An Eye For An Eye (16 page)

The van crawled at a snail’s pace through the streets of Mexico City as the first signs of daylight began to filter through the buildings and the smog. Not quite six in the morning, the streets were already clogged, but the driver didn’t mind. Today, the city’s congestion would work to his advantage.

Forty minutes later, the driver—a sound technician—finally turned on
Paseo de la Reforma
and followed it northeast. Modeled after the Champs-Élysées in Paris, the wide boulevard cut diagonally across the city, at one time providing Emperor Maximilian a direct route from his castle to the National Palace. Maybe then, the driver thought, a trip across the city had been easy. It took another twenty-five minutes before he reached the
glorieta.
At the roundabout, he turned again then followed a zigzag route toward the
Zócalo
, the main square in the heart of the city, the place where his Aztec ancestors had gathered seven hundred years ago.

It was just after seven when he finally spotted the plaza
through the gaps in traffic. He followed the line of cars and trucks as they turned right at the square, passed by the Federal District buildings and, then, turned left at the next intersection as the road curved around the plaza, past the National Palace. He maneuvered his van into the left lane and, at the end of the square, he turned left again, passing the cathedral. At the end of this side of the square, he turned left once more and pulled into the empty spot in front of the tent.

Within seconds, two police officers were at his window. He showed his permit and identification and, after several questions, they seemed satisfied. The barricade was moved, and he pulled his van into the plaza. Even though the concert was not for another twelve hours, the square was crowded as workers set up the stage and installed temporary lighting and sound systems while the food vendors began setting up their booths around the perimeter. Normally crowded on most days, over one hundred thousand people were expected to descend on the Zócalo
by late afternoon.

The driver parked by the back of the stage and stepped out into the chilly morning air. He took his time unloading the cables and equipment.
No sense rushing
, he thought. He had more than enough time. As he stacked the cables on the ground, the supervisor hurried over.

“You’re late.”

The driver shrugged.

The supervisor glanced at the cables and then in the back of the van.

“These are the replacements they gave you?” he asked, indicating the two large speakers in the back.

The driver nodded, knowing that he had been asked to bring the newer, smaller set.

The supervisor shook his head. “Did you test them?”

He nodded again. “Yes. And I brought another soundboard just in case.”

“Okay. Get these set up and test them again. Leave the van there. If something goes wrong again, we’ll need our tools.”

The driver shook his head. “The police told me I could only park here temporarily, just to unload.”

“Don’t worry about them,” the supervisor said; his frustration was evident. “I’ll take care of it.”

The driver nodded again. He hadn’t planned on that. He would have to improvise.

Richter flexed his arm, feeling the slight twinge in his shoulder. Ignoring it, he picked up the gun. It felt heavy in his hand. He brought up his left hand to support his right. Flicking off the safety, he took a shooter’s stance then lined up the sights. It took him a moment to steady his aim. He let out a breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands. He dropped his arms to the low-ready position and stared out at the target. There was a hole in the upper right hand corner, an inch from the silhouette torso, and even farther, he frowned, from the center of the chest where he’d been aiming.

Shit!
He swore under his breath. The cast had been removed almost a month earlier and although he had diligently followed the physical therapy schedule, he wasn’t progressing fast enough. At least not according to his own expectations. Consequently, several days earlier he had decided that he needed to accelerate his therapy and, ignoring both his doctor’s and his therapist’s advice, he began lifting weights—once early in the morning and again late in the evening—trying to rebuild the muscles that he’d lost. It wasn’t much, just five and ten pound dumbbells. But it was a start. He could not accept the doctor’s warning that his days as a federal agent—at least the type of agent he wanted to be—might be over.

He stared at the target. Based upon his first shot, he had a long way to go. He took a breath, brought his arms up again, and fired.

After two clips, he was able to hit the target consistently. But his shots were spread out across the torso. Only one had hit the cross in the center mass. Not good, he thought, as he rubbed his aching arm. Frustrated, he switched hands, this time holding the gun with his left hand and using his right for support. Two clips later, he felt better. After almost three months of shooting with his left hand, his useless right arm trapped in a cast, he had improved significantly. He wouldn’t win any shooting competitions, but he could hit what he was aiming at. Now, using his right hand for support, it was like night and day. There was a cluster of holes around the center mass.

Not bad
, he thought. But the target was only twenty-five feet away. He attached a fresh target to the frame and pressed the switch. The target slid away, and he watched it pass the twenty-five foot mark. He stopped at thirty-five feet. Tomorrow he would try again with his right arm. But, for now, he wanted to see just how good he was with his left.

By 3:00 p.m., there were sixty thousand people in the plaza. Although the Zócalo was one of the largest city squares in the world, people were already jostling for space, trying to find a spot closer to the stage. Despite the crowd, people were in a festive mood, many singing and dancing, others laughing, playing, all excited for the concert still hours away. A line of seventy-five policemen were stationed in front of the National Palace while another two hundred were ringed around the square across the street. More wandered amongst the crowd, a visible presence designed to keep order. As the evening approached and the crowd grew, so would the number of police.

Wiping his brow, the driver dropped his tool belt on the floor of the van, then shut the door. He locked the van and, when he turned, noticed his supervisor frowning, glancing at his watch.

“It’s not time for your break yet.”

The driver nodded in the direction of the line of Porta-Johns at the edge of the square. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.

“Did you check the last connection?”

The driver nodded again. “I tested everything twice. Everything is working properly.”

He motioned the supervisor over to the soundboard. He punched a few buttons, slowly increased the volume, and music began playing though the speakers. The crowd began to cheer. He adjusted the balance and fade controls, effectively cycling through the channels, sending music to the two main speakers he had replaced, first the right and then the left. Then he channeled the music through the side speakers one at a time, before rebalancing the system.

The supervisor nodded, made a note on his clipboard then, without a word, headed to check on the lighting system. The driver shook his head and walked over to the Porta-Johns.

Five minutes later, he stepped out, casually glanced around and, noting that his supervisor was nowhere to be seen, ducked under the barricade and crossed the street. Two blocks away, he hailed a cab.

Christina Thompson stood in front of the cathedral across the street from the Zócalo. She checked her watch again, knowing as she did that it couldn’t have been more than a minute since the last time she had looked. Miguel wasn’t late, not yet at least.
And not according to Mexican time
, she thought with a grin. He would probably show up with that happy-go-lucky smile of his any minute now and chide her for being a typical impatient
gringo
.

Confident, outgoing, and adventurous, being here at the concert summed up her time in Mexico. She could have stayed in the States as her parents had wanted.
More like pleaded
, she thought. But she wanted to experience life, to experience another culture: the language, the food, the music, the customs, the people. And the opportunity to study abroad, to spend a semester in Mexico City, had given her that opportunity in a way that the local Mexican restaurant in Princeton never could.

She wasn’t normally impatient, but as the crowd across the street continued to swell, she worried about finding a spot. She glanced at the crowd around her. Most had already staked out spots on the sidewalk and on the steps of the cathedral. This was probably a good spot to see the concert, she realized. It was less crowded than the square and, when the concert was over, leaving would be much easier.
Not bad
, she thought as she noticed people spreading out blankets on the sidewalk and unfolding chairs. Not bad, but not good enough for her. She wanted to experience the concert—to really be a part of it—and that meant getting up close to the stage. To feel the heavy thumping of the bass. To see the sweat on the singers as they gyrated below the lights. To get caught up in the moment with the crowd, swaying to the music.

“Mi amor!”

Christina turned with a smile and saw Miguel winding his way through the crowd.

He stopped a foot away and spread his arms out. “See! I’m right on time!”

She threw her arms around him. “Hardly,” she said before she gave him a kiss. She stepped back, slid her hand down his arm, and grabbed his hand. “But I forgive you. Now, come on. If we hurry, we still might be able to find a spot!”

Hand in hand, they crossed the street and made their way through the crowd. It took almost fifteen minutes, with her leading Miguel by the hand, before they slipped through one final group of people and found themselves in front of the rope barricade, ten feet from the stage.

“This is perfect,” she yelled.

Miguel leaned forward and kissed her once more. “No. You’re perfect.” He smiled. She smiled back then, hand in hand, they began swaying to the music.

They never heard the explosion. They never saw the shrapnel—the jagged pieces of the speaker frame, the ripped metal of the stage—rocketing toward them at supersonic speeds. They never felt the red hot metal slicing through their bodies. Thankfully, when the first shockwave hit them, their world went dark.

The president smiled as he stepped into the room—a small gathering of a select group of administrators, deans, professors, and students from Howard University. He was feeling good. The speech had gone well, and the audience had seemed receptive to his thoughts on education.

He was chatting with the Dean of the Law School and his wife when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, shared a glance with Burt Phillips and knew immediately that something was wrong.

“Please excuse me,” he apologized with a smile as Phillips led him several steps away.

Philips leaned close. “Sir. There’s been a bombing in Mexico City. We don’t have much information yet, but it’s bad.”

“How bad?” he asked, tight-lipped.

Phillips shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. His face was grim. “Could be thousands, sir.”

Shit
, Kendall thought.
It’s started
.

On the large plasma screen in the Situation Room, Matthew Richter watched the image flicker before a live video of the carnage in Mexico City appeared on the screen. The image came from one of the National Reconnaissance Office’s Lacrosse satellites.

He studied the screen. The first thing that struck him was the emergency vehicles. Like the spokes on a wheel, flashing lights from the hundreds of fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, and military vehicles lined up in rows on the streets leading into the Zócalo. The spokes extended off the screen. Around the square, there was a ring of vehicles, those that had arrived first, he realized. They were parked randomly at odd angles.

The scene reminded him of an anthill as thousands of rescue workers swarmed over the square. He could see the walking wounded being led away by rescuers and dozens more being carried away on stretchers. They disappeared at the edge of the screen. He glanced at a second monitor and saw the triage center, set up in the park a few blocks away. He turned back to the first screen. There were hundreds of soldiers carrying automatic weapons, but the majority seemed to be involved in the rescue effort.

Surprisingly, the buildings surrounding the Zócalo did not appear to be damaged. But in the middle of the square, he saw the twisted metal of the stage and a half-dozen scorched vehicles, lying upside down or on their sides. Firefighters were dousing them with hoses; the steam and smoke rising into the sky.

Richter noticed Jessica Williams by his side.

“I just had a meeting with the embassy and with the CIA,” Williams said.

Richter nodded, and she gave him a summary. The estimated number of casualties was staggering. The CIA was working on several theories for who was responsible for the bombing.

“It’s possible that one of the leftist groups is behind this,” Williams continued. “Remember eight or nine years ago there were a series of attacks on gas pipelines and oil infrastructure?”

Richter nodded. Unhappy with the last election and with claims of tampered ballots and voter fraud, a rebel group had carried out a series of attacks over the span of six months. No one had been killed and the movement had just as quickly dissolved. He frowned then noticed Williams was frowning too.

“You don’t buy that,” he stated.

Williams shook her head. “No, I don’t.” She paused, her eyes steady on his. “My gut tells me this was Pablo Guerrero.”

The conversations around them suddenly died out, and Richter looked up as President Kendall entered the room. Behind him was Burt Phillips. The president stared at the screen for a second then turned to Richter.

“Do we have any estimates?”

Richter nodded, his face somber. “Very preliminary at this point.” He paused. “Mexican authorities estimate between one and two thousand people killed and another six to seven thousand wounded.”

The president’s face went pale. He nodded slowly.

“I have independent estimates from the embassy and from the CIA. They both support this.” Richter paused. “Preliminary analysis indicates some kind of plastic explosive, likely hidden somewhere near the stage.”

The president gestured toward the screen and the still-smoking car frames. “Not a car bomb?”

Richter shook his head then explained the analysis by the ATF. “They were caught in the blast. The fuel was likely ignited by live power cables or as a result of the explosion. ATF believes that a car bomb would have resulted in structural damage to surrounding buildings, and a much larger crater.” Richter nodded toward the screen. “The crowd absorbed the bulk of the blast. This was designed to maim and kill, not destroy buildings.”

The president stared at the screen for a moment.

“Mexico has instituted a no-fly zone over the city,” Richter continued. “Inbound flights are being turned around and rerouted. The FAA is working with them, and we may need to handle the overflow along the border.”

The president nodded.

“Communication networks are swamped and can’t handle the volume,” Richter added. “They’re putting patches in place, but it’s likely some will fail. They’ve mobilized three army divisions, both for rescue and for security. They’ve indicated that they’re going to shut down the city.” He nodded to the screen. “And they’re going to need medical help.”

“Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?”

Richter shook his head.

“But you have a hunch?” the president asked.

Tight-lipped, Richter nodded. “Guerrero,” he said.

The president glanced at the screen for a second then turned. “My first reaction too.”