The Cartel

by Don Winslow

  “You’ve been stringing me along for weeks,” he says. “Enough.”

  And walks out of the room.

  —

  It feels strange, being back in the United States. After what, Keller thinks, three years?

  Strange hearing the language, seeing the ugly green money.

  Washington is hot and humid in June, and Keller is sweating before he can get into the cab to DEA. At least he managed to get a flight into National, so the cab trip isn’t too long compared with the odyssey down from Dulles.

  The announcement by Tim Taylor’s receptionist that there’s an Art Keller here to see him is greeted with the enthusiasm normally reserved for a colonoscopy. Taylor sticks his head out the door, sees that it’s sadly true, and gestures for Keller to come into his office.

  “Hold my calls,” he says to the receptionist.

  Keller sits down across from Taylor’s desk.

  “So,” Taylor says, “how’s the hunt for Barrera going? Not so good, huh?”

  Keller takes out his copy of the Tapia tape, sticks it into Taylor’s Dictaphone, and hits play. “One of the voices is Martín Tapia, the other is Gerardo Vera.”

  Taylor turns white. “Bull fucking shit. Where did you get this?”

  Keller doesn’t answer.

  “Same old Keller,” Taylor says. “How the fuck do you know that’s Vera?”

  “Voice recognition software.”

  “Inadmissible.”

  “And a witness.”

  “Who?” Taylor asks. He is not a happy man. He’s a less happy man when Keller tells him that the witness is Palacios. “That’s the third-highest-ranking cop in Mexico.”

  Keller tells him about the Izta Mafia, the killings of the three cops, and the highlights of Palacios’s potential testimony.

  “And you have this all on tape,” Taylor says.

  “Aguilar does.”

  Taylor gets up and looks out the window. “I’m pulling the pin in eighteen months. Bought one of those mobile homes with everything but a Jacuzzi in it, the wife and I are going to cruise around the country. I don’t need this right now.”

  “I’ll need a snitch visa for Palacios,” Keller says. “Papers, a whole new package.”

  “No shit.”

  “Maybe one for Aguilar, too, if this goes south.”

  “Oh, it’s already gone south,” Taylor says. “Do you know how much intelligence, how much information we’ve shared with Vera?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “No, you fucking don’t,” Taylor says, “because we specifically told him to keep most of it from you. If what you’re saying is true, every op we have down there…and a bunch of them up here…have been compromised. We’ll have to pull agents in, undercovers…”

  “If what I’m saying is true,” Keller answers, “and it is, the entire federal justice system of Mexico has been turned inside out.”

  “Palacios could be making up a story to get his ticket punched,” Taylor says.

  “He could be,” Keller agrees. “But then, why would he need a ticket? If all this is bullshit, his life is in no danger.”

  Taylor thinks about this for a second, then goes off. “Your mission was very clear, very specific—assist in the pursuit of Adán Barrera. You were not authorized to launch an investigation of corruption within the federal police force of a foreign nation—”

  “You don’t want to know?” Keller asks. “You wanted me to hold it back until Vera gives Barrera one of your UCs to torture?!”

  “Of course not,” Taylor says. He sighs, tired. “Look, I’ll need to go upstairs with this. You’ll have to come in, do the dog-and-pony. Fuck. Fuck. I’d thought we’d finally…Okay, let me get on the horn with the director, make his week. You stay where I can reach you in a hurry. Anything else you want, or is ruining my life sufficient for today?”

  “Reservations at a dude ranch in Arizona.”

  Taylor stares at him.

  “For Aguilar’s family,” Keller says.

  “See Brittany outside.”

  “Can you expense it through—”

  “Yes. Get out.”

  —

  Bureaucratic battles are bloody.

  All the more so because it’s usually other people’s blood being shed, so what the fuck.

  This is what Keller’s thinking as he sits at a table with Taylor, the DEA director, and representatives from Justice, State, Immigration and Naturalization, and the White House. There’s probably a Company guy in the room as well, sitting in the corner.

  The DEA director chairs the meeting. “If Agent Keller’s information is accurate, we have a crisis on our hands.”

  “Agent Keller,” the Justice hack, a middle-aged lawyer named McDonough, weighs in, “has a dubious tape recording and an even more dubious witness. I, for one, would not jeopardize our relations with Mexico based on the tales of a dirty cop.”

  Keller knows McDonough—a former prosecutor in New York’s Eastern District. He’s gained more weight—his face is even redder, his jowls fatter, he’s one jelly doughnut away from a triple bypass.

  “Concur,” the State Department rep says. Susan Carling has curly red hair, skin the color of chalk, and a PhD from Yale.

  “What is the provenance of this tape?” McDonough asks.

  Keller says, “The tape was handed to me by a source inside the Tapia organization, and that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.”

  “You do not have the option, Agent Keller,” McDonough says, “of withholding the source of your information.”

  “Fire me,” Keller says.

  “Now, that’s an option,” McDonough says.

  “Do you have a source inside the Tapia organization?” the DEA director asks Keller. “Because it doesn’t appear that you opened a file.”

  “I don’t have a CI in the Tapia organization,” Keller answers. “Someone handed me the tape and—”

  “Do you have a relationship with them?” McDonough asks. “Because if you haven’t opened a file, that’s completely inappropriate and opens you to suspicions of—”

  Taylor says, “Can we talk about the real problem here, Ed? If a source came to you with information that the number three guy in the FBI was on the Gambino family payroll, you wouldn’t be sitting there picking him apart on procedural issues. I have people out there, who are now under horrendous risk.”

  “Potentially,” McDonough says.

  “Okay, you go to Tamaulipas under ‘potential’ risk, and tell me that you have time for this nitpicking shit,” Taylor says. “Keller is protecting his source. He’s an asshole, but that’s what he’s doing. Move on.”

  The White House rep says, “The Mexican government is extremely sensitive to accusations of corruption, especially from us. If we push an agenda on this, it might sabotage years of diplomacy that are now finally having some positive effect. It could scuttle the very antitrafficking efforts that DEA has worked so hard to establish. Not to mention embarrassing us on the Hill.”

  “I wouldn’t want anyone to be embarrassed,” Keller says.

  “Be as ironic as you want,” the rep says, “but the Mérida Initiative wasn’t easy to push through Congress. It’s what you guys wanted, isn’t it??”

  The Mérida Initiative is a three-year, $1.4 billion aid package, most of it to Mexico, to combat drug trafficking. Keller knows the details—thirteen Bell 412EP helicopters, eleven Black Hawks, four CN-235 transport planes, plus high-tech scanners, X-ray machines, and communications equipment. Not to mention training for police and Mexican military.

  The same training, Keller thinks, we gave to the Zetas.

  “Now you want us to do what?” the White House rep asks. “Go back to the Hill and tell them, ‘Whoops, forget it’? Turns out we were going to give a billion and a half dollars in sophisticated military equipment to a cabal of corrupt cops? That, in effect, we were going to hand over Black Hawk helicopters to the Sinaloa cartel? No, this is not going to happen.”

 
“We cannot disrupt the Mérida Initiative at this point,” Carling says. “It’s three days away from becoming law. The damage to our relationship with Mexico would be incalculable.”

  “So the option is what?” the director asks. “Letting our allies continue to live in the belief that their top police officer is honest when we know in fact—”

  “Not in fact,” McDonough says. “Allegedly.”

  “—that he’s allegedly in the employ of the drug cartels?”

  “If they don’t already know,” Keller says.

  “We’re not asking for an international incident,” the director says, “just a ‘Q’ visa for Palacios.”

  McDonough leans forward. “This is an internal Mexican issue. Justice will only authorize action if and when the Mexican attorney general contacts us with a request. As for Mr. Palacios, we can’t just accept his story at face value.”

  “You have Vera on tape,” Keller says.

  “There is no chain of custody on that tape,” McDonough says. “We don’t know its origin, it could have been doctored by the Tapia organization to sabotage its most effective adversary. They failed to take Vera out, so they’re trying to have us do it.”

  “Palacios could have been planted on you,” Carling says to Keller, “for the exact purpose of scuttling the Mérida Initiative.”

  “Which the cartels have to be extremely concerned about,” the White house rep says.

  “Yeah, they’re quaking,” Taylor says.

  The director turns to McDonough. “What do you need to bring Palacios over?”

  “Have him wear a wire,” McDonough says. “Get me Vera on tape, incriminating himself on a record that we control, and then maybe we have something to talk about.”

  “Can you get Palacios to wear a wire?” Taylor asks.

  “I don’t know,” Keller says. “Vera is smart, he’s already freaked out…”

  “We’re talking a one-time event here,” the director says, “not an ongoing operation.”

  “Give it a shot,” McDonough says. “You get us a tape of Vera, we’ll get you the visa.”

  He looks to Carling, who nods.

  “What about Aguilar?” Keller asks. “Protection for him and his family.”

  “The head of SEIDO,” McDonough says, “has ample reasons to confer with his counterparts here. If for some reason he were to decide not to return to Mexico, I’m sure something could be worked out.”

  “We can’t have a Mexican intelligence officer shouting accusations across the border,” Carling says, “and give him citizenship.”

  “But something could be worked out, couldn’t it, Susan?” McDonough asks tiredly.

  “The alternative being,” Keller says, “that I personally drive Luis Aguilar across the border from Juárez and deposit him at the front door of The Washington Post, which would be happy to run an over-the-fold story about how this administration wouldn’t lift a finger to protect an honest prosecutor and his family. And I’ll be sure to spell your names correctly.”

  McDonough looks at Taylor. “You’re right—he’s an asshole.”

  Taylor shrugs.

  Carling says, “I’m sure none of us wants to conduct foreign policy in the media. I didn’t mean to suggest that we wouldn’t welcome Mr. Aguilar into the country, only that we would want him to be discreet.”

  “Good,” the director says. “Only question remaining—do we inform our Mexican counterparts of this operation now?”

  “If we launch an operation on Mexican soil,” Carling says, “against a high-ranking Mexican official without informing them—indeed, getting their permission—there’s going to be diplomatic hell to pay.”

  “What?” McDonough asks. “They’re going to turn the money down?”

  “Possibly,” Carling answers. “It would insult their pride and they’d think that we don’t trust them.”

  “We don’t,” Taylor says.

  “That is exactly the kind of attitude—”

  Keller cuts her off. “If we inform them now, the operation could be compromised.”

  “A risk we have to take.”

  “It’s not you taking the risk,” Keller says. “It’s Palacios and Aguilar. They and their families could be killed.”

  “Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” the White House rep asks.

  “No,” Keller says. “I will not—repeat, not—send Palacios in with a wire if you give prior notice to the Mexicans, much less ask their permission.”

  McDonough looks at the director. “Do you run your organization or does Keller?”

  “As the agent in the field,” the director says, “Keller has the best knowledge of the situation and the people involved, and I trust his judgment and discretion.”

  “Send in a different agent,” Carling says.

  “Palacios would never cooperate with him,” Taylor says. “Anyway, we’re arguing over nothing—the Mexicans do know. The head of SEIDO is conducting the investigation, and we are merely cooperating as good neighbors. The burden of communicating with his superiors is on him, not us. There’s your out. If the Mexicans scream, point at Aguilar and look innocent.”

  The quiet in the room indicates that a compromise has been reached. McDonough looks at his watch, then to Keller, and says, “You have your marching orders—get Palacios in a room with a wire.”

  “But not for three days,” the White House rep says.

  Keller gets it—in three days the Mérida Initiative becomes law.

  State will be happy.

  The White House will be happy.

  DEA will be happy.

  The Mexicans will be happy.

  The arms manufacturers will be happy.

  Adán Barrera will be happy, because he’ll have new weapons in his war against…well…just about everybody now.

  Keller stands up. “Thank you for your time.”

  He leaves the room.

  “When this is over,” McDonough says, “fire that guy.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Ed,” the director answers.

  —

  Keller takes a red-eye back to Mexico City.

  He’s as grateful as he is surprised by the support that Taylor and the director gave him. But I shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks—both men are true believers in what they do, both care about the safety of their people. And both are going to stick up for their organization in a bureaucratic border skirmish.

  It didn’t stop them from giving him holy hell after the meeting, but now they’re fully invested in the operation, making logistical plans to bring Palacios across the border, working with Immigration on the paperwork, setting up a satellite run to photograph Vera’s presence at the meeting with Palacios.

  “We’ll start a forensic analysis on Vera’s finances,” the director said.

  “Justice will shit,” Keller said. It will involve hacking computers, bank accounts, money transfers, real estate records.

  “Let them shit,” the director said. “I’ll run it through NSA.”

  They plan to take preventative measures as well—call undercovers back in, sanitize any intelligence packages ready to go to AFI, suspend or at least slow down any operations against the Sinaloa cartel.

  “Do you need more agents on the ground there?” Taylor asked Keller. “Surveillance, backup, communications?”

  “Communications, maybe,” Keller answered. “Otherwise, no. I don’t want any extraordinary activity that might tip Vera off.”

  “Be careful,” Taylor reminded him, dropping him off at Departures at National. “Remember, there’s that five-million bounty on your head.”

  “I thought it was two million,” Keller said.

  “Barrera upped it,” Taylor answered. “However much we put on him, he matches it for you. Stay in touch.”

  Keller had a rare late-night scotch to help him sleep, but it didn’t do much good. He dozed a little, but was wide awake well before the plane started its descent, as they say, into Mexico City.

  It feels m
ore like home now than D.C., even though he knows that the airport cops have probably noted his coming and going for the Tapias or Nacho Esparza, depending which side they’ve taken.

  Aguilar is at the airport, seeing his family off.

  “I’ll be there in a week,” he tells his daughters, who look sad and a little dubious about the trip. “Maybe less.”

  “Why can’t you come now?”

  “I have just a little work to wrap up,” Aguilar says. “Then I’ll be there. What do you think I’ll look like in a cowboy hat?”

  “Why do we have to go to a ranch?”

  “It’s more of a spa,” Lucinda says. “They have hot tubs, massages, yoga—you’re going to enjoy it.”

  Her tone being more of a command than a prediction, the girls stop their objections and hug their father goodbye.

  “A few days,” he tells Lucinda quietly. “A week at the most.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Of course.” He kisses her lightly on the lips and then watches his family go through security.

  Keller stands off to the side and waits. On the drive back into the city, he says, “My bosses want Palacios to wire up.”

  “On Gerardo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s risky.”

  Yes, it is, Keller thinks.

  —

  Palacios goes ballistic.

  Yells, throws things at the wall, sits down, gets up, threatens to leave.

  Aguilar remains perfectly calm. “You tell Gerardo you want to meet him. You express concern for your safety and ask him what he’s doing about it.”

  “He’s not an idiot,” Palacios says. “He’ll suspect.”

  “The second you get him on tape incriminating himself,” Aguilar says, “we’ll arrange transport for you and your family to the United States.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “Cut him loose,” Keller says to Aguilar. “Who needs him?”

  “You can’t leave me hanging now!”

  “Then wear the wire,” Keller says.

  “Fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you!” Keller yells. “You’ve been sitting in these rooms for three goddamn weeks, giving us as little as possible! The fucking minimum. Well, the minimum isn’t good enough! I’ll go have a beer with Vera right now and tell him we have a new CI!”