The Prosecution of General Hastings

by A. A. MacQueen

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Wanting to blend in with the local populace, Harry Kincaid had told the rental agency that he wanted the oldest car they had. After mentioning that he would be in Mexico a few days, the agent agreed to accommodate him with a 2004 gray Honda Civic. He also requested that the car be as dirty as possible but the agent regretfully informed Kincaid that all of their rentals were washed inside and out as soon as they were returned. This would not be a problem, Kincaid reasoned. By the time he got to Hermosillo the next morning, he was sure his Honda would be as dusty as the rest.

  Just after leaving the rental car office at Tucson International Airport, Harry pulled into a convenience store adjacent to the airport property. He went in and purchased a small plastic ice chest and a six-pack of Diet Cokes. He picked out a bag of fried pork skins and a large bag of beef jerky. When he laid the items on the counter by the cash register, he looked back thinking he’d forgotten something. He walked back to the fridge and took out a half gallon of milk. He snagged a large bag of Oreos from the shelf on his way back to the register. He told the clerk to add in a small bag of ice which he pulled from the large chest outside the door. After breaking up the bag of ice and covering the Cokes and milk in the ice chest, he put his groceries in the back seat of the Honda and pulled away from the store. He found the entrance to Interstate 19 and headed south.

  Kincaid’s border crossing was uneventful. He passed through the U. S. checkpoint well after midnight and the border guard on duty barely checked his driver’s license. He asked a couple of cursory questions as to where Harry was going and why. He seemed completely uninterested in Harry’s answers and allowed him through without incident. The Mexican guard, working the same crossing simply flagged him on.

  Leaving the crossing, he continued south on the highway that became Alvaro Obregon. He continued through Nogales proper and found a nondescript motel called the Fiesta Inn on the southern edge of an industrial park in the area known as Nuevo Nogales. He reasoned that he would face little traffic the following morning when he struck out for Hermosillo to meet up with Pete Von Karmenn.

  The Fiesta Inn fit Harry’s needs perfectly. It seemed that less than half of the rooms had been rented. Most of the license plates on the cars and trucks in the lot were from Arizona. It was the typical low cost establishment that would be used by salesmen traveling on low or no expense accounts. When Harry stepped up to the reception desk and rang the silver bell on the counter, he heard movement from the night clerk in the office behind the wall backing the counter. He envisioned the clerk getting off of a cot or out of a big chair. When the man appeared, the hair on the back of his head was matted down. Harry knew he had awakened him.

  Harry signed the registration card with a name that he made up and listed a fictitious address in Tucson. He prepaid for the room in cash and the clerk gave him a room key attached to a large aqua colored plastic fob. The clerk wished him ‘Buenos Noches’ and was back behind the wall and in bed, Harry suspected, before Harry had cleared the door.

  He found his room at the far end of the building that was at right angles with the one where the office was located. The lot was sparsely populated with other vehicles and there were few lights on in the rooms. He parked the Honda in front of the door to his room. He grabbed his bag, the groceries and the ice chest, unlocked the door and went inside. It was not until he had gotten inside the room and propped a straight backed chair under the door knob that he realized how very tired he was. It had been a long day, starting out in Washington early that morning. He undressed and crawled into one of the two double beds. He turned off the solitary lamp on the table between the beds and fell into a deep sleep before the room got dark.

  Harry awoke well before dawn. He was an early riser anyway but his body was still accustomed to east coast time. Out of habit, he got up and moved to the window to check things out. He looked to see if there was anyone about, or anything unusual. Satisfied that there wasn’t, he went into the bathroom to take care of his morning chores. He could be dressed and out of there in thirty minutes giving him an early arrival in Hermosillo where he would meet up with Pete Von Karmenn.

  While getting dressed, Harry retrieved the half gallon of milk from his ice chest and took out the Oreos. He filled one of the plastic cups that he found next to the sink. He drank it down and filled it again. He pulled four Oreos from the bag. He ate them and drank the second cup of milk while getting dressed.

  When he emerged from his motel room, Harry looked just like any other man who might be found in this northern Mexican town. He had on well pressed Wrangler jeans that fell just below his boots. He wore a western cut shirt that was a subdued plaid with imitation pearl buttons. He decided to stop somewhere short of Hermosillo and purchase a hat. That should complete the look of just another Mexican moving about that would draw no attention.

  He threw the room key on the table by the window, picked up his belongings and left, closing the door behind him. He looked around the parking lot and saw that he was alone. A dusty old Chevrolet pick-up was parked across the lot under a stand of trees. Harry noticed that the windows were rolled down causing him to look more closely at the truck. Again he checked around and saw no one else. He moved over to the pick-up and looked inside. Tossed on the floor of the passenger’s side he spotted a straw cowboy hat. He reached in and retrieved it. The fit wasn’t perfect, but certainly close enough. He put it on his head and got into the Honda.

  “That’s one stop I won’t have to make this morning,” he said quietly to himself.

  Harry pulled away from the Fiesta Inn and located Highway 15. He turned south on it and would follow it all the way to Hermosillo. He reached into the back seat and removed several more Oreos and ate them as he drove.

  Harry turned on the radio and found a station that seemed to be an all news station broadcasting out of Nogales. He listened to the announcers, a man and a woman, understanding every word that they said. Harry Kincaid thought of his fluency in Spanish like many think of riding a bicycle. You never lose the skill. Growing up in Oakland, California, Harry had been exposed to the language at an early age. He learned ‘street Spanish’ from the Chicanos that were the majority in his neighborhood. His government service had added Arabic and Farsi to his language skill set. When he had to, Harry Kincaid could present himself and pass for any of the foreign nationals who used those languages. He had done so more than once. And for the next few days, except while dealing with Lopez or el Lobo, he was a Mexican.

  It was shortly before eight o’clock when Kincaid passed through the small town of Santa Ana, one hundred miles north of Hermosillo. Time to call Pete.

  After a single ring, Pete answered, “Kincaid, where are you?”

  “Yes, hello, Pete. Good to hear from you, too,” he joked. “I’ve just passed through Santa Ana… looks like I’m about a hundred miles away.”

  “Okay, good,” Pete replied. “That will put you here about ten o’clock.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Kincaid said. “Where shall we meet?”

  “Okay, this is what I want you to do,” Pete said. “As you near Hermosillo, you will see a rather large store on your right. It’s called Mercado del Pacifico. Go about a quarter of a mile past it and you will see a small cantina, also on the right. There’s a sign out by the road that says ‘Café Combate.’ I’ll be waiting for you inside.”

  “Combat Café?” Harry asked.

  “Yes. Seems appropriate, huh?” Pete said.

  “Okay. I’ll be there by ten o’clock; maybe a little before.”

  Kincaid began to slow as he approached Hermosillo. He noticed the store that Pete identified to him. A bit farther, a shabby wooden sign stood near the road. Blue lettering on a faded and peeling background said, ‘Café Combate.’ Harry turned into a dusty gravel parking area, just past the sign. There were two other cars in the lot. One was a dusty Subaru station wagon and the other was an old Toyota Corolla. Both were wearing license plates from Sonora, Mexico.
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  Kincaid parked to one side in the shade of an Acacia tree. He sat a moment surveying the area around him. The café appeared old, and was rust colored adobe in need of repair. The front door was propped open by a square box fan that sat on the ground blowing air into the structure that looked more like someone’s home than a business. He looked to the back of the building but couldn’t see anything other than a few rusted metal barrels and a pile of assorted rubble. The place looked occupied, but not busy.

  He stepped out of the Honda and stood beside the car for a moment. The first thing that he noticed was the heat. The temperature had probably been in the low seventies when Harry had left Nogales in the cool of the morning. Riding south in his air conditioned rental, he hadn’t noticed the increase in temperature. Now, standing on the outskirts of Hermosillo, nearing mid-day, Kincaid guessed the temperature to be well into the nineties. He noticed movement at the door of the café. He recognized Pete Von Karmenn who motioned him to come.

  Kincaid walked across the dusty gravel lot and into the building.

  Von Karmenn wore a big smile as he offered his hand. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Kincaid,” he greeted him in English. “Not a bit prettier than I remember.”

  Harry returned the smile and firmly shook Pete’s hand. “Good to see you, Pete. Especially after the death notice we all got.” Harry followed suit, speaking to Pete in English.

  “Well, as they say, pal, the news of my demise was greatly exaggerated,” he said.

  Harry looked around the room. They seemed to be standing in a small dining room. There were a handful of tables that would seat four. There was a till on a counter near the door with a middle aged Mexican woman sitting on a stool behind it. He noticed a passageway with a split curtain acting as a door through which he could hear the identifiable sounds of a kitchen.

  There was one other person in the room. A Mexican of medium built sat at a table in the far corner. He looked to be about thirty-five years old.

  “Come on over here, Harry,” Pete said. “This guy is Miguel Sanchez. He’s my contact here. I’ve never heard him speak any English, but you never know,” Pete said.

  As they approached the table, Sanchez cautiously stood. “Hola, Señor,” he said.

  Von Karmenn introduced Miguel Sanchez to Harry Kincaid, in perfect Spanish. They shook hands and took seats at the table. The middle aged woman at the till stood up and approached the table.

  “Algo para beber, Señor?” she asked Harry. Something to drink?

  He looked at the cans in front of Von Karmenn and Sanchez. “Coca Light,” he said.

  “Si,” she said. The woman withdrew to get his beverage.

  “Okay, guys,” Kincaid said, “what have we got?”

  “Miguel here has been a busy boy,” Pete began. “It appears that the Capitán General of the Sonoran Militia is up to his eyeballs with the Sinaloa Cartel.”

  “Si,” said Sanchez. “It is true.”

  Pete continued. “Lopez has been dealing directly with a Rafael Carmello who is in the cartel. Carmello is also known as ‘el Lobo.’ Miguel has verified that you will be meeting with these two men tomorrow to discuss another shipment of arms from Mesquite Manufacturing.”

  The woman returned and placed a silver can of Coca Light in front of Kincaid. It was cool, but not cold. She left them and took her place on the stool behind the till.

  Kincaid took a sip of his drink. He quietly waited a moment, then looked first at Pete and then at Sanchez. “Now can you guys tell me something I don’t know?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Pete. Sanchez was nodding his head as if supporting what Pete was about to say. “Miguel here has verified that Carmello has a buyer for all the arms that Mesquite will send. And you won’t believe who’s behind it.”

  “Surprise me,” he said.

  “al Qaeda,” Pete answered. “More accurately, some branch of it. It splintered all over the world after our retaliation for 9/11. The arms sales are coordinated right here in Hermosillo by one known as Farooq Aziz.”

  Kincaid made a fist and pounded it once on the table. “Damn,” he uttered. “It was just a matter of time, wasn’t it?”

  “There’s more, Harry,” Pete said.

  Kincaid looked back at Pete.

  “Aziz is an American.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Kincaid said with a questioning look.

  Von Karmenn nodded to Sanchez. “It is true, Señor,” Sanchez said, picking up the story. “I heard a conversation between Capitán Lopez and el Lobo. Lobo named this Farooq Aziz. He specifically said that he is American.”

  “Where is he working from,” Kincaid asked.

  “Lobo told my Capitán that he works between Hermosillo here, and Colombia,” Sanchez answered. “I have seen him myself, here in Hermosillo. I have seen him with Lobo. He is a black man.”

  Kincaid looked down at the table, thinking. He made several movements with is right forefinger on the table top as if tracing something.

  “What are you thinking, Harry?” Pete asked.

  Kincaid didn’t answer for a moment. He looked up and with a wry smile said, “This all makes sense, doesn’t it Pete? My first question was, why are they working through a middleman? What good is the Sinaloa Cartel to Islamic terrorists? But it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “There’s a quid pro quo,” Pete said. “The jihadists pay Sinaloa a premium for arms and with it comes the use of their network, their pipeline into the U.S.”

  “That’s it,” agreed Kincaid. “And this Capitán Lopez simply provides a legitimate customer to whom our government would approve shipments. Boy, are we nuts, or what?”

  Von Karmenn looked over at Sanchez. “You say you have seen Aziz? Has he ever been in to see Lopez, or just Lobo?”

  “He was in the office just after I made the deal with you on the last shipment,” Sanchez said.

  He zeroed in on Sanchez. He leaned closer to him. “Was it Aziz who firebombed my hotel?”

  Sanchez flinched at Pete’s aggression. “It could have been, mi amigo,” he answered. “I thought it was el Lobo. But maybe not.”

  Kincaid looked over at Pete. He raised his eyebrows as he asked, “Does it matter?” Von Karmenn caught his meaning. Harry looked back at Miguel and asked, “Do you know where the last shipment of pistols is now?”

  “Si,” he answered. “Lobo told Capitán Lopez that he was holding them at his office until Aziz has them picked up.”

  “Good,” Kincaid said. “And you can tell us where Lobo’s office is located?”

  “I will show you,” Sanchez answered.