anything else, Bedford?”

  Bedford wanted to get this right, to make it sound like he was reluctant to say what was coming next. “I don’t know if I should mention this, sir. There’s almost certain to be nothing in it but I think it’s something you should know.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Weston told me the Blakes are making claims about corruption in one of our own.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Agent Nate Craven.”

  “And you think that might be credible?”

  “Of course not, sir. But there was something about the way Weston told me this that made me think others might come to believe him if we were to let this ride.”

  “But there’s no hard evidence for that?”

  “No, sir.”

  Bedford was growing ever more confident. “I ran some checks on James Blake. He’s a target on our system but there’s something about the audit trail on him that doesn’t add up. There are gaps in the data and it’s possible someone has been messing with it, covering their tracks. But one thing stands out. He was in Austin at the time of the Town Lake bombing. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  Maynard’s eyes sparkled. “Bedford, there’s no such thing as coincidence. That’s what I’ve learned in all the years I’ve been in this game. Whenever there’s an appeal to coincidence there’s something someone, somewhere wants to hide. So, you’re saying this is somehow connected with Craven?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It’s the way the data looks.”

  Maynard grunted and said no more. It was clear he was taking in the possible consequences of what Bedford had told him. When he next spoke, he was constructive. “So, tell me what you need.”

  “Sir?”

  “To close in on Blake. To make sure we bring the mother’s son to book.”