Part 1 of 2
CHAPTER 32: SERPENTINE
"Mommy, daddy, wake up," Duncan exclaimed that Thursday morning of January 14th, 1988. "The snow is all the way up to the windows."
Thinking her 5-year-old son was again demonstrating his father's gift of hyperbole, Janis Reed pulled the covers over her head and groaned, "Duncan, please go back to bed and let mommy sleep."
She had not slept well in a long time. In fact, neither she nor Terry had actually "slept in" since that fateful day in Kansas City back in November when they discovered they were being double-crossed by the CIA.
They were now on the run. Their journey had led them to the Sequoia National Park in California where they had checked into a rustic cabin in Grant's Grove late the previous evening. The snow had just begun to fall and the National Weather Service had predicted a "remote chance of small accumulations" over the weekend.
Duncan by now had awakened his younger brothers and was about to receive a stern scolding from his father, who, for the first time since they had taken to the road, had been able to shed his continual fear of imminent arrest. Terry peered out the frost-free spot on the window which Duncan had earlier created and realized their son was not spinning a tale.
"Janis, you better get up and look at this! He's not exaggerating. The snow is higher than the window sills," he said, in disbelief. "I can barely see the road. I think we're buried in."
Sure enough the National Weather Service, which Terry as a pilot had grown to both love and hate, had been caught with its forecasts down again. Survival was on his mind, only this time it wasn't the fear of some assassin's bullet, it was laying in enough provisions to see them through Mother Nature's wrath.
Fortunately, parked outside was one of the few four-wheel drive vehicles belonging to the vacationers who had escaped Los Angeles and the Bay Area that weekend. It was the Reed family's newly-purchased 1986 Ford Bronco that they had already affectionately named "Bronco Billy." And it was standing by, hitched to what the children had named "Tommy," a small custom-built utility trailer sporting a matching paint scheme.
"Tommy Trailer" was bulging with the survival gear they had purchased in San Diego and along their route northward. Luckily, the Reeds had all the essentials and then some. The Reed's called their home on wheels the "escape module" after the small repair vehicle in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. The term odyssey had become such a fitting one for their plight.
Not really believing the weather forecast, they had been lucky enough to stop in Visalia and take advantage of discounts on snow and ski suits. The area, which largely survived on the skiing and the tourism industry in the winter months, had been enduring a draught and had its slowest season in years. There had been no significant snow at all that year. At least not until the Reeds arrived.
By noon that day, as the snow continued to accumulate, the park rangers announced the park would be closing. Those wanting to leave were told to depart immediately by following the snow plow, a converted road grader, to the main entrance and the highway leading down to Visalia.
With their provisions now neatly stacked in their cabin, their shortwave radio tuned to the weather, the two gallons of "Prestone" stored under the bed, and their guns with sufficient ammunition to fend off the faceless enemy who might harm their children, the Reeds settled in for a long winter's night.
They and the other few who had elected to remain behind reminded Terry of the pioneer settlers marooned at the nearby Donner Pass until the spring thaw. From all outward appearances, no one would have guessed that the Reeds were fugitives, evading the net that had been drawn around them by the FBI, with assistance from the CIA.
Their heated log cabin was nestled in a group of rustic cabins that were a quarter-mile from the main lodge where only a skeleton crew of employees remained. Those guests stranded in the cabins would shovel a pathway there each night, and spend the evening socializing in front of the large fireplace. Luckily, the lodge was well-stocked with an ample supply of requisite essentials for the snowbound guests, namely bologna, beans and brandy.
Being snow-bound at high elevation and isolated from the chaotic world below them gave Terry a secure feeling, the first in so long he had nearly forgotten the feeling. Now was the time to mentally heal and recoup. Analyzing his plan to date, he was rather pleased. So far so good. At least they were together as a family and hadn't yet been apprehended. His mind focused on the trail of disinformation they had strewn across the United States, Mexico and into Canada. Electronic communications had played a large role in throwing curve balls to any would-be pursuers.
He was hoping that Janis' parents' phone was in fact being monitored by the FBI. That would mean that Janis' deliberately placed phone calls to them laced with mis-information should have caused the search for them to be centered in Mexico, probably around the city of Puebla.
"I hope they drink the water," Terry thought as he pictured American agents dealing with Montezuma's revenge while scouring Mexico for "The Reed Bunch". This brought a smile to his now bearded face.
The forced isolation brought on by Mother Nature gave the Reeds a sense of security. For the first time in weeks they were able to let their guard down.
"Here I am in a one room cabin in the middle of nowhere with no phone, no TV, no maid service, no amenities," Janis mused. "No one ever could have told me that this is something I would aspire to, but at this point in my life, I couldn't ask for anything more. As far as I'm concerned, I hope it doesn't stop snowing until May."
Terry and Janis had been stretched nearly to the breaking point. The sleepless nights, the stress, the fear, the paranoia, and at times the terror they lived with daily, was emotionally exhausting. But it was becoming a way of life. They felt totally removed from the "system" they had been a part of since birth. It was a strange sensation of isolation ... feeling you no longer belong to any country. They compared their feelings to that of refugees or nomads -- or, as Janis likened, gypsies.
As Terry gazed at his family that night, he thought back to the leadership manuals he had studied in ROTC and the Air Force and realized that military tacticians had never taken into account the tact and patience required to "motivate" a family on the run. Wives are not military subordinates to be motivated by fear. There was enough fear in their lives already. Terry's leadership was being put to the test. He could not outwardly show fear. Just a small mental slip on his part could precipitate the crippling release of paranoia and terror that were constantly lurking in both of them.
Just as his old flight instructor had taught him, he had to disassociate himself from his fear, compartmentalize it, and contain it.
So, in order to keep Janis on an even keel, he felt he had to feign optimism that they would somehow survive this horrendous ordeal. He knew he desperately needed Janis' support right now, and he sensed her nerves were on the verge of shattering. He needed her, and the children needed her maternal nurturing. His job was to be a husband and a daddy; to establish an aura of make-believe by pretending that everything was well and under control.
"Look, Daddy, Elliott made a reindeer shadow," Duncan exclaimed as he interrupted Terry's thoughts.
The boys were having great fun making finger shadows with the light cast by a kerosene lantern. As the storm raged on over the California Sierras four more days, the family was able to bond as they ventured outside to play daytime games in the snow and told stories by the glow of the lantern at night.
"We're just really inconspicuous, aren't we?" Janis said sardonically to her husband as she watched Macho, who was being transformed into a sled dog, attempting to pull three giggling boys through the snow drifts. Even though the rambunctious German Shepherd might have drawn some unneeded attention, both parents felt an added sense of security with him around. Having been raised from a puppy in the presence of the children, he tolerated from them all sorts of "abuse" and was exceedingly gentle. On this recent trip, Janis had found the dog in the back of the motor home, patiently allowing Duncan and Elliott to wrap an entire roll of masking tape around his legs to "fix his boo-boo".
Macho was so passive with his little charges, but Janis and Terry knew that if anyone ever attempted to lay a hand on any of the boys that he could turn instantly ferocious. He would pace and growl at any stranger who violated the boy's territory, and his sheer presence would frighten the average intruder away.
Late at night, with Macho standing guard over the sleeping family, Terry couldn't suppress the thoughts of terror that would surface from nowhere and race through his idle mind. Were they out there somewhere? Were they on his trail, or had his plan to trick them worked? Terry's mind was in a swarm. The seriousness of it all was coming to bear. The adage "what's the worst that can happen" bore no humor at all! He knew what the worst could be. He would then fight to regain control, and as a mental diversion begin contemplating their next moves, over and over and over.
He couldn't allow them to find him. He had to become another person. He needed a new identity. He had developed a numerical point system of one to 10 to grade each action as to its degree of risk. Obtaining a new identification had to be a 10 pointer. But once accomplished, it would reduce the risk associated with other actions to the level it seemed worth it. That was it. He would somehow become a different human being ... just as soon as the storm was over.
With the park now reopening and the roar of the snow plows outside their window, Terry knew they had to leave. They had been there too long. He had told the other vacationers he was combining a family vacation with a regional marketing survey. He now feared the park rangers would get suspicious if they stayed any longer. They had been there a week, and as the Bronco wound its way down the mountain and out of the Sierra Nevadas, Terry's mind drifted back to the start of their journey into anonymity. Back to the time they left Kansas City, to become "moving targets."
* * *
"What's wrong?" Janis asked nervously. She had been quietly observing her husband for the past 30 minutes as he drove westward across Kansas that dreary November night. She knew by his silence that something was eating away at him. He was behaving as if he was flying on instruments, in bad IFR weather, only this time there was no airplane involved. Perhaps, she rationalized, piloting this motor home with the children, a dog, and a Mexican maid aboard while evading shadowy pursuers might be as stressful.
She repeated, "What's wrong?" and this brought him out of his trance. It was well after midnight. The children and Macho were all asleep and Laura was in the rear reading a steamy Mexican paperback, oblivious to the Reeds' plight.
"I've got to change these plates," Terry informed, without breaking his concentration on the two lane road. "They might be looking for them by now."
He had neglected to tell her that he had "switched" license plates with another vehicle in the motel parking lot that morning while she was buying provisions. He rationalized away this act of chicanery as "trading", and not stealing, since he left the other Missouri motorist with his plates, which actually had a longer time before expiration. And hadn't he, after all, given them something of greater value?
"Terry, are you telling me you stole someone's license plates?"
"Janis, before this is over, I'm sure I'll have to do a lot of things that are not viewed highly by the law. This is an emergency and I'm gonna behave as such. Now if you're gonna sit there and bitch, I just won't tell you what I'm doing. It's your choice. You're the wife of a spook, and if the answers scare you, don't ask the questions."
It bothered her to hear her husband talking that way. But at the same time, she admired him that night for all those same reasons she had fallen in love with him. He was taking charge and doing whatever was necessary to insure the safety of the family. She, too, feared they would share the same fate as Barry Seal. She had to trust his judgment, so she decided to ask fewer questions. Maybe she didn't "have a need to know" everything her husband was doing. It was just that much more to worry about.
To Terry, this entire ordeal was turning into the equivalent of an on-board aircraft emergency. During his silence, he had been prioritizing his workload and weighing his alternatives. There were too many unanswered questions to define a true course of action right away. He had decided to confront the ordeal in the same method taught to a recovering alcoholic, one day at a time.
Right now, as he wrestled with his paranoia, his number one priority was "trading" plates again. This time he wanted to find a vehicle that would be heading eastward, back toward Kansas City, and preferably someone on vacation with an East Coast destination. That way, the switched vehicle would transport his current plates on an easterly course, opposite of their direction.
"If we head back up toward the Interstate, the map shows a rest area," he said to Janis as she poured him some coffee. "I figure if I can switch plates with an eastbound vehicle, we can rest easy until Denver."
A few minutes later, Janis held her breath as her husband bolted on their new Pennsylvania plates, which he had quietly "exchanged" from a parked RV as its occupants slept in the roadside park.
"OK, now we gotta get this bitch debugged," he told her. "If they knew we had been in Carthage, that means they had to know we'd been in Kansas City. And that means they had access to this vehicle when we weren't around it and sufficient opportunity to plant a transmitter on us. I won't rest easy until we have this thing swept."
"Now how are we going to do that?" Janis asked incredulously, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Don't worry, this won't require anything illegal. In the morning, I'll call Jack and get some of his expert advice."
Jack was an old retired Air Force buddy of Reed's, who was an electronics genius and ham radio operator living on the East coast. The next morning near Denver, Terry was told by Jack that any good ham operator with the right equipment should be able to "sweep" his vehicle. By parking the motor home near the antenna, the operators' receiver, if run through the entire frequency spectrum, should detect a transmitter if one had been planted in or on the motor home, or so Jack said.
At Ft. Collins, Colorado, and after giving a $100 tip, Terry received the results of the electronic "sweep" of his RV.
"You're clean," they were told by the toothless, tobacco-chewing Army retiree, a "radio friend" of Jack's. "If I were you, I'd still wanna make sure I wasn't beein' optically ID'd."
The comment confused Terry. If his motorhome wasn't emitting a tell-tale electronic signal, how else, he asked the ham operator, could it be tracked?
"Visually from outer space," he answered as he spit brown tobacco juice on the white snow. "I was in satellite recon in the Army, and they got this special paint they put on things they wanna track from outer space. For war games we normally put it on the 'good guys' equipment ... tanks, armored personnel carriers, artillery ... stuff like that. Then a mobile command post sorta serves as a ground based traffic controller, givin' our guys vectors, via satellite, to find the enemy."
Reed had heard enough. Having worked in the early development stages of digital infra-red satellite reconnaissance in the Air Force, he knew that what the ham operator was telling him was within the realm of surveillance technology. He hadn't heard of this special paint though, so inquired further.
"It's clear in color and impossible ta see with the naked eye," continued the Army retiree. "It takes lacquer thinner or paint stripper and a whole lotta elbow grease ta get the shit off. If I were you, I'd do somethin' to the top of the RV, just ta be safe."
After "trading" plates again at a truck stop north of Denver, Reed put the RV through a truck wash, to clean the roof of the motor home in preparation for receiving paint. He reasoned that an even better way of insuring there was no trackable coating on their roof was to paint the RV's roof with sealer. That way, if the tell-tale coating was there, it would be covered over.
At a recreational vehicle supply house parking lot, Janis, from within the comfort of the motor home, watched her husband scale the RV's ladder and climb onto it's roof. In the chilly November air, Terry applied two gallons of the thick, silicone-based roof sealer. Only afterwards, did he begin to rest a little easier, secure in the thought they weren't being tracked by satellite.
This technology, that most people think exists only in novels and movies, he knew was real. From his trip with Seal to Panama, he knew nearly anything was possible electronically. An ELT (emergency locater transmitter) carried in the tail of an airplane was a perfect example of a tracking device that was readily available to anyone, and this technology was easily accessible to the federal government, which owns and operates the FAA's tracking satellites.
"Damn! At times, I wish I was stupid," he would say to his wife. "I'd have a lot less to worry about. A dumb shit just wouldn't know about the technology that exists that could track us."
Through knowledge, however, one can reasonably separate true fear and concern from paranoia. Paranoia includes the fear of things that might not actually exist. His fears were real. They were being pursued by professionals, or at least he had to presume they were. Even if Oliver North had intervened on his behalf with the FBI, he still didn't trust Felix Rodriguez and company. Rodriguez was capable of anything, Terry now knew. Just ask Che Guevara.
Meanwhile, Janis was desperate to learn of her father's condition. She had left Kansas City with him still in the hospital, having confided to no one in her family the true peril of their situation. No arrangements had been made to communicate securely, and she knew they could not risk a phone call from Denver.
One advantage to traveling with two gallons of "Prestone" was that money was not an issue. As the motor home sat parked in an overnight RV campground in Denver, Janis sat nervously aboard an American Airlines jet racing eastward to Chicago. The purpose of her journey was to place a phone call to her sister's place of business and to plant the devious seeds of disinformation. Janis' mission while there, besides checking on her father's condition, was to also make several strategically placed business calls that hopefully would be intercepted. Terry had instructed her to take a cab to the far north side of the city, near the Interstate, and to make her calls from there. If the Feds were tracking them by phone contacts, surely they would think the Reed's were making their way northward to Canada.
"He's getting better," said Janis' sister, Karen, by phone from her high rise office building. "But we've been worried about you. Your legal matters must have really been urgent for you guys to leave town that fast. Is everything OK?"
Standing at a pay phone, nearly shouting over the deafening roar of truck traffic adjacent to 1-94 on Chicago's north rim, Janis mustered up every ounce of inner strength she had to keep from breaking down and telling her sister of her plight. Fighting back the tears, she said with mock enthusiasm, "Oh, everything's fine. It's just all this Gomiya legal junk has got me sorta down. While we're here, Terry's going to bid on a new project which might keep us on the road longer than we'd anticipated."
A short time later she was waiting in the bustling boarding area of the O'Hare terminal waiting for her flight back to Denver. Although she knew her husband wouldn't have approved, since she was instructed to not make calls from the airport, she made a quick "get well soon, I love you call" to her father as she was preparing to depart.
Watching the passengers deplane, she had never felt more depressed. Everyone seemed so happy, and her life was destroyed, maybe forever. While deep in thought, she was startled back into her frightening reality when she heard the assumed name under which she was traveling being announced over the loud speaker.
"Sheila Walton, please report to the ticket counter immediately."
It was the phone call to her parents house! How could they have tracked her that quickly, she thought! Terry had been right. The FBI was monitoring her family's phone lines. Trembling and barely able to breathe, her feet slowly and unsteadily carried her to the ticket counter.
"Miss Walton, can you do us a big favor? Would you mind trading boarding passes with this little boy so he can sit with the rest of his family?"
Frantically fumbling for her boarding pass, she watched her hands shake violently as she presented it to the ticket agent.
"Are you all right, Miss Walton?"
"Oh, uh, yes. Flying always just makes me a little nervous."
"He's getting better," the relieved Janis told Terry as she rejoined her family at Stapleton Airport. "And I've got more good news. I worked out a secure way to communicate. I talked to Karen's secretary and was able to get her travel itinerary for the next six months. That way I can call her in places no one will surely be monitoring and can keep tabs on Dad. I can rest a little easier now." She didn't inform him until much later about the call to her father and the breach of communications security.
Back on the road again with her family, Janis knew it was time to address the educational needs of her children. Duncan was becoming suspicious since no one was trying to force learning down his throat. Home schooling took on a whole new meaning as she set up her classroom in the motor home.
Later that week, she was back in her comfortable role of "school marm", demanding that Duncan continue improving his kindergarten skills. As the little boy practiced his handwriting by making "sticks and balls" on his Big Chief tablet, he was reassured that all was back to normal. As Terry surveyed the transformation of the interior of the motor home, he too was reassured that his wife was coping with their precarious circumstances.
He frequently referred to her as a "nester" and was amazed at how cozy she could make nearly any environment. Each of the boys had their favorite stuffed animal propped atop their beds. Colorful posters of shapes, ABC's and numbers were displayed, stapled to the overhead cabinetry. She had even purchased an exact duplicate of a poster the boys had in their room in Mexico and had attached it to the closet door at the little boys' eye level. It pictured a mother panda bear cradling her young and was captioned: HOME IS WHERE YOU GET CUDDLED. She was firmly convinced that if she abided by this motto, the children would have good memories of this chapter of their lives, rather than traumatic ones.
Earlier, in Mexico, Terry had built in an overhead cabinet housing a small television and VCR. This Janis now adapted as her primary "visual aid," and 2-year-old Elliott was content to watch Sesame Street educational tapes for hours on end. This would even entertain the baby as they traveled the seemingly endless stretches of highway.
"Mommy, you're the best cooker," Duncan commented one evening. "The motor home smells like Grandma's house."
Janis had just finished baking some "slice and bake" refrigerator cookies. The aroma of baking of cookies created that "warm and fuzzy" feeling.
"I've got an idea, Duncan. Tomorrow, let's get a cookie jar for the motor home. My new goal will be to keep it full of home-made cookies." That, and to evade our pursuers she thought to herself. What a paradox. She couldn't believe she was thinking of baking cookies and evading Federal agents all in the same thought process! One day at a time, she thought, I've got to take it one day at a time.
Terry had insisted their attitudes about the "system" did not spill over onto the children. Even though he was now deathly afraid of the U.S. Government and the unbridled power it could wield against them, he sought to ensure that Duncan did not become alienated by his parent's feelings of a government gone mad. He insisted that Janis place the standard classroom portrait of George Washington directly over the center cabinet door of the overhead storage. The one that was locked. The one that contained the guns and ammunition. He felt that America's true rebel, George, would have approved of his picture's location and what it was concealing.
Janis, while in Chicago, had done as instructed and tried, although unsuccessfully, to call Mitch Marr in Ajijic. The inability to find Terry's old handler and consummate the exchange bothered them both immensely. This should have been Marr's number one priority. What could be more important than sewing up this one last loose end?
Either it had by now become unimportant to communicate with the Reeds; perhaps they knew all along where the evidence had been stored; or was it something else? Maybe the Feds were one step ahead of him all the time. Maybe he was the mouse and the cat was only toying with him. He had to put this fear out of his mind and seek sanctuary.
Desko! I've got to get to Desko, Terry thought.
There would be extreme risk in communicating with him by phone. But less risk, Terry calculated, if he approached him in person without spending any time "loitering" in Albuquerque. Since the RV was now sporting California license plates, it occurred to him that Santa Fe would be the perfect place to go. They would fit right in with all the tourists and still be only a short drive from Desko's.
Two major priorities had made their way to the top of his mental checklist by now. First -- disinformation.
They had left Chapala pretending to be only going north on an extended business trip/vacation. If they didn't return soon, people down there would become suspicious, especially since the Reeds had left many of their high value belongings there.
Somehow, they had to give the appearance of permanently leaving the Chapala area and moving to a false location. Terry knew there had to be government informants living within the expatriate community. If he could create the proper illusion of moving somewhere else within Mexico, it might buy them more time and take care of the problem of vacating their leased home.
There was no way around it. He would have to go back to Mexico to create that illusion. If he were to return for just one day, vacate his residence and create the right cover story of moving the family to another Mexican city, the ruse might work. It might make the CIA think he was not a threat and was only seeking to reassemble his life and return to his old occupation of consulting for factory automation.
Yeah! That's it! The Volkswagen factory in Puebla was upgrading its capabilities to machine engine heads for the Beetle. He knew that was an on-going project. He would return and say he was moving the family to Puebla to work on the VW modernization project. That could create the proper illusion, if he handled it properly, especially if he was seen there in the Chapala area. But it would be risky. He could only stay one day. He would want to be in and out of Guadalajara during daylight hours. Surely they wouldn't make an attempt on his life if he stayed in crowded public places. But who could he use as a bearer of this disinformation? Who would be sure to spread it all over the Chapala area?
Then, while driving south out of Alamosa, Colorado, it came to him. Laura, of course! Mexican maids and nannies blab everything about their foreign bosses to everyone. Their gossip network would be the perfect vehicle to spread the seeds of deceit. It would be better than taking out a full-page ad in the Chapala news bulletin, Ojo del Logo.
Perfect! This would be an ideal way to implement the plan and his predators might be fooled into thinking they were in Canada and Mexico at the same time. It could even create the illusion that the Reeds had split up, with Janis heading for Canada and Terry southward across the Rio Grande. The CIA would then be confronted with the same problem Hitler faced, a two-front war!
"God damn," he thought. "I'm gonna use what THEY taught me on them. After all, he had scored 95 in his class on disinformation."
After five days in New Mexico, and having discreetly contacted Desko, he felt rested but pressured to continue with his plan of appearing to be in two places at the same time.
Contributing to this pressure and growing sense of urgency was the fact that two days earlier he had discovered the telephone number at the FBI's office in Buffalo, which he had earlier used to contact North, was now strangely "out of order".
To ensure his New Mexico location was not compromised from a telephone link intercept, Terry had hopped aboard Southwest Airlines and flown to Dallas in order to "reach out" for Carlucci one more time.
In Dallas, after listening to the telephone company's recording signifying the emergency phone number for Carlucci/Cathey/North was not in service, a montage of thoughts crept into his mind. Had the number been disconnected for security reasons and to prevent him from re-contacting North? Or was the Agency distancing itself even further from Senor Estrella? Terry rationalized he didn't dare call Buffalo information and contact the FBI through their published number for fear the call would be traced automatically through 911 technology. If his Southwest location was detected, it would destroy all the previous effort in creating the appearance of being in Chicago or Canada. He couldn't risk the call. It was best to continue on his existing "flight plan" and he decided to return at once to his nervous family awaiting in New Mexico.
His old friend let it be known the offer he made to him in Mexico was still good. "The desert can swallow you up," Desko had told him. It was a source of comfort to Terry, knowing that a fall-back plan was available as a last resort option. He again compared it to flying. Just as a good pilot always has an "alternate air field selected" he had an alternative if the going got too rough.
But there were still loose ends to tie up. He figured the excess baggage he was carrying, namely the highly-visible motor home and the nanny, could be used to his advantage. They would make perfect decoys to further throw off any pursuers. Just as in the movies, you leave a trail, but not one that leads to you.
If he was going to take up Desko on his offer, he wanted to return to New Mexico "clean" and more low-profile. Hopefully, the FBI now thought he was in Canada, or at least headed that way. The last place they would look for him was along the southern border, or so Terry calculated.
"Always do the unexpected," he could still hear his Denver intelligence instructor advising.
Yeah, he figured, with the concentration of law enforcement along the border, they would never believe he would head there, the place he had just fled and the place he feared the most. Go where your fear is! They won't look for you there. For this reason, he headed south out of Albuquerque on 1-25 with an undecided destination, probably some large city along the border. A plan was beginning to take shape by the time they approached the outskirts of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. This was an apropos place to get an idea, he concluded.
First, he would drive right into the heart of either L.A. or San Diego. Both were near enough to the Mexican border to implement his plan. The upside was, they were now within striking range of California. The downside was, they were in the worst place in America to be traveling with a Mexican: the Southwest. The border states were dotted not only with immigration checkpoints on every major highway, but also had roadblocks with agriculture inspectors' prying eyes seeking .... fruit flies!!!! On all traffic arteries crossing into Arizona and California there were inspection stations looking for untaxed fresh fruit and vegetables, wetbacks and fugitives, and insects.
Number one priority -- the nanny had to go back to Mexico before someone questioned her about her immigration status. He figured they could use her for a decoy, however, before terminating her employment.
Then, there was the second priority -- sanitized transportation.
Even though Terry now felt sure the motor home was not carrying a tracking device, he knew that each "requisitioning" of new license plates was a high-risk maneuver. An estimated "six pointer" on the Reed Risk Scale. Sooner or later, he was sure to run into a roadblock or, worse, have an accident or get a ticket for a moving violation that could lead to police running his license number through their computer. And when this happened, the authorities were certain to find the vehicle didn't match the plates it was carrying. End of trip!
But how could he purchase a car and register it so that his or Janis' name didn't appear on the registration. The only secure way they could travel would be in a vehicle whose registration was in no way tied to them. The motor home they were traveling in was registered to his corporation. He found solace in that thought but was fearful there was an APB out for them. If this were the case, local police had probably been given a description of their vehicle since they had been surveiled in Terry's home town. And beyond that fear, he knew the level of sophistication of police vehicle registration computers gave them the ability to interrogate their computers for vehicles registered to an individual or corporation. This meant they could search for vehicles owned by any company which was tied to Reed, provided they knew the company's name.
The Agency certainly knew of his old company, Applied Technologies, Inc. He had no way of knowing if they were smart enough to research the motor vehicle records in order to tie the motor home to a company instead of him, thereby figuring out how the Reeds had been able to cross the border without being apprehended. All of these unanswered questions helped formulate contingencies that would neutralize his lack of information. He would have to form a corporation in which neither he nor Janis could be linked, and it in turn could own a vehicle that was unknown to the Feds. That's what he would do, just as soon as he executed the Mexican Disinformation Phase of the plan.
Terry had kept his electronic link to the outside world intact by keeping Applied Technologies' answering service in Little Rock. Janis called the service weekly to see of anyone was "reaching out" to them. It was strange, no one was calling and this added to their paranoia and confusion. Perhaps North had "fixed it all" and he had been forced to cut all ties to the FBI afterwards. Maybe that was why the FBI's phone number in Buffalo no longer worked. He just didn't know. It was like flying in solid instrument conditions after having experienced a total communications failure. Just follow the flight plan. That's all you can do.
"Janis, I've been thinking about this for the past 500 miles," he said as they drove west across Arizona toward California. "We've got to start a new corporation. If we put a 'clean' vehicle under a new company's name ... a company we're in no way tied to personally ... they would have no way of tracking us. That's what we have to do. Form a new company."
She made no comment, and continued with her classroom duties in the back of the RV. The pressure was beginning to mount again ... he could tell by the tense look on her forehead. He had not shared with Janis his plans for his one-day, round-trip back to Mexico. He knew she would worry. But as they pulled into San Diego, he had no choice. It was time to let her in on it.
"Day after tomorrow," he said while grilling chicken at an RV campground between San Diego and the Mexican border, "I'll take Laura with me and fly back to Guadalajara on Mexicana Airlines from Tijuana. She and I can walk across the border into Mexico and won't have to show any type of identification. We'll just pretend to be tourists. I'll escort her home and return the same day. Then, I'll just walk back across the border and rejoin you guys."
As he outlined the significance of the disinformation he would be spreading, Janis saw the beauty of the plan, but also saw a major weakness.
"It's a great idea, honey, but it doesn't make sense for you to go. There's probably an APB out for you. And if Rodriguez' people were to apprehend you, they would probably kill you. We can't take that risk. I need to be the one that goes. Surely they wouldn't kill me. They don't see me as a threat like they do you," Janis said convincingly, knowing she was right. "I can spread the same rumors and I can tell Richard [Tingen] and Diana [Aguilar] about Puebla and say that you're already over there working for Volkswagen. And, if I accidentally bump into Mitch Marr I can tell him the same thing."
"Besides," she added after seeing he was digesting what she had said, "you need to be here guarding the boys. I wouldn't do that nearly as well as you can."
Terry had to give serious thought to her offer. He did not like the thought of his wife traveling to Mexico with the threat of danger looming over them, but on the other hand, there was merit to what she was saying. They may not even be looking for her. Rodriguez had been present that night in the bunker in Little Rock when Terry was told not to share operational knowledge with her, and they had no way of knowing exactly what she knew. She was his wife and not necessarily a liability to them, alive. But if she died under mysterious circumstances, an investigation and unwanted publicity would ensue. Gringos who die on Mexican soil were always given preferential treatment, not only by the State Department, but Mexican authorities as well.
The downside would be a kidnapping. But, he reasoned, if she were to arrive unexpectedly in Chapala during daylight hours, stay in a public place and depart the same day, the chances of that would be minimal. And again, a kidnapping would bring unwanted police and media scrutiny, too. He hated to admit it, but she was right. She should be the one to go. It took a lot of courage on her part to put herself willingly at risk. But was the disinformation plan worth putting her in danger? He would sleep on that.
"OK, you win," he reluctantly conceded the next morning, "I'll never forgive myself if this goes haywire. But if you're still up for it, I really think it's something we should risk. You stay here and get your things together. I've already told Laura she's going home and she's insisting she has to do some shopping before she returns."
"Oh, that's great," Janis responded testily, "why don't you take Laura to the mall while I stay here and do laundry and pack. Ever since she crossed the border she thinks she's been on vacation. I'm getting pretty fed up with this Mexican maid crap."
The next morning, as they sat outside the motor home drinking coffee and having breakfast, the "snow birds" in the lavish and well-groomed RV park surrounding them would never have guessed the stressful discussion the Reeds were having. Terry knew his wife was uptight but insisted on grilling her extensively on the details of their battle plan he had formulated and she had committed to memory.
To Terry it was the equivalent of a "pre-strike" briefing in Southeast Asia. To Janis, it was as if she were going to solo a 747 Jumbo Jet for the first time. The tension was high.
Janis was to leave on the 8 AM Mexicana flight from Tijuana the next morning. She would fly to Guadalajara, take an airport taxi directly to Chapala, return Laura to her home, execute the equivalent of a Mexican power-of-attorney to Richard Tingen so that he could handle their financial affairs, sow the false seeds, be highly visible, telephone both her sister and parents to inform them the entire Reed family was back in Mexico but were moving to Puebla, and return back on the 5 PM flight to Tijuana. If all went as planned, Janis would be back to enjoy a barbecue dinner with the family at the RV park.
But Terry had worked out alternative contingencies as well. "I know, you should always have three plans," she said, tiring of his insistence to plan for every unexpected event. "That means I have to memorize two other plans, just in case. I don't know if my brain, or my intestines are up for all of this." Her husband's attention to detail tended to drive her crazy, but right now, she knew she had better pay close attention to his alternatives since their lives depended on them ... literally.
The contingencies included all of the things they would rather not have thought about -- the "what ifs". These had few pleasant consequences, but realistically they had to be dealt with. What if Janis was arrested? What if she was detained in Mexico and couldn't return as scheduled? What if Terry had to flee the campground? Where would they rendezvous? If Terry found it necessary to surrender, who would take care of the children?
They packed in three envelopes the necessary instructions and copies of the children's passports to cover all three contingencies. Inconspicuously labeled A, B and C, each contained cryptic essentials of all three plans and took into account elements such as secure communications, rendezvous procedures, bank account and phone numbers. These would serve as checklists since Terry knew from his military experience that in times of stress, people forget simple things and make stupid mistakes. Nothing was left to chance.
As they lay sleeplessly holding each other in bed that night, neither communicated to the other the true fear building inside them. It was best just to cling to each other, hoping for the best and conjuring images of someday recounting this ordeal to their children -- and preferably not from prison.
Janis and Laura buckled their seat belts on the Mexicana Airlines 737 the next morning, right on schedule. Janis was not in a good mood. She had kissed her sleeping boys good-bye that morning wondering if she would ever see them again. She and Laura had taken a cab to the border and walked across the bridge into Tijuana. Janis had dressed comfortably for the trip in slacks and loafers, but her maid, who had never flown before, took this opportunity to wear her new red, mini, "disco dress" and the three-inch black patent heels she had purchased the previous day. Her hair which was normally in a tight braid, was loose and flowing to her waist. She had allured enough attention at the border crossing that she had several muchachos falling all over themselves with offers to carry the bulky and unwieldy suitcase Janis had loaned her. Janis carried her own.
Using the same "Sheila Walton," the alias she had utilized before, she was attempting to get mentally prepared for what lay ahead as she sat tensely awaiting take-off.
"Senora Walton," a male voice boomed from the front of the plane. "Senora Sheila Walton, identify yourself, por favor."
Janis watched in terror as two Mexican uniformed men accompanied by a female civilian marched down the aisle. Being one of the few gringas on the plane, she knew she was easily-identifiable. There was no way out.
Her ears were ringing and her eyesight began to blur. It's over, they found her. But how? She must have been followed since the alias hadn't thrown off the authorities. Janis realized she had stupidly used the same alias after it was probably compromised during the phone call to her father. Back at the campground, Terry was surely in custody. Her worst fears were being realized. She was under arrest! Slowly, she rose from her seat. Laura, who was sitting next to her, was too pre-occupied flirting with one of the male flight attendants to notice what was taking place.
"You will have to deplane," the woman told her firmly. "You need to report to Mexican Customs. Your luggage is waiting for you. I'm sorry, that is all I have been told."