Rain unto Death

by Alex Ryan

  Rex could see a hand waving through the glass wall. He shook his head and walked back in.

  “Okay,” Kirsten said. “Let’s get moving. Brief me on what you know.” She pulled a notebook out of her briefcase.

  “Well,” Simon replied, “the situation is this. We know that someone, an American we believe, possibly tied to the military or even one of the intelligence services, and possibly more than one, that is running guns in exchange for drugs to Central America through a Mexican national named Ceasar Castillo, aka ‘El Rey.’ Now, El Rey is not under watch by the Mexican government nor our own DEA, at least, that we are aware of. We do know he is deeply connected however, and party to high level corruption. International intelligence, who by the way is the source of that information, also reports that materials consistent with the production of a thermonuclear device have been shipped to some unknown location in Central America, also tied to El Rey.”

  “Go on,” Kirsten said.

  “Rex will brief you on the latest field reports. Rex?”

  Rex took the head of the table. “As Simon has confirmed, I undertook a mission to find and track El Rey and to determine the identity of the person or persons working with him. I have managed to secure an implant, a girl, who is acting as his personal assistant, to relay information on his travel whereabouts.” Rex explained.

  “How were you able to manage that?” Kirsten asked.

  “Long story ma’am, let’s just say I brokered a deal with a local. Anyway, two days ago, El Rey traveled from Ensenada, Mexico landing at Chicago Midway airport for the purpose of meeting with some individual. This is the individual.” Rex pulled a photograph out of the array. “This man was said to be named Hasan. I don’t know his full name or if that is his first name or last. He had dinner with El Rey.”

  “Okay,” Kirsten replied.

  “There’s more. The aircraft they flew in on was a charter aircraft owned by El Rey. I have confirmed the aircraft to be an ATR 42 two-engine turboprop transport. The occupants were El Rey, his assistant and my insider, and a Mexican high school athletic team invited for a match. Here is a picture.”

  “Thank you Rex,” Simon said. “It occurs to me that a large transport aircraft could be used for the purpose of transporting a thermonuclear device from Central America to anywhere in the United States, if that is indeed his game plan.”

  “Why would El Rey want to set off a nuclear weapon in the United States? Is there anything in his profile that suggests he has a terrorist bent?” Kirsten asked.

  “No, that is a bit aggravating, and maybe it isn’t even El Rey himself. All we know is that he has an airplane, and potential nuclear device.” Simon replied.

  “That is certainly an interesting theory, but the problem with it is transporting a nuclear warhead isn’t quite as trivial as it sounds. These things give off a signature that our satellites can detect. When the Soviets fly around with nuclear warheads in their long range bombers, we know from the time they take off, to the time they land.” Kirsten replied, a hint of smugness in her tone.

  “Would a potential terrorist know that?” Simon asked.

  “It’s not exactly a secret. At least not a well-kept one.”

  “Well, he is a drug dealer. Maybe he plans on using it to run drugs?” Rex suggested.

  “Although, this aircraft has been thoroughly gone over with a fine tooth comb by customs and DEA the last three times it’s been in the United States,” Simon replied. “Came up clean as a whistle.”

  “One thing strikes me as odd though,” Rex said. “I am genuinely surprised that El Rey is wealthy enough to own and operate an aircraft like that. He’s not associated with a major cartel. The drug and gun running operations, and that nuke thing, are foreign intelligence reports, not DEA and ATF knowledge. And he’s a cheap bastard. He puts his girlfriends up in shoddy tenements. He drives a cheesy ass car that Leroy the Pimp wouldn’t be caught dead in these days. Something just doesn’t smell right here.”

  “Kirsten,” Simon asked. “What does the Agency know about this guy?”

  “You realize I’m stepping into this cold. But oddly, they seem to know nothing other than what foreign intel reported. I’ve never seen anything like this. And I’ve been doing it for a while.” Kirsten replied with a frown.

  Simon wrote a few things on the whiteboard. “We have too many disconnects here. We have an eccentric man with more ego than he apparently has capital, we’ve heard rumors that he’s involved in some sort of nuclear warhead development but for no plausible reason, nor likely a successful way of delivering it. Foreign intelligence reported that the inside man working with him is military or CIA. He talked to a man a week ago about buying guns. Turns out he bought two collectible Colt pistols legally and had them imported through legal channels. You know what I’m beginning to think?”

  “What’s that?” Both Rex and Kirsten replied simultaneously.

  “This just smacks of a smoke screen.”

  “Smoke screen. Bloody hell, same thing that the Germans used to try with British Intelligence during the war. Deliver deliberate misinformation to divert efforts from investigating a legitimate threat.” Simon replied.

  “Oh come on, our foreign intelligence services are quite reliable, and we expend an extraordinary amount of resources to ensure they are.” Kirsten replied.

  “Are they? For the last, however long this has been brewing, it created such distrust in the Agency that the director himself decided to outsource the investigation. At least until you came along. That means nobody, and trust me, neither the director nor the deputy director has the time or the means to deal with it on his own, has been watching the back door.”

  Kirsten turned red. “I really don’t have a comeback for that. I’m not here to justify the actions or inactions of the Agency, I’m simply here to get some damn answers and make sure we address a credible threat, or at least confirm that it is not credible.”

  “Understood, completely, but if I’m right, and this is a misinformation campaign, it means someone is up to something.” Simon stressed.

  “Why would someone feed misinformation on a non-existing gun for drug trade?” Kirsten asked.

  “Specifically, one that involves guns supplied to forces opposing our own advisors and troops in Central America. The answer is so that we would take it seriously.”

  “Then why throw in the nuclear weapon allegation?”

  “To provide an explanation of other related events, the plane possibly being one of them, and to throw us off track of the real objective. In other words, what I am hypothesizing is that someone is expecting the DEA, ATF, or even the CIA itself, to get interested in El Rey’s transactions, and they needed some ready-made explanations, which, because they are not fact, can’t be proven, but more importantly, divert a ton of resources away from the real purpose.”

  “Okay Simon. You’ve sold me. What’s the next step?”

  “What’s the Agency’s relationship with the Mexican authorities like these days?”

  “Like for what, specifically?”

  “Can we find out details of El Rey’s banking transactions?”

  “It could probably be made to happen, but if he has half a brain, he keeps his banking transactions one or two levels outside of our reach.”

  “Rex, what’s the possibility of you returning to Ensenada? I think the secrets are there, possibly in El Rey’s estate.”

  “I’m sort of a marked commodity these days, but I think I can make it work. I still have Isadora on my side.”

  “Your insider?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go back there. Cover every lead with a microscope. Find out what he’s up to.”

  “I’m on it.” Rex replied.

  “I’m coming too.” Kirsten replied.

  Rex looked at Simon incredulously, and turned to Kirsten.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind if I had a word with Simon in private?”

&n
bsp; “Certainly. I’ll just wait here.”

  Simon stepped back in to his office with Rex. “I don’t like that idea one bit. I need to work alone. Plus, she is goddamn CIA. She could finger me in a heartbeat.”

  “As to the former, you should embrace the opportunity to work with an experienced intelligence agent. Never mind that she is a woman. Is that a problem for your ego?”

  Rex stood silent. He shook his head. “No.”

  “That didn’t sound convincing. As to the latter, just don’t worry about it. We have an understanding that sources, and resources, may not have squeaky clean credentials. If every contract asset had to pass criminal check before they could do an assassination for the CIA, then the Special Forces would become overloaded with work.”

  “Now that you put it that way....”

  The train of Diamond Reo tractor trailers pulling extra-long shipping containers crawled up the dusty switchback road to the winery building located deep within the El Humo Mountains. Evidence of flatbed trucks spilling some of their cargo of grapes at the turns could be seen. Why put a winery so far in this godforsaken area of the Sonora desert?

  ‘Just drive’ were the instructions. Drive, stop, receive the load, and go. Hugo Medallion vowed his cooperation and silence as the driver of the lead rig, but he couldn’t help but wonder, why shipping containers to deliver wine? Why not container trucks?

  This was very special wine. So special, that the company hosted a special meal inside the coolness of the building as the trucks were loaded for them. They couldn’t drink, at least not yet, for they had to transport their loads to another location. Then it would be okay to drink. But for now, carnitas, al pastor, carne asada, tamales, all washed down with Horchata and various soft drinks.

  They could be trusted, of course. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been selected for the job. That said, the less that they see, the better. If they were to observe the loading, they would see men wearing full isolation suits loading large, sealed, and insulated stainless steel cylinders fitted with square wooden cradles into the containers. They looked like space men hauling around little space ships on forklifts.

  Hugo, however, did catch a glimpse of the activities when he used the restroom, and asked his boss. “Don’t tell anyone, but it is a special, high grade methamphetamine. Very potent. Very dangerous to handle. A new product.”

  The drivers staged the trucks early in the morning, and left the rigs parked near the border town of Nogales. A bus came, and took them back into town to the same location where they were picked up. A short while later, another set of drivers in another bus arrived, and took their places in the parked rigs for the next part of the journey.

  Pedro Camacho took the seat of the lead Diamond Rio tractor hauling an extra-long 53 foot container like the others. They were said to be goods delivered from the United States. Their destination was a warehouse near the airport in the town of San Luis Rio Colorado.

  “A Mercedes SL 380? Are you serious?” Rex asked the tall, blonde agent as she processed with the rental transaction with her credit card.

  “You don’t like it?” Kirsten asked.

  “Well, it kind of stands out.”

  “Does it? What would you suggest?”

  “Something like an old beater pickup maybe?”

  “Look at me. And you. The two of us traveling in an old beater pickup would look ridiculous and out of place. No, we’re tourists, and we’re going to stay at decent resorts.”

  “So who am I do you, then? Your son?”

  “Watch it pal, I’m not that old. I have a mean backhand, and I have no problem using it.”

  “So I’m your... younger boy toy?”

  “Got a problem with that image?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Good, then let’s get going.”

  “You’re driving?”

  “My rental car. My keys.”

  “You have real control issues.” Rex got in the passenger seat, fastened the belt, and settled into the seat with an expressionless face.

  “You’re one to talk. In case you haven’t figured it out, trust issues come with the territory. The job.”

  “How can I argue with that?” The Mercedes lurched forward with a screech, and the engine nearly died a couple times in the parking lot until Kirsten got the feel of the clutch. “Don’t drive a stick much, do you?” Rex said with a smirk.

  “I’ve been pushing sports cars around since you were in diapers, I’ll have you know.”

  “Well, there you go, you just gave up your age.”

  “Do I look it?”

  “Not quite, but almost.”

  “So, what’s the game plan?” Kirsten asked, as she merged on to the freeway onramp.

  “I’m glad you asked. The first thing is to talk to my insider. Find out if there are any new updates. Ask her to look around for things. Then, maybe we pay El Rey a visit near his ranch. Spy on him. See if we can see anything useful.” Rex said.

  “The first part I get. The second part I think is useless and we risk blowing our cover.”

  “Well then, let’s do the first part. You can figure out the second part.”

  It was a tense two hours and twenty minutes. Kirsten Maples is a wanna-be racecar driver. They should have made Ensenada in an hour, save for traffic. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, for her early forties. The white slacks she was wearing did little to hide the outline of the French cut panties with a scalloped pattern. He wondered if she always dressed that way, it was part of her cover persona, or she simply wanted to fuck with him. She had been fairly subdued when she showed up at the Arrow headquarters. She could tell he was noticing, and she let out a barely detectable smile.

  Back in the Ranger battalion, they used to go through these exercises during SERE training. The exercise was ‘how to fit in with the locals and blend in to your surroundings.’ Kirsten’s implementation of such was pretty much diametrically opposite his training and inclination. But, she’s the expert, right?

  Granted, it is not the CIA’s policy to have its agents carry guns, contrary to Hollywood’s perception, but if the issue is going to be broached, it needs to be broached now. “You aren’t carrying are you?” Rex asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Just making sure. Trust me, we don’t want to go sideways with the Federales.” Of course, field operatives, actual spies, generally don’t carry guns either. If things go south to the point where a firearm is required, the cover is blown and It’s over anyway. They had a saying in battalion – don’t be Hollywood. Hollywood will get you killed.

  “All right, tell me where I’m going,” Kirsten said as they entered Ensenada.

  “Take the next exit, then a left, go up five blocks, a right, and a left” Rex directed.

  Kirsten stared in disbelief at the green block apartment complex. “Surely you are joking.”

  “No. I’m actually serious. El Rey is a cheap bastard. Really.”

  “I can’t hang out here in this neighborhood.”

  “No shit. Drop me off at the gas station and come back here in an hour.”

  Rex climbed the stairs leading to unit number seven, and stood in front of her door, with the ear to it. He could hear the sound of a television or perhaps a radio. But there were no voices. Maybe that was good, maybe it wasn’t. If a knock came, El Rey wouldn’t be the one to answer the door. The girl was probably resourceful enough to say something to the effect of ‘no thank you’ in Spanish and call it a day, should he be present. He knocked on the door.

  The door cracked open slightly, closed, and then opened again. “What are you doing here? This is risky. You almost got caught last time.”

  “I need to talk to you for a little bit. Are you expecting El Rey?”

  “I never expect when he comes. But I don’t think he will come today. He said he has family business to take care of.”

  “Anything important happen since we talked in Chicago?”

  “No. But, I overheard him talking o
n the telephone to someone about a winery. It sounded like he had purchased a winery. I don’t know if that is important.”

  “Hm. That’s odd. First he buys a very expensive airplane, then a winery. Do you know where this winery is?’

  “No.’

  “Can you find out?’

  “I can try. I cannot promise though. Rex?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember that we had a conversation in your room in Chicago?”

  “Of course I do. I was sober.”

  “I don’t remember how it ended.”

  “Of course you don’t. You passed out. I had to carry you back to your room before El Rey showed up.”

  “That’s it? Nothing happened?”

  “I assure you, I am fully functional. You would have known should anything have happened.”

  It’s funny how the Gods mess with you. It’s like he was upstairs pulling strings, enjoying himself. Right now, at that moment, he could to whatever he wanted to do, wherever he wanted to do it, and as long as he wanted to, up to about forty more minutes, except that the image of those scalloped pattern undies showing translucently through those filmy, skin tight slacks were on his mind. The last time in Chicago, same thing, except it was those Korean eyes, reddish brown hair, and soft warm skin that was dancing around in his head. It’s like his priorities are seriously messed up.

  Then again, the idea of mashing it up with El Rey’s sweaty residuals just didn’t make the mood complete. He was back to square one. She was a pro. He was a pro. Let’s leave it as that and respect each other as pros.

  “I gotta go.” He embraced Isadora in a close hug. Despite her past, and even her present, she did deserve better than this. Could he be part of that future? This isn’t the place or the time.

  It was still twenty minutes until Kirsten was to show. Hanging around in Isadora’s apartment any longer than absolutely necessary was a bad idea. Hanging around on the street was a bad idea too. There a bar down the street. As places to go as a gringo, this was an even worse place to be in than that disco near the waterfront. He wondered what might have happened to the man with the switchblade knife. He suspected that the only people that would miss him would probably handle the matter outside of the police. Untimely death is just an occupational hazard among knife bearing street thugs. It just is.