Max said, “Point made.”
“There’s something else I found that I wanted to run by you.”
“Hit me.”
“I was trying to find a link between the ISI and the Mexican drug cartels. Specifically, the Sinaloa cartel, where this Blanco is.”
“And?”
“I found this one journalist’s blog — someone who’d been embedded with US troops in Afghanistan. One of his posts mentioned a rumor he overheard — that the Pakistani ISI are covertly running the Afghan opium trade.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time an intelligence agency got involved in something like that. The Afghan heroin trade is a multibillion-dollar market. That amount of money would attract all the sharks in the region. And the ISI has a lot of sharks. If you’ve got that much cash, you can fund a whole lot of covert operations to support your cause.”
“But even if the ISI is involved in the Afghan heroin trade, what’s the connection to the Sinaloa cartel?”
Max looked out the window, thinking, then turned back to face her. “Heroin, obviously. You just talked about the rise in heroin use across the world since 2001. And you also said that North America has overindexed. So growth in heroin use here is higher than anywhere else, but Afghanistan still produces ninety percent of the world’s heroin.”
Renee said, “The Mexican cartels can’t keep up. Is that it?”
“Possibly. Maybe the North American demand is outstripping the cartel’s supply. So where can they go to get more heroin to sell in the US?”
“Afghan suppliers.”
“And the ISI is brokering the deal.”
Their jet stopped at a small executive airport on the outskirts of Dallas. They taxied next to a hangar where a small moving truck was waiting. Next to the truck stood a tall, thick man with dark curly hair and a beard. Max shook hands with the man and introduced him to Trent and Renee.
Renee said, “I’m sorry, did you say your name was…?”
“That’s right, Sasquatch.”
The large man’s arms were folded across his chest, a wide smile on his face.
Renee looked at Max with bewilderment, not sure if this was a joke. “Why do you go by Sasquatch?”
The man lifted open the truck trailer door to reveal shelves filled with weapons and gear. “I think they call me that because of my good looks.”
Max whispered, “Men in his line of work usually prefer that we not use their real name.”
Renee nodded.
Trent picked up a large weapon with two hands. It was drab green and had a cylinder-style magazine. “This is nice.”
“What is it?” asked Renee.
Sasquatch answered, “It’s a multi-use weapon. We’ve got several different options for ammunition there, sir. Just take a look at the shelf above it.”
“Excellent. Very nice selection,” said Trent. “These rounds here — any chance you could customize them for close quarters?”
Sasquatch handed him a specially marked crate. “These here don’t have the twenty-five-meter minimum engagement range. They’ll arm after about seven meters. Will that do?”
“Yup.”
Trent and Max inspected their gear options, made their choices, and then loaded everything onto the jet while it refueled.
“Your payment is already in your account,” said Max. “And I gave you a little tip.”
“Always appreciated, Mr. Fend. Just let me know whenever I can be of service.”
The trio got back into the jet as Sasquatch drove away. A few hours later, they landed at an airport on the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico.
Cartel territory.
They arrived at a five-star resort on the beaches of Mazatlán. The resort had high cement walls surrounding the property. Men armed with shotguns walked the perimeter, guarding the wealthy patrons. Max wondered how many of those men also worked for the cartels part-time.
“May we take your bags, sir?”
“No, thank you, my assistant will manage fine.” Max looked at Trent, who nodded and carried their luggage up to the rooms. The bags would be moved to a safe house later that night. Until then, Trent wouldn’t let them leave his sight.
Their hotel room was simple, but gorgeous. Clean floors of reddish Saltillo tile, arched ceilings, and an open-air balcony with a view of the turquoise Pacific and towering palm trees.
But beautiful as it was, the hotel would have been one of Max’s last choices if he were vacationing in Mexico. Outside the walls of the resort, the city streets were teeming with prying eyes on the payroll of the cartel, each of them eager to get a bonus for providing a good tip on American law enforcement — or perhaps a prime target for kidnapping.
Their cover story was simple. Max and Renee were on vacation. As many ultra-wealthy travelers do, Mr. Fend had brought along his personal security guard. While Max was well known in the US, due to his father’s fame and his own misadventures, here he was just some rich gringo. This partial anonymity allowed him to assist in reconnaissance without drawing extraordinary notice.
The three travelers spent their evenings together in Max’s room, with the windows closed and electronic countersurveillance equipment humming on the coffee table. Renee had carefully set up their IT network, an encrypted system that made sure no one could tap in to their phones or computers. She also scanned the room for bugs twice per day.
Still, they knew they were probably being watched. The hotel concierge. The cab driver. The airport security officials. Local police. Even some teenage kids Max had caught tailing him during his first morning stroll. One kid watching him and immediately making a call on a cheap cell phone, probably reporting Max’s position to his boss. Max lost the kids during his three-hour surveillance detection route, but the fact that there were so many potential eyeballs on him was a bit unnerving.
Mexico would be harder than he thought.
The group spent the next two days making observations and adjusting plans. Max and Trent took turns walking the streets in and around the operational area. Going over potential getaway routes and choke points, and gaining knowledge of the local pattern of life. Wilkes sent gigabytes of CIA and DEA data to Renee, which the trio studied each night.
Wilkes arrived on the third night to go over the plan.
They ordered room service. Steak and grilled vegetables. Bottled waters. Max wasn’t drinking a drop out of the tap. He’d heard too many stories of Montezuma’s revenge.
After dinner, Wilkes pointed at the map displayed on Renee’s computer screen. On it was a neighborhood block about five miles away.
“So, our break here is that we’ve been able to establish a new routine between Rojas and my agent. About once per month, he makes the three-hour drive from cartel leadership’s headquarters in Durango to the coast here in Mazatlán. Unless something drastically changes, there is a very high probability that Hector Rojas will be in this townhome tomorrow evening, enjoying a night of drinks and carnal familiarity with my agent.”
Renee frowned.
Max nodded. “Based on the pattern-of-life reports Wilkes provided us, Rojas rarely stays in the same place more than a few nights in a row. And this special meeting that Blanco and the Pakistanis are prepping for is supposed to be held within the next few weeks. So, we’ll need tomorrow night to go smoothly, or—”