by Mike Maden
Strasburg continued. “The American people are tired of the battlefield deaths and casualties of our troops in the far-flung corners of the Middle East. The majority of Americans want an end to those wars and want our troops to come home and this is one of the reasons why you were elected. We’ve expended a great deal of blood and treasure on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and with what result? As likely as not, people who don’t like us will return to power—maybe under a different name or party or platform—and we’re already seeing a return to the car bombings and suicide attacks of the previous years. And without putting too fine a point on it, the truth of the matter is, the vast majority of Americans paid far more attention to the box scores in the sports pages than they ever did to the war. Most American families didn’t send soldiers to war. The war had very little practical or immediate effect on most people. And yet, as a nation, we became tired of the struggle.”
Dr. Strasburg folded his hands on the table in front of him. “But consider the Mexican situation. At our urging, the Calderón administration went to war with the drug lords, and they fought courageously. But whereas we lost just over six thousand soldiers in our eleven-year War on Terror, the Mexican people have lost over fifty thousand people in about half that time. The number of Mexican dead is about equal to the number of soldiers we lost in combat in Vietnam.
“The only difference is, those Mexican casualties were mostly civilian casualties, and they all occurred in the hometowns and the city streets of Mexico itself, not off in some distant foreign land. If we are tired of our conflict, can you imagine how much more exhausted the Mexican people are? Of the stacks of human heads, the burned corpses in the streets, the bodies hanging from bridges?”
“I’m afraid Dr. Strasburg has a point,” Donovan said. “I’ve spoken to my counterparts off the record, and there is a great deal of fatigue setting in among the men and women who are actually fighting the drug war down there.”
“For all we know, there might be as many honest Mexican cops in witness protection with us here in the United States as there are in all of Mexico today,” Lancet added. “There have been chiefs of police who have fled into our consulates with their families with nothing but the clothes on their backs, scared to death of being assassinated. About thirty mayors have been assassinated since 2008; even more journalists. It’s a Wild West Show down there.”
“Though in the last few months, the violence has calmed down a little bit now that Barraza has backed off,” Molina said.
Madrigal raised a finger. “Violence is only part of the issue at stake. The Mexicans run annual trade deficits of around eight billion dollars a year, but we’re exporting between twenty and sixty billion dollars of drug money a year down there.”
“That’s a big spread in the numbers,” Myers said.
“The drug numbers are all over the place. It’s not as if you can audit anybody’s books. The best guess is that the drug trade accounts for three percent of their GDP. I’ve read one estimate that claims the cartels make three times as much profit as Mexico’s five hundred biggest corporations combined and employ half a million people.”
“What’s your point?” Myers said.
“I’m merely suggesting that there are some Mexicans not connected to the drug trade who are conflicted over the issue.”
“Sounds like you’re picking a fight you can’t win, Margaret,” Greyhill said. “I’d let this one go if I were you.” What he meant was if I were president.
“Sounds to me like you’re throwing in the towel, Robert.”
Greyhill’s eyes narrowed at the thinly veiled reference to his concession speech to Myers at the convention last year.
Myers turned to the others. “And you all are giving up, too. Is that what I’m hearing?”
Strasburg shook his heavy head. “Not at all, Madame President. We understand your desire for justice and, in fact, share it. But consider Barraza’s situation. Imagine if he had a son who was killed by an Iraqi terrorist and he asked you to reinvade Iraq in order to get justice for his murdered son. How willing would we be to open that wound all over again? It’s a horribly unfair and hyperbolic comparison, I know, but my ridiculous question points to the anxiety the Barraza administration has regarding the cartels.”
“I agree with you, Dr. Strasburg. It is a ridiculous comparison. I’m not asking Barraza to start a war. I’m asking him to make an inquiry.”
“But to Castillo, that will seem like a declaration of war,” Madrigal said.
Myers stiffened. “All I know right now is that the Castillo boys are the prime suspects—the only suspects—in a heinous crime committed on American soil. I would think the Mexican government would be interested in solving such a crime, that is, if the Mexican government is still committed to the rule of law. I’m not looking for scapegoats or a vendetta. I’m looking for a little cooperation and I mean to have it. Am I clear on this?”
The room sat in chastised silence until Jeffers finally spoke up. “Yes. Perfectly clear.”
“Then call Eddleston and get him over here ASAP, and let’s get Ambassador Romero on the line. I want this handled with kid gloves—but I want it handled now. And I don’t want the press involved. No point in putting more pressure on Barraza. I want to give him every possible leeway to pursue the matter in a way that makes sense for him. But we’re going to get to the bottom of this Castillo thing, one way or another.”
Myers stood up. So did everyone else.
The meeting was over. Everybody filed out except Jeffers. When the room was clear, Jeffers asked, “Greyhill’s going to be a problem, isn’t he?”
“The vice president has decades of experience in foreign affairs, which I value greatly. I think a goodwill tour of our G-8 allies by the vice president would be greatly beneficial to the nation, don’t you?” Myers said.
“The G-20 might be more . . . timely,” Jeffers offered, smiling. “You might want to toss in a few base closings and a couple of funerals while you’re at it.”
“Agreed. Please make the necessary arrangements. I’ll call Robert tonight with the good news. He always wanted to be somebody important.”
11
Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.
In his offices in Los Pinos, the Mexican White House, President Antonio Guillermo Barraza sat on one of the couches in an elegantly tailored suit. Tall and athletic, the president of Mexico had been a leading man in a number of Spanish-language films before turning to a career in politics. With strong endorsements from the business establishment and several state governors, the gifted speaker with an affable smile was quickly dubbed the “Ronald Reagan of Mexico” when he first announced his candidacy.
Sitting on the same couch was his brother, Hernán. Though five years younger than his movie-star sibling, Hernán appeared to be a decade older. Short, pudgy, and scarred with acne, the younger Barraza lacked all of the outward physical gifts the gods had bestowed upon his brother, but he possessed a brilliant mind hidden beneath his pathetic comb-over, far eclipsing the president’s limited intellect. While his older brother virtually fell into fame and fortune, Hernán battled his way through law school to become first in his class, then clawed his way to the top of his law firm, earning a well-deserved reputation as a ruthless and fearsome corporate litigator. This laid the groundwork for his ultimate ambition, politics, and over the last two decades Hernán had become Mexico’s most accomplished political operative. It was only in the last few years that the two brothers’ career paths came together.
On the couch opposite both of them sat the American ambassador to Mexico, Frank Romero. Ambassador Romero was a former pro golfer and heir to one of the largest private vineyards in Napa Valley. Romero had been the youngest lieutenant governor in California history and was a rising star in the Democratic party until he bucked his governor and endorsed Margaret Myers’s candidacy for president. But the gamble had paid off in spades, and R
omero won the coveted ambassadorship to Mexico, a country he and his family knew intimately.
All three men held snifters of Casa Dragones, a premium sipping tequila, clear as the cut-crystal decanter it came in. Hernán sat motionless, studying the glass in his hands through the thick lenses of his Clark Kent glasses, as the other two men talked.
“A ‘discreet inquiry’? Is such a thing even possible anymore?” President Barraza joked.
“You can well imagine President Myers’s desire to bring this issue to a swift conclusion. If the Castillos are innocent, an inquiry shouldn’t be a problem,” Romero said.
“It seems to me, Frank, that the case you’ve presented is unpersuasive. My attorney general has gone over everything you sent. She agrees with me that there is no conclusive evidence linking the Castillos to the massacre.” President Barraza’s English was flawless, but he added in Spanish, “Donde no hay humo, no hay lumbre.” Where there is no smoke, there is no fire.
“Of course, Mr. President. We’re not accusing anybody of anything. But it’s precisely because we’re in the dark that we’re searching for any kind of lead we can find. All we’d like to do is to speak to Mr. Castillo and his two sons. Where’s the harm in that?” Romero took another sip of tequila.
“César Castillo is a law-abiding citizen of Mexico. He also happens to be the CEO of Mexico’s largest agricultural combine—our number one supplier of fruits and vegetables to the American market. As a vertically integrated concern, his company also manufactures fertilizers and pesticides for their thousands of acres of productive land, but he exports those chemical products around the world as well. Insulting Mr. Castillo is like insulting Mexico itself, and he’s a very proud man. More important, he is a very private man. Personally, I’ve never met him. I don’t think he’s even appeared in public in over five years.”
“Forgive me, Mr. President, but it almost sounds like he’s in hiding. How is a legitimate businessman able to do business like that?”
President Barraza laughed. “The same way the American billionaire recluse Howard Hughes built his aviation empire, I suppose.”
“But if the man and his sons aren’t hiding anything, why not answer a few simple questions?” Romero asked.
“Because the very question itself is a veiled accusation and an implication of wrongdoing that is all the more damaging for the truly innocent. Right now, you say that you don’t know who the real killers are. So tell me, Frank, in the interest of resolving the issue, should I instruct our attorney general to question President Myers as to her whereabouts on the night of the killings? And what would she say about us if we did make the inquiry?”
“She would be angry and insulted, certainly. But that would be a ridiculous request. There’s no reason to suspect—”
President Barraza held up his hand. “No need to explain, Frank. I agree. But you get my point, don’t you? Rightly or wrongly, César Castillo would feel as justified in his resentment as President Myers would in hers.”
The president rose and crossed over to the credenza, making a beeline for the bottle of Casa Dragones.
“I hope President Myers understands how completely sympathetic I am to her situation, both in regard to the death of her son, as well as the political difficulties she now faces. I hope that she can appreciate my difficulties as well.” Barraza flashed his million-watt smile.
“Unfortunately, Mr. President, there are members of our Congress who are very capable of stirring up trouble for both of our countries. The amnesty bill, the guest-worker program, the NAFTA renegotiation—all of these things that both of our governments want will be difficult if not impossible to achieve if your government is seen as the least bit hesitant to bring this case to a just and equitable conclusion.”
President Barraza hovered over Romero and refilled his glass.
“This really is a marvelous tequila. Sweet pear and citrus notes with a pepper finish. I’m going to have to buy a case,” Romero said.
“No need. I’ll have one sent over this afternoon.” The president crossed over to his brother and refilled his glass, then set the bottle down on the coffee table between them. He took his seat.
Hernán Barraza rolled the snifter between his stubby fingers, never lifting his eyes from it as he finally spoke. “My associates in the distillery business pray for the day you Americans make liquor illegal again—it would quadruple their profits.” He swirled the liquor in the glass and sniffed the aroma. “Cartels make drugs, but it’s your politicians who make the laws that make the cartels rich. The drug problem, as we all know, is a demand problem, not a supply problem. If you Americans had an insatiable lust for tomatoes, we wouldn’t be having this conversation today, and maybe we would have been spilling tomatillo sauce instead of blood all these years.”
Hernán finally looked up from his glass. He smiled at Romero with his sad eyes and a mouth full of small, crooked teeth. “I only see one flaw in your request, Frank. What happens if we do make a ‘discreet inquiry’ and Mr. Castillo and his sons insist they had nothing to do with the El Paso event? Will President Myers be satisfied with that answer?”
Romero set his empty glass down on the table. He cleared his throat.
“Frankly, no.”
Hernán took another thoughtful sip. “Thank you for your candor. Of course she wouldn’t be satisfied. Neither would I, were I in her shoes. Officially, César Castillo is an upstanding Mexican businessman who donates millions to charitable work. His two sons earned their bachelor’s degrees in business administration at the University of Texas at Austin, and MBAs at the IE Business School in Madrid. They, too, are legitimate businessmen working within their father’s privately held corporation. Neither Mr. Castillo nor his sons have ever been convicted of a crime.”
Hernán swirled the tequila again in his snifter. “And yet, ‘Hijos de maguey, mecates.’”
Romero nodded. “The sons of a hemp plant are going to become ropes.” It was a clever variation on an old Mexican proverb.
Hernán leaned forward, his eyes locked with Romero’s.
“Unofficially? I think we can all agree that César Castillo is the boss of the most powerful crime syndicate in Mexico, if not all of Latin America, which makes him a very dangerous man. He will not view a ‘discreet inquiry’ as anything less than a personal assault on his honor and his position, and he will likely retaliate. But a ‘discreet inquiry’ won’t accomplish anything at all, as you yourself have just admitted.”
Hernán leaned back in the couch, his head against the rear cushion. He was so short that the top of his head didn’t reach to the top of the couch. “America is our strategic partner and our best trading customer. We share a common border and a common history and, increasingly, a common people, which means we share a common destiny. We want an end to the violence and destruction even more than you do.”
Hernán turned toward his brother, his head still resting against the couch.
“What I recommend, Mr. President, is that we bring the two Castillo boys in for questioning, by force if necessary. If we suffer the consequences for this, so be it. It’s the least we can do for our friends in the north, don’t you agree?”
President Barraza frowned with confusion. That was the last thing in the world he expected his nationalistic brother to say. An oily smile greased Hernán’s pockmarked face. What was Hernán’s game? No matter. He would follow his brother’s lead. The president smiled, too, and turned toward Romero.
“Yes, of course. We will do whatever it takes to get to the truth behind this terrible tragedy. You have my word on that, Frank.”
Romero beamed. “Thank you, Mr. President. I will convey your heartfelt message to President Myers, and I can assure you she will be eternally grateful for your assistance in this matter.”
—
Romero departed for his embassy, eager to convey the good news to Secretary of State
Eddleston on a secure line. Antonio Barraza shut the door behind the American, then stormed over to his brother, who had retaken his seat on the couch.
“Are you fucking crazy? We can’t arrest Castillo’s kids. Next thing we know, he’ll be stacking cops’ heads in the Zócalo. Maybe ours, too.”
Hernán leaned back on the couch, propped his stumpy legs on the hand-carved coffee table, and folded his hands on the curve of his round belly. He closed his eyes. “This Myers woman. She’s not stupid. If she could handle this problem herself, she would. But she can’t. So she needs us to do it. Or at least try to do it.” His voice was calm, even soothing.
Antonio’s curiosity was piqued. He sat down next to his brother and listened in rapt attention.
“We must make a good show of it. We’ll have live video feed, both here and in Washington. The Americans must see our heroic men risking their lives in order to try and carry out justice for the grieving American president.”
“I know just the man. Sanchez. He’s with the Federal Police.” Antonio was getting excited. He liked to think he was able to keep up with Hernán’s scheming.
Hernán kept his eyes shut. “No. Not him. We need our best man, the head of our best unit. Incorruptible. Undefeated.” Hernán searched his photographic memory. “Cruzalta. Colonel Israel Cruzalta.”
