

T HE NAFTA

BLUEPRINT

RODRIGO RIBERA D'EBRE

The NAFTA BLUEPRINT.

Rodrigo Ribera D'Ebre

Copyright © Rodrigo Ribera D'Ebre, 2011

Published by Steampresspublishing.com

All Rights Reserved

ISBN-978-0-9848511-0-2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Publisher's Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, or business establishments is entirely coincidental.

About the Author

Rodrigo Ribera D'Ebre is an American writer of short stories, novels, and essays. He was born in Los Angeles in 1976 to a working class family. He spent his adolescence involved in street crime, experiences which gave him an understanding of the complex urban environment, leading to his excommunication and forced exile in Mexico. Thereafter, he graduated from California State University, Los Angeles with a degree in Political Science. Since then, he has devoted himself to literature. He lived in Latin America for four years and has traveled throughout the United States, Latin America, and Europe. His influences include: Turgenev, Roth, Kafka, Conrad, London, Chekov, Gogol, Tolstoy, Camus, Machiavelli, Dostoyevsky, Hobbes, Rousseau, Robert Pastor, Jorge Castañeda, and Mike Davis. He writes about geopolitics, crime, and paranoia. The NAFTA Blueprint is his first published novel.
1.

The phone rang with persistence, escorted by violence without any sign of refraining. The ring tone wavered in and out of my dreams making it unclear as to where it had originated. I squinted in the darkness at my surroundings seeking some orientation to guide me like a compass. I couldn't remember where I was.

Was I dreaming? Was the ring coming from next door or was it from the film I was watching? My eyes flickered in reluctance while my body was determined to resist until I made the connection, it was my damn telephone. I slumbered out of bed, I staggered over to my work desk which was draped in outdated newspapers, torn magazines, used books, loose notebooks, and writing tools, covered in unkempt filth, but it's how I got my work done. Life hadn't been so favorable in the last two years and my personal concerns had taken a toll on my routine including my cleaning habits. I was in imminent danger of becoming slothful, but I no longer cared.

"At this ungodly hour! Ugh...hello?"

"Korsakov! What are you doing...sleeping? Early bird gets the worm, rise and shine buddy boy. Come down to the office―ASAP, I have a story for you. See you in twenty, and don't let me down."

What did he mean about not letting him down, when did I ever let him down? I started thinking about other stories, about previous work I had submitted, about stories I was pursuing. Was there something wrong with my work or was I overanalyzing an ambiguous comment? I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I didn't have time for a shower or a shave, it's not like I pondered it much anyway. I stumbled into some clothes thrown about on the floor, so I grabbed anything I could find that was at least comfortable and presentable. A quick brush of the teeth, a few strokes of deodorant, and the old brown leather messenger bag I had bought when following a lead as an amateur journalist in San Cristobal de Las Casas years ago. I rushed out through the front door adjusting my black, thick-framed reading glasses rushing down four flights of stairs with my cornhusk hair galloping in stride. I hadn't cut it for about a year now. I was making some sort of statement but only I seemed to realize it―freedom.

My roughened skin itched from coarse soap scrubbed with cheapened razor blades. I had pondered not shaving my facial hair either, but I wasn't ready for that, the hair would suffice with a week-long beard leaving me in aesthetic dire straits. I rushed into my car, I drove in haste towards the office, hoping to elude any type of law enforcement authority and fly under the radar.

I arrived about thirty minutes later with fumbling embarrassment. "Korsakov, nice of you to drop by, glad you could finally join us," said my overweight, unsympathetic boss while he rolled his eyes before turning his back. Meanwhile, he took a sip of coffee and took a bite into a pastry mocking my late arrival with breakfast.

My boss was somewhat of a prick, quite the horror show to glance in his direction. He was tall and overweight, with his belly flapping out of his tucked-in shirt, two dragon tattoos across his forearms and he wore thin-framed reading glasses and slick-backed pomade hair. He looked like the Terminator when he wore dark sunglasses pulling into the parking structure on his motorcycle. I always wondered how he maintained his balance. I thought for sure his number would get pulled any day. He had a tendency of being aggressive with employees, thus it made him intimidating, even more so when he waltzed around the office spying on staff members making sure they were executing their work duties effectively. He was sloppy, around the newsroom he was known as, 'Sloppy Joe Franklin.'

"Oh...yeah...I'm sorry, I had car trouble, you know, it's always―"

"Yeah, I don't really care. Look―there's some sort of protest, some conservative right-wing nut jobs out there in Edinburg're giving a speech about the border patrol and illegal immigrants from the south flooding our borders from Mexico. I know it's kind of far, but I think this could be a good lead. There's going to be a lot of protestors clashing with them as well. I know you like that sort of sentimental, bleeding-heart, liberal nonsense...I want you to take some photos and maybe interview some people from both sides of the fence, so as to make it more objective. You think you could handle that Korsakov?"

"Yes, of course, definitely, I'll get on it...right away!"

"Good, shut the door behind you then, what's your problem. Oh, and Korsakov..."

I turned back before walking out of the door. "Yeah?"

"Don't let me down, son. This is a good opportunity for you. You haven't landed a decent story since you covered the international section when you worked for the L.A. Times, you know, that Gold Shirts piece in Mexico. It's why I hired you, boy. Maybe this could give you a good lead, huh?"

I never knew that piece would haunt me in an infinite capacity. Newspaper critics were always trying to compare my recent work to a story I had written a few years back, I could never walk out of its shadow...it was becoming clearer. The story was a finalist for an Investigative Reporting and Editors Award, submitted by peers, but it was defeated by a story in the New York Times. It was as close as I'd ever come to receiving the medal, it was the biggest story I had ever chased, bringing me some fame but I had become stagnant―that was hard to swallow. Maybe it was my beloved Chloe's fault. I always blamed her for my troubles.

Franklin made it seem as if the work I had contributed to The Houston Chronicle was mediocre, and now I needed to find a great story to pursue in order to justify my employment. Maybe I was being canned, I don't know. I once considered starting my own journal, something to avoid all this nonsensical bureaucracy. Maybe it would be about politics, art, geography, and culture. I would call it Atmosphere, but that would require robust effort that I couldn't muster. I thought about getting into politics or maybe going to law school, maybe going into consulting. I didn't have a contingency plan. I felt inadequate as a reporter though, a slight sting of inferiority crept through me. Perhaps this could be that story that could alleviate me from a string of stagnation, put me back on the map.

* * *

About four hours later I arrived―exhausted, at the University Dr exit off the 281 interstate, where staunch anti-immigrant supporters were draped in red, white, and blue, walking along the sidewalks waving Dixie, Texan, and American flags, while motorists inside oversized vehicles with conservative propaganda bumper-stickers honked their horns in furious repetition shouting out racist nationalist slogans while belting around the city. It looked like rivers and leagues of patriots swarming the campus from highways, alleys, streets...coming from all areas of the cardinal points―from north, south, east, and west, united for a common cause―to defend the United States' border.

They were there in significant numbers to offer support and protection for Shawn Hunter and the Minutemen Project, the civilian neighborhood watch program to monitor the illegal flow of immigrants across the United States-Mexico border. He was scheduled to make an appearance at the University of Texas-Pan American after anonymous university students petitioned administrative campus officials to allow the controversial figure to exercise his right to free speech.

I clutched my media badge and wrapped it around my neck. I feared I would be mistaken for a liberal protestor amongst the ocean of Minutemen supporters. The determined hatred in their gleaming eyes observed in slow motion terrified my very existence, you couldn't trust those neo-fascists. I had to rush out of there. A rapid flash of the white motorist being dragged out of his truck during the '92 Riots in Los Angeles sent shivering messages throughout my body. After all, I drove a hybrid with a National Geographic sticker on the bumper and I hadn't shaved for about a week, so in theory, perhaps I represented a left-wing liberal.

I turned left down the first street which offered me sanctuary as an opportunity to side-track, and then I parked my car as a preference to walk towards the burning masses instead of being stuck in a traffic jam. I grabbed my Colt .45's baseball cap, I took off my reading glasses and exchanged them for my aviator sunglasses, I only needed them to drive anyway. I reached for my camera in the glove compartment, I double-checked my bag for reporters' tools, and then I drifted amongst crowd-goers ebbing into conflict. The damn paper didn't have the budget for a cameraman so I had to take numerous photos myself.

I walked over towards the overwhelming group of multi-ethnic social activists, anarchists in ski masks, university students, community leaders, and local residents holding up banners and signs chanting, "Hey Shawn Hunter, you're a foolish clown, racist Minutemen get out of our town!"

They outnumbered the Minutemen supporters at about a 10:1 ratio, although it didn't seem like it from the University Dr exit, but the campus itself was hoarded with law enforcement officers providing a barricade, preventing non-students from entering the auditorium without proper identification. Although there was a mob of social activists and a police barricade across from each other, I felt more comfortable wandering amongst this liberal crowd rather than being subjected to the intimidation on the road.

"This is a university facility, only university students are allowed to enter!" said a law enforcer. Police officers and two helicopters circled the auditorium continuously in militant form making sure the Minutemen supporters were protected outside of the auditorium, which began showing the discomfort on the faces of those who couldn't enter, including mine. Across from the police barricade was a black block group that resembled a storm trooper platoon that antagonized the Minutemen supporters. I was able to glance into the auditorium, which was desolate with pockets of students, perhaps only the anonymous ones who had petitioned school officials in the first place. They were waiting inside for a profound speech, meanwhile everyone outside rallied in opposition, silencing the Minutemen supporters' nationalist shrieks.

I walked over to a young social activist who was carrying both the Mexican and American flags wearing a red handkerchief around his neck, "Hi, I'm Michael Korsakov with the Houston Chronicle, hey just a question..." I had to shout over the chants and police announcements. I walked up close to him and pulled him to the side, "If you could say one thing to Shawn Hunter and the Minutemen Project...well to all his supporters in general, what would it be?"

"Well, I would simply let them know, like we've said numerous times. You're anti-racist project's not welcome in Edinburg. This is our community...our town, where people of different ethnicities co-exist peacefully. We'll always meet your Minutemen Project with resistance and hostility, in any part of the Southwestern United States so long as people are willing to promote justice and democracy. The United States is our territory as well, we are Americans as well...we're indigenous to the continent, everyone deserves the golden opportunity of progress, it's what this country was founded on. Like all you other European immigrants who came here legally or illegally...this was our land, Aztlan, we're the cosmic race, we're just coming back home...to our roots, you know what I'm saying! We're taking it back, the new conquista! Wassup aye―it's time for a Revolution!"

A note was made of radical Chicanismo. It reminded me of back home at the UCLA campus. I still wasn't quite sure what this particular demographic wanted. To take back Southwestern territory by reclaiming it through illegal land grants, or to integrate themselves in the great melting pot of American culture, a social paradox of mammoth complexities. The verbiage always started off democratic with these guys, but it always ended up in radical rhetoric. Nah, that's too cliché, I didn't want to use that material...I needed something more insightful...of more significance. I walked over to what I speculated to be a stereo-typical American without an ethnic background, a racial-profiling technique, a true Yankee that could possibly be more intelligible and summoned her for an interview.

"So hey, yeah, hi...can I speak with you for a minute? Michael Korsakov, Houston Chronicle, nice to meet you."

She stuck out her sweaty hand, "Likewise, Courtney Flanagan...oh, sure, you're with the news, right? Do you want to interview me or something?"

"Well perhaps, first of all...where're you from? Are you a Texas native?"

"No, actually, I'm from New Hampshire, I'm a student here, I came down here to study North American relations, between the United States and Mexico," said the bulky, freckled, blue-eyed blonde. I responded with a gesture of approval, signaling her to continue.

"Well, I'm just here supporting all immigrants of the world who've been displaced by neo-liberal capitalism and U.S. imperialism. You know, it's not fair when a foreign government like the U.S. has destabilized you're living situation and you're forced to flee to some other land to try to survive and make a living for your family. These people just want to live, work, and survive. I mean, c'mon...give them a damn break. Thousands upon thousands of European immigrants from all over like Italy, Russia, Scotland, the Scandinavian countries, Germany, Poland, Ireland, and others came to this land and were treated disrespectfully as well...everyone's just trying to make a living. My great grandparents came from Ireland and suffered discrimination, but we've survived and progressed as well. I mean, immigrants helped build this great land of opportunity, they helped build the infrastructure, railroads, skyscrapers and communities all across America. They've always taken the jobs that Americans haven't wanted. I say, let them stay. Let them stay! Let them stay!"

A surrounding crowd joined in following her chant. Soon, it spread amongst them engendering a cataclysm of slogans, a banging of the drums, and a barbaric intensity amongst the crowd. The speech was scheduled to begin so I tried elbowing my way through the crowd seeking entrance into the auditorium softly uttering, "Excuse me, Houston Chronicle. Coming through, media, Houston Chronicle, please, coming through."

When I reached the blockade at the front entrance of the auditorium, I was shoved to the side with the blatant disrespect for reporters that law enforcement officers sometimes harbored. It was fair though, we were the public's watchdog, often at odds against the police and reporting against them.

They reiterated, "This is a student-only event, the press is not allowed!"

It appeared as though they were trying to avoid conservative and liberal reporters alike from providing subjective viewpoints. It was supposed to be an educational event sought by students and facilitated by faculty. The news networks had been shut out, there were no alternatives.

Shortly thereafter, a large crowd of students dressed in indigenous Mexican-themed clothing stormed into the auditorium in chronological order. They sat on the floor handcuffed to each other in sheer silence. I ran around the auditorium towards one of the back exits, there must have been another way in. The door was shut with lock and chain but I poked in through the crevice to only witness those same students placing tape and railroad handkerchiefs over their mouths. I tried taking some photographs.

The guest speaker became flummoxed at the podium amidst the animosity, and he was irritated in uncomfortable despair, which caused him to fumble for words and appear unprofessional. Not long after, those same antagonizing students stood up in synchronization and staged a walk-out as everyone else inside the auditorium assessed their behavior with puzzled looks.

The embarrassed guest speaker remained stoic, but he had enough fortitude to say, "This is a mocking violation of my civil liberties! The people have a right to listen to the truth about our failing democratic system!"

One of the students removed the handkerchief from his mouth and said, "This is peaceful civil disobedience, the right to free speech as well. The great American, Henry David Thoreau...son of immigrants too, as American as immigration!"

Shawn Hunter excused himself and dashed out through a side exit filled with annoyance. He headed towards the direction of the door where I had been observing. I moved back from the door to prevent any friction.

A handful of police officers escorted him and unlocked the door, and as they walked out hovering over him, I said, "Hey Shawn, Shawn, hey...I'm Michael Korsakov with the Houston Chronicle. Can I get an interview? What happened in there? Were you shut out? What are some of the long-term repercussions of our liberal border patrol policies?" I figured that last question would provoke some empathy, that it would stir a vile wind in his thought process.

Shawn handed me his business card, "Call me in about an hour."

It worked.

* * *

About an hour later we were on our phones exchanging information and scheduling a lunch appointment at one of Shawn Hunter's cherished restaurants in San Antonio, a conservative mom-n-pop family business which had been there for years. I would get an exclusive.

"You know what's missing Mike, in this modern, liberal, globalized society?" I stared at him with blankness and couldn't help nodding. I was dumbfounded by his bullet proof vest.

"Values, Mike, we're losing our conservative, American, family values. This needs to be addressed by all those liberal politicians in Washington who have ignored...time and time again...our hundreds of requests to address stricter border control policies. Our democratic process is being robbed from right under our very noses. What do you think happened on 9/11, huh? All of those damn terrorists had entered this country illegally. And now hundreds of patriots are dead because of it. We're in a war, a domestic war to take back our land. They call us racist, downright nonsense!"

He pounded a fist into the table and continued speaking. "The Minutemen Project is a multi-cultural, multi-racial organization with mixed leadership of African Americans and Mexican-Americans as well. We don't discriminate. A lot of American patriots want to close down our borders, and you know, it doesn't matter what our backgrounds are. We're united by one common goal, to take back our once great nation."

"Well, many people are out there saying that the Minutemen Project focuses specifically on illegal immigration flowing from Mexico, mostly from Spanish-speaking countries, not necessarily emphasizing or addressing illegal immigration from Asia or Africa, and well Europe I guess," with reluctance I interrupted.

"The focus is on the border in general, regardless of whatever groups are coming in. That's what I just said about the whole 9/11 thing. We're not racist against Mexicans. Hell, my daughter's married to a Mexican-American. My granddaughter's Mexican-American, they're part of my family...they are my family. I'm not racist against Mexicans. And guess what, they're all part of the Minutemen Project as well. It's not about race or color, it's about enforcing the law. It's this new slave labor, these damn corporations trying to seduce and hire undocumented workers and providing them with low wages...keeping them below the poverty line. Corporations have no conscience. They should be fined for hiring illegal immigrants while Americans are starving. They should try to work hard in their own countries. Our country is in an economic crisis...we're in a recession. We need all the jobs we can for our domestic skilled citizens. Illegal immigration is a Trojan horse invasion, ruining our economy and preventing hard-working Americans from buying homes and developing new communities. Just go down to Fair Oaks in the outskirts of Fayetteville here in Texas where they're going to build part of the supercorridor, you'll see what I'm talkin' about. All those displaced Americans being forced and priced out of their communities and can't contest their property rights...it makes me sick to my stomach. I say―address our border concerns, now!"

"You know Shawn, I can't help but comment on your bulletproof vest. It comes off extremely intimidating, many people say that you're an intimidating, militant nationalist who would love nothing more than to see the deportation of all illegal immigrants. Doesn't that image portray you as a promoter of violence, not necessarily of democratic values?"

"You need to understand something son, public speaking in general, specifically about hot topics like border patrol and illegal immigration are sure to create hostility amongst a multitude of folks. Here in Texas, in conservative Texas where I'm part of the founding members of the Texas chapter of the Minutemen Project...I've received all types of crazy death threats. My car has been vandalized numerous times, but it's not going to stop me from speaking up for the people against unlawful behavior. The bulletproof vest is for my safety, to protect myself from the opposition. It's a preventative defense measure. I'm a military man, but I'm against the war in the Middle East, but that's another topic."

Just then, a few rednecks walked passed our table and greeted old Shawn Hunter, they thanked him for the work he was doing by pledging their support for the Minutemen Project.

"Look―Houston Chronicle, you want to know what the real problem is...just follow the NAFTA blueprint, that's what I'm talking about. It's not this battle between Republicans and Democrats, they're bipartisan to this whole mess. They're the double-headed dragon. They're the leviathan, it's a continental union concern, the regional bloc of NAFTA. They want to landlock this great North American continent. Go ask the Canadians what they think about losing their sovereignty. Our sovereignty is being threatened by the NAFTA agreement...follow the blueprint, I'm telling you. Those damn Zapatistas knew what was going on back in 1994 in Chiapas, those Indians knew all about it then. They didn't want to lose their sovereignty either. Look, it's been nice chatting with you son...but I got some illegal border hoppers to hunt."

2.

I sat in my vehicle pondering what had just happened. Nothing made sense. I had expected some sort of bigoted racist to ramble on banalities, but instead he opened a Pandora's Box of uncertainties. I got on the road headed towards Fayetteville, Texas on the 10 highway, I texted my boss to inform him I was still in the field following leads on the story. Follow the NAFTA blueprint, huh? What was that all about? The North American Free Trade Agreement, what did that have to do with small communities in the outskirts of Fayetteville and illegal immigration, and what did he mean by a supercorridor?

Whatever Shawn Hunter inspired in me to investigate, chances were I would find answers in Fayetteville, so I drove on the interstate hoping to extend my understanding of illegal immigration concerns. Were there a lot of illegal immigrants taking over the community of Fair Oaks in Fayetteville or something like that? The question wheeled through my labyrinth of analysis with no direct continuity. There were no connections or conclusions.

While I sat in bottlenecked traffic on the interstate hoping for a quick arrival, I dialed up Dr. Pellicer on my cell phone. He was a physician from back home in Los Angeles and a PhD scholar working on a theology dissertation at USC. The type of person you could rely on for complicated questions or analysis, the one you would call if you were a contestant on 'Who wants to be a Millionaire.'

When Dr. Pellicer answered the phone, I said, "Hey, Pellicer! It's me...Michael, are you busy?" I hadn't spoken to him for a while, I was a bit embarrassed to call because it seemed like I only called him when I had a medical concern. That's the problem about being a physician, friends rely on you for medical advice at all hours of the day. He was screwed.

"Michael Ray Korsakov," he said it slowly with pauses, "...and to what do I owe this pleasant surprise? Let me guess, you have a health question about some story you're pursuing...you only call when you have questions because you have a deadline to meet or something, right? Nah, I'm just joking, no worries? Are you still with the Houston Chronicle? Are you still living in Texas, brother?"

"Yeah, all of the above, Pellicer...look I'm kind of in a hurry, I'm down here in the outskirts of Texas. Would you happen to know anything about supercorridors throughout this region, or anywhere else in the country for that matter?"

"Supercorridors, huh? Well, the term itself is related to highway infrastructure here in the United States. It's some sort of proposal to integrate pipelines, communications, and I think rail service or something like that. I'm not sure. I think the Texas Governor approved a bill for the department of transportation to build a few supercorridors throughout the state of Texas. I read about it a few months ago. What's it called, let me think for a second, alright. Oh yeah, now I remember...umm...TPC, TTC, yeah, it's called the Trans-Texas Corridor. Yeah, for sure, that's it! I don't know a whole lot about it Michael, but I'll tell you one thing, it's supposed to be highly controversial. You might want to contact our friend Sebastian, he's an urban planner―he might have more insight, you know. Whatever the government's working on, they definitely don't want the citizens to know anything about it. What're you working on?"

"Look, thanks. That makes a lot of sense. I'm not exactly sure what I'm working on yet, but it could be something big. Something related to illegal immigration, supercorridors, and NAFTA, it's all kind of complicated right now. I have to run though, I think there's a cop behind me, I'm driving. I'll call you a bit later. That's awesome information though, thanks a lot Doc!"

I thought about contacting Sebastian Salaberri the urban planner, an old friend from back home, but I remembered he had been living outside of the country for a few years now. I didn't have his phone number on hand, I would have to email him for an answer...it would take too long. I continued driving in haste, and when I appeared to be getting closer to Fayetteville, I made a stark observation of the surroundings off the interstate. There were many closed furniture stores with signs and banners advertising, 'Blow-out Sale, Everything Must Go!' followed by abandoned tract home projects.

I observed half-built construction sites with administrative bungalows, but nobody seemed to be in the field working or finishing the projects. Some communities I passed up reflected ghost towns decimated in the old Wild West without any type of vegetation, while others were stretches of miles of open space. I decided to drive through the town of Fayetteville, perhaps I would be able to speak with locals regarding supercorridors, and maybe they would have some idea about what Shawn Hunter had mentioned. I drove around without a destination like a shadow for about twenty minutes down the main avenues until I noticed a poster hanging on an office window which read, 'Down with TTC, Corridor Watch.' I parked my vehicle and walked towards the office hoping it was still open. It was a small law firm.

"Hello, can I help you with something?" asked a soft-spoken, dark-haired, pallid-skinned woman from behind the desk with perfectly-lined, thick eyebrows. She had a mole on her upper lip, a femme fatale-type. She was young and robust with a striking, radiant confidence. I thought she might've been Armenian or Greek.

"Ugh, yeah...I read the sign outside about the TTC, ugh, the supercorridor or the superhighway. I was wondering if you might be able to answer some questions about that."

"Are you from around here?" she asked, it sounded condescending, perhaps relating to my accent.

"No, actually, I'm from California, from L.A., but I live here in Houston at the moment...I'm with the Houston Chronicle. I'm covering a story about illegal immigration and the Trans-Texas Corridor. I thought you might be able to help with some questions I have...I'm trying to make some connections between all this. I was actually trying to get down to Fair Oaks, is that around here somewhere? I couldn't find it on the map and there weren't any noticeable signs off the highway. Maybe it's still some miles up―I drove from San Antonio. Do you know?"

"Well, first of all...I'm Helena Stratos, this is my law firm...we handle contract law."

"Michael Ray Korsakov, nice to meet you." I concluded she was Greek because of her last name and her physical features, the great Helen of Troy.

"Second of all...you said you're with the Houston Chronicle and you're writing a story about the Trans-Texas Corridor. I don't think so, pal. What's your angle huh? Those corporate scumbag sponsors of theirs are never going to let you print an accurate portrayal of the Trans-Texas Corridor. You know, I've met a lot of people like you...big urban hotshot reporters trying to infiltrate our organization. We might be small town folk, but we are very aware of what's going on in the state of Texas. What information are you trying to gather about the Trans-Texas Corridor anyway? Why here in Fayetteville? Why Fair Oaks?"

"Well, earlier today I was covering a story about illegal immigration and the Minutemen Project in Edinburg, at some local university. I was interviewing people from both sides, you know...supporters, students, social activists...and then I came across the guest speaker, Shawn Hunter, of the Minutemen Project chapter here in Texas. Anyway, I spoke to him for quite a while, I got a private interview with him, an exclusive, but then he started rambling about the NAFTA supercorridors and the NAFTA blueprint. He also mentioned Fayetteville and the Fair Oaks community, so I decided to drive down here. I mean―everything around here seems abandoned. I thought I was going to find illegal immigrants squatting around tract homes or running rampant on the streets. I don't know what I was expecting, but I know the NAFTA Trans-Texas Corridor is controversial. I know it's something the federal or local government doesn't want us to know about, right?"

"Okay, okay...well I see you know a little bit about it, you're trying to connect the dots, that's good. Are you sure you're ready for this though?"

"Definitely!"

Helena began walking out through the front door with keys in her hand, "You have a car?"

"Yeah, why?"

"C'mon then...we're going to Fair Oaks."

* * *

"The TTC, The Trans-Texas Corridor, is a transportation program to establish new highways that run parallel and link old ones in order to facilitate the transportation of―oil, water, and natural gas pipelines, petroleum, utility lines, and telecommunication services. The supercorridors are supposed to be divided between commercial vehicles, passenger vehicles and high-speed rail, but essentially they'll be toll roads that individual commuters will have to pay for. They want to replace commuter highways with toll roads, with about fourteen separate lanes. It's like a double taxation. Residents will end up paying for the state-sponsored infrastructure, but will also have to pay a toll to basically use the highway. It's some sort of lucrative clandestine deal between the Texas legislature and the Texas Department of Transportation. And well I guess NAFTA too. It's only in the beginning stages right now, but it's definitely going to wipe out tons of farmland and ranchland, acres upon acres of wilderness, not to mention displacing people and entire towns, cities, and communities like Fair Oaks―oh good, we're here?"

I was surprised to see how desolate Fair Oaks was. It looked like it would have been a great place to raise a family. I thought about Chloe and her children. "So what's going on here exactly, why's this place so deserted, it looks like a lot of other communities I passed up coming down here from San Antonio?"

"Well, it was supposed to be a new tract home community, mostly single-families that wanted to get away from the whole downtown crowd. I mean...I get it, people want more space even though their commute might be longer...it's a trade-off. Fayetteville's not a big city, but we do have urban sprawl like everyone else."

I interrupted, "I know what you mean...it's happening everywhere. It's definitely happening in other parts of the world as well. I've covered a few international stories about urbanism and city-planning and it's the same, even in small towns."

"Well here in Fair Oaks, the project had been moving forward for about a year or so with these homogenized homes, you know...those big yards, plenty of space, two or three car garages, even a golf course with a park attached...the works. It seemed like it was going to be a great community, I had a couple of friends who were planning on buying a home here already, then all of a sudden construction just stopped. There was all this talk about the economic crisis and inflated adjustable loans. Then they couldn't sell any new properties any more, it was just a big ugly mess. Then some developers addressed the local residents at a town hall meeting and said they couldn't continue to pay the contractor to finish the projects, and well...they filed for bankruptcy. A few developers did, actually."

"Are you serious, just like that...that's crazy. I mean―you heard about this going on throughout the country, but the actual developer filing for bankruptcy? So what happened to the people's money...the one's that had already made the down payment?" I asked, but I thought about my own situation of financial crisis. I lost my home to an adjustable loan.

"I represented the families in a class-action lawsuit against the developer, which we won, but now they're going to demolish what they had started...to build this new supercorridor. You know something Michael, I think they expected us to file a class-action lawsuit...I think they wanted us to win and have those people get their money back. I haven't figured it out yet."

"How come, well, what's the benefit? I mean, that's a good thing right? Those people weren't robbed of their money, they got it back, you won them the case. They had representation. What's the problem, now they could even go buy a home somewhere else, right?" I was puzzled.

"You see that over there?" Helena pointed towards a concrete extension that had already been built.

"They're already bringing in the infrastructure without public participation. It's just going to cause all this environmental damage. Without dedicated people here to protest against this new infrastructure, the government has seized the land. They could do whatever they want now. What about all the additional noise and exhaust? The citizens weren't even informed about this supercorridor."

Helena looked devastated with wrinkles of despair around her eyes. She buried her hands into her face and began weeping, while I glanced at her with aloofness, but with sharp observance. Helena had a radiant glow of magnanimity around her dark defined eyebrows, the thought of her fighting for a cause against the big business-type corporate government made me feel inferior as a person. The Trans-Texas Corridor seemed to be undermining the plurality of the common people, but Helena's position in the David and Goliath campaign gave me hope for humanity.

I felt like patting her on the head or shoulder as she wept, but I didn't dare, I hadn't touched a woman since Chloe had moved out about two years ago. The thought of it terrified me. Shawn Hunter had been right about Fayetteville, Fair Oaks, and the supercorridors, but I still couldn't see the bigger picture in the grand scheme of things.

"Look Michael, we're going to have a town hall meeting tomorrow, the local constituents of Fayetteville want to address the State legislature. We need to spread the message across to the citizens of Texas, maybe you could help. Maybe you could write an article about what's happening in Fayetteville and throughout the entire state. People read your stories, right? The people need to know what's really going on in the state of Texas...if you want to get involved."

* * *

I drove Helena back to Fayetteville and we both reposed in silence. I agreed to return the following evening for the town hall meeting to learn more about the supercorridors and the citizens' concerns. I now seemed anxious about what I stumbled on in this small town, it appeared more complicated than what I had imagined, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to take a story of such mammoth significance.

This story was about corruption―the new growth industry, and powerful people went to great lengths to protect themselves. Throughout the undisturbed drive back home, I reviewed the image of Helena crying in despair like an infant, which now made me think about my own plight. When I walked in through the front door and glanced around the cold empty apartment, I wanted to collapse and tear out my veins, Chloe's never coming back.

I walked into the kitchen and fixed a Chopin vodka tonic while I grabbed a handful of ice, it was my preferred drink, and it was Chloe's drink too. I walked over to the record player and searched for a few records that would trample over my heart fancifully. I then sat on the floor and brooded over my solitude. That's what people did, right? When your heart's been torn out of your chest, you continuously exacerbate it until you've exhausted the pain and even begin to miss the sting it had once caused. Well, I was going on two years now. I was still ill. She haunted me. Everything reminded me of her wherever I was. Her scent overwhelmed the apartment although she had never set foot inside.

It appeared as though my senses had been heightened ever since she left, as if I was meant to experience senses which had been dulled by routine. I still kept photographs of her scattered throughout the apartment, I kept the clothes she left behind in a box tucked away underneath my bed. I had even left some drawers empty in a dresser that we shared, which were reserved for her, if she ever came back. My beloved Chloe.

Whenever the telephone rang at inadequate hours I thought it was her, she used to call often when we had first broke up, when she moved back in with him. I had even missed that, the sadistic waiting around for her to call pleading for forgiveness. She often apologized for making me move to Texas with her and her two children, coaxing me to leave my job with the Los Angeles Times. But I made that decision on my own. Here I go once again, trying to justify whatever she influenced. I was weak and I had allowed her to influence career decisions.

I had made significant human progress by not calling her at odd hours of the day, inebriated, pledging my perennial love for her. I couldn't do it any longer. I couldn't continue reading through her blog-spots and her Facebook page, reading her and her ex-husband's comments about their delighted reunification. Many miniature words of unbearable torture. Chloe and I made future plans to get married and perhaps have a child of our own, something I always yearned for, but now she had vanished into oblivion while my heart was left in drowning obscurity. I lit a cigarette while I fixed myself another drink, tears rolled down my upper lip until I could taste Chloe's lips. Maybe it was better if I didn't seek it out. The thought of Chloe with another man was absolute crucifixion. Cigarette ashes spread about and lipstick-stained stubs reminded me of Chloe, when she smoked in secrecy in the restroom at random hours, perhaps missing her children and ex-husband...I was an escape for her.

I contemplated and paced and pondered and struggled across the smooth hardwood floor in my apartment. I went into a northern soul routine after I switched over to mid-tempo 45" records which would help me break the cycle of confused betrayal. I used to do the same with some friends back in Los Angeles as well. I remember sliding and stomping across dancehall floors to dance the pain away...nostalgia. Damn it, I needed to work, to crank out a story about the Minutemen Project at the flooded Pan-American university campus to overcome my conquered state. I was a mess. I unfurled a proposed summary without any mention of the supercorridors or the Trans-Texas Corridor...I made it an exclusive about Shawn Hunter. I was fair and accurate and I had built my reader's trust upon that, it was my Confucian virtuous deed. I then went to bed clothed with a drink resting on the nightstand next to a vintage lamp. It had been a long day.

3.

I showed up at Helena Stratos' office in Fayetteville the following week. I hadn't bothered to show up for the town hall meeting, I'd been reluctant about the story because it seemed out of my league. In the meantime, I did my own research on the supercorridors, which frightened me about corporate and government misconduct. Don't get me wrong, of course I knew it had always existed.

In fact, the United States Constitution had already been co-opted for at least a century by a corporate charter anyway, but I hadn't pursued a story of this magnitude because of some of the murdered journalists in Latin America I'd known about. Also, a friend and fellow journalist had been arrested in Oakland for trying to expose police misconduct. The Patriot Act had made it unsafe for journalists who tried to discredit American policies, foreign and domestic alike. So much for the progressive movement. Corporate and government misconduct wasn't the problem. The problem was my commitment to continue the story for future publication. After about a week of ardent fastidiousness, I decided to pursue the story, regardless of wherever it would take me. If it's worth dying for, pursue it, right? Isn't that the type of rhetoric we learn in the university anyway?

I recalled reading about Igor Panarin back in the early '90's, a Russian political scientist who had worked for the KGB in the analysis of Russian and United States relations, and against the advancement of U.S. imperialism. My Russian background influenced my world views, I couldn't escape it. And for a time, I became a fanatic of Eurasianist ideology, the idea that Russia was more closely aligned and connected to Asia rather than the West, with a rejection towards the system of the New British Empire philosophy.

This 'New British Empire' was British and American transnational capital that worked to destabilize the USSR because of its socialist economy. Igor Panarin was a strong supporter of Russia's expansion as an imperial hegemon, moving towards the ideology of the 'Third Rome.' During my familiarity with this paradigm, I became very aware of America's 'Red Scare' paranoia and the witch hunt against card-carrying or suspecting communists and Russians. I became critical of U.S. imperialism, but also paranoid about denouncing government policies. If I was going to pen this story, any left-leaning themes would be omitted because of the association with my name being debunked as pro-Soviet. It would have to be very plain, very pro-American, without attacking or embellishing or contriving of ideas. Just simply what it was, a domestic concern.

I stepped into Helena's office with my legs trembling, "Hello, do you remember me from last week? Michael―with the Chronicle?"

"Hey, Michael! Yes, of course I remember you. I was wondering what had happened to you. You never showed up to the town hall meeting and well I guess I never gave you my phone number. I guess you couldn't call."

"Yeah, you know, I'm really sorry about that. They sent me to Chicago to cover this story on transportation, really boring stuff, but I had to go." I felt inadequate about lying to her, but I didn't want to expose my reluctance, after all, she had been high profile on the radar of the Texas corporate-government collusion, I didn't want to confess my cowardice.

"And well...I didn't have your phone number, but I'd like to get back on the story. Are there any updates?"

"Well, not much was discussed in the meeting as far as new developments, everything seems rather stagnant, but I did get contacted by a Jay Jacobs a few days ago, he wants to meet with me as soon as possible. He says he has a lot of information to give me about the Trans-Texas Corridor. Does that name ring a bell?" she asked.

As if drawing observation from some cosmic divinity, I said, "Nah, I've never heard of him."

I was way over my head now, what was I getting myself into? That's why I was so reluctant to get involved in the first place, there was sure to be a myriad of key players, organizations, and government departments that I would have to investigate. Big business and government were bosom buddies. I would begin encroaching on unchartered territory without a wind rose to guide me through nautical navigation processes until I ended up shipwrecked. That's what investigative journalism was all about―I didn't want to get all hung up on some reporter's fantasy. It was too late though, I was already involved.

"Well, he works for the Texas Department of Transportation. And guess what Michael, he's the chairman, the leading commissioner on the TTC committee. He's a close friend of the Governor's. But I'm cynical about this type of arrangement. He sounded very sincere, but he also said it was a matter of great urgency and secrecy. What should I do?"

With a fierce conviction I said, "Well, let's do it! Call him...I'll go with you, well if that's alright, if you're worried about meeting him alone. Where does he want to meet? Is it a neutral location?"

I spoke without prudence. It was because my prior experiences with females turned out positive when I supported their ideas, even though it could be counterproductive. Even more so in this situation, I'll paint a picture. Helena was sitting behind her desk in a swiveling armchair. She swayed towards a filing cabinet behind her to reach for a document. As she leaned forward, I could see a black slender panty line circling around her waist tantalizing me with engaging arousal, I wanted to take her there on the floor. I signed on to NAFTA on the spot. Perhaps in the future I could take advantage of her after a brief moment of weakness. Fuck Chloe.

After Helena called Jay Jacobs, she made an arrangement to meet in Austin, somewhere close to the Department of Transportation's office because he couldn't stray too far. I loved Austin, any excuse to go there was assumed blindly. It would be a clandestine meeting of the highest priority. Whatever info he had, the commissioner wanted to make sure someone else would be burdened. Helena didn't mention my name, old Michael Ray Korsakov, but could you blame her. I mean―look at my name, she didn't feel it was appropriate. We would have to take a chance upon arrival or avoid using my name altogether.

I used to be embarrassed of my name when I was in elementary and junior high school. My teachers often mispronounced it, sometimes even butchering it with disdain. In retrospect, it was probably an anti-Russian phenomenon. After all, most of them were teenagers during the Cold War period. During our drive to Austin we made small talk about work experience and Texas, but I was distracted by thoughts of Chloe, my sweet darling. Perhaps I had spent too much time in Texas waiting for her to return and so I made a decision. I would move back to Los Angeles, to Mar Vista or Venice, as soon as this story was concluded to finale, or as much as was possible. At that exact moment, I was ecstatic, I found Houston dull and humid, thus returning to my mild Californian climate was the most thrilling idea I had had in my entire duration in Texas.

I hadn't even considered moving back until now. I speculated an onslaught of questions by my relatives and friends towards the pantheon of my soul, crucified for not bringing Chloe back. I felt shameful. I hadn't spoken to my mother for about two years either, since I moved to Texas. I never thought it would happen to me―not speaking to my mother for that long, it was something you only observed in films, but now it was my reality. I was embarrassed to tell her that Chloe had moved out after just one month of us buying the house. I couldn't face the firing squad at the home front. Everyone in my family loved Chloe except for my father. She was the all-American golden supermodel.

My father didn't like her because she had children and preferred I married a Russian girl from the old country. He would say, "Mikhail, please find yourself nice Russian girl, American women are crazy, including your mother. I speak for all America, Latin America too."

Everyone except my father eulogized her. You know, it made me feel superior to others who didn't possess a trophy wife. So I'm shallow―so what. But now Chloe had fled, and I was left to suffer in privation.

"Michael, are you okay? Is everything alright, you seem out of it?" observed Helena.

"Yeah, yeah...I'm good...I was just thinking about this Jay Jacobs guy. I think this could lead us in the right direction, I mean...why you, right? You said he read your blog about the Trans-Texas Corridor, and he knew about what was happening in Fayetteville and Fair Oaks. So, I'm thinking that he might really want to help us, it's not like your part of a secret organization or militia trying to infiltrate or undermine the state of Texas, you're a concerned citizen, right?"

Helena didn't say much, she just nodded. She wasn't ready to share intimate details with me, a stranger, about why she decided to get involved besides the lawsuit. She had her reasons, but I would find out at a later date, when she felt more comfortable sharing those details.

We had arrived at the Austin Public Library, the meeting point with the secretive Jay Jacobs. Helena recognized him right away. He said he would be sitting smoking a cigarette on a park bench across from the public library. He looked handsome crossing a leg that cascaded over his knee, dressed in an expensive grey suit politicians wear with a burgundy tie and a white dress shirt, smoking a cigarette, with a somber look on his face.

We walked towards him glancing nervously, "Hi...I'm Helena...and this is Michael Korsakov with the Houston Chronicle, he's working with me on this. Is that alright?"

Helena must've forgotten we were planning on using an alias for me, or maybe she just fumbled at the last minute because of her nervousness, I wasn't sure. Or maybe she just wanted to be upfront and honest about our project, after all, this was a clandestine meeting, perhaps she didn't want to start off with any hypocritical oath.

The politician turned towards me, while he blew smoke with fierce enthusiasm, "Korsakov, Russian, right?"

"Um, yeah...my father's Russian―from St. Petersburg, but my mother's from Argentina, I was born in California though. So I'm all mixed up, typical American, huh," I chuckled. I did that often when nervous.

"Yeah, I know who you are. I read your stories sometimes...you're an objective reporter. That's noble, you have a promising career ahead of you. You covered an excellent story a few years ago about the Gold Shirts in Mexico for the L.A. Times, I remember that piece. You should've won the IRE Award."

There it was again, I couldn't escape the wrath of that story, it kept haunting me. Maybe it was the climax of my career, which meant I was now stagnant or on a downward slope, it was Chloe's fault.

"You almost won that award for international reporting, Michael―that was rather impressive. You're a good reporter. I don't have a problem with you covering this story because it needs to be exposed. But, hopefully you know what you're getting yourself into. Don't fuck it up, kid."

Helena and I turned towards each other in perplexity, I felt extolled by what Jay Jacobs said, why couldn't Chloe see my greatness, she had been blinded by a marriage of convenience. Maybe there are some good politicians out there somewhere, this one certainly knows my work, he isn't entirely a scumbag. The commissioner reading my stories gave me another wind of confidence, something I'd been lacking.

When I had first started going to UCLA I had contemplated majoring in Political Science because I was fascinated by the civil service. I even considered becoming a politician in the future, to run for city council or mayor. I also participated in student government. I hung out with a group of Armenian students that were into politics and law, but after a while I became jaded by the whole decision-making process, more so the Electoral College because everything seemed legally corrupt. We even worked with elected officials during grassroots campaigns, but the entire process left me flummoxed with a foul stench of betrayal.

So, I abandoned those plans as an aspiring politician because of what I believed to be sanctioned corruption of a democratic process. Journalism seemed more objective, even though periodic censorship is exercised. However, every now and then, just like in a court of law, you're contributing to the democratic process of what American principles were founded on. Well, let me clarify, that's not entirely true. There are some elected officials, very few, that still seem to change the democratic process as policy-making activists, but it's so rare that we never seem to notice. It's shameful.

"Look...we don't have much time. And to be quite honest, I have a sickness." He coughed while grabbing my shoulder. I felt disgusted by the commissioner coughing up the plague on me, but I exercised tact and empathy.

"Lung cancer―it's probably related to my smoking habits...I don't think I have much time left, in the literal sense as well. Okay, the Trans-Texas Corridor―the TTC. It was supposed to be a state-sponsored program funded through public sources of taxation. But recently, because of all the pressure on the TTC and the Governor, well, because it's quite simply an unpopular project, it's now become a private project funded through private sources. American citizens don't have to worry about paying for its financial development anymore, but they will have to worry about paying for it in the future...as a private toll road to a private company. But the problem is the private funding sources. Our committee created a slush fund with lobbyist support to assist with payments to transportation projects, a fund that allows the Governor to transfer an unlimited amount as he wishes. This private company will be able to charge commuters any price, including an adjustable amount as they see fit. Have you ever heard of a company called EuroCarril?" Helena and I turned towards each other, both making a gesture of unawareness.

"Well, it's the biggest private developer of highway infrastructure around the world. It's a Spanish company, headquartered in Madrid. They operate in private toll roads and parking facilities all over like...in the entire Spanish Peninsula, Chile, Mexico, Greece, Ireland, Poland, Canada, and now they're moving into a huge market here in the States. They're already operating in Illinois and Indiana, and well...now they're moving into Texas. The Texas Department of Transportation is going to provide oversight for planning and construction, but EuroCarril is going to manage the day-to-day activities and the collection of revenues. Have you heard of the construction contractor here in Texas, Zachary Construction?"

"Yeah. It's the company that bought out the small contractor and developer that was working on the Fair Oaks project in Fayetteville, the one that was abandoned...the class-action lawsuit," Helena said turning towards me with her eyes widening. She was making sure I knew what connection was being made.

"Yeah...that one, exactly. Well, EuroCarril and Zachary have formulated a merger to work on the Trans-Texas Corridor. The Texas Department of Transportation just awarded them a contract of over three million dollars to begin working on plans and development. And where do you think the money came from? That's right, the slush fund I just mentioned―reserve taxpayer money and lobbyist donations. Look at what's going on all over the country. Communities like Fair Oaks have been abandoned by small developers and contractors, claiming an economic crisis and recession, but guess what? Most of those communities are in the way of the superhighways, and what's the only possible way to remove the citizens from that type of land? Through eminent domain. We needed to figure out a way to avoid lengthy administrative and legal procedures, to avoid the bureaucratic red tape and requirements to build on private land. Eminent domain is the United States' government tool to expropriate private land from citizens to use for economic development, private or public use, hell...for whatever we need. Essentially, the superhighway system is going to be the largest privatized toll road in the country, stretching from Mexico, cutting through and gutting out the heartland―the countryside of the United States, and then making its way through Canada. Like I said, EuroCarril already owns numerous toll roads throughout Mexico and Canada, you catch my drift? There was a bill to oppose the Trans-Texas Corridor in the Texas state legislature but it was vetoed by the Governor. Do you know why he has such a vested interest in the TTC and is adamant about watching it come to fruition? He's a shareholder in the EuroCarril-Zachary merger. He helped found Zachary Construction years ago. And now that it's becoming a multi-national corporation partnering and operating in numerous countries, his holdings will increase once the plans move forward on the superhighway system all over the country. He was my former roommate in college, we're close friends, that's why I'm the chair in this commission, but someone has to stop this. It's ironic, you know, when we came to power we had all these ideas that we were going to make it better for everyone, but we've fallen into the same government-corporate relationship like everyone else. We've been co-opted, and now I want out. I'm a patriot, but I feel so responsible for lending my support in this project and everything else I've been involved in, but if I step out, its political suicide at its best. Texas is at the crossroads of the United States, it's the heart...the main organ. The private toll roads in Texas will connect the entire infrastructure of the United States...to all the new corridors. All transportation of goods will come through here, through the different ports around the country. You need to find out why we want to divert shipments and cargo coming into Long Beach or Los Angeles and relocate them to ports in Mexico and through Kansas City. Put the pieces to the puzzle together, I'll try to guide you in the right direction. That's the story...follow that...follow the capital. The NAFTA agreement is behind this mess. Eventually the United States government will sell off its national infrastructure to private companies around the world. This will be considered treason to American citizens who will have to pay foreign companies for the right to commute on their highway system across the country. The United States is up for sale. I'll give you some contacts here and in Canada, there are important people who oppose the superhighway system in North America...it just needs to be exposed for what it really is to garner opposition. Oh, but you can't quote me on any of this...I won't go on record. I'll deny it. At least not yet, I need some more time, please. I'm sorry, but I have a meeting to attend. Goodbye."

4.

After the commissioner's recommendation was discussed with Helena, it seemed logical that the next step would be to examine the ports in Kansas City, in Los Angeles, and Long Beach. But Kansas City doesn't even sit on a body of water, I didn't comprehend. What kind of port existed there? What was the principle concern in having shipping containers entering through Kansas City instead of Southern California? What was the benefit? Of course it could be the obvious, it was more lucrative, but there was always something beyond the obvious that the average person couldn't comprehend.

The thought of having to return to Los Angeles for investigative journalism, to unravel a clandestine government plan was overwhelming but comforting. If Chloe could only see me now, how important my work was...what I was uncovering. What would she think? I wasn't quite sure if I would call my parents to inform them I'd be in town for a few days, on the contrary, I wanted to remain detached until I moved back home. I didn't want my parents to think of me as a failure, who knows what they would think now. Back from humid Texas without Chloe, who was supposed to be my wife...coming back home to the nest, the sanctuary, empty-handed. Immigrant parents wanted their children to have financial success in the great land of opportunity, mine were no different, but I had lost the house, the woman...my job. Well not my job exactly, I was still a reporter, but leaving the Los Angeles Times was a primordial sin in my father's eyes. What conclusions would they draw now?

Helena had to return to the office to take care of her business over the next few days, she had Corridor Watch meetings to organize and clients to represent in court, so I would have to make the logistical plans on my own. She would contact Jay Jacob's network and continue communication with him, while I would visit key locations. I was taking the initiative to get involved. I was being conscientious and working with diligence, for that Helena was impressed and grateful. But the physical mobility of connecting the dots would have to be done by me.

I wasn't sure if I was doing it as a civic duty, or in the primitive sense I thought about propagating the species with Helena Stratos. I was confused. She didn't want to leave Texas though. She was a proud native, the supercorridors throughout the state of Texas were her concern, not the port entrances throughout the country. She was so adamant about staying in Texas, I didn't know why. It was eerie the way she built a concrete slab, almost like a phobia of leaving. If I was going to continue to follow the story outside of Texas, it would be solo, establishing trustworthy contacts. Oh Helena, could you please help me forget about Chloe? Please...come with me, I plead you.

I convinced Franklin to allow me to pursue a lead in a Kansas City community which revolved around Section-eight recipients being displaced because of reduced benefits. Meanwhile, I would also visit the rail center and investigate the port's mission statement. Displacement was happening all over the country, but Kansas City had a significant increase of displaced peoples. This was around the Kansas City rail center, where the heart of the largest railway in the United States was, where the NAFTA railway was located. It was my first stop. Since I didn't have a particular beat for the Chronicle, it gave me the freedom to travel around and pursue random political stories.

* * *

The Kansas City Rail Project was drafted as a non-profit organization supported by public and private interests. What this meant to me―nothing in particular, nothing at all, just jargon. A non-profit for profit slogan labeled and cloaked in secrecy. This was typical of business practices, masking lucrative opportunities behind non-profit status, but still applying the corporate labels behind their names, like this ambitious project.

The main goal of this port, which I discovered was an inland port, serviced through rail freight rather than ocean freight, was to facilitate the transportation of national and international goods through the Kansas City inland port, via the Lazaro Cardenas seaport in Michoacán, Mexico, to the middle of the country through rail or superhighway service, along the Missouri River. Effective, economic, and efficient, is what the port offered to investors of multiple industries that would benefit from this new proposal.

Most international cargo passed through the Kansas City inland port anyway. The fact that it was located near significant national highways made it prime real estate. I kept thinking of the board game, Monopoly, it appeared as though the Kansas City Rail Project was making strategic plans to purchase existing land, or use eminent domain to expropriate current owners to maintain territory. The federal government had the right to exercise eminent domain, so it appeared that this company would work with government officials on this. But whom, that was the question? I couldn't prove any of it, it was all speculation.

Furthermore, the Kansas City Rail Project was trying to buy the utility and railroad lines, thereby creating a monopoly on utilities, transportation, and infrastructure. Perhaps NAFTA set up the Kansas City Rail Project as an extended branch to deny involvement in the monopolizing agreement. Wasn't setting up a monopoly illegal though? Unless it was a government granted monopoly, which was worse. I became disgusted, I wanted to regurgitate. According to good governance, the welfare of the people was priority, but in the United States, the citizens weren't even informed of significant changes affecting their day-to-day lives. What had we come to in this modern age? Maybe we were just jaded citizens juxtaposed as herds of cattle numbing ourselves to rampant ignorant political behavior.

* * *

I had secured an appointment to interview the spokesperson of the Kansas City Rail Project. I contacted him over the phone before I left Texas and when the interview was set, I booked a flight courtesy of the Chronicle.

I was nervous about my approach because I didn't want to accuse him or the organization of public deception. I didn't know enough. Maybe I would skew the interview with loaded sarcasm. It was a clever skill I possessed that often worked. People's buttons could be pushed, and many relied on reactionary emotion when pressed. Hopefully I could pressure the P.R. spokesperson into that systematic line of questioning until he slipped up with anger and leaked out private information. I would have to wait and see.

It was rather unusual and somewhat suspect, but the spokesperson for the Kansas City Rail Project sent a limousine to pick me up from the airport with an orthodox Jewish businessman that also had an appointment there, some real estate tycoon I presumed. I knew this much because he mentioned it on the drive, he kept blathering on the phone about coming off the mainstream grid by buying enough real estate to live off of equity and rental income―he was trying to convince someone. He sounded pompous. The limousine driver carried a sign with 'Korsakov' and 'Roth,' and I made the connection when I saw the Jewish businessman lingering about baggage claim.

I was wearing a black frock coat and a black beanie with a bill, and my beard had grown longer than usual. The Jewish businessman wore typical black Jewish clothing with a beard and curling sideburns. The limousine driver was a tall African-American and wore a finely pressed black suit with reading glasses fastened to his handsome face, so I presumed we made an odd group of individuals. Then the Jewish businessman made a comment about how we would've gotten lynched a few decades ago because of how we looked.

A Russian communist, an orthodox Jew, and a black limousine driver―it sounded like a joke, right? My name could never elude association with Communism. I took a lot of heat for it. Conversation was minimal in the limousine although I was fascinated by the businessmen. I tried probing him into explaining some aspects of Judaism, without success. He dodged most communication, interrupted by pressing phone calls. My father had established contacts in the Hollywood area, orthodox Jews I remembered. However, they were as private as this one. He spoke on his phone in Hebrew, perhaps to avoid insignificant chatter with me, but still eyeing me as often as possible.

When we arrived at the port after a dreaded commute, the limousine driver escorted me to an office and the businessman walked in the opposite direction towards another building knowing where he was headed. He looked back at me before he vanished into some office. The whole situation was outlandish. I was escorted into a bungalow-type office where I waited for my interview until the spokesperson arrived.

He walked in with swiftness, introduced himself, and shook my hand with a firm manual labor-type grip.

I went straight to it, "So Mr. Wharton, this Kansas City port seems to be an ambitious project for future international trade coming from East Asian countries in the Pacific. What can you tell me about that?" I asked.

"Thanks Michael. Well, as you already know, international trade is increasing exponentially. We need to stay competitive in the global economy. Goods need to be provided to the people, and since the Los Angeles and Long Beach ports have been overwhelmed with shipments, the Kansas City port would serve as an alternative route to meet the increasing demand of Asian products. California and Illinois rail services are already experiencing overburdening demands, and since Kansas City sits at the hub of North American rail service, then it just seems logical to accommodate and facilitate such a task. And also, Kansas City is strategically located near three major intersections of the United States, which are accessible for fluid mobility throughout the middle of the country."

"That's right, the NAFTA superhighway is being constructed throughout the state of Texas in order to connect to existing supercorridors," I said it with sarcasm but the spokesperson hadn't noticed.

"...which is going to facilitate transportation for Mexican truckers coming from...Michoacán, right? I read a report, according to the Missouri Department of Economic Development, if I'm not mistaken, it said something about transferring the old Air Force base to a private developer to set up a new customs facility for a Mexican customs checkpoint here in the heartland of the country. Aren't people concerned about this new customs facility though, I guess being operated by Mexicans on U.S. territory here in Kansas City?"

"I can assure you that whatever agreement the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agency and the Department of Homeland Security have with the Mexican government to secure the border against terrorism and contraband smuggling...it's definitely with best practices in mind to ensure national security and expedited transportation of goods. Nothing is concrete yet, but there's a possibility. Security screening is already vigorously enhanced...by getting screened in Asia before departure, then with gamma-ray pre-screenings in Michoacán, Mexico, not to mention GPS tracking devices, then on to Kansas City for distribution throughout the middle of the country. Virtually, it creates no border delays and reduced shipping and labor costs...much more efficient."

"So what you're saying is that sealed cargo will be shipped from the Pacific without border delays and reduced screening, then there's a possibility of Mexican customs officials being stationed in Kansas City? Oh, and you mentioned something about reduced labor costs, doesn't that mean reducing the load for the union longshoreman in Long Beach and Los Angeles. Since you want to redirect container shipments to Mexican seaports, where I'm guessing low-skilled, low-waged, non-union workers will handle the workload...I guess I'm a bit confused. But, it's a good thing because it's cheaper to ship to Mexico than to the United States, right?" And so I had begun my calculated questioning pattern to encourage aggravation.

"Well, of course it's cheaper to ship to Mexico, we're talking about a developing country here. But it's going to create a lot of jobs here in Kansas City for truckers, railroad workers, warehouse personnel...thousands upon thousands of jobs will be created in the private sector, and we definitely need them now, right. I mean―who are we kidding, we're in a recession...this is like the great depression," said the spokesperson tapping his foot while looking at his watch. It was the oldest trick in the book.

"So Mr. Wharton, walk us through what the actual process is going to look like once it's all said and done, the logistics and transportation process," I said, trying to keep him talking.

"Well, first of all, freight from the Pacific will leave from deepwater seaports in Asia. Then, they'll arrive in the Lazaro Cardenas port in Michoacán, where they will be pre-screened for entry into the country to make its way to the United States. From there, they'll connect to the NAFTA railway system making their way through Mexico City, San Luis Potosi, and also Monterrey, which is the industrial capital of Mexico. They'll come in through the border in Laredo, Texas, then make their way up through express lanes," I knew this to be the NAFTA supercorridors, "and make their way throughout the Midwest. And to assure you, Mexico's commitment to international trade with the U.S. has gone above and beyond. They've privatized their national infrastructure and regional railroads to promote rigorous foreign investment. They've practically privatized all their port operations."

I thought about Argentina and some of my relatives who lost their jobs during the economic crisis because of privatized piracy of Argentinean nationalized industries and its natural resources. Mexico would face the same humiliation on the world stage.

"Oh, that's right. Didn't a Kansas City-based railroad company purchase all the railroads in Mexico, basically becoming the NAFTA railway?"

"That's right, you see, now their management falls under one single leadership, making it easier to accomplish goals," said the spokesperson.

I added, "Oh, right...a monopoly of railroad service without healthy competition."

"Look, you're with the Houston Chronicle, we've had positive reviews from reputable business and economic leaders and media alike―,"

I interrupted, "Yeah, of course you would. But what about from environmentalists, ecologists, and geographers? What about homeowners and concerned citizens, what about public interest? When are you going to release a public statement about your plans, when are you going to address issues of private property, job loss, or homeland security, huh? Hey...don't walk away..."

"Off the record," he turned back one last time before skipping along, "we're trying to keep this from the public and the media because of this type of investigative nonsense. You know this type of scrutiny could produce negative reactions towards this project, what are you getting at? It could destroy our credibility, but you wouldn't care, you're just a muckraking journalist. You don't care if Americans are starving or losing their jobs...the unemployment rate is as high as it was during the Great Depression. We're trying to keep it out of public view till the people are ready. No further questions."

5.

The spokesperson had admitted to keeping the project out of the public limelight to avoid scrutiny. It was the same as with the Trans-Texas Corridor, public and private officials had not released a public statement about their plans. The citizenry was not their major concern.

My next visit would have to be to the Lazaro Cardenas port in Michoacán, maybe Mexican citizens and officials wouldn't be as secretive as their American counterparts. Mexicans were more open about political corruption and misconduct, like Argentineans and Russians. It was part of Mexico's history. They held a paradoxical way of viewing death, religion, and politics. They viewed it with a revolving laughter. I had covered a few international stories in Mexico and I had some established contacts, but none in Michoacán. One significant difference between Mexicans and Americans I'd like to highlight. Mexican citizens viewed foreign investment positively, while the thought of international companies on American territory was absolute treason.

The port of Lazaro Cardenas in Michoacán had two-thousand hectares of land for foreign direct investment to promote new projects or business. The Governor of Michoacán was supportive of the project because of increased revenues for the state and because of the thousands of immigrants from Michoacán in the United States trying to find employment. The goal was to reduce immigration.

The NAFTA agreement in general had been ratified by Mexican legislators because they wanted to reduce immigration to the United States, but until now there had been no signs of reduced border movement. I presumed this idea would have to be investigated further. After all, illegal immigration was what landed me there in the first place. But, there was nothing of significant interest in the port of Lazaro Cardenas to discover, everyone kept blathering about increased TEU (twenty-foot equivalent unit) used for measuring cargo capacity because of the increased demand in goods.

Local citizens and the local government, in general, seemed to accept the foreign project in its totality, with the exception of a few union miners who made one key observation. The port of Lazaro Cardenas was owned by the Hudson Port Ltd. Company, which was the largest developer and operator of deepwater seaports, which also owned all the main ports in Mexico, which also owned the shipping ports in the Panama Canal and about thirty-five percent of the world's major ports, which was a Hong Kong-based private company that often facilitated shipments from China to Mexico traveling through with tons of pseudoephedrine. That was the raw material used to manufacture methamphetamine. It seemed like monopolies were at the core of this investigation. Perhaps NAFTA was facilitating that in order to swindle the entire operation. So far, anything was plausible.

For decades now, Chinese businessmen had been detained in Mexico for drug smuggling, yet they had never been prosecuted, a perennial problem stemming from the Mexican Revolution. The union miners gave me one last tip before I left―if I seriously wanted to discover government misconduct, I should go to Baja California where the 'Port of Illusion' was being bid on by major investors, about four billion dollars to be exact, for the development of the Port Colonet a few miles from Tijuana.

I returned to the hotel shocked about the interconnectedness of it all, but I felt too slothful to concentrate. I hadn't had adequate rest for a few days so I wasn't able to focus on work, even though I was excited to review my notes to put a proposal together. I was starting to see the connections between the monopoly and the blueprint but I didn't have solid evidence, not enough for Franklin to allow me to go on some wild sheep chase throughout North America.

I slept for a few hours then went downstairs to head next door to a food joint and grabbed a few tacos, some beers, and a local newspaper to bring to my room. I scanned a few stories in the paper for anything significant―nothing, then I switched on the television to get a glimpse of local news. Corruption, drug trafficking, murder, and travel destinations. Mexico's famed contributions to the world.

I started working, although distracted by the television. I crammed out two brief summary proposals, one for the Kansas City housing concern and the other for this Lazaro Cardenas port. I wrote another one for the Kansas City Rail Project, but I stored it on a miscellaneous document on my desktop file. I needed to make connections between government departments, public officials, lucrative deals, non-profit organizations, private corporations, and others, before I sold the car to Franklin. The story was beginning to unravel in a more intriguing and substantial manner, so I was eager to head over to the next vessel of the monopoly―Baja California.

* * *

When I arrived in Baja, I made arrangements to meet with a fellow by the name of Praxedis G. Guerrero, a union miner recommended by the miners in Michoacán. I took a flight there after leaving Michoacán without advising the Chronicle or Helena about my whereabouts, but I couldn't stop thinking about the Jewish guy from the limo. Something was drawing me towards the energy he was radiating...it seemed off, but I couldn't figure it out. When we walked in different directions at my meeting with the Kansas City Rail Project, he glanced at me over his shoulder and nodded with a blinked eye. I couldn't place it, so I dismissed it.

I was only gone for a few days from work but I decided it would be preferable to advise the paper about a lead I was pursuing in El Paso, Texas, regarding the Minutemen Project, so I had to work in swiftness. I pushed for a few more days on the story knowing it would be easily granted, my boss loved to believe I would land something extraordinary to increase circulation in the paper. Like many other newspapers, we were in danger of extinction thanks to the internet. The internet was the death of the newspaper...and the book...and the compact disc, and other things I couldn't identify although I knew they were soon approaching.

It wasn't in my budget to fly to Baja California either, but I believed this contact would provide solid information. International reporting wasn't for the frugal, it's not like I would get reimbursed for all out-of-pocket expenses. I had a Chronicle-issued credit card, but I couldn't always justify expenses. Yet, the pursuit of the truth encouraged people like myself to view due diligence with cynicism.

Anyway, Punta Colonet was a runty, sleepy, coastal town about one-hundred fifty miles south of Tijuana, where the Port of Illusion was being planned. Being in border-town Mexico gave me comforting thoughts of remembrance because many people from Southern California often spent weekends traveling to Baja California as short getaways to eat fish tacos or lobster. In addition, my parents met in Cuernavaca, I had a fondness for the country even though some Mexicans had complexes towards Argentineans. I didn't care though, I knew Mexico well, I had loads of Mexican friends, and I had covered some stories there about drugs, immigrant smuggling, and that whole Gold Shirts piece.

After exiting the airplane, then making my way through the terminal into the luggage claim, the density of Mexico became apparent. The waiting area was like a circus with masses of people stumbling over suitcases and backpacks creating safety hazards throughout the vicinity. Welcome to Mexico―Bienvenidos a Tijuana! I took a cab to Punta Colonet, to a café where we had planned to meet.

"Hola, buenos dias, nice to meet you. Michael Korsakov...I'm with the Houston Chronicle. Do you speak English by any chance...I'd rather conduct the interview in English if you don't mind?"

"Yeah...of course...a lot of Mexicans speak English. It's you gringos that have a hard time with Spanish," said Praxedis, "you guys just refuse to speak it. You can speak only one language. I used to live in Colorado, Denver...of course I speak English," he smirked.

"Well actually, I'm half Argentinean, half Russian, and I speak Spanish fluently. I actually speak Russian, English, and Spanish, but when I'm pursuing a story I prefer to continue in the language I had started to avoid confusion and translations. Does that make sense, compañero? But if you want we can do it in Spanish―como quieras, boludo."

Praxedis looked a bit flummoxed, perhaps he felt inadequate for his presumptuousness, trying to offend me because I looked like a typical gringo with my cornhusk hair and blue eyes, you know, so he swallowed his pride.

"So...how can I help you? You're writing a story about Punta Colonet?"

"Well...I'm trying to learn about the West Coast ports in the U.S. and the connection with the ports here in Mexico that service American citizens with cheap Chinese goods. The guys in Michoacán said something, you know, about the development of a new port being bid on by big business investors. What do you know about that?"

"That's interesting...you actually just missed it. Last week there was a conference, some Texas-based company representing Chinese and Korean interests talked to politicians and businessmen here. I don't know, they were like middlemen or something. They're working for Hudson Port Ltd, those damn Chinese are buying all of Mexico. Some of your gringo countrymen politicians were here too, some politicians and businessmen from Texas."

Which politicians from Texas―that caught my attention? And what corporation or businessmen, what did they represent? What were they doing with Hudson Port? I speculated at high-ranking Texas congressmen.

"They want to build roads, train routes, the port, even a small city...here in Punta Colonet. They're not concerned with the environment though. A Japanese company tried to build a port here years ago as well, but the people here rejected it because of the environmental concerns. Everybody's wanted it...the French, the Russians, the British, the Americans. You know, nobody really cares about the environment, the Chinese just have more money. They want to build this mega-container port...it's supposed to be as big as the Los Angeles and Long Beach ports combined. The government's doing all these plans for port and urban development, it's already happening."

"So how do the locals feel about it now, since they rejected it in the past? What's changed?"

"Well, first of all, the people around here think it's a good idea because there's no movement of anything around here. It's like a ghost town. I mean―there's no real money or source of income here...there's no hope for some future good-paying jobs. People are hoping that their children will be able to work on the port in the future, to get a better salary. But what they don't realize is that they're going to bring in specialized and skilled workers from other parts of Mexico. These people here don't know anything about port maintenance or what job skills they actually need. They're going to need specialists, probably from China and other countries...from other ports in Mexico. They don't care about all the pollution from port operations, of all the ships, of all the trucks and trains. They don't care about toxic paint in the water, destroying natural life and sea creatures...it's going to be the biggest investment in Mexico's history, four billion dollars...can you believe that? And nobody is against it. Just a few of us union miners and we work for a Canadian company that's against the port as well. Isn't that ironic, you know, all these foreign companies dominating Mexico's affairs. But the Canadians want it for their benefit as well, too bad all those gringo surfers won't be coming here anymore from the United States," he finished off.

"I don't understand. How are they going to get all that cargo to Kansas City...to that new port we're developing there to be spread across the heart of the country?" I was vexed.

"No, no, no...you got it all wrong. The port of

Lazaro Cardenas is going to be used for Kansas City distribution, but this new port here in Baja, that's going to be distributed to Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Montana, and all the way up to Canada...through the Canamex Corridor. All these supercorridors all over Mexico, the United States, and Canada, they'll be used to connect highways, railroads, pipelines, infrastructure, fiber optics...you name it...it's all for your country's NAFTA plan. It mostly benefits the gringos. The corridors are about eighty-five percent compliant with plans to move forward all over the continent, owned by the same people, who own the same things. The Chinese are going to take over the world...you'll see."

I stood there in awe, it made sense. There were so many changes going on throughout North America in secrecy because private companies and government officials had not released public statements or had received public support for such projects. People were dulled by mass media consumerist propaganda that we didn't have time to think about being informed citizens. This increase in monopolization of several industries sent shivering fears throughout my inner system.

"Wow, thanks for the information. All this is going on right underneath our noses, and nobody seems to care, people are just so apathetic."

I was thinking aloud and a bit imprudent, it even bothered me when people came across some climactic information and all of a sudden they were intellectual informed citizens playing their civic duty. I had just appeared that way.

"Woe, woe...wait a minute. Maybe Americans are uninformed, but Mexican people have been concerned about this for years. Let's just look at Chiapas for example."

Chiapas, there it was again after so many years, it kept coming up around the NAFTA debate. I had pursued a story there after high school prior to entering the university, extracurricular activity around the Zapatista conflict.

"Look, on January 1st, 1994, the Zapatistas in Chiapas declared war against the government. Why? Because the Mexican government signed the NAFTA agreement that privatized land in rain forests throughout Southern Mexico, to sell to foreign companies for businesses...to increase industrial development and production. The free-market economy has been spread throughout the world. No one's untouched by the shame. All these technocrats, board directors, big businesses, private investors, and land speculators...you know, high-level capitalists, they all want a piece of Mexico...to rape and pillage it like always for its rich natural resources. These indigenous communities in Chiapas used to live traditional lives, they didn't even speak Spanish, but then the big bad gringos want to take their land and tell them to work for them instead, and get a credit card and commute to work, and work at a sweatshop or something. Then they want to tell the Mexican government to borrow money from the World Bank and the IMF, which American and Jewish bankers own, and that they'll renegotiate their debt if they let them take control of their local land and natural resources at lowered prices instead. You know Article 27 of our Constitution granted indigenous communities agrarian land reform and protection? But now NAFTA has compromised it and paralyzed their way of life. And now they just want them as exploitable cheap labor. They can't even set up a union, so what are their options―1. Starvation, 2. Rebellion, join the EZLN, and 3. Immigrate illegally to the United States to make more money to provide for their families. So now the United States has another wave of immigrant laborers coming from non-traditional places like Puebla, Oaxaca, Chiapas, from southern states...where people's standards of living are declining and everybody's trying to buy something to eat. But then they go to the U.S. and the government wants to tax them, but not give them national benefits, and everyone wants to be racist against hard-working Mexicans. I've lived in the U.S., I know what the racism's like, but you think any of those foreign companies take responsibility for that? The poverty-stricken communities they helped to create here? You actually think those indigenous people want to leave their native lands to go to the land of opportunity, to New York, to Wall Street, to help their families survive. Not to live but to survive? You think they want to separate themselves from their families, to head to the border, where many of them die, where they become criminals, where these same people have stolen their land, where they decapitate the heads of the household. And then they say we're a threat to your national security? So what do you gringos do now, you implement raids and this 'Return to Sender' operation, and scare everyone with this domestic terrorism bullshit. And then these companies want to rob land all over Mexico, and Central and South America, and everywhere else. And take our natural resources, and they say that Mexicans are dirty wetbacks. Man...fuck the gringos!"

I ignored the aggression. Many Mexicans I came across often attacked the American culture with emotional duress. If they wanted to blame their problems on the United States to scapegoat their responsibility, then so be it. Their plight was not my concern. The Mexican government and citizens were also guilty of shortcomings. That's always the case―assume some responsibility.

"I'm sorry, but I have one more question. Can you confirm that the American politicians and businessmen were from Texas? I mean―how'd you know they were from Texas anyway? Can I go on record with all of this?" I asked with embarrassment.

"They were definitely from Texas. There was a banquet for them at a hotel where my wife works. Plus, there was a story in the paper about it, what do I care. Maybe you should research the travel records of public officials from Texas. Isn't that information open to the public? You gringos are all about transparency, right? There's always politicians and businessmen traveling down here for some business interests or something, especially now. And yes, they are usually from Texas. From some corporation over there, but I don't know the name. It's no big secret to us. I don't care what you publish. You guys are as corrupt as we are, but you hide it better. And by the way, that was three questions. Pinche gaucho-gringo, communista!"

* * *

A wake-up call, wake-up calls were sudden impacts of reality infiltrating a once comfortable pseudo-environment provided by sources of conformism. I had just received a significant wake-up call. Illegal immigration transformed itself to a harsh truth of neo-liberal capitalism. And―Texas business and government officials, maybe from other states too, meeting with Chinese businessmen while traveling to Mexico to the different ports and other areas of interest. It was related to the ports, supercorridors, the toll roads, real estate, free trade, drug commerce, railroads―NAFTA, it had to be.

Jay Jacobs had already maintained the Texas Governor was a shareholder in the EuroCarril-Zachary merger. Was the Governor of Texas involved with a corporate monopoly? This was colossal. With this new information, I had enough to at least bring it up to Franklin as a corruption scandal, but I didn't want to jump too far ahead. I needed to build foundations, to establish narrative momentum in my stories.

I wondered what the longshoremen workers in Los Angeles and Long Beach thought about this new port in Baja California that would increase and contribute to unemployment. Service jobs had been out-sourced to foreign countries so often now that Americans weren't even surprised anymore when a company declared bankruptcy or moved their operations to India or Costa Rica or some other foreign land.

I recalled Valerie Castellanos. I had published an article about her sister―Stella Castellanos. We had been corresponding about a possible novel regarding Stella, who was accused of murdering an American colleague in Chile but was cleared of the crime. I remembered her from gatherings with friends back home. She always seemed a bit complicated, but I couldn't speculate if she was capable of murder...I guess anyone was capable. Valerie's husband, Jake, was a longshoreman who worked on the Los Angeles docks. He would be a good source of information if I could establish contact. I had met him once at a gathering. After I contacted Valerie and discovered Jake worked on a clear-air campaign, I also discovered Stella was living in Brazil, unscathed by the murder trial which left her free to roam the world. I wanted to talk to her...to someone who had gotten away with murder, but some other time. My next stop would be to the Long Beach and L.A. ports. Back in my hometown, back in the neighborhood in Los Angeles, to continue following the story.

I crossed over the border from Tijuana to San Diego on foot. I had never done that before. My brother was scheduled to pick me up on the San Diego side at a fast food joint, and then I would get dropped off in San Pedro at the Los Angeles port. That didn't work out in my favor, but I'll tell you all about that later.

I went straight to the office to meet Jake at his jobsite. I wanted to get right down to business...I had almost forgotten how chaotic ports looked. After the meeting, I wasn't surprised to learn that the Los Angeles and Long Beach ports had been awarded environmental awards because of their dedicated practices to reduce pollution through progressive programs and initiatives. I felt a sense of pride, of worthy praise. California had been leading the way in progressive policies since the late nineteenth century in the United States...the progressive movement. I was proud of California, to be Californian, to be an Angelino, from the golden state of progress.

The green port policy, the clean air action plan, the clean trucks program, the green flag incentive, the green command and control center, these were all initiatives that Hudson Port Ltd had significant concerns with, which is why they wanted to relocate to Mexico. I couldn't prove it. The Chinese companies weren't distinguished because of their maverick dedication to a clean environment, and they didn't own the ports in California, thus the plans to move forward with Mexican ports had a simple underlying principle. Monopoly.

I called Helena in Texas, "Helena! Hey...its Michael, you're not going to believe everything I've discovered!" I was hysterical.

"Where to start―the ports in Mexico, the new customs facility in Kansas City, the new port project in Baja California, the monopolization of certain industries...I have so much to tell you! Are you sitting down? I'm still in California but I'll be back―"

She cut me off, "Michael, calm down, hold on. I have something to tell you as well. Do you remember Jay Jacobs, the commissioner of the Trans-Texas Corridor?"

"Yes, of course!"

"He died yesterday. It was sudden, supposedly. The newspapers and the obituary claim he died of heart failure, a natural death. He was supposed to go public tomorrow, to make a declaration of the clandestine nature of the Trans-Texas Corridor. He called me the day before."

She paused for a few seconds, "I think he was murdered."

6.

Roth took a seat on a lounge sofa after he grabbed a Time magazine from the coffee table. He had seen Michael Korsakov walk away from their departure point and looked back at him through his peripheral vision before entering the office. He tried to fixate on Michael's body language or gestures to identify if he had become suspicious of him, but he gave no signs. Michael looked back, that was enough for Roth to know that he had at least caught his attention.

Roth was anxious but he tried to disguise it and even walked around the hallways lingering around the restroom before his scheduled meeting. He looked at himself in the mirrors around the elevators and couldn't help but to laugh, the beard and the clothes were a daring get up. In the limousine he had planted a chip on Michael's messenger bag when he reached over to shake his hand under his frock coat. It never would have crossed Michael's mind that he had done that. Modern culture has taught us to respect men of the cloth, and at that moment Roth resembled a rabbi.

While in the restroom he checked to see if the chip had been activated―it had. And now there was no way to renounce from the clandestine plan he put into effect, he had to see it through to the very end. He had a meeting with the CFO of the Kansas City Rail Project to discuss real estate opportunities. He was a leading potential investor and already popular with the other business leaders of the emerging monopoly of railroads, private toll roads, real estate, and certain public officials, amongst others.

He represented capital and investment as the business development manager of the Roth Trust, a family-oriented company from Florida. He was known for his ruthlessness in striking difficult business deals and his commitment to eloquent philosophy, he had a well-respected reputation. The CFO had left a message with a receptionist saying that he would be delayed about fifteen minutes. It gave Roth time to clear his mind of the plans he had for Michael. He had been introduced to Paul Dumont, the CFO of the Kansas City Rail Project at a non-profit benefit a few months ago―Jay Jacobs had been the liaison.

7.

About three years ago, I walked into the Los Angeles Public Library in Downtown. Upon sight I was enthralled by a pair of arctic-blue nebulous eyes escorted by sandy-blonde hair that seemed to murmur my heart's longing. When our eyes met at the information desk, both of us were struck with a paralysis of absolute bliss, or maybe it was just me. She dropped a medicinal textbook from her hand. I tripped twice as I walked, both of us with distraught embarrassment. My heart raced and skipped its natural process, oh so blue. It was so magnificent, "Who's that?" I whispered.

I walked away like a child throwing a tantrum and sought refuge behind an aisle of law books, catching my breath. The eyes were the scouts for the soul, I believed that, and although I had talked about that sort of thing before, it had never felt as clairvoyant. She was a celestial swan sent to offer guidance in my journey of library research―what to do? I gathered my composure which was swimming in a sea of instability. I approached her with some nervousness and confidence, and then I introduced myself.

"Hi, I'm Michael, nice to meet you. What are you doing here?" I didn't know what to say, it was all I could recite, Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She became embarrassed, began blushing, and with coyness said, "I'm Chloe, nice to meet you as well. Well, I work here, believe it or not, that's why I'm standing behind this desk," then she offered a silly laugh.

"Oh, that's great, that's so really great. I was wondering if you could help me find something. I'm looking for 'The Three Cities' trilogy by Zola," I sounded robotic, maybe even my body language shifted like a stiff.

"Yeah, okay, let me go ahead and check. I've heard of him, but I don't know his work."

And that's how Chloe and I began. She was about two years older than I. A divorced mother from Texas who was getting ready to return to her hometown, with a heap of damage prancing behind her trying to remain optimistic, but she quivered a jaded glow like others that had gone through a similar situation. We hit it off. We talked about previous relationships, religion, politics, music, and everything in between. All the things she couldn't talk to her ex-husband about, she was venting.

Both the ex and Chloe were military brats. Perhaps it's what attracted her to him, a reflective father-figure type. It was what she needed to conquer her father, to repeat the cycle of violence and distance she grew up with on military bases. We took lunch together that afternoon and we walked along a courtyard veranda in Downtown L.A. where I impressed her with my travels and experiences, showing her true knight errantry. It was something she thought had been murdered by feminism. Our spring fling blossomed into a full-blown relationship. It was long distance I guess, but full on.

A floating nightingale yielded in front of us to chirp an unknown sonnet, which I took to be a sign of divine providence. I was such a gentleman, you should have seen me, I mean―the first night we went out, she expressed how she didn't want to come up to my apartment because of what was expected on dates.

Many single mothers had a stigma of seeking a partner as a surrogate father for their children, but I think Chloe just wanted charm, to be wooed. In turn, I called a cab to drive her home, which I also joined then took back to my apartment...so she wouldn't have to go alone. Sure the cab ride was expensive, but money was the last thing I was worried about. Well, it's not like I was wealthy or anything of the sort, but I did well, I was never worried about a price tag, more so when it came to love. I'd give up money and heaven all for love. Those frugal days of worrying about money were extinct. I had worked hard to get the education, the job, the rewards, and the next step was the girl. I would have given my last dollar for that girl. It was the American dream. What better than a beach-blonde American bombshell from out-of-state? She was perfect, she was amiable.

But our period of time was scarce because of her children, the divorce, and her plans to return to Texas. And she was on a rebound. I guess I never wanted to believe that. I thought it might have been too recent, six months of being divorced, but hey, I was in love...I didn't care. You're supposed to take chances. Some friends were even taken aback because I wasn't the type of person that was supposed to get married prior to my thirties, to one with children nonetheless, but they didn't know about Chloe. They didn't understand the connection we had.

Not long after beginning our relationship, she sent the children to live with her relatives while she finalized her Los Angeles concerns, and we began a whirlwind relationship. I was polarized though, I didn't want a woman with children, but Chloe seemed different, she was distinguished, and she was stunning...too good to pass up. You should have seen her―long strawberry blonde hair, Baltic blue eyes, flush skin, model height, slender body, and well-proportioned body. She fell for my youth, ambition, energy, my charming personality, but I disagreed. I didn't think I had those qualities. I fell for her looks, well...because she worked in a library as well―books are my life.

You know, having a long-distance relationship is brutal, if you've ever had one. You spend your weeks planning to visit your partner, or for your partner to visit you, everything revolves around the next visit. You rearrange your work schedule, you anticipate an airport turnabout, you plan a weekend of absolute bliss, and you wait for that one second when you see your partner's face light up when they see you waiting in suspense. And well, I love airports, if you observe people at the airport, they're usually excited. Coming or going, it doesn't matter, it's something different. And to be quite honest, I hated going to Texas to visit her in that small hick-town. I mean―no offense to small towns, but I just didn't feel comfortable in her hometown.

My amusement was playing video games with her children in a crammed apartment watching Chloe be a mother, which I wasn't used to. I was a selfish egocentric bastard. I didn't want to visit her in Texas, that's why I preferred to pay for her round-trip tickets instead of me flying there. I didn't care if I pulled her away from her children, they were insignificant. I would beg her and plead her and cry for her to come see me and make an excuse about some story I was working on, but I just dreaded going out there, what can I say.

But look at me now, I've been living here for two years. I'm from Los Angeles, where all my friends and family and contacts were. I had things to do, places to go to, events to attend...leads to follow in the filth of the Los Angeles gutter. I'm a journalist...I loved it, being out on the street, on the crime beat, a crime reporter, absorbing the decadence of the streets. It's what I do, but now I'm just wandering. I would drop everything to answer the phone when she called. I'd try to make everything as perfect as could be...whenever she came to visit.

Weekends and holidays were pre-planned with an itinerary, of course I realize now, like friends have told me, that it was too structured for her. I know, I know, but when you're in love and you care for someone, of course you don't want to disappoint them. And that's all it was, I wanted Chloe to see stability in a relationship she had never seen before, but I think she started seeing it as a logistical cycle of emotional pressure. Her ex-husband was all over the place, like me to some extent, covering national and international stories, but did she want that again? Did she even see me as her ideal partner―her hero with a black cape?

And if she was looking for another husband, then I would take it to that next level. Her ex wasn't a real husband, not what women really wanted in a man, but maybe I've had it wrong. What I thought all women wanted like stability, fidelity, romance, assertiveness, well...it's never really worked for me...I've always been dumped. Really, what do I know? We talked about marriage numerous times but I didn't want to seem too hasty. But I was ready and if I had to relocate to Texas I would do so with vehement conviction. I needed to be spontaneous.

I looked for homes in Houston, online, on the MLS website, until I found a quaint vintage home, and then I just went for it. I applied for another job too...landed one with the Chronicle, and that was it. I made the transition but it didn't seem to please her, so it backfired. Then I proposed to her, what else was I supposed to do? I had made some significant changes in my life for her and I had come this far, but then she said I had waited too long. She claimed disillusionment by my reluctance and broke it off, my proposal seemed forced.

I was dumbfounded. I thought I was a good partner, a good decision-maker, a good economic provider, a good lover, a good catch―a keeper. She proved me wrong, I felt inferior instead. It began a web of instability for me, for a long time...almost like two years now. But, I wasn't going out without a fight. I had to fight for my Chloe, to fight the dragon of cynicism. I made a fool of myself...I took a redeye flight one evening out to see her and arranged a luxurious limousine, expensive dinner and wine-type evening. You know the kind―when a man is trying to hold on to the last piece of thread that's bursting at the seams.

After that second rejection, I couldn't take more heartache and embarrassment. I practically begged for a commitment, and well I had bought the house. I had made arrangements to come here to Texas for her, to be with her and the children, but she started seeing her ex again. Maybe she had been seeing him all along, maybe it was recent, and maybe it was when I was on international assignments.

I didn't know...I didn't care...and still I was stupid enough to take her back if she would have me. He called me on the phone a few times and asked if I would step away from the relationship like a true gentleman so they could resume their life together as a family unit, a bunch of nonsense really. I mean―he used to beat her often, mistreat and neglect her and the children, but it's what she wanted...she didn't want me. She had too much of a good thing with me. I got some sort of closure after I wrote her a letter to convey that whatever happened between us, I didn't want any bad blood to remain lingering in the peripheral of my thought process, which she responded with an explanation about her decisions. I guess we were both civil about it. And that was that, my Chloe phase was over...I could breathe again. Or so I wanted to believe.

* * *

I had that conversation with Helena after she advised me that Jay Jacobs had been murdered. She didn't want to talk about his death or murder, she was wounded or distraught...I couldn't tell and I didn't know why. I couldn't speculate...I'm no psychoanalyst. I didn't want to probe either, what do I know, I'm just a reporter trying to write a story. Helena wanted me to keep speaking about anything but that. She empathized with my story. She thought I was a real man because I exposed my vulnerability. Women always seemed to fall for that.

It was dreadful for her to speak and I could hear the reluctance in her voice with some whimpering over the phone, something was terribly wrong. She asked about my family in Los Angeles. I hadn't missed home or the landscape, maybe some friendships and relatives...my social network, but other than that I could almost get the same things in Houston as in L.A. but I missed the weather though. I detested humid sub-tropical, but L.A. from afar seemed somewhat backwards now, a bit stagnant in the evolutionary stage of world development. Yeah I know, that sounded a bit contradictory because I had already made a decision to move back home after this story was penned, but it would be temporary. I was now considering Washington, Oregon, or Alaska, a Pacific Northwestern landscape with more majesty, who knows.

Texas was empty for me now, I had waited enough time for Chloe to return, I would be doomed for destruction if I remained a recluse here...stagnant. Texas was a lost cause as well. In L.A., I had a problem right from the beginning because I asked my brother to pick me up from the Tijuana-San Diego border on the U.S. side. First mistake, if you have siblings like mine, do not ask them for a ride...that type of favor will cause you long-term suppressed strife. I asked my brother for a ride, I mean―why wouldn't I, we had that type of relationship where we relied on each other for important matters. We were ecstatic about seeing each other after such a long time. He took his wife and kids as well, but on the ride home it was business as usual for us.

Let me explain. My older brother and I have always had a conflicting relationship of ideas and opinions. From something as insignificant as food preferences, to religious or political dogmas, we were always at odds. I coined it, 'the little brother complex', because he maintained a complex about almost everything...it began on the ride home. For example, he wanted to see pictures of Texas on his phone while he swerved on the freeway lanes, while I considered it a safety hazard. And then it carried over to parenting techniques, and sibling relationships, absolute tedium.

And when I asked him to drop me off in San Pedro for my interview at the port instead of going to his house because he wanted to grill fish, he became disgruntled. I told him we would catch up the following day or whenever else to have a backyard barbeque, but on the day I arrived, I would be swamped with a burdening workload. Besides, I had made prior arrangements to meet with some friends for dinner at an old hangout, C&O's, in my old neighborhood. My brother hadn't mentioned what he had planned prior to that drive, the barbeque was a surprise. It was thoughtful, but I had plans. Was I supposed to drop everything to have dinner with his friends and family because he picked me up from San Diego? Was that the price I had to pay for asking such a favor?

Well it didn't even cross my mind, besides I called him for about three consecutive days trying to reschedule until we settled on that following Friday. I guess there were other outside factors bothering him as well but he never conveyed it. I saw my parents as well that afternoon, my mother crumbled down in whimpering yelps after having a broken heart because her youngest child had abandoned her, while my father was as placid and neutral as usual...a straight realist.

So we all met at my brother's house for the barbecue, friends and relatives, at some point I made a wisecrack before leaving about him having a DUI. He found it arrogant. In fact, my brother's friend took it as an offense and fueled a flame on my brother's behalf about dedication, honor, pride, gas money, etc...including other nonsense I couldn't grasp. But there it was―gas money. Real-tough guy machismo, you understand.

Everything I said now seemed to be offensive. It was filtering through the portal of his friend's drunkenness instead of his own. What cowardice, but I apologized to my brother anyway while I ignored his drunken idiot friend. He didn't even deserve a glance from my direction. Who was he to offer an opinion? My mother began weeping again because her children were at a crossroads, so my father waltzed between us with his imperial Stalinist mustache to calm the tense air with diplomacy. She was a different story though, but let's just say―I made my peace with her for the moment. My brother had parted oceans between us by maintaining his passive-aggressive silence, but it was enough for me to assume where he and I stood in the grand scheme of things. Oh, and just to clarify, I lied to my parents about breaking up with Chloe.

* * *

Next, I told Helena about an old friend of mine, Simon 'Baby-Face' Radowiski. He was an Armenian Power gang member and a drug dealer in a cyclical process of violence. He was Ukrainian but he grew up with a large group of Armenian hoodlums, which is why he joined their street gang. I went to his house unannounced, a once meticulous perfectionist with OCD-type hygienic tendencies learned in prison, had now become a decrepit, worn-out father of four and an abused, abusive partner. He was overwhelmed to see me. His thick arched eyebrows seemed to leap off of his skin, which now reminded me of Helena's. His leathered skin turned into a bright vermilion shade with a bouncing smile that stretched across city blocks as he wrapped his chiseled, muscular, steroid-pumped arms around me.

He often worked out in his backyard and I wondered if he still did steroids and smoked primos a few times a week with his maddening crowd. Perhaps he couldn't believe I was there in the flesh, it was a genuine smile mixed with surprised glee, and then the kids came stumbling and scurrying into the living room to greet me as well. Meanwhile, his Armenian girlfriend glanced over at me, also with a genuine smile although I speculated she was inebriated because her reading glasses were fastened on unbalanced to her face, while she clenched a glass of stout beer.

They were beyond being lovers or boyfriend and girlfriend, with the children running amok and the domestic violence. I reckon they hated each other only gravitating towards one another because of routine. They were, like many other couples often became, just partners in crime, domestic crime. Baby-Face took me outside to smoke a cigarette. He wanted any chance to avoid her. I noticed he had a lot of new tattoos across his body. He now had a big 'South Side' tattoo on his head with Armenian Power thirteen in cursive handwriting on his neck. He looked menacing, maniacal. He told me he had tattooed his head on his last prison stretch, I was nervous smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer on his porch, drug dealers and gang members always had enemies lingering around.

Well, we spoke for hours, but the majority of the conversation was redundant and one-sided, he cried at a point when it was too overwhelming to suppress the tears. And what was it about―his relationship and the drug market. The economic crisis had reached the black market. Many of his customers began growing their supply or buying from certified clinics, it wasn't the same. He could no longer afford his mortgage, it had been about six months since he had last made a payment...I related. His relationship concerns were the same as I had remembered. The domestic violence had always existed only it was now on a daily basis instead of sporadic, which is why his girl's glasses were plastered on her face sideways. Earlier he had punched her in the face, causing her to break an ashtray on his head. He hated her, he wanted to kill her, and I believed he was capable of it.

After a few hours of listening to that cyclical process it became unbearable. I tried sharing the story I was working on about NAFTA but he found it unfathomable, he didn't care. In the past he had looked to me for guidance. I was his muse, but he was beyond being institutionalized in the street life. These people were like what Karl Marx had maintained about the impoverished class. They couldn't even conceive of their problem, it was too luxurious to think with creativity. At some point Baby-Face had anarchist leanings from back in the Ukraine, I wanted to exploit that, but his concern was feeding the children. He had gone too far with this lifestyle, I knew one day he would do something cunning, it wouldn't surprise me. I would anticipate it with absolute fervor. So I left. I couldn't continue listening to his tedious depression. I had my own relationship concerns to mope about. Over the next few days I caught up with some other friends, to have a social network was once again refreshing, but it wasn't until I saw Sonny Robles in the Men's Central Jail in Downtown Los Angeles that I suffered a terrible blow.

Sonny Robles was a West Los Angeles gang member from the street gang―Lennox 13, which is a community nestled between the LAX airport and Imperial Beach. You can't picture this unless you've been there, but Los Angeles is subdivided into regional blocs and the West Side is one of those regional blocs. I used to work at the J. Paul Getty Museum where I met this kid nicknamed 'Youngster,' a good friend now―he grew up in Lennox around the gang thing like I did with Armenian Power and some associates of the Russian Mafia. He introduced me to all types of people from the Lennox underground where I kick-started my career.

We often exchanged stories from the street life that many others could not relate to. From the university or work experiences, we created an impenetrable bond of secrecy. Youngster had a friend, Sonny Robles, who had been imprisoned for murdering a DEA federal informant, a direct assassination straight from the Mexican Mafia. It all seemed very exhilarating. As a journalist I wanted to investigate this story further, which I then began visiting him in prison. We decided to write a biography about his personal experiences, which I'm working on. If you haven't noticed I'm working on numerous novels. Every journalist wants to be a novelist. It's making the transition that's the problem...and the lack of time.

So anyway, he became a prison correspondent to whom I sent published articles, reviews, life stories, and international photographs. A few years ago, Sonny Robles and Sebastian Salaberri collaborated on a political ideology. Sebastian is a political scientist and city planner currently living in Northern Italy, in Torino, doing a master's degree in urban planning. They wrote a manifesto, The Southernist Treatise, a philosophical and political essay about the political culture of Los Angeles Mexican-American street gangs. I edited it for them and helped them get it published in the underground. Sonny had served out an eight-year sentence for the assassination of a snitch, but before they released him, the D.A. charged him and his cousin with a double-homicide case that occurred before he went to prison, with the death penalty attached to it. He began fighting the case from prison, and after months of fighting the case, the D.A. dropped the death penalty charge, but they were still pursuing a―life without the possibility of parole decision. Life in prison, it sounded horrendous.

The cousins received a hung jury in court. This was recent, just about a few weeks ago, a close call. But nine jurors found him guilty, and now they're going through a re-trial. There's a lot going on with him at the moment because he's now a gang drop-out and rumors are spreading in prison that he's a defector or even possibly a snitch...I saw him in the infirmary with other hospitalized inmates.

Rumors spread that there was an assassination attempt on his life and that he was stabbed, but he lifted up his shirt to show me there were no scars on his body from stab wounds. He was in the infirmary for other reasons, but he didn't say. The visiting section where he and I spoke was nothing like I had ever seen before, there were squared bars, almost like checkered-pattern steel bars with a plastic coating. I mean―I couldn't even see his complete face. He said he was locked in his own cell given two hours of recreation on Sundays. It sounded horrible, worse than Siberian prison conditions.

Whatever time he serves for the rest of his conviction, he'll remain in that confinement. I had the opportunity to see him for about two hours, he did all the talking...about the problems with his family, about the problems with other gang members, about monetary concerns, about his soul being plundered by humanity, he was starting to break down. At one point he stopped speaking and put the phone on the table while tears gushed out of his eyes, his head nodded in despair―a solid grown man who was like a Jedi knight...was collapsing into the dimness of his environment.

I thought about Baby-Face Radowiski, he was collapsing as well, I wished there was something else I could do besides listen, for both of them, but there wasn't. It was their destined paralysis of institutionalism, and all I could do was try to comprehend. After I left the Men's Central Jail, I returned to my parent's house and sulked in bed for hours. That's when I realized I wanted to return to Texas, I wanted to return to Helena―if I may be so bold, and I did tell her that but she ignored it. I wanted to return to the story and continue investigating the NAFTA blueprint.

* * *

"Wow, Michael, you know so much about criminals and street gangs in Los Angeles. The Mexican Mafia, Russian Mafia, Armenian Power. What is all that, I would never have imagined that you knew so much about all those criminal organizations? I don't' know if I should fear you or be ultimately impressed by such knowledge, geez," said Helena, breaking her silence.

"Well, not many organized criminals here in Fayetteville, I mean―there's probably some here in Texas, but I wouldn't know anything about it. Is there such a thing as a Greek Mafia?"

"So I take you have a Geek background? I figured as much...you have Greek features like your eyebrows and your corkscrew hair, and well...your last name sounds Greek, I just didn't want to ask, you know how sometimes people feel offended if you speculate at their background. It seems like everyone just wants to blend in instead...in the great melting pot of the United States. We seem to be losing our individuality, globalization, a global jolly village with one government and one language. We are in a Brave New World in 1984 being crushed by The Iron Heel."

"Not me," said Helena, "I'm proud of my heritage...so I'm Greek and you're half Russian half Argentinean, and you're this criminal expert, right? Continue...please."

"Well, not exactly an expert, but I do fancy myself aware of criminal operations and historical development of underground organizations, that's me, a criminal buff, if you can call it that. It's so fascinating―street crime, organized crime, true crime, political crime, corporate crime and everything surrounding it. It's all connected, it's all the same. And as a matter of fact, yes, there is such a thing as a Greek Mafia. It's mostly based out of Philadelphia, but they do operate in New York along with some of the Italian American Mafias, and in Greece, Crete, and Cyprus. They're a low criminal enterprise, mostly overshadowed by the other criminal organizations, kind of like the Israeli Mafia, which in actuality many members of the Russian Mafia are Jewish. There are some organized criminal groups here in Texas, by the way, such as: the Texas Syndicate, the Dixie Mafia, the Black P. Stones, Hammerskins, Mexikanemi, but the really dangerous ones are the Zetas coming in from Mexico. Narco-traffickers, those are the real organized criminals operating throughout all of Mexico and the Southwestern U.S., and they're also connecting with some of the Italian Mafias in Naples. But you see, I've learned something interesting about politics and business. They're organized criminals as well, that's why I wanted to take on this story. The developers, the construction companies, the local city councils, business groups, policy makers...they operate as ruthlessly as organized criminals...making back-end-deals, robbing taxpayer dollars, deceiving the public, operating without transparency, causing ruin to enemies or competition. Assassination, you said it yourself about Jay Jacobs and other whistleblowers, right? I know it sounds a bit far-fetched...cynical in fact, but that's how I feel about politics, its organized crime. Politicians are simply engaged in publicly sanctioned organized crime. That's how I'm able to sleep at night, collecting intelligence and information from unclassified and classified sources when following major leads. This is what NAFTA is all about, for me at least."

"Oh...that reminds me before I forget! Before Jay Jacobs "died" or was murdered, he told me something about this guy...Bill Lester, he's this PhD from Harvard, an academic who works for the federal government helping to shape foreign and domestic policy. He's a political consultant for some think tank down in Washington D.C. He used to be a Fulbright professor teaching foreign policy in Mexico City. I guess he coined the term North American Community, something about the regional goals of North America, to strengthen bonds for the continent. He had a few key ideas like a North American Commission, which establishes the agenda for the whole continent. Also, a North American parliamentary group to operate as its legislative branch, a permanent court for trades and tariffs, a common customs agency, and a common currency―the Amero. And it's all administered by the World Bank, proportionate to its wealth. So we both know what that means for Mexico, more poverty. He mentioned it would take about a century for Mexico to close the gap between the rich and poor, but where does that leave us as well? America's wealth gap is becoming deeper. I got some contacts from him before he died―Dr. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz, an ex-Fulbright professor and scholar who also taught foreign policy in Mexico City with Bill Lester, but a staunch critic of the North American Union. I haven't made contact, but I'm working on it. Oh, and there's this social activist―Emma Marlowe from Canada, she's from Nova Scotia. I've already spoken to her. She's a good resource. We should meet with her sometime in the near future."

"All this sounds like the European Union, or the Union of South American Nations. Mercosur. Yeah, I visited the Mercosur building driving down Las Ramblas in Montevideo in Uruguay a few years back, it's the headquarters. I mean―the E.U. has one currency, parliament, passport, one single market, free movement of people between borders, you know...it can't be that bad. The E.U. is progressive and competitive, right?" I asked in a confused state while gasping at a map above my desk.

"Well, it does sound a lot like the European Union, but the United States is planning to annex Mexican and Canadian territory through what they call 'cross-border regions' that pose significant threats to agriculture, infrastructure, natural resources, regional development, national identity...and well quite simply, it's the end of American sovereign territory as we know it. These supercorridors have already been planned...for quite some time now, that's what this is all about. There's already the Pan American Highway that stretches from Alaska to Patagonia, from the North Pole to the South Pole. But you know, the American Lung Association has reported that fine particles and pollution are getting worse around highway infrastructure and causing an increase in health problems. I mean―if these types of public works are allowed to be privatized like bridges, roads, highway systems, airports, and other public assets, then private companies don't have to follow federal, state, or local guidelines in regards to health concerns and regulations. You think I wouldn't like to get on a motorcycle or something and ride from Alaska to Patagonia, I would love it, but not if it means that hundreds or thousands of people could possibly contract lung damage, or at the expense of someone losing their house, or entire local communities being wiped out." I wanted to marry her just for saying that. She sounded like quite the humanitarian.

"I couldn't live with myself Michael. We've done, and I've read environmental impact reports on pollution, air, water, loss of habitat and open space. There's going to be a significant reduction of tourism to local towns because motorists will stop at state-owned concessions located along the corridors instead of local communities. That's what America's all about. Traveling around like wandering vagabonds and discovering all sorts of hidden towns, that's America. There isn't going to be any exits for miles along the corridors, how are they going to provide emergency services on the roads when the roads themselves will be isolated? These no-access roads without on or off-ramps are going to cause more highway accident victims, not to mention lack of protection against radiant heat. These are all public safety and national security concerns. Privatization, screw that! Did you know that Chicago's Midway Airport is currently being tested under FAA regulation to go through a privatization process? We're privatizing every aspect of government duty, the United States is up for sale, until there's nothing left except―,"

I didn't know how to respond, she was edified with stagnant skepticism, I could almost visualize her through the phone weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing. Maybe we were both distraught by the bleak future that was awaiting us as a landlocked continent, or maybe we just looked at the future as a dystopian peril of chaos as many films and books have taught us. But whatever it was, I wanted to extend my arm out to her through the phone wires anticipating a crossing of the lines where strange voices or conversations could make your own plight trivial.

She started back up again like the revving of a dormant engine, "Look―alternatives have been suggested instead of supercorridors like reversible lanes, variable speed limits, ramp metering, and how about this...we have suggested they build the supercorridors in metropolitan urban areas where they can actually alleviate traffic, not in rural areas. The supercorridors are being planned and built in rural Texas. You know, there are all these bills in congress trying to scare the citizens about density and traffic increase, but in actuality many federal highway administration reports have suggested the opposite, which is that traffic is decreasing in some metropolitan and rural areas overall because of other factors like people working from home, people using public transportation, and people using alternative methods like cycling. The reports are ambiguous, it just depends on how they skew them. Some representatives have suggested a gas tax or an increase in license and registration fees to pay for roads, that's better than privatization and creating supercorridors. They need to build roads where we really need them. There's this new organization, the Dallas Tea Party, like the Boston Tea Party―a taxpayer revolt. You know, they've discovered certain Department of Transportation employees were being investigated by the FBI for bribery charges, yeah...they discovered a billion dollar accounting error, and they were making insider deals and bribes to contractors and such. It's a whole culture of fraud and waste."

I thought about the slush fund that Jay Jacobs had mentioned a while back and then it made sense, "That's it! I told you Helena, its organized crime at its best. That's the connection. See, when I was in Punta Colonet, a source mentioned that Texas congressmen and businessmen were with these Chinese businessmen―from Hudson Port Ltd, that company that owns a lot of the seaports around the world. I told you about that, remember? I didn't quite understand what they were doing together, but I do now. Doesn't it all make sense? Here's what I'm thinking, let me run it by you."

I paused to take a deep breath and continued, "The Trans-Texas Corridor was supposed to be a public infrastructure project proposed by the NAFTA agreement to consolidate continental transportation between Mexico, Canada, and the United States―that's clear. But because NAFTA doesn't have the ability to expropriate people's homes and land that is in the way of this project, state governments were given the project in order for state governments to establish eminent domain throughout the U.S. to avoid responsibility. The pressure would be off of NAFTA and each state would have to facilitate infrastructure through their transportation departments. A few different councils were then created in order to strategize and make recommendations for the best solutions to this North American Union problem, but these councils are these same government officials and corporate businessmen. We need to find out who sits on these councils. I'll even bet you that Zachary Construction is on one of those councils to represent construction plans for the state of Texas."

"Yeah, Emma Marlowe from Canada can shed some light there, she has more insight into those councils...continue," said Helena.

"Most likely, a recommendation was made to prevent the further development of housing in certain areas where the supercorridors would be traveling through, therefore, leaving the American heartland available for land development. In communities like Fair Oaks, developers across the United States were bought out or bankrupted in order to prevent the development from taking shape, so that eminent domain or development of the supercorridors would be facilitated instead. Do you remember Jay Jacobs mentioned the slush fund being used to finance the supercorridor project and something about the Governor being part of the EuroCarril-Zachary merger? Maybe the Governor bought himself onto the board of directors on Zachary Construction, unless he was already on it before, and then he helped broker the merger with EuroCarril. It's not uncommon for wealthy businessmen to buy themselves onto a corporate board of directors―we know how much influence he has. Most likely EuroCarril was awarded a contract after other companies were probably evaluated, and this one had the most probability of going through as a merger, that makes sense. That would place the Governor as a board of directors on each corporation, and I'm guessing slush fund money was used from the reserve tax fund and corporate donations in order to begin the project. Next―the Kansas City Rail Project, a non-profit created by business and government officials to oversee the development of a new inland port that facilitates transportation from seaports, trucking companies, and railroads. Think hard...they've bought out the nationalized railroads in Mexico, they've merged some existing railroads here in the U.S., they have a monopoly on some of the trucking companies, and most importantly they're working with Hudson Port to get shipments into this new port. I mean―there was this big real estate tycoon, a Jewish guy, in the limousine when I met with their spokesperson, and he mentioned something about buying some real estate for businesses around the port. I can almost guarantee that some board members on the merger are the same as on the Kansas City Rail Project. That's the connection...now let's prove it. That's the monopoly. The Governor of Texas and other public officials from Texas are involved..." I caught my breath.

"Wow Michael, that sounds daunting...and very rational. I'm impressed. And get this―just to add to what you're saying about these public officials. This Texas state senator...John Corona, he's the CEO of one of the largest property management companies in the whole country, well he's been charged with being a slumlord because he has hazardous condos all over Texas. He's being investigated by the FBI for accepting bribes. Oh, and guess what? He also wrote the Texas Residential Property Owner's Act, and he's always campaigning under proper business ethics and rights. Whatever...I bet he's involved. This other lawmaker, Albert Russell, he was arrested for DUI, but get this one. He wrote the 'Driver Responsibility Program' which includes a one-thousand dollar fine for a first conviction, but he didn't get charged and he's still a lawmaker. These people have top salaries, somewhere in the six digits, I guess you're right...it's all organized crime, it goes all the way to the top."

"It's not surprising, the federal government magically bailed out Wall Street and all these corporate banks with the snap of a finger, but they can't come up with monies for highway infrastructure. It doesn't make sense, you know. The government claims it has significant debt, and that's why the Chinese are purchasing the debt and U.S. investment funds that buy toll roads and infrastructure. And here lies another concern. Helena, the Chinese are buying key ports around the world, which means...when it's all said and done, there'll be a monopoly on ports, railroads, highway infrastructure systems, supercorridors, toll roads, bridges, tunnels, airports, etc...you name it, the selling off of the United States through chunks of public retail as privatization. They're dividing up the land. Now, we have to find out how Canada's involved," and we ended on that note and retired to bed on such thoughts.

8.

Helena wanted to investigate the death of Jay Jacobs because it didn't add up, but I wasn't so sure it was a good approach...I was skeptical. I hadn't covered crime since back in Los Angeles. I wasn't sure there was a crime here either, but I kept forgetting that sometimes I had to ignore the fact that I was a reporter. This was only a hunch. We had different information about the clandestine nature of this forming monopoly, which is what Jay Jacobs would corroborate, but he was gone, we were now quintessentially alone. It was a David and Goliath campaign, we were at war against an unfathomable tyrant.

Helena had already won a battle against the developers, yet she claimed they wanted her to be victorious because that was part of the plan. We couldn't prove anything yet, so I couldn't write the story, but I could at least piece it together and draft it until the opportunity presented itself to show Franklin. The paper had reported Jay Jacobs had died a natural death, perhaps an accident, but Helena wasn't buying it, she sold me on the idea to at least examine the autopsy report.

From a broader picture, it made sense he was murdered if someone found out he was going public with information. Implicating a Governor and other high-level public officials in a political scandal warranted murder in corrupted societies. It was foolish for any American to believe the United States government was above corruption. Then I wondered―why do we become so enraged when corruption accusations circulate around mass media?

Well, in my case, I wasn't disturbed by the corruption, c'mon, my parents are from Argentina and Russia, political scandal is the norm. My concern was with the cover-up process and the blatant disrespect for the ignorant citizenry, as if democratic values were still heralded as virtuous. In today's society, the corrupt public official is the virtuoso businessmen, modern pirates robbing tax-payers of hard-earned capital―that's what I was fighting against. I didn't care about a pseudo-democratic process. That was a romanticized notion exploited by the naïve populace and mass media who loved the abstract ideas of freedom and liberty.

I contacted the reporter at the Austin American-Statesmen based on the tagline. I sent a brief e-mail of flattering emulation followed by a fleeting question of the autopsy report. I wanted to see it with my own eyes because something would leap out and grab my attention. If it was true that Jay Jacobs was on the verge of committing political suicide by coming forth with this clandestine information, then a murderous plot to reprove his openness perhaps cost him his life. It had been too late for him to retract his communiqué.

He had been scheduled to air live on NPR the day following his death, or murder. We wanted to be proactive―if the reporter didn't have a copy of the autopsy report and he didn't notice anything unusual, we should contact the Travis County medical examiner's office to request an autopsy report regardless of the amount of time it would take to receive it, after all, the state of Texas deemed all autopsy reports public information. We requested it through Helena's law firm, the Houston Chronicle would probably raise a red flag because of investigative purposes, but attorneys usually handled civil affairs after deaths so it wouldn't be so uncanny. When we met the reporter in Downtown Austin at a coffee shop we were in luck, he still had the autopsy report, but the scene was unprecedented.

A middle-aged, shaggy-looking, sickly, thin and scrawny man wearing thick-framed horn glasses, that looked like a computer geek approached our table and said, "Korsakov?"

"Yeah," I said.

I stood up to shake his hand, but then he gave me an envelope underneath the table, then he scurried out of the coffee shop without looking back. Helena and I stared at each other in awe. We rushed to open the envelope to cross-examine the report to find any inconsistencies.

For a moment I thought I was getting served. We read through the report sifting through the organs and organ weight section, through the internal and external examination, we assessed the identifying marks and scars paragraph, and nothing seemed unusual about the evidence of injury report. The conclusion and manner of death were what Helena and I had expected, everything seemed up to par, until we arrived at the toxicology results and noticed the prescription drugs that were found in the body.

Helena noticed after a quick skim, "Cardura xl, my father takes this for his prostate cancer."

"Did you say prostate?" I asked, "Jay Jacobs didn't have prostate cancer...he had lung cancer. I remember it well because he coughed all over me like the Black Death, remember? I wonder why he had this drug in his system―what kind of repercussion may a different medication cause? We should cross reference the drug to see if it was enough to cause a negative reaction. This could be evidence of foul play."

"You know Michael, that guy was really odd, was he the reporter you contacted?"

"I'm not sure...I never saw his face. We had only written each other a couple of times via e-mail, but that was so...I don't know―straight out of a film or something, right? What do you think? Oh...wait a minute, what's this?"

I turned the envelope over on its back, there was a post-it attached that read...Be careful, you're being followed.

"Let's get out of here Helena―fast."

I glanced all around looking for anything out of the norm...I left a twenty on the counter for the coffee and pastries. We quickly dashed out onto the streets.

* * *

A luxury had been granted to me several years ago. I had worked as a liaison of sorts between the L.A. Times and the Department of Health and Human Services on a longitudinal study, which allowed me the privilege of requesting specific addresses of any party I wished. I carried a letter with me at all times, a journalistic tool, that stipulated my privilege to obtain such information and I still carried my old L.A. Times badge―I was never questioned. More so when I was working on a story out-of-state because people respected authority, because it was official, nobody ever wanted to escalate it to upper-level management.

Sometimes a supervisor would step in to examine the authenticity of the letter followed by a few questions, but most of the time it was furnished with quickness. I would wait in line at the customer service desk, hand them the letter with my badge lingering around my neck, smile and make small talk, within a few minutes I had the most updated address for the party I was requesting. As smooth as silk...the illegal trickery of a reporter.

So, at the United States Postal Service main branch in Austin, I obtained Mary Jacobs'―the commissioner's widow, physical address in Barton Hills, which would be our next stop. But I will admit I was starting to become paranoid. Helena had scrolled some web pages on her phone to investigate any significant concerns related to the medication and it turned out a lead.

Barton Hills was an intimidating, high income, suburban community in the outskirts of Austin. We got ourselves a local map and waved around the winding streets that circled around ranch-style luxury homes with ecological gardens and yards. It was a perfect escape from the hustle and bustle of downtown politics. It seemed like a perfect escape to ponder government corruption, and so I assumed it a perfect hide-out for Jay Jacobs to be tucked away in his corner of solitude. All this wealth around him would have perhaps suggested an underlying tone of absurdity.

We parked on the opposite side and walked to the address anticipating a polemical situation. Noticing my reluctance, Helena glanced over at me and grabbed my hand, "Everything's going to be alright Michael, don't worry about it, honey. I'm so glad you got involved in this, you are truly an amazing man."

You can perhaps imagine what I felt when Helena said those fine words to me. Comforted, accomplished, embarrassed, gratified, aroused, and a slew of other emotions and feelings I couldn't distinguish. Has anyone ever told you anything of that significance at a chaotic moment such as this, when the world was closing in on you? Well, I didn't know what to do or how to feel, but I know it reinforced my fondness for her.

I merely squeezed her hand, I smiled, "Shall I knock or should you do the honors?"

We walked towards the front door hand in hand until she released it before knocking. We looked towards each other with a smile plastered on our faces.

An elderly woman opened the wooden door, she glanced through the slight portal. She had piercing green eyes and short auburn hair, easy on the eye I'd like to add, "Hi, can I help you?"

Helena spoke first, "Hi...I'm Helena Stratos and this is Michael Korsakov. How do you do, ma'am? Are you Mary Jacobs by any chance?"

"Why, yes I am, how can I help you sweetie?"

"We were acquaintances with your husband, the commissioner Jay Jacobs. I'm so sorry for your loss. We wanted to extend our condolences to his family. He had given us your address here in Barton Hills after we talked about meeting here for dinner."

Helena reacted rapid, therefore I continued with the ruse. I looked into Mary Jacobs' eyes and she jumbled up, she snickered for a moment and took a step back.

I reached in for an uncomfortable embrace between the open door and said, "I'm sorry for your loss ma'am."

Helena continued, "We had been working on a project with your husband, had he mentioned anything to you about us, or maybe on a project related to NAFTA or the supercorridors?"

She hadn't used our professional titles of reporter and attorney because it could have caused apprehensiveness. Helena had sharpened skills that were refined with practice, we used reporter and attorney trickery on the poor widow but I didn't regret any of it since we were interested in exposing the murder of her husband, if such had occurred.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. I don't remember him mentioning anything about NAFTA or anything related to it. At least not a recent project, but he has always been working on the supercorridors with the Department of Transportation. You should know that...that's why he's the commissioner."

She paused to wipe her tears. "That's related to NAFTA, but he didn't mention anything about you folks. I'm sorry, but can you please leave, I'm not interested in wherever this is headed. I don't know what this is about...but I'm not interested. Please leave. I can't do this right now."

Mary Jacobs became apprehensive and began shutting the door. Her voice had shifted from distraught concern to agitated resentment. "Please Mrs. Jacobs, I know this is difficult for you right now, but do you know if the commissioner had any enemies or anyone who wanted to hurt him?" asked Helena.

"What did you say missy―you're skating on thin ice here? I think you better leave before I call the police. This is private property. How dare you―"

I interrupted with confidence, I hadn't spoken. We were losing the widow to apathy. "Look ma'am, we're sorry to disturb you, we know this is extremely difficult for you, but we have reason to believe your husband might have been murdered by some people in a position of power. Your husband knew too much...he was dissatisfied. We were working on a project together related to the supercorridors. He contacted us several times to provide clandestine insight as to the nature of the supercorridors. He was concerned that he was making serious enemies with important business and political alliances. He even maintained that his time was limited so he wanted us to connect the pieces to the puzzle. I'm sorry Mrs. Jacobs, but he was guiding us on a business-government misappropriation of funds conspiracy and he wanted us to expose it. I'm a reporter with the Houston Chronicle and Mrs. Stratos here's a lawyer based out of Fayetteville. We think he might have been murdered."

She didn't respond, she looked at me with blank eyes, she began weeping once again, but at least she hadn't closed the door.

I continued, "We examined the autopsy report and found traces of a drug called Cardura xl, it's a medication used to treat prostate cancer, but we know the commissioner had lung cancer. By any chance did the commissioner have high blood pressure or any other condition that would cause him nausea or extreme dizziness?"

"Why yes he did, he had high blood pressure but it was controlled," said the widow.

"Well, this medication can cause extreme negative reactions if the recipient had high blood pressure and if it was taken in large quantities. The autopsy report showed large traces of this drug in his system, so it's probable that this could have produced a severe side effect. Do you know how this drug might've got into his system? Here, take a look," I pulled out the autopsy report and handed it to Mrs. Jacobs.

While she read the report, Helena tugged me on the arm and suggested I looked towards the street where we had parked. There was a black Lincoln Town Car parked across the street with an individual inside: clean-shaven, dark sunglasses, short hair, suit and tie, with a coiled surveillance tube, staring in our direction.

Mary Jacobs looked up at us, she noticed our distraught faces looking towards the street, "What have you done, have you brought trouble to my home?"

She slammed the door behind her and left us abandoned on her porch. She kept the autopsy report as well. We looked back towards the street, the vehicle sped off, Helena and I looked at each other―we understood we had to flee. We walked to the car looking in both directions with caution, and then we scurried with our legs wobbling across the pavement. I turned on the ignition. As we began driving off, the Lincoln hauled ass to the side and clipped the driver's mirror. I turned the steering wheel, careening out of control. We almost crashed into a vehicle. We went hysterical, shouting and screaming and cussing. I thought for sure my number was up.

9.

Roth drove to a public storage facility in Houston. He parked a black Lincoln Town Car in a storage unit and placed a tarp over it. He unscrewed the fabricated license plate and returned the original and then he took off his blazer, tie, sunglasses, and surveillance ear piece. It was the second disguise he had used today. The first when he delivered the autopsy report wearing thick-framed reading glasses, a three-day beard, and a wavy-haired wig, the second as a secret service agent in the Lincoln.

The vehicle was a rental, but he needed to do some light body work on it before he returned it because of when he clipped Michael's mirror in Barton Hills. He walked out of the storage facility wearing a white long-sleeved button shirt and a pair of black trousers, his hair style was minimal because of his balding, receding hair line. His skin was leathered and pallid, what remained of his hair was like blackened velvet, and he had long-arched eyebrows like Helena's.

He took a public bus to Houston Heights around the block from where Michael lived. From his back window he had a clear view of Michael's bedroom window. A clear shot through a scope couldn't have been more perfect. He had taken an apartment close to Michael's to monitor his moves after he had bugged him in the limousine in Kansas City. That neighborhood had now become his temporary headquarters.

He also placed a tracking device underneath Michael's vehicle when it was parked in front of the widow's house, but Michael was too unaware to underestimate the escalation of his paranoia. To access his apartment he installed a fingerprint control system and a fingerprint hand lock to prevent a break in, the inside of his apartment was bare of any furniture with the exception of a computer work station on hardwood floor and two flat screen monitors that showed different angles of the inside of Michael's apartment.

A few swiveling chairs rested amongst the workstation. A living room wall had a corkboard with newspaper clippings of the Houston Chronicle with Michael Korsakov's name on the bylines. He activated the tracking device that was placed underneath his car and discovered he was parked along the Fayetteville Lake. He knew Michael wouldn't be barging in to his apartment within the next hour. He presumed Michael was going frantic by the events that had unraveled today and he would be reviewing them with Helena trying to make sense of it all. He was right.

He played back a recording from the bugging device he installed on a telephone at the Jacobs residence a few days prior. He heard Mary Jacobs' voice, "Hey, it's me...can I speak to you for a second?"

The phone call was made a few minutes after she slammed the door on Michael and Helena.

A baritone-voiced man on the opposite end said, "Yeah, sure...what can I do for you?"

"I just had some reporter and a lawyer walk up to my house and ask questions about the autopsy report. I thought this was over, you said it wasn't going to escalate further than that. Now I have―"

"Calm down...calm down, do you remember their names?"

I don't remember the gal's name, I think she was Mexican...I'm not sure, she was definitely ethnic, and the guy's name was...Korsakoff, some strange Russian name or something like that."

"Don't worry, we'll take care of it. Calm down, and definitely don't talk to anyone else―you got that!"

"I got it, but you better move quickly on this. Oh...and I hope that agent of yours outside my apartment in the Lincoln is taking care of these two snoops."

"What agent? What Lincoln...uh...never mind. Okay, we'll take care of that."

Roth faintly recognized the baritone voice, but he knew who it belonged to. He had been waiting for that type of phone call for about a week now. The plan was developing accordingly.

He grabbed a backpack from a nearby closet and a Houston Astro's ball cap and then walked out towards Michael's apartment. He walked up the four flights of stairs in silenced foot pads and rehearsed a speech should anyone question his whereabouts. He was a census taker, he had a counterfeit badge.

The front door of Michael's apartment was picked with a paperclip and a quick shove while avoiding suspecting neighbors, and then he walked over to Michael's laptop to place another monitoring device on his keyboard, another one on his thermostat, and an additional one on his bedroom clock. There was no room for failure on this project, all angles had to be covered, and no loopholes could be exposed.

Roth ransacked the apartment searching for some anonymous object. He looked through Michael's underwear, sock, and t-shirt drawer to no avail. He threw his magazines, books, and notebooks off of the computer desk hoping to find the object hidden between the hoard, and nothing. He did find a pistol, and took it as a souvenir. He searched through Chloe's remaining clothes drawer without success, and then he ran his hands through pockets of coats hanging in the closet before throwing them onto the floor. He appeared frustrated. Whatever information he was looking for was out of his reach. He grabbed a marker from Michael's supply cup, he tore a piece of blank paper from a notebook, and he scrawled a few words and placed it on the refrigerator behind a magnet. It was a warning to Michael.

10.

On the way home from Fayetteville, I glanced at every car that passed me and surveyed through my rearview mirror for anything conspicuous. Getting off on random exits and then back on the highway in case anyone was trailing me, driving in haste, and then slowed zigzagging across the lanes, then speeding up again before stopping to use an occasional restroom.

My pistol was in the apartment, I would've given anything at that moment to wrap my hand around, remove the safety and place it underneath my left thigh for immediate access. I would unload and reload on any sucker who tried to test me in this moment of furious rage. I was a member of the NRA, I would put it to use. I wanted to make some phone calls but...who would I call?

I couldn't call Franklin to inform him about my whereabouts or what I had been investigating because I had gone to the commissioner's house to interview the widow. He would've canned me then. Perhaps he'd fire me before I even got the chance to explain my end of the story―obese bastard, I couldn't trust anyone! When I made it back alive to Houston, I took red lights and avoided stop signs. I was racing home to my sanctuary and my pistol...where I could wallow in turmoil, but at least I would feel protected from brimstone.

When I turned the knob on my door after I had slipped in the key, it fell on its stainless steel escutcheon plate in front of me with the sound of a death sonnet unraveling. What the hell, should I even go inside? Petrified and with reluctance, I entered the apartment with slow steps looking with sharpness at every angle, trying to remember blind spots, then I called the police.

Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, however, when thrust into moments of quick response, rationality wasn't always your first instinct. I don't recall having anything of much value with the exception of my laptop, my I-pod, and a docking stereo with charger and speakers, which were intact, but my clothes were thrown about throughout the apartment.

My already unkempt muddled apartment had been overturned, but nothing was missing, except my pistol. Damn it! What I cared about the most at that exact moment, my 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol had been burglarized from my apartment. I paced back and forth in the living room waiting for the police to arrive and contemplated calling Helena or Franklin, when I noticed a piece of paper under a magnet on the refrigerator door with black writing. Leave the commissioner alone.

Now, I'm no handwriting expert but the penmanship appeared identical to the note that was left on the autopsy report in Austin―a connection. I heard a knock on the door, "the police, damn," I crumbled the note and slipped it into a back jean pocket. The police had arrived, but I wasn't so sure I wanted them now. A short, thin, light-skinned, clean-shaven officer with Diaz on his badge asked me redundant questions about the pistol. It was common for officers to question people in a random redundant order because of their trained suspicion. Everyone was a suspect, being an inside job was never far-fetched.

The other officer was about my height with a military-style haircut with the name Scott engraved on his badge. He foraged the bedroom making sharp observations in regards to my clutter which jarred him up. It was clear I hadn't established good rapport with law enforcement since working for the Times. Since the incident in Barton Hills I hadn't had a chance to think with clarity, the day had been so anarchic, what I needed now was quiet, not these cops trying to rouse me up in my apartment. The police sifted through the apartment making assessments, they looked for clues, and they continued asking questions about the pistol and of other personal nature. I was jovial when they finally concluded their investigation. They took the necessary serial numbers and paperwork to file a report―I didn't think I would see them again. Making a police report was futile.

After the police left, I asked a neighbor to watch the apartment while I got a replacement door lock from the hardware store. None of the neighbors saw anything suspicious. The thief had broken in without a trace or drawing attention to his motives. I considered driving to an inner-city neighborhood to replace my pistol with an illegal firearms dealer instead of waiting the sixty-day period to apply for temporary permission to carry a concealed weapon. But, I was concerned that I would actually use it and have to explain a web of uncertainties. I wasn't ready for that.

I thought about going to Canada. If there was ever a time to evade and escape to Canada like so many Americans had done as draft-dodgers or conscientious war objectors, now would be a perfect moment. Well let's not get carried away, not as drastic as to evade forever or renounce my citizenship, but to clear my perplexed state to continue the investigation. I wasn't frightened by the animosity surrounding the investigation and it started feeling like I was on the right track.

I needed to find a lead in order to convince Franklin about giving me a budget to pursue such a story. I had just covered a few stories around the continental U.S., then Mexico, now I wanted to head over to Canada. Perhaps Franklin would agree since he wanted me to cover International. As far as North American continental concerns, I had it covered...and this was the way I would have to explain it to Franklin, but first I needed to handle domestic security issues.

* * *

I've shared with you about my social network back home and people I was connected to, but I needed someone I could trust with issues relating to personal safety without escalating the situation. I needed someone without a criminal record, who wasn't on parole, who wouldn't get carried away, who I could trust to house-sit while I researched Canada and its economic relationship with the United States and the whole NAFTA issue.

I pondered this while on my balcony having a drink and smoking a cigarette. The name came to me after twenty minutes or so, Pencho Slaveykov, a Bulgarian professional art thief, conman, hustler, and jack-of-all-trades...a pantologist, a reliable source who could handle a challenging score. A few years ago he was investigated for illegally obtained antiquities at the J. Paul Getty Museum when he used to work as a security officer but he was exonerated, that's where I met him. I used to work there as well.

I didn't want to get anyone from the mafias involved because it could get messy down here, I didn't know what I was up against yet. This was a cleaner way to examine the players. Pencho was suitable. He took on scores back home, had no ties to any particular criminal organization...and he owed me one. I could easily bring him on board. Because we had similar last names, he would be a perfect match, after all, people in general lumped ethnic groups together so often that I could get away with advertising him as a relative. That's how life had to be played. You use your strengths in positions of need, and expose the weaknesses of others to your benefit. I had no problem exploiting that.

I walked down the street to a local payphone. I had seen too many films and read too many detective stories about people's telephones being bugged. Based on the events that had unraveled today with the scene at the coffee shop in Austin, the Lincoln in Barton Hills, and now the break-in, I didn't want to take any chances. I didn't know why someone would take my pistol and leave a note behind. Whoever it was, they at least knew I wasn't armed so I had to be careful about how I proceeded.

I glared over my shoulders and fixated my sight on parked vehicles, the flow of traffic, and conspicuous pedestrians. Disgusted, I cleaned the payphone on my jacket to wipe any germs off, and then I slipped in a few quarters that would buy me limited access time on a phone call to Los Angeles. I dialed Pencho. His voice was giddy and composed while my stomach churned as I half-explained my situation and what I necessitated from him including the utmost discretion. He was favorable to my situation, he had no problem booking a flight after we hung up if need be, he was solid like that...a connection you could rely on when stranded in a colossal vicissitude without a plan.

I called Helena to explain what had happened at my apartment. If my life was in possible danger, then perhaps hers as well. I didn't want to have that on my burdened conscience. She needed to be protected so I advised her to seek refuge at her parents' home...at least for a few days. Her voice cracked on the other line, she said something about not wanting to sleep alone. Through my natural interpretation of receiving mixed signals from women I could have sworn it was an invitation, but I didn't have the courage to ask, those types of thoughts had betrayed me in the past. With respect, I ignored it. But before she hung up, she told me she had been contacted by Emma Marlowe from Canada and was going to be in Massachusetts in two days, which would be the opportune moment for us to meet because she would be traveling throughout India on a water campaign for several months.

Next, I dialed Franklin, a dreaded phone call. I hadn't checked-in with him in regards to my whereabouts or my leads, and I hadn't submitted anything for about two days. I knew Franklin didn't like me. It was not uncommon for me to be a thorn in an editor's side. That's how I worked in newsrooms, I tried flying under the radar in work environments but my rebellious behavior caused constant aggravation and hostility from those in charge. Whatever...I just wanted enough room to allow for my skills to flourish without being censored. But Franklin was flexible and I was taken aback by the way he was placated. He lashed out at the beginning, but then he started seeing the interconnectedness of my stories based on my rising intonation patterns and focused determination. I was surprised how he acquiesced. He gave me the green light to go to Massachusetts with an approved budget.

I called Pencho back, "You better book a flight for tomorrow, it went smoother than I had expected with my boss."

Two days later, Pencho arrived in a taxi cab in front of my apartment sporting an Ivy League hairstyle parted down the left side with gel, which matched his oval face and long nose. He wore a black vintage sweater with a plaid dress shirt underneath with a scarf wrapped around clasping his neck and throat, a pair of black trousers cuffed at the bottom showing his ankles and Oxford loafers. He carried a black leather vintage globe-trotter suitcase with tan straps. He looked quite dapper and regal if I may be so bold to admit, the homosexual element in the neighborhood was going to love him. I reached over to him and gave him a meager embrace, he reciprocated, and then we stepped back and grabbed each other by the shoulders.

"Mikhail, it's good to see you! You look like shit!" he said.

"Thanks, but it's been a rough few days, I'll explain in the apartment. Here, let me take this."

I grabbed his luggage and proceeded towards the gated door.

"You're looking sharp, what's this whole look? It's very becoming."

I walked up the stairs with his luggage being dragged until, "Here, let me give you a hand," said Pencho.

"You know Mikhail, you have to look good for the ladies, isn't that how you landed that Chloe of yours―now she was a real looker, that one you got there. You've just let yourself go."

It wasn't offensive. Pencho was always at the vanguard of style draped at the height of fashion and making sure people noticed. His comments were commonplace. Even when he used to work at the Getty Museum in a security officer uniform he paraded stylish confidence.

"Well old friend, that didn't work out, long story―let's just say we were headed in different directions. I don't want to talk about that...I'm sorry, maybe some other time. Here let me put your stuff away."

I grabbed his luggage and dragged it into the bedroom when I heard him yell out, "Listen, we're not going to do any kind of business until you let me cut your hair. You look like trailer-park, red-neck white trash―I'm serious. C'mon, we're soviets, soviets have Bolshevik style, man! Did you turn into a hick ever since you came down to Texas or something? C'mon, let's head over to the bathroom. Look at you."

He stood me in front of the mirror. We poked fun at my lengthy feral strands of hair and facial shrubbery.

"You look so much more handsome clean-cut, I'm telling you...you think I have any problem with the ladies? Is that why Chloe left you? C'mon, let me shave it off?"

I thought about it for a minute or so, perhaps he was right, the statement regarding "freedom" I was making with my look was in vain because nobody appreciated it. I was even offered money once at a bus stop because of my military gloves cut at the tips with only the feelers remaining, my beard, and my military flak jacket, like some disillusioned war veteran.

"Alright then, let's shave it...whatever."

Pencho grabbed the clippers from a restroom drawer and turned the power switch on. The sound rumbled through my ears giving me the erotic pleasure equal to listening to the sublime sound of a tattoo gun, both of which I missed with zeal. I sat on the toilet and slipped off my t-shirt.

"Let's do this―like Brutus! Use the shortest clip, and give me a clean squared-line on the back, will you," I said.

I began talking to Pencho about the blueprint, from its origins to what I had discovered. I was eager to share the story with someone else besides Helena. The artistry of being connected to the underworld was that those people were more trustworthy and would escort you into the depths of purgatory, unlike other acquaintances or professionals who would shy away at the very thought of violence.

I told him about the NAFTA connection and what happened a few days ago with the death of the commissioner, visiting the widow, about the note left with the autopsy report, and the recent break-in. I treated Pencho like a barber or tattoo artist―deep conversation.

"Look, Pencho, I have to go to Massachusetts tomorrow to meet with a Canadian organizer. She has the Canadian inside scoop on what remains to piece the puzzle. If I get good information I can connect NAFTA to the Kansas City Rail Project, to Hudson Port Ltd, to the Texas Department of Transportation, to Zachary and EuroCarril, to the Texas legislature, to the Governor, to the murder of the commissioner. Then I can submit my conclusion to the Houston Chronicle and expose government and business corruption, monopoly, and murder. This is huge, man. We're talkin' front page. The murder of an informant, a government official! But, I know someone's on my trail now because of what just happened...so I need you to stay here in the apartment and just keep an eye on things for a few days. I'm going to Massachusetts tomorrow then most likely I'm going to head over to Canada. I need you to keep your ears and eyes open around here, alright, I think whoever came here is likely to return. Stay away from the phones, I think they're bugged. If someone tries to break-in, just do whatever you have to do to apprehend the perpetrator, and then call me. Then we'll figure out the rest. No guns though, I'm serious, I know you have other techniques, so please use that instead. I'm serious, I don't want anybody getting killed in my living room."

"It sounds like you're way too involved, man. Good luck Mikhail, don't get yourself killed."

After he finished cutting my hair I looked into the mirror. I didn't recognize myself at first, but flashbacks of my former life raced around. We both stroked my head in a moment of acceptance and smiled with a fraternal gesticulation. I felt like a new man with my buzzed scalp and trimmed beard and moustache, thus, I was more confident in my stride.

11.

Emma Marlowe, one of the founding members of Le Conseil―a citizen organization based in Canada, was a recipient of eight honorary doctorates, an author, a social activist, and a fierce nemesis of the North American Union. We met her at Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, where she provided a basic overview on the North American Competitive Council and the Security and Prosperity Partnership. There were so many groups associated with continental issues.

She reminded me of the widow, short auburn hair, piercing green eyes, and a gentle softness to her profile. "Nice to see and meet you both, I'm glad you could make it. Shall we get started?"

She didn't waste any time―quick, sharp, and straight to the neck, I beamed in approval. "Do you know what's going on here around Walden Pond by any chance?"

"No, actually, we don't know anything about that. We're working on the supercorridors, mostly in Texas, but this conspiracy or whatever it is has taken us to Kansas City, Mexico, to Los Angeles, here with you, and maybe...Canada, covering all of North America I guess. As you already know, Jay Jacobs had wanted us to meet, and well...now that he's gone, it's imperative that we follow up with you. We think he might've been murdered, and we're starting to come across some trouble. We're still working on that."

Helena didn't need to go into details, it wasn't essential. It was our battle, she was playing it well. "We know you are well informed about NAFTA, we were hoping you could shed some more light on what we've been discovering," said Helena, then she added, "what's going on here in Walden Pond by the way?"

"I'll do as best as I can with what I know. You see, the commissioner had recently contacted me and some elected officials from Canada that also opposed the North American Union. I guess he had a difficult time dealing with the burdensome collusion of the NAFTA agreement because of his involvement, even more so with the Texas legislature, the Department of Transportation, and the other organizations in Texas which are involved. He was in danger of becoming a good man...he tried to do his duty for his country. I'm glad you're working on this, and I'm sorry that he has now passed."

We all took a moment of silence.

"Well, back to the pond and I hope that wasn't rude. Please forgive me if I'm being rather curt, but we're pressed for time."

"No, no...not at all," I looked over at Helena as if seeking approval, "please go ahead."

"I was contacted by community organizers here in Walden who are up against a multi-national company that's been illegally pumping water from a local watershed. It's causing the watershed to dry, massive amounts of pollution, and the destruction of local ecosystems here in the pond. There are also rumors about that same corporation to extend their illegal pumping after it's dried up and clear the area to make way for a parking structure or a strip mall. We're concerned the judge will rule in favor of the corporation and grant it rights as a person or individual. I know it sounds insane, yet judges constantly rule in favor of corporations based on precedent cases. Can you believe that? This lawsuit is in the courts now, so we continue to pressure government officials and keep raising awareness."

"Does this pond here have anything to do with NAFTA?" I asked.

"Everything is related to NAFTA, which I'm sure you're now discovering. Do you know what the North American Competitive Council is?" Both Helena and I shrugged.

"Well, it's an organization made up of thirty CEO's of different private corporations from Mexico, the United States, and Canada―ten from each country. It was officially launched in Cancun in 2006, but there was never a press release related to any such meeting. In actuality, the council was privately founded prior to that in order for business leaders to provide international business recommendations to top government officials from the Security and Prosperity Partnership, another organization based on North American concerns, only there was no official press release issued either. There is only one major difference between these two organizations―one is made up of the business community of North America, the other of government officials of North America."

"Do you know what government officials and businesses are involved in these councils?" I asked.

"Well let's see if you recognize some of these names. There's...Ford, General Motors, Chevron, Wal-Mart, Lockheed Martin, The Home Depot, Scotiabank, and maybe, well...I think you know something about this one―the Kansas City Rail Project. Does that name ring a bell?"

"Yeah, they're monopolizing transportation services throughout the Midwest! I interviewed the spokesperson, really unscrupulous individual by the way. And same as what you just said, there was no official press release relating to the development of the Kansas City inland port either, and they're supposed to be non-profit. I guess they're not so non-profit after all. You're saying they're a major player around the NAFTA supercorridors and these partnerships of business and corporate organizations?"

Emma Marlowe mentioned the other names, other less-known Mexican and Canadian ones, however, this one interested me the most. After all, I had interviewed their spokesperson who embraced the idea of limited media coverage to avoid public scrutiny. Then there was that whole surrealist situation with that Jewish guy with all his talk about real estate.

She continued, "Well, if that isn't enough to get you off your rocker, this other corporation is going to strike a chord and plunge into your intestines. How about...the Zachary Construction and the EuroCarril merger, sound familiar?" Helena and I looked at each other in disbelief.

Helena spoke first, "Are you serious? How do you know, how can you confirm this corporation was part of those councils and agreements? I thought those meetings were held in private? I litigated against a developer related to Zachary Construction in Texas, they filed for bankruptcy. Remember what we talked about Michael?"

"Are you kidding me, that's when the merger actually took place! That was when and where it developed! Keep this in mind okay, EuroCarril is a Spanish company with toll road operations in Mexico and Canada, well among other countries as well, but North America is our concern. Look―my understanding of this partnership and council is that of a public and private sector dialogue of the NAFTA countries to facilitate the North American political community to allow the private sector to engage substantially on trade and security issues without, and I'll quote from one of the American business leaders, 'Without undue deference to political sensibilities.'

"I've worked on social activism and grassroots campaigns against big business and unethical political behavior for a long time. What this means is that these people want to circumnavigate the legislative process in regards to international business practices. They want to make more profits at a quicker rate and avoid the regulatory red tape...that was what Mussolini claimed about fascism―Corporatism in fact, because it provides the corporate sector a pivotal role in policy implementation. This Competitive Council claims the North American continent needs to remain globally competitive in the world market, that it must be the most advanced and competitive regional trading bloc, thus it focuses on key sectors such as automotive, transportation, and manufacturing services. It's also focused on three major issues handled by a specific country. For example, border crossing being facilitated by Canada, which you as patriotic Americans should understand the repercussions of having Canadian government officials and business leaders making recommendations for your border concerns. I don't think so, right. That would be treason. Then standards and regulatory cooperation, of course, by the United States―the Roman Empire, the United States will impose economic policies on Canada. We're not going to stand around with our arms folded for that. Remember, evil triumphs when good people stand around and do nothing. And if you control the economic system, you control the country. And last of all we get Mexico―energy integration, which means what exactly? Energy integration reduces countries' autonomy to remain self-sufficient, which will most likely grant the United States dominance over North American natural resources. I don't think anyone will actually assume Mexico will make renewable energy recommendations to the United States and Canada. Ha! It all seems to be playing out strategically, this unofficial political athleticism. Welcome to the Olympian Circle of North America! Don't you think it's uncanny, especially when non-profit watchdog groups sought access to their meetings under the Federal Advisory Committee Act and the Freedom of Information Act? These federal acts stipulate open meetings and access to reports, transcripts, minutes, appendixes, studies, agendas...amongst other standards, but which were rejected because of their supposed non-profit status. That's how they find loopholes in the system."

She continued back up, Emma Marlowe was on a roll, neither Helena nor I wanted to interrupt her. This woman had dedicated her life to social activism, she was on a crusade against the North American Union, she had every right to carry on, "So the Security and Prosperity Partnership...do you want to know about that?" she asked.

"Of course, please continue," I announced. Helena absorbed it all in biting the skin around her nails, while nodding her head.

"This is another type of North American continental organization, officially set up in Waco, Texas, which is a layer of the NAFTA treaty made up of senior government officials to facilitate North American issues. And they're all from Mexico, Canada, and the United States―political elites. Does it sound any different from the North American Competitive Council? I don't think so. They're all business and corporate elites working together without taking us into consideration. It seems as if they were just creating layer after layer of policy development to confuse public interest, but most of all to avoid responsibility. So I guess, the way to find out who and what is at the core is to peel off layer after layer, that's what the commissioner was working on, and now it's up to us brave souls to carry the torch he left. Be careful Michael and Helena, we're not in the Progressive Era. Journalism, especially activist journalism is in danger of becoming extinct. Be careful, the elites control mass media. According to private sources, this partnership maintains various cross-border groups in important areas such as manufactured goods, sectoral and regional competitiveness, energy, environment, e-commerce, information communications and technologies, and financial services―everything relating to our day-to-day lives. It's difficult to see the fine line between the Security and Prosperity Partnership and the North American Competitive Council. They're made up of the same people recommending policy without oversight, which seems like the shuffling of officials into councils and organizations causing troubling confusion to the general public while avoiding scrutiny. We're up against an unknown leviathan. Remember this though, the council is big business and the partnership is government. That's the monopoly."

She handed us a manila envelope while she observed her surroundings with sharpness, "Take these documents―this one is an official transcript of a meeting between the partnership and the council. This other document is the minutes and the agenda section of the corporate charters of numerous companies. Look at the highlighted names, one in particular...the Governor of Texas. Look at the board of directors section. Look at how many boards and on what corporations he sits on. These documents connect the mergers and the monopoly. The Governor of Texas sits at the highest level, Jay Jacobs had so much information on him and he was ready to expose him. He sent this over before he passed on. And, he's going to run for president one day, you'll see. Don't let his death be in vain. Lastly, you need to understand something else―water. In the near future, the NAFTA supercorridors will transfer Canadian fresh water through water pipelines and water mining technology to the United States unless North American citizens can come together in unison to block the plan. Water is the new liquid gold, as important as oil. You can be sure that many business people and government officials want these supercorridors to exist. Do what you can with what you have, whatever is in your power to do, that's all I ask for...and that's what Jay Jacobs had asked. Michael...Helena, with this knowledge and these tools you possess comes great responsibility. The written word is by far the most powerful tools of communication. Reach out to your audience. Speak out."

Emma Marlowe removed a handkerchief from her purse to wipe tears from her icy eyes. She gave us a rippling glance.

"I'm sorry to leave you like this but I really do have to go. I urge you to go to Canada and talk to my partner about the water crisis. She's expecting you, she'll give you more insight. You have some more work to do. If you can link this to Jay Jacobs, I know you believe he was murdered, so use that to your advantage. Goodbye you two, we'll keep in touch...and be careful," those were the last words we heard her speak.

* * *

We checked-in to a local hotel in Concord, the historical Colonial Inn, after leaving Walden Pond around late afternoon. Helena was exhausted and wanted to be alone to review the documents, while I wanted to go for a walk or a jog around the Monument Square. Physical exercise helped clear my thought process during a stressful conundrum. It paved the way for a mental map used to brainstorm interpreted data.

Also, I wanted to call Pencho to get an update on my apartment, which he informed me was clear. I had Canada on my mind. This latest information on water was riveting. Now that we were here in the Northeast and close enough for a dash, I had to build up enough courage to ask Helena if she would join me. I didn't know if she was married, or if she had a boyfriend...or girlfriend, but at least I know I hadn't seen a ring on her finger. She never talked about relationships either...she was professional and private. So if I did ask, and if it was too bold on my behalf, it would be a natural invitation extended out to her without any strings attached. And if she was married, I wouldn't be a total scumbag because a man will assume a woman is not married if she's not wearing a wedding ring. So many rules, why couldn't she just tell me if she was or wasn't, I wouldn't have to tread like a teenager.

With this entire political corruption exercising ascendency over me, I missed being a crime reporter in L.A. covering the local detritus. It gave me satisfaction that good people read my stories and felt safer when criminals were caught. Since I hadn't found my beat with the Chronicle because I was too distracted with Chloe, I produced lousy work. In hindsight, I could now articulate my folly.

I was lucky Franklin gave me the go-ahead on coming to Massachusetts but I had to push for Canada as well. Just a few more days and I could furnish empirical evidence―all the way to the Governor's office. This would drag me out of stagnation. Franklin was satisfied I had taken the initiative to get involved in the international arena. It's what I was known for. It was now or never, I had to go for the gusto. When I called him on the phone to talk about going over to Canada, he brought up that Gold Shirts piece again, notoriety was his ambition. That's what he yearned for because he wanted recognition from sponsors for a raise to appear as a mentor.

It finally made sense. International reporting was profitable and increased popularity, Franklin wanted to go along for the prized ride. I covered numerous stories in Latin America years ago. He wanted me out there again, so going to Mexico was deemed a positive decision. Canada was different because of its privileged and westernized status, but also its lack of coverage in domestic newspapers. Prior to this story, I hadn't left Texas since I moved here because...well I'm just a bit embarrassed to tell you, but...ok, I'll tell you, but you should already know by now. It was because I was waiting for Chloe, I know...I'm a sucker, but I was terrified. What if she came back crawling on my doorstep and I wasn't there to receive her with a warm welcome, with arms outstretched? I couldn't live with myself.

I even became jealous of my friend Pencho, what if Chloe went over to my apartment while I was covering this story, he would nonetheless seduce her and have his way with her on my mattress. I wouldn't put it past her. I think I was ready to move on, my career was stagnant, but I found something that really fascinated me―North American continental union concerns and the development of NAFTA. This was my stomping ground from this day forward. And what about Helena, she was so close to me yet so far. Maybe something could happen between us, even though she was a brunette.

Whatever story I wrote about Canada needed to benefit the paper by linking the supercorridors in order to unravel the NAFTA blueprint. How would this story fit into the life of the readers of the city of Houston? I didn't know what I would discover in Canada, but it would have to be of social significance for them to want to read about, more so in conservative Texas.

I remember my boss saying, "Hell, Canada's filled with nothing but bleeding-heart socialists, they should take all the Mexican immigrants up there instead...and I speak for all Texans."

Americans on the average, I'll repeat―on the average, didn't know much or even care about Canadian concerns. Maybe just on the bordering states, but on the other hand, Canadians were very aware about America and the sweeping Americanization taking place around the globe. But could you blame us? We're the third Roman Empire, what'd we care about people. Unless they had natural resources, we weren't concerned. Then it occurred to me...I remember my boss being impressed with a brief story I wrote about the supercorridors connecting up to Canada, Canamex.

There was a Manitoba-Texas water pipeline. It was linked with the Halifax super-port and water pipeline that would transfer Canadian fresh water to U.S.-based storage facilities via the NAFTA supercorridors. The amount of monies needed to build the project for tax-payers on both sides of the border was staggering, therefore the Chronicle readers could benefit from such awareness.

This story would perpetuate the beginning of the domino effect to collapse the blueprint in order to bring it out into the limelight. It felt like graduate research on the North American process of deep integration combined with public and private corruption, but with a murder attached. This could be award-winning material. I wanted to go substantial―front page, sidebar, two full pages inside...the works.

So far I had only written a handful of stories where perhaps few could recognize it as a pattern. That's how mainstream media functioned. You could almost know the truth by piecing fragments of info and deducing your own connections and reality. That's what investigative journalism was all about, speculations and connections to create a pseudo-environment mixed with facts that are skewed according to the publication.

12.

Helena agreed to go with me across the border, it wasn't as difficult as I had even imagined. I asked, "Have you ever been to Canada?"

She said, "No, I haven't, lame huh? But I'd like to someday, I've always wanted to go to Canada."

"Okay, pack your bags councilor, because we're going...now! We're so close Helena, we need to take advantage. We need to finish this story. Are you up for it? Of course your ticket's paid for. Just worry about spending cash and hotel. Oh yeah, and we'd be flying in to Halifax, to Nova Scotia. It's just for a few days, no strings attached, and best of all―the Chronicle's paying for it. I told them I was contracting a freelance photographer, so that's where the extra ticket's going, courtesy of the Chronicle."

Of course that was a lie, I was paying for her ticket, but I didn't want her to worry so much about money or the price. Helena had seemed depressed ever since the incident in Barton Hills with the widow, but then again, it seemed like ever since I had met her she had been somewhat aloof. There was something arcane about her behavior and personality, people seemed to open up on holiday, and thus I wanted to penetrate that barricade she designed. She needed a vacation. Both of us did, to get away from the turbulent winds blowing in Texas with NAFTA and the widow.

Canadian climate would do us justice. From Massachusetts, Emma Marlowe took a flight to an international campaign about water rights in India. She was the guest speaker along with other water warriors around the globe. She put us in contact with her partner to fill in some voids, but prior to doing business we took advantage of the exquisite geographical landscape, engaging in outdoor activities along the seacoast like cycling, fishing, and kayaking. It was during the kayaking adventure on a clear steel-blue day that Helena folded under the pressure of her burgeoning burden.

Helena met Angelos in her twenties, around the downtown area of Fayetteville just outside the church. Fayetteville, Texas was a refuge for Greek immigrants escaping political instability back in the old country, bringing with them a traditional Christian Orthodox background. They had since established an ethnic community with traditional customs dating to classic Byzantine antiquity―the Byzantine Quarters. From the old country, their relatives brought animal husbandry techniques, a strong work ethic and purchasing power, and their conservative traditions about civil society and marriage.

Most people had large families, for example, Angelos had nine siblings and Helena had eight, which made growing-up difficult because of food shortages and rations. However, Angelos had other problems with his family that stemmed from the meddling of personal affairs, more so in regards to his relationship with Helena. She had been whisked away by his charm, his ambition, and his pragmatism. She had also concluded that because most of his siblings were married and had produced a healthy line of offspring, he was next. Besides, he was the youngest child and the only one to receive a proper university education, and he had maintained decent employment as a land developer with his civil engineering degree. So the next step was to get married and continue the Stratos' lineage.

Helena was a decent candidate, she maintained typical Greek features, she came from a decent family, and she had studied contract law. The stars had lined up for them, an ancient marriage revisited―Helen of Troy and Menelaus. During the beginning of their courtship they often went to church together to solidify their faith and union as a couple, which led them to become engaged and then later to marry, but at some point he fell for a friend months before the wedding...a blue-eyed brunette, a twin.

His flawed interpretation of the twin was that she wanted to take the relationship to the next level. Thus, he had second thoughts about getting married to Helena, and he was starting to veer from his religious beliefs, but he kept it to himself. Sometimes people were so in-tune with their partners that they realized when there was a problem. Helena knew, but when confronted he denied it. She had even approached him just before the taking of their vowels because he had become distant, but he begged her on his knees to ignore his reluctance...and she did, because she was in love. This Spartan deity was hers, nothing would break her spirit.

The husband-to-be believed the twin wanted him to break off the marriage, but she was in her own relationship and couldn't fathom ever being in a relationship with Angelos, he was misguided and foolish. The marriage ceremony came and went, and years later he confessed to a friend that he wasn't psychologically present during the ceremony. He had drifted outside his body and had a supernatural experience he couldn't convey to anyone.

After a few years of marriage, he stopped having intercourse with her. All physical attraction was gone. Once the initiator in sexual foray, he now abandoned the idea, he criticized her appearance and how she dressed, avoided her phone calls, and sought out the twin because of his created pseudo-fantasy world with her. This behavior influenced Helena to confront and investigate her suspicions about the twin, but the twin took an honorable approach and visited their home with her boyfriend.

In front of Helena and her husband, in the living room of their home, two couples joined in hand, the twin poured out her disgust for Helena's husband's lust, the letters he wrote her, the messages he sent her, the disrespect to her boyfriend, and the dishonesty of their marriage. She felt sorry for Helena. Everything was out, the husband was incompetent in having an affair, only in his mind, but Helena would now know the truth―he didn't want her as a partner, he had wanted someone else...even on their wedding day.

This broke her heart, and of course he denied it. She took refuge in the comfort of Angelos' siblings and then fled to her parent's home to sulk. And so began her cascade of insecurities roaring in privation. At this point, most of his siblings became involved―taking sides, passing judgment, offering advice, and Helena's brothers even put a temporary price on his head. However, after a few days he pleaded for her to return and she acquiesced only on the premise that they talk to a clergyman to mediate their concerns.

Helena was interested in saving her marriage, divorce was never an option for her, and so she returned to their home about two weeks later with her tail tucked between her legs. The clergymen offered divorce as a final option if they couldn't remedy their quandary―they rejected. Whatever it was, the husband didn't want Helena to leave, at least not yet, and he didn't want to look bad in the eyes of relatives. It was that simple, he didn't want to appear responsible in the separation or divorce.

They were from a small town and these ideas still dominated their backwards thinking, rather than take the step to end their sham of a marriage. Next, they saw a marital family therapist who gave tons of advice about listening, understanding, loving, and forgiving. Angelos seemed to have become more affectionate and open about his problems, but it was temporary. Soon thereafter, he started avoiding the church altogether, he told her he no longer believed in the Christian dogma and started researching eastern philosophies.

This started causing a breakdown with his family. Abandoning the church, abandoning the wife, abandoning Sunday meals with the family, and he stared treating Helena with disdain at home and around people in general. How much could she suffer before leaving?

This behavior persisted for about a year, he wanted out of the relationship but he was too much of a coward to do it himself. He treated Helena with disrespect so that she would build up enough courage to leave him and in the eyes of the family and the community he wouldn't look so guilty. This was of grave importance to him―reputation. He wrapped himself up in new-age books and language classes, even claiming he had met with supernatural presences. Often he would break down in an avalanche of tears in front of Helena but never share his experiences, she didn't know what to do, but one day he offered her a few options.

He asked Helena to either adapt her behavior and adapt her life to his changes―to change with him and endure all difficulties no matter the repercussions. Or, adopt the idea of moving to a metropolis throughout the U.S. or Canada, even though he was uncertain about taking her. Staying in a small town was becoming burdensome for him and he knew Helena didn't want to leave Fayetteville, her home, her family, or her work. The last option, she could leave the relationship and agree to a divorce but it would have to be presented to the clergy by her. Even though he had drifted from the church, he still wanted the petition to be asked by her to avoid responsibility.

Helena didn't appreciate either of the options, he should've been bold enough to assume his responsibility and assume the option he preferred. He should've been a man. She couldn't believe he had the actual nerve to plant such an idea in the first place, so she ignored it even though he would ask often if she had made a decision.

One evening at a local festival, he started up a conversation with a girl from an adjacent town in front of friends, relatives, and Helena, despite her presence. They walked over to a public restroom together at some point during the evening, where he got her phone number and perhaps engaged her in a hasty passionate encounter. Helena and Angelos had a massive argument that evening. He even sent her home on her own while he remained at the festival dancing with relatives and friends, drinking the evening away until sunrise. After that, Angelos disappeared into the great abyss that had been circling around the bend, but Helena heard from rumors and relatives that he was staying and working in Fair Oaks on a land development project while living with a woman in one of the new homes.

That's why she was involved with the lawsuit. It wasn't because she was a crusading activist. Fair Oaks and the lawsuit represented her quenchless feud with Angelos. She was tempered in blood and guided by lightning. She took an independent oath of anguish which she shared with her empty bedroom, where it had stung the most, within the ventricles of her heart...imagining him rolling around with another woman. And after so much pain, he vanished.

* * *

We met with Jane Milton one afternoon at a seaside cafe―an environmental lawyer, and Emma Marlowe's partner. She got along famously with Helena, for a second I almost thought my lesbian fantasy would become a reality. Her main concern was in Halifax, an important global trade route. There was a super port proposal similar to the one in Baja California, Mexico, which would be an entry for container ships coming from Europe and the Pacific. Hudson Port Ltd and the Kansas City Rail Project were sponsors, quite appropriate. It was the same proposal as Mexico, to get the containers here from Asia, and then barrel them along the supercorridors through all of North America. If this phenomenon becomes a reality and water becomes a commodity, then it falls under the terms and conditions of the NAFTA agreement, which would become a good that will be transferred through pipelines and tankers, on the move like oil, exporting spare reserves to those willing to pay.

Canada has about twenty percent of the earth's fresh water supply spread throughout the entire country, but there is a serious danger of losing the supply through the Economic Region―Atlantica, which is Quebec and the Maritimes on the Canadian side, straddled south of the border with New England and upstate New York. Atlantica, which is a geographical and economical prospect, includes parts of Canada, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York. Rumor has it that in the future, North America will be defined by regional blocs used for economic trade rather than sovereign state territory, thus making countries obsolete. They're called region-states. The U.S., Canada, and Mexico are up for sale, everything we know is up for sale.

While she spoke with a calm voice, she placed a hand on my wrist from across the table, "Don't look behind you, but I think someone's watching us. There's someone across, he's wearing a ball cap with sunglasses, and he's reading a newspaper. Every now and then he puts the paper down to glance in our direction. All of our lives are in danger...we need to get out of here. Somebody's been trailing you two, or me maybe, I don't know. Waiter..."

The server glided towards our table noticing Jane Milton with her arm extended out, "Michael, Helena...start walking to the parking structure, now. If we get separated, I'll call you."

"Be careful," said Helena as we walked off.

When I turned back, the waiter was standing in front of Jane blocking the view of the suspected peeper. We couldn't see him from where we were standing, but we saw Jane back out from her chair. In haste she made a run for it. The man with the baseball cap dropped his newspaper, in his hand he had a pistol and he began firing in Jane's direction while he tried to stand. I saw the waiter collapse over the table. Jane's hands were flailing in the air signaling us to run, screaming customers and shattering dishes ruptured my earth.

I grabbed Helena by the hand and we dashed through the silenced streets, we went straight for about three blocks, then we turned right down a residential street. Everything was happening so rapid, and we responded with practical decisions although we were unaware of our surroundings. In moments of crucial panic, people surprise themselves with sharp animal survival instincts like avoiding predators. Halfway down the block I turned back, the perpetrator had turned on the same block. I heard three more shots and felt the ricochet from a nearby tree and fence.

"What the shit!" yelled Helena.

"Let's go, come on...keep running!" I said.

We cut through and alley with apartments on both sides. There was another residential street on the other side. When we made it to the street, there was a fork in the road―there was a school across from where we stood surrounded by trees, to the right there was a street and a parking structure, and to the left was a main street about two-hundred meters away.

"What should we do Michael, which way should we go? Hurry Michael, what should we do?"

I went with my gut. I looked back and saw the perpetrator turn towards us from the alley, "Left, c'mon!"

We ran with swiftness for dear life until we made it to the main street. We didn't dare look back, and Helena was crying throughout the ordeal. At the end of the street there was a small police station a short distance from the corner, Helena's sobbing ceased. We were saved―it was the Halifax Regional Police Department. After reporting the incident, they drove us to the airport for our own protection.

13.

Roth kept close tabs on Michael and the lawyer when their inquiry landed them in Canada and Walden. Michael lugged around his messenger bag wherever he went, it facilitated surveillance. He wasn't sure what type of quandary the locating device could suffer at the screening centers, there was a possibility the bug would be located by security officials thereby thwarting the plan, but none had been experienced thus far. One more flight from Halifax to Houston was all that stood in the way.

Roth knew they had gone to Walden Pond to meet with Emma Marlowe, he also knew they had made the trip across the border to Nova Scotia for the arranged meeting with Jane Milton and the shooting. It was almost out in the open, exposure of the monopoly was inevitable unless Michael was silenced. They were on their way home now, it was effortless.

Jay Jacobs had also been silenced. There were very few people the late commissioner had trusted with important documents to leak to the media. Michael and Helena were part of that circle, they were the media. These two political activists, who would become martyrs for the cause someday, were well within Roth's surveillance lens, all he had to do was remain in the apartment until they returned. The next moves were significant. Any mistake could cause severe repercussions.

When Pencho Slaveykov arrived at Michael's apartment a few days prior, Roth was taken by surprise. It occurred to him a phone call must have been placed the day he broke into Michael's apartment, when Michael went out walking for a replacement door lock. He hadn't covered that, he glanced down in embarrassment. Whoever this Pencho character was, it eluded Roth, more so when they went into the restroom with the music blaring in the background and the hair clippers rumbling.

If the distraction was done on purpose, they had earned Roth's respect for cleverness. The reason why Pencho was staying at the apartment was locked in that brief restroom conversation, yet Roth heard none of it because the excessive tangled noise muffled all exchanged dialogue during that time lapse, rendering the listening device ineffective. Roth monitored Pencho during his temporary lodging while tracking Michael's every step during travel status.

Pencho did nothing unusual in the apartment, but he did follow a strict routine of exercise and leisure. In the morning he got out of bed wearing a solid pair of white boxer shorts―prison-status, showing a tight, chiseled abdomen and ribcage, he would then drop to the living room floor to do repetitions of push-ups on his bare knuckles, rotating the exercise with crunches and sit-ups. The developed muscles on his arms looked like solid wire mesh as they formed and leaned into a carved ivory sculpture.

Roth coveted Pencho's figure, he spurned at his old age in the mirror after he flexed a pathetic posture―youth had vanished. Morning exercise was followed by a swift shower with the door ajar. He exited the bathroom for two days with the same red and white striped point sweater with a pair of tan khakis and Oxford loafers. He drank orange juice and coffee, had toast with fruit, breezed through the day's newspaper, and then browsed the internet for a few hours before preparing a vigorous lunch.

Next, he napped on the living room sofa fully-clothed for about two hours, turned a few pages of a Russian novel when he awoke, repeated the morning exercises, had dinner delivered, and went to bed. A stark observation was made by Roth. Pencho did not use the house phone or a mobile phone once. And this was the routine, until the third day.

On the third day, light trudging of footsteps increasing in sound startled Pencho as he napped on the sofa. He grabbed a weapon he stashed from under the pillow, the plopping noise echoed louder throughout the apartment as it came closer, causing him to jump to his feet and run towards the kitchen window.

Roth's eyes popped out of their sockets when he observed through the spliced screens of his monitor, "Oh no, what should I do?" he said, but he didn't stir, he couldn't meddle in this affair...it wasn't his business.

There was no peephole on the door. Pencho scurried across the hardwood floor to glance through the corner of a crimped curtain. He made out two bodies―both wearing dark suits and polarized sunglasses. As they approached the door, he waited motionless behind the kitchen counter, but then he dashed with swiftness making his way to the bedroom. The recorded image of his face displayed on the screens as he ran across the living room was terrifying―quite the horror show indeed.

He must have heard something, perhaps the stifled sound of the silencer penetrating through the doorknob which caused him to run in panic. The first body poked his box-shaped face inside, just catching a glimpse of Pencho sliding into Michael's bedroom. He signaled the other body with a hand gesture, with pistol in hand―proceed towards the bedroom. The two menacing bodies glided into the apartment like evening shadows in their darkened government suits with solid ties and aimed pistols with silencers.

Roth felt a sharp rush of anxiety as he recalled previous urban terrorism work he did for the CIA as an anti-Castroist. The bodies crept through the living room, making their way into the bedroom with their pistols drawn where Pencho was hiding along the side of the bed that wasn't visible from the door. The box-shaped face individual looked underneath the bed, without delay Pencho lifted his body from the opposite end and flung a kitchen knife at the other body striking him in the upper right arm as he blocked his face. Two gun shots were fired from the other body underneath the bed striking Pencho on his feet causing him to collapse. He yelled out.

Immediately, both bodies hurled themselves across the opposite end of the bed and unloaded their pistols on Pencho's body as he tried wielding another knife. It was caught on Roth's monitors, and it happened in a haphazard method. Before the murderers left the apartment, the box-shaped individual pulled out a mobile phone from his coat pocket to make a phone call.

All Roth heard was, "It's done."

14.

Helena and I waited at the Halifax airport for our return flight to Houston on the black leathered seats with chrome armrests, staring out into the murky overcast sky, both in consumed thoughts companioned with sullenness. I was plagued with thoughts about Helena and Angelos, disturbed by her willingness to stay in a shattered relationship, to endure torturous throbbing because the person you love doesn't love you. I was embarrassed for her. I was embarrassed for myself―that was my situation with Chloe.

I glanced over at her and she seemed pensive, using her critical thinking skills regarding the story perhaps. A flat screen monitor hung low around our gate where a collective consciousness forced other passengers to look up at the latest breaking news penetrating every channel. People's faces were startled and sympathetic, I looked around and everyone was glued to the monitor.

Flames and smoke surrounding the wreckage of a plane grounded somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean were shown in terror. The information regarding the wreck was displayed on the bottom screen―Flight 213 heading from Massachusetts to Bombay suffered mechanical failure causing the pilot to lose control over the Atlantic Ocean. No passengers survived the accident. The information was recurrent on the bottom of the screen.

"Oh my God," said Helena, "I think Emma Marlowe was on that flight."

My heart dropped into the abysmal plate tectonics beneath the earth. I grabbed my mobile phone. All I could think of was Jane Milton, Emma's in Halifax. First the shooting, now this. My heart felt like it was caving in from an avalanche. I looked for her phone number from my stored address book. She answered the other line sobbing, I knew then I didn't have to say much, I extended my condolences without much of a response on the opposite end.

Jane Milton was speechless, words could not be conveyed, and so the flat sound of a hung-up phone call after intense breathing and sobbing served as the liaison. Her partner had lost her life in a fatal accident that was causing shockwaves in every broadcast. I looked towards Helena and nodded my head, she too began sobbing, and she sunk into her seat like a sloth embracing me for support. I couldn't help the weeping myself, we had just seen this person a few days ago, we had met with her domestic partner, and now she was gone. How could this be? How could this be possible...and then it occurred to me.

"Wait a minute! No, this can't be!"

"What Michael, what? What are you thinking?" asked Helena, she sat upright.

"This can't be a coincidence. There's no way, I'm not buying it. First...Jay Jacobs was poisoned, then that reporter or whoever he was gave us that autopsy report with a warning attached, then someone tried scaring us off in Barton Hills with the widow. And then someone broke into my apartment and left a second warning, the shooting in Canada, and now Emma Marlowe accidentally died in a plane crash! Someone must've known we had met up with her, or maybe someone was after her already. This is too connected. We're probably the main players trying to unravel this conspiracy. I have to call Pencho, maybe those bastards went back."

I dialed Pencho, then the house phone, no answer. I rubbed my face in despair.

"C'mon fucken Pencho, you idiot! Answer the stupid phone, asshole! Stop fucking with me! Answer, answer, please, c'mon...answer."

My legs shook, my heart raced cross country, my foot tapped like a ground drill, and my mouth shifted from left to right. There was no answer. Pencho wouldn't answer the damn telephone. I couldn't remain calm. Helena leaned towards me.

Her pale skin almost appeared translucent, she looked over at me, "Calm down Michael, you're starting to scare me, please calm down. Maybe you're jumping to conclusions. We need to stay focused. Let's review the facts."

"Focused...facts! What are you talking about? Look at the situation we're in. There's no way we're walking out of this alive. These people won't stop! We're obstacles in their path. If we try to expose this conspiracy, or whatever it is, then we might as well have signed our death warrant. I don't know about you, but I'm dropping out of the stupid story. I don't care about these damn supercorridors or NAFTA, I care about my life! I'm not going to be some martyr for some social cause, that's what you do remember―I report crime, Helena! I report fucken street crime, that's what I do!"

* * *

When we arrived at the U.S. Customs port of entry in Houston for people processing, Helena felt ill at ease.

She tugged me by the arm, "I don't have a good feeling about this, you know, the last three times I've traveled by airplane they've searched me thoroughly almost to the point of harassment. I don't know, maybe I'm flagged or something, something on my passport raises concerns, probably based on the work that I do with the Corridor Watch project. Who knows?"

I didn't respond, I looked over and nodded my head followed by a smirk, Helena was nothing but trouble. I don't know how, but I underestimated her manipulative prowess. I'd been in a situation like this before back in Los Angeles, with Shauna Chandler, it had a crude ending. She worked it and shook her ass well, yet I hadn't received the slightest physical affection from her that could trigger something of more depth. Tangled in this story that would be the death of me. I was out...I wanted out as soon as we headed back into the city.

I would shred documents and notes, anything attaching me to NAFTA. We circled around the serpentine line until it was our turn to approach an official standing around a booth. From afar, I could see the agent's tightened eyes gazing in our direction with a mad diabolic glitter, a surveillance camera with a bird's eye view mounted on top. The swarm of badges, pistols, navy blue uniforms, and canines intimidating crowd control influenced a slight trembling in my legs.

Helena approached the booth first. The agent took her passport, he surveyed her several times, afterwards he scanned her passport and fed it into a counterterrorism-watch database, and he asked, "Are you alone?"

"No, I'm with him," she said and pointed in my direction. He gestured me to approach the booth with his curling finger.

"Passport?" he demanded.

After I furnished it, he went through the same routine he did with Helena's passport, which he then added, "Where's your passport card?"

"My what? My passport card? I don't know what that is. All I have is my passport."

"Neither of you have an enhanced passport card, right? There's a new travel initiative required by the Department of Homeland Security, it's called the REALID Act. This Act requires all state DMV offices to provide their residents with a passport card that facilitates identification and travel between the regions of North America. All American, Canadian, and Mexican citizens are required to have the document. And you people clearly do not have one. Please step to the side, the supervisor on duty will handle your situation."

"Wait a minute. We don't have a situation. We don't need anyone to handle any situation. There must be some mistake. We're from Texas, nobody told us about any passport card requirement. No questions were asked when we left the country to Canada. This is a mistake. Wait, I'm an attorney, I know my rights!"

"I'm sorry ma'am, I'm just enforcing the law, this is standard procedure."

The Customs agent grabbed a telephone to dial an extension. We were escorted towards an inquisitor room by two looming agents from the K-9 unit who took our luggage. A soaring short-haired blonde stood behind a desk swiveling his head from side to side. He turned his head when he heard us walk in, with a sensation of green fire piercing from his eyelids.

"Michael Ray Korsakov, Helena Stratos, please sit down, make yourself at home," he said.

"Well, as you've been somewhat briefed by the agent, the REALID stores biometric information into an enhanced database that maintains unique identifiers such as: fingerprints, facial images, iris scans, and other features to reduce terrorism. This passport card is a de facto national identification. It federalizes and standardizes identification with RFID chips, radio wave frequencies. Maybe Texas has been rebellious in enforcing the Act, causing bureaucratic nightmares for its residents such as this. Yet, the Department of Homeland Security supersedes all state discrepancies and is pursuant to enforcing passport cards for any Americans traveling by land, air, and sea throughout North America. These RFID chips are used in retail, banking, security, medical, shipping containers, universities, museums, tracking attendance, toll roads, in animals and people, everything. They're tracking devices to help reduce urban terrorism through preventative measures."

"Well I don't know, they sound like spy chips. Tracking devices to replace bar codes? This reduces...no, no, wait...eliminates civil freedoms and liberties. The Patriot Act at its worse," I moaned.

And then I asked, "Ok, so...what do we need to get one? How do we get out of here? Look, we don't have one, and we're not urban terrorists, so what do we need to do, boss?"

"Well, that's what I wanted to discuss with―"

The door clumped boisterously, and on the other end stood a lofty individual with enough clout to interrupt an interrogation process. This could represent an arduous situation for Helena and me. Yet, when our inquisitor opened the door, a middle-aged figure with a balding scalp, wearing a finely pressed black suit with a red and white silk striped tie, flashed an FBI badge and announced 'Special agent James Robertson from the Houston Division, Chief of the International Terrorism Operations Section―counterterrorism.' Try as he might, our interrogator could not figure out the angle of this agent.

Perhaps he thought they had field workers for this type of arrest, which was my thought too. He puffed breath underneath tight-sealed lips, his eyes raised while also squinting. He breathed heavily through his nostrils. He walked around the desk with his arms crossed. He fixated a stare at Helena and I, he looked at the FBI agent, an idea had occurred to him. A phone call was placed to the local FBI Houston Division, but everything checked out. The special agent was who he claimed but it aroused suspicion. Everyone in law enforcement was suspicious. It was the nature of the beast.

The FBI was taking over the investigation. We would be taken to a more suitable environment for questioning our acts of supposed terrorism. My heart stumbled dejected to the ground, special agent James Robertson gloated as he handcuffed Helena and me.

We sat in the backseat of a black government-plated suburban with darkened windows as it ebbed into the city limits. The ride was soothing unlike my turbulence. My palms became sweaty, moisture trickled down my wrists through the avenues of my interlocked fingers linked by handcuffs. Deep breaths were also inhaled, my eyes wondered about recognizing architectural landmarks while also concentrated on the steering wheel.

The steering wheel represented fate, whichever way it maneuvered would be based upon the wind-guiding compass. That agent held our fate on his keychain. It dangled and crashed into neighboring obstacles forcing a melody whenever a stop approached. I thought about getting out of those gripping handcuffs, kicking the driver's seat from the back with blunt force, causing the agent to lose control of the steering wheel.

A crash was expected, perhaps even coaxing him to lose consciousness for a moment, enough time for me to grapple the keys away. It would be our chance to escape. If Helena didn't want to participate, I would abandon her. I didn't care. I went over that scenario in my mind recurrently. A contingency plan would have to be improvised. The only plan was to run until I felt I was out of their clutches.

It was too early to end my journalism career over this. Worst of all, it hadn't been written―I hadn't been recognized for fierce reporting. At the end of the day, the story was the only thing that mattered. If I was supposed to die because of it like Jay Jacobs and Emma Marlowe, then I at least should have had the opportunity to share it with an audience, let them draw conclusions.

I caught Helena glancing over in intervals with a soft look perhaps to engender empathy, but my determination to remain aloof to her plight was enduring. I would look at her from the corner of my eye with my lips pressed, followed by a nod. That's all I had for her. I was concerned about my own well-being, why should I concern myself with the person who dragged me into this whole mess because of a detached husband, why should I have to suffer?

Helena lied. She wasn't a concerned citizen or a social activist fighting for a cause like she had claimed. She was an abandoned wife who wanted nothing more than her husband to return to the lair. I imagined torture by proxy...extraordinary rendition, what if this FBI agent was transferring our interrogation to Canada for that shooting, or some other country where these types of practices were legal? Who would know? What could they want with us?

It couldn't be related to the passport required by the Department of Homeland Security. This seemed too dramatic for not carrying a document, considering our current passport should suffice. There was something else, but I couldn't place it.

Special agent James Robertson pulled into a storage facility and the whole drive he didn't say an entire word. I memorized the cross streets and address―1165 North Loop West, between Bevis and Beal streets. There would be an exchange into another vehicle, we would be blindfolded, they would put us on a plane or helicopter, we would be flown to some foreign territory, and we would be tortured until all information on the NAFTA blueprint was bestowed. I wanted to die. I didn't execute the escape plan, I hesitated, why hadn't I kicked the backseat, why had I allowed myself to be taken by this whimsical woman handcuffed next to me? Damn you Helena, I curse the ground you walk on!

"Alright, we need to talk," said the agent after he pulled into a parking garage of the facility.

He took the keys out of the ignition and drew his pistol, but he didn't point it, he laid it under his seat. There were tarps covering objects in the storage unit, perhaps instruments of torture. This was not an appropriate location for a government interrogation, about that I was clear.

"Look, agent Robertson, I'm an attorney here in Texas. This type of questioning is not suitable in this environment. You haven't even told us what this investigation is about. Nobody has even read us our rights. Please, if you don't mind, I'd like to contact a colleague who handles defense law who can represent us on the matter, whatever it is you're trying to figure out. We have not resisted arrest, nor did we refuse to answer any questions regarding U.S. Customs. We would like to be questioned in a federal office with other investigators present, while a competent attorney is aware of our situation. Please agent Robertson, this is inappropriate," said Helena.

"You're not under arrest so you can stop worrying about that. I'm not an FBI agent, I don't work for the government or U.S. Customs, I'm not a law enforcer of any kind. And I'm not going to turn you over to any government agency. Please, just listen. We need to discuss a serious matter, so please remain calm. Does the name, 'Dr. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz' mean anything to either of you? Please, think hard―I implore you, be honest, for your sake."

Helena looked at me puzzled. She had so far taken the lead with the agent, and she gave me the impression she would continue.

"Um, yeah sort of, I've heard the name before but I don't know anything about that person."

I remembered the name. It was a contact Jay Jacobs had given to Helena along with Emma Marlowe―he was next on the list. They wanted to get to him and use us to get to him.

"I'm Dr. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz. I was a friend of Jay Jacobs."

15.

I couldn't tell fact from fiction any longer. More than before, I wanted off NAFTA.

"I've had it up to here. Whoever you are...I don't want anything to do with this anymore! If you're not a law enforcement agent, then you could take these damn handcuffs off―just let us go, please, we've been through enough. What do you want from us anyway? What's this all about?"

"I understand both of you are under loads of stress. I understand...believe me. You have gone through situations that are difficult to deal with. Both of you have behaved valiantly, I applaud you on your strength and determination. You need answers though. I plan on filling in the missing pieces. Just give me the opportunity to explain myself. Then you can make whatever decision you want. I won't stop you―I would understand if you walked away as well. Back there, that situation with the U.S. Customs and Border Control. Do you even know what that was about?" he asked.

Helena said, "Look, whoever you claim to be, we'll give you the opportunity to explain yourself, after that, just let us go. We'll decide how truthful your story is, but please take these handcuffs off. You're acting like you know who us, as if we're doing something illegal. Who do you think we are anyway? I think you've got it all wrong."

"Okay, the handcuffs are coming off. That's showing you an act of good faith, but you have to promise to listen to the story. It's all I ask―deal?"

Helena looked at me with a disturbing glance cemented across her face. The suspense could be unwound by pulling a thread. That's how concrete it was. My gaze was fixated on the mole above her upper lip. I couldn't concentrate on another part of Helena's body, not even her eyes as she stared into my blankness.

"Michael. Are you there? C'mon, snap out of it. You ready for this or what?"

My neck flailed, it was uncontrollable, and it dangled from my head as if the guillotine was being prepared. A simple nod was produced. The surrealism of the situation influenced incongruous movements. I even believed I saw this Dr. Igor character slipping off our handcuffs while toting a pistol in his hand.

* * *

It started more than a hundred years ago with Errazuriz Rum, the most popularized Caribbean rum around the globe. Prior to rum, Errazuriz was a wine-producing company in the Basque Country and Catalonia, but new opportunities brought them to Cuba where they experimented with different soils. Igor's great-great grandfather invested in the process of mellowing, taming, and aging rum in oak barrels. After a few years they purchased a new distillery, and so began Errazuriz Rum in Santiago de Cuba.

Around WWI and Prohibition, Cuba was a hotspot for bootlegging and producing distilled spirits. The family opened its first international bottling plants in Barcelona during that time, back in the old country...to pay homage to the lineage. They also opened one in New York City, but it was shut during Prohibition. Other relatives of the Errazuriz family moved to Santiago de Chile where they invested in vineyards, and so Errazuriz today is recognized as a household name in distilled spirits and wine.

Luckily, the third generation of Errazuriz Rum relocated the headquarters to Puerto Rico and then later to Mexico during the '50's prior to the Cuban Revolution. These were strategic business moves, but no one would have guessed how this saved the family business. Errazuriz supported Castro's revolution before he declared himself a communist. They donated thousands of dollars. But when the revolution triumphed, Castro froze Errazuriz assets in Havana, nationalized their distilleries, banned all private property, and seized their bank accounts.

Igor was young when this happened, but he remembered fleeing the country with the family, knowing well that Castro backstabbed them. They relocated to New York City, then to Florida. The international branches in Puerto Rico, Mexico, and the Bahamas saved them from bankruptcy, and after that, the Errazuriz family pledged a fierce opposition to Fidel Castro.

They worked with CIA and U.S. government elites to fund Cuban exile missions against the dictatorship. They even bought a B-26 Bomber but the plan was thwarted when the media put it on the front page of newspapers. It tainted the family's image.

This was constant talk around the living room, in any Cuban exiled home. Everyone opposed Castro, until this very day. Castro is still the anti-Christ for many Cubans. Against his family's educational wishes, Igor was recruited for the Bay of Pigs Invasion by an agent who recruited and trained foreign agents. That man was Jay Jacobs. He worked for the Directorate of Operations, the clandestine side of the CIA, and they formed Operation 40, which was an urban terrorist squad.

He knew the family wouldn't let him go, he was at the university at the time, but with so much anti-Castroist propaganda around the household and in Miami, he felt he had no choice. He was going to reclaim the family's assets―young and naïve, but ambitious and motivated. Besides, working on a covert plot to overthrow a military dictator backed by the CIA was more appealing than sitting around a classroom.

He joined the Special Activities Division as a paramilitary operations officer where they did infantry training in Guatemala, for the overthrow of Fidel Castro. The family figured since there was no way to bring him back, they would at least help bankroll the operation so that it could go as planned. It was an elitist unit and they thought they were unstoppable. Some even snuck back into Cuba before the invasion to gather critical intelligence for planning and preparation, but Castro's intelligence was highly superior.

It was hard to admit that. They underestimated the people's support. When the brigade invaded by sea, including the special operation of airborne troopers, most of them were captured, tried, and imprisoned. One-hundred and fourteen men were killed. It was a disaster. Most were exchanged for money, drugs, and medicine by the Kennedy administration, so back to the U.S.―back to the drawing board.

Jay Jacobs was Igor Errazuriz's handler and mentor. He was recruited for a mission in Bolivia, where the Argentine 'Che Guevara' was trying to launch another revolution. Of course the world knew he played a critical role in the Cuban Revolution, but if they could thwart his plans somewhere else to prevent revolutions from spreading throughout Latin America, then he was all for it. Igor was recruited to train a group of Bolivian Special Forces to hunt down and kill the guerillas, and when they were captured, guess who interrogated the beloved Che Guevara? Yours truly, but they didn't kill him...Igor was trying to keep him alive.

The Bolivian government decided on summary execution, but he was able to keep a souvenir. A great feeling of satisfaction washed over his face, it was a fine moment for all exiled Cubans. He dangled his wrist. It was a silver Rolex watch that clung to his skin as if it was part of his anatomy.

I interrupted, "So you killed Che Guevara. You're that CIA agent that interrogated and shot him? You bastard! I've read about that numerous times. I've even seen recreations of it in films and documentaries. I'm Argentinean, you killed my fellow countryman. You killed a hero. You expect us to believe the CIA didn't have anything to do with that decision?"

"Don't be naïve, you're only half-Argentinean on your mother's side―you're American, you're concerned with NAFTA because you're a patriot to this country. Get your head straight. Don't talk nonsense."

What did he know about my involvement with the story I was pursuing, I scowled at him.

"You don't have an allegiance to Argentina or Russia. They don't care about you anyway. Don't fool yourself into thinking that Che Guevara was a Christ-like Messiah. He was a murderer and a traitor to his country. I didn't have any respect for him as a person. Do you know how many Cubans he murdered? How many of my countrymen he killed, fellow Cubans from the brigade? Don't get me started on that."

I tucked my tail between my legs with my ears dropping down towards my chin, he was right. My allegiance was to the domestic concerns of the United States, but I couldn't help commenting on Ernesto Che Guevara. I mean―Che Guevara, that name moved mountainous plateaus, and I was sitting here with the agent who was responsible for his capture, maybe even his execution. I had to say something.

After that, Igor became a United States citizen. He enrolled in the Army to fight the communists in Vietnam. He engaged in counterinsurgency Special Operations reconnaissance units designed to neutralize the civilian infrastructure. They destroyed many important targets, which were pivotal to the war, yet the media cited it as an assassination campaign referring to atrocities of human rights violations.

Jay Jacobs was involved in a congressional hearing over human rights violations because of it, but the case was dismissed. Igor was under direct supervision of Jay Jacobs while he moved up in the ranks of the intelligence community, and when he became National Security Advisor for Vice-President Bush senior, he took him along for the ride―all the way to the Iran-Contra scandal. After that whole situation blew over, Jay Jacobs became director of the CIA, but at a hotel in London he collapsed from a blood infection in his heart and kidneys. Everyone believed he was poisoned. No one knows what really happened, but he did have a rare condition. Shorty after that, he retired from the CIA. That's when he got into politics in Texas, with assistance from his long-time friendship with the current Governor. Igor retired from the CIA as well. It felt like his cue and he didn't want to work under anyone else, so he joined the family business in Latin American operations, and Errazuriz backed Jay Jacobs in all of his elections in Congress and the House of Representatives. They remained close friends until his death.

That's when it got deeper with politics. Many people think intelligence and the military are the strongholds of the undermining of the social fabric of regional concerns, however, politics and business are at the root of social illness. Errazuriz was in the process of relocating their headquarters to Houston, to a downtown building where a concrete relationship was developing between Errazuriz and Texas government elites. We're talking about―the President, the Governor, the Texas Department of Transportation, The Texas Railroad Commission, Zachary Construction, British Petroleum, Halliburton, Exxon Mobil, Southwestern Bank, and numerous Fortune 500 companies in different industries like: agriculture, oil, petrochemicals, computers and electronics, aerospace and biomedical industries. Errazuriz was expanding as well and they acquired famous production companies of tequila, wine, whiskey, gin, and vodka.

Houston was the place to be, it was the heart of the United States. And with the new NAFTA supercorridors being constructed, they wanted to make a move to solidify the campaign donations to Jay Jacobs, the Governor, and the President, amongst others. Florida was locked in, they ran the state of Florida already with some of their people in high office, but Texas was the mother lode, they wanted the biggest American state in their pockets.

However, there was a problem. The building they were supposed to move into to relocate the headquarters was either Errazuriz or EuroCarril. Both companies had placed the bid for the building. Errazuriz donated five million dollars to the Governor's campaign, so it was obvious they wanted something in return.

The building was owned by a Texas legislator, John Corona, owner of one of the biggest real estate companies in the U.S. He ran the property management for the building. Ultimately it was his decision to lease the offices. They were expecting the Governor to be persuasive in influencing the decision. But they gave it to EuroCarril and the Kansas City Rail Project to maintain offices in Houston, with the elite.

Errazuriz had nowhere to go. There wasn't another suitable office for their operations. They split the building amongst themselves along with the five million. You can imagine what Errazuriz must have thought after that swindle. It happened with Fidel Castro, now here in the United States with the Republican Party that was supposed to be supportive in corporate business efforts and campaign donations. It wasn't a smart move by the Governor.

Errazuriz had covert information on donations he accepted from Columbian cocaine cartels. In politics and big business, the backstabbing will escalate to unprecedented extremes without rules. He knew they had that type of information, he knew what was at stake. He's one of the most corrupt government officials to have ever existed in this country. They launched a smear campaign against him in favor of the opposing candidate. They dragged him through the mud and it hurt public opinion.

But, he must have received a lucrative amount from the Columbians, from the Kansas City Rail Project, and from the Zachary Construction and EuroCarril merger. It was speculated that he bought himself onto the Kansas City Rail Project with the five million.

It gets worse. A director, Igor's brother-in-law―Israel Danguillecourt, his sister Jacqueline, and their son, George, were on a private flight from Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas when the plane crashed. Nobody survived. It was reported as an accidental malfunction, but Jay Jacobs sent a covert transcript a few days later implicating the Governor in foul play. Politics and business are a filthy business, but murder was Igor's profession. Not Castro, or Prohibition, or the merger, or the money, or the loss of the headquarters' building meant nothing. The family was dead, they were of grave importance.

The Governor helped murder Igor's sister, his nephew, and his brother-in-law. That was the biggest mistake of his life. Since the moment he heard that transcript, he's been planning to take down the Governor through all possible means, economic, social, and political...eventually gutting the pig. Jay Jacobs became involved because of their stand-up perennial relationship. He was the Governor's confidante, but this other relationship transcended boundaries like father and son, more so because they killed together.

The Governor isn't aware of Igor's existence. He dealt with his siblings in charge of Errazuriz Rum. Jay Jacobs and Igor went way back to the early days of the CIA, to the Bay of Pigs Invasion. The Governor didn't have that background, he was in the Air Force, but he's a politician and businessman. His life is hanging by a thread, a very flimsy thread until someone pulls it. And now he's planning on running for president. Igor has returned with one target―the Governor.

Oh, and the doctor alias was philosophical after he studied philosophy and Hebrew with relatives, Sephardic Jews in Catalonia. That was his work with the Iran-Contra scandal, moving weapons with Jewish connections. Igor has been networking with this whole NAFTA business to work their elitist crowd.

He asked if we could help in said matter. Jay Jacobs had chosen Helena because of her blog against the supercorridors. As a team we had a digital and print audience, therefore they accepted me coming along for the ride and now he wanted me to go further. Igor Errazuriz wanted Helena and I to write the story that would bring down the Governor through political scandal.

16.

I didn't have an immediate response. This Cuban exile, Sephardic Jew, CIA intelligence assassin, ex-Army paratrooper, Errazuriz operations manager, murderer of Ernesto Guevara, illegal arms dealer, and who knows what else he had done...I was terrified of him.

However, I will admit, I was impressed by his international accomplishments as an intelligence officer putting himself in the line of fire, even though he could have remained comfortable in the family business. Left-wing liberals were celebrated for the same thing―Ernesto Guevara as a doctor from the University of Buenos Aires, Subcomandante Marcos as a professor in Mexico City, Fidel Castro as an attorney, Peter Kropotkin as a geographer and zoologist, Michael Bakunin as an aristocrat, Salvador Allende as a physician and dedicated Marxist, and many others...all putting their lives on the line for a cause when they didn't have to.

Many political and philosophical thinkers came from privileged backgrounds, whether from the left or the right. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz was the same. It was understandable from the perspective of nurture as an exiled anti-Castroist running rampant throughout Florida. That demographic flourished there, I could imagine what it must have been like for their family after supporting Fidel Castro to only be double-crossed after the revolution triumphed.

I know that Castro had many supporters in the U.S., even accepting massive donations from wealthy elites from New York City and big businesses. He turned his back on them as well. I guess everyone uses their resources to their benefit. I do the exact same thing as a reporter with my sources. But this guy was on a personal crusade. On a vendetta to make the Governor's life miserable until he decided to murder him in a way it wouldn't be suicidal. I suppose he needed a lot of careful planning.

Still, I couldn't judge him as an intelligence or military officer murdering in the name of some ideology. Back in Los Angeles I was surrounded by gangsters and mafia-types who murdered in the name of capital and the street social contract. It was the same I guess. Some of those people were my best friends. His ideology wasn't far off the spectrum, in fact, it had more integrity, even though I considered myself a liberal. But, I understood. I even had some Bulgarian art thief house-sitting my apartment. So how hypocritical would I be if I turned Igor Errazuriz away?

Helena looked rather flummoxed. Clandestine information had arrived through a furtive source and it was enough to incite mass hysteria amongst Texan citizens if we could prove this flagrant violation of the public's confidence. She too reposed in silence pondering this man's story. More important, perhaps she concerned herself with the truthfulness of what had just been conveyed and how she would fit in the grand scheme of things. Igor Errazuriz needed me to write the story and I was the one who needed to be convinced. She looked at me with sharpened eyes as her nose wrinkled upwards and her face tightened. I couldn't read her expressions.

She could sit this out, but as in any situation, people often want to drag others into the vastness of emptiness. I was no different. Helena had a significant role to play because we had followed the story together. Earlier I wanted out after what had happened to Emma Marlowe, Jay Jacobs, the shooting in Canada, and that whole incident with U.S. Customs. But after what I heard, this was colossal. Front page status, suckers! We were a working hard to uncover a monopoly, it had taken an unexpected course but we could assist in the prevention of the supercorridors. If we sparked the flame, it could all come crashing down now. I know she believed that, despite her husband being absent.

"I'm in!" I said, "...you can count me in the plan...if you have one. If Jay Jacobs trusted you, then I guess I can trust you. I got a good vibe from the commissioner, right from the start I felt like he was a real class act, like he shot straight from the hip―you know. No violence though. Whatever you plan on doing to the Governor, that's your own business, I want the exclusive on the story. Words are my sword, alright, that's how I slay. I don't get my hands dirty. But what about that whole situation with the U.S. Customs, aren't they going to be looking for us once they've figured out you're not with the FBI? In fact, how did you pull that off―the whole FBI swindle? That agent called the field office, how'd that work out?"

"I'm in as well," maintained Helena.

"Please...call me Igor."

He hadn't used his birth name with colleagues for many years now, since his university days. He considered us colleagues, I felt privileged for that. Errazuriz was for the family business, the doctor title was for the intelligence community―amongst other countless aliases, thus his real name gave his fictitious character an honest integrity of virtue, for the first time in a long time.

The government suburban exited out of the storage unit. Igor wore black leather gloves with a pistol still tucked away under his leg.

Without turning he said, "That whole FBI ruse was simple. I've worked in intelligence for many years, impersonating all types of law enforcement agents is commonplace. I fit the description of the special agent James Robertson here in Houston, so if anyone were so inclined to verify through a simple phone call, they would speak to a staff assistant that wouldn't have information to the whereabouts about upper-level management or a person of that rank anyway. It would be above their pay-grade, you understand. I simply called earlier to advise a staff assistant that I would be in the field on a case related to counterterrorism in Houston. I advised the staff assistant she might receive a phone call from airport security or local law enforcement. That was it, as simple as pie. I don't know what they were planning for you though, but it didn't look too agreeable. As far as the violence is concerned, I'll take care of that, it's already begun. But first, we need to relocate to my headquarters. Michael, you'll recognize the streets I'm sure. Please forgive me, but we had to plan this strategically."

We began approaching the historical area of the Houston Heights neighborhood. The art-deco architecture, antique shops, the art galleries, and vintage clothing stores allowed me to appreciate the neighborhood from a bird's eye view.

I said, "Hey, I think you're headquarters is really close to my apartment."

"Michael, it's around the block from your apartment. I can see your apartment from my window. This is not a coincidence, Jay Jacobs and I set it up this way to keep a close eye on you and guide you along. To make sure you steered in the right direction. We have been looking for the right reporter for a while now. You're perfect for this―you're an outsider, you're honest, and you're reputable. That's what we've been looking for."

"That sounds like a bunch of nonsense, you know. My apartment was broken into last week, they made a mess and trashed the place. Whoever it was, they left a note on the refrigerator and stole my pistol. How come you didn't prevent that if you're supposed to be keeping an eye on me? Huh?" I asked with sarcasm turning towards Helena.

"Do you recognize this?" He pulled the pistol from underneath his leg, he handed an unloaded 9mm semi-automatic Berretta to me. He pulled the suburban over and parked in front of an apartment complex about a block from where I lived.

"That's your pistol Michael. I broke into your apartment to disarm you―to prevent you from doing something very stupid, something out of character like shooting at someone. That day before you came home after meeting Mary Jacobs in Barton Hills you were wound up. You wanted to get your pistol and tote it around like a classic Texan cowboy. I left you that note."

"Son of a bitch! You broke into my apartment and took my gun? You're the one that did that? Wait, how did you know about Mary Jacobs and Barton Hills anyway?"

"Intelligence, I just told you―I'm keeping an eye on you alright. I didn't steal anything from your apartment. I just gave it back to you. Don't get carried away. I just handed you your pistol, and believe me, there was nothing worth taking from that apartment. I did it as a distraction, to prevent you from snooping around in Barton Hills. I have that angle covered...I'll show you soon enough. You'll know what I'm talking about. But, you use that tone with me again sport and I'll kick your fucken teeth in, you got it gaucho? Now, let's go up to the office―play nice and we'll get along just fine. Or else, you can walk away right now, it's your call. Take it or leave it. But leave the pistol in the vehicle, you can take it home later."

We walked four flights of stairs in the White Oak Apartment complex without uttering a word. There was a long railing that guided us to the far end of a hallway with mountain laurel branches hovering over the railing, while violet leathery blossoms were scraped across the floor smelling of a frothy grape. I thought about having a glass of Lambrusco. I needed a drink during all this animosity...bad.

The entrance into his apartment was accessed by a fingerprint control system and a fingerprint hand lock. This guy was the real McCoy, I snarled at him when his back was turned but only because he was so thorough. After Helena and I walked into the apartment and glanced around at the emptiness of solitude, Igor shut the door and peeled off his blazer.

"Make yourselves at home, I know it's not that comfortable, but pull up a chair here by the monitors. First order of business, let's take a look on any news channel...let's see if the story was picked up yet."

He switched channels until a breaking news report started barging in on the monitors. Helena and I looked at each other and shrugged. It came through on Spanish language networks first. A seventeen year-old dancer in Tijuana, Mexico was coerced into having a late-term abortion, causing severe health risks. The Governor of Texas was implicated. He was allegedly having an affair with a foreign exotic stripper while away on business dealing with a new deepwater port throughout the region. Investigators began scrutinizing how often the Governor traveled to the area on business in order to conclude the validity of the claim.

The seventeen year-old was shown sobbing on the monitor. She spoke about the development of their relationship, about the times they met at a nearby hotel where she worked as a dancer, about how he asked if he could penetrate her without using protection. The young dancer ended up pregnant. However, when she tried contacting the Governor about her condition, he became scarce. She left numerous messages for him with a secretary to no avail and a few months later two government henchman from the United States invaded her apartment. At gunpoint, they forced a pill down her throat inducing a late-term abortion. The next clip was a reporter in Texas trailing after the Governor, whose social conservative policy included a pro-life position. The Governor had no comment to make.

The next clip showed the Governor signing an abortion bill in the gymnasium of the Calvary Christian Academy in Fort Worth last year that stipulated limited late-term abortions and a requirement for girls under the age of eighteen who procure abortions to notify their parents. This was bad-timing for the Governor, who is running for president on the GOP ticket, and who earlier in the year had suffered other controversies including claims about receiving campaign donations from a Columbian cocaine cartel, and about making anti-Semitic and anti-Muslim remarks.

Then there was the controversy surrounding an innocent man who was executed by lethal injection while the governor was in office. Even though forensic scientists and fire investigators concluded no evidence of foul play and appealed to the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals and the Board of Pardons and Paroles seeking clemency with a writ of habeas corpus. But the Governor rejected it.

"You see that, that's a stroke of genius! The claim brings light to that crooked dick. It causes controversial policies to be investigated, it brings severe marital friction, and it opens up avenues of investigation to his business dealings out of the country―shedding light on the NAFTA corridors and the monopoly. Do you see that? The moment is now, Michael. I've begun the social, economic, and political nightmare, you can carry the torch down the line. The next step will be a bloodbath."

"Are you saying you had something to do with that?" I asked.

"Don't be so naïve, look, the less you know the better. I know that sounds trite, but you have to trust me on this. I've just cleared the path for you to write the story. You know about the Punta Colonet deepwater port in Baja California already. You know about the Governor and other Texas politicians and businessmen meeting with Hudson Port Ltd executives in Mexico and buying up the railroads, the seaports, the supercorridors. This is what you're trying to expose. Are you kidding me, this is front page material, it's laid out on a platter for you!"

"I have a few questions before we get started though. I want to know how much you know about me. Like when you started monitoring me, and why Errazuriz wanted to be part of that whole Texan elite crowd dealing with the NAFTA supercorridors. Just answer that and I'll write the story ASAP―you have my word. Just be honest that's all I ask, please." I said it apprehensively, something was still unsettling.

"Okay, first of all, the Errazuriz family wanted to be part of the NAFTA supercorridors because of the water pipelines coming from Canada to the United States. Dealing with distilled spirits and wine wasn't enough for the family. We wanted to move into the Great Lakes compact in Canada by striking a deal with the Canadian government about funneling water through the supercorridors into a Texas-based facility where we could launch our own brand, our own bottling company. It was genius, in this age of multi-national mergers you have to learn how to diversify. After that plane crash we didn't want anything to do with them anymore. The revenge plot was left in my hands. Errazuriz supports this but I'm working as a solo agent. When you met with Jay at the park across the library, I was waiting nearby monitoring the vicinity, making sure everything was kosher. After that, you went to Kansas City to meet with that spokesperson for the Kansas City Rail Project. You know something, I'm really surprised," he laughed with pleasure, "you still don't recognize me do you. I'm Roth, the Jewish businessman you rode with in the limousine―the Hebrew-speaking real estate tycoon. That was me! That's when I bugged you, when I reached over to shake your hand. I bugged your bag. Take a look."

I reached over to my bag, a microscopic device was located on one of the straps. I hadn't even noticed, "Oh my God, are you serious? That was you?"

"Of course. The Sephardic real estate investing Jew was our in with this whole NAFTA crowd. I spoke the language, dressed the part, used my family's assets as background―I walked the walk and talked the talk...to a tee, nobody suspected anything. I think it's been my best cover in all my years of working intelligence because I'm doing it against Americans, which feels like treason. I met with the Kansas City Rail Project CFO that afternoon, to make a property purchase around the Kansas City rail center. Their plans for infrastructure and railroads around that area will never materialize. Forget about it, not on my watch. That Mexican Customs checkpoint in Kansas City, that place won't even be standing by tomorrow. The whole compound is covered in explosives. It won't be long before that area will be used as a dump site after it's been blemished. The Roth Trust can lease the property as we see fit. That property will never be used as anything else."

His genius was daunting. He had concentrated endless time and effort into this project, his whole life's work prepared him until this very moment of administrating a cataclysmic political scandal that would result in an assassination of a high-level political figure. The Governor had his big day coming up. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz would ensure the road to perdition would be a lengthy arduous journey. Since the U.S. Customs concern, Helena maintained an unprecedented silence that fixated on physical aloofness. I was vexed as to my approach towards her but I ignored it, she wasn't my concern. Her best interest was not my concern. We could part ways at any moment and I'd be dandy with the very thought of it.

Igor interrupted my thoughts about Helena, "When you contacted that reporter about the autopsy report, I had to step in to thwart your plans, to prevent you from pursuing that angle. It didn't work. You see, like I mentioned earlier, Jay Jacobs had a rare health condition. It was in his medical file that he suffered something similar decades ago in a London hotel that could've been related to being poisoned or the blood infection in his heart and kidneys―nobody knew for sure. If the Governor had anything to do with that, he would've had to cover his tracks well. If he was poisoned, the perpetrator would've known that his blood condition wouldn't be so thoroughly examined because of his medical history and the cancer. Jay Jacobs and I were aware of this phenomenon, so we anticipated such foul play. We bugged his house and put surveillance cameras around the medicine cabinet in his restroom, which was the only place he would take his meds. You won't believe what I found on that camera, but I'll come right back to that. So, I contacted that reporter from your e-mail address and advised him I would pick the document up from him at his office. I hacked into your IP address, sent him the e-mail, and then deleted it from your sent box―simple. After that, I knew you were still planning on meeting him at the coffee shop in Austin, so I went into character again and slipped you that file. You still don't recognize that was me, huh? Most people never notice what's right under their noses. Both of you were too buried in your conversation to assess your surroundings. I left you that note in hopes you would avoid pursuing the NAFTA angle through a murder, but then you ended up in Barton Hills―you were far more resourceful than I had suspected. I raced to Barton Hills in that Lincoln but you had already arrived, so I played the role of a menacing government agent under surveillance, to scare you off. I clipped your mirror but I wasn't trying to harm you. After that I rushed back here to break into your apartment because you sounded so foreboding when you left Barton Hills. I didn't want you to do anything worth regretting or to jeopardize the story."

"All that was you? Wow, I'm so confused right now. I need to think for a second."

Helena paced around the apartment looking up into the ceiling, down on the floor, then all around her. She placed her palms into her face and buried them for a moment until she decided to speak again.

"What did you find on that camera footage?" asked Helena with coyness.

"Here, let me play a taped conversation first, and then I'll show you the video," said Igor.

It was a transcript of the widow speaking with an unknown perpetrator on a phone call placed after we left her home in Barton Hills.

"This conversation opened a can of worms, you see, it alerted the right people in the position of power. Perhaps you don't recognize that voice, but it's the Executive Assistant to the Governor, his baritone voice is striking―he's the Governor's right-hand man. Let me show you what I have on camera."

Igor stepped over around one of the monitors, "This is what I was afraid of. I didn't want them to know anyone was sniffing around Jay Jacobs' death. I knew it would put them on edge causing defensive tactics, which now makes my job more difficult. No big deal, they're just bigger stakes. When you two appeared at their doorstep with an autopsy report in hand inquiring about medical conditions, well let's just say it provoked the widow to implement the contingency plan. She panicked. Everything is moving quicker now, more than I expected. Now they know your name Michael, not yours Helena, I think you're in the clear unless they've started pulling phone records. It's just a matter of time before they figure it out. When you decided to go to Massachusetts to meet with Emma Marlowe I thought it a great escape because of its randomness, at best they would be following up in Houston to send you a message. That would be sufficient time for me to intervene, I would've been there waiting, but then you left, so I waited around here. It was a good call, but then you got that Soviet in your apartment so I had to monitor the apartment for intrusion."

"Yeah, Pencho, that's my boy! He's visiting me from Los Angeles, I asked him to keep an eye on the apartment while we traveled to Massachusetts and Canada...because of the break-in, you know. I just needed someone I can trust. I don't know too many people in Texas. It's strange though, he hasn't answered his phone for a few days. Here, let me give him a call, he hasn't―"

"How close were you to him Michael? Are you related?" interrupted Igor while I looked out of the window towards my apartment trying to steal a glimpse of Pencho strutting about.

"Let me show you that video first," said Igor with fierce determination. He was adamant about showing it at once.

He grabbed the phone from my hand quite respectfully, "Please Michael, this first."

Eerily, we witnessed Mary Jacobs on a black and white monitor tamper with a peach-colored medicine bottle. You could see her reluctant expression in the mirror. Her mouth was sealed tight with her lips trembling, the thick-hollowed wrinkles around her eyes vibrating, faint discharge from her eyes plunging. It was all followed by whimpering reverberation as she looked at herself in the mirror while she unscrewed the medicine bottle.

"Please forgive me my lord. Please forgive me for this cruel act of violence against my husband. Give me the strength and courage to do this," she rehearsed. He shut the video off. Jay Jacobs was speaking from the grave.

"Alright, I need to call Pencho okay. I'm really worried about him. It's not like him to avoid my phone calls."

"I'm sorry Michael, but Pencho is no longer with us," said Igor Errazuriz.

17.

Sadistically I watched Pencho Slaveykov on a monitor get murdered in my apartment. When Igor said those words to me I didn't believe it. When you hear those words it never feels tangible unless you see the deceased body. The words trembled through my major internal organs making its way out through my veins towards my extremities. I couldn't breathe. I took a few deep breaths and looked around, first at Helena then at Igor.

I bit down on my lower lip like a clamp. Perhaps they both expected me to shed tears, the human condition responds unique and specific to different stimuli, thus they were waiting for my reactions. Helena tried to reach over to console me. I pushed her away, I didn't need empathy at that particular moment―I needed silence. She's the one that had tears in her eyes, I almost felt like lashing out to reprimand her and say, "You didn't even know Pencho, what the hell are you crying about!" but I know her response was triggered by the situation we were in and maybe even because she saw me in turmoil. Her tears had nothing to do with Pencho―never believe a woman's tears.

It was fucken strenuous to watch his death on the monitor, in my apartment, the body still rested on the hardwood floor. I had just seen Pencho a few days ago, in that apartment. I was responsible for his death. Flashbacks of the conversations we had in my apartment ran wild―the images of his constitution were lucid. I had killed Pencho, I was to blame. Had he not been in my apartment at that particular moment, house sitting to prevent another burglary, he would be living his lavish life in L.A. without a care in the world. But now he was dead. Watching Pencho scurry around the apartment floors helpless, hiding in the bedroom, making one last attempt to scar the perpetrators before they finally executed him...that was his final testimony.

"What's the next move? What are you going to do next that requires physical violence?" I asked with a linear facial expression.

"Michael, this part doesn't concern you. I know you feel responsible for your friend's death, but there was nothing you could do about that. You couldn't prevent this from happening, none of us could. You're not to blame here. This game is being played by dangerous players with careers, families, political offices, and businesses to lose. They're relentless. They could care less about you or me, or Pencho, or anyone else who steps in their way. That's what happened to Jay Jacobs, and my relatives, and now to your dear friend Pencho. I'm sorry Michael. I truly wish I could've prevented this from happening. But, whatever I have planned next is my own responsibility, you don't get your hands dirty remember?" said Igor.

"Don't patronize me. You don't know what I'm feeling. If I want to get involved on a physical level...that's my choice. We have those murderers on camera and one of those murderers is walking around with a knife wound on his upper arm. Maybe he has a bandage wrapped around it right now―it shouldn't be too hard to find him. We surveillance the Governor's staff until we spot his face. Anyone can see them clearly on those damn monitors! Anyone of us can point him out."

"It's not that easy. They're protected at high clearance levels we won't have access to. Look, you have tons of documents, recordings, video footage―this is a first-hand exclusive. Everything you have since you met with Jay Jacobs until what you're seeing now on the monitor. This story is going to blow wide open, you need to do your job. Once you start publishing the story and getting readers to follow, everything will be out in the open. Exposure of the monopoly and these deaths is colossal for us. You guys need to hide out for a bit, two days...tops, then develop and print it at once. Just one thing though―leave my name and Errazuriz out. If they suspect we know they were to blame for the deaths of the Danguillecourt family, they'll make it impossible to get to them."

"And what are you gonna do?" asked Helena.

"I need to do three last things. First, I'm going to Kansas City to rupture the real estate around the Kansas City rail center with explosives―turn it into a dump site. Then, I'm going to burn down the Governor's mansion in downtown Austin, hopefully with his family in it. Third, I'm going to assassinate the Governor in broad daylight. I don't think any of you want anything to do with any of this. Just write the story, stay here in this apartment protected from the outside world, and call an ambulance to advise them about Pencho's body. I'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

Helena and I hadn't been alone since we left the Halifax airport in Canada. We hadn't had time to clear our thoughts regarding how we fit into the remainder of the story. Her silence conveyed ambivalence about her continuity in the matter. I was impulsive, I lashed out at the airport, and her response was one you would expect from spousal servitude―docile. Perhaps I reminded her of stereotypical men she encountered in her life. Egocentric, abandoner, betrayer, immature, aloof, and whatever else she had experienced with her siblings, father, boyfriends, and husband. But I didn't care. I fit the prototype of man impeccably.

She sat slouched in a swiveling chair staring into nothing, "Hey, so...what do you make of all this, huh?" I asked without looking at her, feeling a heavy rush in my chest plate.

She didn't bother looking in my direction, she shrugged. "Well maybe we should talk about it, so much has happened since we left Halifax, I can't speculate what you're thinking. Do you think we should talk about our next move, if you still want to be part of this story? Helena...are you there?"

She didn't respond, the silence in the room sat thick like a cloud of smog over a bowl-shaped valley flanked by mountains and plains. I heard roaring sirens approaching, they would be hauling away Pencho's body but I couldn't bear witness, the thought of it forced my heart to pound through my chest plate quicker. I sat on a chair looking in Helena's direction. My feet tapped the hardwood floor first slow then fidgety, trying to garner responses. My fingers interlocked, my arms rested on my thighs, my back slouched against the chair, and all the time Helena ignored me.

This continued for at least ten minutes, then she broke her silence with attitude, "I'm hungry, and I want to go to bed." She walked over to the refrigerator and snacked on vegetables around the kitchen prior to heading towards the bedroom. Before she vanished out of sight, she said, "Can you please wake me early in the morning. I'd like to go home tomorrow. Have a good night." She shut the door of the bedroom behind her.

Her behavior was cold...distant. Some women I knew promoted their streaks of cruelty with an aggressive undertone but Helena's was serene. It was accepted though. It was only in that capacity that allowed me the opportunity to think with creativity, without distractions. I remained in that chair struck with endless thoughts circling around until it was time to carry the torch of the martyred NAFTA opposition. My routine would have granted me the privilege to run a few laps prior to writing, but I was not in a position to leave the apartment for fear of my safety once they realized the murdered victim in the apartment complex was Pencho Slaveykov, not the journalist.

The window of opportunity had presented itself. The political climate of apathy was ripe to expose government misconduct of a varied type. I would have preferred if Igor Errazuriz hadn't left though, he had already become like an arc angel slaying the serpents that were destroying the very core of what this country had been founded on. I was ready to play my part. And so I drafted up a proposal.

* * *

It was about six when I finished the proposal. Helena was sleeping comfortable in the room, Igor Errazuriz was in the wilderness, and I was pondering ways to contact Pencho Slaveykov's family. Nothing seemed more difficult than that. I switched on the television until I could fall asleep. A breaking news report was coming through the monitor.

An explosion around the NAFTA rail center destroyed the headquarters of the Kansas City Rail Project, existing railroad lines, the rail center, warehouses, trailers, storage facilities, and other businesses. The source of the explosion has not yet been determined, but forensic specialists on the scene have speculated at arson. Luckily, there were no deaths or injuries. There were no people working at the time of the explosion, but the estimated monetary damages are in the high millions. It is estimated that the physical damage caused will disrupt trade and transportation for many years.

Igor had pulled it off. History was developing before my very eyes―I was interwoven now with the NAFTA blueprint, I was part of it! Blowing up the Kansas City rail center would be a colossal setback for the monopoly. The time was now to strike with fierce vengeance. Someone would have to pay for the death of Pencho. I wanted payback.

It was impossible to sleep with the zeitgeist circulating around the atmosphere. I needed to go straight to the office to hand over the evidence and the proposal. Sloppy Joe Franklin would just be arriving in the newsroom. The timing couldn't be more perfect.

I knocked on the door to wake Helena, "Hey, are you awake, hey, are you up? It's begun, Igor blew up the Kansas City rail center...it's all over the news. You should take a look."

"What, what time is it?" responded a groggy voice, "Open the door...come in."

With excited pep in my step, I walked through the door and sat on the bed next to Helena. Her eyes flickered with a grand passion, her crinkling hair was smeared across her face, she clamored at the very thought of devoted listening.

"I'm going to the newsroom at work. I haven't been to the office for days. Igor has completed his first task, so it's my turn to get the ball rolling in the media, you know. I finished the story this morning, so I have to get in there quickly if I want them to print it ASAP. I need to convince them to run with it. I'm pretty sure all this evidence we have is enough to get them to print it on the front page though. Do you want to come?"

"Shouldn't you wait for Igor, isn't he supposed to be coming back soon?" she suggested.

I felt somewhat offended, as if I couldn't take matters into my own hands. I knew what needed to be done―write the story, and then submit it for print. I'm a damn journalist, it's what I do. I lost all sense of respect for her at that exact moment, she became insignificant. I was glad I had not started a relationship with her. I got up in haste and started walking out the door.

"Well, if you need to go home, you can take a cab or something...I'll leave some money on the kitchen counter. I have to go."

"Wait―are you mad or something? What seems to be the problem?" she asked.

"Nothing―everything's fine. I just need to get back to work, that's all. My boss has been calling me all evening and all last week. I'm surprised I haven't got fired. Look―I can't wait around for Igor to return. I made copies of all documents and transcripts, which I'm taking, but I think you and Igor should hold on to the originals. Every one of us should have this information for safekeeping―for leverage. I'll call you later. Take care of yourself."

"Michael...wait, hold on for a second!"

* * *

I ignored her and kept walking out of the apartment in the direction towards my street. I knew a bus route that would drop me off a block from the Chronicle's office, but I was startled by the government Suburban parked between the two blocks. Igor was sitting inside with the window lowered, "Where are you going Michael, come inside for a second."

With reluctance I stepped inside the vehicle, "I saw the news report last night about the whole Kansas City thing―congratulations."

I looked over at him lamping in approval. "Now it's time for me to play my part, I'm doing what I've agreed to. I finished writing the story. I'm on my way now to hand it over to my boss in person."

"Listen to this," said Igor. He turned up the radio which was reporting a fire sweeping through the 152-year-old Texas Governor's mansion causing severe damage. No injuries were reported and according to sources the Governor's family was in Stockholm at the time of the incident.

"Fuck, there was nobody there! I didn't kill anyone―the plot failed."

He was distracted and stared with blankness towards the street without glancing in my direction. His gloved hands clenched the steering wheel and we sat there in a moment of awkward silence. He had burned the Governor's mansion as he had claimed.

"Michael," a long pause followed, "I need your help."

"What is it, what's going on?" I asked, but I was afraid of his response. Whatever Igor wanted me to do I knew there was no turning back―it was like making a deal with the devil.

"The Governor's family is in Sweden at the moment, but he's here, the Governor will be at the state capitol building in Austin this morning. It might be the only chance I get."

"Okay, so...what does that have to do with me?" I asked.

"You said you wanted payback for Pencho, well, I need your help on this one. The plan went to shit, so I only have this window of opportunity to assassinate him before it's too late. I know you said you didn't get your hands dirty, but I need a getaway driver. You won't even have to get out of the car. If someone is trailing me, I'll turn myself in or something and you can drive off like it never happened. What do you say? You still want to get this murderer? Did you really mean what you said about getting payback?"

I sat in the vehicle with my heart pounding hard within my chest. It reminded me of pressure groups in high school when I hung out with the thugged-out gangsters who wanted me to drive the car when they did beer runs out of liquor stores. This wasn't a favor you asked the average person, this was the planned assassination of a state governor. It was treason. I couldn't believe he was asking me to do this, but in all fairness I had responded with a strong emotional content when I found out Pencho had been murdered. I had asked to be a part of this cycle of violence. I was afraid of going to prison, I was afraid of being an accomplice to a murder, I was afraid of God's wrath, I was afraid of losing my soul, but most important I was afraid of the government of the United States of America.

"Look Michael, I would understand if you said no. I don't want you to feel pressured into doing something you don't want to. I would have asked you in the apartment after you saw the video footage when you were pumped up but I didn't want to say anything in front of the girl. I don't know what's going on with you two, but I didn't think she needed to know about this. It's quite simple actually―you'll drop me off on 12th St in front of Waterloo Park, after that you'll have no clue as to where or what I'll be doing. The less you know the better. When I come back we'll turn right on Trinity St and then we'll head over to the freeway going northbound...I'll spare you the details."

Just then a public bus zoomed past us with a billboard promoting Bulgaria―Pencho Slaveykov was speaking out to me, it was an omen provided to me as an encouragement to go forward with these plans. I was making history.

"No, it's alright...I'll join you," I said, after a brief period of contemplation.

* * *

Rumors of assassination plots against the Governor of Texas were commonplace because of his tendency to use the political machinery to advance his agenda. He was even nicknamed the 'Czar' in certain political circles and the media, having been in office for more than ten years now. The rumors had circulated for so long that no one took them seriously, but today would shatter Texas like the assassination of JFK.

Igor Errazuriz lay in composed earnest on the rooftop of the Secretary of State office. The Governor would be walking through the State Capitol entrance flanked by two bodyguards, one of which was on Igor's payroll. That bodyguard had provided Igor with logistical support about how to take out the Governor with a sniper rifle with a silencer. The exit would have to be improvised.

As the three men approached the pink granite entrance of the Capitol building, a bullet struck the Governor in his chest plate piercing through his heart, a second struck a bodyguard through his forehead, and the third struck the other bodyguard in the shoulder as he threw himself over the Governor sheltering him from more bullets. He threw him down to the ground even though he was already collapsing, the bodyguard reached for his pistol from within his coat but he was shot in the hand before he could fire. Another shot pierced his throat while he was huddled over the Governor. All three men were murdered in silence without a trace.

Igor severed all ties with the bodyguard with his death, it had never been in the plan to allow him to live―backstabbers couldn't be trusted. If he sold his soul against protecting the one person he was responsible for, then he was capable of other disloyalties. Igor Errazuriz walked back with steadfast poise, no facial expression was needed on my behalf...any observer could recognize it as reality and horror. And with the snap of a finger it was a done deal. I knew very little about that. Igor didn't say a word, I read about it in the paper a few days later.

* * *

The following morning I stepped out into the darkened morning where distant incandescent stars hidden behind swaying palm trees reminded me of a science fiction film. I had slept in Igor's apartment that night while he kept watch outside. After I left he would be fleeing the country to Mexico. Helena had left as well. Perhaps she was back at her place, I didn't know.

The opaque landscape didn't match my reality though. The blissful cosmic principle was forcing me to escape down the street towards my vehicle around the block instead. I looked over my shoulder with keen precision, but in the shadowy morning I was as blind as a bat. I made it to the car without concerns, but after I turned it on I imagined the engine blowing up beneath me. It was a quick thought―I took my chances.

Driving towards the office I kept thinking about Pencho. This was the first person murdered on my behalf because of a story I was pursuing. Many people had been involved in this story, on previous stories as well, but nobody had ever been killed because of me. Then I thought about the Governor with supreme satisfaction. I didn't know how to deal with that type of guilt. If the story didn't unravel the way Igor planned, then I would reassess my career choice and renounce journalism altogether. As I approached closer to the office, images of Pencho scurrying across the hardwood floor crushed my confidence. Franklin had better respond favorably to the story because any apprehensiveness would ignite my short fuse. I pulled the vehicle into the parking structure and Franklin's motorcycle was already parked.

Even today I can't quite remember the walk from the car to the office. I don't remember what it smelled like. There could have been trash or homelessness spread throughout the parking structure suggesting urban decay. I didn't bother to appreciate the concrete underneath my feet. There could have been cracks, potholes, unleveled cylinder blocks, or spray-painted graffiti on the pavement. I didn't notice the landscape in my peripheral vision, there could have been rows of orchard trees or a funeral procession at the adjacent intersections. I didn't notice whether I heard sirens or horns honking, there could have been an accident or bottlenecked traffic building up. Everything during that stride has since become unfamiliar. Had I been aware it was my last breath of freedom on the streets of Texas, or anywhere else for that matter, I would have planned accordingly, but I'll describe what I remember as best as I can.

You see, that morning I stormed into the building towards Franklin's office while double-takes from colleagues filled up the gallery of masks blurred in my peripheral. When I barged into his office he was on the phone, he put down the receiver with the look of demise splattered across the room. I let out hysterical rants about NAFTA, about the murder of Jay Jacobs and Pencho Slaveykov, about the monopoly. My hands flailed in the air with violence after I handed him the evidence and my proposal, but the only thing I received was a blank stare hidden behind nothingness.

Franklin's response was, "I'm sorry Michael, but I have to let you go."

"What? Are you fucken kidding me? Did you not hear what I just said―murder, monopoly, political corruption, scandal, the Governor of Texas, what more do you want. This is huge, man!"

"Watch you're language boy. Calm yourself before I call security. I just got off the phone with Customs and Border Protection. They've been looking for you almost four days now. You're a wanted fugitive. You went to Canada? What the hell were you doing there? You told me you were in Massachusetts. You're just full of tricks up your sleeve, aren't you? You escaped from authorities at the airport―what the hell are you doing here anyway? We terminated your employment yesterday, I'm not interested in any story you're working on...not anymore. Oh, and something else, I received this police report from Los Angeles yesterday―it was faxed over here by the agent handling your case. It says here you were being investigated on murder charges in L.A. a few years ago about a real estate developer, a man whose wife you were having an affair with. Shauna Chandler. This is totally unacceptable, who knows what skeletons are hiding in your closet," said Franklin with a smug gesture.

"Wait, wait! I could explain all that. This is all related to this story...I was following leads all across North America uncovering this monopoly and murder. They're just trying to discredit me! You've got to believe me! I was cleared of those murder charges. I kept this information from you because the case was thrown out. Please...you have to believe me. Look―take a look at the evidence, read the proposal, it's all right there. This monopoly and murder goes all the way to the top, the Governor's involved. Trust me, please!"

"Sure you were. You expect me to believe the esteemed late Governor of Texas was involved in some murder you fabricated. He's dead Michael. This doesn't look so good for you. I suggest you speak to your attorney before you incriminate yourself. I can't believe anything you say, keep your supposed evidence. Why is the Customs and Border Protection Agency looking for you anyway? Huh? What are you, some―illegal immigrant or something?"

I became frenzied after that comment. My hands took on a life independent from reason. According to a police report, I launched a left jab across Franklin's dumb face causing my knuckle between my index and middle finger to puncture a hole through his bottom lip, forcing a tooth to penetrate through to my knuckle and a pouring of blood. I leapt over his desk onto his chair and choked him with the intent of ending his life. I blacked out. When I came to, securities had me pinned down on the floor with pistols drawn, two knees across my back, and an audience from here to Moscow outside of Franklin's office. I looked over towards the hallway, I saw uniformed police officers trotting towards the scene of events. I recognized one―Diaz. He questioned me in my apartment after the break-in. He looked at me with disgust, nodded his head, and spit on the floor. Then I was hauled off into a squad car that waited below in the parking structure. On the walk down I realized the evidence had been taken from my persons. When they booked me into the Harris County Jail in downtown for assault, all evidence of the NAFTA blueprint had been removed.

