Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  He continued, “There was quite a bit of information on you, Diego.” He was looking at the man next to Marcos. “I was surprised at the extent of your involvement in a variety of concerns, legal and illegal. They think that you have much more in the way of resources than you had indicated to me. They seem to believe that you are wealthy, in fact. They don’t have much in the way of incriminating evidence against you, really nothing at all, but their suspicions are real. They have you listed as the most likely agent in the deaths of twelve people in the last five years. One of the offenses could not have been committed by you, because I remember performing that deed myself. The others — well, they have equally little real clue about, although I believe they are probably correct in their suspicions.” Marcos looked over at the man with surprise.

  “Marcos, they have files on your parents, your cousins, your maids, your gardener, your stockbroker, your garbage collector, and your plumber. Most of your business associates have been investigated and contacted. They have a file on your mistress, your wife, and your ex-wife. They have extensive information about every interpersonal dealing that you have had.” Jeff paused, and took a breath. Marcos had a completely flat expression.

  “They have a large and detailed personal file on you Marcos. They know your weight and your cholesterol level. They have careful documentation of your day-to-day activities, often with fairly precise schedules. They have a well-outlined case against you.” Marcos was now a cross between his two sons, appearing both concerned and bewildered. What had started as an enjoyable evening was turning into the beginning of an uncertain future. This incredible man sitting in front of him was providing information that was inconceivable — and disastrous.

  Jeff was scrutinizing Marcos’s expression and read him well. The man was soon going to be needing advice. He looked into the fat man’s eyes and said, “But, worry not about the DEA, my friend.”

  “How can I not worry about the DEA?” Marcos’s voice immediately rose to a shout. “That is a stupid thing to say. There are extradition treaties now that work faster than a five-dollar prostitute. What do you mean, don’t worry?”

  Jeff sat quietly. He pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket, bit off the tip, and slowly reached into his pocket for a match. He looked at Marcos only after the tobacco had ignited. “The lead investigator for the Americans has retired to a private position with a large corporation, and took several of his clerical staff. The information on you was in a locked filing cabinet. Your file has not been touched in nearly three months. They have forgotten about you, Juan Marcos.”

  The man on the other side of the table stared blankly, was pensive for almost a minute, then recovered his usually stoic persona, and laughed aloud. He took several puffs on his cigar, which had been ignored for the duration of the conversation, but had not quite gone out. “Tell me what you did with those files, my friend Jeff.”

  “If I could have removed them from the premises, I would have. It was not possible. I filed them very carefully, mixed in with the records of one Jose Luis Intaglia, a small time flunky, deceased now these past three years. It looks as though they had done a significant investigation into his activities also, but he dropped dead before they could pursue it. You are in their dead files, Juan Marcos. Locked in the vaults of bureaucracy.”

  Marcos was grinning widely now, the relief obvious. “You have pulled victory from the jaws of defeat, my American friend. You are worth every bit of the money I promised you.” Marcos pushed a leather packet toward Jeff.

  Jeff put his hand down on the packet, but did not pick it up. “There is more. I really think we should talk in private.”

  Marcos stopped laughing, and looked sternly at Jeff. “I meant what I said earlier. Talk now, and keep no secrets.”

  Jeff tossed back a shot of tequila that had been placed in front of him by the attentive waitress. He closed his eyes as the hot liquor coursed through his esophagus. His tongue always felt like it was curling under itself when he drank tequila. He hated the stuff. “As I was saying, the DEA had files on everybody who has ever been associated with you. It was very impressive and detailed work. They seem to know things that you yourself may not know. Personal things.” He paused to let the statement sink in, while staring directly at the younger son. Jeff then turned to look straight into the eyes that were deeply set into the enormous head across the table. “They were successful in their contacts with your people. They have someone on the inside of your organization who has fed them information.”

  Marcos was not a stupid man. He no longer missed the obvious implications. Now he spoke rapidly, reflexively. “Whoever it is, dies. Tonight! Tell me who, Jeff. Tell me who.”

  Jeff continued, “You said to be open.” He looked at the wiry banker who in turn was looking down at the table. “It is typical of many of the bureaucracies of Washington to have a report style that is difficult to interpret. There is an entirely different vocabulary sometimes, and the DEA is certainly not immune to this. It was not like I had all the time in the world, either.” Done apologizing, he continued, “However, there were frequent references to ‘sources’ and it became clear as I reviewed the records that there were references to at least two people as ‘sources.’ I cannot confidently attest as to who these people are, but they are real, and are most certainly close to you.”

  Juan Marcos had closed his eyes in his dark corner; his cigar now had indeed gone out. His eyes were narrow slits. He sighed, then cracked open his eyelids, looking toward the younger American.

  “I would like to have any theories. Any information that could possibly be useful.”

  “There is little I can say. But there were two items that were particularly noteworthy. One was that they seemed to have detailed information regarding hundreds of your financial transactions. Times, dates, amounts, and parties involved. The other item is more of a notable absence, rather than anything else.” He paused for effect, and again looked toward the diminutive banker. “Mr. Cruzon, there was a file on you of course. But, sir, your file was empty.”

  Ricardo Cruzon had never been a man who thought quickly when under stress. Jeff had seen that in the past, and part of his plan relied on that fact. He had already been moderately successful, but Cruzon’s response now was critical. He fell right in. Cruzon looked up at the large and dangerous man for whom he had worked for years and pleaded in Spanish, “I don’t know what this means, Juan Marcos. I have never talked to the DEA, I promise.”

  “You are a true businessman, aren’t you, Mr. Cruzon?” interjected Jeff, back in English. “In fact, you have been able to stash away a large supply of money, have you not? You surely do not make that from your small bank. Juan Marcos, I suggest you look into your friend’s finances, in a similar manner to the way he constantly looks into yours.”

  Cruzon’s pleading eyes looked at Marcos. He stuttered, “I need to go to the bathroom,” and moved away from the table on unsteady feet.

  “I will indeed look into this matter, Jeff. I hope that it is not true. Sometimes, my small friend does not think clearly, and he can easily be convinced to follow an inappropriate course. We shall see. Who is the other person involved?” It sounded like Marcos had already convicted the banker — at least there was going to be no benefit of the doubt.

  “Of that, I truly have no idea. I will tell you if I hear anything, but for now, I would be suspicious of everybody. They simply had too much information.”

  With that statement, Jeff picked up the leather folder of money from the table, and turned to leave. He stopped and faced Juan Marcos. “Oh, you are in the dead file, but I would lie very low for a while. The DEA still has their computer database. If your name pops up again, your whole existence could suddenly be remembered.” He bowed slightly toward the huge but dismayed man and turned and walked out.

  Strolling along the dirty, wet, and worn-out street was a breath of fresh air relative to the dinginess and disrepute of the bar. Jeff was pleased. Things could not have gone more smoo
thly. He always preferred to arrest and jail criminals, but consistent with popular notions, most of the people involved in the drug trade got away with it. He had spent six months working on this case, but Juan Marcos was unfortunately smart enough to avoid making the mistakes that would land him in jail, or, better yet, shut down his operation. Jeff had reverted to plan B: eliminate his effectiveness in the business, at least temporarily. This last meeting was a consummation of his goal, but it would only have worked after months of preparation. First the respect, then the trust, then the subtle comments that had gradually eaten away at Juan Marcos’s confidence and security. He was not alone in this. He had help.

  He smiled as he thought of all the lies he had just told. There was some truth in just about every one. First, there was an investigation — his own, but the Mexicans did not care much about it. There were indeed files on some of Marcos’s associates and employees, but they were thin, if not empty, and certainly contained little of the juicier details. He had almost nothing on the two sons, but he had a gut feeling that the younger one might have been homosexual, and had run with it. Judging from the man’s consternation, he may have been right on the money. Alternatively, the younger son could have had something else to hide. It did not matter. If you were as ambiguous as the horoscopes in the newspaper, people would believe that anything applied to them. The patriarch would always wonder what was so “personal” in his sons’ files.

  He had outright lied about Cruzon’s file. Not only was it not empty; it was the biggest one. He had needed to find something that would support Marcos’s suspicions that the little man had defied him. And it was there. Cruzon had definitely been skimming off the top. It was a slick deal utilizing variances in exchange rates. There was no doubt that it was intentional. The amounts were minimal, but Marcos’s would find it and that would be all he needed. Cruzon’s services were central to the Marcos organization. Jeff realized that early on, but he suspected that emotions would outweigh reason with the fat man in this matter. The diminutive banker was not long for the world.

  He had planted the notion that there were two different individuals who were stooges for the DEA. This was based on absolutely nothing at all. The carefully developed trust, which he had orchestrated over months, was adequate to give his word the necessary credibility. Marcos would be suspicious of everyone, and this would paralyze him, and perhaps make him clumsy. Furthermore, Marcos would almost entirely shut down his operation for at least a short time, so as to avoid drawing attention to himself. When he started back up again, he would be hesitant, out of practice, and prone to mistakes. Someone would be there when he made the big mistake, and the judicial system would take over.

  All in all, a successful encounter, Jeff thought. He was eager to get home to San Diego. It was time for a break. As he walked down the dimly lit street, however, he kept his usual wary eye out for the unexpected.

  He had been a Drug Enforcement Agency employee, and he still was paid by them, but had been on loan to the CIA for several years. He had been provided extensive training by the spy organization — training geared primarily to teaching the agent to predict any eventuality. The Company was a very intellectual lot. Thinking, reasoning, was the tool most utilized in his field. There was no James Bond–type stuff really. There should be nothing unexpected, because there exists a plethora of behind-the-scenes workers — investigators, researchers, psychologists, historians — whose job it is to analyze information and make predictions. Jeff’s job was simply to recognize which branch of the predictions was in play at any given moment and act accordingly. All was carefully planned. All was predictable.

  To the field agents, however, all was certainly not predictable. For one thing, he often only skimmed all those briefs that told him how to act if a given variable came out a certain way. There was also the ever-present specter that the data could be wrong, making the predictions invalid. Even these chances had been calculated, and appropriate responses planned. But Jeff still watched for the unexpected, because that was where he could lose.

  On the street, there was generally little light. This was a poor area of a poor city in a poor country. Overhead street lamps that had burned out were not necessarily a priority for repair. But he was just entering a section of the road that, by chance alone, had most of its lighting functional. Perhaps a dozen cars had passed him in either direction as he walked along the road, past beat-up old buildings that had not been maintained for years. Another car was approaching from behind now. Jeff perked up as he heard the rpm of the car’s engine decrease slightly. It was slowing down. That was bad. Jeff darted into the shadows of a nearby building, knowing that if the individuals in the car were after him, he had already been spotted. From his vantage, he could not see the car now, but he heard it roll to a stop. The glow from the headlights reflected off the water clinging to the walls lining the left side of the alley. He heard two doors open and close.

  Perhaps this was just a couple of muggers who thought that Jeff looked like an available target. Petty criminals were always unexpected, and could leave the best-laid plans lying in tatters. Maybe this was a couple of teenage lovebirds, looking for a place to neck. Fat chance. This was not where Jeff would choose to neck. No, these were men from the table at the bar. He wondered which ones. They were all dangerous. The smiling man who had said nothing still intrigued Jeff — another unexpected item to discuss with the support staff back in Langley. They were at home in bed, sleeping quietly. Jeff, on the other hand, was in deep trouble.

  He pulled his 9 mm Beretta 92FS from the back of his waistband, released the safety, and pulled back the hammer. He did not need to check the clip — it was certainly both present and loaded. He had sixteen bullets — fifteen in the clip and one chambered. The fourth bullet was the exploding kind. It made a big mess, but could blow through a locked door, or a man’s brain, with ease. The rest were hollow point. Three such bullets were usually enough to stop a man. The fourth was held in reserve — just in case.

  Jeff assessed his situation. There were two men after him, judging from the number of car doors operated. He was between two corrugated steel structures, each two stories tall, in a very long alleyway closed at the end by a high fence. There was little protection — a few cardboard boxes that could not even keep their shape, having been soaked by the rain. He could not remain here. It was almost completely dark at the fenced end of the alley, and he had little choice, so he headed that way.

  Jeff moved stealthily along the dark wall of the building to his left, farther into the shadows. The men pursuing him would walk by that alley soon. They would probably enter it. He picked up his pace. The fence was about ten feet high, and was dressed with barbed wire. Stuffing his pistol back into his waistband, he pulled off his coat and tossed it onto the sharp barbs to protect his hands. Beyond the fence seemed to be more of the same kind of alleyway, strewn with trash and smelling of decaying vegetables. But he couldn’t see much, for the light barely penetrated this far.

  He hoped to get out of this without having to kill his two pursuers, but he would do whatever was necessary. He was very good with his gun but there was always the unexpected, and that was enough to keep him wary. He looked back before beginning his climb, as two men, faces invisible, entered the alley. The men stayed close to the walls, in the shadows to the extent possible. They knew they were easy targets otherwise.

  Jeff jumped as high as he could onto the fence and quickly pulled himself up to the coat hanging over the sharp barbs. The men were running now, having caught sight of his movement. Jeff threw himself over the top of the fence, landing on his feet, but ducking and rolling to make as small a target as possible. He looked back and could identify from their sizes and shapes that his pursuers were the smiling man and the younger son of Juan Marcos.

  Staying low, he started moving deeper into the darkness, but stopped short when he sensed a movement ahead. He saw the glint of steel six feet in front of him and knew that a gun was aimed directly at his head.
So three men had come out of the car. Not two. The unexpected.

  Jeff kept his hands by his sides, to maximize access to his weapon, which he had placed farther down the back of his pants than was his custom, to prevent it from falling during the climb. He was uncertain that he could draw it fast enough. He was utterly highlighted against the backdrop of the bright opening of the alley entrance, and any hostile movement would be seen. The running men slowed to a walk as they neared the fence. The glint of the gun pointing at Jeff waved upward, and it was clear that he was expected to stand. He did, letting his hand slide closer to the hilt of his Beretta.

  Directly behind, Marcos’s younger son and the smiling man were now peering through the fence, their guns aimed at the back of Jeff’s head. They could see the hilt of his gun nestled in its holster against his spine. He could make no effective move. The owner of the glistening barrel stepped out of the shadows, bringing his face into the light that had moments ago glinted off the gun. It was Diego, innocuous in appearance only. He held the gun with a completely steady hand, aiming directly at Jeff’s forehead. Jeff brought his hands up above his shoulders, stared at the shining gun and then closed his eyes. Hesitantly, he gave Diego a faint nod of resignation. He heard the click as the hammer was pulled back, and winced with the expectation of the deafening noise of the charge exploding in the chamber.

  The thunderous roar came as expected. And then another. Jeff’s ears were ringing with the sound of the two percussions, and so he barely heard the subsequent faint thumps as the two men beyond the fence slumped to the ground, one new hole carefully drilled in each forehead.

  Jeff, tall and handsome, opened his eyes to see the smaller and plainer man in front of him beaming gleefully.

  “What would you ever do without me?” Diego said with a laugh. “Mom would never forgive me if I ever let you get killed!” Diego took three steps toward his brother, and the two men threw their arms around each other, releasing the tension of the last few minutes — and the last few months.