Triple Crossing (46 page)

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.”

T
HE 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.

The moment was not how Méndez had imagined it. He tried
to muster triumph, hatred, jubilation. But he felt hollow. Everyone looked at him expectantly. He had the impression he should
say something, but he didn’t know the policeman’s etiquette for the situation.

Junior solved the problem. He yawned. His eyes opened and he croaked: “Méndez.”

“At your orders,” Méndez replied.

“You are lucky.”

“Why?”

“My uncle is getting old. He sold me out. If he were ten years younger, he would have killed you all. The Americans too.”
Junior’s glare rested on Isabel Puente. “But now the bastard’s old and tired. So he throws you a bone.”

“Maybe times are changing,” Méndez said.

“Are they? You think you’ll ever get my uncle? Not if you send me to Mexico.”

“That’s where you are going. And, believe it or not, to jail.”

“You are losing an opportunity. My uncle’s the top dog and you know it. You think I’ll survive five minutes in prison if he
doesn’t want me to? They’ll cut my throat the first night.”

“It will be a VIP prison,” Méndez said. “You will not even catch cold.”

“Listen to me,” Junior said, his voice turning shrill. “I’m ready to give him up.”

“I’m not in the mood for negotiating just at this moment,” Méndez said.

Balmaceda gave an order. Agents hauled Junior to his feet. He roared unintelligibly as they dragged him away.

On Monday, an immigration judge ordered Junior expelled to Mexico. A Mexican delegation headed by the Secretary arrived to
take charge of him. The Secretary sent a request through the Americans for a meeting with Méndez. Méndez accepted, mainly
out of curiosity.

That was how he found himself in a hotel lounge on the San Diego waterfront, watching the Secretary fiddle with a dish of
peanuts. The Secretary looked as clerical as ever. He treated Méndez with wan formality, like a professor with a problem student.
He informed Méndez that he would soon resign. With the elections coming up, the government wanted someone more pliable in
his post. The Secretary had been offered an ambassadorship in Europe, his second foray into diplomatic service.

“It has been narrowed down to a French-speaking capital,” he said. “Everyone tells me to hope for Paris. Frankly, I’d be content
with Brussels or Bern. The Parisians are so tiresome, don’t you think?”

No longer obliged to come up with responses to such comments, Méndez watched the sailboats on the bay through a tall window.

The Secretary had brought a day-old Sunday newspaper with him. He picked it up from the table and made a show of examining
the front-page package about the capture of Junior Ruiz Caballero. Steinberg’s article had been diluted by the breaking news,
as Méndez had expected. The questions about Junior’s presence in San Diego, the political obstruction by the Americans, had
been pushed down in the story. Garrison’s mysterious connections were mentioned without much explanation. But there was a
long sidebar profile of Méndez that quoted extensively from the article he had given her.

“Don Quixote meets Eliot Ness,” the Secretary mused. “The Americans turn everything into a movie.”

The Secretary nibbled nuts and sipped orange juice. His voice mild, he continued: “I imagine that you are under the illusion
that it was the threat of your article that caused the arrest of Junior.”

He can’t bear the thought that I might have come out on top, Méndez thought. The old snake.

“I try not to have illusions,” Méndez said. “All I know is that
the American and Mexican governments got together to protect a criminal. And when the press found out, they decided he wasn’t
worth it.”

“Perhaps you want to know what really happened.”

Méndez waited.

“You see, a lot of manipulation went on,” the Secretary said. “The governments manipulated each other. The Senator manipulated
Junior. And the Americans manipulated you.”

“How?”

“When Junior got himself kicked out of South America, it was clear to the Senator and his friends that his nephew was a real
problem. No matter how much money he made for them, how much he scared their enemies. But they knew Junior’s capture would
be a disaster. Skeletons spilling out of closets, arrests, killings. So Mexico City convinced the Americans that the Ruiz
Caballeros were too hot to touch. The agreement was to park Junior in San Diego, where he would have to restrain himself for
the time being.”

“The Americans didn’t put up a fight,” Méndez said. “They had things to hide too.”

“You simplify too much. Their agencies were divided, as usual. That is where Mr. Daniels showed he is not the typical American
clod. He has more subtlety, more style. Daniels needed leverage. So, I darkly suspect, he told you what you needed to know.
Calculating, correctly, that you would get upset and, being a journalist at heart, go to the press.”

“Kind of convoluted, don’t you think?”

“Your crusade gave him the argument he needed in Washington to force the arrest of Junior down our throats. To beat the media
to the punch.”

“He could have gone to the press himself.”

“Why take that risk? If it didn’t work, you were a shield for him. A scapegoat. Are you naive enough to think that the article
would have run if the Americans hadn’t wanted it to?”

“Although I feel nostalgic for the days when we used to sit around bashing the Americans, I happen to think they have a free
press in this country. Despite its many defects.”

“In any case, the Senator managed to save himself, his political group and their presidential candidate. ‘Jettison that demented
sadistic nephew of yours, and we can still do business. At least until the elections.’ That was the message to the Senator.”

“Lovely.” Méndez let the disgust show in his face.

“As a writer, you would have found it instructive. I was dispatched personally to see the Senator at his country house in
Toluca.”

The Secretary paused theatrically.

“We talked about old times. We drank an excellent brandy. Carlos Primero. I told the Senator, gently, that he had no choice.
Junior had to be sacrificed. Do you know what he said? It was priceless: ‘That boy has been like a son to me. But he is not
my son.’ That was it. We understood each other perfectly.”

Because you are both foul specimens, Méndez thought. He leaned forward. “Listen, Mr. Secretary: In addition to Garrison, the
Ruiz Caballeros had someone inside the U.S. government feeding them information. Someone powerful.”

“That surprises you?”

“No. But I would like to know: Who was it? Daniels? Did he double-cross them?”