Dying Art Read online

  “The Judas, Carmen,” Don Fernando said. “He still lives?”

  “Killed in the attempt to grab the woman.”

  Don Fernando considered that, then gave a curt nod in approval. “That is good. If a man finds it so easy to betray others, he is not to be trusted. But what of her father’s computer?”

  “Destroyed,” Tragg said. “Romero said a couple of rounds went through it.”

  “So the only loose end is the woman?”

  “Right. And we’re looking for her.”

  “Find her. Kill her. I want no loose ends at all. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Don Fernando set the knight down and took a deep breath. “The note in Arabic was discovered as planned?”

  “It was.”

  “Then the seeds have been sown,” Don Fernando said. “We must take care to water them. And what of Sergio? Have they let Maria see him yet?”

  “Sinclair’s still working on that.”

  Don Fernando frowned. “Tell him to work harder. I don’t need to remind you that if this plan is to work, we can afford no mistakes.”

  “There won’t be. My men are monitoring the situation in Chicago as we speak. Everything’s set. We’re just waiting for the right time.”

  Time, he thought. That most precious of all commodities. A wise man used it judiciously, and never wasted it. Soon, Sergio would be free, and Don Fernando would have his revenge.

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Thirty-six hours later Bolan, Grimaldi and Brognola sat in the War Room mulling over what they had so far.

  “And we still have no ideas regarding that Arabic writing?” Brognola asked.

  Bolan shook his head.

  “The Bureau guys thought I could read it,” Grimaldi said. “I’m surprised Webber didn’t beg me to analyze the note on the spot.”

  “It sounds like you did more prevaricating than finding out what was going on while you were down there,” Brognola said.

  “It happens.” The Executioner stood up to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Thanks for arranging that special pickup for us, by the way.”

  “No problem,” Brognola said. “The navy just so happened to have a ship doing practice maneuvers in that region of the Gulf.”

  “I could’ve taught that pilot a thing or two about takeoffs and landings, though,” Grimaldi said.

  “Just be glad you guys didn’t try to get back to the airport for your jet,” Brognola told them. “I’m still trying to figure out a good cover story that will cut through the red tape to get it back.”

  “Thank our buddy Romero for the delay,” Grimaldi replied.

  “Which reminds me,” Bolan said, picking up his phone again. “Let me try again to see if I can get through to Jésus.”

  This time Bolan finally got through. The big marine laughed heartily when Bolan related his and Grimaldi’s clandestine trek out of Mexico.

  “You should have asked me for the name of a good coyote,” Martinez said. “It probably would have cost a lot less.”

  “We weren’t worried about pinching pennies,” Bolan said. “We felt bad enough about leaving you holding the bag. How did it go?”

  Martinez laughed again, but this time it was without mirth.

  “Your FBI man, Webber, he was not too pleased. He and Romero had a hard time believing that one marine could take out ten hired killers.”

  “He mentioned that before we left,” Bolan said. “We told him the bad guys were overmatched.”

  Martinez laughed. “Thank you for that.”

  “Is there any information on who the assailants were?” Bolan asked.

  “Nada. At least that is what they are telling me. Unfortunately, Romero has been placed in charge of that investigation, as well. And I am on leave until the matter has been closed.”

  “Leave?” Bolan said. “I don’t like the sound of that. Do you need anything?”

  “My marines are taking good care of me. I could not ask for a better set of poker buddies.” He paused and clucked sadly. “Still... I am very frustrated.”

  “How so?” Bolan asked.

  “Our friend Romero. He has covered his tracks well. So well, in fact, that your FBI friend, Señor Webber, invited him to the US.”

  “Romero’s coming here?” Grimaldi said. “What for?”

  “To bring Consuelo Diaz back here to Mexico. It is likely that he is already in your country.”

  “What?” Grimaldi said. “After betraying us and trying to get her killed?”

  “There is no proof linking him to the attack. When I brought up the accusation, he offered his cell phone with much gusto, smiling the whole time, which means he no doubt had a burner phone that he disposed of after making the call.” Martinez swore. “And now, I am the one under suspicion. They did not believe my story of having killed all of the banditos by myself.”

  “They don’t know you very well, then,” Bolan said.

  “It is as I told you. It is not too bad, my friend. I was in much need of a vacation. And now I can spend some time with mi familia.”

  The thought of Martinez and his family being possible targets grated on Bolan. “Jésus, do you want me to try to arrange safe passage for you and your family to the US?”

  “No, thank you, my friend. Mexico is my home, my country. We have many problems now, with the corruption, but nothing will be solved by running away. Besides, if they dare come for me, I’ll introduce them to my little friends, Señor Glock and Señor M-14.”

  “If you need anything,” Bolan said, “you have my number.”

  “We’ll be down there faster than you can say hot tamale,” Grimaldi said.

  “You must find Consuelo. She must not be allowed to leave with that snake, Romero.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Bolan promised, wishing he could ask Martinez to find out more information on the group of assailants that had been identified. “You take care.”

  After the call was terminated they all exchanged glances.

  “That damn idiot Webber must be dumber than a box of rocks if he’s bringing Romero here,” Grimaldi said.

  “Did you try reaching out to him?” Brognola asked.

  “I’ve left several messages for him to contact Special Agent Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “So far, nothing.”

  Grimaldi frowned. “Like I said, the guy’s worthless. Ideas?”

  Bolan considered their options. He’d already put Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man computer expert, on the case, trying to hack into the FBI files for any info. Thus far, not much had turned up besides the basic report and several official requests through channels by Webber to verify Bolan’s DOJ alias cover. Kurtzman had been busy blocking those. He was also trying to find out anything he could about Romero’s finances, but this again was tricky. Apparently the lieutenant was as adept at hiding his tracks as he was at concealing his cell phone calls.

  “Aaron’s looking into a few things,” Bolan said. “But what we really need is a break.”

  “You’re telling me.” Grimaldi frowned.

  Bolan’s cell rang and he checked the screen.

  “Maybe that’s it,” Brognola said with a grin.

  It was Bolan’s special number. He hit the button and answered it.

  “Hola, señor,” a female voice said.

  Bolan was sure it was Consuelo Diaz.

  “Hola,” he said, not wanting to use her name. He held a thumbs-up toward Brognola and Grimaldi, who perked up noticeably. “How are you?”

  She spoke in a hushed tone. “I’m not very impressed with the FBI. They weren’t able to decode the hard drive on my father’s computer.”

  “It was pretty severely damaged.”

  After a few seconds, she spoke again. “They are sending me back to Mexico. With Lieutenant Romero. B
ut there is something more I must tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “After what happened in Cancun, I wasn’t sure who I could trust.”

  She stopped talking, and Bolan could hear her breathing over the phone. Then she continued, “I didn’t tell Agent Webber or you, but I have a flash drive with my father’s information on it. The information of the story he was working on when...” Her voice broke.

  Bolan said nothing, giving her time to recover her composure.

  “Well,” she said. “Even though you rescued me, I wasn’t sure who to trust. And Lieutenant Romero seemed so nice...”

  “Do you have the flash drive with you now?” Bolan asked.

  “No. It is in the safe at the hotel where I have been staying.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No,” she said. “Just...you.”

  He caught a slight hesitation in her tone. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, no. Actually, I did call my father’s editor in Mexico last night. From the hotel. But only to ask him if he could help me with the decoding of the device. It is encrypted.”

  “Where are you now?” Bolan asked.

  “FBI headquarters. In your capital city.”

  Bolan saw the number had a Washington, DC, prefix, which meant if she was calling from inside the building, someone from the Bureau was most likely listening.

  “Stay there,” he said. “We’re on our way to see you.”

  “But the lieutenant, he is already here. In the other room talking with Agent Webber.”

  “We’ll get there as soon as we can,” Bolan said.

  As he terminated the call, Grimaldi’s eyes were anxious.

  “That the break we were hoping for?”

  “Maybe,” the Executioner said, getting to his feet. “Maybe not.”

  “What’s up?” Brognola asked.

  “Consuelo needs help, quick.”

  “I’ll arrange to have a car waiting for you when you touch down. Let me know where,” the big Fed said.

  “Then I guess I’d better warm up the chopper,” Grimaldi said.

  Law Office of Kenneth G. Sinclair

  Chicago, Illinois

  Tragg sat in the interview room at Sinclair’s law office watching and waiting. It was a small room with a nice view of Grant Park and the lake beyond. A bit farther south was the Metropolitan Correction Center, where Sergio was being held. Making sure that each part of the plan went off without a hitch was crucial, and Tragg didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He knew Don Fernando would be expecting an update as soon as this meeting had been completed. The various elements were there in front of him: the briefcase full of cash on the table, the classy Mexican hooker, Maria, who would masquerade as Sergio’s wife, and Sinclair, the lawyer, who was looking over the forged marriage certificate and comparing it to the doctored passport for the woman.

  She was pretty, dark hair and eyes, olive skin, nice body. Don Fernando had assigned Tragg to take her shopping for new clothes, all very tasteful and not too expensive. She’d also been told to scale it down with the makeup. All things considered, she fit the part of a young wife.

  Sinclair put the papers on the table and took off his glasses. Tragg thought the man resembled that actor who’d played Perry Mason on that old TV show. The original black-and-white episodes still ran on late-night nostalgia channels.

  “I must say,” Sinclair said, smiling at the woman. “Everything looks in order.”

  “I told you, sir, you’re dealing with professionals.”

  Sinclair’s smile remained fixed, and Tragg wondered if the guy had the hots more for Maria, or the money.

  “I assume you’ve arranged for commodious lodgings for Miss...” He paused and cocked his head toward the woman. “I mean, Mrs. De la Vega.” The smile returned.

  “That’s all been taken care of, per your instructions,” Tragg said. “A couple of my men are staying in an adjacent room for transportation purposes once you’re finished today.”

  Sinclair’s smile faded. “Can they be traced back to your organization?”

  Tragg shook his head. “False name and credit card account. Plus, they’re both Latino, so it should look legit.”

  “Excellent move.”

  “We need to go over the particulars of the plan again,” Tragg said. “The don wants to be absolutely sure there’ll be no mistakes.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sinclair said. “But do I need to remind you that as Sergio’s attorney, I can’t be party to any deliberate actions.”

  Tragg didn’t acknowledge him. The guy had balls the size of BBs.

  “It can be said that I’ve acted in good faith, taking the case pro bono, and arranging a spousal visit, nonconjugal, for my client’s wife this afternoon. But in all other aspects, I need to maintain a reasonable and plausible deniability.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I already know everything that I need to know about how this will proceed.” His eyes traveled to the briefcase and the smile flickered on his lips once again. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “First installment.” Tragg pushed the briefcase across the table. “Want to count it?”

  Sinclair shook his head, his eyes darting toward the woman again. “Does she speak English?”

  “Yes, I do,” Maria said. Her full lips curled back over even white teeth that had to be veneers.

  “Good,” Sinclair said, standing. He gripped the handle of the briefcase and started walking out of the room.

  Tragg sprang out of the chair and grabbed the attorney by the arm. Sinclair recoiled in pain.

  “Just who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?” Tragg asked.

  Sinclair looked ready to crap his pants.

  Tragg gripped the man’s fingers and peeled them off the handle of the briefcase.

  “Sit down over there,” he said. “Once we’ve gone over everything to my, and the don’s, satisfaction, then maybe I’ll let you take this.” He held up the briefcase.

  The lawyer swallowed and went back to his chair. After sitting, he flashed a weak smile and said, “Proceed.”

  Tragg held his stare for just long enough to make it intimidating. Then he tossed the briefcase onto the tabletop and remained standing.

  “First,” he said, holding up his index finger. “You’re not getting this briefcase until we’re clear on a few things. Namely, there is no doubt that Sergio’s court appearance will go ahead as scheduled tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  Sinclair pursed his lips. “I told you, that’s all set. In stone,” he added with a hint of sarcasm.

  Tragg felt like slapping the little asshole, but let it pass. “Which means they’ll be transporting him between eight and nine.”

  Sinclair nodded.

  Tragg ticked off another point on a second finger. “And you’re taking Maria here to the spousal visit today, correct?”

  “As previously agreed upon.” Sinclair’s eyes darted from the woman to the briefcase.

  Tragg reached in his pocket and withdrew two items. One was a purple time capsule. The other was a condom. He set them on the table in front of Maria.

  “This is crucial,” he said. “You’ve got to pass this to Sergio during the visit.”

  Sinclair twitched in his chair and shook his head. “Wait a minute. I can’t be party to this part. I told you, I need plausible denia—”

  “Shut up.”

  “But—”

  Tragg silenced the lawyer with a menacing look. After staring at him for a few more seconds, he continued, “It’s a miniature transmitter that will allow us to monitor his movements while he’s in custody. We have to know where he’s at, and what vehicle he’s in during the transport.”

  Sinclair chewed his lower lip. “But they’ll search
her before the visit. They’ll wand both of us.”

  Tragg shot him another stare-down. The attorney stopped talking.

  Picking up the condom, Tragg handed it to Maria. “You’ll put the transmitter in here for storage. Once I activate it, it’ll be good for twenty-four hours. I’ve already got men stationed in the parking garage across from the MCC. They’ll be monitoring it.”

  Maria glanced at the transmitter, but made no move to touch it.

  “But how is she going to smuggle it in there?” Sinclair asked. “I told you, everyone’s subject to search beforehand, including myself. And the visit itself will be visually monitored.”

  Tragg ignored him, still looking at the woman. “You’ll put it inside you before you leave for your visit.”

  “Inside her?” Sinclair said. “What are you talking about?” Then his mouth formed a shocked O.

  Tragg smiled. “Once you’ve been searched, you’ll ask to go to the bathroom where you’ll remove the transmitter from the condom and put it—” he held up the purple time capsule “—into your mouth. Then it’ll simply be a matter of kissing Sergio when you first see him, and transferring it into his mouth. He knows he has to swallow it.”

  Sinclair’s lips had drawn into a tight line. “I’m not so sure about this.”

  Tragg raised one eyebrow. “Come on, Counselor. It’s foolproof. It’ll work like a charm. And she’ll do all the work.”

  Sinclair’s eyes went from the condom, to the transmitter to the briefcase. He closed his eyes and gave a quick nod.

  Tragg pushed the briefcase toward the attorney and said, “Okay. Time to go count your money.”

  The J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  Despite the customary heavy midday traffic on the Beltway, Bolan and Grimaldi pulled up in front of the federal building a scant twenty-five minutes after having talked to Consuelo Diaz. They’d been given a black Escalade, with the tinted windows to give them anonymity, as well as an elevated vantage point in traffic.

  In Mexico, Special Agent Webber had given Bolan his business card. He was punching the number into his cell phone as Grimaldi pulled into a loading zone and stuck their OFFICIAL US GOVERNMENT BUSINESS sign on the dashboard.

  After a brief wait, Webber’s voice came on the phone.