An Eye For An Eye (14 page)

The knock finally came at ten in the morning. Terry Fogel had been waiting, ready. He opened the door and found the guard; a new face this time. Behind him, a second guard stood further back, his gun ready. Fogel grinned. They had come prepared. The first guard signaled with his hand and Fogel grinned once more before he turned. He could sense the guard’s nervousness as the hands slid up and down his legs, then onto his waist. Still grinning, Fogel turned and held his arms out. The guard slid his hands up under his arms then back to his waist again.

Finally, the guard stepped back and Fogel dropped his arms.

“Enjoyed yourself now, did you, lad?”

The guard’s dark eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He stepped back and motioned with his head and Fogel followed. He could sense the second guard behind him.

He was led out to the courtyard, to a table in the middle. The guard pulled out a chair.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

Fogel sat. The guard glared at him again, the warning unmistakable. Fogel glanced around the garden, noticing the six men standing along the perimeter. There were two more, he knew, standing behind him by the archway. All were heavily armed, he could see. He remained seated, remembering the guard’s look. He could follow orders when it suited his purpose.

He waited patiently and after a few minutes was rewarded by the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Señor Fogel.” Pablo Guerrero suddenly appeared; his tone was sharp.

Fogel nodded in greeting. “Señor Guerrero. It’s nice to see you again.”

Guerrero scowled. “I wish I could say the same, Señor Fogel.”

Fogel said nothing as Guerrero sat in the chair across from him.

Guerrero considered him for a second then held up his cell phone and passport and slid them across the table.

Fogel bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Guerrero smiled briefly. “If I remember correctly, you drink tea.”

Fogel nodded again. “That would be nice.”

Guerrero snapped his fingers and, moments later, two men appeared with place settings and a tea and coffee service. Not waiters from the hotel, Fogel noticed. Serious, cautious, he knew Guerrero was not a man to be trifled with. Or crossed.

He had met with two of Guerrero’s associates in Mexico City two days earlier. Both he and his luggage had been searched and his passport and cell phone had been confiscated. Then, unexpectedly, there had been a flurry of phone calls, hushed conversations and a long wait before he was finally shoved into the back of the car. Two hours later, sometime after midnight, they had arrived at a hotel or a house, somewhere outside the city he guessed. With the blindfold on, he wasn’t exactly sure. Although he didn’t speak Spanish, he sensed the tension; he caught the cautious tone, and knew that something had happened. Then, on the TV in his room, he learned of the bombing. No one had to tell him who was behind it.

Late the next morning, he was blindfolded and thrown into the car again. Four hours later, they arrived at a second hotel. The room he was given was small but comfortable. Sometime after he arrived, a meal had been delivered. He had fallen asleep easily—a soldier’s habit—and slept soundly. He woke early and had already showered and dressed when breakfast was delivered at seven. Although he hadn’t left his room, he hadn’t seen or heard any other guests since his arrival. Guerrero, he had concluded, had taken over the entire hotel.

Guerrero took a sip of coffee then sat back. “The loss of the guns was disappointing.”

Fogel nodded, hiding his smirk. Although they had discussed the FBI raid on the militia group in New Jersey months ago—in a short and somewhat cryptic phone call—this was the first time they’d had a chance to meet face to face. Fogel had realized a while back that Guerrero ruled by fear and, therefore, felt the need to occasionally remind Fogel what befell those who displeased him. “An unfortunate occurrence,” he paused, “But this is a dangerous business, Señor Guerrero; not one without risks.”

Guerrero glared at him. “Your choice of business partners? Was that too an unfortunate occurrence?”

Fogel was quiet a moment before responding. “You knew their intent.” That wasn’t exactly true, he knew, but the militia’s hatred of the U.S. government was no secret. That they would take their hatred beyond talk—that they would develop detailed plans, scout sites and pick their targets—hadn’t been a surprise. Gerry Nichols, he had sensed from the beginning, was different. A zealot to be sure, Nichol’s eyes had told him all that he needed to know. The man was ready to die for his cause.

Nichols had provided him with the funds and asked him to acquire certain critical components on their behalf. It had taken some time for research and he had eventually figured out a way. Then the FBI had killed Nichols. Frankly, it was only through luck that he hadn’t been there when the FBI raided the compound.

An outsider, he had initially been approached to help with training. Then he had helped set up the smuggling operation, more out of boredom than anything else. It was a challenge and the cash was good. Then, when Nichols had told him his ultimate goal, he was intrigued. As in Ireland, ideology played no role in what he did. Any beliefs he had once held had been lost long ago. To him, it was all a game; a very dangerous one to be sure, but a game nonetheless.

Guerrero’s eyes narrowed. “Have you made alternative arrangements?”

Fogel nodded. “I have,” he paused, “But I’m not sure it’s more guns you need.”

Guerrero glared at him.

“I’m a student of history.” Fogel smiled then shrugged. “How could I not be growing up where I did?” His smile vanished. “And the Americans are an interesting lot.”

“Meaning what?” Guerrero demanded.

“The environment has changed,” Fogel said. “The Americans have become much more aggressive. And they seem to be working with your own government, more so now than in the past.”

Guerrero studied him for a moment. “And your point?”

Fogel sat forward, resting his arms on the table. “Let me answer your question this way, Señor Guerrero. The American policy toward Mexico has been inconsistent, has it not? Their approach has been fragmented and many times contradictory. But, in the 1990’s, what became clear was that combating the growth of the drug trade was their top priority. Not NAFTA. Not immigration.” He paused. “But drugs. That had not been a good time for the cartels, had it?”

Guerrero frowned but said nothing.

“But on September Eleventh, all of that changed. They turned their focus to Iraq and to Afghanistan.” Fogel took a sip, studying Guerrero over the rim of his cup. He knew he had the man’s attention now. He took another sip.

Guerrero’s eyes narrowed. “But, what was it? Three…four years ago? They sent their Navy SEALs here. Their focus has been shifting back.”

“It has,” Fogel said as he put his cup down. “But what happened when several of their SEALs were killed? They have no stomach for the sacrifices required; not after Iraq and Afghanistan.” He paused. “And when the SEALs were killed, they changed their policy yet again. They began to target the distribution networks you have throughout their cities. Perhaps they thought those represented a bigger threat to them because they are much closer to home. Or perhaps,” he paused, “it was a way to appease the voters, to provide some footage for the news stations, to show they were doing something.”

Guerrero sat back, his hands steepled below his chin. “And their drones?”

“Another shift in strategy. And a low-risk way to go after you again. You might be able to shoot down a few of their planes, but no American blood will be spilled.” He smiled then reached for his cup again. About to take a sip, he stopped, the cup inches from his mouth. “Wouldn’t it be nice, Señor Guerrero, if Al Qaeda struck again?”

Matthew Richter, sitting in the fourth row, was only half-listening. His eyes were on Nancy Watson and her two children, huddled together in the front row. The boy, he noticed, was sitting stiffly, staring straight ahead. Wearing a dark suit—one that, Richter guessed, had been purchased recently in anticipation of a day that no one wanted to come—he seemed oblivious to his mother’s arm, to the words whispered in his ear. On the other side, the little girl, her blond ponytail just visible above Nancy’s shoulder, was lost in her mother’s embrace. He had met them once, at the hospital. It had been an awkward moment, he remembered.

The president said something and he heard a few chuckles. Nancy’s shoulders shook and for a second he thought she was laughing. Then someone, her mother he guessed, handed her a tissue. She sobbed quietly. When she looked up, she wiped her eyes and glanced over at her husband. The coffin, draped in an American flag, sat directly in front of the altar.

He had met Brett Watson four years ago, the last time he had worked in the White House. At the time, Watson had been the Deputy National Security Advisor; someone he saw frequently when he was standing watch in the West Wing. He always seemed to be rushing somewhere; his head down, his face full of worry, a stack of reports in his arms. He had devoted his life to his country, the president said, first as an officer in the Coast Guard, then, after getting his master’s degree, as an analyst for the CIA. He had left the CIA to join the National Security Staff some fifteen years ago.

His last meeting with Watson had been brief: a ten minute visit in the hospital where it became clear that Watson no longer had any time to devote to his country. Forty-nine years old, Richter thought, shaking his head. And now, his wife Nancy was left to raise two children by herself.

As the president continued, Richter’s mind drifted. He wanted to call Patty; she was still upset that he had cancelled their plans for the prior weekend—a Valentine’s weekend away, no less—and he knew he had to find a way to make it up to her. But she would ask when he was coming home and he wasn’t sure what he could tell her. Mexico was reeling after the assassination of General Salazar. At the same time, a CIA report indicated that the Sangre Negras and remaining cartels were stockpiling food, water, gasoline and supplies—an ominous sign. Richter and the president had discussed the possibility of increasing the DEFCON level from Five to Four. The change would signal a heightened state of alert, an increase in intelligence gathering and greater national security measures. Military commanders would increase troop readiness to a level above that normally maintained in peacetime. It was not a move to be taken lightly. But one, Richter thought, that they might have to make.

Carolina Guerrero glanced out the window at the blue sky and smiled. She had been waiting a long time for this day and, over the last week, the days had seemed to stretch longer and longer, each taking forever to end. She checked the calendar on her bureau a second time, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. February 21st. She
wasn’t
dreaming—today she was nine!

She hurried as she changed her clothes, excited for the day ahead. She couldn’t wait to see the surprise Papá had for her. She glanced at her riding pants and her boots, which Cecilia had laid out on her bed. She hadn’t planned on wearing those today—she had planned on wearing a dress—but Cecilia had told her that she would look pretty in them, very grown up.

“Your papá will be so proud when he sees you!” Cecilia had said.

She quickly pulled on the pants then the boots and stood. She glanced at herself in the mirror and smiled again. She
did
look good. Papá
would
be proud.

She found Papá outside by the pool. He was speaking on the phone but turned at the sound of her footsteps. He smiled and held up one finger. She waited for him to finish; not an easy thing when she knew that he had a surprise. Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long.

“Mi amor!” he said holding his arms wide.

She ran into his hug.

“Happy birthday!” he said as he wrapped his arms around his daughter. After a moment, he stepped back holding her at arms’ length. “Let me look at you!” he said, beaming. “You look beautiful!”

She leaned in and hugged him again.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Sí, Papá!” she said.

“Well then,” he said as he led her to the stone path that curved past the house, “come on!”

Half way down the path he stopped, by the stone bench below the trellis, and rubbed his chin, feigning confusion.

“Where were we going again?”

“Papá!” Carolina protested playfully.

After a second, a smile spread across his face. “Wait here, mi amor,” he said in a whisper. “I’ll be right back.”

“Papá!” she protested again, but she sat anyway, knowing it was part of the game.

She watched as her father turned and continued down the path.

“Target spotted,” Teniente Ramirez called softly over his radio. He watched through the binoculars from almost half-a-mile away as the man emerged from around the building. A second later his radio hissed.

“Sniper One has target,” he heard in his earbud. “Setting up shot.”

“Hold for authorization,” he ordered.

“Sniper One holding,” he heard in reply.

Ramirez knew it would take some time for the sniper and his spotter to dial in on the target. The spotter would calculate the wind speed and the bullet’s drop over the twelve-hundred-meter distance between his perch in the mountains and the target below. The sniper would make minute adjustments to his scope and his aim to compensate.

Ramirez watched as the target disappeared into the stables.

Carolina fidgeted, wondering what her Papá was doing. She knew it had to do with the surprise. But he had been so playful lately, leaving little clues, most of which, she knew, were false. It was a game they often played. After a few seconds, she stood and began walking down the path that her Papá had followed. When she rounded the corner, she spotted the stables and realized that was where her Papá had gone. That was why Cecilia had prepared her riding clothes. And she knew, in that moment, what the surprise was.

Inside the stables, Pablo Guerrero took the reins of the sleek black mare from the stable hand.

He whispered softly, “Tranquila, chica.”
Easy, girl.

The horse snorted in reply and nudged him with her nose. She could smell it, he knew. He pulled the apple from his pocket and held it out to her. He hadn’t named her yet; he would let Carolina do that. He smiled as he anticipated the look on her face. When the horse finished the apple, he patted her softly.

“Listo?” he asked her.
Ready?

The horse snorted again, and he turned and began leading her toward the stable door.

Ramirez stared at the stable door through his binoculars. It wasn’t an ideal shot given the distance, the angle, and the short gap between the trees that lined the path and the stable door, but framed by the doorway, the sniper had told him, it would be a clean shot. The sniper, some four hundred meters behind him, higher up in the mountain, had a better vantage point, he knew. He would have already dialed in on the doorway, estimating where the target’s center mass would be inside the frame. Once he reappeared, it would take only a moment to make a few slight adjustments.

Carolina stopped for a second when she saw her father emerge from the stable. When she saw what was behind him, what he was leading out of the stable by the reins, she shrieked and began to run.

Two seconds after Guerrero reappeared, Ramirez heard his radio.

“Sniper One has a clean shot,”

He studied the scene for a second before he answered.

“Green light, Sniper One,” he responded. “Take the shot.”

A second later, Ramirez saw a flash of color through the trees lining the road to the stable and cursed.

“Sniper One hold!” he hissed into his microphone.

The words had barely left his mouth when, to his horror, he heard the crack of a rifle and, a fraction of a second later, saw the young girl crumple to the ground.