by Mike Maden
Ulises sat next to him, pensive. He wasn’t drinking, though. He suffered the loss that only a twin can feel, a psychic ache, like a throbbing phantom limb. A thought woke him out of his stupor.
“It’s genetic, isn’t it?” Ulises asked. “A genetic defect?”
His father shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not a doctor.” He slurred a little.
“I should get an MRI. They can find aneurysms with an MRI, I think.”
“Go ahead. But you might find out you have a ticking time bomb in here.” César poked his son’s forehead. “Knowing that could drive you crazy.”
“Maybe there’s a treatment. Pills or something.”
A knock on the door.
“Come,” César ordered.
Ali entered the room. He carried a large manila envelope, unmarked.
“What do you want, Arab?” César asked. He didn’t invite Ali to sit down.
“He’s Persian, Father. Not Arab.”
“He’s not my son. He’s not my blood. What do I care what he is?”
“I am your loyal servant, Señor Castillo, prepared to sacrifice myself in your service.”
“Will your death bring me back my boy, Arab?”
“No, but he will greet you in heaven with kisses when he sees you have avenged his murder.”
“What are you talking about, Ali? Aquiles died from an aneurysm,” Ulises asked.
“Don’t you think it strange that a man in Aquiles’s supreme physical condition would die from something like that? He was young. You have no family history of such things. He didn’t use meth or cocaine. So how can it be possible?”
“The coroner said that it is not unheard of for a young person like him to die of an aneurysm,” Ulises said.
“It is not unheard of for someone to be struck by a meteor, either. But it is extremely unlikely,” Ali said.
“What’s your point?” César barked.
“Myers’s son is killed. The Marinas launch an assault to capture your sons. The assault fails. Two weeks later, your son dies. Not by a bullet, not by a bomb. But he dies in a very bloody and violent way.”
“Poison?” Ulises asked.
“None was detected in the autopsy,” Ali said. “Though perhaps the toxin was bioengineered to escape the blood panels. The CIA is constantly developing such weapons. But I do not believe it was poison.”
“The Americans?” César’s face flushed with rage. “You said the Americans would never link my sons to the El Paso massacre!”
Ali sensed the crazed drunk would lunge at him at any moment. He could easily reach for the pistol in his holster and kill the older man along with his idiot son, but then his mission would fail. He needed the Castillos to live a while longer, even if it meant his own death.
“I was wrong, jefe. Forgive me,” Ali said. He lowered his eyes as an act of contrition, fully expecting to be killed.
César’s fists clenched and he began to rise, but Ulises stopped him. “It’s not his fault, Father. Aquiles and I ran the operation. Ali had nothing to do with it. We still need him, especially if the Americans are after us now.”
César glowered at Ali for another moment, then his face resumed its normal color. He finally sat back down and nodded at Ali, the closest he could get to an apology. “Why are you sure it’s the Americans?”
Ali opened the envelope. Removed a red lanyard with a plastic badge attached. Handed it to César.
“This arrived today.”
“Who sent it?” César demanded.
“No return address or name. No note,” Ali said. “But there can be no question.”
César glanced at the plastic badge. It was labeled FRIDA KAHLO ARTS ACADEMY, and had the name and face of Ryan Martinez. A bullet hole puckered the badge, and dried blood smeared the photo.
“An eye for an eye, jefe,” Ali said.
“Why not kill him?” César asked, pointing at Ulises.
“Myers is offering you a deal. A son for a son. She thinks you are stupid enough to take it,” Ali said.
César’s face darkened with thought. “One dead son is enough, isn’t it?”
“One dead son is too many, jefe.” Ali sighed. “And it might be a deal worth taking, if that’s all there was to it . . .”
“What else is there, Arab?”
Ali pointed at Ulises. “She has twisted your son into a collar around your neck. By leaving him alive, she keeps you chained to a post, like a dog, snarling and snapping, but hurting no one. Anyone can walk by. And if the dog charges?” Ali yanked violently on his own shirt collar. “The dog gets pulled down.”
Ulises’s face reddened. A vein bulged in his forehead.
Ali’s words had landed perfectly. He fought the urge to smile. By sending her son’s identity badge to César, Myers had given Ali the perfect tool to leverage the drug lord into action.
Ulises leaped to his feet. “We’ll kill some more yanqui bastards. Ali, let’s put together a strike team. We’ll hit San Diego, maybe L.A.—”
“With what? Bombs? Rockets? Machine guns? Don’t be stupid. The Americans have more of those than there are stars in the sky,” César snapped.
“But you can’t let the Americans get away with killing Aquiles,” Ulises said.
“Your son is right. The other cartels will see your inaction as a sign of weakness. It puts you and your son in even greater danger.” Ali was worried now. He needed César to retaliate against the Americans immediately.
“And so what do you propose?” César asked.
Ali smiled. “You do not know the Americans like I do. They are cowards. They hide behind their machines and their body armor. If they take a few casualties, they quit and go home. You have nothing to fear by striking out at them, and much to fear from your enemies if you do not.”
César crossed to the bar and refilled his glass, lost in thought. Ulises and Ali followed him with their eyes as he returned, but he didn’t sit down.
“I agree with you, Ali. We must strike back, but in a way that the Americans can’t respond to.” César took a sip of rum. “How?”
The men racked their brains in silence for a few moments.
“By attacking them with a weapon they don’t have,” Ulises finally said.
“Asymmetrical warfare. Excellent,” Ali said.
“Does such a weapon exist?” César asked.
“Yes, in abundance,” Ulises said. He explained his idea. It was simple, doable, and lethal.
César liked it, but wasn’t certain. “What do you think, Ali? You’re the expert.”
Ali hesitated. He wanted a more direct course of action, but he didn’t dare offend the younger Castillo. Besides, it would definitely work and it might finally provoke the Americans into an all-out assault.
“It is a brilliant suggestion, jefe.”
Ulises beamed with pride. So did his father.
So far, so good, Ali thought.
“But I suggest one additional course of action we should take first. It will likely yield nothing, but it costs nothing, and perhaps it will be a diversion for the Americans while Ulises executes his plan.”
“What needs to be done?” César asked.
Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.
Hernán Barraza paced the floor of his private office, a cell phone glued to his ear. César Castillo was on the other line. It was past midnight. The line was secure because it was Castillo’s own private cell network.
“What do you expect the president to do? Invade the United States?” Hernán sweated. Castillo had never called him directly before. It was a complete breach of their security arrangement, and now he was making insane demands.
“The gringos killed my son on Mexican soil and the Mexican government has no interest in this matter?” Castillo roared on the other end of the line.
“F
orgive me for saying so, but as an attorney, I don’t believe you have enough proof that the Americans killed your son.”
“I’ve explained to you the proof! But that’s not the point, is it? Tell me, Barraza, what if you did have your lawyer’s proof? Would your brother the president have the huevos to do anything about it?”
Hernán paused. There was no good answer. An attack on the United States was out of the question. Surely Castillo understood that. But doing nothing was out of the question as well. Hernán understood that perfectly. In his gut, he believed the Americans probably were behind it. “Do you have any suggestions, César?”
“Yes.” Castillo detailed what he wanted the president to do for him. But Castillo didn’t explain what his own course of action would be or that his Iranian security chief had concocted the scheme.
“Very well. Consider it done,” Hernán said.
“When?”
“Starting tomorrow. You have my word.” Hernán clicked off the phone, then opened the cell-phone case, extracting the SIM card and shredding it in his high-security shredder. He didn’t want that psychopath calling him directly ever again.
He then crossed over to his desk and picked up a landline. He called his brother.
“At this hour?” the president asked. “Can’t it wait?”
“I just had a call from our friend, the Farmer.”
“What did he want?”
Hernán described Castillo’s request.
“That’s all?” the president asked. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“There is one more thing. We need the Federal Police and other drug enforcement agencies to back off of him for a while. He needs ‘room to maneuver.’ His words, not mine.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Yes. I have a feeling that Castillo’s reach is about to exceed his grasp.” Hernán grinned. “Our friend could stand a dose of humility.”
The Oval Office, the White House
Dr. Strasburg was on the couch, perched in his usual spot. He held a cup and saucer in his slightly trembling hands, a symptom of the Parkinson’s that he had recently developed. The cup was brimming with freshly brewed coffee, despite doctor’s orders. They had been discussing Russia’s recent diplomatic offensive in the Caucasus when Myers received the urgent message that a call was coming through. He nodded reassuringly at her to take it.
President Myers took her seat behind the famous desk. She picked up her phone. “Put him through, Maggie.”
The receiver clicked as the call was rerouted. Myers pressed another button and put the call on speakerphone so that Strasburg could hear it as well. A familiar voice came on the line.
“Madame President. Thank you for taking my call.” It was President Barraza on the other end. His tone was icy.
“I understand it is a matter of some urgency, Mr. President. By the way, Dr. Karl Strasburg is in the room with me. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“No. In fact, I prefer it. Dr. Strasburg is a wise man. I hope he will give us both good counsel.”
“How may I be of assistance to you today?” Myers asked.
“It has come to my attention that the United States has engaged in covert military action against one of our sovereign citizens while in Mexican territorial waters. Is this true?”
Myers blanched. How could Barraza possibly know about Pearce and his operation?
“To whom are you referring, Mr. President?” Myers stalled for time.
“Aquiles Castillo, of course. He died of a massive hemorrhage in the brain.”
“I’m sorry. Who?”
“One of the sons of César Castillo. I’m sure you’re familiar with his name,” Barraza sniffed.
“A parent’s worst nightmare. I understand his grief.”
“We believe that some form of covert action was taken by your government against him that caused the brain hemorrhage.”
Myers glanced at Strasburg.
“That’s quite an accusation, Mr. President. It seems a little far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Myers said.
“Dr. Strasburg?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Please remind President Myers of America’s long history of ‘far-fetched’ covert operations. For example, the CIA’s attempt to assassinate Castro with exploding poisonous cigars.”
Strasburg set his coffee down. “We’re all well aware of those attempts, Mr. President, along with Mr. Castro’s long record of torturing and killing his political opponents. We also know that the CIA is currently prohibited by law from assassinating governmental leaders. The fact that Fidel Castro is alive and well suggests that the CIA’s capabilities in that area were never terribly effective anyway, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Madame President, let me ask you directly. Did you authorize a covert mission to kill Aquiles Castillo?”
“No. And I resent the fact that you would even consider me capable of such action.”
“Then perhaps the CIA has a rogue operative, or there are other elements at work in your government that you are not aware of. Since you are not able to take responsibility for this crime, then I must. I am informing you that Mexico will take whatever action is necessary to prevent further incursions over our border and to protect Mexican national sovereignty. In addition to mobilizing additional troops, I am placing our military and police units on the border on high alert, and I am authorizing them to fire on any unauthorized persons found on Mexican territory or in territorial waters or airspace. Is that perfectly clear, Madame President?”
“Frankly, I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.”
“Mr. President, I respectfully suggest that a summit be arranged immediately so that these matters can be discussed further,” Strasburg said. “May we instruct Ambassador Romero to contact your Foreign Office and begin to make arrangements?”
There was silence on the line for a moment. “You may instruct him to do so, but I have no interest in anything less than a frank and substantive discussion of the matter.”
“I would expect nothing less from either party,” Myers said. “We’ll see to the arrangements.”
“Until the summit concludes, the new heightened security measures will remain in place. Good day to you both.” Barraza hung up.
Myers stared at Strasburg. “What was that all about?”
“He’s afraid.”
“Of whom? Us?”
“More likely Castillo. He must have contacted Barraza.”
“So they are in collusion,” Myers said.
“Not necessarily. Castillo is a citizen of Mexico. It is not unreasonable for him to seek out his government’s assistance regarding the death of his son.”
“How many Mexican citizens can dial 911 and get President Barraza on the line?” Myers asked.
“Not many, I’ll grant you. But who else could Castillo call to get protection from us?”
“That’s a good sign. If Castillo’s calling President Barraza for help, that means he thinks he has no way of retaliating against us, right?”
Strasburg shrugged. “That is my sincere hope, Madame President.”
19
Dallas, Texas
Parkland Memorial was the hospital they rushed JFK to when he was shot and it’s the hospital where they pronounced him dead. As Dallas County’s public hospital, it processed over 140,000 cases through its emergency room every year—many of them indigents—making the Parkland ER one of the busiest in the nation. They handled gunshots, stab wounds, car wrecks, and heart attacks on a daily basis, but the last two weeks had been a real horror show.
—
The ambulance cut its sirens as it swung into the Parkland ER parking lot, screeching to a halt beneath a portico already jammed with three other trucks desperately unloading their dying patients.
The driver bolted out of hi
s door and dashed for the rear. The EMT inside the vehicle threw the back doors open and leaped out. They grabbed the stretcher on a fast three-count and lifted it out, lowering it to the ground on the spring-loaded undercarriage. The girl on the stretcher, “Hispanic, teenage, female, no name,” convulsed beneath the restraining straps like a demoniac, her tiny fists clenched against the agony raging in her skull.
A weeping older couple stumbled outside through the sliding glass doors, numb to the world when the EMTs shouted, “Coming through!” as they raced the stretcher through the doors. The ambulance driver’s hip crashed into the elderly man, nearly knocking him over.
Inside the doors, a triage nurse ran over to them. “Bay three.” She pointed.
“How long?” the EMT asked. “She’s already coded twice.”
“She’s number four right now,” the nurse said. She glanced down at the sweat-drenched girl, mewling like a scalded cat. “I’m sorry.”
The girl on the stretcher coughed, then a geyser of vomit burst out of her cracked lips. Her contracting stomach muscles simultaneously forced an involuntary bowel movement that filled her filthy jeans with blistering diarrhea.
The driver swung the girl’s head to the side and put two blue-gloved fingers into her mouth to scoop out any obstruction to her airway. But her breathing had turned into short, spasmodic gasps that sucked back the vomit into her lungs, choking her.
“She’s coding again!”
The nurse ran for the portable defibrillator on the wall station, grabbed it, and dashed back to the gurney.
Too late.
She was gone.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
The DEA’s Roy Jackson continued relating the bad news.
“Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York, of course, but even Omaha, Salt Lake City, Eugene, and Buffalo have seen significant spikes in the numbers of deaths—all due to overdoses of meth. The ERs and neighborhood clinics have been inundated. It has put a real strain on already scarce resources in the impoverished areas. And God only knows how many new addicts there are now.”