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GARCIA'S PARADISE

by

Neal Donohue

Copyright © 2019 by Neal Donohue

All Rights Reserved

ZAPATA'S REVENGE

His skeleton looms before my very eyes standing proud, tall, and

defiant above my bed, pointing and beckoning me to come. I rise in the

darkness of night, condemned.

I never was inclined to move into his world, and less inclined to

trust this shadow of death. But he refuses to leave me, now. He refuses.

So, I stand alone bearing witness,condemned to follow—one more time. I

rise trembling, aware I have ended my journey.

Nothing is left to say, nothing is left to accomplish. For those few

who follow, take care. Beware as you too venture down upon broken ruins,

and ancient highways, steeped with love made to break hearts, or create

heroes. The wistful breeze of summer no longer lingers as the willow

dies. So too when the dove sings. I surmise the Day of the Dead is fast

approaching and is now mine alone. It is my skeleton who now beckons

others. It is I, who dance upon the the cobble stones of history,

clattering down the dark, cold corridors of time.

Read my tale as if it were yours; when all deeds are done, and fate

declared. You too, must play your part without regret. It is the evening

of discontent, a dirge sung without delight. So, celebrate this dance of

life, this dance of night. Neither plead, nor linger longer then the good

measure offered you. This is your story, your curtain, your time to open

the doors to revolution.

Buena Suerte!

### CHAPTER ONE

The horseflies covered Stigler's head like a black bonnet. High atop

of the city dump, his severed head was no longer attached to his body,

but I doubt he minded. He was dead. And I was disappointed. He was my

last hope of reaching Juan Carlos Garcia.

The Mexican sun now reached its zenith, creating a blistering heat

that surrounded the debris of the city dump that had begun to stink.

I wondered why Stigler considered his Chicago expertise of any use

in this furnace of hell. Arrogance, I suppose. He was a clever man, given

to smart remarks, and loud-colored Hawaiian shirts. In Mexico, he was an

eyesore. My memory of him was cheap perfume and a garish assortment

of rings lodged on fingers, nose, and ears, and who knows where else.

Even for a drug dealer he was gaudy, terribly dressed and easy to spot.

Impressive in a whorehouse, but in Ixtepec he was destined to become

food for flies.

Yesterday I talked to him of conditional surrender. Yesterday, he

said he would think about it. Yesterday he was alive. Now, the burning

breeze swept across my eyes like a razor as I stood wearily above his

head, watching an army of lizards scurry from one empty beer-can to

another, fleeing the fierce sunlight. It must have been a hundred degrees

and I couldn't breathe anything except the rotting flesh of Stigler's

head lying beneath my feet. Oddly enough, as dead as he was, both blue

eyes remained wide open staring back at me, while his mouth still smiled.

The only difference was his gold tooth was visible, jutting out from his

shriveled lips; a suitable epitaph to his short, foolish life.

I covered my nose with my handkerchief as I stumbled back down

the garbage heap into an adjoining parking lot. My job was over. I had

failed. I was tired, much too tired to care any longer. I needed sleep

and I needed a drink. Perhaps I needed to be drunk. A couple of shots of

Tequila would make the bliss of moonlight return, but a public cantina

was now dangerous, and one drink wouldn't be enough. I might not make

it back to my hotel, either alone or alive. So, I bought a carafe of wine

at the local Mercado and strolled back, brushing aside the marching

thoroughfare of laborers heading out towards work. It was an hour later

that I arrived at my temporary domicile at the Hotel Allegre.

Why cut off his head? A bullet would have done the trick. Obviously,

it was a message from the Cartel, one which you never got twice.

Stigler's detached head spoke volumes,'... Go home, Yankee! We don't

need no stinkin' badges! '

They knew. They knew I was here. They knew exactly who I was, and

where I lived. But worst of all they were more than willing to give me

the same farewell, but decided not to. So, it was a happy ending after

all for everybody, except Stigler.

As I swung wide the glass pane entry to the hotel, I caught sight of

the reflection of a white limousine parked directly across the street.

Oddly, this neighborhood neither owned limousines, nor taxis. I held my

breath as I sensed the drama had not ended. It was only beginning. I

wondered what else they needed to say to me, or worse, what they needed

to do.

I cautiously climbed each flight of the rickety, wooden stairs, as if

it were a gallows. I knew they were up there, and they were waiting

inside my hotel room. I could have run, but I realized if I had been

marked, I would have been lying dead next to Stigler, as well.

I was staying in a run down hotel, though I could have afforded

better, but I also could have dressed better, but wouldn't. Each detail

an agent exposed to locals was not only noticed, it was potentially

fatal. Even a child would notice that your expensive suit was out of

place for a Gringo. In two decades of foreign work, I had learned that

details shouted louder than any voice. One careless mistake, as simple as

the wrong jewelry, could be a matter of life or death.

I knew agents who had destroyed months of work, and sometimes

themselves with a stupid remark, or a social indiscretion. Americans not

seen as bums, or touristes, were always suspect.

My heart started racing as I climbed that stairwell. When I reached

the top I halted, listened, but heard nothing. I unlocked my door, swung

it wide, and was enveloped by a silent, black chasm of mystery.

I groped for the light-switch, but suddenly heard what I dreaded most.

It was the disjointed English of an intruder.

"Stay dark, my friend. We talk. You close door."

I did as ordered. No doubt the Mexican had all the unseen forces of

death at his disposal. I noticed an orange glow from my kitchen table and

a shadowy image emerge each time he inhaled his tobacco.

"This Stigler...you friend?

"Si," I answered.

"Stupid man...no?"

"Well, no longer stupid...," I offered with resignation, "...just

dead."

The Mexican found my remark amusing. "Just dead? Si, Stigler no esta

estupido...esta muerto! " Then added, "He no longer anything. He

nothing!" He laughed at his own joke.

It explained the simplicity of his secret world. I froze and remained

quiet. He went on to explain, "You Stigler, he no listen...he no live.

Digame, Senor Calvin, you not like you friend, are you?"

They were soft words spoken with the diplomacy of a scorpion. My name

sounded strangely terminal as he uttered it. I was not sure I was getting

out of that hotel alive, as I began sweating, my heart pounding like a

jack-hammer.

I carefully answered, "No, not a bit like him. I'm not stupid."

"You know who I am?"

"I assume you are Senor Juan Carlos Garcia."

"Si, senor! " He felt delighted to have a reputation, and to hear his

name mentioned by an American with such respect. I knew it wouldn't last

long.

"I'll leave tomorrow," I offered, holding my breath, then waited for

his response. The next word would decide my fate.

He coughed on his cigar smoke, then laughed. "America very nice

country. You have Disneyland. You have fat children...plenty of

chickens. Nice place to live. Nice place to die. You want to die in

America, Mr. Calvin?"

"Sure, doesn't everybody." I had no idea I would say something so

stupid, but it had the ring of an unspoken contract. It meant freedom. It

meant my life. More importantly, it was what he wanted to hear.

I heard him moving. He rose from the kitchen's wicker chair and slowly

walked towards my hotel door. The conversation was over. Alongside him I

heard the rustle of two other shadows following him. I expected as much.

The orange glow of his cigar swung back and forth like a pendulum as he

crossed the room. But suddenly he stopped at the door, turned, and

declared,"You go back to America, Senor Calvin. You friend, Stigler...he

stay in garbage dump." Again he laughed, but this time it was harsh, and

filled with all the satisfaction of revenge.

Snapping his fingers a match was lit for his extinguished cigar. He

inhaled it and the orange glow illuminated his face. He had a large round

head with wide black eyes that glared down at me, only a yard away.

"Cuban!" he declared proudly. It was the last word he would utter.

He opened the door and a slight beam of light broke through. Besides

noting a well tailored white suit, a red tie, and a red ruby on a golden

ring on his left ear, I saw the tainted glory of his reputation; an old

knife scar carved down the left side of his cheek, stark and forbidding.

Undoubtedly, for him a badge of honor, a price paid for success in his

world.

Two tall, bearded, thugs stood beside him, one with a revolver pointed

directly at me; the other holding a withering match for his boss.

Garcia's cold eyes examined me from head to toe with the clinical

expression of death, as he puffed away. His laughter hid a face without a

hint of joy, simply death and victory.

He wore cuff-links of diamonds and silver, with fingernails that were

polished and manicured. He expressed no fear, no concern. He had none.

His whole business was calculating the cost of life, and he knew his

bodyguards would end mine in a second if he simply flicked an ash from

his Cuban cigar. Thankfully, he didn't. He was satisfied that I

understood what was expected of me, a verbal contract had been made. He

opened the door and walked out. Both thugs followed, walking backwards,

never taking their eyes off of me. I didn't budge until the last one

gently shut the door behind him, leaving me in the dark.

Relieved to be safe, I stood motionless in the center of my dark

silent room as I listened to all three men descend the wooden flight of

stairs. When they reached bottom, the hotel door swung open on a set of

rusty hinges, then quickly slammed shut. I grabbed my cell phone, pushed

one button, and waited a minute. Suddenly, I heard a voice from a distant

land utter a familiar refrain, "Well, is Stigler going to talk?"

"Not likely," I replied. "He no longer has a head."

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

"His employer cut it off, and he and his two bodyguards just wished

me safe passage back to America."

"Well, stay there and find out from those locals what you can."

"I don't think so. Right now, the locals are picking gold out of

Stigler's teeth. It's unlikely they want to fill out any government

forms."

"Then you got nothing, Calvin?"

"I wouldn't say that. I still got my ass. That should count for

something. I'll be back in the States by tomorrow."

"You have a job to do, damn it!"

"I'm getting static on my phone."

"Don't give me that shit...," he hollered.

I hung up.

I knew now I could sleep, and sleep safely. Without removing my

clothes, I rolled over onto my bed, and mindlessly reached across my

three legged lamp-stand that passed for a table. I grabbed the carafe of

wine I bought, unscrewed the cap, and took the longest swig in my life.

Several ounces drowned my gullet at once. I waited for the burning to

subside, and the sedative to work its magic. Slowly my racked nerves

settled. As it did, I smiled. It stung like hell, but I didn't care. I

had just won the Mexican lottery.

### CHAPTER TWO

The Mexican sun crept over the mountains as it had done for centuries,

but this morning it seemed different, at least for me. Sunlight entered

my bedroom bright, with a fresh cool breeze, and songs from birds greeted

me. I had left my windows open and now I could hear them and the sound of

rain drizzling against my window pane that faced my balcony. It felt

remarkably good to be alive; unexpected, yet good. Below, in the

cobblestone streets, I heard shouts of Mexican children running down

streets, kicking a ball while hollering; expecting others to pass it

back.

The laborers had begun their morning shuffle down the familiar

boulevards with well-worn boots, darting from cars and trucks, marching

madly off to earn their daily bread. City buses churned and burned black

diesel fuel into the thoroughfare, as old Mexican women bantered loudly

across laundry-lines, strung high and tight across myriad of rooftops.

I rose from my bed, still clothed from the night before. I felt a

sharp pain in my head throbbing and was glad it was only a hangover.

Carefully, I strode into the kitchen where I grabbed the cold coffee

from a pot left on the stove. I poured what was left into a glass and

downed it, then searched my valise to remove my firearm and slipped it

snugly into my holster. I had finally begun my long deserved journey back

to America. I called the airport and arranged what I needed for a flight

ticket, then after breakfast in the hotel lobby I called lovely Ana.

A mortal threat is not to be treated lightly, yet with one day

remaining before my flight all my thoughts lingered over a beautiful

woman I now regretted leaving. I called and told her we would have a

special dinner for the evening, and a special gift for our short love

affair. Some part of my reasoning was giving her fair warning, the other

was having an enjoyable end to my voyage into hell. She agreed, and so I

chose a popular restaurant for the Sunday evening, my last supper before

leaving.

The tradition of love was never so pronounced in Mexico as on Sunday

evenings enshrined by Mexican families for festivities, especially as

many journeyed to sit quietly at outdoor cafes, as faithfully as going to

Church. It was foreign to me, not ever a part of my life, yet I felt a

small touch of the love, as I would usually sit alone, wondering and

watching as an outsider. I could see it, and feel it, but never enjoy it

as they did.

That evening, I leaned over our table to Ana to raise my wine glass to

hers. But behind her smile I detected in her eyes suspicion that I was

hiding something.

I offered a toast," Ana, mi carrida, bessame mi suena!"

"I no kiss. You buy dinner, then kiss. You think I Mexican bore!"

"I-uh—what?" Confused, I inquired,"What do you mean, 'a Mexican bore?'

"Bore! I say, bore!" she repeated angrily. "You now leave me, because

you think I Mexican bore!"

"No! You don't understand!" It suddenly dawned on me what her limited

English had meant. She sat there furious, her arms folded, not touching

her glass of Sangria. I tried my best to appease.

"Ana, I love you. What's wrong? Would you like something special?"

After a minute of stern silence, she unfolded her arms. "I no more

want wine...Coca-Cola!"

"What? A Coca-Cola?" I replied, dumbfounded.

"I say, Coca-Cola!" she demanded.

"Sure." I called the waiter," Camerero, traigame una Coca-Cola."

"Si, senor." The waiter darted back into the cafe and around the

counter to retrieve one of those old fashioned bottles of the beverage

which was no longer used in the States, and came back along with a

sparkling clean glass, filled with ice cubes. Placing it on his tray, he

dashed back around and gently placed it in front of Ana.

"Treinta pesos, senor?"

I handed him thirty-five.

"Gracias."

"De nada."

The waiter poured the coke down the side of her brightly polished

glass while she smiled like a child, watching the effervescent foam

mushroom up from the bottom.

"Mi suena carrida," I offered once more.

"Si, mi amo?" She smiled like a cat, as her temperament settled.

Immediately, she became the petite princess I had so quickly fallen in

love with. I whispered,"I have sad news, Ana. Ahora, yo soy un hombre que

muy trieste. I will be going home... Yo soy irando a los Estados Unidos,

manana...to the USA, tomorrow morning."

I waited. She didn't disappoint me. Her fascination with her drink

came to an abrupt halt, as she recalled why she was angry.

"No, you not!" she blurted. Her dark eyes flared back again, as her

voice cracked with fury. "You no go! I angry with you."

"But I must. My job demands I return to the States."

"But you say you love me! You can not do."

"I must do."

"No, you don't!"

Then it began. The tears, the sobbing, the flooding of her sweet

little face, and she had no desire to stop because I had absolutely no

power to stop her. I was only a man. This was Mexico. And she was a

woman. For five eternal minutes she howled and sobbed in the cafe,

surrounded by sympathetic families, all out for their Sunday sabbath. Her

weeping drew the attention of everyone in the restaurant. This was one

weapon I was ill equipped to fight. I had no defense. It was excruciating

as she sat there, deliberately embarrassing me. I sat in silence

wondering why men could not get away with this ploy. Most families slowly

turned towards our table. The husbands understood. They politely turned

away, but their wives immediately took sides and glared at me, indignant.

They knew I had broken her heart. I was guilty of the worse type of crime

a man could commit against a woman. I was a 'wolf', and I sensed that

they wondered if Ana was pregnant. If so, that would have been monstrous.

"But Ana, I will be back," I lied.

"You lie!" she shouted.

"...Oh, my God, stop it! I promise you I'll...."

"You lie to me! You don't keep promise."

"Please, keep it down."

"I keep nothing down!"

Just then a five year old cherub, donned in her Sunday best with pink

dress, black glossy shoes and white socks, skipped up to our table. She

smiled at Ana, and handed her a handful of hard, red candy. I held my

breath for ten long seconds. It was touch and go. With great reluctance

Ana slowly reached over and accepted it.

"Gracias, mi poca suena."

"De nada, senora!" The delicate child smiled sweetly, as only

innocence can, then turned around and stuck her tongue out at me. Then

she skipped back to her parents at the far end of the cafe. She was

quickly uplifted by her father and hugged, while her mother looked at me

with apprehension. I softly kissed Ana's cheek, took her arm in my own

and gently led her down the avenida. The night was still young and it was

warm and, gratefully the moon was full. The small stores were illuminated

with a multitude of tinsel-colored lights along the esplanade of the

small town.

Guitars were playing in the gazebo of the square, strummed and sung by

local musicians with more fervor than talent. This was Mexico, and this

was Sunday. So, families returned from church and were enjoying their

traditional Sunday festival. They had come out for conversation, wine and

espresso, as well as entertainment. The music lifted the spirits of

everyone; everyone except two. One could feel the gentle atmosphere that

allowed young lovers to linger in cafes over glasses of wine, wholly

attentive to staccato rhythms of guitars hypnotizing the night.

Passing a jewelry shop that was about to close I banged on the door

and waved at the reluctant owner. After several refusals, I pointed to

Ana's somber expression, and knew he would understand. He opened his door

wide and warned, "Por favor, senor. No tenga mucho tiempo. Andele!"

I rushed in and pointed to a small set of elaborately ornamented

emerald earrings. "Estes, por favor." He gave me the set and charged

me a bundle, but I felt relieved. Ana's eyes lit up like lanterns.

Staring up at me with wonderment, she suddenly hugged me, smiling from

ear to ear.

It was a welcomed relief, even if short lived. As we turned the

corner, I was suddenly brought down to earth. I saw two stern menacing

Mexicans standing at my hotel entrance as if guarding it, and

regrettably they were. One was serious and impeccably dressed, a man in a

clean white suit, wearing black rimmed glasses, and appearing as if

reading his newspaper. He was accompanied by a taller, more pedestrian

fellow possessing muscles that stretched his red T-shirt across his

chest, all highlighting a scowling face. He knew who I was, and he felt

no restraint to reveal his scorn. There was no mistaking it. Garcia was

not a careless man. I immediately changed my mind, turned, and took Ana

back to her family's home. I had lingered too long. I kissed her and

sadly said good-night, promising her I would call her tomorrow and would

even stay in town. I then sauntered back to my squalid, lonely room to

pack my bag for the States.

I left for the airport thirty minutes later, and within an hour sat

alone, awaiting a connecting flight to an international flight in

Guadalajara. I sat sadly watching the small hand on the airport's clock

crawl slowly up and around the twelve, a half-dozen times, clutching my

boarding ticket as if it were a life preserver, wishing to end this

misadventure quickly. The Cessna finally arrived at six that morning and

flew me to Guadalajara. I left weary with regrets, because my better

angels told me to stay. But heroism has its time and its place, and that

time had not yet arrived.

### CHAPTER THREE

It was the end. I had resolved that my time was finished after

thirty years of service, twenty-five in intelligence, and five in the

DEA. I had seen the world evolve, change, and propel itself like an

asteroid into another dimension in the last few years. With advancements

in technology I knew that not only my kind, but my expertise as an agent,

was no longer needed in this brave new world.

Any youth would call it bitterness, but there's a time and place for

everything, and mine had deservedly passed. I did the best with skills I

possessed, and worked in a career few could bare, understand or even for

that matter desire. It was dangerous occupation and sometimes thankless.

Memories of my youth in the Company, tied to adventures in Europe,

Africa, and Central America had rushed through my head as I sat and

waited for my flight back to the States which finally landed in

Guadalajara.

I walked to the gateway for the flight back to the city of Dallas, and

safely entered the Delta plane which was ready to take off. But

Providence stepped in. The plane failed to take off at the appointed

time. The passengers were confined for nearly fifty minutes without a

single announcement from the cock-pit. Finally, from my window I spotted

two armed Mexican soldiers marching along the runway, and realized the

delay had to do with them, and quite possibly me. With rifles loosely

slung, they labored up the flight of stairs until reaching the top of the

platform, where they were personally greeted by the pilot and then led

into his flight cabin. A moment later they exited and quite casually

began pushing their way through the crowded aisles, checking for

passports, and eying passengers with an intense concern to identify

someone. As I feared, that someone was me. Both soldiers came to an

abrupt halt where I sat, looked at each other in agreement, and then the

taller one asked:

"Senor Calvin?"

I raised my eyes, disillusioned and angry. My first thought was,

'Calvin? Never heard of him.' But instead found myself giving in.

"Yes, how can I help you?"

"Passaporte, senor!"

Curtly, the shorter soldier, sporting an outlandish, bushy, mustache

added,"You will please step outside. The Mexican military wishes to speak

to you."

"The entire army?" I shot back. I hadn't gotten those clever words out

of my mouth, when the airline intercom interrupted.

"Ladies and Gentleman, our flight to Dallas, Texas, will be taking off

in approximately five minutes. On behalf of the pilot and crew of Delta

airlines we would like to wish all of you a most enjoyable flight. This

message will now repeat itself in Spanish...."

Five minutes? That's not possible, I thought. Who was pulling the

strings? Who the hell was doing this to me? I glared back at the two

soldiers and demanded,"This is a mistake! My flight to the United States

is taking off."

Unimpressed, the smaller one repeated himself, "Senor Calvin, we

must ask you to step off this plane, and accompany us to the military

station."

"You don't understand...."

The taller soldier confirmed the order, "You must accompany us to the

the military station. We need to ask you some questions. Please rise

and follow us, now." His partner cleared his throat with an air of

detachment, while looking about the plane at passengers who had grown

intrigued by my situation. When I looked around every head turned aside,

or down into their newspapers, at least the polite ones did.

I wondered if the soldiers understood a word I said, or even cared.

They had their orders.

Cautiously, I rose and stepped between the two, whose rifles still

swung loosely about their shoulders like carry-on bags, nearly hitting

me, as well as others. I obliged, and followed them off and down the

ramp. I hadn't stood one minute on the tarpon when I heard the loading-

door slam shut behind me, and then watched the mobile stairs rolled away

by four airport workers. Suddenly, I heard the plane revving its engine.

I glared at the soldiers, attempting to exact some information from

their cold stares, but they remained unperturbed.

"That's my damn plane!" I shouted over the airplane's roar.

The short soldier simply shrugged, returned a smile, then proudly

pointed at his stripes, declaring his authority.

"What the hell is wrong with you people? That was my flight to the

United States," I repeated.

He looked back without a hint of concern, then lifted his finger, this

time pointing at the airport hanger where we were headed. Neither one of

them seemed impressed with my complaints, nor would they reply. They knew

their routine, and knew what I didn't know; that I was not leaving

Mexico. Not even if it began snowing in hell.

I was humiliated. They were nothing but teenagers. Neither one was

twenty, but both tried hiding it by keeping dead cigarette butts dangling

from their mouth as they marched me back to the airport. Getting inside,

we approached the entrance to the military office labeled, El Estacion

Militario Del Gobierno Mexico. The small one was in charge of swinging

open the door, while the taller one was given the privelege of frisking

me before entering.

I feared a bullet was waiting for me behind the door. Again I

stalled, "Why are you keeping me? What exactly have I done? I need to get

back to my plane this minute. I'm an American citizen."

It was a banal statement. Hearing myself say it made me cringe.

As they entered the office, both placed the cigarette butts into their

pockets. Obviously, they were aware of the importance of props. Then I

noticed a third, neatly dressed soldier, the commander, standing at the

far end of what was obviously his office.

With disinterest, the middle-aged, corpulent officer refused to turn

around. He kept watching the skyline from his window, arms clasped behind

his back, looking at an assortment of planes rise and descend along the

tarmac. It was practically a minute before he slowly and strategically

turned and took notice of my entry. He walked over to his desk and sat

down.

I noted that his well starched brown uniform touted more medals than

Napoleon Bonaparte, with dozens of ribbons to boot. I could not fathom

what Mexican war he had fought in for to get so many. Though he made a

point of appearing bored, his stare pierced through his eye glasses and

revealed intense interest in me. He cocked his head, raised his eyebrows,

then extended his palm ten feet away, "Passaporte, senor?"

The taller soldier stepped up and repeated his request like a parrot,

"Passaporte, senor?"

I handed it to him.

The soldier approached his superior, and bowed deferentially, as he

handed it to him, "Mi Capitan Rocco, este es el pasaporte del senor

desde Estados Unidos."

The officer took it without inspecting it, then casually lit a

cigarette. As he inhaled he lifted my passport up to a swinging light

bulb above his head, examined it, occasionally shifting his eyes back to

me, as if doubting I was the same man inside the photo. It was a notable

performance.

Suddenly, I heard a nearby plane roar down the tarmac attempting to

lift off. It had to be mine. "You can't hold me here, I'm an

American...." I declared again, foolishly repeating those awful words.

"Oh, I can't?" he replied in perfect English, somewhat amused by my statement.

"I demand you release me this minute."

He smiled, "I see. Well, I am Captain Rocco of the Mexican Military.

I am in charge of protecting this airport and my country. We must keep

airports secure from possible danger, especially terrorists."

"I'm not a terrorist? My name is Mark Calvin, and I work for the

American government. There's no reason on the face of the earth for you

to remove me from my flight, or hold me in your country."

"We are not holding you, Mr. Calvin." he spoke softly, as if bored.

"Here is your passport. Everything appears to be in order. You may go."

I had to catch my breath. I didn't believe what I heard. I repeated

his statement with amazement,"I can go?" What? Why the hell did you

have to take me off my airplane to do this? My flight to Texas just took

off without me."

It was then my blood-pressure skyrocketed. I suspected all this was

happening all along, but I didn't expect such drama. It was all pretense,

and now I wondered if I was ever getting back to America, alive.

Sensing my frustration, he shrugged,"There will be more planes for you

tomorrow, unless of course we have need of you, Mr. Calvin."

Picking up my passport, I glared at him,"Did you say, '...unless we

have need of you?'" Once again his eyes averted mine. He rose from his

black leather chair, turned his back and walked away, deciding to

entertain himself by staring one more time out his bay window at the

panorama of green mountains, and migrating Canadian geese with both hands

locked tightly behind his back.

I hollered, "Don't think you're fooling me! I know why you did this!

I know damn well who told you to do this...I'm not stupid, amigo."

He turned sharply and glared back at me. "I am not your amigo, Mr.

Calvin. And yes, I'm sure you are not stupid," he retorted, as his own

anger flared. The pencil in his palm cracked in half, as his fist crushed

it. "I said, you may leave my office. You will please follow my orders

and my soldiers, right this minute!"

Now, I knew. I was safe. Had it been the Cartel, he would have been

a calm, smiling sleaze-bag, but then I would have been as good as dead.

But he wasn't, because he was taking orders from an American in Dallas.

Quickly those two soldiers ushered me out, and left me stranded in the

middle of the airport lobby, amidst a host of travelers rushing about;

shoving, pushing, and waiting upon friends, or family for ensuing

flights. The constant clatter and yelling numbed my ears as I tried to

reconnoiter my situation. My heart slipped onto the floor. I felt numb

and lost in a cacophony of sounds from the airport, not knowing what else

I was to expect.

Meanwhile, families with children yelled, played, rushed back and

forth, and occasionally pushed me aside for their toys or friends, like I

was a misplaced chair. I stepped over to the platform window and glimpsed

at all the planes landing and taking off. One was circling high and ever

so slowly above the airport, gracefully swirling into a host of bright

white cumulus clouds covering the green, snow-topped mountains. The jumbo

jet grew smaller, and smaller, and smaller, then disappeared altogether

into a cloud.

I was suppose to be on that plane.

The sun illuminated the blue sky, as the August breezes lifted hoards

of migratory geese up into V-formations as they finished their long

flight back South for the winter. It was a beautiful day, if you had

nothing to do, but unfortunately I had something to do.

So, I decided to make the best of a bad situation. I bought a bottle

of beer and watched the scenery outside the airport for the next few

hours. It wasn't long before I got a grip on myself, and allowed my

thoughts the luxury of drifting. With a few more beers, I was calm enough

to consider leaving the Company as soon as I got back. But then my memory

suddenly slipped back decades where it found a resting place in Lagos,

Nigeria.

"Mark, I will always remember you and your country. Till we meet again

in heaven!"

The young revolutionary's face brighten into a broad smile, then hug

me.

"And I, as well, Samson."

He extended his black hand to bid me farewell. I took and shook it. He

then jumped into a military jeep and was driven away from the airport by

his own soldier, as I boarded a jet back to America.

That was twenty years ago. I had no idea I could still remember his

smile. But now, his country was a bloodbath of revolution, and violence

was the rule of the day again. In the final year of his presidency I read

the tragic report of a Nigerian President who had been assassinated in

yet, another coup. It was him. But a long time ago it was a blessing to

be in Nigeria, and he thanked me and his God for my friendship.

Lagos, Nigeria possessed the brightest blue skies, patched at times

with rain clouds, where Pelicans and other exotic birds flew according to

season, both north and south. I could still hear the tribal drums beating

gently in the background, as well as the common greetings and farewells

of schoolchildren gathered around me, singing sweetly melodies of love

and respect. I was an intelligence agent then, but no longer needed in

his country. That assignment was a young man's luxury, to gamble in the

trail of political intrigues, entwined as I had been with assassins and

makeshift revolutionaries declaring a new democracy, yet quickly

enforcing the same tyranny they had crushed. Perhaps this was a necessary

evil. I had no stomach for the work that followed most victories of

freedom fighters. It was complicated and I had never lived nor suffered

under brutal dictatorships, nor did I know of the death of loved ones for

the long decades that these people had suffered. I had no idea why

revenge and rage marked their behavior as each and evey new regime

established a freedom forged with an iron fist, a sharp machete, and

quick seizure of mineral rights where all the real power resided. America

was my frame of reference, and my job was helping the outcast and the

oppressed for freedom. How they secured it, or distributed it, was never

my business.

After years as president, Samson Ogundipe was strangled in his sleep

at his Presidential palace by his brother-in-law, after having celebrated

his sixtieth birthday.

Nigerian folk songs rang in my head, 'May sleep be deep, and offer

the kiss of peace for those that fight to free the sheep.' Samson was a

remarkable man with a remarkable sense of humor and humility until the

very end. Those Nigerian nights I spent with my friend and his dreams of

freedom taught me much about human dignity. All I ever wished for in

those bloody, violent days, was a good night's sleep, loyal friends, and

adventure. I received more than I bargained for.

### CHAPTER FOUR

In the luxurious office of Director Enrico Cruz, decorated with

ancient and modern pieces of art, stood three men, all agents, and

dedicated to a mission. But neither one of them possessed the same

vision.

"So, you discovered an entire pound of marijuana inside Mr.

Calderon's suitcase?" inquired the gifted director of the DEA with an

incongrous smile, as he peered upwards from his desk at this amazingly

tall agent, not yet six months experienced, recruited out of college.

"Yes, sir, we certainly did," the young DEA agent boasted, who along

with his partner, had arrested a migrant farm worker crossing the

boarder with contraband.

The Dallas Director of the Department of Drug Enforcement feverishly

twisted a pen through his hand, as he glared up from his desk at Agent

Saul Harkin and his partner, Agent Phil Melendez. Both agents looked

back at the Director, smiling yet dumbfounded by his irritation. Director

Cruz feigned appreciation with a grin, unintentionally twisting his lips

into a frightening snarl, before asking, "Gentlemen, how does a seventy

year old migrant worker command your priceless attention while sneaking

this great cargo of marijuana into my country? This is sixteen ounces of

marijuana...isn't it?"

"Yes, sir!" Melendez readily agreed. "We had our eyes open a long

time, and we caught him red-handed." Buttoning his suit, Melendez

attempted some semblance of propriety as he realized his boss was

actually upset.

The Director's eyebrows shot up, "Caught who? Who exactly did you

catch, Melendez? He's a migrant worker who doesn't even have teeth! What

about the other eight hundred cherry pickers you missed, today? They're

probably all headed for Montana this minute to sell reefers to some half-

crazed rancher who's giving away his cows! Do me a favor, gentlemen—

consider making good use of the tax payer's money in the future, and

chase the Cartel!"

Harkin looked at his partner in disbelief. But the director of the DEA

continued from his desk, "...that is, if you don't mind?" He glanced up

at Saul Harkin, who was about the same age as Melendez, at twenty-four.

Harkin was absentmindedly gazing out the window at the time, until he

recognized the sarcasm.

"I just asked you, Mr. Harkin, did you hear me?" His question was

meant to indicate they could now leave his office, yet neither one

understood. So, Director Cruz asked again, with a stronger sense of

urgency, "I said, would that be acceptable with you, Mr. Harkin?"

"Yeah, whatever—I mean, yes sir!"

Director Cruz ignored his response, and looked at the Mexican's green

card lying on his desk and recited, 'Senor Miguel Calderon; agricultural

laborer, plumber, electrician and custodial engineer...a custodial

engineer? You caught a seventy year old Mexican who cleans toilets?"

The Director rose from his desk and approached the recruits, who

suddenly stiffened, remaining motionless. Cruz was forced to stare up at

Harkin, who at six-foot six was an imposing young man from Billings,

Montana. He towered over his boss. In fact, he towered over most people,

and was not ashamed of it.

The Director lifted a computer printout off his desk, "This document

says Mr. Calderon is the father of ten children and grandfather of fifty-

two grandchildren, and doesn't speak a single word of English. But you,

and your partner, eagle-eye Melendez, caught him red-handed without a

struggle. Congratulations!" He forced a laugh, defying Harkin to respond

as he inched up closer to him. "Perhaps, Mr. Harkin, you would like to

teach a class on entrapping senior citizens? Did you know that this old

man was so frightened he literally pissed in his pants when I interviewed

him? Look at my white carpet, Harkin?"

Harkin seemed confused.

"I said, look at my damn carpet!" the director repeated.

He pointed down at a six inch yellow circle in front of Harkin's feet.

Rashly, the young man responded, "A bit of bleach should take that out,

sir." For the first time that day, Harkin regretted opening his mouth.

Director Cruz glared up at him, the smoke of hell seething from his

nostrils. "Really? Thank you, Mr. Harkin. If I'm lucky, maybe I can hire

Senor Calderon to clean up this whole mess when he's through picking

cherries." The Director walked back to his desk, sat back down, then

exploded, "How the hell did you two get into my department?"

Agent Melendez offered, "Sir, we have our eyes open for another

suspect flying in from Guadalajara this afternoon."

"I don't think you answered my question, Melendez."

There was dead silence in the Dallas Office. The Director lifted his

hand to his forehead. Neither one of the three men spoke for nearly a

minute as Cruz attempted to calm himself. He inhaled deeply, then

whispered without lifting his eyes, "Please, get out of my office—both of

you. That's an order--right now! I want both of you out of my sight."

"Sir," Harkin added, "...did you notice Calderon's green card has

expired?"

That was all the Director could take. He no longer believed he was

having an intelligent conversation with an adult, or dealing with drug

enforcement agents.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore, Harkin. Is that understood? From

now on you will speak to me through Melendez. Is that understood? Now

get out of my office! And you, Melendez," he added, "...you have an

assignment for Guadalajara to help Agent Mark Calvin. Take Harkin.

Hopefully, your partner will be able to figure out what you're doing. I

want both of you to head out now, listen to Special Agent Calvin and do

as he says, he's our best field agent. Report back to me as needed. Got

that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Both of you have a good day. I'll be expecting to hear good things.

So, long."

Without blinking an eye, both recruits turned and headed for the door.

Outside, Saul Harkin loosened his new, red silk tie and unbuttoned his

collar, then broke into laughter. His partner was not as cavalier.

Melendez quickly pointed up to the ceiling camera, as a warning.

Unperturbed, Harkin whispered, "Don't worry, Phil. I don't think he

watches his own channel."

"He sure seemed angry," his partner warned, keeping his eyes

strategically lowered.

"Well, it wasn't me who got him angry." Harkin concluded.

Melendez returned a menacingly look, "What the hell is that suppose to

mean?"

Harkin continued, "We did our job. We stopped illegal drugs from

coming in. What else does he expect us to do with our time? He's just

worried about being replaced from his cushy job."

"Replaced? How can he? They just replaced Sullivan with him a month

ago."

"Well, it shows you how important his job is. Anyway, who cares? What

do you feel like eating...Chinese?"

"No. I'm too hungry...Pizza?"

"That crap isn't good for you."

"Well, I know a place that has an all-you-can-eat salad bar."

"Fine." Harkin shot back, then added slyly, "You feel like inviting

the boss?"

They both started laughing, as they strolled out of the crowded lobby,

and into the parking lot.

Harkin asked, "What were those orders you received?"

"We have to meet Agent Mark Calvin at the Guadalajara airport."

"Calvin? He's a senior field agent, isn't he? Are we suppose to help

him?"

Harkin warned, as he looked at his watch,"Yup, he's known to be

something of a maverick, as well as a crab-ass, so try to be careful with

what you say."

Melendez was baffled, once again. "Me? I never say anything stupid!"

"Yeah, right," Harkin interjected.

Melendez changed the tone, "I said, he's one of our top field agents."

Harkin agreed, "Yeah, I heard you. He's the best."

"It should be an interesting day," Melendez concluded.

"Well, at least we got off to a good start!" Harkin added, as they

both began laughing, again.

### CHAPTER FIVE

I answered my phone at the Guadalajara airport, and heard the Dallas

Director's voice, "Mark, is that you?"

"Yes, Director Cruz. How is Dallas, today?"

"Fine, I suppose. Listen, I need to tell you we are changing our

target. We have to do it, quickly. We have a bigger and more important

mission connected to Juan Carlos Garcia, and you've been chosen to take

it. I'm here to help you with your new assignment and partners."

"New assignment?" I shot back, not about to bite. "I don't have any

new assignment. I'm finished. I was not impressed with you having the

military take me off my flight. I'm retiring. I'm leaving Mexico, today,

and the agency for good.

"Well, not exactly. You can't. I sent help, two very good agents by

the name of Saul Harkin and Phil Melendez. They'll be helping you."

I caught my breath. Red flags were flying. I wondered if it were

possible to shoot a man over a cell-phone. "All I can tell you, Director,

is get yourself someone with a low I.Q. I'm finished for good. I'm

retiring from the agency as of this minute."

"Listen, Mark," he pleaded, "You may be disappointed with the

airport detention. It's understandable, but what else could I do? I have

orders to follow. I had to do what was good for the Company, and

everybody else. I was only doing my job. If it threw you off—well, all I

can say is I'm sorry."

"Threw me off? Well, now that you mention it, I was thrown off the

airplane. That was your idea, wasn't it?"

"No, honestly, it was the higher echelon that did it. My boss

decided...."

I didn't like being lied to and I let him know,"You think it was some

asshole bureaucrat?" I toyed.

"Could be...but to the point, Mark, I haven't been totally honest with

you about your assignment...."

"Really? Then what's the truth?"

"...Well, as much as I didn't want to, I kept your real mission a

secret until now. We have an emergency, and we need your expertise to

neutralize a dangerous character. He's a threat to national security.

Listen carefully, we actually have a very special agent by the name of

Phil Melendez being sent to you. When we finally have your target

focused, I'll give orders to Melendez, then you and another agent by the

name of Harkin should back him up for protection. We're certain this

target is not only associated with Juan Garcia, but international

operatives. He has a long history of trouble, but be warned, if you get

too close to this fellow, he might create an international mess. We have

to finish it diplomatically and get out quickly. We were using that drug

dealer, Stigler, to get us closer to him, but then Garcia found out and

we lost our opportunity."

"Stigler lost his head."

Director Cruz sighed, "Well, this is a job for people with strong

nerves."

"No, I told you before that they cut off his head!"

"What? They actually cut off his head?"

"Yes, they cut off his fucking head. I just told you that!"

"Oh?" Without a second of reflection, Cruz continued, "Well, the

important thing is he can't work for us anymore."

I didn't believe what I was hearing and sensed nothing good was going

to come out of this conversation, but he went on, "We will have to take

this guy out. He's actually more important than Garcia, and we're making

a deal with some very big people for him. We could have this finished in

a couple of days with your help."

"How did we find out?"

"Another cartel is helping us."

"Another cartel?"

"A competitor in Sinoloa. We try to divide and conquer these bastards,

you know that. We make a deal, they make a deal, then we make a

counter-deal. That's the secret.

"You mean, by allowing this other cartel freedom to transport drugs

into our country?"

The Director remained silent. He was confused. I pushed the point,

"It's illegal, Director. What the hell is the point of hunting any of

these bastards if you keep helping them with guns and free passes?"

"We have a larger picture to think of, Calvin, that's why. The point

is we have a great shot at stopping that character now with executive

action while he's still in Mexico. We need an experienced professional.

That's why we had to keep you down there."

"Executive action? You want an execution, and you want it done in

Mexico, and you want me to do it? Is that my mission?"

"Well, you're the best field agent we have, Calvin. You're the person

we trust. That's what I learned from Director Sullivan, just before they

fired him."

I realized one of us was stupid, and the other was crazy for

listening. "And these two new agents you are sending me, what exactly are

they good for?"

"Agent Melendez is the one you must rely on. He's been trained by Navy

Seals. Don't be fooled by his quiet nature. He can turn deadly on

command. He's a killing machine, one you will eventually need."

"And the other?"

"Harkin?"

"Yeah, who is Harkin, and what is he good for?"

The DEA director grumbled, "God only knows. He's a young recruit, as

well. But he doesn't know a damn thing, not even about his partner,

Melendez. In fact, just ignore Harkin. Anyway, I have important business

to take care of now. You'll be contacted soon...."

He hung up, as I had once done to him. Petty spite from a petty

bureaucrat. It was typical, a political appointee posing as a warrior.

### CHAPTER SIX

Behind Juan Carlos Garcia, a trail of his personal army followed,

strolling through the market place. They were distinctive men, menacing

in appearance, full-suited and manicured, wary and streetwise; striding

with the heavy gait of predators, as if their feet, like crocodiles, were

weighted to the ground. All the while, their eyes turned to and thro,

constantly surveying their surroundings, watching locals with an eye

towards possible danger. Though richly appareled in fine black linen

suits, pink shirts and gold cuff-links, many appeared rough enough for

hard labor; an odd assortment of well-dressed murderers. Garcia finally

arrived at his discotheque, an inner sanctum which served as his office,

sheltering his soldiers after each hard day's work. Like any dance hall,

it housed demure and seductive women, waitresses who entertained the

notoriety of the city.

Garcia was recognized by most important people of the town. His

doorman welcomed him while an armed guard immediately escorted Garcia in.

Upon entering, he examined the dark inner sanctum of his kingdom, a

domain where music, laughter, and decadence maintained an atmosphere of

comfort and relief.

The acrid odor of tobacco smoke and cheap perfume laced the air, while

piped-in melodies made conversation all but impossible. A dozen

statuesque escorts, beautiful and nubile, decorated the gangster's

sanctuary like well-polished furniture, all dressed in delicate and

provocative clothes, fitted tightly with low-cut necklines, accentuated

by black high-heel shoes that were polished like mirrors. The ladies

ornamented the discotheque like sculptures, draped with pearl necklace

chains on tender necks that glimmered from overhead strobe-lights.

Most were adorned with silver rings on fingers, ears and nose,

giving their lithe limbs the natural temptation few men could resist.

These were the human allurements of Garcia's paradise. They bridged the

gap between the will of men and the world of poverty and suffering. It

was a parade of desire beckoning the unwary, yet beneath it all remained

hearts cold, and eyes hungry; the poison asp of his power. These women

embellished Garcia's world. They were dispensed generously by a lion who

had enthroned himself over the years by superior will and uncontested

brutality.

The heat and humidity that permeated the disco was quickly sucked up

by overhead ventilators in his dance hall, where his entourage lounged

each and every day. In the center of the hall, Garcia would always sit,

presiding as an emperor; poised, sharp eyed, and elevated in an old oaken

chair, as any monarch would. He appeared both dignified and regal, as if

awaiting some artist to paint his image for posterity. After he dutifully

sat down, the others of his entourage chose seats according to a pecking

order of rank. These were his loyal lieutenants and bodyguards who would

kill at a snap of a finger, all surrounded by young women willing to

adore him.

This was the real desire of the perennial drug lord, the only reward

forever sought by men of power. Money was a symbol, nothing but a token

of that secret desire to be worshiped. And worship was what he received.

As festivities began, Garcia relaxed. The garish characters who dined

at Garcia's table spoke loud and often, while Garcia reviewed the day's

accounts, the monetary intake, the expenses, the success and the failures

with all their accompanying problems.

He listened to each soldier's daily struggle; laughed at irreverent

jokes, frowned with their pain, and shared their frustration and anger.

Each man was studied with a paternal eye of concern. He reviewed each

lieutenant's accounts, and only questioned them when it seemed irregular,

or suspect.

Tonight, he found one.

"Luis, you have ten customers who are three weeks in arrears. Seventy

paid, ten unpaid. Perhaps, these are relatives—no?"

The table laughed, but Luis' partner jumped in, "Luis is banging his

cousin's wife, Ernesta. You know how she expects special favors and

little gifts."

Without taking his eyes off Luis, Garcia replied,"Yes, this I can

understand, but such favors I can not allow. Luis should know it is

cheaper to pay a woman then destroy his reputation with such dangerous

behavior." With a smile he shook his finger at Luis. "Please, settle your

accounts by next week, or I will tell your cousin what you do to his big,

ugly wife. Then he will strangle you like a chicken, and save me the cost

of buying you a coffin." The table laughed once again, while Luis

nervously apologized.

"Of course, Mr. Garcia. You can count on me, I swear. I will get

those accounts paid up. I swear it."

Garcia patted him on the back and reassured him with a smile, "Please,

my name is Juan. Don't worry, Luis, it is not such a big deal—but do it

quickly."

With a grim nod Luis, known for his violent skills and vile temper

acknowledged his boss, "Absolutely, Juan!"

"Good! Then tonight we drink to be merry, before we must finally dance

with the devil!" Garcia slyly winked at Luis, and called over the manager

of his disco. "We need wine, Matteo, and plenty of food for my table,

tonight—and where are my lovely dancers? I want them all here for my men

and my visitors."

"Of course, Senor Garcia." The manager turned and shouted at his

waiters,"We need ten bottles of the finest wine and cognac. Hurry! Right

now!"

Garcia looked at his watch and showed concern. He turned to his

trusted lieutenant, Fideo Sanchez, who always sat to his right, and

quietly asked, "Fideo, where is our special guest? I thought you said

eleven o'clock was when he would arrive. It is already midnight. I don't

think he is coming. Are you sure that he was not scared?"

Sanchez shrugged, "No. I do not think so, Juan. Not with this man. I

know he wants our help badly. He's willing to pay a great sum of money.

Perhaps, he doesn't have a strong sense of time. I have the feeling these

people are different, perhaps even strange."

"Yes, they are strange." Garcia agreed, as he considered the

possibilities of trouble. "Fideo, how can those people do anything right

without being careful about time?"

Fideo tried to make light of it. He smiled, "I don't really know,

Juan. Perhaps we could buy him a watch."

Garcia added seriously, "Yes, perhaps one with a time-bomb?"

His lieutenant suddenly grew wide-eyed as he spotted a group of men

entering the lounge; each of them dressed in ill-fitting black suits and

white shirts, slowly shuffling into the cocktail lounge. Fideo turned to

his boss. "Juan, there they are! I recognize the leader. The others must

be companions. Should I get them?"

Garcia took hold of his arm. "No, Fideo, don't be rash, my guards will

bring them over. Just wait and let me see them. You talk, and I will

watch."

At the far end of the lounge stood all five, some bearded, but all

dressed formally, seemingly rigid and emotionally tense. The leader of

the group reluctantly allowed a security guard to frisk him. All appeared

disoriented, eyes roaming about the lounge, wary as they searched for

some sign of their appointed assignation. The leader, much older than the

rest, wore an old-fashioned pair of black rimmed glasses. He recognized

Sanchez from far across the room. Exuberantly he waved, then called out,

"Mr. Sanchez! It is me. I have arrived with my comrades. Can you see me?"

Fideo Sanchez waved back returning the greeting, yet remained planted

in his chair, as told.

"Yes, of course! Come on over and join our party."

Sanchez turned back sharply to Garcia, "What do you think, Juan?"

"Exactly what I would think. These are educated fanatics, desperate

and dangerous, but most of all, fools. They are young and naive. Be

polite and tell his four friends to sit at another table while we talk

business, but make sure you don't insult them. These people are

unpredictable and very sensitive."

"Yes, Juan, that I will do."

As the five approached the table, Fideo rose to greet them, avoiding

use of any names. "My good friend, welcome!" He pulled him into an

unfamiliar bear-hug to hide his attempt to frisk him. Realizing he was

disarmed, Fideo nodded to Juan, then gave the guests the same generous

smile and hug. "Come sit down. All of you are welcome at our table! We

have plenty of food and drinks."

Sanchez whispered Garcia's request into his visitor's ears.

The leader turned aside and directed his companions to go to a table

on the far side of the room. Fideo then offered him a chair, directly

facing Juan Carlos Garcia.

"What will you drink, my friend?" Fideo inquired cheerfully.

"Nothing. I do not drink."

Fideo stared back in amazement,"No? Never?"

"No, it is forbidden."

"Too bad. Ah, my mother was the same way. She drove the rest of my

family crazy...."

Garcia interrupted, as he offered his own hand to the man. "Fideo,

that will be enough. Good evening, sir. My name is Juan Carlos Garcia. I

own this cantina. These are my people, all of them. There is nothing to

fear nor worry about while you are my guests. I believe I am the person

you have been seeking. You must accept my apologies for our circumstance

and our drinking, if it offends your religion. This cantina is my

business establishment and it is the only safe place in town to meet and

talk. I asked Fideo to contact you yesterday, so now we have finally met.

I understand you would like to be addressed as Mr. Marcos. I think that

is wise. We do not have many of your people in Mexico, and your real name

is not important to me. So, welcome to Mexico, Mr. Marcos."

"Yes. I thank you, Senor Garcia. Only God knows our real names."

Garcia brandished his best smile as he asked Khalil Masoud if one of

his female managers could stay and listen. "You don't mind?"

Masoud smiled. "No, not at all. This is not forbidden."

"Good. That is a relief. Perhaps you would like to meet some of our

ladies after we talk. They work for me, but tonight they are all yours."

Masoud smiled broadly as Garcia carefully noted his appreciation.

"Tell me Mr. Marcos—if you do not mind. How did you enter our country?"

"It is not difficult. We sailed by way of an Asian exporter whose name

and origin must remain secret, then we entered your southern town of

Ixtepec."

Garcia's curiosity changed to alarm, "Ixtepec has a military post. Did

you not know that?"

"It is also a college town with El Univerario del Ixtepec. We have

students there, which we had to meet."

Garcia grew wary, "Are they loyal?"

Masoud's eyebrows shot up. "They must return to our homeland where

their families live. So, of course, they must be loyal."

"I understand. We have similar methods."

Garcia sipped his glass of sangria, eying his visitor carefully, and

ruminated how he would present his offer. He glanced at Katrina, the most

beautiful and experienced of the woman working for Garcia. She too had

watched each movement, and knew Garcia's mind. She rose and walked to the

side of Masoud, smiled, then sat down beside him, but Masoud grimaced.

"Please, Senor Garcia, let us take care of business, first."

"I understand." Garcia then nodded at the young woman. "Katrina, why

not sit beside Fideo." Then he turned to Khalil. "Well, Mr. Marcos, you

wish for all five of you to enter the United States. I can assure you

safe passage from La Ciudad Juarez into El Paso, directly across the

border. It will be easy enough. I own a government official there, who

will facilitate passage and protection for all of you without any

problems. Even if the worst should happen, that is, if you are identified

or arrested, he will make sure you are quickly returned to Mexico,

unharmed. You can pass through on a Thursday night as migrant workers."

"Yes, yes, I already know that much," Masoud replied, suddenly

irritated, then leaned over and complained. "Do you not know our concern

is about the U.S. Government officials. We must be protected from them,

as well. We can not make mistakes."

Garcia stared at Masoud, dumbfounded. He lowered his wine glass as he

cocked his head in wry amusement. "Mr. Marcos, that is who I am talking

about. It will be done for me by a very high American official. We never

have problems on our side of the border."

Masoud's jaw dropped. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, then

released his worry with a sigh of relief. "If this is so, then all is

done. Everything is finished."

"Of course, everything is finished...my friend!" Garcia added with a

smile, "...except, of course, for the money. If you have the money, I

will guarantee friends and safe passage. Half now, and half later."

Masoud understood the invitation. His part of the deal was now

expected. He lifted a small black valise and placed it on the table. He

snapped the latch open, and slid the valise across the table. Garcia

looked at green stacks of hundred dollar bills. Masoud declared

proudly,"You will find five hundred thousand American dollars there—the

other half later, as agreed."

Juan Garcia's eyes widened as he stared at the green stacks of hundred

dollar bills. "Yes, as agreed. Sanchez, take and count it now. We do

not want to keep Mr. Marcos waiting." Garcia immediately turned back to

Masoud. "My dear Mr. Marcos, as far as I am concerned you are now as good

as in El Paso. Upon my reputation, you have my guarantee and my word."

Masoud gave a sigh of relief, then laughed. Garcia laughed along with

him, yet couldn't restrain himself from glaring at the hundred dollar

bills slowly being counted by Fideo. Quickly, he reached over and

vigorously shook Masoud's hand with both of his. "Wonderful! We have a

deal, my new friend. Someday, I must visit your country," he rejoined.

"It has been a privilege and an honor meeting you and your people, Mr.

Marcos."

Masoud smiled, nodded his head, then leaned back visibly satisfied

that the first part of his mission had succeeded. He swung from

skepticism to avid faith in this strange man of power, shaking his hand.

As he relaxed he nervously tightened the knot of his black tie, turned to

the skimpily clad bar girl, Katrina, still sitting beside Sanchez.

Leaning over, he took a glimpse into her large cleavage then turned

to Garcia, smiling from ear to ear.

"Then all praise to God—it is done!"

Garcia shouted,"Exactly, my friend. All praise to God...and to one

hundred dollar bills!" Garcia laughed as he brushed his fingers lightly

across the money lying in front of them, still being counted by his loyal

lieutenant, Fideo.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

I awoke inside a bustling, noisy airport with another hangover and a

terrible cramp in my neck, having slept with my head hung over a wooden

chair. The pain was excruciating. I immediately stood up to get

circulation back into my legs, just as some ten year old boy passed by

and quickly stole my chair. I was grateful my carry-on was still lying

safely on the floor. Four hours had elapsed. I was amazed that I actually

slept that long. I began to feel better as I looked around at the

meandering crowd of passengers surrounding me, and felt my appetite

beginning to return. Searching for a decent place to eat, I suddenly

spotted my new partners. It hardly made sense that they would stand out

in such a massive crowd of travelers, but they did. It wasn't because

they were Anglo, or even well dressed. They were simply stupid.

They revealed themselves as typical Americans, and out of place.

Perhaps it was their naivety, looking like two harmless deers caught in a

head light. Or maybe, it was because one of them was so tall that he

looked like an NBA player. Both bantered away in the exact center of the

airport, appearing like businessmen. Sadly, these were the two sent to

help me. It did not look promising.

I decided to approach from behind, curious to discover what passed for

conversation between the two. From five feet away, I lifted a newspaper,

then turned my back to listen.

"...I don't see a sign of him. You'd think he would stick out in this

airport."

His partner, was just as confused and offered, "Maybe Agent Calvin

stayed on that airline flight to Texas."

I turned around, still baffled.

"Nah," the tall one shot back, without looking at his partner. The

agent was playing a video game machine centered between two rows of

chairs, a Mexican version of Pac-Man, and apparently he felt he was

getting close to winning as the machine began ringing all the bells. He

stopped long enough to inform his partner,"...Calvin was on that plane,

alright. But he was thrown off by military security."

He then removed his I-phone and showed his partner a photo of me,

alongside the two Mexican soldiers. "Here's a downloaded photo of Calvin

on my I-phone. He's being hauled off the plane by the military."

The other agent appeared shocked,"Whew, he doesn't look too happy, and

those soldiers aren't much older than my kid sister. Where do you think

he is, now?"

His partner laughed, "Right now? Probably in some restroom, getting

rid of some bad burritos?"

The serious one stared up at his partner, without commenting, then

heard me respond.

"Not exactly, dumb-ass, I'm standing right behind you."

Both recruits whipped about to face me. I returned a venomous glare,

standing a foot away. The taller one, Harkin, noticed my fists were

clenched. He smiled, "What are you holding there, Agent Calvin?"

"If it were a gun, you two would be dead by now. How long have you

been working for a living?"

I could tell the tall one was about to deliver some smart remark, but

wisely refrained. Instead he removed his wallet and showed me his ID.

"We're here to help you. I'm DEA agent, Saul Harkin, and this is my

partner, Agent Phil Melendez. We were sent on short notice to make

contact. We apologize for being late." Harkin gave a broad smile, as he

noted my anger. "I imagine we were a bit obvious, standing in the center

of the airport."

"Not a good excuse for getting killed," I replied. "You two are young

and careless. You can't help being young. But careless is a choice, Mr.

Harkin."

"We're kind of new to Mexico," Harkin conceded, tightening the knot of

his red tie. "We heard you were headed back to the States when you

decided to change your flight plans."

"Not exactly, it was your boss, Cruz. He contacted the Mexican

authorities to arrest me while I was sitting on my flight back to Dallas.

He never informed me of a damn thing. He only succeeded in losing my

trust."

"You're probably angry," Melendez offered, as he gravely nodded his

head.

"Angry? You must be the one with the high-school degree. Are you Mr.

Melendez?"

"Phil Melendez, sir."

Saul Harkin turned away and snickered, then turned back and with as

much civility as he could muster, replying,"Well, we understand why

you're angry, but we had nothing to do with it. If you want to shoot our

boss, I'll give you his home address, and the name of his Rottweiler."

Exasperated, I finally gave in,"There's no need for a good dog to die

for that asshole, but I'll think about it." I extended my hand, and

apologized. "You're right, I am unnerved. I had no intention of staying

in Mexico another day when your boss pulled the rug out out from beneath

my feet. I was captured, and as good as dead, but the drug cartel let me

go. Then I get stabbed in the back by my own boss. I never had that

happen before in all my years working as an agent. I've been at this

airport for ten hours, ready to hand in my resignation."

Harkin offered, "Director Cruz is new. He previously worked for the

Environmental Protection Agency. He was released after running over a

grizzly in Colorado with his Cadillac. He's just a political appointee.

He doesn't know much about field-work, or drug enforcement. He might as

well be working for K-Mart."

I turned away disgusted, "I need a drink."

Melendez offered, "Do you want to go back to that military station to

debrief us on our agenda?"

"No, Captain Rocco just got through kicking me out of his office," I

replied, now a bit mellowed. I decided to make the best of a bad

situation. It was time to get to know my new lifeline partners.

"Come on, fellows, let's get out of here. First, we leave this

airport, head for a hotel, get a room, then I'll debrief you and you can

send it to Dallas with my greetings to Director Cruz. We'll get ourselves

a couple of steaks and drinks while waiting for a reply. Oh, one more

thing. You two need to know up-front, I'm in charge. Neither one of you

directs traffic. You don't wander off the reservation without my

knowledge; you do not pass go, or collect two hundred dollars—unless I

give you the green light. Got that?"

"Sure," Melendez replied. Picking up their small bags, the two young

agents followed me out the front door of the airport.

As we exited, I overheard Melendez whisper, "Saul, what two hundred

dollars is he talking about?"

"Beats me! Maybe that's what he pays Mexican hookers.

"That's a lot of money for a hooker."

"Yeah? Well, he's old."

They began laughing as they followed me through the airport corridor

into a corridor that headed back down to the parking lot. Upon exiting I

was once again greeted by sunlight, and fresh air.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

An hour later the three of us were having dinner in the hotel lobby of

El Metro. Sitting across from me, Melendez and Harkin tried finishing

their dinner, but appeared distracted by everything at hand; the foreign

atmosphere, the native people, and the unfamiliar language. They may have

been right to be fascinated with Mexico, but they were also disoriented.

I turned from the window that overlooked the bay to take a hard look at

my new partners. Both were in their twenties; one examined his I-pad,

while the other eyed the ample bust of the waitress serving me a plate of

Huevos-Rancheros. I finished four black espressos and as expected five

minutes later the caffeine hit my brain. I felt a fine line of silver

racing through my thoughts. The music from the hotel lobby tendered feint

painted melodies of Flamenco guitars strumming songs of romance. The

voices of the Gypsy Kings sung stridently their plight of unrequited

love. I had to wonder why cultures devoid of world power always seemed

preoccupied with romance. But the wail of desire, and love seemed

momentarily more meaningful then all the reckless years and adventures of

my past.

My mind drifted across decades of a career laced with heroes and

terrorists; the most unusual being a man who had not only walked the

earth, but on the moon. He was a unique personality known only as 'the

second man' to walk on its surface. When I was young I met this great

astronaut by chance at a Beverly Hills banquet on Rodeo drive. He was

celebrating the birthday of his renown partner. Unawares, I found myself

seated beside him at the banquet table. Being beside him was a great

honor, but by night's end I was convinced he was more than unique. In

between a good quantity of drinks he related, in a fatherly fashion, the

untold story of the anguish of,'...enduring the slings and pangs of

outrageous fortune,' as he referred to it. Having been that peculiar

second man who stepped onto the stratosphere of the moon behind his

partner. His partner was renown for his famous declaration which became

the center of history.

He smiled as he peered into my young face, with his blue eyes wildly

ablaze, explaining the truth that he learned on that great day about what

really counts in life. I was struggling to finish my last slice of

sirloin, as he stopped my fork from entering my mouth, and quipped,"Did

you know the choice of who would be the first astronaut to step down out

of that capsule was decided by a flip of a quarter?"

I turned to him amazed by his odd statement, and wondered why it

should be so important. It seemed too petty a concern, but he nodded with

the solemn assurance of being a sadder but wiser fellow.

"Young man, nobody gives a fuck if you're number two, just remember

that!"

The steak slipped off my fork and onto the plate, as I wondered why

the hell he was telling me this.

"Huh?"

"That's right. A flip of a coin! A flip of a fuckin' quarter!"

"Just a flip of a coin, sir?" I repeated.

"Yup! It came up heads, and I lost!" He laughed loudly, as he

recounted how terrible it was. "I became the astronaut who was simply the

second man to walk on the moon, but no one remembers who the hell I am!"

I nearly choked on the next slice as I got into my mouth, as he again

burst into laughter. For myself, I saw only a hero and a great American.

I saw a giant comparable to Christopher Columbus, a symbol of courage and

dedication. He was symbolic of man's evolution, walking from primordial

sludge one day and the very next, flying across the solar system. But he

saw it differently. I forced a laugh and changed the subject, "Tell me,

what did your parents do for a living?"

I suspected most achievers had been raised in a rich soil of family

heritage. I wondered what created such an extraordinary pioneer. Like any

twenty year old from West Point, I was searching for the secret of

greatness. Unbelievable to me was the fact he was a man who gambled on a

wild, and improbable space journey to an orbiting asteroid, called the

moon, actually believing he would could ever return. It was a stretch of

the wildest imagination on earth, and unfortunately President Kennedy

never lived to see his great prediction come true.

The astronaut was taken back by my odd question, and shrugged. "Oh,

they were Christian missionaries to the Philippines until the Japanese

invaded."

I nodded,"Then sacrifice and dedication runs in your family."

"I suppose. You might call us adventurers, or gamblers, or courageous,

or just plain stupid."

I, like others, was baffled by tabloid stories of his reputed break-

down, after returning to earth. But he offered me an explanation, a

curious but undeniable fact, "Son, all you need to do is pick up any

history book, and you'll see my partner's name and photograph, and his

clever line that we agreed upon,'...one small step for man...' But you

will never read anything about me. Not my name, not my photo, not my

biography, nothing! It's as if he was the only man who was on that

fuckin' moon! I was never mentioned because I was the 'second' astronaut

who stepped out of that ship, not the first." He laughed again, and I

forced myself to laugh with him. Then he went on, and on, and on, all

night while his partner was speaking at the podium, of which I couldn't

hear a word he said, nor could I pay attention because of him talking

constantly. Unfortunately, I was too young to believe I should interrupt,

or correct the bastard.

"Do you know who the second man was who sailed a fleet of ships to

America?"

I foolishly replied, "No, I don't have a clue."

"Of course, not! Nobody knows. It was Amerigo Vespucci. The second man

to sail to America, and he actually set foot on the continent. But nobody

knows who Vespucci is! You know why?"

It was painful. "Why?"

"Because he was second, not the first, like Christopher Columbus! Who

the hell cares about Amerigo Vespucci? Who cares about number two? Nobody

cares about number two—not in America, they don't! Listen boy, take my

advice, being number two in America doesn't mean shit!" He broke into

laughter, again. "So, me and Amerigo Vespucci ended up in the trash heap

of history." He poked his finger into my chest. I was beginning to grow a

bit wary.

"He was forgotten, and so was I. Not that I care. But I received no TV

interviews, no magazine articles. Hell no, and then I land in a mental

ward for hitting an asshole-newsreporter in the nose, who claimed there

never was a moon landing, and that I was lying. He said that to my face!

Well, unfortunately, I was drunk that night when I punched him. But do

you know why I punched him?"

Again, I blurted, "No, why?"

"Because I was feeling like shit for being number two, that's why!

How's that for a joke?" He laughed louder then before, attracting a few

well-manicured guests, all elegantly primped and polished in tuxedos and

laced gowns for the gala benefit in Beverly Hills for orphans, and of

course to honor his partner. Some of them began casting an eye on us,

somewhat alarmed. Sitting beside him at that event was unexpected. I

wonder even today, how such a pioneer and hero could ever see himself as

a looser. Perhaps Napoleon did, dying on Elba at forty-eight, all his

victories behind him. I wanted to tell this great hero that I wasn't even

qualified to shine his shoes. But in hindsight, I guess it wouldn't have

mattered, or changed his mind...at least, what was left of it.

CHAPTER NINE

I had lapsed for what seemed a brief moment, but then realized

Melendez was observing me from across our dinning table at the hotel.

I jokingly confronted him,"Why are you staring at me, Melendez?"

"I didn't realize I was."

"Well, you are. Stop it."

"Sorry."

I then conceded,"I was drifting into outer-space about heroes I use to

know when I was your age.

"Were you ever my age?" he joked.

"I think I was, but certainly not as dumb."

I shook my head with regret. Melendez looked upset, but remained

silent. Some raw nerve had been hit. He seemed to grow distant.

Whether it was a matter of shock, or revelation, I had no idea. His

had a subdued nature but it was a facade, and he had a remarkable gift

for hiding what he really thought.

I drew Harkin back into the conversation as he began to nod off, weary

from his trip. "Someday you may be ordered to strangle Saul Harkin, and

not be told why."

Harkin's eyes suddenly opened. My remark set his teeth on edge, as I

realized he didn't think that was funny. Perhaps, it was too early in the

morning. I wasn't sure how to get Melendez down to earth, but Harkin

unwittingly helped with his sarcasm. "What the hell does all that mean,

Calvin? Melendez is about to have a case of the runs."

I shrugged,"I was only informing him of responsibilities," then added,

"I was told Melendez is a tough cookie. I was just giving him a test,

that's all. He passed with flying colors. He didn't even blink."

Harkin slyly nodded, "Well, that certainly clears things up."

I laughed, "Listen Harkin, we'll be facing clever, dangerous people. I

have to know where the weakest link is in my team, how many and how

strong they are, and how strong each one of you is."

"But why bore Melendez to death with old war stories?"

"I simply informed him he may have to kill you someday for the sake of

our mission if you know too much. But I don't think that could happen."

Harkin nodded, then suddenly realized he had been insulted. Melendez

turned and glanced out the window, measuring his own emotion. I saw his

expression darken in the reflection of that window. He was gazing out at

countless people rushing to work along the boulevard. I watched his eyes

closing, as if burdened from some inescapable burden. Like most youth,

Melendez was still seeking 'truth' and got it, but unlike the cliche, it

did not set him free. Instead, the invisible thread of inhumanity seized

him like a shackle; a shackle I was more than glad to be rid of, but sad

to pass along.

His partner broke into laughter, once more.

"Phil, he's just shitting you!" He then turned to me, "You know what,

Calvin? They told me you were the best agent there was. Now, I believe

it. You just gave Phil a hemorrhoid in less than a minute. That takes

talent. What made you give up proctology?"

I glared back,"I only told him what his job is, Harkin."

He howled with laughter, "Yeah, right!"

The waitress returned. "Mas cafe, senor?"

I offered her a smile, as I asked for the check," Dame el cheque, por

favor." Neither one of them reached for their wallet. I paid, and the

young waitress sauntered back to the counter, as Harkin once again

examined her firm derriere.

"Either one of you married?"

"No," Harkin volunteered. "I'm twenty-four and Melendez is twenty-

three. We're free men. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have to rely on you. I need you to keep your eyes on the

road, not someone's ass--at least until we're finished."

Their amused smiles told me to go to hell.

"Harkin, here's an important lesson for you. Most assassinations are

set up by women, not men. Now, tell me, has either one of you ever worked

in a foreign country?"

Melendez was first to return to business, "Sure, Germany."

"Yup, Germany and England," Harkin added.

"I mean real foreign countries!"

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?"

"It means you gave me the wrong answer. I was hoping you had some

experience with different cultures, Harkin. For some damn reason I'm in

Mexico where the Cartel has threatened to kill me if I stay, and I'm

working with two agents who are staring at I-pads and female rear-ends."

Harkin's eyes squinted. He wanted to say something smart, something

real smart. I could sense it. But discretion held him back. I asked,"Does

anyone know why I was stopped from leaving Mexico after my assignment was

finished?"

They looked at each other but there was no response from either of

them, just dead silence. I collected my thoughts, as I continued to

examine Harkin. He didn't blink. A calculated blank stare was all he

offered. I assumed he was either well trained, or plain bored.

Melendez jumped in, "Nobody told us anything. We had no idea, but

don't worry about Saul, he's pretty smart...."

It was painful to hear. I leaned forward,"Melendez, smart is never

enough in this game. You must have instincts, you have got to read a

person in less than a minute, or cash out. Nobody teaches you how to do

it. Either you have it, or you don't. Either you win, or you die within

minutes of any deadly encounter."

Harkin attempted to help, "I expect we'll get specific orders soon,

Agent Calvin, that is if...." A bartender turned around as he heard him.

I interrupted, "Don't ever use that word! Use first names. Use Mark,

that's all."

Harkin restarted,"Okay, Mark, I'm sure the director...I mean the boss

will fill us in soon."

I could only shake my head with doubt, "He'd better hurry, or we're

not getting out of Mexico. We're dealing with the Sinoloan Cartel. It's

an international network with tentacles in every city. Once they find out

I didn't leave, they'll have a ten minute discussion, make a decision,

then kill me—and you two, as well. You can't stop them."

I buttoned my suit jacket and rose from the table. The waitress rushed

over. Harkin's eyes began roaming again, then caught my reaction. He

returned to his plate of cold eggs and bacon. I walked out the front

door, weary and wondering why this Dallas director, Cruz, had sent me

such an odd pair. "If you gentlemen don't mind, I'm going for a walk

across the street to the park, I'll be back in half an hour."

### CHAPTER TEN

"Do you know, Mark? I consider you my friend. And I would gladly kill

anyone for you!"

Barcelona in Autumn is beautiful, especially in the Gothic section.

Arturo Gaudi's ornate architecture runs throughout the locale. His Church

of the Holy Family stands as a monument to his imagination in this

ancient part of the city. Surrounded by hundreds of cooing pigeons, old

women in dark shawls still feed these adopted children of theirs each day

in the plaza. The time and feel of that Spanish city remains firmly

planted in my mind, especially when Khalil Masoud had said those chilling

words while we sat in the Plaza la Catalonia. At the moment he said it

with his broad smile, I realized who he was. He was revealing his

gratitude for getting him safely from Paris to Barcelona, across the

boarder. But his casual remark made me catch my breath. As I heard it, I

struggled to return a proper thank you. I forced a smile but barely

whispered my words through gritted teeth. At that point, all the pieces

of my mission fell into place. I knew who and what he was. I knew what he

had done, and I knew why I was chosen to help him.

I remember arriving in Paris on September fourteenth of 'seventy-two,

assigned to meet this young man at the Gar Du Nor at the Paris railway

station, and get him safely across the border to Spain. The week before,

I spent most of my time in flights from the States, without knowledge of

the world shattering news of what had happened at the winter Olympics in

Germany. Each day that I stayed with Khalil Masoud, I became more and

more intrigued by an individual who defied definition as the engineering

student from Graz, Austria, as he had told me. It was September and he

should have been in school. He was sophisticated and expensively dressed,

yet revealed a quick and tough reaction to any appearance of danger.

Eating with him in one sawdust tavern near the Barcelona harbor, only

reserved for sailors from all parts of the globe, he unexpectedly reached

out for the arm of a passing thug and intentionally terrified him,

suspecting he was an Israeli agent following him. The thug nearly had a

heart attack. Khalil laughed at the man who was with three companions,

then patted his hand, still gripping it with his other fist. He looked at

the fellow's watch, pretending to be curious about time, then released

it. The sailor's eyes revealed he had traveled to hell and back in a

split second. He was innocent of any wrong doing or suspicion, but I

wondered what made Khalil take such a risk. What was he hiding that was

so important. I found out later.

Our journey from the Paris Hilton, ended at the pension Ripaldo, a

small Barcelona hostel that rented for six dollars a night. It was my

idea of safety and, of course, remaining low-profile. But his expensive

camel-hair, woolen overcoat seemed out of place, along with much of his

other expensive clothes and habits, yet he accepted it with humor.

Before he left for Libya he offered the coat to me, "Mark, I want you

to have my coat, as a token of our friendship."

I took it and still possess it to this day packed away in my attic, a

memory of my first assignment. He disappeared and left Barcelona two days

later, making mention of traveling to Libya. That was all I heard, or

would ever hear from or about him. Later on and regretfully, I would find

out I had helped the surviving member of the Black Septembrists make his

escape. The tragedy and massacre of Israeli athletes haunted me for

years. I felt the anguish of waking for weeks in the dead of night,

sweating, and looking for water to wash my hands. The following morning

at breakfast, I decided to test my luck.

"Melendez, do you know anything about the Munich Massacre?

"Never heard of it," he replied, as we three sat finishing up our

meals at the hotel.

"I didn't think so. Palestinian terrorists executed Israeli athletes

at the Munich Olympics in September of 1972."

"Were you there?" he asked.

"Very first assignment, awaiting orders after training. We shielded

one of them for decades because of contacts and information.

"You aided a terrorist?" Harkin broke in, surprised.

"I was never told, not even what had happened. I simply escorted him

to Barcelona, where he eventually left for Libya."

"How could you do such a thing?" asked Melendez.

"I wasn't in control, Melendez. I was a recruit and a small pawn on a

big chess board. I accompanied him by rail across the French border into

Spain.

Melendez tried to fathom my history with the Company. He had stepped

into uncharted waters and I could see his expression darken. He was

shocked, then angered. I realized I needed to diffuse it.

"Melendez, they sent me to help because I had no knowledge of what had

taken place. I knew nothing. I had no idea of who the hell he was. In

hindsight, I pieced everything together, but it was too late to affect

the outcome. I was chosen for a special assignment because I was young,

and ambitious. Masoud was also young, my age, yet cold blooded, dedicated

to a cause, and sophisticated. Like you, Melendez, he had a deceptive

appearance. He smiled and joked a lot.

Masoud and I hit it off as friends. He was not some stereotype, but a

student from the University of Graz, Austria."

"Was he bragging?"

"Not at all. His world-view was different, that's all. He offered what

gift he had to offer, what he had mastered and could freely give."

Melendez looked stunned. "Don't you know, you protected a killer, an

assassin? He murdered Israeli athletes!"

I felt a chill like death rushing through me. But it wasn't because of

Melendez. I wondered why I had finally told anyone that story, and why

tell this young agent, of all people? I had no idea. I wasn't trying to

impress him. Some gear had slipped. It was something dark that was dying

deep inside, demanding sunlight.

I leaned back and sighed. It was a secret I had kept for thirty years.

I stared back and declared with regret, "Eventually, Melendez, you'll

learn this life you chose is played on different levels, for different

reasons, by different people. It's a matrix. Rarely will you ever know

what the truth is. You'd be wise to accept it and get by. If you reject

it, you'll be marked as expendable. The portrait that we paint is neither

black nor white. There is no Santa Claus, and there is no James Bond."

"Do you know what you're saying?" he shot back. "Tell me, did you or

did you not know he murdered innocent Israeli athletes?"

After a heavy silence, I replied, "Not until he had vanished the

following day. I was only following orders."

With those haunting words the threads of my mind went blank. I caught

my breath, then tried to retrieve lost innocence.

"Listen, Melendez, we're pawns on an international chessboard. Most

government directors are taking orders from powerful people that you may

never see, or even talk to, and I don't mean the President."

I put my coffee down, "So, Phil, let's try and do the best we can

while we work together, without losing sleep or doubting our mission."

"I never do." He turned away, and I knew some calm had been restored,

but the price was expensive for me.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

The rush hour in Oaxaca was slowing to a crawl, as the tower clock in

the plaza began to strike nine. I wandered along the boulevard passing

newspaper and shoeshine stands, finally arriving at the gazebo in the

center of the town's park. Deciding to sit awhile alongside a few

tourists, and local mothers and children at ease, I thought of my next

move. Like all traditional Mexican towns it was designed with a gazebo in

the center of the park for Sunday festivities, alongside their central

church. The park was surrounded by people, trees, shrubbery, restaurants,

and cafes, all filled with tourists, both Mexican and foreign.

How and when, I was to be contacted in Oaxaca kept my thoughts

running. What messenger was I suppose to meet? I was never told. But I

knew I was to be found, and not seek. Director Cruz was exactly as Harkin

had described, a political hack without qualifications or experience. His

expertise was sorely lacking. He knew nothing about Mexico or drug

trafficking. He had no ability to help anyone. In fact, he was a

hindrance.

I began listening to the familiar yelling of children, playing games

in the park. One seven year old; a small boy, carrying a large red

tethered ball, trotted up to me as I sat alone on a park bench. Grabbing

my knee, he looked me straight in the eyes and introduced himself, "Ola

senor, como estas a hoy? Mi nombre es Miguel, como se llama?"

I was amused by his offer of friendship. I shrugged in compliance,

"You want to know my name? Let's see, Mi nombre es Marco. Pero es

impossible parame a lugar contigo, a hoy."

The boy looked up with pained disappointment," Lo siento, senor.

Adios! " He turned and ran after his older sister, who was already busy

skipping rope with her friends.

All he wanted was for me to join and play. And I was half tempted. It

might have made my day. I was past the stage of caring about professional

dignity, after all that had happened that night with the cartel. I

learned humility the hard way, my values had reversed and I dropped into

a well of pleasant numbness in the week that followed. Again, I heard a

voice ask," Como se llama, senor?"

I turned to refuse once again, but this time it was not a child. It

was an old man.

"Perdoname, senor! Are you Mr. Mark Calvin?" he asked.

I was surprised, then startled. Beside me, sitting on my own bench,

was a thin, dignified gentleman, donned spotlessly in a white suit, who

wore black rimmed eye-glasses. He respectfully bowed his head, then

offered a cordial smile. I had not noticed his approach because of the

child, which quickly made me wonder if it was a setup. I remained silent

as he introduced himself in faltering English.

"Senor Calvin, I am instructed to escort you to your contact. If you

do not mind, please...you follow me."

He was a messenger, and probably knew nothing else. I often can read a

person, whether friend or adversary. That's easy enough, but when a third

party steps in, one who knows nothing, then there is nothing to analyze.

This odd fellow was obviously a third party sent by those who wished to

remain hidden. This was the contact Cruz had mentioned. Without a

partner, my situation was risky, but perhaps they had waited until I was

alone. I had no choice but to gamble. Much depended upon time and chance

at this point. I accepted his offer and rose. He nodded, stating, "You

are expected and most welcomed by my people."

Yours? I wondered. "Sure, go right ahead."

Quickly, he paced himself across the park onto a side-street, then

walked down along a narrow walkway. He traveled two blocks straight, then

suddenly turned right at a crowded street corner, then began walking even

at a quicker clip, until we reached a large worker's cafe. Abruptly, he

halted, turned and placed a finger to his lips, motioning me to follow

him into the establishment. A crowd of laborers had noisily begun to file

out, beginning their day of work, as we both entered. I drew the unwanted

attention of some of the laborers neither accustomed to tourists, nor

foreigners. Not even my smile could disarm their disagreeable alarm. The

old man casually led me to the back of the old tavern, where we passed a

young bartender shining beer glasses and carefully watching me. He

conveniently turned his back to us as we walked through his vacated

establishment. When the old man stopped at the very far end, there was a

secured oak door with the sign, 'No entrada'. He knocked four times

without receiving an answer, but I heard conversation inside, and then a

heavy chair scraping across a wooden floor. There was shuffling of steps

approaching, and finally the heavy oak door swung open.

Facing me stood an attractive Mexican woman with a formal low cut

dress, graced with large eyes of brown, and long flowing black hair. She

was young, slim, and elegant, and examined me carefully before asking,

"Como se llama?"

"Mark Calvin."

She turned to receive permission from someone inside, then motioned

both of us with a nod to enter. The room, as I had expected, was small

and dimly lit. In the center, behind a fragile desk, sat a brawny,

middle-aged Mexican with shirt sleeves rolled up and a shirt collar

unbuttoned. His black tie was loosened and hung loosely around his neck.

He casually slid his pile of paper work to the side of his desk, then

greeted me in broken English.

"Welcome, Mr. Calvin!"

It was a distinctive, salty, and rough voice, grounded by the

experience and confidence of his years of police work. "My name is Miguel

Nariz. I am Chief of Police here, in Oaxaca. We have been expecting you

for some time. This, my friend, is not my official office, I assure you.

But I find it helpful and more discreet to greet special visitors to our

country, like yourself. Please take a seat."

There was no doubt he was authentic. His desk, filled with family

photos with himself negated suspicion in my mind.

"Well, thank you, Chief Nariz." I sat down in front of his desk,

smiled politely as I asked, "Visitors like myself? What kind of visitor

do you think I am?"

He leaned back in his swivel chair, revealing some exasperation,

"Well, not one I would bring home to my family. Senor Calvin, I have

worked for my country for over thirty years, and have been given the

greatest responsibility of correcting their political mistakes.

Naturally, I have been given information about you, so that I may

help all parties involved. I know about your service for America, your

search, and even your personal history.

"My personal history?"

"Yes, it is inconsequential to me, but it helps sometimes. It is

important that I know that you are considered one of the most experienced

agents of your country, if you wish to call it that. This simply helps me

to help you. Your boss in Texas wants me to give you information to

complete your assignment here in Mexico. It is authorized by my

superiors."

Captain Nariz handed me a dark brown, sealed envelope. "Please read

now, and ask questions. You will have to leave the envelope here, when

you leave. It will be destroyed afterward. There is no time to waste. You

have opportunities and precise times that must be utilized." He raised

his eyebrows and nodded to the old gentleman who brought me there.

"Raoul, muchas gracias!" The old man humbly bowed, then turned and left

the room. No words were returned, as he closed the door behind him. The

event had long been rehearsed, and now it was completed.

I read the pages he handed me. They detailed the directions to a

nearby restaurant, a description of the intended target, along with his

guard, who was expected to abandon my target, and enter a restroom at the

specific time in order to isolate him without protection.

Clasping his beefy hands onto his desk, Chief Nariz assumed everything

had now been resolved. "Senor Calvin, all this will occur tomorrow." He

peered over his reading glasses to catch my reaction, to see that I had

no doubts, or questions. My response was being studied. He then

admonished, "Your comrade, this man called Melendez will deliver the

message, then both of you will leave the tavern and Mexico. None of my

police will follow you. Go to the airport immediately, board your flight,

and leave my country. Are there any questions, Mr. Calvin?"

"'...deliver the message'?"

"Yes, for lack of a better word, I say, 'message'. We understand each

other, don't we?"

"Yes."

It was the first time I heard execution expressed this way. I nodded

casually and began to rise, then demanded, "Are you sure, there is

nothing else I need to know?"

"As I understand it, no. Senor Melendez is to deliver your message.

But of course, you already know that. You are his boss. Why should you

not know it?"

It was obvious the machine was being set in motion. Still being

annoyed by the mystery of this target left on my lap, I casually probed

his own knowledge, "I need to know one thing, Captain Nariz? You must

have seen and known this old man. What age is he? What nationality is he?

Is he big, small, tall, bearded, old or young?"

He scratched his head. "Why should it matter, Mr. Calvin? He's eighty-

five, and he'll be the only man in that tavern at that time.

"Eighty-five?" I swallowed hard with a deep breath of regret.

He added,"That's what my report says. It is not my concern. You and

Senor Melendez will be alone with him in that tavern, which will be

completely empty except for one young, bald-headed man sitting in the

corner. He is our officer, doing undercover work with them for six

months. There will be no other people there, and no resistance. It is

simple. We made that certain."

He slipped two red airline tickets across his desk. "These are two

tickets for your flight back to Dallas. It will take you and your

associate back at the end of the day. Any taxi will take you to the

airport in plenty of time, but you must leave Mexico, immediately. I hope

that is understood, Senor Calvin?"

"What associate are talking about?"

"I understand you have one other agent who has come with you, who must

remain outside the building. You two will return to your country. Senor

Melendez will stay."

"I don't understand what you're saying. Melendez stays? Is Agent

Melendez being sacrificed?"

"That is your country's decision. It does not concern me. Do you have

any other questions?" he repeated.

He looked at his watch, and I was furious at the pretense of

ignorance. I had to get all the information I could, immediately.

"How is this Cartel leader, Juan Carlos Garcia, connected to all of

this?"

"Mr. Garcia has worked with this old man over the years for

international contracts in drug trafficking, as well as American

government liaisons that facilitate his drug trade. Why worry about

Garcia. He is ours. You have no need to know more."

I heard but I didn't believe what I heard about 'government contacts'.

I made note of it then continued,"What about that old man. This is a

ridiculous target? Do you know who the hell he is?"

He smiled and shrugged, "I am only a police chief in a small city, in

a small country. Why ask me such important questions?" He forced a smile,

as his patience grew thin, his time apparently running out.

The more I found out, the less it made sense. I repeated,"This fellow

appears important in Mexico for the Cartel. You know where Juan Garcia

is, and you know where this old man is. So, why are your police unable to

fix your problem?"

"Mr. Calvin, as I just said, it is not our problem. We have no drug

addiction in our country. It is your problem. It is the corruption of

your wealthy country. Your people need to entertain themselves. Don't

blame us for your chaos!"

His exasperation had reached its boiling point.

"Are all Mexican police as arrogant as you?" I expected anger and I

got it. With all the force of impugned dignity he rose up from his chair

and laid down the law.

"Mr. Calvin, this American arranges the chess pieces of international

drug trafficking for your major cities. He is in charge of supply and

demand, death and destruction for gringos. He facilitates all your needs.

In his own circle, this man is respected, reliable, and has a reputation

that goes back decades, especially by people like Juan Carlos Garcia and

his Sinoloan Cartel. He has no national loyalties that we know of. And he

certainly has no affiliation with Mexico, other than Garcia. He is a man

without a country and he, as I stated, is American."

Exactly what I wanted to hear. His distaste of the United States was

more than evident, it was defiant.

"Then why don't you tell me who he is? What the hell is wrong with

you?"

My impertinence shocked, then amused, the Police Chief whose anger

simmered to amusement. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he replaced his

spectacles, leaned forward, and gently gave me a lecture.

"I do know much more about him than you. This man is a ghost, Mr.

Calvin. He carries a great secret, a deep scar of hatred for you and your

kind, and the government you serve; one that few would ever believe, or

ever understand. Some say he was once an important leader. It is rumored

he murdered a very powerful man in your government, decades ago. But now

he walks the earth alone, without country, without family, without

friends, without name. He is a tall man, a thin man, as thin as a

skeleton. His eyes are sunk deep and carry a message of your destiny. He

is a grave digger. But as you know, we in Mexico honor our dead. We even

celebrate the Day of the Dead, while you gringos refuse to believe that

death exists at all."

How he jumped into mysticism in one breath alarmed me. If none of this

was pretense, then he certainly knew much more than he let on, much more.

I shot back, "Fairy tales are suited for children. You lead a boring

life, Officer Nariz."

He had to know I was hooked by his wild revelation, encrypted as it

was. He spoke as if I would someday understand his story. It gave him no

small amount of pleasure to hook me.

I returned to the work at hand and changed the subject to ask the

obvious, "You know damn well I have two associates, not one. I need three

tickets to get all three of us out of Mexico."

"No, Mr. Calvin, you need only two tickets. Mr. Melendez is not

returning. He is not going back."

I was infuriated. I rose and pounded his desk, "I can't abandon

anyone! I need three tickets, now!"

I assumed he would've had me thrown out, or have done it himself, but

he simply smiled. "Have a good day, Mr. Calvin. I must return to my work.

I have done my job. You have been instructed. Use it, if you wish. That

is all I have for you, all you need to know, which is all that I know. So

now, we shall part." He put away his golden framed glasses, and without

smiling he glared defiantly, expecting me to exit.

I looked at a blank face, searching for any clue of concern. He

revealed nothing. He didn't care what happened, or who got killed, or

why, because it was all a Yankee problem, and a Yankee victim, and today

he was damn proud to be Mexican.

He picked up the excess papers off his desk which he had revealed,

then swung around from his desk to file it into his cabinet, declaring,

"I will keep these papers for twenty-four hours, in case you forget...or

worse, you should fail."

I rose from my chair, convinced that nothing more would come of our

conversation. I turned and walked to the heavy oak door. Unexpectedly,

he offered one last comment. I looked but his back was turned as he

declared,"It is a beautiful day. Enjoy it, Senor Calvin. In Mexico, life

can be sweet, but it can also be short."

I closed the door.

### CHAPTER TWELVE

The following day, I sat quietly in the hotel lobby observing my

partners more carefully then when I first encountered them. I studied

Harkin as he attempted to read a Mexican paper, though he didn't know a

word of Spanish; while Melendez was listening to the music piped into the

lobby, his feet propped up upon a chair. It was seven in the morning and

I waited for that critical call which would set the machinery into

action. As expected, at exactly seven it rang.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I have a call," I said, rising from the table.

I answered my phone and walked to the bar, only to hear the raspy voice

of DEA Director Cruz breaking in with a pretense of curiosity.

"Well, did you speak to that messenger, and did he get you to your

source, yesterday? You now know our target is there in Oaxaca, waiting

for you."

He spoke as if it were a game, and we close friends. The man was not

suited for his position. I could only wonder why such a fool felt I

bought into his charade, but even so he never stopped to catch his

breath.

"Our sources reveal he will be there only a short time. We need to

move, Calvin. I understand you got briefed by the Police Chief Nariz?

Tell me what he said."

"Yes, I did get briefed yesterday. I have the information needed. What

exactly do you need? Captain Nariz told me Melendez will be acting

without my oversight, and that you will leave him here in Mexico without

a ticket back to the States. What exactly are you doing?"

"I told you before, Mark, you need not bother yourself with these

other details. I promise you, Melendez will be safe in Mexico."

"Details are my business, Director. That maneuver doesn't make sense.

It could cause chaos and failure. You don't understand this work. This

all may become a matter of life and death. I've got to know everything

while I'm still in charge. There is no one else that's responsible."

Apologetically, he jumped in,"...Of course you do, but Agent Melendez

has been briefed about his part in our executive action. He's dealing

with more aspects than you can possibly know about. We no longer fight

wars with horses and sabers," Cruz laughed. "Everything is digital and

monitored, from drones to internet spying, you know that. He'll need to

communicate with me and execute actions without you. That's just the way

it is, Calvin."

Abruptly he stopped, then corrected himself. "I mean he'll know what

to do for you, and clean up the dirty details of this work after you and

Harkin leave. All you need to do is provide an avenue of protection for

him to escape. That other recruit, Harkin, can help you on your way

home."

He was unable to hide his arrogance. It gave me concern. "You still

haven't explained how someone gets out of Mexico without without a flight

ticket? Is Melendez walking?"

"I told you, he has to stay to clean up another piece of business

afterward. It's not important for you, or Harkin. It's technical. He's

fluent in Spanish and must deal with a special mission."

I was getting wary, so I got down to brass tacks,"Well then, Director

Cruz, tell me about our target, this old man. What's his name?"

"It's classified."

"Bullshit! Why is he being eliminated."

"Watch your language! That happens to be classified as well.'

I couldn't take one more minute of the nonsense,"I'm getting tired of

your evasive behavior. Why do you need me at all, Director? This doesn't

make a damn bit of sense.

"I have orders. Listen to me, Calvin, these are your directions, not

distractions. This operation has international importance. It's been well

thought out by top professionals. Now, listen to me, this is the place

you must go as you have been informed. It is at the Restaurant Rosa on

Santayana boulevard. That's where the old man will be at exactly ten in

the morning for his breakfast. Our informer says he will be escorted by

an assistant, an armed bodyguard we know who will go to the restroom

shortly after ten. It will isolate the old man for ten minutes. Only then

will you be able to complete your assignment, and escape without police

interference."

"I know all that, now. What is the exact age of our target?"

I heard nothing on the end of the phone. All I heard was heavy

breathing, but no words. He was hesitating, lost for an answer. I jumped

in, "Are you there, Cruz? What the hell is the problem? How old is this

bastard?"

He whispered, "Oh, he's at least eighty, maybe eighty-five."

So, what Captain Nariz said was all true. The thought of it was

absurd. I felt a bit dizzy. "You're kidding, this is all a joke. You

don't need me for this, and you certainly don't need three people. He

shouldn't even be a target.

Cruz pleaded, "He's considered dangerous for what he knows, not for

what he does. It's top secret. It happens to be the most dangerous secret

of our nation. If it gets out, countless lives across the globe will be

affected."

"Did you say, globe? You need to silence an eighty-five year old man

because he's dangerous? What is his nationality?"

"American."

"Then it's illegal. He gets a trial. You know that. You can't do

this."

"He's a traitor about to sell national secrets. I have orders, and so

do you, Calvin. Juan Carlos Garcia, the Cartel leader, is associated with

him. We can not take him to trial, without upsetting an apple-cart with

several other Federal agencies concerning Garcia. I won't repeat this,

Calvin. Every day he remains alive we're in danger—and don't ever forget

that you, too, are in danger. I know it, and you know it. I'm only hoping

you have enough sense to wise up before it's too late for you."

With that, he hung up.

He made no attempt to hide his threat, or his contempt, and I would've

launched my fist through his face if I had been in the same room with

him. But he was safe in Dallas, and I was sitting on a time bomb in

Mexico. I counted to ten, rose, and casually walked over to the table

where Melendez and Harkin were still eating. Harkin spoke first.

"That was the boss wasn't it? I told you he'd call you soon. What did

he say?"

"They spotted our target. He's here. We may need to act soon."

I started to wonder, but not about the old man. It was about the

mystery surrounding Melendez. Why did he have to remain in Mexico, and

why did he say nothing about it. He was a young, competent agent of the

Company who had a bright future ahead of him. He should have been

returning to safety with us. Did I underestimate him, or was Director

Cruz tossing a bone to the Mexican government to save face? Was this all

some compromise for getting what we wanted? And then, why was I being

left out in the cold?

Harkin appeared enthusiastic, "Well, what did the boss say he wants?"

His interest was obviously peaked, but the eyes of Melendez continued to

evade me, while staring out the window into the streets below, affecting

disinterest. I would guess he knew everything, each step to be taken, as

the Police Chief and the director had repeated, but Melendez had refused

to tell me one damn thing during all this time. Now, he wasn't as

confident about fooling me. He must have sensed the covers were being

pulled, and he could no longer play the dumb novice. His secret was not

important to me, but the reason for it was. Suddenly, it dawned on me

that the missing flight ticket may not have been his.

I rapped on the breakfast table to get the young man's attention,

"Tomorrow, gentlemen, we have orders to move. The target was spotted here

in Oaxaca at a local restaurant that's guarded for him for at least an

hour or so, each morning. Are you both able to act as you have been

prepared?"

Melendez looked at me with a sullen expression, "Of course, I am. My

equipment is prepared." He then shrugged with an air of annoyance. "I'm

always set to move. We all are, aren't we?"

I glanced at Harkin's vapid grin. I realized not everybody was. I

finally rose, "Okay, then tomorrow it is. Entertain yourself today, and

get a good night's sleep."

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Leaving the hotel the following morning all three of us jumped into

the nearest taxi and sped off to the address I had been given. As our

taxi rolled up to the restaurant, I checked my watch. "Have you got nine-

forty?" Both Harkin and Melendez checked their watches.

"We're synchronized at nine-forty," Harkin replied. As I studied the

area, I spotted a tall, young Mexican in an expensive black suit, a pink

shirt and a white tie, standing outside the tavern entrance, his eyes

hidden behind large, dark sunglasses. He immediately noticed us and

stepped towards the taxi's door. He bent down and peered inside. Lowering

his sunglasses he asked the obvious question, "Quien estan ustedes,

senores? Lo siento, ahoy no es possible para los gentes a entrarle. No

estamos abierto."

Harkin replied with a smile, "Tres amigos," seemingly unaware we were

about to execute people. I interrupted," Yo soy un amigo del Capitan

Nariz." The Mexican turned around to see if any other person heard, or

was possibly watching, then turned back. He asked us to wait, "Esperate,

senor. Un momento, por favor!"

The guard walked to the door, looked in, then looked back and nodded

to us.

Melendez jumped out first. He talked to the guard. It was true,

Melendez was versed in Spanish. Exiting the cab, I turned back to Harkin

and told him to remain inside the taxi and keep the driver running his

engine. I and Melendez walked inside with the security guard. The

establishment was exactly as described by Police Chief Nariz. The small

cafe was empty except for a thin older man in the rear, sitting alongside

the very woman who was in the office with Captain Nariz. We approached

the bar, while keeping our backs to the old man. I ordered a bottle of

beer, looked through the mirror and witnessed the sudden apprehension of

the old fellow. Most suspects, even hunted ones, ignore the possibility

of anyone watching through public mirrors. The likelihood of perception

is rare, unless that suspect is experienced and acutely aware of that

pitfall, and in this case the old man was.

I watched him turn and start looking at us through the bar room

mirror. He grew animated, then alarmed, sensing his danger. Angrily he

turned to the bodyguard, who had allowed us to enter, demanding an

explanation, then pointed at myself and Melendez. As I watched through

the mirror, I knew our cover had been blown. I tapped Melendez on the leg

and signaled him to act quickly. He understood and took several quick,

deep breaths. My own pulse rose. It was racing by the time Melendez

prepared the ultimate move. He slipped his right hand into his jacket,

removed his Glock 10 and gripped it tightly to his chest. Carefully, he

unlocked the safety, then looked at me. It was then that the old man

became certain of his predicament. He hollered out to his bodyguard to

act, "Shoot them!"

But as the bodyguard stepped back from the old man, Melendez jumped

off his stool. Crouching as he gripped his weapon with both hands, he

pointed it unexpectedly at the guard. He fired off four rapid shots into

the chest of the bodyguard, propelling him up and backwards. The body

slammed hard as it hit the wall, then slowly slumped down onto the floor,

bleeding profusely from chest and neck wounds. Startled, I slammed the

bottle on the bar, but it was all too late. He was dead.

I hardly had a chance to utter one word before the old man took to

flight. He rose to his feet, turned over the table and covered himself.

Melendez walked steadily to the makeshift shield, but aimed his gun at

the female officer that had been sitting with the old man. She turned

around in shock, trembling, as Melendez fired three rounds into her

torso. Her body twisted up and around, like a ballerina on fire, before

collapsing onto the floor.

I hollered,"The target, Melendez! The target! Take out that target!"

Melendez twisted back around, as the old man managed to push the table

directly into Melendez. Sidestepping the rolling table, Melendez stepped

into the spot where he had blown open the man's neck. With the left ball

of his foot insecure, standing on the red bloody surface, it unhinged his

balance and he slipped off and fell backwards. The old man wasted no

time. He headed for the exit door which was ten feet behind him, swung it

open, and darted out of the room. Snapping out of my confusion, I leapt

off the stool and dashed to the exit, swung wide the door to follow the

old bastard, but found myself facing him. He stood and stared back at me,

arm straight as an arrow, holding a revolver that was pointed at my

chest. I had one second to live. Immediately dropping to the floor, I

rolled furiously across the bar room. I heard three shots blasting near

my ears as I continued to roll, then heard nothing except an ominous

silence. Quickly lifting my head, I saw he had left. I stood up in the

midst of all the chaos, scarred with blood. Melendez was still lying

down, not even moving. I looked across the entire room, glared at the

carnage, not sure what to make out of it. Melendez finally struggled to

his feet, and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. I realized he

wasn't going to follow the old man, or even open the door. Our showdown

had ended. We failed. I looked at the two victims slumped dead on the

floor and wondered why the hell they were shot. Cautiously, I walked

around the bar, and noticed the bartender still there, crouching below

the counter in a tight ball, trembling with fear for his life. He kept

his hands clasped over his head and wouldn't lift it. I then approached

Melendez, leaning up against the wall, his wild eyes glazed in fear, as

blood vessels in his neck kept expanding and pumping blood like a brush

fire.

"Melendez, put down your weapon! It's over. We've got to get to the

taxi outside, and get the hell out of Mexico before the police arrive and

shoot us. Follow me, shut up, and don't run." I then turned, and walked

out the front door. Looking down both sides of the street, I noticed

nothing but a streetwalker passing by, tightly dressed in a florid pastel

skirt, too small, too short, and too bright. I smiled, as she waved

invitingly, placing more emphasis in her sway. Harkin was now standing

outside the taxi, waiting and looking at us with disbelief. I took

Melendez by the arm and pushed him into the cab. He remained frozen and

silent, his head leaning half way out the window, gasping for air, wide-

eyed and glaring off into some senseless orbit, as we sped away.

I ordered the driver to head through several side-streets, reverse,

and then head for the main street towards the metro train station. He did

as told, sensing the danger. Ten minutes later we arrived at the metro

station and all of us stepped out. I dropped a hundred dollar bill on his

front seat, and we casually walked into the train depot.

Harkin asked, "Well, what exactly are we doing here?"

"We're improvising, Harkin," I shot back. "Your partner killed

everybody except our target. He destroyed our entire mission. We're no

longer welcomed in Mexico."

"What?" Harkin turned fast and furious, glaring at his quivering

companion, whose eye lids kept fluttering aimlessly, as if in a state of

shock.

Harkin demanded, "Hey, Melendez, what the hell is wrong with you?" He

then turned to me, demanding an explanation. "Has he been wounded?"

"Not physically. He murdered innocent people, including a police

officer working for us, so the Mexican police will now have a reason to

shoot us on sight, if they catch up to us. Harkin, we're not going to

court or jail. We're headed for a cemetery, if you don't listen to

everything I tell you."

"What are you talking about, Calvin? Melendez looks like he's in

outer-space!"

I agreed,"He's done something strange. Obviously, he's getting orders

from somewhere else, and he's kept it to himself. So far, he shot both

the body guard, and the informant for the police chief, Nariz, allowing

our target to escape."

Harkin was baffled. Our situation was not only out of control, it was

incomprehensible. How could Harkin be sent to me without knowing a damn

thing about his partner, Melendez? I grabbed his arm and demanded,"Are

you in on all this? Did you know anything about his mission? Don't hold

back, or I swear, I'll kill you. Our lives are on the line."

Harkin's face glared back in fear, "Me? All I know is the target was

that old pirate, that's all. I've known Melendez two months, but knew

nothing about any secret mission, or for that matter, Melendez."

Harkin looked bewildered. I judged for now he was telling the truth. I

had to conclude we were dealing with a killing machine no longer under

our control, or his own. "Well, Harkin, when he returns to earth we're

going to have a long talk, if we're still alive and he recovers. Now,

let's get out of here. We're wanted as enemies of the State, as well an

open target for the Cartel mobster, Juan Garcia. Let's head out the back

way of this train station. Take Melendez with you, and we'll meet at our

hotel in an hour. Got that? Go!"

We scoured the street surroundings which seemed calm and unaware.

"This is where we separate. Take separate routes."

"Sure, but why split?"

"We cut the chances of anyone following..." I looked down at my

watch,"...or all of us dying. I'll see you later." I turned down the

street and walked in the opposite direction, leaving the option for

Harkin to make his wisest decision. He was on his own, for now.

A city bus arrived where I had crossed over to the open market. I

jumped on, knowing I could back-track with a taxi, afterward. No one paid

much attention as I stepped on and moved to the back. I sat down beside

an elderly woman who was codling her granddaughter. Reluctantly, I

accepted a red lollipop from the little girl while she sat gleeful on her

grandmother's lap.

I pulled out my phone, pressed one button and waited. I heard a

nervous reply, "Yes? This is Cruz speaking. Who is this?"

"Who do you think? It's Mark Calvin...you can see my damn number on

your phone."

"I'm in an important conference, Calvin. I wasn't expecting calls.

What's happened so far? Is it over?"

"No, but super-boy just burned down the mission. We have a problem,

Cruz. We're all are on the run. Melendez murdered a police officer

working with us, and now we're hunted. He lost his grip and killed two

innocent people, two people that were aiding us. Then, he appeared to

slip on the blood on the floor, allowing our target to escape. The old

man ran out the exit, as if his ass was on fire. He's alive and well,

thanks to your mysterious Melendez. That Cartel leader, Garcia, will know

all about this soon." I could no longer restrain my anger with this

character, "Cruz, I need answers! Why the hell did Melendez shoot two

people that were helping us get this target, and why was it kept secret

from me? You knew this all along. This wasn't in my playbook. I want an

answer, or I'm shutting down!

Cruz sounded puzzled, "How should I know? Did you say he actually shot

a police officer?"

"You know damn well he did, he's under your direction. He shot two

government people that were helping us and he did it without provocation.

It was planned. You ordered him to kill innocent people, and the target

escaped. This has become an international incident. What is the Company

attempting to do? I have little time to talk bullshit, any longer!"

The voice on the end of my phone pleaded, "Mark, I don't know. I

swear, I don't know a thing."

"You're lying, Cruz! If I get out of Mexico, you're going to prison.

I'm going to have you arrested, if you're lucky."

He pleaded once more, "Calvin, I'm telling you the truth, I had no

idea he was crazed. You have to believe me. But, be forewarned, if you go

through with your threat I'll have to consider you dangerous!"

"Don't think twice about it, I am!" I hung up.

Cruz was stonewalling, but gave me enough information to start putting

pieces together. The rest would reveal itself later, but now I was primed

only to survive. Cruz had seen my number on his phone, but didn't expect

me to be talking. His hesitation told me that much. Pleading to me,

instead of giving a clear answer proved he was not only guilty, but

alarmed that something failed. I could not believe this was handled by

just him and Melendez. I decided to call Harkin. He answered the phone

and assured me both he and Melendez were now safe.

`"Yeah, Calvin, we're both here at the hotel. Melendez is off center

but he's taking a hot bath. When will you get here?"

"A half hour. Listen to me, Harkin. While Melendez is still in the

bathroom, get his cell phone and turn it off. We can't afford any

tracking, or him communicating with others, not until I talk to him. Do

you understand?"

Harkin wasn't sure, "His phone is in his jacket, which is still with

him inside that bathroom."

"Well, get in there now. Say anything, do anything, but get that damn

phone out, and shut it off. And don't tell him where it is when he gets

out. Is that clear?"

"Sure. I got it."

I hung up. My bus came to a sudden halt at a large mercado. Half of

the Mexican women got off for the market, and I followed. If Harkin did

what I told him, everything would soon be settled. There was no rhyme or

reason to any of this, but two facts were obvious, Melendez had not lost

his mind when he shot the two officers. That was part of his mission. But

some part of his mission did not get finished. He was carrying it out,

exactly as told by someone, even if it was not Cruz. The blood puddle

Melendez slipped on was the only thing unforeseen, but that mishap saved

the old man's life. It gave him time to think, and to escape. But the old

man was not simply lucky. He was obviously experienced and quick enough

to see what was happening, that is, who it was and why it was happening.

Not possible for an ordinary person. So, he didn't waste time, but

escaped. I realized Melendez and the old man had secrets I knew nothing

about. Possibly not the same ones, but Melendez had one part of the

puzzle, and the old man had the other, undoubtedly a much more important

part, which is why he was being targeted, but I now needed both sides in

order to see the whole picture. As the bus left the downtown mercado, I

jumped into a waiting taxi and sped off for the hotel.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As I entered our hotel room I spotted what I feared, Harkin and

Melendez relaxing, casually playing cards. Harkin was unmistakeably

downcast, but Melendez upbeat, grinning like a cat. Naturally, he spoke

first, "Greetings, Agent Calvin. Pardon me, I mean Mark. But no problem,

it's only us, here. Glad to see you're alive and well."

"Of course. You too, Melendez. We're all temporarily safe. When we get

time we have to talk. You seem to have had a remarkable recovery from

our cataclysm. For now, we'll need to get out of the line of fire. That

means we get out of here this minute."

"Where? What hotel?" Harkin asked.

"No more hotels. We're getting out of Mexico. I've been notified we're

now officially on the Cartel's top-ten hit list for attacking the old

man. The Mexican police will be helping them find us in order to save

face, after what happened to their police officer. I assure you, Chief

Nariz would like to see nothing more than all of us out of Mexico, even

if its in a body-bag." I turned to Melendez, sat down, and faced him off.

"Melendez, you killed two innocent people and it wasn't a case of

collateral damage. You deliberately executed non-targets without my

knowledge. Why? I need some answers, before we leave this room."

As if prepared for this confrontation, Melendez folded his hands and

stretched them across the dark oak dinner table. He lowered his head like

a penitent sinner, and spoke softly in a whisper. "It was terrible. I

don't like what happened, or what I did, but I had to do it. I was

ordered to eliminate any potential eye-witness. Everything had to be

clean, sir. Absolutely no eye-witness was to be left alive."

My anger raced into a spin of fury. This pretense of humility was

contemptible. What question could I possibly ask that he would not hide,

or lie about? This was clear and evident. He was stonewalling, operating

on his own, an island onto himself and I was irrelevant. I knew at that

point no argument, discussion, or question would be answered.

I politely smiled as I loosened my tie, "Then perhaps we should just

forget it. The mission is officially over, anyway. Harkin, get on the

phone and make flight arrangements, now."

Melendez added, "I'll go downstairs to the lobby and keep my eyes

glued on the desk personnel. Who knows, we may face those police. I'll

call if I see something."

"Yes, do that Melendez. Now, everybody, let's move."

"Got it." Melendez replied, as he jumped up.

When he reached the door, he turned, "Damn! Almost forgot my phone."

He walked over to the table, picked up his cell-phone and rushed out the

door. My eyes opened wide, as Harkin released nothing but a grunt of

despair. When Melendez left I understood what had happened between the

two of them while I was gone.

Harkin muttered, "He was on his phone as I walked into the bathroom.

It was exactly as you expected. He was depressed one minute, and the

next, he seemed to come out of his dark funk. His mood changed radically,

almost as if he had won the lottery. God, Calvin, I'm sorry. But there

was nothing I could do after that."

I rose and walked to the window and looked out. "We may not get out of

Mexico, Harkin. There's something very big going on. But at least I have

enough information to know who was on that phone."

"You do?"

"You didn't ask Melendez questions after he got off?"

"No, I felt it would appear suspicious."

"Did he volunteer any information?"

"None...," Harkin's eyes widened. "...You're right! He should have

said something, made some comment, but he hung up and simply talked about

the weather."

It appeared Harkin did not know the assignment that Melendez was

executing. He was an innocent bystander. My experience proved this was

not necessarily the case with agents who were good actors, but Harkin was

young and inclined to be blunt, saying exactly what he felt.

"Do I need to know what he's up to?" he offered.

"It matters little, now. We failed, and we have to escape. What's

important is we all get out of here to save our lives. This mission has

collapsed."

That thought applied only to myself and Harkin. My memory flashed back

to the two flight tickets offered by the Mexican Chief of Police, telling

me Melendez was suppose to stay behind in Mexico. At that time I

suspected Director Cruz was sacrificing Melendez to the Mexican

government or the Sinoloan Cartel, but now it appeared different.

Melendez was the one running the mission. The goat sacrificed was someone

else.

"Let's go, Harkin. We have to leave this minute."

"I'm not ready. I didn't make the calls to the airport."

"Forget it. We may not get out of this hotel. Go! We'll pick up

Melendez downstairs."

I picked up my sports bag, and Harkin went inside, grabbed his, and we

left. I swung the door wide and we dashed down the hall, descended two

flights of stairs to the main lobby, then came to a halt. Reaching the

back exit door, I decided to go back and check the lobby. Perhaps I was

completely wrong. Perhaps, Melendez was actually waiting. Perhaps he was

simply duped and it was all my imagination. I entered the lobby to see if

he was not what I had concluded, that he actually was where he said he

would be, at his post. I turned three different directions, stared into

the expressionless faces of the hotel personnel, but saw no one else.

Melendez was gone. The house of cards was on fire. I turned to Harkin,

standing at the back-door exit, ready to run, then heard the lobby phone

ring. I halted and stared as the hotel clerk lifted it off the cradle.

"Hola! El Rosa hotel. Es possible para me ayudale? Senor Melendez? No

esta aqui, ahora. El senor Melendez vaya afuera. Lo siento, senor."

If the desk clerk knew he was gone, he obviously saw him run out the

door. As he was about to hang up, I snatched the phone away, to answer

the caller and improvised," Buenas dias. Yo soy Senor Melendez. Como

estas? " I waited, half-wondering why in the world would anyone call

Melendez by way of the hotel lobby, and not his cellphone. It couldn't be

the Dallas Director. Then I heard a dark, heavy set voice speaking in

Spanish tell me the location of 'El viejo'. There was only one old man in

this matrix, sought by everyone. It was the target. Then the caller

informed me," Tenemos cinco immigrantes para Estados Unidos..." He

paused. But I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. I

interjected, "No." and waited. I heard the man call out to someone behind

him. It didn't take long before another person, the very last person in

the world that I ever wanted to hear again, speaking to me.

"...Eschuchame, Melendez! This man you now got. You people agree, no?

You boss receive fifty thousand dollar from me, no? Ahora, doy a tu este

hombre, senor Charles Dandinac para el dinero, si? Now, you make American

boarder open for five people, or I kill you."

Garcia hung up. I cautiously looked around the vacant hotel, then back

to the young desk clerk, who was still hanging over the desk, gently

smiling, waiting for his phone. I hung up, then tipped him. Turning back,

I spotted Harkin standing tall as a tree in the small hallway door,

staring back at me with intense curiosity. Calibrating parts of the

puzzle, I grew alarmed. Who the hell was this gringo, called Dandinac?

All the wrong people wanted him dead, and my life was hanging on a

thread, as well.

Harkin inquired, "What was that all about?"

"Someone wanted to speak to Melendez."

"On the hotel phone?"

"No one we know. It was meant for privacy."

"Was it the director?"

"No."

"The police?"

"No. Actually, someone more powerful."

"Who?"

"Juan Carlos Garcia, the head of the Sinoloan Cartel."

Harkin stared at me, bewildered. "How can you know all that?"

"You don't forget the voice of someone who threatens to cut your

throat."

I knew I had opened a can of worms and it looked ugly. Harkin had no

way to digest the facts or the history, and I could see he didn't like

the chaos one bit.

"We need to leave right now," I offered, "I have directions to the

target and we have a very short time to finish this job. Forget Melendez,

we'll never see him again."

"Why? Where the hell did he go?"

"God only knows. He wasn't working with us, anyway...and now we're out

of time. I'll explain it all later."

Reluctantly, Harkin shrugged and followed me as we rushed out the back

of the hotel and into the teeming streets.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Riding a weather-beaten taxi across Oaxaca through side streets to the

main highway, Harkin turned to me and finally ripped loose. "You listen,

Calvin. I've had enough of this bullshit! I don't like being left in the

dark by anyone, not even you. This whole mission is insane. It doesn't

make a damn bit of sense. Melendez deserted us, after killing all the

wrong people, and now you say the Cartel called him on our hotel phone,

and so now we're the ones being hunted! Tell me the truth, what's going

on?"

"Trust me, Harkin. I had no knowledge of Melendez, either."

"No, but you have years invested in the Company and you must have

dealt with this shit before. My life is on a platter. I was lied to,

betrayed, then almost murdered. It seems our boss in Dallas knows all

about this, or else he's a fucking moron."

It was hard for me to answer Harkin because of the complexity of the

players, and my own doubts. But I conceded,"It's looking that way."

Harkin slumped down in taxi, resigned. "I thought so. The danger I

don't mind. I signed up for that. But lied to and used as a puppet by my

own government, then watching good people murdered by my partner? What

the hell is going on? I want some answers!"

There was no point in hiding any longer. It was time to let Harkin in

on everything. "You deserve the truth, Saul. Years ago, when I began, I

learned the hard way that all of this is a game played by powerful people

on both sides, and neither one of them are saints, nor interested in our

welfare. It's treacherous. Some don't even care about saving your

country."

"Our own people don't care?"

"Well, not about what we care about, or the small players. But, you're

right, they don't care who pays the price for their success. It's about

money; it's all about multinational industry, power, and money."

He looked out the taxi window in disgust, then casually whispered,

"But you continued doing this job for a paycheck?"

I had to smile, "Well, I'm about to retire. It's too late for me. But

I've met some heroes in my day. Besides, this job was the only thing I

did well, at least on the level they needed."

I couldn't add much more without insulting him. I wondered what really

mattered to any man his age, except ideals. The taxi grew silent as it

raced across town. Gradually, I heard the street sounds of the city, the

traffic of the rush-hour, the horns blaring, cars beeping, diesel trucks

roaring, and our Mexican driver cursing the heavy traffic. My mind

drifted away like a cloud. It drifted back to African nights in Lagos,

Nigeria where once I served. I heard a million crickets ratcheting their

legs at night, as I listened to my old friend, Samson Ogundipe, the

freedom fighter laugh loudly at me for being naive about people, and

power. I then floated off to Barcelona with my companion, Khalil Masoud,

the terrorist, who swore to my face he would kill for me, for being his

friend. And then lovely Marie Cabet of Ibiza, the French diplomat who

seasoned her life with parties and intimate escapades more bizarre than

her parties, who cynically called my dedication to causes as,'...a tale

told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing!'

But most of all, my friend, Black Panther leader, Eldridge Butcher. A

big man in so many ways, who I accompanied to UCLA to speak to

students after his conversion. At Lake Arrowhead, he told me stories

never revealed to the public about his flight to Libya. He laughed as he

recounted misadventures of saving the miserable life of a Sixties radical

caught handing out LSD to Kadafi's troops. Eldridge saved the bastard's

life by putting him under house-arrest, just before Kadafi was to have

him shot.

I was tossed about in my memory machine as if asleep, wounded by

revelations of intrigue and tragic heroes which I too might have been,

but never was. My life now seemed an endless adventure of little value.

Only the sweet memories of ladies amounted to anything called love. I

still hear the Gypsies in Ibiza strumming guitars, nursing babies,

wailing melodies, and begging tourists for change while pickpocketing

their husbands. And of course all those ugly American tourists in

Hawaiian shirts, red shorts and sandals with socks.

I imagined strolling the Gothic section of Barcelona, again, observing

Gaudi's swerving architecture of his grand cathedral, which for fifty

long years never seem to get finished by workers. Like everyone else,

there was great color to my memories but what substance was in it, and

what did it amount to now. Not much.

Out of the silence, Harkin shook my arm, "Calvin, I'm talking to you!

Are we getting out of this country, today? And tell me, who the hell is

this eighty year old fruitcake everybody wants to kill? Who needs to kill

an eighty year old man?"

I shook off my sleep and suddenly smiled, "Actually, he's eighty-

five."

I looked at the young man's perplexed face, saw my own and solemnly

declared, "Can't you get it through your skull, Harkin. Just do your job

and walk away; or better still, get out now while you're still

breathing."

Harkin wasn't prepared for philosophy, even with a whiskey soaked

brain. I wanted to answer him, but like all simple questions, they lead

to more, and more, and more; which leaves no alternative but to shoot the

messenger.

My phone rang. I answered, but didn't believe what I heard. The voice

I never imagine hearing was now talking on my phone.

"I assume this is Mr. Mark Calvin. This is Charles Dandinac, the

gentleman you and your monkees failed to murder the other day. Tell me,

Mr. Calvin, how many agents do you need to kill a frail, eighty-five year

old man? I was fortunate enough to escape when your agent slipped in the

tavern, wasn't I? I found that rather amusing, if not odd. Your young

friend shot all the wrong people, as well, didn't he? Well, I'm calling

to give you an offer, but it is only for you, and only for a short time.

I would like to surrender, immediately."

It was him, the old man, the myth, and he was clearly alive, alert and

well. I coldly told him the facts, "You would like to surrender? I've

been assigned to treat you with extreme prejudice. You know what that

means, don't you?"

"Yes, the translation is commonly called murder in your parlance. I

was once in your profession, long before it began hiring thugs and

reprobates like Mr. Cruz...."

I quickly jumped in. "After all the decades of evading the government,

you want to surrender to me? How did you get my telephone number?"

The old man laughed. "You must be an analog man, Mr. Calvin. Don't you

know, we live in a digital world. I'm afraid, you, like myself, are

relics of espionage. We're obsolete. I probably know more about you than

you know about me. I even know of Katrina, your ex-wife, and your

military service at Clark Air Force base in the Philippines. Yet, you are

amazed that I possess your telephone number? Don't you know your

government has access to every internet location, email, and telephone

number in the entire world? Just think, all your world leaders are being

listened to by some twenty year old computer nerd, like Snowden. Mr.

Calvin, the Queen of England was given a bugged I-phone by that clown you

called a President. The world has changed. It's no wonder they gave the

assignment to the young man, Melendez."

He sighed, then continued. "Mr. Calvin, I've heard about you for a

number of years, a maverick and a top agent in the field. Juan Garcia

told me all about his visit to your shabby hotel room, last month. He

says he likes your sense of humor. It saved your life. As I said, I did

your work once, when it possessed some integrity. I was considered

important. I know what it takes to face death, play the odds and win, but

you've been in thirty long years. It's time to come in from the cold.

It's no longer a game for James Bond. It's for computer geeks, and

government bureaucrats. I assure you, your time and your life is as

limited as mine. And mine will soon end, if you don't agree."

Charles Dandinac must have known he had been betrayed by the Cartel

under Garcia, and had enemies on all sides. He knew he would soon be

eliminated. Though his voice sounded calm and strong, I sensed the

charade, and that he was reaching for the last straw before drowning. But

he knew more about me than I did of him. He decided I was the last man on

earth he could trust, but I was also responsible for him to stop

breathing. As my enemy, his revelations were baffling; an American agent

that the government wanted dead? Why was that kept secret from me?

"Are you still there, Mr. Calvin?"

I had let myself drift. "Yes, I'm still here. I was checking my

wallet. What conditions do you want?"

"Safe conduct to the United States for trial."

"Nobody wants you safe—not anywhere, not at any time. If I help, I

face the same people who want to kill you."

"Well, I have something to offer. Someone must be given the truth

before I die, or history dies with me. So, I've chosen you."

The taxi had pulled up to the parking lot at the airport and I exited,

paid the driver, and told Harkin to remove our bags. Entering the

airport, I motioned Harkin to grab a chair and wait, as I kept talking.

"Where exactly are you, Dandinac?"

"Is it a deal?"

"You got it."

"Very good. Go back to the Hotel Rosa and ask for Miguel, the office

manager. He will direct you. I ask that you show up, alone. If I see

another person, I will not appear. So hurry, I may soon die. And when I

die..." He drew a deep breath. "...they will kill you, as quickly as

possible."

"Me? What the hell are you talking about? You sound delusional. In

fact, why does anybody want you killed. I'll give you ten seconds, tell

me, why are you so important. Why does anybody care to have an eighty-

five year old asshole targeted? You're a joke."

There was the predictable silence, and this was my last ploy to force

him to say it, to produce the goods. Pride alone would make him stumble,

and it did.

"Mr. Calvin," he declared with irritation. "I'm the man who

assassinated your President, John F. Kennedy. I was the man in charge of

orchestrating the entire operation."

There was silence again on that line and in my head, not one thought

as I went blank. I could not speak or piece together all the recent

conflicts, not Melendez, nor my mission to eliminate this character. I

had no reply and no sense of logic to the conversation.

Then he interrupted,"I will expect to see you in exactly three hours.

Be there, Mr. Calvin. This is your last and only chance."

He had to be lying. But then, why does a liar draw so much attention?

His offer was take it, or leave it. It mattered little whether I believed

it or not, he was the only alternative I had to flying back to an

uncertain future. The government must have made some mistake in hunting

him. It was all fantastic, but still, he was wanted by them.

The assignment once given to Melendez was now mine, but I felt Harkin

deserved to know the facts. I could care less about Charles Dandinac, or

the DEA at this point. But one thing that the old man said, was

absolutely true. He shot his arrow carefully and deliberately. I had

become a dinosaur in espionage and drug enforcement. My world and my

values had vanished in less than a decade with computer technology. The

military drones, the internet, universal spying on Americans. It all

added up to one thing. A 'Brave New World' had arrived. I was expendable.

Technology had no place for heroes, anymore. It was Harkin's world now,

for what it was worth. So, it rightfully had to be Harkin's decision.

Why Dandinac was being hunted down by the government with the help of

the drug cartel confounded me. Even if his story was true, he was a

leftover from a matrix of the Cold War settled a long time ago.

Obviously, some oversight had occurred, and they were cleaning house, or

the last vestige of undesired history before starting over. The old man's

fears had driven him crazy, though his bluntness and his certitude had a

strange ring. Obviously, he believed what he was saying, but as for me,

what did I have to lose? I had bottomed out on the DEA. Houston Director,

Cruz, was suspect and Melendez was both a deserter and murderer. I and

Harkin were left. It seemed there was little to save, but absolutely

nothing to lose. Time now became everything. There was danger of loosing

it by lingering another day. On the other hand, Dandinac declared he not

only knew why my assignment was important, but that only his safety would

provide my own. If it were all true, then he was the solution I had been

searching for.

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When our taxi finally came to a rest, we got out and entered the

airport, as I tipped the cab driver Harkin removed our bags. We entered

the gateway and everything appeared normal, as normal as could be

expected.

I knew our flight would leave in forty-five minutes, so convincing

Harkin of executing my option of going back was unlikely, if not

impossible, but I felt one last try wouldn't hurt. I asked, "Saul, that

telephone call I received was from our target, the old man who escaped

from us at the tavern. He wants to surrender."

He laughed. "That's impossible. This is a trick. I want no part of it.

You don't even know what he sounds like. It could be anyone; the police,

or even the Cartel. There's no way you can know. Why risk it?"

"Because he proved to me he was a former intelligence agent. That much

is certain. He thinks like one, he talks like one. This is no joke. He's

one of us. He has been marked for what he knows. He has something

valuable...a top secret.

Harkin reeled, "So what? Everybody has a secret. We were suppose to

eliminate him! Let somebody else save him. I'm out. The world is turning

upside down, and even Melendez turned out to be a traitor. He

deliberately killed those police officers, and now they're hunting us.

Let that old bastard die like he's suppose to die, for God's sake. We've

got to get on that plane, or we're as good as toast."

I could see the exasperation. I knew his mind was fixed in granite,

and his teeth set on edge. The likelihood of Harkin thinking straight was

doubtful, but one last time I offered the ultimatum, "It doesn't end that

easy, Saul. Director Cruz is suspect. Even if we make it back to the

States, we're involved in an international crime against Mexico that

won't be covered up by Director Cruz unless he blames us. We know too

much. They'll be waiting for us at the Dallas airport, if we get that

far. We may as well find out why. The old man could be our lifesaver."

He shook his head, "No way, Calvin, there's nothing going to change my

mind. That's final."

So, it was a done deal. He was right to be skeptical. I decided to let

it drop.

Suddenly, police vans pulled up outside the airport, red head-lights

swirling and flashing on their hoods, with sirens blasting. There were

exactly four vans filled with police. The Police jumped out from each of

the vans, then dashed directly into the airport. Some went to the ticket

counters where flights were scheduled to take off, others took positions

alongside passenger lines looking for any suspicious character,

undoubtedly American.

Harkin's eyes opened wide with shock. His head twisted three different

directions to figure a way to escape, as if it were possible.

Turning to me, he pleaded,"You think they're looking for us?"

I turned and looked him calmly in the eyes,"Harkin, there are two dead

Mexican police officers, officers that were assigned to help us, officers

that were murdered by Melendez while the old man mysteriously escaped.

What the hell do you think?"

He raised his fist in the air and cursed,"Damn!"

"Either we face that old man, or we face getting gunned down if we

don't get our out of this airport this minute.

"Then let's find that old man."

He grabbed his bag and was ready to launch himself out the door, but I

secured Harkin by the shoulder, "Not so fast! Don't rush! Appear like

you're taking a stroll. They're looking for two well-dressed Americans

fleeing Mexico, so we have to split up. Carry your jacket beneath your

arm and get rid of your tie. I want you to walk down to the left side of

the airport and exit there, then walk all the way back from outside. Meet

me on the far right side of the airport entry, exactly where the city

buses head out to town."

He nodded, then left. I casually walked out the right side and exited

into the dark of night. Reaching the bus depot, I sat down on a wooden

bench and took a smoke. Ten minutes later Harkin showed up. He stood over

me like a tower. He said nothing, simply staring. I could see he was

nerve wracked and emotionally drained.

Looking down from his six and a half foot stature, he complained,

"Calvin, why aren't you nervous?"

"No need. We did the best we can. They kill us, or we escape, that's

all." I shook my head, resigned. "It's that simple. The facts are we

never did have an assignment. It was all meant for Melendez. We were

tricked from the beginning to end with this mess. We were chosen to

divert attention and pay the ultimate price for Melendez to succeed and

escape."

"But why?" he posed, slumping down upon the bench beside me, resigned

to his predicament.

"Our target, Dandinac, knows why and could offer us the answer. He

phoned me because he figured it out after the botched attempt on his life

by Melendez. It made sense to the old man, and he seems to make sense to

me. We were scapegoats that Melendez needed in order to vanish. We were

to be captured, or gunned down by the Mexican police, right there or in

the hotel. Then the entire search would've stopped. They're wouldn't have

been a trail. Melendez was suppose to disappear as if he never existed.

It all has to do with Director Cruz hiding the real mission from us.

Cruz, himself, is in on this. We were manipulated to take the fall for

the assassinations, just as Lee Harvey Oswald did."

He puffed furiously on his cigarette and asked, "Who the hell is Lee

Harvey Oswald?"

I looked at the twenty-four year old, and sadly shook my head, "Never

mind."

"But why were we suppose to die?" Harkin complained.

"Dead men draw plenty of attention, but reveal nothing."

Young Harkin accepted the verdict. I was amused, as he was dislodged

from his cocky attitude. "Don't worry Harkin, if the Mexicans kill you,

Cruz will probably give you a medal."

He didn't like the sarcasm, "I don't want any medals! I'm a Federal

agent. I'm an American, damn it! This is unfair!"

"Harkin, our mission was to illegally execute an old man in a foreign

country. You think your life is more valuable than his?"

"You're damn right, it is!"

"Write to your congressman."

"Go to hell!"

"I probably will, but for now let's get out of this airport."

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"You will do as I say, you stinking dog-bitch", Omar hollered out in

the cheap one room flat above Garcia's disco. He violently slapped the

prostitute across the face several times. The woman did not understand

and screamed in horror, but Omar ignored her as he continued to hit her

again, and again, and again, until finally her face was swollen and

bleeding.

Being at the very far end of the rooms in the hallway on the second

floor much of what was happening went unnoticed before it was all too

late.

Unsatisfied and infuriated by the hooker's refusals, Omar removed his

knife, pinned her up against the wall with his left arm, then proceeded

to slowly slash her jugular vein by drawing it across her throat. The

woman's blood shot into his angry eyes and over him, causing his naked

body to become drenched completely with blood. She slumped onto the floor

dead before any of Omar's friends were able to run down the hallway and

break into his room. By that time he was already sitting, slumped upon

his bed, hands covering his face and crying like a child.

Shocked and incapable of responding, the four others stood at Omar's

bed, aghast. They had no idea what caused the tragedy, and seeing the

entire room, floor, and walls covered with blood left them speechless.

They saw their leader shaking and weeping for himself on his solitary

bed, and they became apoplectic. One quickly opened the door and looked

down the empty hallway, then quickly slammed it shut. The rest feared for

one thing, the obvious arrest by the Mexican police, the failure of their

sacred mission, and the immediate retaliation by Juan Garcia. Their

entire world had suddenly ended.

The youngest cried out, "Why, Omar? Why? Why? Why? Oh, why did you do

so horrible a thing?"

"This dog would not submit to me. She made me kill her!"

The four were sympathetic for their brother and tried to console him,

but five minutes later when a knock at the door by the madam had alerted

them, they grew alarmed. She demanded entry to talk to her worker. One of

the five answered by opening the door a crack to say everything was fine,

but the manager was wise enough to know there was enormous trouble by the

refusal to allow the girl to come to the door. Even their heavy breathing

was obvious enough for her to know some form of violence had taken place.

She smiled, withdrew, then left immediately to call Garcia. Twenty

minutes later he showed up with Sanchez. This time when one of the

terrorists answered the door he was unexpectedly faced with a loaded

revolver held with the iron grip of Sanchez pointing directly at his

eyes. "Get out of the way, or I will kill you!"

One of them looked at their pathetic leader and asked, "What shall we

do?"

He mumbled,"We must let them in."

They agreed and unlocked the door, allowing Sanchez and Garcia to walk

in. Garcia entered, silently examined the room. The first thing Garcia

recognized was the blood stained walls. Sanchez looked about the room,

knew what had taken place, and told the five men to sit down on the bed

with their hands on their heads, or else face certain death.

He then turned to his boss, "What do you want me to do, Juan?"

Garcia's anger exploded as he envisioned the tragedy.

"You bastards will die for this!"

He glared down at the woman's mutilated body and the bewildered five

men. With venomous rage he hollered,"Who has murdered my worker? Tell me,

or I will kill all five of you, one by one, this very minute." He then

ordered Sanchez to lock the door. Some started praying out loud, as they

assumed the worse. It took only one minute for Juan Garcia to calm down,

just long enough to see an opportunity.

He glared at their leader, who was still sitting in his underwear, and

informed him, "In twenty minutes the police will be here. My manager has

called them. I believe we need to fix this problem quickly with any means

possible, or else face the consequences. I have no power over police

without money, and you as foreigners, have just murdered an innocent

Mexican woman. The penalty is death for all of you. She has no relatives,

and fortunately you have plenty of money. But there is no avenue of

escape for the five of you. You are illegal and all guilty of murder.

This will demand every single penny you have, and then some. I will tell

you this, at least one hundred thousand dollars more is needed for all

the police, the officials, the politicians and myself to settle this, do

you hear me? It is that, or the firing squad. You have destroyed my

reputation and my business!"

Garcia picked up a metal trash can and tossed it against the wall

above their heads then shouted, "I should kill all of you now, and throw

your rotten bodies in the sewer! I don't need scum like you in my life.

You have nearly destroyed me, you bastards! You will pay, or bring

dishonor to your country, and at the very least die. Do you hear me? I

need answers and your money, now!"

All of Garcia's expertise and deadly acumen pierced through the dark

mind of their leader, who had thrown away his freedom. Garcia would now

make certain that they would pay. When the Arab leader tried to speak he

couldn't conceal himself from trembling. No explanations, no excuses were

acceptable. Garcia didn't care what the reason for the crime was. This

was business, and he was in the driver's seat. Their religion was

meaningless and juvenile, like every other well-intentioned fool he had

known in his life. It meant absolutely nothing to him. It was all

pointless, if there was no recourse to money.

The Arab leader whispered hoarsely, "Yes, we will do it, but...."

Garcia interrupted,"Shut up! Call your people and get me the guarantee of

money now, before the police arrive." Garcia rose from his chair, turned,

and signaled Sanchez with a sleight wave from his flanked arm. Sanchez

immediately unlocked the door to the small room, and let Garcia out. But

he turned around as he left, "Sanchez, stay here until I send some one to

clean up. Keep those bastards quiet in this room, until the rest of the

women and workers can get out of this Disco."

Garcia turned his eyes towards the leader to make sure he was

understood,"Shoot any one, if they move! I will call you when I come

back with the police. And one other thing..." He turned fiercely against

their leader, "You will do me one other favor...you will deliver a large

package for me to El Paso, when and if you leave. Is that understood? Do

you know what I am saying?"

The leader nodded, and Sanchez affirmed it, "Yes, they understand,

boss."

Garcia buttoned his white jacket and left.

The terrorists looked at each other in both pity and awe. It seemed

they had met their match. Garcia walked outside the discotheque to await

the police. As he stood there, seething he spotted an old woman sitting

on the pavement, destitute and feeble, hand outstretched as she continued

begging for money and praying beneath her breath. Garcia looked down at

her with abject scorn. It reminded him of where he had come from. In

fact, the sight of the pathetic woman was nothing less than a picture of

his own mother before she died tubercular in a rat-infested hovel.

"Oye, madre. Donde esta su Dios, a hoy?"

"En el Cielo, senor."

"Cielo? Si, naturalmente."

Juan Carlos withdrew a hundred peso note and dropped it on her lap.

"Pero sus Dios no estan aqui en Mexico, madre. Es verdad—no?"

He turned and walked away, grumbling and puffing away, then suddenly

threw his Cuban cigar into a garbage can.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Returning to Oaxaca, Agent Harkin and I got off the local bus then

slipped into a side street where I spotted a cheap hotel. It was

uninviting, but exactly what was necessary. With a sputtering red light

connected to its top logo it was the ideal haven for the lost and

forgotten, and those who wished to be. I led Harkin down the alley and

into the misbegotten domicile. Ten minutes later we sat inside a small

room with two beds, and a large overhead fan. No expectation of passports

or visas were asked for when I deliberately failed to take any change

from the manager. I felt safe enough to immediately launch upon my plan.

"Harkin, we have a short time to make a move. I have little doubt we

were set up by Director Cruz to die for this operation. Right now, we

might make it to the northern border and out of Mexico, but as I said

even then we face trumped-up charges from Cruz, who will protect the

agency and those decision makers."

I looked him straight in the eyes, and asked for a final decision,"We

may get killed if we stay in Mexico too long, but we'll get falsely

accused, charged, and convicted if we go back. This whole operation had

been thought out a long time ago. These bastards have contingency plans

to eliminate us. Cruz is criminal, and Melendez is a puppet." I removed

my weapon from its holster, and glared into Harkin's eyes. "So, one last

time, are we going for the gold?"

Harkin pulled a small whiskey flask out from beneath his red tote bag,

unscrewed it, and took a long swig. He grimaced and complained,"I don't

want to decide. I have no idea how these things operate, or if it's

possible to get back to safety."

His response told me he was willing to listen to reason. "Harkin, I'm

running this operation, but the future belongs to you. It's your

decision, not mine. My experience tells me our only ace has to do with a

long shot, the offer from Charles Dandinac. The old man is part of a top

secret that the government desperately wants to eliminate. It's all about

what that bastard knows, and nobody else does. He's the last piece of

some matrix, some puzzle. It could be our only chance if he stays alive.

We don't know who he is, and not a damn thing about why he's being

hunted, and killed. But it's my opinion that we need to get to him before

the Cartel, or another agent does, if we intend to survive."

He took another swig and nearly gagged,"Didn't you say, he sounded

demented."

"Yes. It's that, or he's telling some bizarre truth."

"How do I know you're not setting me up?"

"Are you drunk, already? I just told you, I'm giving you the freedom

to decide what we do. You trusted Melendez, and you trusted the Dallas

director, didn't you? Both stabbed you in the back. Your judgment sucks,

Harkin. That's clear and obvious. Don't blame anybody but yourself. We're

running out of time, so you need to make up your mind.

"I need more time."

"We don't have more time. Are you on board or not?"

"Okay, Okay! Let's do it. I'll say it, 'We can be heroes...if only for

one day!" He slumped back down into the pillows and mumbled,"My head is

spinning. I need sleep." He stared up at the ceiling where the room's

large, dusty, fan spun slowly, circulating the humid heat around the

room.

That was the end of our conversation. He took one more swig to ease

his nerves as he again stared up at that giant fan imagining, I suppose,

that it was a guillotine. I sat by the desk and began making plans for

the morning.

I had no desire to sleep, but needed to figure out every possibility.

It had to be logical. We were headed for a rendezvous with Dandinac.

Harkin couldn't face it now, but in the morning his nerves would settle,

and hopefully he would realize he made the right decision. The old man

wanted to surrender and I needed his secret. After that, all bets were

off. What was left had to be pulled out of the fire. Our destination

would be Dallas. If Dandinac found out we were as desperate as he was, he

would blackmail us for more.

I didn't understand the old man's design. It forced me to meet a

character who committed high crimes, and successfully evaded the

government for decades by allying himself with the Drug Cartel. He

understood the adage that,'...the enemy of my enemy, is my friend'. So,

we had to become partners with a man we were suppose to kill. I was left

without anything else to think about that night, and I certainly could

not worry about Mexican police. Garcia's Sinoloan Cartel had long ago

intimidated them with assassinations. They had quicker and more efficient

ways of resolving problems, and would settle accounts with us long before

anyone else did.

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

In Ixtepec there is a sleepy village with a military outpost in charge

of border security that protects Mexico from its southern neighbor,

Guatemala. It lies far to the south of Mexico, near the Pacific border.

It is small, as far as cities go, occupied mostly by natives, and

Mexicans. It is the international crossroad of the ancient cultures, born

long before any Spanish invasion, but now was the chief crossroad for

drug traffickers entering from South America.

The indigenous natives, physically smaller then the average Mexican,

are descendents of Incas and Aztecs, but now live side by side with the

Spanish benefactors who had conquered them. Their military outpost was

more token than utilitarian. There was no fear of Guatemalans invading,

at least not for the last two centuries. But now, cocaine was the

Conquistidor, and it flowed freely through Mexico directly into America.

Each morning, the bustling marketplace of Ixtepec opened for the

public even before the sun rose. The native women alongside their

children, all garbed in traditional shawls, show up to patiently hawk

their wares, whether trinkets, art, or food to all the other people,

whether Mexican or tourist. High atop of their slopes surrounding the

town was an ancient Mayan memory, a pyramid of a bygone age, a dynasty

which like all others was doomed to pass away.

That morning, in a quiet restaurant by the name of El Lobo, three

somber men sat squarely in the center of the establishment, which was

conspicuously absent of any other customers. It was meant to be that way

by the owner, as a special favor for them that day. They were conducting

a special meeting concerning an impending crisis. One gentleman dressed

traditionally in military attire, was a stern military officer by the

name of General Alvarez. He was both watched and protected by his six

armed soldiers, who stood alongside the walls of the restaurant. The

other two gentlemen at the table were the Cartel leader, Juan Carlos

Garcia, dressed as always in his clean white suit, accompanied by his

trusted lieutenant, Fideo Sanchez, who sat uncomfortably in a tight black

jacket too small, and decorated by a tie too bright for the occasion or

for his nature.

Garcia patiently listened to the General, whose domain in the region

had apparently been tampered with, and was airing his grievance. The

general had been notified of five mysterious foreigners who had entered

Mexico on the West coast and were setting up residence in his town. Not

usually something of concern for the military, except rumor had it they

were associated with the only Muslim family in the town, who owned a

supermarket in the city. These five visitors were all men, not reported

as having families, nor interested in working. In fact, they were not

settling in the community, except to contact some local students

attending the university of Ixtepec who were from their respective

Middle-Eastern countries.

After careful scrutiny of both men, General Alvarez began his

summation with an ultimatum, "Senor Juan Carlos Garcia, I have called you

here, to Ixtepec, to personally hear from you the explanation for what is

happening. I have known you for decades, and I can assure you, we have

little concern over you transporting immigrants over the northern border.

That is not my business, but rumor has it that these five young men that

you are associating with are not Mexican. They are not even South

American. Rumor has it that your appetite has become greater than your

reach, far too great for your own good, or the good of our countrymen.

Unless, you have some reasonable explanation, I will be forced to sever

all ties with you, and deal with your behavior with extreme measures,

because it boarders on treason."

The general lifted his glass of beer and finished it, before glaring

back at the two, demanding an unequivocal answer. His stare remained

planted on the eyes of Garcia, watching for any hint of a lie.

The commander of the Ixtepec military cocked his head sideways,

patiently awaiting an answer. He wanted to ferret out any hint of

deception and stop it before the affair became an international calamity.

Juan Garcia sensed the worse but smiled, as he rolled his diamond ring

nervously about his left pinky, anticipating the possible conflict.

"Well, General Alvarez, it is true we have have known each other for

years. I would not deceive you. It has always been my belief that any man

can be dealt with by reason except a liar, and I would never lie to you.

I can not afford to lose your friendship. I have always been generous to

the needs of the Mexican military and your family, haven't I? I have

nothing but the deepest respect for you and your burden for our nation,

and I hope you share that respect for me. I swear to you, I would never

deceive you. You must know that. I am a businessman. What would I gain in

the long run? In the sea I swim in, it is always dangerous to deceive a

stronger man, and especially a true friend."

Angrily, the general corrected him, "In my world it would be suicide!

Mexico comes first, Juan. I will not gamble on an international crisis

endangering the people of Mexico and its relations to any other country."

Juan Carlos quickly assured him, "Of course, I understand. Mexico is

my motherland, as well."

"Then are you willing to say these five travelers are not terrorists?"

Garcia had expected this, and was prepared. "General, we have Islamic

families here in Ixtepec. Our local supermarket is owned by the Kasim

family. They have been here over twenty years."

Alvarez became furious,"But I am speaking of those young men

associated with you. There are five to be exact, who according to my

sources are heading North to the United States. Are they, or are they

not, terrorists?"

Sanchez froze, took a deep breath and kept still, as Juan Carlos

continued.

"I don't know."

"But they are Muslims?"

"That much, I do know."

"You do!" the general shot back. "How much have they paid you?"

Garcia didn't hesitate. He pulled back from the table, turned to

Sanchez and nodded his head. Sanchez reached into his pocket and

pulled out a slip of paper expressly prepared for the meeting with

General Alvarez. He slipped it across the table to Garcia, who carefully

looked at it, then slowly handed the record of payment to the general.

The general gave one glance at the amount, signifying one half million

American dollars. He slapped it down on the table, and swore at Garcia.

"This is treason! It is unacceptable. These Arabs are not illegals,

they are terrorists! Are you a fool, or am I? This is a high crime,

Garcia. I should have you shot—shot, this minute!"

Sanchez nervously glanced back and forth across the barroom, staring

at the attendant soldiers, as well as all possible exits. But Garcia

never blinked. His eyes remained calm and steady, his expression casual.

He stared directly into the general's eyes. With a smile, he shrugged.

"General, why would I tell you the truth about this great sum of money

unless I trusted you, and knew you trusted me. We are brothers. I have no

need to go through with this venture. Not at all. If I wanted to cheat

you, I would never have told you what I am doing, or show you such a

great sum of money. But I tell you this truth, I don't know why they are

here, and why they go north, or even what they intend to do. I am a

businessman and you are a respected general of our country, one I have

trusted for years. We have differences, but I have always been honest and

loyal to you. I would never throw away our friendship for a few pesos. My

word is my bond. Your word is my command. If you find this impossible,

then it is impossible for me, as well. I will desist. I will stop

immediately. I do not care about those strangers, or their money, or

their purpose. I only wanted half of this money to be yours. So, if you

say it is not to be, then that is final. But I am sad our brotherhood is

jeopardized by loyalty to that nation which despises Mexico and our

culture, as well as our poor. These are people who feed off the drugs

that we Mexicans would never touch. They judge us as inferior? That is

laughable. They are degenerates and weaklings, and they deserve God's

judgment. The time will soon come when this happens. But I will never

object to your decision, my general. You have had my loyalty ever since

our grandfathers fought with General Emilio Zapata. They were proud men,

and I still have their photo, riding alongside him. Do you wish to see?"

Casually, Garcia removed an ancient, yellow photograph of a young and

remarkably handsome revolutionary by the name of General Emilio Zapata,

straddled on a beautiful white stallion alongside two equally young, gun-

toting bandeleros, who appeared to be laughing. The general looked down

in disbelief. He stretched his torso forward, his jaw agape, and stared

at the historical photo. He quickly looked up at Juan Carlos Garcia,

beckoning with his eyes for permission to touch it. Garcia smiled and

graciously slid it across the table for the general's quivering fingers

to touch.

Eying the photograph of the revolutionary nobility, tears welled up in

the general's eyes, as a smile slowly broke across his weather-beaten

face. He smiled as he recognized his own grandfather. General Alvarez

shook his head in wonderment, and handed it back. Garcia shrugged. "No,

you take it! I have others." Garcia shook his head with a sigh of regret,

"They were called outlaws by those gringos, but they were the real heroes

of Mexico, weren't they, Fernando?"

The general's chest swelled as his head reared back proudly. His train

of thought had crashed. He turned around at his soldiers standing

dutifully against the wall awaiting his command. Slowly he turned and

lowered his voice as he conceded.

"Times change, and America must deal with its own enemies. My duty is

to protect Mexico. I do not work for Americans. I have no intention of

stopping you, Juan. Perhaps, I have wronged you, brother. I believe you.

You may go. I will make sure you have no problems with the military if

you go to the border. The rest is your business. God will judge."

With that, the general rose from the table, almost about to salute

Garcia, but halted as he caught sight of his soldiers coming to

attention. Casually, he stepped aside, grasped Garcia's hand with both of

his and vigorously shook it, "Ten cuidado, mi hermano!" He turned around,

and motioned his six soldiers to follow him out and they immediately

followed. General Alvarez abruptly marched to the door without looking

back, then exited.

Unexpectedly, Garcia yelled out, "General, I will see you later, after

I return." Sanchez stared in amazement at his boss. Juan Carlos Garcia

slowly leaned back, reached inside his white jacket and removed one of

his Cuban cigars. His lieutenant immediately leaned over and lit it.

Garcia puffed and blew the sweet, aromatic smoke into the air as he

admired his bright, shining diamond ring, sparkling on his left pinky.

The aroma of his cigar was strong, rich, perfumed and distinctive. He

patted Sanchez on the back, and poured him a shot of Tequila, then

smiled. It was a smile undeniably satisfied with its victory.

"Drink up, my good friend. We have business to attend to and some very

busy days ahead of us." They lifted their shot glasses and Garcia offered

his benediction, "Salud, mi companero!"

### CHAPTER TWENTY

In the after hours of a busy day, Director Cruz rested in a black

leather chair in his office, listening attentively to someone on his

phone. The posh office of the Dallas Drug Enforcement Agency was a model

of decorum, located on the tenth floor in the Federal building. It

contained his personal apartment, with a living room decorated in richest

fabrics of purple and orange silk which stretched from floor to ceiling.

His personal ornaments, mostly Greek statues and artwork, expressed his

cultivated taste. He loved the symbols of his accomplishment. It made him

proud of his achievements, since it possessed all the earmarks of a royal

domain.

Director Cruz kept replying 'yes' from time to time, while examining

personal lithographs scattered across the office; paintings by Rembrandt

and Degas, all tastefully placed and lighted. Sipping on his Daiquiri, he

continued to agree with the person, who apparently was his superior, and

then finally he replied.

"I'll be honest with you, sir, it's gotten out of control. We may try

to finish it with my special agent, Melendez, and hope to succeed, but

God forbid that old bastard eludes us one more time and goes straight to

the Justice Department. He can still offer testimony, and even evidence.

It is possible, you know. He can create havoc if he gets to the right

people, and they believe him for one second. We just don't know. All of

this ultimately depends on you, and of course what support my office

gets. I am helpless at this point. I'm bankrupt."

His emphasis on the last word was as artfully dropped as one of his

lithographs by Rembrandt. The director leaned back in his chair, as he

clicked off the TV news, and remained silent. He expected his contact to

reconsider the magnitude of his need for cooperation, and all his own

loyal efforts. The voice on the phone reluctantly replied, "I see, you

need more support, right? How much do you think is needed to make all

parties amenable?"

Their conversation no longer lingered over vapid remarks. Money was

demanded, accepted, and now bargained for. The DEA Director declared,

"Well, to tell you the truth, sir, another half is needed just to contain

this botched mess that Melendez caused to stop further infections, or

leaks."

"You mean half of what has already been allocated?"

"Yes, sir. That should secure the clean-up of all the loose ends down

there with the police, I'm sure."

"It will be provided, but be forewarned Director Cruz, anymore

unexpected foul-ups will be cause for immediate dismissal of our

consignment. Do we understand each other?"

"Absolutely, sir. As I told you, it was unforeseen, all caused by a

young recruit loosing control, which was unforeseen. It will never happen

again."

The voice responded coldly, "I assure you, it won't."

The caller hung up, and Cruz smiled. It worked. Cruz had succeeded in

blackmailing his boss. His analysis was that this 'targets' were more

valuable alive than dead, at least for him. He knew the players were big,

but did not have an idea why the problem was big. He assumed the target

was a monumental source of information and destruction. Jacking up the

cost by half at precisely the right moment secured fifty thousand more

dollars that nobody else would ever see. Director Cruz felt proud of his

initiative, ingenuity, and execution. His success exhilarated him, as if

he were a boy, again, riding away with a stolen bicycle.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Mark, I say you are a great man and my loyal friend."

I shook the hand of my Nigerian comrade, Samson Ogundipe, as he

saluted me before getting into the jeep awaiting him.

"You are very generous, Samson."

"Why should I not be. I am now President of Nigeria. If you had not

helped, had not saved my life, Nigeria would have had a lesser man to

govern my people."

"Your sense of humility is admirable, as well as your humor. It speaks

volumes."

Samson Ogundipe laughed loudly, as he placed his pitch black hand on

my shoulder. "I know. Thank you very much, my friend." He had become a

friend during six months of the most vile hatred, violence and atrocities

of his nation, a revolutionary embroiled with the ugliness of war, who

had to sacrifice everything he possessed, including family, to lead his

people out of hell. Samson's character had that mysterious quality called

grace, a virtue hard to define and even harder to possess.

"Mark, you are my true brother, and I only want you to know we of

Lagos deeply respect you and are indebted to your service on behalf of my

people and our freedom."

I reflected on the Nigerian mindset, so beautiful to behold in the

right people. It shone as bright as the noonday sun.

But all of that was decades ago, when I was a younger man. Now, I

listened to the stark thunder of night and the torrential rains, and felt

myself rising from a grave, my own fleshless finger pointing at the rage

of civil wars surrounding his shadow; the violent deaths, the bloodshed

of men, women and children, the barbarism, the religious hatred springing

up in each village like dandelions along with gun-toting tribal assassins

and rapists, feasting on the carcass of a white stallion. I hollered for

Samson to run, I shouted and shook his shoulders fiercely to wake him

from the ensuing threat of Armageddon and a devastating war surrounding

his nation.

"Samson, beware! The end is coming. The end is coming! Wake up! Can't

you hear me? Can't you see it! We're all going to die! Wake up!"

Samson turned around and his face had changed. His eyes were sunken,

dripping blood, teeth enlarged as wolf's fangs. He stared back with

savage hatred for me and all my kind. He laughed as he drew a machete,

and I gasped for air, my lungs beginning to choke from the smoke of

villages burning, and children dying. He raised it high above my head and

swung it down across my neck. I cried out, but all I heard was a crack

and my head fell and tumbled onto the earth, as I quickly bled to death.

I then heard my friend, the Nigerian President, Samson Ogundipe,

laughing, and laughing, and laughing, as my life ebbed away and out into

the streets of Lagos. I had died.

I leapt from my bed awakening from my dark demonic dream, gasping for

breath. My body was riveted in a cold sweat of horror. I spun around,

searching, holding my aching temples, but saw nothing in the cold

darkness of my bedroom. I slowly realized it was all a nightmare and I

was still in the cheap, run-down, hotel on a side-street of Mexico. I

heard a wall clock, loudly ticking, and looked up. I faintly recognized

its short hand pointing at the number four. I leaned forward out from my

bed, heard Saul Harkin snoring away like a child, sleeping off his

whiskey.

The time had arrived. I had to go. As quietly as I could, I arose,

still in my clothes, opened the door, and left Agent Harkin to himself.

My final journey was beginning. I would soon meet this notorious

character. Young Saul Harkin was not needed, nor capable of the subtle

negotiation which would settle a serious account and end this manhunt.

Exiting the hotel and into the dark of night, I walked steadily down

the alley to the main avenue, hailed a taxi, and sped off for the Hotel

Rosa where I would meet a night clerk at a hotel. This mystery man, this

angel of death, would soon tell me why the sky was falling and the world

about to end.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was about five on that morning when I entered the lobby of the

Hotel Rosa. Immediately, I was greeted by a young desk clerk, who put his

sandwich down and inquired,"Senor Calvin?"

I quickly looked around, saw no other person in the hotel's lobby,

even though nothing could save me if this was a trap.

I replied," Si, mi nombre es Calvin."

"Por favor, esperate, senor!"

He called someone on phone, spoke for all of about thirty seconds,

then wrote something down on a pad, nodding as if having been given

instructions. As he hung up, he ripped the message off the pad and handed

it to me.

It showed the directions to an abandoned warehouse, three streets down

from the hotel. The message indicated I should go to the second floor,

and on that second floor this old man would be waiting for me. Again, I

feared I might be murdered, but had to chance it. I left the hotel and

began my short walk, knowing it could well be my last. There was no

sunlight yet in the city, not a glimmer in the sky. I walked quickly and

steadily across the streets through the night, each step feeling heavier

than the last, until I faced a great white door of an abandoned building

which loomed up before my eyes like a tower. Its front doors should have

been locked, but weren't. Obviously, my visitation was expected.

Upon entering I spotted an elevator, and next to it a stairwell. The

stairs gave me a more secure feeling, so I took that. I reached the

landing, and as I stood there heard the morning birds beginning to awake.

Dawn would soon arrive, and so I was greeted by its benefactors. On the

second floor landing I barely made out the large warehouse where once a

large business had thrived. The dim lightening of morning throughout the

halls was now growing, but not yet making any of the surroundings

discernible. I strolled through, and looked carefully at every object for

a sign of movement. Then I heard a voice.

"Here, Mr. Calvin! I am over here! Keep walking. I'm at the far end,

near the factory windows."

I turned and spotted a human shadow standing all alone, a hundred feet

away. I barely made him out, but his voice was exactly who I heard on the

phone. It was strong enough to tell me he was still healthy. Charles

Dandinac stood at the far edge of the empty warehouse, staring out of a

great window, apparently unconcerned about danger. I cautiously

approached, even as he turned around to face me. Remaining motionless

with hand tucked tightly inside his right pocket, he greeted me.

"Good morning, Mr. Calvin. I do assume you are Mark Calvin? You're the

only gentleman that should be roaming through this God-forsaken warehouse

at this hour of the morning."

"Yes, Dandinac, it's me." I pointed at his pocket. "I'd appreciate it

if you'd slowly remove your hand."

He looked down, having forgotten the history of violence that followed

him and remarked,"Ah, that was careless of me! I imagine you've gone

through some harrowing experiences lately, as I have. Can't blame you one

bit. Please, come closer and we can talk."

I approached, my eyes scanning each and every part of the warehouse.

He was a lean man, who offered a broad smile as he stretched both sides

of his suit jacket apart, revealing he possessed no weapons. I halted ten

feet in front of him, again searching for any possible surprise.

He then offered,"I'm told you are a respected field-agent. Perhaps

then, we can reach an agreement that benefits the both of us."

"I'm required to kill you. What exactly do you want? Make it quick."

"Simply my proper place in history."

I looked at him with curiosity, not knowing what the hell he was

talking about. His introduction was unique, at least to gamble his life

with. I decided to get down to brass tacks. "Who exactly are you that

even the American government is afraid?"

"I'm their epitaph, a gravedigger, a skeleton."

"You have a quaint way of expressing yourself, old man. Now, answer

the question before I put a bullet in your head."

"What I say is true."

"Do you want to talk plainly, or not? What exactly do you want from

me, and why do you think I can give it to you?"

"Get me back to America alive and I will give you the most important

secret in American history. A secret that will save your own life."

"My life is not in danger, it's yours. I don't buy it. You tell me,

and I'll decide. As I see it, you don't have leverage in this game."

"Very well. I assassinated your president, Mr. Calvin. If you decide

to kill me, your friends will have to kill you, as well."

"Who exactly?"

"Your handlers. The ones who use puppets to do the dangerous work,

like your partner, Melendez. They will need to get rid of any witnesses."

"As I said, I don't know where you're going with this."

Dandinac stared up at me in amazement, afraid to say I was stupid.

"Mr. Calvin, you allowed me talk to you, which they would never have

wanted, or allowed you to do. I know that much."

I had no reply. He was playing an odd game, but he was right. It was

strike one, as he continued.

"Don't worry, Mr. Calvin. I deduced this when you agreed to show up,

and risk your life. You have to be worried. Being the professional you

are, you know that much was being hidden from you when Agent Melendez

shot everybody in the tavern, except me. Your mission went haywire. Was

all that on purpose, Mr. Calvin? Or does it really matter? You are

obviously marked, as I am. So, let's not waste time. Get me to America,

so I can testify and you'll save your own life."

The impertinent ass had pushed the envelope and I was ready to blow

his head off. It was strike two. Yet, he continued,"I can't emphasize

enough, you don't have a choice. Time is short for both of us."

The old man looked at me sideways and remarked, "My guess is you were

told to act without talking to me. Is that right?" He suddenly mimicked a

hillbilly, "Now, don't ya' allow that ole' goat ta' talk ta' ya' about no

dang' conspiracy, or any of that crazy stuff, ya' hear! You just blows

his mother-fuckin' head off, Calvin! There ain't no needs' fer' ya' ta'

think. We'ze done all ya' thinkin' fer ya'. Youze' just shoots' that ole'

bugga', ya hear!"

The old man laughed, then inhaled on a cigarette he had hanging from

his mouth,"Isn't that the way it went down, Mr. Calvin? They told you not

to bring me back alive, or even talk to me. Did that really make sense to

you?"

I stared at him, amazed,"Yeah, something like that."

He looked into my eyes, a bit sadly, wary of a death sentence he

passed along to me. "Tell me, son," he asked, "Why do you think they

picked you above all other agents?"

"Experience, and I'm about to retire. This is my last assignment."

He sneered,"In more ways than one." He turned and looked out the

window again, where the sun was lifting up over the horizon. I could hear

school children playing soccer in the streets, kicking a ball across the

cobblestones, hollering and laughing with each other, not thinking about

the ugly world they would inherit. I had to accept that if the old

bastard wasn't crazy, I might be terminated exactly as he said. I had

entered a deadly matrix as an unwitting tool. I would be labeled

collateral damage, or the last viable witness to a covert operation. I

was being forewarned by my victim that he had the power to kill me, even

after he died.

Pointing his boney finger, he warned, "Mr. Calvin, they won't waste

time with you! They can't afford to." He offered it without a shred of

doubt.

"You mean as soon as I get back to the States?"

He laughed,"What an optimist! Impossible. That would create a mess. It

would cause an inquiry right after your autopsy, causing other Federal

agencies to grow suspicious." He shook his head as a matter of fact. "No,

you'll never see the States again, and they'll never miss you, either.

You'll become another American statistic, a soldier missing in action;

that is, if they record you as working for them at all. I'm sure you

brought your own assassin with you. Who knows, Calvin, you may not even

get out of this building alive."

It was a case of too much information. But just as he had said, my

time was getting expensive. If he was nuts, nothing would come of it. If

his story was true, then everything he said would follow like a set of

collapsing dominoes. I was feeling uneasy. I just wanted to blow his

brains out, and be done with it.

Right then, he began humming a ditty:

"Ole' man Fugger, the banking mother-bugger.

Plied his trade with a back-street maid, and ended his life as a two-

faced mugger!"

So, he was nuts, after all. He had to be. I asked, "You have any last

wishes, perhaps a prayer before you go?" I cocked the pistol, ready to

end his life.

He smiled as he skewed his eyes at me, "Do you know who Jakob Fugger

was?"

I sneered,"A rap-artist?"

"Not hardly! Fugger was a medieval banker from Venice who lent money

to warring factions within Germany which never seemed to end. Germany

remained in a state of constant civil war and turmoil for decades,

because of this clever Italian banker. He was the richest man who ever

lived, and all of it from usury. He loaned to both factions, which

guaranteed repayment to him from either side of the conflict, while the

German nobility murdered each other in constant civil wars, and in the

process, all of Germany went bankrupt."

It was time to blow out what was left of his brains. His words assured

me my suspicions were correct. But why did the DEA want to kill a

lunatic? None of it made sense. I figured I'd entertain the old bastard

one last minute before pulling the trigger, "Did you say, he was a loan

shark?"

"No. Jakob Fugger was the first international banker. You see, Mr.

Calvin, when you're a money-lender to both sides of a war, you profit no

matter who wins. The winner forces the loser to pay all of it. It caused

that religious fanatic, Luther, to excoriate Jakob Fugger to the German

nobility in a formal letter, declaring compounded interest as having no

true value in an economy, causing the nobility to finally unite and kick

that bastard out of Germany. Shortly afterward, Germany was unified."

The idea was irrelevant. I could find no logic in any of his babbling.

"Just how long have you been insane?"

He ignored my question and continued his story, infatuated to have an

audience. "Fugger then lent money to the Roman Vatican to build St.

Peter's Basilica, causing them to sink so far into debt they had to sell

free passes into heaven to pay off Fugger."

The old man chuckled, as I stared back baffled. I shook my revolver in

his face,"Listen, you old bastard, I'm about to blow your fucking head

off, now."

And yet, he continued, "Medieval civilization collapsed overnight.

Martin Luther led a revolution, emerging as the Father of German

Nationalism. Quite a title. Unfortunately, Jakob Fugger was Jewish, like

myself, as dear Hitler carefully noted. Six million Jews would pay the

price and be gassed to death as revenge by the Third Reich, because of

that notorious loan shark, as you say. It still goes on, Calvin. This is

the reason for most wars."

"I'm not part of that."

"Oh, don't be modest. We both worked for the government. We're both

part of it. We all play. I did. I was J. Edgar Hoover's hatchet man for

decades. Why do you spend billions of dollars to democratize the Middle-

East when your next-door neighbor, Haiti, is starving to death?

Democracy? Liberation? It's all bullshit, Mr. Calvin! The truth is, you

and your kind are nothing more than hit-men for loan sharks! If anyone

stands in their way, they destroy him. No one is immune, not even

presidents."

He glared at me, disgusted, "Hasn't it dawned on you know who I am?

Haven't you figured it out, yet?"

"I don't know the exact psychiatric term...."

He sneered at me, "Very funny! I'm the man who assassinated your

President, John F. Kennedy. I orchestrated the killing of a man who

nearly shoved the entire world into a nuclear furnace, threatening to

attack the Soviet Union with a war for selling missiles to Castro. I was

the one who ordered the bullet shot that ran through his skull. I saved

millions of people from a holocaust, one that paled to anything Hitler

had ever dreamed of."

The old man suddenly changed. He seemed twenty years younger,

energized by a memory unleashed by fantasy. I could see a transformation

and the heated fury of his delusion. But somehow it dawned on me. If it

were remotely true, his death meant the end of some secret no man would

or could ever tell; a secret he alone possessed. But he was an old man

who needed a stage, out of touch and out of time. Or was it all a

desperate lie because he knew he was as good as dead. The government

wanted this old fool eliminated without a shred of evidence, or

information left behind. I could only wonder why they needed this old

lunatic eliminated? Moths had certainly eaten away his brain with ideas

so grandiose no person would believe him.

He leered at me, blue eyes twinkling with amusement at my lapse of

attention. "Wake up, Mark. Don't fall asleep on the job! You're suppose

to shoot me—or have you forgotten?"

I spat back,"I haven't forgotten."

He shrugged,"Well, let me give you something before I go." He reached

into the pocket of his suit.

"Stop right there, or your dead," I warned.

He stopped, then pointed to his inside pocket, "Just a photo you might

want to take home to prove you shot the right man.

He reached in, ever so slowly, and removed a plastic envelope,

containing two photos. They were ancient, yellow, and frayed at the edges

by time. Two pictures of different men; one, a young marine in the field,

armed with rifle and smoking a cigarette; the other was a middle-aged

member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation with the rugged face of a

fellow in a brown suit and tie, standing alongside J. Edgar Hoover in the

Oval Office of the Whitehouse. I was shocked. It was him. It was the same

man, it was Charles Dandinac, both young and old. But it couldn't be.

There was no way it could be. It seemed impossible. Yet, the old man

proudly grinned back, as if he had put me in my place. I had seen that

kind of contempt, that sly smirk a thousand times before, when I shaved

each morning. There was no mistaking it. I knew my own kind. He was

telling the truth.

"You see," he declared,"When we killed him, I had to flee the

country and I never returned. I disappeared after a dozen men involved

with the assassination died, or disappeared. I sensed it was no

coincidence. I was told otherwise, over and over by Hoover, but I was the

very last man on top of a pyramid that was disappearing each and every

day. Some suspected Hoover, but it was actually the joint decision of the

Soviet Union and the United States, a mutual agreement to avert nuclear

war. Both their leaders had gotten out of control. They had both become

mavericks, laws onto themselves.

Lee Harvey Oswald was the first patsy, a Marine trained in Russia,

Jack Ruby died soon after, a famous journalist, next. Thereafter, CIA

operatives like air pilot Ferrie died, then a host of marginal players

never known, or ever seen by the public disappeared. They all dropped

like flies, and were never heard of again, all in just a few short

months. There was a laundry list of violent deaths following Kennedy's

assassination, people I was associated with."

"I know nothing about this," I offered.

He transformed as he began talking faster with an impending sense of

urgency,"The public examination was adjudicated by the Warren Commission,

but it was the FBI, under J. Edgar Hoover, that provided all the

evidence. I was one of them. And it was Hoover's associate, Dr. Armand

Hammer, long-time friend of the Soviet Union who engineered the entire

agreement, saving America and Russia from a confrontation."

"Armand Hammer?"

"The baking soda king, Arm and Hammer. Armand's father was a Russian

immigrant doctor who created the communist party in America, and was sent

to prison for an abortion. His son, Armand, never forgot though he became

a billionaire. Lenin used him to make agreements with Germany for a

cease fire during World War 1. He stayed there ten years!"

"You're painting yourself as some kind of hero," I interjected. "You

spent decades running from the law, helping a drug cartel. One that wants

you dead, as well. I thought heroes died for causes, not for drug

cartels...."

"I am a hero, Mr. Calvin!" he demanded in anger.

"No, Dandinac, you're no hero! You're a traitor, and still alive and

well. You're a death merchant, and a lunatic. You're story is bullshit."

Abruptly, the old man looked out the factory window, fascinated by

something below. He looked back at me, nodded his head with a grin, then

pointed outside, laughing. "If so, why is your partner standing outside."

I reached over and stuck my head out the window. I searched the

streets, back and forth, then saw what was inconceivable. He was right.

Brazenly standing on the crowded street corner, he was there. The old

bastard was right! He knew what was happening. It was my own assassin,

but it wasn't Saul Harkin. It was that mild-mannered Melendez, the quiet

one, standing with his back pinned against the wall of a street corner.

He was never suppose to be there, nor anywhere else. Yet, there he was in

broad daylight on a street corner, standing out like a sore thumb. His

posture was rigid as a pole, no longer casual. His head turning back and

forth, side to side, eying the street, the people, and the cars as they

sped by. He no longer looked like the naive young man I first

encountered. He no longer looked like anybody's recruit. His entire body

was set on edge, like steel. Tense and rigid, in a state of preparedness.

He was back to marine mode, a killing machine with laser beams for eyes,

searching for his target.

At the revelation, I gradually slumped to the warehouse floor, staring

at the grinning bastard. He studied me with the eyes of a doctor,

wondering why I was so easily fooled. I had to concede, "Okay, old man,

why did you kill your own President?"

He returned my question with one of his own, "Why did the Roman

Senator, Brutus, kill Julius Caesar? To save the Republic from a

dictatorship, that's why. Shakespeare gave Brutus a bum-rap over that

assassination. Historically, Brutus, not Marc Antony, was the hero of the

Roman Republic.

"Anyway, we knew we had to prevent America from going into a war with

the Soviets. JFK threatened to launch nuclear bombs at the Soviet Union

if Castro used any Russian missile on us on public TV without consulting

anyone. Over a billion lives would have eventually been lost. Kennedy was

forty-three, brash, and no longer accountable to any one. He ridiculed

Hoover as a pervert to his staff, and Hoover knew about it. To those of

us in security, Kennedy had become a national liability, turning the

Lincoln bedroom into his personal whorehouse. In fact, Kennedy and

Khrushchev were both considered out of control. Kennedy isolated himself

with an iron circle of friends, making himself unapproachable, while his

brother wielded enormous power as Attorney General, destroying contacts

in organized crime once protected by Hoover and the FBI. But the

Politburo couldn't remove missiles from Cuba without removing Khrushchev.

They would only agree if Kennedy was removed, as well. They wanted a

trade-off."

The old man wasn't trying to impress me, but he did. He recounted the

memory as if reliving his life. Then slowly he reached into his pocket,

which snapped me out of my lethargy. I raised my revolver and shoved it

into his face, ready to fire.

"Just a cigarette, damn it!" he hollered. "Every condemned man gets to

smoke a last cigarette, Calvin." Slowly, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes

and lit another one, as my blood pressure slowly dropped.

I informed him, "You know, smoking will kill you."

"Yeah, so I've heard," he shot back.

"You're guilty of treason, Dandinac, even if this story is true."

The old man replied, "Treason? You call it treason? It's all true! Or

do you prefer the Cinderella version about a lone gunman having a lucky

day, while working in a lucky warehouse? Use your common sense, Calvin.

Five months later, the Soviet KGB marched into the Kremlin, into

Khrushchev's office unannounced, and removed the leader of the Soviet

Union. Yet, they never shot Khrushchev, or even put him into a jail! They

sent the man to his home, as a free man. That's not how Commisars get

deposed in a communist country."

"But you murdered the President of the United States?"

He shrugged,"'It is better that one man should die, then an entire

nation perish.'"

"Caiaphas."

"Yes. Very good, Calvin, you know the Bible. That's a dangerous book

to read. I thank God, I'm an atheist."

It was undeniable. So many parts of the jig-saw puzzle were falling

into place. At the very least he believed everything he said, and I

couldn't help wondering myself. I had only one sad question

remaining,"So, why would they want to kill you, now? It's ancient

history."

"If the truth circulates, citizens become suspicious and then alert. I

would guess your government is ready to hoodwink the nation, once again.

Possibly with martial law, or perhaps to consolidate nations. But now,

you're as dangerous to them as I am...or was. They know you're a man who

can't be bought. Isn't that why you're good at your job? You don't

compromise."

The old man stared up at the ceiling as memories flashed through his

mind; memories of youth, adventure, and glory. Those dreams had long

passed. They were gone. He hadn't much left, if anything, to show that he

once had caused the earth to tremble. But he was no longer important. His

blue eyes were not as old as his body, eyes never are, and they glittered

with the certitude that history would vindicate him.

I looked as he sat upon a pile of old newspapers, still attired in his

clean white suit and red tie, planted as comfortably as if sitting on a

throne, or perhaps back in the Whitehouse. He didn't see himself as a

loser, or helpless. He was resolved to die with dignity, if need be.

But I couldn't gamble on time, or any of the other players, not even

young Harkin. I extended a hand to the him as I rose and asked, "Old man,

do you have your passport with you?"

"Passport? Why, of course." He took it out from inside his jacket and

showed me. I took it away, looked at his photo which showed the smug

smile he still used, then ripped it out. I quickly replaced it with my

own passport photo, raised my revolver to his head, and bid him farewell,

"Well, this is where we part company."

He glared back, amused. "I doubt it, but who cares?"

I looked down the street where Melendez stood, locked in an armed

position for immediate entry, then joked, "We both may have to die,

today. So, don't feel bad."

"You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Calvin...." He casually pointed

down the hallway and offered, "Go down to the basement by those stairs,

cross over until you get to the freight elevator, then turn right. The

back exit is there, and the doors are always unlocked."

"What are you saying?"

"You'll be out of his range of vision, and safe for awhile"

"And you? You're not afraid I'm going to kill you?"

He looked back with a expression of disgust, "Do you want to shoot me,

or just bore me to death?"

I lifted the revolver above his head and fired off two shots. They

were loud enough for Melendez to hear. The old man cringed, hollering,

"Ah! My fucking ears! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Take care, old man! You're on your own. If you're still alive in a

month, I'll contact the Hotel Rosa, and we'll get you back. If I escape,

he won't kill you. Just tell Melendez, you spilled the beans, that it's

no longer a secret."

He cocked his head sideways, and gave me a dismissive look, remarking,

"If that Marine is as dumb as you, I'll be alive for another twenty

years."

"I'm sure you will," I shot back, as I raced for the stairs.

I now realized how I had been blindsided. I underestimated Melendez,

who was actually tracking me all along, and would now attempt to murder

me. Though quiet and dedicated, he was also an obedient, cold-blooded

killer; much more of a dog than a man. How I fell so easily for his

charade, I'll never know. Catching my breath, I realized I really wasn't

fit to play this game any longer. The world had changed, as I had

changed. But now was not the time to wax nostalgic. My life was on the

line, and my ass was on fire.

I reached the freight exit and hit the basement in one minute, hoping

the old man wasn't lying, and found out it was my lucky day, he hadn't.

It was exactly as described. The elevator and the steel exit doorway were

at the very spot he indicated.

I wondered what plan Melendez had to escape after shooting me? Had he

a vehicle, or a partner close by? Was it Saul Harkin, after all? Would I

be able to stay alive even for an hour longer? My disillusionment with

human nature lasted for about ten seconds, before I went into overdrive.

Flying out the basement door into the alley, I stumbled over an empty

garbage-can, causing a thunderous clatter as it rolled sideways down the

street alley. Dozens of birds flew off in every direction. I turned at

the entry to the boulevard, then halted to get one last look at that

back-stabbing son of a bitch, but he was no longer standing at the

corner. He was dashing across the street towards the front door of the

warehouse. He had heard the shots, as I had wanted, and now thought he

would kill me. I was to be the last victim of Kennedy's assassination.

Looking out the ally I saw another side-street that exited into a

major avenue. I ran through, hailed a taxi, got in and slammed the door.

Just then my telephone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Saul Harkin.

I answered and cautiously listened as he began ranting, "Why did you

leave me in this shit-hole, Calvin? I was so drunk last night, I woke up

completely confused, without even a message from you."

Catching my breath, I managed to explain, "I thought you might not be

able to handle the last part of this mission."

"Why not? I'm sitting in this hotel lobby, watching Homer Simpson

cartoons, while the hotel clerk is checking in hookers and clients. What

the hell are you doing, anyway?"

"I can't explain, Harkin. Just listen up! Meet me at the airport in an

hour. We're finally ready to fly home. I hit pay-dirt today. That old man

gave me the information we need. Now, we can go back to Dallas, fully

armed."

"Fine, I'll be there."

It was conclusive. Harkin was not connected with Melendez.

An hour later, my taxi arrived at the Mexican airport which was no

longer paroled by the Federales. I tossed the tickets given us and bought

new flight tickets of my own, and waited for Harkin. Within ten minutes

he showed up, and we both ended up flying over the Rio Grande, back north

to the States. I gave Harkin enough information to satisfy his need to

know, then demanded he safely lay low for a couple of days, until I

finished debriefing the director. Harkin willingly disappeared, not

knowing I would finish an assignment that had been thrust on me by

history, all back to the scene of the greatest political crime in

American history. There was no court in heaven or hell that could ever

convict Dirctor Cruz of treason and murder because of his handlers. So,

there was no other way to drain the poison, except to do it myself.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I should have been glad to be back in the States, but wasn't. My long

career as a Federal agent had ended, and the country I returned to was no

longer there. I grabbed a hotel room along with a good meal, and sat in

that Dallas restaurant wondering how others would digest the secret when,

and if, it was ever revealed. There would be no reason for me to hang

around. I wasn't important, and it was no longer my life, not after I

finished my last mission.

After a nap, I figured a short walk to the neighboring park would lift

my spirits, so I left. Crossing the heavy traffic I found myself entering

a large park surrounded by trees, beautiful gardens, and a large pond

hosting migrant birds. Sitting there on a bench, watching curious ducks

slowly approaching, a small boy ran up to me and asked, "Hey, mister, you

live here?"

It was a simple question, but I was lost for an answer. "Well, I use

to, a long time ago."

He scraped mud off his sneakers, then looked up at me, "Use to? Where

do you live now, mister? You live in Dallas?"

"No, not anymore, son." I offered, as I observed the smiling eyes of

innocence.

"I know all fifty states. You want to hear me recite them?"

"Sure, but not right now, I have a job to finish."

"What state do you live in? My grandma says she lives in New York

City, but says she don't want to live there no more. It ain't for no

humans, she says. Are you from New York City?"

"No, but my father was a fireman there, a long, long, time ago."

"Well, what country are you from, mister?" the five year old persisted

with harmless curiosity.

I looked down at the child who innocently leaned upon my knee, eager

to make a new friend, and wanting to know everything there was to know

about people, and the world."

I tried to answer,"I don't really...I don't...."

"You don't really what, mister?"

"I don't live anywhere, anymore," I replied. My mind felt dizzy. I

wanted to get up and leave.

"My grandma says, 'I know what I know, you come and you go, that's all

that I know. If you don't wash socks, the smell's gonna' grow."

"Well, it makes sense to me," I replied as I rose, unsure as to which

way to exit the park. His interruption had made me uneasy. He deserved a

better answer. I backed up, and gave him my best smile and waved, as he

continued looking at me with curiosity. My mind went blank. I tried to

imagine where it would all end. All I felt was a deepening sadness. The

hotel seemed a mile back, but my mind suddenly shifted, enveloped by a

haze of lifetime memories.

Ominous remnants of history stared back at me, pointing and demanding

an answer, a justification for every damn breath I ever took. But I

couldn't find any. Then the child shouted from the edge of the park, "Hey

mister, who exactly are you? What's your name?"

I turned sharply and hollered, "My name is Nobody," then resolutely

walked away.

As I did, I heard a woman's voice come from behind, scolding the boy,

"Maxwell, just exactly who do you think you are you talking to?"

"I was talking to Nobody, mom."

'Don't you lie to me, young man. Now, get over here this minute! We're

going home."

"Yes, mom."

When I reached my hotel room, I removed my gym bag from beneath my

bed, loaded my revolver, inspected my passport with my new name, then

left for my destination. Outside, in the rain, I hailed a cab and gave

him the address of the Drug Enforcement Agency. We sped off to my

destination.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

At six that evening it had begun to drizzle over the great city of

Dallas. Patiently, I stood outside DEA building, occasionally glimpsing

up at a very small window on that tenth floor where Director Cruz ran his

fiefdom. His office lights were on and he was obviously still working,

high atop of that edifice. I remained motionless and sheltered in the

darkest corner of an adjoining parking lot, anticipating his light would

soon extinguish. It would all end in a few hours, but the final chapter

was a gamble. I knew there were many ways Cruz could exit the building,

front or back, and a dozen mishaps that could occur, throwing away an

encounter. There would be only one opportunity, and only one bullet

needed. Otherwise, odds were, he would escape and I would fail, and be

arrested then imprisoned for the rest of my life.

Adjoining his main office window was a smaller one still lit,

undoubtedly his secretary's. Suddenly, that smaller light went out while

the larger remained on. She was leaving, but he wasn't. There was no time

to hesitate. Waiting would be risky. I had to get inside that building,

and it had to be now. I took the chance. Proceeding to the entry, I

entered the lobby, showed my I.D. to the security guard at the desk, then

walked to the elevators and waited. My heart soon began pounding. I had

no knowledge of what I would encounter. It was blind luck from this point

on. I watched the elevator slowly descend and finally land. Out came a

lone, middle-aged secretary, ferreting through her pocketbook. When she

looked up and saw me, she grew alarmed.

"Oh, my! You gave me such a fright!"

I smiled, "Sorry about that, ma'am. Nothing to be concerned about.

Have a nice evening."

"Yes, of course. You too."

I boarded and pressed the elevator button, then watched moment by

moment as each number of the elevator shaft flashed on and off, rising

higher as it arrived at my destination. When it stopped at the tenth

floor both doors slid open into a dark and empty hallway. Apparently, all

the other workers had left that evening. There would be no witnesses, no

interference, and no turning back. As I walked down the hall, I seem to

step into a separate reality, preparing for the worse and adjusting for

any contingency. When I spotted light from an office, down the hallway, I

knew I had arrived at my destination. It could only be the DEA office. As

I approached, I recognized the typical black globes posted along the

corners of the ceilings. There was no way I could avoid the concealed

cameras, but nothing could stop me before I stopped Cruz.

When I reached his door, I tried the handle but found it secured. Cruz

heard and yelled, "Dorothy, what did you forget, this time?" He pushed

the buzzer, releasing the door lock. He didn't find it necessary to check

his screen, so I opened the door and slipped in.

Cruz called out again,"Come in here, Dorothy." I slowly withdrew my

Glock, released the safety and carefully entered, but as I did I heard

the doorknob behind me.

It had to be his secretary. I became furious. This was completely

unexpected. It would force me to do what I had never dreamt of or would

ever have done. I cursed as I realized how stupid I was; how stupid she

was. It should never have happened. I pulled myself up behind a blue

draping curtain to hide, preparing for the tragedy.

"Didn't I just buzz you in, Dorothy?" Cruz called out. "What are you

doing out there?" The director buzzed the door one more time, allowing it

to open and allowing his secretary to walk in. But the unimaginable

occurred. I could see very little in the dark, but what I could see was

unbelievable. It was not his secretary or even a woman, but a man. It was

him. There he was. I recognized him immediately. Neither time nor chance

would've predicted Melendez appearing, and standing there at the entry

like a zombie. Once more, Cruz hollered, "Dorothy, please come here this

minute, and stop playing with my door?"

Melendez walked through, stone-faced and silent. He no longer looked

so young, or anything like the man I once knew. He was emotionally

drained, trudging in as if weighted down by a hundred pound chain, driven

on by an invisible whip, not by his own power. His disheveled appearance

was totally unlike him. He appeared disoriented. In fact, he looked lost.

Director Cruz recognized his unexpected partner the second he stepped

into the light of his office. But his surprise turned to panic, and panic

turned into terror. Cruz knew what it was about. Still sitting behind his

desk, and still grinning, he greeted Melendez.

"Welcome, Phil! How the hell are you? What a splendid surprise, I

thought you were still on assignment in Mexico. What brings you here,

tonight? You should have called me."

From my vantage point I could see into the office and spotted Melendez

hovering over the desk of Cruz. Immediately, he reached over, picked up

the desk phone and ripped it violently off the desk.

"Whoa!" Cruz yelled out in alarm. He understood fully what Melendez

was there to do. He tried to play for time, to distract him, at least

long enough until he could find the gun hidden inside his desk drawer. He

slowly dropped his hands below the desk to find it.

"Keep your hands on the desk, director!"

Quickly raising both hands, Cruz forced a laugh,"Sure, no problem. You

seem a bit distressed, Phil. What can I do to help? Do you need a

doctor?"

"A doctor? No, I don't need a doctor. I think I need a loaded gun."

He threw the phone in the trash can and stood over his boss' desk,

"Come to think of it, I don't need a loaded gun. I have one." Melendez

withdrew a revolver from inside his jacket and pointed it pointblank at

the head of Cruz, then pulled the chamber back to fire.

"See this, director? I'm going to use this weapon on you. I'm going to

blow your brains out! You don't mind, do you?"

Cruz once again forced a laugh,"That's very funny, Phil. Let's not get

rash. Put that thing down. You're obviously not well. In fact, I'd say

you're stressed out. Trust me, Agent Melendez, you're not thinking

clearly, you're a bit...."

Before he could get the next word out of his mouth, Melendez beat him

to it, "Disoriented? Confused? Those are labels used whenever a criminal

gets caught plotting, scheming, or robbing, and they're finally about

about to be punished. You may call it psychotic, if you want. That's a

catch-all phrase for scum like you. Director Cruz...." Melendez leaned

over the desk within four inches of Cruz, pointing the barrel of his

pistol into his eyes, "...you actually had me murder two innocent people,

Mexican police officers, who were helping us and our country. You did it

to halt the capture of an enemy combatant, that old man we were ordered

to eliminate. You did that to halt our mission...why? Perhaps, you wanted

to blackmail someone for money. Is that the reason?"

From behind the curtain in the secretary's office I could see it was

going to end with murder very shortly.

Melendez seemed to rock slowly back and forth, as his head shook in

disgust. He hated the viper he had uncovered. "You let decent people,

police, be murdered for money. You're the worst kind of human that

exists. You realize you have to die, don't you?"

"Wait a second, Phil, that story is not true," he implored. "You

really need to sit down. I'll get you some water. Just calm down, before

doing something you'll regret. We can talk this out. I can call for an

ambulance. You can get help from a hospital, right now. Allow me to help

you. You're not well."

"Not well?" Melendez shouted, as he pounded the desk with his fist. "I

found our target, the Cartel's front man, Mr. Charles Dandinac!'

"Did you? Well, that's great."

"I got to him after Calvin, who left him alive, then disappeared

before I could kill him."

"Oh, no! You didn't get Calvin? But thank God, the old man is dead.

You did your duty. I'll make sure you receive a citation, a medal...maybe

the Congressional Medal of Honor."

"For what? I spoke to that old man before he died."

"Oh? That's not good, Phil. You shouldn't have done that. He's a

trickster."

"Really? He's got quite a story. He said you're a traitor and a

criminal. You belong in a grave and I finally came to my senses. I've

come here tonight to help you get there."

Melendez started laughing.

Cruz knew Melendez was completely out of his control, but he kept on

pleading.

"Now, Phil, you don't know what you're saying. You're ill. You're

sick."

"Well, I've never felt better in my life."

Perspiration broke out in streaks over the forehead of Director Cruz.

The blue silk suit, the starched orange shirt, the diamond cuff links,

the polished shoes; all of it seemed to lose their glitter, as the abject

horror of death became real. He cried out, "Please, listen to me,

Melendez. I have money. I have lots of money for both of us. I can give

you all the money you'll ever need for the rest of your life. Look at

this...." He opened wide the top draw and removed thousands of dollars

and laid it across his desk. He looked up at Melendez, nervously

laughing.

"Look at all that, Phil...a hundred thousand dollars! A hundred

thousand in cold cash. It's yours, it's all yours. And there's

more...much more. Take it! Take it, for God's sake! I can get you more.

Just put that gun away. Don't shoot! For God's sake, don't shoot! You

can't shoot me, I don't want to die...."

Melendez shot him.

Those were the last words uttered by the Director of the Drug

Enforcement Agency in Dallas, Texas. Three bullets ripped into his chest

and one bullet into his eye socket. His body lifted, and swirled around,

propelled directly backwards and through the bay window, smashing through

the glass, and catapulting his body into the dark of night. His dead body

plummeted ten flights down to the hard concrete slab that awaited him.

Cruz didn't scream or yell as he hit the concrete slab of the parking

lot. The only sound was a dull thud, as his rotund body was crushed by

the gravity.

Melendez stood wearily over the desk, arms draped to his sides as he

panted for breath. He had forced himself with the last ounce of his

energy to reach his target and eliminate it, succeeding against a

whirlwind of ghosts haunting his soul and mind. He wiped his forehead of

sweat, took a deep breath, and then lifted his weapon up against his head

with his left arm. I lunged out from behind the curtain, hollering,

"Melendez, stop! Don't do it!"

He turned, recognized me, and gave me one long last look. "I betrayed

my country!" He then raised his arm and saluted me, then pulled the

trigger, immediately collapsing onto the rug.

It was over.

I felt I had entered a nightmare, but not my own. Visions of skeletons

paraded my mind, bending and pointing at me. I could not sense logic, or

direction or meaning after it all came to an end. Agent Melendez lay dead

on a white rug, with his blue suit covered by red blood. The colors

reflected the flag he had honored. He was now a fallen marine, a hero.

Nothing else could be explained.

I had seen enough, and decided it was time to go away. Director Cruz

was dead, and my young partner was killed by his own hand, and with it my

loyalty. I walked out of the office and wandered down the long, dark

hallway towards a dimly lit elevator shaft; entered it and watched it

fall ten stories. Upon exiting, I greeted the elderly security guard

playing solitaire at his desk. I halted. He looked up and greeted me,

"Good evening, sir."

"Yes, I guess it is." I looked down at his card game, and pointed at

the seven of hearts, "That goes below your eight of spades."

"Oh, yeah! Thanks."

"No problem."

I exited the building and discovered an empty taxi waiting for its

next customer. An immigrant driver quickly turned around to face me,

"Where to, sir?"

"Would you take me to the airport?"

"Which one, sir?"

"Does it matter?"

He lowered his glasses and smiled broadly, as if tossed back to his

turbulent homeland, where winds of change and unpredictability ruled

life.

"Yes, I understand, sir."

He flipped up his red meter and sped down the streets onto the

highway. It would be twenty minutes before we arrived at Dallas Airport.

I gazed at the highway lamps lighting up the night, and watched sixteen

wheelers speeding by, leaving nothing behind besides fumes and noise. I

listened to the echoes of an ancient voice repeating a famed admonition,

"Ask not what your country can do for you...."

Approaching the winding entrance to my final destination, I saw one of

those gigantic machines softly lifting off the ground and into the air.

It rose gradually into the silent night with the majestic wings of a

bird, defying gravity, as it glittered in the dark to a voyage to a far

off city. Soon, I too, would board such a machine and fly to parts

unknown by others except myself. No one would ever know who I was, or

where I was or came from, or even where I would go. I would fly for days

across sea, land, and dusty roads into foreign countries, and carefully

chart my course, eternally lost to a world I no longer belonged to, or

wanted to. Mark Calvin had died in Dallas, but would rise again as

Charles Dandinac, the mysterious man who stopped World War III.

### EPILOGUE

Dressed drably in blue suits and black ties, posing as Mexican

tourists, all five stood before the boarder-crossing guard at the exit

from Juarez, ready to pass into El Paso. Not one hint of a smile was on

any face. Slowly, they approached the U.S. Border entry, offering their

Mexican passports to the young agent, who politely asked how long they

would stay in English. He also asked them what they carried in the large

package with them. The somber leader of the group simply replied, "Yes."

The Boarder Agent then tried Spanish, but found the group leader unable

to answer his question. He told them to wait, turned to his superior who

shrugged and told him to phone the director. So, the young agent called

the emergency line and spoke to the director, Mr. Edgewood Hallway, a ten

year veteran of his department.

"Mr. Hallway?"

"Yes, who is this?" a gruff voice replied.

"This is officer Bergin, Boarder Agent at El Paso, sir. I have a

serious concern about five men standing here in front of me, attempting

entry. They have Mexican passports, but don't speak a word of Spanish, or

even English. It doesn't make sense, sir. I think we should hold them."

Bergin waited a considerable length of time before his superior

responded. He assumed his boss was dealing with other business, but in

truth, Edgewood Hallway was digesting the long awaited call, and the

circumstance he had been warned about, then carefully measured his

response.

"Bergin, let them enter. We have no need to be worried about people

like that."

"Sir, if you don't mind me saying, I'm very suspicious. These fellows

have a large package, which they wish to carry in without formal

inspection."

"It's probably their clean underwear, Bergin. Now, let them in, but

keep me posted."

Officer Carl Bergin doubted his boss could hear him correctly. "But

Mr. Hallway, I really think we should hold them for questioning? Where

the heck could they be from? They can't even be South American. That

doesn't make sense, sir!"

"Don't tell me what make sense, Bergin! That doesn't concern you. That

happens to be government business, my business. Just do as I say. I'm in

charge and I'm very busy!"

He hung up.

Young Carl Bergin, a native of Topeka, Kansas, was stunned and unable

to figure why the administrator was so curt and abusive. The young man

decided to swallow his pride. He looked back at the stern, threatening

eyes of the foreigner, whose contempt was dripping. He politely returned

their passports and allowed all of them to push through. He watched with

curiosity as they marched over the small bridge that covered the train

tracks below, which led into the bustling city of El Paso, Texas. Carl

Bergin shook his head a bit bewildered and a bit disappointed, but

certainly a bit wiser. He realized he was over-reacting, and probably

taking his new job too seriously. He would make sure he never made that

mistake with his superior, again.

THE END
