GOTU - A Robin Marlette Novel (12 page)

Jim Adams cleared the state application with the Maricopa County Attorney's Office. The County Attorney had made Jim a Special Deputy County Attorney for this purpose, which allowed him to handle the matter until it transferred to federal court.

Judge Roman finished reading the affidavit, locked eyes with Robin, and put him under oath. Robin accepted the oath and the judge signed the application and the order. He handed the papers to Robin, looking into Robin's eyes again, and in a forceful, hoarse whisper said, “Get these sons of bitches, Rob…get 'em good.” Robin nodded his head, saluted the judge, and walked out.

TWELVE

Juan Trinidad had just finished his plan to take revenge on Marlette. Juan's plan called for his men to enter the Marlette house and kill everyone in it. They would wait for Marlette to come home, see his dead family, and then kill him. The men would make sure no one would doubt that Marlette saw his dead family. It would be done in broad daylight. Such an action would send a powerful message to the American pigs.

He also assigned a team of men keeping an eye on Marlette's daughter and her boyfriend. They would kill the boy and then take Marlette's daughter. Before Marlette died, he would know this, too. It would be a message to all American policemen their families were not protected from the organization. The cartel could do whatever they wanted.

He rose up from the desk in his suite in the ranch mansion and headed for Miguel's residence down the hall. He passed two guards, who nodded respectfully to him and entered Miguel's quarters.

“Miguel!” Juan called out.

“Si, amigo, I am in the study.”

Juan followed the voice into the study. Miguel sat at a leather card table with borders of inlaid gold, wearing a white linen shirt under a green silk smoking jacket and reading the
Wall Street Journal.

“What is it, my friend?”

“I have the plan for revenge on Marlette.”

“Ah, good, let me hear it.”

Juan related his plan to Miguel. He could see Miguel looked pleased. Miguel had wanted to kill Marlette for quite some time. Now he could see it finally happening. As usual, however, Miguel wanted more.

“Before you actually kill Marlette, I want him to
watch
his family die.”

“That would make it more difficult, Miguel. My plan is better.”

“He and his men killed my brother!” Miguel shouted angrily. “I don't care about difficult.”

“Listen to me, Miguel. Before he dies, he will know we also have his daughter.”

“Good! But I want him to
see
his family die.” Miguel's eyes flashed with a mad fury.

“I will see it is done, Miguel.”

“
When
will you do this?” Miguel snapped.

“We will do it within three weeks' time.”

“Good. You will also bring me his balls.”

“Of course, Patron.”

Robin's eyes focused on Newman's blue Chevrolet pickup as it moved along U.S. 60 heading towards the Superstition Mountains to meet Walton at Superstition State Park. Newman had the money and wore a Nagra tape recorder, a very sensitive voice recorder. Robin instructed Newman to wrap the recorder harness around his inner left thigh, right next to his genitals. Walton probably wouldn't search there, if he looked for a wire at all. Robin rejected the use of any transmitting body wires for this contact, just in case Walton knew enough to check for such things.

Robin rode in a U.S. Customs Cessna 192 at five thousand feet. Jack and Oscar were doing the flying as Robin looked through large gyro-stabilized binoculars. Shifting back from Newman's truck, he saw a van about a half mile back, carrying DPS SOU Team Two. Ernie Jackson and his team were set up a half mile from Superstition Park. The money would go to no one but Walton.

Robin's team went to Superstition Park area at 1500 hours, dressed in camouflage and ghillie suits and spread out around the park. They reported Walton had arrived an hour before the meet time. Robin told Burke and Emmett to move in as close as possible without blowing the surveillance. They moved in, but at a painstakingly slow pace.

As Newman got closer to the park, he tried not to be nervous. In truth, he had never liked Walton. He didn't believe Walton loved his sister, Ann, but he gave her a comfortable life, if not happiness. Ann confided this to Newman, and Walton's ruthless pursuit of power worried Newman. The lawyer's cold and calculating mind made him dangerous, and Newman had to be careful about how he pulled off this meeting. Newman turned on to the road leading to the park entrance.

Robin ordered all vehicles to back off. He told Jack to loiter about two miles away from the park. It was up to Newman, Burke, and Emmett now.

Emmet noticed Newman as he went through the park gate and started driving around the outer park road, but he kept an eye on Walton. Newman turned the truck towards Walton. Emmett was close, but not close enough, he thought. As the pickup rolled to Walton, its tires were crunching the gravel and making enough noise to cover Emmett's movements. Emmett saw Walton looking at Newman. He made his move to get closer.

Newman saw a strange figure moving towards Walton. His heart plugged his throat. He had almost slammed on his brakes when the figure dropped out of sight. He suddenly realized the figure was the big black cop. He took a deep breath and drove up to Walton.

“Brother,” Walton said.

“Howdy, Brother,” Newman replied. The men gave each other a light hug.

“I am happy to see you're okay, Eric.”

“Not half as happy as I am, Brother.”

“How did you get away?”

“I just jumped in the truck and took off. I thought they would chase me, but they didn't. It may have something to do with them killing Ramon. That big helicopter kicked up a lot of dust and maybe they didn't see me. The moonlight allowed me to keep my headlights off until I got a couple of miles down the road. I feel pretty damned lucky.”

“I guess so,” Walton replied. He could not detect anything that would lead him to believe Newman was lying.

“How pissed off is Miguel, Carl?”

“Very.”

“Is he going to kill me?”

“He mentioned it, but he backed off when I told him you kept the money. You do have it, don't you?”

“It's here.” Eric walked to the back of the truck and unlocked the window to the camper shell. He opened it up, and after looking around, Walton reached in and pulled the zipper on a large black duffel bag. He retrieved one of the packages, opened it with a small pocket knife, and thumbed through the stack of one hundred dollar bills.

“Let's get it loaded into your trunk.”

“No,” Walton said. The statement startled Newman. “I want you to hold on to it. You're going to make the deliveries, as usual. You worried me for a little while, Eric, but I can see by some miracle you got away. The shooting probably did hold them up.”

“What worried you?”

“That you might have been caught—that you were working for the cops.”

“I would never do that to you and I would certainly never do it to Ann.”

“I know, Eric. I know. That's why I only worried a
little
.” Walton formed a slight smile on this face. “Go home and call me in two days. I will have instructions for delivery ready for you.”

“Okay, Carl. I just don't like being responsible for
all
of this money. If something else goes wrong, I am a dead man.”

“Don't worry. Nothing will go wrong. It will just be business as usual, except you won't have to pick up the payoffs from me. Now go home.”

“Okay, Carl.” The two men embraced again. They went to their respective vehicles and drove out of the park. The last of the day's sun glowed orange and red behind the hills.

When they left the area, six shadowy figures rose from different places around the site of the meeting. Emmett keyed his radio.

“Two Nora Six-Two, Two Nora Six.”

“Two Nora Six,” Robin replied.

“Meet is complete. No transfer took place. Repeat. No transfer took place.”

“Ten-Four, Two Nora Six-One. Two Nora Six to Victor Thirty-Two.”

“Victor Thirty-Two, go ahead Two Nora Six,” Ernie replied.

“Latch on to our boy and escort him to DPS.”

“Ten-Four, Two Nora Six.”

Robin leaned back in his seat, surprised Walton did not take the money.
Mr. Walton is indeed a careful man. On the other hand, it shows he still trusts Newman. It will be good to get the wire up.
Robin couldn't wait to talk to Newman and listen to the tape.

THIRTEEN

Chris Fleming gazed out the window. He always enjoyed coming back to Quantico, to the nearby FBI academy. He had many fond memories about the academy from his years working for the Bureau. He was currently standing in an office at the Detention Center at the Quantico Marine Base—not one of his favorite places. He sipped his coffee and heard footsteps coming down the hall. Chris turned around to a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said. The door opened by a young smartly uniformed Marine holding the handcuffed Cuban by the arm. Another Marine stood behind them. Chris knew this man's name wasn't Manuel Garcia-Galbodon—it was Carlos Casconda, and he was indeed a Cuban. The FBI Counterintelligence shop confirmed this, and also confirmed Carlos worked for Cuban intelligence. They knew of his presence in Mexico; they just didn't know what he did there. At this point, they still did not really know, but his contact with the Rodriquez-Lara organization greatly interested them. Counterintelligence agents told Chris they believed Casconda's wife also to be in Mexico.

Although a handsome man, today Carlos looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot, hair uncombed, and he wore a week's worth of beard. He'd lost weight. Chris learned from the Marines the prisoner barely ate and acted sullen while in the detention center. He didn't speak much to anyone. Chris needed to change that today. He pointed Carlos to a chair.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Casconda,” Chris said in Spanish. Carlos' eyes flashed with surprise. He stared at the FBI agent for a few seconds and then sat down.

“That will be all, Marines. Thank you.”

“Our orders are to remain outside the door, sir.”

“That will be fine.” The Marines stepped out of the office and closed the door.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Chris asked.

Carlos paused for a second and then said, “Yes” in a hoarse voice.

Chris went over to the coffee pot and poured a cup of coffee. As he stepped back, he moved the office chair from behind the desk and put it at the front left corner, three feet from the Cuban. Chris put the coffee cup on the desk and motioned for the man to raise his hands off of his lap. Carlos gave Chris a dubious look, but raised his hands. Chris removed the handcuffs, sat down, and took another sip of his coffee. He waited for the Cuban to take a sip too.

“You look like hell, Carlos.”

The man grunted and looked at Chris. “You know my name.”

“It didn't take us long to find out who you really are. We've been aware of your presence in Mexico for some time.”

“How?”

Chris smiled. “You know I can't tell you that.” Carlos grunted again, but this time Chris detected a slight chuckle to it.

“Are the Marines mistreating you?”

Carlos looked at Chris and smiled. “No. The Marines are professionals. I respect them. Why do you ask?”

“Like I said, you look like hell.”

The Cuban turned away for a few seconds. He looked back, but said nothing.

“It's been four days since we found you in the desert. Whatever is bothering you is not getting any better with you sitting here, doing nothing. I am guessing Miguel has you worried. If that is the case, I am the only person who can help you. I do not say this lightly and I am not bullshitting you. I know you are a professional.”

Carlos' mouth twitched, his face reddened, and his eyes were like drills into Chris's. The FBI agent immediately knew he had found the right button. Carlos had to be worried about his wife. Chris couldn't think of another reason a seasoned intelligence agent would be so agitated, but he knew to proceed carefully.

“I do not believe you can do anything for me,” Carlos said with a sneer.

“Really? Four days ago you were in the custody of the state police in the middle of the desert in Arizona. Today, you are in Quantico, Virginia
in my custody
. I flew you here in a military aircraft. I put you in a military detention center.
I
dictate your custody status.” Chris let that sink in. “I have been in this business for a long time, Carlos. I know how to get things done, and I know who to contact to get them done. I can help you right now, but time is running out. It's up to you.”

Carlos had his arms folded, his right hand nervously rubbing his left forearm. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Chris hoped listing straightforward, simple facts of things he accomplished in the last four days would register with the man. Chris also knew he faced stiff competition with the Cuban agent's Soviet training.

Chris stood up. His next movements were carefully choreographed in his mind. He just needed to perform them flawlessly. He turned away from the Cuban and walked to the coffee pot. He picked up the pot and called out, “Marines, enter please.” He poured coffee into his cup as the Marines entered. Chris turned around and leaned against the table supporting the coffee pot. He lazily crossed his legs at the ankle and took a long sip of coffee. He nodded towards Carlos and said, “He is
apparently
ready to go.”

The Marines stood Carlos up and handcuffed him. They turned towards the door and started out of the office. Chris involuntarily held his breath. They went through the door, and the second Marine reached for the door handle to close the door when Carlos yelled, “Stop! I need to talk to him!” Chris breathed again.

The Marine looked back at Chris, who waved them in. The Marines ushered Carlos back into the room and quietly left, closing the door behind them. The Cuban wearily sat down, his face ashen and his hands trembling.

“My wife. I fear for my wife.”