Downtown Ciudad del Este was a storm of humanity. In addition to commercial traffic and the vending stands that occupied every free inch of sidewalk, idle smugglers were everywhere: napping by their bales, squatting forlornly at the riverfront. Hundreds of demonstrators milled in the streets near the border crossing. The marchers carried Paraguayan and Brazilian flags. Their picket signs denounced the crackdown and demanded that they be allowed to earn a living. Protesters tossed firecrackers from the beds of pickup trucks, blasted music from boom boxes and chanted through bullhorns.
“What a sight,” Facundo said, admiring the results of his handiwork. “What an upside-down world. Crooks defending their right to break the law.”
“Who are all the demonstrators?” Puente asked. “Smugglers?”
“And taxi drivers, money changers, vendors, shopkeepers. Anybody who makes a living connected to smuggling.”
“This should give Khalid the idea that Junior is bad for business,” Méndez said.
“I think so. Forty thousand people cross that bridge every day. Whenever the Brazilians decided to check papers, it’s a guaranteed mess. That’s why they don’t do it often.”
The Brazilian immigration sweep at the border bridge had been their first breakthrough. The roadblock netted hundreds of illegal immigrants, a good many of them entrepreneurs commuting from homes in Foz to their stores in Ciudad del Este. After visits from Facundo, the Brazilian Army garrison had deployed patrols to harass the backpack smugglers as well.
Facundo’s operatives reported that Junior, who was on the Brazilian side of the bridge when the roadblock began, had retreated to Khalid’s mansion in Foz. Khalid had provided a helicopter that flew Junior and his crew back to the hotel in Ciudad del Este. Paraguay was their best refuge.
“That’s fine,” Facundo said. “Right now we just want to keep them off-balance, stir up confusion.”
“This fellow we are going to see can help?”
“Munir? He runs the chamber of commerce. A very important crook. That’s where he lives, that new building just there. He works a few doors down.”
The ten-story tower at the end of the block was still wreathed in construction dust. Gaudy arches and columns flanked the entrance. A guard in paramilitary attire sat in a sentry box beneath a sign that announced the grand opening of the Al-Andalus apartment complex. The windows on the lower floors were covered by metal shutters, giving the place an uninhabited look that contrasted even more with its surroundings. The rest of the street was a row of storefronts with names like Aleppo, Faisal and Mokhtar: cell phone shops, groceries, a green-shingled halal butcher shop with Arabic script in the window.
There was activity outside the butcher shop. Young Arab men congregated in front. They were lean and stern. A few wore skullcaps, beards, kaffiyehs around their necks. Mendez watched them exchange kisses on cheeks, press their hands to hearts, their air of idle menace melting into affectionate smiles. They filed into the doorway of the butcher shop, pausing deferentially to greet a long-bearded, wrinkled man in a dishdasha who sat in the shade, barely awake.
“The shabab,” Facundo muttered as he backed into a parking spot. “There’s a little mosque on the second floor. A prayer room, anyway. I can assure you they don’t preach tolerance and brotherhood up there. In fact, they raise money and recruit for the training camps.”
“Which camps?” Puente asked.
“Wherever there are camps. Depends on their inclination. Lebanon. Iran. Pakistan. Perhaps Venezuela, but I have heard that at the level of comments, not hard intelligence. There are more Shiites here, but they get along with the Sunnis. They are united against the common enemy. That is to say, you and me. Especially me.”
Facundo killed the engine. He observed the Arabs, drinking in details with professional relish. He waited until the sidewalk had cleared, the last men helping the bearded codger fold up his chair and shuffle inside. Finally, shaking his head as if coming out of a trance, Facundo turned to Méndez. Facundo smiled crookedly.
“Listen, Dr. Méndez, Miss Puente. I will not be talkative. I make the introduction, I turn Munir over to you and that’s it.”
“Why?” Puente asked as they got out.
Facundo pulled a briefcase from the trunk and slammed the lid. “We, eh, have conflicting opinions on a number of political questions.”
A hoarse cry greeted them from the rear of the store. “The Zionist dog! And his friends. Come in, come in.”
In Tijuana, Méndez had seen many shops like Chez Munir. A classic border store. The goods lining the high shelves had no discernible organization or presentation: liquor bottles next to vacuum cleaners next to Barbie dolls next to alarm clocks. Dust motes floated in sunlight that was chopped in rows by the burglar bars in the front window. Children could be heard playing somewhere.
Munir received them at the end of the center aisle. He sat precariously on a stool behind a little three-legged table covered with plastic coffee cups, a plate of cookies and cell phones. He did not get up; he had one leg thrust out at an angle that suggested it was of little use to him. His small round belly protruded in a striped short-sleeved shirt. His wire-rimmed glasses adorned a bulbous face with a chiseled nose. His white-gray hair stood and fluttered in the breeze of a fan, giving him the wind-tossed aspect of a broken-down pirate at the helm. Mouth-breathing asthmatically, he ordered a young woman in a head scarf behind the cash register to bring coffee.
“You represent the Zionist-controlled American government?” Munir said to Puente. “A pleasure. What a charming young policewoman. Facundo usually brings me grouchy lugs who think they are Clint Eastwood. And that I am the chief of Hezbollah.”
“Nice to meet you,” Puente said, blank-faced.
Apparently Munir amused her even less than he did Facundo. Puente declined the stool the young woman brought for her. The tableau was uncomfortable: They stood around looking down at Munir and hoisting thimble-sized plastic cups of very hot coffee.
“I always tell the Americans and the Argentines the same thing,” Munir said. “No terrorists here. Hardworking wretches trying to make a living, that’s all. We don’t have any extra money for political causes. We are starving. Even Facundo will agree with me there. Am I right, my Zionist friend?”
“Oh absolutely. Wasting away in front of our eyes,” Facundo said in a monotone. He was behind Méndez.
“No terrorists,” Munir puffed. His unwavering glee gave a mocking quality to everything he said. “No Hezbollah, no al-Qaeda. And even if there were, they wouldn’t be terrorists. Because they are freedom fighters. They would be our George Washingtons, our Thomas Jeffersons, young lady. Where are you from, originally? With your lovely coloring, those big dark eyes, you might have ancestors from my part of the world.”
“The United States of America,” Puente said.
“Ah. Well then, you know what I mean.”
One of the cell phones on the table rang. Munir answered. He put a hand over the phone and announced that a radio station wanted to interview him about his leadership of the protests against the border operations.
“Please forgive me,” Munir said to Puente. “As executive director of the chamber of commerce, it is my duty to attend to the professionals of the press. Very important talk show. A television crew is coming later.”
Munir raised a hand in a one-moment gesture; it hovered for the rest of the telephone interview. With labored breathing, he railed against the Brazilian, Argentine, Paraguayan and North American governments for strangling the economic lifeblood of the border community with their search for drugs, guns and terrorists.
“What nonsense. The guns come from Miami. The drugs go through the ports of Santos and Bahia. The terrorist bombings were in Buenos Aires, why bother us here? The only terrorists in this town are the Mossad. They kidnap our sheikhs off the streets, they take them God knows where to do God knows what. As executive director of the chamber of commerce…”
Méndez looked at Facundo, who gave him an
I-told-you-so shrug. Munir made a reference to “foreign thugs” coming into town and causing trouble. “We don’t have any use for outsiders. We have problems of our own. If the police want to get tough, let them get tough with the Mexicans and the other riffraff who come around giving our community a bad name.”
A slap at Junior, Méndez thought. As if in confirmation, Munir flashed him a roguish grin, finished the conversation and hung up. Munir addressed Isabel again.
“Oh, the ignorance, young lady,” he exclaimed. “The sheer ignorance of the press and so many others. They talk about terrorism financing. Nonsense. Drivel. They don’t understand basic concepts of Islam. Have you ever heard of zakat, young lady? It’s charity. Good Muslims have a sacred duty. We give to charities, mosques, social organizations in our homelands. We contribute to distinguished religious personages who do us the honor of visiting us. And there’s such a thing as Muslim hospitality, my dear. If a brother comes to my door, I give him meals and a bed for three days. No questions asked. Then someone dares to accuse me of harboring a terrorist.”
Munir spoke in a jumble of accents and inflections. His Spanish had an Argentine intonation, but many words were Portuguese. He said “zakat” in pure Arabic. His English pronunciation was good as well. Two toddlers came into view around one of the shelves, little boys in sweat suits. They drove toy tanks back and forth on the scarred wood, making a huge racket.
Facundo stepped forward, patting one of the boys on the head. He told Munir that his friends hadn’t come all this way to listen to this warmed-over radical nonsense. It was time to get down to business. He put the briefcase in front of Munir and made a move to open it. Munir stopped him with a look that combined gratitude and annoyance.
“Thank you, thank you,” he murmured, pressing his right hand to his heart.
“We can be sure the protests and problems will continue, then?” said Méndez, realizing that Puente just was not cut out for negotiating over briefcases full of cash. She nodded, seeming grateful for his help. “It’s very important to us.”
“Of course they will continue,” Munir exclaimed. “Of course. As executive director of the chamber of commerce, I can assure you the hardworking people of this city will not stand by while the Brazilian and Paraguayan governments do the dirty work of the Zionist Americans and take bread off our table!”
“Will Khalid interfere?”
Munir snorted. “No one can stop the merchants and working people of the border community from expressing their rightful grievances. Khalid has his business and we have ours. He doesn’t bother us, we don’t bother him.”
“The point is, we need things to stay hot and agitated,” Facundo said. “Are you listening, you damned old rug merchant? The hotter and more agitated, the better.”
“Don’t worry. The voice of the people will not be stifled.”
Puente looked as if she could think of a voice that needed stifling. She asked: “Is Khalid still committed to Ruiz Caballero? Will he protect him?”
Munir regarded her shrewdly over his glasses. “Yes. But Khalid cannot neglect the difficulties of all of us who have known him for so long. Those of us who have been in this town since it was just a few shacks in the jungle. Who have made it what it is today.”
What it is today: a den of thieves, Méndez said to himself. The trick is to get them fighting among themselves. As thieves will.
21
THE DEATH PATROL ROLLED ON Munir right after breakfast.
Buffalo didn’t let them in on the details until they had left El Naútico. Too late for Pescatore to do anything but nod in glum obedience and listen to the big man give the lowdown.
The night before, Abbas had met with Junior by the hotel pool. Abbas brought news: His spies reported that Munir Khoury, a leader of the business community, had gotten a visit from American and Mexican cops, one of them a woman.
“Had to be Méndez and them,” Buffalo said, pulling on his fingerless black leather gloves. “This Munir, he’s some kinda chingón, he’s the one organizing the marches. Abbas says ordinarily they could just work it out with the Brazilian po-lice and army. But it ain’t happening. This Munir’s fuckin’ with Khalid because Méndez is givin’ Munir and the police and the army money to keep the border checks goin’. That means Khalid’s hittin’ on Junior for more lana, and you know Junior don’t like it.”
“Junior mad again?” Momo asked. He was in the front passenger seat of the Suburban. He cranked the volume on a Daddy Yankee song.
“Sí-mon. Spittin’ nails. Abbas told him let it be, they was going to have a serious talk with this Munir. But after Abbas left, we was watching the news. Munir comes on talkin’ shit about Mexican gangsters ruinin’ business. Junior lost it. To the curb.” Buffalo imitated Junior’s bratty Mexico City accent: “Salgan y maten a ese pinche árabe de mierda ahora mismo! Ya! Que lo maten ya! Chinga su madre, this and that… Turn that shit down, would you? Where the fuck are we?”
Pescatore and Sniper were in the backseat with Buffalo. They had brought handguns; they wanted Moze and Tchai’s men to think they were just going for a ride. The problem was that Buffalo had only been to Ciudad del Este once before. He had just a vague idea of how to get to Chez Munir. The Suburban slogged through traffic. Buffalo peered at storefronts and street signs, giving uncertain directions to Rufino. Buffalo glowered when they got stuck behind a fleet of clothing racks being pulled by Asians in the middle of the traffic. After forty-five minutes of meandering, they arrived in a block of Arab-owned shops in an area with less pedestrian activity.
“OK.” Buffalo checked and slapped home the clip of a semiautomatic. “Keep it running, Rufi. Sniper, you got the front door. Keep an eye on them vatos with the beards next door. Momo and Valentín come in with me.”
Why didn’t he give me the front door? Pescatore thought.
The heat felt like a faceful of steaming Jell-O. The moment had arrived: Pescatore was going to have to pull a trigger for the mafia. Or come up with Plan B real quick.
Nothing occurred to him. Buffalo led the way through multicolored plastic streamers hanging in the shop doorway to dissuade flies. Rotor fans on the ceiling churned up the air, but had little effect on the temperature.
Buffalo’s cowboy boots were loud on the floorboards. He hadn’t drawn his gun yet, so Pescatore didn’t either.
The old man sitting at the end of the aisle raised and then lowered his head deliberately, appraising them over spectacles. Pescatore noticed a cane propped in a corner.
“Gentlemen?” the old man said.
“Munir?” Buffalo demanded.
“That’s me, sir, at your service.” Munir spoke in the Portuñol that Pescatore was getting used to.
Momo shuffled slightly to the right and Pescatore mirrored him, sliding to the left. Not that Munir was running anywhere. He had a gimp leg. His breath rattled noisily. He looked to Pescatore like a sick aged bird of prey, not much fight left except in his eyes.
Great, for my first hit I get to smoke a cripple, Pescatore thought.
Then there was a rumbling sound and peals of laughter. A boy on a Big Wheel came rolling out of a side aisle. He ran into Munir’s little three-legged table, rattling together a coffee cup and several cell phones.
“Boom!” the boy shrieked delightedly.
Another boy ran up and started tussling with the boy on the Big Wheel, chattering away. They were both Middle Eastern with very curly hair. Neither of them looked over five. They paid no attention to the newcomers.
“Easy, boys,” Munir said tenderly. “Grandfather has visitors.”
Buffalo’s scowl wavered. He was standing over Munir like a human hammer about to pound. But still no gun appeared. Maybe the kids’ll make him back off, Pescatore told himself desperately. Buffalo wouldn’t do a guy in front of his grandkids. Would he? Would he do the grandkids too?
“Where are you from, gentlemen?” Munir asked. His Adam’s apple swelled for a moment, but otherwise he put up a pretty cool front
. “Mexico?”
Buffalo might have nodded.
“Friends of Mr. Abbas, no?”
Buffalo’s chin moved again.
Munir spoke quickly and ceremoniously: “Ah well, it so happens I just had a long telephone conversation with Mr. Abbas this morning. I assured him we could resolve any misunderstanding that may have…”
Buffalo shook his head.
“No, I assure you,” Munir said. “Mr. Abbas called me and we agreed that…”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
The words were hard and final. Munir made a little sound as if the air were being let out of him. He knew exactly what time it was. But his manner stayed courtly. He put a hand on the head of the smaller boy, who was gnawing on a cell phone. Munir held Buffalo’s gaze as he raised his voice.
“Fatima,” Munir called.
A woman with a head scarf came out of a back room. Momo swiveled quickly toward her with his hand in his vest. She looked at the visitors and then at the floor. Her body seemed middle-aged in the lumpy smock. But her plump face, encircled by the dark purple veil, made her look no older than Pescatore.
“Fatima, please take the boys next door,” Munir said. His expression turned from hopeful to grateful when Buffalo nodded. “I have business with these gentlemen.”
Hissing in her language, the woman got hold of one boy. She pried the cell phone out of his hand. But the older one clung to his Big Wheel and started whining, which agitated his brother. Wrestling for the handlebars, they banged into the little table. A phone fell to the floor with a thump. Wheezing in distress, Munir patted his brow with a handkerchief.
“Valentín.” Buffalo’s voice was barely audible. “Help the lady.”
Triple Crossing Page 29
