Geneva Connection, The (3 page)

He raised his head. A slight breeze, but the sky was crystal clear.

“I guess it is a beautiful day.”

Chapter 3

H
E
C
OULDN’T
S
LEEP
. When he heard the first birds singing in his garden, Mark Merriman looked at the digital alarm clock: 3:58. He slid out of bed, taking care not to wake his wife, Patti. He went downstairs, made himself a strong coffee, and took it through to the study tucked away at the back of the house.

He sat down to read a bunch of PowerPoint slides he’d printed out last night.
These guys better approve this today. If they don’t, we’re going nowhere.

On such an important day, he could have done with an early start at the office, but it was his birthday, and he couldn’t let his girls down. He’d already promised he’d have breakfast with them—blueberry pancakes with Aunt Jemima’s maple syrup, prepared by his two enthusiastic young daughters, and supervised by his wife. Patti had been his childhood sweetheart, and they married twelve years ago, not long after he joined the DEA. They’d always wanted a large family, but Patti’s medical problems a few years back meant there’d be no more children.

On the twenty-minute drive in from their home at Herdman Park to the DEA’s headquarters in Springfield, Virginia, he ran through the morning’s presentation in his mind. What was the best way to play it? How were they likely to react?

When Merriman pulled up at the entrance gates, he flashed his ID at the bored-looking security guard.

“Morning, Doug,” he said through his open car window.

“How are you today, sir? Heavy traffic this morning? Normally, I set my watch by you.”

“The birthday boy got delayed. The kids couldn’t wait for me to open their presents.”

The guard threw a knowing smile and then raised the barrier. Merriman drove in and parked in his usual space under the main building before taking the elevator to the executive level on the sixth floor. Now thirty-five, he was still the DEA’s youngest Head of Intelligence.

He stepped out of the elevator and bumped into one of his team. Frank Halloran had joined Merriman’s unit a year earlier after a couple of years in the field with the DEA’s Mexico Division. Halloran wore a cheap suit and looked disheveled. Well over six feet tall, he towered over Merriman’s five feet seven inches.

Halloran was twenty-four. While he was still a little rough around the edges, Merriman could see potential in him. His energy and dedication prompted memories of himself at that age.

“Good weekend, boss?” asked Halloran, tightening his tie.

“We were up in Maine visiting my parents. How about you?”

“Spent most of it here, preparing for the presentation. I’ve left hard copies on your desk, and the meeting room’s all set. Let me know if there’s anything else.”

“Good work, Frank. Who else was in?”

“All of us at different times. We’ve got a lot to report this quarter.”

Merriman made his way to his office, a twelve foot square box with one small window looking over an internal courtyard. On the wall behind his desk hung photos of him shaking hands with a number of high-profile congressmen and senators, a daily reminder for his staff that his team’s work was central to the war on drugs and in maintaining national security.

The mahogany credenza he used was once his father’s. On it stood several precious photos of his wife and daughters. His girls had inherited Merriman’s jet-black hair. He smiled as he thought about how Patti always said they got their good looks from her side of the family. Merriman straightened up the frames. The cleaners never put them back in the right spot. He looked over to the metal filing cabinet in the corner of his room. On the top sat a handful of gift-wrapped packages.

“Just a few presents from the team,” said his secretary, popping her head round the door.

“Morning, Gail. Have you been talking?”

“Maybe,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “All set for today?”

“I think so. I read through it all this morning. I’d kill for a coffee, though.”

Merriman had developed a taste for strong coffee during his postings to South America. He couldn’t bring himself to drink the bland, sweet concoctions sold by the coffee chains in the US, so he’d invested in his own espresso machine, a top of the range Accademia Gaggia, which Gail kept in full working order just outside his office.

“Double?”

He shrugged. “Does it come in any other size?”

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He smiled and pointed an accusing finger at her.

Merriman drained his coffee before collecting two of his senior team members, Karen Camplejohn and Bill Greenough, from the open-plan pods outside his office door. They walked over to the conference room to prepare for their quarterly presentation to the DEA leadership.

“I’ll set the scene and wrap up at the end,” Merriman said as they arrived. “I’d like you guys to handle most of this today. It’ll be a good opportunity for you to raise your profile.”

Half an hour later, the seven other members of the DEA leadership filed in, taking up their usual positions around the table, arranged in an arc shape facing a large screen. Merriman and his team stood between the table and the screen.

Merriman opened up by reminding everyone of the increasing danger posed by the Mexican drug cartels. Noting the visitors from the defense intelligence committee sat at the table, a senator from Wisconsin and one from Ohio, he took some time to explain the historical background.

“In the late nineties, the Colombian cartels became much weaker as we succeeded in closing the cocaine trafficking route through Florida,” he said before pulling up a slide of a portrait of a man with a shaved head. “This man, Felix Safuentes, known as ‘Jivaro’ in the criminal underworld, recognized the opportunity to develop alternative supply routes across the Mexico/US land border. After a vicious turf war, his Caruana cartel emerged as the leading drug trafficking organization in Mexico. From ten cartels eight years ago, there are only two remaining, and his organization is by far the strongest, controlling virtually the whole of the North American criminal narcotics trade. As a result, Safuentes, at the age of thirty-eight, is the most powerful organized crime leader the world has known.”

“Why do they call this Safuentes guy ‘Jivaro’?” asked the Ohio senator.

“Because of his brutality,” said Merriman.

“Still don’t get it.”

Merriman looked at his senior DEA colleagues for a moment. They nodded. “During the years of the Spanish Conquest, only one indigenous American tribe failed to be subjugated—the Jivaro warriors. They were fiercely independent and refused to bow to any external authority. They terrified their enemies by decapitating those they caught and collecting their shrunken heads.”

The senator shook his head. “Jeez! Not sure I wanted to know that.”

Camplejohn powered up the screen and pointed to the images that appeared. “What we have here are satellite shots of known cartel stash houses in the US. So far, we’ve identified almost fifty of them, mostly located along the southern states, but a number reaching up into the northwest and northeast coasts. We believe there are many more yet to be discovered.”

She ran quickly through a number of slides demonstrating the successful drug seizures achieved through intelligence gathered by Merriman’s team, before handing over to her colleague.

Greenough continued, “Last year, we shifted some of our attention to the cash generated from drug sales by the cartels. Last quarter, we reported increasing success in tracing their electronic fund transfers within the US banking network. As a result, most cartel money is now being shuttled back to Mexico in physical form.” He pressed the control in his hand, and on the screen images flashed up of aircraft, speedboats, and tunnels. “Besides hauling cash by road, these are some of the other methods used to transport the money through the border.”

Greenough took several minutes to finish his session. “I’d now like to hand you back to Mark,” he said, before sitting next to Camplejohn.

Merriman thanked his colleagues and took the floor to wrap up the presentation. His heart rate increased. He paused as he chose his words. “Sure, these are some great results, but I’m convinced we’re going to lose this war.” He looked around the room and collected the startled reactions from his audience. Even Camplejohn and Greenough looked surprised.

“We need to completely overhaul the way we work if we want to prevail. Our current approach won’t cut it. Stash houses come and go, and cash shipment routes change all the time. We’re wasting our time chasing the wrong things. We need a completely new strategy.” He stopped to take a drink of water, allowing his audience to digest what he’d said.

“What are you thinking, Mark?” asked Bob Butler, Head of the DEA, looking confused.

“We’re just scratching the surface right now, Bob. We’ve got to hit the cartels where it hurts most, by taking away the profit from their activities. We have to go after their assets—what they acquire once they’ve laundered their cash. That’s where most of their wealth sits, and that’s where they’ll feel it most. But first we’ve got to track down the key financial players: investment fund managers, lawyers, accountants, brokers, and so on. Without these intermediaries, the cartels can’t deploy their capital. If we can do this, we’ll begin to close down these criminal organizations for good. It won’t be easy. We’ll need more specialist skills and have to work in a whole new way, but I’m determined to crack it.”

“We’re much better off pursuing the cash,” said Jim Randell, the DEA’s miserable Deputy Head and Merriman’s predecessor as Head of Intelligence. “You’ll never get the advisers to talk. That’s if you can find them first.”

Merriman shook his head. “One thing’s for certain: if we keep doing more of the same, we’re going to lose. We have to be more ambitious.”

“Just tracking down their advisers will require a lot more manpower. We don’t have the budget. I admire the sentiment, Mark, but we’re better off sticking to our proven methods. I can’t support a fundamental change.”

“I didn’t expect you would, Jim. What I’m arguing for means throwing out a lot of practices you established. I know it’s hard for anyone to tear up their own ideas. I’m not trying to attack your work, but we need a new approach. The threat we face today from the cartels simply demands it.”

“It’ll never work, Bob,” said Randell, turning to Butler for support.

A wave of frustration shot through Merriman. He sighed. “Let me spell this out. If we don’t put an end to the cartels now, Mexico could soon become a failed state. With a population of a hundred million, the potential is there for a massive influx of refugees across the border.” He looked at the two senators. “Are we prepared to accept that? I know I’m not.”

“He’s right. If Mexico fails, the repercussions for the US are unimaginable,” said the Wisconsin senator.

Merriman stared at Randell. “Give me a year. If I don’t deliver tangible results in that time, I’ll stand down.”
That ought to silence him.

After a half hour of heated discussion, Merriman won approval for his new strategy and a large increase in his intelligence budget. At the end of the presentation, he asked his two team members to leave the meeting. Then he turned to his senior colleagues.

“I’ve just one more confidential thing to add. We’ve been trying to infiltrate the Caruana cartel for some considerable time, without success. The good news is we’ve had one of our agents successfully embedded for two years now. The great news is we’re beginning to collect some promising intelligence from deep within this organization. It’s a real breakthrough, and it should help us start identifying their main financial advisers and investment managers around the world. I’m confident we’ll be able to report substantive progress on this at our next quarterly presentation.”

Butler pulled Merriman to one side when the meeting broke up. “Excellent work, Mark. It’s great to see the progress you’re making. Don’t listen to Randell. He never supports anything he didn’t invent.”

“Thanks. He thinks I’m after your job. He sees me as his competition.”

Butler laughed. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Safuentes is the key to this. I’m going after his assets first.”

“I’m with you there, but don’t push it too far. This guy’s a ruthless son of a bitch.”

“That’s exactly what my dad said over the weekend. I told him someone has to stand up to him.”

“Do you really have to go after him first?”

Merriman ignored the question.
What’s the point of chasing the small players?
he thought. “By the way, Dad asked me to say hello.”

“Send him my best. He was a real loss to the service when he retired.”

“Big shoes to fill.”

“You’re not doing too badly.” Butler slapped Merriman on the back as they left the room. “I mean it, Mark. Don’t take any unnecessary risks with Safuentes. That guy’s an animal.”

Merriman grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful.”

By the time he walked back to his office, Merriman was hungry, so he offered to buy his team lunch. “It’s my treat. You guys did a great job today.”