“Send it along to the three recipients,” he said as he turned in his chair with a white face and worried look. “Just get the damn thing out of this office.” The supervisor turned and ran a hand through his thinning hair and then removed his glasses. “Sometimes I hate this job.”
* * *
The first to receive the communiqué deciphered from the Americans was the head of SIS, Sir John Kinlow. When he opened the computer package from downstairs he didn’t exactly know what it was he was looking at. He knew because of the red flag, the special security numbers, and the key words that were passed along that this was information only available to certain members of British Intelligence. But he had never been briefed on anything such as this before in his five years on post. He knew only his computer terminal would have access to the material concerning the two key words and one name mentioned by the CIA and the FBI.
“Well, ’tis a boring night at any rate,” he said as he entered his security code and pulled up the file. Little did the president of the United States know, he had inadvertently passed the info to the British when he forwarded the information Niles Compton had passed to him. The code breakers received the information from the communiqués of the FBI and CIA when they informed the hostage rescue team of the history of the hacienda.
The head of the SIS read, and as he did his eyes widened. He whistled when he saw the original file date … September 3, 1900, the very turn of the century. He looked down at the key words that had set the security alarms off deep inside the code-breaking room downstairs. Perdition, Mexico, and finally the name mentioned, Lawrence Jackson Ambrose.
Sir John clicked on the heading for the file and started reading. By the time he was done it was near eight o’clock at night. While he had read the top-secret file, his secretary had buzzed several times without him answering the calls. Finally when she poked her head into his office he hastily waved her off without looking up from his computer screen. It wasn’t until he read the file another two times that he finally looked away and shook his head.
“What in the hell were they thinking back then,” he said to no one but himself. “What kind of bloody mess did we inherit?”
Another knock sounded at the door and this time the secretary came in without waiting. She saw Sir John looking as pale as she had ever seen him. The man had been practically euphoric for the past year since his office was instrumental in the American operation that killed the world’s leading terrorist, Osama bin Laden, and he hadn’t come down from that high for ten months—until tonight.
“Sir John, the minister of defense is on the line, and he is very adamant about speaking to you. He said it is of the highest priority.”
Sir John acted as though he didn’t hear his secretary. She came a few steps closer into the darkened office and then jumped when he suddenly straightened in his large chair and snatched up his phone, practically slamming his finger down on the flashing button.
“Kinlow,” he said not too delicately into the phone. “Yes, I just read it, several times as a matter of fact. Just how in the hell are we to hush this up without exposing this massive shit cake?”
The secretary watched Sir John start to rub his left temple and then he looked up and waved her out of the office as if a sudden plague had erupted at Vauxhall.
“Look, Wes, we cannot allow ourselves to be brought down by something like this. If even a smattering of this dirty business leaks out, the media would eat us alive … not counting our friends across the ocean. Could this possibly be real? I mean, my faith in everything has just gone tits up old boy.”
Sir John listened to the minister of defense and was soon joined in conference by the head of external intelligence, who had just been on the phone to the prime minister’s office.
“Do we have a consensus as to how we handle this mess?” the minister of MI5 asked his counterparts.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence?” Sir John said into the phone, not believing the tale he had just read.
“Maybe the key words in the communiqué were a coincidence, Mexico and Perdition, but the name? You read the file gentlemen the same as I. Can we afford to ignore the name of Lawrence Jackson Ambrose? I think not—at least not after the horrid facts of this sordid affair. Great Britain would never live this down.”
“We cannot handle this mess ourselves as we cannot be connected to this if things blow up, and they always do. We need an outside source to deal with this,” said Sir John as he stood from his chair and paced a few steps away from his desk. “May I suggest we bring in our source at Langley? Maybe he can utilize the new teams they are putting together,” he said, not even wanting to mention the contact’s name. “The operators, after being suspended from activities the last five years, are back in business again. They are now being run by our friend at Langley. Let him get a handle on this thing and close it out for good. We’ll owe them something awful, but I see it as the only way.”
“Excellent,” answered the minister of defense. “Sir John, you are closest to our asset there. Can you get the ball rolling, as the Americans would say?”
“I think we best not use any American euphemisms for the time being; after all, if they find out what our good old government did back in the day, they may not be that pleased with us.” Sir John finally sat back down in his chair and regained some of the composure he was known for. “I just can’t believe they were capable of this kind of massive cover-up back then.”
“Think what you want. We need to settle this thing,” the head of foreign intelligence said.
Sir John nodded his head and absentmindedly hung up his phone without saying anything else and not even realizing the men on the other end of the phone couldn’t see his nod. He reached over and unlocked his right-hand drawer and pulled out a small book. He quickly ran his finger down a list of code names and numbers and then took a deep breath and made the call.
CIA HEADQUARTERS,
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The special operations director for field incursions, or what amounted to the dirty-tricks department, a man that racked up favors from others in the intelligence community for cashing in at a later date, hung up his phone. He shook his head knowing that the Brits had screwed up royally on this one. He laughed. The whole thing was of minor concern to him.
The operations director flipped a switch on his computer and there appeared a coded e-mail from MI6 that he immediately opened and read. The details were all there; it was just missing the whys and what for’s, and those he really didn’t care about. He almost wanted to laugh. What kind of story were they trying to get him to believe? Oh, he would send the Black Team in alright. They’ll even destroy the serum and lab equipment if it’s all still there, but he will also learn the truth about what it is they were so afraid of across the water.
He finally reached for his phone and made the call to the Black Team that he and his superior had just reinstated as part of his small department. The team used to be a part of a corporate security department that worked for a defunct defense contractor, and they were known to be rather ruthless. He and his superior had seen a need in the future to bring this nightmare back into being, and now they would be sent on their first field assignment since they were brought back into the fold. What better way of testing these men than this little farce in Mexico? After all, his job was to be a sneaky, mean bastard and that meant everyone was fair game. He knew himself to be a true patriot.
The man who ran dirty tricks, Hiram Vickers, made the call to one of the most ruthless security teams in the history of the United States, now being run by a rogue element inside CIA at Langley and once thought destroyed—the Black Team, also known in American myth as—the Men in Black.
3
THE BORDER CROSSING
AT NUEVO LAREDO
A half hour after Jack, Carl, and Mendenhall had made good their escape from the international airport, they found themselves at the checkpoint, ready to start their second unofficial invasion of Mexico. The border
guard eyed them, and then after all the nervousness in the preceding minutes, he just waved them through with an admonition to spend as many dollars as they could while in Mexico. Everett had nodded his head, smiled, and made a drinking gesture at the bored border guard.
“What are Pete’s glossy eight-by-tens tellin’ you, Jack?” Everett asked as he checked his rearview mirrors out of paranoia.
“Well,” Collins said from the backseat of the stolen 2005 Chevy Blazer, “it looks like we’re going to get a little wet, and our knees may get scraped up some, but Pete and his female computer counterpart actually pulled something out of the official geological survey of Mexico.” Jack leaned forward as Everett drove and perched himself between Carl and Mendenhall and showed them what Pete Golding had found. “Here by the river, we have a culvert that runs from the Rio Grande ten miles inland almost directly into Perdition. The hacienda is damn near sitting right on it. Maybe it was used in the old days to feed river water to some sort of agriculture.”
Will took the old map first and studied it, and then he looked over the Predator intelligence picture.
“Colonel, this survey map is dated 1927.” Will half turned in his seat as Jack reached into the back and pulled out the bags they had packed back on the 707. “Do you think that old concrete culvert is still there?”
“The opening at the river is there, and I suspect it’s still used by illegals crossing the border. It’s watched by the U.S. Border Patrol, but not until after nightfall.” Jack quickly looked at his watch. “That means we have about fifteen minutes to get inside that thing before we start hearing helicopters coming down on us.”
“I take it our plan ends at that point?” Mendenhall asked, lowering the map and the photos.
“See Will, you hang around us long enough and you start figuring out how we work,” Everett said smiling as he turned off the main road and tore down a large side street that ran along the Rio Grande.
As Jack started passing over to Mendenhall their night clothing, body armor, and night vision scopes, his cell phone rang. He opened it and answered. He closed his eyes for a moment and then thanked the person on the other end.
“Ryan just came out of surgery. The doctors say he’ll make a full recovery. He’s already awake and wondering where everyone is.”
Mendenhall in the front seat looked out of the passenger window and sighed. His best friend was going to live, and he had a hard time not showing his commanding officers how close he and the navy aviator had become. Collins watched Will for a moment and then closed his large hand over Mendenhall’s shoulder. He never did hide feelings that well.
“The culvert should be right around here somewhere,” Everett said as he slowed the Blazer down to a crawl.
Collins looked back across the river and saw no traffic on the U.S. side of the border, but he knew that didn’t mean there weren’t eyes on them.
“Here we go,” Carl said as he pulled to a stop.
The culvert’s opening was hard to spot in the setting sun, but Everett was right, it was there half camouflaged by weeds and other river growth. As they started pulling on their body armor and other clothing, Will reached into their bag of tricks and pulled out his weapon of choice—a silenced, or suppressed equipped, German-made MP-5 submachine gun. Will called it his oldie but goody. He handed Collins and Everett their Berettas, and they equipped themselves with the weapon they had used most of their careers, the M-14 carbine, an M-16 variant that also came with suppressors. All three assault weapons were laser-sighting equipped. Everett had what Mendenhall called the captain’s ballsy weapon with the M203 grenade launcher attached, what the captain called his big negotiator. They each placed their night vision scopes onto their heads and then darkened their faces with greasepaint.
Everett watched Collins as he handed him the extra magazines of 5.56 ammunition and tossed Mendenhall six extra clips of nine-millimeter rounds for his MP-5.
“She’s still alive Jack,” Carl said as Collins stopped what he was doing and then just nodded his head.
“Then let’s get over there and make sure she stays that way.”
With that Everett took the lead and started for the culvert’s wide opening. He stopped short and quickly brought up his weapon. With his night vision scope raised up over his brow, he must have scared someone because there was a small yelp, and then Jack and Will heard a child start crying. Collins stepped forward and saw what had stopped Everett at the opening.
“I’ll be damned,” Mendenhall said as the last of the sun vanished.
Inside the culvert were about eight women, six children, and four very frightened men. They all had bundles of clothing and the men were wearing backpacks. Collins stepped forward, lowering his weapon.
“Hola,” he said and tried his best to smile. “Se habla English?” he asked as he saw two of the children were barefoot.
“Si,” the first man said as he stepped forward, “Inmigración?” the thin man asked as he removed his dirty and worn cowboy hat and half raised his hands. They all three noticed that he stepped in between the women and children and the heavily armed men he faced.
“No,” Jack said as he took in the frightened men and women. As far as he could see they weren’t being escorted by the slimy men that charged Mexicans their life’s savings to get them across the border. Collins reached into his black nylon pants and produced a pair of large wire cutters.
Everett and Mendenhall exchanged looks of curiosity.
Jack handed the man the cutters. “Good luck. Try crossing a mile or so down river; this place is watched after dark.”
The man hesitantly took the dykes from the strange and dark man in front of him, and then he nodded his head as Jack, followed by Everett and Mendenhall, squeezed past the family attempting to get across the border for new life in the United States.
“You never cease to amaze me, Colonel,” Will said as he lowered his night vision goggles.
“I can’t blame people for being poor and hungry and out of work, Lieutenant.”
With that small confrontation behind them, the three men invaded Mexico.
PERDITION’S GATE
NUEVO LAREDO, MEXICO
Sarah McIntire looked up as the door to the cell room opened. Several of the teenage girls whimpered and tried to bury themselves into the rear wall of their prison. Sarah turned to face them and held her index finger to her lips, trying to quiet the young and very frightened women. She laid the head of Henri Farbeaux gently onto the concrete floor just as Guzman stepped through into the light. He was followed by three of his men. The Anaconda stepped up to the old and rusty bars.
“Señora, I have a question for you,” he said as he smiled his best disarming smile. “Just who are you?”
“I’m a geologist,” Sarah answered, not allowing her eyes to shy away from the small man before her.
The Anaconda put a hand to his mouth and then lowered it after he had thought something through. “I find that hard to believe. First we have a retired lieutenant colonel from the French Army trying to rescue you … or buy you as it may be, and now we have a joint operation between your government and mine to conduct the same action, only on a far more violent scale, all on yours, or Professor Stansfield’s, behalf. Now I own the woman from Baylor, but I don’t own you. So, I’m afraid the popularity is strictly yours.”
Sarah stepped closer to the bars. “I really don’t give a flying fuck what you think. Your men shot and killed two friends of mine and two other good men. So if you would just ask your men to sit this one out, and you allow me out of this cell, I’ll kick your ass from here to the border.” Sarah actually grabbed the cell’s bars tight enough to make the skin on her fingers turn white with the pressure.
Juan Guzman laughed out loud and then looked back at his men. They didn’t take Sarah’s threat to their boss as well as he did. “If my madre heard you speak that way she would wash your mouth out with lye soap little woman.” He stepped closer and the smile disappeared. “The raid
across the border will not happen, so lower your hopes. El presidente has had a change of heart. He has canceled all plans to rescue you. He instead will send out the local police to investigate the incident at the archeological site this afternoon, of which I have guaranteed him personally that all attempts will be made to get to the bottom of that despicable crime.”
“You slimy bastard,” Sarah said staring a hole through the fierce Anaconda. “At least get the professor and my friend to a doctor.”
“I have many questions to ask our French friend here, but,” he gestured to one of his men, stepped forward, and unlocked the cell, making Sarah step back. “Professor Stansfield I can assist right now.”
The cell door opened with a loud screech and Guzman stepped in, followed closely by his men. He easily reached out and removed the sawed-off shotgun from the first guard and then placed the barrel to the blonde professor’s head. He looked up and smiled at Sarah.
Second Lieutenant Sarah McIntire couldn’t believe the ruthlessness of what she was about to witness. Sarah started forward, trying desperately to get to Guzman, but she was grabbed by the ankle and stopped. She looked down and couldn’t believe the man holding her back from attempting to save Stansfield was Henri Farbeaux. He was holding on with both arms as she tried to kick away from him. Sarah stopped struggling when the sound of both barrels of the shotgun reverberated in the closed space, sending Sarah down to the ground. Out of frustration she started crying and nearly vomited when she looked up and saw that the professor from Baylor University no longer had most of her head.
“You murdering son of a bitch!” she cried as she lowered her head, kicking Henri’s grip free of her ankle.
“Now, Señora, remember this lesson when I come back to ask you more pointedly just who you are. And this act of being a simple geologist, well, as you can see, I don’t take disappointments well at all. This woman was an employee, as you are not, so I will be very straightforward with my questions to an outsider.” He tossed the still-smoking shotgun to the guard and then stepped out of the cell and started up the stairs.
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