by Scott McEwen
Oscar smiled dryly. “I think it might be too soon for such a flamboyant gesture. You have an election to win.”
“Which is the only reason I will not have these men killed—yet.” He drew a white sleeve across his perspiring forehead. “Apparently Fields has decided to double-cross me. I don’t suppose I should be surprised.”
“Why would he cross you? You have an agreement.”
Serrano chuckled. “Perhaps he’s realized I have no intention to honor the agreement.” He put his hat and gloves back on and picked up the rose snips. “Be sure the guards are alert. Ortega is bringing another one of Pope’s assassins with him. I tell you, Oscar, once I am president, it will be a pleasure to run these interfering gringos out of our country for good. They’re like a plague of rats.”
Ortega and Crosswhite arrived fifty minutes later, and Oscar showed them out back to the pool, where Serrano’s mistress had been told to sunbathe naked on a raft as a distraction. Her Chihuahua floated nearby on a separate raft. Crosswhite recognized the purpose of the woman’s presence at once, but this didn’t prevent him from staring.
“Nice view,” he remarked, taking a seat at the table in the shade.
“If Serrano’s seen your file,” Ortega replied, “it’ll be our last.”
“Don’t get cranked up. Let me do the talking and keep your mouth shut.”
Serrano came out of the house flanked by a pair of capable-looking bodyguards, crossing the patio and offering his hand to Ortega. “Good to see you again,” he said in Spanish. “Who is your associate?”
Crosswhite offered his hand, saying in Spanish, “Good to meet you, Senator Serrano. I’m David Pendleton.”
Serrano motioned for them to be seated. “So, gentlemen, do I understand that Clemson Fields wishes to see me dead?”
“We believe that to be the case,” Crosswhite replied.
Serrano eyed him for a moment. “I’m sorry, who I am talking to? To you or to Señor Ortega?”
“You’re talking to me, sir. Without offense to Agent Ortega, he’s only an intermediary in this instance. Director Pope wishes for you and me to establish a rapport so that we might work together to neutralize Agent Fields.”
“What has happened with Fields?” Serrano wanted to know. “We have an arrangement that should be very agreeable to him.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Crosswhite said, “what is the nature of that agreement?”
Serrano was hesitant but decided to disclose the information. “He has asked me to secure a villa for him on the coast where he might retire when this operation is over.”
Crosswhite looked at Ortega, conjuring his story on the fly. “See?” he said in English. “It’s the same every time. He doesn’t even change his MO.”
Ortega didn’t have to pretend to be uptight. He shrugged. “Fields is old school.”
Serrano was not fluent in English, but he understood more than he spoke. “What does MO mean?”
“Modus operandi: method of operation.” Crosswhite sat in closer to the table, as if taking Serrano into his trust. “Fields is a confidence man—an actor. He often strikes these little agreements in order to give a false sense of security. The idea is to convince you that he needs something from you on a personal level, which makes you trust him more. He already has a house on the coast up in San Diego, so I doubt seriously he needs one down here. You’re being manipulated, Senator.”
Serrano began to simmer. “Why would Pope send such a man to me?”
“In Pope’s defense,” Crosswhite continued, “this is the first time Fields has acted contrary to his directives. The truth is that we don’t know his exact intentions, but he’s contacted a couple of assets in Baja and ordered them here to Mexico City. At first, we believed he was sending them after Chance Vaught and Dan Crosswhite”—he watched Serrano closely here for any hint of recognition—“but a text message was intercepted naming you as the target, and Pope contacted me immediately. As luck would have it, I was vacationing up in Guadalajara, which enabled me to get here quickly. My personal guess—and this is only a guess—is that Fields has cut a better deal with Antonio Castañeda regarding the narcotics trade. I’m guessing this because we know he was recently in Vallarta.”
Serrano lost his temper at the mention of Castañeda’s name. “Castañeda should have been killed months ago! The CIA should never have arranged that stinking truce with him! What right do you gringos have meddling in Mexican affairs? The fool we have for a president now should have told you to put that truce in your ass, but no! He rolled over like the dog that he is and put his feet up!” He pointed his finger in Crosswhite’s face. “I will tell you this, my American friend: when I am president, there will be no truce with Antonio Castañeda. That dog will be hunted down!”
Crosswhite sat back. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I’m sure Director Pope will be equally pleased.”
“I do not care about Director Pope!” Serrano grated. “I do not work for Americans. Is that clear? Yo trabajo para el pueblo mexicano!” I work for the Mexican people!
Crosswhite wanted to laugh at the outrageous lie but remained passive. “Director Pope is not under the impression that you work for him. It is his understanding the two of you are working together to consolidate the narcotics trade and stabilize the region. He apologizes for Fields’s exceeding his mission parameters, and I assure you he’s acting in good faith to put the situation right.”
Realizing he needed the CIA on his side until after the election, Serrano allowed himself to be mollified. “It can be hard to find reliable men. I see why Director Pope chose you. You are very direct, and you say what you mean. He should have sent you to begin with.”
Mike Ortega stole a glance at Crosswhite, hating him and wishing he could expose him to Serrano then and there, renouncing him for the liar he was. Instead, he went along with the ruse, interjecting, “Fields and Pope share a lot of history. No one is more disappointed by Fields’s lack of discretion than Director Pope, I promise you.”
Serrano nodded, satisfied for the moment. “As for the other two dogs, Vaught and Crosswhite, they’ll be dead shortly. Your man Hancock has moved into Toluca, and the city will soon be back in my hands.”
Crosswhite’s hackles went up. “Back in your hands?”
“Yes. Hancock is coordinating the attack. Ruvalcaba’s men will soon be moving into the city to subvert the police there. Toluca is very important to business traffic coming up from Chiapas in the south, and the Guerrero brothers have been a thorn in my side for too long.”
“You know for a fact that Vaught and Crosswhite are there?”
“Yes. My spy on the Toluca police force has confirmed this. The Americans have been training the officers that remain, but it won’t do them any good. Most of the police force quit when Juan Guerrero was killed last week, and his younger brother is not the same caliber of leader. He has only seventy-five men left, and Toluca is too big a city to hold with seventy-five men.”
“Won’t this new chief call the state police for reinforcements?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will,” Serrano answered. “But the state police commander belongs to me, so I regret to say there won’t be any reinforcements to send to Toluca. The earthquake here in Distrito Federal has caused far too much devastation to risk weakening the city’s peacekeeping forces. A nation’s capital must be protected above all else.” He smiled. “Would you not agree?”
Crosswhite forced himself to return the smile. “Yes, I would.”
“So, how exactly do you suggest we deal with Fields?”
“This is an initial contact,” Crosswhite said, sounding very professional. “To give you and me a chance to establish a rapport. I’ll spend the rest of the day here in the city, making arrangements with my people over at the embassy. Then tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, I’d like to meet back here with you and Captain
Espinosa of the Policia Federal to discuss what I’ve put together.”
Serrano was thrown off balance. “How do you know Captain Espinosa?”
“I don’t know him,” Crosswhite said, “but I understand he’s the officer who took initial custody of Agent Vaught after he exceeded his authority in pursuing the sniper. If that’s the case, it seems to me Espinosa might be a man we can count on when the time comes to deal with Fields.”
“You’re rather well informed,” Serrano remarked.
“I have to be, Senator. We’re not dealing with a fool. Agent Fields is a veteran of the Cold War. He knows his craft and is a dangerous man with dangerous assets at his disposal. Your life is important to Director Pope, and I haven’t come here to disappoint him.”
Though Mike Ortega was impressed by how sincerely Crosswhite was laying it on, he didn’t understand why they should risk involving the most corrupt and dangerous cop in the city. He opened his mouth to speak, but Crosswhite kicked him in the leg to shut him up before he could utter a sound.
“I will contact Captain Espinosa,” Serrano said, deciding he liked the idea. “I’m sure he will be interested to meet you.”
“I’m grateful you’ve taken the time to meet with me today. It makes my job much easier.” Crosswhite got to his feet. “I know you’re a busy man, Senator, so we’ll be going.”
They shook hands all around, and when Crosswhite and Ortega were gone, Oscar came out of the house holding a drink in each hand. “How did it go?”
Serrano ignored the drink that was offered him, pointing in the direction Crosswhite had left. “That’s a gringo I can work with!”
62
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
17:30 HOURS
Vaught stood in the back lot of the police department looking at the blood-soaked interior of an armored police truck. The sniper’s .50 caliber round had pierced the armored driver’s door of the Ford pickup truck and killed both officers in the front seat as they’d sat at a red light. This meant the sniper had been firing on a flat trajectory from street level—a bolder approach than either Vaught or Crosswhite had anticipated.
He turned to Chief Diego and his lieutenant. “How are the men taking it?”
Diego shrugged. “They’re angry—and scared.”
“More angry or more scared?”
“Angry.”
“Did they respond the way they were trained?”
“They tried to,” the lieutenant said. “There were no men riding in the bed of the truck, and the two in the backseat were unable to hear the shot because of the armored windows. By the time another unit responded, the sniper had stopped firing, and there was no way to triangulate his position.”
“Right,” Vaught said. “All four men were riding inside the cab because they wanted to avoid being shot.” He shut the door and put his finger into the hole made by the gringo sniper’s armor-piercing round. “This proves they’re no safer inside than out. In fact, they’re safer in the back because they have a chance to hear the shot, see what’s going on, and return fire. Inside, they’re sitting ducks.”
Diego turned to the lieutenant. “Make sure every man coming on shift sees the hole in the door before going on patrol. Give orders that only the drivers are to be inside. Impress upon them that they have a better chance to dismount and fight if they are riding in back.”
The lieutenant said, “Sí, señor,” and disappeared inside the station to begin roll call.
Vaught made sure they were alone and walked Diego around the far side of the truck. “I’ve heard from Crosswhite up in DF. There’s a traitor among your men. Serrano has someone on the inside, and he’s been feeding the Ruvalcaba’s information about our training exercises.”
Diego nodded. “I’ve suspected this. The day Juan was killed, the sniper’s position and timing were too perfect. Unfortunately, there’s no way to know who it is. I cannot openly accuse any of my men without proof.”
Vaught bumped him on the shoulder. “Come with me.”
He led Diego inside the motor pool, where the men kept their equipment. The officers’ body armor and ballistic helmets sat on shelves in open wooden lockers along the garage wall, much the way firemen keep their turnout gear ready in a fire station. Each locker had the officer’s name stenciled above it in white lettering.
“How long has officer Robles been on the department?”
Diego glanced around, making sure they were still alone. “About six months. He’s a good man. You’ve seen him in training.”
“Yeah, he catches on pretty fast,” Vaught agreed. “Didn’t your brother take over as chief about six months ago? Was Robles hired before that or after?”
“Juan hired him personally—a couple weeks after he became chief.”
“Did either of you know Robles before he applied?”
“No. He was recommended by a city councilman.”
“Well, that’s a strike against him right there,” Vaught muttered, reaching for Robles’s ballistic helmet and handing it to Diego. “See anything wrong with that?”
Diego examined the helmet, finding it sound. “No.”
“We all wear balaclavas over our faces when we’re on the street, so we’re impossible to distinguish from one another in uniform.” He pointed at the helmet. “Look again.”
Diego turned the helmet in his hands. There was a nondescript scuff of white paint on either side of it, one directly above the right ear, the other a little higher and closer to the back of the helmet.
Diego looked at Vaught. “These marks are no more than a few days old.”
“I’ve checked all the other helmets,” Vaught said. “Officer Robles seems to be the only one of your men who wants the sniper to know who he is.”
63
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
17:20 HOURS
The boys from Baja were cousins, Fito and Memo Soto, both age thirty, contracted by the old guard of the CIA the year before Pope was appointed director. They were contract killers who specialized in making a mess of things. No one would ever mistake their work for that of professionals, but sometimes it was a good idea for a hit to look like the work of a jealous girlfriend or a tweeker jacked up on methamphetamines.
They rang the door bell of Ortega’s house.
Fito was the taller of the two, with dark hair and a beard. “I thought this cabrón was supposed to be waiting for us.”
Memo was bald, with blue catlike eyes. He shrugged and rang the bell again. “That’s what Fields said.”
“Obviously, there’s nobody here,” Fito remarked. “Call the man and see what he wants us to do.”
Memo made the call, and Fields answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“Hey, your man isn’t here,” Memo said. “What do you want us to do?”
“Are you inside the house?”
“No, we can’t get inside. This place is built like a prison.”
“You need to get inside and verify that he isn’t there.”
Memo rolled his eyes, handing the phone to Fito. “He says we have to get inside.”
Fito took the phone. “Listen, we can’t get inside. Everything is barred up.”
“It’s imperative you make confirmation,” Fields insisted. “The target has to be neutralized. I thought I made that clear.”
“What do you want us to do?” Fito asked. “Use our heat vision to cut the fucking door open?”
“I don’t care if you have to ram the house with your car,” Fields said. “But get inside and make confirmation.”
“And suppose he’s not here? Then what?”
There was a long pause at Fields’s end. “I don’t know. He should be there.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I don’t care what you have to do,” Fields repeated. “Get inside and make confirmation. If he’s not ther
e, abort the mission and come to Tijuana. I have more work waiting for you.”
“What kind?”
“The same. Call me when you’ve got confirmation.”
Fito gave the phone back to Memo. “He says we have to get inside no matter what.”
“Fuck him, I’m hungry.” Memo was rubbing his ample belly. “Let’s go get something to eat. After that, we’ll call him back, say we got inside, and the dude wasn’t here. How’s he gonna know the difference?”
Fito smiled. “I like it. He wants us up in Tijuana right away. Somebody else to kill.”
“Same money?”
“He didn’t say, but we didn’t come all this way for free. He’s paying us for this wasted trip.”
They crossed the street and were about to get into the car when Memo spotted a gringo walking up the sidewalk wearing blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tan ball cap. He stopped in front of Ortega’s house and rang the bell.
“Who the hell is that?”
“Let’s find out.” Fito shut the car door, and the two of them went back across the street, stepping onto the sidewalk on either side of the gringo.
“You live here?” Fito asked in English.
The gringo looked at him, his chiseled visage set. “You a cop?”
“Maybe. What’s your interest in this house?”
“Friend of mine lives here.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” Memo asked.
The gringo ignored him, staying focused on Fito.
“He asked you a question,” Fito said.
“I heard ’im.”
Fito became uncomfortable beneath the gringo’s gaze. “What are you doing here?”
“Right now I’m waitin’ for you to do somethin’ stupid.”
Fito sniggered. “We have a tough guy here, Memo.”
“That’s good,” Memo said. “I like tough guys.”
