The Green Cathedral

by Kerry Mcdonald

  But it was why Victor had called him there, on that night of all nights, that had Abel’s nerves uncharacteristically tingling. Victor knew Abel’s past well, since he had been the one to hire him out of the Navy almost as soon as Abel had resigned his commission. He knew that Abel had served on a Navy SEAL team for a body-crunching, mind-numbing ten years after graduating from the University of Iowa. He knew how Abel had been a three-sport walk-on athlete there, excelling in all three, then joined the Navy with his eyes set on SEAL training. He knew that Abel had breezed through his two and a half years of SEAL training and had served his country with honor in nearly every corner of the globe. And he knew that a single .30 caliber machine-gun round fired by an ISIS soldier had shattered both his right knee and right elbow. Both joints had been repaired and replaced, but despite his best efforts to continue on, Abel had had to call active duty quits. Victor knew how Abel had been crushed, his heart rent by having to leave his team, and also how he’d never considered a desk job. Abel had resigned instead and signed up with the DEA, where the physical requirements weren’t quite as rigorous, but his SEAL skills and toughness were prized. And he knew that Abel was an action junkie, a man who lived for the high brought on by heart-pounding adventure and life-or-death struggle. For such a man, though, living in between such episodes was challenging, to say the least. And because of that, he knew that Abel feared the future more than anything because his body could never keep up with his need for speed.

  Victor had tried to help Abel with these things occasionally during their two years together in Cartagena. Victor knew that Abel was a good man who wanted to do good things. But he also knew Abel’s intense needs could drive him to the dark side if he weren’t careful. But Abel had shrugged it all off. To do anything else would be to lower his standards or change his course, each of which, to Abel, meant giving in to weakness. Abel could never accept the idea that he was not still the robust and invincible being that he had always been.

  But as the time went by and Abel discovered that the dull routine of investigation consumed much more time than action in the field, Abel knew that Victor had noted his increasing restlessness. He knew that Victor had been disappointed when Abel’s focus wandered at work, the result of late nights spent overindulging. Victor had even had to discipline Abel twice for reporting to work unfit for duty.

  Now, Abel’s intuition told him that tonight could be a night of reckoning. Perhaps Victor would finally fire him, something Abel had thought could have happened on several occasions. Maybe Victor would have him reassigned, sent back to the US. He could get his act together there without tearing down years of hard work infiltrating and destroying the drug cartels that, like cockroaches, seemed never to die.

  Abel wondered if Victor might know about the deal he’d just done. Victor knew that Abel had finally given in to his urges, his need for action and adrenaline, his impulse to live dangerously in a dangerous world. Could Victor have found out about the $200,000 that had been transferred into his secret offshore account by the very drug lord that Victor was trying to bring down? Or the $50,000 cash that was in the backpack Abel now carried into the Café de Vista Sol? Might he realize that the deal he’d made with Don Vicente Galvan was to make sure all of Galvan’s drug shipments to the US were protected from DEA and US Customs inspectors from now on? Abel couldn’t imagine how he would. Abel knew the system well, and he’d taken all the right precautions and covered all his tracks.

  . . . But still, what if Victor knew?

  Abel smiled as he bounded up the steps to the top of the wall and spotted the café just fifty meters away. He could already feel his heart pounding harder as adrenaline rushed through his veins. For better or worse, at least he now had his fix.

  2

  —

  “Well, there he is, my favorite sniper,” quipped Victor, a tall black man whose voice and physique seemed to Abel to be the perfect combination of two legendary movie stars: Samuel L. Jackson and James Earl Jones. Abel slid into the dining booth on the opposite side of the table. The Café de Vista Sol had a colonial interior design with most of its tables either in the large main dining room or out on its expansive outdoor veranda. There was no shortage of booths, though, where people who enjoyed privacy and conversation as much as good eating could feel comfortable. Despite his uneasiness, Abel was glad that Victor had chosen a booth. If things suddenly turned sour, it would happen in private rather than in the open for all to see.

  “What are you drinking tonight?” asked Victor as he waved a waiter over.

  “Beer,” replied Abel. His tastes had never been fancy or strong, at least not until lately.

  “On tap or bottled?” inquired the waiter.

  “Tap, whatever your house brew is.”

  “Ah, as I suspected, a back-to-basics, red-blooded American soldier,” said Victor.

  “Hu-ah!”

  “I’ll have a flute of your house white,” said Victor, and the waiter departed. “It took a long time for me to start enjoying the finer things in life, Nowinski, and to be honest, they’re rarely as good as they’re cracked up to be, but white wine in the evening, well, that’s become something special. You should try it sometime.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Abel. The waiter brought them each of their drinks. Abel lifted his ice-cold mug. “But not tonight.”

  Victor laughed, and the two clinked their glasses and drank up.

  Then Victor sat back in the cushioned booth and gazed out the window at the sinking sun, its redness reflecting on the water and making it look as if it were on fire. “I’m not one with a lot of social graces, Nowinski, but I’ve got to tell you, this place has one hell of a view. Check that out. Where the hell else in the world can you see a sunset like that while you’re eating dinner?”

  “I’ve watched plenty of sunsets while I was eating dinner,” replied Abel, “all over the world. They all get rolled into one for me. I can’t keep them straight anymore, so I don’t try.”

  “Yeah.” Victor chuckled. “But what meals you were eating?”

  Abel smiled. “MREs mostly.” They both laughed.

  “You see,” said Victor, “that’s what makes this special.” He shifted his fit, yet somewhat bulky frame around to sit up straighter and looked over the menu. “Tonight, along with your sunset, you have real food. Now, how many times have you experienced that?”

  “Touché.” Abel smiled.

  Victor said, “I’m having my usual, the filet mignon done medium rare with a baked potato on the side. They’re both to die for, and the bread and fresh mango that come with them are amazing. You’ll find everything from burgers to stuff written in French and Italian that I don’t even care to look at, even Asian stuff like Thai chicken and chow mein. I personally recommend the vegetarian lasagna, but that’s probably not your thing, so the real kind with the meat and the red sauce is just as good. Find yourself a real meal to enjoy with the sunset, Nowinski, and then I’ve got some things to talk about with you.”

  So far, Abel had felt at ease, but Victor’s last comment put him on edge. He pretended to study the menu. Abel started to wonder if, perhaps, Victor did know what he was up to. Having never been in a purely social setting with his boss, it caught him off guard that the man could be casually enjoying a sunset in an expensive restaurant one minute, and doing a 180 and talking as if he were back in his office the next. Abel thought he’d have to be careful not to telegraph any signals that might clue Victor in to his uneasiness.

  The waiter returned. Victor gave the man his order, then the waiter turned to Abel.

  “I’ll have the lasagna, the meaty kind, with extra cheese and red sauce,” said Abel.

  “Gracias, señor,” replied the waiter, then primly strutted away.

  ***

  “So where are we at with the Vicente shipment?” asked Victor as he and Abel sipped their drinks and gazed out at the sun. The entire Ca
ribbean was now so red it looked like its waters had been transported across space and time from when Moses turned the Nile River to blood so many centuries before.

  Abel didn’t miss a beat. “It’s all good, sir. I just came from a meeting with my contact. It’ll be arriving in Miami in a week or so, and they’ve already been notified. We’ll nail this one for sure.”

  “Great. These new young bucks like Don Vicente think they’re going to be the millennial version of Pablo Escobar or the Cali Cartel. We’re not going to let it happen. We get so much more cooperation from the Colombians these days. Places like here in Cartagena have become tourist meccas, UNESCO sites, ports for every cruise line in the world. The economy’s booming, everyone’s employed, and no one wants some Papa Pablo wannabe screwing it up. You’re right, Nowinski. We’ll nail them, nail them for sure. How much is that shipment again?”

  “About a ton,” replied Abel. “Over a hundred million, street value.”

  “That’s great. Second one in as many months. Good work, Agent.”

  Abel took a swig of beer to hide the gulp he had just taken and to assuage the ensuing heartburn. Victor was one of the good guys, and he obviously thought Abel was still one, too. Abel felt a sharp twinge of shame, but he quickly dismissed it. No more Boy Scout routine for him anymore. He had his own problems, and he would fix them in his own way, regardless of how Victor might feel about that. Being back in action felt good, and skimming a small portion off the top of the millions that these cartel crooks dealt in was nothing to them, and could go a long way toward securing Abel’s future and giving him the means to enjoy his one, short life. As their food came and the two began using their mouths for eating rather than talking, Abel felt satisfied that everything tonight would end up just fine.

  But Victor wasn’t done yet. “Abel,” he said between devouring mouthfuls of steak, “there’s something I’ve meant to ask you since I hired you, and haven’t had the chance. I’d done lots of research into SEAL training and the like, and I always wanted to ask you about your trigger. Abel, what was your trigger?”

  Abel barely caught himself in time to continue putting a forkful of lasagna into his mouth rather than stop mid-bite with his jaw hanging open.

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your goddamn beeswax, sir,” he growled as he chewed his meat and noodles, red sauce seeping from the corners of his mouth.

  “Really?” continued Victor, not missing a beat as he sliced off some more mignon. “You don’t think it’s important for a DEA station chief to know what motivates his agents, what causes them to want to put their life on the line each day?”

  “I told you that in my interview,” said Abel. “I want to serve my country and be a part of the action, not standing on the sidelines, but I couldn’t continue doing that with my SEAL team. All due respect, sir, but maybe you just forgot?”

  “I’ll tell you for sure that I didn’t forget, but you didn’t let me finish. I’m sure you’re aware, as I am, that your outward motivation doesn’t have anything to do with your SEAL trigger.”

  Abel ate silently, his head down.

  “Your SEAL trigger is the one person, thing, or ideal that keeps you going when everyone else has quit, what causes you to attempt the impossible, to hang on when you can’t hang on anymore, to tap into an inner reservoir of strength that no one else even knows exists because you must continue living for the sake of that—”

  Abel banged his fork on his plate. “I know what a goddamn trigger is!” he said sharply, glaring at Victor, “and it’s none of your goddamn business!”

  Now Victor was angry. “What do you know about my business?” he shot back. “I’m the agent in charge of this DEA post, and I’ll decide what is and is not my business. I’ve watched a number of agents come into this country with all the high-and-mighty motivations you talk about—serving the country, being where the action is—all that kind of shit, and before they’ve even made it through a year, they’re sullen, they’re frustrated, itching to do something when there’s nothing to do, griping, complaining, showing up late, twisting in the moral wind. Does this sound like anyone familiar to you, Agent Nowinski?”

  “That’s a helluva low blow, sir.”

  “I don’t give a damn!” continued Victor. “We’re talking about your life, the lives of other agents around you, and the mission of the DEA, and whether you can be trusted with those things. With stakes like that, I don’t care if the blow was so low it ruptured both your balls.”

  “You saying you don’t trust me, sir?” Abel sneered, his own anger boiling up even more.

  “I’ve trusted you with my life and the mission of this post and everyone in it for going on two years now, Agent Nowinski, so I think I deserve a bit more respect than that last comment, but to be totally honest, over the past few months, I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m asking you about your SEAL trigger.”

  “You don’t have a trigger if you’re not a SEAL.”

  “Bullshit! Everyone needs a reason to live—a reason they have to pull through and survive—especially in this business. You know what happened to those other agents that lost their focus like you’re doing now? They got corrupted—all of them. Some don dangled more money in front of their faces than you’d make in a whole career as a Navy SEAL, or they’d make in ten lifetimes as a DEA agent, and they went for it, because they didn’t have anyone or anything—any trigger—that would bring them back from whatever precipice they were teetering on and give them the moral strength to resist the temptation and do the right thing!”

  “What happened to them?” asked Abel blankly. “I mean, this isn’t all hypothetical bullshit, is it?”

  “The lucky ones are dead,” said Victor. He picked up his knife and sliced up a bit more filet, stuck his fork in a piece, and chewed it for a long moment. He took a drink, swallowed, and eyed Abel, now with a more somber look. “There were six by my count over the years. What got them killed was they all, later on, got remorseful and tried to get out, but that’s not how it works in the cartels. Once you’re in, you’re either in or you’re dead. They knew that, but no one ever really believes it when they’re in the middle of all that shit.”

  “What about the unlucky ones?” asked Abel.

  “They got caught. Because the cartels they collaborated with also engaged in the murder and torture of DEA agents, they were charged as being complicit. Both pleaded guilty and are serving multiple life sentences in the ADX Florence in Colorado.”

  Abel couldn’t help but shudder, though he hoped not too obviously. The ADX Florence in Colorado was more commonly known as Supermax, the one prison in the entire federal system specially designed for prisoners considered so dangerous to themselves, to others, to the nation, or to the whole freaking world that even a prison’s maximum-security facility was not deemed secure enough for their incarceration.

  Victor continued. “They’re hanging out now with people like the Unabomber, the Shoe Bomber, the Underwear Bomber, the Oklahoma City Bomber, the Boston Marathon Bomber, the 1993 World Trade Center Bomber, one of the 9/11 World Trade Center bombers, and a few dozen other assorted bombers, murderers, crime bosses, cartel dons, and traitors. Hell, you put the sentences of all those guys together, you’d probably have five or ten thousand years’ worth of prison time. Twenty-three-hour-a-day solitary confinement, all meals in your cell, no entertainment, no visitors. See what I mean about unlucky?”

  “All right, you made your point,” grumbled Abel, who was not feeling nearly as good about the $50,000 in his backpack as he had an hour ago. The deal was done, though. A cartel hit man would probably be tailing him or spying on the place where he was staying now for God knows how long. He had to make the best of things. “My SEAL triggers all died a long time ago, or may as well have.”

  “And now?” asked Victor.

  Abel just shrugged. The two each finished their dinners in silence. Victo
r watched the sunset over the Caribbean while Abel started in on his second beer. Finally, Victor broke the silence.

  “I didn’t bring you in here tonight just to have some kind of heart-to-heart,” he said. Abel looked up. “I’ve got an assignment that I need someone for, but it’s not around here.”

  “I’m listening,” said Abel.

  “We’ve got a contact up in Costa Rica, a small-time don who we allow to stay in business because he gives us inside shit about the big boys down here. Every now and then, we send someone up there to ‘raid’ his facility, make a few ‘arrests’ and such so that the dons down here don’t get suspicious and think he’s a collaborator. It’s beautiful country up there, lots of sand and surf, jungle, wildlife, great weather, nice little hotels and beach houses, and the friendliest people you’ve ever met. Hell, it’s almost like a working vacation. I usually leave it open on a first-come-first-served basis with the team, but I thought I’d give you a little early heads-up?” He gave Abel a questioning look.

  Abel finished his beer. “Sounds boring,” he said. He put his napkin on the table. Victor polished off his wine, left a wad of cash with the waiter, and the two stepped outside onto the wall. The sun had almost entirely set by now. Darkness was closing in.

  Victor headed toward a small footbridge that crossed the street below and some stairs that led to a small dock that protruded out into the Caribbean, the café’s seaside entrance. A small fishing trawler was waiting. Abel knew that it was actually a well-armed DEA boat filled with weapons and sophisticated electronics.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing much,” Victor replied. “Doing a little fishing tonight with a couple of others. I suppose you could come if you’re not busy.”

  Abel smirked. “Fishing” was the post’s term for taking a boatload of contraband drugs out into international waters after it was no longer needed as evidence, setting it afire, and eventually blowing the boat up, sending millions of dollars of coke down to Davy Jones and friends.