by L. D Beyer
CHAPTER SIXTY
For a brief moment Matthew Richter felt like a criminal. Dressed in a Coast Guard flight suit, standing in the middle of the helipad in the darkness, surrounded by twenty-plus men—all carrying weapons, all watching him with wary eyes—he felt exposed and helpless. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a man who was used to being on the other side. Where the hell were his people? he wondered.
He heard his name, a familiar voice, and turned as Agent Wendy Tillman and seven other Secret Service agents stepped into view. With the Secret Service agents were a handful of plain clothes Mexican security agents, part, Richter presumed, of the Mexican President’s security detail.
“This way, sir,” Tillman said, pointing to the path that led to the lights and the buildings beyond the trees. As they walked, Tillman provided an overview of the security arrangements.
“They have a force of thirty from the Presidential Guard,” Tillman said.
Richter gave her a look. That, plus the eight Secret Service agents assigned to protect him, wasn’t much.
“It’s a little light,” Tillman acknowledged, “but, as you know, this meeting is supposed to be a secret. From what I’ve been told, as far as most people know, including most of President Magaña’s security team, he’s asleep in Los Pinos.”
Richter nodded but said nothing.
“He arrived about an hour ago,” Tillman continued then added, “The attorney general should be here shortly.”
Sneaking the president out of Mexico City without anyone knowing must have been a challenge. But, as Richter also knew, secret presidential trips were not unusual. As one of his former colleagues had told him, shortly after the fall of Saddam Hussein’s government, President George Bush had flown to Baghdad to meet with the U.S. troops who had secured the city. Most Americans, including a number of the Secret Service agents assigned to protect him, only learned of the trip after Bush returned. The hapless agents had no idea that President Bush had left his ranch in Crawford, Texas. With a little bit of subterfuge, Bush had been able to sneak away.
Richter’s own trip had been a charade. Dressed in a Coast Guard flight suit, he had been secreted onto a chopper in Corpus Christi and flown to a Coast Guard cutter patrolling several hundred miles off the Texas coast. Later, sitting in the captain’s quarters as the cutter sailed south, the captain had explained the plan. Shortly after dark, the cutter would receive a distress call from a capsized boat twenty-three miles off of the Mexican coast. As expected, they would dispatch a helicopter—with Richter in the back, sandwiched between the rescue swimmer and hoist operator—to search for the stranded crew. After making a show of flying search patterns over a patch of ocean, the chopper would drop low, below the radar, and make a beeline for the coast. If all went well, fifteen minutes later, the chopper would be back on station searching for the non-existent boat and no one would be the wiser.
Elaborate, yes, but the ruse had been necessary. There had been a growing anti-American sentiment in Mexico, many claiming Magaña’s close ties to the U.S. President were responsible for the bombing in Mexico City. The Mexican President could not be seen publically to be caving in to American demands to turn over the Irish terrorist. In private, though, Richter hoped that some accommodation could be made.
His eyes scanned across the open ground of the ranch, at the darkness of the forests beyond, and then back toward the sea from which he had come. He had wanted to grill Tillman, to better understand the security procedures in place and how the small security force would defend the Mexican President, and by extension himself, from a potential assault. But he didn’t. He had other things to worry about; Tillman would have to take care of the rest.
___
“Mr. Richter,” President Magaña said with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Richter nodded as he took Magaña’s outstretched hand. “Mister President. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Magaña’s smile, Richter noted, was a politician’s facade. His eyes told the real story. They reflected the burden and worry of a man fighting to hold his crumbling nation together.
Richter glanced around the room. There was a sitting area, several comfortable chairs and a couch in front of a large square marble table that was bathed in the soft glow of reflected light. The tile floor extended out to the veranda, creating an extension of the living room when the large glass wall panels were retracted, as they were now. He could see light reflecting off the ocean in the distance.
A servant appeared and took his drink order. Richter asked for iced tea, something he knew from his briefing was a favorite of the Mexican President’s. As the drinks were served, one of Magaña’s bodyguards stepped into the room and said something in Spanish that Richter didn’t comprehend. Magaña nodded then turned.
“Come,” he said, standing. “The attorney general will be here momentarily.”
As he followed Magaña out onto a large veranda, Richter could hear the pounding of the surf in the distance. The veranda was illuminated by the light of the living room and the low voltage lighting along the railing. Magaña led him around the side, where the veranda wrapped around the house. Standing at the railing, Richter realized they were facing the now dark helipad beyond the trees.
“I watched you land,” Magaña said. He pointed over the trees and began to describe the ranch. Richter smiled and nodded but said nothing. Mexican customs were different, he knew, and he suspected that Magaña wanted to wait for the attorney general before discussing Fogel. Once the attorney general arrived, Richter decided, he would let Magaña initiate the conversation. The man clearly understood what was at stake for both countries and the urgency of speaking with the Irish terrorist.
His thoughts were interrupted by the staccato sound of rotors slapping at the air and, seconds later, the lights around the helipad were turned on, illuminating the contingent of soldiers standing around the perimeter. The sound reverberated off the building and the forest and hills beyond and, for a moment, Richter was unsure which direction it was coming from. Then he saw the faint outlines of the aircraft coming in low over the hills to the west. Like the Coast Guard helicopter that had ferried him here, this one too was flying without its anti-collision lights.
The helicopter hovered momentarily and then, as it began to descend, a streak of orange light flashed up from the ocean. In a fraction of a second, Richter’s brain registered the tongue of flame and, operating on instinct, he spun away from the railing. He could see the orange streak reflecting off Magaña’s eyes as he pulled him down, away from the railing. Suddenly, the night was lit up by a brilliant flash as the helicopter exploded in a fireball. The shockwave slammed into them, tossing them like rag dolls into the side of the building. Glass from the shattered windows rained down on their heads. There was a split second of silence—a feeling like his head was stuffed with cotton—then the muffled roar of an inferno behind them. Richter shook his head and, as he pushed himself up to his knees, he heard the first screams of the men near the helipad as the burning debris rained down on them. He grabbed President Magaña below the arms and hustled him into the house where they were met by the security team. As Magaña was led away by his agents, Agent Tillman grabbed Richter’s arm. There was blood running down her cheek, from a cut above her eye.
“We need to evac now, sir!” she shouted as several agents moved him toward the stairs.
Suddenly, the room exploded in a flash of light.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Silently, slowly, Richter crawled forward over the cold ground, sliding up behind the tree. There, he lay, still for a moment, listening to the sounds around him. Other than his own breathing and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees, he heard nothing. He slid quietly to the side and lay still again. Then, slowly, he turned his head, sweeping his eyes across the field before him, looking for the thing that didn’t belong; looking for movement. The sound seemed to catch him by surprise. The soft drumming, fast and steady, grew. He listened t
o the beating, finding solace in the rhythm. It was his heart, he realized. The sound grew and soon he could feel it in his chest, then after a moment, in his fingers and his toes, his whole body thumping. He could hear the blood pumping through his arteries, the sound building, the beats coming faster, until it sounded like a stream, a river, a rushing red torrent, the roar building in his head.
Startled, Matthew Richter woke to an agonizing pain. Wanting to scream but holding it in, he struggled with the kaleidoscope of images in his head. Slow, oozing, shifting, the scenes flashed before him, each vividly sharp for a brief instant before clouding, blurring then vanishing into the darkness only to be replaced by a new flash, a new image. He struggled to figure out what it all meant, but his thoughts seemed to form slowly then slip away. He knew what it was, he told himself. But when he tried to find the word, when he tried to explain it, the answer was just beyond his grasp. What the hell?
Patty suddenly flashed before him. How long will you be gone? He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came. Is it dangerous? He tried to shake his head, tried to form the words, but his tongue seemed lost in his mouth. It’s just for a day, he wanted to say, maybe two. He could see the fear in her eyes as she started to fade. She grew darker, fainter, until the only thing he could see was her face, her eyes incapable of masking her fear. He tried to reach out, but suddenly there was nothing left. She was gone.
He lay still for a while and concentrated on his breathing, trying to make order of the confusion in his head. Struggling to focus, he took inventory. His ears were ringing and there was a pounding drumbeat of pain in his head. His chest felt like it was in a vise. What’s going on? He opened his eyes, or tried to, but something sticky was blurring his vision, weighing his eyelids down. He tried to sit up, slowly this time, flinching at the jolt of pain that shot through his body. He lay still for another moment. Then he tried to move his arms and when he couldn’t, he struggled to understand why. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Then, he sensed something, more of an intuition than anything else. His arms were pinned. What? He was sure of it. His arms were pinned below something. Below him?
He lifted his head slightly and felt another sharp stab of pain and, as he put his head back down, he felt something sticky on his cheek. After a while, he realized it was blood. The coppery taste was in his mouth, the smell was in his nose. His own blood!
He was jostled, and he felt the pain coursing through his body again but he also felt something else. He was moving.
___
After a while—he didn’t know how long—he woke again. The fog lifted somewhat, and as he lay there an image began to form in his mind. A helicopter. While he struggled with what that meant, President Magaña flashed before him. Then, as if a dam had broken, the thoughts came rushing back in a cascade. The secret meeting. The explosion at Magaña’s ranch. What happened to Magaña? Knowing he wouldn’t find the answer to the Mexican President’s fate until he found the answer to his own, he took inventory again. He tried to move his arms and legs and realized that he was bound and then, a moment later, that he was gagged. He felt a flood of panic, a fear so deep that he couldn’t breathe, that he would suffocate. He fought it, concentrating, slowing his breathing until the panic faded. Then he realized why he couldn’t see; he had been blindfolded as well. But he could smell and taste blood and knew that he must be injured. The explosion! That was why he was in pain. Okay, he told himself, pain he could deal with. He analyzed what he knew and the realization dawned on him. He had been kidnapped.
What happened to Agent Tillman? What happened to the other agents? Where is President Magaña? He felt a stab of pain as he was suddenly jostled to the side. Has he been kidnapped too?
___
“It hasn’t hit the news yet, sir, and the Mexicans aren’t saying much, only that there has been a security incident involving President Magaña and that they are investigating.”
President Kendall, sitting in the darkened living room in his pajamas, let out a breath. “What about Matthew?” he said into the phone.
“We haven’t been able to reach him,” Phillips said. “We’re trying to contact his security detail…” His voice trailed off.
Kendall frowned as he stared at the phone. “What about the drones?”
“From what I’ve been told,” Phillips said, “the Mexicans have denied us access, claiming its restricted air space.” There was a pause on the line. “Maybe we can get something from the satellites?” his Chief of Staff asked.
“It’ll take care of that,” the president said then paused a second, thinking. “I want to meet with the cabinet. And the NSC staff.” He glanced at his watch. Most were likely home asleep, unaware. It would take some time to get them back to the White House. “In two hours,” he added.
“Yes, sir,” the Chief of Staff responded. The president heard a car horn as Phillips continued. “Word of the meeting will get out. We’ll need to prepare something for the press when they start asking questions.”
“Let’s get on it,” Kendall ordered then paused. “But our first priority is Matthew. I want to brief our ambassador and have him formally request more information. We need to find out what’s going on.” He paused again, thinking. “In the meantime, who’s in charge?”
“From what I understand, there’s no automatic succession,” Phillips said. “Their Congress would need to elect an interim president.”
The president heard more noises: a truck’s horn and then the chirp of a siren. Phillips was on his way in.
“Okay,” the president said as he stood. “I’ll be down in the Situation Room.”
___
When Richter woke again he was shivering. The air was bitterly cold, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to preserve what little body heat he had. His arms were still bound behind him and he had a pins-and-needles sensation radiating down both. There was an intense pain in his right shoulder, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the explosion, from lying on his side for so long, or a lingering pain from the gunshot wound he had suffered what now seemed like ages ago.
He struggled to roll over and, after several attempts, succeeded. He instantly felt better as the pain in his right shoulder subsided to a dull throb. He took inventory again. The ground was cold, and he felt the packed earth against his cheek. Had he been dumped outdoors? The ringing in his ears was gone and he strained to listen, searching for the sounds of people, of a road or highway, anything. After a moment, he heard the trill of a bird followed by a flutter and then a cooing sound. There was a bird’s nest nearby, he realized, and that meant he was outdoors, or close to it.
He noticed a distinct odor: an earthy, dusty smell that reminded him of the root cellar at his grandfather’s farm. This was mixed with a faint, lingering sweetness that reminded him of animals, of hay, of manure. It wasn’t strong, but it was there nonetheless and he realized that he was in a barn or some sort of enclosure where farm animals had once been penned.
He put that thought aside and continued. He was still blindfolded and gagged, but, as he shifted his position slightly, he caught a small sliver of light along the bottom of the cloth. He rubbed his face against the cold earth, ignoring the pain, and, after a few attempts, succeeded in moving the blindfold slightly. The sliver was bigger now.
He saw a shaft of light coming in through an open window, the dust particles flittering and dancing in the air. The window was nothing more than an opening in the cinderblock wall—no glass, no shutters. He spotted a tree outside and, from the angle of light, he knew that the sun was low on the horizon. Other than the sounds of the birds there was a stillness that told him it was morning.
He lifted and turned his head slightly for a better view when he heard a soft moan behind him. He rolled over again, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder. He bent his head back as far as he could and, through the slit, he saw a bloodied, gagged, and blindfolded face. He recognized the nose and chin. They belonged to Felipe Magaña.
He hear
d noises, muffled voices, and then someone was in the room. Suddenly, there were hands below his arms and he was being lifted, his feet dragging on the dirt floor as he was carried. Where? He feigned unconsciousness, his head lolling to one side, as his senses catalogued what they could. Even with the blindfold, the sudden brightness told him that he had been carried outside. He focused on sounds and smells, trying to get a sense of his surroundings—and his options—when he heard a car door opening. He was thrown in the back and covered with a heavy blanket and suddenly everything was dark again.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
When he learned that Magaña and the American National Security Advisor were still alive, Guerrero had cursed and immediately thought that he would have to eliminate a few of his own men for failing him. But they had survived and now Guerrero realized how much better that would be.
His prisoners were now on their way to Monterrey. Guerrero would soon be leaving for Monterrey as well. There were some jobs, some tasks that were better handled personally.
Magaña and the American National Security Advisor were being taken to a business that Guerrero owned on the outskirts of the city; a legitimate business that provided services to ranches like his. How fitting, he thought with a grin.
He didn’t waste time congratulating himself on his foresight. To him, at least, it had been obvious that one day he would have to leave the drug trade behind and, knowing this, he had quietly purchased dozens of businesses around the country. Most were secluded ranches or farms, but others were small manufacturers, restaurants, metal fabricators, or car dealerships operating and even thriving in the cities. They had been purchased through shell companies, and he had paid all of his taxes and complied with the government’s many regulations. They had been useful as a way to launder money and, as he had planned from the very beginning, they would one day provide a legitimate income during his retirement when the day came that he decided it was finally time to leave the drug business; the day when he decided that he could retire comfortably. But that day had come and gone years ago and he was still here.