Swanson adjusted his sunglasses and again made sure the safety was secure on the hand cannon at his side. The driver was doing a good job on the road. He was built like a fire hydrant, with the jowly face of a bulldog, and drove as if this were a NASCAR tryout.
Swanson used the moment to reflect on what Coastie had blurted out at the cemetery: she wanted to come back into the secret world. But three years had passed since she had retired to the easy life of a wealthy family in Mexico’s upper middle class. It was too soon for her to make this kind of decision, or any major decision. Nobody should make a life choice during such emotional moments, but Coastie wasn’t like everyone else. If it was revenge she wanted, Swanson knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop her. She hadn’t been asking permission. He shifted in the seat. The tension was miles behind them now, and the ranch was five miles of smooth road straight ahead.
By the following afternoon, Swanson was no longer at the ranch. Word had come down directly from Marty Atkins, the only man in the CIA to whom Swanson answered directly, and the word was to get up to Mexico City immediately. He wasn’t sad to go, because he could postpone dealing with Coastie for at least a little while. He knew that she wasn’t going to give up.
It took most of the day to make the trip to the capital, but the sun was still high and hot in a cloudless sky as he boarded a helicopter to take him above the horrendous traffic of the city and the dirty smog that hugged the tops of the tall buildings. More than eight million people lived in Mexico City, and it seemed that most of them were on wheels of some sort, clogging every avenue.
The chopper set down lightly on the helipad atop an inconspicuous office building, and a guide showed him to an elevator. A reception desk was directly in front of the elevator door when it opened, and Swanson understood that the young man seated there was also a guard, despite the blue sports coat and the tie and the bright manner. Swanson handed over his cred pack, and the man nodded up at a camera. “Just a moment, sir. Mrs. Johnson is coming out to escort you.”
Swanson was looking for the pinhole cameras that surely covered the area when a knobless door buzzed open. “Mr. Swanson. I’m Irma Johnson, the executive assistant to Mr. Wright. He’s expecting you.” Her voice was calm and smooth, because she was used to the crisis mode that always existed in these offices. This was just another day in the heart of the CIA in Mexico.
Everything about her was neat, from the graying hair to the polished nails. She was the unflinching gatekeeper of the dark world, and professional to the core.
“We have to walk a bit because he’s in the secure communications suite.” The hallway was narrow and built to provide niches in which staff members could take cover in case of an attack. The zigzag route made it impossible for a gunman at one end to shoot all the way to the other.
Neither remarked on the unusual architecture, which was pretty standard for important outposts around the world. Outwardly, it had the bland look of an insurance company, including potted plants and tasteful wallpaper that seamlessly hid the firing ports.
At a dark-mahogany door, Mrs. Johnson activated a touch panel and the portal opened. She stood aside and Swanson moved into the communications center of the CIA’s home away from home in Mexico. Glitzy new computers and old file cabinets intermingled in what seemed to be a continuation of the haphazard layout. In reality, it was an efficient way to do business, to loop tomorrow back to yesterday. In the information age in which teenage hackers could attack a government computer system just for the hell of it, paper copies had come back in style.
Timothy Wright, the station chief, gave Swanson a brief handshake and had him sit down. There was a thick black notebook peeled open on the desk, and he said, “Let’s get straight to it, shall we?”
“Sure. What’s going on? I shouldn’t be here.” Swanson took a straight-backed chair. “Such a direct link with the company could destroy my cover.”
“I’ve just gotten off the scrambler with Director Atkins, who briefed me on your background: illustrious career in the Marine Corps as a sniper, Medal of Honor winner, and now you’re the executive vice president of Excalibur Enterprises, a private corporation.” He spoke in a slow voice that carried a hint of Nebraska twang. His white sleeves were rolled up on his forearms, and his demeanor was that of a stern grandfather. “You work for us on the side as a special operative. Marty Atkins is your boss, and he cleared this meeting because we have ourselves a bit of a problem, Mr. Swanson.”
“Kyle,” he responded, mindful that it was usually best to keep one’s mouth shut.
Wright smiled. “Fine. I’m Tim.” He put on a pair of rimless bifocals and read from a single sheet. “Here is the trail of breadcrumbs, Kyle. You flew in a couple of days ago from Dulles to attend the funeral of your friend, Colonel Castillo, right? No advance contact?”
Swanson shook his head. “I hadn’t spoken to either the colonel or his wife, who is also a close friend, in about three months. Not even texts.”
“Right. Then you go to the cemetery and almost get blown up by a bomb in the grave.”
This time Swanson didn’t reply at all. The man was spinning a chronology that he already knew.
Tim Wright continued. “Grab a bottle of water from the shelf, if you want some. We can have real drinks later. Anyway, you told the police that you saw a suspicious character moments before the blast.”
Swanson bought a little time by getting a bottle and concentrating on opening the cap. It was room temperature, but at least he wouldn’t catch Montezuma’s revenge. Dirty water going in one end usually resulted in diarrhea exiting the other.
“I had a session with a police artist yesterday afternoon to help construct an Identi-Kit likeness. He nailed it pretty well with a full-face image. Still, I only got a glance.”
Wright reached into the notebook and pulled the sketch from the clear protective sleeve. “This it?”
“Yes.” Right down to the pointed goatee.
Wright pursed his lips. Swanson wasn’t making this easy. “The local cops pulled some prints from the tractor that was used to dig the grave. The cemetery employee who had that job was found dead in a work shed, with his throat cut.”
“So you have an ID?” Swanson raised his eyebrows.
“The prints match those of the man in your sketch, Swanson.” The CIA station chief whistled a puff of air and took out a photograph that mirrored the sketch. “His name is Nicky Marks.”
“Not Mexican?” Interesting. “Never heard of him.”
“The real name is Nikola Markovitch. He’s Russian. And he’s one of ours.”
“Humph.” Swanson cleared his throat, thought it over. Had a drink. “A Russian CIA operator? What does that have to do with me?”
Wright slid the sketch and the photo back into the plastic and closed the book. “Are you aware that Colonel Castillo did occasional favors for us?”
“No surprise.” Mickey had said nothing about it, but then why should he? The CIA and the Mexicans obviously often worked in tandem on intelligence matters, particularly on the volatile drug front. “That raid on which he was killed, a joint op?”