Ted Bell - Spy

Meanwhile, a U.S. Border Patrol chopper, on routine patrol, had surprised a convoy of drug mules attempting to cross the border. Someone, reportedly driving a Mexican Army Humvee, had opened fire on American agents. It was common, now, to hear of Border Patrol agents being gunned down by Mexican Federales with AK-47s.

These startling episodes had naturally generated an immense public outcry in the hinterlands and capitals of every southern border state. As a result, a new sense of national urgency now surrounded the secretary’s security conference in Key West.

The voracious radio and TV pundits, and the vast blogger armies, all sensed a huge story. And all were happy to have fresh meat for the insatiable twenty-four-hour media machine. “Let’s go live to the border!” this or that anchorman would say, and then you’d see ruggedly handsome and epauletted correspondents riding right alongside the Border Patrol. The media was flocking to the border, in choppers and Humvees; or, more dashing yet, galloping through arroyos on horseback to the site of the latest attack.

The on-scene reporters noted again the woeful lack of security on America’s borders. Some, naturally, blamed the president for not securing them. Why hadn’t he just ordered a wall erected? How hard could that be? Some blamed government officials in Mexico City. Others blamed the apparent willingness of scattered Mexican field commanders to ignore our borders and accused these officers of being complicit in drug smuggling. A few thoughtful journalists actually understood that a border war with Mexico had been threatening to erupt for more than a century.

And now it seemed imminent.

In a few Washington circles, at Langley and the Bureau, it was an open secret that the vast drug gangs wielded enormous power within some Mexican military units and most certainly the Mexican police. Long simmering resentments, leftover from the War of Independence in 1846, were rising to a boil. And the American people, at least it seemed to Hawke, might be waking up at last to the real dangers along the southern flank.

In Alex’s view, everybody with an earbug and a microphone seemed to be having just a bit too much fun playing Cowboys and Indians along the Rio Grande. So far, no one had documented any of these “military” incursions on videotape. But that didn’t stop FOX NEWS, CNN, and the rest from trying to scoop each other. It was just a question of who would be first to get the story on film.

When the broad auditorium doors at last swung open, Hawke glimpsed a large oval table and rows of chairs inside a cavernous room. This vast, and pungent, location was apparently the only space large enough to accommodate the growing number of attendees. History, it seemed, was going to be played out on the sailor’s newly gleaming basketball court.

The room was filling up. Conch, trailing members of her staff, DSS, and Secret Service agents, had moved inside ten minutes earlier. She had not paused to speak to the aggressive media types pressing in around her. Nor had she even glanced at Hawke as she passed. This was hardly surprising, given recent events upstairs in her office.

Hawke, on a purely personal level, was feeling lifeless and numb, more than ready for the bloody session to get under way. From his own point of view, this pilgrimage, begun at C’s insistence, had already gotten off to a rocky start. He had meant to mend fences. Instead, he’d managed to put up a fresh wall.

He was grateful to have gotten out of Conch’s darkened office alive. Miss Guinness, who did not know the fiery Consuelo de los Reyes, was an innocent moth with no idea just how close she’d come to the flame. Her ill-timed arrival had dashed any hopes he’d had of reconciliation. He had whisked Pippa away as quickly as possible, all the while trying to placate Conch with his eyes. He had failed miserably.

Alex Hawke and Consuelo de los Reyes had endured, to say the very least, a long and complicated relationship. It had always been, he thought, a love affair of sorts, constantly recurring, but lasting for an indefinite time, like some perennial light switch. It’s on. It’s off. It’s on again.

A year ago, the affair had plunged into darkness. After learning of Hawke’s relationship with the beautiful Chinese actress, Jet Moon, Conch had seemingly thrown the switch permanently. His phone calls went unanswered. So did his carefully composed letters. He had finally given up, imagining that he would not see her again. The idea was painful, but he had adjusted to pain before.

And now, thanks to his Chief of the Service, here he was in tropical Key West, in the midst of a brand-new romantic drama. Thanks to the lovely Miss G’s sudden appearance on stage, the long-running tragicomedy starring de los Reyes and Hawke looked to have an even unhappier ending than he’d previously thought possible.

The hallway echoed with a heady hubbub of conversation. Jostling attendees began passing through the final security checkpoint and then filing inside the auditorium. Hawke waved a greeting to his old war buddy Brick Kelly, CIA director. Brick appeared to be enjoying having a serious set-to with a couple of Air Force four-stars. A few feet away stood Peter Pell, the president’s new Defense advisor.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” the young State Department aides kept repeating, gathering people together and gently herding everyone toward the door.

“I suppose we should go inside,” Hawke said to Ambrose. He was dreading, as always, another interminable meeting, trapped inside someone else’s agenda.

“While we’re young?” Congreve said, chuckling at Hawke’s obvious discomfort.

Ambrose took Pippa’s elbow and the two made their way into the gym. Hawke followed a minute later and quickly found his seat at the table. Ambrose sat on his right and Pippa was seated at one of the chairs provided for support staff just behind Hawke. Conch sat directly across the table from him. She wouldn’t return his smile.

Suddenly, Pippa was leaning her blonde head right between Hawke and Congreve, whispering in Alex’s ear. There was a warm scent of Chanel rising from the depths of her cleavage and it was all Hawke could do to stare straight ahead.

“Yes?” Hawke said quietly.

“So sorry to bother you again. Please don’t forget we agreed to soft-pedal the Bogotá station’s role in all this. C does insist we’re not quite ready to let the Americans have that juicy bit.”

“Ah. Didn’t know that. Thanks.”

Congreve suddenly looked over at the two of them and Pippa jumped.

“Will you two please pipe down? Madame Secretary is about to speak and she’s staring directly at you both.”

“Oh, God,” Hawke said under his breath, “you’re right, she is.”

40

C onversation died down as the secretary stood. She cast her eyes about the room, gathering everyone in. Consuelo de los Reyes was a tall, elegant, and very beautiful woman. She could command a room full of star-spangled generals with a single sidelong glance, and her fiery eyes could burn or freeze at will. When she spoke, her words had weight. They seemed to hang for moments in the air before others took their place. As was her habit, she swept a wing of dark auburn hair away from her forehead before she spoke.

“First, on behalf of the president, I’d like to welcome the members of the media who’ve joined us today,” she began. The auditorium erupted into sustained laughter. Everyone present knew the secretary had pitched an all-out battle to have the electronic and print press banned from her conference. The White House, sensing a huge media opportunity, had handed Secretary de los Reyes a very public defeat.

She handled that one well, Hawke thought, sitting forward at the table. She was steaming, but you’d never know it.