Birds of a Feather (2 page)

John Adams sprung into action as soon as Patton's phone went dead. His first call was to notify his office. Did they have any investigators in Juarez at the moment? It turned out that four FBI agents from the downtown office were in one car returning from interviewing a jail warden at a Mexican prison. They were still in Juarez and would cover off one of the main routes through the city in the hopes of spotting the kidnappers.

Adams ruefully thought about the four agents travelling together for safety reasons. He and Patton often took a chance on going it alone. Now it was coming back to bite them in the ass. His next move was to yell for his wife, Yolanda, who was outside watering plants on their deck.

Yolanda was born in Mexico, but her father was a chemical engineer and they immigrated to the United States when she was a teenager. There was a happy innocence about her face that Adams adored. She had a certain look and smile like she was waiting for him to crack his next joke. That look vanished when Adams said, “I need you to call your lover. Make it urgent.”

Adams was going to tell her they had grabbed Patton on the other side, but decided not to. The four of them were good friends and he was concerned the stress would show in her voice. He would tell her after.

It wasn't the first time Yolanda had called this man. John had explained to her that the phone calls were likely being monitored. Any suspicion on the part of those listening would have a deadly impact on the man she was calling … and perhaps on her husband, as well.

Police Commander Jose Refugio Rubalcava sat behind the large wooden desk in his office. The desk was scarred up and had more than one bullet hole in it. At one time it had been varnished, but most of that had long since disappeared, leaving it to absorb a variety of stains.

Leaning against the wall behind him and within easy reach were an assortment of loaded shotguns, rifles, and automatic weapons. On the top of his desk were four pistols. Theoretically, the weapons were for him to sign out to his men. In reality, Rubalcava often wondered if he would be able to grab them in time to save himself from his men.

Rubalcava had ample cause to be worried. He was trying to be an honest cop. A very dangerous thing to be in Juarez, considering his six predecessors had all been murdered at the same desk he was sitting at. Rubalcava knew that many, if not all the murders, had been committed by policemen who still worked at his station.
[1]

The choice given his predecessors was simple:
plata o plomo
— silver or lead. Six had bravely chosen not to accept the bribes. Their bravery had done nothing to thwart the ever-increasing control the drug cartels were spreading across Mexico and North America.

Rubalcava was trying a different approach. On occasion he knew he had to accept the silver to stay alive … or at least appear to keep the money. Local charities had done well from his kindness.

Rubalcava's position did not demand that he wear a uniform, so he tended to dress casually with grey slacks and a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. Today his shirt was a light charcoal colour that matched his hair. His wife said it made him look handsome.

Rubalcava knew better. At one time he was considered handsome, but the constant worry had caused him to look much older than he really was. His hair was prematurely greying and deep crevices cut through the dark sacks of skin below his eyes. His eyes once held sparkle and were quick to smile, but in the last few years they had found little to smile about.

From the outer office, Rubalcava heard a ripple of excited, gleeful whispers spread amongst his men. Something was going on, but he decided to ignore it. He knew he was not completely trusted. Rumours persisted that he talked to the Americans too much.

Police commanders were in a position where it was expected that they might talk to the Americans on occasion. The drug lords actually welcomed it as a way of finding out what the Americans were up to. The information Rubalcava obtained for the cartels, however, was usually insignificant or too long after the fact to be of benefit. When confronted about this, Rubalcava said perhaps the Americans did not trust him, either.

There was another small commotion in the outer office and he decided to take a look. This time the voices were not whispers. One of his men, Detective Sanchez, had given the secretary a gift. She had always ignored his advances before, but appeared delighted with the small silver frog pendant dangling from a chain. The frog's red eyes matched her lipstick.

Rubalcava forced a smile and tried to look pleased with the happy atmosphere.
I wonder who was robbed or killed in order for him to give that gift?
He saw Sanchez eyeing him and their eyes met briefly. Sanchez smirked and turned his attention back to the secretary.
He knows what I am thinking …

Sanchez was protected by a drug cartel headed by Rafael Aguilar Guajardo. It was the top drug cartel in the region, although their supremacy was being hotly contested by the rival Sinaloa cartel.

The Sinaloa cartel was originally based out of the Mexican states of Baja, Sinaloa, Durango, Sonora, and Chihuahua, but had expanded operations and as of late had been encroaching on territory long held by the Guajardo cartel. At the present time, the Guajardo cartel still remained firmly in control of most of Juarez and Sanchez knew he had nothing to fear from his commander.

Rubalcava casually scanned the office again.
The excitement and whispers I heard earlier are not over a stolen pendant. Something else has happened …
His thoughts were interrupted when his telephone rang and he went back to his office to answer it.

He immediately recognized the sexy voice asking to meet him again. Her husband had stepped out. They only had a few minutes of precious time before he would return. Rubalcava agreed and hung up the phone.
I wonder what John Adams's wife really looks like …

It was late Friday afternoon when Jack arrived home and called the RCMP Telecommunications Centre to check Earl Porter's name on the Canadian Police Information Centre's computer. The CPIC query did not show any criminal record, but a notation did come back to say he was of interest to the Vancouver RCMP Drug Section.

Jack's next call was to Sammy in Drug Section.

“Porter, yeah, he used to be of interest to us,” replied Sammy. “Not now, somebody must have forgotten to remove him from CPIC.”

“What's the scoop?” asked Jack.

“Two years ago, Porter came up as a close associate of a guy who was our main target in an undercover operation. A fellow named Clive Slater.”

“What's the story on Slater?”

“He's a real pompous ass who likes to throw his money around in the night-club circuit. He drives a red Ferrari 430 F1 Spider and tries to act like he is a mafia don or something. We had a snitch who told us Porter and Slater were involved in coke in a big way.”

“Do you still have the snitch?”

“No. Last I heard the snitch is in jail in Ontario,” said Sammy. “He wasn't deemed to be all that reliable, anyway. He was one of those types of guys who just suspects something, but then relays it as fact.”

“How did your investigation end up?” asked Jack.

“Well, at the time we did some checking and it turned out Porter and Slater had business connections in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Porter owned a company that made tourist trinkets and Slater was involved in a fruit company. We had our liaison officer out of Mexico City make some inquiries for us. According to the Mexican police, the companies are legit, but the LO said the police are so corrupt down there that you have to take everything they tell you with a grain of salt.”

“Sounds like the companies might be used for laundering money,” said Jack.

“Could be, but neither of them have ever been caught with any coke.”

“Maybe they're the financiers?”

“There's always that possibility,” Sammy agreed. “We tried to snare them both in a UC operation, but Slater was too smart. Our undercover operator spent three months befriending him. Then he was with Slater in a nightclub one night and Slater, being the asshole he is, laughed and said he appreciated the RCMP buying him all these drinks.”

“Who was the operator?”

“Ken Hales, out of Calgary.”

“I've worked with him. He's a hell of a good operator,” Jack commented.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Maybe the Mexicans tipped Slater off after the LO made inquiries.”

“Possibly.”

“No problem then if I take a look at Porter and perhaps Slater?” asked Jack.

“Fill your boots,” replied Sammy. “Neither are on our target list. Like I said, someone forgot to remove them from CPIC. We've had to reprioritize. Known gang members who are killing each other off are our number-one concern.”

Adams crossed the Bridge of the Americas and was waved through customs. He had not bothered to go to the office and get a car, instead opting to use his own car. Time was of the essence. He had little hope that his office, currently going through channels with the American ambassador in Mexico City, would have any luck in getting Patton back alive.

The four FBI agents had agreed to stay in Juarez to assist … providing assistance was still possible. That hope lay in the person Adams was going to meet.

Adams cursed and glanced at his watch. The minutes were ticking past and he accelerated along cluttered narrow streets to get to one particular back alley.

Rubalcava saw the questioning glances of his men as he hurried to leave the office. As a commander, he was normally at his desk all day, except for three o'clock in the afternoon, when he went to pick his children up from school. Picking them up was more than a safety issue. Seeing the bright happy faces of his two sons gave him hope. Hope that someday the future of the Mexican people would also brighten. He had sworn he would do what he could to make that possible.

“Commander?” the secretary asked, while glancing at her watch. “It is only two o'clock.”

“I know. I have to meet an old friend,” he replied.

Like Adams, Rubalcava drove at high speed with a constant eye in his rear-view mirror. Even though he was satisfied he wasn't being followed, he still parked his car two blocks away from his destination. From there he cautiously made his way toward the alley on foot, while still taking the time to dart into a couple of shops along the way to see who might enter behind him.

Rubalcava knew if he were seen secretly meeting a gringo there would be serious questions. If the gringo was identified as a U.S. Customs agent, he knew any lie he could come up with would likely not be accepted and would result in his execution. He also knew Adams realized the danger.
What has happened?

Adams sat low in his seat as he slowly drove down the alley in his white Celica. His windshield was tinted, making it difficult for people to see in, but the other windows were clear. There were few gringos in this part of the city, but it was also an area not known to be of interest to the cartels. Rubalcava stepped out from an alcove and Adams unlocked the passenger door.

“
Amigo
,” said Rubalcava with a worried smile on his face as he got in the car. “It is always good to see you.” As usual, Rubalcava made no comment about the extreme risk in which Adams had placed him and instead treated their meeting like a friend who was happy to see him.

Adams didn't take the time to exchange niceties. The words tumbled out of him as if he were an auctioneer.

Rubalcava's face darkened. “This house, with the Mercedes that your partner followed. Which cartel did they belong to? Guajardo or Sinaloa?”

“I don't know. We were still trying to find out. An anonymous phone call complained of lots of men coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Lots of souped-up cars being driven by Mexicans who look like gangsters. Greg and I spent the last couple of nights trying to identify who they were.”

“I do not have much that could help you if it was the Sinaloa cartel, but if it was the Guajardo … it could explain why some men in my office were whispering and smiling about something an hour ago.”

Adams checked his watch. “It was an hour and twenty-five minutes ago when Greg was grabbed. Maybe they heard the news. It fits. Would Rafael Guajardo be directly involved? If we locate him —”

“No, he would not risk being involved. Besides, Guajardo has been meeting some other drug lords in Cancun this last week. He has not returned yet and may not even know about it. The two jackals he left in charge, Vicente Carrillo Fuentes or his brother, Amado Carrillo Fuentes, could have okayed and planned the kidnapping on their own. Even then, they would have turned it over to someone else to complete. Do you know what colour the Mercedes is?”

“Green. Why?”

“Now it is coming together in my mind. Below the Carrillo Fuentes brothers, there are three lower bosses, who also happen to be brothers. One of them, a big fat man by the name of Chico, drives a green Mercedes. Chico controls much of the prostitution and collects money from the pimps who work for him. He often goes into El Paso to collect money from pimps who operate out of some strip bar. The Red something.”

“The Red Poker Saloon?” asked Adams.

“Yes, that is it. You know the place?”

“I've been there. It's full of pimps, drug dealers, bikers, you get the picture. Does Chico control a particular police station here in Juarez?”

“Not him, directly … but of course the Guajardo cartel controls many,” replied Rubalcava.

“Do you think the police who grabbed Greg would take him back to their station?”

“Possibly. If they don't intend to keep him alive long they might take him there. If they plan on torturing him over a period of a few days they would take him to some place more remote. Probably outside the city.”

Adams winced. “What police station would you suspect the most?”

“If he was taken to a police station, I think it would be one of two. Both are small and in outlying areas. The captains in both stations, along with their men, are firmly in the pockets of the Guajardo cartel.”

“I've got a map of Juarez in the glove box. Dig it out and show me where the stations are.”

Rubalcava spoke as he unfolded the map. “The first station is on the northwest side of the city. The police at that station specialize in kidnapping people for ransom. I believe there are about two-dozen policemen who work out of that office.”

“So they are experienced at snatching people,” noted Adams. “Sounds like it could be them.”

“Perhaps … although they do not use marked police vehicles when they kidnap. The captain there is very short with a pockmarked face.”

“He'll have more than pockmarks on his face if he is responsible,” said Adams tersely, patting the Heckler & Koch P2000 semi-automatic pistol tucked in the holster on his belt.

“The other station is on the southeast side,” continued Rubalcava. “I believe there are about seventeen officers who work out of that station.”

“If we find him, will you get any heat over how we knew where he was?”

“Nothing I can't handle. Lots of policemen will know about it. Any one of them may have talked.”

“Thanks, my friend,” said Adams.

“I am sorry I cannot help you further.”

“I already have backup on this side of the border. Four FBI agents.”

“That is not many.”

“It's not like we have the time … or the authority. I don't even know how far these FBI guys will go. They're feds. I can't count on them to break the rules.”

“Then I wish you luck. If you find him and somehow rescue him, do not use the border crossings going back. They will be waiting for you.”

“Thanks. If we manage to retrieve him, I know several places the illegals use. We'll use one of them.”

“Now you must hurry. If he is at one of the stations and is still alive, he will not be for long.”

“Let's hope he is only being held to inconvenience him,” offered Adams.

“No, my friend,” replied Rubalcava sadly, giving Adams's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “If that was simply the case, the men in my office would not even have been told … let alone be as pleased as they are.”

Adams called the four FBI agents. One of them, Antonio, was of Mexican heritage and suggested if he took off his suit jacket and tie, he might be able to blend in enough to do some close-up reconnaissance. The decision of what to do was given to Adams, as Patton was his partner.

The FBI agents were still in the heart of Juarez and with the amount of traffic it would take them about an hour to check out the police station in the southeast. Adams was about forty-five minutes away from the northwest station and an hour and a half away from the southeast station. He decided to send the four FBI agents to the southeast station while he headed in the opposite direction.

During the forty-five-minute drive, Adams thought of what he would do if he believed his partner was inside. Adams had been trained by the United States military as a Special Forces commando and was an expert marksman with a variety of weapons. His talent in that regard was still used. He was a reservist and was occasionally called upon for brief missions.

Adams's plan was simple.
If Greg is there I'll bust in and take him out … the Mexicans are lousy shots, anyway …

When Adams arrived, he drove past the station and saw it had its front door propped open. People casually visited with one another near the entrance while citizens were coming and going out of the building.

He's not here!

Adams gritted his jaw, determined to fight back the tears of frustration as he spun his car around and raced back across the city to the southeast section.

Antonio walked down the block toward the southeast police station, his eyes taking in the situation all the while. A woman ahead of him tried to open the front door of the station and found it was locked. She peered in through the window, then quickly stepped back and hurried off down the sidewalk.

When Antonio reached the station he knew why the woman had left in a rush. From within the station he heard the terrified scream of a man in agony pleading for his life … in English.

Antonio hurried back to the car to report his findings. Adams was still over an hour away and three hours had passed since Patton was captured. The four FBI agents decided not to wait. They also knew what they were about to do was illegal and could cost them their jobs … if they lived to have a job.

Antonio returned and pounded on the door of the police station with his fists. A voice from within told him to go away and come back later. Antonio persisted and yelled that his wife had been raped. Again, he was told to come back later. Antonio continued to pound and when his fist cracked the glass, a policeman cursed and came with a billy club in his hand and jerked the door open.

Antonio's response was to stick his gun in the policeman's face while putting one finger to his lips as a signal not to talk. The other three agents rushed past Antonio toward a doorway leading into the holding-cell area. Before they could make it, another policeman appeared in the doorway and yelled to warn the others.

Pandemonium broke out as the agents raced inside. Three of the six policemen in the holding-cell area had time to fumble their pistols out of their holsters, but hesitated to shoot when they saw that the agents had already taken specific aim at them.

A barrage of screaming ensued before the Mexican policemen backed up a little, leaving Patton hanging like a naked wet rag doll on the side of the cell.

Patton was left where he was until the seventh policeman was ushered into the holding area by Antonio. Antonio and another agent used their own keys to remove the handcuffs from Patton, whose legs buckled beneath him as he was laid on the floor.

Antonio ran out to retrieve the car while the other three agents remained with their weapons pointed at the policemen. The sound of screeching tires announced Antonio's return, seconds before he ran back inside.

There was more yelling amongst the agents and the Mexicans, who were still pointing their weapons at each other. The agents tried to order the Mexicans into the cell, but they refused. Finally, one of the agents grabbed Patton's pants off the floor, and, along with another agent, lifted the injured man by the shoulders and dragged him out of the room.

“The first person to follow us outside will be shot,” warned Antonio, as he and the remaining agent slowly backed out.

From the front door of the police station, Patton uttered his first words. “The notebook!” he blubbered. “Get the notebook!”

His comments were ignored as he was rushed from the station and tossed into the car.

Seconds later, the squealing of tires told the Mexican policemen it was safe and they ran out onto the street. By then, the agents had already turned a corner and sped out of sight.

Adams received a call a minute later. Jubilation was slightly tempered. They knew every policeman in the city would be made aware of their escape. Trumped-up charges would follow. Charges that would be hard to refute once you were dead.

“They'll have machine-gun nests set up at every crossing,” warned Adams. “When you get close to the border, you'll have to ditch the car and go on foot. I'll show you where.”

One hour later, the four FBI agents, carrying Patton, staggered back into the United States.
[1]

Patton was rushed to the University Medical Center Hospital in El Paso. He was hysterical, incoherent, and crying. He wanted to tell them something, but kept breaking down before he could get the words out. He was sedated and drifted out of consciousness.

Over the weekend, Patton was still listed as being in shock and only his wife was allowed in to see him. It would be Monday morning before he had recovered enough to be debriefed.