JERRY CEBECK DROVE SOUTH to El Paso in the smaller of the two available plain-vanilla surveillance vans from the motor pool. Lost in thought he didn’t notice the sunrise colored clouds that formed a canopy over a nearly deserted Interstate highway nor did he see the morning light that cast long shadows and pink highlights on the countryside.
The events of the past week kept repeating in his mind. First he was assigned to conduct a surveillance of a subject in Roswell as part of a case headed by a new member of the staff, Ashley Kohen. Then, after she blew the stakeout, he found himself appointed Lead Investigator in a case he knew nothing about. Before he finish reviewing the case files, Walter Kent demoted him to Acting Lead. Now he was back to his old job of staking out suspicious characters. He didn't deserve to be pushed around like this, but at least one good thing happened. Walter Kent praised him for his site inspection of the burned-out motor home and his discovery of the subject’s escape route.
With all that behind him, his new assignment was to watch a man called Bashir Hashim. During his early morning briefing he learned that Agent Kohen had survived the Roswell debacle and now worked undercover. In her new role, she had discovered that Bashir Hashim may be associated with the Russell Smith killer. Anyone in contact with Hashim must be identified and have background checks performed by the El Paso Field Office who offered staff support. Not an exciting job, but that’s what he did for a living.
The subject, Hashim, lived in the old part of town. His narrow house stood on the corner of two intersecting streets. The local field office found a second story apartment in a diagonal position from the target's location. This gave Cebeck an excellent vantage point to view the comings and goings of Mr. Hashim. The next few days or weeks may not be stimulating, but at least he would not have to live in the van.
ASHLEY'S MEETING LAST night in the Best Western with Walter had turned out different from what she had expected. She thought about the less than professional interlude they experienced after she shared, for the first time, her most private secret: the tragic story of her greatest loss in life. A story she had promised herself to never tell anyone. She didn’t fully understand what made her do it. Was it an undiscovered need she had suppressed all these years? A momentary weakness? She didn't know, but she suspected it had something to do with the man who cradled her in his arms when she felt most vulnerable. His warmth and tenderness comforted her, but at the same time sparked a fear that she might lose her independence–might need someone to lean on in the future. It was a strange, wonderful, scary feeling she could not shake. She told herself to compartmentalize, set these feelings aside, and deal with it later.
Working undercover she lacked the sidearm an active duty agent would carry. Never not ready, she strapped on her Ruger .380 semi-automatic and ankle holster to her left leg and pulled her pants down to cover it–keeping it out of sight, but available.
Today her work took her back to Roswell. She concentrated on loose end number one, knowing Jerry Cebeck would be in El Paso watching Bashir Hashim at the same time.
Based on Bill Johnson's follow up on the shipment, she planned to do a little surveillance work of her own. She would watch the shipping container and wait for the un-sub to open it and unload the perplexing cargo of honey. Shipping sixty barrels of honey from Dubai to New Mexico made no economic sense. The vast pecan groves that lined miles of roads surrounding Roswell supported beekeeping to pollinate the pecan trees. Imported honey could never compete with local suppliers. So why import honey?
Once in town she drove to the Westside Plaza, and searched the area for useful observation locations. That’s when she made an unexpected and disconcerting discovery: the shipping container had vanished.
"Gone," she gasped. Thirty six hours ago the container sat parked behind the building fully loaded, and now it was gone. Walter was right, she couldn’t do this alone. It required a team.
Pissed at herself, she wondered, what now? The obvious next step would be to check out the contents of Smith Trading. She drove down the alley behind the building, got out and tried the door. She found it secured with a heavy padlock. Without substantial probable cause, she needed a covert entry search warrant. She fished her phone out and called Albuquerque. Normally she would seek a warrant through their legal office, but sometimes they got fussy about details. She called Bill Johnson, the get-things-done guy.
"Johnson speaking."
"Bill, this is Ashley."
Johnson chuckled. "Ashley Kohen, a mythological creature that arises from her ashes. To what honor do I owe this call?"
"This mythical creature needs a favor from the gods. I thought I'd start at the top."
"You've come to the right place, my dear. What do you need?"
Ashley felt the tension in her body begin to ebb away. "I'm in Roswell. I need an entry warrant for Smith Trading Imports and Exports. It's Unit 3 in the Westside Plaza, on Union Street."
Johnson wrote down the location. "What's the purpose of the search?
Ashley thought of her talk with Rita Durant in the hospital and made a 'best guess' decision. "I'm searching for firearms illicitly imported. This is time critical."
"I'll pull a few strings. Go to our satellite office downtown and standby."
"Thanks, Bill. You're a dear."
"I prefer 'Stag', if you don't mind."
By the time Ashley drove to the Federal Building and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the warrant had been faxed and lay on the receptionist's desk with a note marked Attention Agent Kohen. God bless the old stag. She flashed her ID and picked up the warrant. On her way back to the Westside Plaza, she stopped at a hardware store and bought a long handled bolt cutter.
As required by protocol, she knocked on the front door of Smith Trading three times and loudly identified herself as FBI. She heard no answer. She went around back, where the sun cast a dark shadow, and knocked with the same result. The long handles of the bolt cutter gave her leverage, allowing her to sever the bold in a second. She made a mental note to tell the local chief of police about her actions and give them a copy of the warrant.
Ashley found herself in a dark area lit only by a small dirt-covered window in the far corner. A stronger light shone in the front of the building. Following that light source she found the morning sun filtered through the plate-glass window covered with a metallic film. The door glass was painted black. She tried the light switches next to the door and found they worked. The room, designed to serve as a reception area and office, was bare of furniture except for a portable air-conditioner and a twin sized mattress on the floor. A blanket lay crumpled in a corner next to a big plastic toolbox. She started for the back of the shop, then realized the toolbox was a treasure trove of fingerprints. Using the nearby blanket, Ashley opened the box and found a hacksaw and a package of assorted blades and tools. She closed the box, wrapped the blanket around it and carried it into the backroom.
Piled haphazardly about the room were stacks of wooden barrels much like the kind used to age wine, only smaller. After setting the toolbox down, she inspected the nearest barrel. Stamped on the side were the words, Djeddah, Arable Saouite. She recognized the name, Djeddah, a port city on the west side of Saudi Arabia. On top of each barrel the words Al Shifa 100% Natural Honey were stenciled in red paint. She tilted one of the barrels and rolled it a few feet. It felt like it weighed almost a 100 pounds. All the barrels had the same markings.
Ashley began counting the barrels. She counted them a second time, and got the same number–fifty nine. One less than the sixty listed on the cargo manifest. One barrel missing.