by Tom Clancy
“You tempt me with your lies, you really do, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, because neither your group nor I will ever bring down the Juárez Cartel.”
Moore frowned deeply. “Why do you say that?”
“I thought your people knew everything.”
“If we did, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Very well.” Zúñiga gathered his breath, and what he said next sounded somewhat rehearsed, as though he’d given this speech to his men to put their actions into perspective. “I’ll tell you a story about a man who grew up very poor, a man who watched his brother die before his eyes, a man who saved up enough money and went to America for his education, then returned to Mexico to start many businesses. This is a man who used drug trafficking to help support and finance those businesses, a man who over the years became one of the richest men in the world. This is the man you want to bring down, the Caesar you want to overthrow, but his resources are endless, and all we can do now is fight small battles in a war we lose.”
“What’s his name?”
Zúñiga began to chuckle. “Are you serious? If your group is so powerful, they should already know.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t.”
Zúñiga made a face. “Jorge Rojas.”
Moore nearly fell out of the pew. He knew the name well. “Rojas is the leader of the Juárez Cartel? He’s always been a person of interest to us, but there’s never been any real evidence to pin on him. How can you be sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. He’s threatened me personally. And he’s buried himself behind a wall of beautiful lies so that no one can ever touch him. He has the audacity of Pablo Escobar and the resources of Bill Gates. He is the smartest and most powerful drug trafficker in the history of the world.”
“Do your men know this? Are they aware of how powerful their enemy is?”
Zúñiga shook his head. “They don’t need to know that. It’s too depressing to discuss with them, so we don’t talk about it …”
Moore slowly nodded. That explained why Fitzpatrick hadn’t come to the joint task force earlier with the knowledge that Rojas was the cartel leader. “If he’s got so much money, why would he continue to run a drug cartel?”
Zúñiga’s eyes widened. “Why not? People have questioned why during such tough economic times his businesses never fail. It’s because they are helped by drug money, always helped. This is all Rojas knows, but now he is far removed from the daily operation and his lieutenants do all the work. I really believe he is living in denial now. Truly living in denial. He puts his name on schools and calls himself a saint, while he employs demons to do all his dirty work.”
“Dante Corrales.”
Zúñiga recoiled at the sound of the name. “Yes. How do you know that name?”
“I told you we know a lot — but not everything.”
“What else do you know?”
“We know they control the border tunnels, and they rip off your guys. We’ve heard they disrupt and steal your shipments, and use the Federal Police to kill your men while their boys are left alone. We know the Guatemalans are hunting you now. I can get you access back to the tunnels and get the police and the Guatemalans off your back. We can work together, and we’ll find a way to bring down Rojas.”
Zúñiga’s lips curled in a dubious grin. “A ridiculous dream. I’m sorry, Mr. Howard. Luis is going to take you to the bank. And you’re going to give him another fifty thousand dollars. Then we’ll decide whether you live or die.”
Moore’s voice turned softer, more emphatic. “Ernesto, I didn’t come here alone. You don’t need any more enemies. You have enough already. Let me go, and I will earn your trust. I promise you. Give me a number that you and I can use to talk directly.”
“No.”
“You have nothing to lose. In fact, you’ll have more to lose if you don’t do something soon. Even if you don’t believe who I say I am — and you still think I’m DEA, what’s the difference? I’m telling you, we won’t touch you. We want the Juárez Cartel. We want Rojas.”
“You’re a very persuasive man, Mr. Howard. You seem almost too comfortable, as though you have done this many times before.”
Zúñiga was very observant and certainly correct, although the last time Moore had been in a house of worship it had been a chapel, and he’d dismissed the Navy chaplain with a wave of his hand.
“You cannot abandon your faith,” the chaplain had said. “Not at a time like this, when your faith is what will carry you through. You will overcome.”
“I want to believe that, Father. I really do…”
Moore narrowed his gaze on Zúñiga. “I’ll give you the money. You let me go, and while you consider my offer, I’ll see what I can do to help your business. I think you might be very surprised.”
“They’re going to say I’m crazy for trusting you.”
“No need to trust me yet. I told you I will earn it. Will you give me that opportunity?”
Zúñiga frowned. “I didn’t get where I am by taking the easy or the safe road. I told my dear wife to take a chance on me, and she did. And now I know how she feels.”
“Thank you, señor.” Moore proffered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Zúñiga took it—
And then he squeezed the hand firmly and tugged Moore toward him. “Do the right thing.”
Moore’s voice did not waver. “I will.”
Consulado Inn
Juárez, Mexico
It was nearly ten p.m., and Johnny Sanchez was alone in his hotel room, typing furiously on his notebook computer after having just inhaled two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, the grease-stained wrappers and containers lying on the desk near his mouse. The city’s lights were gleaming, and the U.S. Consulate was just five hundred yards off and clearly visible through his window. He pushed back his desk chair and reread what he’d just written:
EXT. BURNING HOTEL — NIGHT
As Corrales falls to his knees in the street, the fires raging skyward: an inferno of an old life turning to ashes. The boy looks skyward, the flames reflected in his tear-filled eyes, and he rages aloud against the heavens. We cry with him …
“That is fucking beautiful,” Johnny shouted at the computer screen. “Fucking beautiful! Who’s the man? You the man, Johnny! This bitch is going to sell big-time!”
A slight click came from the hallway, and as Johnny looked up, the front door opened. Johnny bolted from his chair and gasped at a man dressed in dark slacks, a black shirt, and a leather jacket. The man was over six feet, with a closely cropped beard, an earring, and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He appeared either Arabic or Hispanic, Johnny wasn’t sure, but he felt pretty certain about the make of the pistol in the man’s hand. It was a Glock, all right, most certainly loaded, and pointed at Johnny’s head. Attached silencer. Johnny’s pistol was in the nightstand drawer, out of reach, damn it.
“What the fuck is this?” Johnny asked in Spanish.
The man answered in English. “This is me saying, ‘Hi, Johnny. I read your article. Good stuff. You’re a good writer.’”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man’s expression twisted. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to respect a man who’s got a gun to your head? These are those little life lessons she should’ve taught you.”
“Are you done with your alpha-male bullshit? What the fuck are you doing here?”
“How long did you think it would take? Did you think you could come down here to Mexico and hang out with a drug cartel and not gain anyone’s attention?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an investigative journalist. I report on criminal activity. You read my fucking article. You think I’m in bed with them? You’re fucking nuts. And I’m calling the police.”
The man shifted up to him, raising the pistol even higher. His playful tone vanished. “Sit down, motherfucker.”
Johnny returned to his chair. “Jesus Christ …”
“The wheels are spinning now, huh? You’re thinking, Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into? Well, you should’ve thought about that before you started working with Corrales. Blood might be thicker than water, but as I like to say, lead will always get you dead.”
“Look, asshole, all I’m doing is writing. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not taking from anyone.”
“But you’re not helping anyone, either.”
“Bullshit I’m not. I’m taking the American public into the trenches of the drug war here. This is a behind-the-scenes tour into hell, into how screwed up this community has become.”
“That sounds pretty fucking dramatic, and I guess it is, since you’ve got a gun to your head right now. Are you going to put me in an article?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man widened his eyes. “I’m your last friend in the whole wide world. Now show me your hand.”
“What?”
“Show me your hand.”
Johnny extended one palm, and the man used his free hand to grab Johnny’s and turn it backside up.
“Here, hold this,” said the man, offering Johnny the gun.
“What the fuck?” Johnny cried.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not loaded.”
The man shoved the gun in Johnny’s free hand, then reached into an inner breast pocket and produced a large syringe that he shoved into the soft tissue between Johnny’s thumb and forefinger. The pain was sharp for a second, and Johnny screamed and demanded to know what was happening. The man released him and said, “Gun?”
“Are you for real?”
The guy made a face. “Gun?”
“What did you do? Poison me?”
“Easy, Shakespeare. It’s just an implant. GPS. So we can keep you safe.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“There are a lot of letters in the alphabet, Johnny, and I’m betting as a writer you can figure that out.”
“DEA?” Johnny asked. “Oh my God.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I’m afraid you’ve just climbed into bed with the United States government.”
Johnny’s shoulders shrank. “This cannot be happening.”
“Look, you can’t talk. It’s already too late for that. If you go to Corrales and tell him we’re here, you’ll die. We won’t kill you, he will. Like I said, I’m your last friend. You won’t make it out of Mexico alive without me.”
Johnny’s eyes began to burn, and he was fast running out of breath. “What do you want? What am I supposed to do?”
“The Juárez Cartel is being led by Jorge Rojas.”
Johnny burst out laughing. “Is that what you dumbass Feds think? Oh my God …stupidity run amok!”
“I got that from Zúñiga.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Then you know who he is, and I’m sure Corrales can confirm that Rojas is his boss. I need you to pump Corrales for everything you can get on Rojas.”
“Do I have to wear a wire?”
“Not right now. But we’ll see.”
Johnny stiffened. “I won’t do it. I’m leaving Mexico tonight; you Feds can go fuck yourselves.”
“Yeah, and the moment you step off the plane in California we’ll place you under arrest.”
“For what?”
The man eyed the junk-food wrappers on the desk. “For failing to eat a balanced diet.”
“Dude, you’d better leave now.”
“You are the son of Corrales’s godmother. He trusts you like you were blood. And you feed his ego. That’s very important to us, and you can do the right thing here. You might be afraid now, but I need you to think how many people will be saved because of your help. I can sit you down and spend a week showing you how many families have been ruined by drugs.”
“Spare me the bleeding-heart bullshit. People choose to buy and use drugs. Corrales and the cartel are just the suppliers. You want to talk politics, then let’s talk about the Mexican economy.”
The man waved Johnny off and pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. The guy’s name was Scott Howard, and he was president of a solar-energy company. “So you’re Mr. Howard? Yeah, right.”
“My number’s there. You let me know the next time you’re going to make contact with Corrales.”
Howard — or whatever his name was — pocketed his “empty” weapon and moved swiftly to the door.
Johnny sat there as a shudder ripped through his shoulders. What would he do?
20 DIVERSIONS
Border Tunnel Construction Site
Mexicali, Mexico
It was seven A.M., and Dante Corrales was not in the mood to wait for a man who was supposed to be working for him, a man who answered to him, a man who knew better than to disrespect him like this. Corrales had yet to have his morning coffee, and he’d wanted to get this meeting over within five minutes, but the workers in the tunnel had told him that Romero had still not arrived and that he usually didn’t show up until eight a.m. What kind of bullshit was that? The man was being paid good money to get the job done, and he thought he could float in every morning at eight? Did he think he was a banker? Hell would be paid — with interest — and his failure to answer his cell phone was salt in the wound.
And so Corrales waited for him inside the warehouse, listening to the clunks and roars of heavy construction equipment being used next door. The vibrations worked their way up into his legs and back. Those guys got to work at dawn and finished at dusk. They didn’t stroll in at eight. They had a sense of urgency that Romero needed to learn.
“Go get me some goddamned coffee,” Corrales finally shouted at Raúl, who was loitering near the metal roll-up door with Pablo.
Raúl shook his head, muttered something under his breath, then headed outside, the sky washed pink by the rising sun. Pablo shifted up to Corrales and said, “Are you okay?”
“This fucking guy won’t be here till eight, you believe that shit? And why isn’t he answering his phone?”
“Something else is bothering you,” said Pablo. “You want to talk about it?”
“What’re you, my shrink?”
“You still upset about the two guys we lost at the V Bar? Don’t be. Those assholes screwed up the job big-time. I told you from the get-go they were cabrones.”
“I don’t give a shit about them. It’s the American I’m worried about. Can’t find him now. He could be working with the Federal Police, who knows …”
“Aw, that dumb shit probably just got scared off. He didn’t look like a Fed. Just some asshole business guy who thought he could come down here and get some Mexican slaves for his company, the fucker …”
“No, there’s something happening, and if we don’t keep our eyes wide open, this …all of this …is going to come tumbling down, and the boss will make sure you get buried right here.”
Corrales sighed and waited another five minutes for his coffee. Pablo continued to make small talk, most of which Corrales ignored. Raúl finally returned, and Corrales practically wrenched the cup from Raúl’s hand and took a long sip. His nose crinkled. This was hardly as good as the Starbucks he’d get on the other side of the border, but he’d drink it anyway, and as he reached the bottom of his cup at exactly 7:39, Pedro Romero dragged himself into the warehouse. He shoved his glasses farther up his nose and tugged at his jeans, which were dropping below his potbelly. He frowned at Corrales and the others and lifted his voice, “Buenos días.”
“Where the fuck you been?” Corrales asked, marching up to the man, whose gaze widened.
“I was at home, then I came here.”
“You don’t know how to answer your cell phone?”
“My battery died. I was recharging it in the car. Did you try to call me?”
“Uh, yeah. They told me you come in at eight a.m. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
Corrales smacked the man hard across the face. Romero recoiled and raised a palm to his cheek.
“Do you know why
I did that, old man? Do you? Because you are a digger! You are not a fucking banker! You get here when the sun comes up, and you leave when the sun goes down. Do you fucking understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to save your daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to collect your money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you get here when I say! Now, tell me right here, right now, that we have broken through to the other side and will be ready to begin shipping tonight.”
“I need a few more days.”
“What? ‘A few more days’? What the fuck is that?”
“I will show you how far we are, but we’ve had some trouble. As I told you in the beginning, the water table is very shallow here, and we’ve had to pump water out of the tunnel quite a few times already. It is a complicated operation.”
“Maybe if you got to work earlier, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Señor Corrales, I want to assure you that my being here one hour earlier would not make a huge difference. It takes all night to pump out the water, and we cannot dig while that’s happening.”
“Don’t challenge me, old man. You better make me a believer. Let’s go.”
“All right, but you must know that these men are working as hard as they can. I have two shifts, as you ordered, but I cannot remain here around the clock. I have my family to take care of, and my wife needs help.”
“Then you’d better find her some help, because I want this tunnel opened up and ready to go by tonight.”
“Tonight? There is too much dirt and rock left to remove. It is physically impossible.”
“No, it’s not. You’re going to make it happen. Trust me.”
Corrales’s smartphone rang. Fernando Castillo was calling. “Hello?”
“Dante, the boss has another job for you. We need you back right away.”
