Caesar the War Dog 4

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  ‘That’s his signature, Captain,’ said Ben.

  ‘His what?’

  ‘His EDD signature. He’s telling us that there’s another bomb in this van.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Clear the area,’ said Ben. ‘It must be big to attract Caesar’s attention from a couple of metres away – and it could blow anytime.’

  As Sergeant Austin and Superintendent Michaels caught up to the others, De Silva took out his phone.

  ‘Don’t use your phone!’ Ben warned. ‘You might set off the bomb. The first device was almost certainly detonated by a call from a mobile.’

  De Silva put away his phone. ‘Get everyone off the street!’ he yelled to Austin and Michaels. ‘Now!’

  As the three senior police officers began to herd pedestrians back, Ben made a decision. ‘I’m going to try to disarm the bomb,’ he called to Charlie. ‘If I’m right about it being triggered by a phone call, I could separate the phone from the explosives and disarm it. There’s not enough time to wait for the bomb squad. It could go off any second. In which case, it’ll take a lot of people along with it.’

  Charlie nodded. Apart from all the pedestrians streaming from the scene, there were scores of people in vehicles who would be caught by the blast. ‘Go ahead, but I’m staying with you.’

  ‘Okay, you look underneath. I’ll check the interior.’

  ‘It could be booby-trapped.’

  Ben met Charlie’s gaze. ‘I guess I’ll have to take that risk.’

  Several blocks away, sitting in the back of a yellow taxi with El Globo the bomb-maker, Antonio Lopez was not happy. He had heard an explosion – a single explosion. With the window down, Lopez waited for the sound of a second bomb. It never came.

  ‘That imbecile Manny has screwed up!’ Lopez raged. He turned to El Globo. ‘Give me the numbers.’

  ‘Sí, Patrón.’ The bomb-maker, who had consigned the numbers to memory, began to reel them off.

  ‘No, no, no! Write them for me! Rápido!’

  El Globo hastily wrote down the two numbers, then handed his boss the piece of paper. Lopez immediately dialled the second number, assuming it was the second bomb that had failed to detonate, and put the phone to his ear.

  With Caesar watching him intently, Ben opened the rear door to the van. Seeing nothing on the front or back seats, he stooped to look on the floor beneath them.

  ‘There’s something here!’ he called as he spotted a package the size of several house bricks sitting side by side. It was wrapped in black plastic and positioned beneath the nearest of the rear seats.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Captain De Silva.

  Ben looked around in surprise. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’

  ‘The others are clearing away the public. What do you need?’

  Ben returned his attention to the package. ‘I need a knife. There’s a package taped to the leg of one of the seats. I’ll have to cut it free.’

  Normally, on active duty, Ben and Charlie would both be wearing equipment belts, and on each of their belts would be a Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife. But, for their appearance at the Texas conference, both had come wearing only field uniform. Their arms and equipment had been left back at base in Australia. Captain De Silva was also wearing a uniform and was likewise supposed to be unarmed.

  ‘Here.’ Unbuttoning his jacket, De Silva withdrew a knife which he always wore on a scabbard beneath his jacket. The captain received a lot of death threats in his line of work and, for self-protection, he never went anywhere unarmed. He held the knife out to Ben. ‘Be my guest, partner.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Taking the knife, Ben carefully sliced through the duct tape that secured the package to the metal leg of the seat. He was then able to slide the package out onto clear floor space. Caesar, sitting on the pavement behind him, whined.

  ‘I know, I know, Caesar,’ said Ben as he quickly studied the package. ‘You can smell the explosives in here, can’t you?’ He sensed De Silva looking over his right shoulder and Charlie looking over his left. ‘You two blokes should be taking cover. No use all of us going up in smoke if I make a mistake.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, mate,’ Charlie said firmly.

  ‘That goes for me too,’ said Captain De Silva.

  ‘Okay. There’s no time to argue about it.’ Ben could see that the otherwise flat-sided parcel had a bulge on the top corresponding with the shape and size of a mobile phone. Using the knife, Ben carefully slit the black plastic around the mound. Sure enough, he revealed a mobile phone. Its screen glowed with life. Beneath the phone, Ben could see detonators jammed into yellow sticks of plastic explosive – enough to demolish half the block. A thin red electrical wire trailed from the phone to the detonators. ‘My gut feeling is to cut the wire leading from the phone,’ he said.

  ‘It could have a sophisticated booby-trap built in, Ben,’ Charlie warned. ‘One that sets the whole thing off if you cut the wire.’

  Ben nodded. He and Charlie had come across just that kind of booby-trap before. But, Ben reasoned to himself, those had been bombs created by professional military armourers. And those bombs were generally planted with the intention of being discovered, so that the booby-trap was triggered, killing the bomb-disposal expert trying to disarm it. He told himself that this bomb had more likely been created by an amateur, a civilian without the knowledge or skill to include a booby-trap. And as the first bomb had been detonated, this one was probably intended for remote detonation as well – and at any moment. Removing his blue beret, Ben mopped his brow.

  ‘To cut, or not to cut, that is the question,’ he said, lifting the red wire with his left hand and raising the knife with his right.

  Lopez cursed as the number he’d dialled was put through to voicemail. He glared at El Globo beside him. ‘These numbers are correct?’

  The bomb-maker nodded vigorously. ‘Sí, Patrón. Try the other one.’

  ‘This had better work, amigo,’ growled Lopez. ‘It had better set off the other bomb. Call the numbers out to me, one at a time.’

  Lopez punched in the number of the phone that sat atop the black plastic package on the floor of the van on East Houston Street – the phone with the red wire connected to the detonator. The wire that was now in Ben Fulton’s hand. Satisfied that he had entered the right sequence of numbers, Lopez moved his index finger to the green button.

  ‘Now for bang number two!’ he said, stabbing ‘call’ with his finger.

  Caesar, aware of the need for swift action, barked urgently at Ben.

  ‘Yes, mate. Here goes,’ said Ben. Taking a deep breath, he sliced the wire connecting the phone to the bomb.

  A fraction of a second after the sharp blade cleaved the wire in two, the phone rang. All eyes turned to the bomb. The phone continued to ring but nothing happened. Ben had successfully disarmed the bomb – just in the nick of time. Had he waited another second before cutting the wire, Antonio Lopez’s call would have come through and, after just one ring, they would all have been blown sky-high.

  As the phone continued to ring, Ben took it up and answered it. ‘Sorry, mate, your bomb won’t be going off today,’ he said into the phone. The phone went dead in his ear. He looked at Charlie, and grinned. ‘Someone isn’t very happy with us.’

  ‘Give me that phone,’ said Captain De Silva. ‘My guys will be able to identify the caller’s number.’

  Antonio Lopez cursed and tossed his phone out of the taxi’s open window in disgust.

  ‘What now, Patrón?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Lopez instructed sourly. ‘Don’t break any speed limits.’

  The taxi edged out into slow-moving traffic.

  ‘Who answered the call, Patrón?’ asked El Globo.

  ‘Some gringo, but not a Yankee. He called me “mate”.’

  El Globo frowned. ‘How did the gringo get hold of the phone attached to the bomb?’

  ‘That is a good question, amigo,’ Lopez responded thoughtfully.
r />   ‘Bomb squad?’

  ‘Whoever he is, he will pay for interfering in my business,’ said Lopez. ‘Pay with his life!’

  In the most expensive house in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city of Monterrey, Mexico, behind high concrete walls topped with barbed wire, a man lay on a black leather sofa, watching television and eating fried chicken. Six huge LCD screens were lined up in a row in front of him. One streamed internet data while the others were tuned to different channels. The audio from each competed with the others, creating a discordant mishmash of sound. The full-length drapes on the windows were all drawn, cloaking the room in darkness, with the only light in the room coming from the flickering screens.

  The man was aged in his forties, with his thick, black hair slicked back like Elvis Presley. He prided himself on looking a lot like Elvis, and needed little encouragement to croon one of the singer’s famous ballads. He wore loose white trousers, a white singlet and a green jungle-print silk shirt that was open to his waist. He was Carlos Marron, alias El Loro Verde – the Green Parrot.

  ‘San Antonio?’ he suddenly said with surprise. Sitting up, he lay aside the drumstick he’d been eating. He reached for the remote control and turned up the volume, listening with growing concern to a news report about an incident that had just taken place across the border.

  ‘San Antonio police say that a bomb exploded at high noon in an empty bus in San Antonio’s financial district, not far from the famous Alamo battle site,’ said a female television reporter. She was standing in East Houston Street, police and emergency workers milling around the wreckage behind her.

  ‘God in heaven!’ exclaimed Marron, recognising the location as the place where his brother, Rocky, made his deposits. He turned up the volume even more.

  ‘Seventeen people injured at the scene have been taken to hospitals in the downtown area. Meanwhile, at least two males are dead. Police have yet to confirm the identities of any of the victims, but the incident is believed to be gang-related and sources close to the SAPD have told Channel Five News that one of the deceased is Mexican crime cartel figure Eduardo “Rocky” Marron.’

  ‘What! My little brother, dead?’ The blood drained from Marron’s face. ‘Vargas! Vargas! Get in here, now!’

  Enrico Vargas, a flabby man with an ugly scar that ran from his left cheek and down his neck came bustling into the room. ‘What is it, Padrino?’

  ‘Get Rocky on the phone.’ Marron jabbed a finger toward one of the television screens. ‘They say he is dead. There has been a bomb.’

  ‘A bomb, Padrino?’

  ‘Sí! Call Rocky now! He cannot be dead.’

  Vargas took out his phone to call Rocky. Meanwhile, El Loro, now sitting on the edge of his seat, returned his attention to the news report.

  ‘… and the SAPD has revealed that one of the deceased bears the star tattoo of the Estrella crime cartel,’ said the reporter. ‘Both Rocky Marron and his injured driver were known to be members of the rival Árbol cartel. This has all the hallmarks of a cartel turf war, right here in downtown San Antonio. It appears the Estrella cartel were out to get Rocky Marron, brother of the head of the Árbol cartel, Carlos Marron, or as he is more commonly known, El Loro Verde – the Green Parrot.’

  ‘Rocky is not answering his phone, Padrino,’ said Vargas. ‘It just goes straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Keep trying,’ Marron snapped, his eyes glued to the television.

  ‘Captain Leo De Silva of the SAPD says the collateral damage could have been much higher here today,’ continued the reporter, ‘had it not been for the presence of Caesar, the famous Australian explosive detection dog.’

  The news report cut to an earlier interview between the reporter and Captain De Silva. ‘Yes, we were real lucky that Caesar and his handler were at a conference nearby. Caesar located a second bomb, just outside the Texas National Bank.’

  ‘Captain, do you think the Estrella cartel is out to eliminate the Árbol cartel’s leaders?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘It sure looks that way,’ said Captain De Silva. ‘If I were the Green Parrot, I would be looking over my shoulder. I think this signals that Estrella is out to get him.’

  ‘So,’ said the reporter, ‘we owe a vote of thanks to the famous Caesar, and his handler, whose identity we can’t reveal for security reasons.’ The picture briefly cut to Caesar being led along the pavement by Ben, whose face was blurred. ‘I am told that Caesar is the finest, most decorated explosive detection dog in the world. But even Caesar’s presence could not save Rocky Marron. You have to wonder if he would still be alive if Caesar had been on the scene a little earlier.’

  ‘Still no answer from Rocky, Padrino,’ said Vargas. ‘Could it really be that he is dead?’

  ‘My brother, dead.’ Marron dropped his head in despair. When he looked up, there was a fierce determination in his eyes. ‘Get me that dog!’ he commanded, pointing at the television screen.

  ‘Padrino?’

  ‘Get me that dog! Get this César for me. Those Estrella cowards will not kill me with their bombs. Get me the best bomb-detecting dog in the world. This dog.’ Coming to his feet, he stabbed a finger at the television.

  ‘But … how, Padrino?’ Vargas stammered.

  ‘How do I know? Just do it, Vargas! Whatever it takes. You get this César for me. This dog will be my protector and the protector of my family.’

  ‘But kidnap a dog …?’

  ‘Sí! How hard can it be to kidnap a dog? Do it, Vargas. Get this César for me!’

  Ben and Charlie had intended to catch a ride with a USAF transport plane that evening, to an air base in California. From there they would fly back to Australia. Meanwhile, Caesar was required by Australian law to spend time in a quarantine facility. Ben had found a suitable facility in San Antonio, one that met the high standards set by Australian animal health regulations. It was run by Joe Levine, a former US military dog handler. Caesar would spend a ‘holiday’ at Joe’s Doghouse while he waited out the quarantine period prior to returning to Australia. But first Ben and Charlie had delayed their own return to Australia to attend a meeting, at the invitation of the SAPD.

  Captain De Silva had immediately created a joint task force with officers from the SAPD and the Texas Rangers, involving investigators, forensic experts, computer whizzes and specialists in the criminal activities of Mexican cartels. The day following the bombing, the Australian visitors sat in on the briefing that De Silva gave to the fifty Texas police officers assigned to the task force. Grim-faced, the participants sat around a conference room at SAPD headquarters as the captain brought everyone up to date.

  Special guests Ben, Caesar and Charlie were directed to the front row. Caesar was the centre of attention, with half the police officers they passed wanting to give him a friendly pat. Once Ben and Charlie took their seats, Caesar lay at Ben’s feet, seemingly disinterested. But every now and then his ears would prick up.

  ‘So, three dead and seventeen in hospital,’ Captain De Silva began, standing at the front of the packed room. A large LED screen sat on the wall behind him. ‘The Mexican cartels think they can bring their civil war to the streets of San Antonio, do they?’ he said, barely controlling the anger in his voice. ‘I don’t think so! Let me tell you, these guys have got another thing coming if they think we’re gonna let Texas become another cartel battleground. That’s why our ancestors fought and died at the Alamo – to free this state of rule by the gun!’

  ‘You got that right, Leo!’ declared Captain Ed Franco from the Texas Rangers. ‘We gotta find the people responsible for this outrage and put them before a judge and jury! We gotta send a signal to the criminals and to the good people of Texas – there ain’t no place for mob-style law in this great state. I got that direct from the State Governor himself.’

  ‘You won’t hear any arguments from anyone in this room, Ed,’ De Silva agreed. ‘Fortunately, we had Sergeant F and Caesar on hand yesterday. If it hadn’t been for them, the second IED
would have detonated, killing and maiming a heap more people.’

  At the mention of his name, Caesar raised his head. He looked left and right with a look that seemed to say, Someone want to play?

  ‘Sergeant F disarmed the bomb with just seconds to spare,’ continued De Silva. ‘Would you believe the phone that was supposed to set off the second IED rang while Ben was holding it? We were all this close to being toast.’ He held up a finger and thumb to indicate a distance of just a few centimetres. Then he took up a remote control. ‘So, here’s what we know so far.’

  He clicked and the screen behind him came to life. The police mug shots of three men appeared on the screen, side by side.

  ‘These are yesterday’s victims.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Eduardo “Rocky” Marron, younger brother of the head of the Árbol cartel, Carlos Marron. Rocky was a senior capitán in his brother’s cartel – died from gunshot wounds received from a single assailant. Second, Alberto Estevez, Rocky’s driver and a low-level Árbol member, who died in hospital overnight from multiple gunshot wounds inflicted by the same assailant. And finally, the assailant, Manny Diaz, a mid-level member of the rival Estrella cartel, shot dead at the scene by a uniformed SAPD officer after ignoring a challenge and trying to escape on foot.’

  ‘You think Manny set off the bomb and shot the other two?’ said Charlie.

  De Silva nodded. ‘Affirmative, Sergeant G. We know that Manny shot both Rocky and Estevez following the detonation of the first IED, before he was shot and killed by Officer Pete O’May. From witnesses in Big Sam’s, it’s pretty clear that Manny set off the first IED with his phone, but for some reason was unable to set off the second. Manny was dead in the street by the time Sergeant F took the call on the phone connected to the second IED. Meaning, that call was placed by someone other than Manny. Any questions?’

  ‘Why did Manny kill the other two, sir?’ Ben asked. ‘What was his motive? And why here, in San Antonio?’

  ‘We found a pile of cash in a suitcase in the hotted-up Chrysler that Rocky and Estevez were using. And we know from witnesses that Rocky was heading into the Texas National Bank on the corner of East Houston and Broadway when the IED exploded.’