The Shaman

by David Nees

  Henry was sixty-one. He stood about five feet, nine inches with thick, white hair and glasses. He had a portly build and looked more like a professor than a spy. His eyes usually held a glint to them that hinted at a lively sense of humor. Today he looked serious and concerned. They all got out of their cars and started walking through the empty parking lot.

  “So, you recruited me to go after terrorists. You spent a lot of time and money training me for the past eighteen months. I’m now fluent in Spanish, passable in Italian and German with a smattering of Russian. Why send me after a drug lord?” Dan asked.

  Henry smiled. “There’s more to this than meets the eye.” He looked at Jane before continuing. “We are concerned about a growing interface between drugs and terrorists.”

  “You said, ‘growing’. Aren’t there terrorists we know about right now that I could go after?”

  “Yes,” Jane said, “but this situation is getting more urgent and we need to act on it.”

  “What the hell is more urgent than killing known terrorists, especially leaders?”

  “Jane told me you were a bit difficult,” Henry said. “I understand you gave the instructors a hard time at the Farm.”

  “I don’t think I’m difficult. I just need for things to make sense to me. And this doesn’t.”

  The three stood huddled against the wind which had come up, driving away the warmth of the sun’s rays. Jane stood noticeably taller than Henry in her low heels. Dan at six feet was the tallest of the three.

  “Look, this wind is chilly on my old bones. Let’s go into Bethesda. I know a restaurant that has some private corners where we can talk out of the wind.” Henry turned and led them back to his car and they drove off.

  They settled into a booth in the back corner of the Town Diner and took off their coats. The restaurant was warm and inviting. The aroma of fresh coffee and bacon fill the air. It was comfortably dark and worn; a place that invited you to relax. The waitress brought menus but everyone just ordered coffee. After the coffee was delivered she left them alone.

  “A little history might help,” Jane said. “Henry, would you mind going through it?”

  He nodded. “Since the sixties and the cold war the Soviet Union has had a program to undermine the west through drugs. It wasn’t all that new of an idea; Mao had used it against his enemies in the thirties in China. What was different was that Khrushchev wanted to insulate the soviets from any connection to the program. They used their satellites, mainly Czechoslovakia in this effort. Cuba was brought into the program as well. They were enthusiastic about it because the drug smuggling generated hard currency for them. None of the participants were allowed to keep all the money, though. It was directed through offshore banks and dummy accounts so that most of the money could wind up back in the Soviet Union untraced. The program used known drug smugglers and dealers; again as a protection against tying the operations back to the Soviets.”

  “So when did we find out about this…and how? Seems like this would be pretty volatile information. I never heard about it.”

  “We found out about it in the early seventies. There was a defection of a very high-ranking Czech who was heavily involved in the planning of this operation. We debriefed him but no one wanted to know about the problem.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Henry sighed. “We were entering an era of détente; the opening up of China, working to get along with the Soviets, lower the tensions of the cold war, all of that. Alexandr Janacek’s information didn’t fit in to where the State Department and administration wanted to go.”

  “So they ignored him?”

  Henry shrugged. “Pretty much. If the information got out, the public would have been furious and would have demanded action.”

  Dan thought for a moment. “Okay, that’s interesting history, but what does that have to do with now? I mean the Soviet Union is gone.” He leaned back. All this information still didn’t address why he should be going to Mexico.

  Jane touched his arm. “Do you think this ended with the downfall of the soviets? Where did Putin come from but the KGB? They were heavily involved in this drug scheme along with various interior ministries. While the plan was highly secret, it involved a lot of agencies, just not many people in each agency.”

  “And now we know that Venezuela is connected to the terrorists,” Henry said. “They have a known Syrian-born terrorist in their administration and we know he’s involved in the cocaine and marijuana smuggling business.”

  “I get that drugs could be a good way to try to undermine the country, although it doesn’t seem to have worked all that well with us. I get that it provides money for other operations, but I still don’t see why this assignment.”

  Conversation stopped as the waitress refilled their cups. Henry had her bring the check. When she was gone again he continued.

  “Recently we were appraised of an NSA intercepted a transmission that indicated al Qaeda was working on some kind of deal with Jorge Mendoza. We don’t think it’s about drugs.”

  “Who’s Jorge and what’s it about?”

  “Jorge is the head of the Sinaloa cartel. It’s the most powerful of the Mexican cartels. And this deal seems to be about smuggling terrorists into the U.S. They do it already with low-level operators, Coyotes who are loosely connected to the cartels. This is going to be something bigger.”

  “So taking out Mendoza will derail this deal?”

  Henry nodded. “That’s what we hope. The added benefit is that the cooperation plan between the cartels may also disintegrate. Mexico is too close to being a failed state and we have too large a border with them. Columbia was bad enough, as is Venezuela now; we don’t want that on our borders.”

  The shadows had lengthened while Dan had been lost in thought. Suddenly his attention turned to a scorpion advancing towards him. He flicked a pebble at it. The scorpion didn’t run. It backed up and arched its stinger in the air. He could see that the arachnid understood its power and was not going to be easily intimidated. Wonder if they’re territorial? The thought made him uneasy. Sighing, he got up. There would be no more lying about and relaxing while wondering if the scorpion was going to come after him. He hoisted the pack and, testing his ankle, started limping south.

  Dan struggled through the night. His ankle got worse and finally around 3 am he had to stop. He found a level spot against a rock wall. After scanning carefully for scorpions he settled down with his pack under his head and his left foot propped up on a rock.

  The dawn woke him. As he looked around he noticed a large black bird perched on a boulder about fifty feet away. It would not have drawn his attention except that it seemed odd to see a bird perched so close; all the other birds he’d seen either flitted away before he got close or were soaring high in the sky like the hawk he saw yesterday. The other odd thing was that the bird seemed to be staring at him. The sun glinted off of its eyes and he thought one of them looked to be black and the other red. Is that normal?

  He studied the bird for a few moments and then ate an energy bar and drank some of his water. He relaxed and let his eyes close again. His foot was throbbing less and he hoped spending the day off of it would allow him to walk all the next night. He could not be late for his rendezvous with Mendoza.

  Chapter 5

  ___________________________________

  J orge Mendoza pushed the off button on his phone. He was standing behind his opulent desk in the private office of his mansion in Mexico City. He was a thick man about five feet ten inches tall; built like a fireplug. He had a broad face without elegance. It spoke of Indian blood in his lineage. It also hinted at a brutal nature. He was not a subtle man nor did he look like one.

  Hector Ortega, his close friend and lieutenant stood across the room watching his boss carefully. He was taller and thinner than his Jorge. He had an angular face and sharp eyes that shifted around, looking and evaluating. His hair was black and slicked back. A hint of cruelty showed in his mouth even when
he smiled.

  The two had had a long relationship. Jorge came up through the ranks of the Sinaloa cartel by being smart, efficient and ruthless. He started out as a sicario, a hit man, but he had a knack for making things work and was soon elevated to higher positions in the cartel. He could be relied upon to carry out any task whether it was opening another smuggling route into the U.S., taking out a competitor, or enforcing discipline within the gang.

  Jorge could be charming and pleasant, to men as well as women. When he turned on the charm, people felt comfortable and warmed up to him. Although he came from peasant stock, he found it easy to relax in the company of the elites. They, knowing his power, enjoyed how urbane he appeared to be. The women seemed to be attracted to his power as much as his charm. He enjoyed their company and was reputed to have a huge sexual appetite. But all this masked a dangerous, vicious nature and, when crossed, he was ruthless. Actual enemies as well as perceived enemies disappeared as a result of his orders if not directly by his hands. People who got involved with Jorge had to be very careful and, once involved, they had little chance of backing out. He trapped people with his favors and then demanded adherence to his dictates.

  Hector had recognized Jorge’s ascendance and attached himself to the man. He watched Jorge’s back every step of the way. Hector didn’t have the vision Jorge had, but he knew his friend was destined to be a big man in the cartel and Hector knew how to protect him. He had an ability to sniff out deception and disloyalty and quickly dealt with it. Jorge had learned to trust Hector over the years and considered him his special advantage in this dangerous business. Hector soon was taking care of all the dirty work for Jorge.

  When the previous boss, Miguel Rivera, was captured, all the cartels were worried that he might give up information in exchange for protection against extradition to the U.S. Winding up in a U.S prison was the worst fate a drug kingpin could imagine. In Mexico one could bride the jailers for many special favors. Life inside the prison was made easier by special food, liquor, and prostitutes. The funds also bought off not only the guards but other inmates who helped enforce the drug lord’s orders. But in the U.S., the regulations were stricter. Life was not so easy and there was no hope of escape or release. To many it seemed worse than death.

  A delegation from the other cartels came to Jorge to ask him to intervene. Jorge struck a deal with the other drug lords that if he took care of the problem, they would acknowledge his leadership over the cartel. They were happy to oblige him. Next he convinced all of Rivera’s lieutenants, of whom he was the most powerful, that their futures were at risk and he could protect them if they pledged their loyalty to him.

  With everyone set up, Jorge had Hector smuggle a knife into prison to a street level cartel member who, two days later, stuck it into the base of Rivera’s skull, through his brain stem. Then Hector got the word out about who had done the killing and let the prison inmates take care of the rest, leaving behind no evidence of his or Jorge’s involvement.

  He was in his private office in his Mexico City mansion when Hector had come in.

  “You called me. What’s going on?” Hector asked.

  “The Pakistani, Tariq. He’s coming to oversee the transfer of the men.”

  “He’ll get in the way. We don’t need him around.”

  “I agree, but he’s bringing in the heroin along with the men. I guess he wants to be present to protect his goods and not do the transaction at a distance,” replied Jorge.

  “Is this still a good idea?” Hector asked.

  Jorge looked sharply at him. “The drugs?”

  “No, smuggling the men.”

  “We will deliver the goods.”

  “But you have the cartel meeting in the middle of—”

  “Which is what I want. I will show the other bosses how we can broaden our incomes. They need to see we are leading the way and have serious allies around the world. They need to see I have the vision and the international connections. There are many around the world who will work with us if it’s against the U.S.”

  “But making peace between all of the cartels, won’t that be more effective?”

  Jorge paused. Hector meant well but he had no vision. “This helps to cement the peace. The others need to see my strength and influence. I will lead them to cooperate, but I will be in charge. Do not question me. I have made my decision.” He pointed his finger at him. “Just make sure this goes well—both the meeting and collecting the terrorists.”

  Hector nodded. He knew when to keep quiet. His boss was not a man to oppose. “I will meet the ship in Veracruz and transport the cargo to Chihuahua. I’ll put them in one of our warehouses to let them recover. I think they will be in bad shape after living in a steel coffin for thirty days.”

  Jorge shrugged. “Good enough. They are zealots. They’ll survive.” He looked over at the side wall with its shrine to Santa Muerte. “We survive also.”

  Tariq’s plane landed in Veracruz. He carried with him a bearer bond in the amount of $250,000 taken from the half million he had received from Rashid. He checked into a small, three story hotel two blocks from the waterfront. It was inexpensive but that wasn’t the reason Tariq picked it. He chose it because it was anonymous and he could blend in as a limited budget tourist.

  He had shaved his beard and wore western clothes; a long sleeve shirt and pants, suitable for the hot climate. He had stylish sunglasses and wore a brimmed hat. He carried an Egyptian passport and passed himself off as a single man with a good job on an inexpensive vacation. His only issue came with the taxi driver who wanted to drive him by all the tourist traps where he would get stiffed for overpriced drinks. When that didn’t work, the man offered to find a woman for him. Tariq declined and the driver glanced suspiciously at him throughout the rest of the drive to the hotel.

  The ship wouldn’t arrive for two more days. His communications with Jorge about the arrangements weren’t comforting. Jorge wouldn’t meet with him and told him he would be dealing with Hector. He assured Tariq that the containers would be picked up and trucked to Chihuahua, to a safe warehouse where the men could recover their strength and get ready for the final leg of their journey. Tariq insisted that he ride along with one of the trucks and after a tense argument, Jorge agreed. Now Tariq had nothing to do but wait.

  It was near dawn on the third night when Dan reached the rim of the mesa. The rim consisted of a jagged line of broken boulders offering good concealment with crevices through which he could place his rifle. He chose a spot that would offer some protection from the sun and set up his hide. He strung a camouflage net across the space covering his resting and shooting area. He had pushed hard and was a day early but waiting was part of the job. Patience had been drilled into him in sniper school. You waited for your opponent to expose their position, for the enemy to show up, or for a clear shot; always you waited. After screening his hide with the netting and arranging his gear he propped up his sore ankle and tried to relax. A few hours of sleep would be nice before it got so bloody hot.

  He would have to wait out the day while keeping his eyes on the target area. If the plans had changed and people arrived early, Dan had to be ready. He would get very little sleep in the coming day.

  When the sun cleared the hills to the east the temperature began to rise again. Dan stirred, thankful he had fallen asleep for a couple of hours; there would be little chance of that for the rest of the day. Better look at my ankle. He was dusty, dirty, and nervous about taking off his boot. If the ankle started to balloon up, he’d have to jam it back on and use it like a cast. It wasn’t throbbing deeply so Dan figured he could safely examine the injured joint.

  Gingerly he unlaced the boot and slipped off his sock. The ankle was swollen and discolored. The tape had supported it well through the two nights of hiking. Dan decided to leave his foot out for a while, making sure to keep it elevated. A half hour later, his patience ran out. He was thirsty, hungry and he had to pee. He put some more tape over the original wrap, rol
led his sock back on and carefully maneuvered his foot back into the boot. He kept the laces loose for now but would tighten them when he had to move…after the shot. When he had gotten the boot on, he crawled out from under the netting and limped away from the rim to relieve himself.

  Then he saw a black bird, either a crow or a raven. The size of it made Dan think it was probably a raven. It was like the one he saw the day before. It was farther away but looking at him, like the other one had done. Are ravens that interested in humans? Enough to study us? He knew they were smart, but the idea of them being interested in human beings seemed to be a stretch.

  After taking care of his business, he limped back to his hide to survey the target area with his binoculars. The road came from the east, through some rocky hills and ended at the ranch. To the north of it was the uninhabited mesa where Dan lay in wait. West and south the ground stretched away to the horizon. It was a hot, dry land. He could see dust devils already starting to swirl around on the flat ground. They appeared out of nowhere, spun up and then fell apart. Some were more robust and danced across the parched earth. Very little grew here. There was a shallow river at the base of the mesa flowing east through the hills. Dan guessed it dried up regularly but it offered enough moisture to support a line of willow bushes along its banks.

  The entrance to the building faced north towards the mesa. The drive turned up towards the front of the house in a loop. There was a long porch roof to shade the doorway. From his height Dan could see the house was built with a central courtyard, hacienda style. In the courtyard was a pool and screening hung over much of the space to protect it from the harsh sun. A couple of fountains splashed and the abundant potted plants gave the courtyard a cool, inviting look. Beyond the courtyard was a flat area of packed dirt with a windsock at one end. Probably a helipad. If everyone arrives by helicopter this could be a difficult shot. Still it was nice, he thought, for them to give him a wind gauge. On one side of the hacienda was a tower with a wind mill on top. It probably drove the pump that supplied water to the ranch. A barn stood out back to one side of the helipad. The associated corrals gave evidence that the ranch had housed horses at one time. Now everything seemed empty.