Aztec Treasure
Banking Issues

CIA Station Chief Henry Consuellar’s POV

Mexico City, Mexico

“Wait for me,” I told Brad as he came to a stop in front of the Banco Mexico offices.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Brad was a recent addition to my CIA team in Mexico and wasn’t aware of the purpose of my bank runs. Alejandro was. He got out before me, checked the sidewalk for threats, then waved for me to exit the armored car. Mexico was a dangerous place to be a spy before the Cartels, and it was worse now. The CIA’s support of the Sinaloa cartel had not gone unnoticed by their rivals.

Alejandro was one of those guys who looks dangerous while sleeping. The former Army Ranger and Los Angeles County SWAT member looked at people like he was looking for a reason NOT to kill them. His jacket covered up his twin Heckler-Koch MP7A1 submachine guns with armor-piercing rounds, plus a backup Glock 21 in .45 ACP. The armed guards at the bank entrance nodded at him as we passed; we were regular visitors at this branch.

The assistant branch manager saw us coming and ran to assist us. “This way, sir,” he said as he led us to the secure banking terminals.

I used my thumbprint to open the door, and Alejandro verified the room was empty before allowing me inside. I sat down at the terminal and entered my account number and password. The computer gave me an error message before I could reach out for the thumbprint. “ACCOUNT NUMBER OR PASSWORD INCORRECT, WARNING 1 OF 3,” it said.

I started over, double-checking the account number, then entering my password carefully. Hitting ENTER got me the same message. “Dammit,” I said. I double-checked the caps lock wasn’t on, checked the account number against the number in my wallet, and carefully typed in the password. “PASSWORD INCORRECT, ACCOUNT IS LOCKED. CONTACT ADMINISTRATOR FOR ASSISTANCE.”

I’d NEVER had this happen before. I got up and pulled the door open, yelling at the assistant manager to get over here. He was apologetic, taking my account number so he could contact Account Services.

Five minutes later, the Assistant Manager came back with the Branch Manager. Both men looked like they had to say Old Yeller died. “Sir, there is a problem with this account,” the Branch Manager said.

“No shit. I can’t access it,” I said.

“I’ll need to see identification and verify your thumbprint before I can discuss this account,” he said. I handed him my passport, which he compared to the information in the folder he was carrying. He then had me scan my thumbprint. The computer compared it to print on file for my name. “I don’t know how to say this, Mr. Consuellar. According to the account records, you accessed the account,” he looked at his watch, “one hour and twenty-one minutes ago from a branch in Washington, DC. The password change happened before you logged off.”

I couldn’t believe it. “I’m RIGHT FUCKING HERE,” I yelled. “HOW COULD I BE IN WASHINGTON EIGHTY-ONE MINUTES AGO?”

He nervously swallowed. “You can’t, of course. I’ve placed a fraud hold on the account while we investigate. The fraud hold will prevent anyone from accessing the account until the investigation is complete.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Days, maybe weeks, depending on what we find. I assure you we will work diligently to fix this.”

Shit. The lockout was fucking UNACCEPTABLE. I needed to transfer the money to the Cartel accounts TODAY. “I have time-sensitive financial transactions pending. I can’t wait weeks!”

“I’m sorry, sir. Substantial financial transactions involving this account occurred just before the password change.”

I damn near dropped to the ground; as it was, I had to reach back and sit down before I passed out. “What do you mean by ‘substantial’?”

“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information without a valid password entry, sir.”

I shook my head. “You locked the account because someone else changed it, but you can’t tell me because I don’t have the password.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. We are required to freeze accounts when there is evidence of fraud.”

I wasn’t going to get any help from these guys. I needed to warn my Cartel contact about the delay before they started wondering where their money was. If they thought I’d turned on them, I’d watch them kill my family in front of me before a painful death of my own.

“Let’s go,” I told Alejandro. He escorted me out of the building to the SUV waiting a half-block away.

I got into the back seat, only to find a man sitting by the opposite door with a gun pointing at my head. “Don’t do a fucking thing,” he warned me.

“Put your hands on the car,” another voice said. I could see two men behind Alejandro, each holding pistols. He wasn’t suicidal; he didn’t move as they relieved him of his guns. He was handcuffed and pushed into the third row, where one of the men sat with him while the other sat by me. The door closed, and the car drove away. It wasn’t Brad driving, either.

The man who had just gotten in handcuffed my hands, then roughly searched me for weapons. Finding none, he allowed me to sit back in the seat. The man in charge was in the passenger seat; when his men reported the prisoners were secure. “Who are you guys? And do you know who I am?”

“Peter Graves, Diplomatic Security Service senior agent,” the man in the front said. “And yes, I know who and what you are, Henry. That is why the President sent me here. The question is what you are going to do now.”

“You’re making a mistake. The Company won’t stand for this!”

“The CIA is being brought to heel. As we speak, agents are raiding your agency’s Safe House and seizing all of your computers and records. What I want to know from you is whether we should turn left or right.”

“The fuck do you mean?”

“You are fucked either way; I’m giving you the choice of who does the fucking and whether they use lube,” Peter said with a grin. “You are probably wondering why you couldn’t access the CIA account with the Sinaloa Cartel money in it. Our people seized the account and transferred the thirty-eight-million-dollar balance to your checking account in the States. Naturally, the transfer of so much cash from a Mexican bank raised flags with the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Treasury Department. They immediately seized the account.”

I started feeling faint. Most of that money was Sinaloa cartel cash. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”

“I imagine your buddies in the Sinaloa Cartel are not pleased with you right now. If we turn left, we drive to Culiacan and drop you off with your business associates. I’m sure you will have a lot to talk about with them. They are reasonable men. I’m sure they’ll understand you are the victim of hacking and let your family live.”

“Or what?”

“If we turn right, we go to the airfield and board a jet for Washington.” He held up a paper for me. “This is the Attorney General’s offer for you. Your family will go into Witness Protection. For you, she is offering life without parole and taking the death penalty off the table. All this happens IF you cooperate fully and immediately. You’ll answer the investigator’s questions and testify against the other conspirators in the plot to assassinate the United States President. If you don’t take the deal, the next guy will.”

I couldn’t admit to that! “What conspiracy?”

“I was hoping you’d say that. It’s the one that took the life of a brave Air Force fighter pilot. Take a left up ahead; it looks like we’re taking a long ride in the countryside.”

Jesus Christ! How the hell did they find out? I was out of options because I didn’t want to end up in a shallow grave in the desert. “NO! FINE. I’ll cooperate.”

The man to my left took a digital recorder out of his pocket and turned it on. The man in charge smiled in triumph. “Start talking. The minute we think you are lying to us, we turn around.”

“Last year, five of us were at a CIA leadership retreat when the topic turned to the President,” I started. I was still talking when we reached the aircraft.

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