The Aegis Conspiracy Read online

  Then Abdul received another surprise. Jake told him his target was a lawyer living in Tucson. Her name was G. G. Grant.

  “Ah. She’s the woman who was the CIA agent in Syria.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Know her? No. We knew the names of all of the CIA people in your Damascus cell, but I didn’t know her. I may have seen her once or twice. I don’t recall. No. I don’t remember her.”

  “She’s no longer in the Agency,” Jake said and, again, Abdul interrupted him.

  “So, she knows too much. So, she has to be silenced. So, the CIA wants to purge itself of a potential embarrassment. The Central Intelligence Agency doesn’t like to be embarrassed. I will have to remember not to become an embarrassment.”

  “I always remember it,” was Jake’s cynical response to Abdul’s cynical comment.

  Jake gave Abdul a description of Gigi Grant. He gave her office address and the license number of her black Cherokee Jeep. Abdul interpreted the lack of more specific information to the CIA’s interest in testing his ingenuity. He didn’t understand it was only a reflection of Jake’s lack of specific knowledge.

  Jake instructed Abdul to make no attempt to pass through U. S. Customs at Nogales. He gave him the name of a “coyote” operating out of a rural finca ten miles to the west of Mexican Nogales and close to the border. The coyote would take him into Arizona a few miles from a place called Flores.

  Flores was little more than a saloon, a general store, a gas station and a few buildings. An automobile would be parked behind the gas station. Jake gave Abdul a key that would fit the ignition and told him to drive to Tucson and call him when he arrived. After giving him a telephone number and an envelope containing half of Abdul’s promised compensation, Jake wished him good luck and left the park.

  Jake’s visit to Monterrey may have begun in an atmosphere of discouragement, but it ended with pleasant optimism. It looked more and more like Abdul may have decided to work with him and Teddy. Time would tell. If he killed Grant, Jake’s promise to find a replacement for Den Clark would be validated and his standing with Teddy would not be injured. At the same time, he would get rid of the Grant woman - one of the few people who knew his Damascus history. If, after killing her, Abdul disappeared back into the Near East, Jake couldn’t care less.

  As he looked for a taxi to take him back to the airport, Jake was satisfied. He had avoided damage to his reputation. His position with Teddy was secure. Soon, G. G. Grant would be dead. Den Clark was the only problem yet to be resolved.

  “Damn Teddy!” Jake thought. He seemed to be willing to take the chance Den would keep his mouth shut. He wouldn’t let Jake track him down. Every passing day brought Jake more anger and an even deeper desire to kill Clark. Jake had been patient. It looked like he would have to continue to be patient.

  From his room in the Nuevo Mundo, Abdul watched Jake enter a taxi and begin his trip back to the States. As soon as the taxi disappeared from sight, Abdul opened the envelope Jacobson had given him and counted the seven thousand five hundred dollars it contained.

  He thought of his early years in a Palestinian refugee camp - poverty - the indignities of dependence on Hezbollah charity - hunger - less to eat than an Israeli house dog. Now he had well over twenty-five thousand dollars and the promise of another seventy-five hundred when the Tucson lawyer was dead. If one of his Damascus jihad leaders told him to kill the woman when she was stationed in Syria, he would have done it without compensation

  It was less than a few weeks since Abdul met with Jacobson in Damascus. At that time, Abdul believed Jake made the contact because the CIA was planning assassinations in the Near East. He thought the Agency wanted a Moslem assassin to enter Moslem territories and kill Moslem leaders - the men who believed as he did. The West slandered them with the name “terrorists”. He would call them “freedom fighters”.

  When he was directed to come to the Western Hemisphere, Abdul expected to be asked to kill a fellow Moslem who lived in America. Perhaps, someone who raised funds for Palestinian causes. Perhaps, it would be a freedom fighter sent to the United States to organize bombings. Abdul would not hesitate to kill Christians or Jews, but it would be impossible to kill fellow Moslems who supported jihad.

  Abdul recalled his initial reactions to the CIA proposal. When he was called, he would fly to Mexico. He’d take the second ten thousand dollars that had been promised. He would agree to kill whoever Jacobson named and collect the one-half advance payment. Then he would kill Jacobson, warn the intended victim and quickly return to Syria.

  That plan was jettisoned when Jake told him his target was not a Palestinian compatriot. It was an American. Not only that. It was an ex-CIA agent. Abdul sat on the edge of the hotel room bed and ran his fingers over the crisp edges of the bills. He liked the feel of them. Why, he asked himself, shouldn’t he at least consider staying in Mexico and working for CIA money? Perhaps he wouldn’t be asked to kill Moslems. Perhaps he would only be called upon to kill ex-CIA agents.

  He could live in Mexico and still favor jihad. He could always refuse any CIA assignment if it was offensive to him. A new, well-paying job on this side of the globe was attractive. He would live well. He could have good Western clothing, good food, a good place to live - perhaps in an apartment building. Then, ashamed of himself, he broke his reverie.

  “No,” he said aloud. “No. The Americans and their CIA can never be trusted. The greatest danger exists when you feel secure. I will work with Jacobson, but I must never trust him. I promise myself I will always be ready to take his money and kill him.” He spoke those words aloud in an unsuccessful attempt to quiet the re-occurring thought that he should leave his Near East life behind him and begin a new life in a new world.

  Abdul packed his suitcase and prepared for a trip to Nogales and a meeting with the coyote named Carlos Montenegro.

  During his early teens, Carlos Montenegro lived in Nogales, Sonora, across the border from Nogales, Arizona. He managed to survive through petty thievery. If he had been a more successful thief, he would not have spent five years in a Mexican prison. Five years in a Mexican prison gives a man not only opportunity, but also good reason to reflect on the course his life has taken. The young man had time to plan his future.

  Some Mexican prisoners were attracted to the drug business. It was an occupation with good financial reward, but Montenegro knew the people who trafficked in narcotics fought among themselves. They had no prejudice against killing one another or killing anyone else who might be standing nearby. It was a violent business.

  Montenegro was not averse to killing someone, but he did not like the possibility of someone killing him. He was careful to avoid risks that could end up in his own death. Those risks, he thought, were much too great if one was engaged in the drug trade.

  During his time in prison, Montenegro also learned men were paid to lead people across the Arizona border. Such men were called “coyotes”. Guiding undocumented persons into the United States was less profitable than the drug trade, but the risk of being killed or being caught and sent to prison was low. Carlos’ own experience convinced him the potential of being returned to prison was almost as frightening as the potential of being shot and killed.

  The risk of imprisonment in the coyote business was low. The Mexican policía didn’t assign a high priority to interfering in the business of human exportation. On the United States side of the border, if a man was apprehended while smuggling illegals into the country, there was little chance of criminal prosecution. Usually the coyote, along with the undocumented immigrants, was simply sent back to Mexico.

  Carlos Montenegro would be satisfied with the life of a coyote. He decided to discontinue his occupation as a marginally successful thief and dedicate himself to the profession of smuggling undocumented Latinos into the United States. As soon as he was released from prison, he returned to Nogales and began his new profession.

  It was a simple matter for Montenegro to lead Latinos to
the Arizona border. On those few occasions when apprehension by the United States Border Patrol became a danger, Carlos Montenegro immediately abandoned his charges and hurried back into Mexico. Left to fend for themselves, some of the illegals were caught and deported. Some of the others, avoided capture by the “migrantes”, but, unable to decipher the maps Montenegro supplied, they wandered in the Arizona desert until they died of thirst or exposure.

  Sometimes a different kind of “undocumented” would appear at Montenegro’s finca. These people weren’t looking for jobs in the United States.

  It was easy to recognize them. The way they dressed and the way they spoke distinguished them from the people who were looking for work in the United States. They usually carried more than a modest amount of money with them. This other kind of client had good reason to avoid the possibility of being identified as they returned into the United States.

  A gringo aviator, named by the Drug Enforcement Agency as a narcotics trafficker, brought money with him when he hired Carlos Montenegro to take him back into the United States. The gringo never got into Arizona. He was killed at the border. The money he carried paid for Montenegro’s finca - an adobe building and a few sheds located on a hectare of land outside of Mexican Nogales.

  Another felon, a bank embezzler who absconded into Mexico, wanted to quietly return to his country. He, too, died at the border. A part of his money was used to purchase Montenegro’s truck.

  As the volume of illegal immigration into the United States expanded, so did Montenegro’s business. He hired a peon to lead the emigrating Latinos into Arizona. Montenegro’s own personal coyote services were offered only to those who appeared to carry money with them. Montenegro’s prosperity was a monument to his ability to determine who had money and to his ability to persuade them to follow him to some remote spot near the United States border.

  The sun was beneath the horizon when Chico Cisneros finished his supper of beans and rice. He recognized the sound of the automobile that was approaching the adobe ranchito where he lived. They were made by his patrón’s truck. Chico removed the dishes from the table and wiped its surface with his sleeve. Then he stood against the wall and waited.

  The engine stopped, the truck door slammed and, soon, Carlos Montenegro entered the building. He was with a man who was going to Arizona. That man was not the usual kind of “bracero” Chico would take to the border. He didn’t look like a peon worker. He was wearing good shoes and the kind of clothing gringos wear. They looked almost new.

  Chico liked being a coyote. It was easy work and it provided him with good food and a comfortable place to live. However, he disapproved of the killings that occurred whenever the patrón took a prosperous looking client toward the United States. Chico hoped he would be allowed to lead the well-dressed stranger to Arizona. That would mean the man would live.

  Though Chico suspected he knew the answer, he still asked: “Quiere que manejo la máquina?”

  “No,” Montenegro answered: “No. Yo lo haré.”

  The stranger was wary and suspicious. He stood in a place where he could see Chico, Montenegro and the room’s single open window. His eyes constantly watched all three. He had a hard and humorless look about him.

  “What were you saying?” he demanded.

  “He asked me if I wanted him to drive the truck,” Montenegro quickly answered. “I told him I would do it. You should learn to trust, my friend. Surely the ones who sent you must have told you I am an honorable man. I would not trick you. Have confidence. Soon you will be safely inside the United States. Come. Let us have a tequila and relax.”

  “I do not drink alcoholic beverage,” was the man’s curt reply.

  A few hours later, Montenegro turned off the truck’s headlights and drove the last mile of the trip by the light of the moon. He stopped and, with the aid of a flashlight, pointed to a spot on a hand drawn map. “We are here.” He moved his finger a few inches to a dot identified by the word “Flores”. “Here is where you want to go. Here is the trail.” Montenegro pointed to a broken line on the map. “It is on the other side of the frontera. Not too far away. Follow it to the east. The east is that way,” he said, gesturing in the darkness of the night.

  Montenegro and his passenger left the truck and Montenegro continued his instructions. “Arizona is very close. It is in that direction,” he said as he waved his hand to the north. “The trail you look for runs parallel to the frontera. It is less than a kilometer beyond it. You can’t miss it. Just keep heading north until you find it. Then walk to the east. It will take you into Flores. Now, let’s wait here for a while. It is best to cross over when the moon is behind the clouds.”

  The men leaned against the truck’s fender. The stranger had paid Montenegro with new United States one hundred dollar bills and Montenegro was sure he had more of them. He intended to kill him, but the “illegal” was cautious. He never turned his back to Montenegro. Moreover, the man was armed. More than once, Montenegro saw the butt of the pistol the man carried in the holster under his arm. Montenegro broke the silence.

  “You have a holster and a pistola under your jacket. Do you think that is wise? If the “migrantes” - the American Border Patrol - find you with a weapon, it could mean trouble for you. If they catch an unarmed man, they usually send him back here without making any fuss. But, if you carry a pistola … I don’t know.”

  The well-dressed man was silent. After a few moments, Montenegro continued. “It would be best if you leave the pistola here in Mexico. You can always buy another one in Arizona. They are easy to buy.”

  Silence.

  “I think you should listen to me, my friend, I don’t want you to get into trouble when you are in Arizona.”

  The passenger shifted his weight and unbuttoned his jacket. “I believe I will keep it with me. Would you like to see it?”

  “Oh yes. I would very much like to see it.”

  The passenger removed the Beretta from the holster under his arm and handed it to Montenegro who weighed the weapon in his hand. “This is a very nicely balanced gun, my friend.” Then Montenegro quickly pointed the pistol at his companion’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Instead of an explosion, Montenegro heard the click sound of a firing pin hitting an empty chamber. Then he was spun around and a knife was drawn across his throat. He fell to the ground, the severed pulsing veins of his neck spurting blood onto the desert sands. Soon, he was dead.

  The stranger picked up the Beretta, took a clip filled with fourteen 9mm Parabellum rounds from his pocket and slammed it into the weapon’s empty handle. He wiped the blood from his knife on Montenegro’s shirt and returned it to the sheath beneath his jacket. Without looking back, he walked north into Arizona.

  Chico Cisneros sat at the table in the adobe building until the sun had risen. His patrón had not returned. He followed the tire tracks of Montenegro’s truck, hoping to discover what had happened to make him so late. When Chico arrived at the scene and saw Montenegro’s body, he removed his ring, wristwatch, wallet, shoes and belt. Then he took the shovel from the truck, dug a shallow grave and buried the body.

  As he drove back to the adobe building, Chico wondered what he would do. If he stayed at the finca, he would need money for food and gasoline. Perhaps people would continue to come to the finca looking for a coyote. Perhaps they would pay him to be their guide. How much should he charge for taking people to the Arizona border?

  Chapter 18

  By the time he left New Mexico and crossed into Arizona, Den had reason to believe he had left no scent for his enemies to follow. The preoccupation with the danger threatening him in Washington began to be replaced by a sense of relief. He was safe from any immediate threat of violent death.

  Thanks to Ferdie, Den had the protection of false identification papers. The Pennsylvania forgeries gave him a credible new identity. He used it when he bought the Chev pick-up. He would use it for only a few weeks. As soon as he had found the way to completely vanish
from any possible Aegis radar screen, he would adopt the one appearing in the Idaho passport and driver’s license. In the meantime, he would have time to plan his permanent disappearance. He would have time to plan his new life.

  The desire to identify and find the people who were responsible for the attempts on his life had been a secondary preoccupation when he was leaving Washington D. C. Den’s feeling of qualified security brought with it an increasingly strong demand he make someone pay for those attempts. Aegis was an organization. He couldn’t take the kind of revenge he wanted by attacking a faceless committee. He wanted names.

  He wanted to know who said: “Let’s send Den Clark to be killed in Guatemala.” He wanted the name of the man at Langley who ordered his murder. He wanted to know who shot at him in his North Hancock Street apartment. These were the men who would be the object of his vengeance. So far, Teddy Smith and Jake Jacobson were the only members of Aegis he could identify. Surely, there were others, but who were they?

  The word “dislike” didn’t begin to describe Den’s feelings toward Jake. “Detest” was more accurate. Jake’s involvement in Mick McCarthy’s death, his responsibility for Gigi’s resignation and his planning of Ocelot were more than sufficient reason for Den’s feelings. He carried his contempt for Jacobson as a man might carry a wristwatch. He might not always be fully aware of it but it was always there.

  Teddy Smith was a different matter. Den believed him when he said Aegis secretly undertook the extraordinary measures of assassination when necessary for the protection of the country. Teddy wasn’t a contemptible, spineless sneak like Jake He was a consummate deceiver and an artful liar. He had succeeded in manipulating Den, using him to kill a bunch of kids - an indefensible act.