Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (80 page)

Ramos laid his forehead on the palms of his hands, his elbows propped on his knees.  “Inez, what should I do? How much time do I have?”

“I don’t know, but Basilio, there’s something else we need to discuss. Things must look entirely black to you now, but there is one aspect of this affair that might present you with an opportunity—an opportunity to recover.  The people on the small airplane you were chasing yesterday, the ones who shot down Puma 2, they were controlling a pilotless drone aircraft. What the
Yanquis
call a ‘U-A-V.’ They were watching the Vedado conference, from above.”

“I heard a drone mentioned on the Vedado Ranch radio net.”

“Then you know that the drone was used to attack President Whitman and Peter Kosimos? Did you know that?”

“I only heard that the drone crashed, and there was a fatality on the ground.”

“Did you know that it killed Peter Kosimos?”

“I saw the news this morning.  I heard that Kosimos was killed in a car accident in Colorado.  He was killed by the drone?”

“It took his head off.  Dave Whitman didn’t receive a scratch, other than being soaked with Kosimos’s blood.  Now, here’s your opportunity. The drone was sending down video imagery from the Vedado Ranch conference.  Certain of the attendees don’t want to see that film on television, if it exists.  I’m informed that the drone was a type that would be recording directly onto a computer, some kind of portable computer.  We know that the drone was taken from a Border Patrol base near El Paso, by a retired Border Patrol pilot who also ‘borrowed’ a white Cessna 210 airplane.”

“It was a white Cessna we were chasing yesterday.”

“The pilot’s name is Logan Crawford.  According to government flight logs we’ve been able to check, he’s flown with Garabanda before.”

“So where is this Crawford? Where is the Cessna?”

“We don’t know.  He hasn’t been seen since he signed out the airplane on Tuesday.  He has a wife in Albuquerque, but she’s gone too. The SSG went by their house this morning. There was breakfast on the table, and signs that someone packed in a hurry.  Both of their cars are gone. It looks like she fled.”

“That figures,” mumbled Ramos.

“The Dragunov rifle was found where we think they were controlling the drone, so that puts Bardiwell and Garabanda together yesterday.  Now, not even the Special Surveillance Group knows about the connection between Bardiwell and Garabanda, because they don’t know what the rifle means, at least not yet.  And from what we can tell from our Federal sources, the FBI doesn’t even know that Bardiwell has been in New Mexico, or that Garabanda is only pretending to be in Santa Fe.  So we have an edge Basilio, an advantage we can exploit!  Only we know who was controlling the drone, and where they’re probably going next.  Now, here’s your opportunity: if you found Bardiwell and the FBI agent, and if you recovered the computer with the video record of the conference, if you permanently removed the risk that this Vedado meeting would ever be seen on television…well, certain very influential parties would be extremely grateful.  Grateful enough to cause Félix Magón to be in a forgiving mood. Maybe even more than forgiving.”

“I see.”  Ramos looked up, a glimmer of hope lifting him from the pit of despair.

“Basilio, I would grasp this opportunity.”

“And you think they’re going to San Diego, after the child?”

“Probably.  Where else?”

“So if I find the child first…”

“Yes! And I know where the child is—I’ve been busy, Basilio!  The child is staying with his mother, in a condominium tower in downtown San Diego. It’s called the Pacific Majesty, it’s very new.  This building is leased by the United States government; they use it to house federal employees.  The child and his mother are staying in apartment 4124, with another federal agent. You see, they’re
lesbianas
, this agent and the child’s mother.  Gretchen Bosch is her name—she works for the IRS. So that’s where you’ll find Bardiwell and the FBI agent: I think they’re together, trying to find the child.  But you’ll have the advantage—they won’t know they’re being pursued.  Now here is your mission: If it’s possible, if you can, bring Garabanda and Bardiwell back to New Mexico—preferably alive.  Alive, to be thoroughly interrogated. We must know everything that they know, and if they’ve given copies of their film to anyone.”

“What if it’s not possible, what if I can’t find them, or bring them back?”

“If you can’t bring them back, then eliminate them—but try to bring back the computers.  If you have to kill them, kill them.  Do what you must, but try to get the computers.  Time is of the essence—every day that this mission is not accomplished means a greater chance of the film being released. We need to know what’s on the film, and who has been given copies.”

“For damage control.”

“Yes, quite right, for damage control. And to make sure that any film of the Vedado Ranch conference isn’t released.” 

“It may already be too late!  They may already have released it.”

“Perhaps, so I wouldn’t waste any time finding them.  In any event, I don’t think it would be played on television.  I think the federal government would use the Patriot Act to stop it, I don’t think the networks would run it.  But even if it was shown, if Bardiwell, Garabanda and the Border Patrol pilot are eliminated, then the tape’s authenticity can be challenged and destroyed.  You understand how this works: ‘experts’ will call the film a fake, a computer-made forgery, and nobody will be alive to dispute that claim.”

“All right Inez, I’ll do it,” said Ramos, his mood lifting.  “I’ll take some of my best men.  But I’ll need some logistical and communication support...”

“Of course.  I’ll serve as your point of contact at this end.  I’ll have a phone number and an email address monitored around the clock for your support requests.  I’ll do everything I can for you from here.  On a deniable basis, of course. But you must succeed at this mission Basilio—otherwise, I would not return to Nuevo Mexico.”

37

Ranya was surprised
by how quiet the interior of the helicopter shuttle was. There were seats for seven passengers, but only five were on the flight this morning.  Their destination was the seaside town of La Jolla, “the jewel,” located ten miles north of downtown San Diego.  She had completed her transformation to a lady of means; she was glamorous from her blond wig to her gleaming new $1,500 white Nike running shoes. After a room service breakfast, she had gone shopping in the casino’s boutiques, putting everything that she needed onto her room tab.  

Their bill was paid in the manager’s office, in gold.  Their total for the two-room suite, their room service meals, the boutique, the men’s clothing store, the new luggage and their helicopter shuttle flight to La Jolla was converted from $33,840 New Dollars to 4.75 ounces of gold. The one-week rental of a Ford Explorer SUV cost five more ounces, along with a hefty 25-ounce “security deposit.”  In effect, they had bought the vehicle, which would be delivered to them in the safety of La Jolla.

She paid the 34.75-ounce bill with 35 Krugerrands, and received three tiny gold coins in change.  Two were slightly smaller than a dime, and the other was even smaller, only about the diameter of a .45 caliber shell casing. Close examination revealed that each was struck with an arrowhead on one side, and the profile of a famous Indian chief on the other.  The manager suggested that she exchange more of her one-ounce gold coins for the more “useable” 1/10
^th
and 1/20
^th
ounce coins.  He assured her that the gold coins were accepted readily across Southern California, despite anything to the contrary that she might have heard from the government.  Ranya accepted his offer, trading ten of her one-ounce coins for one hundred “gold dimes,” as the manager off-handedly referred to them.  He also quoted her the current exchange rate of gold to paper dollars, so that they would not be taken advantage of in San Diego.  Today, one ounce of gold was worth $7,125.  She didn’t ask who set the price, it didn’t seem to matter.

Dressed in their new clothes, they rolled their own luggage from a hotel side entrance along a paved golf cart path, to the helipad where a sleek cobalt blue Eurocopter was waiting for its 11 AM departure.

She sat in the back of the luxury helicopter next to Alex, with their bags on the empty seat and at their feet, eschewing the separate luggage compartment located behind them.  The seats were soft cream-colored leather, almost as comfortable as the seats in Basilio Ramos’s Jaguar.  An executive wearing a charcoal suit took the empty cockpit seat next to the pilot—the civilian chopper only had one set of controls, on the right side.

Two women, trim and attractive thirty-somethings, sat in two of the middle seats.  Both were wearing designer everything, from top to bottom.  Ranya guessed that their visible jewelry was worth enough to feed a small African nation for a year.  She wondered if their obviously rich husbands were getting their money’s worth.

The helicopter’s turbine moaned, its blades began to spin, and a few moments later they lifted off.  The reason for the casino’s profligate use of night time electricity was immediately visible:  a nearby barren mountain ridge sprouted a row of a dozen enormous white towers, each topped with a slow-turning three-bladed propeller.  Evidently, the casino Indians were plowing their profits back into building their own independent infrastructure.

She thought that the land beneath them could have been New Mexico between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, but more gray than red.  There were the same boulders, dry hills carved by ravines, and the occasional green valley following a meager watercourse.

Ranya listened carefully to the rich women in front of her, trying to pick up their accents and the current slang, in order to better her own ability to pass herself off as one of them.

“I always sit next to the dealer, always.  I just wait for a seat to come open, or I won’t play.  I’m sick of stupid amateurs who don’t know how to play blackjack—they just screw up the cards I should get.”

“How much were you up last night?”

“Ninety five thou.  I should have quit, but I couldn’t!  Still, I had a good night.  Paid for my room, the flight, everything.”

“Don’t you love getting paid to gamble?”

“Oh, you know it!”

Both ladies giggled.

“Too bad we can’t claim these trips as a deduction.  ‘Reason for visit: to exchange paper for gold.’  I mean, have you tried to pay for
anything
with blue bucks lately? Even my pool boy wants gold!” 

“Are you still using Roberto?  He’s a cutie.”

“Oh,
God
no. I caught him stealing, and I canned him.  And that’s not all—I made sure the little creep lost his crossing permit.  It’ll be a cold day in hell before
he
works in La Jolla again.  Good riddance!”

“You fired him?  What did he steal?”

“Not much.  Towels, mostly, and some liquor from our pool bar.  But it’s the principle of it.  I just can’t stand a thief.”

“I know what you mean.”

“So, what are you doing this afternoon?”

“Oh, I thought I’d go up to Rancho Santa Fe, and play tennis with Talia and Stephanie at their club.  Maybe swim some laps.”

“You’re not driving, are you?  Remember what happened to Monica. Her husband paid two million, and they
still
cut off her ear.”

“Oh hell no, I’m done with driving.  I’m flying.  I’m not taking any chances.”

“That was so
awful
what they did to Monica!  They could have just sent her ear rings for proof, but no, the sick bastards had to mail Ronnie her ear too!”

“Yeah, well, I guess it worked.  He paid up fast after that.”

“Hey, how much kidnap insurance do you guys have?”

“Ten mill.”

“Same here.  But I’m still never driving east of I-5 again.”

“Are you joking? I won’t even drive
on
I-5.”

“Who needs to go east of I-5 anyway?  Just send a servant, if you need to get something over there.”

“A-men!”

***

Bob Bullard was sitting behind his desk,
idly clicking between surveillance camera views of San Diego.  He was waiting for his next scheduled visitor to be announced, before helicoptering up to LA for a quick afternoon visit.  Jim Holcomb knocked and entered.

“Boss, the fireworks are all set.  For our end of it, we’re putting all of the federal tactical teams on standby.”

“Uh-huh, good. We don’t want any problems.  Washington wants to see that San Diego is still an All-American city—these Navy bases mean a hell of a lot to them.  They call San Diego the ‘western anchor,’ and they don’t want to see it end up like Los Angeles. So, they finally got the fireworks problem straightened out?”

“Yes, but what a nightmare that was!  Just try to find one COSCO shipping container in the whole Port of Long Beach, when they have a three-week backlog!  But we lit some fire under their asses, and they found it.  The container was trucked down last night with a police escort.  Those Italian brothers are going to run the show out on the bay, same deal as every year. They’re already loading the barge.”

“So how big is this show going to be? We want a good one,” said Bullard.

“They say they have enough rockets for a solid half hour of the big stuff, plus a gigantic grand finale—heavy on the red white and blue. We’re still working out the city government logistics, but it’s going to happen— the mayor’s office has agreed to cooperate.  Mayor Valdepeñas was dragging his feet, but we finally got him on board.”

“What was his problem?”

“Oh, he just doesn’t want to look like a gringo-lover,” explained Holcomb.  “I don’t think he really cares about the 4th
of July one way or the
other, himself.  He just wants to show his political base that he’s not a Yankee lap dog.  Word is he’s getting ready to run for governor.  You know how they are—
Aztlan Aztlan, Über Alles
…”