An Eye For An Eye (15 page)

“Jesus! How could this have happened?” The president demanded.

“We don’t know, sir.” Richter paused. “They deployed a sniper team. These guys are very good, well-trained, extremely disciplined.” He nodded at his cast. “But in any operation, there’s always a risk.”

The president let out a sigh then nodded. “How old was the girl?”

“Nine,” Richter responded.

The president rubbed his face. “I need to call Magaña.”

Richter waited. The president seemed lost in thought.

“Sir?” He waited for the president to look up. “It wasn’t our operation.”

“I know. I know.” The president waved his hand dismissively. “But Jesus! A nine-year-old girl?”

Richter waited. The president sat forward, elbows resting on his knees. Richter knew that he felt that he was partly responsible. After a second, the president looked up. There was a pained look on his face.

“He’s going to want revenge,” he finally said.

Richter nodded but said nothing.

“Okay,” the president said as he sat up straight. “I want our folks working with the Mexicans, sharing any intelligence we have, anything we pick up…” His voice trailed off. “Do you think Guerrero will target us?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He paused. “There’s been some press recently—mostly editorials in Mexican newspapers and online blogs—questioning Magaña’s ties to us. One even called his administration a puppet government, beholden to the U.S.” Richter frowned. “It’s possible that Guerrero shares this sentiment. He must know that it was our drone that took out his facility several weeks ago. He must also know that many of their units, especially their elite units—their special forces—train with our guys,” he added as he sat back. “It’s possible that he could see us as partly responsible for his daughter’s death.”

The president considered this. “We need to be prepared. Homeland Security. The FBI. We need our folks working together on this; no turf wars.”

Richter nodded and made a note then looked up. He caught the president’s eye. “I think we need to discuss at what point and under what circumstances do we send our own forces in, to help them.”

The president shook his head. “I’m not prepared to do that. Not yet. I’ve agreed with President Magaña that we would only do that as a last resort, and only if he requests it.”

Richter said nothing for a moment, then put his pen and pad down. “I’m not saying we’re at that point yet, but we need to define what we mean by ‘last resort.’ And our troops need to be prepared before we reach that point.”

The president sighed and sat back. After a few seconds, he nodded.

Richter studied him for a moment. “We also need to speak to the National Security Council,” he said softly.

After a second, the president nodded slowly. Unsure before, it was clear now that it was time to change the DEFCON level.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dave,” Maria said as she studied her husband. He was standing in front of the fireplace. He picked up a picture of Angela and Michelle and ran his fingers lightly across the glass.

“Then why do I feel like it was?” he said as he put the picture back on the mantle. “She was only nine years old.” He sighed. “Just nine.”

Maria stepped over and wrapped her arms around him. He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. “There are some things about this job that I absolutely hate,” he confessed. “It’s tough to hear something like that and know that I played some role, however small, that led to her death.” He shook his head. “Hell, she was just a kid.”

She rubbed his back.

“How’s Matthew doing?” she asked, grabbing his hand.

Kendall realized what his wife was doing, but he joined her anyway as she led him to the couch.

“He’s doing a fantastic job,” Kendall answered as they sat. Although Matthew hadn’t been trained as a national security analyst, he had learned quickly, one of the risks every president faced was how information and analysis tended to morph and change as it made its way through the hierarchy and ultimately to the Oval Office. Along the way, the spin doctors changed the slant, deleted this, added that, and by the time it was presented to him, any semblance of reality was questionable. Because of his investigator’s background, Matthew routinely challenged the analysis and opinions of the intelligence agencies and the military. He was able to sort through the BS, and Kendall knew that Matthew would always bring him an objective answer. He had ruffled a few feathers along the way, but that was what Kendall wanted. Brett Watson had done the same.

Matthew was one of the few people that Kendall trusted implicitly. And he couldn’t have been happier when Matthew had told him about Patty.

“What?” Maria asked.

He raised his eyebrows.

“I saw the hint of a grin.”

“Oh.” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize I was that transparent.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Matthew has a new lady friend.” He told Maria what he knew. Although he and Matthew were close, Matthew normally didn’t offer up such personal information. A lot, Kendall knew, had to do with the setting. Advisors to the president had learned to leave their own personal worries and concerns as well as their joys and successes at the door when they stepped into the Oval Office.

“You know,” Maria said with a smile. “I suspected something when I met him a few months back. He seemed happy.” She looked up and Kendall nodded. “I’m glad for him,” she continued. “He needs someone.”

“That sounds like a mother speaking.”

Maria laughed. “We ought to invite them both to dinner.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting her myself.” He sighed. “But with everything going on right now, it may take a while to arrange.”

They sat in silence for a moment before the president put his arm around his wife. She leaned in.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She turned and looked up. “For what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“For helping me put all this in perspective,” he said. He kissed her. “But mostly, just for being you.”

As Terry Fogel made his way through the crowds, he could sense that something had happened. There was always a tension in the airport: missed connections, delays, people hurrying to catch planes. But he could sense something else, even if he couldn’t speak the language.

He stepped into the restaurant and smiled, then shook his head at the hostess as he made his way to the bar. As he sat, the bartender asked him, in broken English, what he wanted.

“Jameson’s,” Fogel said with a grin, nodding toward the bottles on the back of the bar.

He smiled again when the bartender placed the shot in front of him.

They chatted for a few minutes, then Fogel nodded toward the TV in the corner and asked what had happened. The bartender, a dark-skinned Mexican, with more Aztec than Spanish blood running through his veins Fogel guessed, shook his head. He glanced cautiously at other patrons then leaned forward.

“They killed his daughter,” he said softly.

Fogel feigned surprise as the bartender filled in the blanks. Nothing shocked him anymore.

The bartender held his gaze for a moment then turned and walked to the end of the bar to serve another customer. Moments later, when he returned, he picked up a glass and polished it with a towel. He glanced around once more then leaned forward again. “El Ocho will get his revenge,” he said with a knowing eye and a nod. “Just wait.”

Fogel asked several questions and the bartender, in a quiet voice and with more than a touch of reverence, answered. Fogel wasn’t surprised. He had seen the same thing from some of the boys back home. The exploits of some of his colleagues had become legend. His own had too, for a while anyway. And here in Mexico, in the barrios, amongst the working class, amongst the poor, El Ocho was a hero.

It was a strange thing, Fogel thought. El Ocho was viewed as a hero. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. Although many innocent civilians had been caught in the crossfire over the years, El Ocho had provided where the government had failed. He offered jobs where there previously had been none. He built schools and medical clinics and provided housing to people who had no means to support themselves. And, because of him, people who would otherwise go hungry had food on their tables. And he did this by satisfying the depraved needs of the Americans; a people Fogel knew, who had too much time and too much money on their hands.

And so the game would continue, as it always did, as it always had for thousands of years: the Arabs and the Jews fighting over the same piece of dusty desert; the heavy-handed Chinese government suppressing a people who wanted nothing more than to have a small measure of control over their own lives; ethnic cleansing in the Balkans; apartheid in Africa; slavery and a brutal repression of the Native Americans in the U.S.; the list went on and on. And in his own country, almost eight hundred years of oppression under the British.

It always came down to four things: economics, race, religion, and ideology. In his own life, he had found the key to economic success by serving as a hired gun, a mercenary available to the highest bidder. He would never become rich, but he lived comfortably and always had enough in his pocket for a good Irish whiskey. The differences in race, he never understood. And as for religion and ideology, he no longer had time for such nonsense.

When the bartender left to serve another customer, Fogel glanced up at the TV, certain that Guerrero would call again.

Patty sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had planned a quiet dinner for the two of them. Then, in the morning, Matthew had promised to take her to New York City, to make up for the Valentine’s weekend they had missed. They had planned to visit the Museum of Natural History, have a late lunch in Little Italy, then check into a hotel. In the evening, they had tickets to a play—a Broadway production she had been looking forward to.

Now, she thought as she stared down at her half-packed suitcase, he wouldn’t be coming home at all. Although Matthew hadn’t said much—security procedures typically prevented him from sharing all but what was already on the news—he had told her that an operation in Mexico had gone badly. What exactly that was, she wasn’t sure. There had been nothing on the news, not yet at least, but whatever it was, it was causing concern within the White House.

She knew that Matthew had been looking forward to the weekend too; they had talked excitedly last night. She also knew that world events were out of his control. Still, she sighed as she began putting her clothes away, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

Guerrero sat stone-faced as his wife wept openly beside him. He didn’t notice her sobs. He didn’t hear the cries of the others behind him. He didn’t hear the words of the priest. He didn’t see the large arrangements of flowers, almost overwhelming the small, white casket. He didn’t see the ring of men, all armed with automatic weapons, all nervously scanning the crowd.

His father had once told him that all a man had in this world was his family and his God. His father, an old man then, close to death himself, had been wrong. He had no family. His Carolina was gone, stolen from him. And he had no God. What kind of God would permit this?

The sun shimmered off the casket, the reflection painful to his eyes. Still, he didn’t blink. He continued to stare at the white box that contained his only child. He would no longer see her smile. He would no longer see her eyes sparkle. He would no longer hear her laugh. The image of her lying on the ground, her head destroyed, was forever burnt into his brain. He sat and stared, no concept of time passing.

Sometime later, he wasn’t sure how long, he startled as the casket began to blur. Confused, he continued to stare as his vision clouded. He shook his head, a small movement, reluctantly taking his eyes away from the casket, away from his Carolina. His head hung on his chest and he stared down at his hands, blurry but folded neatly in his lap, as they had been for the last four hours. Something splashed, and he saw that his hands were wet.

He looked up again, noticing for the first time that he was alone. The sky was beginning to darken and a moment later he felt the first drops of rain. He wiped his eyes then put his hands on his knees and stood slowly. He took two steps and then his hands were on the casket. He stood there for some time, his own tears mixing with the raindrops that splattered off the polished wood.

The rain stopped just as suddenly as it had started. He wiped his eyes again and straightened. It was a while before he spoke.

“Sí, Carolina,” he finally said. “It is my move.”

Matthew Richter studied the aerial photos. The ranch, over one thousand acres, was nestled in the mountains north of Ciudad Victoria in the state of Tamaulipas. He studied the rugged terrain, the mountains along the eastern border, the patches of desert scrub brush and dirt to the west, the cluster of buildings and, beyond, the stables, riding trails, and cattle pastures.

His soldier’s eye went first to the security, noting the layers: the outer perimeter fencing, the high walls farther in, the roving teams of guards, and the second wall surrounding the buildings. The guards, even from the aerial shot he could see, were all heavily armed, many on ATVs. He picked up another photo. A young man, eyes hard, wearing the bush hat and the combat fatigues of a Special Force unit of the Mexican Air Force stared back at him. He was part of a total security force estimated at two hundred and twenty, all suspected to be deserters of the same unit.
A small, highly trained, and heavily armed enemy
, he thought with a frown.

He glanced at the aerial photo again. Along the outer wall were machine gun nests—bunkers concealed in the heavy brush and supposedly manned twenty-four hours a day. There was a chance, CIA analysts had said, that some of the bunkers were also equipped with surface-to-air missiles. Yet, despite the security, another Special Forces unit, this one from the Mexican Navy, a unit that routinely trained with U.S. Navy Seals, had been able to insert a sniper team. No doubt since then the elaborate security at the compound had been increased. He studied the cluster of buildings and then individual photos of each. He read the descriptions on the back, reviewing what he had heard earlier.

The final series of photos were of Pablo Guerrero; his chief of staff, Alberto Espinoza; and those of various members of the Sangre Negras hierarchy. Richter stared at Guerrero’s face for a moment then sat back thinking.

He could not fault the Mexican government for their decision to deploy the sniper teams. President Magaña had declared the cartels an enemy of the state, and that made the leaders legitimate military targets. That Guerrero’s daughter had been killed was a tragedy, an unfortunate accident that could have been avoided had the sniper team chosen a better angle. However, as he knew, conditions in the field were often different from how they appeared during planning sessions, and a soldier in the field often had to improvise.

Although Mexico had suspended any further sniper missions while they completed the investigation, President Magaña was undeterred. The Mexican military was considering several options, including an assault of the compound, but had specifically requested the use of U.S. drones to minimize the casualties.

Richter had to give President Kendall an answer. He was against using the drones where non-combatants were present unless they were only being used for surveillance. But the Mexican government had requested armed drones. Unless they could isolate Guerrero—something the Mexican sniper team had tried, unsuccessfully, to do—his instinct was to say no. There were too many servants, gardeners, chauffeurs, and others whose only crime was working for the Guerrero family. That made a drone strike risky. An aerial assault of the compound was risky too, he knew, both because of the suspected SAM capability and the risk that innocent bystanders would get caught in the ensuing firefight.

He sat back and, without thinking about it, began a series of exercises, moving his arm as the physical therapist had instructed. He raised his arm above his head, feeling the sudden sharp pain. He ignored it, holding it there while he counted to ten. He dropped his arm again and let out a breath. It had been two weeks since the cast had come off, and he was frustrated with the rate of progress.

He continued to move his arm slowly as he stared down at the photos before him. He was still not sure what he would say when he met with the president in two hours.