Chapter FORTY-SEVEN
When the pizza and the beer and the chief were gone, Jock asked if we were up to hearing what he’d learned in Washington.
“I don’t remember the president saying that Matt could hear any of this,” said J.D., smiling.
“I have full discretion to tell Matt anything. Besides, he knows if he ever divulges anything, I’ll kill him.”
Jock was smiling as he said that, but I’m not at all sure there wasn’t some sort of threat in his words. It didn’t matter. I was never going to test it.
“Back in April,” Jock said, “we lost two agents in Columbia. They had successfully infiltrated the guerrilla group known as FARC and were giving us a wealth of intelligence. We’d been able to take down some of their leaders and were closing in on the top dog.”
“What happened?” asked J.D.
“We don’t know for sure. I knew we’d lost some agents, but until yesterday I didn’t know the particulars. Their bodies were dumped in front of our embassy in Bogotá. They had been tortured and then hanged with something very thin, like piano wire. It causes a painful death by choking.”
“Just like Hitler,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Jock. “Just like Hitler did to the people involved in the July twentieth plot to kill him.”
“Do you know how the guerrillas figured out who your agents were?” asked J.D.
“That’s the nub of the problem,” said Jock. “We think there’s a leak in our system. Somebody is feeding the bad guys information. That’s what Gene Alexander was working on. Our director brought him into the investigation. Actually, the whole thing was held so closely that only the director and Gene were involved.”
“Why Gene?” asked J.D.
“He was retired, out of it,” said Jock. “The leaks started after he’d left the agency, so he was above suspicion. His analytical skills were about the best our agency had ever seen, so he was the logical person to bring into the loop.”
“Did he find anything?” asked J.D.
“No, and we didn’t lose any more agents. They thought the leaks had stopped. They figured that the leaker, whoever he was, had either quit leaking or was out of the agency. Maybe he’d had pressure put on him specifically by the FARC, or he had some philosophical identity with them. Whatever, the director gave up after a couple of months. But before he did, he had Gene set some electronic traps in the agency’s computer system. If the guy showed up again, they’d get him. At least that was the plan.”
“And the leaker showed up again. Recently?” asked J.D.
“We think that’s what happened. We lost another agent last Sunday.”
“You think it’s related to the other two?” I asked.
“We think so. At least the manner of death was the same.”
“Maybe the agent screwed up,” said J.D.
“I don’t think so,” said Jock. “This agent was a friend of mine. He was about the best in the business. He had gotten himself embedded with one of the drug cartels in southern Mexico. He was born in Los Angeles, but his parents were Mexicans who came from the same area where he was working with the cartel. He fit right in.”
“What was he doing?” I asked. “I mean, was he tracking the drugs into the U.S., taking out the cartel leaders, what?”
“He was trying to track the drugs back to their source. We know who the cartel leaders are, and we’re trying to find where they are so that we can figure a way to take them out. We were about to put another agent in place.”
“Why is your agency so interested in the drug business?” I asked.
“It’s not really the drug business we’re worried about. Not as such. It’s the money that flows from it into terrorist groups around the world that interests us. If we can disrupt the drug flow, we make a dent in the cash flow and maybe eventually put the terrorists that depend on the money out of business.”
“You’ve got the first two murdered agents dealing with guerrillas in Columbia and another one taking on the drug cartels in Mexico,” I said. “How do you see the connection?”
“The only one that makes sense is that the same leaker is dealing with different groups. Maybe he’s expanding his reach. It’s probably not ideological since the Mexicans seem to believe in nothing but making money. I think FARC, even though it’s involved in the drug business, actually believes in Communism. But who knows for sure?”
“Was your friend’s body dropped at the embassy in Mexico City?” asked J.D.
Jock shook his head.
“Where did you find him?” I asked.
“In front of a U.S. Agency for International Development office in Flores.”
“Where’s that?”
“Guatemala.”