Geneva Connection, The (33 page)

Chapter 48

R
IOS
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ETS
to Mazatlan so he could report personally to Jivaro on the progress of his investigation. He’d spent four bloody days looking into who had collaborated with the DEA. So far he’d interrogated three cartel lieutenants at the Tijuana sawmill, but he was no closer to finding out who had betrayed them. None of those questioned had survived the ordeal.

“The important thing is to find the traitor and quickly. I understand there’ll be casualties. No one can be trusted,” said Jivaro.

“In time, I’m confident I’ll find who talked and I’ll deliver him to you,” said Rios.

“Continue with your work, Miguel. We cannot show any weakness. We must send our enemies a clear signal. They must know I’m still in command of this organization, and that we’ve not been weakened by the Americans.”

Rios needed no encouragement. He already had his next list of victims lined up. While the interrogation process was a convenient excuse to remove some of his high-ranking competitors within the cartel, he wasn’t sure it was going to help find their traitor. He was more hopeful he’d learn something from a meeting with one of his important contacts he had coming up in a few days. One way or another, he’d find answers for his boss.

“I do have some news,” Rios said.

“What is it?”

“I’ve heard from Kulpman. It seems all the assets managed by Tritona were seized by the DEA.”

“Everything?”

“That’s what he said.”

“That’s much worse than I’d assumed.”

“It’s a massive blow.”

“The American has made this personal. He will regret what he has done.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing yet. I’ll tell you what I have in mind for Mr. Merriman later. Did Kulpman say who might have talked?”

“He said Baumgart’s been arrested.”

“Baumgart would not do this. He’s too weak. But we cannot let them squeeze him for information.”

“I know exactly what to do.”

“Good. Once we’ve dealt with him, we’ll move on to Merriman.”

Chapter 49

C
ANCUN
A
IRPORT
W
AS
H
OT
, sticky and heaving with tourists, with fresh planeloads arriving by the hour. Arguments flared up as people ran into each other or wheeled their suitcases across open-toed sandals. Just inside the entrance to the arrivals hall, illegal cab drivers were touting for fares, adding to the chaos.

Looking like a regular tourist with his designer shades and knee-length shorts, Frank Halloran breezed his way to the taxi rank outside. He’d told his colleagues back at the DEA he was going to Mexico for a few days in the sun.

The cab he climbed into was a death trap—bald tires and the usual spongy brakes—pretty much like all of the others he’d been in when visiting this part of the country. Most visitors didn’t think twice about the safety of these vehicles, and yet they wouldn’t have gone anywhere near cars like these back home. They all had their brains in vacation mode, but not Halloran.

Unlike most tourists, he wasn’t headed for the hotel district to the east of the airport. Instead he traveled west across the Yucatán Peninsula toward the town of Merida, some two hundred miles away. He could have rented a car, but the roads were bad, and he hated the hassle of arguing over fictitious damage when he came to return the vehicle to the rental office. It was an annoying scam and, besides, rental contracts left a paper trail.

As they drew near to Merida, Halloran gave street by street instructions in fluent Spanish. It was just after four p.m. when the taxi pulled up outside an ochre-rendered house on a scruffy street about a mile outside the town center. He paid the driver who then released Halloran’s bag from the trunk—normal practice with tourists running up a large fare. No payment, no bag.

He walked to the front door of the house and used his own key to let himself in. Once inside, he took his bag upstairs to one of the two bedrooms and threw it on the bed. The place was tidy enough. The only thing disturbing the peace was a barking dog from the property next door.

An hour later, Halloran was enjoying a cold beer from the well-stocked refrigerator when he heard a car pull up right outside. He stood up from the kitchen table and watched as three men got out of a black Mercedes. Two of the men looked like hired gorillas. The third was in a well-cut, light gray suit. They let themselves into the house.

Halloran ignored the muscle-heads, but shook hands with the suit. “I made it here before you this time, Miguel.”

“Let’s go through to the lounge where we can talk,” said Rios. “I’m sure we have much to discuss.”

Halloran and Rios made their way into the lounge at the back of the house, while the other two men went through to the kitchen, grabbed cold beers, and fired up cigarettes.

Two years ago, Rios had approached Halloran when he was a young agent at the DEA’s Mexico division. Rios made it his business to know the backgrounds of all field agents on his patch. He targeted those from poor backgrounds and offered them money beyond their dreams in exchange for information on the DEA’s activities.

Halloran had been an easy turn. Raised by a single mother in a poor part of Arkansas, he’d had a difficult childhood. Working to put himself through college, he despised many of his fellow students who seemed to have it all given to them on a plate. They had no idea how tough life could be and what it was like to worry about the next meal. When Rios approached him, Halloran was receptive; he never wanted to face the risk of poverty again. Once he’d made that pivotal decision, all he had to do was continue providing information to the cartel, bank the money for ten years, and he’d be set up for the rest of his life.

Since becoming an informant, Halloran, under close supervision from Rios, had worked diligently, putting in long hours and assisting Merriman’s team in whatever way he could. He’d quickly become an exemplary employee at the DEA headquarters, demonstrating an ability to get on with everyone, an ambitious work ethic, and an eagerness to help out. All this meant he was exposed to many of the DEA’s activities and plans, even those outside his immediate area of responsibility.

“You’re beginning to put on weight now you’re back in the US,” said Rios, poking Halloran in the ribs.

“Too much food and not enough exercise.”

“Now, tell me about Merriman. What did he think of our little birthday gift? I trust it was appreciated?”

“I think it had the desired effect.”

“His little mole could have hurt us.”

“How did you discover who he was?”

“It was easy once you’d told us about Merriman’s increased use of undercover agents. After that, we were more careful with our new recruits at head office. Vargas asked too many questions. He stood out.”

“Was that the name he was using?”

“Arturo Vargas. Thought he was clever.”

Halloran thought about the memorial service for the undercover agent and how difficult it had been for his parents. He wasn’t proud of his betrayal, but he was trapped, and there was no going back. “I’m glad my information was helpful.”

“It was very helpful. Once we suspected Vargas, it didn’t take too long to get him to speak. He squealed like a little pig.”

Halloran faked a laugh and rushed to change the subject. “I see my tip about the raid on Isla Tiburon was well-timed.”

“Jivaro was very grateful for that.”

“It wasn’t easy getting that information.”

“I can imagine, but thanks to you we were able to move our key people off the island and destroy sensitive records.”

“Good.”

“The best part was giving Merriman a bloody nose. I wish I could have been in your offices to witness his reaction. Arrogant bastard.”

“Both Merriman and Butler were in a major panic. You sure showed them.”

Rios suddenly adopted a serious face. “By now, they must know we have someone on the inside working for us.”

“Let’s just say they’re being extremely careful with sharing information, but I’m sure they don’t suspect me.”

“Watch your back. We need you in place.”

“I’m okay for now.”

Rios rubbed his hands together. “What do you have for me today?”

Halloran knew each time he was summoned to Merida he was expected to deliver something of value. Sometimes he rationed the information he had; that way, he’d try to have something ready for his handler. Disappointing him too often was not an option as he knew what Rios was capable of doing if things didn’t go his way. He was careful to stay on the right side of the monster.

“I’ve heard nothing more about undercover agents. As I’ve said before, this is kept at the highest level, but I’ll keep trying.”

“You must have something for me. What do you know about our assets at Tritona?”

“Only what was announced at the press conference. I wasn’t on that team. But there’s a good chance I’ll get pulled into dealing with the Tritona seizure as a lot of people are getting sucked into that at the moment.”

“It was a setback for us. I need to know who helped Merriman from our side. Someone is feeding him information.”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“It must be your highest priority, Frank. Find the informant and quickly.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

It would be difficult, if not impossible, to unearth Merriman’s informant, but Halloran was not going to share his concerns with Rios. As long as there was a chance Halloran would be called upon to help out on the Tritona case, he had ongoing value to the cartel. That was enough for Rios today.

Rios stood up to leave. “Now, we must leave you. Enjoy your few days in the sun, my friend.” He smiled at Halloran. “Jivaro has left a little bonus for you in your account this time. A token of his gratitude for the work you did in helping us with Vargas and the attack on HQ.”

“I appreciate that.”

By seven p.m., Halloran’s visitors had left. He’d stay in Merida for one night only then finish his vacation in Cancun, mixing with all of the other tourists. Whatever happened, he had to stay long enough to go back with a suntan.

Chapter 50

T
HE
S
MALL
, H
IGH
-S
ECURITY
P
RISON
on the edge of the village of Mauvoisin was used by the Swiss authorities to house sensitive prisoners. These were men and women who might be at risk from the wider prison population if they were kept in mainstream institutions. They were kept at Mauvoisin for their own protection.

On the third floor of the concrete building, Baumgart had his own cell, a ten foot by eight foot box with a barred window looking out over the Alps. His large frame filled the room. For a man used to luxurious living, this was a massive shock to the system. The food was disgusting, and his cell suffocating, but the worst of all the indignities was his having to mix with the weird array of real criminals. He wasn’t like them; they were uncivilized.

He was being held at Mauvoisin pending his extradition hearing in Geneva. The idea of being extradited to the US, and being held in a US maximum-security prison for the rest of his life, frightened the hell out of him. He knew it would not be a long life in those conditions. He was not cut out for that sort of existence. If there was a deal on offer that meant he could avoid being sent to the US, he’d take it, even if that meant spilling the beans on the cartel.

No such deal came. Two weeks after his arrival, Baumgart was scheduled to appear at the central court in Geneva for the first of three appearances under Swiss extradition proceedings. It was a two and a half hour drive by prison van. His slot in court was scheduled for eleven a.m., so he was up and dressed in his smartest suit and ready to go by eight. He couldn’t stomach any breakfast; his lawyer had led him to expect the worst, advising Baumgart he was likely to be unsuccessful in challenging the extradition process. In all probability, he’d be on a plane to the US within the month. The Swiss authorities had no time for those who used the secrecy of its banking laws to assist criminal and terrorist organizations. It damaged the country’s reputation, and they would not tolerate it.

The three guards came to collect Baumgart from his cell just after eight. They handcuffed him and led him down three flights of steps into the prison courtyard, where a white, unmarked prison van was waiting. Two of the guards climbed into the front of the van while the other sat in the separate, specially strengthened rear box compartment with Baumgart. He was the only prisoner on that morning’s court run to Geneva. Even though he’d lost some fifteen pounds since his arrival, the wooden bench creaked under his weight when he sat on it.