The Director

By William Ginsburg

The DEA realizes that something has gone horribly wrong with their drug interdiction program aimed at the cocaine and heroin trade in Central America. Despite their best efforts, drugs from Colombia still flood the US market. The DEA, which loses every team it sends to investigate, turns to Congress for help.

What they dont realize is that the culprit is right under their nosessomeone in a high-ranking position in the government. The heroin is coming from his Colombian operation, established in South America using operatives left hanging around from when the United States pulled out of Vietnam. This drug mastermind will do anything to prevent anyone from learning of his secret drug labs.

Thus begins the deadly hunt for one man, National Internal Security Agency special undercover agent John Davis. He knows too much and has to be eliminated. Just as the fox in the traditional battle of wits, he is running for his lifebut this fox is different. This time the fox is just as smart as the hounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462011599

William Ginsburg

William Ginsburg has practiced law on both sides of the American-Mexican border.

Book preview

Prologue

I am staring at my tape recorder without a single thought as to how to tell my story. The real problem seems to be getting started. I suppose the best place to start would be when I went to work for the Agency. It is my intention to send the finished tape to the only person I want to know the truth.

My name used to be John Davis, or at least that’s what my badge said. Everyone who works at the National Internal Security Agency is given a new identity. Now, I have no name at all because I am officially dead. Theoretically, I died on a covert plane flight to Colombia. My death was classified as in the line of duty.

Being officially dead isn’t really all that bad. I have a new passport under a new name, and I am free to go anywhere I want. But that is the problem. There is really no place I can go. I have to keep a very low profile. If I start moving around, those who could be chasing me might discover I am still alive …

Chapter 1

DAY ONE, JOHN DAVIS

The National Internal Security Agency was empowered by Congress to gather information about terrorist activity by working both sides of the United States–Mexico border. The Agency was authorized, by Congress, to do anything in their power to stop the terrorists. The Agency was specifically concerned about terrorists financed by drug money who sought to import nuclear or biological weapons into the United States. Anthrax and smallpox headed the list of potential terrorist weapons.

I became involved with the Agency when recruiters came to my law school looking for graduates with the potential to become NISA agents. I grew up in San Diego and spent a lot of time in Mexico hanging out with the trendy young people. I knew the Mexican culture well and spoke the language. I was a natural for the job, and they hired me.

As an NISA agent, I ran a team of snitches in Tijuana who sold information to the highest bidder, which was usually me. I, in turn, passed the data on to the Agency.

I know all about the Agency’s running of black ops. I handled that knowledge by taking the mentality that what they did with the info I got them was none of my concern. The trick was to never think about it.

Late one afternoon, still groggy from working all night in Tijuana, I was awakened by the sound of my telephone. Johnny, I am back in San Diego. We go to dinner. I buy.

It was an old colleague, Ralf, who I hadn’t seen or even heard from for many years. Okay, I will meet you at 8:00 p.m. at La Traviata.

I was slow in hanging up the telephone, and I heard two clicks. Someone was listening in on my phone. Then I remembered why I hadn’t seen Ralf for so long. Ralf had been posted overseas in the Soviet bloc working for NISA black ops. He had a bad habit of visiting countries where people were subsequently assassinated.

I said to myself, It could be just a coincidence, but I’d better find out. I looked at the clock and saw I had a half hour before I was expected. I left the apartment and walked to my car, a black Mustang. I pulled away from the curb, keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror.

It wasn’t hard to tell that a gray Ford Taurus was following me, staying just a few cars back. I made a series of turns just like I was taught to do in such situations. The car followed me on every turn. Then a second car joined the first. I was not just being followed; I was being hunted. One car meant surveillance; two cars meant interdiction.

I got onto the freeway and headed south and shortly saw a familiar sign: International Border, Two Miles. I knew there was little control at the border by the Mexican border guards; they would usually wave you through without even stopping your car. But whoever was following me probably would not cross the border without specific permission, and there was no way they could get it in time.

I changed lanes and got into the shortest line, keeping my eyes on the two cars tailing me. They stopped short of following me into Mexico. It was certain they would pull over to report the result of the chase, but the real question was, to whom?

I began to assess the situation. I was now an hour late to meet Ralf. The two clicks I heard on the phone must have signaled the Ford Taurus to follow me. There were only two possibilities: either Ralf was acting of his own accord, or he was acting on an order given by his boss, the Director.

I drove into the city of Tijuana and found a parking place, and then got out of my car and buried myself in a sea of humanity. I never stopped looking behind me; you’re never too paranoid if you’re right about your suspicions.

I walked to my favorite little cantina and sat down in a corner where I could keep an eye on those who walked by. I ordered a beer and kept watching. Thirty minutes passed without incident, and I began to relax. I knew I was safe for now, but tomorrow would be a different story.

By now Ralf knew I was in Tijuana, and he would be searching for me. He would be able to get the Mexicans to comb the city block by block. I knew I had to move fast. It was like a game of fox and hounds, and the only way the fox can win is by being smarter and faster than the hounds.

I retrieved my car and drove to the local bookie, cashed a check, and used some of my credit cards to get additional cash. I hoped that in doing so, Ralf and the Director would believe I had decided to hole up in the city. By the time they figured it out and thoroughly combed the city, I would be long gone.

My car was a different matter. The black Mustang convertible stood out like a sore thumb. Tomorrow would be too late to dump the car. I had to do it now.

I paged Carlos Santos, my favorite snitch. Carlos gives me information on certain locals who smuggle drugs and illegals across the border. In exchange for the information, I pay Carlos small amounts of money.

All snitches have code names for the purposes of payment. Carlos’s code name was Ten Percent, because he would do anything that was honest for ten percent of the gross. Dishonest transactions cost more. Dishonest transactions with a potential for bodily harm were negotiated on a case-by-case basis. Carlos had a nose for money.

After a few minutes, he returned my page. Carlos, I have a deal for you. I am at the usual cantina.

Carlos arrived within ten minutes. He sat down and politely declined my offer of a beer. I handed him my keys and the title to the Mustang. Take her to the chop shop and bring back many pesos, preferably old ones, and a well-worn passport.

He licked his lips and smiled, saying simply, Adios, amigo.

He returned within the hour holding a briefcase and a much-traveled passport. I opened the case and counted the money, pleasantly surprised by its total. I thanked Carlos and said, If they catch up with you—and they probably will—tell them I went to Acapulco.

I took a cab to the airport and bought a ticket to Mexico City, using the name on my new passport and paying in cash. Shortly they announced boarding. I got on, strapped in, and fell asleep.

I only woke up again from the captains’ announcement as the airplane began its final approach to Mexico City. After landing, I hailed a taxi and headed for the Zona Rosa, the city’s central business district. International visitors there were both welcomed and protected. It consisted primarily of four- and five-star hotels, excellent restaurants, and upscale shopping malls.

The capital sure hadn’t changed much since my last visit. The taxi ride took about an hour from the airport to the Zona Rosa. It was getting dark so I decided to check into one of the business-class hotels. I found my room and climbed straight into bed; I knew tomorrow would be a busy day.

Chapter 2

DAY TWO, JOHN DAVIS

Morning came, and morning meant breakfast. I went down to the hotel coffee shop and ordered my favorite meal: eggs, green chili, and coffee. I purchased a San Diego newspaper and read it cover to cover. I paid the bill and then walked over to the desk and got the attention of the clerk. Por favor, is there a jewelry store nearby?

Yes, there is one in the Zona Rosa only five blocks from this hotel. He proceeded to give me exact directions.

I walked the five blocks to the store. Inside, a jeweler was standing behind a large counter. I held up my Rolex; the jeweler nodded and took the watch. He took off the band and looked at the serial numbers on the watch case.

The jeweler’s first offer amounted to about half of what I paid for the Rolex. We began haggling over the amount, and I discovered that he knew to the penny what he would pay, and nothing more. Finally, we agreed on a price.

In order to finalize the transaction, the jeweler asked for my identification. I showed him my passport, and he wrote down the information. He handed over the money, and then he picked up the phone and reported the transaction to the police; jewelers were required by law to report every transaction.

This was the last money I could get, and I could not use my credit cards or checks because that would tell Ralf that I was now in Mexico City.

As I walked back to the hotel, I caught myself thinking about my gorgeous mustang. I knew Carlos had sold my car to a Mexican chop shop. They would have reduced it to parts in one hour or less, and that would be the end of that particular trail. It made me sad to think about her that way.

Chapter 3

DAY ONE, CARLOS SANTOS

Carlos grinned from ear to ear. Walking away from the cantina, he thought