by Tim Maleeny
“I think you are feeling better, my inquisitive friend.”
“You’re saying there’s money in carbon credits?”
“Say you have a factory in Germany.”
“OK.” Cape injected more Coke into his system before reaching for his shot glass. “What kind of factory?”
“It doesn’t matter. It could be a chemical factory, an automotive plant. Let us say you own a manufacturing facility for a toy company that makes wind-up animals—little plastic flying pigs.”
“I understand they’re very popular in Mexico.”
“You have already installed the latest filters, the newest technology. All the anti-pollution equipment available. But you can’t lower your greenhouse emissions any further without closing the factory, which of course is not an option. What do you do?”
“Buy a carbon credit from somebody else?”
“Exactamente. Perhaps you buy them from a pig farm in Mexico which is reducing emissions by turning methane into carbon dioxide. As the farm reduces greenhouse gases, it earns carbon credits.”
“So the Mexicans earn credits which they sell to the Germans.”
“Sí, on the open market.”
“For how much?”
“Carbon trading has reached over thirty billion dollars on the European market alone. That is U.S. dollars.”
“Billion, with a b?”
Garcia nodded. “There have been many articles in the global financial press. The Financial Times. Forbes. El Financiero. Serious money is crossing borders.”
“But it’s all regulated, right?” Cape watched Garcia carefully.
“I wish that were the case.” Garcia placed both hands around his shot glass and rolled it between them. “Verdad, I really do. And I think it could work one day.”
“But?”
“One cannot expect U.N. inspectors to tour every pig farm in Mexico, India, or Mongolia—their oil for food program was un desastre, and that was only one country. These exchanges take place between developed and undeveloped countries, farms and factories all over the world.”
“So how does it work?” Cape sipped some more tequila.
“Many factories and farms exaggerate their claims, driving up the number of credits they earn. We estimate that twenty percent of credits earned in Mexico are inflated.”
Cape almost spit. “That’s almost six billion dollars.”
“Globally, yes.” Garcia held his glass close to his nose and inhaled. “Right now carbon credits are a cross between the free market and the honor system.”
“And you think Cordon’s operation might not be all that honorable?”
The right side of Garcia’s mouth turned up but stopped short of a smile. “All Cordon would have to do is exaggerate the production of methane by a few percentage points to earn more credits, then he could sell them as pure profit on the European market. It is like printing your own shares in a publicly traded company.”
“Tempting even if you’re not a criminal.”
“Indeed.” Garcia drained his glass. “Now do you understand why someone might want to kill your Senator?”
“As if hundreds of millions of dollars weren’t reason enough—”
“Compared to billions…most men would stop at nothing.”
Cape shot the rest of his tequila. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was hoping you would go home and forget about Mexico.”
“Was that what you meant about not being good at taking advice?”
Garcia made no comment. He reached out and tilted the bottle. It was half empty.
“I should have listened to you,” said Cape. “I’ve been a pawn in somebody else’s game the entire time.”
“And now you know what the game is.”
“But the stakes have changed, Oscar. I’ve lost my client.”
“This reminds me of the conversation we had when we first met.”
“I’m not being coy this time.”
“I know.” Garcia exhaled loudly, blowing out his cheeks. “I know about the Senator’s daughter.”
“So does everybody else. It was in the papers, remember?”
“I am deeply sorry.”
“You were just doing your job.”
“Perhaps.” Garcia rapped his fingers on the bar again. He seemed to be making some sort of decision. “But what is your job?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a client, but who have you been working for?”
Cape started to reply but caught himself. “You mean Salinas—I’ve been working for Salinas this whole time when I thought I was just taking his money.”
“That certainly seems to be the case…” Garcia sounded like he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. He looked at Cape to make sure he noticed.
“But tonight he tried to kill me.” Cape stared at his empty shot glass.
“Why?”
Cape shrugged. “Tie up loose ends.”
Garcia plucked at his sleeve. “He could have killed you when you were in his office. Why now?”
“Why now?” Cape repeated the question, then said it to himself again.
Why now.
Something had been gnawing at the back of his brain since he met Rebecca at the restaurant. A stray thought that got knocked down when his car drove off a pier. A feeling in his gut that got a little heavier after Linda explained Cordon’s operation. Something that didn’t fit with the facts. Something that broke the pattern if you looked at things from a different angle, turned the whole thing upside down.
Why now.
“Salinas could have killed the Senator nine months ago. He could have killed me last week.”
“Now you know what has been troubling me.”
“But why, Oscar? Why now?”
Garcia shook his head. “Only one man can answer that question, and it is not Antonio Salinas. Because if you ask him and are wrong, there is very little chance you will live to see the morning.”
“If you’re suggesting what I think you are, my odds aren’t going to be much better.”
“They say you haven’t really seen Mexico until you visit both of our drug lords.”
“Who says that?”
“I just did.”
Cape stood and braced himself against the bar. “I need to go see Luis Cordon.”
“So it would seem.”
“Can you help me?”
“Why not?” Garcia stood and pulled a stray thread off his jacket. “I know where he lives.”
Chapter Seventy
“Do you want me to kill you now?”
Sally sat cross-legged on the bed wearing what looked like loose black pajamas, though they might have been her regular clothes. Cape could never tell.
“Was that a rhetorical question?”
“You seem intent on killing yourself.” Sally spoke calmly but her eyes were unyielding. “Thought I might save you some time.”
“I’ve lost my client.”
“She was taken—there’s a difference.”
“I have to get her back.”
Sally muttered something in Cantonese.
“You don’t have to come.”
“I know.” Sally stood and stepped over to the other bed, where she had arranged her weapons. She began sorting them into various piles.
“I don’t see any other way.”
“Neither do I.” Sally turned to face him. “A lack of options is the quickest path to defeat.”
“Art Of War?”
“Common sense.” Sally sighed. “You said Cordon lives in a castle?”
“That’s what Oscar called it.”
“He’s coming with us?”
“He’ll meet us there. He needs to call some people, make arrangements.”
“So we go in alone, just you and me.”
“Drug lords don’t come to the door when police are ringing the bell.”
“Any idea how many men will be inside?”
Cape almost smile
d. “Of course not.”
“Floor plans?”
“Nope.”
“No time to get them, either, I suppose.”
Cape shook his head. “Time is not our friend.”
Sally raised her eyebrows. “Confucius?”
“The sad truth.”
Sally smiled despite herself. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as I make a phone call.”
Chapter Seventy-one
Antonio Salinas put down the phone and smiled.
“Who was that?” Priest sat in the shadows on the far side of the room. The blinds were drawn and the only lamp was next to Salinas on the desk.
“Someone I never expected to hear from again.”
“The news we’ve been expecting?”
“No.” Salinas shook his head in wonder. “I never expected this.”
“I told you to have a little faith.” Priest stretched like a cat. “Good news?”
Salinas pressed his fingers together in a mock prayer and brought them to his lips.
“Miraculous.”
Chapter Seventy-two
They took turns driving.
Sally slept for the first few hours, curled up in the back seat. When it was his turn, Cape tried to rest but couldn’t—his mind was racing, in part because of Sally’s driving. He had forgotten she didn’t have a license.
“I never needed one. You don’t need a car in Hong Kong, and in San Francisco I tend to stay near Chinatown.”
Cape nodded. Even compact cars couldn’t travel across rooftops and through windows. He took the wheel.
They drove in silence until Matamoros started appearing on the signs. Sally counted off the distance whenever they passed a new one, in case Cape had fallen asleep at the wheel. They were still more than an hour from the city when he told her his plan.
Sally didn’t say anything for a long time.
“It’s hard to believe it could work.”
“The only angle I could think of—it’s worth a try.”
“You’re going to blow this whole thing up.”
“They tried to do the same to us.”
“I’m not saying I don’t like the plan.” Sally turned in her seat. “But blowing things up can get—”
“—messy?”
Sally nodded. “We won’t really know until we get there. You could be wrong.”
“So we stick to the plan.”
“Planning only leads to failure. A successful warrior relies on preparation, not planning.”
“So we stick to the preparation?”
“Just stop.”
“Trying to let off some steam. To mentally prepare.”
Sally scowled. “The ability to gain victory by changing and adapting is called genius.”
“Art of War?”
“Very good—extra credit for the Occidental kid in the front seat.”
“I’m not as uncultured as you might think—for a gwai-loh. Ask me another.”
“Just drive.”
Chapter Seventy-three
The private jet landed on the small airstrip north of the city and taxied to a stop near the terminal.
“You are staying behind?” Salinas turned to his companion.
Priest shook his head. “I’m going to wait until dark—I think you should, as well.”
“You are too superstitious.”
Priest tugged at his collar. “Perhaps.”
Salinas gestured to the six men standing near the door of the cabin. “Vamanos.”
One of the men stood apart from the rest of the group. He had a bulbous nose and a nasally whine to his voice. His name was André but not everyone called him by his real name. He jutted his chin at Priest. “Want me to stay with you?”
“No, thank you.” Priest gestured toward Salinas. “Go keep our host company.”
A black Escalade was waiting for them. Salinas sat in front next to the driver.
As the men took their seats they each grabbed a suitcase from the floor in front of them. Hard-sided Pelican cases filled with custom padded foam. They set the cases on their laps and opened them to find a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with a folding stock capable of firing in burst mode—three bullets at a time—or fully automatic at over 600 rounds per minute. Next to the gun were two 50-round clips and a single hand grenade.
“Holy shit,” said André. “You don’t mess around.”
Salinas turned in his seat to smile at his American guest. “I prefer the direct approach.”
As they pulled onto the city streets the driver looked over at Salinas.
“Playa del Bagdad?”
Salinas nodded. “Castillo Cordon.”
Chapter Seventy-four
Cape drove around until they found an American hotel. They didn’t have much time and wanted tourist-friendly directions and maps in English. They pulled into the Best Western Plaza Hotel on the corner of 9th and Bravo and checked into a single room, double occupancy. They didn’t plan on spending the night.
They hit the gift shop before going to their room, grabbing hats, shorts, shirts and sunglasses. When they returned to the lobby they looked completely different.
Sally was wearing a loose cotton blouse over black pants that flared at the ankles. Her face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat tied around her chin. With her darker skin, light freckles, and almond-shaped eyes, she could almost pass for a local.
Cape had gone for an equally innocuous look, a long t-shirt hanging over baggy shorts, Teva sandals. Around his neck were a camera and a pair of sunglasses. He smiled as they passed a full-length mirror next to the elevators.
“You look like a native.”
“You look like a tourist.”
“Wait a sec.” Cape rummaged in his cargo shorts. He sorted through the photos he had taken from Rebecca’s collection and handed two to Sally. “You take these, I’ll keep the rest.”
“You sure this will work? You said Cordon lives on the beach.”
“Bagdad Beach, about twenty kilometers east of here.” Cape spread his hands. “There’s apparently nothing out there, just this monstrous house that Cordon built right on the ocean.”
“So if anyone came into town—”
“They’d come here.” Cape put his photos back in his pocket. “And I don’t want to go the castle until it’s dark.”
“OK, let’s go for a walk.”
“You take north and east, I’ll go south and west. Meet here in two hours.”
Sally tipped her hat. “Adios.”
“Hasta luego.”
Cape checked the street signs against the map whenever he reached a neighborhood that looked a little different from the one before. He was trying to see the city through someone else’s eyes. The ground was relatively flat, the architecture mostly colonial. The streets busy but not terribly crowded. Cape glanced at the tour book as he walked.
Matamoros is located directly across the Rio Grande from Brownsville, Texas, its sister city on the other side of the border. Because of its proximity to the United States it is known as La Gran Puerta de Mexico—the Great Door To Mexico—a distinction celebrated by a massive red sculpture, a post-modern arch welcoming visitors from both countries.
In 1826 the city got its name Villa de Matamoros in honor of the independence hero Don Mariano Matamoros, but prior to that the town had been called many things. When Capitan Juan José de Hinojosa explored the region in 1706 he was struck by the natural beauty of the wetlands surrounding the area, so he called it Paraje de los Esteros Hermosos—Place of the Beautiful Marshes. Almost a hundred years later Franciscan monks came, and while they were also impressed by Mother Nature, it was their job to claim territory in the name of Mother Mary, so they renamed it Nuestra Señora del Refugio de los Esteros—Our Lady of the Refuge of the Beautiful Marshes, a compromise worthy of their order.
The locals simply called their city The Refuge—El Refugio—or town of refuge, a name that seemed to suit it best. Because of its location near the ocean an
d directly across the river from the States, it was the perfect border town. A hub for smuggling everything from drugs to guns to human beings. A place to pass through on your way to a better life. Sometimes a place to hide. A gateway to freedom for many, the city of refuge was also an open door for men like Luis Cordon.
There are almost half a million people in Matamoros, and Cape knew the odds against finding one person in a city that size. But he knew something about the person he was looking for, and Cape had a hunch about the type of places to visit.
He had two hours to see if he was right.
Chapter Seventy-five
The house looked like a castle.
It overlooked Bagdad Beach on what until recently had been public property. Following his deal with the Mexican government for building refineries that turned methane into electricity, Luis Cordon found allies on the zoning commission. They discovered a portion of beachfront property unsuitable for public bathing because the soil had been contaminated with hazardous waste. The government could not afford to clean it up, so that section of the beach had to be closed. Cordon graciously agreed to buy the land from the state and clean up the spill. No one ever determined how the ground was contaminated in the first place.
But the castle also looked like a house. It had huge picture windows in the front, welcoming until you noticed the heavy leaded glass, which a security expert would tell you was bulletproof. The walls were rust-colored stone, the color of an adobe house but the shape of a medieval fortress.
The front was only one story high, but the ground sloped sharply beneath the house, the back facing the ocean. It was deceptive rolling up to the driveway, but on foot from the beach side it was clear that the house was huge. The top floor stretched four stories above the churning waves and rocks below.
Salinas had the SUV stop directly in front of the house. This was no time to be subtle. Luis wouldn’t be expecting him, not at his home. Never in person.
Luis wouldn’t do anything stupid until he knew why his old boss had come to visit. He would expect a conversation, a little respect. Maybe a business proposition.
Salinas would give him none of those things. He had something Luis never expected him to have: inside information. Luis might threaten him physically, but Salinas could threaten him with publicity. He had already made all the necessary arrangements.
