Two days earlier, Balmaceda had been there in the garage of the task force when Méndez had opened the trunk to reveal Mauro Fernández Rochetti in his inert handcuffed disgrace. The DEA supervisor had thrown a bone-crushing arm around Méndez’s neck and whispered: “They should give you a medal, man. They should make you the fucking president of Mexico just for taking that animal off the street.”
“So now what?” Méndez asked.
“Now we go after them,” Isabel said.
“What about the informant?” Balmaceda interrupted. “The inside guy. He alive?”
Isabel kept her eyes on Méndez. She looked annoyed; she was so leery about burning Pescatore that she avoided mentioning him in group settings.
“We haven’t heard from him,” she said. “We believe he was on the plane. The plane belongs to Khalid and we tracked it only as far as Quito. But thanks to the FBI, and other agencies that will go unmentioned, we now have a precise location. Leo, you are familiar with Dr. Guardiola?”
“The narco-doctor. Junior’s personal physician.”
“He just left for Paraguay. Buffalo Mendoza called. Junior is not well.”
“Too much coca and drinking?”
“That’s not clear from the intercepts. But the doctor left quickly. He took a commercial flight. Junior must have used a clandestine airfield. Argentine intelligence says the smugglers have lots of them at the Triple Border. Anyway, we know where Junior is.”
“And?”
“You and I will do our best to catch him.”
Méndez shook his head. “I don’t know. Certainly, I’m impressed. If I had known I could get so many Americans indicted, I would have put Mauro in a car trunk a long time ago.”
Another fire-eating smile from Balmaceda, who said: “We’d been sitting on the indictments forever. Now we’ve got the Mexicans excited about corruption on our side—instead of how Mauro Fernández Rochetti ended up in San Diego. Or the judiciales who got so nicely popped at Bumpy.” He gave Athos a fraternal nod, one pistolero to another. Athos nodded back hesitantly.
Méndez had never been fond of the DEA supervisor; he had assumed that Balmaceda regarded him as a sneaky Mexican wannabe cop. Now it occurred to him that this was a potential ally he had failed to cultivate. Méndez said: “You handled the Secretary well by leaving Junior out of it for the moment. But listen: Do you really think we can walk into Ciudad del Este and put Junior in a trunk too? Isn’t this Khalid like an emperor down there?”
Daniels, the Justice Department boss from Washington, cleared his throat. He sat sideways, elbow on the table, sipping a glass of water. His demeanor had suggested he was not part of the proceedings, merely a thoughtful listener. Now he slid around to face Méndez.
“If I may,” Daniels said, straightening his tapered back in a wide-lapeled, double-breasted suit that looked as if it had been sewn onto him. He was African-American, late forties, hair and mustache sprinkled with gray. Isabel had confided that he was a high-level boss, smart, a real politician. His voice was resonant and mannered and he made no effort to pronounce Spanish words correctly.
“Khalid is powerful, Mr. Méndez. The Triple Border is a prototypical base for bad guys. That’s one reason we are so very keenly interested in this case. Khalid has connections to terrorism, hostile intelligence services. He moves dope and guns to South America, Africa and Europe. We don’t want him protecting Junior. We don’t want him doing business with the Ruiz Caballeros. We don’t want Islamic groups, Venezuelan and Iranian operatives, narco-guerrillas, developing a direct pipeline to Mexico and California.”
“I would say this pipeline already exists.”
Daniels’s refined ways reminded Méndez vaguely of Duke Ellington. “You may be right. Yet and still, Khalid is not the only force at the Triple Border. We will have a number of agencies supporting you. Full engagement. We intend to pressure him. See if we can push Junior into the open.”
“And if we actually put our hands on him? Do you think Senator Ruiz Caballero and his political friends will tolerate that?”
“Junior is more vulnerable than he seems,” Isabel said. “Thanks to you. You made him run.”
“I wonder,” Méndez said. “Let me remind you that my government still has not said Junior is a suspect.”
“There is a strategy there,” Daniels said. “The Secretary doesn’t have the wherewithal to confront the Ruiz Caballeros. Not publicly. But we think the political dynamics have changed. Your warrants have not been countermanded. If you catch Junior outside Mexico, if it’s a fait accompli, we think the Secretary would be willing to take the credit.”
“What courage.”
Daniels raised his hands and shoulders in a worldly, that’s-how-it-is gesture.
Méndez said: “Why the charade? Grab Junior yourselves, put a bag over his head and bring him here. You do it all the time with Muslims.”
“Not an option,” Daniels responded, ruffled, momentarily a bureaucrat on the defensive. “For one thing, it’s difficult to prove up crimes by him in the United States.”
“Even with Fernández Rochetti and the American officers you have detained? They worked for the Ruiz Caballero mafia.”
“Yet and still. It’s not a viable option, bilateral relations being what they are. This needs to be a Mexican operation. This needs to end with Junior Ruiz in a Mexican prison.”
“He will go into the front door and out of the back.”
“Leo.” Isabel Puente’s determined grin softened the snap in her voice. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? You haven’t caught him yet!”
There were chuckles. Méndez leaned back. He looked at Athos and Porthos. Patient, loyal. Ready to follow him to the lair of Cerberus and back.
“And listen,” Isabel added. “I think we should get going soon. The trail is hot. Besides, with all the yelling and screaming in Tijuana about the Mauro Fernández Rochetti incident, now is a really good time for you guys to take a long trip.”
Enough talk, Méndez decided. He had set this wild ride in motion on the morning they invaded El Bumpy. Now they had to hang on and keep going.
Méndez said in Spanish: “Well, boys, what do you think? Do we catch a plane?”
Los Angeles, Miami, overnight to Buenos Aires. There was a three-hour wait for the flight to Puerto Iguazú. While Athos and Porthos wandered duty-free shops in the Buenos Aires airport, Méndez and Isabel Puente sat in a restaurant reading classified briefings about the Triple Border. The dossier had been provided by the U.S. government, but was written in Spanish. Méndez assumed the original source was Argentine intelligence.
The report opened with a bang:
The Triple Border has become a focus of destabilization in South America. The legal order in the region has been substituted by institutionalized disorder. This involves the most varied forms of illicit activities, including money laundering, drug trafficking, arms trafficking, contraband, product piracy and fraud. American credit-card firms report the loss of millions of dollars from cloned and stolen cards in the region last year. A more profound concern is the presence of financiers, operatives, recruiters and spiritual figures of terrorist groups such as Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, the Muslim Brotherhood, al-Qaeda and others.
These illicit activities generate as much as $20 billion a year and have overwhelmed the governments of Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina, creating important pockets of corruption and attracting an increasing variety of international criminal networks and espionage services from Latin America, Asia, the Middle East and Eastern Europe. The new influx combines with the longtime presence of mafias in the historic merchant communities from Taiwan and Lebanon. This globalization of crime has become a political and economic threat for the region and, potentially, the hemisphere.
“Sounds like we are going to feel right at home,” Méndez told Isabel. He read through an economic analysis, a list of recent arrests and murders, and an intricate breakdown of which businesses were suspected fronts for criminal or extre
mist organizations. Most of the Middle Eastern figures were aligned with the kingpins known as Abbas and Khalid: Junior’s partners.
The blond waitress returned with another pleasantly strong coffee. She was slinky in a way that suggested outdoor exercise and harsh dieting. He found her tone and manner cheerful, but excessively informal.
“Surrounded by Argentines,” Méndez said as she walked off. “My God.”
“Do all Mexicans hate Argentines?” Isabel asked.
“Schopenhauer said: ‘Every nation mocks the other nations, and they are all correct.’ It’s not just us: Everyone dislikes the Argentines. They’re the yanquis of Latin America.”
“If you say so. I don’t have a problem with them.”
Méndez could see why. A table of airport employees, wavy-haired young men with radios, ties and white shirts, were glancing their way. They appraised Isabel, who was radiant despite a day of travel, a catwoman in dark blue leggings. Her sleeveless top displayed well-made shoulders the color of her coffee with milk. He wondered idly if the Argentines thought he and Isabel—leaning toward each other, murmuring behind their cups—were lovers. Or did they think she was too much for a thin, graying, sad-faced Mexican?
“Our Argentine at the Triple Border comes highly recommended,” she said. “They say he freelances for the Israelis too. He must have his hands full.”
Méndez nodded and toyed with his ham and cheese on toast.
“Isabel,” he said slowly. “Let me ask you something.”
“OK.”
“Please tell me if this is intrusive or inappropriate.”
“OK.”
“Are you still worried about Pescatore? Are you hoping that we will be able to rescue him? I have the impression, if you’ll forgive me, that you’re fond of him.”
Her thumb rose to press against her teeth. She cocked her head. “What are you trying to say, Leo?”
“That I am concerned. You care for him a great deal. No?”
She looked away. “That’s my business.”
“Of course. But I fear it’s inevitable you’ll be hurt. He’s not to be trusted. I still think he tipped off Junior that night in Colonia Postal. I think he has deceived you. And if you’ll forgive me, there’s a good chance he’s dead.”
She seemed to force herself to meet his eyes. Her coffee cup hovered; she sipped slowly, taking refuge. He regretted what he had started. But he was also relieved. Part of him wanted everything in the open.
“I’m doing this because it’s my job,” she said. “The biggest case of my career. Because you are my friend”—he started to thank her but she plowed on—“and because I hate Junior and what he stands for as much as you do. And I feel awful about Araceli. Even though I know for a fact she didn’t like me. No, let me finish. As for my personal life, I’m not going to hide my feelings for Valentine. You’re wrong about him. You judge people too quickly. But none of that is relevant to our mission.”
“Isabel…” He reached for her hand. She withdrew it in a cold fury. “I’m sorry.”
“What is your problem with Valentine?” she demanded. “Is this about me? About you?”
Let it go, he told himself. Remember it as a moment of weakness. Concentrate on the job. Nonetheless, the idea that Isabel could be infatuated with a punk like Pescatore infuriated him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“This is a strange time to get complicated with me, Leo.”
“My wife tells me I’m overprotective. Araceli complained too. But neither of them is around. I suppose I end up overprotecting you by default.”
“If that’s true, I appreciate it,” Isabel said, her tone softening. “But I don’t need it.”
The waitress saved him by appearing with the check. They paid. Méndez, eager to change the subject, asked Isabel the name of their contact at the Triple Border.
She checked a notepad, avoiding his eyes. “They call him Facundo the Russian.”
* * *
Facundo was not Russian.
He was Argentine. He looked Turkish or Middle Eastern. Heavily stubbled jowls, a prowlike nose, black mustache. He was tall, big-bellied and jaunty. His base of operations was Puerto Iguazú, Argentina, a town of about thirty-two thousand that in the better neighborhoods seemed Southern European, despite the jungle setting, and once prosperous. But the streets were full of shuttered and boarded-up storefronts. Dogs slept on the sidewalks.
His walk stooped and shambling, Facundo led the way through a compound filled with black Mercedes sedans, apparently a hired-car service. The name of his business was Villa Crespo Autos and Security. Facundo ushered his four guests into an office, banged on a cantankerous air conditioner, distributed cool drinks, transferred a snub-nosed pistol from his belt to his desk. He did all this without interrupting an epic monologue that he had begun at the airport when he picked them up and continued as he got them settled in the officers’ quarters of a base of the Gendarmería, the Argentine border police. A Gendarmería chief had welcomed them to the base, but deferred quickly to Facundo again.
“What heat, no?” Facundo thundered. “What a sauna. This is nothing, believe me. This is child’s play. This is a crisp fall day in the jungle of the north, ha ha. You must be exhausted, Dr. Méndez. All of you. Let’s have our discussion and you can get some rest. So many hours traveling. And on top of that, this heat. It’s a sauna, I tell you. Nooo, this is too much, who can withstand this? Noooo. Can I offer you coffee as well as the lemonade? Myself, I’ll stick to this horrid concoction. It’s the national vice, I’m afraid. Well, one of the national vices.”
Méndez noticed two portraits on the wall behind Facundo: Evita Perón and Moshe Dayan. At first, Méndez had thought that Facundo was hard of hearing. He bellowed like a man in a windstorm. But soon Méndez decided that his decibel level was simply well above normal. When Facundo finally paused to sip mate tea from a gourd, Méndez, feeling he should make conversation, said he hadn’t realized there were many Russians in Argentina.
Facundo performed a circular gesture of assent with one hand. “Few Russians in the literal sense, Dr. Méndez.”
“Actually, it’s not ‘Doctor.’ Please call me Leo, at your orders.”
“We Argentines have terrible title-itis. We call lawyers ‘Doctor.’ We call doctors ‘Doctor.’ All these doctors, but if you break your leg, don’t count on them for help!”
During this exchange, Méndez watched Facundo’s eyes: bemused, intelligent, detached. Méndez wondered if he was really a vintage Argentine blowhard. Méndez suspected that the barrage of words was a diversion, a facade behind which Facundo sized up his listeners. Méndez spotted a printout of a Tijuana newspaper article on the desk; the photo of a smiling Araceli Aguirre jarred him. The neat stack of Mexican articles had apparently been pulled from the Internet. Facundo was in his fifties; he came off as distinctly pre-cyberspace with his beige linen suit, pointy brown shoes and operatic manner. But he had done some homework.
Facundo explained that his full name was Facundo Hyman Bassat.
“Argentines call Jews ‘Russians,’ you see. Argentines call Arabs ‘Turks.’ And Argentine Jews call Sephardic Jews ‘Turks.’ If you wanted to take the national idiosyncracy for ethnic nicknames to the extreme, I would technically be Facundo the Turkish Russian. Absurd, eh?”
“Are you from around here?”
Facundo faked a shudder. “No sir. Buenos Aires. Born and raised, body and soul. I moved to Israel as a young man. Military service, had adventures, saw the world. My Spanish-language skills were in demand. Then I came back to Buenos Aires. Hard times. A friend talked me into buying this taxi service up here on the frontier. Drivers pick up a lot of information out on the street all day. I realized there was a market for investigations, security work. There was this community of merchants, especially Taiwanese and Lebanese. Many hardworking folks, but many scoundrels. Chinese extortion. Arab feuds. Brazilian bandits. Islamic fanatics. Companies and governments needing eyes and
ears. So we evolved. But enough about me: Let’s talk about young Mr. Ruiz Caballero.”
“Good idea,” said Isabel, whose foot had jiggled throughout the autobiography.
“We will operate from here in Puerto Iguazú, the smallest of the three border cities. The most controlled as well. You may know about the anti-Semitic terrorist bombings in Buenos Aires some years ago. The terrorists had their support cells in this area. So the Argentines finally began enforcing the border. That doesn’t mean there isn’t still corruption, identity documents for sale, stolen cars departing, cocaine and marijuana coming in. But it’s better than Foz. The Brazilians are friendly, wonderful music and what have you, but too relaxed for my tastes. And the Paraguayan side… well, Paraguay is the belly of the beast.”
“Which is why Junior holed up there,” Isabel interjected.
“Yes, Miss Puente. I’m coming to that.” Facundo the Russian beamed chivalrously. “Your Mr. Ruiz is Khalid’s guest at the El Naútico Resort in Ciudad del Este. Perhaps you’ll recognize these faces.”
They moved closer as the Argentine opened a folder. The photographs had been taken with a long-range lens. They showed men getting in and out of cars, leaving an airport terminal.
“There’s Buffalo and the pochos from Los Angeles,” Méndez said.
“And Dr. Guardiola,” Porthos said. “That’s Rufino, he drives for them. I wonder if Junior’s going to bring his girlfriends.”
“He has a taste for the ladies?” Facundo said.
“Quantity and quality,” Méndez said. “And he’s crazy about sports, especially boxing. Hyperactive. If there is a gym, he’ll go, either to box or to watch. But he’s sick, no?”
“The word is that he’s recuperating from, eh, overexertion.”
“Too bad. He also collects exotic animals, by the way.”
“We have plenty of those. Four-legged and two-legged. Our information is that a lot of cash arrived with the second group from Mexico. Police chiefs and intelligence officials in Foz and Ciudad have received down payments for protection. The Mexicans brought goodwill gifts to Khalid and his friends and colleagues too.”
Triple Crossing Page 27
