An Eye For An Eye

by L. D Beyer

  He grinned back. “And what would I be wanting drugs for?” he asked, the lilt in his voice, the Belfast accent slipping out in a momentary lapse.

  She laughed, and her grandmother gave her another dirty look and said something in Spanish. The girl rolled her eyes and Fogel grinned as he pulled out his passport. It was an Australian passport, the edges and cover slightly worn as they would be for a frequent traveler. However, despite its appearance, the passport was new as was the tourist visa folded inside. The passport that he had used when he fled the U.S. after the bombing was now nothing more than ashes in an incinerator. Even he wasn’t foolhardy enough to try and use it again.

  The bus stopped and Fogel heard the hiss as the doors opened. A federal cop, this one not wearing a mask, climbed on board and barked out an order in Spanish. The passengers around him began to gather their belongings.

  “They want us to get off,” the girl said. “They want to search the bus.” She nodded at the bin over his head. “You have to take your bags.”

  Fogel nodded and smiled as he stood and grabbed his carry-on. He followed the girl and her grandmother as they made their way up the aisle and then down the steps into the hot sun. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he noticed the line of masked policeman. The one who had ordered them off the bus was shouting and pointing at the two tables set up on the side of the road. Fogel joined the other passengers as they obediently formed a line.

  A cop with a dog circled the bus, the dog sniffing the tires and the wheel wells. Two more cops with dogs waited by the storage compartment while the driver pulled out the luggage and lined it up on the side of the road next to the bus. Fogel hid his smirk. He glanced farther up the road and saw the line of soldiers and, to the side, the sandbag emplacement and the dark-eyed soldier standing behind the machine gun. He felt like he was back in Belfast. Jesus, he thought. They were serious.

  The line moved quickly. The police glanced briefly at the passengers’ documents, asked one or two questions, hastily searched their hand luggage, then directed them to the side of the road where they waited. They would soon be on their way again, Fogel thought. When he reached the table, the man standing behind said something, and Fogel shook his head.

  “I don’t speak Spanish,” he said, smiling.

  The cop who had ordered them off the bus stepped over. “You’re American?” the cop asked in English.

  Fogel shook his head. “I’m Australian.”

  “Your passport.” The cop held his hand out.

  Fogel handed over his documents.

  “Put your bag on the table please,” the cop instructed.

  Fogel did as he was told and watched as the cop behind the table unzipped the bag and began pulling his clothes and toiletries out. That his luggage was being inspected more thoroughly was obvious to both him as well as the other passengers who now seemed to regard him warily. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the English-speaking cop flip through the pages in his passport, studying each for a moment before turning his attention to the tourist visa. The cop looked up.

  “Your purpose for visiting Mexico, Mr. Abbott?”

  “Business,” Fogel responded.

  The cop studied him for a moment before he nodded.

  “Wait here,” he ordered, staring for a second to make sure Fogel understood before he walked away.

  Fogel watched as the cop climbed up into one of the trucks. He could see the glare of a computer through the window and, after a few moments, he saw the cop speaking on the phone. This was more than a random drug inspection, Fogel realized as he casually glanced around. All of the other passengers, having already passed through the inspection, were standing to the side. Fogel could feel as well as see that all eyes were on him. He smiled at the girl and began to weigh his options.

  ___

  Pablo Guerrero walked along the bluff overlooking the ocean. By himself, he passed the cows and the few horses that were out grazing. He followed the rough split-rail fence over the uneven ground to the gate. Beyond was the path that led down to the ocean. Resting his hands on the gate, he stared out over the beach. He could still picture Carolina, laughing as they swam in the surf. She had enjoyed the smell of the salt water, floating on the gentle waves, splashing and playing with her papá. The wave had hit them from behind—he hadn’t seen it coming—and Carolina had tumbled out of his arms. He felt a flood of panic as she disappeared below the surface. She had resurfaced moments later, dazed and scared, ten yards from him, and he had lunged before she disappeared again.

  That day, for the first time in his life, he had known what fear felt like.

  He pictured Carolina again moments after he had pulled her to the beach; she was laughing and running across the sand, her wet hair flying in the breeze.

  “Catch me, Papá!” she had called over her shoulder.

  As he stared out at the beach, a single tear slid down his cheek.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Dressed for war with masks and body armor, the two Federal Police officers grabbed Fogel’s arms. With his hands cuffed behind him, his legs bound by shackles, and wearing a bulletproof vest, he shuffled forward awkwardly. Three dozen federal cops, all masked and holding automatic rifles, formed two lines leading to the small stage. As Fogel was led through the gauntlet, he suppressed a smile. This was the perp walk, an opportunity for the police and the government to parade their prisoner in front of the cameras. He was led up the steps where the procession stopped and he was turned to face the cameras. A man wearing a business suit, the attorney general for the state of Tamaulipas, stepped up to the microphone. He made a few comments, glancing periodically at the notes in his hand. Fogel understood none of it.

  He grinned for the camera, knowing it would give the press, the commentators and the news shows something to analyze, to discuss. The media show was brief—cut short, he suspected—and he was led off stage to an armored van. Out of sight of the cameras, he was roughly shoved into the back. The police, it seemed, had expected him to show the defeated look of a prisoner: a crestfallen, confused face for the cameras. The grin had pissed them off.

  Two cops pushed him down to the bench then took up positions across from him. Their dark, menacing eyes stared at him from behind their masks. He ignored the cops as he considered his predicament. This was a tough scrape, he knew. But he had been in worse. The Mexicans would likely extradite him to the U.S. or, at a minimum, turn him over to U.S. authorities. He might be taken to Guantanamo or to one of the CIA black sites in Asia or Africa. There, he would be waterboarded, or worse. He had no illusions. The Americans would use whatever means they had to—legal or otherwise—to find out what he knew.

  But he had a bargaining chip: he had only used two of the cesium canisters in New York. The remaining two canisters were in a self-storage locker near Buffalo, in upstate New York. It wasn’t much, and it was unlikely to remain a secret for long once the CIA got a hold of him. But it was something he might be able to use. And as far as Guerrero was concerned, he had no loyalties. Guerrero was simply a source of funds, someone to finance a game that Fogel had been playing for as long as he could remember.

  He shifted in his seat and the cops’ dark eyes bore into him. He grinned. One of the cops suddenly lunged forward and struck him in the face with the butt of his rifle. He saw stars as his nose exploded in a shower of blood and his head was slammed into the wall of the truck. Dazed, he slumped to the floor.

  He lay still for a while as the white hot pain danced in his head. Unexpectedly, he gagged—an involuntary reaction—and rolled onto his side. He coughed up a mouthful of blood. Rough hands grabbed him and pushed him back into his seat. One of the cops—he couldn’t tell which one through the tears in his eyes—held a cloth to his nose, pinching the bridge to stop the bleeding. He sat still for a while and his head began to clear. It was a predictable response, he thought, as he eyed the cops. And it was one that he might be able to use to his advantage. As rough as the Mexicans were likely to be, th
ey represented his best option. As the truck rumbled along, he closed his eyes and began to think.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  As the National Security meeting ended, the president glanced over at Richter and nodded briefly. Richter caught the message and, moments later, he followed the president back to the Oval Office. The president had something on his mind, Richter guessed, something that he didn’t want to share with the other NSC members.

  “We need to speak to Fogel,” the president said once the door was closed.

  Richter nodded but said nothing. Talking to Fogel was going to be a challenge. Despite appeals by both the State Department and the U.S. Attorney General, the Mexican government had refused to consider an extradition request. Further, they had refused to allow the FBI to interview him. Apparently, they believed that Fogel had a role in the Mexico City bombing and, so far at least, the U.S. had been denied access. Even the president’s own appeal, Kendall had told him a day earlier, seemed to have fallen on deaf ears as President Magaña promised, somewhat vaguely and uncharacteristically, to see what he could do.

  “I spoke to Magaña again this morning,” the president continued. “I think there might be a small window of opportunity but,” he paused, frowning, “the situation is very delicate right now.”

  Richter nodded again. This was something they had discussed. In the wake of increasingly negative public sentiment, there was a risk that Magaña’s own administration might be turning on him. Tired of the violence, critics were strongly encouraging the Mexican government to negotiate a ceasefire with the cartels. Yet those same critics still demanded that someone be held accountable for the deaths in Mexico City. Was Fogel the sacrificial lamb?

  “I want you to go down there,” the president continued. “Publically, they cannot be seen as caving to U.S. pressure. But privately, I’m hoping you can negotiate an arrangement with President Magaña and with their attorney general.”

  Frustrated with the pace of diplomacy, and perhaps, Richter suspected, realizing the futility given the tenuous situation, the president wanted to try a back channel. He understood the urgency. There was a risk that Guerrero would get to Fogel before they did. What would happen to the cesium then? Had Fogel made any arrangements just in case he was captured? Something to show the U.S. that he would have the last laugh? Did he have someone working with him or for him as the FBI suspected? Potentially someone connected to Guerrero? Did Guerrero know where the canisters were and no longer had a need for Fogel? The possibilities were frightening, and finding out exactly what Fogel knew was crucial.

  “Don’t push for extradition,” the president continued. “We’ll worry about that later. Our priority is getting access to Fogel and finding out what he knows.”

  The president sat down behind his desk and began to scrawl a note.

  While he waited, Richter thought about Magaña. He had met the Mexican President three years before when he had visited Washington. It was a meeting he remembered well. On President Kendall’s security detail at the time, Richter had been standing watch outside the president’s private dining room while the two leaders enjoyed lunch. He had been the first one through the door when he heard the crash of a chair. He remembered the look on President Magaña’s face. Standing, with his hands on his throat, Magaña’s eyes had been wide with panic as he choked on a piece of chicken. It was a story that only a handful of people would ever hear. What could have been an embarrassing situation for the White House had been avoided when Richter performed the Heimlich maneuver. Magaña had been gracious and had gone out of his way to show his appreciation. At the time, Richter remembered, he had dismissed it as routine response, something he had been trained to do. Then, a week later, he had been surprised when he received a hand-written thank you note.

  The president stood. He folded his own note and stuffed it into an envelope bearing the presidential seal. “President Magaña understands the urgency. The issue will be working out the details with the attorney general.” The president handed him the envelope. “Give this to President Magaña. Tell him that I’ve reconsidered.” The president paused. “Tell him that I’m ready to send the SEALs in to help find Guerrero.”

  ___

  As she sipped her tea, Patty thought about how quickly life had changed. She hadn’t known anyone personally who had been in Grand Central that morning but, once again, she thought through her list of friends and acquaintances, making sure she hadn’t missed anyone.

  As a result of the bombing in Grand Central, cops were now visible everywhere. Security was more visible on campus too, she thought. But as dire as it looked, the situation in the U.S. was not nearly as bad as it was in Mexico.

  Mexico had become an extremely dangerous place over the last six months and her former student, Christina, had joined the growing list of casualties in the escalating violence. News stories and personal accounts of the atrocities had become a daily occurrence. That the government hadn’t yet declared a state of emergency was not a surprise. A curfew and martial law would mean nothing in those cities that cops and soldiers—vastly outnumbered and outgunned and fearful for their own lives—avoided. And those that did venture in, to cities like Matamoros, Monterrey, Ciudad Juarez, were suspected to be on the payroll of one cartel or another.

  From an academic standpoint, the potential collapse of the Mexican state was an interesting event to watch unfold. What would happen if the country did collapse? And how would it happen? Would military and police forces simply walk off the job? Or would they aid in the overthrow by imprisoning key leaders?

  There was a risk that, at some point, basic governmental institutions would simply cease functioning. And what would happen then? A failure in the maintenance and operation of roads, railways, airports, harbors, and other physical infrastructure would have a significant negative impact on the business environment and on the economy. The petroleum industry was state run, a governmental monopoly. What would the tens of millions of citizens and businesses that bought gasoline and diesel fuel for their cars and trucks each day do if supplies were interrupted? And what about electricity and water and other key utilities? Some of those were controlled by the government too, weren’t they? What would happen if those services simply ceased? Would communication networks—phone and Internet service—still function if the government collapsed?

  In the ensuing economic turmoil, would the central bank ultimately lose control over the currency, leading to the eventual collapse of the monetary system? Would the judicial system—the operation of courts and the criminal justice system—go next, further weakening the rule of law in an already weak state? Would government coffers be looted, if not by the cartels, by greedy bureaucrats? Would the educational system crumble when unpaid teachers were forced to find other ways to feed their own children and the lights in schools were no longer lit? What would happen when state-provided medical care and food for the poor and other critical social programs collapsed, leaving large segments of the population, already living below the poverty line, to fend for themselves?

  Ultimately, unless the cartels stepped in and quickly established order, the country would be plunged into chaos. Civil disorder—widespread looting, rioting, and violence—would follow. How would the cartels manage to prevent that? she wondered. Or is that what they wanted? Would they band together and forge an alliance? Could that work? Did they even have a plan?

  How far, she wondered, was Mexico from that doomsday scenario? A year? Six months? The United Nations was debating how best to respond to the growing threat. Would they send peacekeepers in? What would that accomplish? Would Mexico end up like Somalia, as an ungoverned collection of territories controlled by regional warlords?

  She stood. It was only for a day or two, she told herself as she poured the rest of her now cold tea in the sink. And no one understood the risk better than Matthew. The Secret Service did all it could to avoid dangerous situations, and even an ex-agent like Matthew, having been trained well, would take the necessary pr
ecautions. He was more than capable of protecting himself. Besides, he would have a team of Secret Service agents with him to keep him out of trouble. There was no reason to worry.

  So why was she?

  ___

  The pilot held the aircraft low as he raced at close to two hundred miles per hour toward the coast. Less than one hundred feet over the waves, he relied on his skill and the sophisticated navigation system to keep him out of trouble. The MH-65C, a multi-mission Coast Guard helicopter used in search and rescue and for armed interdiction, was equipped with a forward looking infrared display that allowed the pilot to see at night and hopefully keep his aircraft from plummeting into the waves that were a blur in the darkness below.

  He saw the dark shadows of the coastline appear on his display. After six minutes of skimming high speed just above the water, the real fun was about to begin. He glanced at his copilot and grinned. The copilot grinned back, not just from the excitement of flying but from a sadistic streak that he shared with the pilot—one seemingly at odds with their standard search and rescue mission. When plucking a drowning victim from the water, the two were all business. But when they became glorified taxi drivers, they liked to have some fun.

  If the VIP sitting in the back wasn’t turning green yet, the pilot thought as the coastline rushed toward them and he pulled up on the collective, he soon would be. The helicopter shot up, barely clearing the bluff, then decelerated rapidly as the pilot put the aircraft into a hover. Moments later, as he landed softly on the ground, two dozen men who had been waiting surrounded the aircraft. He noticed the weapons held ready. Let’s hope, the pilot thought, that they really were friendlies as he had been told to expect.

  A minute later, his VIP discharged, he increased the throttle and pulled up on the collective again. The helicopter lifted off and, after a graceful turn, accelerated off into the night. Seconds later, it was lost in the darkness over the water.