Méndez reviewed the notes he had jotted down on the plane. After the Secretary’s visit, he and his team had done research and telephone reporting. He was convinced that the Mexican intelligence document was genuine. But he needed confirmation at a high level in Washington. It was time for Line of Investigation to make its mark north of the border.
“We’ll have to confiscate that notebook, Mr. Méndez,” a jovial voice said. “In your hands, it qualifies as a lethal weapon.”
Daniels had made this affectionate corny joke in the past, but he had the flair to pull it off. Méndez laughed. They exchanged hugs and Mexican-style double backslaps. They talked about travel, family, weather. Drinks arrived—Absolut for Daniels, a Coronita for Méndez.
“Mr. Daniels, let me say again how happy I am to see you,” he said. “The private sector treats you well.”
The lawyer’s sleek looks reminded Méndez of Duke Ellington, though Daniels was in better shape and lacked the mustache. He wore a tapered pin-striped suit, dapper rather than flashy. His close-cut curls were sprinkled with gray.
“A true pleasure to see you, Mr. Méndez.” He pronounced it “Mendez.” “But please, call me Sylvester.”
“Then call me Leo.” Embarrassed about his accent, Méndez hoped the beer would loosen his linguistic inhibitions. “I appreciate that you make me the favor now that I am again a journalist.”
“When I see your byline—you all are writing good stuff, by the way—I remember that case. It was special.”
“I must thank you once more, Sylvester, for protecting my family.”
Daniels gestured gallantly with his glass. “Do you ever wish you were still a cop?”
Méndez smiled. “It was a masquerade.”
“You were damn good at it.”
“You are generous. I miss the Diogenes Group, the solidarity. Perhaps I miss the, eh”—he remembered the Secretary’s phrase—“violent emotions. Also, it is more easy to investigate when you have a pistol and a badge.”
“No doubt.”
“Do you miss the Department of Justice, Sylvester?”
“Not the measly paychecks. Or the bureaucracy. Now, do I prefer locking up bad guys to defending them? Affirmative.” Daniels stole a glance at his watch. “So what brings you to town, my brother? I’m glad you caught me. I’m only back from Cape Cod to help my daughter pack for Swarthmore.”
“A possible story. With some connection to our old enemies.” Méndez gave a simplified summary, omitting the Secretary and the intelligence report. Daniels signaled the waiter for another round.
“I would like to know this history of narco-money and the Blake Acquisitions Group,” Méndez said. “To understand the Blake family, their relations to the senator and others in Mexico. And the accusations that the Blakes have political protection now.”
Daniels paused while the waiter set down drinks. He used the waiter’s departure to glance at the tables around them.
“A high-value target, Leo. As long as I can remember, the Blakes have been a white whale.”
For Méndez, speaking English was like reading in a cave by candlelight. Sometimes the candle flickered. He first thought it was a racial allusion, then realized it was a literary one.
“Collectively, for the federal government, you understand,” Daniels continued. “I avoid obsessions. They cloud one’s judgment. Yet and still, I’ve devoted my share of time to the Blakes. Heavyweight players. Too dirty to ignore, too big to fall.”
“Is it true Blake Senior met the senator in Mexico buying racehorses?”
“That sounds right. They also have a shared taste for vintage cars.”
Méndez asked about the past investigations of the Blakes.
“Variations on a theme,” Daniels said. “A U.S. attorney gets a phone call from main Justice. His boss is fired up. He says, ‘Okay, about that Blake case—those suckers are going down. Man the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’ The prosecutor is stoked. He puts his team to work. Weeks go by; the boss calls from DC again. All wimpy, like he just got a first-class ass-whipping. ‘Forget it. Stand down. Leave them be.’ Last time, the boss on the phone was yours truly.”
Méndez laughed. His instincts had been good. Bingo with the first source. Daniels knew the topic. He had authority and credibility. Méndez wondered if he had kept files.
“The allegations are true? They laundered money for Mexican narcos?”
“Well, that depends how you define true.” Daniels’s brow furrowed. “Leo, I’ve never spoken about this to the media. We’re on deep background here. I’m only talking to you because, well, you’re my hermano.”
“Muchas gracias.”
“As you know, banks paid fines. Employees were prosecuted.”
“But minor figures. The Blakes, father and son, were not touched.”
“As I recall, the investigating agents felt the Blakes had approved this systematic enterprise. The intel indicated the senator steered associates to the U.S. banks. Mexican drug proceeds, dirty political money. East European, Middle Eastern mafias. All looking to wash cash.”
“What happened?”
“Lack of proof, smart lawyers, political muscle. Witnesses and suspects disappeared, reversed themselves. One or two got popped. In Mexico.”
“The Blakes ordered murders?”
“Whoa.” Daniels leaned back. “I didn’t say that. Never saw evidence of it. I doubt they gave explicit orders.”
“I see.”
“We couldn’t prove an overarching conspiracy. Assistant U.S. attorneys and supervisory agents ran into career problems. The fines were a mosquito bite for the Blakes, a footnote. People stopped talking about it. The group diversified into finance, real estate, hotels, you name it. Staggering wealth, my friend. Stratospheric.”
“And the federal government considered other charges? Evasion of taxes, insider trading, selling bad financial instruments?”
“Yep. The Blake Group always played it close to the line. But so do a lot of companies. These complex financial cases are difficult to prove up. There’s a fear juries won’t convict, and we look like we’re persecuting success, sticking it to Wall Street. Of course, it was hard to convict John Gotti too, back when I was a rookie AUSA. But we didn’t wimp out on that one.”
“Perhaps the Italian Mafia does not have so many friends.”
“Perhaps.”
Méndez thought about the intelligence report in his briefcase. He started to ask about it in a roundabout way, but when he said “new investigation,” Daniels raised a hand to cut him off.
“Before you go any further, Leo. So far we’ve been discussing matters from my tenure at Justice. Historic, adjudicated, public-record cases. Regarding current events, I can’t help you.”
“Why?”
“The influence of the Blake Group touches many people and entities in this city. Case in point—colleagues at my firm represent them. A big client.”
Méndez tried to hide his alarm.
Daniels sighed. “Do you know the joke about lawyers and rats?”
“No.”
“Turns out scientists have decided to use lawyers instead of rats in lab experiments. For three reasons. Number one, there are more lawyers than rats. Number two, there’s no fear that lab assistants will develop sympathy for the lawyers. And number three, there are certain things rats will…not…do.”
They both chuckled. Méndez thought fast. Would Daniels talk to him again? Had Méndez inadvertently tipped off his targets?
Daniels continued, “One thing I will not do is provide services to dirtballs like the Blakes. Yet and still, since they’re clients of my firm, it’s inappropriate for me to discuss. See what I mean?”
“Of course.”
Méndez hadn’t asked his reporters to check if Daniels’s law firm worked for the Blake Group. The possibility hadn’t occurred to him—an embarrassing sign of his naïveté about the machinery of Washington.
Daniels glanced at his watch again. He typed a text mess
age on his phone.
Now comes an excuse to leave, Méndez thought.
He was wrong. The lawyer leaned forward. The debonair face filled with concern.
“Leo, you are the last person I need to lecture about risks. You’ve gone toe to toe with giants. You’ve faced danger with remarkable courage. What I’m trying to tell you is, if you pursue this story, please watch yourself.”
The sun spread violet hues on the Potomac River. The taxi cruised south past bikers and joggers, picnics and sailboats. Méndez admired the low skyline across the water, spotting the rectangular bulk of the Kennedy Center, the cupola of the Jefferson Memorial, the apex of the Washington Monument. Unlike New York or Los Angeles, with their legions of European and Asian visitors, Washington was full of American tourists. He could see why. Although time and wisdom had extinguished his anti-Americanism, he remained cynical about patriotic clichés. Yet he found the vista inspiring. If it had that impact on him, for Americans it was a physical celebration of their dream. And a way to forget the damage done to that dream.
Méndez took stock. The golden source was awkwardly close to the enemy camp. However, Daniels had confirmed key points. The story had become real, human, tangible. Méndez was fairly confident that Daniels would not divulge anything to his colleagues at the law firm. His distaste had seemed genuine. His warning had sounded heartfelt. And familiar. Countless times, Méndez had been urged to back off stories and investigations by friends, enemies or ambiguous intermediaries. It was an uneasy exercise with a vocabulary all its own.
You are stepping into hazardous terrain, Licenciado. You are messing with heavyweight people. Peces gordos, gente pesada, tipos chingones. Fat cats, heavyweights, tough guys. Delicate interests are involved. Go slow. Aguas. Cuídese. Watch yourself, Méndez. No le pise la cola al león. Don’t step on the lion’s tail. Te vamos a cortar los huevos. We are going to cut your balls off.
It had not stopped him in Mexico. He would be a poor excuse for a reporter if he let it stop him in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
The taxi left him on a tree-shaded street near the genteel bustle and red-brick sidewalks of Old Town Alexandria. Isabel Puente lived in a three-story unit in a row of attached town houses.
Always the workaholic, she had just arrived home from the office. She opened the front door wearing a blue pin-striped pantsuit and sunglasses propped in her thick black hair.
“Leo!”
They embraced. He hadn’t seen Isabel Puente in more than a year. When he was chief of the Diogenes Group, they talked or met several times a week. Seeing her now drove home how much he missed her, missed working with her, missed that life of nonstop action. Overcoming a moment of emotion, he kept his manner amiable and relaxed. He handed her the bottle of Albariño wine he had brought as a present.
“Isabel, what a pleasure to see you again. What a lovely home.”
“Thank you. You should have brought your wife and kids, I don’t know what to do with all of this room.”
She installed him in an armchair with a glass of wine, then put on a disc of Gloria Estefan singing standards in Spanish and English. Before setting the table, she took off her jacket and removed her holstered gun from her waistband. She was not the type to stop carrying a gun because she worked at headquarters. Méndez had never seen her without it.
“I hope you don’t mind takeout Thai food,” she called from the kitchen.
“Not at all.” He was grateful to speak Spanish again. “I hate to impose.”
On a table holding framed photos was a picture of a young Valentine Pescatore in his Border Patrol uniform. Méndez wondered if her renewed friendship with Pescatore might lead to romance again. They both had hot tempers, and their breakup had been uncomfortable for friends in the cross fire.
During dinner, Méndez said, “I heard from Valentine the other day.”
“You did?”
“Just briefly. I put him in touch with Athos and Porthos. He’s doing an investigation for Facundo in Mexico.”
“Mexico?” She refilled his water glass, eyes on him, tone mild.
“Yes. I don’t know anything more. Do you see him much?”
“Not often. But he’s doing well. Working hard. Studying too.”
“An impressive young man. I don’t mean to sound paternal.”
“He brings out that quality in people.”
The upturned white collar of Isabel’s blouse highlighted her cinnamon-colored skin. When Méndez had first met Isabel, she had dazzled him. Working side by side with her, sharing risks and secrets and sorrows, he’d had moments when he felt attracted to her—and guilty about it. Now he was fifty, and she was in her mid-thirties. The dynamic had changed. He felt paternal toward her as well.
She asked about his website or, as she put it mischievously, “That left-wing media thing of yours.”
He feigned indignation. “We are a model of Anglo-Saxon objectivity.”
“What are you working on?”
“I had an unexpected visit from the Secretary.”
He rarely revealed sources to anyone, but Isabel was an exception. In fact, he wanted her to know. Just in case.
“The Mexico City Machiavelli. How is he?”
“Perverse as ever. He brought me a gift.”
He put the intelligence report on the table. She read it, toying with her hair, winding it tightly around her fingers. She flipped back a page and reread something. Finally, she looked up at him, feline and intent.
“You plan to write a story about this?”
“Possibly.”
She enunciated in a legalistic tone. “Our ongoing arrangement is we talk on background, and you quote me as a ‘senior law enforcement official’ or a ‘senior national security official.’ Usually, that’s fine.”
“Not this time?”
“Consider this truly off the record. Way off the record.”
“Isabel, my first desire is to protect you at all costs.”
“If there were a leak investigation…”
The corridors of power had made Isabel more cautious, he thought. It was unlike her to worry about an internal investigation, much less admit it. He asked if the report was authentic and accurate.
“You’ve seen more Mexican government documents than I have. I don’t doubt the authenticity. As for accuracy…parts of it are consistent with my understanding of events.”
He grinned. “Which parts? What events?”
“Tell me your assessment, Leo.”
“The Blake Acquisitions Group was involved in money laundering years ago, with the help of the senator. It was a decisive moment in the company’s growth. They got away with it because your Justice Department did not pursue the case—a problem of political will.”
He paused. Isabel nodded.
“And I believe today, because of activity related to this merger, there is a new effort to investigate the Blake Group and the senator. And new interference.”
“I wouldn’t push back on that,” she said.
“The Secretary suggested this might involve a side deal with the Ruiz Caballeros. For the release of Junior from prison.”
Isabel frowned. “And?”
“It’s unlikely. I think he used Junior to whet my interest.”
“I think you’re right. The drug connection was important years ago, when the Blakes needed an infusion of cash. Allegedly. Nobody wants Junior back on the street, including the senator. This is a different kind of business. A different level.”
“Is Senator Ruiz Caballero a target of a U.S. investigation?”
“Off the record?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a conspirator. A fixer. He’d get a big kickback. But he’s not one of our top targets.”
“What about Walter Blake? Or Perry Blake, the son? They must be top targets.”
Her eyes hardened. “That’s a logical conclusion. They’ve drawn a lot of investigative effort. But will it amount to anything? The answer depends on the i
ssue you mentioned before. Political will.”
“So the obstacles are really north of the border. This is more an American affair than a Mexican one.”
“I suppose.”
“The report is not clear about the new investigation. I am inclined to believe it concerns money laundering. But the way you are looking at me makes me think I should expand my analysis. Bribery, other forms of corruption?”
“I’ve always respected your analytical abilities.”
Méndez refilled their water glasses.
“As you often remind me, I am a Latin American intellectual of a certain age and ideological provenance. When it comes to American magnates, I start from a premise that an inmate in the penitentiary of Tijuana once described to me as ‘the Napoleon law’: guilty until proven innocent.”
“That kind of silly attitude has made Cuba and Venezuela models of democracy.”
“The point is, I want to understand the Blakes.”
“If you’ve seen pictures of Walt Blake, he is pretty much what he looks like: big, crude, and mean. Also smart enough to talk anyone into anything.”
Méndez recalled the file photos of a bearlike figure with a bald head, a pointy white beard, and a look of barely restrained rage.
“One of my reporters interviewed a former manager at the Blake Group. He said Walter Blake looked happiest when he was calculating how many thousands of employees he could fire at companies he took over. He liked to sit with the consultants to make the lists. What about the son?”
“He has a better image. Media-savvy, good-looking. But don’t forget, Perry Blake was the one directly involved in the dirty banks. The father had the connections, but the son oversaw the actual laundering. Allegedly.”
Méndez and Isabel talked for another half hour. As he left the house, he said, “The more I hear, the more I like this story.”
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