by JD Davis
Three years ago, Lonnie Rudman’s phone rang at his desk on the second floor of the Food and Drug Administration. A man told him he had watched his career with great interest and would like to offer him a better way forward. He said they shared similar goals and his team could use a talented attorney like Mr. Rudman. Lonnie had agreed to lunch and then to another and, finally, to a better way forward.
The intention was, that wiretapping this once mid-level government official would lead to the name of a much more important government official. However, by the time Lonnie Rudman terminated the call with Luther, no other names were mentioned. The intel analyst stopped the recording and called the agency to which he had been contracted. The call was rerouted to an office two floors above the sergeant. Col. Pike told the young sergeant to forward the recording via secure channels to his office. Within twenty minutes a meeting between multiple agencies was scheduled, and surveillance was arranged for Mr. Rudman. FBI agents and CIA field operatives were redirected to stay ahead of a fluid mission, now on both sides of the border.
CHAPTER 21
CALIFORNIA–MEXICO BORDER
A senior CIA field agent named Paul Ruiz stationed in San Diego, California, owned —as a cover—Lupe’s Tile Store, a shop specializing in Mexican floor tile. He and his staff sold just enough tiles to warrant frequent trips back to Mexico. A remote warehouse located on a US Marine Corps Air Station in Miramar, California, was overflowing with Mexican tiles purchased from the small, retail shop. Lupe decided to retire when Paul showed up with a fat checkbook offering to buy her business. The CIA kept the name.
Paul’s old Jeep Cherokee was parked on a hill where he was taking pictures with a very good camera and telephoto lens. It almost disappeared in the desert, but a satellite had captured images of hundreds of acres of black netting, hiding and protecting a gigantic marijuana farm from aerial photos and sunburn. This one belonged to Señor Javier Rivera.
Importing marijuana to the US has been a billion-dollar industry, but the fledgling legalization of pot for recreational use and its probable explosion for medical use was threatening the profits of wealthy Mexican drug lords. Suddenly the gringos were growing their own, and theirs was better. Mexican marijuana had been the gold standard for US pot smokers for decades. However, in the new world of legal markets and gourmet weed, aficionados were looking to the Americans for the good stuff. Like all industries, if you get complacent and do not stay ahead of the changing demands of the market, someone else will. It was in the illegal basements and the hidden farms in Northern California, Oregon, and places like the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas, where new potent strains of pot were cultivated. Instead of twenty-dollar bags of Acapulco Gold, pot smokers were seeking out high-potency boutique pot from the US selling for hundreds of dollars an ounce, and this was making some folks in Mexico very nervous. One of those people was Javier Rivera, and Señor Rivera was trying to reestablish himself as the “King of Pot” and it wasn’t working. He could not reproduce the strains the market was demanding and, subsequently, lost his American distribution chain to competition. That is, until he was invited to a meeting with a very powerful gringo. The only thing better than having an entire police force in your pocket was having an American politician with dozens of powerful friends. Javier Rivera could not believe his good fortune. A powerful, greedy American needed an experienced, ruthless Mexican as a partner. Javier concluded this was a blessing from Isidore and Maria, patron saints of farmers, and vowed to give generously to a local Catholic church; however, the charitable attitude passed and life for Javier continued as usual.
As a preliminary show of goodwill, Señor Rivera’s new partner thought it would be a good idea to rid themselves of competition. He called it “thinning the herd.” The gringo suggested they start with Señor Juan Delmar Espinoza. When Javier heard the details of the plan and was introduced to a traitor named Tino Alvarez, he began to question his good fortune. In fact, his courage weakened and he begged for a way out. One day, two friends of the American paid him a visit and he found his courage again—however, there would never again be a peaceful night’s sleep … ever.
Paul knew a man who had a son. The man had been a barber in Tijuana for thirty years, but when his son went to work for Señor Rivera, he didn’t need to be a barber anymore and he retired. Paul had befriended the man and used to bring him boxes of leftover tiles so the man could sell them and make some extra money. When Paul stopped at the man’s new home, the man came out to greet his friend.
“Señor, so good to see you again; come, sit on the porch and let’s have a cerveza, eh?”
Paul, only known to the man as “jefe,” smiled and took a seat.
“You have a very nice place, my friend. It is hard to believe haircuts and tile could serve a man so well.”
He was a proud man but he knew it was no good to lie to his friend.
“My son, Benito, has a very good job and occasionally helps his mother and me. I tell him to keep his money but he insists that he has plenty and makes us take it. We are very proud of him.” The man looked at Paul with a big smile.
“Do you know what your son does, amigo? Do you know where a young man with so little of an education makes so much money?”
Suddenly the man stopped smiling and looked at Paul. The pride that had been there moments earlier was replaced by fear—fear that was very evident in his eyes. It was as if the truth, pushing stubbornly at the door of his mind, had finally broken through.
“I don’t think we should talk anymore, jefe. I don’t think I like you no more.”
Paul reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a picture of two young men. They were loading large bales of marijuana into a forty-foot trailer.
“Listen, my friend, you have a very nice home and there is no reason you and your wife should not enjoy your retirement. You are an honest man who has worked hard—you earned it.”
The man was very nervous but he was listening.
“Your son works for a dangerous man, a man that does terrible things to people who betray him. Do you understand, amigo?”
The old man nodded, his shoulders drooping and tears forming in his eyes.
“Listen, my old friend. I need some information from your son. I need a name and maybe I’ll need him to take a picture—that is all. I am afraid it is the price for our secret. Do you understand?”
Again the man nodded.
“I need to speak with your son very soon. Here is the address in Chula Vista and the time I need him to come. It is a Sunday and it’s his day off. He goes there to see a girl, so I know he can cross the border without any problems. You need to make sure he comes, so I can continue to protect you. I want to do this for you.”
Paul stood and handed the old man the picture of his son.
“Make sure he comes: it is very important.”
As Paul drove away, the man’s wife came out of the house and found her husband weeping.
She sat down beside him and said, “Siempre sabíamos—we always knew.” And then they held one another and cried.
Lying to people, deceiving them, turning spies into informants or drug dealers into spies—it was a very nasty business, but people like Paul Ruiz did it very well, and they saved American lives.
There were three additional agents watching the taqueria in Chula Vista, California, when Benito Castro strolled up to the window. As instructed, he ordered a couple of tacos and sat next to a man and woman sitting outside, wearing San Diego Padres hats.
“I like your father very much, Bennie, and you have put him into a very bad position.”
“No, señor, it is you who has put me into a very bad position. You should have come to me and not told my father anything. You have broken his heart. He did not need to know. No, señor, you have done this.”
The woman, a frequent partner of Paul’s, looked at the young man, grabbed his hand, and held it very gently. She was very pretty and he did not mind.
“Listen, mijo. Every
day people like Señor Rivera take good men—strong young men—and make fools out of them. He not only owns you, mijo, he owns your family and your soul. This man has murdered dozens of young boys exactly like you. Their bodies lie buried in the hills, because they either stole a little pot or wanted to quit. You work for an evil man, Bennie, and no one walks away alive. But today, Bennie, you are the lucky one. Because you have such a nice mother and father who don’t deserve this heartbreak, we are going to give you, and them, a second chance. Do you understand, Benito? If you do this for us, we will see that your parents are cared for and we are going to help you get an education and a job—an honest job.”
Bennie looked at them both. “I made a mistake and I am scared. I want out but I know he will kill me. I don’t think you can protect me. He is a very bad man.”
“Listen, Bennie,” said Paul. “Have you ever seen any Americans come to Señor Rivera’s business? Bennie, this is very important and we need your help. This is what we need from you, to protect you and your family. Has there been Americans, Benito?”
“Yes, there are two gringos who come about once a month. I think they are very dangerous.”
“Yes, they are extremely dangerous and we need to know who they are. We need either a name or a photo. Have you ever heard a name, Bennie?”
“No, señor, no names but I would recognize them. I have seen them maybe two times.”
Paul handed him a small paper sack. There were some inexpensive gifts for his parents and a very small camera. He instructed Benito on how to use it and told him how to contact him. Then he told the young man he should eat his tacos and wait a few minutes before he left, and then they were gone.
CHAPTER 22
SEÑOR JUAN DELMAR ESPINOZA
The plane taxied to a designated building a hundred yards from the end of the runway. There was a 1970s vintage Cadillac Limousine waiting. The driver looked familiar. When the plane was secured and luggage was unloaded, the driver came to greet them and to help with their bags. A rear window was lowered; Father Dominic Antonio Gonzalez Iglesias showed his smiling face. Once the luggage was loaded, the driver opened a rear door, revealing two large seats facing each other.
“Joe, my son, come and sit beside me.”
Gabby and Piper sat across from the two and stared like strangers on a Greyhound bus. Father Dominic reached into a satchel, pulled out a leather-bound book, and handed it to Joe.
“I wanted you to have this. I have an extra copy and it is a favorite of mine.”
Joe took the small book and read the title out loud, “Aquinas Prayer Book: The Prayers and Hymns of St. Thomas Aquinas. This is very kind of you, Monsignor; I don’t know what to say.”
“It is nothing, Joe, only a simple token of gratitude, and I give it to you knowing it will not be wasted.” Father Gonzalez looked to the others and unapologetically said, “I did not bring any more copies of the book because I didn’t think such things would interest you. However, let’s discuss the matters at hand. Do you have any questions?”
“A couple, if you don’t mind, Monsignor,” said Gabby. “Can you please tell us about the facility where we are going and what we are to expect?”
“Ah, yes, of course; the ever vigilant shepherd of her flock. Always wise in your business, I presume.”
Joe felt the tension between the two and interceded.
“Yes, Father Dominic, it is her job to keep us all safe, and she is very good at her job.”
“Of course, I meant no disrespect, Ms. Mendez. We are going to a residence very close to the hospital, which is now owned by my sister, Señora Noella Espinoza. Many of their personal things have been brought there to make Juan comfortable. He purchased the home three months ago, made a few upgrades, and added a bit of security. Once my brother-in-law has passed, it is his wish for the home to become a sanctuary for the families of cancer patients. Noella and the children will not be present—only Señor Juan, an elderly servant named Rosa, and two of his security detail. The two men will be downstairs during our meeting. Juan knows you will be armed, as is his security detail. Ms. Mendez, I know you have great hatred for my brother-in-law and while it will be difficult, I ask, as a personal favor to me, that you try to be respectful. Señor Juan is very weak, only a shell of the man he was a year ago. If you will be patient, he will answer all your questions. Is this agreeable to you, Ms. Mendez?”
Gabby nodded and said nothing else until they arrived, then her gaze narrowed as she looked at Joe and Piper.
“Piper, I want you to stay outside the room, near the top of the stairs, and keep your eyes open. As soon as we go inside, I want to know where all the exits are. Joe, you and Piper take a quick look around and meet me back in the foyer. I want you both locked and loaded and I don’t want any crap from the two goons protecting Espinoza—any questions?”
Gabby looked directly at Father Gonzalez. She was in operation mode and all pretenses were gone.
“All right then, Monsignor—your show, let’s go.”
The two security guards looked like men who knew their business. They were middle-aged, well-dressed, and wore dark sunglasses. They nodded at the monsignor when everyone entered and glared at the rest. Without hesitation, Joe asked the two men to show him and Piper the layout of the bottom floor. His Spanish was flawless and they looked at him as if making sure he was a gringo.
“There is no problem, señor: we have checked the house and it is fine.”
With a bit of a firmer voice but still with a smile on his face, Joe looked back at the man. “Eso es muy bueno, mi amigo, but we need to see it with or without you, and we are in a bit of a hurry.”
The man looked at Joe, hesitated, and then motioned for Joe to follow him. They were gone for less than two minutes and returned, then Joe briefed Gabby.
“There is only one exit door in the rear. It leads to a carport and then there is a walkway leading back to the front of the house. There is no alley and I did not see a line of sight into the upstairs from anywhere higher than ground level. There were no vehicles visible, and we checked all the closets and pantry. There was only the woman, Rosa, sitting at a small table in the kitchen. We were told there is not a basement.” Then looking back to the Mexican, “And this man appears to be very competent.”
Gabby looked at the two Hispanic men and said, also in perfect Spanish, “One of you needs to guard the backdoor and one the front. If anyone comes in the direction of this house, I want to know immediately—do you understand?”
It was obvious these men were not used to being told what to do, especially by a woman.
“Listen, señorita, I have been guarding el jefe for ten years. I do not need some muchacha Americana telling me how to do my job, entender?”
“Por favor,” said Father Gonzalez, looking at the man. “No problems for the Americans. Please, my son, they are here doing their job just as you are, no? They are my guests, so let us be respectful.”
The Mexican looked at Gabby and grinned. “Si, Padre; for you I will do as you ask.”
Joe, Piper, and Gabby followed Father Gonzalez upstairs. Piper stepped down the hall to the right as Joe and Gabby turned left, following the monsignor into a bedroom. Piper, who was generally a laid-back sort, was feeling uneasy from the drama downstairs. He slipped into a shadow and pulled the Beretta M9 from inside his waistband. He made sure a round was chambered, the safety was off, and located the extra clip in his jacket pocket.
They walked into a large bedroom that had a comfortable sitting area brightened by a beautiful bay window. There was an expensive leather sofa and several matching club chairs. Señor Espinoza was standing next to a recliner that had been arranged so that he might sit and look out the window. He was wearing some tasteful pajamas covered by a silk robe and adorned a colorful cravat around his neck. Nevertheless, there was very little life left in this man. He was desperately thin, his skin was ashen, and yet he stood erect and tried his best to make his visitors unashamed for him.
; “Please come and be seated, everyone. Forgive my inability to entertain as you deserve, but I am afraid that today this is the best I can manage.”
Father Gonzalez and Gabby sat while Joe remained standing near the window.
“I have asked Rosa to bring us some refreshments. Nothing special, but her lemonade is exceptional. Tony, it is so good of you to come.”
Turning to Gabby, Juan explained, “I still call him Tony because that is what everyone called him when he was a boy. Dominic Antonio Gonzalez Iglesias, a big name for such a small boy, no? However, I knew he would be a great man one day, and we are all very proud of him. Such is the difference: I attained power and wealth and it destroyed me, and yet Tony here, he chose a life of abstention and it made him a saint. I did not always understand but now I do. The good Father here read to me the words of Jesus on his last visit:
‘For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it.’ Correct, Monsignor?”
“That is correct, Juan.”
“I wasted my life, and now I am very ashamed.” Looking at Gabby, he said, “Life is not fair, mujer joven, but we must learn or we die as fools. Life has robbed you of the opportunity to bring me to justice, to pay society for my sins. Listen, señorita, no amount of money, no jail, no suffering, or even my execution, would have been enough. Please, forgive me.
“However, all is not lost: you came for some information, a man’s name, and I will not disappoint you.
“When your country began legalizing marijuana, I knew it would change everything. Smuggling a few pounds of pot across the border near Nogales is how I began my career. Fortunately, I made several thousands of dollars before a federale working at the border discovered what was in my trunk. He pulled me aside and asked me if it was my first time to be caught. I told him it was. He explained the dinero ciego—the blind money—to me. Every time I came to the border, I was to ask for him and bring enough money to make him blind. Then, señorita, I understood how things in the world were done. I made a million dollars smuggling marijuana but it was hard work and it stunk. So I began dealing in other commodities that were easier and paid a great deal more.”