“Ah, Mr. Guzman insisted that your man accept his hospitality and remain at the compound. Do not fear señor, the man is being well treated.”
Farbeaux saw the lie in the man’s eyes immediately, just a second before he placed a pair of expensive sunglasses on.
“Please, Señor Jones, Jefe is waiting to see you,” the heavyset man said as he gestured toward the hacienda.
Farbeaux buttoned his suit jacket and without turning his head had counted the men in the hacienda’s enclosed court that surrounded the helipad. There were ten men with five more hidden in the shadows. He moved his eyes behind his sunglasses and saw four more tucked away at windows on the upper veranda. He showed no emotion as he ducked his head to enter the villa itself.
Henri removed his sunglasses right away so his eyes could adjust to the darkness inside. He immediately saw an older woman, perhaps in her early fifties. She came forward, wiping her hands on a white apron. She sneered at the man escorting Farbeaux and he backed away.
“Welcome to our home, Señor—?”
“Hanover Jones, Mama,” said a small well-dressed man with a moustache as he stepped out from behind his ample mother. He said something in Spanish, words Farbeaux knew almost as well as the people in the room. He explained that she needed to go to her room and not the kitchen and ignore anything she may hear in the next hour. Henri Farbeaux thought the man before him was either sloppy in his memory, knowing he spoke Spanish, or he had done it intentionally. If it was the latter, he knew he would have to approach his business very carefully.
“Mr. Jones, it is good to see you once again. The last time was in Colombia if memory serves. I was the intelligence liaison for Pablo Escobar at the time. Back then my antiquities trade was purely a hobby with my … rather limited income.”
Henri smiled. “Yes, I believe you were, and yes, it was Colombia. I’m glad to see you moved on after Señor Escobar’s … er, mishap.”
Juan Guzman had not offered his hand to Farbeaux. He did smile at the memory of betraying the world’s largest drug dealer and allowing Colombian and American Special Forces to kill him in December of 1993.
“His time was over, señor. It was time for men with vision to take the lead in affairs that concern the southern regions of the hemisphere.”
Farbeaux knew what that vision was and how it had been put into practice. In eliminating all of his competition in the distribution end in Mexico, along with his takeover of the manufacturing cartels in the south, the Anaconda had murdered no less than eighty of the top drug people in Mexico and South America, but it had been the little people who had suffered the most in this drug civil war with a very conservative estimate of over thirty thousand lower-end hoods and civilians losing their lives before the dust settled just across the border in northern Mexico. Now Juan Guzman was in charge of the largest drug operation in the entire world, and he was now known as the Anaconda for his powerful, suffocating, squeezing grip on anything south of the U.S. border.
“But that is history.” He finally smiled and held out his manicured hand for Henri to shake, which he did. “According to your man you are interested in my Anasazi collection?”
“Yes, my collection is lacking where yours is overflowing. And since the Anasazi lived north of the border, I figured it was something you could part with.” Henri released the man’s small hand and then looked around the well-appointed living room. He saw three men standing close by and their eyes never left him. “I am particularly interested in the piece you purchased in San Diego, a very nice artifact of silver.”
The Anaconda smiled and then looked Farbeaux in his blue eyes. “Ah, yes, the silver serpent. That is a very rare piece, señor. The only Anasazi artifact found that depicted a serpent of such splendor. But I must correct you, that particular piece was not purchased, it was … how do I say? Oh, yes, willed to me by its late owner.”
Henri knew well what that meant. Guzman had murdered the former collector and relieved him of the piece.
“Well, since your investment is minimal, perhaps we can come to an accommodation?” Farbeaux said smiling.
“Perhaps, señor, perhaps,” Guzman said as he gestured with his right hand for Farbeaux to precede him. “Why don’t we examine the piece so you can appreciate its beauty and thus make me an educated offer that would not be too insulting?”
The former French colonel stepped by the smaller Mexican drug lord, noticing that the man’s smile never reached as far as his dark eyes. The nickname Anaconda was well deserved in the Frenchman’s opinion as his eyes were like that of a large predatory snake. He knew the look well, because he was capable of the same thing.
The men in the room fell in behind their boss and followed them toward a large door. As Guzman stepped past Henri, he opened a huge oak door and then used a set of keys to open a steel gate behind that. He clicked on a light switch and Henri could see the descending stairs as they curved deeply into the ground.
“I have yet to have the piece cleaned by my artisans, so if you will follow me Señor Jones, we can view my wares in a far more comfortable setting.”
Henri turned from the stairs and looked at the small man before him. His hackles rose as he knew he was stepping into a trap. His makeshift plan had fooled no one and in his haste to find little Sarah, he had made a large mistake by thinking the drug lord would be greedy enough not to have had him checked out thoroughly. Farbeaux nodded his head and then out of the corner of his eye saw the trailing men watching him. He had no choice but to smile and enter the dark abyss beyond the gate.
The eyes of the Anaconda never left the back of the man his intelligence people said was not Hanover Jones from New York, but one Henri Farbeaux. The Anaconda knew that collecting, while being his main profession, was not the reason he was in Nuevo Laredo. He also knew the real reason and had decided to have fun on an otherwise boring day. He smiled as he started down the stairs after his guest.
The Anaconda would soon tire of the game.
2
LAREDO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,
LAREDO, TEXAS
The entire private sector of Laredo International Airport was now closed off to regular traffic. A Chevrolet Tahoe pulled alongside twenty other Chevys of the same model. Jack now knew the Feds had arrived in force. He looked over at Everett and Mendenhall and saw Carl nod his head toward a large sealed-off hangar that was visible through the aircraft’s window. Inside he saw a Laredo Police Department SWAT van and pulling up next to that was a large step van Jack knew to be the FBI HRT unit. The Hostage Rescue Unit gave Jack the cold chills. He shook his head, knowing now that the president of the United States had made his decision—the rescue, if there was to be one, would be conducted under federal auspices, not the Army’s, and certainly not the president’s most protected and black agency, Department 5656. Jack normally understood that secrecy was paramount, but at the moment he couldn’t care less about the black aspects of their department. He knew as he looked at the gathering federal authorities that the rescue would be strictly a law enforcement operation.
Jack and Everett shook their heads when a news van was stopped by the FBI agents and questioned. They both knew the news was spreading about the incident across the border, which in turn meant the operation was fast becoming too visual for the Event Group to participate.
“Will Director Compton and Colonel Collins please report to communications; the president is on video link through Europa,” the communications room said over the loudspeaker.
Jack was joined by the director and they slowly made their way to the communications area of the 707.
Jack stopped in front of the director and watched as he took a deep breath. The director spoke and listened for three minutes as Collins anxiously awaited word on if they would get the chance at the rescue attempt.
The news delivered by the president wasn’t good.
“Yes, Mr. President, not until you get definitive word,” Niles said as he felt the heat of Jack’s anger behind him. “But
sir, may I recommend that this be turned over to DELTA? We’ve already had a breakthrough by the media into the secure zone of the airport, which means Guzman will know of any rescue attempt before it even leaves here.” Niles handed Jack a small slip of paper and the colonel cursed under his breath as he read the words, “No Go.” “Yes, sir,” Niles said and then placed the phone down and nodded at the signals officer on detached service from the navy and assigned to the Event Group. “The president wants a word, Jack,” Niles said standing and pacing a few steps away.
“Colonel, are you there?” asked the stern voice.
“Mr. President,” Collins answered.
“You are hereby warned as I just warned Niles: you are not to exceed your authority, Colonel. Our dealings with President Juarez have been shaky since his election. We cannot go charging across the border with a group of men whose presence I would never be able to explain. Your department’s secrecy is paramount, even above your personnel. Is that clear, Colonel?”
Niles could see Jack half turn and almost walk away, but he stepped up to him and gestured toward the speakerphone where the president was still speaking.
“I give you and that little bald bastard under the desert a lot, and I mean a lot, of leeway, Colonel, and I expect my orders to be followed. This is an international incident for Christ’s sake.”
“Mr. President, you know for a fact that my security teams have a far better chance at getting our people out of there than anyone. We’re tight, we know how each other reacts. I implore you to give us a shot at this.”
“Do not interrupt, Colonel. Your boss explained things to me, after the goddamn fact. That’s the only reason I don’t have agents from the FBI storming that aircraft of yours right now. If I allow this, you could cost your Group your cover. You have to stop and think.”
Collins remained silent and Niles closed his eyes and removed his thick glasses.
“I don’t hear an ‘I understand you Mr. President’.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Now, all I am asking is that you give me time to coordinate with the Mexican authorities. We need that president down there. He knows what a threat this Guzman character is. However, he does not want a military incursion into his country. This has to be a law enforcement issue, not a military one. How is Mr. Ryan doing?”
Jack shook his head, stepped closer to the speaker, and took a seat, allowing his body a moment’s respite. “Ryan’s a strong kid. Now that he’s in American hands I give him a far better chance than being possibly operated on by Guzman’s surgeons.”
“Now, give us time Colonel. We will get those women back across the border. Baldy, you keep your people in check over there or I will fry your ass.”
Niles stepped up to the microphone. “Keep us informed, Mr. President.”
“Damn you bookworm, say it!”
“Yes, sir, we will stay put.” The line disconnected and Niles turned to face Jack, giving him a weak smile. “It seems I’m running out of favors.”
Jack stood and took Niles by the shoulder. “I know the feeling, Mr. Director. What about my other man, Udall?”
“The Mexican police recovered his body and it’s on the way back across the border.”
Collins nodded and then looked at Pete Golding, who stood next to Niles. He had several items in his hand, which he handed to Compton while slowly looking away from Colonel Collins’s gaze.
“What is it?” Everett asked.
“Our surveillance drone,” Pete answered, “the Predator, well, it took these. They’re grainy, but I think you’ll be able to see what we and Europa saw.” Niles, after studying the picture on top, then handed Jack the first blown-up photo. “These were taken just fifteen minutes ago,” Pete said by way of explanation.
Collins looked the eight-by-ten proofs over and his heart froze.
“That’s just great,” Everett said looking over Collins’s shoulder as he examined the first and the second picture Niles passed over. “What in the hell is with this guy?” Carl asked.
The first photo showed a large blonde man as he stepped from a luxurious helicopter. The second was taken only moments later, and the man had glanced skyward, as if he knew a Predator was flying overhead. The face was one no staff member on the Event Group aircraft would ever fail to recognize. It was Colonel Henri Farbeaux.
“I figured that son of a bitch for a lot of things, but not to be involved in this,” Everett said as Jack gave the photos back to Niles.
Compton watched as Collins walked toward the open door of the 707. He quickly made a decision and gestured for Mendenhall and Everett to join him.
“Colonel, I suspect that the president’s going to go with a joint operation, split between the Mexican HRT team and the FBI. Europa broke into the FBI mainframe and she says they will more than likely go in two hours. I forwarded the plans for the Perdition hacienda to the president who passed them through regular channels to the FBI HRT unit,” Niles said, trying not to look into Jack’s eyes as he did so. “I figured they needed all the advantage they could get.”
Jack waited until the director met his eyes and then caught the curse before it could escape his mouth. Everett and Mendenhall knew that Niles had done the right thing. Jack just nodded his head, knowing that the odds of Sarah surviving this thing had just dropped by 75%. He knew the country hadn’t learned anything after the failed rescue attempt in the desert of Iran in 1980. Operation Eagle Claw had been an unmitigated disaster because of a multiservice plan, one that was doomed to fail before it ever happened. And now this rescue wasn’t just split by differing branches of the service, but by two different nations, and one of those nations may have divided loyalties as far as the Anaconda went. Jack knew if he didn’t react to the fluidity of the situation he would never again see Sarah alive.
Niles bit his lip and then nodded at the two marines at the 707’s door. They understood and then closed it.
“Jack,” he said as he handed Everett the recon photos, “Pete and Europa have something to show you. It’s something I didn’t share with the president or the FBI.”
Collins impatiently waited for the director to explain.
“Pete may have found a way into that compound.”
Suddenly hope appeared in Collins’s cold, blue eyes.
“And,” Compton said as he turned away, “the border’s still open to vehicular traffic, as it seems the local Mexican authorities are a little slow to catch on that there’s a major problem in their own backyard.”
“But you’ll have to find a way past the FBI and do it before their HRT team lifts off in two hours,” Pete said as he joined the group of four men once more.
Everett smiled.
“I never met a fed I couldn’t ditch.”
“Then, Colonel Collins, you and your men are dismissed. Take some time off while the president figures this out.”
“Yes, sir, maybe Jack, our young lieutenant Mendenhall here, and I will try out the fishing in the Rio Grande,” Everett said with a growing smile. “You know we love our fishing.”
“I know,” Niles answered. “Now I think you better get to tactical and put a plan together. And gentlemen, make it a good one, because we all may hang for it, even if it works.”
Director Niles Compton was disobeying a direct order as told to him by the president of the United States, his best friend, once again.
HACIENDA PERDITION
NUEVO LAREDO, MEXICO
Henri Farbeaux, still in the guise of Hanover Jones, stood on the rickety floor of the massive basement. There were tunnels, some new, some very old, winding off the main corridor every fifteen feet. As far as he knew Sarah could be held in any one of the ten branches inside the basement. He felt the eyes of Juan Guzman and six of his henchmen as he waited for his host to take the lead. As he stood there several men and women in casual clothes strolled by on their way to one of the many tunnels. One of these workers held a scale and the others articles that Farbeaux didn’t recognize. H
e did notice the fresh-air masks they wore around their necks. Henri looked at Guzman who only smiled.
“I have many employees whose function it is to test shipments of … well, let’s just say they check the purity of certain items supplied to me by countries farther south of Mexico. Please, Señor Jones, what you are seeking is right over here,” Guzman said as he gestured to a large steel door to the right.
Henri was having a hard time reading the man. One thing was clear to him: he didn’t trust the man named Hanover Jones. Farbeaux had noticed that none of the mini AK-47s being used by his bodyguards had their weapons on safe. He watched Guzman as he entered a security code for the locking mechanism on the large door. It opened with a whoosh of escaping air.
“This is just part of my Anasazi collection; the rest I have donated as a peace offering to my brethren in Mexico City. But I believe I have some very interesting pieces for you to view.” Guzman stepped aside and allowed Henri through the door.
Henri knew he could possibly take the six men escorting them, just as long as Guzman was close enough to be pulled into running as a shield for him. However, he suspected they were not only being watched by the many security cameras he had counted in just the short walk in the basement, but also by many more guards nearby.
“Here are two very nice pieces right here. They have been cleaned and expertly restored.”
Farbeaux made a show of pulling a jeweler’s loupe from his coat pocket and smiling as he bent low to examine a large eagle that resembled something the Aztecs would have sculpted. It was a beautiful piece, Farbeaux noted as his eyes scanned the ancient work. Then his eyes moved to the next piece that had been placed on a small table. It was a carved stone work taken from a cave wall in Colorado. It depicted a mother and child—the mother sitting on a throne of sorts and the child feeding at her breast.
“These are very nice.” Henri straightened after a cursory examination.
“Yes, particularly so since the man I relieved them from was a greedy gringo from Los Angeles, one of those so-called brothers of mine who have sold out their heritage. I wouldn’t mind so much if the gentleman had the least bit of knowledge, such as you, as to their real history. I’m sure you can appreciate that?”
Ripper Page 11