“Sir, with respect…” Brown began. The expression, which is generally used to prelude something lacking respect, brought a scowl from Hart. Regardless, Brown continued with her disrespectfulness by questioning her superior. “It won’t get our weapons back, but it might give us a way in. Landsdowne might have a connection inside the palace who could be turned. He might give it up for reduced jail time.”
Hart paused as he glared.
“We just discussed the fact that recruiting someone would take too long. Your idea would take even longer, because it includes the time it would take for someone to persuade Landsdowne to give up one of his contacts. Chris Collins will not be involved. I need solutions that are fast and require no use of force. If that sounds too difficult, you can leave your resignation letters with my assistant.”
6 Plan B
This was the final day that Chris Collins would legally be allowed to enter the home he had lived in for many years. Tomorrow, the new owners would be given the keys and he would have to vacate. There was a feeling of sadness lingering deep in his stomach, even though it had been quite a while since he and his wife Alice had decided to divorce.
The house they had shared was a symbol of their marriage, which had not been all bad. Chris was packing up the last of the boxes that would be taken away and put into storage. He had no place to move into right now, so he had decided he would be itinerant for a while.
He would probably stay for a few days with his old friend, Ned, although the way they encouraged each other to drink would not be great for his health. Then again, he didn’t really know anyone who didn’t enjoy a drink. He had often wondered why people always expected him to drink with them, before he had finally realized that he was the common denominator.
As he was thinking about alcohol, he coincidentally laid eyes on a wine cork set in a plastic display case in one of the boxes. He opened the box and remembered where the cork was from. It had been popped from a bottle of red that he and Alice had agreed was by far the best they had ever shared. They had picked it up directly from a vineyard outside of Aix-en-Provence around ten years back. Out there in the French countryside, it was common to show up at one of the vineyards with an empty plastic bottle, preferably a large one, and have the farmer—Jean Paul he thought the man’s name had been—dispense wine into it directly from a large vat.
This particular château wasn’t set up for wine tours. It was just a farmer with dirty hands, a sweating brow, and wine-stained teeth. When Chris and Alice had shown up, he was finishing lunch with his wife and had clearly had a few glasses of his own product.
Later that day, Chris and Alice opened the bottle in their hillside campsite overlooking the postcard-worthy vistas of long, winding rows of grape vines. Whether it was the view, the sweet smell of lavender, or the quality of the vintage, something made that wine special. They had tried it a few times since and it was always great, but not quite the same.
Chris realized it was probably a little over-sentimental to have kept the cork, but he and Alice were wine enthusiasts. Always had been. At that time, they had also been quite enthusiastic about their marriage. Chris smiled. Somehow, the memory made him feel better.
His mind was wrenched away from southern France by the phone. It was a hidden number. He hated those, but he hated not knowing who it was more. He answered.
“Chris Collins?”
Chris knew from the deep and gravelly voice who it was immediately. The new Director of the CIA.
“Yes, sir. How are you?”
There was no need for the polite salutation, but Chris decided it would be the right thing to do. Anyone who made it to Director deserved respect. Except for the traitor, of course...
“Not so great, given the situation.”
Hart did not have to explain which situation he was talking about. It was all over the news.
“Yes,” Chris said. “One hell of a mess.” He wondered if the Director was about to ask for his help. But what Hart said next suggested entirely the opposite.
“I must thank you on behalf of the agency, Mr. Collins. You were instrumental in helping to put Lansdowne away. More than instrumental … essential. Everyone at the agency is grateful for that.”
“I was happy to do something of use for my country. It definitely feels better than being on the run. Unfortunately, it seems likely that Lansdowne was involved in the weapons breach in Turkey. Actions he took before he was put away are still having an effect, and they probably will for a long time to come.”
“Exactly,” Hart agreed, then paused. “No doubt you know the mind of the man better than almost anyone in law-enforcement. But right now, reading Lansdowne’s thoughts is not a priority. We need to put a stop to the disaster that he has already precipitated. For that reason, I’m calling to ask you not to get involved. Not even with advice or a quiet word to an old friend. Lansdowne despised you. Everyone connected to him also despises you. For you to get involved will make everything personal, and it will become a distraction.”
Chris already knew the real reason the Director didn’t want him to be involved. It seemed to be egotistical for Chris to think it, but the truth was that any advice or opinion he gave might be seen as superior to the Director’s because of his experience in dealing with Landsdowne. As it happened, he had no desire to become involved. Trying to conduct CIA business without an official position had gotten a little messy in the past.
“Yes, sir. Understood. I’ll leave this all to you.”
“Thank you, Chris. I knew you’d understand the situation. And let’s make sure it stays that way.”
Chris didn’t like the tone of the final sentence. It was like the Director was quietly threatening him not to get involved even though he had already agreed not to.
As it happened, staying out of things wasn’t a favor to the Director. Chris simply did not feel he needed to get involved. He was retired from the agency and he had his own business. He had a major engagement lined up two weeks later, one of the most lucrative that his new security agency had landed.
He was taking on an assignment to protect D.J. Cyclonz, the up-and-coming rapper out of Atlanta. Apparently, Cyclonz had a few enemies from the streets and hadn’t made many friends in the music business either. Either way, Chris considered it a cake-walk compared to the high-risk missions he’d been on lately.
He put CIA business out of his mind and hit the call symbol on his phone. It was a number he had been calling every day in the recent past. Tsu Kim’s lawyer. A Mr. J.A. Steakley.
The guy had told Chris the same thing every day. Tsu’s case was being handled and she would soon be released. But Chris had the feeling the guy was lying. Or at least not revealing the whole truth. Ugh. Lawyers. He was probably pissed that Chris was even calling him every day, but Tsu had instructed him to keep Chris updated, so he had no choice.
Today, Steakley’s secretary didn’t even answer. Chris tried three times in a row before he got a response…and it wasn’t a good response. The date had passed for a bail hearing. The lawyer informed Chris that the hearing had been put back by two months.
“The Mexican justice system is, shall we say, inefficient,” Steakley explained while seeming distracted.
Chris couldn’t fight the gut feeling that this guy was probably planning his next vacation to the islands or maybe Las Vegas while he was on the phone with him.
“We both know that Mexican jails aren’t so great either. So what are you going to do about this?”
There was an awkward pause and Chris hoped the man was starting to sweat a little. He finally answered with a sigh.
“The good news is that the boy is going to be released. He will be returned to his family. What’s left of it. We’ll try to get the kid doing some news interviews about how Tsu rescued him when he was kidnapped and forced to hack. It will all work in her favor.”
“That’s great that Sheldon’s being released,” Chris said, “but the last thing he needs now is to have news cameras shove
d in his face right away. And the Mexicans should have already been informed that she rescued him and wasn’t involved in the hacking. My guess is they don’t want to release her just because the American government told them to. They need to be seen to be doing their own investigation.”
“When law enforcement picked up the laptop at the drug processing plant down in the valley, they found Sheldon had been trying to hack the Mexican government and others around the world. As we know, he was forced into that by the organization Tsu and you were pursuing. But that doesn’t change the fact that a lot of governments are angry. This isn’t only about one incident.”
“I can’t have Tsu sitting in a filthy and deadly Mexican prison cell for the next two months or longer,” Chris informed the lawyer firmly. “We need action.”
“Well, I’ve told you all I know. If I spend any more time on this call I’ll have to start charging you. You might not like the situation, but what can you realistically do about it?”
The lawyer hung up the phone.
I can do a lot more than you, you smug bastard, Chris thought to himself. He immediately began to pack a bag.
His experience had taught him that contingency planning was everything. He had already asked Frank to research dirt on people dealing with the case, including the warden of the prison where Tsu was being held. You can find dirt on anyone if you look hard enough.
Frank had told him that the warden, a Mr. Jorge Ruiz, had reportedly fathered a child with a woman who had been an inmate at a prison where he’d previously worked. Shortly after she had been released, he had begun a relationship with her despite being married. No doubt, the warden wouldn’t want any of that to be known by his wife or anyone who could end his career for misconduct.
But there was even more to the seedy tale. The prison also held young offenders. The girl was underage at the time she became pregnant.
That evening, with a whiskey in his hand, Chris called Frank.
“Well, well, I was just going to call you,” McDougal informed him immediately.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I thought I might join you and Ned for a soda tomorrow night, once you moved into his place.”
“And what would you put in the soda?”
“Probably a little gin and lime juice.”
Chris smiled.
“Sorry, buddy, it sounds great but there’s been a change of plan. I’m going to Mexico.”
“Well, I don’t need to ask why. “Plan B?”
“Plan B.”
“Depending on lawyers was always a pretty bad Plan A. But, listen, be careful. This girl you’re gonna meet, she lives in a notoriously bad part of Mexico City. Doctores. I’m guessing you’re gonna pay her for her help, and I’m guessing she doesn’t take Visa. Keep that big, fat envelope out of sight until you’re alone with her.”
“Thanks, Frank. Understood. I just started a security firm, so if word gets out I can’t even take care of myself, the optics aren’t great.”
Frank’s rumbling chuckle came back down the line.
“Good luck down there. Let me know if you need anything.”
7 Once Bitten
Chris had decided against a long road trip, and he had also decided against trying to smuggle any weapons through an airport. His skill set certainly put him in a better position to pull that off than anyone else who would be passing through Dulles International Airport that week, but there was risk nevertheless. The priority was to get down to Mexico and get Tsu released as quickly as possible. He couldn’t risk getting arrested himself just for the sake of having some protection because he was going to a bad part of town.
So, after a seven-hour flight via Dallas, Chris landed in Mexico City. The last time he had been here, he had lost a colleague and friend in the line of duty. Raul, a local and a highly respected member of a Mexican counternarcotics unit, had been killed in a firefight as they hunted down a high-level member of a cartel. Chris suddenly felt empty as he remembered the man dying in his arms. He decided that he should visit Raul’s family and pay his respects before he left Mexico.
But first, he had to go into another troubled area of the city. Doctores had one of the highest murder rates of any district, and during his recent research on the area he’d read about the assasination of a politician only that week. He had certainly been to more dangerous parts of the world, but given that the woman he was going to meet had been imprisoned before she had reached adulthood, he guessed she moved in questionable circles.
Chris arrived in Doctores after dark as the place was coming to life. There was a slight chill in the air, but groups of people stood around on the street, talking, drinking, shouting, and laughing. The smell of barbecued meat drifted across the air. Chris noticed a lot of people were wearing the colorful masks associated with lucha libre wrestling. The masks somehow looked sinister and ridiculous at the same time, accentuating the lips in a pout that could signify either anger or lust. This part of town was home to Arena México, a major venue for wrestling events.
Fans walked in and out of one-story bars and stores, still wearing their masks as they pushed bottles of beer between pouty lips. An event at the arena had clearly just finished, and the attendees were still high on bodyslams and flying headbutts. Children were running around too, some wearing tiny masks. These were young kids and most of them didn’t seem to be attached to any particular group of adults, like they were being protected by the entire community.
But as Chris made his way towards the apartment blocks and the address Frank had given him, the festival atmosphere of central Doctores faded away along with the excited shouts of children and adults. Much louder now was aggressive yelling coming from somewhere down a nearby street. It sounded like a domestic argument. A woman was screaming angry words at a man, letting him know exactly what she thought of him. But the man came back with loud words of his own interspersed with banging that sounded as if he was trashing the apartment. The woman confronted this aggression by raising her voice even further.
The only person Chris saw on the street was a lonesome prostitute who stepped hesitantly towards him, apparently the only gesture she could manage to let him know she was offering her services. Chris gave a quick shake of his head to say he wasn’t interested and walked on, forcing himself to immediately forget the sadness and pity he felt for her situation. He knew that in places like this, his mind couldn’t be distracted in any way.
As the woman turned away, Chris looked up towards the sky. These apartment buildings, maybe fifteen floors high, were in a bad state of disrepair. Several windows had been completely smashed and the facades were crumbling. But the number of each building had been painted large and bold at the top of the towers, and most of them were still visible. The number twelve loomed out of the darkness, letting Chris know he had found the right building. He was suddenly very aware of the bulky envelope stuffed with cash that he had tucked inside his jacket. Frank’s warning to keep it hidden echoed in his mind as he scanned the area for nefarious-looking characters.
He walked into the building and entered a stairwell that stank like something had recently died or defecated there. His career had granted him the misfortune of knowing what decaying human flesh smelled like, and this stench was not wholly it. However, the expansive red stains on the walls suggested that either a damn big animal had been slaughtered in the recent past or humans had suffered misfortune in this stairwell along with the dead animal whose scent had welcomed Chris to the building. The smell stung his nostrils and assaulted him as he walked on.
With a growing feeling that this was going to be a long night, he made his way up flight after flight of stairs. The distant beat of a bassline thudding through the walls was the only sound he could hear beyond his own footsteps that echoed around the stairwell.
After giving his calf muscles a good workout—those muscles that Alice used to fawn over for their chiseled and masculine form—he finally reached the eighth floor. He walked down the hall until he found numb
er nineteen. He rang the bell—a jangly, harsh sound, louder than he’d expected. Frank had kindly asked an asset in Mexico to make contact with the girl—Juana—to make her aware of the deal Chris had to offer and let her know when he would be coming. He expected the door to be answered. He tried the bell again and knocked. Nothing.
At the fifth attempt, the door was yanked open. A man stood there with his brow furrowed and his top lip curled in an expression that said I don’t know who you are, but you need to get out of my domain right now. He was shirtless, and tattoos decorated the top of his chest above pierced nipples. He was sweating and breathing heavily. Chris had the distinct impression that the man had just been having sex.
“I’m here to see Juana,” Chris informed him matter-of-factly. The expression on the man’s face did not change. A short, skinny woman with very long, straight hair appeared behind him. She had pronounced cheekbones and large, intelligent eyes. She was young, but her beauty was rough around the edges and a hard life had clearly taken its toll on her already. Chris knew from photos it was Juana.
“Antonio,” she told the man. “He’s here to see me.”
Maintaining his glare, Antonio slowly stepped out of the doorway then walked away wiping sweat from his forehead and uttering curses under his breath.
“Follow me,” Juana told Chris. She led him into the apartment and towards a bedroom. At the opposite side of the apartment, the man slammed a door behind him. Chris was glad things would be made easier by the fact that the interrupted romantic encounter hadn’t been with Juana, at least.
Between the two bedrooms, a boy of around four or five years old sat on a torn sofa watching a horror movie that was being blasted out at high volume. He seemed undisturbed by the screams coming from the TV.
Sahara Dawn Page 4