An Eye For An Eye (7 page)

President Kendall watched out the window as the coastline approached. He could see a lush, green patchwork of farmland and cattle pastures then a large dune that seemed to extend for miles. This was followed by a rugged shoreline with the occasional narrow stretch of sand. Beyond, he could see the odd house or ranch, but most of the beach, he noticed, was deserted. As they got closer, he noticed two men pushing a large motorboat out into the surf. They struggled for a moment in the waves before the boat began to bob and they were able to climb on board. A few seconds later, the boat was skimming across the water. Farther north, on the horizon, he could make out a cluster of buildings.

Mexican President Filipe Magaña tapped his shoulder and pointed out the other window. They were approaching a group of islands. Beyond, he saw the cargo ships and the cranes of a port in the distance and a sprawling city that stretched beyond and to the south.  

“That is Veracruz,” Magaña said with a smile.

The helicopter banked and headed north along the coastline. After thirty minutes, they turned inland and began to descend. Kendall noticed the large hacienda nestled in amongst the hills. As they approached, he could see the patio and pool surrounded by several tropical-pink buildings, all adorned with tile roofs. The palm trees were swaying in the breeze. A rough wooden, split-rail fence separated the hacienda from the ranch. There were a dozen horses grazing in the field and then nothing but farmland on either side for miles.

Noticing the look on Kendall’s face, Magaña smiled. “I thought this would be more private and,” he added, “more secure. This property has been in my wife’s family for generations, but lucky for me, she has been successful in keeping that fact quiet.”

As they waited for the rotors to stop, Kendall spotted members of his Secret Service detail and the Mexican Security team. This was perfect, he thought. They hadn’t publicized the meeting so they were free of reporters and crowds. That had taken a bit of work. He had flown to Corpus Christi, Texas, the day before and, after paying a visit to the naval base, had hitched a ride on a U.S. Navy Seahawk to the USS Kennedy early in the morning. The Kennedy Carrier Strike Group was currently running training exercises two hundred miles off the coast. After a tour of the carrier and a meal with the sailors, a photo opportunity the press had been invited to attend, he had hopped onto the Seahawk once more. The press, having already read the president’s itinerary, knew that he had a private meeting with former President George W. Bush and that they would see him the following day for the flight back to Washington.

While his plans did include a meeting with Bush, the press was not aware that the meeting had already occurred, by phone from the Kennedy.

President Kendall and Mexican President Filipe Magaña strolled along the bluff overlooking the Gulf. Thirty yards behind trailed a team of agents from both countries. The wind ensured that their conversation would not be overheard.

“I only wish that I could show you Mexico City,” Magaña said. “Hopefully, on your next visit that will be possible.”

Kendall smiled. “I would enjoy that.” They walked in silence for a moment before he spoke again. “I have approval from Congress. We’re prepared to move forward with the new plan.”

“As we discussed?”

Kendall nodded. “As we discussed. We’ll continue to provide you financial support. I have succeeded in getting more money from Congress. We will significantly expand our treatment and rehabilitation programs.”

“And the drones?”

“We will provide the intelligence, but you will approve all targets and you will make the final decision on whether your forces will mount an assault or whether we will use the drones.”

They continued on in silence for a bit.

“It will get worse in the short term,” Magaña finally said.

“It will,” Kendall agreed.

Magaña stopped and turned. “The stakes are high, David, but I see no other way. For you, it’s about the drugs. For me, it’s about the future of my country.” He paused, his jaw set, his eyes hard. “I
will
take my country back from these terrorists, one way or another.”

Through the fog, Richter heard noises. A click. A swoosh. His name. Muffled, close yet somehow far away. Struggling, he opened his eyes and felt a sudden sharp pain as the white light stabbed him. He shut his eyes again and took a few deep breaths before he opened them once more. The room was blurry and seemed to be swimming around him. For a moment, he remembered scenes from his childhood: the shimmers on the pond after he had tossed a rock, the fun house mirror at the amusement park. He felt dizzy but fought it, concentrating until the room came into focus. He suddenly remembered where he was. He heard the noise again and shifted his eyes, searching for it.

Patty stood in the doorway. He could see the tears welling up in her eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she rushed to the bed.

“Oh my God! The instant I heard it on the news, I knew it was you,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a train,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Where?” she asked as she sat on the edge of the bed.

He slid the blanket down. His right arm was in a cast. “I was hit in the shoulder. The bullet broke the bone, the humerus. They had to piece it back together.”
How did he know that?

His mind was cloudy, thanks to the Demerol, but he forced himself to concentrate. The surgery had lasted five hours.
That’s what the doctor had told him, right?
Then he must have been in the recovery room for a while. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It seemed to shimmer and move. He gave up trying to read it and closed his eyes, trying but failing to stop the spinning.

“It’s nine o’clock,” he heard her say through the fog.

He opened his eyes, nodded briefly, then closed them again.
Nine o’clock? In the evening?
When he opened his eyes once more, he saw that Patty was crying again. He tried to smile.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Since eleven,” she said with a sniff. She wiped her eyes again.

He struggled with the numbers.
Ten hours? Was that right?

She gently laid her hand on his. “It might be time to find another job.”

Didn’t his mother say the same thing?
he thought.
Wait
,
was she here too? Had he spoken to her?

It was too much effort to think. He closed his eyes again and surrendered to the darkness.

Pablo Guerrero let his guest wait. He knew it was a risk to bring the man here, but he was used to taking risks. Besides, the man worked for him. Why should he not come when his boss summoned? He would let the man sit by himself for a while, alone with his thoughts, waiting, wondering.

After reading several reports—he had brought a level of sophistication and order to the operation over the years—he stood, then glanced in the mirror before leaving his office. He was pleased with his new Italian tailor. He made a mental note to summon the man again and at the same time, perhaps, have him bring some of the latest fashions from Paris for his wife.

The colonel was sitting on the terrace. There was a small garden below the balcony, surrounded by a twelve-foot high wall. Under the broad expanse of the roof eave, the terrace was protected from the sun.

“Buenos días, Colonel. Thank you for coming.”

“Buenos días, Señor Guerrero. It is my pleasure.”

Guerrero suppressed a smirk. Being picked up before dawn, having a hood thrown over his head, followed by a five-hour car ride with armed men at his side wasn’t a pleasure, he was sure. But the colonel didn’t have much choice. Not if he wanted to continue to earn his pay, now fourteen thousand dollars a month. And not, Guerrero mused, if he wanted to continue to live.

Guerrero poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver service on the sideboard and sat across from his guest. He noticed that the colonel didn’t have a cup. That could wait.

“What news do you bring me, Colonel?”

His guest shifted in his seat. “It appears that the Americans are considering a new offensive.”

Guerrero nodded and took a sip. The man, he could see, was nervous. Good.

“There has been discussion about using their unmanned spy planes, their Predator drones.”

“Only their planes? They will not be putting their troops on our soil?”

“No, señor. From what I learned, it will not be like last time.” The colonel shifted again. “But the drones are just as dangerous.”

Guerrero sipped his coffee and studied the man for a moment. He put the cup down and brushed a piece of lint off of his sleeve before looking back up at his guest.

“And what is it that you propose to do about this…new development…Colonel?”

His guest shifted again. “The plan’s not final yet, but I suspect that we will approve it. I don’t know much right now, but I would think that all flights would have to be coordinated with our air force. If so, I should have access to the flight schedules. I should also have access to the mission briefs. I do not know for sure, but I am assuming that I will see them with sufficient time to give you advance notice.”

“When do you expect a decision?”

The colonel shrugged. “You know how slow we can be sometimes.”

Guerrero suppressed another smile. While this was a potentially troubling piece of news, the bureaucracy of his own government, especially when working with los gringos, might work to his benefit.

“Let’s assume the plan
is
approved,” Guerrero said.

“Then we can use the email accounts and the codes we’ve always used,” the colonel responded. “Or, in an emergency, the cell phones.”

Guerrero nodded. The colonel worked as chief of staff to General Salazar, the man in charge of Mexico’s antidrug efforts. He was one of a number of intelligence sources Guerrero used. They were expensive; his intelligence gathering network alone cost him one hundred and thirty thousand dollars a month. But a business couldn’t operate without good intelligence, he had reasoned.

The value of the colonel’s information had always been excellent. The colonel had proven to be a shrewd operative as well, suggesting a single email account where he left coded messages in a spam folder that were picked up by one of Guerrero’s many lieutenants. Still, trust only went so far in this business.

The colonel continued, providing other pieces of information that he thought might be of interest to the head of Las Sangre Negras. None, though, was as important as the drones. When the colonel was done, Guerrero picked up the bell next to the coffee service.

“You will stay for lunch, Colonel?”

The colonel nodded and Guerrero could see the pained look that the man couldn’t quite hide. A heavy lunch, followed by the hood, then a trip down the winding mountain roads and several hours in a car was not something to look forward to.

Guerrero rang the bell.

A moment later, a young woman, wearing the white apron and the plain blue dress of a maid appeared.

“Cecilia, we’re ready for lunch.”

“Sí, señor.”

When she left, Guerrero sat back, looked out over the garden and sighed.

“Such a beautiful day, don’t you think, Colonel?”

Matthew Richter caught a glimpse of himself as he shuffled past the mirror. He stopped and stared for a second. His face was pale, and his hair was matted down on one side. The other side stuck up at an odd angle. He sighed. None of his half-dozen visitors—most members of the JTTF—had said anything. Nor had Patty. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 3:30 p.m. She wouldn’t be back until the evening, after her classes ended. He’d have to wait until then, he thought, unless the nurse had a comb.

He heard the door, but before he could turn—moving quickly made him woozy—the nurse was by his side.

“I told you to buzz me if you wanted to get up again,” she scolded as she led him back to bed. She helped him lie down. It took several minutes to tuck him back in and to check his vital signs. She frowned.

“Blood pressure’s a little low. Do you feel dizzy?”

“A little,” he admitted.

She shook her head. “I don’t want you getting up by yourself again.” She glared at him for a moment to make sure he understood this time.

He had only gone to the bathroom, he thought, but he was too tired to protest. He nodded slowly, careful not to move his head too fast. She fluffed a pillow, and he grimaced as she placed it, a little roughly it seemed, behind his head.

“You’ve had quite the stream of visitors today.” She shook her head. “You need to rest.”

He caught her look and nodded again.

“You’re in pain,” she said as she studied him.

He grimaced and shook his head. “No more Demerol.”

Before she could respond, the door opened and she glanced over her shoulder at the two men in suits standing in the doorway. Their eyes darted around the room. She turned and put her hands on her hips.

“Visiting time is not until…” She stopped mid-sentence, her mouth open, as the two men moved aside and President David Kendall stepped into the room.

“From what the doctors told me, it sounds like you’re out of commission for a while,” the president said some forty minutes later.

Richter nodded. With his arm in a sling for six weeks—quite possibly more, the doctor had warned him—he wouldn’t be kicking any doors in for some time. And although the doctor hadn’t said anything yet, he knew once the cast was removed, he faced a month or more of rehabilitation before he rebuilt the muscles lost to atrophy, and regained, hopefully, full use of his right arm. Then there were firearms requalification requirements and making up for months of lost training. He was effectively off the SWAT team for four months. He sighed. Maybe more.

The president patted his good arm. “Look, I didn’t come up here to make a sales pitch. But if Pat Monahan can’t find something for you to do, I could always use your counsel.”

Richter nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

The door opened and Richter nodded to the Secret Service agent in the doorway. He could see more agents in the hall. After scanning the room, the agent stepped aside and the nurse came in. She hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, “but I need to change his IV.”

Richter noted that the bossy tone was gone. He was too tired to grin.

The president smiled at the nurse. “Absolutely.” He stood and turned to Richter. “I don’t want to get in the way here, so I’ll be going.”

Richter nodded. “Thank you for coming, sir.” He gestured toward the window and the large flower arrangement sitting on the sill. “Please thank Mrs. Kendall for me.”

“I will,” the president responded with a smile. He patted Richter’s arm again. “Think about what I said. Okay?”