“Not at all. We have a police captain, who has a theory absent any support, based on hearsay from a criminal. It says right in the report that his own intelligence service shut him down. If they dismissed him, that’s a good indicator he’s got nothing solid. This is just a rogue cop with a wild theory and no evidence. Nobody’s giving it any credence in Mexico, and for good reason. It’s a non-event,” Kent responded.
“Well, what if he gets some proof?” the Speaker of the House asked.
“There is no proof. That’s the best part about this. There’s nothing to get,” Kent replied.
“What about this assassin he goes on about? What if he manages to find him and stop him?” the caller volleyed.
“You mean El Rey? The most famous assassin in Latin America? Gee, don’t you think that if the police could have caught him, they would have by now? There’s an entire task force devoted to doing so, and it’s turned up nothing. No, this is entirely containable. The cartel boss who took out the contract is dead. So nobody to talk there. That leaves a contract killer who’s evaded capture for a decade, and the Mexican police, who are about as competent as the D.C. cops…” Kent grinned at his humor.
“I’d say the cartel boss already did enough talking,” the caller said.
“Maybe, but he’s dead. So he’s no longer a problem.”
“What about the hit man, this El Rey? Will he carry out the contract now that his employer is no longer alive?” the Speaker of the House asked.
“All our intelligence predicts that he will. The new cartel boss who replaces him won’t want to piss El Rey off — he’s considered indestructible in Mexico by the criminal gangs there. So if he shows up demanding payment for a predecessor’s commitments, the new guy will pay. Look, the cartels are swimming in cash, so it’s a rounding error for them versus a bullet in the head when they least suspect it. No, I think it’s safe to say they won’t stiff El Rey, which means the only thing that’s changed is this cop stumbling through matters that are none of his business,” Kent said.
The discussion went on for another fifteen minutes, but in the end what the two men really wanted was reassurance. Kent offered that, and proposed a solution they could all live with. They agreed, and the meeting ended. Kent glanced at his watch — it was now almost midnight. He rubbed his eyes and groaned as he got into his car. It would be a few more hours before he’d be going home.
He had some calls to make.
Six Months Ago, Mexico City
Francisco Morales, the Secretary of the Interior for Mexico, boarded the helicopter that was to take him to the meeting of prosecutors, convened to discuss new steps to battle the cartels. It was a foggy morning, and as the aircraft waited for the arrival of the other passengers, Morales busied himself with his Blackberry, sending a message on Twitter commemorating the death of his predecessor three years before in an airplane crash. That had been a serious blow to the nation; the Secretary of the Interior was largely responsible for the day to day operations in the war on drugs, and his predecessor had been vociferous in his condemnation of the cartels, as well as his development of innovative strategies to combat them, such as the creation of Cruz’s task force.
Two SUVs pulled alongside the helicopter. The occupants alighted — Felipe Zariana, General of Legal Affairs; Jose Salamanca, Director of Social Communications; Rene Cantantore, Lieutenant General, and a group of military personnel and secretaries. The flight would transport nine including the pilot, who was a veteran of fifteen years of flying. Collectively, the group represented the top brass in the government’s war against the cartels, and there was excitement in the air — Morales was about to unveil a brave new strategy to cut the criminal syndicates off at the knees.
That it would be effective was without question. After years of half measures, someone had finally decided to get serious and cut the heads off the snakes. It was ironic that the fatal blow would come from a native of one of the most violent cartel towns. Morales had come a long way since his humble working-class beginnings in Tijuana, and represented the best hope the Mexicans had for decisive victory against the predatory miscreants who were crippling the nation.
The chopper’s blades picked up speed as the pilot prepared for takeoff. In the post-dawn light, the fog was a thick gray blanket over the airfield, but wouldn’t pose any problems for the flight — the helicopter was equipped with all the latest electronics and could easily fly completely blind, as it often did in the dead of night. The distinctive thwack thwack of the rotor was muffled by the dense haze as the pilot executed the final checks to verify all was operating correctly. Satisfied, he increased the RPMs of the massive turbine, and the craft lifted skyward, its lights blinking as it disappeared into the cloud.
Seven minutes later, air traffic control lost track of the flight, which had been given priority status given its payload. After several attempts to contact the pilot, aircraft were scrambled to trace the travel route and check for an accident.
The pilot of one of the reconnaissance helicopters radioed in. “Tower, this is flight three-oh-seven. We have visual on a crash site near the side of a hill at grid fourteen. Repeat. We have wreckage at grid fourteen. Requesting permission to set down and evaluate.”
“Roger that. You have permission. All other choppers proceed to grid fourteen.”
The pilot nosed his craft down, landing near the mangled remains of Morales’ last flight, knowing intuitively from its condition that nobody had walked away. Small fires gave out swirls of black smoke from the devastation; the metal skeleton of the conveyance was twisted beyond recognition, and there had been at least one explosion when the chopper had crashed. After a few minutes walking the perimeter, he reported his findings, then gazed skyward as more helicopters carefully dropped through the now-receding fog, the only task remaining was to scrape up the pieces.
The man watched through binoculars as the crash site was secured by the military and took a photo with his phone to send to the client. This was a contract he’d been instructed not to take credit for, which was fine by him. El Rey already had enough press to last a lifetime, so the hit’s conditions worked for him — it had been laughably easy to plant a small amount of explosive near the rotor coupling, detonated with a high frequency transmitter when it came into range. He eschewed using cell phones for triggers; there was always the chance of reception getting blocked or that cell service was spotty — a nearly constant issue in Mexico. Or worse, if a wrong number or text message came in, it could ruin a carefully plotted plan because of a random misdialed digit.
Five million dollars richer, he rolled up the tinted window of his stolen Nissan Pathfinder and continued down the rural road, away from Mexico City and the slew of emergency vehicles he knew weren’t far behind.
Present Day
The following afternoon, Cruz called an all-hands meeting for his squad chiefs in the big headquarters conference room. When he walked in, carrying foils for the overhead projector, the suite was nearly filled to capacity. The murmur of conversation quickly died, and when Cruz took the floor he had everyone’s attention.
He nodded at Briones, who extinguished the lights, and fiddled with the rear of the projector until it displayed a bright white square on the wall. He pulled the top foil from the protective folder and placed it on the display screen. The sketch of Briones’ vagrant sprang larger than life on the far wall.
“This is a depiction of the assassin known as El Rey. To the best of our belief, this is a good likeness, or as good as we’ll get until he’s lying on a slab in the morgue,” Cruz began. The gathered officers tittered and breathed a few hushed discussions before silence fell again.