Triple Crossing (20 page)

“Very good, Méndez. Your wit prevails even when you are exhausted.”

Despite his nattiness, the Secretary’s pallor, pinched face and stooped posture reminded Méndez of a priest. The Secretary
had no vices or pastimes other than clothes and books. He lived alone in a cavernous apartment full of bookshelves in a less-than-fashionable
neighborhood of the capital. He had a reputation for integrity and bureaucratic infighting skills. As Araceli Aguirre never
failed to point out, he was also a true-believing loyalist of the ruling party.

“I imagine you don’t have much time to read these days,” the Secretary said. “Have you read Castañeda’s new one? It’s about
aging warriors of the left, like you. I must say it is excellent.”

Another ritual. The Secretary had utmost respect for writers and liked to talk about books. During the gilded exile of his
diplomatic post, he had written erudite essays that were published by scholarly journals and, reportedly, plays that he kept
to himself.

“I haven’t had a chance, Mr. Secretary. I’ve been trying to finish a book about the mafia judges in Sicily.”

“By God, man. That’s not exactly escapist fare. You should clear your head. Take refuge in a bit of Borges, I don’t know.
Reread ‘El Quixote.’ How is your family?”

“They seem fine. My wife is treated well at the university,
thanks to my friends there. It’s hard to tell how they are from this distance, of course.”

“Of course, that must be difficult.” The Secretary nodded primly.

Méndez handed the Secretary a manila envelope containing photos and a ten-page memo. Opening the envelope, the Secretary swiveled
toward him in the chair. The office was so narrow that their knees almost touched.

“The report on the Colonel’s murder, sir.”

“No doubt that it was a murder?”

“None. The final pages review the larger investigation and lay out what we intend to do. The moment has arrived to act on
our work of the past year. The Americans agree. Frankly, I don’t think we have a choice.”

“Why?” The Secretary extracted reading spectacles from a pocket.

“If we don’t act now, they will know we are frightened or unwilling. It would be dangerous after the events of last night.”

“I see.”

“This was an escalation. A provocation. By no means did the Ruiz Caballaros have to kill the Colonel the way they did. There
were opportunities in the prison. But they waited, aided his escape, then orchestrated everything to be messy and spectacular.
The finishing touch, the signature, was killing him at the border. Involving the Border Patrol, doing it under the noses of
the Americans. Telling them, and us, that they can do what they want to whom they want.”

Although he was speed-reading the report in his lap, the Secretary was listening. His smile uncovered nicotine-stained teeth.

“You have always had a flair for interpreting the semiotics of organized crime. Even in your columns. I used to tell my intelligence
analysts: Read everything Méndez writes.”

Méndez nodded his thanks. “Politically, it’s important to emphasize the American involvement. They will make big
arrests of their own functionaries: Border Patrol, inspectors. Even DEA.”

“Good. The last thing the presidential palace wants to hear is more howling from the troglodytes in Washington about corrupt
Mexicans. If we do nothing, they howl. If we attack our problems, instead of congratulating us they have new examples to howl
about.”

“No, this will be about a dangerous criminal network that functions on both sides and is being confronted on both sides.”

The Secretary fingered an odd prow of black hair that jutted from the center of his receded hairline. He thumbed through the
photos.

“And these unsavory-looking gentlemen?” he asked.

The surveillance photo had been taken by U.S. agents in the Gaslamp district of San Diego and supplied by Isabel Puente.

“The older one is known as Ibrahim Abbas. He has ties to terrorist cells in Paraguay and Brazil, according to the Americans.
He has bought guns from a Border Patrol agent. He is an emissary of the mafias at the Triple Border. The others are his Brazilian
bodyguards. They are brothers: Mozart and Tchaikovsky Moreira. Real names, not aliases.”

“Mozart and Tchaikovsky? Marvelous. Totally Brazilian.”

“If they are in the area and the timing permits, we will nab them too.”

The Secretary resumed reading. Méndez spun half-circles in the rolling chair. He had composed the memo at dawn. He had outlined
the strongest possible case, building to the list of arrests on the final page. The names would not surprise the Secretary,
but Méndez still found it hard to believe what he was proposing.

Méndez had been a journalist when he had first met the Secretary, at the time an intelligence official leading an anticorruption
campaign in Mexico City. Despite the man’s genteel ways, he scared people. Méndez had decided during their first interview
that he had to cultivate him as a source. And the Secretary
had cultivated Méndez: from favored reporter to discreet unpaid adviser to overnight troubleshooter. The government had convinced
the Secretary to take a key security job, hoping his reputation would improve its dubious image. Creating the Diogenes Group
had demonstrated the Secretary’s flair for bold moves.

The Secretary made a ruminative sound, as if acknowledging the weight of the document in his hands. “Impressive. And ambitious.”

“We have an entire room filled with evidence files. If it were anybody else, we would have acted long ago.”

“Essentially you want to charge Junior Ruiz Caballero with being the boss of organized crime in Baja California and beyond.
Are you satisfied that you can prove that?”

“Absolutely. As I explain, he has decapitated the different border mafias and consolidated them into a single structure. All
the evidence puts him at the top.”

“I know he’s heavily involved, but I still see him as too young and deranged to run something so massive. What is he, twenty-five?”

Méndez was getting nervous; they were going over old ground. “Twenty-nine. He might be deranged, but he’s not stupid. Look
at how well he’s done in legitimate business, thanks to his late father’s fortune. Not that it is an enviable gene pool.”

Junior’s father had been a famously sleazy power broker. He had died in a mysterious kidnapping attempt while awaiting trial
for a scandal involving embezzlement and murders for hire.

“I suppose a childhood spent following his mother to resorts and detoxification centers in San Diego and New York didn’t help
Junior’s personality,” the Secretary said. “And the Senator is not the ideal role model either.”

“No. Junior grew up on both sides of the border and absorbed the worst of both worlds.” Méndez gestured at the memo. “As you
can see, we are not going to charge the Senator for the
moment. We could make a strong case that he provides political cover for his nephew and participates directly on the financial
side. But I thought it best to hold off.”

The Secretary cupped his chin in his right hand and his right elbow in his left hand. “On a legal level, Leobardo, I’m concerned
about the weakness of our organized-crime laws. You’d really have to catch Junior in the act to make charges stick.”

The Secretary had raised this objection before. Méndez thought he had dealt with it.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary, but the new laws on money laundering and drug trafficking will help. We have proof of specific crimes.
We have well-documented connections to Multiglobo Productions and Junior himself. And the direct testimony of the Colonel.”

“Which you yourself told me was limited. The Colonel is dead.”

“What we know about his murder strengthens our case.”

The Secretary stubbed out his cigarette, a chess player’s pause. “When do you and the Americans hope to act?”

“We were talking about a week from today,” Méndez said, his voice wavering. More resolutely, he added: “It’s the right moment.”

The Secretary smiled patiently. “I’m afraid that crosses the border between ambitious and reckless.”

“Why?”

“Arresting Junior is not just a judicial matter. It is a political bomb. Whether or not you charge the uncle, it is an attack
on him and his political group at a delicate moment. You and I understand what monsters these people are, but as far as the
public is concerned, the Senator is an elder statesman. And his nephew is a playboy who manages very popular singers and boxers.”

“In my humble opinion, none of that makes a difference. We are being pushed by events.”

“Before anything happens, I have to consult at the highest levels. This is a question of state.”

“We have been discussing this for months.”

“Only now is it a concrete possibility. Only now can I approach the people who must be approached.”

Méndez cleared his throat. Very quietly, he asked: “How long?”

“More than a week, certainly.” The Secretary’s long fingers pried his handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed at his forehead
and his upper lip, then replaced the handkerchief. He patted Méndez on the knee. “Listen, Leobardo, think for a moment. This
is a very dangerous step for you.”

“As I said, the dangers are worse if we back down.”

“It is my duty to protect you and your boys. I know something about the codes of the underworld, too. It is one thing to catch
the Colonel red-handed. Those are the risks of battle, they can’t really take offense. But now you have the temerity to attack
the very top. My God, man.”

Méndez plowed on, imagining Araceli’s scorn.

“We can’t sit and wait. What if we make all the arrests—except Junior? We go after the organization: Mauro Fernández Rochetti
and the state police, the smuggling bosses, Multiglobo executives, American accomplices. Kill the body. Then we decide when
to chop off the head?”

The Secretary shook his head with finality. “It will be clear that Junior is the target. The impact is the same.”

Méndez ran his fingers slowly down the lines in his face.

“There’s another problem,” he said. “As you know, Araceli Aguirre is deeply involved in the investigation. The human rights
commission has been invaluable.”

“A dynamic young woman.”

“Exactly. She’s dismayed. She thinks the Colonel’s death could have been avoided.”

“It’s fascinating to me how the human rights fanatics are ready to throw legal niceties out the window if their agenda is
affected. As I told you, the prison transfer was difficult because of cases
against the Colonel here in the state system. This is a nation of laws, of institutionality. No matter what Araceli Aguirre
thinks.”

“Nonetheless, another delay will convince her we are not serious. She may turn her back on us.”

The Secretary dabbed fastidiously with the handkerchief again. “Well, only you have control over that.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“You are her friend and mentor.”

“She might go public. In her position, that’s what I would do.”

“I can only urge you to ask her to be sensible, consider her political ambitions and refrain from something that could have
unfortunate consequences for everyone.”

His chin cupped in his hand again, the Secretary was retreating behind a bureaucratic shield. And Méndez sounded to himself
like a timid ruling-party lifer. Enough genuflecting, he thought.

“Mr. Secretary, I have to speak frankly,” he said. “Until today I had few complaints. You have backed the Diogenes Group with
great strength. Thanks to you, we have done marvels. But now, forgive me for telling you, I am worried. If you want me to
wait, if you have to make consultations, I must respect that. But I have to ask you: Do you still want me to do the job? Or
is this as far as the thing goes?”

The Secretary leaned back. He looked undersized and frail in the formidable suit, like a photo of a face superimposed onto
someone else’s body.

“Ah, Méndez. An elegant way of asking if I will betray you.” He raised a hand to cut off the protest. “Please. You are in
the line of fire. I admire your courage, your commitment. Nothing would make me happier than seeing Junior Ruiz Caballero
in handcuffs. But I have to worry about institutionality. About questions of state.”

Méndez leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, feeling as if he were in a confessional.

“Fine,” he said. “But when you talk to the presidential
palace”—the Secretary grimaced—“tell them this. If we don’t stop these people now, it may come back to haunt us. As you know,
there is a worrisome political dimension.”

The Secretary’s eyes widened expectantly. Méndez went on in a low voice: “If the Ruiz Caballeros sustain this alliance with
the South American mafias, they will have enormous resources flowing in. This goes beyond the border. The Colonel is just
the latest example: They are using murders of politicians and policemen to send terroristic messages. I think the Ruiz Caballeros
are moving on two tracks. The presidential elections will be next year. The Senator’s group already has a preferred potential
candidate, does it not?”

“Absolutely.”

“So you have the Senator operating at the political level. And Junior on the mafia level, supplying money and firepower. All
that money, all that firepower. They could overwhelm everyone: here and in Mexico City. That is a real question of state.”

The Secretary interlaced his fingers on his midsection with an expression that combined discomfort and paternal approval.

“A gloomy and paranoid analysis,” he said. “But I happen to think you are right.”

They spent another twenty minutes talking. A waiter from the airport restaurant appeared with tea for the Secretary and coffee,
which revived Méndez, though a hot drink was not ideal in the sweaty confines of the office.

When they descended the circular metal staircase to the floor of the hangar, they were met immediately by Athos and the Secretary’s
personal assistant, Gregorio. A subtle young man with silver-rimmed glasses and a gaunt scrubbed face, Gregorio had a knack
for gliding ahead of the Secretary and anticipating his wishes. Gregorio was usually as stolid as Athos, but both of them
looked preoccupied. The Secretary’s bodyguards and aides milled around whispering.