Ghost Sniper (24 page)

59

TIJUANA, MEXICO

11:10 HOURS

A frustrated Clemson Fields arrived at Villalobos's motel and knocked sharply at the door to room 11. Villalobos was not answering his phone, and there were pressing problems in Mexico City. He needed a man he could depend on to neutralize Ortega before the guy realized his wife and kids had probably been chopped into little pieces and showed up at the US Embassy in hysterics, blabbing everything he knew about the Alice Downly affair.

“Come on, Villalobos, open up.” He stood, looking around. Villalobos's car was parked right in front of the room.

Putting his ear to the door, he could hear music inside. “Hey!” He thumped the door with the heel of his fist. “Late night or what? Open up. We've got trouble down in DF.”

There was a small restaurant across the street, so he crossed to the road to check if Villalobos might be eating breakfast. The man was not there, so Fields went back to the room. He thought briefly
to involve the motel manager, but an old instinct left over from the Cold War told him he'd better not. He went to his car and took a lock-pick set from his briefcase.

“I haven't picked a lock in ten years,” he muttered, glancing around before fitting the needles into the lock. Luckily, the lock was old, so he was able to get the door open in under three minutes.

Fields slipped into the dark motel room and switched on the light. What he saw made him catch his breath. Propped on a pillow, Villalobos was tied naked to the bed with strips of torn sheet, his arms and legs outstretched, a blue condom over his shriveled penis, and his chest covered in blood that had spurted from his severed jugular vein. His empty wallet lay on the table near the door, and a blanket was thrown over the television which was on, playing Mexican music.

For the first time in his thirty-year career, Fields felt the impulse to run, but he ordered himself to remain calm. He'd been in a similar situation in East Berlin in 1980. “This is no worse than that,” he told himself. “And I'm not being hunted by the KGB.”

He peeked through the curtains to be sure no one was watching the motel and stepped into the bathroom. A bloody white hand towel lay on the floor. He found five or six strands of long, dark hair on the shower stall floor, but this was an almost useless clue. Eight out of ten women in Mexico had long dark hair.

“Murdering whore,” he mumbled, moving back into the room.

Realizing he had no way to safely dispose of the body, he unplugged the television and stood with hands on his hips, looking at the corpse. Villalobos's dark eyes stared down at his shriveled genitalia. “Thank God this is Tijuana,” Fields said to himself. “In any other city, this would draw a lot of attention.”

He searched Villalobos's bags and discovered that the murderer had stolen his silenced H&K pistol. At least he didn't have to worry about the police finding the weapon in the room.

Five minutes later, Fields was sitting at a red light, wondering what to do about Ortega. “Damn it.” Now he had no choice but to call the clowns from Baja.

60

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

13:50 HOURS

Midori walked into Pope's office unannounced and shut the door. “We need to talk about Fields.”

Pope looked up from his computer, rocking back in his chair. “Have a seat.”

She took the chair before his desk. “He's run amuck. He just called the boys from Baja.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“They're maniacs.”

The CIA director took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fields has a tough job down there right now. As you know, my primary Mexico assets have gone off the grid. So he's doing the best he can with what he's got to work with.”

“You mean he's doing the best he can to cover up the fact you had Alice Downly assassinated.”

Pope let out a sigh. “It would appear that I've trained you too well.”

“Tell me why you did it, Robert.”

“I'm trying to stabilize the border. Downly wanted to escalate hostilities. The president was in support of sending Special Forces troops into Mexico, and I couldn't talk him out of it. Such an escalation would get out of hand, and many, many innocent people would die.”

“So it's mathematics?”

“
Life
is mathematics.”

“No. Life is breathing human beings. And you've lost sight of that.”

“You're wrong,” he said quietly. “I'm the only person in this town who
hasn't
lost sight of it. What is one life weighed against thousands? Or hundreds? Or even just dozens? We kill based on numbers, and numbers never lie. You know that as well as I do. Are you upset because I weighed the life of an American woman against the lives of hundreds of Mexicans and found her wanting?”

“You broke the law.”

“We break the law every day. That's our job.”

Aware she was losing the battle of logic, Midori changed her tack. “Do you know that Fields is using Mariana to get to Jessup?” She noted the hint of surprise in his eyes. “You didn't, did you?”

“Mariana left the reservation,” he said obdurately.

“She left because Fields scared her off of it!”

“She left because she worries more about Crosswhite than she should.” He was showing irritation for the first time. “She's throwing away her career over a man who belongs in prison.”

“My God, what a hypocrite you've become.”

“There is no hypocrisy. Crosswhite murdered in Chicago for personal profit. The people we kill from this building are killed to serve the greater good. That's a mathematical fact.”

“And suppose Fields orders the Baja boys to kill Mariana?”

“If she isn't smart enough to avoid that trap, she doesn't have what it takes. I shouldn't have to remind you that I didn't order her to Mexico. She went down there of her own volition, and she met with Castañeda
without
consulting me.”

“I see. That's why you don't care what happens to her.” Midori got up from her chair. “What about me, Robert? Am I expendable?”

He looked up at her, his expression suddenly soft and calm. “You're my most loyal protégé, and I value your life above all others.”

She walked out of the office, and he sat staring at his computer, wondering if Mariana would do as he'd planned.
I'm not so sure now
, he thought to himself.
She's become less predictable.

61

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

16:10 HOURS

Serrano's assistant, Oscar, found him trimming rose bushes in the garden on the south side of the estate, where a large marble water fountain had recently been installed. The senator was dressed all in white and wore a wide-brimmed gardening hat against the sun.

“That man from the CIA is on the phone.”

Serrano looked up from his work. “Fields?”

“No, the other one. The
pocho
: Ortega.”
Pocho
was a pejorative term used to refer to Mexicans born in the US.
Chicano
would have been more politically correct.

Serrano had met Ortega only once and had not been overly impressed with him. “What does he want?”

“I don't know,” Oscar said. “He won't tell me, but he insists it's extremely important.”

Serrano took off his sun hat and gloves, and Oscar gave him
the house phone. “This is Lazaro Serrano. I'm very busy today. How might I help you, Señor Ortega?”

“We need to meet,” Ortega said. “You're in danger. Clemson Fields is planning to move against you.”

Serrano wasn't sure if the feeling that began to rise up in his gut was fear or anger, but it certainly threatened to spoil his afternoon. “What's happened? Fields and I have an agreement.”

“I don't know about your agreement,” Ortega said, “but I have received an Operational Immediate from Director Pope warning me to protect you. We have to meet. I have classified information that you need to hear at once.”

“What kind of classified information?”

“I can't be specific over the telephone.”

“Very well,” Serrano said with an impatient groan. “Come here to the estate, and we'll talk it over.”

“I'll be arriving with a gringo,” Ortega said. “Pope has sent him from the US to neutralize Fields, and he wants the two of you to meet.”

“Fine, fine,” Serrano said. “How soon will you be here?”

“Within the hour.”

Serrano broke the connection and tossed the phone to Oscar. “The CIA is becoming a very large annoyance to me, Oscar. This man Pope up in Washington believes I work for him.” He wagged his finger. “I do
not
work for him. And to prove it, I should send the heads of these two men back to him in a FedEx box.”

Oscar smiled dryly. “I think it might be too soon for such a flamboyant gesture. You have an election to win.”

“Which is the only reason I will not have these men killed—yet.” He drew a white sleeve across his perspiring forehead. “Apparently Fields has decided to double-cross me. I don't suppose I should be surprised.”

“Why would he cross you? You have an agreement.”

Serrano chuckled. “Perhaps he's realized I have no intention to
honor the agreement.” He put his hat and gloves back on and picked up the rose snips. “Be sure the guards are alert. Ortega is bringing another one of Pope's assassins with him. I tell you, Oscar, once I am president, it will be a pleasure to run these interfering gringos out of our country for good. They're like a plague of rats.”

Ortega and Crosswhite arrived fifty minutes later, and Oscar showed them out back to the pool, where Serrano's mistress had been told to sunbathe naked on a raft as a distraction. Her Chihuahua floated nearby on a separate raft. Crosswhite recognized the purpose of the woman's presence at once, but this didn't prevent him from staring.

“Nice view,” he remarked, taking a seat at the table in the shade.

“If Serrano's seen your file,” Ortega replied, “it'll be our last.”

“Don't get cranked up. Let me do the talking and keep your mouth shut.”

Serrano came out of the house flanked by a pair of capable-­looking bodyguards, crossing the patio and offering his hand to Ortega. “Good to see you again,” he said in Spanish. “Who is your associate?”

Crosswhite offered his hand, saying in Spanish, “Good to meet you, Senator Serrano. I'm David Pendleton.”

Serrano motioned for them to be seated. “So, gentlemen, do I understand that Clemson Fields wishes to see me dead?”

“We believe that to be the case,” Crosswhite replied.

Serrano eyed him for a moment. “I'm sorry, who I am talking to? To you or to Señor Ortega?”

“You're talking to me, sir. Without offense to Agent Ortega, he's only an intermediary in this instance. Director Pope wishes for you and me to establish a rapport so that we might work together to neutralize Agent Fields.”

“What has happened with Fields?” Serrano wanted to know. “We have an arrangement that should be very agreeable to him.”

“If you don't mind my asking,” Crosswhite said, “what is the nature of that agreement?”

Serrano was hesitant but decided to disclose the information.
“He has asked me to secure a villa for him on the coast where he might retire when this operation is over.”

Crosswhite looked at Ortega, conjuring his story on the fly. “See?” he said in English. “It's the same every time. He doesn't even change his MO.”

Ortega didn't have to pretend to be uptight. He shrugged. “Fields is old school.”

Serrano was not fluent in English, but he understood more than he spoke. “What does
MO
mean?”

“
Modus operandi
:
method of operation.” Crosswhite sat in closer to the table, as if taking Serrano into his trust. “Fields is a confidence man—an actor. He often strikes these little agreements in order to give a false sense of security. The idea is to convince you that he needs something from you on a personal level, which makes you trust him more. He already has a house on the coast up in San Diego, so I doubt seriously he needs one down here. You're being manipulated, Senator.”

Serrano began to simmer. “Why would Pope send such a man to me?”

“In Pope's defense,” Crosswhite continued, “this is the first time Fields has acted contrary to his directives. The truth is that we don't know his exact intentions, but he's contacted a couple of assets in Baja and ordered them here to Mexico City. At first, we believed he was sending them after Chance Vaught and Dan Crosswhite”—he watched Serrano closely here for any hint of recognition—“but a text message was intercepted naming you as the target, and Pope contacted me immediately. As luck would have it, I was vacationing up in Guadalajara, which enabled me to get here quickly. My personal guess—and this is only a guess—is that Fields has cut a better deal with Antonio Castañeda regarding the narcotics trade. I'm guessing this because we know he was recently in Vallarta.”

Serrano lost his temper at the mention of Castañeda's name. “Castañeda should have been killed months ago! The CIA should never have arranged that stinking truce with him! What right do you gringos have meddling in Mexican affairs? The fool we have for
a president now should have told you to put that truce in your ass, but no! He rolled over like the dog that he is and put his feet up!” He pointed his finger in Crosswhite's face. “I will tell you this, my American friend: when I am president, there will be no truce with Antonio Castañeda. That dog will be hunted down!”

Crosswhite sat back. “I'm glad to hear you say that. I'm sure Director Pope will be equally pleased.”

“I do not care about Director Pope!” Serrano grated. “I do not work for Americans. Is that clear?
Yo trabajo para el pueblo mexicano
!
” I work for the Mexican people!

Crosswhite wanted to laugh at the outrageous lie but remained passive. “Director Pope is not under the impression that you work for him. It is his understanding the two of you are working together to consolidate the narcotics trade and stabilize the region. He apologizes for Fields's exceeding his mission parameters, and I assure you he's acting in good faith to put the situation right.”

Realizing he needed the CIA on his side until after the election, Serrano allowed himself to be mollified. “It can be hard to find reliable men. I see why Director Pope chose you. You are very direct, and you say what you mean. He should have sent you to begin with.”

Mike Ortega stole a glance at Crosswhite, hating him and wishing he could expose him to Serrano then and there, renouncing him for the liar he was. Instead, he went along with the ruse, interjecting, “Fields and Pope share a lot of history. No one is more disappointed by Fields's lack of discretion than Director Pope, I promise you.”

Serrano nodded, satisfied for the moment. “As for the other two dogs, Vaught and Crosswhite, they'll be dead shortly. Your man Hancock has moved into Toluca, and the city will soon be back in my hands.”

Crosswhite's hackles went up. “Back in your hands?”

“Yes. Hancock is coordinating the attack. Ruvalcaba's men will soon be moving into the city to subvert the police there. Toluca is very important to business traffic coming up from Chiapas in the south, and the Guerrero brothers have been a thorn in my side for too long.”

“You know for a fact that Vaught and Crosswhite are there?”

“Yes. My spy on the Toluca police force has confirmed this. The Americans have been training the officers that remain, but it won't do them any good. Most of the police force quit when Juan Guerrero was killed last week, and his younger brother is not the same caliber of leader. He has only seventy-five men left, and Toluca is too big a city to hold with seventy-five men.”

“Won't this new chief call the state police for reinforcements?”

“Oh, I'm sure he will,” Serrano answered. “But the state police commander belongs to me, so I regret to say there won't be any reinforcements to send to Toluca. The earthquake here in Distrito Federal has caused far too much devastation to risk weakening the city's peacekeeping forces. A nation's capital must be protected above all else.” He smiled. “Would you not agree?”

Crosswhite forced himself to return the smile. “Yes, I would.”

“So, how exactly do you suggest we deal with Fields?”

“This is an initial contact,” Crosswhite said, sounding very professional. “To give you and me a chance to establish a rapport. I'll spend the rest of the day here in the city, making arrangements with my people over at the embassy. Then tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, I'd like to meet back here with you and Captain Espinosa of the Policia Federal to discuss what I've put together.”

Serrano was thrown off balance. “How do you know Captain Espinosa?”

“I don't know him,” Crosswhite said, “but I understand he's the officer who took initial custody of Agent Vaught after he exceeded his authority in pursuing the sniper. If that's the case, it seems to me Espinosa might be a man we can count on when the time comes to deal with Fields.”

“You're rather well informed,” Serrano remarked.

“I have to be, Senator. We're not dealing with a fool. Agent Fields is a veteran of the Cold War. He knows his craft and is a dangerous man with dangerous assets at his disposal. Your life is important to Director Pope, and I haven't come here to disappoint him.”

Though Mike Ortega was impressed by how sincerely Crosswhite was laying it on, he didn't understand why they should risk involving the most corrupt and dangerous cop in the city. He opened his mouth to speak, but Crosswhite kicked him in the leg to shut him up before he could utter a sound.

“I will contact Captain Espinosa,” Serrano said, deciding he liked the idea. “I'm sure he will be interested to meet you.”

“I'm grateful you've taken the time to meet with me today. It makes my job much easier.” Crosswhite got to his feet. “I know you're a busy man, Senator, so we'll be going.”

They shook hands all around, and when Crosswhite and Ortega were gone, Oscar came out of the house holding a drink in each hand. “How did it go?”

Serrano ignored the drink that was offered him, pointing in the direction Crosswhite had left. “
That's
a gringo I can work with!”