Chapter 23
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It would be an understatement to say Fiona was not fond of alphabet soup organizations: CIA, FBI, ATF, INS, DHS, USCIS, DOJ.
In her experience, the abbreviated agencies didn't like her, although she was rethinking her long held grudge against the CIA since they'd given her a Lawful Permanent Resident card, had kept Interpol and SIS in the fog, and provided their protection by claiming her as an asset. And, of course, they had returned Michael to his job. It was not exactly the job he'd had, but he was back with the CIA and, for now, that seemed to satisfy him.
She wondered how long that would last.
He changed, day by day, little by little. Good became better. Better verged on perfect. Their marriage was too new to risk asking that question out loud. So, for now, she was luxuriating in this lovely, private bit of heaven, even though old troubles persisted and connected themselves with new troubles.
Keeping her distance from the abbreviations was a choice, but the one she consistently distanced herself from was the DEA. Unfortunately, in Miami, that had been nearly impossible to do with regularity.
This was the primary reason she wasn't pleased to be waiting for Michael's arrival at a DEA airfield.
The city was home to the largest of the Drug Enforcement Administration's domestic field divisions. If you looked, you could hardly turn a corner in Florida without bumping into a drug user, drug seller, drug buyer or a DEA agent who wanted to arrest them or anyone along their supply chain. If you didn't look for it, you were happy with the climate, the relative proximity to a beach and a kind of laid back lifestyle hot, humid climates encouraged.
Fiona would have been happy with oblivion, but it was impossible. In the last five years she, Michael and Sam had certainly run enough operations that involved dealers, sellers and buyers. Drugs were the ugly, ugly fabric of Miami's criminal life, and she didn't like ugly things.
When Michael called to let her know when he'd be back his voice was calm but she could hear frustration. The knowledge that he had been at the DEA's Special Operations unit gave her the chills. She couldn't think anything good that could come from that, but he was focused on his objective of sending Anson and Management to Guantanamo.
Raines' call had been oddly timed, she thought. Perhaps they'd all overlooked the obvious because, with the exception of Anson's money trail, almost every lead they'd followed somehow, in some way linked to the DEA.
When Anson's warehouse in Tampa blew up, Tampa cops took jurisdiction on that one. If the DEA was standing in line there, they didn't know it.
But the DEA was at the front of the line when Jesse and Dani surprised a guard at the arms storage facility and abandoned trucking terminal they found near Florida City when Dani was severely injured. The guard Jesse killed had been under DEA surveillance even though he was on a most wanted list for a cocaine distribution conspiracy.
They didn't find drugs; instead they found tractor trailers full of arms waiting for shipment. A trucking company and arms storage warehouse was a perfectly deadly combination and attractant for the DEA.
The conversations Raines had recorded between Larry Who Should be Dead and Vaughn Anderson strongly indicated a cartel connection, at least when it came to arms sales. They'd also learned Larry had become a user, likely because of the burn injuries he suffered when Fiona tried to kill him at the British consulate.
He'd been shackled to a prison hospital bed for several weeks for detox before being moved to a cell adjoining Vaughn.
Fiona had not taken part of the team discussion the previous evening.
Instead, she'd sat quietly to one side, listening to Michael, Sam, Jesse and Dani evaluating and speculating about the information they'd gathered, so much of which continued to lead back to the DEA's investigations. The longer they discussed it, the darker the picture grew of the task before them.
That sensation hadn't abated by the time she and Michael had gone to bed, nor when, early this morning, she had driven him to the same private airport she was waiting for him to return to now.
Only this afternoon, she wasn't the only person waiting.
She guessed he was DEA.
He wore jeans and a black t-shirt; his body language said he could be dangerous, and his eyes were hidden behind dark grey sunglasses.
He'd glanced at her when she arrived, and had gone back to watching the sky. Fiona kept her distance but relaxed when she realized despite his height and heavily muscled body, he was injured. He was strongly favoring his left leg. His hair was long, sleeked back and tied at the nape of his neck with a leather strap.
She shivered; he bore a slight resemblance to Armand, and perhaps it was that similarity that had her keeping her distance and vigilance. Or it was the small bulge of the concealed carry holster at his side under his t-shirt. She was armed as well, but not as obviously.
She saw the jet before she heard it and watched a dark silver-grey dart zip across the upper horizon before it slowed, swung wide then came in to land before rolling to a stop on the tarmac just a short distance away.
Moments later, Michael and a woman Fiona recognized from an operation they had done several years ago walked toward her as the man near her raised his sunglasses and smiled at her.
Michael reached for Fi and introduced her to Sophia again. The man who'd been waiting now had his arm around Sophia.
"I remember," Fi said. "Good to see you again."
"My husband," Sophia said to Fi, then Michael.
He extended his hand, shook Michael's hand. "Westen." Then he nodded to Fi.
The smile on his face for his wife brought an incredible change to him, from a paramilitary operator to be kept at a distance to handsome, friendly man, but his expression turned somber quickly as he shook Michael's hand.
"Good to meet you," Michael said.
"You'll be undercover with Sophia, right?"
"Yes," Michael said, looking down to Fiona. "I just learned that a couple hours ago." He turned to look at Sophia. "Do you want to talk now or later?"
She glanced at her husband and then Fiona. "Sooner would be better, don't you think?"
Michael looked down to Fi. "Is Sam at the loft?"
She nodded and jangled her car keys. "Then follow us."
In the car on the way to the loft, Michael summarized his meetings with the DEA, Raines and the FBI for her. When he was done, he turned and saw her tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in agitation.
"The DEA and the CIA working together? It sounds like a . . ."
"Yeah, it does."
"Oh, Michael. This is not good. When will you know if they got Anson?" she wondered.
"When Sophia checks in. But if they miss him, and I bet they will, we'll need to rely on what Peterbaugh and Carnahan have to report."
"I can't imagine this situation made them happy."
"I'm sure it didn't. Raines has bounced them around like ping pong balls."
All was silent for a few moments when Fiona voiced what Michael had been thinking.
"So . . . if Anson was running a guy at the FBI for a decade why wouldn't he have someone like that at the DEA?"
She pulled in front of the gate at the loft and stopped, and holding the door handle before he got out to open the gate, Michael frowned.
"That, Mrs. Westen, is a very good question."
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They'd been booked in hotel rooms adjacent to each which could be when the adjoining doors were unlocked from both suites. Raines had not been aware his former partner and his family had the room next to his until he returned from the meeting with Michael and Sophia and discovered his partner returning to the room with bags with the hotel's gift shop label splashed across them.
"So who booked your room?" he'd asked.
His FBI counterpart shook his head. "There could be worse places to stay."
Scowling, Raines agreed. Michael Westen wasn't the only operative who could be annoyed by agency methodology.
"We should talk," his former partner said.
Raines nodded. "Inside."
And that was precisely the reason some genius at either the CIA or FBI had given them connecting rooms.
Introductions of a more complete variety were made, and the social from the professional naturally divided. Raines and his former partner sat at one end of the suite, the women at the other end of the room.
But before they did that, Raines' wife, who was one of the most untrusting women either man had ever known, swept the room using items easily overlooked by airport security systems. Items she'd designed to be overlooked.
Her iPod case also contained a multichannel RF detector; a credit card was embedded with a wireless camera detector, and a large mascara tube and a tube of lip gel encased pen-sized audio scramblers. After her marriage to Raines and their sons were born, she'd returned to her first love, before she'd been recruited by the CIA, working with companies that developed such items. She no longer kept her family secure only by means of a weapon, though she could and would; instead she chose to keep them hidden from prying eyes and ears.
Raines' former partner had watched after they opened the doors between the rooms and she waved a finger, showing him every item in her possession, as she proceeded to sweep their rooms. She located a camera in each room and several listening devices. The cameras were quickly blocked, and the small detectors were switched to work as powerful audio scramblers while she retrieved the other devices and inserted them in a small copper lined travel jewelry box.
"There," she said at last. "Now we can all talk freely."
And they did. She learned her former fiancé's wife knew of her existence, understood what he'd been doing for a decade and also knew about her sons and her battle with cancer. She learned they'd met in Egypt years earlier when she'd been a intern and he'd been a patient recovering from severe injuries from an auto accident that likely wasn't an accident.
They had married, quietly and privately, before she came to the United States to practice in a D.C. area hospital. One by one, she had brought her family to the United States, persecuted Coptic Catholics. When their daughter was born four years ago, her family members sheltered her and her child, found ways to communicate with her husband or allow him to see them. But, as far her employer knew, she was an unmarried parent, while the FBI had never been informed of her existence until last week when her husband surrendered himself to his superior officer.
Now, she hoped her husband had made the right decision by coming forth and telling the FBI, and consequently the CIA about Anson Fullerton. She could return to work; her husband could not at this time.
Across the room, Raines was listening to the same story while his former partner's daughter crawled into his lap, rested her head on his chest, and had promptly fallen asleep.
"So that's it for now. This is house arrest, and then we'll be moved, and that's all I know except for what we discussed in the meeting this morning. I hope Westen is up for this."
Raines looked out across the room. "I can't help but think I'm sending a gladiator into the arena with all the lions in Africa."
"Westen has survived worse."
"We'll need to protect his wife now."
"Are you headed back to Miami?"
"No," Raines said. "I'm supposed to run the operation on our side from here."
"Whose idea was that?"
"The DEA."
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"Yes, we used to live here," Michael explained to Sophia. "But we had a problem with uninvited guests, so we got rid of them and now we just use this as a work place. Sam stays here now. Looks like he's out."
He removed his jacket, hung it on the back of tall stool, and removed his tie before he started rolling up his shirt sleeves in deference to the late afternoon heat. Fiona opened the doors to the deck to let in air while Michael continued explaining. "All the surveillance equipment is gone now, so we can talk here in private."
"Always an advantage," Sophia replied.
Sophia's husband took a seat in Michael's favorite green chair. He hadn't mentioned his injury, even though Fiona was aware of it, but by the time he got to the top of the stairs, he was pale and both Sophia and Fi tried not to seem too concerned.
Fiona had asked him how he was injured before he began the stair climb. "Firefight," he explained.
"What do you do?" Fi asked, then followed up by asking him if he needed something to drink. She retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and brought it over to him.
She should have expected his answer. "DEA field agent."
"This injury is just taking longer to heal than some of his others," Sophia filled in.
"Depends on how many times you've been shot in the same spot, I suppose," Fiona said.
Sophia agreed. "Exactly."
"That's a good starting place," Michael said, turning to face her. "Exactly how are you planning to deal with anyone in the Sinaloa cartel if you needed our help to deal with a drug cartel lieutenant? The cartel doesn't just carry MAC-10s, they . . . "
When the door opened and Sam entered, the welcoming smile on his face slid off when he saw the expression on Michael's face, then returned when he saw Sophia. He set his paper bag of clinking bottles on the counter next to the fridge, and said hello to her before walking over and introducing himself to her husband.
Sam looked around. "What did I interrupt?"
Michael outlined the CIA-DEA cooperative plan as it had been explained to him this morning by Raines.
Sam's response was to let out a low whistle. "What happened to let's get rid of Anson?" He emptied the bag and stashed his beer in the refrigerator before opening one. No one accepted his offer for one when he made it.
"That's the plan," Sophia said. "Or part of the plan. The Sinaloa cartel is buying weapons from him and this other partner you've all seen but we haven't, Management? We need to eliminate both of them."
"But the minute either of them sees Michael, they will know-" Fiona started to say.
This time Sam didn't whistle; he sat down on a stool. "Good God. The Sinaloas. Mikey, tell me you're not seriously considering this."
Sophia explained. "Anson won't see him; we've got people in Florida City arresting him now."
"What?" Sam muttered.
"Raines sent Peterbaugh and Carnahan to work with the DEA to arrest him. They're there now," Michael said as he walked over to look out the door to the deck.
Sam scoffed. "They think they're just going to walk in and arrest him? Good luck with that, brother, and since when . . . no offense, Sophia . . .did we start working for the DEA? Those guys hate our guts. Well, yours more than mine, Mikey, but you know what I mean."
"It's an assignment, Sam," Michael explained. His fierce gaze stilled Sophia when he focused only on her and said, "what I really want to know is why are you doing this?"
"Because of me," her husband spoke up.
For a moment, every pair of eyes in the room were on him. "Do you know about a Sinaloa cartel lieutenant named La Barbie?"
Sam's eyes lit up. "Isn't he that Texas kid some high school coach nicknamed Ken like the Ken doll. Turned out he'd been running drugs or . . . " Sam paused, searching his memory.
Sophia filled in. "That's right, only he's not a kid anymore. He was arrested a couple of years ago and he's in a Mexican prison. He's Sinaloa, and his gang ran counter ops on the Sinaloa's rival Los Zetas. You may have heard that his crew likes decapitation as a way to encourage honesty."
"La Barbie's men executed my family like that," Sophia's husband spoke up. "Becasue they thought they were working with the Zetas or the government. They hated everything about drugs, so they could have. I don't know for sure."
"Your injury," Fiona interrupted. "Are they responsible?"
He nodded. The room grew quiet.
"Are you one of their targets?" Fi followed up.
When her husband didn't answer, Sophia spoke up. "We have our wanted lists; they have theirs."
"Well, isn't that good news," Sam muttered.
"And you really think you can get this done?" Sam asked forcefully. "Because with this bunch, you've just upped the odds for failure times ten."
"We're committed to this," Sophia said.
"I don't know if this is a war that can be won," Michael said quietly.
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After Sophia and her husband left, Sam called Jesse and asked him to come over to the loft.
"He'll be here as soon as he checks on Pearce," Sam muttered. "Dammit, what in the hell are we getting into here?"
"Michael, you're not saying anything," Fiona pointed out the obvious.
He looked down to the floor before answering. "You know this could all tie into the CIA involvement with the ATF and the Fast and Furious operation."
Sam and Fiona looked at each other and sat down on the stools at the kitchen work bench.
"You are a very smart man, Mr. Westen." Sam let out another low whistle.
"I've obviously missed what you're talking about," Fiona said.
"You were in jail, Fi. That's why you missed a lot of this stuff," Sam said.
Michael moved away and stood in the open doorway to the deck, just as Jesse came through the loft door.
"What's this about working with the DEA?" he asked. "Who's fool idea is that?"
"Good question," Michael said.
"Got an answer?" Jesse wondered.
"Got the start on a theory," Sam explained. "Was just about to tell Fi . . . "
Jesse leaned against the back counter by the sink. "Let's hear it."
"This one is more than just stopping the Sinaloa cartel from building a Caribbean route. I'm guessing the bigger picture is about Mexico's elections in July," Sam said. "I'm not saying stopping the route is unimportant, but you need to see the big picture."
"Elections?" Fi asked.
"Yeah. Unlike the previous administration, the current president, Felipe Calderón, doesn't like drugs or drug gangs. He's been taking them down. Or at least working on it. A lot of people dumb enough to still work in intelligence have been afraid Los Zetas will mount a coup d'état, take him out or find some way to subvert elections. So what did we do? We, oh, excuse me. Let me be clear. When I say we I mean the CIA . . . anyway, we came up with this piss poor idea for an operation that we won't admit to being behind and then we handed it off to the DEA and ATF who couldn't help but screw it up even more."
At the puzzled expression on Fi's face, Jesse explained. "We armed the cartels."
"We do more than that," Sam added. "We train 'em Fort Benning at the School of the Americas. We turn them into Mexico's special forces, then they get a taste of the good life running drugs and what do you get? Special forces-trained criminals with a taste for blood."
"Are they still training them?" Fi asked.
"Yes. But that's becasue at the time they're trained, they're allies," Michael said. "But in Mexico, Central and South America, alliances change quickly. The cop we train today could be the dictator running the country five years form now. "
"And has been," Sam added.
"It's all about numbers, Fi. The DOJ says illicit drug sales are almost at $50 billion annually," Jesse said. "It's a like the plague."
"And they want you to help?" Fiona asked, glancing at her husband.
"Because Anson's involved."
A few moments later, when Sophia called, she confirmed what Michael suspected would happen. The special DEA team had arrested a small group of armed mercenaries at the Florida City location Fullerton had been seen at, but not Fullerton.
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That night, the absence of light seemed more deeply intense, the darkness nearly overpowering. The morning return to light seemed too far away, almost as if the possibility that light existed had been extinguished.
As they took each other and shared their bodies, an element of desperation entered the privacy of their bedroom and invaded their peace. Whenever Michael awoke, Fiona was there to hold him firmly to the earth. When she awoke, he was there to anchor her from the tumultuous seas that threatened. And, when he felt moisture from her eyes, he kissed it away because, for now, that was all he could do.