A Matter of Lex Talionis: Send in Lt. De Avilés

Lt. Andre de Avilés

Before the Flash of Light

Twelve minutes before the flash of light preceded the blast at La Deliciosa Comida de Sonora , the dark-skinned boss of DPD’s Intel Squad was parked seventy-five yards west on Bagley. July and August in the Motor City can easily mimic what Muscovites’ experience in their Russian steam bath. A billboard pushing a popular Scotch Whiskey was flashing its digital thermometer in bright red. It proudly displayed ninety-seven degrees and ninety-one-percent humidity. The two readouts called for something much cooler than a shot of Scotch.

Keeping this area of Detroit jumping in the sultry summer heat, was the truly great food from south of the Border. Served with varieties of imported Mexican beers and iced margaritas, most drinks were chilled to whip the high temperatures. Lining both sides of Bagley Street—broken only by the occasional dusty parking lot, every restaurant at the western-edge of Mexicantown was jam-packed tonight. Families and their children shared warm tortilla chips and spicy salsa, while they waited for plates piled high with burritos, enchiladas, beans and Mexican rice.

Busy evening service required a tweak in the restaurant’s open seating policy. The move made sure that the children were seated a few sections away from young and middle-aged couples. Men and women were with their dates, relaxing and tossing back house margaritas served by the pitcher. They were smiling, laughing and drinking—while each one’s brain was feverishly multitasking. Instinctively, a majority were studiously calculating the odds—for and against—of landing in the sack later. Satisfied for now with the drinks and friendly atmosphere, they would hopefully dispense with these traditional preliminaries. Romance appeared to dance in the eyes of young men and women whose thoughts might have been on what might be in their future afterwards.

For the not so ripe, most prayed that something—anything, along the same line of speculation would take place after the bar closed. Too many men’s brains were working overtime, oiled with the fermented juices of the Blue Agave, or iced Dos Equis and Corona beers. The inebriated would-be Lotharios were desperately struggling to look sober while they zeroed in on the more lascivious opportunities. It would be a safe bet that most of these wannabe paramours would end up hugging their own pillow that night. For an unfortunate few, they would squeeze the toilet during the remainder of the night, casting their fading memories of a once promising adventure—out of one end or the other.

At that time, De Avilés was contemplating wrapping up his lonesome surveillance, and taking a spin around Belle Isle—in his black, pristine GTO. He had dipped his last Lucky Strike…into the gob of wet tobacco spittle, at the bottom of the Styrofoam cup. Then he skillfully shot the butt out through the open passenger’s window. The 2008 Pontiac GTO was his new toy, bought when the 2009s arrived in showrooms. Lieutenant Andre de Avilés had fallen in love the moment he slid behind the wheel on the showroom floor. That luscious first-whiff of a new car was something he had learned to appreciate…along with most American teenagers. It was imprinted from the time they were boys, everyone trying to see through each dealer’s frosted windows at the new models. His GMX 282 was built on a Zeta platform developed by Australia’s Holden Ltd., a GM subsidiary.

He did not know it at the time, but the word Zeta would carry an entirely different connotation before his next case was closed. Back to the business at hand, he grabbed the surplus U.S. Navy binoculars and made one last sweep of the bustling neighborhood.

At Detroit Police Department (DPD) headquarters, the Intel Group’s Duty Officer was working the better part of three hours with the surveillance man parked on Bagley Street. De Avilés was his lieutenant, and the man was calling in his inquiries on vehicles driving to and from the restaurants around Bagley.

Officer Bill Schmitt was responding immediately to those calls, and quickly radioing back the results of his checks. It was his way of remaining in contact with his boss, a bona fide plain-clothes dick from the old school. It was typical for de Avilés to work by himself…usually after dark. Both he and Schmitt understood that vehicle registrations and traffic tickets were a great source of Intel, oftentimes providing a springboard to other database indices. Those included criminal records, corporate and financial documents, property ownership along with previous owners and buyers in Michigan and elsewhere in the world.

Because of 911—even after several years, Bill Schmitt would not have time this evening to work right then on global potentialities. Those were special now, and subjected to full Intel assessments and link analysis…the whole ball of wax for members of the community. Considering the increase in intelligence gathering, he earmarked material for a detailed follow-up because of their sensitivity.

Tasks relating to foreign matters would be picked up by one of four analysts assigned to the task force. They were the best—truly a terrific group when it came to carrying out their responsibilities. However, at this time of the night, Schmitt kept his searches to state law enforcement indices and National Crime Information Center (NCIC). Michigan State Police maintained a first-class source of data in real-time. The Law Enforcement Information Network (LEIN) tracked an enormous amount of data used by hundreds of federal, state and local agencies.

The officer went about his tasks with speed and efficiency. He steadily retrieved useful facts, and at first glance they appeared to have some potential. The material recounted routine contacts and the more serious run-ins with uniformed cops and plainclothes-investigators. These hits showed Schmitt the most promise, and dealt with people identified during arrests, search warrant executions, car-stops, and routine field interrogations.

It was always a given that most of the good stuff came from uniforms working traffic or crime suppression. It was the nature of the job. They must write down almost everything they do on a shift…a mandatory report or log. On the other side of the coin, some detectives and federal agents are inclined to drag their feet on reports. Oftentimes, it’s the uniform officer who ID’s other sources of information. Many of those who still play in the game—and others who used to play—can recall squeezing out some great stuff during routine interrogations. Sometimes over minor offenses like a CCW arrest. People caught in these circumstances are often willing to puke up good stuff on their competitors, or to settle a festering beef with another crook. As it was, the hundred and fifty or so license tags yielded Schmitt more than two-hundred and fifty names and businesses.

Back on Bagley Street now, Schmitt’s boss was about to end his observations for the night. He would drive down Vernor to Michigan Avenue, where he’d swing right. Straight down Michigan to Woodward, a couple more blocks to Jefferson Avenue…and a straight shot to the bridge. Once across, he’d race around the twisting roads of Belle Isle.

At this time of night—with the exception of barking dogs and buzzing mosquitoes—it was usually a quick and mellow drive. De Avilés would pass few cars in his trip through the dead silence of the Island. Any that he did pass would be parked and fogged-up at the half dozen making out spots. Those were the gamblers…especially at this time of night. Stereos were tuned into stations that were up and running with great music. It was good stuff, spun by experts and sent out to supply just the right vibes. Inside these fancy cars, heartbeats raced to the music and the business at hand. Locked in passionate embraces, the preoccupied lovers would make perfect targets for robbers, muggers and carjackers.

At the flick of his ignition key, the powerful engine growled to life. Always kept highly polished, his GTO accelerated from the curb on Bagley Street. He decided against cruising past the string of restaurants where each establishment featured cuisine from the old country. Each eatery offered tasty epicurean specialties from traditional recipes. From both large and small ciudades in various Mexican states, immigrants turned entrepreneurs brought experience and detailed instructions concerning old family recipes.

Passable food, considered de Avilés as he made a left turn north on 24th Street. Even at his age, he still remembered the home-cooking of his childhood. Magnificent culinary dishes from the Basque Region of Europe momentarily flashed in his mind. Mental pictures easily summoned up the taste of thick soup made from potatoes, cabbage, beans and turnips—sometimes with pork or lamb. Out loud he exclaimed, Garbure! That was the name.

De Avilés shook off the thought as he pulled to a stop at Vernor Highway. Just a two-lane city street with parking on both sides, this section of Vernor cut through an ever-changing ethnic area. Currently, it was dominated by heavy Black, Cuban and Puerto Rican influences. He turned right toward the old and now abandoned Michigan Central Railroad Station

Since Detroit’s early days, this area was usually a hotbed of immigrant activity. Workers from the South streamed up Hillbilly Highway—U.S. Route 23. All they wanted was a fair shot at employment in one of the auto plants, or, an affiliated industry. Ford, GM, Chrysler and other factories paid good money. So did hundreds of other shops, those small automotive related workshops on Detroit’s Westside and Downriver communities.

That was then…long before de Avilés’ family had arrived in Detroit. Too many years of failed city management, political wars on poverty, drugs, guns, and violence ended up ravaging the once vibrant neighborhood within zip code 48216.

Bouncing over clumps of dirt left on Vernor by the overpass construction, the GTO was on the middle of the bridge. That’s when it flashed brightly.

Presently, his attention was drawn back to the galvanized, rhythmic activity of the firefighters. While he watched, Duty Commander Jim Biven’s unmarked Crown Vic crunched to a stop in broken glass. He locked his car and walked toward the fire equipment, flashing red, blue and yellow emergency lights.

Three restaurants and two parking lots later, Bivens crossed Bagley and approached de Avilés as the firefighting units from Alexandrine began their tasks. What the hell happened, Andre? Bombing or gas fire, what’s your take?

By the sound of it, I’d guess C-4. One hell of a loud crack—it sounded like overhead thunder in the summer. Smoke that blew by me up on Vernor was gray in color. Then again, I have a problem remembering exactly what my ATF buddy told me once. Supposedly, you can tell the type of explosive material by the color of the smoke.

Hmm, you’re saying that you do have friends, Andre? I always thought of you as a loner except—of course, when it comes to Chief of Detectives St. Giles.

De Avilés noticed a gleam in the Commander’s eye. Whenever the two of them ran across each other, Bivens…without exception was always sociable. Still, de Avilés never considered the commander a close friend. Going a long way in enabling the DPD Lieutenant to engage in friendly banter with this boss…was the fact that Bivens was promoted to his position without forking over any money.

It was with a smile when he replied to the jibe. True enough, Commander. Yet those I count as friends are considered close friends. As for Chief St. Giles, he and I were partners once. That allows me to easily accept his current position in the department. I know him from whence he came. In fact, I just spoke to him about this incident.

Bivens grinned as if to signal, touché. Both turned to the chaotic mess as firefighters methodically applied themselves, quickly exercising control as safely as possible. Each seemed to move in a preplanned, almost choreographed routine. Twenty or more firefighters were stringing lines and connecting frayed hoses to hydrants. Red and yellow hydrants gratefully shot water through hose connections, to the pumper through its attached Storz couplings. A cool misty spray from a steady stream of pressurized water provided some relief to those working in the heat at the site. Men and women, weighed down by their old Model 50 Scott Air-Paks strapped to their backs and resting on insulated rubber coats, moved in teams. With the city’s budget in tatters, it would be a cold day in hell before any firefighter received a state-of-the-art Model 75 Scott Air-Pak.

Meanwhile, paramedics nimbly went about the process of sorting victims to establish medical priorities. With professional efficiency, they set about establishing the order and priority for emergency treatment or transport for the most seriously injured. Second-guessing methods used to select victims for triage, and why some were transported first—sometimes haunted firefighters and paramedics. Once triage was complete, with the injured on the way to Detroit Receiving Hospital, the rescue process would wind down. At that point, recovery procedures would occupy everyone’s attention.

With the recovery and retrieval well underway, de Avilés and Bivens accepted steaming cups of coffee from the Salvation Army’s disaster response truck. The Army was a good friend of cops and firefighters…going all the way back to violent disturbances in the Sixties.

About my remark about you and the Chief of Detectives, I meant no offense, Andre.

I took none, Jimmy.

Promotional practices in Detroit often required sales of campaign tickets by city employees seeking promotion. Within bureaus and offices, city employees who wanted to climb to a level above supervisory positions faced an unwritten quid pro quo. The something-for-something in the police and fire departments meant competitors could compete equally for a job only if they bought or sold some tickets. Campaign events allowed holders of stubs admittance to well-attended fund-raising galas.

Jimmy, you know I’m not a politician. Never had a Rabbi, and the only real friends I can count on are the people I work with every day. I trust no more than ten or twelve people to share what my squad uncovers. When the shit hits the fan, there are many more trusted DPD cops I’ll take with me when I bust a door or make a hairy stop on the street. I trust all of them with my life. However, with what we know from our ‘stuff,’ it’s still ten or twelve who know about it. It’s not a coincidence though that few of those men and women are above the rank of Lieutenant.

Bivens eyed him for a second or two then shrugged. I understand, Andre. Just remember, though, we have some damned good managers and execs that were forced to play the ticket-game. Not all of them are fuck-ups.

You’re right of course. Maybe it’s the way I was brought up in the old country. Nobody gets a freebie over in the Basque Country. People work hard for what they achieve in life. I’m satisfied. I can still shave each morning—without cutting my throat in shame. Since you didn’t play the game either, I’ll bet you’re blood-free each morning too.

After discussing the incident some more, de Avilés and Bivens made sure their reports coincided. First responders, truck bosses, numbers of fatalities, the critical victims, and a tally of other injured persons would be used to brief the upper echelon of DPD and the city. Neither was a full-blown report like the detailed one to be prepared by cops and firefighters tagged with the responsibility—theirs concentrated on the numbers. It seemed the higher the reporting level was the fewer details were required. That was useful during press conferences when reporters began asking questions based on their own inquiries. The pols could always point to those who could respond at some point in the future.

De Avilés walked Bivens to where the Commander had parked his car. Once inside, Bivens rolled down his window. By the way, Andre, I use an electric razor. He backed up and around the corner at 24th Street, then accelerated across Bagley toward Vernor. Before he’d covered the distance to the intersection, the duty commander received another radio run concerning a double homicide in the 6th District.

Driving toward the call, Bivens considered Andre de Avilés. The lieutenant was an odd bird, maybe a bit eccentric, he thought. However, most of the executives de Avilés seemed to mistrust would grudgingly admit behind closed doors that he was a hell of a cop. Cop for life was what a fellow commander told Bivens over too many drinks in Greektown one evening.

Lieutenant Andre de Avilés was forty-three years of age. He had been a Detroit officer for the past twenty years. At six-three and a shade less than two hundred and thirty pounds, de Avilés was an imposing figure to the crooks and killers he came up against. Considered a hotshot by cops and their bosses, most of whom had no real understanding of how the game was played. A genuine imperfection of the department, some bosses treated certain aspects of enforcement and regulation as their own fiefdom…piggy-bank for a few others.

In the mid-seventies, his family traveled to America by ship. If it were not for the vicious acts of political violence by Euskadi Ta Askatasuna’s (ETA), de Avilés’ family would still be fishing off the Atlantic Coast. Sadly—and to his occasional regret, Andre missed living in the tree-deprived elevations of the Euskal Mendiak (Basque Mountains).

Moving from the shores of the Avilés River when he was just a baby, his village sat between the western Cantabrian range and the Pyrenees to the east. De Avilés’ ancestors had always considered that they were a hearty breed of mountain people. Raising goats, pigs and a few head of cattle was left to the extended family while his father and three of his uncles fished the La Bahia de Vizcaya. The two-story cement-block home sat high above the shallow waters of The Bay of Biscay. On rainless days, he often caught glimpses of the sunlit Iberian Peninsula.

It was a pained disappointment—even to this day, when he became a Flatlander. To be sure, majestic mountains, breathtaking views and a bountiful sea were present at one time in Detroit’s history. Regrettably, they were leveled and filled during the last Ice Age. His uncle tried to console him and promised to take him up north—to Mt. Holly when he was old enough. By the time he was old enough…his dream of going was sadly dashed by a kid in his eighth grade class. When he found out that single-big-hill only featured a ski slope, de Avilés beat the crap out of the punk.

His thought about the game of law enforcement prompted de Avilés to weigh four factors that made his life in Motown palatable. They were the four sports venues. Setting aside inherent issues related to gambling, the Red Wings, Tigers, Lions and Pistons always found ways to battle their way into de Avilés heart. Win or lose, those guys were fighters…even the ones kept around too long after their prime. A fifth reason—for the time being, was his on-again off-again relationship with a local television reporter. A pause…then a consideration to call his ex-girlfriend since his mind was beginning to stray to romantic musings.

Before he called it a night, de Avilés was making a last check of the scene. Glancing through the missing windows, he could see most of the severe damage was in the rear of the restaurant. For sure, everything was a mess from the shockwave and rubble that blew hypersonic debris through the dining area. In whatever manner, holes in the roof were far back, underneath where the kitchen used to be. Portions of the wall on the adjacent eatery were bowed outward but not breached.

On the parking lot side of the building, only a ten-foot or so section of the rear ceiling level was blown in. The DPD, DFD and ATF experts…if the latter agency even showed up, would make the final determination. Based on his limited expertise, de Avilés was confident the back kitchen and office area was the intended target. It appeared to him that someone used a wee too much explosive material. Instead of killing intended targets in the establishment’s rear, the bomber took out innocent patrons in the front as well.

Walking back from the quiet crime scene, de Avilés mind wandered as he considered his discussion with Bivens. When de Avilés recalled Bill Schmitt’s reference to the 5th Precinct, he smiled. In the year 2000, city officials were trying to display a modicum of fiscal responsibility while changing DPD and its policing policies. Twelve precincts were consolidated into six districts.

As many cops had predicted, the ridiculous plan was failing miserably. It wouldn’t take long, in a few years there would probably be a U-turn in policy. The department would eventually go back to precincts, albeit at a slow pace. Many saw the talk of returning to precinct designations as a slide back. A scheme to open the spigot for spending money the city did not have—with most going to new buildings to house precincts. More than significant to some of the lieutenants…especially to the ones eager for promotion, was the creation of additional DPD management positions.

To fill the new inspector positions, the city needed at least twelve—and that was just on the patrol-side. A separate detective squad, one managed by a plain-clothes inspector was another item fueling the rumor mill. After all, all of those commanders would be busy overseeing the patrol inspectors—leaving the Detective Inspectors to coordinate investigations with the Chief of Detectives and specialized bureaus downtown.

Accurately recalling a popular metaphor, a fellow lieutenant had quoted Forest Gump, stupid is as stupid does. Both supervisors agreed that too many bosses would try to place their individual mark on crime suppression. The only outcome to be sure, would be a frustrated and confused law enforcement organization.

Time to call it a night, he thought a while later. Before putting away his laptop, the lieutenant took several minutes to scan the license plate entries. So far, under each plate number de Avilés had entered the results of Schmitt’s initial queries. Before he emailed his notes and the data file to Schmitt, he wanted to double check some blanks against his paper notes. He guessed that the registration data and criminal record responses for persons linked to the vehicles were about two-thirds complete. From sitting much too long, he stretched his arms, legs, and rotated his neck and hips slowly. Reaching beefy hands around the back of his thick neck, de Avilés flexed his biceps, neck and shoulder muscles. Feeling, rather than hearing a crack, or two, he thought briefly about visiting the police gym later that weekend.

Before he drove away from the scene, de Avilés opened his laptop and finished typing the report on his activities that evening. A cursory comment on his original surveillance was all he entered, choosing to cover events from the time he heard the explosion. He typed in notations previously jotted down on a piece of scratch paper. Not all, since most of it had already been entered. Some coded scribbles—material in de Avilés’ personalized shorthand, were still to be added to the electronic file. Each abbreviated synopsis dealt with the record and reputation of people identified through Schmitt’s initial research of available law enforcement indices.

Leticia Oxley would be the analyst who would expand searches on everything he was typing. She was sharp as a tack on the subject of intelligence gathering and analysis, and one of the more savvy people in the squad. Flying fingers manipulated data, and made link analysis software a slave to her expertise with electronics. Besides, her pleasant Georgia accent and friendly manner usually guaranteed a successful liaison contact. Leticia was an expert at developing useful connections with law enforcement analysts around the country. He saved the file to a special document folder.

De Avilés opened the email program and punched in Leticia’s address. Then he attached the document he had just saved, and added a short message.

Leticia,

Could you spend some quality time on the attached foreign plates? I saw them prior to leaving the Bagley location. Four or five minutes later, not one of those cars was at the site of the explosion. Like you, I do not believe in coincidences, especially after such a horrific and butcherous crime. Let’s consider the occupants as persons of interest—but just between you and me.

Thanks, T

Andre

He was suddenly conscious of the fact he felt beat. Feelings of fatigue occasionally followed his participation at a particularly demanding crime scene. And, this evening’s bloodshed sure fit the bill, he thought. Added to that was another consideration. In the old days de Avilés remembered that two or three days in a row without sleep was no big deal. Still, that was then, and today was a different ball game.

Back in the day, clear objectives, and a stated purpose to the job was all he required to be motivated. Nowadays, he acknowledged it was often a grueling task just climbing out of the sack. Satisfaction was supplanted by a sense of frustration. Granted, on occasion he would experience flashes of action and life-threatening encounters. All of that good stuff came with the understanding that his was one of the best squads in the department.

What a bunch of crap, he thought. Then he chuckled at what he did earlier while walking the crime scene. He placed a call to someone in his narrow circle of friends. It was one of his former scout-car partners, a man who de Avilés considered his closest friend.

Buddy or not, at this time of the night Hugh St. Giles sounded perturbed. When the cobwebs cleared, he spoke. Oh, it’s you, Andre. What the hell’s going on? St. Giles listened as de Avilés filled the holes left by the Deputy’s earlier briefing, along with disturbing news about the ATF notification. Thanks, Andre. I’ll give their SAC a call.

One

Thirty or so minutes prior to the horror that would erupt on Bagley, the semi-retired ETA assassin sat quietly in his vehicle near 23 rd St. and Vernor. While he waited patiently for the Mexican killer, he thought about the man. Highly skilled in what he had contemptuously called, le nouveau terror …the man from Tabasco State also dabbled in contract killing and the like. Whatever it took, shootings, stabbings, decapitations, electrocutions, hangings, strangulations, Colombian necktie parties, and the occasional vicious beating—he was adept at all forms of violence and mayhem against humankind. Tonight would be just another night to Jorge Ramos. The attack his people would carry out was simply a matter of necessity—merely a cost of doing business for his bosses in Cártel del Golfo (CDG).

As for Jacques Labadie, he was closer to sixty-five years old than sixty. He wore his short gray-hair in an upright brush-cut. Even in the reflected lights of the brightly lit restaurants, with pupils so dark—any chance at deciphering what was behind the blackness was nil. He was decked out in a black pinstripe Z Zenga lightweight suit, a Z Zenga blue and white striped shirt, and a stylish Z Zenga tie. At a minimum, his entire ensemble must have cost four—or five-grand.

Thoughtfully considering his meeting with the Mexican that evening, the man from Quebec was seated behind the wheel of a spotless white Lincoln Navigator. A narrow slit in the driver’s side window…barely wide enough to slide a couple of Post-it-notes through…sucked clouds of acrid cigarette smoke into the steamy night. So determined was Labadie that Detroit’s humid-heat would not wrinkle his suit, ice-cold air blew hard through the vents of the climate-control system.

If all went according to plan, a Cártel del Golfo connection named Jorge Ramos would polish off several rivals tonight. Hinging on the timing of the assault and energy generated, the hostile action will likely trigger assertions of terrorism by some media outlets. However, that would not be Labadie’s appraisal…deaths were not to be the essential measurement of success. Although, in the mind of the Mexican—the total number of dead and injured would send a message…but, it certainly wouldn’t be an act of terrorism.

Labadie’s confidante in Spain was more occupied with the expected intensity of the percussive shot. This is why he used foreign soil for most of the testing, as well as a Cártel assassin with his own agenda. It provided a plausible, double-cover for Basque conspirators. And, if the experiment was successful—it will definitely serve as a signal. Success in Detroit would mean that testing and refinement in the Cantabrian Mountains of Spain had proved effective. The whirlwind of recruitment, planning, theft, and testing that had been expended since January…will have finally paid off. An evaluation of confirmable damage assessments from Detroit would be compared with previous testing results in Spain. If expectations were met, the action would set in motion tactical plans for a bona fide reign of terror in Spain.

Tonight’s attack on the Mexican restaurant had all begun with a phone call from a colleague in Bilbao, Spain. Belasko Segura had updated Labadie on the slow progress in reconstituting his new guerrilla cell within Euskadi Ta Askatasuna. ETA—Basque Homeland and Freedom were about to turn on the socialists with a vengeance. During the previous spate of violence in Spain, Belasko had been a fierce but defiant young man. He was perfectly suited to be an effective ETA guerilla—a Basque patriot. Segura was less than fifty years old…medium height, medium weight, with medium hair loss for his age…a genuinely nondescript person to everyone he met. Despite his ordinary looks, he had gained one crucial characteristic that did stand out if anyone had a reason to take a long, hard look. Segura had only one hand.

While escaping from Grupo Especial de Operaciones (GEO), a special anti-terrorism unit of the Nacional de Policía, he had lost his left hand in the skirmish. Although bleeding profusely, he hung tough and eventually made it to safety. An amazing feat in itself, his decision to delay surgery until he reached his own clandestine refuge, was a fortunate choice.

Looking back, he had pulled off his escape in the nick of time. Most of his accomplices on the mission were either killed, or swept up in what turned out to be a nationwide military operation. Shrouded in secrecy, Grupo Especial de Operaciones had infiltrated ETA cells throughout the country.

Much later, the debacle was made worse during many high-profile trials involving multiple defendants. Fellow Basques learned that many in their communities had been turned by GEO agents, and were witnesses for the prosecution. Those who survived to fight another day owed their freedom to their closed-mouth ETA brothers and sisters who weren’t so fortunate.

After the elections in 2002 and 2003, Spain’s bureaucracy passed a plague of socialist, political and economic policies down upon the people. It was so devastating that even the Muslim militants were taking advantage of openings. The actions by his two protagonists had furnished Segura with an opportunity to even the score with two old adversaries. Issues especially galling for many Basque people had festered. The Socialist government treated the Basques as second-class citizens, with some rancor traced to their support of the opposition. Therefore, specialized components within the soon-to-be terrorist group had to be hastily formed. They were gearing-up for a new round of violence against Spain’s leaders.

This time around, Segura had pledged that past lapses in judgment would not be tolerated. Any disagreement or misinterpretation of command decisions that caused a subsequent failure to follow orders would be dealt with harshly. More important, any member suspected of being an informant, or who was caught discussing operational strategies and tactical plans with anyone outside the cell—would be subject to immediate execution.

Still haunted by those errors in the past, Segura had become obsessive about security—almost to a fault. Although he did not lack for names of potential recruits, he was determined to move one step at a time. Procurement of weapons was an important consideration. Without guns and bombs, a revolutionary movement would simply stall before it withered on the vine. It needed abject fear, incidents of gross violence that resulted in widespread death and destruction…real terror before significant change. However, the appropriation of any type of war-matériel usually posed a logistical nightmare.

A real hassle, made much worse after the 911 attack in America—and the following year’s 311 carnage in Spain. Frustrated by the competition, and lacking experience lost during years in self-exile. Islamist terrorist groups throughout the Middle East were finding and hoarding as much Czech Republic Semtex as was possible. Money was hardly a concern to oil-rich fanatics. Plenty of Islam’s extremists were quick to peel off as many dollars as it took to arm their warriors and suicide bombers.

In 2007, sectarian violence in Iraq had finally begun to ease after President Bush backed General Petraeus’ Surge Strategy. Shiite and Sunni militants were routinely being informed on by their neighbors, and reformed associates who were tired of fighting. All this while coveys of hunter-killer drones hovered above. Each could selectively pick off the worst of the worst—including what was left of fighters from Al Quaeda in Iraq. Add to this an increased presence of U.S. and NATO troops in Afghanistan, it was no wonder that Semtex was in high demand.

It was so challenging a task that Segura appealed to a colleague from the old days, a man whom he trusted implicitly. That man was Jacques Labadie. Jacques could study the logistic issues, identify possible sources and more than likely, establish a covert supply line that provided needed arms and explosives.

Unlike radical Islamists and Al Quaeda, for this small group of Basques—money was its number one consideration—but who cared? Basques had been fighting with other people since before the Roman Empire. Even if Labadie were to fail—a most improbable consideration, Segura and his people would have to scrounge around the Mediterranean and Middle East just like everyone else. Money, arms, ammunition, explosives and other provisions were plentiful if they could steal them. By refining this ancient but plausible method of procurement, they would give new meaning to the 20th Century term—Freedom Fighter.

Labadie was on the hunt for items that could blow up people, places, and things. He was relied on, mostly because of his past relationship with Belasko Segura in Basque Country. It wouldn’t be easy though, he knew of several problems that must be overcome. It was a difficult request considering how closely the Canadians monitored most facets of the industry.

His Mexican supplier was unable or unwilling to provide explosive matériel. From what Jorge Ramos had told Jacques Labadie, many conventional and military firearms were available in Mexico—but bomb-making matériel was difficult to come by. The man from Quebec was not at all convinced, chalking up Ramos’ reluctance to the Cártel del Golfo’s ongoing struggle with their treacherous competitors—Los Zetas. In the end it hadn’t mattered.

Only by accident did he come across an unlikely substitute. While viewing an old World War II film on the Military Channel—during a layover in Miami, Labadie recalled a friend’s interesting yarn. The connection to the war film was an explosive composition called Torpex.

When he reached Quebec later that evening, he did some research on the internet. The explosive compound was said to be more potent than TNT. However, Labadie was taken aback when he read that most of Britain’s weapons that used Torpex