Triple Crossing (35 page)

“So now what?” Méndez asked.

“Now we go after them,” Isabel said.

“What about the informant?” Balmaceda interrupted. “The inside guy. He alive?”

Isabel kept her eyes on Méndez. She looked annoyed; she was so leery about burning Pescatore that she avoided mentioning him
in group settings.

“We haven’t heard from him,” she said. “We believe he was on the plane. The plane belongs to Khalid and we tracked it only
as far as Quito. But thanks to the FBI, and other agencies that will go unmentioned, we now have a precise location. Leo,
you are familiar with Dr. Guardiola?”

“The narco-doctor. Junior’s personal physician.”

“He just left for Paraguay. Buffalo Mendoza called. Junior is not well.”

“Too much coca and drinking?”

“That’s not clear from the intercepts. But the doctor left quickly. He took a commercial flight. Junior must have used a
clandestine airfield. Argentine intelligence says the smugglers have lots of them at the Triple Border. Anyway, we know where
Junior is.”

“And?”

“You and I will do our best to catch him.”

Méndez shook his head. “I don’t know. Certainly, I’m impressed. If I had known I could get so many Americans indicted, I would
have put Mauro in a car trunk a long time ago.”

Another fire-eating smile from Balmaceda, who said: “We’d been sitting on the indictments forever. Now we’ve got the Mexicans
excited about corruption on our side—instead of how Mauro Fernández Rochetti ended up in San Diego. Or the
judiciales
who got so nicely popped at Bumpy.” He gave Athos a fraternal nod, one
pistolero
to another. Athos nodded back hesitantly.

Méndez had never been fond of the DEA supervisor; he had assumed that Balmaceda regarded him as a sneaky Mexican wannabe cop.
Now it occurred to him that this was a potential ally he had failed to cultivate. Méndez said: “You handled the Secretary
well by leaving Junior out of it for the moment. But listen: Do you really think we can walk into Ciudad del Este and put
Junior in a trunk too? Isn’t this Khalid like an emperor down there?”

Daniels, the Justice Department boss from Washington, cleared his throat. He sat sideways, elbow on the table, sipping a glass
of water. His demeanor had suggested he was not part of the proceedings, merely a thoughtful listener. Now he slid around
to face Méndez.

“If I may,” Daniels said, straightening his tapered back in a wide-lapeled, double-breasted suit that looked as if it had
been sewn onto him. He was African-American, late forties, hair and mustache sprinkled with gray. Isabel had confided that
he was a high-level boss, smart, a real politician. His voice was resonant
and mannered and he made no effort to pronounce Spanish words correctly.

“Khalid is powerful, Mr. Méndez. The Triple Border is a prototypical base for bad guys. That’s one reason we are so very keenly
interested in this case. Khalid has connections to terrorism, hostile intelligence services. He moves dope and guns to South
America, Africa and Europe. We don’t want him protecting Junior. We don’t want him doing business with the Ruiz Caballeros.
We don’t want Islamic groups, Venezuelan and Iranian operatives, narco-guerrillas, developing a direct pipeline to Mexico
and California.”

“I would say this pipeline already exists.”

Daniels’s refined ways reminded Méndez vaguely of Duke Ellington. “You may be right. Yet and still, Khalid is not the only
force at the Triple Border. We will have a number of agencies supporting you. Full engagement. We intend to pressure him.
See if we can push Junior into the open.”

“And if we actually put our hands on him? Do you think Senator Ruiz Caballero and his political friends will tolerate that?”

“Junior is more vulnerable than he seems,” Isabel said. “Thanks to you. You made him run.”

“I wonder,” Méndez said. “Let me remind you that my government still has not said Junior is a suspect.”

“There is a strategy there,” Daniels said. “The Secretary doesn’t have the wherewithal to confront the Ruiz Caballeros. Not
publicly. But we think the political dynamics have changed. Your warrants have not been countermanded. If you catch Junior
outside Mexico, if it’s a fait accompli, we think the Secretary would be willing to take the credit.”

“What courage.”

Daniels raised his hands and shoulders in a worldly, that’s-how-it-is gesture.

Méndez said: “Why the charade? Grab Junior yourselves, put a bag over his head and bring him here. You do it all the time
with Muslims.”

“Not an option,” Daniels responded, ruffled, momentarily a bureaucrat on the defensive. “For one thing, it’s difficult to
prove up crimes by him in the United States.”

“Even with Fernández Rochetti and the American officers you have detained? They worked for the Ruiz Caballero mafia.”

“Yet and still. It’s not a viable option, bilateral relations being what they are. This needs to be a Mexican operation. This
needs to end with Junior Ruiz in a Mexican prison.”

“He will go into the front door and out of the back.”

“Leo.” Isabel Puente’s determined grin softened the snap in her voice. “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? You haven’t
caught him yet!”

There were chuckles. Méndez leaned back. He looked at Athos and Porthos. Patient, loyal. Ready to follow him to the lair of
Cerberus and back.

“And listen,” Isabel added. “I think we should get going soon. The trail is hot. Besides, with all the yelling and screaming
in Tijuana about the Mauro Fernández Rochetti incident, now is a really good time for you guys to take a long trip.”

Enough talk, Méndez decided. He had set this wild ride in motion on the morning they invaded El Bumpy. Now they had to hang
on and keep going.

Méndez said in Spanish: “Well, boys, what do you think? Do we catch a plane?”

Los Angeles, Miami, overnight to Buenos Aires. There was a three-hour wait for the flight to Puerto Iguazú. While Athos and
Porthos wandered duty-free shops in the Buenos Aires airport, Méndez and Isabel Puente sat in a restaurant reading classified
briefings about the Triple Border. The dossier had
been provided by the U.S. government, but was written in Spanish. Méndez assumed the original source was Argentine intelligence.

The report opened with a bang:

The Triple Border has become a focus of destabilization in South America. The legal order in the region has been substituted
by institutionalized disorder. This involves the most varied forms of illicit activities, including money laundering, drug
trafficking, arms trafficking, contraband, product piracy and fraud. American credit-card firms report the loss of millions
of dollars from cloned and stolen cards in the region last year. A more profound concern is the presence of financiers, operatives,
recruiters and spiritual figures of terrorist groups such as Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, the Muslim Brotherhood, al-Qaeda and
others.

These illicit activities generate as much as $20 billion a year and have overwhelmed the governments of Brazil, Paraguay and
Argentina, creating important pockets of corruption and attracting an increasing variety of international criminal networks
and espionage services from Latin America, Asia, the Middle East and Eastern Europe. The new influx combines with the longtime
presence of mafias in the historic merchant communities from Taiwan and Lebanon. This globalization of crime has become a
political and economic threat for the region and, potentially, the hemisphere.

“Sounds like we are going to feel right at home,” Méndez told Isabel. He read through an economic analysis, a list of recent
arrests and murders, and an intricate breakdown of which businesses were suspected fronts for criminal or extremist organizations.
Most of the Middle Eastern figures were aligned with the kingpins known as Abbas and Khalid: Junior’s partners.

The blond waitress returned with another pleasantly strong coffee. She was slinky in a way that suggested outdoor exercise
and harsh dieting. He found her tone and manner cheerful, but excessively informal.

“Surrounded by Argentines,” Méndez said as she walked off. “My God.”

“Do all Mexicans hate Argentines?” Isabel asked.

“Schopenhauer said: ‘Every nation mocks the other nations, and they are all correct.’ It’s not just us: Everyone dislikes
the Argentines. They’re the yanquis of Latin America.”

“If you say so. I don’t have a problem with them.”

Méndez could see why. A table of airport employees, wavy-haired young men with radios, ties and white shirts, were glancing
their way. They appraised Isabel, who was radiant despite a day of travel, a catwoman in dark blue leggings. Her sleeveless
top displayed well-made shoulders the color of her coffee with milk. He wondered idly if the Argentines thought he and Isabel—leaning
toward each other, murmuring behind their cups—were lovers. Or did they think she was too much for a thin, graying, sad-faced
Mexican?

“Our Argentine at the Triple Border comes highly recommended,” she said. “They say he freelances for the Israelis too. He
must have his hands full.”

Méndez nodded and toyed with his ham and cheese on toast.

“Isabel,” he said slowly. “Let me ask you something.”

“OK.”

“Please tell me if this is intrusive or inappropriate.”

“OK.”

“Are you still worried about Pescatore? Are you hoping that we will be able to rescue him? I have the impression, if you’ll
forgive me, that you’re fond of him.”

Her thumb rose to press against her teeth. She cocked her head. “What are you trying to say, Leo?”

“That I am concerned. You care for him a great deal. No?”

She looked away. “That’s my business.”

“Of course. But I fear it’s inevitable you’ll be hurt. He’s not to be trusted. I still think he tipped off Junior that night
in Colonia Postal. I think he has deceived you. And if you’ll forgive me, there’s a good chance he’s dead.”

She seemed to force herself to meet his eyes. Her coffee cup hovered; she sipped slowly, taking refuge. He regretted what
he had started. But he was also relieved. Part of him wanted everything in the open.

“I’m doing this because it’s my job,” she said. “The biggest case of my career. Because you are my friend”—he started to thank
her but she plowed on—“and because I hate Junior and what he stands for as much as you do. And I feel awful about Araceli.
Even though I know for a fact she didn’t like me. No, let me finish. As for my personal life, I’m not going to hide my feelings
for Valentine. You’re wrong about him. You judge people too quickly. But none of that is relevant to our mission.”

“Isabel…” He reached for her hand. She withdrew it in a cold fury. “I’m sorry.”

“What is your problem with Valentine?” she demanded. “Is this about me? About you?”

Let it go, he told himself. Remember it as a moment of weakness. Concentrate on the job. Nonetheless, the idea that Isabel
could be infatuated with a punk like Pescatore infuriated him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“This is a strange time to get complicated with me, Leo.”

“My wife tells me I’m overprotective. Araceli complained too. But neither of them is around. I suppose I end up overprotecting
you by default.”

“If that’s true, I appreciate it,” Isabel said, her tone softening. “But I don’t need it.”

The waitress saved him by appearing with the check. They paid. Méndez, eager to change the subject, asked Isabel the name
of their contact at the Triple Border.

She checked a notepad, avoiding his eyes. “They call him Facundo the Russian.”

*         *         *

Facundo was not Russian.

He was Argentine. He looked Turkish or Middle Eastern. Heavily stubbled jowls, a prowlike nose, black mustache. He was tall,
big-bellied and jaunty. His base of operations was Puerto Iguazú, Argentina, a town of about thirty-two thousand that in the
better neighborhoods seemed Southern European, despite the jungle setting, and once prosperous. But the streets were full
of shuttered and boarded-up storefronts. Dogs slept on the sidewalks.

His walk stooped and shambling, Facundo led the way through a compound filled with black Mercedes sedans, apparently a hired-car
service. The name of his business was Villa Crespo Autos and Security. Facundo ushered his four guests into an office, banged
on a cantankerous air conditioner, distributed cool drinks, transferred a snub-nosed pistol from his belt to his desk. He
did all this without interrupting an epic monologue that he had begun at the airport when he picked them up and continued
as he got them settled in the officers’ quarters of a base of the Gendarmería, the Argentine border police. A Gendarmería
chief had welcomed them to the base, but deferred quickly to Facundo again.

“What heat, no?” Facundo thundered. “What a sauna. This is nothing, believe me. This is child’s play. This is a crisp fall
day in the jungle of the north, ha ha. You must be exhausted, Dr. Méndez. All of you. Let’s have our discussion and you can
get some rest. So many hours traveling. And on top of that, this heat. It’s a sauna, I tell you. Nooo, this is too much, who
can withstand this? Noooo. Can I offer you coffee as well as the lemonade? Myself, I’ll stick to this horrid concoction. It’s
the national vice, I’m afraid. Well, one of the national vices.”

Méndez noticed two portraits on the wall behind Facundo: Evita Perón and Moshe Dayan. At first, Méndez had thought that Facundo
was hard of hearing. He bellowed like a man in a windstorm. But soon Méndez decided that his decibel level was
simply well above normal. When Facundo finally paused to sip
mate
tea from a gourd, Méndez, feeling he should make conversation, said he hadn’t realized there were many Russians in Argentina.

Facundo performed a circular gesture of assent with one hand. “Few Russians in the literal sense, Dr. Méndez.”

“Actually, it’s not ‘Doctor.’ Please call me Leo, at your orders.”

“We Argentines have terrible title-itis. We call lawyers ‘Doctor.’ We call doctors ‘Doctor.’ All these doctors, but if you
break your leg, don’t count on them for help!”