King of Swords

Chapter 17

“An American diplomat?” Cruz demanded.

“Yes, sir. The prints matched a set on file for a member of the American embassy in Mexico City. Says his name is Joseph Fitch, and that he’s a commercial attache,” Briones said.

Cruz took a few moments to digest the revelation. “Any theories as to why a member of the U.S. embassy would be hiring contract killers to off me, or cold-bloodedly murder antique shop owners?”

“None, sir. Or at least, none of them good.”

“Maybe he’s working with the cartels? Co-opted? Wouldn’t be the first time…” Cruz mused.

“Could be. But doesn’t really matter. If I’m reading this right, he’s got diplomatic immunity,” Briones said, reading from his phone.

“What? No fucking way. Don’t tell me that immunity applies to hiring hit men or shooting people,” Cruz exclaimed.

“Uh, I don’t think that’s what it’s supposed to cover, but we’ll have to get the Attorney General involved for a definitive…”

“He shot a man while you were recording it on tape.”

“Yes. And assuming he’s still in the country, we could and should go to the Attorney General. Even if he isn’t. Maybe we could extradite him…” Briones trailed off, unconvincing to his own ear.

“We can worry about the details later. Get the Attorney on the line, give him what you’ve got, and then let’s press the Americans to hand him over. If he’s sided with the cartels, he’s the enemy, and our ‘partner’ up north needs to get with the program.”

Cruz was processing furiously. He needed to get out of the hospital and back into the field. “Get the doctor in here. I need to determine when I can be released without killing myself.”

“One more thing. The identification came back on the two shooters who tried to take you out. They’re Knights Templar enforcers. So maybe revenge for Santiago?” Briones tried.

“Maybe. That’s the most likely explanation. But it doesn’t explain why an American diplomat would be paying to finish the job…”

“…unless the diplomat was working on behalf of the cartel,” Briones finished. “I get it. Obviously, if the cartels are penetrating and compromising the U.S. diplomatic corps, the problem just got much, much bigger than just Mexico. Now, we’re talking more of a global problem. Certainly for the Americans.”

Dinah returned at that moment, a can of soda in her hand. She beamed at Cruz again.

Briones shot him an unmistakable look of admiration. “I’ll go get the doctor,” he said, making himself scarce.

“We’re going to analyze the information in your father’s book, and hopefully, it will take us in a productive direction, Dinah. Don’t worry. I’m not going to drop this. Trust me when I say that finding your father’s killer is my top priority,” Cruz assured her.

“I do trust you, and I believe that if anyone can, you can. For now, concentrate on getting better. It’s not every day that you get shot. Thankfully,” she added.

“I don’t recommend it. But I should be out of here soon, and then I’ll be back driving things.”

Briones appeared with the doctor, who did a cursory exam, and assured Cruz that he would be out within twenty-four hours.

“Well, that’s great news, Capitan,” Dinah enthused. “I bet you’ll be glad to be rid of the hospital.”

“You don’t know how right you are about that,” Cruz assured her. “Briones, let me have one more minute of your time before you leave, if you please.” Cruz looked pointedly at the doctor and Dinah. She got the hint.

“I hope you get better soon. Try not to get any more dog bites,” she said with a wave, and followed the doctor out of the room. Cruz waited until she was gone and the door had closed.

“Get me out of here. Transfer me to another area of the hospital, or to a different hospital, but I want out in the next two hours. I don’t like all the weird crap that’s going on, and until we figure it out, I want to make myself hard to find. Take Dinah home; don’t tell her anything more about me, and send the doctor back in when you leave. Arrange a transfer to a different floor, or a new facility, but I’m not remaining here. I feel like a sitting duck, and I don’t want to wait for someone with diplomatic immunity to show up and shoot me, and then give Mexico the finger.” Cruz had digested the unsavory information about the American diplomat, and didn’t like the implications.

“Absolutely. Will do. And I’m sorry about telling Dinah anything. She just has a way of pulling it out of you…”

“I have no doubt she’s very persuasive. Now get out of here. Get me moved,” Cruz concluded.

“Will do.”

While waiting for Briones, Dinah was innocently enrapturing the doctor — who was just finishing up speaking with her.

“He’s really lucky to be alive. A slightly different angle on the chest wound, or a few more minutes bleeding out on the pavement, and he’d be dead,” he told her.

“I’ll say he’s lucky. Thank you, Doctor. You’re a gentleman,” she cooed; the doctor seemed to gain an inch in stature.

Briones followed after him as he moved to the next room, and had a hurried discussion. The armed Federales sitting in the hall eyed Dinah with curiosity and more than a little interest. She didn’t seem to notice.

Briones returned, and she fixed him with a look that must have petrified seven year olds.

“Dog bites, huh?”

The Citation Ten executive jet touched down at Dulles International Airport and pulled towards the private charter section, where a well-lit hangar awaited its arrival. Even though it was inbound on an international flight, no customs agents were anywhere in evidence. That had been taken care of in advance. This hangar was off the grid as far as niggling details like passports or searches went. Had been for decades.

The plane rolled to a stop and a folding hydraulic stairway descended from the fuselage with a precise hiss as the pistons lowered it into place. The small bald man walked carefully down the steps carrying a hastily-packed overnight bag, and continued to the waiting limo — a long black Lincoln with government plates. The driver, wearing a black suit and tie, opened the rear door for him. The new arrival looked inside the car, smiled, and climbed in to sit across from Kent.

“Welcome home, Joe,” Kent said, holding his hand out to shake.

“Thanks, Kent. And special thanks for arranging the flight. Nice plane,” Joseph said, clasping Kent’s outstretched hand.

“It’s the only way to fly, isn’t it?” Kent agreed.

The car pulled out of the hangar, and soon they were hurtling down the freeway on their way to Virginia.

“So what happened? How did you wind up in Mexican custody?” Kent asked.

“I terminated the conduit, as instructed,” Joseph said. “Turned out it was a setup. The Federales were waiting for me. I had zero options but to allow them to take me in. Good going on the computer hacking, by the way. They let me walk out in the morning, no questions asked. Stupid bastards.”

“Did they get any information from you? Any ID?”

“What, are you kidding? You know I never carry anything on a job. And no, I didn’t say a word to anyone. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a ghost,” Joseph assured him.

“I should have known. You’re a magician, as always.” Kent smiled at him. “It’s really good to see you again, buddy. It’s been too long.”

“I agree. Next time don’t send me into any hellholes, okay? Maybe someplace fun, like Prague or Buenos Aires?”

“You got it. Hey, I’m sorry, bud. After four hours in the air, you must be parched. You want some water? A drink? I’ve got scotch and vodka, beer, sodas and H2O. Name your poison,” Kent offered.

“I could use some water.” Joseph adjusted the air-conditioning so that it was blowing on him. “So what do we do now? Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“That’s a tough one, Joe.” Kent handed him a bottle of water, cracking the bottle top for him. “We’re going to have to take you off the board in Mexico for a while, at least. Too high profile. I’m thinking we get you an office for a few months, let you run ops from behind the scene, and then get you back on the ground once this thing has played out,” Kent said.

“Makes sense. I don’t care if I never see Mexico City again. The air sucks, and it’s like living on an anthill. Too many people packed on top of the other,” Joseph complained, downing half the bottle.

“Been a while since I was there. I’m with you on the crowds, though. I hate them,” Kent agreed.

Joseph wiped his forehead and took another swig of water.

“I think I might have picked up a bug in jail. I’m not feeling too…” he said, and then slipped into unconsciousness, the water bottle soundlessly dropping onto the carpet. Twenty seconds later white foam began trickling out of his nose and mouth. Kent retrieved the bottle and screwed the top back on. Amazing what a little superglue could do to create the distinctive crackling sound that mimicked a factory-sealed bottle. Kent pushed a button on the intercom.

“It’s over. Let’s drop him at the base and get rid of any trace. Grind him up into pieces so small he’ll fit through a straw.”

~ ~ ~

Once the hospital had fallen silent, the bustle of daytime replaced by the hush of night, Cruz propelled himself unsteadily down the hall in the wheelchair that had been left for him by an orderly. He’d gotten the okay to disconnect the intravenous drip and plug the catheter, and had done so a few moments before placing a plastic bag containing his wallet, phone and weapon on his lap. He cautiously wheeled himself through the door. The two Federales could have been statues — Briones had briefed them to stay on guard at ‘his’ room and not to allow anyone in, no matter what, and not to discuss his absence under any circumstances.

The doctor had reluctantly agreed to get him a room that he could lock, and had equipped it with a drip so he could stay hydrated. Cruz had been informed of the attendant risks and had bought off on them; they were considerably less than the odds of him being attacked by a cartel bent on killing him, so on balance, he fancied his chances better as a no-name patient in the maternity wing.

His chest hurt like hell from the exertion, but he didn’t mind. He still had decent upper body strength even after the slug had torn through the pectoral muscle. The leg was another matter, but he’d deal with that on a day-by-day basis. If necessary, he could crutch it for a few weeks. He hoped that wouldn’t be required. Maybe some sort of a brace or a soft cast could be fitted. They’d go over options upon his release.

The doctor said he could be discharged the following day, but would prefer if he stayed forty-eight more hours. Cruz wanted out of the hospital in the worst way, but didn’t want to wind up back in a few days because he pushed it. Tomorrow, Briones would bring a laptop so he could link in to the headquarters servers, which would make him feel more productive, so he’d resigned himself to tough it out and spend two more nights there.

He reached his new digs, wheeled himself in and locked the door with the key that hung obligingly from the interior of the dead bolt. Now he was safe, or as safe as he could be in Mexico City. Once he was discharged, he was going to have Briones rent a by-the-week executive apartment in one of the fancy downtown high rises while he recuperated. It was pretty clear he couldn’t return to his house any time soon without risking extermination.

Cruz climbed onto the bed and hit the button that extinguished the lights. The only illumination came from the window; the soft glow from the parking lot lamps provided just enough visibility so he could place the plastic bag on the bedside table and pull out the pistol, cradling it in his hand as he dozed off to sleep, finally able to do so without the worry of being butchered while he slumbered. His last thoughts were about Dinah, hair gleaming in the harsh fluorescent hospital lights, and the dreams, when they came, featured her smile in all its high-voltage glory.

The next day, Briones arrived with the laptop and a bag of clothes to replace the ones that had been shot to bits and sliced off him by the emergency medical team. There were few things as humbling as spending three days with one’s ass hanging out the back of a gauze robe, so the sight of real clothing filled him with an optimism that defied rational explanation. Briones also had a special surprise — a brand new pistol with two spare magazines. Cruz handed back the one Briones had loaned him and hefted the new pistol happily. Only ten a.m., and already it was shaping up to be a good day.

The doctor stopped in to check the dressing on his chest and leg, and promised him he’d be back later to change it and give him another shot of antibiotics. Cruz’s color had returned, signaling that his red blood count was back to normal — the blood tests would confirm that, but his skin told him all he needed to know. The nearly constant infusion of plasma, vitamins and minerals had given his body the necessary materials to rebuild, and he felt stronger by the hour.

Cruz got online and saw that he had hundreds of messages to wade through. That took care of how he’d stay busy for the next ten hours. He turned to Briones, who seemed consumed by something on his phone.

“What is it?” Cruz asked.

“It’s not good. The phone numbers in the final section of Tortora’s book? All but one were cell phones that were registered, used once, and then tossed. Sound familiar?”

“Standard cartel issue. Is there anything we can use at all?” Cruz asked.

“Well, the last number was a Los Cabos number. A pay phone outside of the old bus station in Cabo San Lucas. It’s not much, but if that was being used by our friend El Rey, it means he’s already in Los Cabos, and has been for several weeks, at least.”

“So more circumstantial evidence nobody will want to pay attention to, other than to point out holes in the case,” Cruz muttered bitterly.

“Yes, but it tells us something important, I think — that we need to up our surveillance push in Baja and put more feet on the ground there. That’s where all the action’s going to take place, now that the summit is coming at us, only twenty-five or so days away,” Briones stated.

He was right. El Rey had to be there. No question. But knowing that didn’t do them much good, unless they could pinpoint it a little better. The population across San Jose and Cabo was almost two hundred fifty thousand — not exactly a tiny group to sift through. And as they’d discussed many times, El Rey doubtlessly had ways of changing his appearance, so the sketch might not do them any good. Something as simple as a change of hair color or cut, or facial hair, could radically alter appearance. They’d had Arlen draw in goatees and moustaches, but the more you covered the face, the more generic the drawings got.

They spent most of the day going through strategy, and at six, Briones begged off on any more work. He needed to secure an apartment for Cruz, and break the news to the additional officers they’d be shipping out for Baja, so he’d be lucky to be done by nine p.m..

Cruz was grateful Briones had stepped in and picked up the slack while he’d been down for the count. He truly didn’t know what he would have done without his help, and was glad he hadn’t cut him out of the loop when he’d had his doubts about Julio and Ignacio.

~ ~ ~

Kent hated phone conversations for anything of importance, but he couldn’t just hang up on the Speaker of the House, tempting as it was. At least he was calling from a landline. Cells were fraught with eavesdropping problems, and even though there was virtually nobody wishing to have him under surveillance, force of habit told Kent that discussing anything on the phone was a bad idea.

“You told me there was no way we could be connected to the events, and now you tell me that you had to pull an asset and terminate him? What about the locals? You think they’re not going to go crazy when they discover he’s gone?” The Speaker sounded far more concerned than the situation warranted, in Kent’s opinion.

“He was turned by the cartels, a black sheep, and disappeared. That’s the explanation. We can’t produce someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”

“My point is, this is already unraveling. First the DEA memo, now a manhunt for embassy personnel. I don’t like it. I don’t think you have as solid a hold on this as you pretend,” the Speaker said.

So there it was. The anxiety needed somewhere to land, and so they’d gotten out the shit-gun and spackled Kent with it. He’d put a fast end to that.

“Nothing significant has happened. On any complicated plan, you expect a few random variables. These were ours. But they’ve been manageable. Have you heard anything more about the memo? No. It’s already buried and forgotten. Same as Joe. He was a rogue low-level staffer who apparently was lining his pockets doing the bidding of the cartels. Guess what? Regrettable as it is, sometimes good men go bad. That’s the surprised explanation we’ll eventually give — and we’ll waive diplomatic immunity for him should they locate him, as a symbol of our goodwill. The end. Nothing further to discuss. That’s why I’m not worried.”

Kent had good points. It was a closed loop. The cop was out of circulation, Joe was sludge at the bottom of a drainage ditch in Vermont, the memo was one of thousands of informational bulletins read and then forgotten; the cartel boss was worm food.

After a few more platitudes Kent hung up, satisfied that for now he’d talked the great man’s nerves down. As the big day approached, he knew there would be more of these displays, but as long as they got no worse, it was water off a duck’s back.

All part of the job nobody else wanted, or had the guts to do.