Kerney sat down. "I'm sure you'd like to see Father Mitchell's killer brought to justice."
"Very much so. But my experience has made me rather distrustful of police officers."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Kerney said. "Have you had some bad experiences with the police?"
"Indeed, I have. For example, it was the police who inadvertently introduced me to Father Mitchell," Valencia said. "We met in jail, after having been arrested during a peaceful, nonviolent demonstration at the entrance to Fort Benning. The police roughed us up, handcuffed us, put us in paddy wagons, and locked us in a cell for hours. They had no cause to do it."
"That doesn't sound pleasant," Kerney said. "Unfortunately, not all police officers are competent or well led. Would a belated apology from an officer who had nothing to do with taking you to jail make it better?"
"You're joking," Valencia said
"Only partially," Kerney replied. "I don't appreciate cops who make the rest of us look bad. It destroys the public's trust and makes the job more difficult."
"Why should I assume that you're really any different? How can I be sure of your motives?"
"Perhaps if we talk for a while, you'll be able to form an opinion or make a judgment about those questions," Kerney said.
Valencia studied Kerney for a few seconds. "That's fair enough. But if I think you've come here to investigate my political beliefs and actions, or those of my friends and associates, I will cut you off."
"That's more than reasonable," Kerney said. "I take it you came to know Father Mitchell fairly well after your time together in jail."
"Yes, we were both active in the School of the Americas Vigil Committee."
"From what I've learned, he seemed intent on discovering the specifics about his brother's death."
Valencia took a pipe from a side table and toyed with it. "It was constantly on his mind. He spent a year in Venezuela and Colombia searching for answers."
"What did he uncover?" Kerney asked.
Valencia filled his pipe. "He believed that his brother had been put in charge of establishing a secret training facility for assassins who were to be sent into Colombia to murder members of the drug cartels."
"Funded and operated by our government?"
Valencia nodded. "Using the same ruse that failed so miserably in Vietnam, military advisors."
"Father Mitchell was convinced of this?"
"Yes. His brother was an experienced intelligence officer who specialized in training field operatives."
"Did he have proof?" Kerney asked.
Valencia lit his pipe and the scent of tobacco filled the room. "He was never able to corroborate his theory. Most of the information came to him as rumor or supposition."
"What did he learn about his brother's death?"
"Supposedly, the murder was arranged by drug lords who learned of the colonel's mission from a bribed Colombian army officer. As I understand it, Colombian police were to be trained in Venezuela by the U. S. Army, then sent home to infiltrate the cartels and kill the jefes and their associates. At the time a commonly held belief among American intelligence agencies was that the cartels were nothing but a large-scale version of common street dealers. In fact, the cartels had a superior intelligence-gathering apparatus."
"Did the mission go forward after the colonel's death?"
"Yes, but not quite the way it was supposed to," Valencia said.
"Our government unwittingly placed in the hands of the cartels a cadre of qualified assassins who were used against the supporters of the American-backed drug interdiction program."
"The jefes infiltrated the project?"
"No, they simply identified the recruits, waited until they were trained, and bought the services of most of them. Jump ahead in time. The police assassins who refused to serve the jefes are murdered one by one. Car bombs kill ranking federal prosecutors. Politicians running on anti cartel platforms disappear. The federal official in charge of drug interdiction, a man of impeccable reputation, is killed by a sniper's bullet. Journalists sympathetic to the anti cartel movement are found burned to death in tragic automobile accidents. Judges are kidnapped, held for ransom, and then shot. Are these the acts of untrained, unsophisticated street thugs?"
"I doubt it," Kerney said. "But weren't some arrests made?"
"Of course. Teenagers mostly, with no knowledge of the inner workings of either the cartels or the hit squads."
"So, you believed Father Mitchell," Kerney said.
Valencia tamped out the tobacco in his pipe and laid it aside. "I was born and raised in Colombia, Chief Kerney. I know how the rich, the powerful, and the privileged are treated because of the resources they possess. I've seen firsthand how money can purchase special favors.
Even though Father Joseph had not one shred of proof to back up his contentions, I believed him."
"It seems as though Father Mitchell was trying to uncover much more than just the truth about his brothers murder."
"He was an expert in modern U. S. military history with an emphasis in Latin American affairs," Valencia said. "He had strong fears that something more was at hand."
"Such as?"
"The people of Colombia are poor, the government is corrupt, and the elite rule. Rebels and bandits roam the countryside, where the army refuses to go. The country is only partially under the control of the government. Cartels earn billions of dollars from the illicit American drug economy.
Growers are now raising opium to get a share of the North American heroin market. Counterfeiting of American currency is rampant. The United States has overthrown governments, supported dictators, and started wars in South America for fewer reasons than that."
"Can you be more specific about Father Joseph's concerns?"
"He thought that a number of federal agencies were participating in a clandestine plan to eliminate the drug cartels, install a new government in Bogota, and support a full-scale ground war against the rebels."
"Did he ever mention a secret American trade mission to South America?" Kerney asked.
Valencia looked quizzical.
"No, and I've heard nothing about it from any other sources. Does one exist?"
"I've been told that one does."
"Interesting," Valencia said.
"How so?" Kerney asked.
"If Washington's goal is to overthrow the Colombian government and make war on the cartels and the rebels, it would be wise to have a compact with countries bordering Colombia that supported U. S. intervention."
"Would such a compact be possible?"
"Criminals give bribes to achieve their goals, governments call it foreign aid.
And all of South America is in desperate need of economic assistance."
"Do you know a woman named Phyllis Terrell?" Kerney asked.
Valencia reached for his pipe.
"The ambassador's wife who was murdered in Santa Fe? I never met her."
"Did Father Mitchell know her?"
"I don't know if he did or not. Last fall he gave a talk about the growing threat of military intervention in South America at a peace forum in Santa Fe. He called me to talk about it a few days later. He said a woman had come to the meeting specifically to meet him, and that she might have some highly sensitive information that would be helpful to his research. He never mentioned a name. But he sounded very excited about it."
"Do you know of any earlier attempts on Father Mitchell's life?"
Valencia stood up. "We never talked of such matters, although I'm sure he knew he took some risks. There must be a dozen government agencies that would find his research bothersome. You must excuse me. I have a class at the university within the hour."
"Yes, of course," Kerney said, getting to his feet.
"Did Father Mitchell stay in touch with you only by telephone?"
"Most of our communication was by email."
"Do you have his e-mail address?"
Valencia nodded and reached for an address book from a
bookcase shelf. "I have little faith in computers. They crash far too often, so I always write e-mail addresses down. Joe had two: one for general use and another for more private communication."
Valencia read off the information.
"Did you have copies of Father Mitchell's e-mail letters?" Kerney asked. "Or perhaps keep them stored in your computer?"
Valencia shook his head and smiled.
"Copies, no, and I make it a practice to have very little about my private or personal life in the computer. I trust them even less than I trust most police officers."
"Thank you for your openness, Professor."
"You strike me as a sincere, fair-minded man, Chief Kerney. I wish you well in your investigation. Father Joseph deserves justice."
***
One of Mitchell's Internet service providers was an Albuquerque based company with corporate offices in a business park adjacent to the Interstate. With walls of glass facing the outside world, the building presented what passed for a sleek, modern look. To Kerney it seemed nothing more than a five-story rectangular box, plopped down next to another equally unattractive box, with nice landscaping designed to hide its pedestrian dullness.
A directory inside the lobby next to the elevators listed the various company suites. Kerney found his way to the ISP's offices, where a young woman smiled genially as he approached the reception desk. She wore a bright yellow lapel pin that read ASK ME ABOUT SWAMI. On the wall behind the desk a poster proclaimed SWAMI: THE NEXT GENERATION OF INTERNET TOOLS. A swirling, modernistic, multicolored turban served as the logo.
He showed the woman his shield and asked to speak with the person in charge of the subscriber database. A young man no more than twenty-five answered the receptionist's call and introduced himself as Wallace Brooks. He guided Kerney into an office cluttered with computers and thick black notebook binders.
Kerney asked for Joseph Mitchell's e-mail records.
"Do you have a court order?" Brooks replied.
"Can't we dispense with the details?" Kerney asked.
Brooks smiled and shook his head. "That's not possible, especially now. We're re tooling our subscriber list is frozen, and we can't release any information."
"Why is that?"
"Our current customer base is being used to test the SWAMI software. With the trade secrets involved I can't possibly give you access to anything without a court order. Even then, our attorney would probably challenge it immediately."
"What can you tell me about SWAMI?" Kerney asked.
The young man's eyes lit up.
"SWAMI stands for Systemwide Application for Managing Information. It's a breakthrough tool for Web content management that's going to revolutionize how people use the Internet. And it's scalable, which means it can accommodate everyone from home computer users all the way up to major corporations."
"How does it work?"
"Right now the World Wide Web is a monster. There are millions of sites with astronomical amounts of data and information getting added at an exponential rate. SWAMI allows users to filter and organize the stream of information. And its a server add-on software package, so users won't have to worry about upgrading to new versions."
"Sounds like a good investment," Kerney said.
"Tell me about your corporate structure."
"We're a subsidiary of an investment corporation. The technology we've developed is based on research done at the national science laboratories right here in New Mexico."
"Isn't this a risky time for a new start-up?" Kerney asked
"We're not worried about the dot com or the technology stock shake-out. Everybody is going to use SWAMI."
"Who supplied the venture capital?"
"We're wholly owned by APT Performa, a subsidiary of Trade Source."
"Does Trade Source own the rights to SWAMI?"
"Clarence Thayer, the CEO of APT Performa, owns the rights to SWAMI."
"When does SWAMI hit the marketplace?"
"In three months, max. We believe the trade name is going to be as well known as Intel and Microsoft."
"What are the royalty arrangements?"
"A fee will be passed on to consumers by the server companies. But we're talking about tens of millions of users worldwide paying a small monthly add-on charge."
"I hope you have some stock options," Kerney said.
Brooks smiled gleefully and said yes.
***
Kerney left, questioning silently if SWAMI's software tricks might be used for intelligence gathering. The FBI already had Carnivore, an Internet wiretap system, in service. Wasn't that enough? Or did the feds want something that had a more global reach?
He followed the connection that ran from Phyllis Terrell to Father Mitchell, and on to the ambassador and Clarence Thayer. Could the murders have had anything to do with SWAMI ?
At the top of La Bajada Hill, Santa Fe spread out below him and the mountains filled the horizon. Kerney barely noticed the soft sheen of mare's tail clouds nestled in the foothills. He keyed his microphone, spoke to the detective sergeant on duty, and asked for a court order to access Father Mitchell's e-mail accounts.
He gave the sergeant enough information to start the paperwork process, tossed the microphone on the passenger seat, called Sara on his department cell phone, and left a message for her not to come to Santa Fe for the weekend. He was going to be busy after all.
***
Outside Applewhite's hotel Bobby Sloan ate a gooey jelly doughnut and sipped lukewarm coffee from a vacuum jug, hoping the sugar and caffeine would keep him going. He hadn't eaten a real meal since lunch yesterday and he knew better than to load up on food if he wanted to stay awake. While he didn't like going hungry, the upside was his stomach gas had eased off considerably. Maybe it was time to think about changing his diet.
Applewhite didn't move until ten in the morning. But when she did, she left in a hurry. Sloan tailed her to the Rodeo Road Business Park, where she parked and went inside a building marked by a sign on the front lawn that read, APT PER FORMA Five minutes later Charlie Perry arrived to join the party, followed by Lieutenant Molina, who parked at an adjacent building. He spotted Molina with his binoculars, and Sal pointed in sequence at the row of cars in front of the APT Performa building and made a camera clicking motion with his finger. Bobby got busy taking photographs and
running plates.
He finished up as a car eased into an empty slot. The plate registered in his mind as he snapped the shutter: it was the same vehicle that had breezed through the guard checkpoint at the air base without stopping. He got three good shots of the driver's face before the man entered the building.
Sloan accessed the floppy disk with the driver's license photo and MVD record he'd saved last night. The driver was Timothy Ingram and he had a Kirtland Air Force Base address. For whatever it was worth, another player in the game had been identified.
***
Tim Ingram tried without success to get interested in the shapely legs of the young woman who led him down the office corridor. Instead, the image of Applewhite sticking the syringe into Fred Browning's neck replayed through his mind, as it had since he'd awakened.
At a conference room Ingram gave the woman a weak smile, pushed through the door, and found Applewhite, Charlie Perry, and Clarence Thayer huddled at the far end of a large oval table. Thayer made a "join us" gesture and Ingram took a seat next to Perry. Applewhite looked at him briefly, expressionless.
Ingram concentrated his attention on Thayer, noting the expensive black wool turtleneck under a perfectly tailored gray sport coat. He'd last seen Thayer in army fatigues with colonel's eagles on the collar when both had been tasked to the SWAMI project. Officially, Thayer had "retired" to start APT Performa and Ingram had "resigned" from the service to go FBI. In truth both remained serving officers, as did Applewhite. That left Charlie Perry the only true civilian in the room and therefore the one most likely to be slam-dunked should the need arise.
"Goo
d, you're here, Tim," Thayer said in his Back Bay accent.
"Soon as I could make it, sir," Ingram said, thinking that Thayer could easily pass for a Kennedy with his lanky athletic frame, good looks, and patrician style.
"This is your show, Charlie," Thayer said, smiling graciously at the special agent. "Bring us up to speed."
Nervously, almost turned away from Thayer, Perry laid out what he knew.
Kerney had factual knowledge he was being watched; factual knowledge that Phyllis Terrell's murder had been cleansed; factual knowledge of Mitchell's probe into SWAMI; factual knowledge of the existence of the SWAMI project. Additionally, he had made a hard evidence connection between Father Mitchell and Phyllis Terrell.
"Are there any other holes that need plugging?" Thayer asked.
"One of the Santa Fe detectives made a copy of the Mitchell evidence Agent Applewhite seized under a court order," Perry said.
"It's in Kerney's possession."
Thayer swung his attention to Applewhite. "Does that cause a problem?"
"Not for SWAMI, sir," Applewhite replied. "Although it could bring public attention to sensitive matters of an historical nature."
"Which is not our immediate concern," Thayer said. "Anything else, Charlie?"
"Arrangements have been made to have the official autopsy report show that Randall Stewart's death was accidental. Kerney knows better. When the report comes out, he could decide to challenge the findings. The report won't be released until Monday. Stewart's body will be held until
then."
"That gives us enough time to set the problem aside for now," Thayer said. "By Monday we'll have closure."
"Also," Perry said, "Kerney is moving for a court order to get Mitchell's e-mail correspondence."
"The files have been sanitized, so let him have what's left. Is he acting alone or mobilizing his departments resources?"
"As far as we can tell, except for some minor paperwork assistance, he's doing this solo," Charlie replied.
"The primary investigators, a detective and a lieutenant, are attending a law enforcement training seminar."
"Very good," Thayer said, smiling in Ingram's direction. "I'm tasking Agents Applewhite and Perry on a special assignment and I need you to temporarily fill in. Monitor the situation and handle any cleanup items. You'll have full operational control."
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