Queen of the South

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  He leaned back in his chair again. Dura lex, sed lex. “I don’t like that language,” he told me.

  I’m beginning not to like this whole interview, I thought. This holier-than-thou bullshit.

  “Translate it as you see fit, then.”

  “He decided to collaborate with Justice. It was that simple.”

  “In exchange for . . . ?”

  “In exchange for nothing.”

  I could only stare. Yeah, right. I believe that. Teo Aljarafe putting his neck in the noose for nothing. Yeah, right.

  “And how did Teresa Mendoza react when she learned that her financial wizard was working for the enemy?”

  “You know that as well as I do.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. I know what everybody else knows, anyway. And also that she used him as a decoy in the Russian hashish operation. . . . But I wasn’t referring to that.”

  My comment about the Russian hashish operation made things worse. Don’t get smart with me, son, his expression said.

  “Then,” he suggested, “ask her, if you can.”

  “Maybe I can.”

  “I doubt that Teresa Mendoza gives interviews. Much less in her current situation.”

  I decided to make one last try.

  “How do you see that situation?”

  “I’m out of it,” he replied, poker-faced. “I neither see nor don’t see. Teresa Mendoza is no longer my concern.”

  Then he fell silent, distractedly leafing through some documents on his desk, and I thought that he’d ended our conversation. I know better ways to waste my time, I decided. I was getting to my feet, irritated, ready to take my leave of the judge. But not even a disciplined officer of the state like Judge Martínez Pardo could avoid the sting of certain wounds. Or avoid justifying himself. He remained seated, not raising his eyes from the documents. And then, suddenly, he repaid my time.

  “It stopped being my concern after the visit of that American,” he added bitterly. “The one from the DEA.”

  Dr. Ramos, who had a peculiar sense of humor, had given the operation to move twenty tons of hashish through the Mediterranean to the Black Sea the code name Tender Childhood. The few people who knew about it had spent two weeks planning with almost military precision, and that morning, they had learned from Farid Lataquia, who had closed up his cell phone with a satisfied smile after talking a few minutes in code, that he had found the perfect boat to serve as the shuttle for the merchandise. It was in the port of Al Hoceima, and it was an old, rundown ninety-foot fishing boat, renamed Tarfaya, that belonged to a Hispano-Moroccan fishing corporation.

  Dr. Ramos, for his part, was coordinating the movements of the Xoloitzcuintle, a container ship sailing under the German flag with a crew of Poles and Filipinos; it made a regular run between the Atlantic coast of South America and the eastern Mediterranean, and at the moment was somewhere between Recife and Veracruz. Tender Childhood had a second front, or parallel track, in which a third boat, this time a cargo ship with a standard route—nonstop—between Cartagena and the Greek port of Piraeus, played a major role. This ship was the Luz Angelita, and although it was registered in the Colombian port of Tumaco, it sailed under the Cambodian flag for a Cypriot corporation. While the Tarfaya and the Xoloitzcuintle would handle the most delicate part of the operation, the role assigned the Luz Angelita was simple, profitable, and risk-free: It was going to be a decoy.

  “Everything set to go, then”—Dr. Ramos nodded—“in ten days.”

  He took the pipe out of his mouth to stifle a yawn. It was almost eleven a.m., after a long night of work in the office in Sotogrande: a house, protected by the most modern security and electronic countersurveillance equipment, that two years ago had replaced the apartment in the port area. Pote Gálvez stood guard in the vestibule while two other security men patrolled the lawn. In the living room were a television, a portable computer and printer, two cell phones with scramblers, a white board on an easel with erasable markers, and a large conference table, now littered with dirty coffee cups and full ashtrays. Teresa had just opened a window to air the place out. Her telecommunications expert was there, along with Farid Lataquia and Dr. Ramos. The young man was named Alberto Rizocarpaso, and he was from Gibraltar. This was what Dr. Ramos called the “crisis cabinet”: the small group that constituted Transer Naga’s general staff for operations.

  “The Tarfaya,” Lataquia was saying, “will wait in Al Hoceima, cleaning out its holds. Tune-up and gas. Harmless. Nice and quiet. We won’t take her out until two days before the appointment.”

  “Good,” said Teresa. “I don’t want it out there for a week sailing in circles, calling attention to itself.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll see to that myself.”

  “Crew?”

  “All Moroccan. Skipper, Cherki. Ahmed Chakor’s people, like always.”

  “Ahmed Chakor’s not always to be trusted.”

  “Depends on what you pay him.” Lataquia smiled. Depends on what you pay me, too, his smile said. “This time we’re taking no chances.”

  Which means you’re pocketing a little extra commission for yourself this time, too, Teresa said to herself. Fishing boat plus cargo ship plus Chakor’s people equals a shitload of cash. She saw that Lataquia was smiling even more broadly, guessing what she was thinking. At least this hijo de la chingada doesn’t hide it, she thought. It’s all out in the open with him. And he always knows where the line is.

  She turned to Dr. Ramos. “What about the rubbers? How many units for the transfer?”

  The doctor had spread British Admiralty Chart 773 out on the table, the Moroccan coast from Ceuta to Melilla in precise detail. With the mouthpiece of his pipe he indicated a point three miles to the north, between the Vélez de la Goma rock and the Xauen bank.

  “There are six available,” he said. “For two runs of seventeen hundred kilos each, more or less. . . . With the fishing boat moving along this line, here, everything can be done in less than three hours. Five, if the seas are high. The cargo is ready in Bab Berret and Ketama. The loading points will be Rocas Negras, Cala Traidores, and the mouth of the Mestaxa.”

  “Why spread it out so much? . . . Isn’t it better to do it all at once?”

  Dr. Ramos looked at her, his expression grave. From another person the question would have offended him, but from Teresa it was normal. She was a micromanager, no doubt about that. Down to the last detail. It was good for her and good for everybody else, because the responsibility for the successes and failures was always shared, and no one had to give too many explanations later if something went wrong.

  “Ball-bustingly meticulous,” was how Lataquia put it, in his graphic Mediterranean style. Never to her face, of course. But Teresa knew. She knew everything about everybody on her team. Suddenly she found herself thinking about Teo Aljarafe. Pending, but to be solved in the next few days, too. She corrected herself: She knew almost everything about almost all of them.

  “Twenty thousand kilos on one beach is a lot of kilos,” the doctor explained, “even with the Moroccan cops in our pocket. . . . I prefer not to have that high a profile. So we’ve presented it to the Moroccans as three different operations. The idea is to load half the cargo at point one with the six rubbers at the same time, a quarter of it at point two with just three rubbers, and the other quarter at point three with the other three. . . . That way we cut the exposure, cut the risk, and nobody will have to go back to the same place for a refill.”

  “And what’s the weather looking like?”

  “At this time of year it can’t be very bad. We have a three-day window, and the last night there’s almost no moon. We might have some fog, and that could complicate the link-ups. But each rubber will carry a GPS, and the fishing boat will have one, too.”

  “Communications?”

  “The usual: cloned cell phones or scramblers for the rubbers and the fishing boat, the Internet on the big boat . . . STU walkie-talkies for the transfer itself.”

  �
��I want Alberto out there, with all his equipment.”

  Rizocarpaso, the communications engineer, nodded. He was blond, with a baby face, almost no beard. Introverted. Very good at what he did. His shirts and pants were always wrinkled from the hours he spent with a radio receiver or at a computer keyboard. Teresa had hired him because he knew how to camouflage contacts and operations through the Internet, routing everything through the cover of countries that European and American police didn’t have access to: Cuba, India, Libya, Iraq. In minutes he could open, use, and leave dormant several electronic addresses hidden behind local servers in those and other countries, using credit card numbers stolen or purchased through straw men. He was also an expert in steganography—the technique of hiding messages within apparently innocuous electronic documents—and the PGP encryption system.

  “What boat?” the doctor asked.

  “Any one—a sport boat. Discreet. The Fairline Squadron we have in Banús might work.” Teresa pointed out a broad region on the nautical chart, east of Alborán, to the engineer. “You’ll coordinate communications from here.”

  He gave a stoic smile. Lataquia and the doctor grinned at him mockingly; everyone knew he got deathly seasick on a boat, but Teresa no doubt had her reasons for ordering him to go.

  “Where does the link-up with the Xoloitzcuintle take place?” Rizocarpaso wanted to know. “There are spots where there’s almost no signal.”

  “You’ll know in good time. And if there’s no signal, we’ll use the radio and cover ourselves with fishing channels. Change frequencies on code phrases, between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and forty megahertz. Make a list.”

  One of the telephones rang. The secretary in the office in Marbella had received a message from the Mexican embassy in Madrid. They were requesting that Señora Mendoza meet with a high-ranking official to discuss an urgent matter. “How urgent?” Teresa asked.

  “They didn’t say,” the secretary replied. “But the official is already here. Middle-aged, well dressed. Very elegant. His card says Héctor Tapia, chargé d’affaires. He’s been sitting in the waiting room for fifteen minutes. And another gentleman is with him.”

  Thank you for meeting with us, señora.” She knew Héctor Tapia. She’d met him, superficially, several years earlier, during her dealings with the Mexican embassy when he helped cut through the paperwork for her dual nationality. A brief interview in an office in the Carrera Building, in San Jerónimo. A few more or less cordial words exchanged, some documents signed, a cigarette, a cup of coffee, a trivial conversation. She remembered him as extremely polite, quiet, business-like. Despite knowing everything about her life—or perhaps because of it—he had been very helpful, keeping the red tape to a minimum. In some twelve years, he had been the only direct contact Teresa had had with official spheres in Mexico.

  “Allow me to introduce Guillermo Rangel. He is from America.”

  Tapia seemed uncomfortable in the little conference room paneled in dark walnut, like a man not certain he’s in the right place. The gringo, however, seemed right at home. He looked out the window at the magnolias on the lawn, inspected the antique English wall clock, the leather on the chairs, the valuable Diego Rivera drawing—Notes for a Portrait of Emiliano Zapata— on the wall.

  “I’m actually of Mexican descent, like you,” he said, still studying the portrait of the moustached Zapata. “Born in Austin, Texas. My mother was a Chicana.”

  His Spanish was perfect, with a slight norteño accent, Teresa noted. Many years of practice. Dark hair, brush-cut, the shoulders of a wrestler. White polo shirt under the light jacket. Dark, quick, intelligent eyes.

  “Señor Rangel,” said Héctor Tapia, “has certain information he would like to share with you.”

  Teresa motioned for them to take a seat in the armchairs arranged around a large hammered-copper Arabian tray table, and then sat down herself, placing a pack of Bisontes and her lighter on the table. She’d had time to fix herself up: hair pulled back into a ponytail with a silver clasp, dark silk blouse, black jeans, moccasins, suede jacket over the back of the chair.

  “I’m not sure I’m interested in this information,” she said.

  The diplomat’s silver hair, tie, and well-cut suit contrasted with the appearance of the gringo. Tapia had taken off his steel-framed glasses and was studying them, his brow furrowed in concentration, as though unhappy with the state of the lenses.

  “I think in this particular information you will be,” he said, putting on his glasses and looking at her persuasively. “Don Guillermo . . .”

  The other man raised a large, meaty hand. “Willy. You can call me Willy. Everybody does.”

  “All right. Well, Willy here works for the government of the United States.”

  “For the DEA,” the gringo said.

  Teresa was taking a cigarette out of the pack. She continued to do so, showing no emotion.

  “Sorry? . . . For who?”

  She put the cigarette between her lips and reached for the lighter, but Tapia leaned over the table attentively—a click, and the flame was there.

  “D-E-A,” Willy Rangel repeated, pronouncing the letters slowly. “The Drug Enforcement Administration. My country’s antidrug agency.”

  “Híjole. You don’t say.” Teresa exhaled the smoke, examined the gringo. “. . . This is kind of off the beaten track for you, isn’t it? I didn’t know your agency had interests in Marbella.”

  “You live here.”

  “And what do I have to do with anything?”

  The two men contemplated her wordlessly, then looked at each other. Tapia raised one eyebrow. It’s your case, friend, he seemed to be saying. I’m just here to watch.

  “Let’s understand one another, señora,” said Willy Rangel. “I’m not here looking into anything that has to do with your current method of earning a living. Nor is don Héctor, who was kind enough to accompany me. My visit has to do with things that happened a long time ago. . . .”

  “Twelve years ago,” Héctor Tapia put in, as though from a distance. Or outside.

  “. . . And with other things that are about to happen. In Mexico.”

  “Mexico, you say.”

  “Mexico.”

  Teresa looked at the cigarette. I’m not going to finish it, the gesture said. Tapia understood perfectly; he gave the other man an uneasy look. Órale, we’ve lost her, he announced silently. Rangel seemed to be of the same opinion. So he went straight to the point.

  “Does the name César Güemes mean anything to you—‘Batman’ Güemes?”

  Three seconds of silence, two pairs of eyes waiting for her. She blew the cigarette smoke out as slowly as she could.

  “Well, you know, I don’t think it does.”

  The two pairs of eyes met. Then turned back to her.

  “Nevertheless,” said Rangel, “you knew him, several years ago.”

  “How strange. Then I should remember him, shouldn’t I?” She looked at the wall clock, searching for a polite way to stand up and end this. “And now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  The two men looked at each other again. Then Rangel smiled. He did it brazenly, almost a grin—he was a charmer, no doubt about it. In his business, Teresa thought, somebody who smiles that way has to reserve the effect for big occasions.

  “Give me just five minutes more,” he said. “To tell you a story.”

  “I only like stories with great endings.”

  “The end of this one depends on you.”

  And then Guillermo Rangel, whom everybody called Willy, started telling the story. The DEA, he explained, was not a special-operations unit. What they did, rather, was compile information, maintain a network of informers, pay them, produce detailed reports on activities related to the production, trafficking, and distribution of drugs, put names on all the players, and structure a case that could be taken to a judge. Which was why they used agents. Like him. People who infiltrated drug organizations and worked inside. Rangel himself had worked
like that, first undercover in Chicano groups in California and then in Mexico, as a handler of undercover agents, for eight years, minus a period of fourteen months when he’d been sent to Medellín as the liaison between his agency and the local police search unit in charge of capturing and killing Pablo Escobar. And by the way, that famous photograph of the dead narco, surrounded by the men who’d killed him in Los Olivos, had been taken by Rangel. Now it was framed and hanging on the wall of his office, in Washington, D.C.

  “I don’t see how any of this can be of interest to me,” said Teresa.

  She put out her cigarette in the ashtray, unhurriedly, but determined to end this conversation. It wasn’t the first time that cops, agents, or drug traffickers had come to her with stories. She didn’t feel like wasting her time.

  “I’m telling you all this,” the gringo said simply, “as background, so you’ll understand my work.”

  “I understand just fine. And now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  She stood up. Héctor Tapia also stood up, reflexively, buttoning his jacket. He looked at Rangel, disconcerted and uneasy. But Rangel remained seated.

  “Güero Dávila was a DEA agent,” he said simply. “He worked for me, and that’s why he was killed.”

  Teresa studied the gringo’s intelligent eyes, which were waiting to see the effect his words made. So—you finally got to the punch line, she thought. Well, fuck you, unless you’ve got another bullet in that pistol. She felt like bursting out laughing. A peal of laughter stifled for almost twelve years, since Culiacán, Sinaloa. Pinche Güero’s posthumous little joke. But all she did was shrug.

  “Now,” she said coolly, “tell me something I didn’t know.”

  Don’t even look at it,” Güero Dávila had told her. “Don’t even open it, prietita. Take it to don Epifanio Vargas and trade it for your life.” But that afternoon in Culiacán, Teresa couldn’t resist the temptation. Despite what Güero believed, she could think for herself—and feel. And she was curious—maybe the word was “dying”—to know what kind of hell she’d just been dropped into.