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Compromised: Clinton, Bush and the CIA: How the Presidency w
Re: Compromised: Clinton, Bush and the CIA: How the Presiden
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Terry breathed a sigh of relief. At last, he could clear his mind of this troubling issue and get on with his business in Mexico. He closed and securely locked the door of the hangar that now housed an Ultra-Light, a monument he had saved to remind him of his near death, and several file cabinets containing mostly business records. He went from there to a motel and left for Dallas the next day.
In Dallas, he caught up with Fujikawa, who had stayed for other business. He told Terry the meeting with Johnson went without a hitch and he was ready to close the deal. The money was ready, he said, and just waiting for Terry to tell him where and how to deliver it. All was well.
He returned home and told Marr that Cooper was, in fact, going to try and visit Guadalajara for an Air America reunion. Hopefully, he would be bringing another friend of Marr's by the name of John McRainey *, (See chapter end.) and possibly some others. Marr was ecstatic. The resurrection of the "over the hill gang" was in full swing and Marr began immediately making plans.
"That's great news! I'll go down to Chapala Realty tomorrow and attempt to getta hold of the bitch by phone," Marr said referring to the real estate office as telephone central for Americans there and a way to contact his wife. "She's still up in the States visitin' the kids and that's right where I want her to stay. I don't want her down here fuckin' up my party. You're gonna love these guys, Terry."
The first few weeks of August Terry spent shuttling between Guadalajara and Mexico City, visiting potential clients with Fenue. Fierro was working out the final security details on Reed's new airport facility. It was scheduled to be turned over to Maquinaria Internacional, SA, by the first of September, if the attorney could finish the paper work in time.
Terry was learning that Mexico's centralized bureaucracy made legal affairs move at a snail's pace. No document was complete unless it was affixed with enough official-looking seals to obliterate its contents. It seemed bureaucracy was a problem no matter where you lived.
The Reeds' immigration problems had been ironed out. Terry had been given a temporary business visa, which allowed him to do marketing analyses and set in place all the necessary elements for the planned transition to 100 per cent ownership of the Mexican corporation by the U.S. corporation. At that time, this was prohibited by Mexican law.
As far as anyone could tell, he was an American deeply involved in creating a venture to import machinery, something the country desperately needed, and a company for which the government would make an exception to its ownership rule. This was humorous, in a way, because when comparing the list of companies to which this exception had been granted, one would find the likes of Ford Motor Company, Goodyear Rubber Company, Dupont, RCA, and then .... Maquinaria Internacional.
In the third week of August, he received an oral invitation from Marr to attend the official Air America reunion that was to take place at Marr's home ... without the "bitch's" presence.
"I'm goin' out ta the airport to pick up Coop and McRainey today, Fierro says their plane is due in around noon," Marr informed him. "Why don't you come on by the house after dark tonight. We'll down a few and talk about the good old days in 'SEA' (Southeast Asia)."
That night, as Terry walked under the Roman-style stone arch that defined the entrance into Marr's posh subdivision, he was hoping his new Nissan pickup wouldn't be stolen from the shoulder of the highway where he had left it. He was being cautious because Marr was violating a key rule by even inviting Terry to the party, and he did not want his 1985 orange, four-door Mexican-made pickup seen in Marr's neighborhood.
As Terry approached Marr's compound he could hear the VCR blaring away, but this time it was John Wayne's voice coming from the sound track of The Flying Leathernecks. By the sound of the laughter echoing from the den area of Mitch's house, it was clear that the party was in full swing.
Terry rang the claxon and a voice boomed back, "What's the password?"
"Sierra fuckin' Hotel!" *
Terry's response brought Marr quickly to the door and ushered him in. When the door closed behind him, he felt as if he had stepped back through time and walked into the lounge of the Chiroen Hotel, Air America's hangout in Udorn, Thailand. Only the Thai hookers were missing. But the talk had already turned to what carnal adventures might lie ahead in Guadalajara later.
Cooper introduced Terry to John McRainey, another ex-Air America pilot who was flying C-123 air supply missions for former General Richard Secord's "Enterprise" based in El Salvador. The slender, stylishly-dressed McRainey was tanned and fit, giving the outward impression of being a conservative businessman, a banker or maybe a corporate attorney. Also present were two Salvadoran Army officers in civilian clothes and two contract American aircraft maintenance personnel. Terry would learn through conversation that the whole group was shuttling an old, previously mothballed C-123 to El Salvador to join the Contra resupply operation. They had flight-planned their route through Mexico to stay over land, considering the unairworthy condition of the plane, which had not been flown since the mid-70s.
"Cooper's told me all about you. You're one of the guys that was training beaner pilots up in Arkansas for the Agency," McRainey said as he approached, acting openly friendly. "Can't believe you survived it all, considering the level of skill you had to start with. I got involved in a similar situation training Laotian pilots. Wasn't fucking Vietnamization a great program? Let's all toast to the hen-nhats (Vietnamese for cowards) we defended, and to Richard Milhous Fucking Nixon!"
As the tumblers clinked together and slopped portions of their contents onto the floor, Cooper added, "Here's hoping Daniel Ortega butt fucks Henry Kissinger before WE kill him."
Kay: Henry Kissinger was a well-known, totally a homosexual. Not even both ways.
Eric: And so his wife is a marriage of cover or convenience?
Kay: Oh, it's just a convenience, yeah. I mean, maybe he's discovered women in his late age. I don't know. But I heard through a very well grounded German that Henry's best friend's father told Henry to stay away from him. And that's why Henry left. The family were embarrassed. And Henry went to Britain where they did this, and then changed his name from Heinz to Henry. And I interviewed a man named Bob, who's an army enlisted person, who told me about Henry in Cambodia. So up through Cambodia, he was actually raping young men. And of course, that experience destroyed the lives of these five young men, according to the source. I mean, he said, he was crying -- and this man was a perfectly wonderful functioning young married man who worked for a newspaper on the Eastern shore, and had three young children -- he went to Vietnam as an enlisted man, was put into Cambodia, which he said it was a lie living there, and then ran into Henry Kissinger. Or Henry Kissinger ran into him, and did certain things to him. Invited him into his tent with some other men. It was horrible. But he said, "It's wartime," and so forth. But he said, "You know, I could have taken it mentally if it had been a bunk-mate or something, but when it's someone like Henry Kissinger who does it to you, you're ruined." He said he came back home -- Oh! And this is interesting, and I really believe that Bob's right, he said Kissinger said to him, "If you ever tell anybody, if you ever mention to a soul, it's the end of you. Don't you ever tell anybody." Well, when Bob got back, he went to a special hospital, and they were going to keep him locked up forever.
-- Mrs. Kay Griggs on How the Government Works, Interview with Eric Hufschmid
Terry looked around him. He realized that what he saw in Marr's den defined the term "Post-Vietnam Stress Syndrome (Its official name is Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome). But this group didn't suffer from the mental condition that the psychiatrists have defined, an illness in which veterans have frequent, stress-related, flashbacks triggered by an ordinary event, that reawakens some wartime experience. Nor was it their inability to control their reactions to these flashbacks which renders them unable at times to cope with the stress of everyday civilian life.
These men, Terry observed, were like himself. They were not the kind to walk into a schoolyard and kill a dozen Oriental children. They were combat veterans locked in time, suspended in an anti-climactic state of not having been allowed to complete the mission for which they were trained. Society had taught them they were males and their mission was to defend their nation and its way of life, if called to do so. They were called, but for all the wrong reasons, and then not given the go-ahead to do what their training had prepared them for. They came home defeated and in many respects could be compared to impotent males who never had the psychological satisfaction of knowing they had fully consummated their "marriage" with their own society.
He found humor laced within the stories and enjoyed the camaraderie of these "men of men," who had risked their lives and were not like Bill Clinton and other modern leaders, men who sat back and debated the morality of it all at Oxford -- after the fact -- and after the shooting had started and the body bags were coming home by the thousands.
These men at Marr's house were known commodities, tried, proven, tested and could be counted on when the going got rough.
But Terry found sadness in a lot of this as well, since their bond was built on mutual failure: Their inability to win and come home victorious. These veterans found it hard to accept that they had been manipulated by the likes of Nixon and Kissinger and that they were, truly, expendable ... and for what?
Detente, they once again concluded. The reason, they each decided in their drunken soliloquies, had to be Nixon's obsession with being the president who "recognized China."
"Nixon couldn't figure out if he wanted to marry and make love to Mao Tse-Tung, or to fuck him to death and shit on his grave," John Cathey had once said. "We need leaders that know what they're doing, where they're going, and define the role the military plays in all this detente shit."
That about summed it up as the Over the Hill Gang toasted Ho Chi-Minh: "To a better man and leader than anybody we had on our side .... 'least he was there to win."
[Captain Mandrake] Excuse me, sir. Something rather interesting has just cropped up. Listen to that. Music. Civilian broadcasting. I think the Pentagon has given us an exercise to test our readiness. I think it's taking things too far. Our fellows will be inside Russian radar cover in 20 minutes. Listen to that. Chock-a-block full of stations, all churning it out.
[General Jack Ripper] Mandrake?
[Captain Mandrake] Yes, sir?
[General Jack Ripper] I thought I issued instructions for all radios to be impounded.
[Captain Mandrake] You did, and I was in the process of impounding this when I switched it on. I thought, our fellows hitting Russian radar, dropping all their stuff, I'd better tell you. Because if they do, it'll cause a bit of a stink.
[General Jack Ripper] Group captain, the officer-exchange program does not give you any special prerogatives to question my orders.
[Captain Mandrake] I realize that, sir, but I thought you'd be rather pleased to hear the news. I mean, after all -- Well, let's face it. We don't want to start a nuclear war unless we really have to, do we?
[General Jack Ripper] Please sit down. And turn that thing off.
[Captain Mandrake] Yes, sir. What about the planes? Surely we must issue the recall code immediately.
[General Jack Ripper] Group captain, the planes are not gonna be recalled. My attack orders have been issued, and the orders stand.
[Captain Mandrake] If you'll excuse me saying so, sir, that would be, to my way of thinking rather an odd way of looking at it. If a Russian attack was in progress , we would certainly not be hearing civilian broadcasting.
[General Jack Ripper] Are you certain of that?
[Captain Mandrake] I'm absolutely positive.
[General Jack Ripper] And what if it is true?
[Captain Mandrake] I'm afraid I'm still not with you, sir, because, I mean if a Russian attack was not in progress, then your use of Plan R -- in fact, your orders to the entire wing, I would say that there was something dreadfully wrong somewhere.
[General Jack Ripper] Why don't you take it easy, group captain. Please make me a drink of grain alcohol and rainwater, and help yourself to whatever you'd like.
[Captain Mandrake] General Ripper, sir, as an officer in Her Majesty's Air Force, it is my clear duty under the present circumstances, to issue the recall code upon my own authority and bring back the wing. If you'll excuse me, sir. Sir, I must ask you for the key and the recall code. Have you got them handy?
[General Jack Ripper] I told you to take it easy, group captain. There's nothing anybody can do about this now. I'm the only person who knows the code group.
[Captain Mandrake] Then I must insist, sir, that you give them to me! Do I take it, sir, you are threatening a brother officer with a gun?
[General Jack Ripper] Mandrake, I suppose it never occurred to you that while we're chatting here so enjoyably a decision is being made by the president and the joint chiefs in the war room at the Pentagon. And when they realize there is no possibility of recalling the wing, there will be only one course of action open: Total commitment. Mandrake, do you recall what Clemenceau once said about war?
[Captain Mandrake] No, I don't think I do, sir. No.
[General Jack Ripper] He said war was too important to be left to the generals. When he said that 50 years ago, he might have been right. But today, war is too important to be left to politicians. They have neither the time, the training. nor the inclination for strategic thought. I can no longer sit back and allow Communist infiltration, Communist indoctrination, Communist subversion, and the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.
-- Dr. Strangelove, directed by Stanley Kubrick, starring Peter Sellers and George C. Scott
Here was a roomful of intelligent men burying their problems with alcohol and living in the past. Terry hoped he wouldn't end up like the men he was watching. What seemed apparent to him was that these men could share their feelings only with one another. And this made him sad. One thing for sure, he had the comfort of knowing he had a wife he could talk to.
He was jarred from his thoughts by the arrival of Raul Fierro, who couldn't resist any kind of reunion with story-telling combat aviators. Each took the floor in turn to regale the others in one-upmanship, hyperbole and just plain bullshit. As each man spun his tale, Mitch broke out the milk containers with the 1975 tequila, his oldest and best.
As each container was drained, the subject of conversation turned to the current war, the one that had brought them all together. Terry felt a sense of uneasiness because Marr was the only one who had been cleared to know his true role or mission in Mexico. All the while, Terry was hoping the conversation wouldn't turn to Machinery International's role in all of this, especially in front of the "outsiders" present.
Marr asked McRainey: "So how you guys doin' down there? How many sorties a day are ya flyin' and what kind of tonnage are ya puttin' on target?"
"We're not doin' too good, Mitch," McRainey answered. "I'm glad our pay isn't tied to our performance. We're all gettin' older and slower and so's our equipment. It's a hell of an undertaking considering what we've got to work with."
The fact was that during this period in the summer of 1986, the air resupply operation was floundering. Felix Rodriguez would later claim when testifying before a Congressional committee that the Enterprise flew only one successful mission during July and August of that year.
"Goddam Mitch, you ought to be down there flyin' with us," Cooper said. "It's just like old times. They're puttin' pressure on us from Washington to get fully operational by the first of the year and we could use another skilled 123 pilot. I've got my hands full just keepin' this old iron in the air." This was a reference to the antique aircraft being retrieved from "bone yards" in the desert where surplus military aircraft had been stored as well as those being "borrowed" from military museums. Barry Seal's C-123K that had been used in the Sandinista "sting" was but one example of an old Air America war bird conveniently finding its way into civilian hands when the CIA deemed it necessary.
"Yeah, I'd love ta go but the Agency needs me here right now," Marr replied. He lied. He knew why he had not been recruited to fly, and so did most of the people at the party.
"That's not your problem Mitch, we know why you're not flyin' with us," an inebriated McRainey injected, in an obvious reference to Marr's problem with the bottle. The room went silent.
Cooper defused what was about to become an uncomfortable situation by injecting: "Yeah, Mitch, we know you're not flyin' with us because of your wife. Some of us know how to control our women. Can't believe that the Mitch Marr I knew in Asia has now settled down answering to only one woman ... and being pussy-whipped besides!" The roar of drunken laughter broke the tension.
"Pussy-whipped my ass, I'll show ya. Let's go ta Guadalajara and fuck some of them fine Mexican cunts. Line 'em up. I'll show ya," Marr slurred.
Fierro suggested they all leave for Guadalajara where he could arrange for the local DFS (Mexican CIA) commandante to take over a "private club" for the night's entertainment. Terry knew he could not be seen in public with these people and was surely passing up a memorable night, and can now only imagine what it must have been like.
Before leaving they all decided to hoist one more tumbler of Marr's high-octane libation in memory of the men left behind in Southeast Asia. The thought of prisoners of war and the knowledge of what happened to many of them saddened Reed. It angered him that he was silenced by a sworn secrecy statement and couldn't share this classified information with them. *
What a depressing way to end an otherwise interesting night.
One key player in all this was not there. Felix Rodriguez was back in El Salvador creating some mischief. Oliver North would later claim that Rodriguez' ego was getting out of control. At the same time, Rodriguez was aligning himself with the Nicaraguan rebels and trying to freeze out Secord and the others dealing with North. Rodriguez claimed in his book, Shadow Warrior, that the Nicaraguan rebels were being "screwed" by Secord, who was simply trying to sell the whole supply operation to the CIA for a quick profit. [2] This was unquestionably true, but what was Rodriguez' motive in all of this?
Terry believes today that this was part of a power struggle based along racial lines. Rodriguez wanted to control the aerial operations and its assets so that he and his Salvadoran military friends could profit personally from other business ventures that Terry would discover later.
It was more of his trademark smoke, mirrors and "war on communism", used to hide his greed and true motives.
Rodriguez admits he even went so far as to meet with the rebel leadership and act as their champion in the tug-of-war over who really controlled the resupply aircraft and the operation's assets. This clearly was mutinous behavior since Rodriguez was not in charge, nor empowered with the authority to do so. So why was he generating all this turmoil? Was it because he saw himself as HMFIC in the Nicaraguan War? Or was he operating under secret instructions to do so? Did someone want the Enterprises' spooks pushed completely out of the operation so that it could be conducted more as the Vice President saw fit? After all, didn't Rodriguez have the ear of then-Vice President Bush's closest advisor, Donald Gregg? [3]
Rodriguez made the puzzling admission that he persuaded the rebels to put armed guards on the resupply aircraft to keep the Anglos working for the Enterprise from "making off" with them. But where would they have taken them? All this back-stabbing and in-fighting was part of a power struggle that created an environment of an accident waiting to happen. And that's exactly what happened. [4]
But Terry knew none of this in the summer and fall of 1986 in Guadalajara. To him, all looked well and everything was falling into place. By early October, Terry was up and going with Maquinaria Internacional. Even though the Mexican corporation's ownership had not yet been approved by the Mexican government, he was using the license of Fenue's company, Cortec, to get business started.
Things looked so permanent Reed signed a lease on a larger and more family-style home situated directly on the shore of Lake Chapala and the family was preparing to celebrate Duncan's fourth birthday in a very Mexican way. There would be pinatas, mariachi music and authentic Mexican food served by the maid; and the guest list was growing.
On October 4, Janis savored her new-found lifestyle that allowed her the time to bake the birthday cakes depicting the Sesame Street characters, Bert & Ernie. How could the Reeds know they were 24 hours away from disaster?
Since the Air America reunion at Marr's house two months earlier, the "over the hill gang" was getting their act together. By mid-September, the antiquated pilots and their planes were proving they still had "the right stuff." On September 13, 1986, they had managed to put five planes in the air simultaneously and, on one flight alone, 10,000 pounds of supplies had been dropped deep into Nicaragua and into the hands of "freedom fighters" trying to establish a toe-hold in southern Nicaragua.
Bob Dutton, who was reporting to North from the field, said more than 180,000 pounds of supplies had been dropped successfully. But in the Reagan administration's rush to accomplish the aerial delivery effort, there were lapses in security that would soon impact on the Reeds and compromise the Enterprise's operations.
Their lifestyle in Margaritaville would literally come to a crashing halt.
October 5th, 1986, was a cool night on the north shore of Lake Chapala and the Reed family was just preparing for a sweater-weather barbecue when the claxon rang at the compound's front gate.
It was a strangely sober, and somber, Mitch Marr standing outside the iron gate. "I guess you heard the news? Hasens fucked!"
"What do you mean? I don't get it," Terry responded. "And besides, aren't you breaking your own rule by being here? You said we were never to be seen together. And this is a very public location," Terry said, referring to the home's street-side entrance that was in view of the zocalo.
Marr spoke slowly, coherently and very low-key as he went on: "After tonight, nobody may ever give a fuck if we're ever seen together, alive or dead."
A confused Terry just stared at him, wondering what on earth was going on. "What's the matter, Mitch? And what does Hasens fucked mean?"
"His name is Hasenfus. He was 'the kicker' on the plane -- you don't know, do you?" Marr began to realize. "I forgot, you don't have satellite TV..... COOPER'S DEAD! He got shot down."
After a long pause, Marr sighed and continued. "Some commie shit put a heat-seeker up his ass and his 123 went down in flames. He died with his boots on, though. That lucky shit! He always did have all the fun."
While reeling from the shock of the statement about Cooper's plane, Terry began to analyze Marr's comments. It was obvious, based on what he was saying, that what Terry had suspected about Marr was true. He was envious and miserable. Envious of the men still flying under fire and wallowing in his retirement lifestyle that he blotted out with booze. Here he was, wishing he could die in combat with honor like Cooper just had.
After another pause, Marr turned to a briefing mode.
"But I guess this guy named Hasenfus survived the crash, and the commies got him. I thought you knew him, too."
Though Terry didn't know it at that moment, words like Iran-Contra and Irangate were being written by newspaper editors everywhere. As Hasenfus was being pulled out of the jungle on a leash by a Sandinista soldier, political shock waves were beginning to reverberate around the world. Back at the White House, damage control was already under way.
There would be a flurry of questions about why a C-123 military cargo plane registered to a CIA proprietary in Miami had been shot down that day in Nicaragua with gringos and guns aboard.
There were, of course, responses from Washington.
President Ronald Reagan said: "There is no connection with that [between the U.S. and the shootdown] at all." He lied.
Vice President George Bush said: "This man [Hasenfus] is never -- is not working for the United States Government." He lied.
Assistant Secretary of State Elliot Abrams: "Let me repeat flatly that there was no U.S. government involvement in this ... direct, indirect, provision of material financing, whatever you want to call it ... none." He lied.
Eugene Hasenfus, the survivor and now a prisoner in Managua, told it somewhat differently. "I worked for the CIA, who did most of the coordination of these flights." He had a rope around his neck. He told the truth.
The covert supply operation had turned overt, and Oliver North was heading for the shredder.
* From an organizational chart later supplied to the Iran-Contra congressional committees by Retired Air Force General Richard V. Secord depicting the Enterprise's reporting structure, one could find directly under the name of W. Cooper, Manager, C-123K/ C7A/Maule AC, the name of J. McRainey. His title was noted as Operations Director, C-123K/Maule AC, another of the now activated Air America "Over the Hill Gang." [1]
* Sierra Hotel was a term used by pilots in Vietnam. To understand this, you must understand the use of the phonetic alphabet by the military to prevent miscommunication by radio. Each letter has a word such as A for Alpha and Z for Zulu. S is "Sierra" and H is "Hotel". What the pilots must relay to each other during an air strike is the level of destruction of a target, or bomb damage assessment (BDA) reports. When a target was destroyed by a direct hit in Vietnam, the pilots for a time were yelling "Shit Hot" to signify total destruction. The politicians were becoming upset at such ungentlemanly language and that forced the pilots into code talk. "Shit Hot" was refined to "Sierra Hotel."
* Reed kept this information to himself until August 3, 1992. He officially revealed the sacrifice of the POWs during an oral deposition in a Freedom of Information suit: John Cummings vs. Department of Defense, in the United States District Court for the District of Columbia, 91-1736-GAG.
1. Testimony of Richard V. Secord, Iran-Contra Hearings, 100-1, p 446.
2. Testimony of Bob Dutton, Iran-Contra Hearings, 100-3, at 219-20.
3. Ibid. 221-22, 275-76.
4. Deposition of Donald Gregg, 5/18/87 at 28-31; Rodriguez testimony, Hearings, 100- 3, 311, 349-50.
CHAPTER 23: ON ICE
Mitch Marr told Terry that "Operation Screw Worm" was on hold indefinitely, if not permanently.
"So what am I supposed to do?" Terry asked. "I've got my whole family here. I'm set up and in place. I've signed a lease on a new home. I have to move tomorrow. I'm ready to go."
"Take a vacation," Marr advised. "Drive around Mexico. Get ta know the country. Enjoy, good bourbon is only two bucks a bottle here. I'll authorize ya some expense money 'til these guys figure out what they wanna do, for sure."
Marr then turned and walked away, leaving Terry in shock and disbelief to mourn Cooper. He needed to find a newspaper or something to confirm what he had just heard. It wasn't that he didn't believe Marr, he simply couldn't accept what he had just been told.
The training in Arkansas had been undertaken for the sole purpose of avoiding the type of catastrophic exposure the Hasenfus incident would now reveal. "They had better be beaners," Barry Seal had said when talking about the necessity to quickly train Latin pilots for the aerial resupply operations. What had gone wrong? And why weren't "beaners" piloting the plane?
From what Marr had said, there was an American survivor to interrogate. Cooper had mentioned the name Hasenfus back in Arkansas thinking it was someone Terry might have known back in Southeast Asia. The blood had drained from Terry's face. He walked back into the kitchen where Janis was practicing her kitchen Spanish with the maid.
"What's wrong?" she said, immediately realizing something had happened. "You look like you just saw a ghost!"
"Bill Cooper's dead!" The words did not come easily. "He was shot down, from what Mitch just told me. I'm gonna jump in the car and drive out to Patrick's house and see if I can't get something on satellite TV from the States. The papers probably won't carry this until sometime tomorrow."
At the Juin house, he learned from the maid the family had gone to the beach. He was asked inside and turned on the TV to watch the American news reports. It had happened all right. It was the usual media feeding frenzy, interviews with State Department spokespersons and reporters having endless consultations with each other.
A United States "military" plane had been shot down and Daniel Ortega was claiming it contained weapons and CIA personnel. It was worse than Mitch had told him. This was proof, Ortega had charged, that Reagan was "lying to the American people and Congress about his true, aggressive intentions ... it is clear the U.S. intends to invade ... The United States clearly does not want a negotiated peace." An emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council had already been demanded by Nicaragua.
As Terry drove home, he activated his pilot's checklist mentality and was contemplating his possible exposure from all this. What, if anything, did Hasenfus know about him and "Screw Worm?" Had Cooper told him anything?
"What's the worst that can happen" was no longer just a rhetorical question for Terry. He was now adding things to that list of unpleasant possibilities. For now, he needed to reassure his wife, get some rest, and analyze his liabilities and options. The ensuing 24 hours would decide a lot of things.
The next day was still moving day. Diana Aguilar showed up early with the Mexican helpers and the moving truck to relocate them to their new house at #20 Linda Vista, a picturesque lakefront property that literally meant beautiful view.
The family had looked forward to moving day with eager anticipation. The new house Diana found for them was much larger and comfortably suited to the family's life style. There were even quarters for a live-in maid. Unfortunately, the shoot down crisis was robbing them of the happiness and excitement they had anticipated.
Moving did indeed turn out to be exciting, but for all the wrong reasons. Diana Aguilar was in a total buzz about the Hasenfus affair. As she poured herself a cup of coffee, she highlighted what she had witnessed on her TV and was clearly relishing in the knowledge that the U.S. got caught with its pants down. Aguilar, a Californian, had lived in Mexico for most of her adult life, and had adopted the Mexican view that the United States was, as the Ayatollah once said, "The Great Satan". Her philosophy represented that of most of the expatriates and artists living in Mexico who had adopted a left-wing attitude toward America: the United States was a meddler and trouble-maker in Latin American politics that sided with the oligarchies to keep the poor people repressed and in line.
They did not like the Sandinistas, but they felt the U.S. should stay out of Nicaragua and let the Latin Americans deal with their own problems. After having spent several months in Mexico and listening to these views, Terry was beginning to agree with them. He saw no contradiction in this because he believed his efforts would result in the anti-communist Nicaraguans having sufficient weapons and skills to force Ortega to the negotiating table.
"Where do you keep the Kahlua?" Diana asked as she rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. "I need to calm down. They finally caught this damn Reagan doing what we Mexicans knew he was doing all along. I hope this time the American people crucify this son-of-a-bitch. It seems like all you Americans want is war, war, war."
"The Kahlua is in the cabinet to your right. And Diana, you talk like you're a Mexican. Aren't you still an American, or have you been down here too long?" Terry asked, wanting to pick a fight. "Come on, let me teach you about the balance of power and how we'll never be able to co-exist in peaceful harmony as you ex-hippies all think."
President: What? What? What is it? What?
Ambassador Alexi: The fools. The mad fools.
President: What's happened?
Ambassador Alexi: The doomsday machine.
President: The doom ---? The doomsday machine? What is that?
Ambassador Alexi: A device which will destroy all human and animal life on Earth.
President: All human and animal life?
Ambassador Alexi: ... when it is detonated, it will produce enough radioactive fallout so that in 10 months, the surface of the Earth will be as dead as the moon.
General Turgidson: Come on, de Sadesky! That's ridiculous! Our studies show even the worst fallout is down to a safe level after two weeks.
Ambassador Alexi: You've obviously never heard of cobalt thorium G.
General Turgidson: No, what about it?
Ambassador Alexi: Cobalt thorium G has a radioactive half-life of 93 years. If you take, say, 50 H bombs in the 100 megaton range, and jacket them with cobalt thorium G, when they are exploded, they will produce a doomsday shroud, a lethal cloud of radioactivity, which will encircle the Earth for 93 years!
General Turgidson: What a load of Commie bull. I mean, after all ...
President: I'm afraid I don't understand something, Alexi. Is the premier threatening to explode it if we carry out the attack?
Ambassador Alexi: No. It is not a thing a sane man would do. The doomsday machine is designed to trigger itself automatically.
President: But surely you can disarm it somehow.
Ambassador Alexi: No. It is designed to explode if any attempt is made to un-trigger it.
President: Automatically?
General Turgidson: It's a Commie trick! We're wasting valuable time! Look at the big board! They're getting ready to clobber us!
President: But this is absolute madness. Why should you build such a thing?
Ambassador Alexi: Some of us fought against it. But we could not keep up with the expense involved in the arms race, the space race, and the peace race. At the same time, our people grumbled for more nylons and washing machines. Our doomsday scheme cost us a small fraction of what we had been spending on defense in a single year. The deciding factor was when we learned your country was working along similar lines. We were afraid of a doomsday gap.
-- Dr. Strangelove, directed by Stanley Kubrick
He knew that would get her going. What the hell, he felt like a good argument. At least it would get his mind off things. The Reeds and Diana moved to the garden and engaged in a heated debate as the Mexican workers lethargically loaded their belongings onto the truck. Terry and Janis had decided to continue with their lives as if nothing had happened, just taking one day at a time. Anything else, Terry was sure, would bring attention to himself.
Before sunrise that day, he had visited Marr to confirm their earlier understanding, namely that Terry's personal overhead would be covered by the Agency as the CIA, Washington and the world began coping with the political shock waves that were sure to come.
So far, Marr was convinced that Hasenfus knew nothing about "Screw Worm" and could not compromise their upstart operation regardless of how tough the interrogation in the Managua prison might be.
"I know this guy," Marr had said. "He's a pretty tough cookie. He may tell 'em a little. I would. Ya just need to sit tight and, like I said, take an extended vacation on Uncle. I've already talked to Gomez, who's talkin' to Washington and they figure any kind of abrupt change in your behavior might bring attention to ya. Go on about yer machinery business in a very low-key nature. Don't be signin' any legal agreements beyond what you've committed for already. Tell your Jap and commie business partners that we're gonna go slow on this for awhile. I'm sure they'll understand. Here's ten grand more and there's more where that came from. I'm gonna be leavin' for the States for awhile, so I won't be here. If there's an emergency, do as you've been told and go see Darrach (the American consul in Guadalajara), but don't use the front door at the embassy. Just give your code name to the guard and they'll let ya in."
This had made Terry nervous. "Where are you goin' Mitch? You're not gonna leave me here all alone, are you?"
"Terry, there's no use shittin' ya, I got a drinkin' problem that I gotta take care of," Marr said with resignation in his voice. "My wife's not comin' back down here unless I dry out. She's checkin' me into one of those damn clinics up in the States. It's probably best. I need ta get my head screwed back on straight so I can be useful to you and the Agency. I don't mind tellin' ya, Coop's death has brought me back down to earth. This is pretty serious fuckin' business at times. I guess we all need ta be reminded of that occasionally."
Terry realized that some good had already come out of Cooper's death, a positive for every negative, as always seemed the case. Marr was now going to dry himself out and, if the operation did continue, Marr would hopefully become more professional and shun the party mode that had developed by the reactivation of the "over the hill gang." An old comrade had died and now an aura of seriousness was starting to develop. Terry had relayed Marr's instructions to Janis before Aguilar arrived that morning.
She was still going strong as she sat and drank the Kahlua. "Well, considering who you used to work for, I would expect you to have nothing but an American warmonger view on this," Aguilar said referring to her knowledge of Terry's military background.
"Diana, cork the Kahlua," Terry told her. "You've had enough and we're not going to solve the world's political problems sitting here arguing on a beautiful morning in Ajijic. Besides, we gotta be moved out of this house by tonight, and at the rate these guys are moving, the new baby will be here before they're finished. Let's get on with it."
The romanticism of Mexico had definitely drawn Terry and Janis closer together than they had ever been. The EPT test Janis had taken showed positive; she was pregnant. They were ecstatic, there was going to be three little "Reedlets". Terry only wondered why James Bond was never confronted with this issue?
Terry viewed the up-coming birth as his final contribution to the world's population, and hadn't realized that getting Janis pregnant was a Latino sign of being genuinely macho. The gardener, Geronimo, now held Terry in true esteem. He had become one of them. Now they would call him padron.
One of the first tasks after moving into the new house was to find the right obstetrician for Janis. After much consultation with the aristocratic women the Reeds were beginning to socialize with as a result of Terry's business dealings, she was referred to Dr. Roberto Lopez Ramirez. He was a Caesar Romero look-alike who had been educated in both Mexico and the United States. His practice catered not only to the upper crust Mexican women, but Americans traveling to Guadalajara to give birth there, as well. There, they would be assured of more personalized care at a fraction of the inflated American cost.
Janis, at first, was apprehensive about having her baby born in Mexico. But Lopez' charm matched his professionalism and she was soon at ease with him and the Mexican medical system. He personally took her on an escorted tour of the Mexican-American Hospital to overcome any preconceived notions about "Third World" medicine.
Also, Terry selfishly saw future business advantages of having a Mexican-born child. As a Mexican citizen, the child could own land outright, which foreigners such as himself could not do at that time and, more importantly, own one hundred per cent of a Mexican corporation. The child some day, he told his wife, could be his joint-venture partner and their legitimate tie to Mexico.
Terry decided to use this time to do a first-hand market survey and acquaint himself with the rest of the country. This down time could be spent analyzing Mexico's manufacturing base while also exploring Mexico more fully through a native's perspective.
Because the Juins were friends and seemed to have a flexible schedule, they seemed the perfect couple to help the Reeds discover the real Mexico. But before beginning their odyssey, proper transportation was needed. It was now mid-October and the Reeds decided to travel to Kansas City and purchase a motor home to serve as their "land yacht".
The visit to Missouri served a dual purpose; the children visited with their grandparents while the Reeds picked out the new motor home. They then "set sail", bound for Guadalajara byway of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Terry wanted to visit John Desko, his old comrade from Task Force Alpha whom he hadn't seen for more than a year. Terry still considered John his only true friend since their bonding traversed divergent experiences shared in the Southeast Asian war.
Terry had a reason beyond friendship for wanting to see Desko. There was a possibility, considering the non-stop headlines being generated out of Washington about the fallout from Cooper's crash, that the Agency would wash its hands of "Screw Worm" and force Terry to make a decision about his future.
Southern Air Transport had become the center of two major investigations, one by the Federal Aviation Administration and the other by U.S. Customs. Cooper's photo ID card, found in the wreckage by the Sandinistas had been issued by SAT, a CIA proprietary in Miami. The FBI also had joined in the investigation and Oliver North, whom Terry still did not know was John Cathey, was intervening with the Justice Department to have it stopped. [1]
For Terry's part, he could not understand why Cooper would be carrying something so sensitive. It was totally out of character for a seasoned spook veteran like him. Air America planes, and particularly their crews, had been completely sanitized for Agency work in Asia. It just didn't add up, and Terry was beginning to sense something very, very wrong with all of this.
The S.O.P. (standard operating procedure) for "deniable flights" called for the following: all data plates showing aircraft serial numbers were removed so that they could not be traced to a particular federal agency; the crews carried no ID at all; even their flight suits were sanitized and bore no rank or insignia; and only basic maps and charts were carried and these were destroyed at the first sign of trouble.
If positive identification had to be made of a downed airman, the official identification records known as SAR (search and rescue) cards, were retrieved from the pilots' home base. This classified card contained very personal information, such as maiden name of mother, first automobile owned, etc., and was used for "authentication purposes" if positive I.D. had to be confirmed by radio communication during the SAR process. The flyers' dental records and X-rays were also available for identification of their bodies, if it came to that.
It continued to haunt Terry. Could Cooper have been that sloppy? Daniel Ortega had been smart enough to reveal the SAT I.D. card to the American media. They did the rest, and the feeding frenzy was under way. The predators could smell the raw meat.
Janis and Terry, though, were far away from the escalating tumult in Washington. They were mobile and free to roam. They had fallen in love with Mexico and its lifestyle and each other all over again, and desperately wanted to stay there and live successfully off the local economy.
Terry was developing an idea about being the middleman, or manufacturing broker, in bringing together American retailers with Mexican manufacturers. This concept was just developing along the U.S.-Mexican border and Terry was already discovering the diverse manufacturing base located deeper inside Mexico that was anxious to find American partners to market their products or services. When the Reed motor home pulled into Albuquerque that day, Terry was thinking of the various products Desko needed on a daily basis to supply his company.
"No, I'm not going in there," Janis said to her husband as their motor home came to rest behind Desko's warehouse. "That place gives me the creeps. Every time I go in there, I'm afraid the place is gonna blow up or I'll be raped by some Hell's Angel biker who's shopping in there."
"Oh, come on and get out of the car, Janis," Terry coaxed. "You know he's my best friend and he's a hell of a nice guy. Quit exaggerating about all the evil equipment John sells. Most of it's police equipment and besides, I like this stuff, too."
"Post-Vietnam stress syndrome, here we go again," Janis said under her breath but loud enough for her husband to hear.
As they walked toward the door, Terry spotted Desko's pristine, white 1978 BMWR-100 RS parked next to the owner's custom Harley-Davidson Sportster. And then there was the 1000 CC ragged-out Suzuki that one of the female employees, Allie Helmer, rode.
"Good, the gang's all here," Terry said to Janis who was still wearing a frown but reluctantly following with the children in tow.
"Haquel is the only reason I'm going in there," she snipped referring to the owner's daughter. Janis considered her the only sane person inside.
Upon entering the Quartermaster Sales' facilities on West Menual in Albuquerque, one is struck by what looked like a Hollywood prop room for an S&M movie. The first thing that catches one's eye is a giant map of Southeast Asia hung from the ceiling and emblazoned with six-inch high words: "Kill Jane Fonda, Pinko commie Bitch."
[JANE FONDA] You know, people say, "Well, you keep going back. Why are you going back to Vietnam?" You have to keep going back to Vietnam, because I'll tell you what, the other side does. They're always going back. And they have to go back, the hawks, you know, the patriarchs. They have to go back, and they have to revise the going back, because they can't allow us to know what the back there really was.
-- Sir! No Sir!, a Film by David Zeiger
Adorning the walls near the ceiling is a selection of posters advertising weapons and SWAT team gear, most being draped across dominant, and barely-clad, Amazon females holding weapons of death and destruction. These combined with posters of heavily-modified Harley-Davidson motorcycles depicting women wearing skin-tight leather established the mood of what adventures might lie ahead for the adventuresome customers.
High above the counter was a sign that said: "No more Vietnams. And don't forget the POWs. We'll never rest until they're all accounted for."
WHEN I RETURNED FROM VIETNAM I was asked, "Do you resent young people who have never been in Vietnam, or in any war, protesting it?" On the contrary, I am relieved. I think they should be commended. I had to wait until I was 35 years old, after spending 10 years in the Army and 18 months personally witnessing the stupidity of the war, before I could figure it out. That these young people were able to figure it out so quickly and so accurately is not only a credit to their intelligence but a great personal triumph over a lifetime of conditioning and indoctrination. I only hope that the picture I have tried to create will help other people come to the truth without wasting 10 years. Those people protesting the war in Vietnam are not against our boys in Vietnam. On the contrary. What they are against is our boys being in Vietnam. They are not unpatriotic. Again the opposite is true. They are opposed to people, our own and others, dying for a lie, thereby corrupting the very word democracy.
-- "The Whole Thing Was a Lie!," by Donald Duncan
This was a veritable supermarket for survivalists. In addition to accommodating walk-in customers, the store catered, for the most part, to mail-order markets and distributed SWAT team paraphernalia to police departments and to federal agencies all across the United States. Although not primarily a gun shop, one could purchase any and all gun accessories known to man: night-vision scopes, laser sights, magazines, ammunition, holsters, belts, bandoliers, stocks, flash suppressors for gun barrels, and bayonets. Popular sellers were self-defense items: brass knuckles, nightsticks, mace, and taser and stun guns. In addition was a complete line of clothing that included camouflage and black fatigues, boots, hats, body armor, bullet-proof vests and "industrial strength" camping equipment.
"Hey guys, what are you doing in town? I was afraid that Mexico had swallowed you guys up," John Desko said as he looked up from his desk. Grinning, he picked up Duncan and gave him a big hug.
"John, does GI Joe really live here like Daddy said?" the awe-struck little boy asked.
"Gosh, Duncan, you just missed him. Hey, this calls for a celebration," he yelled to Allie, a 90-pound woman who was wearing one visible pistol on her hip and a second one tucked inside her boot. Allie ran the shipping and receiving end of the company's thriving mail-order operation.
As he locked the door to the shop, he told Allie to pull out the large plastic garbage bin and start icing down the beer.
"It's party time. I'll go tell Bob you're here."
Bob Provance, the owner, was a man whose biker image belied the real person. Beneath the pseudo-biker look, which normally included a healthy growth of hair and beard, a bandana, Levis, T-shirt, leather vest, motorcycle boots and a chromed chain belt, beat the heart of an astute businessman and close friend of Desko's. He had found that the many Walter Mitty civilians of the world harbor a craving for military paraphernalia. And Provance was no stranger to operating most of the equipment he sold.
In actuality, he was a highly decorated Vietnam veteran who served with the U.S. Army's elite "Black Tiger Division" in Nha Trang, South Vietnam. Provance saw ground action while performing in a combat role with the 44th battalion, 4th training brigade, his company commander being the famous Captain Gerald Devlin.
Both Desko and Provance worked hard to project the image of survivalist oriented, soldiers of fortune. But Terry knew that beneath the facade were two men who had discovered a way of making a good living doing what they really liked, namely purveying to the world of "mercenaries." And, they had the added benefit of keeping themselves surrounded by guns, the latest in expensive toys.
Provance, happy to see the Reed family, pulled the blinds, locked the doors and put the "closed" sign outside. It was time to party.
"Terry, stop him, stop him," Janis screamed, trying to get her husband to rescue Duncan who had just pulled the pin on a hand grenade sitting on Desko's desk.
"Calm down, Janis, it's just a joke!" giggled Raquel, Provance's 22-year-old daughter, who was a quintessential wholesome and "normal"-looking woman.
With that, Desko picked up the dummy grenade mounted on a wooden board that said: "Complaint department, please take a number." Duncan was by then holding the red tag attached to the grenade's pin, which said "No. 1."
Provance laughed. "This is our hottest mail order item this year, Janis. It's only a joke. Get it? We don't sell explosives. Have a beer and tell me about Mexico!"
Janis breathed a sigh of relief as the Reed's were toasted by this engaging group of characters. Desko then whipped out his latest creation. He had seized on the marketing potential of the front-page news by using it on his latest bumper sticker.
"Whatta ya think, Terry, want one for your motor home?" Desko said holding it up. It read: "Free Hasenfus/Kill Ortega." Terry wished he could confide in Desko the truth about what he was doing in Mexico. By doing so, he would become an instant hero to the Quartermaster Sales gang. Bob would probably have closed for the remainder of week, and done some serious partying.
As Janis observed the camaraderie between these Vietnam veterans, she felt a slight jealousy since these men seemed to be able to talk in their own special code. Much of their feeling and communication was in what was not said. She was reminded of a line she had heard in a movie whose title she had long forgotten. "Women never get to share anything so important as a war," the heroine had said.
If she didn't know these men, which included her husband of five years, she would think she was watching the road company of The Dogs of War, a movie about mercenaries. It disturbed her to think that before falling in love with her husband, she had viewed most Vietnam veterans as "sickos," and not as they truly were: Men who had been done an injustice by their country, and especially their leaders.
As the conversation shifted to gun control and the National Rifle Association's view of it as a "communist conspiracy to disarm Americans," Janis and the children gravitated toward Allie, who was opening soft drinks for the children.
"What kind of gun you carryin' down there in Mexico Janis?" Allie asked her. "We just got in a good selection of used Smith & Wesson .38-caliber airweight specials. They make great girl guns, especially if you have the hammer shaved like mine so you can carry it in your boot. Make Terry buy you one."
"Allie, just being around guns makes me nervous," Janis told her. "I'll leave all that up to Terry. My role in life right now is packin' diapers and wet wipes, not pistols. It's still sort of a secret, but I'm pregnant again. We're going to have a Mexican baby."
"Hey guys, Janis says she got pregnant by a Mexican!" Allie blurted out across the shop.
A now blushing Janis had to explain to the group what she meant.
The women then turned their conversation to the subject of life in Mexico, the men focused theirs on the business purpose of Terry's visit. Having discovered the textile industry of Mexico, Terry was telling Desko and Provance about the significant cost savings they could experience by having their most popular clothing items custom-manufactured in Mexico.
They requested quotations for comparison and agreed to consider Mexico as a source in the future, if things were as Terry claimed. With business matters out of the way, the talk turned to fast motorcycles, fast cars, and fast women. All three men were happily married, but a private discussion of women was somehow mandatory.
Provance took the opportunity to produce his latest bumper-sticker creation that read: "If it has tits or wheels, it will cost you money." Janis found no humor in it.
The Reeds accepted Desko's invitation to spend the night at his home. Over dinner and considerable reminiscing, the old friends agreed that they would meet again in Mexico the following summer, provided the Reeds were still living there.
Later, as Terry drooled over John's immaculate 500-CC Penton dirt bike in his impeccably clean garage, John asked, "So what kind of firepower are you carryin' to neutralize the banditos down there?"
"I was hoping to come by your shop in the morning and buy a couple of items before leaving town," Terry replied.
"Come on down. I'll get you fixed up with whatever is necessary".
The next morning, Terry met with Desko to make his weapons purchases. He selected a nickel-plated 9 MM Smith & Wesson for himself and, per Allie's suggestion, the airweight special for Janis. That, along with several boxes of ammunition and a selection of survivalist-oriented items, gave Terry a more warm and fuzzy feeling for what dangers might lie ahead while camping in Mexico.
Yup, he and Desko again agreed: That's why they had fought the Vietnam War; to protect the American way of life, which included owning guns.
With the motor home now loaded for the trip south back to Mexico, Desko's wife began to get teary-eyed, while standing on the lawn in front of her manicured suburban home. "We're gonna worry about you guys traveling on those dangerous roads down there. We'll pray for you. You let us know if we need to come rescue you. I won't come, Terry, but I'll send Bob and John."
Desko stood on the opposite side out of view of his wife, rolled his eyes and shook his head. After having spent an entire year on a remote jungle air base with Terry, he knew Terry would not be exposing his wife and children to needless danger.
"No shit, if you do have any problems down there, call me," Desko said reassuringly. "I'll call in an air strike. Just let me know what kind of ordnance you want delivered. Better yet, me, Bob and the gang, would love to live out Let's Go Get Harry, [the movie in which a group of friends rescue a kidnapped American from foreign terrorists]."
"Mai pen rai, kuip," Terry answered in Thai, which means "don't sweat it."
During the four-hour trip on 1-25 to the border, Terry mulled over the meaning of the special relationship he shared with Desko. It was just one of those automatic things. You didn't have to work at it, it just happened. It did give Terry a sense of security knowing he had a friend like Desko.
After motoring through El Paso, the usual Third World harassment by the Mexican customs inspectors now awaited them. In the customs booths were men dressed in tight and unkempt dress resembling bus drivers' uniforms and bedecked with medals for unknown achievements.
The Reeds wondered what these medals were for. Had Mexico won a war? Not that they could recall. Terry concluded that they were probably rewards for gringo-baiting and bribe-negotiating. As their motor home waited on the Rio Grande bridge to clear Mexican customs, Terry appreciated the nooks and crannies a motor home afforded in which to conceal the newly purchased handguns. He had not confided to Janis they were hidden in the R.V.'s waste tank for fear of making her more nervous. Border crossings always had that effect on her, even when they had nothing to hide. They cleared customs with no problem despite the hidden booty and the Hasenfus bumper sticker.
The motor home was an instant hit in Mexico, but the bumper-sticker had to go.
Immediately upon returning to Ajijic, Terry went by Marr's house for an update on the crisis. The Marrs weren't there, but Maria, the maid, informed him that "Senor Mitch es muy enfermo en un hospital en Los Estados Unidos. No se cuana regressar" (Mitch was sick and in a hospital in the U.S., and she didn't know when he would be returning). Terry knew what that implied.
Feeling like he was now "flying blind" and on auto pilot, and with no new instructions, Terry decided it best to "drive around Mexico and get to know the country" as Mitch had suggested.
The Reed's began mapping a practice camping trip to the Pacific Coast, to familiarize themselves with the motor home and get accustomed to guiding the large vehicle over the narrow roads which were normally jammed with heavy truck traffic. They set off with the maid on a planned round-robin trip with two stopovers, to return to Ajijic several days later.
"You never fly into combat in untested equipment and untested skills," Terry always cautioned. To Janis, just packing the proper items for two small children to live in Mexico's radically diverse climates was a major undertaking.
Terry had come to have nothing but respect for Mexican drivers, who displayed courtesy and unquestionable skill in maneuvering their vehicles over less than desirable roads. In the short time he had been there, Terry had grown to sincerely believe that the State Department was spreading disinformation concerning Mexico's interior. The U.S., he was now sure, didn't want Americans to discover what a paradise it truly was.
The propaganda about crime, hunger and economic collapse was simply not true. Instead, he and Janis had discovered a country with a true national identity no longer found North of the Border. Milk, tortillas and medicine, basic human needs, were subsidized and guaranteed by the government. That, he believed, was why the people appeared so passive and content, displaying no threat of an armed revolution.
The Reeds were discovering first hand that the American system seemed to be driven by one evil catalyst -- CREDIT. The pressure Americans felt for their daily, aggressive performance could be summed up by the words of one bumpersticker Patrick Juin loved to sing: "I owe, I owe, it's off to work I go."
Juin had invited them to join him and his family at a beach hotel north of the resort town Manzanillo near the quaint village of Boca de Iguana. Prior to arriving, all the Reeds knew was that Patrick was a friend of the hotel's owner and the Juins were living there for the tourist season.
The Juins had moved to the beach in order to run their new business of giving gringos a bird's eye view of the incredible coastline from Ultra-Light flights. The Reed's were not expecting what they would soon find.
As their motor home pulled off the main coastal highway and lumbered down the unimproved dirt road through the palm groves and toward the beach, Janis feared they were getting lost. "This can't be right. Patty said they were living in a five-star hotel that has 200 rooms. The holes in this road can swallow up a small car."
Thirty minutes and five miles later, the ocean finally came into view. Nestled among the coconut trees was an eerie, dated, Third World-type hotel complex that had the appearance of being abandoned and in desperate need of maintenance. Parked under the covered entrance where a doorman normally would be standing were the Juins' two vehicles and three Ultra-Light aircraft with their wings folded.
Abandoned described it, all right. What the Reeds learned was that the hotel belonged to a wealthy Mexican businessman who had built it some 20 years earlier. The hotel had been shut down and Juin was providing security from vandals by living there, thereby giving him a cost-free base of business operations.
The hotel was to have been the prototype for a number of resort "sex hotels" the owner planned to build in the world's most beautiful places. His plan was to take the Club Med environment one step further and eliminate the haunting fear of every male vacationer: Am I going to spend all this money and not get laid?
His master plan was to build a plush, elegant five-star romantic setting situated near, but not directly in an already popular tourist location. Male vacationers there could not only escape the pressures of society, but create a hedonistic society of their own, without the stigma of having to negotiate with a prostitute. After having previously selected their female companion from the hotel's photo "menu," which would have been mailed in advance to the prospective vacationers, they were guaranteed not only that their nagging question be truly answered in the affirmative, but that they could also put a face on their fantasies. All this at a packaged price that included airfare and baggage handling. The creator of the resort had thought of everything.
Juin was not sure why the hotel had failed, but his wife Patricia suspected it had something to do with the developer's spouse discovering the hotel's existence. Both Patrick and Terry concluded that the hotel's failure had surely set back societal advancement by light years. So much for machismo idols.
As the adults sat in the gargantuan lobby drinking their Bohemia darks, sunlight flooded through the massive domed skylight onto its marble floors where the children were racing their tricycles from one end of the lobby to the other.
"Mommy, this floor is a fast race track! Can I ride my trike inside when we get back home?" Duncan asked, leaving skid marks as he came to a halt in front of his parents."
After explaining that this wouldn't be acceptable behavior at home, and watching her 4-year-old do a wheely across the lobby toward the marble inlaid fountain, Janis realized she was getting accustomed to out of the ordinary sights. She decided to just take it all in stride. This was an adventure.
Patrick explained the details of his new business and introduced Terry to his Ultra-Light pilot employees, one an American and the other a Frenchman. The new business concept was simple and highly lucrative. From the hotel's sand-packed runway, he could service other tourist hotels up and down the coast, which included Fiesta Americana, Club Med and Las Hadas. For $10 U.S., you got a 15-minute ride over the ocean and surrounding countryside. Juin would be making money for something he would be doing anyway, relaxing at the beach and flying his Ultra-Lights. When Juin learned that Terry's "silent partners" were reassessing their business commitment in Mexico, allegedly due to the peso devaluation, he begged him to become his partner so that he could expand and service the entire coastal tourist trade. Terry found the offer tantalizing.
Later that evening as he grilled huachinango (red snapper) over the open fire on the beach, basting it with fresh lemon and garlic, he watched another of Pacific Mexico's intoxicating sunsets as his children frolicked in the surf. But a nagging thought disturbed his reverie.
"What are you thinking?" Janis asked as she approached in the diaphanous dress she was wearing over her bathing suit. Pregnancy had not yet changed her appearance, but had added a glow to her complexion that accentuated her sensuality.
"I wish I had the ability to slow down and try out a lifestyle like this .... but I don't," he replied sadly. "I just know it would drive me crazy after awhile. I guess I'm just driven to be successful. Let's pack up in the morning and get back to Guadalajara's pollution before I begin to like it here."
"I'll bet you'd stay if this hotel was still operating," she said with a grin.
The following day, they headed toward their next destination, leaving the Juins with the understanding that the two families would soon make a motor home trip together through some of Mexico's more remote industrial areas. The Juins said they would be returning to Ajijic by Halloween to attend the annual private masquerade party hosted by a mysterious and wealthy Mexican woman who was an heiress to a department store fortune. Mexican custom allowed the Juins to invite the Reeds even though they had not gotten a direct invitation from the hostess.
When they reached home, Terry returned to Marr's house for a status check. Maria informed him she had no news about Senor Mitch. Terry felt uneasy. The Mexican papers were now filled with speculation about the Yankee scandal that was developing in the U.S. Strangely, the American media seemed to have lost their initial enthusiasm in covering the story, but Daniel Ortega continued to receive extensive coverage in the Latin American press as he raged on about the Yankee imperialist pigs.
Terry felt sure "Screw Worm" was doomed and that he had better start firming up his own personal business plan for Mexico if they wanted to remain there without the Agency's assistance.
For the Reeds, each day was becoming like another chapter in a book and they were becoming as close as the pages. They were not only discovering the true Mexico, they were learning to have old-fashioned fun.
But to off-set their more relaxed lifestyle, Janis had encountered a problem in Mexico that was driving her up the wall. She was discovering that controlling a Mexican maid was a full time job. It was late October and she had just fired the third maid since arriving in June. This one had run up a $400 phone bill to her cousin in California. Janis decided this time she was going to take the Juins up on their offer of letting them conduct the job interviews.
Managing a domestic staff was the least of Oliver North's problems, though. He knew that he had to create some sort of diversion of his own, and fast. And it was not the diversion of money to the Contras from Iranian weapons sales that then-Attorney-General Edwin Meese referred to three weeks later in his White House press conference.
The real diversion ended up intertwining a major foreign policy initiative with the scandal that was erupting and had to be contained. What better way to contain it than to shroud it in secrecy and blend it with true national security interests? Putting a humanitarian edge on it and masking the scandal behind the release of the American hostages in Beirut was a stroke of genius by the CIA.
After all, who could denounce such a morally correct mission?
North was working overtime with the White House. He was on his way to Israel trying to work out the problems connected with another secret shipment of arms to the Iranians. His trips coupled with increased hostage negotiation activities became the foundation for grafting the illegal Contra support operation to national security interests in the Middle East. From this, the term Iran-Contra was invented. And the media later signed on, taking the bait, hook, line and sinker.
By Halloween, Terry was beginning to breathe a little easier. It had been nearly four weeks since the shoot down and maybe this would all blow over despite the fact the previously slumbering American media, which was getting its information from a Beirut weekly, was pressing hard now for more details. But Terry was amazed that so far nothing had surfaced at all about Arkansas' involvement. Was the investigation at a dead end?
Arkansas, he knew, was where all the trails would lead if someone was smart enough to follow them. He was fearful that perhaps some of the weapons on board the Cooper plane might be traced to factories in the Hog State. Weapons without serial numbers should create serious questions if the Nicaraguans were smart enough to know what to look for. And not only had there been pilot training in Arkansas, Terry knew that somewhere in Rich Mountain Aviation's maintenance records in Mena there had to exist a paper trail showing repair work performed on aircraft used for the Contra program. And what about the hundreds of millions of dollars in cash that Seal had dropped on Arkansas?
What if investigators began following the money trial between the "drop zone" at the Triple-S Ranch outside Little Rock and into the Arkansas Development Finance Authority by way of Lasater & Co? These undocumented transactions and unexplained injections of cash into the Arkansas financial community could spell imminent disaster for everyone involved.
Terry's memories of Watergate centered on Deep Throat saying: "Follow the money."
And how was CIA's Hasenfus holding up? By now he had a team of American attorneys and was starting to change his story and play down his connections to the U.S. Government. [2] This would certainly test CIA's ability for scandal containment and damage control. The federal spin doctors had to be working overtime.
Terry speculated that if the Agency could masquerade the whole tawdry mess as a national security matter, they might just pull off the deception. It certainly seemed their only option.
On that Halloween afternoon, his attention was focused as well on his costume for the masquerade party that night. The Juins were back in town and the four of them had a date to meet for an evening's celebration, Latino style.
The Reeds had decided to go all out and get absurd with their costumes and had created "his and hers" potted palms as their theme. The look was achieved by attaching eight foot palm fronds to the interior of a bottomless wicker basket, large enough to be worn around the legs, with feet protruding, thereby allowing the wearer of the "plant" to walk around.
As Terry put the final touches on the costumes, Janis was having difficulties of her own. She was furiously clearing out the personal effects of the newly-hired, live-in maid. She had just discovered the children riding their trikes around the swimming pool while the maid was preoccupied in an intimate conversation with her boyfriend through the back fence. She was history!
After making last minute babysitting arrangements with the Juin's maid, the four adults finally arrived at the picturesque estate near the lake. The Reeds were taken aback by the hostess' live giraffe, a member of her menagerie. The hostess, in true aristocratic Latin tradition, did not attend her own party until nearly midnight.
When the orchestra arrived around 8 PM and the professional sound equipment normally found in recording studios was being set up, Terry was beginning to realize he had never before been to a real party.
The guests, dressed in extravagant costumes that looked as though they had been rented from a Hollywood studio wardrobe, outgrew the capacity of the elegantly decorated home and began spilling out into the courtyard and onto the lawn. A live band provided the music and, during breaks, blasted the entire valley with a recording of Latin America's idol, Franco, singing the song of the year: Todo La Vida.
The merriment, drinking and dancing continued non-stop until the Reeds realized they had reached the limit of their endurance. There was a ritual that usually preceded a party like this, one with which the Reeds were not familiar. The practical thing to do in order to survive this type of revelry, they were told, was to sleep until 6 PM the day of a party, arrive around 10 PM and indulge until sunrise. The next day should be spent sleeping. You lose at least 24 hours when you party properly, Juin would tell them.
At 2 AM, just as the mobile tacito cart, the Mexican equivalent of a New York hot dog stand, and its owner arrived to begin serving food to the 300 people, the award for the best costume was given to the Reeds, to the dismay of many partygoers who had outspent them, but had lacked true originality.
November dawned for Terry with a hangover, from the party and from the Hasenfus incident. He had to come down to earth and attend a business meeting November 4 with Fenue in Mexico City. Gomez already had met with Fenue a number of times and Fenue and his company, Technoimpex, had been clued in on the capitalistic, profit-making opportunities ahead. The Hungarian knew that the machine-tool company was to be a front for weapons shipments and that things right now were on hold because of the Hasenfus incident.
Fenue had no knowledge of how connected Terry had been to the pilot who had been shot down and killed or about his true activities back in Arkansas. Fenue knew basically that Terry was running a cut-out for the CIA just as Fenue was running one for the KGB. Strange bedfellows, he thought, they simply viewed each other as peers.
But the two men agreed that this time should be used to mutual advantage and to continue developing their joint marketing analysis, at least through the first half of November. That way, if by chance all systems became "go", they could launch into the actual sales activity phase.
Just as the Reeds and the Juins were preparing for their first joint motor home trip, Mitch Marr reappeared in Ajijic, dried out and seemingly ready to get down to work. He relayed to Terry in their meeting that there had been discussions in Washington about getting "Screw Worm" back on course and gearing up for weapons shipments. Marr kept saying everyone was "cautiously optimistic" that the Mexican operation had not yet been compromised by the shoot-down and the ensuing investigations. Marr expressed the belief that the Reed's front operation was now a necessity if the Contras were to continue being supplied. He knew for sure that all re-supply activity out of El Salvador had been curtailed, he told Reed.
Marr was confident, based on his talks in Washington, that the Agency needed a new source of arms delivery to be developed and put into place regardless of what Congress did with their yo-yo actions towards the Contras. He said Cathey had told him that CIA Director William Casey had invested too much time and money on preparing the ground work for "Screw Worm" to abandon it now. The Agency, Cathey had told Marr, was working on a secret plan that hopefully would contain the scandal and divert media and congressional attention away from Mexico. Marr told Reed to continue with "whatever you're doing" until further notice. "Don't worry, the expenses are on Uncle".
It was great to actually meet the real Mitch Marr. This one was articulate, much less vulgar and behaved more like a "take-charge pilot type".
It was unnerving and saddening to discover through Marr that Bill Cooper's remains had still not been laid to rest. Marr told Terry it was driving Cooper's wife and daughters crazy not having a proper funeral, but, for some strange reason, the State Department would not release the corpse to the family.
Terry drew more expense money, and set out with the Juin family on a small fact-finding trip to Cuernavaca. After visiting several industries that included the Nissan truck factory located there, the two families returned by way of the Mexican resort area of Valle de Bravo, west of Mexico City. The breath-taking beauty of this area, where Juin had once lived, further convinced the Reeds that they had found their hidden paradise. He now hoped the State Department would continue spewing out its misinformation and propaganda so that not too many ugly Americans would discover their secret and screw it all up.
Even though Terry had lived abroad before and Janis had traveled extensively throughout Europe, both were just beginning to see their country from another perspective. Through the eyes of the Juins and others, America's arrogance and dictatorial policies toward Third World countries were just coming into focus and the Reeds didn't like what they were seeing.
In many respects, Mexico was taking much better care of its social problems and had retained and was building upon a very unique institution being discarded by Americans -- the family. By the U.S. Government trying to force American attitudes, values and way of life upon Latin America, the Reeds were beginning to wonder if this wasn't, in fact, a giant step in the wrong direction. The Mexican people, for the most part, seemed truly happy, content, and did not rely upon the government to cure their ills. They turned instead, inward, to family, church, friends and the Community, like the days in America when Terry was young.
It was simple -- Patrick reminded him once again. America's problems centered around their Yankee aggressiveness based on over-extended credit and that leads to "I owe, I owe so it's off to work I go." And yet, strangely, that's the kind of life Patrick's wife yearned for. It was at times a peculiar and argumentative group, motoring around Mexico, analyzing the world's social ills.
With the rule in effect that all four would speak only Spanish to one another half the day, and English the rest, it was turning into a cultural exchange on wheels and both families were pleased to see how quickly the children were learning each other's language.
Upon returning to Ajijic, Marr had good news for Terry. "Gomez wants you ta be in Mexico City for a meeting he has set up for December 4th. Meet him at the Hotel Century in the Zona Rosa. The address is Liverpool, number 152. You'll like it there. It's a spook hangout.
"And, Oh yeah, he said ta bring the Jap's money," Marr instructed, referring to Frank Fujikawa's "capitalization" of Machinery International, Inc.
By this time, Attorney General Meese had set in place what Marr had referred to earlier as Casey's "secret plan" to contain the scandal and divert attention away from Arkansas and Mexico. Meese, at a White House news conference on November 25th, 1986, had revealed what he said was "the diversion."
Meese said funds from the sale of U.S. weapons to Iran were being diverted to aid the Contras. The investigation was continuing, but a National Security Council staff member by the name of Marine Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North had done this all alone. Somehow, Meese indicated, North had taken over the entire government bureaucracy without anyone else noticing. Incredibly, just about everyone bought it.
Meese never said specifically if anything was wrong with the diversion and was evasive when pressed by reporters on this scandalous behavior. He replied that the U.S. had no control over the diverted funds because they were "never the property of the United States." But if these funds were not American funds, whose were they? Meese speculated the money belonged to the "party" that sold them to Iran -- and that was Israel.
So was the diversion itself a diversion?
"What's to prevent an increasingly cynical public from thinking that you were looking for a scapegoat and you came up with this whopper, but it doesn't have a lot to do with the original controversy?" was a question posed to the attorney-general.
Meese replied he was laying out "the facts", but did not say anything more about the "original controversy" for the rest of the press conference. [3] Nor was he asked.
Meese had thrown out enough peanuts to send the trained monkeys in the White House press room scurrying to pick them up. Somehow they overlooked the fact that this really didn't make sense. And the inquiry ended there. North, of course, knew the truth, though he was not remembered for being particularly adept at uttering it.
North himself remarked later in his book, Under Fire, stated: "The diversion was a diversion."
23-1. Chain of command for Richard Secord's "black flight division" within the Enterprise. Had Terry Reed accepted the offer to join William Cooper, a line would probably be drawn through his name too. (Source: House Select Committee to investigate covert arms transactions with Iran)
23-2. FBI four page classified message alerting various Bureaus of pending Senate investigation into the October 5th, 1986 shootdown of the C-123 in Nicaragua. Note the connection that has already developed (by November 3, 1986) between the Iran-Contra scandal and Barry Seal's Mena operation. The common thread: the CIA provided aircraft used in both black operations.
1. Dutton testimony, Hearings, 100-3, 239-40, 280; North testimony, 100-7. Part II, P. 105; Deputy FBI Director Oliver (Buck) .i.Revell deposition, 6/11/87. 60-71.
2. The New York Times, October 17, 1986.
3. Theodore Draper, A Very Thin Line, Hill and Wang, 1991, P. 544-46.
CHAPTER 24: 'THE SNAKE THAT WOULDN'T DIE'
Attorney General Edwin Meese was performing his post-mortem on the viper conceived by Ronald Reagan and the CIA.
As he attempted to peel back the epidermis surrounding the Cooper shootdown, he was finding two black cancerous growths that appeared to have metastasized the organs of the Presidency, not unlike what John Dean had described during Watergate when he told Richard Nixon, "There's a cancer growing on the Presidency."
And perhaps even worse, this viper, labeled Iran-Contra, was still twitching and might still be alive.
Secretary of State George Shultz wrote recently in his memoirs: "I feared that, despite the press, Congressional and public uproar, some version of the operation was still alive. Those who were responsible for the operation now seemed desperate to vindicate their judgment in the face of overwhelming criticism." [1]
Shultz was deeply troubled in December, 1986. The roof was falling in on the Reagan Administration. The President's dual obsession with keeping the Contras together "body and soul" and trying to free the American hostages in Beirut had blown up in his face. The President was facing serious problems, maybe even impeachment.
But Shultz was learning to his dismay that Ronald Reagan and William Casey were still dealing behind the scenes, and behind Shultz' back, with an Israeli named Amiram Nir, who had been North's link to the Iranians. This is what Shultz referred to when he said he was disturbed by finding elements of the operation "still alive" even after Meese's disclosures to the nation that as much as $30 million from the sales of arms to Iran had been diverted to the Contras.
After Shultz gained knowledge about the depth of the CIA's involvement with Iran, being conducted through the Israeli cutout Amiram Nir, Shultz tried to make Reagan see that his explanations were not truthful with regard to America's dealings with Iran and this was undermining public confidence. Reagan had in fact been trying to swap weapons for hostages while saying at the same time that "the United States will never negotiate with terrorists." [2]
But what did secret dealings with the Iranians have to do with Cooper being shot down over Nicaragua? Shultz, like the rest of America, didn't know there was any connection at all. This signaled to Shultz a total lack of leadership at the top allowing compartmentalization of policies and conflicting goals with no feedback to those in charge of implementing policies, namely the Secretary of State and his department.
"The CIA and NSC (National Security Council) staff, with the apparent support from the ... Vice President (George Bush), were still proceeding just as though nothing had happened," Shultz wrote. "Congress was being misled now, a month and a half after the revelation (the Cooper shootdown) first appeared. What was worse, John Whitehead (Deputy Secretary of State) said, 'the CIA has told the Iranians that the State Department is just a temporary impediment, (italics ours) and that after it calms down, Cave (a ranking CIA official) and Secord will be back in action. The President is being ripped to pieces and the CIA is reassuring the Iranians.'" [3]
CIA Director William Casey seemed to be stepping into an apparent vacuum of leadership and seizing de facto control of the government. Was some kind of "coup" developing? If Shultz had been getting briefings on this type of behavior going on in another country, he would probably have called it just that .... a coup. And as in any coup attempt, at least two factions are involved. Who was behind this coup? Casey had no political ambitions. And if not Casey, then who?
In private meetings that included Reagan, Bush, Casey, Defense Secretary Casper Weinberger, White House Chief of Staff Donald Regan, National Security Advisor John Poindexter, and CIA official George Cave, Shultz was learning to his dismay that the CIA was running foreign policy and possibly controlling the President. Unlike Shultz, they were telling Reagan what he wanted to hear, namely that his goals were correct and he should continue pursuing them despite everything. The end justified the means.
Shultz was discovering this was another real-life example of "The Emperor's New Clothes." He was the only one telling Reagan to his face that he was naked, that he had violated his own stated policy and was lying to the American people and the world by stating the U.S. would never deal with terrorists. The others in the Reagan circle, led by Casey, were telling the President his wardrobe was superb and that deceit was necessary for security reasons to carry out secret policies with which the President had become obsessed.
But, to Shultz, it appeared Reagan didn't fully understand the depths of the CIA's activities in the Middle East and had no knowledge of the two secret operations being intertwined. And he refused to even consider suggestions that he and others had been breaking the law.
Attorney General Meese confided to Shultz during his internal investigation: "Certain things could be a violation of law. The President didn't know about the Hawks (missile shipment to Iran) in November, 1985. If it happened and the President didn't report it to Congress, it's a violation." [4]
Perhaps this was part of the plan Mitch Marr had referred to as the CIA's secret way to steer attention away from Arkansas and Mexico. If so, it was working. Oliver North had been successful in weaving the two operations together. He had taken the illegally-generated profits from the arms sales to Iran and diverted them to purchasing arms and supplies for the Contras. Neither action, Shultz was learning, was legal nor were they approved by Congress.
But if a Marine lieutenant colonel and an admiral, National Security Advisor John Poindexter, had been the only ones influencing Reagan, and they had now been fired, why was this monster still alive and breathing. Was Shultz dealing with a hydra-headed serpent? And, if so, where were these other heads buried and likely to surface?
As Terry Reed and his wife checked into the Century Hotel in Mexico City on December 3rd, 1986, as instructed by Mitch Marr, he was carrying with him the Japanese investor's "contribution" to Machinery International, Inc., the company whose job it was to create the new "head" of the serpent. (See chapter end.)
"What are you going to do with all that money between now and until your meeting tomorrow?" his wife asked nervously as the Mexican bellboys unloaded the baggage from their car.
"Nothing special. Just don't be nervous and bring attention to it. Nobody knows I'm carrying a quarter of a million dollars in cash except you. Relax. Let's enjoy this trip. Besides, who would think there's that much money in a plastic, eight-dollar briefcase."
Janis Reed still occasionally marveled at her husband's ability to put on his poker face and pretend nothing was out of the ordinary. She was still in training as the wife of a spook, and was having difficulty dealing with some of the job's requirements.
Marr's instructions to "bring the Jap's money" meant he had to get the money down to Mexico and in cash. Frank Fujikawa's $250,000 had been on deposit in a bank in Kansas City awaiting instructions on the transfer. Fujikawa and Robert Johnson had agreed in Dallas that the Japanese businessman would hand over $250,000 in untraceable cash in exchange for stock in the new American corporation. There would never be any official record of this transaction and the stock would be reflected on the books as issued with "no compensation received." They had agreed for security reasons that the transfer would take place outside the United States in order to throw off any banking trail between the withdrawal of the funds and the eventual redeposit. "No paper, no trail," as Barry Seal had said.
By withdrawing the funds from the bank in Kansas City and physically handing them over to Max Gomez there would be no linkage between Fujikawa's newly-formed holding company, Okami Ltd., and Machinery International, Inc. Thus, the investors could remain anonymous since it was a privately-held corporation requiring no public filings or disclosure. Security and deniability required taking risks like carrying around large amounts of cash.
Further, Fujikawa's company, Okami Ltd., had no corporate or legal ties to Gomiya USA, Inc., the Japanese company that Fujikawa managed in Chicago. "The linkage had been broken", Fujikawa assured Reed and Johnson, meaning there was no trail between the two companies.
After checking into the hotel, the Reeds were beginning to appreciate the digs spooks had become accustomed to in Mexico City. The small and elegant, European style hotel was lavishly furnished with imported marble, and its rooms had sculptured walls with no intersecting corners. Each mini-suite automatically came equipped with a large sunken tub with ornate gold-plated fixtures.
It was strategically-situated on the eastern edge of the Zona Rosa, an area of the city with a European ambiance and close to Insurgentes Boulevard, the Mexican equivalent of the Champs Elysee. The hotel itself was on a small uncluttered street that allowed easy access to the Autopista network looping around the world's largest city and within walking distance of the elite shopping district where Mexico City's Chilangos (ruling class) lived, played, dined and shopped.
Within the Zona Rosa were streets closed to all but pedestrian traffic and lined with scenic gardens, sidewalk cafes and dotted with Paisano umbrellas over tables where Latino beautiful people stylishly dined, flirted, sipped cappuchino or just watched the world go by.
After dining at the Vagabond Trucha, a popular seafood restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, Terry and Janis walked to the monument dedicated to the Ninos Heroes, the hero children of Mexico. At the large traffic circle there, they sat in the park and read the inscription that told the story of young military cadets who defended their academy from foreign invaders.
Terry choked with emotion as he learned that they all committed suicide with honor rather than surrender to the invading forces who had put them under siege. As they were about to be overwhelmed by superior numbers, he read, they climbed to highest point on the wall, wrapped themselves in the Mexican flag and leaped to their death. Why wasn't this story taught in American history, Janis wondered, since it indeed involved Americans? The invading American forces, she was ashamed to read, were under the command of Theodore Roosevelt. How many monuments like this, they wondered, were scattered throughout the world. The term "ugly American" was truly becoming a part of their vocabulary.
The next morning Janis was preparing to spend the day Christmas shopping for the upcoming holidays and for her soon-to-be-needed maternity wardrobe. Just as she was getting ready to leave, their room was buzzed and Terry was informed that the meeting was at hand.
To Terry's surprise, waiting in the coffee shop was not only Gomez but another man he had met before. He was the same man who had sat strangely quiet during most of the meeting in Chagres, Panama, a year earlier. This brought back sad memories of Barry Seal's last days.
Maximo Gomez went straight to the introduction and business at hand. "Senor Estrella, I know you've met this gentleman before, but now I would like for you to understand more about him, who he is and the role he is about to play in all this. But first, tome el dinero Japonesa, por favor!"
Terry handed Gomez the briefcase containing the money and, without bringing unnecessary attention of any kind, casually set it between himself and the other man. Terry was sure from the aplomb Gomez demonstrated in taking the money that this was an exercise he had undergone many times before.
After executing the adept maneuver, he introduced Terry to Senor Pat Weber. In reality, "Weber" was the very same Amiram Nir that George Shultz was so concerned about at that very moment. The serpent was still very much alive.
With no discussion at all about the contents or the amount inside the briefcase, Gomez began: "I have good news from north of the border. All systems are go, as we pilots like to say. In fact, in light of recent occurrences, we are going to expand into Phase 2 of your plan immediately, if not sooner!"
Terry was surprised at what he heard as the briefing unfolded over cups of strong European coffee and croissants. The Agency was literally pulling out all the stops. Gomez was requesting Terry not only to return to Guadalajara and immediately consummate all outstanding legal agreements being held in limbo as a result of the shootdown, but to begin implementing Phase 2 of the plan ahead of schedule.
Phase 2, as it was referred to in the business plan provided to Johnson, was the portion dedicated to the manufacturing of weapons and components. But it had been designed to be implemented only after successfully developing the storage and trans-shipment portion, which was Phase 1.
Gomez said it now appeared that "Screw Worm" had not been compromised in the two months since the scandal broke. As a result of the shootdown, however, and since "Centaur Rose" was now shut down, the Agency was desperate for "Screw Worm" to come on line ... immediately. The need now was to begin quickly producing arms, not just storing and shipping them. What Terry was hearing from Gomez was that the CIA no longer had time to fully develop Phase 1 before cautiously transitioning into Phase 2, which had been the original plan.
"The Contras are rapidly depleting inventories warehoused in Central America," Gomez said. "Even though Congress has turned on the lethal aid valve, it may only be momentarily. That's why it is necessary for you to get down to business with the production phase."
"But Max, I'm just only one guy," Terry complained. "I've been devoting my time with marketing efforts to develop legitimate Mexican clients. And now you're telling me I have to duplicate Arkansas overnight? In a country that has an acute shortage of skilled machinists!"
It took a year, Terry knew, to get the arms manufacturing loop in Arkansas into production and stabilized and that was in the U.S., where raw materials for the weapons were produced to strict standards.
And in Arkansas, the necessary infrastructure had been in place to build upon, not to mention the support they could count on from the governor's office. Gomez was asking him to do something he felt was reckless and way too much of an undertaking to attempt by himself, especially in a Third World country.
"That's why Mr. Weber is here. Pat and his people can make things happen here in Mexico, fast. Almost as fast as I can," Gomez said in his typical braggadocio fashion.
"Pat and his people?" Terry was confused. "Are these machine-tool people you're referring to, people with weapons manufacturing background?"
"Yes," Weber answered. "My people have much experience, not only in manufacturing, but, I think you'll agree ... in using them as well." Weber and Gomez both laughed, but the humor escaped Terry.
"Senor Estrella, I represent the Government of Israel," Weber informed.
Holy shit, Terry thought. Who am I dealing with here? His mind flashed back to the Panama meeting. Had the Israelis been part of this plan for more than a year? He could remember "Weber" sitting there in Panama taking extensive notes and later asking detailed questions concerning all aspects of "Screw Worm." And since no one from "his side" intervened as he answered Weber's questions, Terry could only conclude that the government of Israel must have been Weber's "silent investor" all along.
"I can see by the expression on your face, you are accessing your memory data bank concerning what we discussed in Panama," Weber said. "Enjoy your croissant for a moment while you adjust to who I am and who I represent. I would wish the same."
It was obvious to Terry that this guy hadn't just left the Kibbutz. Terry didn't know that this man with a glass eye and undefinable accent was traveling in the same circles as John Cathey and had just a few months earlier personally briefed George Bush on Israel's role in acting as a middleman for the United States to establish diplomatic contact with Iranian "moderates" wishing to undermine the Ayatollah Khomeni. Had Terry known all this then, he would have felt even more honored to be involved in such a high-level loop.
Terry was getting a lesson in geopolitics as well as the spy business and manufacturing. He had accepted the CIA's behind-the-scenes liaison with the KGB, but to now be spicing the clandestine recipe with the addition of what he assumed was the Mossad made him curious. And he was wondering, did the Mossad have this symbiotic relationship with the KGB elsewhere in the world?
What did the Israelis really want out of this triad? For them, weapons export is vital to their existence for two reasons, one obvious, the other less so. First, their battle-proven weapons such as the Uzi submachine gun bring in hard currency. But secondly, and equally important, arms bring the Israelis influence in the countries to whom they sell. [5]
After Weber gave Terry an appropriate amount of time to finish chewing his croissant and his thoughts, he turned to security. "Mr. Estrella, I am fully briefed. Not only on 'Screw Worm,' but your prior intelligence activities as well. You have served your country well and I am honored to be working with a professional. I know you were a friend of Mr. Seal's and I join you in grieving over his death. I am sure Mr. Gomez will agree, you should not share any knowledge concerning my country's involvement in 'Screw Worm' with your wife. There's no need in transferring to her potentially dangerous information. Do we all agree with that?"
By now, they were all chewing Chiclets sold them by a street urchin who was in the process of being run out of the coffee shop's street-side entrance.
"Yes, I agree," Terry answered. "But I am curious. What can you specifically do for me in light of the pressure Max here is exerting? Do your people have plans in getting directly involved in Maquinaria Internacional? Just what are we discussing?"
"What you need here in Mexico is what you had going for you in Arkansas," Weber replied. "You need a state government on your side with a governor desperate to make things happen quickly for his impoverished state."
"Do you know such a place?" Terry asked. "One in which your people can exert the same type of influence the Agency did in Arkansas?"
"Yes. Max and I both have friends in high places in the State of Michoacuan. The governor there in many ways compares to the man who was in charge of the State of Arkansas. He has high political ambitions and is willing to, how do you say ... "
"Play ball?" Reed guessed.
"Oh yes, that's the expression I was searching for. One of your great American pastimes."
"What are the others?" Gomez asked.
"I know of only one besides baseball ... starting wars. That's what you Americans are known for, worldwide," Weber joked.
-- Addicted to War: Why the U.S. Can't Kick Militarism (Updated to Include the War in Iraq): an illustrated expose, by Joel Andreas
"This time, we're not only going to start a war, we're going to finish one!" Gomez boasted. "communism is going to die out in this hemisphere, at least with all our joint efforts."
"Not if you keep behaving as unprofessional as you were and by allowing such an embarrassment to happen," Weber said chastising Gomez about the Cooper crash. "Actually, my people are being drawn into this quicker and deeper than we would like, in an attempt to help you keep control of this messy situation."
Gomez now seemed anxious to shift the conversation away from intelligence foul-ups and onto something he did do well, bribe people and arrange meetings. He produced a portion of a topographical map detailing the remote, high-elevation region of north-central Michoacan. He pointed to the City of Morelia which he said had been targeted as home of the new manufacturing complex where the Agency would secretly produce weapons as they had in Arkansas.
"On the west side of town, near the airport, we have selected a piece of land to build a new building to your specifications," Gomez briefed. "We can co-locate the manufacturing with a new technical school the governor wants to build. That will be a way to train the machinists to make the weapons parts. See, that's simple. We've thought of everything."
That's what bothered Terry about Gomez, always oversimplifying. Sawahata and Seal had learned the hard way there was a lot more to any type of close-tolerance manufacturing than meets the eye. But he continued to listen without comment.
With his pencil, Weber traced a route that began at Morelia and continued 50 miles west to the town of Patzcuaro. From there, his pointer went south to the small town of Santa Clara del Cobre and then 10 miles further west to a small lake.
"On the west side of this lake is a small village by the name of Zirahuen. You need to be there on January 5th for a very important meeting with Governor Cuauhtemo Cardenas and others."
The man he was referring to, Cuauhtemoc Cardenas, had high political ambitions that came to him naturally since his father had once been president of Mexico. He later ran for the presidency in 1988. Many say the election was stolen from him by the vote-counting fraud traditionally employed by the ruling party, called the PRI (Partido Revolucionario Institucional). This entrenched political machine has held office for more than 60 years. Cardenas is now the head of a new political party known as PRD (Partido Democratico de La Revolucion), which was gaining popularity and positioning itself for the 1994 election.
"The meeting will be very similar to the one you attended in Panama," Weber continued. "I will make the introductions and you should be prepared to make a presentation to these people ... like you did for me in Chagres. I'm sure no one on his staff will be able to ask technical questions, but be prepared to cover all facets of what you will need to make this project happen. Bring your shopping list."
"Where will we meet once I get there?" Terry asked.
"You'll be driving your new motor home?" Weber asked, with Terry now realizing the Agency and the Mossad were keeping track of what he drove.
Terry nodded.
"It's a very small place, we'll find you," Weber said.
Gomez added, "You should go to Morelia first by yourself and take a look around. It's a good size city and I would like for you to see the town through your eyes without the governor's entourage that will be accompanying you later."
For once, Terry thought, Gomez was making sense. From his earlier experience in the States, he'd found it best to always scout around a prospective factory site alone. That way, you get an uncensored view of the area, its people and its problems.
Gomez went on, saying, "Don't take your Mexican friend Juin with you on your scouting trip to Morelia. We don't want anyone getting any idea of our plans for there."
This bothered Terry. Someone had been watching him. Was it Marr? Or someone else? Someone was reporting not only what he was driving, but information about personal relationships he was developing, and Gomez must have been aware of Terry and Juin traveling together earlier to Cuernavaca. He put these feelings aside for now, figuring it came with the job.
Immigration became the topic. Gomez informed Terry that he had been applying some "lubricant" to some key Mexican immigration officials who would now surely expedite Terry's papers allowing him to work legally in Mexico.
For one to appreciate what it takes for a foreigner to be gainfully employed in Mexico, you have to understand why Mexico is protectionist. Having been invaded by foreign conquerors beginning with Cortez, Mexicans say with some irony that they never fought a war they didn't lose. This is why they are distrustful of everyone, particularly Norte Americanos.
So laws and a bureaucracy were created to keep foreigners at arms length and in the country only long enough to spend their money and leave. Retirement incomes are welcome, but for Terry to be out aggressively soliciting business in his own name through his own company is normally viewed as a threat to national security. In their view, that's stealing both jobs and income from some deserving Mexican citizen.
Even though he was now "in country", Terry was still running head-first into an invisible wall that kept him in visitor's status and unable to negotiate and close business contracts. This was essential for his company's existence.
The full impact of just who Gomez was lubricating to get over this legal hurdle Terry would not fully appreciate until he later relayed his stories of this trip to gringos in Chapala. They had been fighting unsuccessfully for years to qualify legally to work on the open Mexican economy.
"Manana en la manana, you need to go to the lobby of the building located at this address," Gomez said as he passed to Terry a small slip of paper and typed on it:
Subdireccion de No inmigrantes
Insurgentes Sur #1388
Casi Esq. Con Parronquia
Horario de 9.00 A 13.30
"Go there before they open officially, around 800 hours. You need to ask for a Senor Iturraldi. He is chief of Mexican immigration documentation. Give him your correct name. He is expecting you."
"What is he going to do for me?" Terry asked.
"Any fucking thing you ask him to do. If you want a Mexican birth certificate for the non-existent children of your children, he will give it to you," Gomez said with a boastful laugh, obviously trying to impress the Israeli participant in these shadowy affairs. "He's on my payroll. And you tell me if he gives you any shit!"
"Fine," Reed answered.
The meeting was over.
The following morning, at precisely 8 AM, Terry's taxi pulled up in front of the federal building whose address Gomez had given him. The two Army guards positioned in front of the locked glass doors indicated to Terry somebody had not gotten the word and he'd probably have to wait outside until the building opened. Just for kicks, though, he said in Spanish that he was there to see Senor Iturraldi concerning an immigration problem.
Much to his surprise both soldiers came to present arms, the equivalent of a salute, and allowed him to pass through the door unescorted where he was joined by a shapely Mexican secretary so typical of the lighter-skinned Chilanga women who populate Mexican government offices. She wore five-inch spiked heels, black mesh stockings, a skirt that looked like it had been painted across her slightly plump posterior, and a ruffled blouse that was one size too small. She walked with her shoulders thrown back and her head erect to accentuate a well-endowed chest that kept your initial gaze off her over made-up face.
She exuded an aura of importance as she paraded past the lesser secretaries with darker skin tone and belonging to the working classes. On their desks were antiquated typewriters and piles of yellowed papers stacked on their work areas and beyond. It was an image of Third-World bureaucracy raised to its highest art form.
As the secretary approached a massive door at the end of a hall, Terry's licentious viewing from the rear came at an end. Without knocking, she opened the door and led him into an ornately-furnished office. He concluded the opulent and somewhat gaudy furnishings were probably the fruits of decades of kickbacks, or "commissions" as they are politely called. The Mexican bureaucrat sitting behind the carved wooden desk looked too young to fit the dated Spanish decor. He had to be important since his trademark credenza, which was centered under a huge portrait of Presidente Miguel del la Madrid, held the requisite number of continental telephones. The more telephones, he would learn, the higher the rank in Mexico.
Standing on either side of his desk were huge Mexican flags, giving the whole room the appearance of an altar where some Mayan might sacrifice a virgin to the sun god.
The young bureaucrat sprang from behind his desk, snapped to attention, clicked his heels and bent forward slightly at the waist in order to greet Terry. The only act of deference that was omitted was the kissing of Reed's ring.
"My name is Licensia Felipe Urbiola Ledezma. I am chief of the Department of Immigration for all of Mexico. I am here to serve you in any way I can. Mr. Iturraldi will not be available ... I am his superior. When he told me of the importance of your request, I felt it necessary to get personally involved. What may this office and the government of Mexico do for you, Senor?"
Terry outlined his needs and problems associated with the new company start-up, emphasizing the lack of government response to the 100 per cent ownership issue as well as his own working papers, entitled an FM-3.
"No problema, Senor Reed. How else can I be of service to you?" the official said as the secretary sashayed from the office to get the papers typed.
When the typing task was finished, he then selected several from among the plethora of official government rubber stamps on his desk carousel and applied them to the document giving Terry his coveted right-to-work documents.
Terry felt a bit uncomfortable. What was the protocol now? Was he expecting the usual "commission" for his services. Here he was, standing in an office whose walls were draped with crushed red velvet, something akin to being inside a coffin, he thought, and he didn't know what was proper or expected. A misplaced bribe to an official at this lofty level could cause embarrassment. Gomez had made no mention of his controlling the chief of all Mexican immigration.
"Senor Urbiola, may I pay the fee for your office's services directly to you?"
The official immediately began waving his hands, squinting his eyes and shaking his head as if someone had just offered him a jellyfish to hold. Tsk, tsk, tsk!, he said.
"Senor Reed, please do not insult me! There is absolutely no fee required for your immigration papers. It is my duty to service businessmen like you who are helping to advance Mexican technology."
By now Terry had noticed he had been handed only documentation solving his immigration dilemma and when the subject of his corporate problems were raised, that was something else.
"As for the papers for your corporation, you will need to travel to Dallas, Texas, and have them issued out of the country by our consul there. His name is Senor Raul Gonzalez Certosimo, and it is my understanding you have had dealings with him previously. I spoke with him yesterday by phone in anticipation of our meeting and he is standing by to service you and your company's needs immediately."
More confusion. Gonzalez was the same man Terry had been dealing with in the States prior to moving to Mexico. This same man was the one who had told Terry it would be "impossible" to get the proper papers issued until he was in place and residing in Mexico. This, he had said, was the visual sign of foreign commitment necessary to demonstrate true intent to the Mexican Government before such a major request could be granted. At that time 100 per cent foreign ownership of a Mexican corporation was a violation of the Mexican Constitution.
"Mr. Gonzalez is now prepared to issue what he previously said he could not? I am confused."
"It is simple. We here in Mexico are controlled by the Spanish order of the sistema de notario (notary system). This was set up by Cortez and basically allows each province of Mexico to function under its own rules as long as it stayed generally in line with Spain's wishes. Mr. Gonzalez is now a notario and can execute such documents, but only on soil he controls. Our building in Dallas is Mexican soil. This way, he can expedite your wishes without upsetting officials here in Mexico that may only delay your request."
The term notary, Terry already knew, had a totally different meaning in Mexico than in the U.S. In the Spanish bureaucracy imposed on Mexico by its conqueror, the notary WAS the law, and an extension of the Spanish Crown. Each notary was the chief of a province carved from the vast colony of Mexico and answered directly to Cortez, but in a very loose fashion that basically allowed them to rule their territories as fiefdoms.
Terry was learning that there were notaries placed in Mexican embassies as consulates who could operate as if their diplomatic missions were Mexican states. Terry was about to learn that Notario Gonzalez viewed his consulate as a sovereign state and was being allowed to bypass the Mexico City bureaucracy, and at a handsome profit to himself.
"When will Mr. Gonzalez be prepared to receive me?"
"It will take him approximately 30 days to get all of your paperwork in order. I will notify you by phone when all is ready and it's as simple as that. Like I said, we are anxious to serve you."
As Terry was preparing to depart, and thinking this all had been too easy, he found out his instinct was right. The official interrupted his departure by saying, "Oh, by the way, Mr. Reed, Mr. Gonzalez' services require lots of paperwork and you must bear the cost of internal expenses generated within his office as a result of your unusual demand."
"Do you have an estimate of cost for these services?"
"Precisely $20,000, U.S. currency. And please, no checks. You may pay Mr. Gonzalez personally."
As he was leaving the immigration building, Terry was musing about the Agency's inability to control their Third World "client states." Even though Gomez prided himself in his ability to buy off anyone in Mexico, it was clear that some of those who had to be bought off were operating outside of Mexico, not under the control of the internal Mexican bureaucracy. He was wondering how Gomez would take this requirement to be stiffed for an additional $20,000, which he was sure was going directly into both Gonzalez' and Urbiola's pockets. Oh well, that was Gomez' problem.
With all of the "official business" out of the way, his attention returned to more domestic-type problems. Being Santa Claus' surrogate and tasked with hauling a Christmas tree tied on top of his car all the way back to Guadalajara from Mexico City presented an immediate one. Also, how were they going to hide all those Christmas presents Janis had bought for the children until Christmas morning?
This was the Reeds' first Christmas in Mexico, and they were learning that, unlike in the U.S., Christmas trees have environmental value. Mexico has very few forests and it's a federal crime to possess a Christmas tree that did not have a federal tag attached to it showing it had been legally cut.
The "official" supply of trees in Guadalajara were ugly and resembled the one in "A Charlie Brown Christmas," a lonely exposed trunk with spindly, wilted branches. Janis had learned while shopping, however, that in Mexico City the Chilangos were having American-grown trees air-freighted in to assure their freshness.
Back in Washington, D.C. Christmas trees were the least of the concerns for some people in the Reagan Administration. Meese was asking for the naming of a special prosecutor to investigate possible criminal activities on the part of the Contra conspirators. And high-priced Washington attorneys were getting frenzied calls from those who knew they were obvious prosecutorial targets and whose names were now appearing daily in the media.
24-1. Receipt from hotel in Mexico City where "Max Gomez" and Israeli Agent "Pat Weber" met with Reed when Operation Screw Worm was resurrected.
24-2. A copy of the working papers given Reed by the chief of Mexican Immigration -- something rarely granted foreigners residing in Mexico.
24-3. Receipt between Terry Reed and Richard Tingen that served as security for the twenty thousand dollars needed in the form of cash in order to bribe the Mexican diplomatic official in Dallas.
Providing Support -- The Private Network
With funds available from Country 2, North turned to creating a mechanism for providing materiel support for the Contras.
North testified that, at Casey's suggestion, he turned to Retired U.S. Air Force Maj. General Richard V. Secord:
I approached General Secord in 1984 and asked that he become engaged in these activities ....
I went back to him again and at some point in '84, he agreed to become actively engaged. He agreed to establish, and did, private commercial entities outside the United States that could help carry out these activities. It was always viewed by myself, by Mr. McFarlane, by Director Casey, that these were private commercial ventures, private commercial activities ....
[i ]t was always the intention to make this a self-sustaining operation and that there always be something there which you could reach out and grab when you needed it. Director Casey said he wanted something you could pull off the shelf and use at a moment's notice.
The network, albeit privately run, was created for the purpose of pursuing "foreign-policy goals." According to North: "It was never envisioned in my mind that this would be hidden from the President."
The President has publicly stated that he was kept informed of some of the efforts by private citizens to aid the Contras. Poindexter testified the President "knew the contras were being supported ... by third-country funds and by private support activity ...." There is no evidence, however, to suggest that the President was ever informed about an "off-the-shelf' covert operation.
24-4. Excerpts from Oliver North's congressional testimony describing the "off-the-shelf" operation which CIA Director William Casey hoped would enable the CIA to circumvent congressional restraints. Reed's Guadalajara operation became the central focus of that effort.
1. George P. Shultz, Turmoil and Triumph, My Years as Secretary of State, Charles Scribner's Son, New York, 1993, P. 845.
2. Ibid, P.843
3 Ibid, p.849.
4. Ibid, p. 835
5. Raviv, Dan and Yossi Melman, Every Spy a Prince, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1990, P. 343.
CHAPTER 25: PROJECT Z
Santa Claus successfully found the Reed home. Apparently, the letter Duncan had written Santa notifying him of his new Mexican address had arrived at the North Pole in time.
There was a big problem, however. The new German Shepherd puppy Terry and Janis had purchased in Mexico City during their shopping trip had not arrived by December 25th as had been guaranteed. This was the only gift Duncan had asked for, something he had been promised he would get when he turned 4. He was now three months beyond his birthday, and he still was waiting.
But fastened to the Christmas tree, Santa had left a note saying that this year, due to his unusually large sleigh load, he could not carry all the gifts to the children and was having to use Mexicana Airlines to deliver his surplus.
After an excitement-filled morning of exchanging gifts under the tree, the Reed family set out for Guadalajara to greet a flight from the "North Pole" that carried a special passenger. It was a six-week-old puppy with a note attached to its collar attesting it to be an offspring of Santa's own guard dog, whose job it was to protect the reindeer from hunters.
They officially named him "Bavarian Machismo Wolfgang III" (BMW), and affectionately called him "Macho" for short. As he grew, Macho became a full member of the Reed family and the protector of the children, a much more important task than guarding Rudolph.
With the Christmas holidays over, the Reeds began the new year with optimism. The year, 1986, hadn't been the best of years in many ways. Terry had lost two good friends. Barry Seal had been murdered, and Bill Cooper had died with his boots on. Cooper, like Seal, had been a true silent warrior for a long time. But due to his photograph having been laminated to the Southern Air Transport identification card he was carrying at the time of his death, he was now famous. His picture and headlines bearing his name were in print throughout the world.
The on-again, off-again project was now back on, for good it seemed, and Terry was in a hurry to put the last elements of his business plan in place. He also felt the added pressure and anxiety of being pushed to rush into the Phase 2 aspect of his plan ... manufacturing.
He had notified the Hungarians and the Japanese of Gomez' "all systems are go" response and was spending a lot of time at the offices of Capitan Raul Fierro, Abogado Arturo Velazques, and at Marr's house ironing out the legal details concerning the warehouse at the Guadalajara Airport. With any luck, machine tools would be arriving there in February and already local politicians and industry were talking about the new firm, Maquinaria Internacional, and its goal of assisting in the automation of Mexico.
On January 3rd, the Reeds were busy packing their motor home for the 200-mile trip over "improved" Mexican roads to Zirahuen, where the meeting with the governor of the state of Michouacan was scheduled two days later.
Terry had decided to take the entire family and the nanny along in order to share the beauty of the Michouacan region with Janis. He had made two exploratory business trips there in mid-December and was anxious to show Janis the charm and aristocratic elegance of the city of Morelia -- the future home of Agency project "Z", as it had been codenamed.
The plans called for finding a hotel room in Zirahuen for Terry, Janis, and the children, thereby allowing the nanny to serve as "night guard" by sleeping in the motor home. At least that had become the drill on the majority of their other excursions since they were finding the term "Mexican campground" was mostly an oxymoron.
Mitch Marr had been unable to provide much advance information about what the meeting would entail, or even who the participants would be. "All I know is Gomez and his Israeli friend will be there with the governor. But you can bet on him havin' his ass-kissin' entourage in tow, it's the Latino way," Marr had said in his usual demeaning way. Then he added, "The agency is giving him a big break by puttin' this factory down there. So don't let him or any of his third world henchmen give ya any shit. You got sumthin' they want and need."
Their road trip took them through the industrial town of Zamora and on to Patzcuaro, a picturesque lakeside town famous for the strange-looking, yet uniquely tasting near-transparent fish indigenous to this lake. The Reeds stopped for a photo session capturing the local fishermen plying their trade with their butterfly nets on the deep blue lake.
But not everything, however, was so picturesque. The bases of the trees of the heavily forested town had been white-washed mid-way up their trunks and converted into gaudy political advertisements. Most bore the letters "PHI" painted in green, red and black, the acronym for Partido Revolucionario Institucional, the ruling Mexican political party. This city, the Reeds learned, had become the focal point of a political tug of war between the PHI and its challenge party, the Partido de Accion Nacional (PAN). The balance of the once beautiful eucalyptus trees sported the "PAN" insignia denoting the upstart party's contention for the region.
The high elevation highway extending south out of Patzcuaro took the family to the ancient mining town of Santa Clara del Cobre, famous throughout Mexico for its copperware. The entire town was one gigantic showroom of handcrafted copper items and was riddled with madre y padre tiendas and fabricas that convert copper sheeting into a multitude of exquisite articles.
Although now close to the Village of Zirahuen, the Reeds stopped to shop and ask directions since the roads they were now traveling were remote, and as usual, poorly marked. The attitude of the otherwise friendly shopkeeper changed drastically when Janis asked her for directions to their meeting place. The jovial demeanor disappeared.
"No se," she answered curtly as she abruptly turned away. Janis began to feel uneasy and wonder if she had unintentionally offended the woman, or if perhaps they had simply lost their way.
Confused, they sought help from the local policia who was sleeping behind the wheel of his patrol car parked on the village square. He was the Mexican version of a stereotypical Southern sheriff and volunteered directions, but only after demanding to know why they were going to Zirahuen.
"Somos turistas," Terry answered. "Solomente vamos a ir a el campo por campar. Es un bonita lago para pescar, verdad?" (We're tourists who have come only to camp. Is it true there's a beautiful lake that offers good fishing?)
The police officer must have accepted the answer. After eye-balling Terry's fishing equipment tied on top of the motor home, he gave directions, then added, "Tiene cuidado alia, es muy peligroso." (Be careful there, it's very dangerous.)
Terry shrugged off the warning figuring the sheriff was concerned about the dangers of drowning while boating and fishing. He saw no need to relay the message to Janis.
A short distance south of town they found their turnoff to the west, which the policeman had been told would lead to Zirahuen. They turned onto a well-maintained, cobblestone road capable of handling two lanes of traffic, a stark change from the road they had just left. A few kilometers later, they curiously arrived at a combination guard shack and toll booth. A rope extended from the shack and stretched across the road to serve as a make-shift traffic barrier.
The guard within demanded 350 pesos (about $1 then) before allowing them to pass. Quite a sum in Mexico, they thought, to be this far from civilization. From this vantage point, though, they could now see the edge of the crystal blue lake, surrounded by tall pine trees to the west. Below, in the valley, extending for what seemed forever, was the road leading to the lake.
After a drive of 10 miles, more or less, they were stunned to discover the cobblestone road dead ended at a resort complex. Contained within was a water's edge, improved campground complete with electrical hookups. The RV site they selected was situated on a small hill within view of a large floating dock complex. They found it extremely odd that this campground, the best they had encountered in Mexico, was not listed in either the Mexican or American camping guides.
Someone had spent a great amount of money constructing and maintaining this remote resort complex which was totally void of campers .... other than them.
Between the campground and the shoreline were a series of interconnected stone arches, resembling a Roman aqueduct, that stretched for more than a quarter-mile, but served no apparent purpose. There was even a small floating restaurant, bobbing ever so slightly, built up on the main boat dock. Nearby, a chalet-style house was nestled in a grove of tall pines trees, the home of the caretaker, no doubt.
The shoreline near the pier was strewn with small pleasure boats that appeared to be in storage, out of the water for the winter season. Tied to the pier along the dock were several 30 foot launches painted white and bearing red, green and black stripes. Alongside them were an array of small pleasure and fishing boats, a few of which contained lonely looking fishermen using single-line poles.
Zirahuen, they were told by the caretaker, was only a few kilometers further south, but the Reeds decided to camp there for the night to avail themselves of their surprising find. It was off-season for campers and basically closed for the winter, so they would have the entire place to themselves.
After spending a quiet afternoon and evening wishing all the while that the nanny had been left behind so they could privately enjoy each other's company, the Reeds bedded down for the night.
At precisely 6 AM, with Teutonic precision, the nearby town's civil defense PA system began to blare Deutschland Uber Alles and everyone in the camper, and probably everyone in the surrounding countryside, bolted from their beds. They may have gone to sleep in Mexico, but it sounded like they were awakening in the Third Reich.
Now fully awake, Terry dressed and walked to the village to see what exactly was going on. He was not prepared for what he saw. Around a curve in the road, and built in a cove on the water's edge, were the buildings and houses that defined Zirahuen. The architecture was a conglomeration of Scandinavian and Mexican design, much of it adobe but with wooded peaked roofs. The A-frame style construction of some of the homes, and especially the gingerbread trim of the larger chalet-types gave the village the look of having been transported from the Alps.
Standing in the center of the Zocalo was an old man in a military uniform and blowing a trumpet, which apparently was the signal for the village's children to assemble for their march to school.
"Jesus Christ" Terry said to himself. "Am I in Mexico? I was when I went to sleep last night."
The children, many of whom were light-skinned and some even blond-headed, lined up like "Hitler Youth", performing a youthful version of the military's "dress right, dress." The old trumpeter was now substituting the horn he had played for a drum he was wearing. All the inhabitants gathered in the village square to view the old man tap out cadence and lead the children several times around before marching them off to the school.
No more than a half hour had passed since reveille and the village was bustling with activity. This was definitely not typical Mexican behavior. All the shops were now open with shopkeepers busily sweeping the sidewalks, so Terry decided to look around. He heard an unfamiliar dialect of Spanish being spoken, somewhat Indian he guessed, but guttural-sounding as well. He concluded that these villagers had to be remnants of Nazi Germany who had fled after World War II and settled here. After a tour of the square and with his freshly-purchased bratwurst in hand, Terry walked back to his motor home to share his unusual discovery. And the day had just begun.
Later that morning, Terry took Duncan down to the dock for some fishing. Fishing had been a special time between he and his father and grandfather -- a time of conveyance -- and he wanted to try to duplicate this type of parental bonding with his children. While preparing their tackle, he joked with his four-year-old companion about the possibility of reeling in Moby Dick.
It was definitely sweater weather, but the warm, noon-day sun offset the cool, mid-day January temperature.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity on the dock. A team of Mexican workers were giving the official-looking launches a thorough cleaning. A man in a European-cut business suit, wearing sunglasses had arrived and was barking orders to the laborers and communicating with someone via a walkie-talkie he was carrying.
Terry looked around and noticed a large antenna mast adjacent to the caretaker's house and another smaller one on the roof of the dock's restaurant. The workers were feverishly setting the tables inside the launches with white linen tablecloths and fine China, the accoutrements for a formal dinner. He hadn't seen Mexicans of any occupation move this fast since moving there.
Then, with the transformation of the vessels now complete, a second transformation took place before his eyes. With the manual work now finished, the workers disappeared into the restaurant, only to reappear, but now as well-groomed waiters. The work clothes were substituted for attire more befitting catering, and the men were resplendent in white Nehru jackets, black trousers and black patent leather shoes, a sight not seen often in Mexico. They then rigidly began milling around the restaurant, behaving as if they were fearful of soiling their uniforms. It was reminiscent of waiting for inspection in his ROTC days, Terry thought.
With the dock now returned to its original, placid state, Terry and Duncan got back to the serious business of fishing ... just in case "Jaws" was out there somewhere lurking.
As the tethered red and white bobber teetered from the ripples of the lake, the reflection from the sun on the water's surface made the fishermen squint. While being hypnotized by the motion, Terry heard a faint whirring noise in the distance. He tilted his head away from the breeze to remove the wind noise from his ear and could hear something intermittently .... something that sounded familiar in a strange and eerie way.
Gosh, he thought, do these things really happen? He had discarded all the theories he had read or heard about Vietnam, and the so-called stress-related flashbacks. But now he was sure he was hearing something and looked to his son for reassurance.
But Duncan didn't hear it! The boy, instead, was intently focused on his fishing line, oblivious to everything else. Maybe flashbacks are real, Terry thought. He was sure he could faintly distinguish the sound of helicopter rotor blades. Maybe this Mexican Oso Negro, the local vodka, was getting to him.
It was like an audio track stored deep within his memory bank, labeled Thailand, where those very sounds never stopped. There, the Air Force helicopters on continuous perimeter patrol circled the base at low altitude day and night, always on the lookout for infiltrators.
The sound from their main rotors beat the air in an unending rhythm 24 hours a day, providing a background noise that one had to literally, mentally, turn off in order to get anything done. He and John Desko, his close buddy, had jokingly theorized that the CIA was using them as guinea pigs to conduct audio-fatigue testing.
Terry squinted and raised his eyes to peer across the lake from where he hoped the sound was originating. From over the distant tree tops, he could now see faint images from his past. It looked as if a group of helicopters were approaching from the east at extremely low altitude.
Shit, I'm not only hearing it, but seeing it, too, he thought. No more Oso Negro!
"Daddy, look at the helichoppers!"
Images were coming into focus. Their unsynchronized rotor noises were now echoing throughout the quiet valley and off the water, with the armada now flying toward them in tight formation.
Terry counted four Hughes-500D helicopters in camouflage, escorting a large, white Bell HH-53 helicopter bearing the official Mexican insignia of green and red stripes.
He observed one of the 500-Ds break formation, head directly toward them, buzz the dock at low altitude, and then begin circling the campsite. The once serene setting now converted to one of chaos, as in horror he watched the destruction created by the down-wash of the buzzing rotor blade. The severe turbulence wreaked havoc on the motor home's awning exerting enough leverage advantage on the RV to begin rocking it violently. Janis, with the nanny carrying Elliott, ran from the vehicle in shock, unable to comprehend what was happening as the helicopter simply hovered nearby, continuing its "attack" upon the campsite.
Terry grabbed Duncan and ran toward the site, which by now, was in a state of bedlam. The helicopter had descended and hovered only 50 feet off the ground completely engulfing the RV in dust. With the near-hurricane velocity of the rotor-wash now captured under the awning, the vehicle pitched back and forth so acutely that it was in danger of rolling over.
Terry finally drew the pilot's attention, realized it was none other than Max Gomez, and frantically signaled for the aircraft to back off. Gomez, with all the speed of molasses, eventually comprehended what was occurring and landed nearby. With the near-disaster over, Janis comforted the children while the nanny began gathering the litter generated by the copter's wake. The other helicopters had by now landed closer to the lake's edge, a safer and more prudent distance from the motor home, not finding it necessary to duplicate the machismo entrance made by Gomez.
Gomez, appearing somewhat humble and embarrassed, got out and signaled Terry to join him. After apologizing profusely for the turmoil he had caused, he escorted Terry toward the group and began identifying the men who were deplaning and assembling. It was very apparent to Terry who the governor was and Gomez had no need to point him out. Cardenas was at the center of an entourage of sycophants who were disembarking from the other helicopter.
"Come, let me introduce you to Senor Cardenas," Gomez said as they walked toward him together. "He is a very important man in Mexican government. His father was once Presidente de Mexico. But don't forget, he's in our pockets and I am personally paying him lots of Agency money to make this project happen. So think nothing of his attitude of royalty during today's meeting. He's ours."
By this time, Terry had spotted Pat Weber, who had flown in with the Cardenas and was now chatting with him beside the white helicopter. He also recognized another person he had seen before, Leroy Tracta, Seal's ex-handler and the CIA man who had "hosted" the Panama meeting more than a year earlier. All were casually, but expensively, dressed and accompanied by three of Cardenas' political aides who had in tow two businessmen from the City of Morelia. Two fashionably-attired Latin women were the last to deplane. Adorned with jewelry and overly made-up, they were immediately escorted to the restaurant by the man with the European suit and the walkie-talkie.
"Shall I go get my wife?" Terry asked, somewhat confused. He hadn't planned on inviting Janis, thinking it might be a breach of security.
"These are not wives!" Gomez corrected. "You gringos are all alike. You just don't know how to live. One of them is the mistress of Senor Cardenas and the other is the mistress of the mayor of Morelia. They only came along for the helicopter ride. Don't worry, they will not be present during any sensitive discussions."
"Isn't it classified just to know who is in attendance?" Terry asked.
"They know better than to say anything. They are Mexican mistresses," Gomez informed in his instructional tone. "Their job continually demands they be trusted with sensitive information. The only time you have to be careful is when you replace an old one with a new one ... that's when they become a security risk. And then, I've found it's best just to kill them," he boasted in his characteristic macho tone, and then breaking into a grin. "I had you going for a minute, didn't I, amigo?"
Terry felt uncomfortable, still convinced that Gomez had been serious. He put these feelings aside in order to focus on the unprofessionalism of it all. Terry shook his head. Who else but Latinos would bring their mistresses to an intelligence briefing?
The group toured the dock while Terry went back to the motor home to change from his fishing garb into more appropriate attire. Walking past the launches on his way back to the restaurant, Terry observed the waiters, now scurrying around putting fresh fruit on the plates in the launches.
Inside the restaurant, Weber escorted Terry to the bar and passed a rather rowdy group which had Gomez as its center. With the women on either arm, he had the cluster of Latinos totally enthralled in yet another braggadocio war story. As Terry and Weber sipped their drinks, the sound of starting engines signaled it was time for Gomez to bring the story to its climax and for the group to board the launches. With the governor now unencumbered, Weber made the introduction.
"Mr. Terry Reed, I would like to introduce you to a very important man, not only in the State of Michoacan but in all of Mexico as well. This is Senor Cuauhtemoc Cardenas, the governor of this beautiful state."
While the two men firmly shook hands, Terry took the opportunity to study the official. He radiated an aura of confidence.
"Mr. Cardenas, I am honored."
"Please don't refer to me as Mr. Cardenas. It is my understanding that we will soon grow to be friends. Let us drop the formalities. Please call me, as my friends do, Lazaro, it was my father's given name."
The young governor, who was about Terry's age, explained the complexity of his name after seeing the relief mirrored in Terry's face for having been relieved of the requirement of continually calling him "Cuauhtemoc."
"I am a descendent of one of Cortez' lieutenants," the governor said. "His name was Cardenas, a family of royalty from Spain. He was a key aide to Cortez during the conquest of Mexico. The other side of my family was Aztec. The family name was Cuauhtemoc, and one of them was a spiritual advisor to Montezuma. And I'm sure you know, of course, my father Lazaro was Presidente de todo de Mexico."
Dutifully impressed and with introductions out of the way, everyone headed for the launches. The women escorted by the man with the walkie-talkie boarded a separate launch. The men all boarded the main launch with most of the servants in a third. One armed helicopter pilot boarded each boat, leaving the others to guard the helicopters. The boats then set a course for a heavily-wooded island set in the middle of the lake.
Terry and Gomez were sitting beside each other at the dining table partaking of their fruit and sorbet served in champagne glasses, when Gomez whispered to Terry under the concealment of the boat's engine noise, "That fucking story about his name, all it means is that one of Cortez' men raped some Indian bitch. And sitting across from us is the bastard descendant of that act of love."
As the boat's captain retarded the throttle, Terry ended his conversation with the Cardenas aide seated across from him and took notice of a well-constructed dock nestled inside a small harbor. Above the dock, he could see a stairway zigzagging up a hill to a large and elegant looking chalet built of stone and glass.
"This is Senor Cardenas' summer and weekend retreat," the aide told Terry. "He only escapes here to relax and to entertain dignitaries." Reed was impressed to be in such company. Somehow all this third world opulence was missing from the State Department's brochures.
The inside of the home radiated a mixed feeling of relaxed formality. A huge stone fireplace was the centerpiece of the understated, yet lavishly-decorated main room overlooking the lake. Persian rugs covered the floor and hand-carved Spanish colloquial furniture had been placed informally around the room. From the art, statuary and the oil paintings visible on the walls, Terry perceived that no expense had been spared in decorating.
Waiters circulated and took drink orders while the guests gathered and chatted informally waiting for the dining table to be prepared for dinner. Cardenas and Tracta talked quietly by themselves, leaning on a bookcase in a corner. From their body language, it appeared they knew each other well, and had much to discuss ... privately. Weber moved from group to group and at times joined the governor and the CIA man in their hushed conversation.
After a gourmet meal in the adjoining dining room which was furnished with Japanese-style black lacquered furniture, the time for business had come. The two women were escorted to a launch for the trip back to the mainland.
With the women now gone, and the foreplay out of the way, Tracta took charge of the meeting while the after-dinner coffee was served.
"Senor Cardenas, I'm sure you'll agree opportunity is getting ready to land in your backyard ... literally," Tracta began, sounding as toastmaster. "The site you have selected at the Morelia airport is going to need some infrastructure development. Therefore, I'm going to turn this meeting over to Mr. Reed so he can tell you personally what will be required in order to make the project successful and to bring technology to the State of Michouacan."
In order for everyone to understand fully what was required for site development at Morelia, Terry began by saying that air transportation was the centerpiece of this operation. Having been to the Morelia airport during his fact-finding trips in December, he had discovered the runway surface at the rather small facility was in need of repair, and that the length could only marginally accommodate the type of aircraft that Southern Air Transport, meaning the CIA, would be using to service the new facilities. The Mexicans, he assumed, had not taken into account the C-130 and 707-style aircraft that SAT operated.
He told them it would not be feasible, in his opinion, to use the poorly-surfaced roads between Morelia and Mexico City to transport the equipment by truck. He pointed out the fragility of the computers and the sophisticated equipment that would be needed to build the close-tolerance arms components, then offered a remedy.
He explained that two birds could be killed with one stone. Building a new runway at the Morelia Airport would not only solve the road problem, but would also help provide security for weapons shipments in the future. As Barry Seal had demonstrated in the U.S., transporting weapons by air avoided ground detection from roadblocks, weigh stations and nosey police.
Cardenas, at this point, interrupted Terry's briefing to carry on a conversation in Spanish with the mayor of Morelia. After a brief interchange he switched back to English and asked, "How long of a runway do these size of aircraft need to operate?"
Reed estimated that taking into consideration Morelia's 6000 foot elevation they would need at least 7,000 feet of runway to safely accommodate the large, heavy aircraft on a hot day.
"OK. Consider it done. What else do you need?"
"What is done?", Reed asked, somewhat confused by the brief answer.
"We will build a whole new airport, just for this operation, and I will provide you with 8,000 feet just for safe measure. The mayor will begin work immediately."
Terry was impressed with how fast things can be done in the Third World. What would have taken months of planning between federal, state, and local governments and airport commissioners north of the Rio Grande had been accomplished in minutes. Terry ascertained he was dealing with the top level, or the HMFIC.
"I repeat Senor Reed, what else do you need?"
"Power," Terry answered. "I need a constant source of quality electricity that does not fluctuate in voltage. Power surges wreak havoc on equipment of this type. It will be necessary to build a substation near the new building that has transformers large enough to monitor and control the electricity that powers the new equipment."
This time, the mayor began a brief dialogue in Spanish with one of his aides. He turned to Terry and asked, "He wants to know if 440-volt, three-phase will suffice, and, if so, how many KVA do you need?"
Terry was surprised, and glad, that someone with technical knowledge was there.
"That depends on the type of foundry we build," Terry responded. "If we use oil or gas as a source of heat, we will need less, but I prefer an induction furnace using electricity. And therefore, the KVA requirements can be quite high." Later, Terry learned that the man whom the governor conferred with was the federal representative for the Mexican government's utility consortium.
Within 20 minutes, the money and manpower for a new runway and power substation had been approved. By the expressions on their faces, Weber and Tracta, and even Gomez, were impressed. It was acutely evident that Cardenas was serious about fulfilling his gubernatorial campaign promises to create skilled "jobs for Michoacuanans."
On to the square footage and foundation requirements for the new facility. Terry had researched and discovered a history of volcanic activity in the area. In fact, there were still active volcanoes west of Morelia in the state of Colima. He had no personal experience in foundation requirements in this type of geologic region and didn't feel qualified to make recommendations.
After pointing this out, Cardenas assured him that a civil engineer from Mexico City who dealt with these problems would be assigned to this project. The governor had an immediate answer and solution for everything. Terry liked his style. After a discussion of the types of machine tools that would be needed, the conversation turned to manpower requirements.
Another of the mayor's assistants took from his briefcase an artist's rendering of the technical school complex they planned to build adjacent to the new weapons plant. From among its graduates, they said, they intended to draw a pool of skilled machinists. In addition to that, the instructors who would be recruited and hired would all be "hands-on" engineers themselves and would serve as division managers for the new company. These people would not only be responsible for running the school, but for filling the supervisory slots for the factory as well.
Phase 2, it appeared to all, was a definite "go."
During the trip back on the launch Gomez maneuvered to become the center of attention with some more tales of killing communists. As the story approached its climax, Weber, who was sitting next to Terry, leaned close and whispered, "You see, I told you in Mexico City we had a governor selected who was as desperate as the one you worked with in Arkansas."
CHAPTER 26: BIRTH, LIFE AND DEATH
Dr. Roberto Lopez Ramirez was shaking his head.
"I don't know, I am worried. It is mid-May and the baby's head is so large I would swear it is way past term."
He and Terry Reed were looking at the sonograms just delivered to him by the Mexican version of Federal Express, a foot runner, from the office of Dr. Ricardo Ortiz Amezcua. The obstetrician was still not used to discussing medical details with a patient's husband. Terry had been his wife's coach during her two previous natural childbirths and the Reeds had upset the bulk of the medical community in Guadalajara by insisting that he be part of the pregnancy and birthing process.
That just wasn't done in Mexico. But reluctantly, Lopez agreed and used the Reeds as a "pilot" for what surely was coming as Mexico shed its macho mentality and attitudes. Mexican males Terry had met took advantage of the time their woman was in labor to celebrate at the bars with their friends and get drunk while their wives gave birth under sedation. It wasn't fashionable to experience pain, Janis had learned from the Chilangas, the upper class women with whom she had become acquainted.
The pelvic examination was over and as Janis dressed, Lopez was expressing concern at the head size of the baby she was carrying. She was near term and Lopez decided it best to consult a colleague in Houston who had experience delivering "these large gringo babies."
Terry and Janis were still looking at the sonogram negatives when Lopez shocked them by announcing, "Let's go to the hospital and have a baby." He had decided after consultation that a caesarean procedure was in his patient's -- and the baby's -- best interests.
"Only if Terry can be with me. Otherwise I think we'll just get on an airplane and head back to the States," Janis said feeling a little uncomfortable about having a C-section in Mexico.
Terry reiterated Janis' position and Lopez shook and gave in, "You American males ... You amaze me. Why do you want to see all this pain and suffering? Is it because your gringa women all control you? Or is it you truly think you are each other's equal?"
Later that night, at 9:30, at the Baptist Mexican-American Hospital in Guadalajara several records were set. On May 18, 1987, Dr. Lopez successfully delivered a nine-pound, 10-ounce baby boy, the largest he had ever delivered. And the hospital had allowed the father to be present in the delivery room, not only during the birthing process, but during the surgery as well. Everyone was pleased.
Two days later, after much discussion, the baby was named Baxter Xavier Kerr Reed Kerr, the second Kerr automatically added by the Mexican Government to reflect the Latin custom of appending the mother's surname to that of the child. Terry now had a future Mexican business partner since being born on Mexican soil to American parents automatically bestowed upon Baxter dual citizenship.
Two weeks later, it was time to document the baby's American citizenship at the U.S. Consulate in Guadalajara. Terry found it amusing that Baxter's American birth certificate was signed by U.S. Consul-General Daniel Darrach, the only American official in Mexico who knew what Terry was really doing there.
For Terry, it was a time to be honored by the Mexican males. He had fathered three sons consecutively, quite an achievement for a gringo, his friend Juin said.
For Janis, it was celebration time. She had been delighted with the care she received in the Mexican hospital. The attention, amenities, and especially the food surpassed her previous birthing experiences. Her first dinner meal after Baxter's birth was catered Chinese food, and she and Terry were touched when Dr. Lopez joined them in her private room to share their food and present them a gift of vintage wine. Not quite like the hospitals in the States, she thought.
And now her friends were giving her a "coming out" party at La Posada. It was time for her to catch up since she hadn't allowed herself to indulge in the fine Mexican wines during her pregnancy. Though unheralded outside the country, they are among the best in the world, and as her friends toasted her and her new son, she couldn't have been happier.
On a Friday night in early June, a mysteriously absent Mitch Marr suddenly reappeared with his wife as the Reeds were sitting at the Posada's bar. Certain that the infectious, wailing mariachi music and the drunken dancing would provide the distraction he needed, Terry approached Marr's table and pretended to be admiring some of the local Mexican artwork on the wall.
"Glad to see you're back," Terry said without directing his glance to Marr. "I need to see you immediately."
Marr, without looking up from his drink, said: "What's the matter? Your commie friend has another problem?"
"Yes. But this time he has the evidence we need."
A lot had happened since the meeting at Zirahuen back in January, which, when Terry looked back on it, seemed like a stilted scene out of Apocalypse Now. After returning to Guadalajara from that trip, Operation Screw Worm had been kicked into overdrive. Out of nowhere, like Brigadoon, the entire clandestine operation that included both Phases 1 and 2 of Terry's plan took form.
Maquinaria Internacional's facility at the Guadalajara Airport immediately began receiving, storing and shipping large bulky and heavy containers that occasionally contained machinery necessary for the legitimate business activities. Mexicana Airline's forklift drivers learned well the path between the Mexican Customs holding area south of the main terminal and Terry's warehouse a quarter of a mile away.
Southern Air Transport C-130s and 707s were eased in and out of Mexican airspace unobtrusively day and night through special flight plans denoting them as "Sierra Whiskey" flights. Raul Fierro, the DFS and CIA's main man at the airport, had assigned all Screw Worm air activity to a person under his control in the flight operations division.
He was Ricardo Lopez Alcantara, who worked for the Mexican FAA, and he personally processed all of the Agency's flight plans to be sure they "never happened." It was, in fact, as Max Gomez had boasted back in the bunker in Arkansas: "What flies in never flies out, at least not from the ATC point of view."
Fierro took all of Terry's problems straight to the top. Customs documentation, restricted area passes, extra security for Terry's warehouse and even hangar space for Terry's private airplane, which he brought to Mexico in April, were all expeditiously handled by Guadalajara's Comandante del Aeropuerto P.A. Gerardo Mejia Rodriguez. By the way in which Mejia responded to Fierro's demands and instructions, he clearly was just a puppet comandante manipulated by the real boss. And the real boss in Mexico, Terry was learning, was the CIA.
It was interesting for Terry to be on the receiving end of American influence and power, but it was upsetting to see America's foreign policy toward its allies through this perspective. Outwardly we say we support democracy and the American way. Terry was seeing that in reality the CIA was subverting democracy. It behaved in Mexico as if Mexican laws didn't exist. The Agency's and Gomez' ability to "grease the wheels" was undermining efforts by progressive Mexican reformers to achieve true democratic reforms and keep the oligarchy in power. It was an old story repeated over and over again in the underdeveloped Republics in Central America.
"This is a hell of an opportunity. Finally, we have a President that understands we gotta fuck Congress and take care of our obligations around the world. We've got goddam communists taking over countries in our hemisphere. We're gonna kick their ass, this time."... For Terry and Cathey, it was deja vu. Their old festering wounds were starting to bleed again. Congressional on-again, off-again whimsy, so reminiscent of Vietnam, angered both of them. This they would not and could not tolerate. This, they agreed, given a chance and the right leader. Once again, people were being put in harm's way without the backing they needed.
Oliver North, using his alias John Cathey, came into Terry's life during lunch that day over cups of cappuchino and talk of their mutual enemy. "Fucking Congress," Cathey kept saying. And Terry shook his head in agreement.
Here was what seemed a strange alliance. A state run by Democrats in bed with a Republican administration in Washington, and both conspiring to evade Congress' prohibition against aiding or abetting the Contras. It was so steeped with hypocrisy.
Terry was glad he had taken a personal stand, had become involved and had contributed to a cause in which he fervently believed. He hadn't demonstrated on campus back in the sixties, so up until now he had not experienced the feeling of exhilaration as a result of taking matters into your own hands, and to rebel. But he now knew. He, John Cathey, Barry Seal and the others had rebelled. They had not silently sat by while people seeking freedom screamed out from the pain of oppression. Instead they had acted. "Fuck Congress!", Cathey and Seal had both said. And Reed wholeheartedly endorsed their most articulate view.
It was fitting that the Fourth of July, the day America celebrates its independence, was being celebrated by the Reeds in a foreign country from which Terry hoped freedom for Nicaragua would be spawned. Congress be damned! There would be victory this time whether they approved of it or not. Terry Reed and John Cathey would make it so. He felt elated that he was part of something, a cabal about which only a few knew. It was time for Terry to cash in, believing the members of the Cabal had singled him out to collect his reward for what he had suffered in Southeast Asia. That's what he thought, anyway.
-- Compromised: Clinton, Bush and the CIA: How the Presidency was Co-opted by the CIA, by Terry Reed & John Cummings
Terry observed that the banana republic attitude in Mexico was reminiscent of that in Arkansas. There, through Seth Ward, he had been sponsored into the upper echelons of society and put into play with powerful people. The sponsor for Mexico, however, was not analogous to Ward. It was much more powerful, and Terry could feel its presence everywhere. The undercurrents of power and greed in both places bonded easily with the CIA's objectives. It mattered little to these Mexican rulers that they were giving away their sovereignty, just as Terry had seen the government of South Vietnam do years earlier.
The elite in Mexico behaved like the elite in Arkansas, opposing any change unless they could see a personal benefit for themselves. This "me" attitude began to disgust Terry, forcing him to look inward to re-analyze his own motives. He felt he was beginning to get reacquainted with his old self. He was in fact still the poor boy from Missouri, the great grandson of a mule trader, and the addictive social trappings offered by his CIA sponsorship didn't interest him.
How could these elitists not really care for the millions of poor peasants, their fellow Mexicans? What Mexico needed was a strong middle class society to establish a large tax base, but these people, just as the elitists in Arkansas, suppressed the development of that group fearing it would diminish their power.
And Janis was starting to realize that Terry was right, something she always hated to admit. She'd been lied to by her government supplied pre-travel brochures. Only propaganda, she thought, courtesy of the U.S. State Department. Once past the border, she had seen no real poverty, no starving children everywhere, no banditos. They had even driven at night.
And now here she was in the Zona Rosa looking at the opulence on display by the Mexican elite. The European architecture combined with the Aztec and Mayan influences to create an aura of fantasy.
What intrigued her the most, having been raised in a midwestern middle class family, was the distinct class system. In Mexico, a little money moved you way up the social ladder. She had discovered that many people here had maids, and nannies and servants. With two young boys and a career, her life in Arkansas bordered on continual chaos. She was beginning to see the world through her husband's eyes. He had always loved the Third World, something she was now beginning to understand. Mexico had a pace and style unknown to Americans. The people seemed happy which was somewhat confusing because of the North American propaganda she had ingested about the supposed poverty there.
But these disturbing observations were put on the back burner as George Fenue, his Hungarian partner, began expressing concerns in early February about what he thought were mis-billings to his company, Cortec, in Mexico City.
Terry had not yet made his trip to Dallas to pay his "processing fees" for his Mexican corporation because the Mexican consul there was vacationing in Europe. This forced Maquinaria Internacional to continue using Cortec's pre-established business licenses for importing and exporting purposes as it conducted machinery business in Guadalajara.
Fenue complained of receiving invoices for customs services from his customs broker in Nuevo Laredo at the border for a shipment Fenue and his employees had not sent.
"I have an invoice from my agente aduanal for a 500-pound shipment of tooling going to the United States," Fenue told Reed over the phone. "Shall I send the bill to you for payment?"
"I haven't been shipping anything to the U.S. It must be an erroneous statement," Terry suggested.
Terry's plan, from conception, had called for procuring from the United States hard-to-find and precision items. Nowhere had it included exporting to the states. He was aware Maquinaria Internacional was receiving American-made items via SAT aircraft, but these were weapons and they didn't require customs bills of lading. The CIA leaves no paper trail.
What Terry initially dismissed as an error on behalf of Fenue's customs agent, Andres Mounetow, was anything but. Mounetow operated a customs brokerage firm in Laredo, Texas, with his brother, Alfredo covering the Mexican side of the business in the town across the Rio Grande, Nuevo Laredo. The Monetows adamantly claimed they had in fact handled a single-crate shipment going from the Mexican town of San Miguel de Allende, destined to the U.S. Their records indicated it had been delivered to the border by an overland express truck service out of Mexico City, had cleared the scrutiny of both Mexican and U.S. Customs Agents, and was held in their warehouse on the American side for pickup.
With the crate now gone and signed for by an indecipherable signature, Terry and Fenue were mystified. Reed brought this incident to Marr's attention during an expense reimbursement meeting, but Marr seemed oblivious when told the details. And he, too, attempted to explain the event away as a mistake.
But what haunted Terry was the paper work from the shipment showed the name Maquinaria Internacional listed on the manifest with Fenue's export license number. This was strange, he thought. Shouldn't it have mentioned only Cortec, which was Fenue's firm? If the customs broker had made a mistake, Maquinaria Internacional's name should not have appeared at all. Maquinaria Internacional had no account with this broker.
But it was early February and Terry was being torn in all directions. With the governor of Michouacan anxious to get his hands into the CIA's pockets, Terry was spending much of his time outlining the details for the new arms facility in Morelia that was scheduled tentatively to be operational by late summer. Between this and getting "Screw Worm's" facilities operating in Guadalajara, he had little time to worry about $300 invoices that appeared to have been issued in error.
The rat-race life he had now built for himself in Margaritaville was quickly becoming the Mexican version of the American bumper sticker. "Yo debo, you debo, y asi pues trabajar yo voy [I owe, I owe...]." Patrick Juin gave up trying to keep up with Terry and decided he didn't want to be Americanized after all if this was the type of work schedule necessary for success.
Terry had Japanese problems as well. As he itemized the equipment necessary to be ordered and put on display for the Guadalajara operation, he was finding that Frank Fujikawa had over-committed himself and was having difficulty getting Gomiya, his firm in the States, to go along with putting large amounts of consigned equipment in Mexico. This was an integral part of the plan, and it was agreed that behind the scenes, and with a definite conflict of interest, Fujikawa was to have used his executive influence to floor plan computer-controlled machine tools in Terry's Mexican facility. But with the peso in a continuous shallow slide, the Japanese were getting cold feet about investing in Mexico.
This was really straining relationships between Terry, Johnson and Fujikawa. Meanwhile, the Hungarians were hoping to be part of the Japanese marketing operations and were starting to view this delay by Fujikawa as a possible breach of contract. After all, they had a tangible investment in Mexico. They viewed Fujikawa's vacillation and delay as an opportunity to demand a bigger share of the company. His communists friends were definitely honing their capitalist skills and learning the art of the power play.
But the Hungarians were "married" to Terry's plan by now since Gomez had, in fact, been able to "grease" Mexican customs properly and save them the heavy 100 percent duty normally imposed on imported machine tools. They were actually beginning to turn a profit after years of losses. Fenue was beginning to appear to headquarters in Budapest as the equivalent of a "corporate turn-around man."
As Terry was stomping out these small fires, he finally received word in late February from Felipe Urbiola Ledezma that the vacationing Mexican consul in Dallas was "ready to receive you now." This meant Terry had to lay his hands on $20,000 in cash for the "licensing fee."
Marr knew Terry would be needing that money since he had reported his earlier conversation with Urbiola. And Terry still laughed at Gomez' comments when told of the "processing fee."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Gomez had shouted. "I'm paying these mother fuckers enough money as it is. For $20,000 dollars, I could grease up Mother Theresa! But it's Agency money anyway, so what the fuck. No sweat off my mangoes."
"So Mitch, I'm here for the money," Terry told Marr at his house. "I need to run up to the States, bribe this guy and get my ass back down here. I'm busier here than I was up there."
Marr seemed ill-prepared for Terry's demand. He also appeared to be sliding off the wagon that night in late February.
"I can't get it together until tomorrow afternoon," Mitch told him. "I'll go to Guadalajara in the morning. You better come back tomorrow night and by then I'll have it."
This was the first time Marr had not had money ready and waiting for Terry. He was extremely curious where Mitch was doing his "banking." Terry rationalized that with pending Japanese problems, and in light of everything else that had occurred unplanned since arriving there, it wouldn't hurt to know where Mitch was actually getting the money.
Terry knew that Marr normally used a "taxi" when he went to Guadalajara, a kind of Third-World limo service provided by Mexican locals who used their private cars to make a little money. For this reason, Terry was sitting in his Nissan pickup at a strategic point on the Guadalajara highway early the next morning hoping to see Marr pass by.
Sure enough, at precisely 9 AM, Marr went by with his Mexican driver piloting him toward Mexico's sprawling second largest city.
All of Terry's suspicions were confirmed when Marr's cab pulled up in front of the U.S. Consulate. Marr got out and walked to a secure area protected by chain-link fence. Heavy security around the building had been put in place since the abduction in broad daylight in February, 1985, of DEA agent Enrique (Kiki) Camarena on that very street.
The armed guards allowed Marr immediate access through a side entrance. Terry stood on the corner eating peanuts and waiting for Marr's exit, and wondering if by chance he too was being watched. Terry knew he was "sort of" violating Gomez' rule of not acting like a spy, but he wanted to make sure Marr exited the building with a parcel. That way he'd be positive this was the source of money since Marr had gone in empty handed.
Sure enough, approximately 15 minutes later, Marr came out carrying a small attache case. Bingo .... he had found the bank.
That night, as instructed, he went back to Marr's home and was somewhat astonished when the now inebriated Marr handed him $20,000 in brand new, consecutive-numbered $100 bills.
"So how am 1 supposed to get this money to the U.S.?" Terry questioned. "I certainly will have a difficult time explaining to U.S. Customs where I got this if I declare it."
"That's your problem. My job is to get you the money. It's your job to spend it. Wanna stay and watch a film?"
A bad sign, Terry thought. He knew Marr long enough now to realize that when he became overly preoccupied with his VCR and war films, his old problem had returned.
But Marr wasn't the only one withdrawing from reality. Ronald Reagan, too, was sitting alone, in the White House and watching old movies. Reagan had slipped into a deep depression when awakened to the fact he really had been trading arms for hostages. As his popularity slipped for the first time in his presidency, he became a recluse watching the films he had starred in during his youth -- over and over again while sitting in his pajamas.
"Aye fucking caramba!" Richard Tingen exclaimed while looking at the carefully- banded stacks of money that Terry had laid on his desk. "I'm afraid to touch it. Where did you get it?"
"Oh, let's just say I came into it," Terry answered to the young Canadian who was about his age. "Besides, the reason I'm here is Diana (Aguilar) said you help your clientele out with their banking problems, and I'm a client."
It was February 24th, 1987 and Terry was sitting in Tingen's private office in the back of Chapala Realty. Tingen was an interesting man. From what Terry knew, he was a Canadian citizen born of upper middle class parents, and who left college on a summer break to explore Mexico. He never returned. He had been in Mexico more than 20 years, having married a Mexican chilanga from the city of Chihuahua and whose marriage had produced three children. Richard was by now bilingual, and many of the retired gringos assumed incorrectly that he was an attorney.
Well-versed on Mexican contract law, he had become sort of the pied piper of the north shore since those gringos in need of almost any business service gravitated to him. A laid-back individual always sporting a tan, a smile and dressed as if on a perpetual vacation, he had a reputation for solving most problems.
Terry had a problem that morning. He did not want to break American law by transporting $20,000 into the U.S. and not declaring it. His only other alternative was to declare the money and risk the consequence of explaining where and how he obtained it.
"If you'll guarantee me this money's not hot, I have an idea," Tingen said. "I could use some American cash down here for my business and I have money up in the States in my bank in San Antonio. You could give me your cash and I could arrange for you to draw $20,000 out of my bank in the form of cashier's checks. Will that help?"
Terry was relieved. For some strange reason, he just couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen if he tried to transport the money to the U.S. himself. This way, he wouldn't be breaking the law and Tingen considered his favor offset by the fact he had immediate access to $20,000. The float on the money certainly was in his favor. (See chapter end.)
The trip to the States was uneventful. Terry was given cashier's checks totaling $20,000 on February 27th in San Antonio and the next day he tried unsuccessfully to pay the Mexican official with them in Dallas. But he wanted cash only. The Mexican too knew the Barry Seal rule: No papel, no huella (no paper, no trail). The checks were cashed and Raul Gonzalez Certosimo was paid his processing fee ... in green backs.
After entrusting the Mexican to do his job, and get the necessary corporation documents to Robert Johnson in Miami and to the government officials in Mexico City, Terry returned to the land of manana just in time to discover somebody in the States once again had a strange requirement to buy Mexican tools.
"I just received another bill from my customs broker" Fenue said by phone from his Naucalpan office. "The shipment appears to be identical to the last one. It was shipped from San Miguel to the border. This time, I want an answer from your people. Who is using our business license number for this activity?"
Terry could tell by Fenue's voice that their friendship was being strained by this mysterious activity. In Mexico City, both men privately discussed their options since Mitch Marr still seemed unresponsive to Terry's demands for answers and an investigation. And Fenue was beginning to feel vulnerable. Both men fully realized that the main export Mexico was becoming famous for was narcotics. What frightened them both was that whoever was doing this had access to their business names and numbers and someone skilled at not leaving a defined trail.
They had investigated the point of origin of the shipments to an overnight express company that specialized in quickly shipping cargo to the border. Shipping costs for both crates had been paid in cash, thus leaving no paper trail to the sender. The invoices from San Miguel simply showed Maquinaria Internacional as the sender, with the broker in Laredo as the consignee.
Their suspicions were beginning to zero in on Fenue's customs broker and both were wondering if perhaps they were dealing with a much larger smuggling ring, perhaps with connections to some government official who had access to corporate records. If so, they theorized, there was not much they could do about it. But quietly, and without Terry's knowledge, Fenue decided to get to the bottom of it. What he saw was greater risk than Terry felt at the time. He was still a KGB asset and fearful that one of his new-found business partners, the CIA, was setting him up.
Back at the Guadalajara airport, a major screw up had occurred which demanded Terry's immediate attention. One of the sales of machinery Terry had consummated with a firm in Guadalajara required importing an expensive Okamoto Japanese grinder that was warehoused in the States.
The Conex container, a large aluminum shipping box measuring approximately 10 by 20 by 8 feet, housing the grinder had been mistaken by an SAT crew as containing weapons destined for Central America. They had mistakenly delivered to his facility a container full of M-60 grenade launchers and the grinder was sent on to the Contras.
Oh well, mistakes happen in any business, Terry told himself. But as he was trying to track down his equipment and keep his irate Mexican client happy, Terry was beginning to feel like the little Dutch boy with his fingers in the dike. But he was running out of fingers.
Just keeping everyone satisfied and at bay, was becoming a fulltime job. This multi-national concept looked great on paper, but now that he was dealing with volatile personalities intertwined with cultural barriers and personal differences, his prior life in Arkansas seemed at times attractive.
It was, by this time, mid-March and the decisions about the Morelia airport runway, power requirements, foundation specifications, et cetera, had all been made and there was not a lot Terry could do until the new factory building was completed. Ground breaking had occurred for the new technical school and Pat Weber was taking care of all of the political problems associated with the project.
The first weapon to be produced at the new site had been selected. Weber had told Terry it was a weapon that the Israeli military was hoping to add soon to its arsenal as a close-quarter combat weapon. He said his government and the CIA felt it would be a good initial exercise to be conducted on Mexican soil to fine-tune and test the Mexicans' capability to produce quality firearms. It would require casting, machining, plating and heat treating as well as plastic-injection moulding.
It was a rather crude weapon, Terry felt, but certainly would test the concept from A to Z. He had been informed by Weber that the Israelis would be contributing technical expertise to the project in the form of bilingual technicians. What price was Governor Cardenas really paying for all this opportunity, Terry wondered. He predicted one thing for certain -- CIA and Mossad favors don't come without strings attached.
On his desk in Guadalajara lay the blueprints for this weapon. It was a shotgun. But this new weapon the Mexicans were going to "cut their manufacturing teeth on" was not your garden variety shotgun. This one appeared extremely lethal.
Terry knew from his days in Southeast Asia that, from all the modern weapons the Army had to choose from, the grunts still preferred the shotgun in close combat, especially in jungles where vision is limited. The shotgun, the army proved, was the type of weapon a person could fire under duress and perhaps still hit something, due to the larger "pattern" its projectiles created.
The Agency-supplied blueprints defined a 12-round, semi-automatic shotgun that had been recently developed and was to be marketed as the Striker 12-P. It had an 18-inch barrel and looked similar to a Thompson submachine gun making it short and easy to carry. Its over-all length was only 19.7 inches with the stock folded and 26.2 inches with it extended, and its nine-pound weight made it a shoo-in for the Contras, who desperately wanted this weapon.
Terry was studying those prints in early June when he received a near-panic call from Fenue.
"You need to come to Mexico City immediately!," he said.
"Can't it wait until next week? I'm awfully busy," Terry said.
"No, get in that airplane of yours and come now. I have something here you'll find very interesting."
Terry wasted no time. He piloted his twin-engine Piper Seneca II, N13LM, out of the smog-layer overlying Guadalajara into the clear air for the trip to Mexico City.
After getting rid of the cockpit workload required to safely get the plane to altitude and out of Guadalajara's ATC control, his mind began to wander. He dismissed his concerns about why Fenue had summoned him, and his thoughts drifted to his favorite co-pilot. How he wished his son, Duncan, was here with him. Duncan loved flying already and he was only four years old. Terry's mind went back to a special day just before Easter when he and Duncan flew the plane from Mineral Wells, Texas, to Mexico.
He had purchased the plane with the idea of using it in his business in Mexico, in order to better service the industrial base that he was finding was scattered throughout this expansive country and, in many instances, in remote regions served only by bad roads. Once the post-purchase inspection was completed and the plane deemed airworthy, he and his son had picked up the plane at a fixed base operator in Mineral Wells early in the morning and planned to rush back to Guadalajara in one day so that Janis wouldn't worry.
"Two people I love will be in that airplane," she had told him by phone before he left Texas.
"Don't worry," he had told her, gently assuaging her concerns.
"What's the worst that can happen?" she fired back. But she knew what the worst could be. She could lose her oldest son and her husband over the remote desert regions of Mexico.
But nothing was lost that day. On the contrary, a lot was found. To Terry, it was as near a religious experience he felt he could ever have. He and his young son, isolated in the cockpit of an airplane, bonded as few fathers and sons ever had. As the four-year-old "pilot," displaying no fear whatsoever, radioed Guadalajara approach, tears welled up in Terry's eyes.
How could be so lucky? And he was so thankful that he had found a special woman to produce this special child.
"November one-three, Lima Mike, this is Mexico City approach painting you three-zero nautical miles west at eleven thousand five hundred, squawking one-two-zero-zero, state your intentions."
The ATC's voice woke Terry from his trance. On the ground at the Mexico City airport, a pacing Hungarian was waiting for him and it was time to become a pilot and land.
"I'm glad you came immediately," Fenue told him. "I'll take you to the warehouse and show you the 'shipment of tools' I intercepted at the border.
On the way to Cortec's facilities, Terry's Hungarian friend told him of how he had alerted his customs brokers to intercept any additional shipments through their facilities at the border. His instructions to them were to seize any future shipments bearing Cortec's name and to hold them for his personal inspection.
Together they were going to review this third mystery shipment. From what Fenue was saying, it was identical in size, weight and packing as the other two and he could only conclude the others had contained the same "tooling" as this one. He had, in fact, intercepted the crate before it crossed the Rio Grande and had personally returned it by truck to Mexico City.
"IT'S COCAINE!" Fenue said, as he and Terry looked into the crate neatly filled with plastic sealed parcels that were now stored in the private rear office of the warehouse complex. "We've already had it tested and it's pure. My people are not in the drug business ... at least not here in Mexico," he added. "You need to get hold of your boss and find out what exactly is going on here. I have already told my people and they are expecting an answer. Comrade, I'm afraid our friendship is now on the line. Please .... help me with this problem."
The two men were the same age and were caught in the same web of conspiracy and deceit neither could understand. Why either side would be attempting to embarrass the other was beyond their reasoning since both were compromised by their mutual involvement in Screw Worm.
Even though they came from different ideological backgrounds, Fenue and Terry had hoped that their working relationship in Mexico would in some small way bring together their two cultures and countries. They viewed themselves as political pioneers, the equivalent of two young military officers in opposing armies who suddenly realized that the future is in their hands. They had hoped to prove that there was no reason to continue along the same path of hatred and paranoia as their elders had followed. By working well together on this project and laying the groundwork for trust, they had also hoped to prove to their respective handlers that there was no longer the same foundation from which to continue the arms race -- the world's preoccupation with self-destruction that had affected them their entire lives. Somehow this project was, in itself, a fragile experiment in cooperation and understanding. They had dared to dream that the intelligence agencies of the world could teach a lesson to their political masters.
As they were being seated by the pool, Gomez switched suddenly to Spanish. "Senor Cathey dice usted hable Espanol, verdad?" [Google translate: Mr. Cathey says you speak Spanish, right?]
Reed nodded his response.
Gomez continued, "Y nuestro amigo dice que tiene odio para todas Comunistas?" [Google translate: And our friend says he has hatred for all Communists?]
"Yes, the only good one is a dead one, unless he owes me money," Reed answered, stealing a line from his old commie-hater, Hungarian mentor, Emery West, and responding in a manner he figured Gomez would appreciate.
"And Diana, you talk like you're a Mexican. Aren't you still an American, or have you been down here too long?" Terry asked, wanting to pick a fight. "Come on, let me teach you about the balance of power and how we'll never be able to co-exist in peaceful harmony as you ex-hippies all think.
But here they were, staring into a crate that contained a substance that could subvert and compromise the entire operation. Who would be so foolish? Was it someone who, for his own selfish reasons, did not want the political hatred to end?
Was someone toying with both of them?
As a deniable link to the CIA, Terry realized at this very second, how vulnerable he actually was.
by admin » Fri Jun 03, 2016 1:17 am
CHAPTER 27: POWDERED MONEY
John Desko emptied the remnants from his third bottle of Bohemia lager, brought up a belch from the depths of his digestive tract and said, "That's some story, Reed. How in the hell did you get in so deep with these guys?"
Firecracker explosions echoed throughout the Lake Chapala valley, signaling that the 1987 Fourth of July celebrations were in full swing. In the backyard of Terry Reed's walled estate just off the Chapala highway, he was violating a cardinal rule of intelligence.
For the first time since graduation from the U.S. Air Force's intelligence school in 1968, he was crossing the line and possibly compromising an entire operation by passing on sensitive information to a person who did not have "an operational need to know."
In the weeks prior to Desko and his wife arriving for a vacation in Mexico, Terry had been wrestling with his dilemma. He was overwhelmed with the problems that surrounded him and had made the decision to confide in the one person, besides his wife, that he trusted. It was his old buddy from the days in Task Force Alpha. He and Desko had seen each other through their problems before and he was reaching out to John from the darkness.
He had some hard, and possibly life-threatening, decisions to make. And he already knew what he had to do. He needed to hear Desko's words reinforcing his moral choice. He couldn't turn to Janis yet. He had not told her about George Fenue's discovery for fear of frightening her. The entire intelligence operation he was involved with was, in his opinion, out of control. It had degenerated from the business plan he had developed into a monster that he felt was about to devour him. He needed Desko now, more than he had ever needed him in Thailand.
Through their common interests, common values and their ability to communicate, often without words, they had been able to support one another through in their time of mutual, youthful and stressful disillusionment during the war. They had been misled then and through their use of logic had been able to sort through the misinformation being dumped upon them by elders and superiors to find the morsels of truth they needed to sustain them.
As the smoke rose from the barbecue grill, and the steaks sizzled, Terry shared with Desko all the dirty details of not only Screw Worm but also recapped all of his intelligence work since becoming a civilian. It had been an interesting psychiatric session for the two men while the wives sat out of earshot by the pool watching the children swimming.
Terry's worst fears had come true, and most troubling, he had told Desko, was the behavior of Mitch Marr when he had reported George Fenue's discovery of the cocaine.
"So what are you going to do Mitch?" Terry had asked. "Fenue has the evidence you said we needed to prove our case. This time, I and he expect action. I owe him a hard answer to a hard question. Who in the fuck is shipping cocaine through our company?"
Several days later, Terry had gone back to Marr urgently seeking answers. Fenue had severed all business ties until he and his people were told who was behind those shipments. If it were some lone wolf in the organization, he had said, they could accept that, provided this individual was dealt with. Everyone has people problems, Fenue acknowledged. But if this were some kind of CIA conspiracy to embarrass the KGB, he said their cooperation was at an end. And maybe, they might even retaliate. Terry was witnessing first hand, just how easily wars could get started.
"We know nuthin'," Marr slurred. "Call your commie friend back and demand the truth from his end. We think it's his people that are doin' it -- if it's even bein' done. It's still only his word that those crates were bein' shipped up there through his company. How do ya know he's not in the drug business and usin' you for cover? He didn't take ya with him to the border to reclaim that box, did he? Ya can't trust these goddam commies. I could a told ya that. You and Cathey's fuckin' multi-national business plan. I coulda told ya it'd fail ... commie bastards."
Terry was beginning to feel isolated, dealing with a drunk who seemed more preoccupied with "commies" than understanding what was really happening. He always felt that Marr was "in and out of it" with his penchant for the bottle. Now, he wondered if Marr was part if it. And if so, there probably had been no "investigation." Or had there? Could Marr be right? Was Fenue tricking him? Where do you turn for the truth?
All Terry knew was the situation read like a crime novel. A crime had been committed and everyone was pointing fingers at each other, and professing their innocence. One thing for sure, however, Terry was in the middle and felt like a negotiator as all of the participants were walking away from the table. This must have been how Henry Kissinger felt when Le Duc Tho stomped out in Paris. But Kissinger had B-52s to force his return. Terry had nothing. By this time, the Japanese also wanted out of the volatile situation. Frank Fujikawa was living up to the name Marr had given him, "Fuckikawa", and he had sued Terry in federal court in Arkansas in order to distance himself from his involvement in Mexico. By muddying the water between Gomiya and Terry's old firm, Applied Technologies, Fujikawa, he figured, was trying to slow down any investigation that might ensue. Masking the entire Japanese involvement as a "business dispute" was slick, but Terry didn't give Fujikawa the complete credit for the plan's creation. When he heard the name of the law firm Fujikawa had retained, he rationalized that perhaps Frank had "'fessed up" about his Agency involvement to his superiors back in Japan, and now no cost was being spared to implement crucial "face saving" measures.
Gomiya had hired the law firm of Masuda, Funai, Eifert and Mitchell, Ltd., out of Chicago, to blindly build an effective smoke screen in federal court in order to insulate the Japanese firm and Fujikawa's past involvement in "Operation Screw Worm". What Terry found most interesting was that the law firm was none other than the one which had represented the scandalous, treason-riddled firm of Toshiba Machine Company ... the Japanese company that had sold American defense secrets to the KGB. He figured they were a foe to be reckoned with since they appeared to be a firm that applied few litmus tests to those they represented. He wondered if Gomiya/Fujikawa had been so nice as to inform the firm's lawyers about the illegal exporting of the Dianichi computer technology to communist China. Probably not. But recalling the words of his grandfather -- "Attorneys are like ass-holes, everybody with shit on his hands has one" -- he expected this greed-above-ethics behavior.
The FBI knew that this experiment in East-West detente would serve as a possible conduit for the theft of American technology, especially computer technology. Such technology was a specialty of Terry's Oklahoma-based firm, Northwest Industries, Inc., in Oklahoma City. Northwest's founder and president, Emery [Veda] West was no stranger to the world of East-West intrigue. As a political prisoner, he had escaped from his native Hungary during the 1956 uprising and was given asylum in the U.S., but was never completely trusted. The FBI saw every emigre as a possible KGB "plant," or "mole". Enright had been West's handler for years and conveyed privately to Reed his concerns about West's true allegiance.
[Loudon] Oh. Hey, hey. You stole that from Cartier. That's grand theft.
[Nikki] Thanks.
[Loudon] But they're going to come after us.
[Nikki] Loudon, you don't seem to understand. They don't care about this stuff. Those places they deal in diamonds. They don't want the diamonds stolen, so they put stuff like this out for people to take. It's what you call in business a loss leader.
They want us to steal it, yeah.
You understand that? It's like a promotional thing with them.
-- Who's That Girl?, directed by James Foley
Terry was wallowing in deceit and deception. He was still recovering from his discovery of the true identity of John Cathey.
What a day that had been. It was fashionable among the American expatriates in Ajijic to oppose the U.S. policy toward Nicaragua. In fact, a small club had developed whose purpose was to keep track of noteworthy events about the "Yankee imperialists" who were subverting the U.S. Constitution and had even printed bulletins highlighting the Iran-Contra proceedings and hearings underway in Congress.
None of this material, however, included photographs of any of the key participants in these "atrocities." So, one could imagine Terry's astonishment when he discovered John Cathey's true identity while attending "an Iran-Contra wine and cheese party" being hosted by the American gay community in Ajijic. The host was videotaping the hearings in Washington and there, in recorded color, was a uniformed Marine Lieutenant Colonel who appeared to be in "deep shit," too. Oliver North appeared to be "reacting" to these events rather than his usual posture of "acting", as Terry had always seen before.
Janis recognized him, too, causing her to nearly spill her vintage chardonnay on the plush Oaxacan tapestry. This shocking experience had followed yet another startling revelation.
Terry sat in the doctor's office of Roberto Lopez Ramirez reading a secondhand copy of the New York Times dated May 28, 1987 while Janis was being "inspected" by the doctor. He turned to page A-12 and received a shock that nearly stunned him. He discovered from a picture and an in-depth profile that he had been working all along with a Cuban CIA agent by the name of Felix Rodriguez, age 45, who had adopted the code name Max Gomez. The article highlighted the results of Rodriguez/Gomez' testimony before the Congressional hearings on the Iran-Contra affair. He still didn't know Rodriguez/Gomez' background sufficiently, so he confronted Marr with the newspaper who then confirmed Gomez was in reality Felix I. Rodriguez, a Cuban exile activist, Bay of Pigs veteran -- and professional cold warrior.
It all made sense -- now. North had come into his life back in Oklahoma as a CIA agent involved in protecting American nuclear submarine technology. It stood to reason that someone from the National Security Council would be heading up such an investigation, or at least monitoring it closely. Terry was honored to have been dealing with someone of North's stature and ranking within the U.S. intelligence community. Rodriguez was something different, and questionable.
After the dust settled, Terry reported his new-found knowledge about North to Marr and demanded to know if Marr was who he said he was. Was he really Mitch Marr? He swore he was ..... for whatever that was worth.
"Lies or lives," were the words uttered by North during the ensuing Congressional hearings. Terry was learning that the operation was heavy on "lies."
Things were coming apart. Business partners in the Enterprise were becoming disgruntled and suspicious of the operation and each other. To make matters worse, the peso had been devaluing horribly, dashing hopes of building a bonafide business. The life of James Bond was truly a fantasy.
As the two men finished their backyard conversation and downed more Bohemia, Terry added, "Well, JD, you're lucky you got out of the intelligence game. I'm in way over my head and I don't know who to reach for."
"The whole situation sounds FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition) to me," Desko responded. "I'd get my family the hell out of here if I were you. These guys are playing hardball. And as far as your reaching out for help, you know you can always count on me, but I can't do much for you down here. If you can make your way out of Mexico, and up to Albuquerque, that's my backyard. The desert has a way of just swallowing things up, if you know what I mean. I can arrange that, if that's what you want." Desko had to pause in order to finish his beer, belch once again, and continue. "But I know you, Terry, and that's not your style. In Thailand we always dealt with our problems head on. You gotta reach down deep inside of yourself and find that guy I knew in Thailand. You've made tough decisions before."
Desko was right and he knew it. His old friend from the past was sending him a cryptic message: Terry had to take matters into his own hands if he was to survive, the way he had survived in Southeast Asia. The military's "sheep mentality", as they called it, needed to be continuously questioned. At times, they had found it necessary to disregard orders and policies in order to protect themselves. Without telling him what to do, Desko was reminding Terry of what he had to do.
Terry recalled one of their dilemmas in Thailand in which it appeared to them the Air Force needlessly put them in harm's way and possibly was going to sacrifice them.
As a result of the Tet Offensive, in which there were more Americans killed by friendly fire than by the VC, the military had changed its policy of giving each soldier a weapon and ammunition. In Thailand, that policy had developed to the point of ludicrousy to where each arriving airman was assigned an M16 rifle, which was kept locked in the armory and made available to them only for cleaning and in emergencies. And even then, they had learned to their chagrin that ammunition for the weapons would not be provided until, in their minds, it would be too late. This ridiculous policy obviously had been decided on by some Pentagon bureaucrat in Washington or by a general basking in Hawaii. To Terry and Desko, who had been raised in a rural survivalist environment, this policy made no sense. If they were mature enough to be there, and to be put in harm's way, why were they not entrusted with the weapons they needed to defend themselves?
Their unit, Task Force Alpha, situated at the perimeter of the base, had been put on Red Alert in the early months of 1970, fearing that North Vietnamese regulars who had crossed the Mekong River into Thailand, were recruiting Hanoi-sympathetic Thais and massing them for an attack. All enlisted personnel assigned to the top secret project had a secondary mission of augmenting the security force for this type of emergency. The first time this had happened Terry and Desko were assigned to a perimeter bunker and, to their disbelief, were left there alone in the dark with no ammo.
In the event of an attack, an armed military policeman with a radio was to call for ammunition to be delivered. As they sat there in fear, peering into the jungle in front of them that night, they swore this would never happen again.
Later, they decided that if their own superiors wouldn't arm them adequately, they would supply themselves from the thriving black market in the nearby town of Nakhon Phanom. There, they illegally purchased four magazines of M16 ammunition, which they taped to their legs under their jungle fatigues when the next emergency came. The security police technical sergeant in the bunker with them took note of their action and exclaimed, "Where in the fuck did you guys get the ammo?"
"We could tell ya, but it's classified. And then we'd have to kill ya," Desko had replied sardonically.
SI EGO CERTIOREM FACIAM, MIHI TU DELENDUS ERIS
This patch was designed as a generic insignia for "black" projects conducted by the Navy's Air Test and Evaluation Squadron Four (VX-4) based at Point Mugu, California. It was reportedly used during the navy's involvement with the TSSAM program. It may still be worn by members of the VX-9 squadron formed from a merger of VX-4 and VX-5. VX-9's mission is to test strike aircraft, conventional weapons, electronic warfare equipment, and to develop tactics involving these weapons systems. The Latin phrase "Si Ego Certiorem Faciam ... Mihi Tu Delendus Eris" roughly translates into a cliche commonly heard in the vicinity of "black" programs: "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
But the phrasing here is unusual because it is written in the passive voice: a more accurate translation of the Latin would be "I could tell you, but then you would have to be destroyed by me." By employing the passive voice the patch's designer makes two references that don't exist in other phrasings. The first reference is to the Greek God of Chaos, Eris, about whom Homer wrote in Book Four of the Iliad:
"[Eris] whose wrath is relentless, she is the sister and companion of murderous Ares. She who is only a little thing at the first, but thereafter grows until she strides on the earth with her head striking heaven. She then hurled down bitterness equally between both sides as she walked through the onslaught making men's pain heavier."
The passive phrasing of the Latin also echoes the words of a Second century B.C. Roman senator named Cato the Elder, who roamed the Senate repeating the words "Carthago delenda est"—"Carthage must be destroyed." In 149 B.C., Cato got his wish and Rome attacked the city, which was located in North Africa near present-day Tunis. Three years after beginning their assault, the Roman army overran Carthage, tore down its walls, and sold its inhabitants into slavery. After the Roman Senate declared that no one would ever live where Carthage had stood, legend holds that Rome salted the earth around the city in order to ensure that Carthage would remain a wasteland for generations.
-- I Could Tell You But Then You Would Have to Be Destroyed By Me: Emblems From the Pentagon's Black World, by Trevor Paglen
This survivalist instinct is what had gotten them through the war. They were young men being forced to second-guess all their leaders' decisions, whereas those who put them in harms way should have been looking out for the Reeds and the Deskos who were serving their nation. War is a black or white, life or death issue. You don't just "sort of" die and you don't just "sort of" defend yourself. To Reed and Desko, their civilian leaders were playing politics with human lives while Henry Kissinger was playing politics in Paris, being chauffeured in his Citroen, and dining in the gourmet capital of the world.
As the Deskos and Reeds ate their barbecued steak that night, sampled Mexican red wine and prepared to attend Chapala's nighttime fireworks display, little did Terry and Desko know that the next day, July 5th, would be Terry's independence day, the day he would have to take matters into his own hands again, and sever himself from the CIA.
The following day, the phone rang and it was Raul Fierro, the "padron" at the Guadalajara airport. Fierro was upset. He couldn't gain access to a cargo shipment being held in Terry's airport warehouse. Terry had changed the locks for security reasons and Fierro's keys no longer worked. On an earlier occasion, Terry had found two Mexican guards who said they had gained access through an open door wandering inside the facility. Terry decided to change the locks and had been unable to connect with Fierro to provide him a new key.
"You got to get out here right away," Fierro said. "There's a bird on the ground. I've got a whole crew standing around waiting to receive cargo. Bypass main security when you arrive, I'll tell the guards to let you in."
Leaving the wives at home, Terry and Desko drove together to the airport in Terry's BMW. Access to the field and through Mexican security was swift. As they rounded the corner of the taxiway that led to Terry's warehouse they saw an L-100, the civilian version of a C-130, bearing a gray and white color scheme and the name of Southern Air Transport. The giant cargo plane, North American registration No. N517SJ, was backed into loading position by the main door of Maquinaria Internacional's facility. Though Reed didn't realize it at the time, this was the same airplane he had seen on May 30th, parked in nearly the same position.
However on May 30th it bore a different registration number, N46965, but had the identical paint scheme, a black band running longitudinal down the fuselage, separating white above the stripe and light gray below it. The number change was discovered in a search at the FAA records center in Oklahoma City by investigative reporter Jerry Bohnen, who found that tail number N46965 had been surrendered back to the FAA by SAT and replaced by N517SJ.*
Reed and Desko noted that the plane's loading ramp was down, but after circling the plane with the car, they ascertained no crew members were present, so Terry parked 100 yards from his warehouse under the shaded general aviation aircraft parking area.
"Before we go find these guys, JD, I'd like to go inside and make sure there's no mix-up on the cargo they've come for." This was a reference to the earlier foul-up in which Terry's machinery was accidentally shipped south.
From invoices he had received, there should have been another grinder belonging to Maquinaria Internacional in one of the containers. To avoid another cargo mix up, both Terry and Desko decided it was necessary to open the two conex containers stored in the warehouse to determine which one to ship.
After breaking the metal band attached to the handle of the container nearest the hangar door, Terry, to his horror, unexpectedly found the "hard evidence" that Marr had demanded.
Desko coolly peered inside the container. He shook his head in disgust. "If these guys can get loads like this in, Terry, the Agency obviously has the DEA and customs under their control."
The two men were looking in disbelief at a load of cocaine that measured at least 10 feet by 20 feet and five feet deep.
The container was filled waist high with green wooden weapons crates with rope handles. They were about four feet long, 24 inches wide and 12 inches high. Two of the boxes, whose label said they held rifles, had shifted in transit, and one had spilled its contents. Clearly visible were at least 12 rectangular parcels neatly wrapped in plastic and sealed with duct tape. From all the movies they had ever seen, the two men were certain the white powdery substance they were looking at was cocaine.
"It's either cocaine or someone is spendin' a hell of a lotta money to air transport sugar," Desko said.
"It's gotta be tons!" Terry exclaimed. "Think this'll be enough evidence for Marr? Fenue certainly had nothing to do with this shipment."
SO MUCH FOR THE WAR ON DRUGS!
Terry told Desko to return quickly to the car. He did not want his friend to become more deeply enmeshed in what they had found. Neither man realized it then, but Desko would become Terry's witness to that infamous day: July 5th, 1987, when Terry knew for a certainty that the CIA was in the drug business .... in a big way!
Now Terry knew he had to act. With Desko out of the building, Terry decided to give Marr the hard evidence he had been demanding. What better way than to "store" some samples as evidence just in case Marr continued to insist that it was only the "commies" who deal in drugs.
With the evidence safely tucked away in a nearby tool box, the Conex container closed and Desko out of view sitting behind the tinted windows of the BMW outside, Terry set out to find Fierro. He figured it would be best just to get the crate out of the warehouse as fast as possible and give himself time to think. He didn't want to create a scene with Fierro on his own turf. Always pick the time and the place, his grandfather had taught him.
Terry exited the hangar and went to the flight planning section of aerial operations looking for the crew. He found himself in an entourage of pilots and cargo handlers. In addition to Fierro, Terry recognized SAT pilot John McRainey, whom he had met at Marr's party and who was wearing an orange flight suit. There was another Anglo pilot and two Latino loadmasters wearing sanitized flight suits, whom he did not know. The suits all had the velcro attachment points for name tags and rank insignia, giving them the appearance of being the military issue variety.
Fierro requisitioned two Mexicana forklifts and operators to load the container aboard the waiting SAT aircraft. Noticing that the band of the container had been broken, McRainey asked Terry if there was a problem with the cargo. Terry simply replied that he had opened it to make sure which of the two containers belonged to him, and no further questions were asked. After seeing the cargo safely loaded, and giving Fierro his new keys, Terry watched the L-100 engines fire up and taxi away from his warehouse. He was anxious to lock up his facility and return to his waiting friend, glad that no one had spotted him sitting in the car behind the tinted windows.
"OK, Mitch. This is not my paranoia at work and my 'commie friend' had nothing to do with this shipment," Terry began 90 minutes later as he stood in Marr's den. Marr could tell by Terry's demeanor that it was time to put down the tequila and the channel changer and just listen.
After rehashing the events at the airport, Marr attempted to theorize that Terry was, again, witnessing some sort of DEA "controlled delivery" (sting) operation and that SAT was merely the courier for the drugs. It wasn't uncommon, he said, for the CIA and the DEA to work in concert for this sort of black operation. He apparently could see Reed's anger surfacing and that he wasn't buying this line. So he then promised to get in touch with Gomez/Rodriguez and to get to the bottom of things.
Marr's reference to an earlier incident was an occurrence on May 30th, in which Terry inadvertently walked in on what appeared to be a drug transshipment going on at a hangar next door to his facility, where the DEA stored and maintained its aircraft. That incident, which Terry had reported to Marr as well, again involved an SAT L-100 and crew that appeared to be receiving drug cargo from a Mexican-registered Cessna 182RG being operated by the American DEA.
The longer he sat and fumed, the angrier he became. The sight of Marr being drunk again added to his rage. Terry wasn't buying any theories from Marr. He wanted answers.
"I don't mean to sound threatening, Mitch, but I figure 48 hours is long enough to get an answer about the plane, the crew, its contents, and most of all, what the hell was that shit doing in my facility in the first place?"
"Calm down," Marr slurred as he attempted to extricate himself from his papa-san chair. "I'll get with fuckin' Gomez ... I mean Rodriguez, and tell him you're pissed. He'll get to the bottom of things."
Marr escorted Terry to the gate of his compound and was shocked to see Reed's car parked directly in front of his house. He was even more shocked seeing Desko sitting there staring at him.
"Who's he?" Marr said somewhat taken aback. "I didn't know you drove here ... you're not supposed to be this visible, you know."
"He's an old Air Force buddy of mine, Mitch. Down for the holidays. And about me drivin' here, I figure this is an emergency ... don't you?"
As the two men drove off, Terry turned to John and informed, "JD, you just met my handler, Mitch Marr."
It didn't take 48 hours for Marr to report back. But he didn't seek out Terry to relay any answers to his questions.
"The shipment is short two bags ... you know anything about that?" Marr queried.
That was it. The trick had worked. Terry had dyed the water and the man who allegedly knew nothing was standing there with dye on his hands. Nothing else needed to be said. Marr had gone for the bait. Terry had not told him about the two parcels he had taken from the container. He had hoped and yet feared he would get this response.
The CIA was dirty.
Instead of Marr giving him the answers he had demanded and giving the illusion of concern about the drugs .. .here he was standing at Terry's front gate being concerned only about the shipment being shy some cargo.
Now, Terry's nightmare scenario was unfolding and becoming a reality. He recalled his words that night more than a year earlier in Arkansas. "Hey, he had said, "what's the worst that can happen?"
Now, he knew the answer. And since that day, Terry's life had gone steadily downhill. He felt a swarm of emotion; anger, isolation, the feeling of being used, but, most of all, he felt violated. Patriotism had become a joke. It had become just another word for profiteering. His patriotism had been exploited in Southeast Asia and now it was happening again. The selfishness, greed and illegal activity by a handful of renegade CIA operatives had placed him and his family in peril.
At this moment he could not be certain exactly who was involved in trafficking and how high up the chain-of-command it went. He wanted to reach out for Oliver North, whom he considered the only true professional ever involved in the disintegrating organization. He still trusted North, who, Terry believed, was someone too straight to be involved in drug activity. But North had problems of his own as he prepared for his congressional testimony, and Terry had no idea of how to locate him. North probably couldn't even be approached now that he was insulated by attorneys, Terry reasoned. And would North even acknowledge him now?
How long had America been in the drug business, he and Desko wondered? In Laos, Terry had been aware that certain U.S. military personnel had been arrested and court-martialed for shipping heroin under the guise of "classified material." Now, seemingly alone and helpless, he was smack in the middle of a drug ring and was being set-up to take the fall if anything went wrong. The company documents all bore his name and everything seemed to be disintegrating.
Terry thought there could be no lower point in his life. His foreign business partners wanted out, and their money back. His reputation as an honest businessman was being destroyed.
George Fenue had already walked away to protect his communist-backed trading company. George could not allow his firm to be associated with trafficking. His Japanese partner had sued him and was holding Terry personally responsible for the business losses.
And it was becoming clear to Terry that Rodriguez and company would take the drug profits as long as they could, and then let "the commies" take the fall along with Terry, if the activities were discovered or if anyone got out of line ... Rodriguez, George Bush's good friend, would later write a book entitled Silent Warrior telling of his selfless patriotic service to America, even as he was tightening the noose around Terry, and would probably choke and kill him if he didn't go along.
Fate had placed Terry in a dangerous position. Through no fault of his own, he had become a major liability for Rodriguez. If Terry could not be controlled, and he had no skeletons in his closet, the CIA's dirtiest secret could now become public knowledge.
For six stressful days, Terry attempted to entertain the Deskos to whom he had promised to show the hidden beauty of Mexico. As they drove through beautiful Mexican countryside, Terry's mind was elsewhere. He kept reassembling the major events in his life that had led him here and to this "Y" in the road where he now stood. Life was complex, yet simple, he realized.
You lose your way a little at a time. He felt he had made no one major decision in life that had put him here ... It was just the opposite. It was those little decisions that were all adding up to a major problem. As he often did, he compared his situation to flying. It's like a pilot failing to make the minor adjustments in heading and attitude that keep a plane squarely on altitude and course. Instead, the unwary pilot looks up and wonders "How in the hell did this mountain get in front of me?" That's exactly how he felt.
It was good having Desko with him. As John sat in the right front seat and they relived their travail in Thailand and talked of the innocence they had then, the answer to his problem was becoming clearer. He had to go back and find and re-assemble the pieces of himself he had lost along the way. The pieces of his grandfather that he felt lived within him still. His hard-headed grandfather who saw things in black and white, would never have gotten this far off course. Had it been money? Was it power? Was it post-Vietnam stress syndrome? What had gotten him here?
He didn't have one singular answer, but he knew the solution to his problem was going to require inner strength and to do what he should have done a long time ago in Thailand. Stand up. Just say no.
When confronted with the gut-wrenching decision in Southeast Asia during his military service, that of participating in the destruction of American POWs, he had given in to their logic: "If you don't do it someone else will." This time it was going to be different. He felt like he was being given a second chance to do it the right way. This time they could do it without him, and he was prepared to suffer their wrath. He knew it would be the hard way.
He and John were the only two in the motor home who knew what had happened and talked privately of Terry's possible options. They both kept coming back to the same alternatives: Either turn your back and walk away or play ball. The second option was unacceptable. How many powerful men are out there, Reed and Desko wondered, who owe their fortune and their power to the CIA and its drug proceeds? Does anyone truly make it anymore on his own?
And what about the Israelis, he was thinking. It had been a while since he had seen Pat Weber. Were the Israelis in on drug trafficking with the CIA? Why was Weber hanging out with the likes of Rodriguez? He didn't have the answers to these complex questions.
But he was about to find out.
As soon as the Desko family departed for the states, Reed returned to Marr's house for another round of questions and answers. He didn't need to be coached by his dead, mule-trading great-grandfather in order to realize that his only trump card was the "evidence" he was "safeguarding".
Mitch was anxious to take possession of the missing evidence, but Reed wanted some answers to some nagging questions before any deal could be struck. He demanded from Marr an accounting of the remainder of the people he had been put into play with in "Screw Worm".
Marr swore on a stack of his favorite VHS tapes that Terry was in for no more shocking revelations. "Gomez is Rodriguez, Cathey is North, and I'm the authentic Mitchell Fuckin' Marr, that's it ... no more surprises ... I swear on top of my non-pirated copy of Apocalypse Now."
That sworn statement held water about as long as it took Terry to get to Mexico city to consummate the divorce proceedings of the joint venture with the Hungarians. They too were reading TIME magazine, Newsweek, The New York Times, and Pravda about the Iran-Contra scandal and were eager to get as far away from the Agency's negocio mal (bad business) as they could get.
Terry and Fenue sat in Cortec's office and talked into the night, sensing this would be their last contact permitted with each other. While trying their damndest to destroy their livers, his young Hungarian friend listened intently while Terry attempted to explain his motivations for dragging Technoimpex into this mess and doing the best he could to genuinely apologize.
The Washington scandal wasn't the only thing the KGB seemed to be well-informed on. Fenue said he had a full report on the cocaine activity and "his people" had concluded that Max Gomez and "friends" were behind it. But it was so intertwined, as he put it, into other Agency activities, both legitimate and otherwise, that it was impossible for them to know how high up the CIA chain of command approval for such activity went.
"It would be as difficult as determining if it were only the CIA and KGB who killed Kennedy," he said with a smirk and a gleam in his eye.
He went on to advise Terry not to get overly concerned, as he put it, about the Agency's trafficking problems, and said the KGB had been infected with this same problem for years except "Moscow's finest" preferred dealing in heroin instead of cocaine.
Fenue said he knew the true identity of the American agents Terry had been dealing with, and a lot more besides. After killing the last of the Oso Negro Mexican vodka, he added pensively, "You need to be careful comrade, you are traveling in a very high orbit. Higher than you realize perhaps, and I wouldn't want to see you shot down like Gary Powers .... and your old friend, Barry Seal."
The effects of the alcohol dulled the wave of emotion that tried to sweep through Terry as he deciphered the Hungarian's coded transmission. He had no inkling, up to now, that Fenue even knew the name Barry Seal, and now he was finding his friendship with Seal was a matter of KGB record.
"George, where did you get the name Barry Seal, and what makes you think I was a friend of his?" Terry questioned in a low key manner, not wanting to cause a premature termination of the conversation.
The question forced Fenue to become even more cagey. "As Joe Bona [the KGB agent] always said, we aren't like the CIA. We don't have to wait until things happen in order to discover them."
While Fenue was still basking in the victory of this verbal touche, Reed decided to get serious with the drinking, thinking it might loosen his comrade's tongue. When he returned from the office refrigerator with some ice cold Corona, popped the tops on two, and took a long slow swallow, Fenue began, "Listen, Terry. I like you and Janis and your children. You don't have to get me drunk in order to get me in bed. You look in need of a friend. I'll quit playing games, what do you want to know? You get one question."
"Tell me all about Seal ... for beginners," Reed responded letting Fenue know he would press for more than one question.
Fenue gulped down half a beer, belched and while staring at the ceiling, began,
"Adler Berriman Seal.
"He worked for the CIA since the early 70's.
"He was a CIA pilot .... among other things.
"His handler was CIA Agent Leroy Tracta.
"Your government fucked him, arrested him, and put him on trial after his arrest on set-up explosives charges.
"He penetrated and worked directly inside the Medellin Cartel for both the CIA and your DEA ... and others.
"He was the one who masterminded the CIA/Sandinista sting operation.
"He worked on operations Jade Bridge and Centaur Rose with you in Arkansas.
"He took you to Panama for a meeting on 'Operation Screw Worm' ... as you call it.
"He introduced you to the Israeli agent that is now involved in Screw Worm, Weber, Pat Weber is his code name.
"Bona approached and unsuccessfully tried to 'turn' him.
"He bribed and successfully 'turned' one of our agents here in Mexico.
"He bought from that agent a copy of a very compromising surveillance video showing your vice president Bush's children caught in a very compromising situation.
"He was killed not for the reasons alleged by your government.
"He took with him to his grave more secrets than I ever want to know.
"Have I left anything out? Let me see ... oh yes, he was a Cancer like you, and strangely he shared your birthday. July 16th. He was born in 1939 .... you in 1948. You see, you aren't the only one with a photographic memory."
If Fenue could perform this well drunk, it was scary to think what he'd be capable of sober. Before Terry could absorb all that had been spit out, literally between gulps of Corona, Fenue added, "How's that for mind control, Senor Estrella?"
Shit, Reed thought, Fenue out-gunned any agent he'd ever met, professional or otherwise, military or civilian -- Red, or Red, White & Blue. He even knew his code name. There was only one way he could know this much about the American intelligence operations .... they had a mole .... a double agent had to be in the American camp. He had reconstructed an entire dossier from a vision on a blank ceiling.
"'Impressive ... So who actually killed Kennedy?" Reed asked.
"'You used up your one question," Fenue answered still staring intently at the ceiling.
'"At least you have to tell me the real name of the Israeli you mentioned. Since you know it's a code name, you must know his true identity. Come on, impress me again," Reed baited.
"'Sure, why not. Your side knows who he is. Our side knows who he is. His side knows who he is. You're the only one in the dark," he castigated Reed. "'His true name is Amiram Nir, the Israeli Prime Minister's Advisor on Combating Terrorism. You should be honored to be orbiting with him, he's very connected .... He's also a nice guy, about our age."
With that Fenue inhaled one more beer and terminated the unsettling conversation. "'There, I've crossed the line for you." He paused to belch then peered intensely into Reed's eyes. "'Someday, comrade, I'll expect the favor to be repaid .....with interest, as you capitalists say."
Freedman and the men of Delta knew they could rely on each other. The Agency, on the other hand, had demonstrated a propensity to distance itself from anything that could go awry and seemed to be planning escape routes from responsibility even before operations commenced. "They'll have you crawl way out on a limb and then saw off the branch," said one former Delta Force leader. "They've done it many times."
-- The Book of Honor: The Secret Lives and Deaths of CIA Operatives, by Ted Gup
* The information obtained from the FAA records in 1991 by investigative reporter Jerry Bohnen, showed that both tail numbers associated with L-100 aircraft supporting Reed's operation had indeed been issued to Southern Air Transport in Miami, Florida. Curiously, both had been assigned to the same plane in the summer of 1987. This in effect gave SAT the ability to give one plane the appearance of being two different ones, just as Barry Seal had done to his Lear jet during his covert trip to Panama with Reed. One can then conclude that the plane which Reed saw on May 30, was the same one he witnessed on July 5.
CHAPTER 28: WHAT A BIRTHDAY PRESENT!
The sound of the airplane engine at red-line RPM and the propeller being cycled through its feather check was a welcome distraction to Terry Reed's task at hand, coming to grips with his decision to turn his back on the covert world.
He could not pay the price. He could not look the other way while the CIA trafficked in narcotics. His family, he was certain, was in danger, and it was up to him to extricate them from this mess. Once again, Terry was preparing a contingency plan.
This, for Terry, was worse than assimilating a scenario for nuclear war in which nations would be attacked. He had done that before while working for SAC (Strategic Air Command). For now, it was he and his family who were the targets that faced destruction.
As he sat and mulled this over, the decibel-shattering sound from the airplane engine being tested next door was rather like music to his ears, blocking out the considerable problems facing him that summer day at the Guadalajara airport.
An internal combustion engine straining and revving at full speed plied itself like an aphrodisiac to his psyche as he sat among the file cabinets and machine-tool manuals spread around the large room that served as corporate headquarters of Maquinaria Internacional, S.A.
Movement in the adjoining warehouse quickly brought him back to reality. Gazing through the large glass windows that separated his office from the warehouse, he saw a familiar face, a man gesturing with both hands and quietly motioning Terry to step out onto the airport tarmac.
Terry joined him outside and the man introduced to him earlier in Mexico City as Pat Weber was nervously scanning the area to see if anyone was watching them. Both men stepped into an area between the warehouse and Terry's plane parked outside.
The unexpected visitor spoke first. "I didn't want to talk inside," he said. "The place might be bugged." Terry got the uncomfortable feeling one gets when conversing with someone who has a floating eye, and he found himself looking at the glass eye rather than the good one.
He shifted his focus to the good one in order to concentrate on what the Israeli intelligence agent was saying. Pat Weber spoke first in native Hebrew and then quickly translated. "We have a saying in Israel ... Jews survive by their cunning. And we need to be cunning right now. I tell you this because our people are very upset by the cowboy actions of your people. You are the only low key avenue to North that I know of, now that Seal is gone."
The date was July 16th, 1987, Terry's birthday, only days after Oliver North had finished his marathon testimony before the Iran-Contra committees in Washington and five days since John Desko and his wife had returned home.
Outside the office, before Weber got started with detailing his problems, Terry decided it was time to test the agent's behavior to his new-found knowledge pertaining to Weber's alleged true identity.
"I was told your true name is Amiram Nir and you are a highly placed agent working closely with the prime minister's office. Is that true? I need to know the truth ... I need to know who I can trust."
Weber glared back intensely, asking "Who told you that ... your people? I'll bet it was that drunk, Marr."
"Yes," Reed answered deciding to hang the security slip on Robert Duvall's clone.
"Well," the Israeli began, "I suppose it's best you know. We can go directly to the business at hand. I won't have to mince words, as you people say."
Nir then confided that he felt he could no longer travel safely and unobserved in the United States even under his alias. He had been compromised. His other contact, the one he had referred to was Adler Berriman Seal, who had been murdered 17 months earlier. So adrift in Mexico, and fearful of what he had pieced together through deduction, Nir said he had come to Terry desperately seeking a channel to North. His fear centered on Felix Rodriguez, the man Washington had put in charge of things in Mexico. The Enterprise was now in a free fall, reporting channels were severed and anyone of importance in Washington now had an attorney that had sealed his lips.
Referring to Rodriguez, Nir said in a tone bordering on fear and laced with disbelief, "That crazy Cuban madman is going to take us all down. I don't understand why your vice president (George Bush) can't control him. My God, he was the director of the CIA ... doesn't he realize this incident had all the markings of an international double-agent setup? I'm effectively neutralized with the hearings in progress. I'm being watched. My phones are bugged. I can't travel. Shit, I'm even afraid for Pat Weber. Where can we talk that's for sure a safe place."
Terry could not believe the change in Nir's demeanor. The cool, calm man with the analytical mind he had seen in Panama, Mexico City and Zirahuen was now obviously gripped by paranoia and fear. What had happened to him? Why had Weber sought him out, Terry wondered.
(The Israeli's reference to Bush was no accident. Bush was definitely no stranger to this man. Just a year earlier in Jerusalem, Nir had briefed the then-vice president in detail about what had been called the Iran initiative involving the swap of American weapons for hostages being held in Beirut. The earlier meeting between Nir and Bush had been arranged by Oliver North. [1] But Nir's links to the upper echelon of the American government were now severed due to the shootdown of the C-123 over Nicaragua the previous October. That incident had not only led to the exposure of American involvement with the Contra supply effort, but also to the Israeli "cut-out" and their secret dealings with Iran on behalf of the U.S.)
Nir was sensing a double-cross and he believed Rodriguez was behind it. He needed to confide this to Terry, but was paranoid about being seen with him.
Terry had a solution to Nir's security fears. "Why not up in my airplane?" he suggested. "We can fly to Morelia and pretend to be inspecting the runway construction for 'Z.'* That will give us a couple of hours alone together. And surely, they can't eavesdrop on us at thirteen thousand feet."
But Nir hesitated. He had a thing about flying in small airplanes. "I don't trust those little airplanes. I'm sorry it's, how do you say, a phobia." In hindsight, this was an odd disclosure considering Nir's death in a small single-engine commuter aircraft 16 months later near Morelia where they were now heading. The accident came just a week after Bush's election to the presidency and it sealed forever the lips of the one man who could have revealed exactly how "in the loop" George Bush really was.
"My little plane is not so little," Terry reassured him. "Besides it's a twin [two engines] and I have over 3,000 hours pilot time. Come on, it's the only place I feel safe unless they shoot us down with triple A (anti-aircraft artillery). Just joking."
"The thought of triple-A fire reminds me of the Yom Kippur War," he answered.
"And Yom Kippur is how Cathey ... I mean North and I believe a war should be fought," Terry stated while draining the fuel sumps on the left wing. He still hadn't gotten used to Cathey's real name.
To calm Nir's nerves, he had him assist in the pre-flight of the aircraft. "You Israelis are lucky, you don't have a fucked-up Congress. You have leadership with direction and you win decisively. Not like our Vietnam."
"This could turn out to be our Vietnam if it's not controlled properly," the Israeli noted somberly. "You must bypass Marr and Rodriguez and get to North ... And about the way we fight. It's not that we have any better leadership than you. As I've told North, we just fight scared. Our backs are to the sea. It gives you motivation to win. The will to live is motive enough, don't you agree?"
"Yes, but I always thought you Jews had a couple of other hidden advantages."
"Oh, what are those?"
"You own the banks of the world and God is always on your side. Or is it the other way around?", Terry joked.
Nir laughed as he walked around the plane and assisted in the safety check, a strategy Terry often used to put passengers at ease. "By watching you safety check the plane, I feel more comfortable about flying in it. But I definitely would not go up in one with only one motor," Nir added.
As the Piper-Seneca II commenced its take-off roll, Terry brought the manifold pressure needles up to the red line ... 40 inches of mercury and the tachometer needles on both engines to 2,575 RPM. Exactly the correct reading for a high-density take off considering the 5,000-foot elevation of the Mexican runway.
The ground speed quickly built to 66 KIAS, Terry "rotated," cross-checked the attitude indicator, air speed, and confirmed on the vertical speed indicator a positive rate of climb. He then "sucked-up" the landing gear, and was once again absorbed in his love of flying. But somehow, he thought, flying had complicated his life. After all, it was his flying ability that impressed North, Barry Seal and Bill Cooper. Definitely, there's something to be said of a "pilot personality" -- a calculated risk taker, he could hear Seal say.
But what of Emile Camp, he thought, as he banked the airplane to a southeasterly heading. Camp had been flying a plane just like this one when he crashed in February, 1985, near Rich Mountain in Arkansas. That still haunted Terry considering the expertise he had seen exhibited by Camp. It just didn't add up, "buying the farm" that way.
He suddenly realized his mind was wandering, something deadly for a pilot. He forced himself back into the cockpit to relay his flight plan to the Mexican air traffic controller below.
"Roger, Guadalajara," he then reported. "Understand, November one-three Lima Mike is radar contact heading one-zero-zero degrees climbing through niner-point-five for one-three-thousand, cleared vector five, Morelia. Please inform Commandante Fierro that this is a 'Sierra Whiskey' sortie and to process the flight plan as usual."
The air traffic controller's voice changed markedly when he heard Fierro and the code name mentioned together. That meant that this was an intelligence flight that would require "special handling" by the ATC system in Mexico. In fact, once the craft arrived safely in Morelia, the ATC knew to erase all stored computerized data concerning this flight. He was to destroy all physical evidence of the flight plan. In other words, the ATC was to eliminate any and all data concerning "Sierra Whiskey" flights in and out of Guadalajara. Once the safety of the flight was insured, as far as the outside world would know, the flight never happened.
"Roger, Seneca one-three Lima Mike. Guadalajara copies. Sierra Whiskey in effect. Have a good trip, Capitan Reed."
The Israeli in the right front seat started to relax somewhat as the pilot leveled off at 13,000 feet and engaged the autopilot.
"OK, here we are alone. Lay it on me." He slid the pilot's seat rearward to get a better view of the Israeli. The plane was now flying itself at 200 MPH heading easterly toward Morelia.
And lay it on he did. Terry's worst nightmare scenario began to unfold. It was worse even than his discovery 11 days ago that the CIA and Rodriguez were trafficking in drugs.
Nir expressed to him the belief that Rodriguez was a double-agent -- and directly responsible for the shootdown over Nicaragua the previous October of Bill Cooper's C-123 supply plane and the capture of Eugene Hasenfus.
How ironic this was, Nir pointed out, because he had warned Seal before his death that there was a "leak" in the Enterprise that could bring about a political thunderclap. And that's exactly what happened when the C-123 crashed and exposed to the world the deviousness of the Reagan administration.
There were too many disturbing coincidences to that crash. "Think about it for a minute," Nir demanded. "We're not so naive to believe that these happenings are circumstantial. Just try to explain away these events. Number one, you knew Bill Cooper much better than I. I've been told he was an excellent flyer. You don't live to be a 60-year-old pilot acting reckless! What was he doing flying many miles off his flight plan course, and directly over a Sandinista stronghold ... a military training camp no less?
"Number two, why did the aircraft have unnecessary and classified documents aboard? Documents from prior missions reflecting the dates of the flights, the crew members' names, the tonnage and descriptions of the munitions and the coordinates of the drop zones.
"Number three. Why was the crew not sanitized as the orders always called for? My God, Bill Cooper even had his Southern Air Transport identification card with him: That we cannot accept as an accident. My God, a direct link to the CIA. Cooper knew better!
"Number four, this guy Hasenfus ... the dumb ass survivor ... what kind of a story is this? No one was to have a parachute. The intention is to always go down with the craft in case of an incident like this. You know from your training that is the procedure, no one is to live. No loose ends. Instead, this guy claims his brother bought him a parachute in Wisconsin? My God, if it wasn't so serious, it would be funny.
"Number five. How does he know the plane was hit by a surface to air missile? If he was blown out of the plane by the explosion as he claims, he wouldn't even have seen it coming, let alone recognize the type of weapon.
"No sir, it's all too convenient. Daniel Ortega 'accidently' captures an American flyer who immediately spills his guts and starts babbling 'CIA, the White House, guns, Southern Air Transport,' and then to top it off, he's put on trial as a war criminal, convicted for his crimes and released as a humanitarian gesture! Shot down in October and home by Christmas. I'll bet your Vietnam POW flyers would have liked such an opportunity. Just think of it all."
As Reed adjusted the heading "bug" on the auto pilot and fine-tuned the plane's engines, he was absorbing the Israeli's itemized list of fatal mistakes.
"But I've saved the best morsel for last, if that's not enough to convince you," his passenger tantalized. "We warned Seal back in early 1986. Just before his murder, we warned him your side had a leak."
Terry's mind flashed to his feelings about Ferrue having too much in-depth knowledge of the Agency's operations. He had suspected a mole. Now Nir was confirming they too had suspicions. He decided to not interrupt and just listen.
"We knew something was going to happen to bring unwanted publicity to this operation. Again, what a waste of a good agent. That makes two friends of yours who are dead for no good reasons. Cooper and Seal."
"Three friends if you count Emile Camp," Terry added. "I still think his crash was sabotage. His plane was exactly like this one. He left Baton Rouge with three hours of fuel. He crashes two hours later. There's no post-crash fire. And no fuel in the engine lines. That's fuel starvation! Combine that with the fact he crashed in a heavily wooded area, miles off course, while executing an instrument approach to Mena in VFR conditions ... No, he was definitely sabotaged. But by whom? Emile never got along with [Ramon] Medina."
Terry's comments about Medina stemmed from his observation of arguments on several occasions between "the camp Jefe" and Emile Camp. This had made him suspicious that Medina was involved in sabotaging Camp's plane.
"Oh, Medina, that's another example of your CIA stooping to use terrorists to do agents' jobs. What did Medina ever do besides blow up civilians in airliners. These damn Cuban rebels, they're just not professionals."*
Reed almost wished to hear no further details, but Nir wasn't through.
"An agent of ours in El Salvador reports that Rodriguez boasted he was responsible for the killing of both Seal and Camp. You know Rodriguez, he must continually brag of his exploits. Who knows how many people he's either killed or caused to die? He's definitely ..."
"... A loose cannon, as they say in the Navy," Terry said.
"Yes. A loose cannon. We don't see how this program can continue. It may not even be salvageable."
What came next was a surprise to Terry. The Israelis were keeping close tabs on Felix Rodriguez ... he had a shadow and most certainly wasn't aware of it. This became evident when Nir revealed that he knew about drug shipments from San Miguel de Allende northward to Laredo, the same shipments that Terry had reported to Marr.
Nir was now confirming Terry and George Fenue's suspicions that Rodriguez was involved with the earlier shipments from San Miguel and Nir also said these drug shipments involved some of Rodriguez' unspecified relatives.
"That's simply profiteering for the sake of his relatives. It's ridiculous. Who's supposed to be in charge of this idiot?" Nir asked spitefully.
That was a good question. With North on the grill in Washington, Rodriguez was operating alone, and out of control.
"He's a runaway freight train with no engineer at the throttle," Nir said. He bolstered that comment by saying Israeli intelligence in Mexico had intercepted some very disturbing long distance telephone conversations. That Rodriguez, in violation of all intelligence rules, had called Washington directly from Central America on unsecure phone lines and discussed classified data. *
"My God, it's just so apparent to us, that he is a double-dipper (slang for double agent). He must be eliminated one way or the other."
Rodriguez might be the mole, the one who kept Fenue so informed and up to date on the Agency's plans, Terry thought to himself. After all, Rodriguez had been to Cortec's facilities several times and he knew Seal's dossier sufficiently well enough to pass it on to the KGB. Shit, I bet that's right, he thought. Rodriguez was probably the leak the Israelis had warned Seal about. It all made sense.
But talk of "eliminating" someone bothered Terry. "If you're talking elimination, do you have concrete proof, beyond the shadow-of-a-doubt proof? I mean he might just be an idiot, like you said before. A greedy idiot suffering from post-Bay of Pigs stress syndrome."
"Yes, we have the proof, and no idiot, as you suggest, could bring in an ex-Air America kicker and 'turn him' as quickly as Rodriguez did."
"So your people think he recruited and compromised Hasenfus?"
Nir was not specific as to how this information had been obtained. But he was certain about his facts, he claimed. "We know it for sure. And did anyone from your side tell you about Cooper and Sawyer, the co-pilot?"
"I've heard nothing new about the shootdown since the meeting with you and Rodriguez in Mexico City last December. What are you referring to?"
Terry was shocked, again, when Nir answered. "They were both dead before their airplane took off on that supposed ill-fated flight."
By this time, Terry's head was reeling, but some things were starting to make sense. All the circumstances outlined by Nir earlier concerning the shootdown were coming into focus. Nir said the autopsy performed by the Nicaraguans, the results of which had been relayed to the CIA, indicated the crew had been dead several hours, maybe even 12, before the plane crashed. There was no evidence of the usual profuse bleeding associated with a crash when the victim is alive on impact. This had to mean they were dead before they went down, Nir concluded.
This probably explained why Cooper's body hadn't been returned for burial, Terry thought.
"My God do you think it's Hasenfus that killed them? Terry asked. "Marr told me Hasenfus knows how to fly a C-123 even though he doesn't have a pilot's license."
"We're not prepared to say that. But he had to know the dead crew members didn't pilot the airplane ... if he was even on the plane at the time ..."
"Why? Don't you believe that plane was even shot down?" Reed asked, now fearing the answer.
"No. The aircraft remains were put on display in Managua and our people there said it appears the plane exploded outward as if it had been rigged with explosives prior to its last flight and then deliberately destroyed."
Both men then wondered if this could have been accomplished with a remote detonating device after Hasenfus bailed out of the airplane.
Terry had yet another shock. Nir informed him that the other dead crew member was the man Terry had called "Ramon No. 2," one of his trainees in Arkansas. Nir said "Ramon" did not die from the crash. His throat had been slit!"
"What a way to get rid of Ronald Reagan," Nir summarized. "The communists must be patting themselves on the back. They expose a covert operation that is in violation of Congressional law and get the President of the United States impeached -- all at the same time."
This statement shocked Terry back into his role as a pilot. He scanned the instrument cluster, realizing he had become so engrossed in the conversation he'd nearly forgotten he was flying. His DME was showing only 25 miles out of Morelia. It was time to get busy.
"Morelia tower, this is Seneca november one-three lima mike, level one-three thousand, twenty-five DME west, inbound vector five, landing mike mike. Please advise altimeter and active runway."
Terry slid his seat forward in preparation of the landing task ahead. He banked the plane to the right in order to line up on runway 23 and dropped the landing gear. He then turned to his nervous Israeli companion and asked, "Are you afraid of Rodriguez? It sounds as if he's capable of anything."
While rolling wings level on final approach Terry could not help but be in awe of how fast things could happen, construction-wise that is, when a welcome covert industrial complex was coming the way of an underdeveloped state such as Michoacan. It was reminiscent of how quickly things happened in Arkansas when the Agency began setting up operations there, in 1983. But here things happened even faster. He was getting, literally, a bird's eye view of the new Morelia airport named after Mexican General Francisco J. Mujica. He couldn't help but feel partially responsible for its new runway which now measured exactly 7874 feet with 197 foot overruns on both ends. It was just as Governor Cardenas had said, "I will provide you with 8000 feet." He was good on his word .... when backed by CIA money.
As he "crossed the numbers" at the northeast end of Morelia's newly surfaced runway and did one final GUMP check to ensure the landing gear was down, it hit him how he and Seal had envisioned all this happening two and a half years earlier. A secret weapons manufacturing facility in a Third World country. Technology was definitely coming to Mexico and the governor and his people were there with open arms.
The tires of the Seneca's main landing gear chirped signifying contact and Nir exhaled as if to vent his pent-up tension. "Yes," he said.
It had been so long since Terry had asked the question, he had to pause in order to recall it. "Yes, what?
"Yes, I'm afraid of Rodriguez. He seems to have gained a lot of power during all this turmoil up in Washington. He's an opportunist and he's apparently seized the opportunity to promote himself while the chain of command has been broken due to your congressional investigation. Like I said earlier, with North neutralized, I don't know who's in charge. But Rodriguez is having secret meetings with your vice president and this bothers us."
To explain, Nir admitted matter of factly that Israeli intelligence was following Rodriguez and had placed him in several clandestine meetings with Bush. Nir indicated that this was disturbing to his country because the Israeli ambassador was being kept in the dark about these meetings.
"They are up to something, and we Israelis have a lot of exposure from this whole ordeal -- unnecessary exposure I might add, especially considering what is going on here in Morelia."
"What do you suppose Rodriguez and Bush are secretly discussing?" Terry asked.
Before Nir could answer, they were both startled by a tapping on the wing by a Mexican soldier armed with an Uzi. They had been lost in their conversation and were unaware of the approaching squad of armed security personnel. Tight security was in effect at the airport's east side due to the construction.
"Why don't you talk to him," Terry suggested. "That way if he decides to shoot you first, at least you'll have died from a weapon made by your own country." Nir was not amused.
"I wish you wouldn't joke about death Sr. Estrella."
They then explained to the Jefe of the security squad that the purpose of their visit was to inspect the construction of the new building complex that would house the machinery scheduled to arrive soon. Terry had accepted the reality that this was a pipe dream, however, in light of the disintegration of the "joint venture". But he had decided to go along with it all and make no waves until he could eventually flee ... somehow.
"We knew from your flight plan you filed in Guadalajara that you were coming to Morelia. It's just that Capitan Fierro did not know the reason for your visit or who your passenger was. Feel free to inspect the facility."
As soon as the armed goon squad walked away, Nir began to speak. "Shit!!!! I was hoping no one observed me at the airport. Based upon those comments Fierro knew you had a passenger when you left Guadalajara. You see, I am being observed and followed!"
"Calm down. Don't let your paranoia run away with your logic. Maybe it's me they're observing and following and you just happened along."
"But why would they be watching you? They trust you don't they? You're not supposed to know enough to be dangerous. You're just their front, right?"
Nir apparently hadn't gotten the word that Terry had "crossed the line" from being a silent asset who turned a blind eye to the agency's true activities to a complaining liability.
By his question, it was obvious he was unaware of Terry's July 5th discovery in his warehouse. And Terry was learning a lot. Up to this point, he hadn't been sure if the Israeli knew about that discovery. Nir had little way of knowing that Terry was, by then, appearing to be the most dangerous thing someone can be in this situation -- a whistleblower. Terry's demands for a thorough investigation of the Agency's cocaine trafficking obviously were not being passed along to the Israelis. Otherwise, Nir would have known why Terry was no longer trusted.
Terry suggested that they both walk over and pretend to be inspecting the massive pouring of concrete that was in process for the foundation of the arms manufacturing site known by its code name, Z.
"I'm glad you're confiding in me. I need a friend, too," Terry admitted. "This whole fucking operation is out of control ... and yes, they have reason to be monitoring me."
"But why?" Nir shouted over the roar of the concrete trucks dumping their loads.
"I guess I know too much! And I'm sure they don't trust me any longer ... vat least after what happened July 5th."
After a brief discussion with the work crew about the density and thickness of the concrete, Reed and Nir returned to the plane in preparation for their trip back to Guadalajara. As Terry processed his flight plan over the plane's radio, his nervous companion disappeared behind the aircraft in order to relieve himself.
"Clear prop!" Terry shouted out the pilot's storm vent as he brought the Continental engine to life on the left side of the plane. The ensuing propeller blast caught Nir by surprise and he suddenly learned the aerodynamics associated with urinating behind an airplane.
He climbed into the right front seat appearing to be in need of clean trousers. Looking embarrassed from his ordeal he secured the cockpit door.
"Didn't your grandfather teach you to piss downwind?" Terry asked, chiding his passenger. "But I'm glad you went already, because what I have to tell you on the way back will probably scare the piss out of you!"
"I'll bet I can top what you're gonna tell me," Nir challenged as the plane taxied into takeoff position. Little did Terry know that this soon would be the case.
Terry advanced the throttles and departed Morelian airspace, setting a heading for the return leg to Gaudalajara. It was another strange alliance formed that July day in 1987.
He started to inform Nir of the Agency's drug smuggling activities, which he had now confirmed first-hand from the July 5th incident. But it seemed he was anxious for Reed to finish his lengthy story as if the Israeli had a more pressing matter to discuss.
Terry had just violated the cardinal rule. Not only had he told someone something that he didn't need to know, but worse than that he had confided it to a known agent of a foreign government. And Nir had done the same. It was a mutual Munich.
"OK, top that my friend." Terry had placed the plane on autopilot and was again looking in Nir's eye. "My own fucking government is in the drug business. There's supposed to be a war on drugs and I find out that it's our own CIA that just can't say no ... It can't say no to the money, I guess. You know it looks like Lenin was right. Democracy just doesn't work!"
To say Nir had an interesting observation would be an understatement. "You don't know how close your comments are to the real problem. We don't think you have a democracy any longer!"
"What are you saying?"
"We think your country has had a very quiet, internal coup. Look at the evidence, it's all there." What followed then puzzled Terry. Was he once again being drawn involuntarily into yet another loop?
How did drugs and democracy dovetail into a briefing on geopolitics as seen through the eyes of the Mossad? Terry, like many Americans, had seen things in stark black and white. In Israeli intelligence, the world was seen differently, in shades of gray. Nir needed to make Reed see the world through a different prism, hoping to bend his mind to a different way of thinking.
"You have, or maybe I should say had, a very popular President. One who is hell bent on destroying communism. Now on the surface that may appear good. You know, a carry-over of your Cold War objectives. The U.S. wins, Russia loses. But if you'll look deeper, as we Israelis have, destroying or even crippling the USSR is not a very good idea.
"You see, as we know in the Middle East, you need a balance of power. Two rival countries, or even more than two, are much easier to manipulate and control than one. They are always turning to each other either overtly or covertly to assist in maintaining that balance, that harmony that nature intended. It's actually healthy for society, and people, too, to have goals and fears ... it gives an order to things. That bond of unity, that bond of allegiance, that bond of ethnic identification.
"Nature always has two of everything ... male and female ... plus and minus. It is not intended for either the U.S. or the USSR to dominate completely."
This was becoming a little too esoteric for Terry. He was beginning to lose the meaning of this "briefing," which had turned very philosophical and sounded headed toward the merits of the puzzle of nature. Terry had always believed that "coups" occurred in other, less-developed countries and they were often engineered by the U.S. This he studied in intelligence school. He knew that when coups do occur, one of the most important factors of survival was to back the winner. Was this Nir's problem?
"So what are you saying? Your country has knowledge of a 'coup' in the U.S.? Something brought on by the USSR? Something you've assisted in order to maintain a balance of power?"
"You're partially right. But it's not something we've had a direct hand in .... I don't believe. The facts support our analysis. The United States has been prospering ... on credit, I might add ... while Russia is declining. All brought about by Reagan's plan to destroy the USSR by bankrupting it. He calls it 'riding tall in the saddle as an American' while the Russians call it 'going hungry while standing in the bread line.' You probably don't even know how bad things are. Why this thing in Nicaragua is probably the last foreign expedition they [the Russians] can afford, and the last thing they need to be doing with their limited resources. Between Central America and Afghanistan, it's sure to bring an end to communism as we know it."
"But why's that bad?" Terry asked. "That's what I've been trained to do. I'm a Cold Warrior. I would love to win. I would love to see the end of the USSR in my lifetime," Terry said emphatically.
"You sound just like North. You two have a lot in common. You're both very bright, but yet very stupid!"
"Well enlighten me then, Allah, because I just don't get it. You're saying the USSR is on the verge of economic collapse and that is bad? You mean if I help the U.S. in Nicaragua, that is bad? That's what I've been trained to do, WIN! You're beginning to sound like a football coach who wants his own team to lose the homecoming game."
"Think about China," Nir replied with a soft voice and after a long pause, "because we are. Who will replace the USSR as the power base of all of Asia if Russia collapses? China will. Don't you get it? The enemy of my enemy is my friend. We have much stronger ties, both the U.S. and Israel, I mean, with Russia than with China. China we fear ... and so does your country, I might add. No, you need a healthy Russia to keep China in balance."
After a brief pause and scanning his eye across the beautiful Mexican countryside below, where he would later die, Nir added in a melancholy tone, "And it's not surprising you have difficulty understanding that, because your President Reagan doesn't understand it either."
"So you're saying Reagan is a threat to world peace, or so you perceive it?" "Yes!" Nir snapped. "And it's not only us that perceive it that way. We have many supporters of this view, both friendly and enemy. So we Israelis would not normally care what happens within your government, unless we see ourselves being set up to be double-crossed and embarrassed. And worst of all, maybe not being aligned with the proper president of your government."
"What do you mean, proper President? Don't we have only one?"
"No," Nir answered. "You have two, Bush is now in charge and he's trying to overthrow Reagan. It's a coup, plain and simple." It was becoming painful to listen to.
"How do you convince me of that? Being from Missouri I've got to be shown, or haven't you heard?" Terry responded, still doubtful of the Israeli's wild statements and conclusions.
"Well, our agents have been co-mingling with your agents for years, just as you and I are today. And we have all been writing reports for years, advising our leaders on the merits of maintaining a balance of power between the U.S., Russia and China. But only in the past six years has your country had a leader .... an actor, my God, who as president is hell-bent on winning this Cold War. And if he is successful, the world will be a much less stable place.
"It is our fear that the conditions of instability in which Israel finds itself in the Middle East will spread throughout the world if Russia declines. So we have been ... uh ... monitoring ... that's a good word ... monitoring a condition in your government in which you have a maniac at the helm, and a much more astute second in command in the shadows. George Bush, your ex-director of the CIA, understands these complex issues. He's a true player of chess and Ronald Reagan barely understands checkers, I think. Anyway, our people have been monitoring certain relationships within your government that lead us to believe that your CIA is closely aligned, and in agreement with, your vice president.
"We have all, unfortunately, been caught up in a foreign policy dispute in Central America. So along comes this Hollywood cowboy who's determined to kick the communists out of Nicaragua, even if he has to break the law and lie to your Congress and the American people in order to do it. You and I are even part of that lie, I might add. So your CIA and Mr. Bush recognize that they must somehow seize power and stop this madman."
Terry was now starting to see the big picture and, as they say, get his mind right. "So they do it by staging an international incident. Something that proves to the whole world that Reagan will violate the law to get his war in Nicaragua."
"Right!" Nir nearly applauded, seemingly relieved his student has finally drawn the right conclusion. "This whole shootdown is a staged event from the very onset. Something right out of the movies. Quite fitting for Reagan's demise, don't you think."
Terry was now feeling used, and sad. Cooper, he thought, had simply been one more pawn. "Except Bill Cooper died in order to keep the USSR alive," he pointed out sadly. "I wonder how he would have felt about that ... given a choice, I mean."
Nir had a ready answer. "Soldiers are trained to die, you know that. Besides, he probably went the way he preferred." The "gray" thinker had a black and white answer when it was necessary.
Terry's confusion was now giving way to wonder. "Why are you telling me this? It seems like things are turning out just as you Israelis want it. The U.S. has another Watergate, Reagan gets impeached, or whatever, and Bush assumes power. He moderates our foreign policy. Russia doesn't collapse economically. And the world has a harmonious, three-way balance of power, the U.S., Russia and China, just the way God and Israel planned."
"Except something has gone wrong. It's been over nine months since the shootdown and we now feel that Reagan has somehow miraculously been able to survive. I was able to talk to North early on and apparently, right after the incident, your Attorney General and Secretary of State seized important documents and were able to contain the scandal by eliminating most of the damaging evidence. Like I say, it's been a miracle, but so far Reagan appears to have fought off the coup."
Now the Israeli's motivation was becoming clearer "So now you are frightened because your country had prior knowledge of the 'coup' and didn't alert Reagan, right? Maybe you didn't back the right guy, huh? Maybe you backed the loser of the coup."
"Yeah, that's about it." But the worst was yet to come. "And now it looks as if the people near Reagan are trying to drag us Israelis into the limelight. It's very embarrassing for us. We were never to have been exposed as the country dealing with Iran. Your George Shultz and Ed Meese are responsible for our embarrassment and exposure ... we've been compromised. For Chrissakes, Meese even labeled it Iran-Contra. That alone put the media attention on the Middle East and Israel. North lured us into this plan and we need your help. Contact him if you can. We must know what your government is doing and thinking and, most of all, who's in charge."
But getting to North? That would be impossible for Terry. North was only accessible to him now by satellite television and newspaper articles. Terry hadn't even been able, so far, to get an "audience" with Rodriguez.
"But we're especially frightened by your government's behavior here in Mexico," Nir added. "They are proceeding with Phase 2 of Screw Worm as if nothing happened. And we're afraid we'll now be exposed as an accomplice in all of this. That wouldn't appear kosher to the world for Israel to be conspiring with elements of the CIA, KGB and DFS to arm the Third World."
"No, I suppose not," Terry said in agreement. "But has any direct action been taken against you, or are you just reacting out of paranoia?"
"We had a break-in at the embassy in Mexico City. It was very professional and they knew exactly what they were looking for. All the material stolen was very compromising data ... data we had intercepted about the shootdown and evidence of our involvement in 'Screw Worm.'
"But even more disconcerting to me is that we must have a double agent in our own embassy. They knew exactly where to locate the pertinent files. Shit! Sometimes I hate this profession!"
"And you think Rodriguez and his group are behind the break-in?"
"So what can I do with this knowledge?" Terry asked. "It appears to me it's out of our control. I'm barely able to keep on speaking terms with Marr. I've demanded a meeting with Rodriguez, but I don't know if I'll ever get one."
With the twinkling in Nir's one good eye, Terry believed he was now, finally, going to find out what they really wanted. Camel jockeys, he thought. Always a hidden agenda.
"We know how to get a meeting," Nir continued. "That's where you come in. We could stage another international incident right here in Gaudalajara. All you have to do is alert me when another large shipment of cocaine comes through your facility. We could assist you in seizing and moving the entire shipment to another location, say by truck and that would give us all something to negotiate with. But most of all, that would neutralize Rodriguez. We could serve him up to Reagan as a gift. It is our fear that unless we do something drastic, he will blackmail us all, my government, me, you, your CIA. He will play us all against each other unless we get him first."
To prove their support to the winner, the Israelis now had to deliver big. And how to do that? If they could get the "goods" on the CIA and the ones behind the coup, they would have an ace to deal with. But they needed more than Terry's cooperation in order to do it the way Nir had just suggested. They needed his knowledge and information about "Screw Worm's" facilities and network in Guadalajara.
And what did he know? He knew the Agency was dealing in drugs. That was valuable information. That knowledge, in the right hands, is "neutralizing material". And now it was clear what the Israeli really wanted from Terry. He could help the Israelis neutralize Rodriguez.
Nir could probably see that Terry was wavering. He apparently felt compelled to play his last ace in order to portray Rodriguez as the evil man Terry believed him to be.
"We have agents who say they know for sure he was compromised years ago while in Southeast Asia by communist agents." Nir was playing the commie card.
"Did the compromise you refer to involve heroin out of Laos?" Terry asked.
"How did you know that?"
"I worked with Air America, remember? It was common knowledge at Air Force Intelligence level that communist elements were trying to lure Americans into the narcotics trade in order to compromise them and convert them into double agents."
"Yes we have confirmed that," the Israeli replied. "Rodriguez was compromised. But when the Agency found out, they felt it better to use him as a triple agent as is often the case than to embarrass itself through charges and an investigation. Shortly after his return from Vietnam, he was basically suspended during the investigation and then, allegedly, released by the Agency due to medical reasons. But we know the real reason. He and his supervisors in Vietnam were all dirty. They were trafficking out of the Golden Triangle."
"So your people know for sure that Rodriguez conspired with Ortega in order to stage the shootdown?" Terry asked, needing to be reassured once again.
"Yes, like I said we've been following him for years and we intercepted message traffic. I suppose you're right about one thing. Democracy just doesn't work."
Terry's head was now swimming from the avalanche of data relayed to him by the Israeli agent as Seneca N13LM was handed off to Guadalajara approach.
But most of all he was recalling the personal warning that Rodriguez had given him at the bunker meeting in Arkansas. "I am a professional agent," were his words. "You are an amateur. Don't play spook and don't cross us."
Terry was now thinking about doing both. Mainly, he knew that failing to report any meeting with a foreign agent would be considered collaborating with the enemy. He had already met secretly with Fenue and now here was Nir. But who could he trust to report it to? Who could he trust at all at this point? Was the Israeli his friend or was he just trying to use him to compromise Rodriguez?
Terry was feeling alone and there was no one in the intelligence community to turn to. He had been told to turn to U.S. Consul-General Daniel Darrach "in an emergency." But Terry had construed these instructions as applying in the event of him being compromised by foreign agents, not people from his own side.
And how deep did the conspiracy go? What if Darrach was in on the drug trafficking? That would be like walking into the lion's den and locking the door. He needed protection from the CIA, a safe haven similar to that afforded by the witness protection program. But where could that be found? Probably only in Moscow.
The worst thing he could do, he felt, was open another tier of problems by taking Darrach into his confidence. That would be a big risk ... one he feared to calculate. No ... he did not need to draw attention to himself and perhaps become a target of a DEA investigation while residing on foreign soil, if he wasn't already.
"Pick your time and pick your place," he again remembered his grandfather saying. He had to get out of Mexico, he felt, and deal with this problem on American soil and hopefully, surrounded by friends.
He had to turn to his inward strength -- the strength that had always been there from his high school days in ROTC, to his military days in Southeast Asia.
Terry was certain of one thing. He decided that he would not tell Nir about the "drug samples" he had seized from the July 5th shipment. His priority was to get his family safely out of Mexico. His "evidence" was his only trump card in this deadly game. If an agent like Nir was afraid, Terry knew he was in over his head.
"Roger, one-three Lima-Mike is clear to land," the Mexican ATC said as Terry "hit the numbers" with his Seneca on that July 16th afternoon.
"Senor Fierro wishes you to report to his office, Capitan Reed," the ground controller said as the aircraft cleared the active runway. Fierro knew Terry had a passenger and probably knew who it was. The problem of reporting the Nir meeting solved itself.
Upon deplaning near Terry's office, Nir was unmistakenly anxious to make his getaway. "Okay, let's keep in touch and think about what we need from you. Come by the embassy whenever you're in Mexico City. But don't telephone me with any sensitive information. I have no confidence in the security of our communications, at least without a decoding device. But above all, if you don't trust us, try to get to North. Tell him we must meet. Rodriguez is out of control."
Nir then spotted the armed guard approaching the plane and shifted the discussion. "OK, the building progress appears on schedule. I'll file a report to that effect with my people. Keep up the good work. Let's make the project a success. And by the way, feliz cumpleanos."
Yeah, happy birthday, Terry thought, as Nir walked way and the Mexican guard helped him push the plane into the hangar. Thirty-nine years old and involved in a foreign intelligence operation that was coming apart at the seams.
Someone had sabotaged the Mexican operation. Their motives weren't clear, but the results were. The prototype of cooperation that Terry had believed he was involved in was at an end. Snuffed out in its formative stage, the cooperation between the KGB, the Israelis, the CIA, and the DFS would not be truly tested. Or had it been? Until the likes of Felix Rodriguez and the other "professional" communist haters either die or are killed, experiments such as this are surely doomed.
No one was to be trusted and everyone was to be feared. Everyone except his wife and John Desko, he thought. A pretty small circle of friends after 39 years.
His goal of being a millionaire by the age of 40 was starting to slip from his grasp. His goal now was more modest: Just to reach the age of 40!
Maslow, the psychologist Air Force Intelligence used as its model of mind-control, was very much in his mind. He had hoped to attain the pinnacle of Maslow's pyramid of needs and be "self-actualizing" by the time he reached 40. Right now, however, his focus was on the bottom rung of the pyramid -- survival!
That was the last time Terry ever saw the man he knew as Pat Weber. He would later hear about and view with great suspicion the circumstances surrounding Nir's untimely death. In November, 1988, Nir met his demise in the crash of a single-engine Cessna T-210 near Morelia. Why was he aboard a small private plane, a mode of transportation he so dreadfully feared, Terry wondered? The passport he was carrying listed the dead, one-eyed Israeli as "Pat Weber."
It also left the world wondering: What was Amiram Nir doing in this remote area of Mexico? Reed's account goes a long way toward answering that question. What the world knew of Nir's clandestine activities consisted only of whispered rumors.
It had been assumed that Iran-Contra had effectively put an end to Nir's political career as the Israeli Prime Minister's consultant on terrorism. In the Spring of 1988, he resigned from the Israeli prime minister's office and moved to London, with only a few knowing the nature of his work. He seemed to have dropped of the earth's edge. There were reports that Nir was preparing his cover for a new spy mission. [3] Death snuffed out the life of one of the few men who could possibly have known for sure the depth of George Bush's involvement in Iran-Contra and the "coup" he revealed to Terry.
* This was the code name given the weapons plant being built at the Morelia Airport.
* Medina, an alias for Cuban exile Luis Posada Carrilies, is a friend of Felix Rodriguez and was charged with masterminding the bombing of a Cuban airliner that killed all 73 passengers. Shortly after Hasenfus was captured and interrogated by the Sandinistas, he identified both Rodriguez and Medina as CIA links he had been working with.
* Oliver North reprimanded Rodriguez for violating secure communications procedures during a meeting in the Old Executive Office Building in Washington on June 25, 1986. [2]
1. Report of the Tower Commission, B-145, B-147; Deposition of Craig Fuller, Vice President George Bush's chief of staff, 3/30/87, PP 23-33.
2. Report of the Congressional Committees Investigating the Iran-Contra Affair, H. Rept. No. 100-433, Felix Rodriguez Becomes Disaffected, p. 72.
3. Raviv, Dan and Yossi Melman, Every Spy A Prince, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1990, p. 341-42.
CHAPTER 29: MAX OR FELIX?
The traffic on the outskirts of Mexico City was beyond congested as Terry Reed guided his orange Nissan pickup truck between the craters in the highway that August night in 1987.
To make matters even worse, it was pouring rain and his sole passenger, Patrick Juin, had not ceased talking for the nearly six hours since they had left Guadalajara. Their destination, the Hotel Century in Mexico City, situated on the edge of the Zona Rosa district, was still 40 kilometers away.
As he slowed the stiffly-sprung vehicle to a near stop to negotiate a series of topes (speed bumps), Terry turned to his chatting companion.
"Tell me, Patrick, with the Mexican highways as fucked up as they are from their natural state of disrepair, why does your government waste so much money constructing and maintaining these damn humps on the roads? Who the hell can speed anyway in all this traffic?"
Juin, who preferred to think of himself as a Chilango (the ruling class of Mexico whose ancestry could be traced to Europe), and an expert on all subjects, quipped: "This is something you Americans could learn from us. We call these topes 'sleeping policemen.' They serve the purpose of slowing the traffic without the need of so many patrolmen, as your country has. Speaking of which, why does the United States need so many policemen? When I travel there, it makes me paranoid!"
"Paranoid!" Terry shot back as he pulled the truck into a service station near the Toluca exit on the northwest edge of the world's largest city. "Patrick my friend, you have no idea of what paranoia is truly about."
Paranoia was the reason Terry was driving that day instead of flying his airplane, as would have been usual and much more practical. Paranoia, though Juin did not know it, was exactly why Terry had invited him along. Paranoia was the reason he had been losing countless hours of sleep lately as he planned a way to extricate himself and his family from the dangerous state of affairs that had developed since his discovery that the CIA was, in fact, in the drug business.
Terry had crossed the line. If he had been on an accountant's spread sheet, he would now be listed as a number in red, a liability; no longer a "black number," an asset. He knew too much. And that put him on Felix Rodriguez' shit list and maybe his hit list.
He kept rolling Nancy Reagan's slogan through his mind to keep his nerves calm in preparation for the next day's meeting.
"Just say no, just say no, just say no ..." he kept thinking. "No matter what they offer, just say NO!"
Juin's constant boasting brought Terry from his trance as his Mexican friend and tour guide of the past 14 months offered yet another chapter in the life and times of Super Stud. "Have I ever told you the story of the time a virgin girl friend of mine called me and asked me to deflower her on the night before her wedding to another guy?"
As Terry aimed his truck toward the city's center, he actually welcomed the never-ending 'stories' his macho companion was conjuring up. They temporarily took his mind off his problems.
"No amigo, I don't believe you have, but I'll bet you're gonna tell me."
As Juin droned on, and on, about fulfilling his impassioned girl friend's desire to give her maidenhead to the man she truly loved rather than her betrothed, Terry's mind drifted away to the problems and dangers at hand.
He flashed back to the July 5th discovery in his company's Guadalajara warehouse -- to the aluminum conex containers filled with cocaine. That was the day his worst suspicions were confirmed.
CIA contract pilots and operatives were involved in a conspiracy to smuggle tons, literally tons, of cocaine through Reed's warehouse facilities, which were clearly being used as a transshipment and temporary storage area for narcotics.
This was not the way it was supposed to be. The business plan he had developed for the CIA was to conceal a weapons transshipment facility under the guise of a machine tool trading company. He would not have been part of any plan to use his proprietary to smuggle drugs into the U.S. The hypocrisy of his government's position on this infectious epidemic thoroughly disgusted him. One arm of the government which had taken on a life of its own, the DEA, was responsible for stemming the deadly flow of cocaine. The other arm, the CIA, was plainly fueling this so-called "War on Drugs."
From that day of discovery, Terry's world had changed forever. For the first time in his intelligence career, he had drawn the line. He had reached his moral bottom. And he feared not only for himself, but his family. He was demanding answers and getting concocted responses from his local "handler." Rodriguez, he knew, was the core of the problem. From what Amiram Nir and George Fenue had told him a month earlier, Rodriguez was not only dealing in drugs but was a double or triple agent as well.
All the key people who had drawn him into this mess were either not who they had claimed to be ... or were dead. Thoughts of mortality were once again on the front burner. People had died! Agents had been "terminated", he was convinced! And that wasn't all that had been terminated.
Technoimpex was "terminating" their part in the operation. The Japanese were "terminating" Applied Technologies' existence by suing Terry in federal court. Business relationships that had taken him years to cultivate were disintegrating right before his eyes.
He had simply and unintentionally gotten in way over his head, and having noted Amiram Nir's behavior during their last visit, Terry wasn't the only one that was "reacting" instead of "acting". Even the Mossad appeared to be in over its head.
He was now convinced that the KGB was the only intelligence agency that knew what was really going on. He had felt like contacting Fenue again to see if Moscow knew who was actually running the United States at this point, or who was the real President. Fenue had given him more information on Barry Seal in 60 seconds than he had learned about him in three years.
He'd even dreamed of Barry. And he was laughing. From his grave, he was laughing. Not at Terry, particularly -- just laughing. Laughing at the whole fucking mess. When Terry awoke, he walked outside and demanded Seal to return from his grave and give him counsel. That didn't work.
So, he had demanded a meeting with Rodriguez to negotiate his way out of this operation. His bargaining chip? The 20 kilos of cocaine he had taken from the shipment. On that day in the warehouse, Terry had the presence of mind to take two large bags of the drug and hide them. This would be the "evidence" that his handler, Mitch Marr, had demanded earlier as proof of his suspicions that someone inside the organization "was dirty." So far, he was sure that "evidence" was probably all that was keeping him alive.
Juin was just winding down with, literally, the climax of his story about deflowering his old girl friend when Terry pulled the truck up in front of the Hotel Century at Liverpool 152 in the Zona Rosa section of the city, the same "spook hotel" where he and Janis had stayed the previous Christmas. It was August 19th, 1987 and the major players of the Iran-Contra scandal by now could only be reached through their attorneys. Things were unraveling all over.
The preceding day, August 18th, a SECRET federal communique had been sent to the FBI in Arkansas and CIA headquarters alerting them that the national media had discovered Mena, Arkansas. The residue of the Agency's "dirty" operations there were in danger of becoming as visible as the dirty ring left in a bathtub after it drains. People were getting desperate, loose ends and ravelings had to be taken care of. (See end of chapter 18.)
Juin unloaded the truck in preparation for valet parking, something Terry hated. Valet parking, to him, was the Mexican equivalent of the demolition derby. Terry went to the front desk, announced his arrival and inquired as to the arrival of Senor Maximo Gomez.
The desk clerk summoned the manager, Victor Dorantes G., as his card read, who said Gomez would not be checking in but had been there earlier and had changed the time and the site of meeting to the following evening in San Miguel de Allende, a city 100 miles to the northwest. The manager informed Terry that Gomez had said to check in at the Hotel Posada de la Aldea when he got there and await further contact.
Just like in the movies, Terry thought to himself. To make sure your contact is not being followed, he is run from location to location so that he can be observed and approached in an environment of choice. Slick!
Terry and Juin would spend the night in Mexico City, which was good news to Juin because by now his story about the old girl friend had aroused in him an unyielding desire to find her, so he spent the evening pouring through the Mexico City telephone directory, without success.
"These fucking third world phone books!" he shouted in frustration. "At least America has a good phone system ... too many policemen but a good phone system."
The next day the two left for San Miguel, arriving in the early afternoon of August 20th to check in at the appointed place. (See chapter end.) Terry's tension was beginning to show as they drove north and Juin's constant chatter was now wearing thin. Being cooped up with an overly talkative, know-it-all Chilango as he solved the world's ills, was, in itself, an ordeal.
Had it not been for the fact that Terry wanted a witness to the impending meeting, he would never have brought Juin along. But it was a poker game and Terry was building a bluff and Juin, hopefully, would be seen as a wild card. Juin, Terry was told by Marr, was rumored to be an intelligence operative of sorts, one of the network of underlings that kept tabs on foreigners and reported his findings to the DFS. Marr had cautioned him on this when he discovered the Reeds and Juins were befriending each other. He'd kept the information to himself thinking it might come in handy as a channel for disinformation. Terry had no way of confirming any of this rumor, passed along by a drunk, but now was the time to use any and all resources.
Terry knew that he might be exposing Patrick to danger, but he hoped Gomez would perceive Juin as someone he perhaps had confided in, thereby not being able to determine how widely disseminated the drug information might become ... if something bad happened to Terry and his family. It was a risk ... but a calculated one.
The city of San Miguel is one of Mexico's prime tourist attractions, with its rich history and old Spanish colonial architecture. For reasons not clear, it is also the retirement city of choice for many former American intelligence agents. What spiked Terry's curiosity was that two unauthorized shipments of "tools" and one confirmed shipment of drugs previously shipped through his company, had originated in San Miguel.
As the truck turned off the manicured, cobblestone Calle Ancha de S. Antonio and into the parking area bordering the lush gardens of the picturesque hotel, Juin volunteered, "I'll get the bags."
Once in the hotel the desk clerk informed Terry that no one had left any messages. The two checked into room 312, and being weary from the travel, the tension, and perpetual conversation, Terry decided to rest and to wait. He wanted a fully charged battery for the mission that lay ahead. Three hours later, at around 4 PM, the desk clerk phoned the room, awakening Terry from his nap.
"Mr. Gomez called and arranged a dinner meeting at 7 PM at Restaurante El Faro, it is one half block southeast of La Plaza," the desk man said. The games go on, Terry thought to himself.
At 7 PM exactly Terry and Patrick walked into the restaurant, but not before Patrick had first scouted out the place himself to determine the ambiance. Terry had debated in his own mind whether to carry the Smith & Wesson 9MM pistol that was hidden in his truck. He decided it would be unnecessary to bring it to the meeting after Juin informed him the restaurant was high-class with a well-lit, open courtyard at the center of the main dining area, complete with a fountain. It seemed like an unlikely place for any kind of violence since Juin said the establishment was "jumping with action."
After an inquiry of the maitre d', they learned that no one named "Gomez" had yet arrived, so they decided to wait in the area containing an upscale bar. Both ordered a drink and Juin, a musician himself, was drawn to the alluring flute and guitar music of the group playing across the room. Terry surveyed the room and saw no sign of the man he now feared, the man whose hands, he felt, held his family's safety and future.
About 30 minutes passed, when Terry's eyes rose to a small private balcony area overlooking the musicians, and suddenly spotted Gomez. He wasn't alone. He was sitting with a woman, a classic Latin beauty, at a table along the balcony's edge.
Upon making eye contact with Reed, Gomez excused himself from his female companion and disappeared through a doorway above. He reappeared in the entrance to the bar and Terry rose to meet him.
"Shall I call you Felix or shall I call you Max?" Terry asked, staring pointedly into Rodriguez' eyes. It was the first meeting since Terry had learned Rodriguez' true identity.
He was trying to block from his mind the information Marr had passed on after their confrontation. "Yeah, Gomez .... I mean Rodriguez is one tough fuckin' hombre. He personally killed Che Guevara, then cut off his fuckin' hands for Agency I.D. purposes. Only question is, was Che dead or alive when Felix chopped 'em off?"
"I actually prefer Maximo, but Felix will do," Rodriguez replied coyly. Seeing Juin was having the desired effect. Rodriguez was visibly upset that Terry had a companion.
"Who's he?" Rodriguez asked glaring suspiciously toward Juin.
Terry mustered up a smile as he said, "Just a friend along for the ride. Who's the woman with you?
"Nobody you need to know about," Rodriguez shot back. Looking at Juin, Rodriguez informed Terry's highly attentive companion, "You'll have to excuse me and Mr. Reed. We need to have a private business discussion."
Things were going as Terry had planned, at least initially. He and Rodriguez were in a public place, and there was a witness. Terry felt safe, at least while they were inside the restaurant. The feeling of security would give him an emotional edge during the ensuing discussion.
Juin remained at the bar and the two men were shown to a table Terry had chosen earlier. It was strategically located so that Juin could observe them from a distance through the course of their conversation.
"So I thought you were a big boy, a trained spy," Rodriguez started immediately, in a taunting tone. "What's this cry-baby attitude all about? Misuse of our warehouse?"
Sitting there face-to-face with the man Nir had said was responsible for Bill Cooper's death had a nerve-wracking effect Terry knew he had to disguise.
Putting on his best poker face, Terry attacked back, "Transshipment of tons of narcotics through my business and me being concerned about the legal ramifications is not reflecting a cry-baby attitude! A narcotics investigation could bring down the whole operation. If you're going to continue with this attitude, I'll just walk out of here and go to the consul-general's office and the DEA and tell them all I know. Don't provoke me, Felix!"
Rodriguez' attitude changed immediately. He plainly had not anticipated a counter-attack, in a public place. "OK, so it's over for you. You want out and I want you out. The only thing standing between you and your family attaining safe passage out of Mexico is your vow of silence and the return of our stolen property."
Rodriguez was referring to the 20 kilos of cocaine Terry had taken from the shipment in Guadalajara. Marr originally had told Terry it was a "controlled delivery" by the CIA and Drug Enforcement Administration. A controlled delivery is, in essence, a sting operation undertaken in order to track the drugs' path and distribution and to ensnare traffickers and arrest them.
But if that had been true, Terry had reasoned, how did Rodriguez know exactly how much was in the total shipment and, therefore, how much was missing? And why would he care and be so concerned? But what really troubled Terry was the warning earlier by Nir about his suspicion that Rodriguez was actually a double-agent, that he was "dirty" and was a "loose cannon" about to expose everyone else's involvement in these clandestine affairs. No one could be sure of his motives. Was Rodriguez just loco or was there a more sinister motive?
What Terry did not know was, as this meeting was taking place, Mexican DFS (the Mexican CIA) agent Raul Fierro and his goons back in Guadalajara were ransacking Terry's office and warehouse frantically searching for the missing 20 kilos he had taken as evidence. Had they located it, this story probably would never have been told. Reed would have joined Seal and Camp and Cooper in that place where "ya don't need flight plans ta fly."
In the dining room, with Juin as an eyewitness, Terry put his cards on the table. It was time to cut a deal.
"I'm a businessman," he reasoned with Rodriguez. "That was your attraction to me in the first place. Let's negotiate an acceptable conclusion to these affairs. I've got something you want and you've got something I want."
Rodriguez had an offer at the ready. "In exchange for your silence, I'm prepared to pay a handsome severance package to help you relocate to Arkansas. In exchange, of course, I would expect that your 'evidence', as you call it, be given to Mitch prior to your departure.
"I would also expect you to do the proper thing and phase yourself out of the operation gradually over the next couple of months so that you don't bring unnecessary attention to yourself or Maquinaria Internacional. Let's stay friends. We're all in this together. Mitch tells me you know both I and Oliver North have appeared before Congress and that's not a fun place to be. They would like nothing better than to send us all to prison. They're all a bunch of communist cocksuckers. So you better keep your silence or you'll end up there, too. Telling a very unbelievable story, I might add."
He paused to let Reed digest what he had said and then added in Godfather fashion, "You leave with my blessing. Just keep your end of the bargain."
In was all over in 20 minutes. Terry felt somewhat relieved. He had known that it would be dangerous to confront Rodriguez and now felt, foolishly as it turned out, that he had struck an honorable deal. But he didn't know what was happening in his office in Guadalajara.
Rodriguez exited the restaurant with his mujer para la noche (woman for the night) and Terry and Juin stayed to enjoy a leisurely dinner, the first relaxing one for Terry in the weeks since he found the cocaine. The perfect way to diet with immediate results, he now knew, was to be involved in a Mexican standoff with the CIA. He had finally lost the weight he had promised himself he would lose years earlier in Arkansas.
After finishing their dinner, Juin gave Terry a macho grin and suggested, "We're near the City of Leon. If we can drive through there tomorrow I'll try to locate an old girl friend of mine who plays the piano. She has a great sister, who's always had the hots for me. Maybe she's ready to be deflowered."
Terry chuckled, not realizing that the worst for him was yet to come.
29-1. Receipt from Hotel in San Miguel de Allende, where Terry Reed met the real "Max Gomez" i.e., Felix Rodriguez, and "crossed the Rubicon" from CIA asset to liability.
29-2. As a result of Reed's "divorce" from the CIA's black operation in Mexico, he would be leaving behind many legitimate business activities he had developed while working undercover in Mexico.
CHAPTER 30: SEVERANCE PAY
Terry was aghast. He was looking into his normally-neat, well-kept office and realized he had been the victim of a black-bag job.
It had been a day and a half since leaving San Miguel and his meeting with Felix Rodriguez. He had returned to the Guadalajara airport, hoping to continue with business as usual and fulfill his agreement with Rodriguez. But he couldn't shake the fear that comes from knowing too much, and being a liability because of it.
He had crossed the line, and was surely now viewed as a whistle-blower. If there ever was an investigation, he would be the subject of it.
But after entering his office, which showed no signs of forcible entry, Reed found something very unsettling. Someone had ransacked his office records and had spent a great deal of time conducting a thorough search of the warehouse as well.
Plainly, someone had been looking for his "evidence," and probably any embarrassing documents that would provide police with information about other "unauthorized shipments" by the Agency.
What he didn't know, and had to find out, was when the illegal entry was made. If it had been done after his handshake with Rodriguez 36 hours earlier, Terry was being double-crossed. If the search had preceded the agreement in San Miguel de Allende, that would be understandable since Reed did, in fact, possess something that belonged to them. He had to confront Mitch Marr, and right away, to get the answer.
A short time later Terry was being let into the walled compound by the Marr's maid. He found Mitch in his usual condition, sitting in his papa-san chair next to his Rambo tapes with a bottle of bourbon within easy reach.
"So Mitch, have you been in contact with Felix since our meeting in San Miguel?"
Reed winced as Marr emptied the contents of the shot glass into his mouth and ran his tongue around the inside of the glass, a technique to extract the last drop. In answer to Reed's question he grumbled, "Yeah he contacted me. I'm glad you guys worked everythin' out. It takes pressure offa me and I don't need any more fuckin' pressure. I had enough pressure flying 123s for Air America."
Reed needed to divert Marr from the war stories that were always triggered by the booze and back to the matter at hand.
"So what was your understanding of our agreement?" Terry asked.
"It's simple. You give us our shit and we give you some fuckin' money," Marr replied.
"So, Felix didn't mention to you anything about a plan to undermine my negotiating position by 'locating' the evidence you've been trying to talk me out of?"
"Naw, naw ... what the fuck do you mean?"
From the tone of Marr's voice, Terry was sure he was lying. But that didn't stop Marr from rambling on.
"Hey, this is the Agency you're dealin' with. These are honorable guys, patriots. They won't fuck ya. You been watchin' too many movies. Speakin' of movies, do you wanna see Stallone's latest. We can have a drink. My wife's gone ta the States. It's only me and the maid. Besides, I got some money here for ya. Here's two grand for your travel expenses."
"I don't have time for a drink, but since you brought up the subject of money, Felix discussed severance pay with me and said that you would inform me of how that would be worked out and how much we're talking about."
"I'm not sure about the amount, but they'll be generous. We'll pay you as you leave, provided we get your 'evidence' back."
"Since you don't think it was our people who rifled my office should I get the Mexican police over to the warehouse to officially complain about the illegal entry?"
"Christ, no. If nuthin' valuable is missin', just go on about your business. We don't want any fuckin' Mexican police pokin' around. You're a short-timer, you're goin' home. Besides, it was probably just some of Fierro's people lookin' for somethin' anyway."
Marr was unconvincing. Terry knew that he was lying by the forced expression on his face, but he knew that his priority now was to collect his "severance pay" and get his family out of Mexico. As he was leaving the house, Marr reached for the bottle and settled back into his chair dressed in his usual attire of an armless undershirt and Bermuda shorts to enjoy his latest pirated copy of Rambo. It was mid-afternoon and Marr was well on his way. He loved it when his wife was away since she could not nag him about hitting the bottle, or berate him for watching the violent movies she hated.
"It just won't work. We're in over our heads and these people could find us anywhere in the world," a worried Janis Reed argued as she fed the pigeons that day near the Benito Juarez statue in a Guadalajara park. "Besides, we would need a lot more money than we have now in order to take an indefinite 'vacation.'"
Both Terry and Janis had driven to the city for what he always called, from his Air Force days, a "standup briefing." It was the first time since his return from San Miguel de Allende that the couple had talked together in detail about their plight. They had decided against talking at home for fear that the Agency had placed bugging devices in their house in Ajijic. They were always concerned, too, about Geronimo, their over-nosey gardener who always seemed to be eavesdropping when they talked.
Terry knew his wife well and felt she could handle the truth. Theirs was a special relationship and she had never been a millstone around his neck, especially when they entered the dark world. Just the opposite, she had embraced it with enthusiasm.
"I'm gonna tell it to you straight if you promise not to revert to being a Baptist on me." The taunt was intentional because Terry knew Janis hated being categorized as a Baptist. "I was raised Baptist" she always corrected him.
While feeding the pigeons, Terry looked around to insure no one could hear his conversation.
"You remember the day I took John (Desko) with me to the warehouse? While I was alone that day I took the liberty of hiding two bags of white powdery substance that I intended to use as evidence to prove to Marr that his people were in the drug business. That evidence is now our ticket out of here if we play our cards right."
"Terry, what are you trying to tell me?" Janis screeched and then quickly lowered her voice to the level of a whisper. "Are you trying to tell me you've got cocaine hidden somewhere! And you're trying to blackmail our way out of here?"
Her mind worked quickly. "Terry, we're going to all end up dead out of this deal!"
A cerveza purchased from a vending cart did little to calm her as the gravity of the situation began to sink in. In a few moments, she regained her composure and began to think how best to grapple with their problems. She quickly realized they needed a plan.
"So the Air Force paid you to develop battle plans, you got any good ideas now?" Janis said forcing a smile. Terry lifted her chin and kissed her whispering, "You know I always do."
"I figured you were going to say that and ...'what's the worse that can happen?'"
A plethora of alternatives were discussed and the most viable emerged: Plan A: They would leave immediately and head for the U.S. border and then split up just south of the Rio Grande. Janis would cross the border with the children and then Terry would take off to some as yet unknown destination, probably Thailand.
Or, they could opt for Plan B: Secretly, they would load the motor home, exchange the dope for the money, leave Ajijic abruptly during the night, zigzag across Mexico to Cancun, put the motor home on a freighter, and disguised as tourists, head for some remote area like Australia.
And then there was Plan C, the one they both knew in their hearts they had to do: Go along with the Agency's divorce proceedings, return to the U.S. together, hopefully without being harmed in the process, and report their findings to the proper authorities, probably the Iran-Contra committees. Plan C, he knew, was doing the moral thing -- doing it the hard way.
That day in Guadalajara, however, both were aware that to implement any of their plans required lots of money. Janis agreed for her husband to proceed with negotiations about the cocaine, but she made it clearly understood that she didn't want to know any of the details.
They returned to Chapala and immediately began preparations for a quick departure.
Janis, who had discovered early retirement in the Land of Manana for a person of her age could bring on mental atrophy, was teaching in private school in Ajijic. She began quietly making plans for obtaining a replacement for her elementary class.
Terry began winding down his business operations in a manner designed not to draw attention to his departure. He told associates that the catastrophic devaluation of the Mexican pesetas was the basis for his reason to return home.
Janis, who acted as the family accountant, was concentrating on their financial needs and both she and her husband felt the urgency of finding out what Rodriguez' "severance package" would be. The amount would strongly influence their future plans.
Several days later, after several unsuccessful attempts to locate Marr, Reed found him at a local watering hole, The Posada, during Happy Hour.
Marr was sitting on an equipali chair in the corner drinking by himself. As Reed approached, Marr motioned him to sit down. "Since you're leavin', I guess it's OK that we be seen in public. What are you drinkin'?"
Terry ordered a Dos Equis dark and slid his chair closer to Marr, keeping his back to the wall. He was paranoid, extremely paranoid. Visions of Barry Seal being riddled with bullets kept flashing before him. It was totally out of character, but he was now carrying a concealed, 9MM semi-automatic wherever he went.
"We need to work out the conditions of exchange for everything," Terry began quietly. "And I need to know how much severance pay we're talking about."
Marr said Rodriguez was unhappy because he felt Terry was blackmailing his way out. So why, Marr asked, didn't Reed just turn over the drugs and he would be "rewarded handsomely later." Marr then said that if Reed did "the right thing" he would still be on the Agency's friendly side and could be eligible to "be tapped" for other assignments in the future.
Reed knew this was a ploy and he wanted no part of it. "Mitch, now you wouldn't do that. You didn't survive your years in Air America by being stupid. I don't consider myself stupid, so don't insult me with such offers. The only thing I'll find acceptable is a plan that gives me the security I need while I extricate my family and myself from this mess. Now, tell me a plan where we can all accomplish our objectives."
Marr emptied the tequila from his shot glass, bit the slice of lime and wiped his mouth on his bare arm. "Well, it was worth a try, but you're right, I wouldn't go for it either. OK, here's the deal. We'll pay ya a hundred grand in cash when ya hand me your evidence. "
Reed countered immediately with the plan he had devised during many sleepless nights since his last meeting with Marr. "I'll give you half the evidence, you pay me the full amount and upon my safe arrival in the U.S., I'll telephone you and tell you where you can find the other half. I won't double cross them. They know where they can find me and my family in the event I did. And believe me the CIA is the last organization I would ever double cross. That, Mitch, is the only way I find acceptable. You can rest assured that I wouldn't try crossing the border with your evidence." Tongue-in-cheek he added, " 'Cause that, Mitch, would be construed as trafficking. "
Marr had switched to Bohemia and was downing a mouthful when Terry finished. He brought up a hearty belch, and as he peeled the label from his bottle he said, "I see where you're coming from. I can't approve that, but I'll pass it along. It sounds fair ta me."
Terry got up to leave, tossed down some pesos to cover his bill, and started to turn from the table.
"You ought to be careful about carryin' a gun in Mexico, 'specially a concealed one. It's against the law ya know."
Terry spun around and challenged, "What makes you think I'm carrying a gun?"
Marr smiled. "Fuck, I would be."
Within several days, Marr came to Reed with the news that "they don't like doin' it this way, but I've convinced them that you won't fuck us when you get to the States. So when can I have half of the evidence?"
"Just as soon as I see 10,000 pictures of Benjamin Franklin smilin' at me," Reed said. "And you were right before when you brought up the subject of guns. I am carrying one. This is a dangerous country, you know. The State Department says so!"
Terry found the wait while preparing to leave stressful. So much so that he "grounded" himself and would not fly his airplane -- convinced that it would be sabotaged and he would die in a plane crash, just as Emile Camp had more than two years earlier.
For this reason, he arranged for his plane to be flown back by a contract courier pilot so that way he could travel with his family on the return journey. Things appeared to be going as planned. The only thing that impeded their departure was finding a replacement for Janis at the school where she taught English.
The cover story was that Terry's silent partners in the states were re-evaluating their business options in light of the peso devaluation. They needed him there for a marathon meeting and Janis and the children would be traveling with him in order to visit relatives. Since their youngest child, Baxter, was only four months old, they would say that they decided to document their Mexican nanny and take her along as evidence to anyone watching that they intended to return. But Terry devised this as added security because if any violent action were taken against them, there would be one more person, a Mexican national, for the attackers to dispose of.
Outwardly everything appeared normal. But inwardly they were on "red alert," or DEFCON II, as it's called in SAC jargon. No one realized that Janis Reed was now carrying a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson, five-shot airweight pistol everywhere she went, even to school. Among other things, she feared a kidnapping attempt on the children. They allowed Duncan, their four year-old son, to continue his schooling, but only because he attended the same school where she taught and his classroom was two doors away from hers. Terry all but patrolled their home's walled compound and never allowed the other sons out of his sight when Janis wasn't home. "Each child must be continuously accounted for," was the inflexible rule.
All was quiet until Terry returned home from his warehouse on the afternoon of Sept. 18. Just before he walked in the door, Janis, as was her Friday ritual, had called their answering service in Little Rock to check for business messages.
There had been two unexplained calls that day from someone who identified himself as Gene Ogden. He gave no business name, but had left a Little Rock telephone number.
When Terry returned the call the following Monday, he was taken aback when a female voice answered: "Arkansas State Police."
Certain that he had dialed the wrong number, he gathered his composure and asked if a Gene Ogden worked there. He was further surprised when she gave no response and instead transferred him to an extension where a male voice answered "Ogden."
In the conversation that ensued, Ogden said he was with Trooper Magazine, a publication of the state police, and was soliciting advertisers. Since he had no business listing in the Little Rock phone book, Terry was curious as to how Ogden had come by the phone number.
When Ogden said he got Reed's number from the Yellow Pages, Reed knew something was not right, especially so when Ogden began to ask where Reed was calling from. "Gosh this sounds like long distance," Ogden said. "Where are you calling from?"
Reed said he was outside the United States on a business trip, but asked Ogden to forward his advertising rates along with a copy of the magazine to see if he would be interested in it for marketing purposes. Reed never received anything.
Though Reed was suspicious, he could not know then that a frame-up against him had started. He was becoming a disposable asset and the Arkansas State Police had been chosen as the instrument to manufacture a crime that would silence, discredit and financially drain him over the next two and a half years.
Being unaware of the "homecoming sting" being prepared for him, Reed had other things on his mind. He foolishly felt certain that he could handle whatever problems awaited him on the other side of the Rio Grande. His attention was diverted to protecting his family and taking care of the "escape" from Mexico. He had to "think like a pilot" and prioritize his worry about getting out of Margaritaville, safely. To be certain, they didn't needlessly expose their itinerary -- neither Terry or Janis had informed their families, by phone or otherwise, that they were returning to the U.S.
On October 4th, Duncan's fifth birthday, the Reed's broke their communication silence and phoned both grandparents so they could wish the boy happy birthday. But even then, they made no mention of returning home.
But during their brief conversations with family, the Reeds were confronted with another puzzling development. Both grandmothers, who lived 175 miles apart, revealed they had received a telephone call from someone saying he was "an old flying buddy" of Terry's. The caller said he was in Arkansas and trying to find Reed. He left no name or number and said only that he would call back later.
Terry dismissed any concern about this at the time because he did have many old flying buddies, many of whom were former students who still resided in the Midwest.
Later, Arkansas State Police Capt. Raymond (Buddy) Young, then Gov. Bill Clinton's chief of security, would testify in federal court that he made these pretext calls in hope of learning the Reeds' whereabouts.
In Mexico, the packing of the motor home continued. Preparations were also under way for the "exchange" of the first half of the evidence that Terry had hidden in the rented garage, where he stored their BMW. A block from the Posada, on the lake shore in Ajijic, in a false bottom of a garage workbench lay the Agency's "evidence".
Little did the woman who rented the garage know that Terry had secreted there the 20 kilos of cocaine that was his proof the CIA was trafficking in narcotics.
One cool evening in mid-October, Marr rang the buzzer at the Reed home and disclosed that he had the money. "I got your Ben Franklin pictures ready.
Come by the house anytime. Just be sure ta bring your half of the bargain." Still wary of Marr, Reed asked if his wife had returned home, believing that if Marr planned anything unpleasant he would be less likely to do so in the presence of a nagging wife and a live-in maid.
"Yeah, the bitch is back. I'm goin' ta the Posada for a drink. Wanna go? For old time sake? For Screw Worm? Come on, I'll tell ya some more Air America stories." Reed declined. Marr then started to leave but paused and said, "You sure ya don't wanna sell me the gun before ya leave? They're worth a lotta money down here, ya know."
Reed put on his best stoic face. He was disturbed by the question, believing it a ploy to get him to admit he actually had a weapon. If he was actually going to be allowed to leave Mexico with $100,000, he wouldn't be concerned about turning a profit on a gun. He was leery the Agency was setting him up for an arrest by the police in Mexico where handguns are strictly prohibited, or simply to determine if he really had one.
"No. Hypothetically speaking, if I had one I may need it on the way out of here, you know, for banditos."
Marr chuckled. "You been watchin' too many movies. These are all honorable guys you're dealing with."
On October 16th, the exchange was made at Marr's house. At high noon, both men handed over what the other wanted. Terry got $100,000 in $100 bills and Marr got 10 kilos of "pure." The remaining drugs, they agreed, could be located after the Reed family safely crossed the border. A third person would contact Marr and arrange for a telephone conversation between the two men. Terry would then tell him where to find the other half.
"Sure is a lotta hocus-pocus among friends," Marr had said while shaking his head.
The last words he heard Marr speak that day in Mitch's den in Ajijic were, "Let's toast to the burial of Screw Worm and Bill Cooper. What a way ta go ... ta die with your boots on in a 123. That lucky shit!"
It took less than a minute to end a 15-month chapter in Terry's life. A new chapter was about to begin.
That night, hopefully without the Agency or Marr knowing about it, Terry had a business appointment in Guadalajara. In anticipation of receiving consecutively- marked bills, which had been the standard form of payment in Mexico, Terry had devised a plan for eliminating the inevitable money trail, always a perfect way of tracking someone's movements. Again, the story of the trail of Hansel and Gretel came to mind. He certainly didn't want to leave "green" crumbs to be tracked by.
The man who had insured his airplane was a Mexican entrepreneur who had another business in addition to his thriving insurance agency -- that of money changing. Terry had sought out his services because he had been told that he was "connected." After making sure he wasn't being followed, Terry rendezvoused at the insurance office to do a little after-hours banking. He had alerted the man earlier that he would be "coming into some money," which he would like to exchange this for different bills. He appeared to be accustomed to this kind of request as his money-changing service catered to the foreigners living in Guadalajara. He said he would have the $100,000 ready for the exchange -- for his usual fee ... and a slight surcharge.
The previously-negotiated "fee" for this service was to be $2,000. But upon seeing the Agency's consecutively-marked, uncirculated and newly-minted bills, he reneged. After running the money through the machine that detects counterfeit bills, he demanded $3,000 more.
"It's not counterfeit, but due to its condition and appearance, I must ask for a larger than normal fee," the money changer said. "I do not press my clients as to the source of their problems ... I mean money. But I'm afraid this dinero is so hot I will have to exchange it for rubles just to unload it."
If the man was going to actually purchase Soviet currency in order to move the cash out of the country, Terry laughed inwardly at the thought of leaving a false money trail all over Siberia. That would keep a few agents busy.
Terry's negotiating skills reduced the total fee to $4,000. He departed the office with used American bills of unknown origin, but only after he made the Mexican run them through the counterfeiting machine.
On the drive back home, the thought of the money being tainted with cocaine residue kept rolling through his mind. He was going to have enough problems explaining the source of the money to U.S. Customs. The last thing he needed was a trained narcotics dog pissing on the side of their motor home signaling the Reed's as traffickers.
So back home, their newly purchased Mexican washer and dryer did several loads, the likes of which redefined the term "money laundering".
The next day the Reeds, the Mexican maid, the kids and the German Shepherd, Macho, all packed into the motor home and headed north. The motor home was valued at $20,000, but on that day it was worth considerably more ... say, $100,000.
Reed had hidden the money in the waste tank, but that was only a temporary repository. Unknown to Janis, he had devised what he considered an ingenuous plan to get it across the border undetected. It was not against the law to have the money, it was only illegal not to report it to Customs when he crossed. Terry didn't relish the thought of breaking the law, but this was an emergency that could make the difference between life or death.
As Fawn Hall, Oliver North's secretary said to the Congressional Committee investigating Iran-Contra, "Sometimes you have to go above the written law."
The Reeds spent the first night of their tense journey at the only three-star hotel in Zacatecas where the maid slept in the motor home for the night as a security precaution. To smuggle the money into the motel, Janis stuffed it in the diaper bag alongside her pistol.
Once inside, the Reeds began to implement their plan. Janis counted the $100 bills for the first time and placed them neatly in waterproof plastic ziplock bags. Her husband sat in the shower and carefully removed, with a surgical scalpel, the so-called tamper-proof seals from two one-gallon plastic bottles of Prestone anti-freeze.
He then packed the baggies into the bottle, refilled them with anti-freeze, and, with super glue, replaced the tamper-proof seals. It was the most expensive anti-freeze on the face of the earth.
As she nervously waited for her husband to finish his tedious task, Janis poured herself a glass of Mexican red wine. Her assignment finished, the impact of what they were doing began to sink in. Terry, to keep his wife's nerves steady, had promised her that this concealment was solely for security while in Mexico -- to prevent it from being found and taken in the eventuality of an accident or robbery. When they reached the Texas border at McAllen, he told her, it would be declared, proper and legal.
He lied.
The next morning the tension heightened. They planned on making the border by nightfall, but that would be quite an accomplishment, he thought, after factoring in the unexpected delays he knew would result from traveling with the children, the maid and the dog. They hit the road at dawn to optimize the daylight hours.
Janis, he could sense, was on the verge of breaking from the stress and acute paranoia. To break her silence and to occupy her mind, Terry attempted to draw her into conversations of plans to rebuild his business, buying a house near Little Rock and blending back into the community. She knew what he was doing and feared not only for the trip to the border, but the future as well. She wouldn't share it with him then, but she felt deep inside their problems were only beginning.
Normally, they would have entered at Laredo. But the plan called for an abrupt change in border destination, crossing at an unexpected location on the Mexican side in the event someone might be there waiting for them.
Always do the unexpected, his intelligence training kept reminding him.
From their experience of living in Mexico, Reed knew that there was much more law and order in the interior than at the border. Border towns were something else. They reminded him of the bar scene in the movie Star Wars, a menagerie of misfits and cut-throats. From his observation, these towns were magnets for social mutants from both cultures. Unfortunately they were how most Americans pre-judged all of Mexico. But their rough and tumble atmosphere is what concerned him the most as they pulled into the outskirts of Reynosa after a rather uneventful trip. If someone was going to make a move on them, it would probably happen here.
It was Sunday evening, and by the time they arrived en el centro de Reynosa, Janis' nerves were shattered. To give her time to pull herself together, Terry decided it best to stay overnight there and cross early on the 19th. He also reasoned that spending an additional night in Mexico was, in fact, doing the unexpected just in case anyone had surprise plans for them.
"Always do the unexpected" again surfaced as he drove around getting the lay of the land and looking for the "right" place to spend the night.
He found a motel with a secure courtyard to park the motor home and, again, their maid slept in the RV. That night Terry tossed and turned while his wife slept soundly after "sedating" herself with a portion of a bottle of Mexican red wine.
From the motel window, Terry could see the American border and the city lights of McAllen. He was almost there, yet he felt the most dangerous leg of the journey, the crossing into the United States, lay ahead.
The impending crossing would be the test, he felt, of whether Rodriguez and his CIA cohorts were the "honorable, patriotic men" Marr had claimed them to be. He mulled over and over to himself: What will they be expecting me to do? Just do the opposite. His paranoia was running wild.
Even if they knew he was here, he rationalized to himself, they would not be expecting him to cross here. If he were, why would he be spending the night rather than crossing over earlier in the evening?
Do the unexpected, do the unexpected ...
We are certainly visible enough, he thought as he protectively gazed at the three little boys lying on the floor in their sleeping bags. His gaze then drew to Janis who was lying next to him. What a woman he thought! Without her inner strength, her insistence on keeping the family intact, he would have probably opted for Plans A or B -- flee or take the money and run. He finally dozed off, exhausted, with Smith and Wesson standing guard.
The next morning was Monday, October 19th, 1987.
As Janis loaded the last child into the motor home, she walked over to her husband and whispered, "Don't forget, you promised you would declare that money. You did drain the anti-freeze after I went to sleep last night, didn't you?"
She knew what was in store when he didn't lift his sunglasses. He always lied when he didn't lift his sunglasses.
"Honey, this is one step at a time. How are we going to explain $100,000 in cash? I promise if they ask us about money, I'll declare it."
She gave him a look of disgust laced with disbelief, causing him to resort to a less tactful tone.
"Just get in the fuckin' motor home and let's leave."
With two pistols hidden in plastic bags in the sewage tank, and two $50,000 bottles of anti-freeze under their sink, they crossed the Rio Grande and pulled into the United States Customs inspection station. They were on American soil. They had purposely put their oldest son, Duncan, in an upper berth near a window and told him to wave at the Customs inspectors.
"Look wholesome," the nervous mother told him as the expressionless agent entered their Missouri license plate number, visible on the front of their vehicle, into the computer.
Had it not been for the single fact that the vehicle was registered in a company's name and not his own, their trip would probably have ended right there. Without knowing it, Reed and his wife were now the subject of an investigation.
They were motioned into the vehicle inspection area and three inspectors literally ransacked the inside of the motor home. Their immigration papers showed that they had been outside the U.S. for an extended period, and they were discovering how most Americans are welcomed home. Law abiding or otherwise.
There were questions about the maid, the vaccinations for the dog and Terry was about to give a sigh of relief when yet another inspector approached Janis and asked, "Are you carrying currency or negotiable instruments that are in excess of $10,000?"
It was a moment frozen in time.
If this had been a movie, it would now be shown in slow motion. Janis stood by motionless as Terry, carrying his 5-month-old child, had just answered "no" when asked that same question by another inspector looking under the sink at the anti-freeze bottles.
Oh fuck, he thought to himself as resourcefulness kicked in. He hadn't come this far to blow it all now with an arrest for a currency violation.
"Hey, 1 just lost my ass on peso devaluations in Mexico. Do we look like the kind of people who would have $10,000 left?", he reasoned with the expressionless agent.
The inspector looked benignly at Reed holding the infant and agreed, "Naw, I guess not. It's been really hard for American businessmen down there, hasn't it?" He walked away with the others following him.
"You lied to me!" Janis snapped after she got back in the motor home.
Terry didn't respond but simply slowly piloted the motor home over the last speed bump and crossed into McAllen. Both were on the verge of collapse from the weeks of tension they had been harboring inside. They were safe, they fatuously thought.
"I can't believe you did that," she kept saying.
"Honey, please shut up and turn on the radio, we're back in the U.S. now! Let's listen to some rock n' roll."
She was rotating the dial seeking a station, when the familiar voice of Paul Harvey came over the radio. "Don't jump. Don't jump, it's not worth it. It's only money. Let's not have a repeat of 1929."
Was this some kind of joke they thought as they pulled into a service station to fuel the motor home. Upon inquiring of the attendant what Harvey was talking about, he answered matter of factly.
"Oh haven't you heard, the stock market crashed." It was near noon on Black Monday. The Reeds had come home to a national financial disaster ... among other things.
But after refueling, as they motored north toward San Antonio on 1-35 and updated themselves on the Wall Street disaster, they took comfort in the knowledge that their assets were, truly, liquid.
Meanwhile, at the governor's mansion in Little Rock, the Arkansas State Police and the DEA were frantically putting together a computer profile of the Reeds and attempting to learn their whereabouts. They had miraculously slipped through the border net.
The "honorable men" Marr had talked about were anything but.
CHAPTER 31: DOUBLE CROSS
The phone rang in the North Kansas City motel room. It was November 3rd, 1987. When he answered the call, Terry Reed quickly recognized the voice. It belonged to the man he had known as John Cathey. By this time, the voice had become well known to the rest of America as well. The man on the other end of the line was Oliver North.
"Should I call you Oliver or should I call you John?" Terry asked the man he had known as his CIA controller as he regained consciousness from his interrupted sleep.
"It's unfortunate that deceit among friends is necessary," North replied stoically.
"I'm out of Mexico and I'm in deep shit," Terry exclaimed, getting right to the point.
North was in deep shit himself when he returned Terry's frantic call. In fact, everyone connected with the illegal Contra supply operation was in deep shit.
North had already testified about the Iran-Contra affair, and having watched some of the congressional hearings, Terry had been somewhat taken aback by the re-packaging of the Marine Lieutenant Colonel for media and public consumption. The North he knew had not behaved as a "rogue" operating on his own, as Attorney-General Edwin Meese had painted him to be. And from what Terry had gathered from the print media since returning to the states, North was now being drafted by the public as an American hero and someone bordering on idol worship. With his newfound fame, Terry sure hoped North remembered his old acquaintances, especially those on the run from the CIA, FBI and Arkansas State Police.
Earlier, while waiting for North's call, Terry had paced the motel room, mentally developing a battle plan from his rapidly deteriorating alternatives. One particular acronym kept leaping from his memory bank of Air Force expressions. His present condition was most definitely FUBAR, or Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
It had been two short weeks since the Reed family had crossed the border, and now he was fighting minute by minute to control his paranoia. His overriding reason for wanting to leave Mexico had been his fear of becoming the patsy for the CIA's dirty operation ... that he would be left to take the fall if it were exposed.
As events were unfolding, it was evident that someone, most likely Felix Rodriguez, was double-crossing him. Now, he wished that he had the "evidence" with him so he could prove his story when he went to Congress -- his only logical alternative. As it was turning out, all he had was his word.
Terry and Janis had breathed a cautious sigh of relief after their motor home cleared the last known obstacle between the Rio Grande and their first planned stop-over in Carthage, Missouri. Janis' last panic attack occurred just prior to the "wet back" checkpoint north of McAllen, which they passed with no major fanfare on "Black Monday", October 19th. Once beyond, they actually began to relax somewhat, for the first time in many stress-filled weeks.
The "Reed Traveling Circus" arrived unannounced in Terry's hometown on October 21st, having survived this 1,100-mile road trek in reasonable fashion. The plans called for a surprise visit to his mother's house, giving her the opportunity to behave as a typical grandmother and dote on her five-month old "Mexican" grandson, Baxter whom she had never seen.
Working from information obtained from his youngest brother Roland, they were informed his mother wasn't home, but in the country visiting relatives.
They decided it best to head for Kansas City hoping to get to Janis' parents by nightfall. On their way out of Carthage they spotted a concrete truck bearing the insignia "REED CONCRETE CONSTRUCTION". Terry stopped and had a brief 15-minute meeting with his oldest brother Gary, whose concrete company was working on a construction site nearby. Terry alerted him they would soon return for a proper and extended visit.
They had spent less than an hour in Carthage as they left and headed northward on Route 71, but they would later learn that they had been observed by someone who was an informant and alerted Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton's chief of security. It was an eerie thought that their every move was being shadowed.
The next 10 days were restless ones spent at Janis' parents home in Kansas City. Night-time conversation in the guest room was filled with discussions of what was "the right thing to do." One dimension of them wanted to shout out to the American public their knowledge of the unthinkable ... there was no war on drugs! Worse yet, that factions of the Federal government were actually trafficking! But the other dimension, the more rational one that normally takes command in the daylight hours, kept saying, "Put your lives back together and quietly blend back into society."
They were torn emotionally and ethically. Terry had given his word to Rodriguez and had taken his money. He still owed Felix half the "evidence", and was beginning to wonder if Marr had not already recovered it on his own. Their repeated attempts to contact him were fruitless, being informed by the maid he simply wasn't at home. Terry found this bizarre and unsettling. Taking possession of the "evidence" should be "numero uno" on Marr's list of things to do, unless of course he was again a guest of a Betty Ford-style clinic in the States.
But many questions gnawed at Terry. How big of a liability was he? Would they leave him alone, considering the dangerous knowledge stored within his brain? How vulnerable was he legally? Could, or would, some "inventive" law enforcement agent or prosecutor construct a crime based on what he had done while involved in these black operations?
Already a special prosecutor in Washington was targeting Oliver North for an indictment. Would the same thing happen to him? He was hearing about a very old and sparingly administered law called the Neutrality Act being put to a very new use. People who had assisted the Contras were being indicted by its application. This prompted him and Janis to visit a law library in Kansas City to do a little research of their own.
They ascertained that the Neutrality Act was a law passed in 1909 that bars American citizens from engaging in any act of armed hostility against a country with which the U.S. is not at war. But Terry hadn't performed any "hostile acts", or had he? Doing further research under the laws defining "conspiracy", they regretfully concluded he probably had.
Depressed, they sought the daytime solitude of a place special to Janis' teenage years.
"Calm down honey," he consoled as she sobbed while sitting in the car at the waterworks overlook in North Kansas City. "Implicating me legally is the last thing they would do. Only an idiot would press charges. They won't launder their dirty underwear publicly, especially not in Federal Court."
He couldn't articulate it to her, but his true fears had nothing to do with conspiracy statutes. Legal exposure was one thing. In a trial, you can fight back, even sling dirt of your own. His paranoia was most extreme when he thought of Barry Seal and how he had been dealt with -- by assassins' bullets from automatic weapons with silencers. He now knew the term "silencer" had more than one meaning. Their non-judicial technique had certainly silenced Seal.
He usually told Janis everything, but he couldn't share his fear of assassination with her. To do so would have resulted in total panic. He had to be strong. He had gotten them into this mess, he had to keep a level head and get them out.
While sitting in the park that November afternoon, reassuring one another while looking down at the Missouri River and the Kansas City skyline, old thoughts began to kindle within her. This was the very site where she had made her vow at the age of 17 to leave home and live life to its fullest. She shared with him those long-ago memories of being the rebellious teen -- visions she had not revisited since their first date in Oklahoma City. Life certainly hadn't been boring, they both agreed, and most importantly they had found each other to share their lives with -- for better or worse.
While relishing their closeness, the haunting lyrics of a once popular song resurfaced from Terry's subconscious. They took on a deeper and more sinister meaning, but it seemed as if the lyrics were written specifically for them:
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your mind it will creep;
It starts when your heart is afraid,
Step out of line
The man comes and takes you away ....
There's a man with a gun over there,
Tellin' me I got to beware.
They would come to adopt this Buffalo Springfield song as their "self-help sanity check" in order to ascertain if their actions were rational or driven by paranoia. It was cheap psychiatry, they decided, and available on cassette, LP or 45.
Two days before North's phone call, Terry had been to the Kansas City Public Library attempting to get the transcripts of the Iran-Contra hearings. In Mexico, other than the spotty news coverage, he had no way of knowing for certain what had become public knowledge. He was especially curious if Rodriguez had made any admission or inadvertent reference to "Screw Worm ". The librarian indicated the transcripts were on back order due to the inability of the government printing office to meet the demand for orders, so he spent the afternoon reviewing newspaper and magazine articles. From what he read, there had been no mention of Jade Bridge, Centaur Rose or Screw Worm ... yet.
Upon returning that evening, Janis rushed to him as he crossed her parent's front lawn. He could tell from her ashen face something horrible had happened. "Get in the motor home with me," she uttered in a demanding voice. "I've got something important to tell you, privately!"
Once inside, she closed the door to the vehicle and nearly screamed out with pent-up rage. "They're screwing' us! Your damn CIA friends are setting us up! The police are after us! What are we gonna do, Terry?" She broke down crying as she pounded the cabinets with her fists.
She began to reconstruct what had happened. Terry's mother had called saying that Terry had received urgent mail, sent in her care, from Carol Canino, the wife of the owner of the rented aircraft hangar in Little Rock. The message instructed them to immediately contact her. There was a problem in Arkansas.
Upon calling Mrs. Canino, Janis was told that the police had executed a search warrant on the hangar on October 14th, only five days prior to them crossing the border, and its contents -- allegedly an expensive, single-engine airplane -- was seized.
The Reeds were stunned and confused. At that point they were not sure what precisely had been seized since they had left behind only the Ultra-Light aircraft and file cabinets containing office records. Could it be that the Agency was trying to seize his old files and records, he wondered? Were they afraid he had "papers" in storage that could implicate them? Was this a duplication of or somehow linked to the ransacking that had occurred at his office in Mexico? He had no immediate answers, but Mrs. Canino had been frantic to inform them of what transpired so that her company wouldn't be held legally liable.
She had passed on to Janis a telephone number for a police officer named Raymond Young, who wanted to talk to them immediately. The name sounded remotely familiar to Terry, like a name he'd heard in passing, or a name he'd read somewhere.
"They've just made the decision for us," Terry said while comforting his wife inside the motor home. "I don't know what's going on, but let's get out of here. We're going to Washington. Start packing. We'll leave first thing in the morning."
As Terry sat watching the national weather report on television in preparation for their journey the next morning, a personal tragedy unfolded. Janis' 65- year-old father, Ken, exited the bathroom with his left arm hanging limply at his side, saying with a look of terror on his face, "I can't comb my hair."
Janis and her mother, Vera, immediately rushed him to the hospital. Terry couldn't believe the timing of yet another disaster. For a moment it dwarfed their CIA problems, but then self-preservation took hold as paranoia from the events in Arkansas surfaced.
Still stunned, and with the help of the maid, he continued loading the motor home and moved the children, maid and RV to a nearby motel. After checking them in, he joined his wife at the hospital where his father-in-law's diagnosis confirmed their suspicions. He had experienced a stroke.
"I've moved us out of the house," Terry informed her in the hallway adjoining the emergency room. "We've got to leave. We could be arrested anytime. We've got to get to Washington. I need to find North. Surely he can help."
Janis was frantic, torn in all directions. For all she knew her father could be dying. Thoughts of being apprehended at his bedside flashed through her mind. She couldn't bear to think her father's last visions might be of her arrest. These unthinkable events could aggravate his condition and even cause his death. For all she knew, she might never see him again, alive or dead.
But leaving posed a monumental problem. How could she monitor her father's condition? She would have to keep her parents in the dark about their whereabouts and their problems.
"You know we can't tell my mother what's going on or where we're going," Janis cried. "If anyone comes looking for us you know she'll be compelled to tell them the truth. She won't lie."
As if Terry didn't have enough problems, he now had to deal with the strict Baptist adherence to the Ten Commandments, and at the top of that list was Thou Shalt Not Lie. The CIA was on his trail, he was sure he was being framed, now he was faced with Janis' father possibly dying and a mother-in-law who wouldn't mislead the police.
"Oh fuck," were all the words he could muster. "What else?"
If this meant he had relatives who wouldn't lie under any circumstances, then he and Janis would be forced to. Terry suggested Janis simply tell her mother they were going to Chicago due to a business "emergency" involving their Gomiya lawsuit and that the crisis demanded both of their presence since they each were corporate officers in Applied Technologies. With this problem rectified, there were others to deal with.
There was still the major nagging problem. They still had not been able to make contact with Mitch Marr to arrange the return of the remaining drugs to Rodriguez. Terry now knew he needed to contact Marr and quickly. He was part of a "cut-out" that was now being "cut-off". He would have gladly violated the intelligence rule of communicating "one up and one down," meaning having contact and exchanging data with only the person directly above or below you. In fact, by the rules of intelligence, it was even a security violation to know any others in the loop. But unfortunately, he knew of no one else to contact. Marr was above him but out of commission, and Terry was the bottom rung on the "Screw Worm" ladder. With the link to Marr now seemingly severed, Terry was floating through dark space alone and isolated.
"Go by your parents' home, don't be seen and try one more time to contact Marr from there," he instructed Janis. "I want you to leave a trail to their phone, just in case it's tapped. When you talk to Chapala Realty, spread some disinformation. Tell them everything is fine here and that we'll be staying with your parents for at least two more weeks, and then back to Little Rock. Maybe that'll buy us some time. Then make sure you're not followed and meet me at the motel. If your dad has stabilized, we'll leave KC tomorrow."
He assumed that by now his in-laws' phone was tapped and would thereby be an excellent pipeline to distribute disinformation. It could also underline to those listening that he was not double crossing anyone and was still trying to keep his part of the bargain.
"'What are you going do?"
"'I hardly slept at all last night. I'm going to try to get some rest in preparation for a marathon drive to Washington. In the morning, we'll call North and Lieutenant Young to try to find out what's going on."
After cautiously rejoining her family at the motel, Janis informed Terry that Diana, their contact in Ajijic, had not been able to locate Marr.
"'It's like he vanished," she had told Janis in a very unsettling tone. She went on to say she had driven to his house and Marr's maid told her she thought he had gone to the States. That made the Reeds even more uneasy. Why would Mitch depart for the States without the evidence? This made no sense. Had Marr already found the drugs? And was planted cocaine what had been seized from the Little Rock hangar? That's probably how it would all end up, Terry thought. He'd be set up and labeled a drug runner, after all.
As he attempted to watch television with his children that evening, one thing was becoming crystal clear. There was no deal anymore, if there had ever been one, and it was now everyone for himself.
Marr's words brought a bitter taste to his mouth: "'These are honorable men .... "
After another sleepless night, they were thankful to hear that Janis' father was in stable condition. They were now faced with the need to gain intelligence of their own and to make the call to the police officer who had left his number with the owner of the hangar in Little Rock.
There was risk involved. If the phone was tapped, he knew that the 911 technology the FBI utilized could show the point of origin of their call. For this reason they drove to a pay phone on the south side of Kansas City to disguise their movements in a southerly direction, figuring if their actions were being predicted and monitored, it would appear they were proceeding back to Little Rock.
Thinking back to the odd "'flying buddy" phone calls made to their parents, Terry guessed they had been pretext calls probably made to locate him ... as early as late September. He decided to use the police technique and make a pretext call himself. He told his wife to call the number, pretend she was Terry's sister and find out what she could about what had happened at the hangar.
"'Governor's mansion," the male voice said after Janis nervously dialed the Arkansas number. She was taken aback by this salutation and in a wary voice said, "'I need to speak to Mr. Young."
"So you're his sister?" Young said to her in a condescending Southern drawl when he came on the phone. "You better tell him he's in deep trouble. We found the airplane he stole up in Joplin, Missouri, hidden in his hangar. He's wanted on multiple counts includin' interstate transportation of stolen property, insurance fraud and makin' false statements. He's in deep shit! Tell him he's a fugitive and he better call me right away."
Janis was barely able to contain her anxiety when Young asked her if she knew where Terry could be found. When she answered he was still in Mexico, Young responded with a startling revelation, "'You're lyin'. We know he was in Carthage to see his mom just recently. I'll bet you're not his sister, either."
Janis slammed the phone down. She was barely able to speak as she attempted to relay to Terry Young's comments about being seen in Carthage. They were being shadowed, and it wasn't by any normally detectable undercover car ... Terry would have noticed that. This was a pro.
When she calmed down she didn't need any further urging by her husband to get away from Kansas City, even with her father in the hospital.
"What'll happen if Dad dies," she said tearfully back at the motel.
Terry loaded both the 9 mm and the .38-caliber pistols and answered coldly without looking up, "They'll bury him, Janis."
He had gotten more intelligence from the pretext call than he had planned on getting. So far he was realizing the word "cocaine" hadn't surfaced, yet. But that was probably soon coming. For now, it sounded like what had been seized was his long lost Piper Turbo Arrow, the one that had disappeared from Joplin in March of 1983, over four and a half years earlier.
Terry began mulling over the dilemma. "This is out of control. I'm gonna try and call North," he said as he looked at a road map to compute his route and mileage to Washington.
He told Janis, "Get supplies for the trip, I'm sure it'll be fruitless but I'll call the FBI in Buffalo and ask for 'Carlucci', then I'm going to rest. I'm sure we'll be driving all night."
"Carlucci" was the code name for Cathey, which was the code name for North. It was beginning to sound like North's Project Donation could be responsible for this newly-discovered airplane "found" in Reed's hangar. Terry decided to call the FBI, but not for the purpose of giving himself up ... not yet. He needed to reach North and it was through the FBI that he had always contacted his CIA controller in the past.
He called a number given him by North to use in case of an emergency -- and was this ever an emergency. The number was for a phone located at an FBI office in Buffalo, New York.
When a voice came on the line, Terry asked for "Mr. Carlucci." In the past Reed would leave his name and telephone number and North would call him back. But now, things were different. With Iran-Contra unraveling, the voice at the other end at the FBI said she had never heard of "Carlucci." But Terry insisted.
His degree of isolation was beginning to affect him. Covert operations were inherently designed for deniability. This he learned in intel school. But what he was discovering now was the Agency's built-in ways to not only deny a person's involvement, but to take care of loose ends as well.
False criminal charges are one way, Barry Seal's fate was another. Since there was nothing to hold over Reed, it seemed that something had to be quickly manufactured. It was all coming to bear on Reed -- it appeared as if he was going to be charged with a theft.
b]Terry realized that while he had been recruited as a deniable asset he had now become, probably as a result of crossing Rodriguez, a disposable asset. He felt like he was being flushed once again. That same feeling he had when he returned from Asia -- discarded, used, abandoned. What he needed was a little help from his friends, if, in fact, he still had any. [/b]North surely wouldn't deny him assistance, he thought. He needed to hear from Oliver North, but he doubted it would happen.
His thoughts went back to nearly five years earlier, back in Oklahoma, when North had first told him about what he called "Project Donation." He recalled North telling him that participation in the program was voluntary. But now he was beginning to wonder if he had "involuntarily" donated to the cause. Could that have been the case? Had someone stolen his plane and made it available to the Contra cause? Or had it been "recovered" earlier by the FBI or others and was now being used as a way to dirty him up? * Had a false crime been created to destroy his credibility and keep him from testifying before Congress? That would really look good all right ... testifying from behind bars.
He thought of Bill Cooper and the hangar. That day he and Cooper had recovered the Charlie Cuatro, July 31st, 1986, there certainly wasn't any Piper Arrow in his hangar. His thoughts then raced to the Arrow that Cooper had flown in. But that plane wasn't his stolen plane, even though it was the same make and model. It wasn't turbo-charged like his had been. Lots of questions and no answers. But he concluded the government was using the plane to play hard ball and it was only the first inning. Had they planned to set him up as far back as 1983?
What he didn't know that day as he rested in the motel was how hard they were playing. He would learn that someone had inserted information into government law enforcement computers saying that Terry was suspected of drug trafficking in Mexico and was "armed and dangerous" -- a warning, in effect, to any law enforcement officer approaching him to shoot first and ask questions later.
He had to talk to "Carlucci," but doubted he would ever hear from him as he finally drifted off to sleep.
But two hours later North called back, awakening Terry from his sleep. As the conversation developed and Terry pulled his wits together, he became more and more angry. He vented his frustration about being set up, and North's platitudes didn't allay his fear or anger.
"Goddam it, this is no time for diplomacy," Terry told North. "I need to be extricated from this mess, and right fucking now!"
North listened, expressed compassion then concern when Terry outlined his plans to go to Washington and expose the lack of the "war on drugs".
North said adamantly, "I definitely wouldn't do that if I were you. Walsh is looking for blood. He's going after Secord and the whole cast, and so far Screw Worm hasn't been compromised. If you show up, that'll open up a whole new bucket of worms. Terry, take my advice and stay as far away from Washington as you can get. Your appearance here can only get you in further trouble ... and indicted at best."
He asked Terry for a chance to intercede in his behalf prior to him doing anything "irrational". He said he would see what he could do. He had a friend highly placed in the FBI.
"I'll contact him as soon as we hang up. Things should work out all right."
When the talk turned to the narcotics trans-shipment through Maquinaria Internacional's warehouse, North replied, "Yeah, I heard about that from our Israeli friend," in a reference to Amiram Nir. "Terry, I would never condone such behavior. I truly want to apologize for getting you involved with such wild cards as Rodriguez. He's definitely not cut from the same cloth as we are."
The brief conversation terminated in a warning and an offer of help.
"Don't do anything fucking stupid and expose your position or there'll be 'incoming' on your ass right fucking now," North cautioned. "I'll do my best to arrange for a SAR mission and pluck you out of the wreckage."
If North could just intervene in his behalf with the FBI and Justice Department, that should neutralize the problem, all right. Surely this whole fiasco in Arkansas was just the renegade behavior of Rodriguez, he and North concluded. Why would the Agency needlessly bring attention to the residue of "Jade Bridge", "Centaur Rose" and "Screw Worm"?
Based on the conversation and advice from "Carlucci", the trip to Washington was out, for now at least. There was no sense in becoming an open threat to the Agency. He wanted to give North time to "fix things" as he had promised. When Janis returned with the supplies, Terry was more upbeat, but hastily preparing for the family to change motels. Fearing that the FBI may have put a trace on his phone, he informed her that they were leaving immediately, probably for Kansas. At least, he told her, someone in the know had listened and given advice.
"I've got good news. You won't believe this, but North actually called. He said to lay low and he would try to take care of things, and for us to definitely not go to Washington."
"Where are we going to go? Off on another adventure, I suppose?" she said caustically.
"Remember the movie, The In-Laws?" he asked, drawing her memory to one of their favorite shows in which a spy is chased throughout a third-world banana republic. "Serpentine, serpentine, serpentine," he said, recalling a funny line from the movie and attempting to put his wife in a better mood. He knew the underlying application of the term meant to become a moving target. Moving targets were harder to sight in on, but his military survival training never factored in a wife, three children, a dog and a Mexican maid all packaged into a motor home.
In their early years of marriage, Janis had found her husband to be a metaphor for excitement. They had lived high and fast, in love and in money. Now it had all changed and they were about to become fugitives. It was more than she had bargained for as tears started to replace passion when she found herself forced to hold herself, and a family, together as they moved from state to state while her husband formulated a plan.
For the next five months, the couple traveled 30,000 miles, "serpentining," as they called it, back and forth across the country, traveling aimlessly and "laying low" as North had instructed. Their days were spent comforting their children, pretending all was normal, but their nights were spent comforting each other and crying in the darkness while their upper-middle class life-style fragmented and collapsed into one of survival and stark existence as they became fugitives.
Constantly wary of CIA shadows, the Reeds would rather have been pursued by 10 FBIs than the faceless assassins they were sure were at their heels. Buffalo Springfield's cassette was played so often even the children began to sing the lyrics as the Reed vehicle zig-zagged across America with a bumper sticker that read: "I'm not paranoid. I know I'm being followed."
* A case in point proving the FBI does create crimes around individuals: A civil complaint lodged in the United States District Court Western District of Arkansas, Index No. 84-2368, and filed December, 21, 1984, alleged the FBI and other law enforcement persons used a stolen aircraft that had been earlier recovered and not returned to its owner as a means to entrap two individuals involved in the Mena operation. Had the FBI been successful in creating a crime and implicating these CIA assets, two men Reed had worked with at Mena, the results unquestionably would have resulted in multiple felony charges. The case was dismissed for lack of evidence. But in July, 1993, Reed and his attorney, Robert Meloni, through Federal Court discovery procedures, came into possession of a classified FBI internal memo and file outlining the details of the "sting" operation, thus proving the original complaint. [1]
1. Little Rock, Arkansas FBI File * 87C-18534 and 12B-283 Volume *2, Serials 2-32.
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