Max said into the phone, “We found out Blanco’s name. Or at least an alias that you can look up. Ian Williams. We actually just sat down with him. I watched him execute Ines Sanchez, Caleb.”
Wilkes swore on the other end of the line. Then he said, “Okay, thank you for letting me know.”
“Where’s Rojas? When can we get there?”
“Not over the phone.”
He was right. Max was stupid to have said that. If the cartels or the ISI were able to hack into this phone call, Max would have just confirmed that Rojas was in US custody. There was no excuse for the error. Max was rattled after witnessing that poor woman’s death, and seeing Renee so close to a murderer.
He tried to keep his conversation more vague. “Caleb, I want to see this through.”
Wilkes ignored him. “The guy that handed you the phone is DEA. He’ll see that you get out of the country safely. And soon. I’ve assured State Department that you had nothing to do with last night, and that my request to protect an agent in Mazatlán this morning is purely coincidental timing. Keep out of trouble. I’ll talk to you when you reach the States. Goodbye, Max.”
Max handed the phone back to the DEA man, who said, “I have orders to get you back to the United States. Do you have transportation?”
Max nodded. “It’s at the local airport.”
Thirty minutes later, Max and Renee were once again flying in his father’s private jet, this time north, towards the US. The aircraft cabin was long, thin, luxurious, and empty. Two pilots up front, with the cockpit door closed. Max knew both of them by name. They had been on his father’s personal staff for decades. A single steward sat just aft of the cockpit, blending in with the wall, his senses attuned to the tiniest glance from one of his passengers.
Renee and Max sat facing each other near the back of the cabin, out of earshot of the steward. Max said, “I’ve asked the pilots to fly us to Texas. I’m hoping to get in touch with Trent. Or see if Wilkes will let me join Rojas’s interrogation.” He paused. “Are you alright? Look, I understand if you want to head home. We did what was asked.”
She had been looking out the window, but now she turned to face him. “I’m with you now more than ever.”
Max knew that she was thinking of the female agent executed on the beach, perhaps holding herself responsible. Or maybe she was thinking of Josh Carpenter’s little boy. Josh had been killed, in a way, by the same men.
Max said, “I want to find out more about Ian Williams.”
“No problem. Give me a few hours once we touch down.”
“I just wish we still had our phones,” said Max.
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting the feeling that Wilkes is putting us on ice. He used us for what he needed and will use other assets now that he thinks we’re a known quantity to Williams.”
Renee shook her head. “What’s that got to do with our phones?”
“We no longer have the encrypted phones. And you don’t have your computer. We needed them so that we could contact Trent and meet up with him. Otherwise we’ll just have to wait for Wilkes to decide whether he wants to keep using us.”
Renee gave him a funny look.
“What?”
“Max, I made a clone of each phone and uploaded it to my secure cloud storage. I always do that. Same with all of the data on my computer. Come on. What year are you living in?”
“So, we’ll be able to contact Trent?”
“Yes. What do you think I’m here for, eye candy?”
Caleb Wilkes sat in the corner of the room, his legs crossed, and mouth shut. He was still a bit groggy from the red-eye to DC, but thankfully he wouldn’t need to do much talking. This was the FBI’s show. Wilkes was here as a courtesy. He was, however, very interested in the discussion.
Senator Herbert Becker, a member of the Select Intelligence Committee and the Judiciary Committee, was now being interviewed after the mysterious death of his chief of staff. In his preliminary statement to the FBI, Becker had told investigators that he had information related to his chief of staff and Joseph Dahlman, the dead lobbyist.
Senator Becker sat next to his lawyer. His lawyer opened up a leather-bound case and took out a stapled document, which he slid forward on the table.
The FBI agent leading the interview said, “What’s this?”
“Please read it.”
Three copies were circulated, and Wilkes’s eyebrows shot up when he began reading his.
Senator Becker,
If you are reading this, then the worst has happened. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.
A few years ago, I became aware that Joseph Dahlman’s clients were not simply businessmen representing multinational corporations, as they were initially advertised to you. Dahlman had connections to Pakistan’s intelligence agency, the ISI. I should have told you, and I should have informed the FBI. I didn’t, because I knew that it could ruin everything we have worked for.
Whoever reads this should know that Senator Becker is innocent of any wrongdoing. He knew nothing of Dahlman’s relationship with the ISI. I was overzealous and cowardly. I take full responsibility for any improper actions.
This document serves as my insurance policy against personal harm. If I am killed, it will be sent to Senator Becker. He may do with it what he likes.
The following is a list of names, dates, activities, and bank accounts which implicate me and the ISI in illegal activity.
Ronald Dicks
Wilkes read through the document. He recognized a few of the names. No one stuck out, but they would cross-reference everything against the intelligence files of the CIA and other agencies. The FBI agent handed the document to one of his colleagues, who left the room looking grim. This would reach the director’s desk within minutes.
One of the agents in the room muttered, “Seems like the insurance policy didn’t work.”
The lead FBI agent sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. The whole room sat on pins and needles.
“Let’s start with the relationship between your former chief of staff and the lobbyist, Dahlman. Why did they meet?”
“Mr. Dahlman’s firm represented business interests that were important to my constituents.”
“Important to your constituents?”
“That’s correct. They represented companies that did business in Wisconsin.”
“What kind of companies?”
“Several types. Health care-focused, mainly. Medical device manufacturers. Pharmaceutical manufacturers. However, I fear that Mr. Dahlman’s clients’ interests diverged from my own policy stance in recent months.”
“How so?”
“I am the coauthor of the Opioid Epidemic Act. It’s the most aggressive legislation Congress has ever put forth to fight the opioid crisis in our country. But some pharmaceutical companies fear that the bill will hurt their bottom line. These drugs are very profitable. Naturally, some are upset. But it appears that I was ill-informed on just who these people were, and how upset they had become.”
“You thought Dahlman’s lobbying firm represented Big Pharma?”
The senator shifted in his seat, looking around the room. “Until I received this letter, this insurance policy from my chief of staff, I believed Dahlman’s agency represented multinational corporations that benefited from legal narcotic production, among other things.”
“Multinational?”
The senator’s lawyer spoke up. “Mr. Dahlman’s firm was in full compliance with the Foreign Agents Registration Act, and the senator’s campaign contributions were in accordance with campaign finance law. This conversation is about the senator’s recently deceased chief of staff. I would ask that we narrow the questions to that subject.”