Méndez grinned. “Some things are the same everywhere. Junior is paying tolls.”
“How many gunmen with Junior?” asked Athos, producing a cigarette.
“Oooof.” Facundo offered Athos a lighter, then leaned back in a mastodonic executive chair and sipped pensively at his mate. “Eight Mexicans. Ten Brazilians: Mozart and Tchaikovsky’s crew, and let me tell you, those fellows are tigers. Give them an Uzi and they’ll paint you a picture on the wall. And the Paraguayan police, at least twenty-five. Nooo, Comandante Rojas, unless you brought the U.S. Marines, we will not be reenacting the raid on Entebbe. Not right away, at least.”
Méndez said: “You sound like you might have a few ideas on how to proceed.”
Facundo’s bushy eyebrows danced. “Well, one or two, Doctor. As I told you, the Gendarmería will give us their base. Infrastructure. Muscle if we absolutely need it. But the Argentine border police are not supposed to operate in Paraguay. There are certain interests they prefer not to offend. That’s why they do me the honor of utilizing my humble services… Excuse me, are you looking for something, Miss Puente?”
Isabel was on her feet rummaging through photos. She stopped, leaned forward, and put both hands on the table, her bare triceps tensing.
“Are you all right, Miss Puente?” Facundo asked, his eyes wide with concern. “This heat, my God. Some more lemonade?”
Isabel Puente sat down abruptly. A woman in love, Méndez thought.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
The photo on top of the stack showed a group at the portico of the hotel. In front was Buffalo Mendoza with the pointy-bearded gangster known as Abbas and a Tijuana flunky with a suitcase. Bringing up the rear was Valentine Pescatore. He had acquired a mustache. But there was no mistaking the bantam build, the curly head ducked slightly, the big and skittish eyes.
“Look, it’s the Border Patrolman,” Porthos said. “He’s alive. And it looks like he got a new job.”
19
HIS PHOTO STARED BACK at him above his new name.
“Lookit you, ese,” Momo rasped over his shoulder. “Puro paraguayo.”
When asked what he wanted his name to be, Pescatore had improvised. He fused the names of his father’s favorite boxers: Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini and Roberto Durán. Now he had a Paraguayan passport identifying him as Raymundo Durán, born in a place called Encarnación. New passport, new clothes, new mustache: He was traveling farther and farther away from himself.
He was in Galerías Alhambra, a vertical warren of stores in downtown Ciudad del Este. Pescatore and Momo sat in the fifth-floor waiting room of a travel agency that was a front for a fraudulent passport operation. Posters of Cairo and Casablanca decorated the walls. Clients filled ratty sofas, next in line to become overnight Paraguayans with bona fide, if illegally obtained, identity documents to prove it. Young tattooed Asians. Long-bearded Arabs with wives in black gloves, despite the heat, and full veils covering all but the eyes. Bull-necked Eastern Europeans. A regal Nigerian.
Buffalo strode out of the office, monster biceps bowling over invisible obstacles. He said: “All set, let’s hit it.”
They walked one flight down a broken escalator into a musty, block-long gallery as dense with shoppers as the streets outside. Once again, Pescatore found it hard to believe that he was in a Spanish-speaking country. Half the time he didn’t understand the babble around him. The shoppers were mostly Brazilian. The merchants in the stalls and glass-walled shops spoke Arabic and Asian languages among themselves and Portuguese-Spanish patois with customers. And there was also the Guaraní Indian language of the Paraguayan security men, the maintenance workers, the cooks at the indoor lunch counter where Pescatore stopped to buy fries and a Coke to go.
Brazilians sat at the counter surrounded by bundles destined for the contraband markets of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro: two-bit smugglers bent over paper plates in the fluorescent light, watching grease sizzle on the skillet.
“Eatin’ again, Valentín?” Buffalo shook his head. “We just had breakfast.”
Pescatore grinned sheepishly. The vibes with Buffalo were better now that Junior had recovered. Pescatore’s standing had improved with Momo and Sniper as well; he thought they had secretly enjoyed seeing him knock heads with Junior on the basketball court.
The city was full of shopping towers like the Galerías Alhambra. Too dingy to be considered malls, they did not have movie theaters, food courts or anything else that got in the way of buying and selling. Each tower was a castle of one of the Arab clans who divided up the business sectors under Khalid’s orders—a citadel defended by cameras, bars, security guards with shotguns at every turn. Mr. Abbas owned Galerías Alhambra. It specialized in electronic products. The cacophony changed with every shop: disco, ranchera, tropical, rap, samba. Video-game explosions. Giant TVs flashing images of George Clooney, Jennifer Lopez, Jackie Chan. All the newest latest stuff, the top brands—at least according to the labels.
Buffalo stopped to buy himself a new iPod. Sniper picked out a cigarette lighter shaped like a Luger. Pescatore paused in front of a screen showing soccer highlights. The Argentine accent of the announcer was instantly familiar. It reminded him of his father: Spanish that sounded like Italian. The lithe, long-haired players on the screen wore blue-and-white-striped jerseys resembling the triangular Argentine pennant that had dangled from his father’s rearview mirror when Pescatore was a kid. He bought a key chain decorated with the Argentine flag.
“Let’s go,” Buffalo said. “Khalid’s waitin’ on us.”
For their first sit-down since Junior’s arrival, both Khalid and Junior turned up in safari-style outfits. Junior wore baggy khaki shorts and Timberlands; Khalid sported a guayabera shirt with epaulets and clip-on shades over his steel-framed glasses.
Pescatore had only seen Khalid for a moment at the dinner in Tijuana. In the sunlight he was rotund but solid, a well-preserved sixty-year-old with coppery skin. His demure smile came and went with all the warmth of someone flicking a light switch.
The homeboys and the Mexican henchmen who had arrived with Dr. Guardiola distributed themselves with the Brazilian entourage in four vehicles. The convoy drove across the river into Brazil and through Foz to the Bird Park, a sanctuary for jungle birds and butterflies. Shaded pathways wound among giant cagelike enclosures that contained a collage of tropical colors.
Khalid paced with manicured fingers laced behind his back. Junior hovered around him. One minute they were deep in conversation, patting each other’s shoulders, nodding gravely. The next minute Junior was practically climbing the mesh walls. His trunklike calves pumping, he hurdled a wood rail to frolic among the flamingos. He leaned back, perilously off-balance, mesmerized by hawks and condors in the treetops. He spread his arms and turned circles in a cloud of butterflies that spattered bursts of violet, black, yellow, orange. Khalid watched with a mix of indulgence and impatience.
“Junior digs this kinda shit,” Buffalo said, leaning on a bench. “A real nature lover.”
Medicines and rest had restored Junior’s color. But his grimace had become perpetual, like that of a man staring into the sun.
Pescatore saw a tourist couple in white hats pose for a guide snapping photos. The guide was a no-necked Brazilian with Popeye forearms. Pescatore had seen him at the wheel of a dark Mercedes taxi in the parking lot outside. Was it his imagination or were the tourists taking a lot of pictures with Junior and Khalid in the background?
Leaving the bird sanctuary, the caravan took a highway that led toward Argentina. They exited before the border and entered a jungle park abutting the Iguaçú Falls.
The falls announced themselves with billows of white foam steaming up out of a lush gorge in the distance. Then came a hissing crescendo of sound. The convoy stopped at a colonial-style hotel on a plateau overlooking the spectacle: a miniature mountain range alive with waterfalls. Rows of waterfalls, hundreds of them. Mile-long curtains of water thundered and churned a
nd poured into multileveled lagoons. The play of light and water constructed rainbows everywhere, interlocking archways of color. On the far side of the gorge, visitors walked on a network of catwalks and bridges among dancing waters. Pescatore leaned on the rail of the observatory platform, enjoying the moisture on his face, a respite from the heat.
“We can take a helicopter if Junior wants,” Buffalo told someone. “They only let helicopters fly on the Brazil side. That part over there, that’s Argentina.”
There was no discernible boundary, but Pescatore had finally seen his father’s country. He remembered arriving in San Diego, confronting The Line and the knowledge that those were his mother’s people on the other side. Isabel was the only person to whom he had ever described that moment. Once again, as far as he had strayed from home, there was something familiar here. Some part of him, buried deep, connected with this place. Like it or not.
Junior ruined Pescatore’s private moment by getting into an argument with Dr. Guardiola. Junior didn’t want to hire a helicopter. He wanted to ride one of the tourist speedboats that were skimming in and out of the falls in the gorge below. Dr. Guardiola said it wasn’t a good idea. What if the boat capsized and Junior had to exert himself? Junior bitched and raged until Abbas intervened, suggesting they take pictures.
Somebody produced a Nikon and the photo session began. Brightening, Junior cleared everyone aside to get a shot alone with Khalid, arms around shoulders. Junior clowned and choreographed: me and all the Brazilians, now just Mexicans, wait, let me suck in my gut. Pescatore edged away. He wanted no part of the picture.
Khalid clapped his hands ostentatiously and announced that it was time for lunch. They entered the paneled dining room of the hotel. Junior, Buffalo, Khalid, Abbas and Dr. Guardiola occupied the table of honor in a corner by bay windows with a view of the falls. Pescatore and the homeboys were assigned to a small round table directly behind Junior where they could watch the entrance.
Champagne arrived. Junior proposed a toast.
“Partners and friends,” he said, tossing the hair out of his eyes with a flourish.
Khalid bowed, raised his goblet and responded: “Friends and partners.”
Khalid spoke impeccable Spanish with a refined accent from Spain, full of crisp s’s and lisping z’s. He said he had a villa on the Costa del Sol. Although Khalid was playing the generous host, it looked to Pescatore as if Junior were trying to sell something that Khalid hadn’t yet bought. The older man’s left eye was disconcertingly out of synch behind thick glasses, so it was hard to tell where he was looking or what he was thinking. Khalid reclined, his movements deliberate, scrutinizing the young Mexican. Junior strained forward into his monologue, laughing raucously, going off on tangents.
Pescatore caught bits and pieces. Junior crowed about how much money they were going to make, how lucky they were to have teamed up. Khalid agreed. Khalid mentioned that Brazil had the fifth-biggest population and the eighth-largest economy in the world. He said something about how fortunate he was to have relatives, and therefore trusted business partners, from Côte d’Ivoire to Turkey to Australia.
“It all comes together right here at this table,” Junior declared. “This is the future we are making, Khalid. The crossroads of the twenty-first century. Who can stop us?”
“You are young and strong and you want the world,” Khalid said, adjusting his glasses. “I admire that. No one can stop you but yourself.”
Pescatore didn’t get a chance to hear Junior’s response because Khalid declared that the rodízio had begun. The rodízio, to Pescatore’s delight, turned out to be a hell of a meal. Waiters trooped in, slicing strips of lamb and veal and steak off skewers, shoveling salads and breads and drinks onto the table nonstop. Pescatore pounded champagne and caipirinhas, a lime drink with a bittersweet punch. Soon everyone except Khalid was stuffed, drunk and boisterous.
The louder Junior got, the quieter Khalid got. He was practically murmuring, but it sounded like they were talking about Mexican politics. Khalid wanted to meet someone personally. Junior said that would happen soon enough, but not to worry, he spoke for his uncle. The candidate would appreciate a sign of commitment from Khalid and his associates, Junior said.
“Of course, of course,” Khalid said. “Which reminds me, we have to take care of Mr. Fong. He speaks for the most serious Chinese interests in town. They feel neglected.”
Junior complained about people coming around with their hands out. “It’s getting ridiculous. I’m supposed to be your guest.”
Khalid smiled expansively. He urged Junior to dig into the dessert tray, the specialty of the house.
On the way out of the hotel, Pescatore spotted the tourist couple and brawny driver from the Bird Park. They were near the observatory platform, but they had their backs to the falls. They seemed more interested in the hotel. Both the guide and the husband had cameras, and they snapped away as the convoy passed. Pescatore felt a twinge of hope and dread. There was nothing unusual about seeing the tourists again: The Bird Park and the falls were the standard tourist attractions. On the other hand, the tourists looked a bit too goofy to be true. Perhaps the U.S. feds, the Mexicans, or both had caught up to Junior. Even if they really were undercover good guys, even if this meant the cavalry was coming, Pescatore wasn’t sure that improved his chances of surviving—or staying jail-free. It would not help his case to be seen riding around fat and happy like one of the boys. He would be asked why he had not tried to escape. The only response he could think of was: Escape to where?
The convoy was within sight of the bridge to Ciudad del Este, mired in stop-and-go traffic, when they pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. Buffalo hurried from one vehicle to another. Moze and Tchai conferred with him and yammered into phones. Buffalo jogged through the traffic to the window of the car in which Pescatore sat.
“Aguas,” Buffalo told them. “Be ready. Big problem. The Brazilian po-lice got a roadblock goin’ on the bridge.”
“I thought this border was wide open,” Pescatore said, his heart thumping. “I thought they didn’t do that.”
“Fuckin’ Abbas says they check papers once in a while, special operations, but they always tell him first. Nobody told him shit today. Khalid’s tearing him a new one.”
Pescatore squinted at the bridge. Traffic was frozen in both directions as far as he could see. There was a cluster of uniforms and police cars with whirling lights at the bridge entrance, engulfed on both sides by lines of pedestrians.
“What do Moze and them say they’re lookin’ for?” Sniper said, his droopy eyelid open as wide as it would go.
“Us.”
20
ALTHOUGH HE TOOK GRIM PLEASURE in the hunt for Junior Ruiz Caballero, Méndez had all but abandoned hope of seeing him behind bars.
After Junior’s escape from Tijuana, Méndez had concluded that he had blown his best chance. He decided that the hands-on satisfaction of capturing Mauro Fernández Rochetti was the most he could expect. Yet he had accepted the offer to continue the pursuit into South America. Rather than lofty notions of justice, Méndez was driven now by a more basic impulse. Even if he couldn’t catch Junior, he could hound him, haunt him, make his life miserable. Remember the Count of Monte Cristo, Méndez told himself: Don’t underestimate the power of hate.
Méndez kept those sentiments to himself as he enjoyed the spectacle of Facundo the Russian making the rounds of his contacts. Like a seedy Santa Claus, Facundo dispensed bribes to an assortment of police, prosecutors and notable citizens in the three border cities. The cash came from the U.S. taxpayers by way of Isabel Puente. Nonetheless, Facundo’s methods made Puente nervous.
“It’s the only way, Miss Puente,” Facundo said. “Justice is expensive around here. How do you think the big corporations deal with product piracy? It’s the biggest industry in town. They have to pay the judges and the customs people, just like the pirates. Basic market economics.”
“I’m sorry to hear law enforce
ment is for sale around here,” Puente said.
“Oh, that’s not completely true,” Facundo boomed. “There are honest chiefs and prosecutors too. In their case it’s easy: I simply tell them a bit about who Ruiz Caballero is and they are happy to help.”
Facundo’s voice strained over the bandoneón and strings wailing from his car radio. He steered carelessly, one-handed, half-turned in his seat. He crooned along with the tango, which was about an Italian immigrant drowning his sorrows at the Buenos Aires waterfront. When the singer broke into the refrain from “O Sole Mio,” sustaining it at full volume, Facundo matched him note for note, shaking his head fervently.
Méndez saw Porthos elbow Athos. Puente scrunched down behind her sunglasses. She had been quiet and pensive since she had seen the photo of Pescatore a week before. And her rapport with Méndez hadn’t quite recovered from the Buenos Aires airport. They were acting self-conscious, overly polite with each other.
“Marino, Marino, what a voice…,” Facundo murmured, wrenching the wheel just in time to avoid colliding with a yellow armored car backing out of a driveway. “How does our city compare to Tijuana, Doctor, if I may ask a connoisseur of borders?”
“Impressive.” Méndez was still flinching from the anticipated impact. “It’s like Tijuana, alright. Also the Casbah, Hong Kong and Tepito in Mexico City.”
“I’ve never seen so many Mercedeses,” Isabel said.
“Stolen, stolen, stolen,” Facundo clucked, gesturing at vehicles with his head. “Half the cars are stolen in Argentina or Brazil. There was a time when thieves preferred Mercedeses. The president drives a stolen Mercedes. But these days minitrucks are more popular, Jeeps, Suburbans, that kind of thing.”
Porthos chuckled. “Just like home, eh, Licenciado?”
Trailing them was a second Mercedes, carrying three of Facundo’s men. The crossing from Puerto Iguazú through Foz had taken half an hour. The crossing of the bridge between Foz and Ciudad del Este had taken a full hour because of the swarm of Paraguayan riot police and Brazilian military patrols. For the third day, the security forces were engaged in activities that Facundo said were extremely rare: checking papers, stopping smugglers and confiscating contraband.
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