The Labyrinth Campaign (12 page)

Greg Larson and John Sterling had planned on meeting at the Greenville Avenue Bar and Grill at 9:00 p.m. Larson arrived early and was sitting at the long, half-empty bar when Sterling entered. Larson’s reaction to Sterling’s appearance was similar to their first meeting. But this time Larson refrained from any sarcastic comments, remembering that Sterling was no pushover.

The two men shook hands, and Larson asked, “Did you find anything?”

“Patience, my man, first things first,” Sterling responded while signaling the barkeep to bring him a beer.

After what seemed like an eternity to Larson, the beer arrived, and Sterling turned toward him on his barstool. “I think I’ve got something you’re going to be very interested in.”

“Go on.”

“After our last conversation, I realized that the bulk of our Hawkins research has focused on his life in the US. So I chose to immediately investigate his years at Oxford. It actually wasn’t at all difficult to identify when he was there and then find someone else who was there at the same time. Once I found someone, I introduced myself as a government representative conducting an official candidate background check.”

“There is no such thing.”

“I know that and you know that, but Barbara Pollock from Leeds, UK, doesn’t.”

Larson smiled. “I’m beginning to like your style. Go on.”

“Anyway, Ms. Pollock had an Oxford yearbook and was actually quite helpful. First, there’s a picture in the yearbook of the Debate Society. And guess who’s standing next to Senator Will Hawkins in the picture?” Sterling paused for effect. “Carlos Pendrill and Will Hawkins were in the Debate Society together.”

“That’s very interesting, John, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Hold on, man, it gets better.”

Sterling then proceeded to tell Larson that not only were Hawkins and Pendrill in the Society together, but they had also been good friends … and roommates.

Larson could not suppress his excitement. “You mean to tell me that our future president and the biggest drug dealer in the free world were friends and roommates in graduate school? This is too fucking good for words. You’ve got to get me more. Have they kept in touch? When was the last time Pendrill was in the US? Where was Hawkins during that time? I need everything, John.”

“I’m looking, but there’s no guarantee I’ll find anything.”

Larson leaned back in his stool and said, “Whether or not you find anything more, I’m going to rock Will Hawkins’s world.” With that, both men hoisted their glasses in a silent toast.

A
s the car carrying the four Mexican nationals approached the US-Mexico border in Juarez, the vehicle looked like all the others waiting in the daily traffic jam at the busy border crossing. Despite the vehicle’s normal appearance, however, it was actually quite different. The rundown 2003 Ford Taurus was really a mobile arsenal with enough weapons to rival even the most sophisticated military vehicle. The four passengers had been specially trained by an ex-US Marine who had gotten tired of his underpaid existence and signed on with Carlos Pendrill, who was willing to pay handsomely. The three men and one woman were the first team deployed by Jorge Castilla to begin the campaign of destruction engineered by Will Hawkins and Carlos Pendrill.

The group’s mission was to shuttle all the necessary materials to Denver, Colorado, for redeployment to each of the four planned accident sites. Once the materials were disseminated, this group would carry out the first accident planned for Glenwood Canyon, a location two-and-a-half hours west of Denver.

As the car inched toward the border in the bumper-to-bumper traffic queue, the group was silent. Each of them focused on the vehicle itself: the automatic weapons stored within the specially made door panels; the plastic explosives that were expertly hidden in the spare tire; the acidic
mixture stored in a specially lined aerosol can; the smart bombs hidden within the shells of two twenty-year-old boom boxes; and a variety of weapons such as hand grenades and pistols tucked into every nook and cranny the old Ford had to offer. Those were the thoughts of the car’s passengers.

When the vehicle finally reached the customs checkpoint, an average-looking American approached the car. He appeared tired and uninterested in his daily duties.

“Hello,” he said blandly, “may I see your papers, please?”

The four reached for their respective visas, knowing that their authenticity was beyond question. The border guard took each set of papers and eyed them carefully. While his commitment to his job was questionable, he was also highly skilled at spotting phony entry documents. However, after careful inspection, the guard was satisfied.

“Everything appears to be in order. Where are you headed?” he asked, already anticipating the cold beer awaiting him when he got off work in twenty-five minutes.

“To Denver,” the driver answered in a thick accent, “to see family.”

“Sounds good,” the guard responded. “Please pull to the left. You are the lucky recipients of a random vehicle search.”

Each of the passengers tensed at the request. While keeping their reaction concealed from the guard, two of the passengers appeared perceivably nervous to the group’s leader in the front passenger seat. He slowly turned to the two in the back as the car eased to the search area. His look alone was enough to indicate that if either of them panicked, they would pay a price beyond any penalty the US Border Patrol could impose.

As the guard lazily approached, the driver exited his side of the car. The guard requested that the remainder of the passengers also get out and asked for the trunk to be opened. All four stood silently, barely moving, as the guard gave the car a cursory once-over. He was obviously not expecting to find anything, and his lackadaisical effort ensured that he wouldn’t.

After less than two minutes, the guard turned to the group and said, “You’re good to go. Enjoy your visit to the good old U S of A.”

The four returned to their vehicle and drove across the bridge into El Paso, Texas. A minor hurdle, the first barrier to one of the largest terrorist attacks in the US, had just been cleared … easily.

Jack McCarthy and Steve Bess had agreed to meet at the Blue Goose for drinks and dinner around 6:00. As usual, the Lower Greenville eatery was filled with young professionals and college students ready to enjoy a libation and some of the best Mexican food in town. Jack arrived first. He grabbed a Coors Light out of the beer trough and worked his way to the bar to pay. Just as he squeezed to the front, he spotted Bess entering the restaurant and quickly flagged him down.

Bess looked tired, lacking the usual positive energy flowing from him that Jack had come to know and respect. The two men exchanged pleasantries and drank silently, waiting for their table. Fifteen minutes later, the young hostess, who could have easily been a model in a fashion magazine, sat them at a small table in the far corner of the dining area. They both nodded to one another, acknowledging that the out-of-the-way table in this very noisy restaurant was the perfect place to have the conversation they both had been dreading for two days.

Once seated, the two men quickly ordered more beer and the combination fajitas that would feed a large family.

Finally, Jack broke the silence. “What happened? Did Rollins throw you out of his office or just belittle you beyond the threshold of normal human anger?”

Bess laughed. “It was actually as quiet as you could possibly expect. I tried to get to the point as quickly as possible and stick to the facts.”

“How did he take it?” Jack asked.

“Not good. First he turned white, like he’d seen the ghost of his mother. Finally, his color returned, but he never regained his composure. He stammered and sat speechless for minutes at a time. He finally recovered enough to ask where I got my information. I explained how
you had innocently stumbled on the plot. He was not happy with your method, but he seemed to understand your concern.”

“So where did you net out? What’s the next step?”

“Rollins asked me to let him sleep on it. He was in no condition to hatch a plan. He could barely get out a complete sentence,” Bess said. “We agreed we would reconvene at 10:30 tomorrow morning. He needed a chance to digest what he had just heard, and the office is always empty on Saturday mornings. That’ll give us the privacy we need to identify next steps.”

The two men were all too eager to switch topics. They spent the rest of the dinner inventing small talk that would circumvent any conversation about the information that was so historically significant that neither of them could comprehend the magnitude. After numerous beers, the two men parted, agreeing to meet at the office on Saturday afternoon after Rollins and Bess had gotten back together to discuss their options. Jack and Steve stood, shook hands, and said goodbye before retreating to the private thoughts that neither of them could avoid.

I
t was a beautiful morning in Dallas, a Saturday that Jack would have relished just weeks ago. Now, though, he felt as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. As he lay awake in bed staring at Carrie, his thoughts wandered to the advisability of sharing his personal hell with her. It would be so much easier having someone to talk to. But he knew that wasn’t a good idea. As much as he loved her, he couldn’t be sure just how she might react. What if she believed it was best to go right to the authorities? He couldn’t stop her. But he knew in his heart that would be the worst thing that could happen to this country and to them. So, problem solved. The best thing for Carrie was to not put her in a moral dilemma of that magnitude.

As if on cue, when Jack had decided in his own mind to not share his current problem with Carrie, he glanced at her and noticed she was staring at him.

“Where have you been?” she asked, smiling. “You were so far away just then, I don’t think anyone could have reached you.”

“Oh, I was just thinking about work. I’ve got so much shit to do,” Jack nonchalantly responded.

“Well, let’s do our best to keep your mind off of work for the next twenty minutes or so,” Carrie said in a sultry whisper as she reached for him.

At that same moment, Steve Bess was entering the Texas Club for his weekly Saturday morning workout. Rain or shine, sickness, health, or hangover, Steve had been religiously working out at 8:30 Saturday mornings for more than ten years. As Bess entered the club, the desk attendant warmly greeted him.

“Morning, Mr. Bess. It’s a great day to work out; it’s empty in there.”

“Thanks, Josh. I could use a good one,” Bess responded, as he entered the locker room.

At nearly the same moment, the elevator door opened, and Josh found himself staring at an attractive blonde with the stereotypical big hair and the largest set of breasts he’d ever seen. Stretched on the T-shirt covering the woman’s enormous chest was the word PowerSport.

“Hi,” she said, “are you Joe?”

“No, Joe’s not working today. Anything I can do for you?”

“Well,” she continued, “I spoke with Joe earlier this week and was scheduled to sample PowerSport here today. It’s a new sport and energy drink.”

Josh hesitated. They were not supposed to admit solicitors without permission. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Let me see if he left a note or anything.”

“Sounds great,” the blonde responded as she seductively walked over to a wall of photos.

Josh was in slow motion; he couldn’t take his eyes off her body. Minutes later, when it was apparent he was not going to find a permission slip, he made an executive decision. He would let her in, regardless. What could it hurt to let a few middle-aged men view one of nature’s incredible creations? Not to mention that he was hoping to get her number on the way out. “You know, I couldn’t find a note from Joe authorizing your sampling, but … it’s cool. Go on in.”

“Thanks, Josh,” the blonde said, reading his name tag. “I really appreciate your help.” With that, she was buzzed into the women’s locker room where she began to set up her sampling tray.