An Eye For An Eye (26 page)

Dressed for war with masks and body armor, the two Federal Police officers grabbed Fogel’s arms. With his hands cuffed behind him, his legs bound by shackles, and wearing a bulletproof vest, he shuffled forward awkwardly. Three dozen federal cops, all masked and holding automatic rifles, formed two lines leading to the small stage. As Fogel was led through the gauntlet, he suppressed a smile. This was the perp walk, an opportunity for the police and the government to parade their prisoner in front of the cameras. He was led up the steps where the procession stopped and he was turned to face the cameras. A man wearing a business suit, the attorney general for the state of Tamaulipas, stepped up to the microphone. He made a few comments, glancing periodically at the notes in his hand. Fogel understood none of it.

He grinned for the camera, knowing it would give the press, the commentators and the news shows something to analyze, to discuss. The media show was brief—cut short, he suspected—and he was led off stage to an armored van. Out of sight of the cameras, he was roughly shoved into the back. The police, it seemed, had expected him to show the defeated look of a prisoner: a crestfallen, confused face for the cameras. The grin had pissed them off.

Two cops pushed him down to the bench then took up positions across from him. Their dark, menacing eyes stared at him from behind their masks. He ignored the cops as he considered his predicament. This was a tough scrape, he knew. But he had been in worse. The Mexicans would likely extradite him to the U.S. or, at a minimum, turn him over to U.S. authorities. He might be taken to Guantanamo or to one of the CIA black sites in Asia or Africa. There, he would be waterboarded, or worse. He had no illusions. The Americans would use whatever means they had to—legal or otherwise—to find out what he knew.

But he had a bargaining chip: he had only used two of the cesium canisters in New York. The remaining two canisters were in a self-storage locker near Buffalo, in upstate New York. It wasn’t much, and it was unlikely to remain a secret for long once the CIA got a hold of him. But it was something he might be able to use. And as far as Guerrero was concerned, he had no loyalties. Guerrero was simply a source of funds, someone to finance a game that Fogel had been playing for as long as he could remember.

He shifted in his seat and the cops’ dark eyes bore into him. He grinned. One of the cops suddenly lunged forward and struck him in the face with the butt of his rifle. He saw stars as his nose exploded in a shower of blood and his head was slammed into the wall of the truck. Dazed, he slumped to the floor.

He lay still for a while as the white hot pain danced in his head. Unexpectedly, he gagged—an involuntary reaction—and rolled onto his side. He coughed up a mouthful of blood. Rough hands grabbed him and pushed him back into his seat. One of the cops—he couldn’t tell which one through the tears in his eyes—held a cloth to his nose, pinching the bridge to stop the bleeding. He sat still for a while and his head began to clear. It was a predictable response, he thought, as he eyed the cops. And it was one that he might be able to use to his advantage. As rough as the Mexicans were likely to be, they represented his best option. As the truck rumbled along, he closed his eyes and began to think.

As the National Security meeting ended, the president glanced over at Richter and nodded briefly. Richter caught the message and, moments later, he followed the president back to the Oval Office. The president had something on his mind, Richter guessed, something that he didn’t want to share with the other NSC members.

“We need to speak to Fogel,” the president said once the door was closed.

Richter nodded but said nothing. Talking to Fogel was going to be a challenge. Despite appeals by both the State Department and the U.S. Attorney General, the Mexican government had refused to consider an extradition request. Further, they had refused to allow the FBI to interview him. Apparently, they believed that Fogel had a role in the Mexico City bombing and, so far at least, the U.S. had been denied access. Even the president’s own appeal, Kendall had told him a day earlier, seemed to have fallen on deaf ears as President Magaña promised, somewhat vaguely and uncharacteristically, to see what he could do.

“I spoke to Magaña again this morning,” the president continued. “I think there might be a small window of opportunity but,” he paused, frowning, “the situation is very delicate right now.”

Richter nodded again. This was something they had discussed. In the wake of increasingly negative public sentiment, there was a risk that Magaña’s own administration might be turning on him. Tired of the violence, critics were strongly encouraging the Mexican government to negotiate a ceasefire with the cartels. Yet those same critics still demanded that someone be held accountable for the deaths in Mexico City. Was Fogel the sacrificial lamb?

“I want you to go down there,” the president continued. “Publically, they cannot be seen as caving to U.S. pressure. But privately, I’m hoping you can negotiate an arrangement with President Magaña and with their attorney general.”

Frustrated with the pace of diplomacy, and perhaps, Richter suspected, realizing the futility given the tenuous situation, the president wanted to try a back channel. He understood the urgency. There was a risk that Guerrero would get to Fogel before they did. What would happen to the cesium then? Had Fogel made any arrangements just in case he was captured? Something to show the U.S. that he would have the last laugh? Did he have someone working with him or for him as the FBI suspected? Potentially someone connected to Guerrero? Did Guerrero know where the canisters were and no longer had a need for Fogel? The possibilities were frightening, and finding out exactly what Fogel knew was crucial.

“Don’t push for extradition,” the president continued. “We’ll worry about that later. Our priority is getting access to Fogel and finding out what he knows.”

The president sat down behind his desk and began to scrawl a note.

While he waited, Richter thought about Magaña. He had met the Mexican President three years before when he had visited Washington. It was a meeting he remembered well. On President Kendall’s security detail at the time, Richter had been standing watch outside the president’s private dining room while the two leaders enjoyed lunch. He had been the first one through the door when he heard the crash of a chair. He remembered the look on President Magaña’s face. Standing, with his hands on his throat, Magaña’s eyes had been wide with panic as he choked on a piece of chicken. It was a story that only a handful of people would ever hear. What could have been an embarrassing situation for the White House had been avoided when Richter performed the Heimlich maneuver. Magaña had been gracious and had gone out of his way to show his appreciation. At the time, Richter remembered, he had dismissed it as routine response, something he had been trained to do. Then, a week later, he had been surprised when he received a hand-written thank you note.

The president stood. He folded his own note and stuffed it into an envelope bearing the presidential seal. “President Magaña understands the urgency. The issue will be working out the details with the attorney general.” The president handed him the envelope. “Give this to President Magaña. Tell him that I’ve reconsidered.” The president paused. “Tell him that I’m ready to send the SEALs in to help find Guerrero.”

As she sipped her tea, Patty thought about how quickly life had changed. She hadn’t known anyone personally who had been in Grand Central that morning but, once again, she thought through her list of friends and acquaintances, making sure she hadn’t missed anyone.

As a result of the bombing in Grand Central, cops were now visible everywhere. Security was more visible on campus too, she thought. But as dire as it looked, the situation in the U.S. was not nearly as bad as it was in Mexico.

Mexico had become an extremely dangerous place over the last six months and her former student, Christina, had joined the growing list of casualties in the escalating violence. News stories and personal accounts of the atrocities had become a daily occurrence. That the government hadn’t yet declared a state of emergency was not a surprise. A curfew and martial law would mean nothing in those cities that cops and soldiers—vastly outnumbered and outgunned and fearful for their own lives—avoided. And those that did venture in, to cities like Matamoros, Monterrey, Ciudad Juarez, were suspected to be on the payroll of one cartel or another.

From an academic standpoint, the potential collapse of the Mexican state was an interesting event to watch unfold. What would happen if the country did collapse? And how would it happen? Would military and police forces simply
walk off the job
? Or would they aid in the overthrow by imprisoning key leaders?

There was a risk that, at some point, basic governmental institutions would simply cease functioning. And what would happen then? A failure in the maintenance and operation of roads, railways, airports, harbors, and other physical infrastructure would have a significant negative impact on the business environment and on the economy. The petroleum industry was state run, a governmental monopoly. What would the tens of millions of citizens and businesses that bought gasoline and diesel fuel for their cars and trucks each day do if supplies were interrupted? And what about electricity and water and other key utilities? Some of those were controlled by the government too, weren’t they? What would happen if those services simply ceased? Would communication networks—phone and Internet service—still function if the government collapsed?

In the ensuing economic turmoil, would the central bank ultimately lose control over the currency, leading to the eventual collapse of the monetary system? Would the judicial system—the operation of courts and the criminal justice system—go next, further weakening the rule of law in an already weak state? Would government coffers be looted, if not by the cartels, by greedy bureaucrats? Would the educational system crumble when unpaid teachers were forced to find other ways to feed their own children and the lights in schools were no longer lit? What would happen when state-provided medical care and food for the poor and other critical social programs collapsed, leaving large segments of the population, already living below the poverty line, to fend for themselves?

Ultimately, unless the cartels stepped in and quickly established order, the country would be plunged into chaos. Civil disorder—widespread looting, rioting, and violence—would follow. How would the cartels manage to prevent that? she wondered. Or is that what they wanted? Would they band together and forge an alliance? Could that work? Did they even have a plan?

How far, she wondered, was Mexico from that doomsday scenario? A year? Six months? The United Nations was debating how best to respond to the growing threat. Would they send peacekeepers in? What would that accomplish? Would Mexico end up like Somalia, as an ungoverned collection of territories controlled by regional warlords?

She stood. It was only for a day or two, she told herself as she poured the rest of her now cold tea in the sink. And no one understood the risk better than Matthew. The Secret Service did all it could to avoid dangerous situations, and even an ex-agent like Matthew, having been trained well, would take the necessary precautions. He was more than capable of protecting himself. Besides, he would have a team of Secret Service agents with him to keep him out of trouble. There was no reason to worry.

So why was she?

The pilot held the aircraft low as he raced at close to two hundred miles per hour toward the coast. Less than one hundred feet over the waves, he relied on his skill and the sophisticated navigation system to keep him out of trouble. The MH-65C, a multi-mission Coast Guard helicopter used in search and rescue and for armed interdiction, was equipped with a forward looking infrared display that allowed the pilot to see at night and hopefully keep his aircraft from plummeting into the waves that were a blur in the darkness below.

He saw the dark shadows of the coastline appear on his display. After six minutes of skimming high speed just above the water, the real fun was about to begin. He glanced at his copilot and grinned. The copilot grinned back, not just from the excitement of flying but from a sadistic streak that he shared with the pilot—one seemingly at odds with their standard search and rescue mission. When plucking a drowning victim from the water, the two were all business. But when they became glorified taxi drivers, they liked to have some fun.

If the VIP sitting in the back wasn’t turning green yet, the pilot thought as the coastline rushed toward them and he pulled up on the collective, he soon would be. The helicopter shot up, barely clearing the bluff, then decelerated rapidly as the pilot put the aircraft into a hover. Moments later, as he landed softly on the ground, two dozen men who had been waiting surrounded the aircraft. He noticed the weapons held ready. Let’s hope, the pilot thought, that they really were friendlies as he had been told to expect.

A minute later, his VIP discharged, he increased the throttle and pulled up on the collective again. The helicopter lifted off and, after a graceful turn, accelerated off into the night. Seconds later, it was lost in the darkness over the water.

For a brief moment Matthew Richter felt like a criminal. Dressed in a Coast Guard flight suit, standing in the middle of the helipad in the darkness, surrounded by twenty-plus men—all carrying weapons, all watching him with wary eyes—he felt exposed and helpless. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a man who was used to being on the other side. Where the hell were his people? he wondered.

He heard his name, a familiar voice, and turned as Agent Wendy Tillman and seven other Secret Service agents stepped into view. With the Secret Service agents were a handful of plain clothes Mexican security agents, part, Richter presumed, of the Mexican President’s security detail.

“This way, sir,” Tillman said, pointing to the path that led to the lights and the buildings beyond the trees. As they walked, Tillman provided an overview of the security arrangements.

“They have a force of thirty from the Presidential Guard,” Tillman said.

Richter gave her a look. That, plus the eight Secret Service agents assigned to protect him, wasn’t much.

“It’s a little light,” Tillman acknowledged, “but, as you know, this meeting is supposed to be a secret. From what I’ve been told, as far as most people know, including most of President Magaña’s security team, he’s asleep in Los Pinos.”

Richter nodded but said nothing.

“He arrived about an hour ago,” Tillman continued then added, “The attorney general should be here shortly.”

Sneaking the president out of Mexico City without anyone knowing must have been a challenge. But, as Richter also knew, secret presidential trips were not unusual. As one of his former colleagues had told him, shortly after the fall of Saddam Hussein’s government, President George Bush had flown to Baghdad to meet with the U.S. troops who had secured the city. Most Americans, including a number of the Secret Service agents assigned to protect him, only learned of the trip after Bush returned. The hapless agents had no idea that President Bush had left his ranch in Crawford, Texas. With a little bit of subterfuge, Bush had been able to sneak away.

Richter’s own trip had been a charade. Dressed in a Coast Guard flight suit, he had been secreted onto a chopper in Corpus Christi and flown to a Coast Guard cutter patrolling several hundred miles off the Texas coast. Later, sitting in the captain’s quarters as the cutter sailed south, the captain had explained the plan. Shortly after dark, the cutter would receive a distress call from a capsized boat twenty-three miles off of the Mexican coast. As expected, they would dispatch a helicopter—with Richter in the back, sandwiched between the rescue swimmer and hoist operator—to search for the stranded crew. After making a show of flying search patterns over a patch of ocean, the chopper would drop low, below the radar, and make a beeline for the coast. If all went well, fifteen minutes later, the chopper would be back on station searching for the non-existent boat and no one would be the wiser.

Elaborate, yes, but the ruse had been necessary. There had been a growing anti-American sentiment in Mexico, many claiming Magaña’s close ties to the U.S. President were responsible for the bombing in Mexico City. The Mexican President could not be seen publically to be caving in to American demands to turn over the Irish terrorist. In private, though, Richter hoped that some accommodation could be made.

His eyes scanned across the open ground of the ranch, at the darkness of the forests beyond, and then back toward the sea from which he had come. He had wanted to grill Tillman, to better understand the security procedures in place and how the small security force would defend the Mexican President, and by extension himself, from a potential assault. But he didn’t. He had other things to worry about; Tillman would have to take care of the rest.

“Mr. Richter,” President Magaña said with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Richter nodded as he took Magaña’s outstretched hand. “Mister President. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Magaña’s smile, Richter noted, was a politician’s facade. His eyes told the real story. They reflected the burden and worry of a man fighting to hold his crumbling nation together.

Richter glanced around the room. There was a sitting area, several comfortable chairs and a couch in front of a large square marble table that was bathed in the soft glow of reflected light. The tile floor extended out to the veranda, creating an extension of the living room when the large glass wall panels were retracted, as they were now. He could see light reflecting off the ocean in the distance.

A servant appeared and took his drink order. Richter asked for iced tea, something he knew from his briefing was a favorite of the Mexican President’s. As the drinks were served, one of Magaña’s bodyguards stepped into the room and said something in Spanish that Richter didn’t comprehend. Magaña nodded then turned.

“Come,” he said, standing. “The attorney general will be here momentarily.”

As he followed Magaña out onto a large veranda, Richter could hear the pounding of the surf in the distance. The veranda was illuminated by the light of the living room and the low voltage lighting along the railing. Magaña led him around the side, where the veranda wrapped around the house. Standing at the railing, Richter realized they were facing the now dark helipad beyond the trees.

“I watched you land,” Magaña said. He pointed over the trees and began to describe the ranch. Richter smiled and nodded but said nothing. Mexican customs were different, he knew, and he suspected that Magaña wanted to wait for the attorney general before discussing Fogel. Once the attorney general arrived, Richter decided, he would let Magaña initiate the conversation. The man clearly understood what was at stake for both countries and the urgency of speaking with the Irish terrorist.

His thoughts were interrupted by the staccato sound of rotors slapping at the air and, seconds later, the lights around the helipad were turned on, illuminating the contingent of soldiers standing around the perimeter. The sound reverberated off the building and the forest and hills beyond and, for a moment, Richter was unsure which direction it was coming from. Then he saw the faint outlines of the aircraft coming in low over the hills to the west. Like the Coast Guard helicopter that had ferried him here, this one too was flying without its anti-collision lights.

The helicopter hovered momentarily and then, as it began to descend, a streak of orange light flashed up from the ocean. In a fraction of a second, Richter’s brain registered the tongue of flame and, operating on instinct, he spun away from the railing. He could see the orange streak reflecting off Magaña’s eyes as he pulled him down, away from the railing. Suddenly, the night was lit up by a brilliant flash as the helicopter exploded in a fireball. The shockwave slammed into them, tossing them like rag dolls into the side of the building. Glass from the shattered windows rained down on their heads. There was a split second of silence—a feeling like his head was stuffed with cotton—then the muffled roar of an inferno behind them. Richter shook his head and, as he pushed himself up to his knees, he heard the first screams of the men near the helipad as the burning debris rained down on them. He grabbed President Magaña below the arms and hustled him into the house where they were met by the security team. As Magaña was led away by his agents, Agent Tillman grabbed Richter’s arm. There was blood running down her cheek, from a cut above her eye.

“We need to evac now, sir!” she shouted as several agents moved him toward the stairs.

Suddenly, the room exploded in a flash of light.