Smoke Signals (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 4) (7 page)

Civil aviation aircraft flying from Mexico to the United States had to follow strict security protocols. The Electronic Advance Passenger Information System required traveler manifest information for each person aboard, notice of arrival information and notice of departure information. All of this data had to be received by U.S. Customs and Border Patrol at least sixty minutes before takeoff, for both flights arriving in the United States and departing from the country.

The U.S Air Defense Identification Zone worked to identify all aircraft in the vicinity of the country’s airspace boundaries, especially inbound flights. Ever since 9-11, the federal government took the responsibility of identifying and monitoring incoming passenger flights very seriously. An aircraft that hadn’t filed a proper flight plan would be met by fighter jets authorized to shoot down the intruder if necessary.

Despite his employment by a fugitive drug lord, Mateo Trujillo had no trouble gaining prompt clearance for the Dassault Falcon that would carry him to Seattle. In part, that was due to his continuing role as a “consultant” with his country’s
Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional.
As to working for Fausto Zara, well, that was a discreet omission on his official list of legitimate private sector clients.

There were those south of the Rio Grande who knew his dirty little secret, of course, but they had their own thumbs in any number of purloined pies. Indeed, there were some companies who hired him
because
he’d shown he could work profitably with a man as dangerous as Zara. Having Mateo on the payroll was a winking admission that he could put in a fix with the highest levels of the national government.

Little of that, however, was what gave him easy access to the U.S.

When the Falcon reached its cruising altitude, Mateo Trujillo made a phone call across the breadth of North America to Virginia. It needed to ring only once before it was answered. A woman’s voice said,
“Liebchen.”
Sweetheart.

Mateo knew the flight crew and the cabin attendant had a command of Spanish, Portuguese, English and even French between them. Unless one of the bastards had secretly been studying German, though, he would be safe.

He used the language in which he’d been addressed. He also continued the ruse that the call was romantic in nature, listening for any hint of friendly laughter coming from the area of the cockpit. Not hearing any, he got down to business.

“I’m coming north. I might need to kill someone. I trust clean-up help will be available if I need it.”

“Who’s going to die?” the woman asked.

“An underling of Zara’s. Maybe two.”

“We can live with that, if you’re not too gaudy about it.”

“I’ll take your sensibilities into account.”

“Good. Make time for a little chat with me before you go back home.”

“I plan to. I might not be going back.”

“Oh, my, are things getting that bad? Should I bring candy and flowers?”

Mateo was the one to laugh now, only there was nothing romantic to the sound.

“Just bring the severance package I signed on for.” He broke the connection.

Neither Mateo nor the CIA had let the opportunity to establish a working relationship pass them by when he’d come to train at The Farm. He’d been their inside man with Zara’s operation for years. He’d provided small tips to the U.S. that implicated his rivals in Zara’s cartel with betraying the boss. The result was meaningless “victories” in the war on drugs. That and the elimination of Mateo’s competition, hastening his rise within the organization.

Now, he was going to cash out.

In more ways than the CIA knew.

“Meat,” Valeria said. She looked at several stacks of plastic-wrapped cuts of beef in a freezer that was no longer connected to a gas-powered generator. “This is beef, isn’t it?”

Her spoken English was passable; her reading of the language lagged behind. She couldn’t decipher the labels on the packages of meat.

Ernesto’s foreign language literacy was more advanced. He’d studied
inglés
in the military in hopes of advancement. “These packages contain the finest cut of beef, what they call filet mignon. It is supposed to melt in your mouth.”

“Like ice cream?”

Ernesto laughed. “I truly don’t know, but that’s an interesting thought. How much beef have we eaten here?”

“None. We eat chicken. We get enough to eat but it’s always chicken.”

“So who must eat the beef around here, then?”

“Julián and that pig Basilio.”

“Sí,
and why would they leave this wonderful meat behind?”

That question was easy to answer. “Because they did not take the freezer and it would spoil.”

“Exactly. They were in a big hurry and the freezer is heavy. It would be a burden in any case, and especially so if they had to climb a mountain with it.”

“Why would they have to do that?”

Ernesto explained that he’d learned of the other sites where the growing and processing operation might move if circumstances so dictated.

“How did you do that?” Valeria asked.

“I pretended to be asleep when Eusebio and Chucho were talking one night.” Those men were the captain of the guards and his number two. “They never suspected simple-minded Ernesto might be listening to them. I may have pretended to snore a little.”

Valeria smiled in appreciation, and silently told herself never to underestimate her husband.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

“Well, we have the food and water we need to get out of these mountains. I’ve learned some people actually like to eat beef raw. But others say that can make you sick. So our challenge is to think of a way for you to cook the meat that won’t draw that bear or any of his animal friends to our fiesta.”

The very thought frightened Valeria. “I’d rather eat chicken from a can.”

“I found some other things,” Ernesto told her.

He took four fully loaded ammunition magazines out of his pockets.

“We could kill quite a few bears now, if we needed to. Or we could let them eat
my
cooking. That would surely be the end of them.”

Valeria laughed. Ernesto had told her he was the worst cook in the world. She’d accepted that at first. Now, she thought he probably did that as well as he did everything else. But she was smart enough to play along.

“I will cook and you will watch for bears.”

“Bueno
,
but there is one more thing to think about. Where does our future lie? I told you the story about Julián having a lot of money up here.”

“Sí.”

“I know now that it’s more than just a story.”

He reached in a pocket and took out a hundred dollar bill. The middle of the note looked like it had been stepped on by a dirty boot but the edges were crisp and clean. Ernesto handed it to Valeria.

“For you,
querida.”
Dear.

She took it and set to brushing off the dirt. Then she looked at her husband.

“Is it real?”

He nodded. He’d seen many such portraits of Benjamin Franklin when the marines raided the narcos. “Do you think it belongs to one of the workers or guards?”

She shook her head. “Neither.”

“So it must belong to one of our bosses then.”

“It might be the only one, this
c
ien dolares.
”
Hundred dollars.

Ernesto shook his head.

“Tell me,” he said. “If you had just that one bank note, would you search for it until you found it?”

Valeria nodded.

“But if you had more money than you could count, how hard would you look?”

Valeria got the point. “Not at all. So what do we do?”

Ernesto said, “We must agree, of course, but I think we should find out if God means for us to become rich.”

Jules Marchand was one of 58 chief superintendents in the RCMP. His rise through the force’s hierarchy had been both steady and relatively swift. Still, he had all of his equally ranked colleagues and another 33 assistant and deputy commissioners to leapfrog if he wanted to reach his ultimate goal of becoming commissioner of the whole shooting match.

He’d carefully analyzed the dozens of men and a handful of women equal to or above him in rank. He knew their ages, strengths, weaknesses and dirty little secrets. Sifting out the ones who’d retire before ever reaching the top, the ones whose records didn’t match his own, the ones he could expose or subtly blackmail, he figured his real competition numbered two men and perhaps one woman.

The woman was Deputy Commissioner Eileen Murphy, who was currently sitting in judgment of Jules’ nephew, Sergeant Serge Marchand. One of the two men he viewed as real competition was Chief Superintendent Edward Bramley, who was both Rebecca Bramley’s uncle and her godfather. That SOB also had the top job in his sights.

Based on their records in the RCMP, it might take a coin-flip to decide which man would take the top spot, unless a wave of political correctness and women’s rights swept them both aside for Eileen Murphy. Not long ago the very thought of a woman leading the force would have been laughable.

Then the damn Americans had to elect Patricia Grant president, and it looked as if they might follow her with another woman, Vice President Jean Morrissey. More Canadians than Jules Marchand cared to think about loved both American women. Morrissey was at least a first-rate hockey player for her gender, but damn them both.

If there was one thing that made Canadians truly uneasy about Americans it was the idea that the U.S. might outstrip its neighbor in matters of social progress. Given its small, sensible population, Canada was supposed to blaze that trail.

Americans were supposed to see the northern light and follow. But now …

Merde
.
Shit.

There was a chance that Murphy might beat out both him and Bramley. He certainly couldn’t try to muscle Murphy into punishing Rebecca Bramley and promoting Serge. Not that there was any promotion that truly compensated a man for losing half his manhood. Sure, there was any number of things men said they would give their left nut for, but not really.

Jules certainly wouldn’t.

“You are feeling regret about your nephew’s predicament, Jules?”

Chief Superintendent Marchand was dining at the Capital Club with Deputy Minister of Public Safety Canada —
Sécurité Publique Canada
— Theo Blanchet. The RCMP fell under Public Safety’s purview. Dinner had been served and there wasn’t another soul within thirty feet of them.

Jules sipped his wine. “Personally, I can’t stand the bastard. He’s a dolt. Perhaps losing a testicle will be just the thing he needs to start thinking above the belt instead of below it.”

“Is he as bad as all that?”

Jules refilled his glass and topped off Blanchet’s.

“If anyone other than a Bramley had caused his troubles, I would let Serge suffer whatever cruelty Eileen Murphy chooses to inflict upon him. But there is the larger Marchand family to think about. They all expect me to defend our name, and I do love my youngest brother, Serge’s father. Except for Marcel’s blindness to his son’s flaws, he’s a fine man.”

“So you invited me to dinner to ask for my counsel, help or both?” Blanchet asked.

Jules sighed. “At the risk of spoiling your appetite, old friend, I’d like to know if you can stomach the idea I’ve already settled on.”

Blanchet shrugged. “There’s very little that can put me off my feed. Whatever your notion is, of course, I’ll have to be able to sell it to the minister.”

The number two man in Public Safety Canada had one final bureaucratic step to climb himself. He’d just told Jules that his idea would have to be politically acceptable, not just to the minister, really, but to the public as well.

The story of the contretemps between Rebecca Bramley and Serge Marchand had broken as a national news story just that morning, becoming something of a sensation. The population at large was taking sides, with a slight edge going to Bramley. Jules thought that showed both female solidarity and an unfortunate number of men who lived under their wives’ thumbs.

The Bramleys, no doubt under the leadership of Chief Superintendent Edward Bramley, must have taken the story public. The Bramleys didn’t have the same number of highly placed political friends that the Marchands did. So they’d decided to enlist public opinion on their side. The gambit was well played, and Jules knew he couldn’t afford to underestimate Bramley in the future as both of them lunged for the commissioner’s job.

“I understand completely, Theo,” Jules told the deputy minister. “My thinking is both Serge and the Bramley woman get posted somewhere cold and remote.”

“But not together.”

“Of course not. At opposite ends of the Arctic Ocean but equally near the North Pole.”

Blanchet smiled. “Where they can both develop a taste for whale blubber.”

“Do the Inuit still consume that?” Jules asked.

“They do. I was up there last summer. Had some. Not to my taste at all, but the roast caribou wasn’t bad. Of course, the natives have what they call southern food, too. Better known to you and me as fast food. We truck it up there, you know.”

Jules shook his head. “I didn’t. I assume the winter nights are still long and cold, and there’s little first-rate theater or cinema available.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right about all that,” Blanchet said. “So we send both parties, your nephew and Lieutenant Bramley, to hardship posts, and —”

“You know what happens next, old friend,” Jules said.

Blanchet nodded. “Once public interest has faded, Serge will make a far quicker return to more settled and civilized locales than the Bramley girl, who will linger in the far north until —”

“She quits,” Jules said, “or freezes her ass off.”

“I’m sure I can manage that for you,” the deputy minister said.

The two men smiled at the reasonableness of their plan.

They toasted each other and finished off the bottle.