The Covert Element (27 page)

Gunner pondered what I had to say.

"Okay. Suppose you’re right and some farmer is making meth.
What about the problem of traffic I mentioned last time we talked?
Those farm neighborhoods are pretty close. They play cards
together on Saturday night and stuff. I still think somebody would
notice the extra cars or trucks goin’ in and out."

Gunner had a point. But we were pretty close to an answer. I
could feel it in my gut.

"Let’s suppose that
you’re
right."

"Now
there’s
something new!"

I refused to allow Gunner’s snipe to ruffle my feathers.

"I apologize if I occasionally offend you in these discussions,
Gunner. I’m just trying to get to the truth of the matter. Sometimes
we need to think outside the box. And honestly . . . maybe once in a
while . . . you get just a tad bit defensive."

I held my thumb and forefinger before my eye to demonstrate
the tiny amount that Gunner
might
get defensive.

Gunner removed the folded paper from his pocket, balled it up,
and flung it at me.

"Man, I hate it when you’re right!"

A smile crept across his face.

"Okay. Keep ‘what-if-ing," Gunner said. "But let’s start back
where we assume that
I’m
right."

I smiled.

"So we assume that
you
are correct and the production facility
cannot
be a farm because of the traffic. What other places in Ottawa
County might we find all those farm chemicals, but traffic wouldn’t
be a problem?"

"Not very damn many."

"Okay. But where?"

"I suppose maybe a feed store."

"Would they sell anhydrous in bulk?" I knew the answer. I was
trying to be nice.

"Nah. Prob’ly not. But maybe a grain elevator . . . you know,
one that does custom work for farmers. They do fertilizing,
spreading ammonia, all that shit. I s’pose you could buy bonemeal
there, too. Or at least order it. Don’t know where they’d get enough
batteries though. The ones they use in tractors and machinery
aren’t those lithium kind."

"Let’s not worry about the lithium for now. Let’s assume they
stole that somewhere. Hell, it could’ve been stolen in Michigan or
California and trucked in. We’d never find the records. Let’s stick to
the other stuff. And I like where you’re headed."

"Huh." Gunner paused.

"Huh, what?" I said.

"I think there was just a chill in here . . . kinda like Hell freezin’
over."

I’d never seen so much tooth in one of Gunner’s smiles.

"Hey. You piss and moan when I disagree with you. And when I
say you’re onto something, then you act like an ass. You sure are
high-maintenance for a cop."

My comment didn’t put a dent in Gunner’s grin.

"How many grain elevators like the one you mentioned are still
alive and kicking in Ottawa County?" I asked. "Didn’t most of the
little ones die out when Central Grain and Cargill and whoever else
took over a decade or so ago? What’s left?"

"Lemme think."

I waited.

"There’s one in Kenyon, one in Nerstrand, one in Bellechester,
and the big one here in Red Wing . . . used to be Central Grain. I
think it’s Red Wing Grain now. I’m pretty sure the rest went outta
business. The one in Bellechester actually did go outta business a
while back. But they’re doing organic stuff now. They’ve got some
new buildings, new bins, even a small dairy. Kinda brought that
town back from the dead."

"I remember that Bellechester one from growing up on the
farm. We used to wait in line with a pickup-load of corn to get
ground up for feed. Don’t think anybody hauls corn in pickups
anymore. More like semis and grain trucks.

"How long ago did the Bellechester Elevator go organic?"

Gunner scratched his chin.

"I’m thinking it was maybe about two or three years ago. It
took a while for everything to get up and running. It’s definitely
been more than a year that they’ve been operatin’ though. It seems
like they’re doing pretty well, too. I think they added a shift last fall.
The guy who owns the place – they call it Bellechester Organic now
– is an ex-Cargill exec. I met him at a Kiwanis meeting once. Pretty
decent fella. Walter Marsden.

"He spoke to the group about organic farming, chemicals in
foods, growth hormones, and what not. Said he’s tryin’ to bring
farming into the twenty-first century by moving it back a hundred
years. All natural fertilizers. No chemical pesticides. That kind of
stuff."

"I was thinking that Bellechester might be our prime target," I
said. "But if they don’t do chemicals, why would they have
anhydrous around? They probably don’t."

"I wouldn’t be so sure. Somebody asked him after his speech
whether there was enough organic farming around here to support
the business. He said they provided services to other farmers, too –
like spraying and stuff. They just wouldn’t accept any non-organic
crops or milk at the Elevator."

"Did Marsden say anything else that might help further our
investigation?"

"Not really. He mostly talked about how they had installed the
latest technology and that they hired good people. He said the
Mexicans that work at the plant get along real well with the locals,
and vice-a-versa."

Gunner and I looked at each other as though we’d both been
struck in the face by a raw porterhouse.

I spoke first.

"Just because there are Mexicans who work there doesn’t mean
they’re connected to the Mexican drug cartels."

"Yeah." Gunner looked doubtful. "That would be profiling.
Definitely a no-no. Besides, we’ve got Mexicans working all kinds of
jobs around here these days. Not at all unusual."

There was a moment of silence.

"How about at those other elevators? Do they have Mexican
workers, too?"

Gunner stood.

"Lemme get back to you on that one."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Sergeant Fuentes had been staying with Bull since his arrival
on Saturday. He and Bull had come to an understanding about the
Sergeant’s plan. Bull would back him up, but wouldn’t do any
bombing or bomb-making. Fuentes seemed satisfied with Bull’s
level of participation. He didn’t see that he had much choice. And
he certainly had the skills to blow up the plant in Bellechester on his
own. It would help to have the anonymity of Bull’s home and Bull’s
transportation services. That would have to be enough.

Fuentes hadn’t been truthful with his comrades Saturday
morning. He already knew the location of the drug facility. He’d
identified the target of his vengeance some time ago, while working
in Mexico. But he had yet to lay eyes on the actual facility. Of
course, he wasn’t about to share this information with Bull’s friend
at their first meeting. That would have been exceedingly sloppy.
And while he trusted of his former comrade-in-arms a great deal, it
had
been more than twenty years since they’d served together.
Information about this plan was definitely "need to know."

On this particular evening, Fuentes asked Bull if he might
borrow Bull’s red Cherokee for a few hours, no questions asked.
Bull consented. Fuentes had departed at dusk.

Fuentes’ own vehicle was hidden in a wooded area not far from
Bull’s cabin. He made a quick change of clothing and swapped cars
there. Leaving Bull’s conspicuous red SUV hidden among the
prickly ash and sumac, Fuentes continued toward his destination –
Bellechester, Minnesota.

Tonight’s journey was a scouting mission. He needed to learn
the lay of the land surrounding his target, as well as the best
locations for his explosives at the site itself.

By the time he reached the small town, darkness had fallen. A
few street lights illuminated the sole block of storefronts along Main
Street. The flood lamps and parking lot lights of the Elevator facility
provided a stark contrast to the otherwise dimly lit village. And
while the town’s shops had mostly closed for the day, Bellechester
Organic was humming along in high gear.

Grain trucks bearing the names of various organic farming
operations waited patiently in line to disgorge their loads of the
wheat and oats that were just now being harvested.

Fuentes pulled his car into the end of the parking lot farthest
from the door marked "Office." As his car window slid down
between the door panels, the pungent odor of oat dust assaulted his
nostrils. Looking through the illumination from the lot lighting, he
could see the swirls of fine chaff drifting everywhere. Eventually,
the tiny particles would alight on a grain truck or a concrete
platform, only to be lifted by the hands of the night breeze, or by
diesel exhaust streaming from a truck motor, to resume their
uncertain journeys.

Fuentes knew that grain elevators worked long hours during
harvest. He would wait to see how late the scales at Bellechester
Organic remained open. As he sat in his car at the rear of the lot, he
read newspapers, ate a sandwich, and generally passed the time as
though he were waiting to give a ride to one of the workers when his
shift ended. The whole time, grain trucks of various sizes kept
arriving at the terminal, each taking its place in turn at the end of
the long line to the scales.

Most were typical farm trucks, weighing perhaps 25,000
pounds fully loaded. There were a few semi tractor-trailer
combinations with larger loads, and the occasional farm tractor
towing two or three green gravity boxes. The queue moved ahead
slowly. One truck would drive forward to rest on the scale. After
weighing, the truck would tilt its grain box slowly upward, dumping
its contents through an open tailgate and downward through the
floor grating. When the truck was empty, it would be weighed once
again, then drive out the back of the scale and home to the farm.
Another truck would immediately take its place.

For trucks without box lifts, the Elevator had a mechanical
system to lift the truck’s front wheels high enough into the air for
gravity to pull the grain out the back. Semi trailers and gravity
boxes had locked chutes on one side. When the chutes were opened,
the grain poured out, disappearing through the scale floor on its
way to one of the adjacent steel storage bins.

This was a process that fascinated Fuentes. He had never
experienced close up the sheer magnitude of American agriculture
– many tons of grain moving smoothly from field to storage in a
matter of only a few hours. Soon the crops of many farmers would
mingle and continue their journeys in larger trucks, or on rail cars,
or on river barges, to their international markets.

It is no wonder that America feeds the world.

At 11:00 p.m. the Elevator stopped accepting further trucks on
its scales. Those remaining in line would have to either go home, or
more likely, wait until morning. The last few farmers to arrive had
evidently anticipated the closure. They departed for home in the
pickups that had followed them to Bellechester, leaving their loaded
trucks parked and unguarded until morning.

In Tampico, starving people would descend on those trucks
and pick them clean. No . . . more likely, a cartel would steal the
trucks to be used for transporting troops or heavy armament.
They couldn’t be troubled with grinding grain for food. They
would dump the wheat in the desert for birds and insects to eat.

By 11:30, employees were leaving the facility, piling into vans
and pickups. Most workers were Hispanic. Many wore sweat-stained T-shirts, testifying to their hard work. All were covered
head to foot with light-colored grain dust, their dark hair taking on
a patina of aging gray.