Blood Lies - 15

by Richard Marcinko

  Since he’s still working south of the border, I won’t describe Narco too closely, but I will mention one accessory that was rather prominent in his wardrobe: an old-school .44 Magnum tucked into the waistband of his tie-died dashiki.

  I don’t know why I saw so many revolvers south of the border this trip. The Mexican cartels can certainly afford the best: they import literally thousands of American guns every year. In fact, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has even helped them get weapons, in a rather notorious sting operation that went sour. But I guess we’d expect that given the players.

  (If you want the details, Google: John Dodson, ATF, Phoenix, and “Fast and Furious.” Dodson, maybe one of the few people in the agency with any sort of sense, was ordered by his superiors to let weapons go south in an “operation” dubbed Fast and Furious, allegedly designed to trace the flow of guns to the cartels. The orders were given even though upward of a thousand Mexicans were being killed each month in the area just south of Phoenix. And we’re not talking peashooters: the weapons included fifty-caliber machine guns and just about every assault rifle you can name. Now I’m a firm believer in the Right to Bear Arms, but that doesn’t mean we should be arming the cartels.)

  In any event, I complimented Narco on his belt-wear after my drink came.

  “Love the old-school iron,” he said. “Some things can’t be improved on.”

  “One thing about automatics, though. You don’t have to reload as often.”

  “Something to be said for that.”

  We drank a toast, then had another. I was careful not to spill any of my drink, lest it burn a hole in the floor.

  Narco gave me some more background on de Sarcena. While the cartel honcho was clearly a thug and a murderer, he was not without an education or some refinement. He had gone to college in Spain, where he majored in accounting and business administration.

  After graduating, and a year or so of slumming around Europe, de Sarcena went back to Mexico and drifted into working for a small cartel. He seems to have started by working a legitimate job at a bank as a loan officer—yes, I know, that’s not really a legitimate job, even in Mexico, but humor me for theory’s sense. Within a year, he was helping the local banditos launder money; another year after that, he was moving up the chain at both the bank and the gang.

  He was so well regarded, in fact, that he was offered a job by an American bank looking to expand into Mexico. He apparently turned it down, but only because it didn’t offer as much money as he wanted.

  Think about that. A major American bank almost employed the man who later became the head of one of Mexico’s most notorious cartels.

  Another thing that intrigued me about de Sarcena was the fact that he had come from a solidly middle-class family. They weren’t rich, but they had enough money to send him to school in Spain, which was an achievement and dream far beyond the reach of most Mexicans.

  A lot of Americans as well, I might add.

  So why did he go bad?

  If you come up with an answer, let me know. It will tell us a lot about why the cartels run things in Mexico, and why the country is so screwed up.

  * * *

  If you’ve ever seen Versailles—the extravagant waste of sous that led to King Louie and his cake-eating wife to lose their heads during the French Revolution—then you have an excellent idea of what Pedro de Sarcena’s house looks like. Though a bit smaller and without the elaborate grounds and outbuildings (to say nothing of the tourists), de Sarcena constructed his mansion to match Versailles’s most famous halls mirror by mirror.

  Apparently he had taken a liking to le France following his college graduation. He’d become obsessed with the fancy palace, and a few other accoutrements of ridiculous wealth. He did need a big house—he not only lived there but used it as an office building as well. He had literally dozens of people working in the mansion, handling the cartel’s business.

  Marble aside, a house is still a house. And every house needs a sewer connection or a septic tank to handle its waste. In this case, de Sarcena had opted for a septic tank—a reasonable choice, given that there were no sewer systems within a hundred miles or so.

  The only drawback to a septic tank is that it had to be pumped on a fairly regular basis. That’s a lousy, dirty job that most people would greatly prefer someone else do. In fact, few people even want to watch. Between the stench and the potential for a fatal splash, the entire operation is always given a wide berth.

  Perfect for us.

  The honey wagon and excavator were stopped briefly at the side gate later that morning when we showed up. We looked and smelled the part: Mongoose, Shotgun, and I were wearing the universal uniform of working septic pumpers the world over—oversized jumpsuits and woolen caps pulled down over our ears for protection. (It was a tad hot for the ski caps, but the integrated earphones and mike sewn into the brim made up for the sweat. Hands off Jawbone; we’ve already made the patent submission.) They were stained with a variety of bodily fluids and one or two solids, having been thoroughly prepared en route. We had prepared our trucks well, rolling through a muddy farmyard oozing with cow manure before heading to de Sarcena’s mansion.

  The smell was really all we needed to clear the gate. We were quickly empowered to proceed, and trundled on over to the greenest part of the back lawn, the telltale sign of the septic field’s leach system.

  Bring an excavator onto a criminal’s property and you are sure to attract attention. Half a dozen thugs surrounded us soon after we pulled around to the back. I let Mongoose deal with them while Shotgun and I unloaded the excavator.

  Mongoose’s Spanish may have been a little hard for them to understand, especially given the fact that he was chomping on a big wad of chewing tobacco or “dip,” a disgusting habit that he had picked up en route to the job. It not only provided cover for his slight Filipino accent, but gave his inquisitors another reason to back off—he sprayed tobacco juice with every sentence.

  More important than anything he said was the clipboard in his hands. Mongoose thumped that thing back and forth like a true pro, fanning out work orders and rapping his knuckles with the staccato of a project manager two weeks behind schedule. Even the security supervisor gave way before Mongoose’s clipboard—though in all fairness, a timely shift in the prevailing winds may have had something to do with it as well.

  Shotgun climbed up and took the controls of the excavator. You can judge for yourself what sort of damage he was capable of by the fact that he was making motor noises as he got into the cab.

  Me, I headed for the house to find out where the clog was.

  “What clog?” asked the security thug who met me near the door to the basement.

  “The one holding the shit back,” I responded, leaning toward him.

  His face blanched at the whiff of eau du toilette.

  “You stink,” he said, holding up his hand.

  “This nothing,” I told him. “This is our first job of the day. Tonight—that is when I’ll smell really bad.”

  The guard made a U-turn and disappeared.

  The back wing of the house was graced by a stone porch topped by large doors and windows, massive things that made for a great view and even bigger AC bill. For further particulars, I refer you to the butt end of Versailles, which these duplicated in every way. To the very left of this platform was a simple set of steps leading to a more modest door. This opened to the basement. I trotted down the steps, grinning at the security camera recording my progress.

  The basement door was unlocked; I didn’t even need the key gun in my pocket. It opened onto a shallow landing, with steps up to the right and down to the left. I chose down.

  A single video camera covered the basement hallway from the stairs. De Sarcena’s security people were overconfident about security. Among other things, the man who met me should have stayed with me at all times, even if that meant wearing a gas mask. I’m guessing he may have thought the video cameras would suffice. I
was counting on that, actually—I wanted them to know exactly where I was at all times. This way it would be much easier to disappear.

  I proceeded nonchalantly, turning into the first room I came to on the right. This was a large basement kitchen, indifferently stocked and apparently used only for special occasions. A long prep table split the room in half; the sinks and stove were on the wall to my right, just below narrow glass block windows that sat at the base of the outside porch. Cabinets stacked the wall opposite them. Dead ahead as I came in were some large refrigerators and freezers.

  I stood near the table for a moment, sizing the place up. I spotted one video camera in the corner; it was a large, boxy unit, about twice the size of the one I’d already seen outside and in the hall.

  Which I suspected meant that it was for show, meant to be detected. So where was the real one?

  I went over to the sink and leaned down, placing my ear right next to the drain and listening. Then I straightened, ran the water a bit, and repeated the process.

  The pipes didn’t talk to me, but I did manage to spot a video camera similar to the one in the hall. It was in the corner, hidden in a braid of garlic.

  There was another in the opposite corner, this one behind some onions. You may think that the fact that there were at least two video cameras covering a relatively small amount of real estate is a bad thing. On the contrary, I was happy to see so many, and would have been ecstatic to see even more.

  Why? Because the more cameras there are, the greater the odds that no one is really paying attention. And inattention is always your friend when you’re somewhere you don’t belong.

  Not that you could plan on having it, of course. But it was always useful as a counterweight to Murphy.

  Narco had never been inside the mansion himself, but he had talked to several people who had, and he theorized that de Sarcena kept his money somewhere on the opulent second level of the mansion. It seemed like a reasonable guess, and it was my ultimate destination. But I wasn’t going to rely on a simple treasure hunt. If I didn’t find the money during my visit, the bugs I intended to leave along the way would surely give me a clue.

  And if they didn’t, then my tap into the video system would. Shunt, our resident high-tech guru, had supplied a handy-dandy little device that would pump their signal out to us. But for it to work, I had to tap in at a camera. And of course I had to do that without being seen. Both the bugs and the video system feeder were activated by an external signal; this way we would be safely away if they were discovered.

  I only had four bugs left after looking for Melissa and setting up the fake kidnapping operation. I wasn’t going to waste one of the bugs down here, and given the fact that both cameras were covering each other, this wasn’t a great place to tap in. But what better place than a kitchen to establish your bona fides? I worked deliberately, a man on intimate terms with effluent.

  The sink seemed to drain a little sluggishly. I filled it up again, then poured a small bottle of food dye inside.

  Yes, definitely slow. I took out my pipe wrench and went to work below.

  I had just started to clank around when a security guard came in.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, pointing his M4 in my direction.

  “Clog,” I told him. I leaned back out and showed him the monkey wrench.

  He nodded solemnly. There is something about a good-sized pipe wrench that convinces people you are an honest worker.

  “I don’t know where the clog is,” I told him. “I will have to keep looking until I find it.”

  He frowned. His expression turned grave as I told him I would check the bathrooms next, but then would have to start looking at the pipes if that failed.

  “You are here to clean the septic,” he asked. “Why are you looking for clogs?”

  “Good question. I should not have to do this.” I nodded vigorously. “Your boss tells my boss to do this, then he kicks it to me. Always the man on the bottom gets the shit job, yes?”

  I can’t say he appreciated the pun, but he was someone who was undoubtedly on the downhill side himself. He nodded in sympathy, and stopped asking questions.

  “Where are the bathrooms?” I asked. “Can you show me?”

  “Just down the hall.” He waved his arm. “Hurry and do your job. There is a party tonight. They need to get ready.”

  I fiddled with the pipe below the sink for another few seconds, then straightened. I could see the shadow of the excavator through the window. The guard was right; I’d better hurry. If I left Shotgun with that digging machine too long, he’d have a tunnel dug clear to the border.

  I took my tool kit and went down the hall to the restrooms. Chicos and chicas were side by side.

  I’ve always believed in ladies first, and so I knocked as loudly as I could, yelled ¡hola! And went in.

  A word of warning, girls—if you ever find yourself answering a call of nature in this bathroom, be careful of the miniature cameras embedded in the floors of the second and third stalls. They’re perfectly positioned for that up-skirt porn Web site your boyfriend has been looking at when you’re not around.

  The camera in the upper corner near the door is somewhat less dangerous, unless you decide to do a striptease near the sinks.

  I did my nonchalant, check-for-the-gummed-up-drain thing a little more quickly this time, throwing in some pipe banging for no charge. I was even quicker in the men’s room. Not only were there no hidden cameras there, but the small monitor was discreetly placed so as to avoid catching anyone at the urinal.

  Out of the bathroom, I walked down to the end of the hall, a dark expression on my face—there’s nothing gloomier than a sewage worker who has not been able to find the lump of crap he’s been sent for.

  A stairway sat at the end of the hall. There was a camera above it, but from the way it was positioned, I could tell there was a blind spot beneath it, right along the wall.

  I thought it was an oversight. It certainly seemed that way.

  Until I went over and saw that there was a set of steps leading farther downward. And these steps were not covered by a video camera at all.

  Interesting.

  The basement I’d been in was cool and dully lit, but it was definitely the basement of a well-appointed mansion. The floors were made of nice tile, and the stucco walls would have seemed elegant in a lot of houses.

  The level I descended to was a lot more like a dungeon than a finished space. Except for a small patch of cement near the stairs, the floor was entirely dirt. Massive spiderwebs hung from the rafters, and the place smelled as damp as any place I’d smelled in Mexico.

  It was also dark. I had to close my eyes and wait for a moment while they adjusted. Even then, it was so dim that I resorted to my flashlight.

  I moved away from the steps and began sweeping the space in front of me. It was open and empty. There was no furniture, no rats, nothing.

  You were expecting a safe, maybe?

  I was. Loose piles of money would have been even better. The Mexican cartels are so flush with dough that they have been known to keep pallets of hundred-dollar bills in various places, moving them around by forklift. But there were no such easy pickings here.

  I scuttled around, looking for signs that something had been buried recently. Most likely it would be a body, though you never knew. Halfway through, my cap buzzed. I tapped the side of my head and activated the link.

  (The communications system is designed to work only over short distances; the discrete burst signal it uses—“low probability intercept” is the technical term—has a limited range. I could talk to Mongoose and Shotgun; calling Junior or Doc would require using my sat phone, which of course was relatively easy to intercept.)

  “How’s it going?” asked Mongoose.

  “Slow.”

  “You get upstairs to the library rooms yet?”

  “I’m still downstairs,” I told him.

  “I don’t know how much longer we can keep them out
here. Shotgun is really making a mess.”

  “All right. Stick with it. I’m on my way upstairs right now.”

  This was exactly the sort of op where Trace was invaluable. If the guards started getting antsy, she would have just lowered the zipper on her jumpsuit a half inch and they would be begging her to take her time. That wasn’t going to work for Mongoose.

  I quickly scanned the rest of the floor without finding anything, then went back to the stairs. I slipped back around, and reemerged from the blind spot to walk up the stairs.

  The first floor was filled with offices of the cartel. It was a regular little corporate operation, with its own store of bureaucrats and pencil pushers. Apparently it takes a lot to keep thugs on the street.

  A set of high heels clicked across the floor as I climbed up the steps. They belonged to a young woman in a miniskirt who was just crossing the hall. She disappeared into an office; a moment later she and two other young ladies came out, and all three began walking down the hall away from me. My view was limited, but sometimes less is more—and that is definitely the case when it comes to skirts.

  I like a well-sculptured thigh on a woman. There’s nothing like it, really, except for a calf, or a derriere, or a breast, or a neck, or …

  It’s easy to lose focus when you start noticing the scenery. I was brought back to the problem at hand by a loud and angry growl.

  “You again!” snapped the guard I’d met below. “What are you and your filthy nose15 doing up here?”

  I explained that I was still looking for the clog. He frowned, waved his hand, then ducked back into the room just to the right of the stairs. This was the security center.

  As I passed, I noticed that my boot was untied. I stooped to tie it—and slipped my first bug next to the door molding before taking a peek inside.

  The guard was too busy playing Spider Solitaire on the computer to pay much attention, either to me or the bank of TV screens above his station. He was the only person in the small room, though there were two other chairs behind him.