Targets of Revenge (31 page)

“May I remind you, he almost bought it in both of those places.”

“True, but Sandor tends to bring his own party wherever he goes.”

Bergenn laughed. “I have a feeling we’ll be having our own party in the next couple of days.”

————

At the conclusion of their briefing in Dallas, LaBelle told them he was going to entrust word of their mission to only one contact south of the border.

Felipe Romero was a DEA agent who had been under deep cover in Reynosa for the past two years. Mexican by heritage, American by birth, LaBelle described him as short and muscular, in his mid-thirties, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pockmarked complexion that made him appear older than his years. He also warned them that Romero inhabited the treacherous middle ground between the reality
of his position with the DEA and the counterfeit existence he was now forced to live.

“He’s a serious guy,” LaBelle said, “and with good reason.” He described how Romero had lost a younger brother years ago to gang warfare on the streets of West Los Angeles. That had been difficult enough for a family being raised only by their mother, Romero’s father having disappeared years before. But then his older sister was hit in the crossfire of a drug-related shooting, leaving her dead and landing his mother in a state mental facility. With nowhere to go, Romero joined the Army and turned his life around. When he finished his third tour of duty he signed up with the DEA.

“This is not just a job to Romero, that’s what I’m telling you. This is a crusade. He will not deal well with anyone who gets in his way.”

Bergenn and Raabe assured him that they understood.

“Good, because he’s the best man I can put you together with down there.”

————

They were to meet Romero in an abandoned barn ten miles west of the Reynosa city limits. They arrived just before dusk and made one pass around the property.

The old farmhouse had all but collapsed, the roof caved in, the walls leaning at a precarious angle. A hundred yards or so behind it was the barn, a ramshackle structure that had apparently once been part of a functioning operation. Bergenn pulled the car around back where they got out and circled toward the front on foot.

There was no one there.

They were far enough from the road that they would not be seen, except by someone who might be looking for them, but they were still cautious as they entered the barn.

“This has got to be the place,” Raabe said.

Bergenn nodded as he had a look around the musty interior. Then, from a shadow in the corner, a man stepped forward, an automatic in his outstretched hand.

“Don’t say a word,” he ordered them. “Just put your hands on your heads and stop moving.”

The two agents did as they were told.

“You Romero?” Bergenn asked.

“What about ‘don’t say a word’ was confusing to you, man? I’m holding the gun, I ask the questions here. Your names.”

They told him.

“Who sent you here?”

“Why should we answer that without knowing who you are?” Bergenn replied.

“Because if I wanted to take you both down you’d be dead already.”

“Dan LaBelle,” Bergenn said.

“Describe him to me.”

Bergenn did.

“He gave you a password.”

Bergenn stared at the man. He was just as LaBelle had described. Stocky and strong and serious. “Freedom,” he said.

“All right,” he said, appearing more annoyed than relieved, “put your hands down.”

“How the hell did you get the drop on us?” Raabe asked. “No car in the area. No footprints in the dirt here.” He pointed to the barn floor.

“My car is in the woods, half a mile away. And I used some brush to cover my tracks in here.”

“Nice work.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what you guys are used to in D.C. or wherever, but you have just entered one of the most dangerous places in the world. People here, they get a whiff of something wrong and they kill their friends, even their own family. No second chances, no mistakes allowed. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” Bergenn said. “And just so
you
understand, we’re field agents, not desk jockeys. So, do we get to ask questions now?”

“Felipe Romero, local runner for the Sinaloa Cartel.” He recited the information as if it were his name, rank, and serial number. “Around here they know me as Pacquito. I’ve been in Reynosa for more than two years and I’m telling you as sure as I’m holding this gun, if you do anything to blow my cover, you’ll become my enemy as much as any of them.”

The two men from Central Intelligence nodded. “Got it,” Bergenn said.

“So why are you here? DL didn’t give me much.”

“We’re looking for information that can help us intercept biological weapons headed for the States.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“We have reason to believe a large shipment of cocaine has already been moved out of Venezuela. It may also contain a sizable quantity of anthrax.”

The look on Romero’s face told them he wasn’t buying it. “Why would they take that risk? Chapo moves large quantities of junk, millions of dollars at a pop. What the hell would he want with anthrax?”

“Chapo?”

Romero treated them to another disapproving look. He was apparently someone who became easily annoyed. “Joaquin Guzman Loera, called El Chapo. Been the head of the Sinaloa Cartel since El Padrino was captured.”

“Padrino?”

“Felix Gallardo. Ran things for years before they hunted him down.”

“They also arrested Loera,” Bergenn recalled, “but he escaped from a Mexican prison.”

“Escaped? Yeah, he escaped all right. They say he had everyone in the prison on his payroll within two weeks of being locked up there. Including the warden. When he left, the authorities didn’t even report he was gone till the next day, gave him enough time to get home and have dinner.”

Bergenn nodded. “Since we took down bin Laden, Loera’s become the most wanted man on the FBI and Interpol lists.”

Romero did nothing to disguise his impatience. “What is this, man, you came all this way to give me yesterday’s news?”

“No. We came here so you could help us locate the shipment. Tell us about Jaime Rivera.”

Romero responded with a wary look. “DL must have told you that Jaime Rivera is the main reason I’m here. He runs the part of the operation that smuggles the drugs into the States. Works directly with
Chapo. The Gulf Cartel has been fighting for years with Los Zetas for control of this area.”

“Because it’s so near the Texas border.”

Romero nodded. “When the Gulf Cartel got wind of Rivera’s success rate in transporting the junk north, they made a pact with the Sinaloa crew.”

“Rivera is really that much of a game-changer?”

“He’s got an impressive track record. That’s why I’ve spent two years trying to get to him.”

“How close are you?”

“I’ve never met him,” Romero admitted with a look of disgust. “Don’t even know anyone who’s ever laid eyes on him.”

“Labelle said Rivera constantly moves his base of operations. Any idea where he is now?”

“If I knew I’d pay him a visit. Some of the runners think he’s in the west, near Chapo. Others think he’s gone north of the border because of the turf wars with Los Zetas.”

“Wherever he is, Rivera is the man who arranges importation of the narcotics into the U.S.?”

“That’s how it goes. My job is to stop him, but so far I can’t even find him.”

“Well then, it seems we’re all looking for the same thing. How do we get started?”

“We?”

“We thought we’d pose as buyers,” Raabe suggested. “Say we’re with a syndicate in the Northeast.”

Romero would have laughed, had the ability not been burned out of him long ago. “You two? They’ll make you as cops in about thirty seconds. You want to get your heads blown off like that, you go ahead, but count me out. They’d shoot me too, just for being stupid.”

The two agents shared a bemused look, then Bergenn asked, “What do you propose?”

“Let me do my thing. I’ll check around, see if there’s any chatter about shipments and where they’re from. What you’re looking for would be the larger variety.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” Romero said, then gave them a once-over. “Meanwhile, you look like two slices of Wonder Bread. You got something else to wear?”

“Oh yeah,” Raabe told him.

“Good. I think you should get your bags and change right here. Head into town, check into the Hotel Esplendido, and sit tight. The less anyone sees of you right now the better. When I call, I’ll say something about the girls being ready. Then we’ll meet at the bar in the lobby.”

“Got it.”

“Anyone asks where and how we met it was at a place called La Taverna, on La Calle Fuente.”

“La Taverna? There’s an original name,” said Raabe.

Romero was not smiling. “Just say we met having drinks this afternoon and started talking, got it?”

Both agents nodded.

“If they make you for feds, I can say I was getting a read on you, checking you out. Then you’re on your own.”

“Got it,” Bergenn told him.

“And remember, Pacquito, right?”

“Got that too,” Raabe said.

T
HAT EVENING, AS
Bergenn and Raabe sat in a small Mexican hotel room awaiting Romero’s call, Lieutenant Detective Bob Ferriello was using his unmarked police car for the ride to Brighton Beach. Sandor had been clear in explaining his purpose to the narcotics detective. He had no intention of doing undercover reconnaissance. He was going to make his presence known, then work his way up the food chain as quickly as possible.

“This oughta be interesting,” Ferriello said. He chose the nightclub Little Siberia as their destination, explaining that it was the location most likely to yield what Sandor wanted—a confrontation with someone in charge.

Brighton Beach is home to a variety of ethnic groups, and Brighton Beach Avenue is the main artery of the neighborhood. It is a wide street, perpetually in shadows cast by the angular canopy of elevated train tracks above. It boasts an array of retailers offering food, clothing, liquor and sundries, each shop catering to its particular landsmen. Contrary to a popular notion, there are more than just Russians in Brighton Beach. It just happens that the Russians rule the area.

Ferriello pulled into a no-parking zone on the avenue and snapped his visor down to display his police permit. In addition to earning him free parking, it warned the locals to stay away from his car. Sandor said he wanted to announce their arrival, and the narcotics detective was going with it.

Ferriello led the way around the corner to a nondescript building that looked more like a warehouse than a nightclub. They ascended a short flight of stairs to an unmarked entrance where two brawny types with shaved heads—reminiscent of Sudakov’s men, Sandor noted—stood guard at the door. At Sandor’s suggestion, Ferriello did not waste time with niceties. He flashed his badge and began to walk past them.

One of the sentries stuck out his arm, which was approximately the size of an oak log. “Private party tonight,” he told them in an accent as thick as a Russian novel.

“Oh yeah?” Ferriello stared up at the man. “Well we’re the friggen guests of honor, so get your arm outta my face before I throw a handcuff on it and drag you in for assaulting a police officer.”

Sandor had never witnessed this side of Ferriello before. He was pleased to see it. He was also pleased to see that they had apparently come to the right place.

The Russian, meanwhile, was losing the staring contest. He slowly lowered his arm and said, “Guest of honor, eh? That’s a good one.”

“Glad you’re amused,” Ferriello told him, “now get the hell out of our way.”

Which the man did.

Inside, if there was any sort of private party in progress it must have been happening somewhere else in the building. The scene here was much the same as at other clubs in New York except that the place looked as if it had been designed by someone who thought the décor at the Russian Tea Room was too austere. There was dark red velvet and smoked glass and black lacquer all over the place, giving an impression of something between a house of mirrors and a brothel. Which, Sandor assumed, was the point. Music was blaring, the bar was crowded, and people moved back and forth the way people do in these clubs, a mating ritual that becomes alluring, depressing or comical, depending on your point of view.

He and Ferriello headed for the bar, where a tall blond girl asked what they would have. She was considerably better to look at than the garish surroundings, and Sandor told her so.

She responded with a smile that had all the warmth of a frozen
shot of Stolichnaya, so Sandor ordered that very drink. But Ferriello was not in the mood to waste time.

“Get me the manager,” he demanded.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“You know who I am?”

She shook her head.

“Your manager will. Tell him Lieutenant Ferriello wants to see him.”

She hesitated, then negotiated a neat spin and walked away, giving Sandor an opportunity to judge the rear view. He dismissed the next thought, returning his attention to Ferriello. “I told you I wouldn’t compromise you and I mean it. If things get out of hand I want you to leave. I can take care of myself.”

“Trust me Sandor, nobody can take care of himself dealing with these animals.”

“Maybe so, but if I have any chance someone is going to talk with me about this shipment, they’re sure as hell not going to do it in front of a narcotics detective.”

“As if they’re going to spill their guts to you.”

“It’s all I’ve got right now. You’re my path to meet the powers that be. Once I’m in you’ve got to get out.”

Ferriello shook his head. “You may not be my favorite person, but I’m not leaving you here to be skinned alive.”

“Yes, you are.”

Ferriello was about to voice another protest when they spotted a tall man with wide shoulders making his way across the room. His strides seemed about two yards long and it was only a matter of seconds before the large Russian reached them and came to a stop in front of the lieutenant. He ignored Sandor as he glared down at Ferriello and said, “What?”