Against All Enemies mm-1

by Tom Clancy

  “Maybe I am, but the kind of power my father has is a scary thing, even to me. I mean, we can never really be alone.”

  “Your father is using his position to do good in the world. And why are you even thinking about this now?”

  He breathed deeply and finally nodded. He felt guilty as he got dressed. He hadn’t told her about the hidden security cameras. Their entire escapade had been recorded, because turning off the cameras would’ve immediately alerted Castillo. There was no privacy at Casa de Rojas, because its price was too steep.

  They spent the day at the beach, swimming, taking pictures, and drinking. Even though Sonia wore a blue bikini, a few of the pics reminded him very much of his mother, since that shot in the library had been taken on the very same beach. Even their names were similar — Sofía/Sonia — and he began to place himself in the context of Greek tragedies.

  Although they attempted to remain discreet, two of his father’s security men were there with them, seated on chairs about ten meters away, with Castillo not straying far from the pool deck to spy on them through a pair of binoculars.

  “Those guys work for your father, too,” Sonia said, staring at them over the rim of her sunglasses.

  “How can you tell?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I guess you’re used to this, huh?”

  “It was nice when we were in Spain. I think my father had some people there, but I didn’t know who they were, so I never really noticed them.”

  She shrugged. “When you have money, some people hate you.”

  “Of course. Kidnapping is never far from my father’s mind. He has friends who’ve suffered through terrible ordeals when their loved ones were taken. The police are useless. The ransom money is ridiculously high. You either pay or you never see your family again.”

  “The gangs from the cartels do that all the time.”

  “I’m sure they’d like nothing more than to kidnap my father and get a huge ransom.”

  “I don’t know, he’s so well protected. I doubt that would ever happen. Besides, he travels so much. It’s hard to predict where he’ll be. He said something about having to pack.”

  “Yes, he’s taking off again.”

  “Where? The International Space Station?”

  He laughed. “Colombia, probably. I heard him talking about seeing the president and maybe some other friends down there. We own some businesses in Bogotá. He’s got a friend who makes him special suits.”

  “My father met the French president once, at the Tour de France, but it’s not like he’s friends with presidents around the world like your father is.”

  “You know what?” he began, brightening over a thought. “Maybe we’ll do a little traveling ourselves …”

  Dinner was served promptly at six p.m., and Miguel and Sonia had showered and dressed for the occasion. Miguel had warned Sonia that his father placed great emphasis on family meals, because they were so few and far between. Dinners at home were precious experiences, and they should be treated with the utmost respect.

  Since there would be only four, they dined at one of the smaller tables just off the main kitchen, and J.C. prepared a four-course meal of beef and chicken that had become one of the signature experiences at every Sofía’s throughout the world. The family owned sixteen of the exclusive restaurants, all named after his mother, and they served both traditional and fusion Mexican cuisine, embracing all six regions of the country. Their world-renowned dishes were served in an atmosphere that Jorge had said should suggest the great ancient civilizations of Mexico, from the Olmecs to the Aztecs. Colossal sculptures of heads, fish vessels, and ancient masks were just a few of the art pieces hanging in every dining room. Dinner for two at the Sofía’s in Dallas, Texas, set back most patrons nearly two hundred dollars — before ordering the wine.

  “Sonia, how are you enjoying your stay here?” Jorge asked, after taking a long sip on his mineral water.

  “Well, it’s just horrible. I feel like I’m being mistreated, and I’m ready to go home. You people are obnoxious, terrible hosts; the food is just disgusting.”

  Miguel nearly dropped his fork. He turned to her.

  She burst out laughing and added, “No, seriously, I’m only kidding. Of course it’s incredible.”

  Jorge finally smiled and turned to Alexsi. “You see? That is a sense of humor. That is what I’m talking about. You are much too lovely and much too serious.”

  Alexsi smiled and reached for her wine. “Being lovely requires serious work.”

  “Ah, and clever,” Jorge added, then reached over and gave her a kiss.

  Miguel sighed and glanced away.

  The conversation throughout dinner was focused on Sonia, her experiences at school, what she thought about the government in Spain, and her opinions about the European economy in general. She held her own as his father continued to interrogate her. When the meal was over, and they were leaning back and trying to breathe past their swelling waistlines, Jorge leaned toward the table and hardened his gaze on Miguel.

  “Son, I have great news for you. I’ve been waiting to announce this, but I think this is as good a time as any. You’ve been accepted for a summer apprenticeship at Banorte.”

  Miguel was about to frown but held back the reaction. His father was beaming, his eyes full of a wonder Miguel had not seen in years.

  An apprenticeship at Banorte? What would they have him doing? Filing financial records? Would he be working in a branch or a corporate office? What was his father trying to do? Ruin his entire summer?

  “Miguel …what’s wrong?”

  He swallowed.

  “You’re not excited. This will be a valuable experience. You can take what you’ve learned as an undergraduate and put it in action. Theory can only take you so far. You need to work in the field to see how these things operate. And then you’ll return to school for your MBA, knowing full well what is happening at the bank. This kind of experience you cannot get any other way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You disagree?”

  “Uh, I just …”

  “If you’ll excuse me?” asked Sonia, rising from her chair. Miguel immediately stood and helped her out. “I need to use the bathroom,” she added.

  “Me, too,” said Alexsi, glancing emphatically at Miguel.

  Jorge waited until the women left and the servants had finished clearing their plates. Then he gestured that they should venture onto the deck to take in the moonlit ocean.

  They stood there at a railing, his father with a drink still in hand, Miguel trying to muster the courage to decline his father’s offer.

  “Miguel, did you think you were going to run around all summer and do nothing?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “This is a great opportunity.”

  “I understand.”

  “But you don’t want it.”

  He sighed and finally faced his father. “I wanted to take Sonia on a vacation.”

  “But you’re just back from Spain.”

  “I know, but I want to show her our country. I was thinking about San Cristóbal de las Casas.”

  Jorge’s expression began to soften, and his gaze drifted past Miguel and to the ocean. San Cristóbal was a place his parents had often visited, one of his mother’s favorite cities in all of Mexico. She loved the highlands of Chiapas and used to talk about the twisting streets, the brightly colored houses with their red-tiled roofs, and the green mountains all around. The place was rich in culture and Mayan history.

  “I remember the first time I took your mother there …” He took another deep breath and could not go on.

  “I think Sonia would love it, too.”

  He nodded. “I’ll call them at the bank. You take the helicopter and spend a week there. Then, after that, you will go to work. If you want Sonia to remain here, that’s fine, but you will be working.”

  Miguel drew back his head in shock. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll have an escort while
you’re there,” his father reminded him.

  “I understand. But can they remain discreet, like they did in Spain?”

  “I’ll make that happen. So what do you think of this girl?”

  “She’s …great.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “Of course. You found her for me.”

  “No, not just that. She’s very elegant. She would be a magnificent addition to our family.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to rush anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, we’ve stopped by for dessert,” called Miguel’s aunt from the doorway, with Arturo at her shoulder. “Are we too late?”

  “Never too late,” said Jorge, giving her a kiss, then shaking Arturo’s hand.

  While they chatted, Castillo was behind him, lifting his chin at Miguel, who shifted over to the man. “Do you need something, Fernando?”

  “Yes, I’ve been trying to watch the monitors with my bad eye — if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “I wouldn’t do that again, though,” he said. “Your father would not appreciate it. He would say you are not treating her like a lady.”

  “Understood. Thank you, Fernando. That was foolish.”

  “I was young, too. I did things like that.”

  Miguel placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend.” He then drifted back onto the deck, where he caught his father telling Arturo that he can really make a difference and that they should work together to stem the violence in Juárez.

  “I’m only the governor, Jorge. There is only so much I can do. The president’s policies are not working. They are only causing more violence. I just received another report today about more killings in the city, and just yesterday I received yet another death threat.”

  “You are the best and the brightest we have. You know what to do. But above all, don’t get discouraged. This violence will come to an end. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  “Jorge, you may have heard this before, but not yet from me. I must add my voice to the others.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You should become the next president of Mexico.”

  Jorge recoiled. “Me?”

  “You have the connections and the finances. You could run a remarkable campaign.”

  Jorge began laughing. “No, no, no. I am a businessman, nothing more.”

  Miguel studied his father, the look of incredulity on the man’s face, with just a hint of guilt in his eyes, as though he was letting everyone down if he didn’t run.

  “Did you miss me?” Sonia asked, hooking her arm around Miguel’s.

  He turned to her and whispered, “I did. And I have a surprise for you.”

  9 CONFIANZA

  Bonita Real Hotel

  Juárez, Mexico

  He wanted to choke her while they were having sex because he’d read about erotic asphyxiation and she’d told him that it was a turn-on to be dominated by him.

  But when Dante Corrales wrapped both hands around Maria’s neck, while she had her heels firmly planted on his shoulders, he got a little too carried away, and by the time he reached orgasm, Maria was no longer moving.

  “Maria! Maria!”

  He slid her legs aside and dropped to her, putting his ear to her mouth, listening, his own breath ragged, his pulse still racing, growing more rapid as images of Maria’s funeral flashed through his mind.

  The panic came in a shudder through his shoulders. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  Suddenly, her eyes snapped away. “You fucker! You could have killed me!”

  “What the fuck? You were faking it!”

  “What did you think? You think I’d be stupid enough to let you kill me? Dante, you need to be careful!”

  He smacked her across the face. “You dumb bitch! You scared the shit out of me!”

  She smacked him across the face, and his eyes grew wide, his hand balling into a fist, his teeth coming together.

  But then she looked at him. And burst out laughing. He grabbed her, draped her over his lap, her tight, shiny ass facing him. He spanked her till her cheeks glowed. “Never do that again! Never!”

  “Yes, Daddy. Yes …”

  Fifteen minutes later, he’d left the hotel, making sure Ignacio at the front desk had things under control. Several small-time dealers were coming in to pick up some product, and he went over the details of the sale.

  Corrales had just bought the hotel a few months prior and was in the process of having it completely renovated — paint, carpeting, furniture, everything. He wished his parents could see him now. “I don’t work here,” he would have told them. “I own the place.”

  The building was only four stories, and they had only about forty rooms. He intended to make at least ten of them “luxury” suites, within which he would entertain more important clients. He’d had a little trouble finding engineers, since most of the best ones were being employed in the tunneling operations along the border. He found that ironic. The plumbers and drywallers were already on the job. He hired an interior designer from San Diego, and Maria had talked him into bringing on a friend and real estate agent who practiced feng shui so they could get the “energy” aligned in every room. That made Maria happy, so he’d agreed without rolling his eyes.

  He drove out along Manuel Gómez Morín, following the wide road along the border until he reached a small neighborhood of town homes whose driveways lay behind tall, wrought-iron gates and whose windows were protected by similar bars. These were newer homes, with tiled roofs and high-end bulletproof touring sedans parked in the driveways. Most residents were members of the cartel or relatives of members. Corrales reached a cul-de-sac, wheeled around, and waited. Finally, Raúl and Pablo appeared from one doorway and hopped into the Escalade, both wearing tailored slacks, shirts, and leather jackets.

  “Let’s make a statement tonight,” said Corrales. “Are the other four assholes ready?”

  “Yes,” answered Pablo. “No problem.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” Corrales reminded him. He was referring to the hotel in Nogales, where they’d gone after the second of Zúñiga’s spies, but the man had escaped. They’d dumped the body of the first on the doorstep of a house they knew Zúñiga owned in Nogales, but they hadn’t heard anything from the man since. Ernesto Zúñiga, aka “El Matador,” had homes in many cities throughout Mexico, and he’d recently built a ranch house in the foothills southwest of Juárez. It was a four-thousand-square-foot residence with a brick-paver driveway and security gates and cameras, as well as men posted outside and throughout the foothills.

  There was no sneaking up on the place, and Corrales didn’t care about that. The point was for their rival to know they were there — and to send him an unforgettable message.

  Corrales had spent the last few years studying Zúñiga, his men, his operation, and his history. You kept your enemies closer than your friends, of course, and Corrales frequently lectured new sicarios about how cunning and deadly the Sinaloa Cartel was and continued to be.

  Zúñiga himself was the fifty-two-year-old son of a cattle rancher and was born in La Tuna near Badiraguato, Mexico. He’d sold citrus as a kid, and rumor had it that he was growing opium poppy on his father’s ranch by the time he was eighteen. Zúñiga’s father and uncle helped him get a job working for the Sinaloa Cartel as a truck driver, and he’d spent the better part of his twenties helping to transport marijuana and cocaine to their destinations within Mexico.

  By the time he was thirty, he’d impressed his bosses enough to be put in charge of all shipments moving from the Sierra to the cities and border. He was one of the first men to use planes to transport cocaine directly into the United States, and he coordinated all boat arrivals of coke. He began establishing command-and-control centers throughout the country and often engaged in operations to rip off other cartel shipments en route. The Juárez Cartel had been robbed by his men
on no less than twelve occasions.

  A massive undercover operation in the 1990s, one spearheaded by the Federal Police, left the Sinaloa Cartel without a leader, and Zúñiga easily filled those shoes. He married a nineteen-year-old soap-opera star, and fathered two children with her, but the boys and wife were executed following his theft of two million dollars’ worth of Juárez Cartel cocaine. Zúñiga sent a thousand red roses to the funeral but did not appear himself — and that was a smart decision. He would have been summarily executed by Juárez members waiting near the funeral home and church.

  Corrales had dreams of launching a military-style attack on Zúñiga’s house with rocket-propelled grenades, machine guns, and a Javelin missile that would race upward like a flare, arc higher, then roll to make a top-down strike on the man’s roof, obliterating him and his little palace in one burst, like a star exploding. He’d watched that weapon in use on the Discovery Channel.

  However, as his superiors pointed out, Corrales’s attacks must remain very small in scale, just enough to give Zúñiga pause until they received permission to make a bold move and attack the man head-on. It was also true that if they took Zúñiga alive, they could more easily confiscate his assets and take over his entire smuggling operation by torturing the details out of him. When Corrales had asked why they couldn’t attack yet, all he got were vague replies about timing and politics, so he decided to carry out a few small plans of his own.

  Corrales drove his men out to the demolition site of an old apartment building, which now lay in heaps of concrete blocks and stucco, with wooden struts jutting up into the night like fangs. They parked, ventured around the first two piles, and found their four new recruits holding two other men at gunpoint. None of the recruits was older than twenty, all wearing baggy pants and T-shirts, two of them heavily tattooed. The two men they were holding were similarly dressed, and both had thick tufts of hair under their lips.

  “Great work,” said Corrales to the men. “I really thought you’d fuck this up.”

  One lanky kid with a giraffe’s neck shot Corrales the evil eye. “These bitches were easy to catch. You have to give us more credit, you know.”