The Watchman (4 page)

He'd been out-manoeuvred. But he wasn't done with this. Not by a long way.

S
ome of the jobs I take on have a surreal inter-connection. After Bogotá I got home to New York to find a message requesting an escort assignment across the border from the US to Tijuana, Mexico. Just like Bogotá, among its other delights Tijuana is known as a centre for drugs activity. Some things you just can't get away from.

I kicked my heels for a couple of days, using the down time to catch up on a few personal and business-related matters, like gun practice in a local indoor range, intensive workouts at the gym and checking out a couple of security-related websites I use. Then I packed an overnight bag and flew down to San Diego.

I was to meet with a man named James Beckwith from the Drugs Enforcement Agency. His bio included responsibility for Intelligence Research, which gave me a small insight to the job he might want me to do, but without specifics. He said he'd been given my name by a mutual contact in the Department of Justice.

Beckwith's office was located in a large building situated along a meandering road in the sandstone- and scrub-covered hills in the north-eastern sector of the city. But he didn't want to meet me there. Instead he'd suggested the Sheraton out near the airport, a busy but anonymous block of brick and glass where business meetings were common and therefore unnoticed.

Middle management types in the spooks business no longer meet in back alleys or smoky beer joints; they do so in smart hotels or business suites. It's called hiding in plain sight. For the most part it works like a dream, since most of them look, walk and talk like corporate drones, complete with tablets, smartphones and briefcases.

Special Agent Beckwith was true to type. I spotted him waiting in the foyer when I arrived. He was stocky and neatly dressed in a dark-blue suit, although he had the tightly-knit build of a man who works out a lot. He had a light tan, pretty standard for anyone in southern California, and the buzz-cut of a former marine. And a smartphone which he was studying carefully.

He apologised for the subterfuge. ‘I figured the further you stayed away from the office, the better. I need a clean face for this assignment.' He didn't explain and looked a little tight around the eyes. I wondered if it was because I was an outsider he'd been forced to bring in. He hustled me into a sports bar where we grabbed a corner table away from the constant foot traffic of travellers, luggage carts and uniformed staff.

‘This is your brief,' he said, placing a folder on the table in front of me. ‘I'd prefer it if you read the details right here and gave it back.' He caught the eye of a waiter cleaning tables. ‘You want to eat?'

I shook my head. I'd eaten lunch earlier and didn't feel like prolonging this meeting. It's often the same with briefings, wherever they occur; there's a lot of preliminary talk, like dogs sniffing out the opposition, none of which actually accomplishes anything. I'd rather get to the basics and get on with the task.

He looked relieved and stood up, straightening his already immaculate jacket. ‘I'm going to call the person you'll be escorting. He should be here within thirty minutes.' With that he turned and walked away, leaving the waiter standing there looking hopeful. I ordered coffee and opened the folder.

It was a simple enough job – on paper: escort an agent named Oscar Parillas to a hotel in Tijuana, where he had a meeting with unnamed persons. All I had to do was watch his back, then return him safely to San Diego. The folder included a map of the area, details of the route in and out, and a number to call if we needed assistance.

When Beckwith returned I asked him, ‘What's the threat level?'

It was a straightforward enough question with a town like Tijuana; drugs and guns live side by side down there, and tensions between rival gangs and distributors are always high. Throw in a dubious police force and the Mexican government's own anti-drugs units, and death was commonplace, often with collateral damage to innocent bystanders.

‘You've never been there, right?'

‘That's right.'

‘On the surface it's a nice enough place. Leave out the areas you shouldn't go – and there are plenty – and you could be anywhere on the gulf coast. But the law doesn't control Tijuana, the cartels do. It makes the threat level real and unpredictable. We've lost good men down there; men who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't want to lose any more.'

‘It sounds hot.'

‘It is. Once on the other side, you will be issued with personal weapons by a local contact. Make no mistake, using them will draw the attention of the cartels
and
the law. And we have no agreement with the Mexican government that allows us to send armed personnel into the country unless under special circumstances.'

‘Sounds like this doesn't qualify.'

‘It doesn't. They don't even know you're coming. Going through official channels over there means risking too many leaks – and this assignment's too important to us to lose the initiative. So use your weapons only as a last resort. In the event of trouble we will make every attempt to extract you.'

Extract. I was accustomed to that word in all its meanings. Not rescue, but extract. If extraction was so simple, why weren't they taking this Oscar Parillas into Tijuana themselves? They certainly had the resources and networks.

He read my mind. ‘I decided to bring you in for the same reasons of security. Too many of our San Diego and local personnel have been blown recently by the cartels. We suspect they've been building up an extensive database of employee files with information stolen from our own servers. Three of our agents and two confidential informants have been targeted in the past two weeks, and another two CIs have disappeared.' He didn't explain what that meant, but the look on his face told me it wasn't good.

‘You think it was an inside job?'

I expected him to reject the suggestion out of hand, but he surprised me. ‘Possibly. We're currently undergoing a complete overhaul of our systems trying to find a leak. But we know they've improved their hacking capabilities. The Tijuanas especially have invested heavily in IT and the personnel to run it, including setting up a programme to put IT-literate kids through school.'

‘That's ambitious.'

He pulled a wry face. ‘Blame the cult of the MBA. Suddenly even the drugs gangs have seen the sense in their people having a business degree. Their operations have spread south to Latin America, where they source the drugs, and they've increased other operations in arms smuggling and people trafficking going north. It's a multi-billion dollar operation and they don't want to lose it. But they've also recognized that they have to use the money pouring in, which means employing legitimate channels to invest it and spread it out – mostly overseas to Europe and the Far East.' He sighed and added, ‘It's on a huge scale; they've actually got more cash than we do and no legal restraints to worry about.'

‘A losing battle?'

‘I'm not admitting that. But if we can find a way to disrupt even a small corner of their operations, it could have significant long-term benefits.'

He made it sound like he was discussing an investment opportunity, and I guess he was. ‘I take it this guy Parillas isn't known to them either?'

‘Correct. He's been shipped in from one of our other divisions, but he's been working on it remotely for a while, so he knows all the details.'

‘So we're both clean skins.'

‘You got it.' He hesitated, then said, ‘When we began to look at this assignment, we were given your name by a reliable source. We know you've done this sort of work before, so you know the risks, right?'

‘I do.'

‘Good. Do you mind if I ask what your background is?'

I ignored the question. I like to stay private as much as I can, and he was already probing for more information. ‘Which reliable source was that?'

‘An arm of the administration. That's all I can say.'

We could dance like this all day and I didn't press him. He probably meant CIA but didn't want to sully his mouth by voicing it. There's a degree of dissent between the two organizations, both of which have been fighting the drugs lords for years. It must have taken desperate measures for him to approach them looking for someone like me.

‘The situation down there at present is very fluid,' he continued, getting back on track. ‘There's some intense negotiating going on between the Tijuana Cartel and their rivals, the Sinaloas, and it's throwing up a lot of distrust by long-term members on both sides who see themselves losing out if any agreements are signed.'

‘Seriously?'

He shrugged. ‘Same with corporate takeovers; you don't need two sets of middle-managers, so someone has to go. Don't forget, these people are in a high-risk, paranoid environment; suspicion and betrayal comes with the territory and they'd all like to retire old and rich. We've had approaches by people affiliated to both camps offering information which we believe signals a way for us to break them up – or at least disrupt their activities. One contact is especially promising. He's a long-time middle-ranking member of the Tijuana Cartel and claims to know the whereabouts of two of the Felix brothers, both on our Most Wanted list. The Felix family runs the Tijuanas.'

I'd heard of them. They had a reputation for dealing harshly with people they suspected of crossing them. ‘He's taking a big risk, isn't he?'

‘The way he explained it, it's all or nothing. His opposite number in the Sinaloas is younger, smarter and married into the clan, so he's feeling threatened. If this assignment works, and we bring them in, we'll put a severe dent in their organization for some time to come.'

He knew a lot more about it than I did, but I figured he was being optimistic; take out one figurehead and another will rise up quickly in their place. Like he'd said earlier, the amount of money the drugs cartels generated day to day made sure they all wanted to hold on to it and keep it running smoothly.

Just then a slim man in his forties with slick black hair appeared at the entrance and looked around. He caught Beckwith's eye and started across the room like he was treading on glass.

‘This is Parillas,' Beckwith said quietly. ‘I'll introduce you, then leave you to it. He's your lead on this operation. Is there anything you need on the other side apart from a sidearm?'

I thought about it and mentioned two items.

He promised to have them delivered. ‘Any questions?'

I closed the folder, which told me as much as I needed to know, and slid it back across the table at him. ‘Just one: when do we go in?'

T
om Vale made his way back down to the street with a heavy heart. His misgivings about what Moresby was planning were instinctive, formed by many years operating in hostile environments and sending out men and women to uncertain fates. That was a good thing; it engendered caution and a respect for the other side. But there was something in the new Operations Director's approach which worried him. It smacked of recklessness inspired by ambition, and a cavalier attitude to the dangers out in the field that were not his own.

As he approached the exit, he heard the clatter of footsteps behind him.

‘Tom?'

It was James Scheider. The CIA man was shadowed closely by a smartly dressed man in his early thirties who looked as if he'd been drawn from the Marine Corps store, muscles, buzz-cut hairstyle and all. As Vale stopped, the minder cruised past him and went to the door, eyeing the street.

‘How's Cavell doing?' Vale asked. Scheider's boss and CIA station chief, Wilton Cavell, was off sick with suspected cancer. It had thrown his deputy in at the deep end, but he seemed to be handling it well.

‘Not good. He's going to be replaced – but you didn't hear that from me.' He glanced back up the stairs, then said, ‘You got a minute?'

‘Of course. Here?'

‘It will do. This, uh, business.' He lifted his chin upwards. ‘Anything I should know about? Only, I got the feeling you weren't keen.'

‘A little.' Vale knew he had made it obvious, so there was no point denying it. ‘I'm uneasy about certain aspects. Why do you ask?' He'd only known Scheider a short while, and was cautious about revealing his feelings to the American too readily.

Scheider surprised him. ‘Because I share your doubts. Not that it has anything to do with me directly, but it sounds like it could be a dirty business if things go wrong. Your people are going to be very exposed with no backup.'

‘That's what worries me.'

‘Can you do anything to stop it?'

‘Short of taking out a hit on Moresby, no.' Vale smiled to show he was joking, and added, ‘I need to think about it. But I'd be interested to hear what you think.'

Scheider studied his fingernails, which were immaculate. ‘The plan's adventurous, no denying that. Hellish risky, too. On the other hand, like it or not, engaging with these people might be a way to resolve the problem. It's worked with other organizations.'

‘But?'

‘We can't interfere.'

‘We?'

‘The US.'

‘That sounds official. Are you saying this has been aired already?'

‘Briefly, yes. Moresby floated the approach made by Xasan when it first came in. I think he was testing the water to see how we might react.'

Vale should have known. Moresby had by-passed procedure, probably under the banner of inter-agency co-operation to see if an idea would float in theory. It explained why Cousins and Wilby had been a little off guard, yet supportive. ‘And?'

‘It's a clear-cut issue as far as the administration is concerned: we don't have any assets in the immediate area, save for some aid workers. But they're not our concern until and unless they fall into real danger. We're limited, therefore, in being able to commit any hard facilities. Drones for camera coverage, yes; signals intelligence via NSA, no problem. Anything more solid would be too … direct.'