Wildcard

by Rachel Lee

  Miriam shook her head. “Not morally. I meant they’re good at what they do.”

  “If you say so,” he replied with a look of disgust.

  As she saw it, they had made one major mistake. There were too many people involved. A lone assassin could keep a secret. A dozen or more could not. Someone would have talked. Eighty thousand quetzals was a fortune by village economy standards.

  “Someone will talk,” she said.

  The commander nodded. “Sí. Someone will talk. And once they do, we will find them. We will find them all.”

  “And arrest them,” Miriam said, not liking the tone of his voice. She hadn’t come down here to ride herd on a vengeance committee.

  “They will be punished,” the commander said, a hard edge in his voice. “We have no death penalty in Guatemala. We are a civilized people.”

  No official death penalty, Miriam thought. But there were two hundred thousand dead in the past half century of civil war.

  “Thank you for the briefing,” she said. “With your permission, I will return to my hotel. It’s been a very long day.”

  “Of course,” the commander replied. “You are much tired. Your interpreter is also your driver. He will take care of you here.”

  Pablo Jimenez was a better interpreter than he was a driver, Miriam thought ten minutes later, as he moved across three lanes of traffic without so much as a turn signal. If the water didn’t turn her stomach inside out, his driving would.

  “You are nervous, Special Agent Anson,” he said. He offered a slight smile. “Do not worry. The driving here is very different from America, but it has its own logic. I won’t get you killed.”

  “I’ll hold you to that promise,” she said.

  “You don’t trust the commander,” Pablo said, nudging in front of a taxi to make a right turn, ignoring the horn blasting behind him. “I heard it in your voice.”

  “My job is to see these people arrested,” she said. “That’s all. No one wants a bloodbath, I’m sure.”

  “No. No one wants a Waco, or a Ruby Ridge.” He paused at a traffic light and turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Special Agent, but please don’t assume that we are savages. The commander attended forensic classes at your FBI academy in Quantico. I myself graduated from the University of Miami in Florida. My country has suffered much, and the suffering continues. But we are professional law enforcement agents. Not vigilantes.”

  “I spoke out of turn,” Miriam said. “I’m sorry. Just color me the rude American.”

  “No,” he said, pushing out into the intersection just as the light turned green. “Not rude. But your people are often arrogant. I was told you were sent here because you are good with people. I’m simply trying to help.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “So help me. What should I expect to see?”

  “It will be complicated,” Pablo replied. “Most of the guerillas come from the highlands, small Quiché villages. But more and more come from the cities, as well. If I had to guess, I would guess that each of the teams came from a different guerilla cell. They trained separately. I doubt any of them knew the other teams. Only the planners and the operation commander would know everyone.”

  Miriam nodded. “That would make sense. Like the French Resistance in World War II. You can’t reveal what you don’t know.”

  “Exactly. And the leaders are too careful to boast about this with friends. One of the assassins will talk, yes, and someone will overhear it and decide he wants to be a rich man. He will come to us, and we will capture the assassin. But then the assassin will have to tell us who the leaders were, or the rest will go unpunished.”

  “And you’ll have to move quickly,” she added. “Once word gets out that someone has been picked up, the rest will go to ground very quickly.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Or the leaders will silence the rest, to make sure there are no more leaks.”

  He parked in front of her hotel and turned to her. “There will be death, Special Agent Anson. I can almost guarantee you. But it will not be the police or the army wading in to annihilate a village. The guerillas will do it, sacrificing their soldiers to protect their generals. That is their way. It will be safest for everyone if we can capture someone quietly and he talks, and we are able to take down the rest in one quick operation. But that is, I think, too much to hope for. There will be death. In Guatemala, there is always death.”

  Miriam nodded. “All we can do is our best.”

  “And that we will do,” Pablo said. “Please know, however, that I do not think our best will be enough for your tastes. You will have bad memories of Guatemala, Special Agent Anson.”

  11

  Boise, Idaho

  Renate paid for their dinner with a credit card. Tom did his best to eyeball it and see if there was some indication of what company she worked for. Unfortunately, it appeared to be a personal card, in her name only.

  In her room, on a different floor of the same hotel, Tom sat in a surprisingly comfortable upholstered armchair near the window. Renate sat in a straight-backed chair on the other side of the small round table that most such rooms seemed to boast. She reached out and pulled open the curtains, letting in a red sunset. Her colorless eyes caught the light and for an instant seemed to flame. Had he been a superstitious man, Tom might have wondered if he was about to make a deal with the devil.

  He wasn’t superstitious, but he wondered anyway. “You know,” he said, “I’m really uncomfortable not knowing who you work for.”

  “That’s fine,” she replied with an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulder. “Remain suspicious. And do what you will with the information I give you.”

  “How do I know you’re not misleading me?”

  Her brows lifted. “I’d be astonished if you didn’t check out everything I tell you.”

  Point, set, match, he thought. With a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Talk.”

  “You’ve followed an interesting trail in your search for those who might be involved in the shooting of Senator Lawrence. It’s not an obvious trail. Certainly one that many others might regard as simply coincidental. But you think it might be more.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The fact that you keep trying to find out where a quarter million dollars might have gone.”

  He pursed his lips, trying to conceal his reaction. Had this woman been monitoring every move he’d made on the computer? Even as he went into banking files that should have been off-limits to everyone except law enforcement?

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I have my suspicions, as do you. But I think what you’re missing here, Tom, is far more important.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “This goes deeper and spreads a lot wider than simply finding out who pulled the trigger, or even who paid him. You’re dipping your toes into a swamp that is full of alligators. And if you aren’t very careful, you’ll become more than merely expendable. You’ll become a target.”

  His pulse quickened, as much with excitement as uneasiness. To the tips of his toes he was a bloodhound, and finding a trail excited him as little else did. “That’s supposed to frighten me off?”

  She laughed quietly. “If I’d expected that, I wouldn’t be here now. You need to understand this isn’t about a political disagreement turned bloody. This is about money. And power. It’s about people who can and do use others as you would use a paper napkin.”

  “How many conspiracy books have you read? Have they fried your brain?”

  Again that quiet laugh. “You know better. You found the connection between Wes Dixon, Ed Morgan and Harrison Rice. And you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t checked out my tip about Dixon and your boss, Kevin Willis.”

  Tom nodded. “They were at West Point together. Class of 1988. And they served in Iraq together during the first Gulf War. But there were close to a thousand cadets in that class, and a lot of them went to Iraq. Yes, it’s a connection. But
it’s thin.”

  “Life is thin,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Do you have any evidence that SAC Willis and Wes Dixon had any contact after Iraq? I don’t. What I have is a whole bunch of very loose, circumstantial spaghetti.”

  “But you’re here,” she said.

  “I’m here because I’m on suspension and have nothing better to do. And because I suspect you.”

  She smiled. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  He was beginning to dislike this woman and her head games. She’d been less than forthcoming, and she’d given him no reason to trust her. She was using him, without any doubt, and didn’t even try to hide that fact. And all her platitudes about “justice” were not enough.

  Tom let out a heavy sigh. “I’m thinking this is a waste of my time. You tease, but you don’t come through. So do you have anything solid, anything real, beyond a pack of wild conspiracy theories, or do I hop on the next plane back to D.C. and spend my suspension learning origami?”

  She nodded, as if considering the challenge, although he suspected she’d known exactly how this part of the game would play out. After a long pause, she reached into her bag and pulled out a file folder. She placed it on the table between them and flipped it open. On the top was yet another photo of the assassination in Guatemala City. But it was a photo that hadn’t appeared in the newspapers. It had been snapped immediately after the shooting, and showed a man and a woman climbing into a car, with a third man, barely visible except as an outline, behind the wheel.

  “The assassins?” Tom asked.

  “We think so,” Renate said, nodding. “These photos didn’t get out to the press. And so far as I know, your government doesn’t have them. If they do, they haven’t acted on them.”

  “My government?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Your government. And yes, that means I don’t work for the United States.”

  “Okay,” Tom said. “So what am I looking at? I won’t ask where you got these photos, because you’re not going to tell me anyway.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “You’re looking at a young Guatemalan man named Miguel Ortiz, or so our sources say.”

  “And?”

  “Look at the next photo, Tom.”

  This one had obviously been taken with a telephoto lens, and not in Guatemala. It showed a similar man, this time emerging from what looked to be a rooming house, with mountains in the background and a dusty Jeep parked off to the side.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “Miguel Ortiz, six months ago. Working at Wes Dixon’s ranch. That’s the bunkhouse for Dixon’s employees.”

  Tom thought for a moment, looking at the two photos. It could be the same man, although the lighting, angles and settings were so different that it was difficult to be positive.

  “Dixon has only five listed employees,” Renate said. “I’m sure you checked that out when you were looking at the money angle.”

  Tom nodded. “It’s a small operation.”

  She shook her head. “No, Tom, it isn’t. His ranch covers eight hundred acres. It’s just that the rest of his employees aren’t on the books.”

  He shrugged. “So he’s hiring illegals and paying them under the table. It happens. It’s wrong, but it happens. Hell, maybe that’s what he used the quarter mil for. In which case we’re wasting our time.”

  “He doesn’t have to pay them,” she said. “Not in cash, anyway. He trains them. The Idaho Freedom Militia is a cover for a mercenary training base.”

  “You’re saying Wes Dixon trained the man who killed the U.S. ambassador to Guatemala.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Renate said. “And that operation was scheduled to happen the day before your Southern sweep primaries. To goad Grant Lawrence into continuing the war on terrorism. And if that didn’t work, they had a backup plan.”

  “Killing Lawrence.”

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  Coincidence piled upon coincidence. Tenuous connection piled upon tenuous connection. And yet, when laid out this way, Tom had to admit that it was curious. Intriguing. Suspicious.

  He looked up and met her icy gray eyes. “So who are ‘they’? You said ‘they’ had a backup plan. I assume you don’t think Dixon is behind all this.”

  “I think Dixon’s a bit player,” she said. “A cog in a larger machine. And no, I don’t know who ‘they’ are. And no, I don’t know why ‘they’ are so intent on continuing a war on terrorism that they would train the exact same kind of terrorists you’re fighting against to murder an American ambassador, then try to murder a presidential candidate, all in order to ensure that war continues.”

  “That’s a big hole,” Tom said.

  “You’re right. And that’s why I need you to fill in the blanks.”

  “And probably lose my job. If I don’t get killed in the process.”

  She nodded. For an instant he saw genuine concern in her eyes. Then those eyes hardened again. This was a very dangerous woman.

  “Exactly,” she said. “That’s what I’m asking.”

  Tom leaned in a bit, his voice quiet. “Why do I think I’m facing a Hobson’s choice?”

  “Excuse me?” she asked. “I’m not familiar with that phrase.”

  “Damned if I do and damned if I don’t,” he said. “You’re not going to let me say no and walk out of here. Whoever you are, whoever you work for, whatever you’re up to, you’ve revealed too much to just let me walk away.”

  “You flew to Boise,” she said. “Under your own name. To the hometown of a suspect you’ve been told to ignore, on a case you’ve been told to drop.”

  “And word of that could get back to SAC Willis,” Tom said.

  She shrugged. “It could.”

  “You’d make sure it did.”

  She paused for a long moment. Finally she nodded. “Yes. I would.”

  Tom gritted his teeth and felt the hot anger surge through him. This woman spoke about people in power who used others like paper napkins. But she was using him in exactly the same way. Exactly the way his SAC in L.A. had used him. Exactly the way his father had used him.

  He fought down the urge to reach across the table and squeeze her slender, pretty throat. “Goddamn you.”

  “This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry for your situation. Sorry for having put you in it. Well, I’m not. I need you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Justice needs you.”

  “Fuck justice.”

  “And you need me,” she said. “Not because I could hurt you if you say no, although I could. But because you need to stand up to The Powers That Be. You’ve been kicked once too many times, and you need to stand up and fight back and prove you’re not a pawn in the world’s giant chess game. That’s why you joined the FBI to begin with. To make a difference. Well, here’s your chance.”

  The worst of it was that she was right. Which was yet another reason to despise her. But there was something in those cold eyes. Something hidden deep beneath the layers of cynicism and manipulation. She didn’t have the eyes of a fanatic, nor the eyes of a stone killer. They were the same eyes he saw in the mirror. The eyes of a hunter.

  And he didn’t see her as prey, nor as bait. She hadn’t been lying. What he saw in her eyes was need.

  He took a long breath. “So where do we start?”

  She smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you found out about Lawrence’s protection team?”

  Watermill, Long Island

  Edward Morgan heard the phone ringing as he came through the door. It had been a long, tiring, dreary day in the city, and he hadn’t been in the mood to pore over the accounting practices of a proposed Dutch-South African pharmaceutical consortium. The two smaller firms had no choice but to merge if they were to remain viable, but even that would not be enough. The resulting consortium would need a heavy infusion of capital in order to modernize its South African produ
ction facilities.

  Dutch accountants had audited the books of both firms, and their work had been checked by the bank’s accountants. Morgan had to read and compare both reports, as well as the raw data behind them, before deciding whether to recommend that his bank underwrite the merger and vet the public stock offering.

  There had been a time—back in college and business school, when he’d studied international finance—when he’d dreamed about the opportunity to work on such deals. Now, almost three decades later, it seemed a monumental waste of his time. He had far more important concerns than whether a few thousand Dutch and South African chemists and sales reps and plant workers would keep their jobs.

  He was installing a President.

  He tossed his suit coat over the arm of a leather chair, placed his briefcase in its customary place to the left of his desk and reached for the phone.

  “Morgan,” he said.

  “We have a problem.” The accent was British, although Morgan knew that was only because the caller had been schooled at Oxford and Cambridge. “A serious problem.”

  Morgan sighed. There had been entirely too many of these calls lately. He’d practically had to write Rice’s speech about the war on terrorism after his contact in the campaign had faxed him a copy of Rice’s own draft. Then there was the growing mess in Guatemala. Now, apparently, there was more.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “A young FBI agent has more zeal and anger than he has loyalty or common sense,” the caller said.

  “My sources say they’re nowhere close to the Atlanta operation,” Morgan said. And his source ought to know. “And if need be, we can sacrifice—”

  “That’s not the problem,” the caller said, impatience evident in his voice. “This goes beyond Atlanta. It goes to Idaho. And to you.”

  “That line of investigation was terminated,” Morgan replied. “As of yesterday.”

  “Well, as of today, that agent is in Boise.”

  “What the hell?” Morgan asked. Had his source been wrong? Worse, had he been betrayed? If so, his source would soon discover that not even the full resources of the FBI could keep him alive.