In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (9 page)

The motorcade pulled up below the North Portico of the White House.  The doors of the lead and tail vehicles opened, and Mexican security and U.S. Secret Service agents jumped out.  A dozen Mexican agents surrounded the limo and, after a quick radio conversation, the door was opened.  Kendall walked forward and extended his hand to Mexican President Felipe Magaña.

“Señor Presidente.  Mucho gusto.  Bienvenidos a la Casa Blanca.” 
Mr. President.  It is nice to meet you.  Welcome to the White House.

Magaña smiled broadly.  “Igualmente, Señor Presidente.  Es un placer estar aquí.” 
Likewise, Mr. President.  It is a pleasure to be here.
  Magaña switched to English.  “I’m impressed.  Your Spanish is very good.”

Kendall laughed.  “Thank you.  But, I’m afraid those are the only words I know.”

Magaña laughed and put his hand on Kendall’s shoulder. “Somehow, I think we will manage, Mr. President.”

“Please.  Come in,” Kendall said, escorting President Magaña up the steps into the entrance hall. 

A short while later they were seated in the Map Room. 

Magaña held up a box.  “I have something for you, a gift from my country to yours; something to express our friendship.” 

Kendall smiled.  He opened the box and pulled out a dagger.  The silver blade was about five inches long with an ornate, swirled hilt where it met the handle.  The handle itself was about three inches long made of some sort of black stone carved into the face of an Aztec god, Kendall guessed.  He ran his hand along the blade, noticing that although it was pointed, it wasn’t sharp.  It took a moment before he realized he was holding a letter opener.

“This is beautiful, Felipe.  Thank you very much.”  Kendall turned the gift over, admiring the craftsmanship.  “The handle represents an Aztec god, correct?”

Magaña nodded.  “It is Quetzalcoatl, hand-carved from obsidian onyx.  He was a patron of priests and the god of creation.  Some say this meant that he was the creator of mankind.  Others say he was a male symbol of fertility.  He is also associated with vegetation and the harvest.  Like much of Mayan and Aztec mythology, his role, his manifestations, and his powers evolved and changed over the centuries.  You can see that the figure represents a winged serpent.  It is said that he ruled the boundary between the earth and the sky, possibly as one of the sun gods.”

Magaña sat back.  “It is interesting, David.  I am a Roman Catholic.  Similar to the Christian belief in Jesus’s divine birth, the Aztecs believe Quetzalcoatl and his twin brother were born to a virgin.”

“Really?  I didn’t know that.”

“Yes.  No matter what you believe, I think the symbolism is appropriate.  He is a god of life.”  Magaña smiled.  “Such a fragile thing, life is,” he continued, his smile gone. “The drug problem that is affecting your country as well as mine has done so much to destroy lives.  Working together, Mr. President, I hope you and I can change that.” 

After lunch, Kendall poured a cup of coffee and handed it to his guest. 

“Felipe, I hope we can speak frankly.  I would like to discuss our joint operation.  While I agree with our predecessors’ intents, I am worried that it is only a matter of time before the cartels begin to retaliate.  I am afraid that this could be devastating to the citizens of your country and possibly mine as well.”

“I agree.” Magaña responded.  “I know that there has been cartel activity in Arizona and Nevada, some drug related killings and kidnappings.  It’s only a matter of time before it spreads to other cities…maybe even to Washington.”  Magaña crossed his legs, his hands pressed together below his chin as if in prayer.  “I think we have made a start, but unless we look at this systemically, we will have done nothing more than, what is your saying, waking the sleeping bear?”

Kendall nodded as Magaña continued.

“There are some in my country who applaud what we are doing.  But many more are not happy.  They see the same thing that you and I do and fear the violence will get worse.  There are also some who are upset that I am allowing foreign soldiers to operate on Mexican soil.  They point to your country and ask why more is not being done about the demand for drugs.  And about the weapons and guns your citizens smuggle into my country and sell to the cartels.”

Kendall nodded again.  He had been briefed and had been expecting this.  “I understand your position, Felipe, and I agree it’s something that we need to discuss further.  I also think we need to consider what we can do to address the support your police and your armed forces provide to the cartels.  My country believes that it will be difficult to make meaningful progress unless that issue is confronted.”

So much of this is a dance
, Kendall thought.  Although he was no stranger to negotiation, the diplomatic exchanges between nations were very different from deal making in the business world.  Today, their initial dance was part of the mating ritual, the intent to see if, hopefully, they were compatible dance partners.  The goal was to inform each other of their respective viewpoints and the key issues affecting each of their nations.  The real discussions would come later between their diplomatic teams.  First though, Kendall and Magaña had to find a way to dance together without stepping on each other’s toes.  That was difficult when both men wanted to lead.

“Yes, David.  We can discuss that too.  But there is a related issue that is equally as important.  There are many in Mexico who are not happy with the wall that you have built between our countries.”

“We are concerned about the immigration issue as well,” Kendall responded.  “I believe there are challenges on both sides of the border.  What can be done to develop more economic opportunity within Mexico?”

“I have some thoughts.” Magaña frowned.  “But to make a difference—a real difference—well, it’s not possible without your help, David.”

“No,” Kendall agreed.  “But it will require significant changes in how
both
of our countries approach this problem.”

Both men sat for a moment, sipping their coffee.  Magaña put his cup down and Kendall held up the silver urn.  Magaña nodded.

As Kendall refilled the cup, Felipe Magaña smiled.  “I think you and I can work together, mi amigo.”

The black Ford Taurus made its way down the dirt road.  The driver, dressed for a day of fishing, looked like an ad for L.L. Bean.  A coffee thermos sat on the passenger seat next to a wicker fish basket.  As the car bounced over the ruts in the old logging trail, the driver glanced at his mirrors.

Despite recent forecasts, the sky was overcast and held the threat of rain.  Typical mid-March weather, thought the fisherman.  He glanced out the side window again and sensed that the forest was about to come alive.  The trees would bud soon, and the many varieties of fern and groundcover would soon blanket the forest floor.  The car rounded a bend, entered a small clearing, and coasted to a stop about fifty feet from a stream.  He turned the car off and listened to sounds of the stream and the occasional ping as the engine cooled.  It wasn’t quite 7:00 a.m.  He was early.

The fisherman inspected his mirrors one more time and, confirming that he hadn’t been followed, grabbed his fish basket and thermos and stepped out of the car.  He turned, as if admiring the scene.  Satisfied that he was alone, he opened the trunk and grabbed a fishing rod and tackle box.  He glanced once more down the dirt road then shut the trunk. 

He carried his gear over to the stream.  The spot he chose was a large flat boulder, overhanging a deep pool of gently flowing water.  Perfect, he thought as he laid his gear on the rock.  He had a view of both the stream and, with a small turn of his head, the dirt road.  He poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and then began preparing his pole.  He took his time rigging a new fly.  When he finished, he stood and pulled some line out of the reel with his left hand while he swept the pole back and forth in long arcs with his right.  Each arc began behind him and finished out over the water, and with each cycle, he let out a little more line.  He let the fly fall gently into the stream.  He fed more line as the current pulled it downstream.

Although he had never been fly fishing before—in fact it had been eighteen years since he last held a fishing pole, and that time it was an inexpensive spin-cast model his father had given him on his tenth birthday—he appeared adept at his task.  The thirty minutes of instruction he had received at Bass Pro Shops had paid off.  But he had no interest in catching fish. 

He glanced at his watch again, adjusted the slack in his line, and then squatted to pick up his mug of coffee.  He hesitated, the coffee mug inches from his mouth.  As the steam swirled below his chin, he glanced down the road.  After a moment, he bent down, placing his mug back on the rock.  He didn’t have to wait long.  A green, late-model Crown Victoria rounded the bend in the road and pulled up next to his car.  Two men climbed out and, like him, admired the scene before retrieving their gear.

He studied the men as they walked toward the stream.  One was short with olive skin, his Mediterranean heritage evident in his features.  His companion was a tall black man, powerfully built.  Like him, both men were dressed for fishing.  Each carried a pole and a tackle box.  The black man also carried a wicker fish box, similar to the one by the fisherman’s feet.

“Good morning,” the black man called with a smile.  “We’ll head upstream a bit so we’re not in your way.”

The fisherman smiled tentatively.  “Be my guest.”

The black man placed his wicker basket on the rock next to the fisherman’s and scratched the back of his head.  “Any luck?”

“None yet”

“How long have you been out here?”

“About an hour.”

The Mediterranean remained silent, his eyes darting around.  The black man made a show of hitching up his pants with his right hand while he balanced the rest of his gear in his left.  There was a red band wrapped around the handle of the man’s pole, before the reel.

“Is that a White River pole?”

“Sure is!  First time I’m using it, though.  It’s a present from my wife.”  The black man’s mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t.

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be.  I think she just wants me out of the house.” 

Both men laughed, finally relaxing.  The exchange had confirmed their identities.

“My name’s Vernon, by the way, and this here’s Mike,” the black man said, extending his hand.

“I’m Bob,” the fisherman replied as they shook.  Both knew these weren’t their real names.  The Mediterranean, Mike, smiled weakly, but didn’t offer his hand.  Vernon bent down and picked up one of the wicker baskets. 

“Well, we’ll get out of your way.”

“Good luck,” Bob called as they walked up the path.

Vernon turned and caught his eye. “Good luck to you too.”

He was going to need it, Bob thought.

Twenty minutes later, Bob pulled his cell phone from his pocket and made a show of reading the message.  He shook his head, closed the phone, and began to reel in his line.  Fifteen minutes later, he was in his car, heading back down the dirt road.  He smiled as he thought about how cleanly the switch had been made.  Although he hadn’t caught any fish, the morning had been successful.  At least so far.

Bob followed the dirt road for about ten minutes but before he reached the intersection, he pulled to the side, his car hidden in the shadows.  He removed his vest and flannel shirt and stuffed them in a duffel bag.  Below, he wore a plain, dark blue T-shirt.  He pulled off the Duck Boots and slipped on a pair of running shoes.  Appearance altered, for now at least, he turned onto the paved county road.

A half hour later, he was on a state road, heading north through the mountains of West Virginia.  A short while later, he spotted the gas station and pulled in.  There was a small convenience store, and, around the side, a payphone.  There were no other customers.

He paid cash.  The old man behind the counter hardly glanced at him; he seemed more interested in the TV on the counter.  After turning on the pump, Bob climbed back in the car and opened the wicker basket.  Inside he found a pack of fishhooks, a single piece of paper, and, on the bottom, a key for a storage locker.  The paper was old and weathered, as if it had been there for many years.  Bob unfolded it. 

The Lake Bug – The fisherman’s best friend.  Fish can’t seem to resist the Lake Bug.  I invented it when I lived in Coeur d'Alene and it’s the best lure I’ve ever used.  I’m sure that you’ll be so pleased with the Lake Bug, that in thirty days, if you’re not completely satisfied, I’ll refund your money.  Happy fishing!

On the bottom was the name of the manufacturer: BCS Zurich, Seattle, Washington.  There was a ten-digit number listed below.  He flipped the paper over and saw what appeared to be a phone number, written in pencil.  Bob slipped the key and paper into his pocket, and climbed out of the car.  He finished pumping, then, using the payphone, dialed the 800 number.  Seconds later he was connected with a teller in New York.  He read the ten-digit number and could hear the teller typing.  After several seconds, the teller confirmed that two and a half million dollars had been deposited into a new account in his name in the Banque Commerce Suisse in Zurich, Switzerland twelve hours ago.  He gave the teller instructions to wire the funds to another bank in the Cayman Islands.  After confirming the instructions, he hung up, then dialed another 800 number, this one from memory.  He was connected to the bank in the Caymans and confirmed instructions that, when the money was received, it was to be wired to a third bank in the Cook Islands. 

As he climbed back into the car, he considered the information he had received.  The message told him to proceed according to plan. 

The game warden crept silently down a path that paralleled the stream and snuck up behind them. 

“Gentlemen, may I see your fishing licenses?”

Startled, both Vernon and Mike turned. 

Vernon recovered and flashed a smile.  “Well, we’re not exactly fishing now, are we?” he replied, pointing to their gear on the ground beside them.

“So you don’t have licenses?”  The game warden’s voice was stern.

“No, we don’t.  But like I said, we’re not fishing.”

“Gentlemen, the law is pretty clear here.  With all this gear, you obviously intend to fish.  I’m going to have to issue citations.”

Vernon and Mike looked at each other, then pulled out their credentials.

“I’m Treasury Agent Vernon Jackson and this is Agent Michael Malouf.”

The warden frowned.  “Well, Treasury agents or not, you still need a valid fishing license in the State of West Virginia.”

“Officer, we are currently on duty,” Vernon calmly replied. “We are here as part of an ongoing investigation.”

“Investigation?  What the heck could you possibly be investigating out here?”

Vernon’s smile faded and he stepped towards the game warden.  “This is an official investigation.  Obviously, I can’t share details with you.  Now, I’m asking you to leave before our investigation is compromised.  If you don’t leave, I will arrest you for interfering with the official duties of a federal agent.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Hey, I’m just doing my job, fellas.  How was I supposed to know you guys were cops?”

Vernon relaxed and smiled again.  “Look, we probably should have informed local authorities, but we didn’t think we would need any assistance, nor did we think we would be getting in anyone’s way.”

After dropping off the rental car, Bob retrieved his own car from the short term lot at Reagan National Airport.  Thirty minutes later, he pulled up to the guard booth at the entrance to Andrews Air Force Base.  He had his military identification card in his hand as the sentry waved him forward to the checkpoint.  He didn’t recognize the guard on duty.

“Can I see your ID, sir?”  Bob handed the card over.  The guard studied the card and then peered into Bob’s face.  Satisfied, he handed the ID back.

“Welcome back, Lieutenant McKay.”

In cryptic terms, the caller explained the problem.

“Can he identify you?”

“Not by name.  We used fake IDs.”

“But he saw your faces.”  It was a statement, not a question. 

The caller didn’t respond.  Not that it mattered.  The fact was, the meeting had been compromised.  There was only one solution.

“I think you know what needs to be done.”