An Eye For An Eye (17 page)

“We need rescue personnel. We need medical personnel. We need doctors, nurses, whatever you can spare. We need medical supplies. And we need blood.” President Magaña’s voice sounded hollow.

“I have two military transports with medical response as well as search and rescue teams,” President Kendall responded. “They’re in the air over Texas. I also have a FEMA team airborne. They’re waiting for my final instructions. I’ll send them immediately.”

“Thank you, David.”

“I’m also told that the Red Cross has been working on getting blood to you. We’ll do whatever we can to help them do that as soon as possible. We’re also mobilizing medical personnel from the private sector.”

“Okay, we’ll take whatever you can send.” There was a pause. “I believe you have medical ships? Floating hospitals?”

“Yes, we do,” Kendall responded after a moment. “But they’re both in port. I’ve ordered the USS Mercy to launch as soon as possible.” He glanced at Richter.

Richter held up four fingers.

“But the earliest they can sail is four days.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Filipe, but that’s the best I can do.”

There was silence, then a long sigh. “I understand. I’ll take whatever help you can provide.”

“I’m sorry it came to this, Felipe.”

There was a pause on the line. “We knew something like this could happen, David, but what choice did we have?” There was another pause. “We can’t stop now.”

It was a difficult decision, but the president knew that Magaña was right.

“No, we can’t,” he said. He knew that if they did stop now, it would only get worse. He waited a second then asked, “What else, Filipe? What else do you need?”

There was a long pause. “Your prayers, David. I need your prayers.”

Pablo Guerrero stared at the TV as the announcer repeated again what little the authorities knew at the moment. President Magaña had declared a state of emergency, and Mexico City was virtually shut down as travel was restricted to rescue and recovery efforts. This was required, the announcer said, as authorities struggled to handle the casualties. When hospitals in the center of the city, near the Zócalo, were overrun, those injured were being transported to other facilities all across the sprawling city.

The death count, the announcer said, now stood at thirteen hundred killed and eighty-two hundred injured. Many of those who perished or were wounded had been on the periphery of the square and had been hurt not by the bomb, but by the stampede that had followed as the panicked crowd fled the area.

Authorities were aggressively pursuing leads, the announcer said, as the screen showed masked soldiers and police storming a compound in the southern state of Chiapas. However, no one had yet claimed responsibility. It was old news footage, Guerrero realized, from a raid last year. Cheap theatrics by the media, or more likely, he thought, government propaganda intending to show that they were aggressively pursuing those responsible. He turned off the TV and stood. There was no need for him to claim responsibility. The government knew who was behind this.

Two minutes later, after he changed his clothes—donning a peasant’s work shirt, pants, and boots, the wide brim of the hat pulled low over his face—he stepped outside into the bright sunshine and followed the path past the pool and around the house. He had let his guard down. It was clear now that the government had been aware of his ranch and had been watching him for some time. And now Carolina was dead.

When he passed the stables, he didn’t look up at the black mare on the other side of the ring. His wife had left him, more bitter and angry at him than at the government and the soldiers who had stolen their daughter. Still, he had taken care of her, made sure that she was safe. At the same time, he had quietly leaked word that they had both fled the ranch and, fearing for their own security, were now in hiding. But he would never leave.

He opened the metal gate and stepped gingerly across the recently disturbed soil. He took a deep breath and laid his hand on the marble cross, still hot below the fading sun. A single tear ran down his cheek.
Thirteen hundred deaths
, he thought as he wiped it away. That didn’t even come close.

Patty tried the phone again, frustrated but not surprised when it went to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. Matthew was probably huddled with the president at the moment, consumed, she guessed, by the crisis in Mexico City.

She had spoken to him last night, or rather, she reminded herself, early in the morning. Still at work, he had sounded tired. She had told him about the students, about the seven Princeton kids who were in Mexico City for a semester. She only knew one of them, an outspoken and outgoing young lady named Christina that had been in her International Relations class two years ago. With communication networks swamped, the university still didn’t know whether Christina and the other students were safe. Matthew had promised to pass the students’ names on to embassy officials.

She told herself to be patient, to wait for him to call, knowing that it wouldn’t likely be until late at night again. She turned to the TV in her office. The images on the screen and the announcer’s description were horrible. But she knew that what Matthew was looking at was probably worse. With the satellites, the intelligence agencies, and who knew what else he had access to, he would know far more than the news announcer. And he had sounded pretty grim last night. She hoped he would call again that evening. Even though he was only a few hours away and she knew he was okay, it would be reassuring just to hear his voice. She let out a breath.
He’s extremely busy and he will call when he has a chance
, she told herself again.

The images on TV triggered something in her brain and she spun her chair to the computer on the credenza behind her desk. She pressed a few keys. After a few minutes, she found what she wanted. She glanced back at the TV and then at her watch. Only forty-five minutes until her next class. If she hurried, she thought, she might make it. She turned back to her computer and started typing, forgetting the lecture she had planned for today. Instead, she thought as she began to cut and paste, she would talk about the use of violence as a political tool.

Guerrero studied the face on the screen. The American president was standing behind the podium, facing a room full of reporters.

“Scott,” he said, pointing to the man from ABC.

“Mr. President, do we have troops in Mexico?” the reporter asked.

Guerrero leaned forward, staring at the TV.

The president shook his head. “We do not have any combat troops in Mexico.”

There were numerous shouts.

“But we have troops,” the reporter persisted.

“We have national guardsman in Mexico City—primarily medical personnel and search and recovery teams—as part of a humanitarian effort to provide relief and medical assistance in the wake of the bombing. We also have specialized teams such as the Army Signal Corps, which is working with the Mexican government to reestablish communication networks. In addition, FEMA has sent people to assist in recovery efforts, and the FBI and the ATF have sent teams, at Mexico’s request, to assist in the investigation.”

There were more shouts, attempts to get the president’s attention. He pointed to another reporter. “Gretchen.”

“Sir, over the last two or three months, there has been a significant increase in Mexican police and military activity directed at the cartels. A number of cartel leaders have been killed, allegedly by covert sniper teams. Has the U.S. played a role in this?”

Guerrero’s eyes narrowed.

“The bombing in Mexico City,” the president said, “is a frightening reminder of the stranglehold that the cartels have on Mexican society. And, frankly, we must share the blame. Our growing demand for drugs, our inconsistent policies, our unwillingness to commit the funds needed to deal with this problem, our inability to police our borders, our focus on prohibition here while, in essence, treating the cartel problem as Mexico’s worry, our lack of focus on education, treatment, and recovery programs,” the president paused and waved his hand, “all of these things have contributed to the problem.” He shook his head. “We can no longer turn a blind eye to what’s happening south of our border.”

The American president, Guerrero noted with a scowl, had evaded the question.

There were more shouts, and the president pointed to another reporter.

“There have been unconfirmed reports” the woman said, “that the U.S. has been indirectly involved in these recent conflicts. Some say directly involved. Would you care to comment, sir?”

The president’s eyes narrowed. “Make no mistake about this. The cartels are terrorist organizations. This is something that deeply concerns us. Not only does it present a threat to Mexico, it presents a threat to us and to the world community. Consequently, we continue to work closely with President Magaña and with the Mexican government on this issue. But unlike our approach several years ago, we do not have covert teams operating in Mexico.”

There were several shouts.

“However,” the president paused until the room quieted, “we do provide various forms of military assistance including sharing intelligence, providing aerial and satellite reconnaissance capabilities, establishing training programs for police and military personnel on the front lines of this battle, and sharing certain technologies, including certain weapons and surveillance systems to support those efforts.”

The American president had sidestepped the question again, avoiding any specific mention of the drones.
It would be easy
, Guerrero thought,
to provide dates and specific information about the bombings and the people killed to the press
.
But would that embarrass the Americans?
he wondered.
Would it force them to reconsider the use of the drones? Probably not.

But there was another question that nagged at him. He watched as the conference ended and the American president left the podium and stepped out of the room. A question that had been at the back of his mind for weeks. What was the price for the hundreds of millions of dollars of financial aid that los gringos
provided to his country each year? The American drones, flown by American pilots, were taking orders from Washington, no doubt. Was Magaña taking orders from Washington too?

He stood abruptly. Two minutes later, he found Alberto.

“Find the Irishman,” he ordered.

Richter shook his head. “The last time he was spotted was at the funeral. We’ve been picking up chatter that indicates that both he and his wife may have fled, that they may be in hiding. Nonetheless, we’re maintaining round-the-clock surveillance on his ranch in Tamaulipas.” He passed a group of photos to the president. “However, there’s been no sign of him. Just normal activity: guards, domestic servants, gardeners…” His voice trailed off.

The president flipped through the photos for a moment. “What about phone calls, that sort of thing?” he asked.

Richter shook his head again. “None. No phone calls, no emails, no texts, at least nothing that we’ve been able to connect to him.” He paused. “We suspect that he has houses elsewhere in the country, places where he can hide but still maintain control of the drug operation.”

The president sat back, thinking. “So, what are our options?” he asked after a moment.

“We keep looking,” Richter responded. “He’s bound to turn up at some point.”

“And when he does,” the president said with a sigh, “I need to make a decision.”

Richter shook his head. “I think you need to make the decision now, sir. If we spot him, by the time we get your authorization, we could lose him again.”

The president held Richter’s gaze for a moment then nodded slowly. He turned to Jennifer Williams and Burt Phillips.

“What do you think?”

“I agree with Matthew,” Williams answered immediately. “Give the order now.”

Burt Phillips nodded. “I agree too.”

The president was silent for a moment. “I’ll need to speak to Magaña first,” he said more to himself than anyone else.

After a moment he looked up. “In the meantime, prepare the directive,” he ordered.

The sensor watched on the video screen as the two gardeners climbed on their bikes and began to pedal away from the hacienda. Bored, he zoomed in on the riders but was unable to make out their faces below the wide brims of their hats. The bikes were old, the lieutenant saw; both had coaster brakes and only one gear, reminding him of the bicycles his grandfather fondly talked about. The wide tires, he could see, were well suited for the ruts and bumps in the dirt road.

The two peasants pedaled slowly, taking their time. Ten minutes later, they passed through the first guard booth and then, after another fifteen, they passed through the outer wall. The lieutenant glanced briefly at his watch. It was 1:30 p.m. local time and the two, as was the custom, were likely going home for the midday meal.

Looks like siesta time
, he thought then yawned. A nap right now sounded good. He watched as the two men pedaled slowly down the dirt road toward the small village two miles away.
Lucky bastards
, he thought again as he moved his joystick, directing the camera back to the hacienda.

Intelligence now believed that Guerrero had fled. There had been no sightings since his daughter’s funeral. Still, the drones were maintaining round the clock surveillance on the chance that the drug boss would return.

The sensor sighed as he began another scan of the compound, again searching for signs of something—anything—that would indicate where Guerrero had gone.

“
Buena suerte
, my friend,” Felipe Magaña said.

“Thank you, Felipe. Good luck to you too.”

The president hung up the phone and nodded. Richter passed him a folder that bore Top Secret stamps. The president opened the folder and began to read. Two minutes later, he pulled a pen from his pocket. As he signed the Presidential Directive, he knew that he had just signed Pablo Guerrero’s death warrant.

As the peasants rode up to the cantina, a young boy stepped out of the shade. The men climbed off their bikes and, after a quiet word with the boy, one of the men stepped into the cantina. The other, his face hidden behind the brim of his hat, waited outside in the shade with the boy. A moment later, the man who had gone inside came back out and nodded.

The man who had been waiting outside stepped into the building and stopped for a minute, just inside the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. As the boy and the other man wheeled both bikes around the side of the building, he threaded his way through the tables—all empty despite the hour—and through the doorway to the patio out back. The patio too was empty, except for a lone man sitting at the table next to the ring. The peasant took the chair across from the man and nodded. Then he frowned when he saw the empty bottle.

“I have a job for you,” Pablo Guerrero said in English, his words meant only for the man sitting across from him. The boy, he knew, spoke only Spanish as did his mother in the kitchen. Even though the boy, his mother, and Alberto were the only other people in the cantina, and even though he trusted all three completely, Guerrero was cautious.

Terry Fogel nodded but said nothing as the boy suddenly appeared with two plates of food and a basket of tortillas. The mother followed, and Guerrero frowned again as she set another bottle of beer in front of Fogel. She placed a glass of water in front of Guerrero. He nodded once, and the boy and his mother quietly retreated to the kitchen. Then he nodded at Fogel and, as the Irish terrorist began to eat, he explained what he wanted.