Name of the Devil (29 page)

L
AMONT KNOWS HE'S
in a hell of a bind. He needs to make some kind of deal. I can tell this was already weighing on him. Whether he promised his silence or not, if he screwed up the transfer of the cocaine Marta already has all the justification to have him killed while really trying to protect her own identity.

Running a criminal enterprise is filled with human resource challenges. If you had everyone killed who had potential evidence on you and was at risk of turning State's witness, nobody would work for you. Lamont wasn't a worry for Marta as long as prosecutors and cops weren't waving her photo and asking about her. Now she knows her invisibility is coming to an end. Loose ends have to be tidied up.

Lamont leans back, crosses his arms and stares at the ceiling. “Marta? Which one? I knew three of them. There was the Marta that went into the Air Force. She was an eighteen-year-old girl coming off the streets. Managed to get her GED and enlisted because some judge thought it'd help a smart kid find some discipline.”

“Did it?”

“Discipline was never her problem. Authority was. Here's the thing about the military; it's like a razor. It cuts right through you. On one side you get people who want to be part of something. They need that gung-ho attitude and want to be told
what to do. They're the do-gooders. On the other side, you get the fuck-ups, like me. We sign up because we think it's going to straighten out all that shit that's wrong in our lives. Only it doesn't. We coast along and avoid getting in trouble for a while, but then we figure out how to beat the system or at least push it a little. What's only a small infraction on the outside is a big one inside. Get caught with a joint in your pocket outside a club? In some cities the cops will just trash it and tell you to go home. In the Air Force, you're looking at time in the brig, and that's if they don't kick you out.

“Marta figured this out early on. Lucky for her, she wasn't much to look at. Any half-decent chick in the military is getting chased by a dozen cocks every minute of the day. Know what the STD rate is for a woman in the service compared to the average? My point is, Marta showed up with a grudge. She didn't like being told what to do, which is a bad attitude to have in the military. She took some shit from a couple COs and that's when the second Marta emerged. Bad Luck Marta. Shit had a habit of happening to people who crossed her. One CO who wrote her up for breaking curfew had his brakes go out. He ended up driving through a red light and getting T-boned. Another one who noticed parts were going missing and probably showing up on eBay got electrocuted by a bad light switch before he could start a formal investigation. Weird shit.

“She was always somewhere else. You could never pin it on her. She was good at getting other people to do stuff for her. Look at my dumb ass. I got to hand it to her. Anyhow, Bad Luck Marta realized the Air Force was too small for her. By that time she was smuggling drugs into the base and had figured out all the little loopholes.

“After she was discharged, she laid low for a while. I heard she had some hard times. But eventually she got hooked up with a high-level trafficker. Soon enough, Marta was running mules
between Mexico and the US. She'd find these Army wives, bored with waiting for their husbands to come back. Marta would offer them money to take a trip to Mexico with a few friends and then carry a bag or two back.

“Marta was real smart about it. She'd make sure these wives would get a chance to party down there, hook up with some handsome beach boy. Then she'd use that to blackmail these dumb bitches. If they got caught or said anything, Marta would make sure their husbands stuck in the middle of the shit somewhere would find out real quick what a cheating whore they were married to. Real piece of work.

“When peace time, or whatever the hell we call it, came around, she had a better idea. Instead of spending three days and a few grand each trip on these bimbos ready to have a breakdown, why not hire the husbands?

“These guys know how to fly remotely operated vehicles a few feet off the ground and avoid radar. For fifty K you can build a half-decent kit if you know what you are doing. There are lots of joystick jockeys looking for something to do that pays better than working retail and trying to rape someone with an extended warranty.

“Marta had the cutting edge advantage on the cartels. They were in the Stone Age with boats and passenger planes. She was making bank quicker. Her mules were electronic. She also started using them for counter-surveillance. That's when she upped the game. If she couldn't recruit you, she would find you and kill you.”

“It's a big jump from running drugs to running a cartel,” I interject.

“It didn't happen overnight. But she's smart and a fast learner. If life had dealt her a different hand, she'd be running some Fortune 500 company. I don't doubt that for a moment. All this took time. When she got hold of me, she was well on the rise.

“Marta was good at figuring out who was in charge. She could make a deal or cut somebody out of the picture fast. And she got the business. She worked her way up through street suppliers to the people running the fields. She's smart, real smart. In this business, brains are at a premium. Look at where my dumb ass is sitting.”

“How would I find her?”

“Find her? You should want to stay away from her. She can smell a narc a mile away.”

“They don't pay me to keep away from bad people. Does she have a weakness? A vice?”

“Not a vice. Maybe a weakness,” replies Lamont. “Kids. As hard-ass as she is, she's got a soft spot for kids. She has an orphanage down in Mexico.”

“Tixato?”

“Yeah. They call her ‘Sister Marta' there.”

“I've been there. Anywhere else?”

Lamont gives me a surprised look. “You went to Tixato? And made it out alive?”

“There were complications.”

“She's got another one in Nicaragua. Coincidentally enough, another high-trafficking zone.”

“Where in Nicaragua?” I press.

“I don't remember. The town was called Lexi or something like that. She has a house on the water and a huge dock where she keeps her yacht.”

“Yacht?”

“Yeah. She's a very wealthy woman who likes her toys. She's also got friends in high places. People down there don't think of her as a drug dealer. They think she's just some wealthy real estate investor or something.”

“What's the name of the yacht?”

“I don't know if I remember. I've never been on it.” He sounds like he's telling the truth.

I take a wild guess based on how people choose these kinds of names. “Marty?”

He snaps his fingers. “Yeah,
Marty
, that's it. How'd you know?”

“That's not important. If you can think of anything else, let me know. In the meantime, I'm going to talk to the warden.”

Lamont is a first-rate asshole. But he's not a killer. Right now I can see a crosshair on his forehead. US federal prison isn't the same as Mexican lock-up, but it's still not a safe place for a marked man.

“What for?” he asks.

“It's a miracle she hasn't found a way to kill you already. I can only guess that's because her attention has been elsewhere. I'm going to do what I can to see that you're safe now.”

I can't let Marta get to him like she did Esteban. Lamont is our only living link between her and X-20.

B
REYER LEANS ACROSS
his desk and stabs a finger in my direction. “Who have you been talking to?”

He's in no mood for anything that sounds like a flippant answer. I play it dumb. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“About the pope thing,” he replies. “I told you not to take it out of this building.”

I have to tread carefully. I can't lie. “I didn't break any regulations.”

“I got half a building full of lawyers. I don't need a street cop throwing legal distinctions back in my face.”

Being called a “street cop” is a compliment in my book, compared with “showgirl bimbo” or “magic babe.” In a strange way, I take it as a sign that Breyer at least takes me seriously. I respect him enough to tell the truth.

“I spoke to my priest in a confessional,” I explain matter-of-fact.

He sits back and gives me an odd look. “Your priest?”

“Technically, not my priest. But I did it in a confessional. I wasn't sure how much further than this office my warning was going to go.”

“So you went and told the Catholic Church, even though you didn't have any evidence?”

“I had my instincts.” I avoid using the word “faith,” but I guess
that's what it was. While I was talking to the priest downtown, Marta's X-20 goons were parking a truck full of plastic explosive in my basement. If I hadn't said anything and kicked up a fuss, and, I hesitate to admit, if Damian hadn't been watching my back, I'd be dead along with a lot of other people and the plot to kill the pope would be advancing along.

I expect him to yell. Instead, he lets out a sigh. “What am I supposed to do with you? I send you over to Ailes's school for mutant agents, hoping he can channel that energy into something constructive. It turns out he's made you a more resourceful pain in the ass.”

“Sir. My goal isn't to subvert you. I'm a cop. I'm just trying to do my job.”

“You are also in a chain of command,” he replies.

Breyer didn't get his job by sitting still. We both know that sometimes when the person upstairs doesn't get it, you have to push things. The problem is if the results don't justify the action.

“You told me not to leak this to the press. Those were your specific words. My understanding was this wasn't to be made public. I got it. I didn't do that. I didn't go around you within the Bureau. I didn't try to interfere in any of the diplomatic channels, whatever those are supposed to be. I told one priest.” I leave out that he's in the most important archdiocese in the country.

“Diplomatic channels,” he scoffs. “One priest?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Please don't bullshit me. If you have connected friends, just tell me.”

That's got to be a sore spot for Breyer, knowing Ailes is rumored to be golfing pals with the president and has Wall Street billionaires on his speed dial.

“Pardon me? The man who met me in Hawkton? I wrote a full report on Mr. Oberst.”

“Yeah, him. How'd you find yourself out there? It's not your case.”

“I was following a lead on a matter that appeared unrelated at the time.”

He scoffs. “Unrelated? Never mind. Do you ever sleep?”

“I can't go back to my apartment. I was just following up on some information about Groom's murder.”

Breyer leans back in his chair and puts a hand to his brow. “Have you always been a magnet for trouble?”

“I prefer to think I'm just good at finding it.”

He shakes his head. “Too good. Let me tell you what's been going on in my world. Besides this attempted bombing mess that we can't sort out just yet, whether it was some unknown Filipino terrorist group or X-20, I've been getting the State Department yelling in my ear.

“Just so you know, after you left here, I did as I promised. I made calls. An hour later I get someone calling from the Secretary of State's office screaming, I kid you not,
screaming
that we're going to ruin diplomatic relations with the spiritual leader of a billion people if we persist in a line of investigation that not only advances a rather thin notion the pope is going to be assassinated for reasons I can't even understand, but also asks if this same man may be guilty of manslaughter on US soil.” He catches his breath and lowers his voice. “All because of your ‘instinct,' which so far isn't backed by much physical evidence.”

“Well—”

He interrupts me. “Hold on. So . . . Marta Rodriguez watches a room full of people kill her brother in a botched exorcism. Years later she becomes the head of a drug cartel and decides to start getting revenge. She begins by getting the sheriff hopped up on some strange trip where he's seeing demons that drive him to attack others. Then the church blows up from what we can only describe as a ‘fat bomb' that makes it look like
spontaneous human
whatever
. She then makes another accomplice kill himself on live television using a transmitter and a hidden gun. And . . . and she's watching these events from remotely controlled drones.”

“There's more to it—”

His face is red at my interruption. “Let me finish. Her final target is the mysterious man in the room who happens to be the pope. Have I got it? Wait, she tries to kill our intrepid agent, not once, but twice. Am I missing anything?”

It's never easy being the only one to see a pattern and having to explain it to everyone else. The simplest reaction for them is to blame the messenger.

My life would be so much easier if I could ignore things. I wouldn't be all twisted up inside and feel like I was under constant attack. But it's not a choice I'm capable of making. If I get pushed, my instincts are to push back—twice as hard.

I've been bracing for this moment. “Is it too weird? Is that the problem? Ever follow the life story of the guy who shot Kennedy? How about John Wilkes Booth? Did you know his brother was the most famous actor of the day and once saved Lincoln's son from being run over by a train? You tell me, what part of my story don't you believe? Is the C4 that was parked in my basement just some strange coincidence? Is the fact that I've got a witness placing the little girl who was there that night in Hawkton at the head of X-20 not important? The pope? Maybe it wasn't him there that night. My suspect thinks so, which makes him a target regardless if he's on the tape. That's all that matters right now. After that's sorted out, we can figure out if it's true.”

“Then what?”

“Same as any other cold case where we find a possible suspect.”

“Prosecute the pope?” Breyer massages his temples. “Oh, Lord. What part about him being the pope don't you understand?
Anyhow, that's not the pressing issue right now. I'll let you deal with that later.

“That person at the State Department who was screaming at me—me, the Assistant Director of the FBI, mind you—called while you were gone. Only this time it was in a much more cordial tone. It seems somebody in a very high position of power called her and asked for a favor. A favor only I have the power to grant. I have half a mind to say ‘no.' But the other half says ‘yes,' because of their previous attitude.”

“What kind of favor?” His change in tone catches me off guard.

“He's coming here.”

“Who?”

“The pope. He's planning on making a surprise visit at some youth music festival in Miami.”

“You're kidding?” Damn. Marta is probably all over this now.

“No. No I'm not. It's in less than two weeks. Now it's our responsibility. We need to know if there's a credible threat to him. We can't have that happen on US soil.

“The Vatican asked for you personally to assist with security arrangements.”

“Me? I wouldn't know the first thing about that.” I can feel Oberst's machinations behind this.

“Apparently, they have some concern as to whether or not a credible attempt could be made on his life. There's an unanswered question that they believe you can shed some light on.”

“I just wanted to bring the threat to your attention. I don't actually want in on this.” My plate is too small. My anxiety levels are already at their limit. Having to personally worry about another person's safety makes me even more queasy.

“Too late. You stick your nose in too many places, you're going to get stung.” He waits a moment before dismissing me. “You play by your own set of rules, Blackwood. You're clever,
I'll give you that. But right or wrong, I don't forget how you play things. One day you're going to find yourself in a gray area and the people you've walked over on the way might not see it the same way.”

This is a threat. Technically, Breyer isn't in a position to reprimand me for going to the priest, maybe . . . But either way, he is letting me know when this is over, I will have to pay a price for going around him.