The Covert Element (12 page)

Calderon did not disappoint.

After their extended visit at the villa that first night, Calderon
sequestered Santos in the villa compound’s "holding facility" – a
concrete block building with a steel door and barred windows.
Armed guards attended. He was not allowed to leave his quarters,
even to use the latrine. He was given a bucket for this purpose.
Guards brought him tortillas and water once a day.

He made no complaint, rationing the food & water to replace
fluids lost to perspiration. He conserved energy through meditation
and biofeedback . . . techniques taught him by his former
employers. His solitary existence continued for seven days.

Then one night, just after sunset, the sound of keys turning in
the lock aroused him from his semi-slumber. A cartel soldier
dressed in black opened the door, and without a word, beckoned
him to follow.

At the soldier’s direction, a somewhat disoriented Santos
climbed into the back of a covered army truck along with a dozen
cartel soldiers. Each soldier carried an American-made Colt AR-15
automatic rifle.

"
Que pasa?
Where do you take me?"

"No talking. You will find out soon enough." The man spoke
with a voice of authority. He was in charge of this operation –
whatever it might be.

The truck rumbled down the villa drive. Santos bounced on his
wooden bench, as did the others. The rank odor of the unwashed
stung his nostrils. The same canvas enclosure that kept prying eyes
out, also kept the sweat and stench of the men in.

After a kidney-punching hour or more on the road, the truck
came to an abrupt stop.

"Stay here," the commander directed, as the soldiers piled out.
Santos knew his obedience at this juncture was crucial to his larger
plan. He waited.

Presently, Santos heard the shouts of the soldiers, then the
sounds of women screaming and men pleading for their lives.
Bursts of automatic gunfire punctuated the outcrying until all that
remained was a single, sobbing whimper.

Santos heard boots outside. The commander pulled back the
canvas flap at the rear.

"Out."

Santos complied.

The captain clasped Santos’ elbow and guided him roughly
around the truck to the scene of the bloodbath. The truck was
parked outside a modest home in a working-class neighborhood,
presumably somewhere in or near Tampico. Lying dead along the
front wall of the home were three men and a woman. A father,
mother, and two nearly grown sons – all covered with blood and
riddled with bullet holes.

Santos was a hardened man. He had witnessed worse.

As he took in the scene, a soldier appeared in the home’s
doorway, dragging with him a young girl, certainly under ten years
of age. She screamed as he thrust her by her hair onto the ground
beside her mother. Crying uncontrollably, the girl crawled to her
mother’s side and hugged her dead body.

"Santos," the captain said in a loud voice so all neighbors could
hear. "Raphael Santos. Come here."

Santos knew what was coming. He had expected a trial by fire.
But now that he had arrived at the moment, could he do it? Could
he pull the trigger that would end this girl’s life?

The captain handed Santos a 9mm pistol and motioned to the
girl.

"Finish it."

Santos showed no emotion or hesitation. He took three steps
closer to the girl lying prostrate on the ground before him, raised
the handgun, and pulled the trigger a single time. The girl slumped,
blood oozing from the back of her head, where playful curls had
once swung free.

Santos turned toward the captain . . . his face without
expression. A few steps forward and Santos returned the weapon to
its owner. The captain was clearly searching him for some reaction.
He stared the captain in the eyes. Santos’ face showed no emotion
but resolve. No smile at his achievement. No revulsion. No quiver in
his stare. Finally Santos spoke.

"
Esta bien?
"
Good enough for you, you cold-hearted bastard?

"
Si
." The captain waved the men back into the truck. Several
gunmen surveyed the surrounding homes, rifles ready to cover their
departure.

Santos followed the men back to his bench in the truck bed.
His guts churned, but his expression and manner remained
unreadable.

He had passed the first test. He had committed ruthless
murder of an innocent, while the captain proclaimed his name to
countless witnesses. This was only the first test, Santos knew. There
would be more. Perhaps not as shameful. But more. Many more. He
would pass those tests as well. And one day, he would bring
Los
Cinco
to its knees, and it will all have been worth it. He will have
saved thousands of innocents from the cartel. To sacrifice one this
night was acceptable collateral damage. It had to be.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Present day in Red Wing.

Thursday morning arrived early with a call from Bull.

"Hello?"

"Says he’ll be here Saturday."
Click.

"Huh?" But it was too late. Bull had hung up.

Saturday was in just two days. I’d better start figuring out what
I wanted to ask Fuentes when he arrived. I certainly didn’t want to
be unprepared. I hate being unprepared. And I hate it when others
are unprepared. Lack of preparedness wastes valuable time and
opportunities. People who are
never
prepared make me want to
spit.

"Who was on the phone, Babe?" Beth’s voice was sleepy.

"Wrong number."

Beth rolled onto her stomach, her spaghetti strapped, white
cotton top bunched a bit on her back. I rolled onto my side and
smoothed out her pjs. When the last hint of a wrinkle was gone, I
lay there and petted her back softly. She exhaled an "mmmm" of
approval, then drifted back to sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

One year ago in Bellechester.

The arrival of Albert Dosdall’s golden Mercedes E550 sedan in
Bellechester represented more than a visit from the investor’s
emissary. German-engineering met galvanized metal corn bins. Soft
leather dress shoes walked in the dust that covered working class
boots.

The locals didn’t know who drove the gleaming sedan, or what
their business might be in Bellechester. But they felt immediate
disdain toward the car’s occupants. A distaste that the bourgeoisie
by nature reserve for the privileged. An emotion prompted by both
hatred of extreme success and a hopeless dream to achieve it.

The Benz idled slowly into Bellechester Organic’s gravel
parking lot, as though trying not to raise dust onto its pristine
finish. Eventually, it came to a stop near the rear of the lot, far from
the danger of middle class door dings.

Walter Marsden had seen them arrive – Dosdall and his
accountant. He couldn’t miss them. Marsden’s desk faced his
office’s "window on the world" that
was
the Bellechester cityscape.
He watched them cross the parking lot toward his door . . . two tall
men in dark suits. Probably the only two power suits that would
cross his threshold this month. The accountant carried a black
leather brief case. Marsden’s gut tumbled uncomfortably as they
neared.

When the bell of Marsden’s office door tinkled, he turned in his
chair and stood to greet the visitors.

"Good morning, Mr. Dosdall. Nice to see you as always." It was
all he could do to calm the quaver in his voice.

"Walter. Nice to see you as well." A smiling Dosdall crossed the
office in two steps, grasping Marsden’s hand in a firm shake.

"And this is Mr. Ashcroft. Mr. Ashcroft . . . Walter Marsden,
president and CEO of Bellechester Organic."

Marsden and Ashcroft exchanged greetings.

Ashcroft was a large man, broad-shouldered, with a hand that
swallowed Marsden’s as they shook. An odd name for a Latino,
Marsden thought. But who was he to judge?

"Well, Walter. Let’s get started. Shall we sit at your conference
table?" Dosdall gestured at a metal table with a green Formica top
occupying the opposite half of the room from Marsden’s desk.

The city men dusted off their chairs with handkerchiefs, then
took seats with Dosdall behind the table, facing both the door and
the window. Ashcroft and Marsden sat next to each other, across
from Dosdall, ostensibly so they could review reports together.

"Okay, Walter. You had some questions about the management
reports. Let’s hear your concerns and I’m sure Mr. Ashcroft and I
will be able to resolve them to your satisfaction."

There was something about Dosdall’s persona that made
Marsden cower.

"I’ve noticed that our costs for the Farm Services Division seem
to be increasing unusually quickly. I don’t have a detailed report.
Maybe you could help me understand?" He spoke to Ashcroft.

Ashcroft produced his briefcase and removed its contents of
files and file folders onto the table.

"Mr. Marsden. Here are the journal entries showing expenses
for the Farm Services Division." He placed the briefcase back under
the table, returning his attention to the reports that lay in front of
Marsden.

"If you would like to take a moment to review them, perhaps
that will resolve your issues?"

Ashcroft spoke perfect, unaccented, Midwestern-American
English.

Having worked for many years at Cargill, Marsden was no
stranger to accounting reports. Marsden picked up the stack of
financial printouts. After flipping through several pages, he
indicated a number on the report.

"Am I correct that this is the amount we paid for anhydrous
ammonia over the latest quarter completed?" His voice was
tentative.

Ashcroft glanced at the figure Marsden had indicated.

"Yes. You are correct."

"And this is for the iodine?"

"Yes."

Marsden laid the expense report aside.

"And would it be possible for you to show me receipts from
sales of anhydrous and iodine?"

"I’m sorry, Mr. Marsden. The Farm Services revenues are
consolidated. I have no way to break out sales of iodine or
anhydrous from general Farm Services sales."

Marsden was disappointed, but not surprised. He knew that
farm services were often marketed to farmers as packages of goods
and contract labor. Organic would use whatever amounts of
chemicals necessary to fulfill its obligations under the "package." It
was certainly plausible that, in the process of fulfilling its package
obligations, its employees would use varying amounts of chemicals,
equipment, and labor.

"I can understand why you might not account for iodine and
anhydrous sales separately . . . but doesn’t it seem like we purchase
an awful lot of those chemicals for an
organic
elevator operation?
Our organic farmers wouldn’t use anhydrous on their fields at all. I
suppose livestock operators might use a fair amount of iodine for
disinfecting facilities and such. But we still seem to go through an
awful lot of it.

"Don’t the quantities of these chemicals seem high to you, Mr.
Ashcroft?"

"First of all, we do provide farm services to both organic and
traditional farm operations. The anhydrous could, perhaps, go to
the traditional farmers? In any case, my office simply pays for the
chemical orders you issue from this facility. I wouldn’t have any way
to know how your operation is using them, or whether the
quantities are in line. That would have to be a management
decision."