“Aww,” she said. “Have a good day, baby.”
“And you have a perfect day in Paris, chérie amour.”
Bree laughed. “You never fail to surprise me.”
“And I hope I never will,” I said. I hung up with a big smile that stayed plastered on my face long after we’d ended the call and I’d forced myself to get ready for the day.
Later that morning, John Sampson and I took the stairs down to Metro’s forensics lab in department headquarters in downtown Washington, DC.
“We were supposed to be on a plane to Kalispell, Montana, right now,” Sampson moaned. “We’re supposed to be just hours away from the Bob Marshall Wilderness.”
“No use fighting with reality, my friend,” I said. “We’ll get to Montana when we’re supposed to get to Montana.”
“Uh-huh,” Sampson said. “You know it snows out there. A lot. We have only a few weeks before access shuts down for trips like ours. Last trip in is late August.”
“I know and I appreciate your frustration,” I said. “You need this trip.”
“I do. Nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s just not going to be today,” I said. I opened the door to the lab.
We went to the front counter and told the tech there that we were looking for Margaret Forester, the forensic documents specialist. The tech directed us to the right and down two doors.
We found Forester in a small room, sitting on a high stool at a tilted drafting table. A stout woman in her fifties with a shock of short ginger hair, the specialist wore a lab coat, safety goggles, a hairnet, and latex gloves, all designed to prevent contamination of the documents. She was peering through a large mounted magnifier at a single sheet of paper.
“That our confession, Margaret?” Sampson asked when she looked over at us after we shut the door.
“It’s a doozy. FBI should be made aware of the contents ASAP.”
“Can we read it?” I asked.
“Put on the gear on the hooks behind you first.”
A few moments later we were clad similarly to Forester and standing on either side of her.
John asked, “Written under duress?”
She smiled at him. “You see the shaky handwriting.”
I said, “We’re sure she wrote it?”
The documents specialist said, “We got a sample of her handwriting from the CIA. Matches.”
I began to study the confession in earnest.
My name is Catherine Hingham. I am an undercover field officer for the Central Intelligence Agency. For the past six years I have been part of an interdepartmental group working to disrupt the Alejandro drug cartel in Mexico and Latin America. I was part of a team that put Marco Alejandro behind bars two years ago. I was also corrupted by Alejandro and other members of the cartel.
To be specific, through intermediaries, cryptocurrencies, and offshore bank accounts to be identified later in my testimony, I received more than $1.75 million in bribes from the Alejandro cartel. In return, I provided the cartel with information about the multiagency investigation into their activities.
Even though Marco Alejandro is in prison for life, I broke the law and betrayed my country and my sworn oath. I take responsibility for my actions even though they were done for the sake of my daughter, Emily, who has severe cerebral palsy. The rising cost of Emily’s ongoing care drove our family to the brink of bankruptcy and put my daughter’s life in jeopardy. Everything I did, I did for her. I say this not as an excuse but as a fact.
I also state as fact that the Alejandro cartel was making similar payments to two members of the U.S. House Judiciary subcommittee on drug trafficking: Arturo San Miguel of New Mexico and Barbara Hayes of California. I helped facilitate the payments to them and will list their accounts.
I know that my role in this corruption and betrayal of my country has cost lives and for that I will be forever ashamed and dishonored. Accounts with all pertinent passwords are listed on the back of this page along with the names of others in intelligence and law enforcement who I believe have betrayed the public trust at the behest of the Alejandro cartel.
The document was signed simply Catherine Hingham.
On the back of the confession, the CIA field operative named agents of the U.S. Customs Service, the U.S. Border Patrol, the FBI, the DEA, the Treasury Department, and the Mexican national police who had succumbed to money or pressure or both. Catherine Hingham’s confession was beyond explosive and seemed to suggest an elaborate effort by the Alejandro cartel to neutralize anyone who stood in its way, despite its kingpin’s incarceration.