Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  “Really?”

  Garcia nodded. “It was the secondary objective.”

  Dawson mulled for a moment. “Of course. That’s the data that links Madsen to the Borregos. That’s how the cartel controlled Madsen and everyone else.” He fell silent, then added, “Now they have the incriminating evidence. They’ll destroy it and think they’ve gotten away with it.”

  “But you have copies they didn’t know existed.”

  Dawson nodded.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I started out to do. Bring down the house.”

  “Even if it implicates your father?”

  “My father was part of it. He went along because he thought he could get rich,” Dawson said. “That was a mistake.”

  “They killed him.”

  “He believed the government could protect him.”

  Garcia paused, looked down at the floor, then up at Dawson again. “Did you ever think that maybe he was trying to protect you?”

  Dawson thought for a moment. “Protect me? From what?”

  “He respected you.”

  “I know, but…”

  “You were everything that he wanted to be, but never could.”

  Dawson shook his head doubtfully. “The only thing he ever wanted was to get rich. In Florida, it landed him in jail. Now, after twenty-five years of building up his dream, his life was ended with a bullet to his head. C’mon, Raoul. If I wasn’t his son, I say it was inevitable.”

  Garcia shrugged. “Shut up and listen. You have a reputation as a straight shooter, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, how would it look if your father was found to be part of a drug- and gun-running ring working closely with one of the biggest drug cartels in Mexico? What would that do to you? Not to mention Sam’s reputation as a local community good guy?”

  “Sam got a conscience too late.”

  “Maybe he took money, but for the most part stayed out of it. Maybe it got to the point where he couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe he decided to expose the whole thing.”

  “Okay. That’s the way I read the tea leaves,” Dawson said. “He’d been cut out of the big money. They’d given him and Jacquelyn the golf course and several subdivisions. They’d tossed him a bone, meant to shut him up. But the documents I have incriminate him. Then Sam went to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He blew the whistle. He paid the price for that.”

  “Yes. He did. But you don’t need to die because of it.”

  Dawson stood and walked to the bar. He put a glass on it, pulled the top off a bottle of tequila, and splashed some into it. He gulped twice and sighed as the tequila warmed his stomach. “I don’t care. I’m going to finish this. For him and for me.”

  Chapter 54

  El Paso, Texas

  Paranoia surged through Dawson, knotting his stomach. He was glad the El Paso airport was mercifully small. What if they know? What if someone is trailing me? The DEA. Or maybe Carlos’s people? Jesus. Will I even make it to the damned newsroom? He had a tight connection in Dallas and kept his briefcase snug under his arm and a firm grip on his carry-on. Neither would leave his sight.

  On the airplane, he sank deep into his seat. He couldn’t get comfortable. He’d gotten an aisle seat, as he always did, and leaned out, glancing to the front of the cabin and to the back, not that anyone tailing him would give themselves away by acting or dressing strangely.

  Once the plane reached cruising altitude and the fasten seat belt lights dinged off, he stood to check the overhead compartment, using the opportunity to scan the passengers. Nothing unusual. Some people were asleep, their heads drooping down or to the side, their mouths open. Some stared at their laptops or tablets. Some read books. Wait. There was a guy, a Mexican who looked at him strangely for a moment, then turned to look out the window. Stop it. You’re paranoid. Yeah. But that’s okay. Fear can be your friend.

  Dawson sat back down and buckled his seat belt. He’d gotten one of the last seats available. He’d sit tight, then see who made the change.

  Only a few people did. Any of them could be following him. He tried to push his fears to the back of his mind. He had other things to worry about, like his story. Seated finally on his flight from Dallas to D.C., he took a deep breath, pulled his briefcase from under the seat, and opened his laptop on his tray table. The screen came to light. He had outlined a story that would expose the entire sordid mess. Now he needed to write it while it still tumbled in his mind. Then he’d find the holes and fill them.

  But first he looked around again to see if anyone was watching. The woman to his right was already dozing. The guy across the aisle was buried in a book. The woman behind him was reading a magazine. Just to be safe, Dawson reduced the size of the type so he could hardly see it himself.

  He tried to collect his scattered thoughts. His mind drifted back to the day he’d climbed aboard that flight to El Paso just a few weeks ago, the day after his life had been turned inside out. Thoughts of his father haunted him. What kind of man had Sam really been? Had he sacrificed himself to expose the reality behind Rancho la Peña, like Raoul had suggested?

  His father must have sensed that the land swap was a prelude to something grander than a couple of golf courses and a housing development linked with commercial warehousing. The timing for Rancho la Peña had been perfect—too perfect. By the time the North American Free Trade Agreement became a reality, Rancho la Peña was alive and well—and ideally situated.

  Yeah. It was perfect. Except for one thing—the human factor. Rancho la Peña had been too good. People got greedy and envious. Then they got nasty.

  * * *

  The flight landed twenty minutes early. Dawson shouldered his briefcase and wheeled his bag down the familiar corridors of Dulles International Airport. Outside the terminal, he hailed a cab and toyed with the idea of going straight to the office. No, he thought, and gave the cabbie the address of his condominium in Reston, Virginia.

  He’d lost track of time when the cab pulled up in front of his condo, a building that contained just his and another unit, both two-bedrooms with a small back patio that opened onto a wooded area. He spent very little time there and had gotten the place mostly to accommodate visits by Brandon and Erica.

  After paying the cabbie, he pushed open the door and wheeled his bag inside. He froze, his heart thumping, his throat thick. He closed the door quickly and leaned back against it, his eyes wide and his mind ablaze. Books and framed photos of himself and his kids lay scattered around the carpet. Two ceramic end table lamps had been smashed. The couch cushions were slashed, the stuffing ripped out. He felt a wave of that the intruders might still be in the condo. He froze and held his breath. No sounds. He carefully picked his way into the small kitchen. Drawers had been emptied and the contents dumped on the floor. In the bedroom, his bed sheets had been ripped off and the mattress upended. Photos from the top of his chest of drawers were scattered among his clothes emptied from the drawers. The coats and shirts from his hanging closet had been flung across the room.

  They’re on to me! But how? Returning to the living room, his stomach knotted, he sat unsteadily in an easy chair, the only one still upright, and sank into it. What did they think they were going to find? He had everything with him: the files he’d collected from Alfonso Alvarez’s office and the memory stick with scanned copies of everything. He’d e-mailed it all to Frankel. There was nothing to find here. Unless it was a warning. Do they think this will stop me? He swallowed hard and ground his teeth. The data was already dispersed. So what’s the point?

  Dawson considered calling the Fairfax County police. But they would find nothing and they could do nothing. They’d ask a lot of routine questions: Had he secured the place before he left? Had this kind of thing happened before? Who would want to do this to you? He didn’t want to answer any questions. He had a damned story to write. And more than anything, he wanted a long, hot shower. Dawson pulled out his phone and called Frankel.

>   “Where are you?” Frankel asked.

  “Reston. Just got in. My place has been ransacked.”

  Frankel was silent for a moment. “Shit. You okay?”

  “Yeah. But my furniture took a beating.”

  “Who did the damage?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Probably Madsen’s people. They’re trying to scare me off.”

  “That’s not good, Dawson. Not good at all. You gotta get out of there before someone sees you.”

  “Where the hell am I going to go?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I have a guest cottage. It can’t be seen from the street. It’s perfect.”

  “What if I’m followed?”

  “After we hang up, turn your phone off and leave it there. Go buy a couple of throwaways. Take a few cabs around town, then call me. I’ll give you the address.”

  “Okay. Did you get the documents I e-mailed?”

  “I’m looking at them now. Good stuff, Dawson. But you gotta make some sense of it.”

  “Don’t worry. I drafted the story. It won’t take much more work.”

  “It won’t? You have to talk to Madsen and his people.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m going to print copies and stash this material in a safe place.” Frankel fell silent for a moment. “You better get going.”

  “Yeah.” Dawson hung up and slowly looked around. “Bastards,”

  ***

  Dawson stepped out of the taxi and onto a street in a leafy section of Chevy Chase, Maryland. It was the fourth one he’d ridden that afternoon and the third since he’d called Frankel to get the address. He paid the driver in cash through the passenger side window, walked three blocks, turned a corner, and stopped in front of an ivy-covered brick house. He looked around to see if anyone was following, then quickly went to the door and pushed the doorbell.

  A stocky woman in her mid-sixties opened the door. Dressed in jeans and a gardening shirt, she smiled warmly and extended a hand. “I’m Martha. You must be Kyle. Ed said you’d be here soon.”

  “I really appreciate this… I...”

  Martha raised her hand. “Anything I can do to expose that scoundrel is fine by me. The cottage is ready. Would you like something? Coffee, tea, or a drink?”

  “Thanks. Coffee, if it’s no trouble.”

  She led him through their house, out the back porch, down the steps to the graveled walkway, and to the cottage. Martha pushed the front door open and lifted up a couple of the sliding windows, admitting fresh air.

  Frankel had used the place to write a couple of memoirs, she explained. Dawson nodded, having read them. The first had been of Frankel’s years in Vietnam where he’d fought as a soldier, then returned as a journalist to cover the country’s last frantic days before Ho Chi Minh and the North Vietnamese swarmed Saigon. The second was about the Iran-Contra Affair and the rebel Sandinistas in Nicaragua. It had been roundly condemned by the Reagan White House, which had only boosted sales.

  Dawson looked around with envy. It was clean and cozy, a large room with a small living room area, a dining table, and a kitchen, plus a tidy tiled bath. It even had a built-in wine rack. The upstairs, reached via a curving metal staircase, had been converted into a bedroom loft. I could get used this. Dawson thanked Martha, then set up his laptop on the small dining room table and began to pore over the draft.

  ***

  The knock on the door startled Dawson. Frankel burst in, closing the door quietly behind him. “How’s it going?” he said.

  “Almost done. Just need Madsen’s responses.”

  “Madsen’s in Columbus, Ohio, tonight for the final televised debate.”

  “I know. He’s coming back to D.C. tonight after the debate. He’s carved out some time for me tomorrow morning—at least that’s what Serna has promised.”

  “Does he know what you’re going to be asking him?”

  Dawson leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and smiled. “He might, if his people were behind the break-in. He’ll talk to me, regardless. He needs this interview by the Herald. It’s the exclusive he’s been promising me for months. He’s put it off because the race has been so damned close. Didn’t want to blow it by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But he’s leading the polls now and he thinks he’s going to use the Herald to tell everyone inside the beltway that he and the neo-cons are back.”

  “It’s nice they think like that,” Frankel said, “but they’re wrong.”

  “They’re expecting me to throw soft balls.”

  “But you won’t. That’s why you carry that old hard ball around, right?”

  “That’s a joke, I hope.”

  “Pun intended. You hungry?”

  Dawson hadn’t thought about food since he’d landed. He was starving.

  “Martha’s pulled together some veal scallopini. You’ll like it.”

  “This bottle of Tuscan chianti I bought on the way should go with it nicely.” Dawson handed the bottle to Frankel, who scanned the label and smiled.

  “I knew I liked you for some reason. Bring your laptop. I’ll look the story over while we watch the debate.”

  * * *

  After dinner, Frankel turned up the sound on CNN. President Harris and Madsen were facing off in the last of their three debates, this one at Ohio State University. It was supposed to be a public question-and-answer event. The Frankels and Dawson watched as the CNN analysts droned on about how each candidate was doing, with the Harris supporters bemoaning that he had been unable to inspire voters like he had four years earlier. Dawson got up to refill his wine glass, then settled back into his chair.

  After both candidates were seated in the center of the room, Madsen took the first question, which, not surprisingly, was about the border and immigration. “As we speak here today,” Madsen said, “an estimated 12 million undocumented people are living in this country. Why? Because our border is not secure. My opponent here has virtually ignored a situation in which hundreds and thousands of people pour across our porous border each year. Why? This is an intolerable situation, and I vow to put an end to it. We must secure our borders one way or another. If it means building a wall, then that’s what we’ll do!” Madsen balled his fist and punched the air to strong applause.

  “But…” Madsen continued, nodding and holding up a hand for the audience to quiet down. Speaking in a low voice, he said, “But all is not lost. Despite the lawlessness and violence on the border, there are a lot of good things happening. We have had and continue to have strong relations with our neighbor, Mexico. I can speak from personal experience on that topic. As a young man with family ties to Mexico, I had the good fortune to meet a beautiful young woman from Mexico who became my bride. I’d like, if I may, to introduce my wife, who’s in the audience today.”

  Madsen pointed to his wife, who was sitting in the front row. She smiled, somewhat self-consciously, rose slightly, waved, and sat down. The audience applauded politely. “In my own home state of New Mexico, I can point to projects along the border where commerce is flourishing, where jobs are being created, where homes are being built, and where people are making a decent wage for once. I promise you that if I have the honor of being elected your next president, I will build on that solid foundation so that we can strengthen the economic ties that benefit our two nations.”

  Madsen paused and grinned, looking as if he had all but won the debate with just his first answer. He turned to Harris, who stepped eagerly from his chair with his microphone in hand, and scanned the audience for his own first question.

  Dawson sipped his wine. Madsen’s chances of taking the White House were looking better with every public appearance. His confidence was growing day by day, and the public sensed it. People want to back a winner and Madsen was coming across as one. The polling numbers proved it.

  With just two weeks to go, it looked like the election was Madsen’s to lose. Tightness gripped Dawson’s chest as he rea
lized that Madsen’s campaign was about to be demolished. He looked at Frankel, who stared intently at the laptop screen. “What do you think?”

  Frankel sat back and smiled.

  Chapter 55

  Washington, D.C.

  Dawson crossed the National Mall, his mind running over the series of questions he planned to ask Madsen—most of which concerned the dozen or so documents he had selected. He abruptly paused on a gravel path to check his files. Did I bring everything? He opened his frayed briefcase and pulled his files out partway, fingering the sheets of paper. They were all there. Relieved, he zipped it closed, then looped the strap over his shoulder and continued.

  As he hurried along, he massaged his stomach, hoping to relieve the quivering pain there. He was more nervous about this story than any he had ever written. The exposé on corruption in Iraq had been easy by comparison. The tips were easier to follow than he’d expected. Many of the government aid contractors were as chaotic and poorly run as the government agencies that supervised them. It wasn’t hard to find a disgruntled employee to tell him what he needed to know. In the aftermath, reports by government oversight committees confirmed what he had written. The fraud, waste, and theft had easily reached the billions of dollars.

  This was different. He glanced at the Capitol, picture perfect this morning as it gleamed white in the morning sun against a blue sky filled with puffy clouds. He cleared his throat. Calm down. Maybe Frankel was right. Don’t get a fat head. The sum total of your grand and glorious deeds probably will only be remembered a few days after your death—if you’re lucky.

  But he wasn’t doing this for the newspaper or for the glory. He was doing it for himself. For what he believed was right. He thought of his father and hitched up the strap to his briefcase, then felt for the old brown baseball that was buried in the corner of the bag. He picked up his pace.