33
EVER SINCE HIS DAYS AS A TEENAGER on Taylor Street, Valentine Pescatore had carried with him the foreboding that, despite his hopes for a career in law enforcement, he would one day land behind bars.
Pescatore’s Uncle Rocco, the Chicago Police lieutenant, had wanted his nephew to be a cop. He had done his best to help him toward that goal. But he often said: “Val, if you don’t stop acting like a stronzo, you are gonna end up in the joint.”
Pescatore’s cell wasn’t Alcatraz. It didn’t have rats or vermin, just wall-hugging lizards. It smelled moldy, but not nasty. You could see palm fronds through the bars, flashes of color as a jungle bird hopped around. Although the holding cell in the headquarters of the Gendarmería, the Argentine border police, was intended for multiple customers, he had it all to himself.
But it was, in fact, the joint.
Pescatore heard the guard approach, keys jangling. The guard was broad-backed and ham-necked in sweaty green fatigues. Pescatore had decided that there were two types of Argentines: the Italian-looking ones and the Mexican-looking ones. The guard belonged to the second category. He sounded relaxed and countrified.
“What’s the matter, caballero? You don’t like the menu?”
Pescatore swung up to a sitting position. “I’m just not hungry.”
With a grunt of exertion, the guard pulled the breakfast tray back under the bars and carried it away. Pescatore crossed his ankles. His legs felt warm in the square of sunlight that fell through the high barred window. After two days in the cell, he was in no hurry to leave. It was safe. It was calm. He had done a lot of thinking.
He had not seen Méndez or Puente again after the three of them had stumbled out of the freight elevator in Ciudad del Este. Cops and soldiers had swarmed the Minerva Mall. The commanders of the Diogenes Group had handcuffed Pescatore. Athos had killed some guys in a shoot-out outside the mall. A convoy sped Pescatore out of Paraguay and through Brazil into Puerto Iguazú, Argentina, where they questioned him at the Gendarmería base.
To Pescatore’s surprise, the Mexican cops had not smacked him around. The interrogators switched off: Athos alone, Athos and Porthos, Porthos and a big swarthy Argentine in plainclothes who had his arm in a sling and resembled a hard-boiled salesman. Officers of the Gendarmería came and went during the interrogations. Athos and Porthos had refused to tell Pescatore what had happened or what was in store for him. They shook their heads when he asked for a chance to talk to Isabel, maybe send her a note.
Nonetheless, Pescatore had answered all the questions: about the assassination of Araceli Aguirre, Junior’s contacts with Khalid, what kind of sat phone he had seen Junior use. His answers were clear and detailed. It occurred to him that Isabel might be in the next room, behind the one-way glass, watching. In any case, he had no reason to hold anything back.
He eased himself up off the bunk and did push-ups. The guard returned, this time accompanied by Athos and Porthos.
“Good morning, Comandantes,” Pescatore said.
“Good morning, muchacho.” Porthos sounded affable but wary.
No handcuffs this time. They walked him to the interview room with the pale green walls and one-way glass on his left. He sat at the weathered white table.
The Mexicans did not sit. Pescatore was not surprised when Leobardo Méndez came in.
“Young Valentín,” Méndez said. He carried a coffee cup on a saucer.
“How are you, Licenciado?” Pescatore tried to say the title with grave respect, the way the Mexicans said it. He spoke in Spanish; Méndez answered in English.
“More or less all right.”
Méndez settled stiffly into a chair, grimacing. His face had been redecorated by the pounding Pescatore had given him. Yellowish-purple bruises smeared his left cheek and spread up his forehead into the gray-tufted hair. His lower lip was puffy. Stitches peeped out of a bandage stained with dried blood that covered half of his left eyebrow. The nose, big and vulnerable as it was, had survived intact.
“Sorry about that ass-kicking,” Pescatore said.
The Mexican’s eyes narrowed. “A somewhat peculiar apology.”
Pescatore started to answer, but Méndez turned his attention to the other three. Méndez won the telepathic argument: Porthos, Athos and the guard trooped to the door.
“We will be right outside,” Athos said, looking hard at Pescatore.
“Thank you,” Méndez said.
Pescatore sat up. The last thing he had expected was a one-on-one. He wondered wildly if Méndez was going to take a swing at him, challenge him to a rematch. He wanted no part of it.
Méndez sipped coffee slowly, regarding Pescatore with the cup held aloft.
“I suppose I should thank you,” Méndez said. “Of course, it is a curious way to save someone. Dragging them into a… emboscada.”
“Ambush.”
“Yes.”
“It was the only way to play it.”
“I see.”
“You don’t have to believe me.” Pescatore kept his voice even. “But that’s the truth. How… Is Isabel OK?”
“Yes.” Another long sip.
Pescatore adjusted himself in the chair. He had blamed Méndez for all his troubles. He had been convinced that Méndez hated him right back. But now the Mexican seemed at ease. He wasn’t acting like he finally had his most-wanted gringo enemy in his clutches.
Méndez touched the bandage on his eyebrow, the fingers probing gingerly. “The only way. It was all part of your plan, what happened in Ciudad del Este.”
“I told your officers already. Junior and Buffalo made me set you up. I didn’t have no choice. And it was the only way I could try to stop ’em. They were surveilling me the whole time. I did what they told me. I made my move when they made theirs.”
“At the last minute.”
“Yeah.” Pescatore was grateful for a chance to tell the truth. “That thing with the ears, man…”
“Yes?”
“I did it to get the drop on Buffalo. To get him to put the gun down. You know I wouldn’ta let him do that to you.”
“Do you want to know my theory?” Méndez gazed into his coffee cup. “From the beginning, when you start working for Isabel, you improvise. Playing both sides. I think you don’t know what you were going to do.”
Méndez’s fists clenched. Maybe he wanted some physical payback after all. He continued: “You are not stupid, but present-oriented. Reacting purely to the moment. Your life is like this. Always a double agent. You did not know until you shot El Búfalo if you would help us or kill us.”
“Bullshit,” Pescatore snapped. He cursed himself for losing control. The truth was he wasn’t sure what he had been thinking in the elevator. He had been swept up in his double masquerade, in his fury at Méndez and everyone else who had been messing with him. Though he had known it was inevitable, he had staved off the decision to kill Buffalo as long as he could.
“You don’t know me,” Pescatore said. “You’re a smart guy, I give you credit. But, you don’t mind me saying so, you got a problem with me. Maybe that makes you not so smart.”
The eyebrows raised unevenly because of the bandage. “Really.”
“You look at me, all you see is a Border Patrol agent. The worst kind of gringo. You got these ideas, they get in the way. You don’t see me.”
The silence discouraged him, but Pescatore kept going. “My intentions were good, Méndez. I messed up plenty. But I did the right thing in the end.”
Méndez studied him. “What was that you said in the elevator about El Búfalo? You liked him?”
Pescatore spoke carefully, his throat tightening. “He looked out for me. Said he owed me, because I helped out his cousin one time. So I felt like I owed him.”
“An assassin. Junior’s Doberman.”
“He wasn’t like Junior: it was just work to him. At least Buffalo had a code. And that’s more than I can say about a lotta people I been dealing with. On both sides of the lin
e.”
“But you killed him.”
“I got a code too, believe it or not.”
After a long minute, Méndez shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am glad you made the right choice, whatever your reasons.”
“So you appreciate me saving your life.”
“Yes, Valentín. Even if it was an accident.”
When Méndez grinned, he looked younger. He had the air of an underfed wolf: graying hair, lined face, red-streaked eyes. The blue sweater and slacks weren’t fancy. Méndez was the first high-ranking Mexican cop Pescatore had seen without any flash to him: no Rolex, no gold, no designer labels.
“I guess maybe I was wrong about you,” Pescatore said. “Isabel said you were good people.”
“You should have listened to her.”
“Méndez. You gotta help me out with one thing…”
“Oye, muchacho. I am not your sentimental counselor.”
“Listen: This is hard for me to say. I know about you and her.”
Méndez’s lip curled. Pescatore stammered: “I hated you for a while, but not anymore. I’m not jealous. I just want a chance to talk to her, apologize for real, you know?”
“There is nothing sillier than a young man in love, is there?” Méndez growled, switching to Spanish. “A deluded young American.”
“I’m kinda embarrassed to get into this now,” Pescatore muttered. “But Junior and Buffalo told me about it. They had real good sources, somebody in the USG.”
Méndez shook his head. “I am married. I have a family. You have a delusion. Isabel Puente is a marvelous woman. Strong, enchanting”—Méndez relished the words, lording them over Pescatore—“and a true friend. Nothing more. Your problems are your own.”
Damned if he’s not telling the truth, Pescatore thought. He resisted the urge to look at the one-way glass. Was she was on the other side listening?
“Good news for me,” Pescatore said weakly, switching to Spanish as well.
“You think so?”
“Will she talk to me?”
“She is busy. And she is less philosophical than me. Mexicans have a lot of endurance. But she wants to give you the beating you deserve.” Méndez finished the coffee with a shudder. “Is that all you are worried about?”
“Not much I can do, right? Are they going to keep me locked up?”
“Me, no. I do not presume to speak for the Americans. Probably not.”
Pescatore swallowed. “You mean it?”
“In the final analysis, you saved our lives.”
“I guess I’m luckier than I deserve.”
Méndez raised his hand, palm up, in a you-said-it gesture.
“But listen,” Pescatore said. “What about Junior?”
“We raided his hotel with the Argentine Gendarmería. In a helicopter. An outrageous invasion of Paraguayan sovereignty, I must say.”
“And?”
“Ruiz Caballero was gone. After he sent you and the pochos after us, he ran. My men disobeyed my orders and came to the Minerva Mall to help me.”
“But he told us to bring him Isabel.”
“A ruse. If you killed us, all the better. But he wanted to be sure the Americans would chase you and Isabel, not him. That is why he told you all to keep her alive. He sacrificed Buffalo and the pochos in order to ensure his escape.”
“Scumbag. What about Khalid?”
“Our information is that he helped organize Junior’s exfiltration. He gave Junior a big abrazo, put him on a plane and told him to never come back. Khalid no longer finds Junior amusing.”
“Any idea where Junior went?”
Méndez grimaced. “At this point I have to rely on your government.”
“So what’s the deal? Why don’t we—uh, you guys get after him and lock him up?”
“Would you like to help?”
“Damn right. I hate that fat psychotic bastard.”
Méndez reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a small USB flash drive. Pescatore remembered that Porthos had found it while frisking him. He spotted a speck of dried blood on it.
“What can you tell me about this, Valentín?”
“It’s Garrison’s, right? I grabbed it after he got shot. I never got a chance to look at it, tell you the truth. I been carryin’ that thing all over the place.”
“Isabel and I went through the contents carefully. She almost had a seizure.”
“Yeah?”
“It contains a list of Garrison’s contacts.” Méndez lowered his voice with a touch of sarcastic melodrama. “There are names and numbers and e-mail addresses that are very curious. They do not make sense for Garrison to have. Neither as a Border Patrol chief nor a mafioso. People in government, politics, embassies, names in Washington, Virginia, Mexico, Central America. Also items that appear to be instructions to Garrison, reports from Garrison, coordinates for meetings and communication procedures.”
“What’s that all about?”
Méndez smiled slyly. “I am just a paranoid leftist Mexican journalist with a gun. But Isabel is a serious, responsible investigator. She is convinced that Garrison was an agent or source for American intelligence.”
“Wow.” Pescatore scratched his unshaven jaw. “He was always talking about his contacts. He had this reputation in the sector, like he was untouchable. And he was Special Forces way back when.”
“Exactly.”
“That would explain how he got away with so much,” Pescatore said excitedly. “I know you’re not a big fan of the Patrol, Licenciado, but the fact is I never met any other agents that did crazy stuff like Garrison and his crew.”
“You say you want to help. Fine. I am sure you will make yourself useful.”
Pescatore felt overwhelmed. In the space of a few minutes, through some process beyond his understanding, he had gone from being a jailbird to part of the posse. And apparently he had Méndez to thank for it.
34
MÉNDEZ KNEW.
He had known from the moment Puente told him that the Americans had located Junior. Daniels, the Justice Department boss, had told her to come back. Junior was “under control.” Méndez knew something strange was going on.
Puente knew it too. But she declined to speculate during a day of flight time: Foz to Rio de Janeiro, Rio to Los Angeles, Los Angeles to San Diego.
The federal complex in San Diego was crowded with lawyers, clients, cops, bureaucrats and criminals. The beauty of the sunny morning made Méndez, still sore from his injuries, especially glad that Pescatore had come to his senses in the end.
“So now all the questions get answered,” Méndez murmured to Puente.
“Hope so,” she said, leading the way into the lobby. She wore a long tight skirt and more makeup than Méndez had ever seen her use.
Athos, Porthos and Pescatore brought up the rear. As they crowded into the elevator, Pescatore gave Méndez a rueful smile. Although the comandantes had kept him on a short leash, Pescatore was no longer a prisoner. He had been a model of good behavior, Méndez had to admit. The beseeching looks the kid directed at Puente were enough to move a stone to pity.
But not Puente. She had avoided acknowledging Pescatore’s existence since they had left the Triple Border. She simply looked through him with an icy composure that made Méndez glad he wasn’t on her bad side.
It was eerie to be in an elevator again with Puente and Pescatore. The incident with Buffalo in Ciudad del Este was the kind of experience from which you don’t recover in a long time, if ever. The three of them had crossed a blood-drenched border together, a bond uniting them whether they liked it or not. To his surprise, Méndez found he could not work up the energy to despise Pescatore; he accepted the younger man’s explanation. When Méndez had mentioned this to Puente during the flight to Los Angeles, she had declared that the beating had scrambled his mind. She said she would never forgive Pescatore for deceiving her.
“The thing is, he wants badly
to apologize to you,” Méndez had whispered in the darkened airplane cabin. Their faces glowed in the light of the touch-controlled TV screens installed in the seat backs.
“Too bad,” she retorted. “He’s lucky he isn’t going to the penitentiary. He’s unstable. He’s a childish thug. I’m amazed he gets sympathy from you, Leo.”
“Something he said, about my ideas getting in the way of what I see. He’s not dumb.”
“No?”
“All I am saying, Isabel, is that emotionally it might be good for you to hear what he has to say. To put the thing to rest.”
“It would be a sign of weakness. Besides, we have important things to worry about.”
Puente emerged from the elevator ready to deal with important things.
Daniels waited in a conference room with an aide. He greeted them with much shoulder-patting and arm-gripping. They sat at tables that were arranged in a square and laid out with coffee and pastries.
“Congratulations, Mr. Méndez,” Daniels beamed. “Hell of a job. I’m so glad you’re all OK. You folks were great. You thoroughly disrupted and dismantled the Ruiz Caballero organization down there in Paraguay. You have the thanks and gratitude of my government.”
In the windows, office towers gleamed. Glass and sun and sky created aquarium hues. The Federal Building made Méndez feel resentful and insignificant, conjuring comparisons to the rickety outposts of justice in Tijuana with their 1970s decor and vague odors.
Daniels fit the view. He wore a charcoal-gray double-breasted suit with a regal white shirt collar and steel-colored tie, reminding Méndez again of a bandleader. Daniels did not appear to have had the misfortune of perspiring in a long time. His supple fingers hoisted a plastic coffee cup with flair. He turned eating a doughnut into a dignified exercise.
Nonetheless, he did not look comfortable. The painkillers and the trip had slowed Méndez’s thought process, but also lent it a slow-motion clarity. He realized what was bothering him: He had expected the U.S. Attorney to be there with Daniels. He had expected prosecutors, bosses from Isabel’s task force, agents. Anyone who might want a piece of an event as career-friendly as the capture of Junior Ruiz Caballero.
Triple Crossing Page 34
