by Bill King
The Frenchman nodded silently. He suspected where this was going.
“She understood the value of the judge to us, so she killed them both,” the Venezuelan continued. “That evening, before anyone could discover the bodies, she snuck into the lawyer’s office, broke into his safe and took all the documents, along with three jump drives.”
“Do you still have this incriminating evidence?”
“I destroyed everything that pertained to me and to M-28,” he said. “However, there was also some interesting information on the jump drives that I’ve been able to monetize, so to speak.”
“Blackmail material?”
“Some very damning stuff, the kind certain people will pay a lot of money to keep quiet.”
“What about the lawyer?”
“Regrettably, he suffered a tragic accident the very next day on his way to a lunch appointment with a prospective new client,” said Calderón, a wry smile on his face. “Isabela took care of that task, too. It was a clean job, with no connection to M-28 or to our friend, the judge.”
The Frenchman took a puff from his Cuban cigar and exhaled. “Very well. What is her job on this mission?”
“She will lead the St. Louis team and I will lead the Kansas City team.”
The Frenchman nodded somberly, as if in deep thought.
“Let’s go inside and go over the details.”
◆◆◆
“Good morning,” said the attractive young woman to the elderly security guard sitting behind the reception counter in the entry lobby of the Laredo Border Patrol station. The round, plastic government issue clock on the wall behind him read eight-thirty. “I’m Gwen Thompson from Homeland. I believe you are expecting me.”
She was of medium height, probably about five-seven, with short auburn hair that fell to just above her shoulders. She handed him her credentials, which the guard examined carefully before scanning the list of expected visitors for the day. The list was short—only six names—so he found her name without difficulty. He grunted and picked up the phone on the counter in front of him, jabbing three buttons with his stubby index finger.
“Winslow here,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Hey, Al, the technician from Homeland is out here at the front desk,” said the security guard in a bored, indifferent tone of voice.
“Be down in a second,” he replied before terminating the connection.
A minute later, a young man dressed in khaki slacks and a maroon t-shirt appeared in the lobby. He was a civilian employee so, unlike most of the other people working in the building, he did not wear a uniform. He wore a neatly trimmed beard to hide a facial skin condition that had tormented him since his mid-teens.
“Al Winslow,” he said, extending his hand to the woman and trying to appear nonchalant. He wasn’t expecting someone this young, not to mention this attractive.
“I’m Gwen Thompson,” she replied, grasping his hand lightly and flashing the kind of sweet, innocent smile that made men melt. She was wearing expensive looking eyeglasses with dark frames that complemented her face. “I’m here to install a security software patch to your video system. I’ll be in and out in less than twenty minutes.”
Winslow smiled nervously and escorted her down the hallway to the cramped communications room. In reality, it was more like a large closet than an actual room. In it were six racks of electronic equipment, arranged in two parallel rows. They controlled all their internal communications systems, as well as their external network connections to Homeland and Border Patrol data networks.
“I’ll leave you here to do your work,” said Winslow, his awkward mannerisms exposing his social anxiety. “I’ll be in the next room. Just bang on the wall if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Al,” said Gwen, smiling at his feeble attempt at humor and touching his arm lightly with her fingertips. They were both in the mid-twenties, although his social skills at the moment were probably somewhere near the thirteen-year-old level. She found him kind of nerdy, but she also knew that the odds of her actions being discovered by him would be lessened if he thought she was attracted to him, however slightly. “I should be done in a jiffy. How about if we have some coffee in the breakroom afterwards?”
“Sure thing, Miss Thompson,” he said nervously.
He wished he had worn a better shirt that day. The Roadrunners had a baseball game that evening, so he had worn a maroon t-shirt with the U logo of Texas A&M International University, his alma mater. He should have worn one of his polos, which he usually saved for church on Sundays.
“Please, call me Gwen,” she said, flashing that sweet smile again.
Once Winslow had left, the smile quickly disappeared from her face as she turned and walked straight to the rack of equipment controlling the video systems. She calmly inserted a thumb drive into the laptop computer that was setting on the metal slide-out support drawer. Ninety seconds later, the downloading of the software patch completed, she removed the thumb drive and placed it back into her purse.
Then she walked over to the next rack of equipment and began to install the software patch that Homeland Security had actually sent her down there to install.
Fifteen minutes later, her work completed, she gathered her things and walked out of the communications room, closing the door behind her. She walked next door to find Winslow.
◆◆◆
Frank Diaz held his Starbucks cup in his left hand while he punched a four-digit code into the keypad with his free hand. As soon as a green light appeared, he pushed open the door into the communications room, which doubled as the Laredo Border Patrol’s operations center. Pete Cortez followed him into the room, which was roughly fifteen feet by twenty.
He noticed an attractive young woman sitting at one of the consoles, typing on the keyboard, while Al Winslow, his technician, stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.
“Who’s your new friend, Al?” Diaz asked, a big grin on his face. Winslow beamed, looking like a little boy who just received a shiny new bicycle for Christmas.
“This is one of the technicians from Homeland, Frank,” Winslow replied. “She’s down here to fix some bugs in our video network.”
Gwen spun around in her chair and then rose to her feet.
“Gwen Thompson,” she said, walking over and extending her hand to shake his, a smile on her face. “I came down from the Washington office.”
“Frank Diaz,” he replied, shaking her hand firmly, but not too firmly. “Troubles with the comms, eh?”
“No, actually, this is just a routine visit,” said Gwen, glancing over at Winslow. “I installed a couple of software patches a few minutes ago and was just showing Al some of the improvements he can now expect. Al does such a wonderful job keeping all the systems running out here. I wish they were all like him.”
Winslow blushed like a little boy. She cupped her hand and whispered into his ear, “I really mean it. Sincerely.”
“This is Pete Cortez from the Houston FBI office,” said Diaz, nodding his head in Cortez’s direction. The two of them shook hands.
“Oh, good, a fellow out-of-towner,” she said, laughing breezily, while removing her eyeglasses and setting them on the desk in front of her. She noted that he was not wearing a wedding ring. “What brings you to Laredo?”
“Just checking on an incident that occurred not too long ago along the border.”
“Anything exciting?”
“No, just the usual murder and mayhem,” said Cortez.
“Yeah, just another day in God’s Country,” said Diaz, glancing down at his wristwatch. “Time to go, Pete. Bobby Janak will be waiting for us.” Janak had told them that it was important, but that he was not at liberty to say anything more than that.
“It was very nice meeting you, Gwen,” said Cortez, shaking her hand again. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime in the future.”
Cortez followed Diaz out of the operations center and into the hallway.
◆◆◆
Graciela was sitting in front of one of the computer consoles in the Bunker at Rancho Buena Fortuna. She was wearing a set of red Beats headphones.
“Can you adjust the audio level down just a bit, Marcela?” she asked, looking over at the young woman sitting next to her. “Whenever it gets too loud, we begin to get distortion.”
Graciela paused for several moments, listening intently. “There…perfect, perfect. Now, let’s zoom the picture in tight, then fade back out…slowly…slowly…excellent, excellent.”
The video and audio were crisp. In fact, it was almost as if they were, themselves, sitting in the operations center of the Laredo Border Patrol building, like a fly on the wall. They could see everything clearly and, now, they could also hear everything, too. Crystal clear audio.
“Gwen’s software patch worked even better than I had expected,” said Graciela, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest. “Now, go back on the tape to where Gwen whispers in the geek’s ear…there, perfect. Now, increase the audio and let’s see if we can hear what she’s saying.”
The audio quality was such that it was almost as if Gwen was whispering into their ears, not his. “I really mean it. Sincerely,” they heard her say.
Graciela leaned back in her chair, a smile of satisfaction on her face.
“Sometimes, technology makes things too easy, especially when you know how to use it,” she said softly, to no one in particular. “El Indio will be pleased.”
She stood up and rested her hand on the console operator’s shoulder.
“Oh, and Anna, please see if you can identify the other people in the video, especially the FBI agent from Houston. He looks like the same man we saw on the CBP video several days ago, down by the river with the Border Patrol and FBI guys. We need to start developing a list of players...an enemy order of battle, if you will.”
◆◆◆
Chapter 15
CHUCHO AND TWO OF his bodyguards were standing at the very site where the American had killed Paco and Miguelito less than two weeks earlier. In his fantasies he had imagined that the gringo returned to the site and that he would be able to come up to him, man to man, and settle the score. If he ever found out who the man was, he’d kill him with his bare hands.
He was angry because, even though El Coronel had reassured him that he made the correct decision by protecting the money, Chucho felt he had run away from a fight. It embarrassed him and rightly so. He had run away. The fact he had done so because he’d forgotten to bring his weapon wasn’t much of a mitigating factor.
Telemundo Laredo had reported that two Mexican nationals had been found dead at an unspecified location along the Rio Grande, south of Laredo. According to the report, an as-yet unidentified American male was involved in the incident. That was it. Nothing more on the incident had been reported in the news. Nothing on the victims, other than that they were Mexican nationals. He had no doubt the authorities knew the identity of at least one of the bodies because Miguelito’s parents had already claimed his body. So, why the unusual silence for this incident? It made no sense to him.
His suspicious nature told him the mysterious fisherman had to be somebody important. Otherwise, why the news blackout? Unfortunately for Chucho, until law enforcement publicly identified the unknown man involved in the killings—assuming they ever would—he had no idea where to even begin searching for the mystery man. So, he waited…and he stewed.
Eventually, word spread on the street that the man in question was a federal agent.
With that kernel of information, Chucho hired a local private investigator to hang around outside the Laredo FBI building and take photos of everyone who came in or out of the building. Having one of his own men do it would be a bad idea, since heavily tattooed young Hispanic men hanging around the outside of a law enforcement facility in Laredo was likely to arouse suspicion, even among the FBI.
Chucho was still learning about American law enforcement and was not aware that a whole host of federal agencies had special agents. He just assumed all federal agents worked for the FBI. It was a lucky guess on his part, as it turned out.
For the past couple of days, one of Chucho’s underlings picked up a jump drive containing photos from the PI and brought the device to Chucho for review. Thus far, the pictures had revealed nothing. Perhaps the man was not even assigned to the Laredo field office.
He began to walk slowly along the riverbank, mulling over the situation in his head, over and over, in hopes of coming up with something he’d forgotten that might lead him to being able to identify the man with the fishing rod. His two bodyguards followed him, several paces behind, their eyes scanning the riverbank for any sign of danger.
For the next thirty minutes, Chucho meandered along the river, his head down, deep in thought. Eventually, he came upon a moss-covered boulder. He stopped and leaned up against it, gazing across the river. In the distance, he saw a large, sprawling ranch house, maybe five hundred yards away.
“Oye, Rafael,” he called over his shoulder to one of the bodyguards, a young man who appeared barely old enough to shave. “Look over there, across the river. That’s my old stomping grounds. The Rancho Buena Fortuna. It brings back some good memories.”
Rafael had never even heard of the Rancho, much less ever seen it. Still, he was impressed with what he could see in the distance.
Just then, Chucho noticed what appeared to be people walking out from the house.
“Give me your glasses,” he said, holding out his hand expectantly, palm up. Rafael handed him a pair of black, German-made binoculars that they had stolen from a coyotaje lookout the week before. The blue rectangular logo on top read ZEISS.
“Looks like a bunch of rich people getting ready to sit down for a leisurely lunch,” said Chucho, adjusting the zoom-in wheel on the binoculars as much as possible. “The woman is Graciela, but I don’t recognize the two men.”
“Do you want to go across and pay a visit?” asked the other bodyguard.
Despite the fact El Coronel had told him to stay away, he still couldn’t let go of the fact that Graciela had complained about him stopping by the other day. Perhaps, he thought, it was time he put the fear of God in her.
“No, I don’t feel like swimming,” said Chucho. “Besides, this is a new shirt I’m wearing. I don’t want to get it trashed. We’ll come back tomorrow with a boat.”
“Yeah,” said Rafael, laughing. “I think those rich cabrones just lucked out, Chucho. I wouldn’t want to meet you in the bad mood you’ve been in lately.”
In truth, it was probably Chucho who lucked out by not crossing the river that day.
◆◆◆
That night, when Chucho arrived back at the farmhouse outside of Hebbronville, his courier was waiting for him with the thumb drive containing photos from the FBI building taken that day.
“Grab me a beer, Rafael, while I open this up on the laptop,” said Chucho, who had never even touched a computer until six months earlier. It had not been part of his world, at least not until his recent ascension into management. He was a fast learner, though.
Once the computer had finished booting up, he inserted the thumb drive and began to scroll through the photos. Thankfully, Laredo was not like New York City, where one would have to take several thousands of photos in order to capture everyone coming or going. There were less than a couple hundred photos and, within a minute, Chucho came across a familiar face.
“That’s him,” he said, pointing to the picture on the screen. “That’s the gabacho, Rafael. Find out who he is and everything else you can about him. I’ve got a score to settle with that pendejo.”
Enjoy your last few moments of life on earth, Chucho thought to himself, smiling wryly.
◆◆◆
The Eurocopter AS350 helicopter set down on the lush green lawn in front of the sprawling hacienda. Two well-armed men climbed out, followed by an elegant man in his sixties wearing an expensive suit.
Behind him was the Frenchman, a tall, rail thin man in his early fifties, with steely blue eyes, his body covered from neck to toe with tattoos.
“Tío Memo, welcome back to the Rancho,” said Graciela, running to the old man and giving him a hearty embrace. “I trust your trip to Brazil went well?”
“Ah, my little Graciela, it is always such a joy to see you,” said a beaming Guillermo López Navarro. “Your Tía Inez send her love.” Tía, or Aunt, Inez was the old man’s wife of forty years.
She nodded at the Frenchman. “Welcome back to the Rancho, Francés.”
Graciela and the two men walked across the lush green lawn toward the main house, the bodyguards close behind them. After a quick stop to use the rest room, the old man proceeded to the library, where he joined Graciela and The Frenchman.
“So, Gracie, am I to gather that it works?” he said, sounding like a proud father which, in a sense, he was. Graciela was his pride and joy, the daughter he never had. She was a woman he had known her entire life and he had made sure she received all the advantages money could buy while growing up.
“Yes, Tío Memo, of course it works,” she said, laughing like a little girl being teased. “I told you it would, didn’t I? You know I always keep my promises.”
“Can we see it in action?” asked the Frenchman.
“Of course, but first let’s have some lunch,” she said, transitioning effortlessly into the role as the gracious hostess. “Veronica has set a table for us outside on the veranda. It’s such a beautiful day and the flowers in the garden are coming into bloom.”
As they sat down at the heavy wrought iron table on the back terrace overlooking the river, Graciela bent over to smell the lilacs Veronica had placed in the center of the table. A crisp white linen tablecloth was spread over the table, which was set for three.
The view overlooking the river was a picture of serenity, the complete opposite of what it would become every night after the sun went down.