Cajun Justice(6)

“I’m the one who’s getting my tail pulled,” Tom lamented. While still standing in the lobby, he phoned their supervisor and put the call on speaker. “You busy, boss?”

“Yes, I am,” LeRoy Hayes replied.

“Okay,” Tom said, oblivious to LeRoy’s answer, “I’ll keep it short.”

“You got thirty seconds, because I’ve got an emergency meeting with the special agent in charge.”

“An emergency meeting with the special agent in charge?” Tom asked.

“Am I talking to a parrot?” LeRoy asked.

“No, sir.”

“The SAC wants some answers. Imagine that,” LeRoy said.

“I wanted to talk about your email telling us to end mission and report back to DC.”

“Tom Jackson, I can’t believe you are calling me to discuss this over an unsecured line in a foreign country. Actually, I can believe it. Nothing you do surprises me anymore.”

“Sir, is there any flexibility on that order?”

“Negative. Bottom line: make sure your ass is on that flight in the morning.”

“The others, too, right? Not just me?”

“Until I can get the facts ironed out, all twelve of you who were on my email,” he said before hanging up.

Tom looked at the phone to make sure it wasn’t connected any longer. He turned to Cain and began to vent. “I’m so sick and tired of this agency. Everyone walks around like—”

Cain interrupted. “Pipe down, man. People can see and hear us. We’re in the lobby of a five-star hotel, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t care where we are! I’m not going down over some bullshit like this.”

“Neither am I,” Cain replied. “I promise you that.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Start planning damage control. Triage. Stop the bleeding.”

Three men in breathable short-sleeve button-down shirts and khaki cargo pants entered through the lobby doors. They made eye contact with Cain. Plainclothes police officers. Although he had never met them before, Cain had worked with lots of cops throughout the world. He knew how to detect them in a crowd. Cops carried themselves differently.

“I’m going back to the pool,” Tom said. “After all, according to Hayes, it’s my last night here.”

“Jackson, it’s just one more night. Maintain a low profile for the rest of this trip. Got it?”

Tom smirked and started to walk off but turned around to make one last comment. “Don’t work too hard today. You’re on the same flight as me in the a.m.”

Cain felt his anger surfacing. Put it aside—for now. You’ve got a job to do.





Chapter 7



The three plainclothes policemen approached Cain.

“Are you Cain Lemaire?”

“Who’s asking?” He was always on guard, but even more so when working in a foreign country.

The oldest officer reached into his back pocket. “I’m Detective Rojas,” he said as he opened his wallet and showed his badge. “My office was told the Secret Service wanted to do another security assessment before the president arrived.”

“Yes,” Cain answered with relief. He thought they might have been there because of the prostitute. “That’s right. I knew we were meeting today, but I guess the time got away from me. I’ve been handling a bunch of other stuff this morning.”

“That’s all right,” Detective Rojas said. “We are here to help you.” He extended his hand.

“Mucho gusto.” Cain shook the detective’s sweaty hand. “You gentlemen walked here?”

“Yes. Parking is prohibited because of the international conference.”

“But you’re a cop. Like Kojak and Columbo. You can park anywhere.”

Cain smiled, but he got the impression that the officers didn’t get the American references. He understood his job was not all operational; it was also diplomatic in nature. He represented the American president, and he needed the assistance of the local police for such momentous visits. “Well, I certainly appreciate all your help to make this mission go well. Your support is why these presidential trips are successful.”

“We are happy to help you. We enjoy the overtime.”

Cain propped his tactical backpack on the floor and unzipped it. “Compa?eros, I brought some gifts for you.” He reached into the black canvas to retrieve various pieces of Secret Service swag. He had baseball caps, patches, shot glasses, coffee mugs, and challenge coins.

The officers graciously accepted. But while they liked the gifts, they seemed more impressed with Cain’s boots. He wore a pair of rust-colored alligator boots with his navy-blue suit, sans tie.

“You Americanos are cowboys,” said Rojas, scratching his salt-and-pepper goatee. “Like President Bush.”

Cain chuckled. This was the first time he was working with these officers, but he knew American politics often came up in conversation. Perhaps sensing a moment of awkwardness, another officer asked, “Where can I get boots like these?”

“My old friend, goes by the nickname Prince, makes these at his camp on the bayou.”

“Donde?”

“Mi casa en Louisiana. It’s a town two hours from New Orleans. He makes boots, belts, and holsters out of leather, alligator, and lizard. Let me know what you want, and I’ll make sure to bring it on my next trip.”