by J E Higgins
The room was silent as Wurry knew it would be. He smugly walked about with his hands still tucked in his pants pockets.
“Huh,” Dasher exhaled to get everyone’s attention. “You were the one who recruited that psychopath. This is on you.”
Wurry lowered his eyes as if making it clear what little respect he had for the congressman. “When you’re looking for someone in the underworld who has the balls to act against diplomatic representatives of foreign countries, the pool is incredibly limited. When you are looking for someone who has the balls as well as the intelligence and the expertise to do it successfully, the pool winds up nearly drained. Alvaro Gutiérrez was pretty much all there was to choose from. I disclosed all this up front, so you knew this going in. I gave you all a chance to back out of this deal. I advised you not to pursue this matter. Despite everything, you unanimously agreed that this operation should go forward.”
“You almost seem happy about this,” Tenison glared bitterly at the lawyer.
Wurry turned on his heel to meet the glare with his own condescending look. “When this leaves us all on the hook for what culminated in two of the worst terror attacks ever to take place in the Western Hemisphere in the modern age, I am sad, not happy. Especially, when it turned out to be for nothing.
“The missiles were discovered in Waziristan a few weeks after the Hosani assassinations, by the Pakistan army. There was no shadow group of military officers brokering anything, nor were the Iranians even approached as more substantial intelligence later concluded. As it turns out, our intelligence source who instigated this hysteria had seized on the moment and made the whole thing up so we wouldn’t cut him from the payroll.
“In the end, your over-zealousness led to the needless death of a man and his whole family, not to mention hundreds of harmless embassy staff. And, if that isn’t enough, thanks to us one of the most brutal cartel leaders in Mexico has cut a blood-soaked trail to the top of the industry due entirely to the intelligence we have provided him, illegally, I might venture to add.”
Dasher leaned in over the back of a chair as he studied the other men. “In truth, I’m frankly surprised that Guttériez was able to vanish so easily after being responsible for the horrendous bloodbaths of two diplomatic missions. The investigation by the Mexican government never recovered any leads towards who may have carried out such unprecedented terrorist attacks.”
Hechman snorted. “It was 2008. The cartels were out of control in Mexico during this time. In many areas, they had more power than the local governments. They had infiltrated all the way to the highest levels of the national government. The security forces were awash with corruption and units of the Mexican military were hiring out as protection for narcotics shipments trucked across the US border and collecting on the bounties the cartels kept placing on US law enforcement officers. The police were no better. Local, state, and federal police departments were well known to be working in the cartel’s private armies as hired muscle, assassins, and mercenaries keeping order on the streets and protecting the cartels’ criminal enterprises and dealing with encroaching rivals.
“At the time the very idea that a narcotics cartel might have orchestrated this would have been too dangerous for the Mexican government to consider. Especially, if it turned out they used active members of the police and military as part of the hit team. It would have been better to have an investigation that led nowhere and accept the condemnation from some Middle-Eastern countries than do something that would force a confrontation with a powerful cartel and the terrible fallout that would bring.”
“I hadn’t thought about it from that perspective,” Dasher said defeated.
“The question is, what is to be done now?” Hechman interjected, coldly. “The trip down memory lane has not afforded us an answer.”
Wurry pursed his lips and shrugged as he quietly retreated to a seat in the corner of the room. “Obviously it will be necessary to take some sort of action.”
“Can’t you intervene somehow and deter it?” Dasher demanded, looking over at the deputy attorney general.
Hechman cast a cold, serious gaze over the room. “As I said previously, I have exhausted my position to disrupt this. Any attempts to detour this will only cast suspicion and bring more people asking questions ─ exactly what we don’t need. I can drag my feet a month, maybe more, trying to put together the extradition order. But, after that, I’ll have to take action.”
“What about Mexico?” Tenison spoke up. “Can we hope that their government will be uncooperative in extraditing one of their own to the US? I mean right now isn’t the current government down there taking a lot of flak for looking like they kowtow to the US? Maybe we can push that issue.”
Hechman shook his head robotically. “The Black Crow cartel has operated like a Mongol horde in Eastern Mexico becoming a government unto themselves in some places. They’ve turned several communities into war zones and horror shows that look like scenes out of Apocalypse Now. The Mexican government has looked pathetically impotent trying to deal with them. The cartel has killed numerous officials along with several policemen and military. By all accounts, they’d love to see us come in and deal with this and save them the trouble. In this particular case, they might even give their approval to allow a US police presence into their country to aid in the arrest to ensure Gutiérrez’s successful extradition out of their country.”
“That would be the worst possible situation,” Wurry exclaimed. “From the sounds of it, the only option we have left is to deal with this and mitigate the problem before the powers that be do.”
“What are you saying, Trent? That we handle this ourselves?” Dasher looked at him in utter bewilderment.
“We don’t have any better option at this point,” Wurry agreed.
“So, we do what?” Dasher looked confused.
“We reach out to Gutiérrez and let him know what’s coming,” Tenison spoke up. “Once he knows that he’s about to be arrested, he’ll take off and disappear. Likely he’ll just start operating like El Chapo or Pablo Escobar.”
“Both of whom were eventually caught,” Hechman quipped. “Along with many others who lived to do jail time and testify. Even then you’re assuming that with the amount of highly classified intelligence in his possession, he would actually run as opposed to simply expecting us to protect him.”
“Then we’ve shown our hand and further endangered ourselves,” Wurry stated. “No, we need to neutralize the threat completely.”
“Neutralize?” Hechman repeated in the cold, dead tone that was becoming familiar. “You’re suggesting we kill him.”
“Precisely,” Wurry’s eyes widened. “Gutiérrez is a liability as long as he lives. Even if we could somehow manage to circumvent this current debacle, it would only be a matter of time until another such problem reared its head and we’re threatened again. No, the only way I see it is we have to take him out first before the authorities grab him. Once he’s dead, there would be no more need for extradition or risking our law enforcement agencies discovering something they shouldn’t.”
“But how?” Dasher interjected.
“We can quietly orchestrate our own covert operation,” Tenison jumped in, half excitedly. “If we were to receive this report discussing the history of this group along with the findings from the British, we could decide that the Black Crow cartel presents a serious terror threat to our borders and take action of our own accord. There is still a lot of grey area with regard to how the intelligence community works with the law enforcement side. If we intend to initiate a covert op to engage the threat, we just might not convey such intentions to the Justice Department. Things do get lost in translations in government.” Hechman grimaced while Wurry rolled his tongue across the inside of his upper lip.
Dasher was beside himself as he glared at the deputy-director disgustedly. “Except, covert operations are not simply done with a quick email and wave of the hand. Nor are they done in a vacuum,” he clarified i
ndignantly. “There are proper channels and protocols to be followed.”
“He’s right.” Wurry was again up and pacing like a college professor delivering a lecture. “This is no routine operation in Afghanistan, Iraq or some other hot spot in the Middle-East. We’re talking about our next-door neighbor. An operation like that has several offices reviewing it, asking questions all along the way. Using government resources means bringing people into the fold that we don’t want too close to this. It puts us too close to this by making our connection official. Now we’re using our positions to officially orchestrate a serious covert operation that will be heavily tied to us.”
“He’s right,” Hechman sighed. “We can’t work within the government on this one. This must be done outside the system.”
“Isn’t that what got us in this mess in the first place?” Dasher exclaimed.
“Working with a psychotic criminal is what got us into this problem in the first place,” Wurry reminded everyone. “We were worried about international blowback. This time it’s different. Criminals kill each other all the time in this business. A mysterious force suddenly assassinating the head of a powerful crime syndicate would just look as if a new group was vying for power. Or, at the very least, another interest or country was taking their own actions against Black Crow. In either case, it keeps us far from this.”
“You’re talking about hiring mercenaries,” Hechman stated.
Wurry nodded, “I am.”
“That puts us right back at square one,” Dasher exclaimed bitterly. “Taking that course of action means going to a private company. That also means we have the same problems we’re trying to avoid.”
“You assume we can only accomplish this by going through a military company.” Wurry cracked a sly grin. “There are still professional soldiers who operate on the black market as they did in the seventies and eighties. They get recruited through indirect methods with deals being cut in shady backrooms where money that can never be accounted for changes hands; no contracts are ever signed, and no names ever mentioned.”
“What kind of man works in those conditions?” Tenison growled. “The worst kind. You want to place such an important matter in the hands of mercs who work in the black market because they’re too shady for a legitimate company. You want to trust someone like that with a job like this?”
All eyes had turned to Wurry expecting an answer. As if he had been prepared for this question, he continued. “You’re not wrong. However, I’ve had some experience in this field. Governments run into the type of difficulties we’re finding ourselves in right now. At times they need some of the old school who they can hire without any paper trails and be completely disavowed later. I can say that there are some professionals out there who can be trusted and have the background we need. It’s just a matter of knowing the right brokers who deal in this area. Otherwise, we pay in the old-fashioned sense of handing over a briefcase full of money, or just pay in the more modern fashion of using bitcoin.”
The room was silent for a long time as the other three men contemplated the proposal. Wurry assumed that Dasher and Tenison were feeling more than a little dismayed. Being men with backgrounds rooted in covert operations, they were either leery of what he was telling them or they were feeling slightly disgruntled that they had to have such an idea explained to them when they should already know about it.
“How would this work if we did go this route?” Hechman finally asked.
“Very simple,” Wurry looked at him. “If the money can be provided, and I’m assuming it can,” his gaze shifting to Tenison, “I can reach out to someone I know who brokers such deals. Once arrangements are made, I have contacts that can facilitate payment discretely and through channels that ensure protection, so it doesn’t lead back to us. From there everything will be handled on their end and we don’t have to be any more involved than to bankroll the operation.”
Dasher grimaced. “In this day and age, nothing is that easily done.”
“Oh, if it were wire deposits I would agree,” Wurry continued. “But, as I’ve said, when the transfer is money being shifted across a table in some back room or at a casino table, it becomes a whole different matter.”
Gradually the mood in the room began to change. Reading the facial expressions, Wurry knew none of them were entirely on board with the idea. But they all understood that it was the only viable option they had in the time they had to work with. One after another the men gave nods or hand gestures signifying approval of the idea.
“Good,” Wurry smiled. “Then it’s all settled.”
Chapter 7
Crane had awakened to seeing a lighted blur and a soft feminine voice calling out to him. “Devon, Devon my love.” The voice was sensual. It wasn’t long before his sight gradually returned. The blur came into focus. He was now staring at the cream-colored stucco walls and ceiling of his hotel room. It was a cheap little box with the bare essentials for accommodations, consisting of a bed, a table with some chairs, and a television that didn’t work.
Standing directly over him was a woman. She was smirking as she looked at him. Her arms were folded, and she was shaking her head disapprovingly. Crane braced himself expecting to receive some sort of sermon, but there wasn’t one. Instead, seeing that he was now fully revived, the woman retreated to a nearby chair, keeping her arms folded. “With the kind of money a man like you makes, you could afford to enjoy far better lodgings,” she began in a heavy French-accented English.
Lifting himself up, Crane shifted until he was sitting upright on the edge of the bed. His bare feet instantly felt the cold hard surface floor. “Madeline, I like to keep a low profile. You know very well that people in my line of work make dangerous enemies. Plus, the place might be run down, but it has one hell of a good view.” He pointed his finger toward the jagged cliffs and the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea off in the distance.
Madeline said nothing, she knew it was a lie. She simply shook her head deciding it was not an issue worth pursuing. Crane, still clearing the sleep from his head was content to rub his neck. He was wearing boxer shorts and a grey tank top that clung tightly to his torso. Madeline took her time eyeing the tight muscular frame of the man soaking up the detail of his toned, athletic figure. He took no notice as he rose to his feet and sauntered towards the small doorway that led to the washroom, leaving his companion alone to enjoy the view with a glass of whiskey from the bottle he had sitting on the table.
The cold water from the sink washed over his face sending a chill through his body bringing him all the way back to life. He grunted a few times as he processed the sensation. Looking in the mirror, he ran his hand through the mop of sandy brown hair that framed a thin face and pointy chin. His dark brown eyes were sharp and seemed to hide in the dark contours of his brow. He slid his hand over the lower half of his face feeling the stubble trying to decide if he needed or even wanted to shave.
He was still contemplating that move when Madeline walked in. “Take a shower, then yes, shave,” she said as if reading his mind. Her attention focused on the tattoo on his shoulder. She had seen it many times in her life, and it still held a power over her that she couldn’t fathom. The tattoo was of a grey stone-like winged dragon contained tightly in an inverted triangle. In its center was a rectangular picture of a gold bursting bomb over a green and red background. In the left corner of the triangle, just above the dragon’s head, was the number 2.
The image was one Madeline was quite familiar with. It was the insignia of the famed 2e Regiment Etranger de Parachutistes, the 2nd Parachute Regiment, the elite Special Forces unit of the French Foreign Legion. The emblem invoked both a surging feeling of pride and bitterness in her. Her brother Rene had served with Crane in the 2nd REP, as it was more commonly called.
They had been the best of friends going through one conflict after another in hell holes and hot spots around the world. It was through Rene that Crane had met Madeline. When Rene was killed during a mis
sion somewhere in Iraq, it was Crane who brought back her brother’s personal effects and placed them in her hands. Ever since that day, he had become her family.
Not being able to look at the tattoo any longer, Madeline withdrew from the washroom. “Make sure you take a shower and look presentable.” She spoke quietly but with a certain command in her voice. A half-hour later Crane exited the washroom looking far different from the man who had walked in. He was clean-shaven and looked more like a professional soldier than the vagrant that had gone in. He wandered over to his bag ─ a canvass rucksack that was a common sight amongst the Bohemian communities of Europe.
He pulled out a fresh T-shirt and some jeans that he proceeded to pull on. Madeline sat in her chair, nursing her glass of whiskey while watching him.
“So, I think the question that has yet to be answered is what brings you here?” Crane asked as he slid his jeans the rest of the way on and reached for his belt.
“I wanted to see you,” Madeline replied as she nonchalantly looked through the contents on the table. “You’ve been back in town for over a week, and you hadn’t dropped by. I figured I should come and see you.”