by Dale Brown
The deputy consul took the offer form and looked it over. “I myself believe that this is an exceedingly generous offer,” Ochoa said, “but of course I must confer with the consul general first before I can accept.”
“I understand. I’m sure all sides will be as fair and flexible as possible.”
“Of course.” Ochoa paused for a moment, then: “So Brigadier General Lopez is still in charge of the border security operations along the U.S.-Mexico border?”
“Yes, sir. As I’m sure you know, the dynamics have changed in response to the recent killings in Arizona, but I assure you that the whole face of the operation has been toned down considerably. According to my briefing, the National Guard units currently being deployed on the border are completely subordinate to the U.S. Border Patrol. The Guard’s job is merely to assist the Border Patrol in conducting surveillance, nothing more. They are prohibited from making arrests and will not impede or interdict any person unless that person is actually observed committing a serious crime. I would be pleased if you would pass this information along to the Mexican embassy in Washington.”
“But of course,” Ochoa said. “But there are other serious concerns.”
“Oh?”
“As troubling as the presence of heavily armed National Guard troops on the border is, Miss Cass, my government is extremely concerned about those robots, the TALON devices…”
Cass appeared greatly relieved. “TALON? They are no longer involved in Operation Rampart,” Cass said, waving a hand. “They are back doing…well, whatever they were doing before, chasing down bad guys, real bad guys like the Consortium, not in any way bothering Mexican citizens.”
“Ah.” Ochoa put on his best pained expression. “Then may I please ask you to comment on a recent report I received, Miss Cass, from an immigrant advocacy agency in Indio, California, that claimed that Major Richter was recently spotted at the U.S. Border Patrol sector headquarters?”
Cass’s eyes bulged, and her mouth opened and closed in confusion. “I…I don’t know anything about this, Mr. Deputy Consul, nothing at all,” she said. “I was assured by the FBI and the Department of Defense that Task Force TALON was no longer involved whatsoever in border security operations. Perhaps your informants were mistaken, or Richter and Vega were involved in some other task…?”
“I am sure you are correct, Miss Cass,” Ochoa said, “but it would be very unlikely for the consul general to approve a settlement with the U.S. Justice Department with this question still lingering. Perhaps there is some way to check, perhaps with the commander of the sector headquarters?”
“Of course,” Cass said. She picked up the phone on her desk. “Get me the Border Patrol sector commander in Indio right away.” She turned to Ochoa. “Please remember, Mr. Ochoa, that this conversation and this information are highly confidential.”
“Of course, Miss Cass. You have my solemn assurance that I will divulge nothing of this conversation. The consul general need not know anything about this phone call, only of the results of my negotiations regarding the settlement offer.”
“Thank you.” She turned to the phone: “Yes, hello, this is U.S. Attorney Annette Cass, southern district of California in Los Angeles. Who is this…? Special Agent Roberts, I’m conducting an investigation involving the recent incidents at the Rampart One border security facility…yes, that’s it, that’s the incident…no, I know no one from your sector was involved. The reason I’m calling is to follow up on a report I’ve received that claimed that Army Major Jason Richter had a meeting at your headquarters recently, perhaps as early as yesterday.
“I…say again…? Yes…no, I understand. I’ll be waiting.” Cass hung up the receiver. “A routine security procedure,” she said to Ochoa. “He’ll call the office back in a few minutes to verify that he wasn’t talking to the media or some other person. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.”
“Of course. A wise precaution.”
The phone rang a couple minutes later: “This is Cass…yes, I’m expecting his call…this is Cass…Special Agent Roberts, thank you for calling back so fast. Okay, what do you have for me…he was there yesterday. I see. My reports were accurate then…you didn’t? You didn’t request a meeting with him? Then why were they…what? I see…that’s incredible…well, that’s good news, that’s great news. But I still don’t see how Richter and Purdy are involved. Any involvement on their part could be extremely serious to any legal or diplomatic initiatives with the Mexican government. Who authorized them to…oh. I see. No, I wasn’t informed…I know, we’re all supposed to be on the same team, but apparently it doesn’t apply both ways between investigations and the prosecutors’ office—or the White House, at least when TALON is involved. I shouldn’t have to play phone tag to find out information from my own department…well, I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Roberts. Thank you.” She hung up the phone with a disturbed expression.
“So it is true, Miss Cass?” Ochoa prompted her after a few silent moments. “My information was correct—TALON is still involved in some way with border security operations?”
“I wouldn’t be too hasty to come to conclusions, Mr. Ochoa,” Cass said with an edge in her voice. “Richter and Purdy definitely were at the Indio sector headquarters, but the purpose of their visit and their involvement with the Border Patrol is still unclear.”
“Unclear? But did you not just speak with the man in charge…”
“The special agent in charge of the sector didn’t know what was going on,” Cass explained. “Apparently there are some witnesses who survived the shootings near Blythe, California a few weeks ago. I don’t know why, but TALON was asked to assist in the search for other witnesses that may be in the area. They’re out looking for them in the Indio sector now.”
“Is that not a job for the FBI, Miss Cass?”
Cass looked pained, even embarrassed. “The FBI is involved—apparently the director of the FBI as well as the director of Customs and Border Protection contacted the special agent in charge and notified him of this activity, but there are very few other details. I will probably need to contact someone in Washington, perhaps the Secretary of Homeland Security himself, to get to the bottom of this.”
“This is highly irregular, Miss Cass,” Ochoa said. He could easily tell that Cass was lost in her own thoughts: he was quickly being dismissed from her attention and would be gone in moments if he didn’t do something. “¡Esto es absurdo!” Ochoa barked. He shot to his feet and asked indignantly, “What is going on here, Miss Cass?” His sudden movement and shrill tone startled her—the first time he had ever seen this tough lady surprised. “I came here as a gesture of good will, seeking to put the past episodes of violence and mistrust behind us and start afresh, but instead I am being stonewalled and given misleading and evasive information. Exactly what is the meaning of this, señora?”
“Mr. Ochoa, I assure you, I would like to cooperate with you, but I’m in the dark as much as you are,” Cass said, flustered and confused. “The U.S. Attorney for the appropriate district is usually notified of any ongoing federal investigations, especially if it involves multidepartment operations. I don’t like being given only half the facts like this, and I’m going to get some answers.” She stood, walked around her desk, and extended a hand apologetically. “Unfortunately, I won’t have any answers for you this afternoon, Mr. Ochoa. I will be sure to notify you as soon as I’ve…”
“¡Esto es indignante! I have never been treated so disrespectfully since…since I was assaulted by those soldiers at Rampart One!” Ochoa said hotly. “You will be hearing from the consul general about this, and so will your State Department! Good day to you, madam!” He ignored her proffered hand, spun on his heel, and left the office.
Annette Cass stood in the center of her office with a blank expression on her face—but only for a moment. “Laura! Get me Director DeLaine on the phone! I want answers, and I want them now!”
It took several minutes, during which time Cass fired
off several angry e-mails to the Attorney General, her assistant prosecutors, and several judges who might become involved in this case, complaining about what she had learned that afternoon. Finally: “This is Director DeLaine.”
“Miss DeLaine, this is Annette Cass, U.S. Attorney for the southern California district.”
“How are you, Annette?” Kelsey DeLaine said, her voice businesslike and neutral, not friendly but not yet confrontational.
“I’m angry, that’s how I am, Miss Director. I just learned from the commander of the Border Patrol sector field office in Indio, California, that Richter was there. The indications were that the FBI is conducting an investigation regarding the shootings near Blythe. Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
“It’s an FBI investigation, Annette. You’ll be brought in as soon as we need support from your office.”
“Miss Director, I’m not sure if you’re fully aware of how we do things out here, but it’s customary to bring the U.S. Attorney’s office in right away, at the beginning of any investigation, even if there’s no requirement or…”
“And I’m not sure if you’re aware of how I do things, Miss Cass,” Kelsey interjected. “It’s simple: when I need you, or if the field office in San Diego who’s coordinating this investigation needs you, we’ll call you.” Cass was momentarily flustered into silence—she was not accustomed to being blown off like that. “Anything else for me, Annette?”
Cass quickly decided that confronting the director of the FBI was not going to gain her anything at this point. “What is going on out here, Miss Director?” Cass asked. “I’m asking for a little heads-up, that’s all. If there’s anything I can contribute, I’d be happy to do so, but I need a little background info first.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be annoyed because Richter is out walking around free and clear and still in your district?”
Cass silently swore at DeLaine. “Of course, I’m concerned about his activities, Miss Director,” she admitted. “I’ve still got U.S. marshals in the hospital with serious injuries, and no one is being punished for that. It’s still my opinion that Richter is part of the problem, not the solution. But I also hate surprises; I’m sure you do too. I have sixty prosecutors and a staff of five hundred standing ready to assist and support other local, state, and federal agencies in their work, especially the FBI. I’m accustomed to being asked for support, that’s all. I’m trying to help, Miss Director.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line; then: “All I can tell you right now, Annette, is that we received information that there are witnesses to the murders at Blythe.”
“Witnesses? That’s great! Who are they? Migrants? Border Patrol?”
“One of the Border Patrol agents on the scene that we reported as killed survived,” Kelsey said, hesitant to talk too much and anxious to end this call. “We debriefed him at our office in San Diego. He reported that there were not one, but two smugglers at the scene of the shooting. The second one, a kid named Flores, is missing. Richter and the surviving agent are going down there to try to find him.”
“Why the Border Patrol and TALON? Why not the FBI?”
DeLaine hesitated again, afraid she was talking too much, but hurried on: “The Border Patrol agent identified one of the men at the shooting scene near Blythe as possibly being Yegor Zakharov.”
“Zakharov! The terrorist? He’s back in the U.S…. ?”
“That’s what we’re looking into,” Kelsey said. “The shooters at Blythe could have been Consortium. If it was Zakharov and the Consortium, Task Force TALON has the authority to go after them anywhere in the world.”
“Well…yes…yes, I agree,” Cass said, mollified. “This is all new information, Miss Director. Thank you for sharing it with me. My office will do anything we can to help. I hope they find Flores.”
“Thank you, Miss Cass. I am the point of contact for all matters dealing with TALON. Don’t hesitate to call if necessary.”
“Yes, Miss Director.”
“This is all confidential information, of course, Annette.”
“Of course.” The phone connection was broken…
…but another connection—a small listening device planted under the front edge of Cass’s desk, directly opposite of where Ochoa had been seated—was still very much alive.
BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA
A SHORT TIME LATER
The streetwalkers were so easy, especially the older ones who thought they knew how to handle their johns. Act macho and smooth during the initial exchange; change to acting indecisive and unsure during negotiations to reel the girl in; then act apprehensive and a little scared as each date began in the hotel room. A few drinks, some tense necking, some clumsy stripping and play-acting to get the john hard, and then let her get on top and have the reins so she might think this was going to be an easy “wham-bang-thank-you-ma’am” date.
Then, when she was ready to wrap it up and leave—turn the tables, quickly and violently. Make her fear for her safety within seconds, and then her life within a minute or two. Delight in watching her transform from an experienced pro to a quivering, whimpering, begging child. Anything goes at that point—she was ready to accept anything, agree to do any perversity or act, as long as she believed she had a chance to survive and get out of that room alive and relatively unhurt.
They were usually gone in the wink of an eye when he was finished, and they didn’t stop for several blocks. They would notice that the money was fake then, but most wouldn’t have the courage to go back for it. A few had their pimps and enforcers go back to try to collect—that’s usually when he would pick up a new gun, maybe some nice jewelry, and some traveling cash before leaving that part of town, before the cops found the badly mutilated bodies he’d leave behind.
Yegor Zakharov had just finished one such encounter—his second of the evening—and was on his way back to the place he had left his car when his satellite phone rang. He read the decryption code on the display, looked up the unlock code on a card in his pocket, entered it, and waited until he heard the electronic chirps and beeps stop. “¿Chto eto?”
“Tell me your men did not enjoy it, Colonel,” the voice of Ernesto Fuerza said.
“Fuck you. My men and I are not your wet-workers.”
“But they did enjoy it, no?”
“What do you want?”
“The Americans are putting a thousand National Guard troops per week out on the border over the next few months,” Fuerza said. “The Mexican government and the Hispanic community in America will explode long before that. The revolution is well underway, thanks to you.”
“I am happy for you, zalupa.”
“Within days the backlash will start,” Fuerza went on. “The editorials in the liberal newspapers will start to moan about the cost and the ugliness of armed troops on the peaceful borders; the human rights groups will be at fever pitch within a week, filing lawsuits and making their case on every TV show in the world to protect the immigrants and condemn the neofascist government; and Hispanic people from all over the world will start to fight, with the radicals and revolutionaries leading the fight, soon to be joined by the common people, and soon after that by the politicians, headline-grabbers, and even actors. The American government will be on its guilt-ridden, confused, beleaguered knees in no time.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“To give you a reward, my friend. I have information that you might find very gratifying.”
“How much is it going to cost me?”
“Not a penny, tovarisch.”
“Another ambush, to be broadcast on the damned Internet?”
“You may do with the information as you wish, my friend—it is entirely up to you.”
“So? What is this reward?”
“I know exactly where your friend Major Jason Richter is right now, Colonel.”
“What? Where?”
“I knew you would be pleased,” Fuerza said. “He is searching for you in t
he migrant community of the Imperial Valley, just a few hours south of you, with a Border Patrol agent by the name of Purdy. It is just the two of them, and they are not being supported by anyone, especially not the U.S. attorney in San Diego who would certainly throw anyone from Task Force TALON in prison if she could. They appear to be out on their own—they are no longer part of Task Force TALON, Operation Rampart, or any other organization I can discern.” Fuerza gave him details of how and where they were to be spotted.
“This had better not be a setup, Fuerza,” Zakharov warned, “or I’ll spend the rest of my life hunting you down so I can take great pleasure in stripping the skin from your body, a bit at a time.”
“Call my satellite phone number at any time and ask me for assistance, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “I will be close by, and so will my men.”
“Then let us take them together, you and I.”
“I am not so foolish as to face this robot enemy of yours, Colonel—I will be happy to leave him all to you and those heavy weapons I sold to you,” Fuerza said. “My target is much more vulnerable: a survivor of our rendezvous near Blythe. I wish to keep him from talking to the authorities, so I will be in the same area looking for him.”
“I warn you again, Fuerza—you had better not double-cross me, or you had better pray that they kill me, because if you send me into a trap and I’m still alive afterward…”
“Do not worry, Colonel—I promise, this is not a setup,” Fuerza insisted. “I wish to do business with you again many times in the future. And as you undoubtedly know, there is a price on my head as well, almost as great as yours—I will certainly never be allowed to keep any reward money.”