David Golemon - Ripper

Jack waited until the director met his eyes and then caught the curse before it could escape his mouth. Everett and Mendenhall knew that Niles had done the right thing. Jack just nodded his head, knowing that the odds of Sarah surviving this thing had just dropped by 75 %. He knew the country hadn’t learned anything after the failed rescue attempt in the desert of Iran in 1980. Operation Eagle Claw had been an unmitigated disaster because of a multiservice plan, one that was doomed to fail before it ever happened. And now this rescue wasn’t just split by differing branches of the service, but by two different nations, and one of those nations may have divided loyalties as far as the Anaconda went. Jack knew if he didn’t react to the fluidity of the situation he would never again see Sarah alive.

Niles bit his lip and then nodded at the two marines at the 707’s door. They understood and then closed it.

“Jack,” he said as he handed Everett the recon photos, “Pete and Europa have something to show you. It’s something I didn’t share with the president or the FBI.”

Collins impatiently waited for the director to explain.

“Pete may have found a way into that compound.”

Suddenly hope appeared in Collins’s cold, blue eyes.

“And,” Compton said as he turned away, “the border’s still open to vehicular traffic, as it seems the local Mexican authorities are a little slow to catch on that there’s a major problem in their own backyard.”

“But you’ll have to find a way past the FBI and do it before their HRT team lifts off in two hours,” Pete said as he joined the group of four men once more.

Everett smiled.

“I never met a fed I couldn’t ditch.”

“Then, Colonel Collins, you and your men are dismissed. Take some time off while the president figures this out.”

“Yes, sir, maybe Jack, our young lieutenant Mendenhall here, and I will try out the fishing in the Rio Grande,” Everett said with a growing smile. “You know we love our fishing.”

“I know,” Niles answered. “Now I think you better get to tactical and put a plan together. And gentlemen, make it a good one, because we all may hang for it, even if it works.”

Director Niles Compton was disobeying a direct order as told to him by the president of the United States, his best friend, once again.

Henri Farbeaux, still in the guise of Hanover Jones, stood on the rickety floor of the massive basement. There were tunnels, some new, some very old, winding off the main corridor every fifteen feet. As far as he knew Sarah could be held in any one of the ten branches inside the basement. He felt the eyes of Juan Guzman and six of his henchmen as he waited for his host to take the lead. As he stood there several men and women in casual clothes strolled by on their way to one of the many tunnels. One of these workers held a scale and the others articles that Farbeaux didn’t recognize. He did notice the fresh-air masks they wore around their necks. Henri looked at Guzman who only smiled.

“I have many employees whose function it is to test shipments of … well, let’s just say they check the purity of certain items supplied to me by countries farther south of Mexico. Please, Señor Jones, what you are seeking is right over here,” Guzman said as he gestured to a large steel door to the right.

Henri was having a hard time reading the man. One thing was clear to him: he didn’t trust the man named Hanover Jones. Farbeaux had noticed that none of the mini AK-47s being used by his bodyguards had their weapons on safe . He watched Guzman as he entered a security code for the locking mechanism on the large door. It opened with a whoosh of escaping air.

“This is just part of my Anasazi collection; the rest I have donated as a peace offering to my brethren in Mexico City. But I believe I have some very interesting pieces for you to view.” Guzman stepped aside and allowed Henri through the door.

Henri knew he could possibly take the six men escorting them, just as long as Guzman was close enough to be pulled into running as a shield for him. However, he suspected they were not only being watched by the many security cameras he had counted in just the short walk in the basement, but also by many more guards nearby.

“Here are two very nice pieces right here. They have been cleaned and expertly restored.”

Farbeaux made a show of pulling a jeweler’s loupe from his coat pocket and smiling as he bent low to examine a large eagle that resembled something the Aztecs would have sculpted. It was a beautiful piece, Farbeaux noted as his eyes scanned the ancient work. Then his eyes moved to the next piece that had been placed on a small table. It was a carved stone work taken from a cave wall in Colorado. It depicted a mother and child — the mother sitting on a throne of sorts and the child feeding at her breast.

“These are very nice.” Henri straightened after a cursory examination.

“Yes, particularly so since the man I relieved them from was a greedy gringo from Los Angeles, one of those so-called brothers of mine who have sold out their heritage. I wouldn’t mind so much if the gentleman had the least bit of knowledge, such as you, as to their real history. I’m sure you can appreciate that?”

“Yes,” Henri half bowed, “I can, Señor Guzman.” Henri smiled wider and then cleared his throat. “Since you relieved this person of his possessions so readily, you won’t be asking exactly market value for these two pieces,” Farbeaux asked with a small smile.

“Ah, just because I came into possession of them at minimal expense does not mean they are not far more valuable, Señor Jones.”

“I estimate their value as a pair at just shy of two million.”

“Close, señor, but even closer to five million.”

Henri nodded his head. “I’ll take them. Now, I know a good salesman always saves that one piece that would guarantee the buyer walks away happy.”

“You are indeed a savvy collector,” Guzman said as he gestured for Henri to follow him out of the small vault. They and Guzman’s bodyguards stepped into the dim hallway and started moving farther down the long corridor. “Tell me something Señor Jones; does it bother you that I am more than just a collector of antiquities?”

“If you mean your relationship to the recent unpleasantness in Nuevo Laredo, or even your expansion into countries south of your border, no. Whatever a man does for a living never factors into my choices for business relationships.”

Guzman laughed. It was a hollow sound that gave the ring of untruth to everything the drug kingpin had said thus far. Henri knew the two pieces of Anasazi carvings were absolutely fake, nothing but cheap knockoffs. After all, he had the second of the two pieces sitting in his house in the south of France. He knew he had to say something just in case his cover was still intact.

“Señor Guzman, I sincerely hope the pieces we are on our way to see are a little more authentic that the two we just examined?”

Guzman laughed and gently slapped Farbeaux on the back. “I hope I did not embarrass you with my little test, señor. In my line of work, on both fronts, I can never be too careful.”

“I understand,” Henri said as he chanced a look back at the bodyguards who kept pace with them down in the carved-out basement.

Guzman stepped ahead and paused by another door. This one had no electronic keypad, and it was far from being the same sort of steel door they had just come from. The hackles on Henri rose again.

“Señor Jones, behind this door I have exactly what you came here to see. Two marvelous pieces I have from north of the border, and many, many more domestic works of art I prize above even my product from the south.” He smiled and opened the door, gesturing for Henri to step through first.