Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (35 page)

“Another thing,” Fitch said. “We ran a check on the third ship that showed up on the satellite, the one that got away. It flies a Panamanian flag and is owned by a company in Malta whose registered owner is a lawyer who handles the international affairs of Dumont Industries. So I’m wondering, with all that we’re finding out about Dumont’s motives, whether he had that shipment of weapons blown out of the water.”

“Maybe. It was the loss of that shipment that he used to get his son’s killer to cross the river,” Boucher said. “That money the cartel paid Dumont for the shipment that sank, he told me he had it dumped into the sea. I believe him. We burned up half a billion dollars of narco cash ourselves.”

“To avenge his son, he was going to start a war with Mexico. How did he ever come up with such a crazy idea?”

“He believed that history would repeat itself, if he gave it a little push.”

“So we’ve got a happy ending?” Fitch said.

“I don’t know. I really don’t see that the exercise, with all its grand intentions, accomplished much of anything. It was all a game. A blood game.”

•  •  •

Walking home from the meeting with Fitch, Boucher got a call on his cell from a man saying he represented Ray Dumont. It was an unexpected request but one the judge could not refuse. He was asked to meet with Mrs. Dumont. He drove to the mansion on Saint Charles Avenue. Black crepe was draped over the entrance to the house. He rang the bell and was admitted by the same butler, who once again showed him to Dumont’s study. Elise was on the settee, elegantly dressed in black. A gentleman whom he had not met was seated at a chair in front of the desk. Familiar with the breed, Boucher didn’t need to be told he was meeting the family’s lawyer. Jock paid his respects to the widow. “I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dumont.”

She nodded in silence, leaving her lawyer to do the talking. Just as reticent, he handed Boucher a letter. It was from Ray Dumont. It read:

Jock,

If you’re reading this, then I have avenged my son, our little campaign is finished, and history will judge us to have been heroes or fools. Whatever the verdict, I can say we meant well. I did what I had to do.

The man giving you this letter is the executor of my estate and he will have carried out my instructions prior to contacting you. Certain assets have been disposed of in order to care for my wife in comfort and luxury to the end of her days. She and I discussed this and she does not wish to remain in New Orleans without me. I expect that New York, London, or Paris will be her choice of retirement residence, maybe all three. We have not sold the house. I know you love the Quarter but I hope you will give the Garden District a chance. Its charm is unique and a grand part of the city you and I cherish. Our house is yours. If I may say so, it is more secure than your own. You need to think of such things.

You recall I asked you to consider a job as general counsel to Dumont Industries. I am now asking more of you. Please accept the position of chairman and chief executive officer. The company is also yours. My lawyer will discuss with you all details. Despite my dear wife’s declarations of my financial ineptitude, I have managed affairs reasonably well and my bequest to you is quite generous. I know you have been less than happy on the bench. I hope the legacy I leave you will resolve this conflict. Should you find you don’t like being a captain of industry, then of course you can sell it. You can do anything you wish, but you don’t need me to tell you that.

I ask that you think of our neighbor to the south. With the discovery my son made, Mexico’s oil and gas industry
will thrive. If men like you, with talent and drive, focus upon a solution to the critical water shortage, then agribusiness on both sides of the border has a most promising future. The fastest-appreciating real estate in the U.S. today is farmland. If there is water, it will be the same for our neighbor.

Why am I doing this? Because I have no heir, and because I have admired and emulated you. Impressed with your penchant for vengeance, I thought I’d give it a try. The peace I am finding at this moment in planning to avenge my son may be short-lived, but it is the only peace I’ve known since his death. I have you and your example to thank for that.

I’m going to be watching you, Jock. I’m curious to see just how you deal with the temptations that come with great wealth and power. As they say down south,
buena suerte.
Good luck.

When Ronald Reagan left office, his final words to the marine saluting him as he boarded the helicopter to be taken from the White House for the last time were “Carry on.” I ask you to do the same on my behalf. You are now one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the state of Louisiana, indeed, in the United States.

Now, carry on, Jock Boucher. Carry on.

Ray Dumont

“I’m sure you have questions, Judge Boucher,” the lawyer said. “If I can help you in any way—”

“Yes,” Jock said. “Could I have a glass of water? And a couple of aspirins?”

•  •  •

The lawyer assured him he had time to think about it. Elise Dumont implored him to accept the bequest. Boucher was numb. He asked if he could leave his truck and have the chauffeur drive him home. Elise took that as a good sign, but it was not that. He was simply too dazed to drive. He got home, seated himself in his living room, and called Malika. They talked into the evening, then through the night. In the early hours, he had made his decision.

“I’m going to call the president in the morning,” he said. “He deserves to hear it from me personally.”

“Can I meet you in Washington?” Malika asked.

“I was hoping you would.”

•  •  •

Dinner was served in a small dining room that looked over the Rose Garden, the White House grounds, and the Washington Monument. The dress code was “nice restaurant” attire, a bit up the scale from “friends over for dinner.” There were no pretensions, and their hosts made every effort to make Jock and Malika feel comfortable. The menu was embossed with the White House seal and meant as a memento, but Malika didn’t slip her copy into her purse until invited to do so. The fare began with peanut soup,
a Colonial Williamsburg recipe; iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing; and roast beef au jus dusted with fennel pollen and served with twice-baked potatoes. The wine was a Cakebread cabernet sauvignon; dessert was a deceptively simple-looking strawberries and cream, but the cream was white-chocolate mousse with a hint of cinnamon and spearmint. With a nod to Boucher’s background, coffee was served with chicory.

“Do you know what amazes me about tonight’s menu?” the president asked. “That peanut soup. I really liked it. I thought I’d eaten enough peanut butter in law school that I never wanted to taste peanuts again. But that soup, that was really good. Jock, would you mind stepping outside with me? There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you in private.”

They excused themselves from the table and stepped outside under a covered, colonnaded portico. “This is good right here,” the president said. “We need to stay where we are visible from inside.”

“Security?” Boucher asked.

“No. My wife thinks I’m sneaking out for a smoke. I need to stay where she can see me. I tell you, any man who thinks he can sneak around on a woman with her own Secret Service detail is deluding himself.

“Anyway, let’s talk about Mexico. The first thing I want you to know is that the Mexican president and I were in direct communication the whole time we were monitoring the
incursion of the insurgents. Though we didn’t have to—they were committing hostile acts on our territory—we sought and received his accord before taking any action. We decided it was prudent to let the Mexican military take the shots against their own criminals, using our robots.”

“Mr. President, are you saying that Dumont and the others had authority to do what they did?”

“Gunrunning and the sale of illegal arms? Of course not. Those men were trying to usurp a presidential prerogative. I’m the one who decides when to send troops onto foreign soil, not some band of misguided mercenaries, however noble they think their objective might be.”

The president looked toward the Washington Monument. “There are no better friends and allies than the U.S. and Mexico,” he said, “but . . .” He paused. “Do you know the Latin phrase
si vis pacem, para bellum
?”

“Yes, sir. It means if you wish for peace, prepare for war.”

“Some think that glib, ancient axiom can define a nation’s entire foreign policy. It’s never that simple. But let no one ever doubt that we are prepared.”

“I got a glimpse of that preparation on the banks of the Rio Grande,” Boucher said.

“You got the slightest of hints, nothing more. Dumont and his cronies were right about one thing: if that genie ever gets out of the bottle, it will be hard to put it
back in. Damn the drugs and gunrunning. With Mexico, we need to be partners in progress, not partners in crime.” The president then added, “Jock, you could put your assets in a blind trust and stay on the bench. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I don’t think that will work, sir. Dumont Industries has its fingers in too many pies. Even with a blind trust, I’d spend all my time defending myself against charges of conflict of interest. Besides, I’ve been thinking of things I could do with this opportunity for New Orleans, for my state. To tell you the truth, Mr. President, I’m kind of excited about it.”

“It does provide us a way out of our dilemma, doesn’t it? Congress can’t blame me because good fortune has changed your life’s path. Are you starting right away?”

“No, sir. Malika and I are flying down to Puerto Vallarta and finishing our vacation that, you may recall, was unexpectedly interrupted.”

“You’d better be careful down there. I mean it, Jock.”

Boucher gritted his teeth. This lecture he did not need.

“Mr. President, in the past few weeks I’ve been held up at gunpoint a few blocks from my home, and shot right outside my front door. I’m not going to live my life in fear. I’m going to Mexico to sit on a beautiful white, sandy beach, to relax, to forget about recent events and hopefully work out some kinks in a rather strained relationship. Don’t worry about me. I will be perfectly safe.”

“I was only going to warn you about the dangers of too much sun. Skin cancer is dangerous. Don’t think your Cajun genes and thick hide give you extra protection. Your thick head won’t do you much good either. Enjoy your vacation. You’ve earned it. Just be mindful of the tropical sun. That’s all I was trying to say.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, sir. Thank you. I’ll be careful.”

“But don’t think I’m letting you off that easily. I’m still your president and there’s still something you can do for me.”

The commander in chief spoke in low tones as the two walked the covered portico.

“Mr. President, you want me to do
what
?”

Jock Boucher’s screech was heard all over the White House grounds.

F
OR SEVERAL WEEKS, BOUCHER
waited for the call from the White House he hoped would never come. There were many administrative details involved in his departure from the bench, and Mildred took care of them as she transitioned onto the staff of Judge Giordano. Unable to begin his new corporate life until his judicial mantle had been officially passed, Boucher was in limbo with nothing to do. Still, he rose before dawn. His first cup of coffee with chicory made in his French press was ready to sip by the first light of day. He could have slept till whatever hour he chose, but out of habit, Judge Jock Boucher rose early. Soon his judicial title would be only honorific. Jock could count the days until his tenure as a federal district judge was over.

Sipping his coffee, he read online versions of newspapers from all over the country. An article from a Texas publication caught his attention, and he reviewed it several times, carefully. Airline schedules were checked. Calls were made. There was no second cup this morning. Boucher dashed to the airport. After a brief wait, he was in the air. A short flight later and he was on the ground, in a rental
car, driving across South Texas, toward the Rio Grande, the border with Mexico.

•  •  •

Maria Aguilar had made no special plans for this day. She’d heard the rumor but discounted the repeated speculation. She had tried to convince her foolish husband, who still believed in the dream, that hopes once dashed do not take root in such arid soil as surrounded them. As always, she wiped down the few plastic tables and chairs and mopped the floor of the family cantina, one of the last businesses remaining in the small, forgotten town. Throwing the water out to settle the dust, Maria almost flung it into the face of a stranger walking her way. He was handsome, his posture erect and self-assured. She saw no car in the empty street and the visitor’s clothes—and his shoes—were not dust-covered. The rare traveler to this piece of dirt next to nowhere had to come quite a distance to arrive here, and the demands of the journey were always evident. But not on this man. He could have dropped from the sky. He smiled as he entered, took a seat, and asked for a beer. She was happy to serve him. It was a rare occurrence. She asked where he came from, speaking English in her establishment for the first time in over a decade.

“Texas,” he said. “Your husband rowed me across the river and told me to come here.”

“You mean it is true?” she asked.

“Yes. The river crossing reopened today. I wanted
to be one of the first. There are more people behind me.”

Maria stood in the doorway. She saw a group walking down the street. There were faces she had not seen in many years and she ran to greet them. The few others still living in the dusty and nearly deserted Mexican town heard the noise and ran from their homes to greet the arrivals. There was laughter. There were earnest embraces in the middle of the main street of the
pueblito
. After sharing hugs they walked to the cantina.