Damage Control

by John Gilstrap

  “A businessman on his way over to Santo Miguel. His name is Emilio Madrigal. He was driving—”

  “Is he still here?” Palma had no interest in hearing what had been told to someone else. He wanted to hear the details firsthand.

  “Of course, Captain.” Almanza pointed back toward the road. “I knew that you would want to speak with him.” He started to lead the way, but Palma wasn’t quite ready.

  “Sergeant Nazario?”

  A young, handsome, and impossibly fit young man took a step closer. “Yes, Captain?”

  “I believe that your comrades have been gawked at quite enough. There are disaster pouches in the back of the truck. See to it that the bodies are treated with respect.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nazario turned to the remaining soldiers and set them to work.

  Palma watched them for a few seconds, and then started for the road, grateful to have a reason to turn away from the carnage. Corporal Almanza led the way out of the jungle and across the road toward a rotund middle-aged man whose posture and pallid skin color spoke of profound illness or crippling fear. Under the circumstances, Palma favored the latter. The man sat on the ground near the edge of the jungle on the opposite side with his legs crossed, and his arms outstretched behind him to allow for his substantial girth.

  “Mr. Madrigal!” Almanza called as they approached. “On your feet.”

  That was easier said than done. Madrigal rolled to his side and then onto his knees in order to find his feet. By the time he’d arisen, Palma was only a few feet away. He offered his hand. “I am Captain Palma.”

  “Emilio Madrigal.” His handshake was wet.

  “Tell me,” Palma said.

  Madrigal spoke quickly, as if anxious to free himself from the memory. “I was on my way to Santo Miguel. I am a manufacturer’s representative for auto parts, and I was on my way to pay a service call to several of the car dealers up there. When I turned that curve over there, I saw the smoke billowing up over the rise, so I stopped and looked. I saw the path that the vehicle had cut through the bushes, and then as I got closer to the edge, I saw that a car was on fire, and I thought I saw that people had been thrown clear of it.”

  “Did you go down to check out the scene?” Almanza asked.

  Palma gave him a harsh look. “Leave us, Corporal,” Palma said.

  The policeman looked stunned.

  Palma glared, waiting for Almanza to comply with his order. When he’d slunk away, Palma returned his attention to Madrigal. “You were saying?”

  “Well, I was shocked. Not able to help—I am not a man who climbs steep slopes, if you know what I mean—I went back to my truck and I called the police.”

  Palma studied the man. “I heard a report that you then drove away. Is that correct?”

  His posture spoke of fear. “I won’t lie to you, Captain. I was very frightened. I saw buzzards starting to circle overhead. My heart is not as strong as it once was. Once I’d made the phone call to alert the police, I wanted to get away from here. Then within a few minutes, my dispatcher called and told me to come back here to wait for the police.”

  Palma had a proven record of correctly judging people’s character during interrogations. Emilio Madrigal impressed him as a hard worker who had stumbled into a frightening scene.

  “Did you give someone from the police your name and contact information?” Palma asked.

  Madrigal nodded enthusiastically. He seemed to sense that he was about to be released. “Yes, sir. Three times, in fact.”

  “Are you planning to travel in the next week or so?”

  “Only within my territory for work. Driving range.”

  Palma saw no reason to make him stay any longer. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Madrigal. You may go.”

  The man looked like he might cry. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you very much.”

  Palma started to return to the bodies when a new thought occurred to him. “Mr. Madrigal!” he called.

  Madrigal turned.

  “If you need to speak to me about this further, please give me a call.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and a pen from the pocket of his uniform blouse. He circled a number on the card. “This is my cell phone,” he said.

  Madrigal took the card, but hesitantly. “Did I forget to tell you something, Captain?”

  Palma offered a cold smile. “I hope not,” he said. “But only you can answer that question honestly.” He meant his words to be chilling, and it was obvious they’d had the desired effect.

  “Certainly,” Madrigal said. He hesitated, looked back, and then returned to his red pickup truck.

  As soon as Madrigal walked away, Almanza reappeared to fill the vacuum. He seemed at once excited and disappointed. “Alas, Captain, perhaps I was wrong.” He displayed a shell casing in his open palm. “The reports said that the missionaries were using five-five-six and seven-six-two millimeter ammunition. This casing is much smaller. In fact, I’ve never seen so small a bullet.”

  Palma’s stomach twisted as he took the casing from the corporal and examined it more closely. This was the 4.6-millimeter ammunition that was the new favorite of the American Special Forces. What did that mean? What it could mean was that he—as well as Felix Hernandez—had been lied to. They’d both received specific assurances that the American government would not interfere.

  “An interesting piece of evidence,” Palma said. “But it does not rule out the American missionaries.”

  “So you believe they have many weapons?”

  Palma nodded to the section of the jungle where the bodies were being cared for by Sergeant Nazario. “They have at least six rifles and six sidearms that they did not have before this incident happened.”

  Almanza let that sink in silently. Something changed behind his eyes as it seemed to dawn on him for the first time that Palma knew more than he was sharing. “Do you know where these men came from?” he asked.

  “They worked for me, Corporal. Of course I know.”

  “I need to know as well,” Almanza said. “I need to know anything that will help in the investigation.”

  Palma pursed his lips and made himself taller. “Actually, Corporal, you need to know what I decide to share with you. Nothing more.”

  Almanza’s face reddened. “It is my job, not yours, to investigate crimes. I understand that these murdered men were in the Army—”

  “You think too much of yourself, Corporal Almanza,” Palma interrupted. “Or perhaps you believe that I think too much of you. We both know that your job is to pretend to enforce laws, much as I pretend to serve our commander in chief. In reality, we all serve Felix Hernandez.”

  The corporal’s face darkened still more. “That is not so!”

  “It is so. I know it is so because you are still alive. Such cannot be said of so many men with badges who chose to fight the inevitable. You live to pretend, and you pretend so that you can live. We can say this out loud because there are no reporters here. The president himself pretends because he, too, has children and parents and siblings. He knows that one day he will no longer be president, and when he no longer has his security detail, he does not wish to be spirited off in the night to have his joints crushed and his private parts shredded.”

  As Almanza listened, he lurched his head from side to side, worried that his men might hear.

  “Do you think they are different, Corporal?” Palma went on. “Do you believe that anyone on any police force in Mexico wishes to see their families killed? These games of pretend in which we engage are the worst kept secrets in the whole country. We do it to allow the population to believe that the government is in control, but in their quiet moments, I’m sure that every citizen understands the reality.”

  “I do not appreciate being lectured to like a schoolboy,” Almanza said.

  “I’m sure that no one would. That’s why I’m urging you not to be as naïve as a schoolboy.” Palma said this in a way that he hoped would not sound patronizing. It made no s
ense to anger the man. “I will ask you this as a favor, then. Would you please be so kind as to allow me to conduct this investigation, and to stay out of my way while I do it?”

  “What will I tell my superiors?”

  Palma placed a hand on the corporal’s shoulder. “Tell them that you are acting at the request of Captain Ernesto Palma, and that Captain Ernesto Palma is working very closely with Felix Hernandez.” He gave Almanza a few seconds to absorb the full meaning of his words. “Once your superiors hear that, I think they will understand. Don’t you?”

  Once the bodies of his men were properly bagged, Palma left them in the custody of Corporal Almanza, with very specific instructions to have them delivered to military authorities who would manage the details of notifying families. On the one hand, it felt like a waste of precious time to go through all the ceremonial rigmarole, but on the other, he understood the importance of such things to his men. Soldiers made many sacrifices in service to their country. Often, the only true respect they ever saw was that which came in death. Palma did not consider himself to be a sentimental man, but even he could understand the need for dignity.

  Besides, so much time had already elapsed that an extra forty-five minutes would likely make no difference. Now that it was done, he and his soldiers were driving north. He didn’t yet know what the Americans’ plan was, but logic dictated that it included return to their country, and the only way to get there was to head north. By his estimation, the Americans had at most a five-hour head start.

  Palma had alerted his forces along the coast to keep an eye on the marinas and the ports, but his instincts told him that the Americans would stay to the interior. That’s what he would do if he were in their position. Traveling by land left near infinite options for evasion. Once on the water, they would be exposed to too many interdiction assets, not the least of which would be the ones designed to keep them out of their own country, now that they were the subject of an international warrant.

  Sergeant Nazario drove their Sandcat, and Palma could tell from his posture alone that the man was uncomfortable. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Sergeant,” Palma said.

  The driver’s ears reddened. He hesitated.

  “You may speak freely,” Palma said.

  The sergeant settled himself with a deep breath. “Sir, the men are concerned about the killings.” He spoke softly, despite the noise from the engine, which would drown out any possibility of being heard by the soldiers in the back.

  “I’m concerned about them, too,” Palma said.

  “That’s not what I mean. Nothing has gone right in this mission. It has the feel of being cursed.”

  Palma shot his driver a disgusted look. “Are you believing in ghosts and goblins now, Sergeant?”

  Nazario laughed without humor. “Not me, sir. But some of the boys. Not ghosts and goblins perhaps, but you have to agree that the corpses are stacking up.”

  Indeed they were. And Palma knew how susceptible soldiers could be to superstitious nonsense. The mere suggestion of a curse could make perceptions of bad luck become self-fulfilling.

  “The killing of those soldiers was a terrible thing,” Palma said. “But the kidnappers? Their deaths speak of good luck, not bad.”

  “I understand, sir. And I agree with you. But even the ambush went bad.”

  “They have only themselves to blame for that. I’m still considering a posthumous court-martial for Private Prado.”

  “He misunderstood his orders,” Nazario said. “If you’re going to court-martial anyone, court-martial me. I’m the one who didn’t make myself clear.”

  Palma smiled. He admired non-commissioned officers who defended their troops. It spoke of integrity and inspired respect from subordinates. “Don’t think I’m not considering that, as well,” he said.

  Nazario knew better, yet he shifted uneasily in his seat. “I have another question, sir, but it is certainly out of line.”

  Palma waited for it.

  “It’s about the ambush,” he said. “How did we know that the mercenaries would be there? How did we know where their vehicles would be?”

  Palma stared straight ahead as he tried to form an answer. According to Felix, the CIA had been feeding them satellite tracking information, and as outlandish as it sounded, Palma believed it to be true. To invoke the CIA, however, would only make the troops more uncomfortable. He chose to say nothing.

  After a moment of silence, Nazario got the message. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dom D’Angelo nearly ran as he crossed the lawn from the St. Katherine’s rectory to the sidewalk that would lead down the hill to the converted firehouse. Going to Scottsdale would wait. Everything would wait. If what Venice told him was true, the world had been knocked off its axis.

  “Director Rivers’s office,” a voice answered. Even calls on Irene Rivers’s secure personal line were screened.

  “This is Father D’Angelo,” Dom said. “I need to speak to Irene, please. It’s urgent.” He imagined that he was one of a very small handful of people who asked for the director by her first name. By doing so, he hoped that the gatekeeper would be less apt to ask questions.

  Dom slowed his pace as he waited to be connected. He’d nearly made it to the firehouse when the line clicked.

  “Hello, Father,” Irene answered. “Look, unless it’s really important, I am swamped with—”

  “Venice says that Gail is dead.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “She was shot in the Crystal Palace Cathedral about twenty minutes ago. We need to get police there, but we can’t call without revealing why she was there.”

  “The Crystal Palace is in Scottsdale, isn’t it? Is Venice sure?”

  “She sounded sure on the phone. I don’t know how she knows. I’m on my way to her now. But if it’s true—if Gail has been shot, irrespective of whether or not she’s dead—time is of the essence. I thought you could pull a few strings to get the police out there.”

  He could almost hear the FBI director’s brain whirring. She had to have a thousand questions—he had at least that many—but she also had to know that they could wait. “I’ll do it,” she said. Then she hung up.

  He assumed she would reestablish contact if she got anything.

  Pulling open the street-level door to the office, Dom tore up the stairs two and three at a time, startling Rick Hare, the armed security officer who stood guard outside the door to Security Solutions.

  “Father Dom,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  Dom didn’t pause to acknowledge him. Instead, he swiped his key card and punched in the entry code with the forefingers of both hands.

  Rick grabbed the priest’s biceps. “Father, I know you’re a friend of Mr. G’s, but I can’t let you in if you’re this agitated. What’s going on?”

  Dom paused. Despite his early years in the Army, cloak and dagger was not his business. Secrecy, however, was his business, and Venice had been clear about not sharing the news. He steeled himself with a breath. “Mr. Hare, you’re going to have to make a decision. I’m going in there. If you feel the need to shoot me, then may your soul be spared.”

  Clearly, it was not what the guard had been expecting, and the look in his face nearly made Dom laugh. He used the awkward silence as an invitation to enter the office suite.

  A second armed security guard, this one named Charlie Keeling, stood at the entrance to The Cave, and judging from the way he touched his ear, Rick had just told him about the nutjob priest who was on his way in. Rather than trying to stop him, though, Charlie used his own card to buzz him in.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keeling,” Dom said as he passed.

  “Rick said it was important, Father.” That was it; no further inquiry. If ever there was a place of business where need-to-know was the mantra, Security Solutions was it.

  Venice sat on the far side of her desk, tears streaming down her face as her fingers flew across the keyboard.
Dom had been telling himself that maybe he’d heard her wrong, but now that he saw her face, he knew that the worst fears were true.

  Venice made no notice of him until he appeared in her doorway, and when she made eye contact, she melted entirely. She rose from her chair and hurried around the desk, her arms out and her wrists drooping, ready for a hug. As soon as Dom folded her in his arms, she started to sob.

  “It’s my fault,” she cried. “She asked me for help and I couldn’t give it to her.” Her words were barely audible through the choking sobs.

  Dom held her tightly as she pressed her face into his black shirt and let the emotion pour out. He felt the wetness in the fabric, and he just let her go. He stroked her hair and patted it. As he did, he tried to wrap his mind around the enormity of it.

  Gail has been killed.

  Articulating the words, even in his head, made it sound impossible. Gail was too alive to be dead. His head reeled with questions, but until Venice regained control, they would remain unasked.

  It took her five full minutes to calm herself to the point where she could speak, and even then, her voice quavered. Her eyes burned red.

  “Oh, Dom, what’s Digger going to do? After he lost Ellen, Gail was all he—” Her voice caught and she abandoned the thought.

  She pushed away from Dom and stomped her foot once against the floor. “No,” she commanded, though Dom wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself or to him. “We are not doing this. We are not getting emotional. Not now. There’s plenty of time for that later.” She turned her back and headed to her computer.

  Dom followed. “You’re absolutely sure that she’s dead?”

  “I heard it happen,” she said. “On the phone.” She made a show of pounding the computer keys.

  “You heard her die? How do you know she’s dead?”

  “I heard the shots, and I talked to the killer.” Her tone could not have changed more dramatically. Now it was as if this were a simple business matter. She swiped angrily at the remaining tears in her eyes, and typed some more.

  Dom reached over her shoulder and thumbed the power button on her monitor.