hands - some on the right and some on the left - in the name of
The corruption of America was manifest to Ernesto. He, after all, fed it. For years now, forces in his largest and most important market had lobbied to legalize his business there. Fortunately they had all failed. That would have been disaster for the Cartel, and was yet another example of how a government lacked the wit to act in its own self-interest. The American government could have made billions from the business - as he and his associates did - but lacked the vision and the good sense to do so. And they called themselves a great power. For all their supposed strength, the
No, the Americans were not to be respected.
6. Deterrence
FELIX CORTEZ TRAVELED with a Costa Rican passport. If someone noted his Cuban accent, he'd explain that his family had left that country when he was a boy, but by carefully selecting his port of entry, he avoided that notice. Besides, he was working on the accent. Cortez was fluent in three languages - English and Russian in addition to his native Spanish. A raffishly handsome man, his tropical complexion was barely different from a vacationer's tan. The neat mustache and custom-tailored suit proclaimed him a successful businessman, and the gleaming white teeth made him a pleasant one at that. He waited in the immigration line at Dulles International Airport, chatting with the lady behind him until he got to the INS inspector, as resignedly unhurried as any frequent traveler.
'Good afternoon, sir,' the inspector said, barely looking up from the passport. 'What brings you to America?'
'Business,' Cortez replied.
'Uh- huh,' the inspector grunted. He flipped through the passport and saw numerous entry stamps. The man traveled a lot, and about half his trips in the previous... four years were to the States. The stamps were evenly split between Miami, Washington, and Los Angeles. 'How long will you be staying?'
'Five days.'
'Anything to declare?'
'Just my clothes, and my business notes.' Cortez held up his briefcase.
'Welcome to America, Mr. D az.' The inspector stamped the passport and handed it back.
'Thank you.' He moved off to collect his bag, a large and well-used two-suiter. He tried to come through American airports at slack hours. This was less for convenience than because it was unusual for someone who had something to hide. At slack times the inspectors had all the time they needed to annoy people, and the sniffer dogs weren't rushed along the rows of luggage. It was also easier to spot surveillance when the airport concourses were uncrowded, of course, and Cortez/D az was an expert at countersurveillance.
His next stop was the Hertz counter, where he rented a full-size Chevy. Cortez had no love for Americans, but he did like their big cars. The routine was down pat. He used a Visa card. The young lady at the counter asked the usual question about joining the Hertz Number One Club, and he took the proffered brochure with feigned interest. The only reason he used a rental car company more than once was that there weren't enough to avoid repetition. Similarly, he never used the same passport twice, nor the same credit cards. At a place near his home he had an ample supply of both. He had come to Washington to see one of the people who made that possible.
His legs were still stiff as he walked out to get his car - he could have taken the courtesy van, but he'd been sitting for too long. The damp heat of a late spring day reminded him of home. Not that he remembered Cuba all that fondly, but his former government had, after all, given him the training that he needed for his current job. All the school classes on Marxism-Leninism, telling people who scarcely had food to eat that they lived in paradise. In Cortez's case, they'd had the effect of telling him what he wanted out of life. His training in the DGI had given him the first taste of privilege, and the unending political instruction had only made his government look all the more grotesque in its claims and its goals. But he'd played the game, and learned what he'd needed to learn, exchanging his time for training and field work, learning how capitalist societies work, learning how to penetrate and subvert them, learning their strong points and weak ones. The contrast between the two was entertaining to the former colonel. The relative poverty in Puerto Rico had looked like paradise to him, even while working along with fellow Colonel Ojeda and the Machetero savages to overthrow it - and replace it with Cuba's version of socialist realism. Cortez shook his head in amusement as he walked toward the parking lot.
Twenty feet over the Cuban's head, Liz Murray dropped her husband off behind a vanload of travelers. There was barely time for a kiss. She had errands to run, and they'd call Dan's flight in another ten minutes.
'I ought to be back tomorrow afternoon,' he said as he got out.
'Good,' Liz replied. 'Remember the movers.'
'I won't.' Dan closed the door and took three steps. 'I mean, I won't forget, honey...' He turned in time to see his wife laughing as she drove off; she'd done it to him again. 'It's not fair,' he grumbled to himself. 'Bring you back from London, big promotion, and second day on the job they drop you in the soup.' He walked through the self- opening doors into the terminal and found a TV monitor with his flight information. He had only one bag, and that was small enough to carry on. He'd already reviewed the paperwork - it had all been faxed to Washington by the Mobile Field Office and was the subject of considerable talk in the Hoover Building.
The next step was getting through the metal detector. Actually he bypassed it. The attendant gave out the usual, 'Excuse me, sir,' and Murray held up his ID folder, identifying himself as Daniel E. Murray, Deputy Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was no way he could have passed through the magnetometer, not with the Smith Wesson automatic clipped to his belt, and people in airports tended to get nervous if he showed what he was carrying. Not that he shot that well with it. He hadn't even requalified yet. That was scheduled for the next week. They weren't so strict about that with top-level FBI management - his main workplace hazard now came from staple pullers - but though Murray was a man with few vanities, shooting skill was one of them. For no particular reason, Murray was worried about that. After four years in London as the legal attach , he knew that he needed some serious practice before he would shoot 'expert' with either hand again, especially with a new gun. His beloved stainless-steel Colt Python.357 was in retirement. The Bureau was switching over to automatics, and on his arrival in his new office he'd found the engraved SW gift-wrapped on his desk, a present arranged by his friend Bill Shaw, the newly appointed executive assistant director (Investigations). Bill always had been a class act. Murray switched the bag to his left hand and surreptitiously checked to see that the gun was in place, much as an ordinary citizen might check for his wallet. The only bad thing about his London duty was being unarmed. Like any American cop, Murray felt slightly naked without a gun, even though he'd never had cause to use one in anger. If nothing else, he could make sure that this flight didn't go to Cuba. He wouldn't have much chance to do hands-on law enforcement anymore, of course. Now he was part of management, another way of saying that he was too old to be useful, Murray told himself as he selected a seat close to the departure gate. The problem at hand was about as close as he was going to get to handling a real case, and it was happening only because the Director had got hold of the file and called in Bill Shaw who, in turn, had decided that he wanted someone he knew to take a look at it. It promised to be ticklish. They were really starting him off with a cute one.
The flight took just over two hours of routine boredom and a dry meal. Murray was met at the gate by Supervisory Special Agent Mark Bright, assistant special-agent-in-charge of the Mobile Field Office.
'Any other bags, Mr. Murray?'
'Just this one - and the name's Dan,' Murray replied. 'Has anybody talked to them yet?'
'Not in yet - that is, I don't think so.' Bright checked his watch. 'They were due in about ten, but they got called in on a rescue last night. Some fishing boat blew up and the cutter had to get the crew off. It made the morning TV news. Nice job, evidently.'
'Super,' Murray observed. 'We're going in to grill a friggin' hero, and he's gone and done it again.'
'You know this guy's background?' Bright asked. 'I haven't had much chance to -'
'I've been briefed. Hero's the right word. This Wegener's a legend. Red Wegener's called the King of SAR - that means search-and-rescue. Half the people who've ever been to sea, he's saved at one time or another. At least that's the word on the guy. He's got some big-time friends on The Hill, too.'
