“Thank you for your kind words,” Méndez said. “Actually, I very much hope I could congratulate you. I understand you have news about Junior.”
Daniels smiled blandly. “I was just getting to that.”
A pause. Daniels’s smile did not waver. Méndez saw Puente’s thumb go to her teeth momentarily. She said: “Where is he, sir?”
“Southern California.” Daniels could have been talking about the weather.
Puente smiled uncertainly. Athos and Porthos looked at Méndez, who made a quizzical face. Pescatore sat low in his chair.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” Puente said. “Isn’t it? Is he under arrest?”
“As I told you, we’ve got him located and under control.” Daniels crossed his long arms and leaned back.
Méndez decided he wasn’t going to say another word until Daniels stopped his dance. Puente seemed torn between treating Daniels like a boss or a suspect.
“Under control?” Puente asked.
“We know where he is and we’re watching him. And he knows it. As a leader of a criminal enterprise, he’s neutralized.”
“But he’s free.” Her exasperation overcame her deference. Her voice rose. “Why?”
Daniels made a ruminative noise. He got up, put his hands in his pockets and took a couple of steps into the enclosure within the square of tables. He bowed his head pensively, like a professor or a trial lawyer. It occurred to Méndez that Daniels must have been a wizard in the courtroom.
“Look,” Daniels said. “I’d love to pop him. That’s why I sent you all after him in the first place. If you recall. And let’s examine what you’ve achieved.” He ticked off fingers: “You brought about the arrest, off the record, of the top suspect in Mrs. Aguirre’s murder, Commander Rochetti. Buffalo was the other top suspect, and he’s dead. You broke up a major alliance in South America that was moving dope and guns and people and contraband all over. An alliance that had terrorist potential. Now the meanest, baddest people in the Ruiz Caballero organization are in jail, dead or running. All that in a few weeks. None too shabby.”
He looked at each of them, let it sink in. “But what about Junior Ruiz? Well, it’s complicated. Political. You chased him out of the tri-border region. We were ready to scoop him up. Then red lights start flashing. Big red lights.”
“What does that mean?” Puente asked. “Why can’t we finish what we started?”
Daniels propped himself on a table. His head went up and his smile disappeared, a boxer coming off the ropes. “Because Washington doesn’t want us to.”
“Why not?”
“Because Mexico City doesn’t want us to.”
Méndez smiled maliciously. He searched for the words, wishing his accent weren’t so strong. “Since when do you care in the least what Mexico City wants?”
Daniels sighed. “Mr. Méndez. This is painful for me. Your friend was assassinated. You damn near lost your life. You’re a brave and honest man. I’m sorry to tell you that the politicians do care, very much, what Mexico City thinks. Back when I organized this, I said it had to be a Mexican operation. The presidential elections are coming up in Mexico. There’s instability, economic dynamics. A delicate time. We have to go slow.”
Méndez caught Puente’s eye, thinking he should cede on her turf, but she nodded.
“So what you are saying, we chased Junior half of the way across the world, and here he is,” Méndez said. “Under your nose. And it is finished? All for nothing?”
“You’ve built a strong case. It’s a question of political timing in Mexico.”
“Political timing. After the elections, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
“What if the presidential candidate of the Ruiz Caballeros is elected? What if another candidate is elected and they buy him, or kill him? Will the timing be better?”
“I’m a prosecutor, not a politician. I couldn’t answer that.”
Méndez turned to Athos and Porthos with a mirthless laugh. In Spanish he said: “You understand, right? You follow this? Suddenly the big machos are little girls.”
“What…,” Daniels began, but something had burst inside Méndez. His English started to fail him when he got agitated.
“Isabel, please translate for me,” Méndez continued in Spanish. “I want to be precise and clear. Just now you said it was delicate, Mr. Daniels. My ex-boss said something like that a few weeks ago, about Junior. The Secretary is not a criminal. But he is an instrument of the mafia. I was disappointed but not surprised when he let me down. But the one thing, the one thing, I have relied on is you Americans. Your satellites, computers, money. Your ideas of right and wrong. You decided I was a good Mexican. So you did everything to help me catch the bad Mexicans. You were overbearing, you weren’t flexible, you stomped around making mistakes. But you were always there, pushing. I never expected you to back down. Now we find out how far the power of the Ruiz Caballeros really extends.”
Isabel translated as he spoke. Daniels jammed his hands deeper into his pockets.
“I’m not going to bullshit you,” Daniels said. “The Ruizes have contacts in D.C. The uncle lined up a top law firm, one of the best.”
“Of course,” Méndez said in English. “The Senator made a deal. Un arreglo. Imagine all the investments they have in this country. Billions of dollars of business with Americans. Very embarrassing, no? Unfortunate connections, inconvenient friends. Boxing, music, banking, politics.”
“All I know is, there have been serious back-channel conversations on Junior’s behalf.”
“In fact, you don’t have him under control. He has you under control.”
“Yet and still. There’s political timing and there’s police timing. Meanwhile, you’ll be taken care of”—Daniels gestured at Athos and Porthos—“as far as immigration status, lodging, whatever you need. The Mexican authorities have assured me that the shooting of the state police officers in Tijuana will be ruled self-defense. And Ms. Puente, after your performance on this case, you can pretty much write your ticket as far as your next assignment, city, agency. You name it.”
Daniels had praised and tempted her at one stroke. Méndez thought: Can I blame her if she jumps to the winning side?
“That’s very nice of you, sir,” Puente said. “But I can’t focus on that now. We’ve put Mr. Méndez and his men in a great deal of danger. It looks to me like we did it mainly because we wanted that alliance between Junior and Khalid broken up. Now the dirty work is done, and we abandon him. I feel ashamed of what I’m hearing in this room.”
“Now, Ms. Puente, that’s not fair,” Daniels said, forehead creasing with the first traces of irritation. “We pulled out all the stops to catch Junior down there. That Argentine operative we set you up with is the best intel asset in the region. You can’t imagine the interagency hoops I jumped through. He got you real close, didn’t he?”
Méndez flashed back to Facundo at the airport, his arm in a sling, teary-eyed, as he bear-hugged them one at a time. He felt a rather Argentine pang of nostalgia.
“I grant you that,” Puente said. “But we have to answer Leo’s question. What now?”
“We wait,” Daniels said. “We hope. This has been a big buildup to a big disappointment. This kind of thing, frankly, makes me think about going back to the private sector.”
Daniels straightened, turned and walked back around the table. He sat heavily, his body language announcing that everything worth saying had been said.
Méndez went over to a window. Business suits flowed across a grassy esplanade toward restaurants with the wooden facades typical of the Gaslamp district. Although the Federal Building made him resentful, it had made him feel powerful too. He always had the sensation of feeding off its energy. With the yanquis behind him, his attempt to pass himself off as a policeman could succeed. Now it was over. At the same time, he felt a grim satisfaction. He should have trusted his instincts. There would be no more playing cop. But that didn’t mean he had run out of weapo
ns.
“Let me mention something we have not discussed until now,” Méndez said slowly. “It has become clear to me that the Ruiz Caballeros have allies inside your government. More than one person. Traitors. We have come across some very explosive information. This should concern you.”
Daniels glanced at Puente, who returned the look evenly. Daniels shrugged.
“It does concern me. Look, Mr. Méndez, we all need to calm down. If it’s comforting for you to make me the villain, fine. But I am in your corner. I will continue to be in your corner. The problem is that I am just the messenger. And I’ve said pretty much what there is to say.”
35
THEY MET THE REPORTER at a Cuban restaurant on Morena Boulevard.
The five of them crammed into Isabel Puente’s work vehicle, a Crown Victoria. Jammed into the backseat between Athos and Porthos, Pescatore noticed Puente glancing at rearview mirrors, scanning the traffic. He felt disoriented. These were Tijuana-style precautions. As if the pursuers had become the pursued. As if the border had been erased.
The restaurant was an agreeable space next to a Latin food market. Family memorabilia—diplomas, passport pages, black-and-white photos—were enclosed in glass cases like a tiny immigration museum. The reporter was waiting at a secluded corner table reserved by Puente. Her name was Steinberg. She wore a sweater and jeans.
Pescatore did not have experience with reporters. Méndez had said this one knew what she was doing. It was clear she took the meeting seriously: Her pale blue eyes laser-focused on Méndez and the sheaf of printed pages he handed her. They both spoke in Spanish.
“For your reading pleasure,” Méndez said.
“You want me to read it right now?” Steinberg asked. “I can’t have a copy?”
“Unfortunately, not yet. Take your time. Let’s order something.”
Steinberg barely looked at the menu, ordering a fruit shake and a sandwich. She bent over the pages. One hand pushed her blond hair up onto her head and stayed there.
The rest of them waited, toying with their food. Pescatore watched Puente out of the corner of his eye. She looked tired but beautiful, sunglasses propped in her hair. Her thumb was up against her teeth. She still wasn’t speaking to him, except to snap an occasional order. Even then she avoided eye contact, as if the sight of him made her sick. As long as she let him stick around, though, he figured it was a step in the right direction. So Pescatore had acted like part of the team and kept his mouth shut—except when they asked him questions. They had asked him a lot of questions, especially Méndez. He had done his best to answer, just as he had in the jail in Argentina. The setting was nicer this time: Puente’s apartment. Pescatore had dreamed about the place for weeks, their Crown Point love nest. But the reality of the return had been depressing.
The reporter finished reading. She smiled uneasily. She’s tough but she’s scared, Pescatore thought.
“Incredible,” Steinberg said, a tremor in her voice. “Does anyone else have this?”
“Only you,” Méndez said. “My Mexican journalist friends will never forgive me. But anything like this published exclusively by an American newspaper will have five times more impact than if it appears in both countries.”
“Where is Junior exactly?”
“The San Diego area. The FBI and DEA have been shackled by politics. Senator Ruiz Caballero’s friends have convinced the Americans that the very stability of Mexico is at stake. If the Ruiz Caballeros fall, they take the country down with them. Nonsense, but there you have it.”
“God.” Steinberg switched to English. “Um, Ms. Puente. I know you’re already quoted here. But you’re willing to be quoted by name, in my paper, as a U.S. official?”
“That’s right,” Puente said. She had agreed to the sit-down with the reporter, but it went against all her reflexes and training.
“It’s extremely important to have American officials on the record,” Steinberg said.
“I know.” Grudgingly, Puente added: “I can connect you with two supervisors in the task force. To verify the story. No names, just backup.”
“Great.” Steinberg flipped open a white spiral notebook.
Méndez asked: “Can you publish this in its complete form?”
Steinberg put the pen down. “I have to be honest, Licenciado. My paper isn’t going to publish a story by you. They’ll want me to write my own article, based on your account.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Puente said sharply.
“I have to recast it for an American audience,” Steinberg explained. “A lot of names, connections, it has to be simplified. But I think my paper will publish an excerpt or shorter version. Your story will be the basis of whatever I write.”
Méndez looked disappointed. Pescatore knew he had poured his heart into it. After interviewing Pescatore and the others, Méndez had spent the night writing at his hotel.
Méndez said: “In Mexico, it might have been reproduced word for word. But I am sure you will do a fine job.”
“I’d really like to know more about Garrison and his intelligence activity. Details.”
“We’ll see. You always have to hold something in reserve.”
“I’ll have to ask the U.S. Attorney’s office for comment.”
“Of course,” Méndez said. He reached out and turned to the last page. “Do me a favor: If at all possible, use this section in what you publish.”
Steinberg read out loud: “ ‘In Mexico, it is fashionable to talk about corruption, about narco-politics. About how nothing will change until the real bosses fall: the elite who run business and politics with the help of the gangsters. Everyone talks, but nothing happens. I have known for years that confronting men like the Ruiz Caballeros was the true test of Mexican democracy. Only recently did I discover that it is a test of democracy in the United States as well.’ ”
Steinberg looked up. “I’ll use it. Thanks for having faith in me.”
Méndez chuckled. “I hope you still want to thank me when it’s over.”
“After reading this, the person I really need to talk to is Agent Pescatore,” Steinberg said. She turned toward him, her pen poised. “I mean, you were on the inside, you saw so much. You’ll go on the record too?”
Pescatore glanced at Puente. “Uh, sure. I—”
“We’re all in agreement,” Puente interrupted, her voice flat. “We’re at your disposal.”
Pescatore sat up straight. He tried to look respectable and serious. It was showtime.
Méndez startled him by putting a hand on his forearm. “Don’t forget, Valentín, you are the most vulnerable of all of us.”
“How you figure that?”
“Your age, your rank. You don’t have political connections. You were publicly accused of crimes. Your information has been very valuable. But think hard about the risks involved before you speak.”
Isabel rolled her eyes. The blonde looked disconcerted.
Méndez sounded reluctantly protective, as if he felt honor bound to speak up. His words warmed Pescatore’s heart. They also worsened his fears that these shenanigans would lead to prison. But he wasn’t going to bitch out now.
“That’s fine,” Pescatore told Méndez. He said to the reporter: “It’s the least I can do for the Licenciado. He’s a stand-up guy.”
36
THE CALL CAME ON SATURDAY, the day before the article was supposed to run.
During the week, Puente’s friends at the task force had reported that a reporter was sniffing around about the Ruiz Caballero case. Bosses were climbing walls. There were strategy sessions, conference calls, a tense interview.
On Saturday, the five of them were eating a lunch of takeout Chinese food at Puente’s apartment when the phone rang. She listened and said “OK” a few times. She wrote something down. She looked at Méndez.
“It’s going to happen,” she said, her voice close to a whisper.
They drove to a parking garage in La Jolla. The task force had turned the
roof level into a command post. Balmaceda, the DEA supervisor, practically sprinted over to their car. He was wearing a DEA jacket, a gun strapped low on his blue-jeaned right leg, and shades.
“We’ve been saving the champagne for you,” Balmaceda exclaimed.
He told them that Junior had spent the afternoon on foot accompanied by Natasha, his girlfriend from Tijuana, and two Mexican bodyguards. “Thinks he’s home free. Practically rubbing our noses in it. I’d love to know what kind of deal his uncle cut for him.”
“You really have the green light?” Isabel said.
“We’re just waiting for the right spot. He’s in that restaurant now. Pounding drinks and stuffing his face.”
Méndez leaned on the wall of the rooftop and looked down at the restaurant. A Lexus and a Porsche sat at the valet parking stand. Palm trees swayed in the breeze. The ocean shimmered in the distance. Trouble comes to paradise, he thought.
Junior and Natasha left the restaurant an hour later. They strolled, the guards trailing. They stopped in boutiques.
“OK, enough shopping,” Balmaceda said. “He spent the equivalent of my yearly salary on her yesterday. Next place where it isn’t crowded, we do the jump-out.”
It went down fast. Three sport utility vehicles glided up in front of a boutique. Agents in body armor swarmed inside. Within minutes, the radio reported that Junior was a prisoner.
The interior of the boutique was long and sparse and white. Mannequins struck fanciful poses on balconies that lined the walls above the clothes racks. The place was filled with heavily armed agents, laughing and talking, blowing off steam. Junior’s two bodyguards were laid out on their bellies. Their shirts had been pulled up over their faces like hoods. A female agent had taken charge of Natasha, who was sobbing hysterically. She was half-in and half-out of a long sleeveless dress that showed off golden flesh.
Advancing through the circle of hulking SWAT agents in body armor, Méndez caught a glimpse of thick legs in baggy shorts and Timberlands. Despite his tan and a new Fu Manchu goatee below bloated cheeks, Junior resembled a well-fed cadaver. His arms were pinned to his sides by the cuffs. His bulk was slumped in the armchair, almost horizontal. His eyes were closed. A cup of coffee had spilled across fashion magazines on a table. The agents had rushed Junior as he watched Natasha modeling outfits.
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