Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(73)
“Do you know what happened to Robby?”
Sebastian sucked in a healthy dose of air. “I know what happened, yeah. But—”
“Tell me.”
Sebastian’s gaze moved around the room, then came to rest on the ceiling, as if the answers were printed on high. “We were undercover. I’d gained the trust of César Guevara, a lieutenant in the Cortez cartel. Things were going good. Robby was a godsend because the agent I was working with had an accident and I was afraid that’d fuck up everything we’d worked for.” He looked at Vail. “But he took a liking to Robby right away. Robby’s a natural UC. He’s got a sixth sense for it. Guevara’s not an easy mark.”
Vail scrunched her lips into a frown. “I noticed.”
“But the asshole bought it. Robby got him talking, and he started taking us inside his operation, how they operated. And I thought we were finally going to blow it all wide open.” He stared off at the table a moment. “Then it all went to hell. Somehow our cover got blown. I don’t know how,” he said with a shake of his head. “We were so careful.”
Vail cleared her throat, then took a seat at the table opposite Sebastian. DeSantos remained in the back of the room, beside Yardley. “I’m afraid that might’ve been my fault.” She proceeded to explain what had happened, then sat back, her eyes in her lap. Embarrassed. “I’m deeply sorry. Obviously this isn’t what I wanted to happen.”
Sebastian chewed on that a long moment, then said, “Jesus Christ, of all our goddamn luck.” He sucked in some air, took a swig of Powerade, made a show of swallowing it. Then he set the bottle down harder than necessary.
Vail figured he was considering if he was going to go off on her and stop answering her questions. No doubt wondering how this FBI agent had destroyed months of high-risk, hard-won work.
But instead, Sebastian waved a hand. “Wasn’t your fault, Karen. Just the way it went down, is all. Besides, how can I get angry at you? Robby thinks you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“Do you think—” Vail had to choke back the emotion threatening to tighten her throat. “Is it possible he’s still alive?”
Sebastian looked away. He seemed to follow the IV tube from his hand up to the bag hanging from the stand. He answered without looking at her. “Years ago, a friend of mine once told me that anything’s possible. So, yeah, I guess it’s possible.”
DeSantos walked up to the table and took a seat beside Vail. “Sebastian. We know this was an op that’s been in process since ’06. What’s the objective?”
“What do you know about César Guevara?”
“CFO of Superior Mobile Bottling,” Vail said. “Superior does mobile bottling for the greater wine country in northern California. Big operation.”
“Guevara is more than the CFO,” Sebastian said. “And Superior is more than a mobile bottling company. They’ve become a major arm of the cartel.”
This just keeps getting worse. “You’re kidding,” Vail said. “How so?”
“Brilliant operation, actually. It wasn’t until a few days ago that we got a handle on what they were doing. Guevara outlined everything for Robby and me.” He leaned both forearms on the table, seemingly infused with a renewed sense of energy. “That bottling deal. Yeah, it’s a business, and yeah, they make good money on it. But its real purpose is to function as a front for a major smuggling operation. They need contracts with area wineries to keep their bullshit business running, which gives them the cover to do what they’re really in business to do: bring huge amounts of illicit drugs into the U.S. from Mexico.”
“Using the rigs?” Vail asked.
“Yeah, but there’s more to it than that. A lot more.” Sebastian took a long gulp of Powerade. “There are a few aspects to it. First, you got the corks.”
A shiver sparked across Vail’s spine. I knew there was something going on with that. “The synthetic corks.”
“Right. They truck in tons of them across the border. Only about a quarter of them are legitimate. The rest are hollowed out, then Fentanyl powder is compacted into the core. Fentanyl’s unusual for Mexico, because they typically only move coke, meth, heroin, and their cash crop, marijuana.”
“How much Fentanyl can they possibly fit in a cork?” Vail asked. “Hardly seems worth it.”
Sebastian shook his head slowly, either disgusted at her ignorance or annoyed that she interrupted him. “Fentanyl powder is extremely potent. One gram can be cut into a thousand units, or tablets, or whatever. That’s a thousand-fold return on your money. But these corks don’t hold one gram, they hold about four. And if you’re transporting a million corks in a semi, that’s a lot of fucking money.”
Vail tilted her head. “Isn’t that detectable?”
“They seal off the cork, which is a chemically treated silicone shell, to help keep the drug scent from being detected by CBP dogs at checkpoints.”
“And,” DeSantos said, “NAFTA opened the door to allow Mexican trucks to cross the border into the U.S. It got worse last year because of the treaty Mexico strong-armed us into signing.”
“What treaty?” Vail asked.
“There was pressure to allow Mexican truckers to travel on U.S. roads,” DeSantos said. “It became a huge trade issue, and the Mexican government made a big deal out of it. U.S. unions didn’t want Mexican trucks transporting product that could be transported by union drivers. Others thought Mexican trucks weren’t inspected as often and posed a safety danger to American drivers.”