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El Paso, Texas
1005 18 April 2007
A very short, totally bald, barrel-chested man in a crisp tan suit leaned against the post office wall, puffing on a long, thin black cigar while reading El Diario de El Paso.
A man in filthy clothing—with an unshaven and unwashed face, and sunken eyes—sidled up to the nicely dressed man. If profiling was not politically incorrect, he might have caused many police officers and Border Patrol officers to think of him as possibly an undocumented immigrant or someone suffering from substance abuse or both.
The wetback junkie looked around as if to detect the presence of law enforcement officers, and then inquired, “Hey, gringo, you wanna fook my see-ster?”
“Your wife, maybe,” the well-dressed man replied. “But the last time I saw your sister, she weighed three hundred pounds and needed a shave.”
The junkie then shook his head, smiled, and with no detectable accent said, “You sonofabitch!”
“There’s a Starbucks around the corner,” the well-dressed man said.
“Dressed like this? Where’s your car?”
“In the next parking lot,” the well-dressed man said, and nodded across the street. “Walk down the street. I’ll pick you up.”
The well-dressed man walked away to the left, and the junkie to the right.
Five minutes later, sitting with the junkie in a rented Lincoln parked five blocks from the post office on Boeing Drive, Vic D’Alessandro punched the appropriate buttons on his Brick, and fifteen seconds later was rewarded with the voice of A. Franklin Lammelle, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“And how, Vic, are things in scenic El Paso?”
“Pics coming through all right?”
“I’m looking at them now,” Lammelle said. “Who am I looking at?”
“That’s the guy who dropped a letter addressed to Box 2333 into the slot in the post office.”
“The FBI told you that?” Lammelle asked.
“No,” the junkie offered. “But when, thirty seconds after this guy dropped his envelope into the slot, half a dozen FBI guys inside the lobby started baying and going on point like so many Llewellin setters, we took a chance.”
“Hey, Tommy, how are you?” Lammelle said.
“Very well, Mr. Director, sir,” CIA Agent Tomás L. Diaz replied. “How are things in the executive suite, Mr. Director, sir?”
“You don’t want to know,” Lammelle said. “So what happened next?”
“He walked back to his car, more or less discreetly trailed by the aforementioned Llewellins and a dozen unmarked vehicles, including, so help me God, Frank, a Model A hot rod.”
“Jesus,” Lammelle said. “So he cleverly deduced he was being followed?”
“I’m sure he expected it,” Diaz said. “He didn’t try to lose anybody until he was in Mexico, and then he became professional. He didn’t have to. The FBI stopped at the border.”
“But you didn’t lose him?”
“It’s been a long time since I did this, Frank, but it’s like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how . . .”
“You didn’t lose him,” Lammelle pursued.
“He changed cars three times. I don’t know about the first two, but you’ll notice the dip plate on the Mercedes.”
“I noticed. You get a gold star to take home to Mommy, Tommy.”
“These aren’t drug guys, Frank. This is too professional.”
