No Joy

1995 – Along the Colorado River Near Yuma, Arizona

Emilio’s nerves were on edge. Sweat soaked his body almost as though he were wading in the shallows of the river next to the path he followed. The dynamite he carried would soon become unstable in the heat as it shifted back and forth in his backpack. It was almost 2 a.m. and the temperature was still over 90 degrees.

With his head in constant motion, his eyes bounced from bank to bank of the narrow, shallow stream, ahead of his path and over the territory he had just covered. The full moon helped him see, but it also helped others see him even in the dense brush and thick growth of mesquite trees. The white and green U.S. Border Patrol truck had passed on the levee road 50 yards to his right moments ago. He knew it would return soon.

He felt no safer on the Mexican side, his side; because thieves frequently waited to catch drug runners and others trying to cross the shallow water and enter the U.S. Stealing drug loads or the cash carried by immigrants seeking a better life in the north was an easy picking for anyone with a gun or knife.

Quick cash for a few hundred pounds of marijuana or cocaine made life easy for the bandits. Street value of the marijuana was near $800 a pound, while the coke brought more than $10,000 a pound. The home run would be catching a smuggler with meth, which easily would bring $30,000 a pound on the street. But drugs didn’t interest Emilio.

He stopped to rest, scoping a handful of water from the stream and listening for any sound that shouldn’t be there. He splashed the water on his face and arms, only slightly relieving the tension he felt. At 17, he was fit from working the fields, but the combination of nerves, tension and carrying a heavy backpack loaded with unstable dynamite and more than 2,000 feet of thin wire wore him down. Still he pressed on. What he was doing was too important.

The water was the issue that drove his mission this hot June night, the water he knew belonged to Mexico but was stolen by the Americans with the consent of his own government.

The mighty Colorado! What a joke. There’s nothing here but a trickle. Nothing for the farms and ranches of northern Sonora. The dynamite he carried would fix that. Fifteen sticks would open 15 of the 20 spillway gates. Just one more mile to go.

Emilio planned to use the dynamite to destroy the Morelos Dam, built by the Mexican government to divert the Rio Colorado to the farms around Algodones and Mexicali instead of allowing the free flow of the river all the way to the Gulf of California.

His family from years ago had grown up along the southern reaches of the Colorado, working on the paddlewheel steamers that cruised all the way from the gulf to Yuma, bringing ship-borne cargo from all over the world to Arizona’s inland seaport until the early 1900s. His family had prospered from trapping fish in the river and their farms were the most productive in northern Sonora. Water in the Rio Colorado ensured that.

But no more. The treaty signed by the U.S. and Mexico in 1943 had ended that and the Morelos Dam guaranteed that the Colorado River end at Algodones. The treaty gives Mexico 1.5 billion acre feet of water a year from the Colorado River. Americans get the rest.

The dynamite shifted and Emilio stopped again. Another Border Patrol truck passed, its spotlight searching the eastern bank of the river, the agent’s watchful eyes scanning the sandy surface of the levee for footprints of illegal crossers. The agents have their hands full, with immigrants and smugglers crossing almost at will.

Emilio didn’t worry about the Border Patrol. He had no intention of crossing the river into the U.S. until it was time to set the charges. He had enough dynamite to destroy most of the spillways on the diversion dam, including some on the American side, allowing the water once again to cascade south in the old river bed all the way to the gulf.

He removed the backpack and hefted the 2,000 feet of wire and the now sweating dynamite. Another 100 yards and he would be at the base of the dam.

Spanish speaking voices froze him in his tracks. Shouts demanded that he drop his backpack and raise his hands. Before he could move, another voice answered, cursing. Then he heard running footsteps behind him, maybe 40 yards to the south. More footsteps followed. Emilio dropped to his knees next to a large mesquite tree.

Emilio wasn’t the target. Shouts continued, but moving away from him. Someone was trying to cross the border, probably smugglers with a load of drugs. Someone else was trying to stop them, probably to steal the drugs.

Had to be thieves because the police paid little attention to the riverbank at night. Too dangerous.

Emilio waited, listening as the footsteps sloshed through the stream into the U.S. The Border Patrol would react quickly because the runners would set off the seismic sensors Emilio knew were buried on the American side. If not the sensors, the TV cameras mounted on poles would alert the agents that a crosser was coming.

Good, a diversion. All the attention would be well south of him. He could reach the dam, set one stick of dynamite where the control arm attached to the steel plate that holds back the water on the north side of the dam. All the attention would be focused elsewhere. Plenty of time to set the charges and return to the Mexican side.

Emilio had visited the dam before, fishing on the south side when water pooled there in the spring, giving him the opportunity to examine the spillway gates and decide how to set his charges. Because of continual seepage from around the gates, there will be shallow pools of water on the south side, but not enough to hamper Emilio as he walked from gate to gate, placing the charges and connecting each to the wire he stretched out behind him.

Security on the dam, which was Mexico’s responsibility, focused mostly on the upstream side, monitoring the water level and observing boat traffic in the river. Only one guard worked the night shift, and he mostly stayed in his air-conditioned shack.

Lights flashed on the levee road as a Border Patrol truck sped by, moving south in response to the sensors or cameras. The large concrete abutments that supported each spillway gave him ample space to hide from anyone on either side of the dam. The dam’s structure reaching 40 feet above the river bed also protected him from view.

Moving quickly through the knee-deep water, Emilio placed all 15 sticks of dynamite in less than 30 minutes. Sweat continued to drip from his face and arms. He sat on the concrete embankment on the U.S. side, catching his breath and taking stock of the action south of him, where red and blue emergency lights from the Border Patrol trucks continued to flash.

Other trucks had sped by as he set the charges, but none slowed near the dam. Now, all that remained was to wade back across, connect the wire to the timer and escape into Algodones. Dry pants and shoes awaited him in the backpack he left hidden on the Mexican side.

Breathing easier, Emilio climbed the embankment just as the first light of dawn invaded the sky behind him. Soon the temperature would soar to 115. He hurried to the spot where he had hidden his backpack. Just enough time to change and cross the canal bridge into Algodones before it was full light.

Reaching for the backpack under the thick growth of sage and creosote bushes, terror seized him. The backpack was gone, and with it his clothes and the timer! He had the connected the dynamite to the wire but now had no way to detonate it.

Emilio scrambled from bush to bush, hoping he had simply returned to the wrong spot. Nothing! Pure panic set it. His stomach felt like it was trying to escape through his throat. Now, with more light, he could see foot prints leading away from the bushes where he hid the backpack.

He had failed. His heart raced and his mouth was dry. Without the timer, there was no hope in setting off the dynamite. And now, with the sun coming up, he would be easily caught and it wouldn’t take much to link him to the wires leading away from the dynamite.

He did the only thing he could think of – Emilio ran south along the river as fast as he could go.

Two weeks passed but Emilio’s nerves were still on edge. He continued to work on his father’s farm, located almost a hundred miles southeast of the dam, paying close attention to radio and television reports on the dynamite, which was discovered later in the day after Emilio’s escape. Authorities admitted that they had no leads about who might have placed the dynamite on the dam.

The attempted act of terrorism became the prime topic of discussion in the farms and cantinas of Sonora. Most people were angry that the attempt was not successful, knowing that the result would have been more water for them.

Emilio listened to the talk but didn’t join in. Finally his father, noticing his son’s quiet nervousness, brought the subject up one day as they walked to the fields.

What do you think, my son? Who do you think put the dynamite on the dam? Pasqual watched his son’s face redden just a bit as he formed his answer.

Someone who knows the value of the water and someone who believes that we have been betrayed by our own government. Emilio continued walking, not looking at his father.

It was a brave thing to do. Can you think of anyone who may have done it? Pasqual persisted.

I have heard rumors.

Pasqual stopped, putting his hand on Emilio’s shoulder, stopping him and turning him so they were face to face.

Emilio, I said it was a brave thing to do, but it also was foolish. Many lives could have been lost if the water had flooded San Luis. If you know who did it … he paused looking directly into Emilio’s eyes … please tell them to be careful. In the meantime, maybe this is a good time to put pressure on the government to do something.

Emilio nodded, knowing that his father had guessed his involvement.

Chapter 1 September 2001

Armando Reyes Botero’s commitment to the people of Sonora was hard on his mind. It amounted to more than promises he made to the Sonoran farmers. He was determined to end the American dominance over his country and the water in the Colorado will be the first step in reclaiming his country’s pride.

He had made the argument many times with his late wife of more than 40 years. It goes beyond our own farms and cattle, he had told her. "They are stealing our lives from under our noses and then they selectively stop our people at the border when they go seeking work. ‘Send us your maids and your drugs and your whores,’ they seem to say.

"It must stop. Our people are losing their heritage. Our children live in slums and the Americans pay us pennies for sweeping their floors and doing their laundry.

Our own government does little to develop our own resources, our oil and our agriculture. We can be a rich nation, but we shrink in the shadow of the Americans.

His own farms prospered and he paid his workers well. When Botero’s wife died, he dedicated his substantial fortune to making change in the lives of the people. He contributed heavily to the new President of Mexico, believing he would take a stronger position with the Americans. There was progress, but not much.

Going against his oath as a soldier, he also secretly contributed portions of his fortune to the rebels in Chiapas, hoping they would force the federal government to make a more concerted effort to alleviate the poverty of the farmers and peasants in the south. Little changed there, either.

Botero retired to his ranch in Sonora to think and to plan, determined to lift his country economically and in the eyes of the world. He traveled widely, to the U.S., to England and France and back to the United States. His experience in government and in the Mexican Army opened doors for him wherever he went and his command of English enabled him to speak openly with leaders of government and industry, all of whom were more than willing to help a rich Mexican in search of economic guidance.

Botero was in Philadelphia at an economic development conference on September 11, 2001 when America learned one of its greatest lessons of economic and national survival. Everything stopped while the country tried to understand what had happened within its borders.

A cowardly act by Islamic extremists brought the strongest country in the world to its knees, if only momentarily.

The liberal professor speaking to the conference that morning broke the news of the attack to the gathering. His comments shocked many in the room, While we abhor the act of these extremists, who ever they are, one can only wonder at the commitment such people have to their cause.

Armando Reyes Botero spoke first, Professor, surely you do not condone any part of this atrocity?

Certainly not. They are cowards and murders, attacking the innocent without any thought of the consequence of their action except to satisfy a lust for their own cause. There is no justification what so ever. I just wonder what could have caused such a level of dedication to commit such a horrid act.

Botero sat silently as the auditorium erupted. How committed am I to a cause, he thought.

The conference ended prematurely and he returned to his hotel, virtually locked in for a week before air travel returned to some level of normalcy. Like most of the world, he watched the news reports over and over, seeing the towers collapse and he listened to the reports of death and destruction. Just how committed am I, he continued to wonder. What am I willing to do to get the American’s attention? Am I willing to die, like the terrorists of 9/11?

With nothing else to do, Botero called the university and made an appointment to see the liberal professor whose comments about the commitment of the terrorists had shaken him so. The pair met in the park near Independence Hall. The irony of police guards surrounding the hall and the Liberty Bell struck Botero hard. Here, at the seat of American freedom and liberty, armed guards prevented people from touring the very symbols that characterized that freedom, all because of the terrorist attacks.

Thank you for seeing me, Professor. I have been thinking about your comments on the commitment of the men who flew those planes last week.

Why is it strange that men such as these would choose death when they are so committed, questioned Professor Ted Milliken, an economist noted for his ultra-liberal stance on many economic and social issues facing the United States. Men face death every day in such circumstances.

Yes they do. I am a military man and I have seen it. But these men and their country were not attacked. They are not at war with the United States and the United States is not at war with them.

Ah, but you are mistaken. Muslims everywhere believe that the U.S. is out to destroy their religion and their way of life. And, our government will do it too, at least in this country. Our schools discriminate daily against Muslim children wishing to carry out their daily prayers. Muslim women are restricted from wearing traditional dress at work and we require them to have their photographs taken showing their full face for things like drivers’ licenses. And, Muslim men are restricted to one wife in this country."

But these things are done for good reason, Botero protested. "No children are allowed to pray in school anymore in your country, not just Muslim children. And how can you expect an identity card showing a woman whose face is covered to have any usefulness?

"Perhaps you are correct from the American point of view. What about the Muslim point of view? In their world, governments and government laws are secondary to the word of God as interpreted in the Quran. Nothing supersedes the word of God, which Muslim children study in the Quran from the time they are able to read. Many of them can quote whole chapters of the book. Can you find any American children able to do that?

By denying them the basics of their beliefs, we are denying them their religion. That is why so many are so committed and willing to die for a cause. Their religion teaches that they will be rewarded for defending the word of God.

The discussion continued for more than an hour. It was clear to Botero that the Professor did not share many of the ideas of democracy that were celebrated in the park where they sat. But he convinced Botero that commitment is a very strong force; that a man’s actions were the only measure of his belief in a cause. Again he wondered, how committed am I?

A plan was beginning to form in his head, one he believed differentiated him from those who attacked New York and Washington, driven by hate for a way of life. He did not hate America or its way of life. He did not intend to kill for the sake of killing, although he admitted that what he was considering would likely result in the loss of innocent life.

His goal was to force what belonged to his country to be delivered according to the treaty that both nations signed. He wanted the Americans to open the spillways at the dams along the Colorado River so that water that is more suitable flowed into Mexico.

Talking and negotiating had generated nothing but empty promises, so perhaps action will open the spillways.

Chapter 2

Botero waited while the world settled down, asking discrete questions of contacts he had made while in the Army and within the world’s financial community. As a wealthy farmer and rancher and former official of the Mexican government, doors continued to open for him beyond his military contacts.

As he traveled, he realized that his real identity might be a handicap as his plan evolved into real action. One of his contacts, a major in the Spanish Army, directed him to a small shop in Paris where, for a price, alternative identification is available. And the price was steep. For 10,000 Euros he received a Mexican passport in the name of Martin Alvarez of Monterrey, Mexico. The passport included immigration stamps from several European countries and the United States. He could not see the difference between the fake and his own real passport.

Eventually, his contacts lead him to the shadowy areas of finance, where deals are made that are never mentioned on the pages of the Wall Street Journal or The Economist. With his money as his entrée, in 2003 he visited Paris, making contact by phone with François Degas, a French arms dealer with connections throughout the Middle East.

Degas arranged to meet in a little used office in one of the city’s busiest buildings, enabling the pair to meet discreetly without being seen together. Anyone trying to identify Degas’ visitor would have difficulty picking him out of hundreds of businessmen entering and exiting the building.

Speaking in English, Botero introduced himself as Martin Alverez. He told the arms dealer he was seeking a number of weapons for the militants in Chiapas, automatic rifles and ammunition, mostly. Since neither man trusted the other, the negotiations went slowly. Degas knew of the fighting in Chiapas so his suspicions were less than they might have been.

The first consignment was small, rifles, ammunition and a few cases of grenades. Delivery to the southern Mexican state was Botero’s problem, but it he handled it without difficulty. Boxes labeled farm implements were transported to Campeche by ship and then trucked to Chiapas by the rebels.

Botero felt strong guilt supplying arms for use against the Army he had served in for so many years, but knew the arms he purchased would make little difference in the end. The rebels were vastly out numbered and out gunned. He was doing little more than building trust with Degas.

The arms dealer was more than happy to supply the weapons. After several similar shipments of rifles and grenades, Degas suggested heavier weapons might help the rebel cause.

What do you have in mind? questioned Botero in a subsequent meeting in Rome.

I can get RPGs and anti-tank missiles. Rocket propelled grenades and anti-tank missiles began the escalation Botero needed. More weapons were shipped to Mexico.

As months and weeks passed and when it appeared that the rebel cause was all but lost, Botero made a bold request. Meeting face-to-face in a hotel room in Copenhagen, he said, I need something more, something that will tell the world that the rebels mean business.

Degas stared at Botero before answering. You mean a nuke?

Botero nodded.

I can’t help you. You are entering an area where you may not wish to travel. Their meeting ended on that note. Botero returned home to Mexico, discouraged but still determined.

Weeks passed before the French arms dealer called, asking Botero if he was still interested in the properties they discussed on their last meeting and if so to meet him in Paris the first week in March 2004. I can make no promises, but there is someone who you should meet if you are still on the same track as when we last spoke.

I am still of that mind so I will be there.

The meeting took place in a private room in a small restaurant on Isle Saint Louis, a football-shaped island in the middle of the Seine. The island held one of the oldest Paris neighborhoods, with many of the buildings dating to the early 1600s. Art galleries and restaurants made the area popular with tourists and with Parisians.

Degas introduced Martin Alvarez to Omar Al Kabbi, who he described as a man with contacts. Degas left the pair to talk and get acquainted over dinner.

Heavy curtains separated the room from the main part of the restaurant. To ensure privacy, two of Degas’ employees, a man and a woman appearing to be a loving couple, occupied the only table near the private room, making eavesdropping impossible. Unknown to Degas and Al Kabbi, two of Botero’s men also enjoyed dinner in the restaurant, paying close attention to anyone going near the private room.

Each of the four watchers was heavily armed. Any confrontation would result in gunfire and, most likely, bloodshed.

Botero and Al Kabbi spoke in English. The tall, beardless Arab was dressed in a black, expensive western business suit that made him appear very much at home in Paris.

By any standards, Al Kabbi was a handsome man, with short, dark hair and the brown eyes typical of Arab men. Botero, also tall and fit, guessed him to be about 40 years old. The son of a wealthy Kuwaiti prince, Al Kabbi was educated in England and Switzerland and was reputed to have an attraction for European women.

The waiter poured wine for both men, which Al Kabbi accepted despite his Muslim heritage. I enjoy certain of your western traditions, especially French wine. A toast to the future.

He raised his glass to Botero’s and they talked for more than an hour before getting down to business. Al Kabbi’s English was almost perfect and his accent reflected his British education.

When the time came for business, Al Kabbi spoke first. François tells me you are seeking something special. Please tell me more. Surely, there is more to you than a band of nearly defeated rebels in Chiapas? What is your real reason for such a weapon?

Your thinking is correct, Mr. Al Kabbi. My target is not my own government, it is the Americans.

He paused waiting for a response. None came.

Does this surprise you?

Al Kabbi sat staring at Botero for a moment, then rose from the table. Do not play games with me, Mr. Alvarez.

And he was gone.

Botero was surprised at the quick departure. He expected suspicion, maybe even doubt that he could pull off such an attack, but he did not expect the Arab to just walk out.

He waited a few moments contemplating what had just taken place. Finally, draining his wine, he left the restaurant and returned to his hotel walking north off the island then along the bank of the Seine through the cool Paris evening. In 20 minutes, he was back at the hotel.

Botero knew of Al Kabbi’s reputation as a fundraiser and sympathizer of Muslim causes. He suspected the man to be well connected with various terrorist groups, including Al Qaeda. Why would such a man turn down an opportunity to strike at the Americans?

Botero used his cell phone to call Degas but got no answer.

The concierge at the George V was able to change Botero’s flight back to Mexico City to an Air France 747 that departed at noon the next day. More phone calls to Degas went unanswered.

Then his cell phone rang. Speaking in Spanish, he answered. It was Victor Herrera, who, with Carlos Maldonado, travelled almost everywhere with Botero. They were among the observers at the restaurant.

You were followed, said the voice, also in Spanish.

Thinking his room to be bugged, he waited and then responded, again in Spanish. Yes, I thought so. Thank you for that information. Let me speak to my banker and I’ll call you back in a day or so. A diversion in the conversation might fool anyone listening to his side of the phone call.

The Arab’s car was waiting for him to leave the restaurant but a second car was waiting in an alley for you to leave. Walking back to the hotel was a good move. One of the men in the car jumped out as soon as you walked across the bridge.

That’s fine. It sounds like a good investment. Please wait for my call. I leave for home tomorrow at noon on the Air France flight to Mexico City. I’ll call you when I return.

Botero closed his phone. They were testing him!

Chapter 3

The concierge called at 10 to tell Botero that the car was ready to take him to Charles De Gaulle Airport. The bellman came to the room for his bags and escorted him to the Citroen limo. Mid-morning traffic was light. The limo was making excellent time until it turned off on the exit to LeBorget Airport instead of continuing to De Gaulle.

Botero spoke sharply to the driver: I’m going to De Gaulle, not LeBorget. But the driver ignored him. The limo raced along the airport access road going north past the terminal, now used mostly for business jets and general aviation. Botero had visited LeBorget during the Paris Air Show in the past, so he was familiar with the layout.

The driver made a left turn into the parking lot of a private hanger, continuing along the side of the structure. A guard waved the car through a security gate and into the cavernous building. The Citroen stopped at the steps of an older model Boeing 737.

The driver got out and opened the door for Botero. Speaking in heavily accented English he said, Please, sir, step out. Mr. Al Kabbi would like you to join him aboard his plane.

Botero stepped out, receiving a vigorous frisking from the driver, who took his cell phone. This will be returned later.

So this is the way it is going to happen, Botero thought. A bearded man had approached Botero from an office in the hanger carrying an automatic weapon of some sort. One of the men took Botero’s luggage from the limo and placed it in the cabin of the sleek jet.

Botero climbed the steps and into the aircraft, surprised to see it configured as a plush business aircraft. Al Kabbi sat in one of the lounge chairs, again dressed in a western business suit, a glass of wine on the table in front of him. Please, have a seat Mr. Alvarez, we have much to discuss.

Where are we going?

Somewhere we can speak with great confidence that we will not be overheard or interrupted.

Botero sat facing Al Kabbi just as the cabin door closed and the engines began to spool up. The limo pulled away and the man with the gun retreated a few steps, but remained alert to any activity aboard the jet.

An attractive young woman well dressed in a skirt and blouse, who Al Kabbi addressed as Sofia, brought him a glass of wine and then disappeared into the rear of the aircraft. Botero could see that the rear of the plane was equipped with a bed and no doubt a shower and galley further back. He was betting that Sofia also was a trained bodyguard, among other things, if Al Kabbi’s reputation was accurate.

The jet taxied to the end of the runway and was soon airborne banking south over Paris.

Botero was now alone, with no support from his two assistants who were no doubt now scrambling to get a copy of the jet’s flight plan. Even if the French provided it, which Botero doubted would happen, the flight plan was almost certainly for a destination somewhere other than where they were actually going. He was nervous to be without support, but was not afraid that the Arab would harm him. Unless Al Kabbi didn’t like the story he would be hearing.

They rode in silence for almost 30 minutes as the French countryside passed silently below. They were still heading south. Sofia appeared with a plate of humus, dates, sliced fruit and flat bread.

Please enjoy some of our hospitality before we talk further.

Both men ate and drank another glass of wine. Finally, as Botero saw the blue waters of the Mediterranean approach, Al Kabbi began.

Why do you want to attack the Americans and what makes you believe you can get such a weapon across the border?

Botero told his story with intensity and passion.

"Mexico is potentially a very rich nation, Mr. Al Kabbi. Our politicians, many of whom are corrupt, have ignored the plight of the peasants and have allowed the Americans to dictate everything from water rights to how much oil we can drill.

"I am a wealthy man by my country’s standards. I own many thousands of acres of farmland and I served honorably in the Army and in the government, but there is little I can do to help the people in my region escape the poverty they face. I pay them well for working on my farms, but without the water from the rivers that come down from north of the border, soon there will be little work for them and their own farms will be worthless, too.

"Many of our people cross the border everyday to find work on the big American farms in Arizona and California. They work until the Border Patrol catches them. Then they come home and wait for another chance to go north.

"Now the Americans are going to build fences along the border and will post their National Guard to keep our people from crossing and doing the work that their own people refuse to do.

"They demean us, making us sweep their floors and pull the weeds in their gardens. They turn our women into prostitutes and turn our men into drug runners, all the while threatening us with their laws and guns.

We can take care of ourselves if we can get the water that the treaties say is ours, but we get nothing but promises from the Americans and our own leaders do nothing.

Botero continued for many more minutes describing the conditions in his homeland. "We also have oil, not as much as in your country, but a significant amount in the ground. We are slow to develop our oil fields because our government spends most of the oil revenue for everything except exploration, taking care of our refineries and for drilling equipment. We end up sending much of our oil to the U.S. for refining and then we buy it back for our use.

"I want to teach the Americans a lesson and force them to release the water