"From what I've learned, he seemed intent on discovering the specifics about his brother's death."
Valencia took a pipe from a side table and toyed with it.
"It was constantly on his mind. He spent a year in Venezuela and Colombia searching for answers."
"What did he uncover?" Kerney asked.
Valencia filled his pipe.
"He believed that his brother had been put in charge of establishing a secret training facility for assassins who were to be sent into Colombia to murder members of the drug cartels."
"Funded and operated by our government?"
Valencia nodded.
"Using the same ruse that failed so miserably in Vietnam, military advisors."
"Father Mitchell was convinced of this?"
"Yes. His brother was an experienced intelligence officer who specialized in training field operatives."
"Did he have proof?" Kerney asked.
Valencia lit his pipe and the scent of tobacco filled the room.
"He was never able to corroborate his theory. Most of the information came to him as rumor or supposition."
"What did he learn about his brother's death?"
"Supposedly, the murder was arranged by drug lords who learned of the colonel's mission from a bribed Colombian army officer. As I understand it, Colombian police were to be trained in Venezuela by the U. S. Army, then sent home to infiltrate the cartels and kill the jefes and their associates. At the time a commonly held belief among American intelligence agencies was that the cartels were nothing but a large-scale version of common street dealers. In fact, the cartels had a superior intelligence-gathering apparatus."
"Did the mission go forward after the colonel's death?"
"Yes, but not quite the way it was supposed to," Valencia said.
"Our government unwittingly placed in the hands of the cartels a cadre of qualified assassins who were used against the supporters of the American-backed drug interdiction program."
"The jefes infiltrated the project?"
"No, they simply identified the recruits, waited until they were trained, and bought the services of most of them. Jump ahead in time.
The police assassins who refused to serve the jefes are murdered one by one. Car bombs kill ranking federal prosecutors. Politicians running on anti cartel platforms disappear. The federal official in charge of drug interdiction, a man of impeccable reputation, is killed by a sniper's bullet. Journalists sympathetic to the anti cartel movement are found burned to death in tragic automobile accidents. Judges are kidnapped, held for ransom, and then shot. Are these the acts of untrained, unsophisticated street thugs?"
"I doubt it," Kerney said.
"But weren't some arrests made?"
"Of course. Teenagers mostly, with no knowledge of the inner workings of either the cartels or the hit squads."
"So, you believed Father Mitchell," Kerney said.
Valencia tamped out the tobacco in his pipe and laid it aside.
"I was born and raised in Colombia, Chief Kerney. I know how the rich, the powerful, and the privileged are treated because of the resources they possess. I've seen firsthand how money can purchase special favors.
Even though Father Joseph had not one shred of proof to back up his contentions, I believed him."
"It seems as though Father Mitchell was trying to uncover much more than just the truth about his brothers murder."
"He was an expert in modern U. S. military history with an emphasis in Latin American affairs," Valencia said.
"He had strong fears that something more was at hand."
"Such as?"
"The people of Colombia are poor, the government is corrupt, and the elite rule.
Rebels and bandits roam the countryside, where the army refuses to go.
The country is only partially under the control of the government.
Cartels earn billions of dollars from the illicit American drug economy.
Growers are now raising opium to get a share of the North American heroin market. Counterfeiting of American currency is rampant. The United States has overthrown governments, supported dictators, and started wars in South America for fewer reasons than that."
"Can you be more specific about Father Joseph's concerns?"
"He thought that a number of federal agencies were participating in a clandestine plan to eliminate the drug cartels, install a new government in Bogota, and support a full-scale ground war against the rebels."
"Did he ever mention a secret American trade mission to South America?"
Kerney asked.
Valencia looked quizzical.
"No, and I've heard nothing about it from any other sources. Does one exist?"
"I've been told that one does."
"Interesting," Valencia said.
"How so?" Kerney asked.
"If Washington's goal is to overthrow the Colombian government and make war on the cartels and the rebels, it would be wise to have a compact with countries bordering Colombia that supported U. S. intervention."
"Would such a compact be possible?"
"Criminals give bribes to achieve their goals, governments call it foreign aid.
And all of South America is in desperate need of economic assistance."
"Do you know a woman named Phyllis Terrell?" Kerney asked.
Valencia reached for his pipe.
"The ambassador's wife who was murdered in Santa Fe? I never met her."
"Did Father Mitchell know her?"
"I don't know if he did or not. Last fall he gave a talk about the growing threat of military intervention in South America at a peace forum in Santa Fe.
He called me to talk about it a few days later. He said a woman had come to the meeting specifically to meet him, and that she might have some highly sensitive information that would be helpful to his research. He never mentioned a name.
But he sounded very excited about it."
"Do you know of any earlier attempts on Father Mitchell's life?"
Valencia stood up.
"We never talked of such matters, although I'm sure he knew he took some risks. There must be a dozen government agencies that would find his research bothersome. You must excuse me. I have a class at the university within the hour."
"Yes, of course," Kerney said, getting to his feet.
"Did Father Mitchell stay in touch with you only by telephone?"
"Most of our communication was by email."
"Do you have his e-mail address?"
Valencia nodded and reached for an address book from a bookcase shelf.
"I have little faith in computers. They crash far too often, so I always write e-mail addresses down. Joe had two: one for general use and another for more private communication."
Valencia read off the information.
"Did you have copies of Father Mitchell's e-mail letters?" Kerney asked.
"Or perhaps keep them stored in your computer?"
Valencia shook his head and smiled.
"Copies, no, and I make it a practice to have very little about my private or personal life in the computer. I trust them even less than I trust most police officers."
"Thank you for your openness, Professor."
"You strike me as a sincere, fair-minded man, Chief Kerney. I wish you well in your investigation. Father Joseph deserves justice."
One of Mitchell's Internet service providers was an Albuquerque based company with corporate offices in a business park adjacent to the Interstate. With walls of glass facing the outside world, the building presented what passed for a sleek, modern look. To Kerney it seemed nothing more than a five-story rectangular box, plopped down next to another equally unattractive box, with nice landscaping designed to hide its pedestrian dullness.
A directory inside the lobby next to the elevators listed the various company suites. Kerney found his way to the ISP's offices, where a young woman smiled genially as he approached the reception desk. She wore a bright yellow lapel pin that read ASK ME ABOUT SWAMI. On the wall behind the desk a poster proclaimed SWAMI: THE NEXT GENERATION OF INTERNET TOOLS. A swirling, modernistic, multicolored turban served as the logo.