Authors: Sebastian Rotella
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Suspense
The Secretary arched his eyebrows. Méndez had little hope for the gambit. But there was a remote chance that sheer smugness
might induce the Secretary to answer. Or that he might see a benefit in using Méndez to drop a bomb.
“Let me put it this way,” the Secretary said. “If the Senator had an ally in Washington, as you theorize, I can assure you
that person would be someone at a level Mr. Daniels is unlikely to attain. Despite his talents and the fact that, I must say,
he dresses more elegantly than most American functionaries.”
The Secretary removed and wiped his glasses. He shook his head. “
Ay
Leo. I made a mistake with you, I see that now.”
“What mistake?”
“Bringing you into government service. I knew about your politics, your anger. But I thought your experiences at the border
had made you tough-minded. I’d like to think I was correct, at first. But the pressure, the distance from your family. The
Aguirre assassination. Human entanglements. They weakened you. I gave you power, and you made a mess with it.”
Méndez narrowed his eyes. “It must be nice not to have human entanglements. I thought that made you different. But you sold
out just the same.”
“There is no need to get cross.”
“Ever since I can remember, I’ve run around in labyrinths created by people like you. Whether it’s street-corner narcos or
political assassins, there is always something to hide. I am afraid Araceli Aguirre was right about you. For now, I’m content
with Junior. Eventually, the rest of you will end up where you belong too.”
The Secretary’s face constricted. Méndez wondered if he would get up and walk out. Instead he sighed elaborately, as if Méndez
had just confirmed his suspicions. Extending a long pale finger, the Secretary tapped Méndez’s photo on the front page of
the newspaper.
“Of course, the most incredible thing is that you came out well in the end,” the Secretary said. “Who knows? At the rate things
are going, we could lose the election next year. God protect our homeland, the reformers and the neophytes and the imbeciles”—he
emphasized the word, a final stab—“could end up in charge. And I might come to you looking for a job.”
“I know we both look forward to that day,” Méndez said.
T
HE HANDOFF TOOK PLACE
at The Line in San Ysidro.
Pescatore stood to one side with Méndez, Athos and Porthos. Isabel was busy in the contingent of American federal agents clustered
around vehicles. They were all in the restricted parking lot by the border fence.
A Border Patrol custody bus unloaded prisoners nearby. Agents herded the released illegal immigrants back through a gate into
Tijuana. On Interstate 5 to the east, the slow steel river of traffic flowed into the Mexican customs station, glass and metal
glinting in the sun. Pescatore saw tourists and other pedestrians filing through the turnstile into Tijuana. A Border Patrol
Wrangler cruised by. Pescatore thought he spotted Galván driving. He wondered if Galván had ever found a PA boyfriend for
his cute cousin from Guadalajara.
It was the daily routine. Except that a federal SWAT team had set up a perimeter on the north side of the fence. A phalanx
of Mexican federal police had done the same on the south.
When the Border Patrol bus departed, a black van pulled up. U.S Marshals piled out. They extracted Junior, who wore a blue
prison jumpsuit and manacles on his wrists and ankles. They half escorted, half carried him to the fence, where a contingent
of Mexican federal officers wearing ski masks and holding heavy weapons had appeared in the open gateway.
The exchange took place without frills or ceremony. Pescatore barely caught a glimpse of Junior, head down, hair unkempt,
eyes closed. Then he was gone.
“So much for him,” Pescatore said to Méndez. “I gotta tell you, Licenciado, I’m pretty disappointed with Junior. The way he
whined and carried on in La Jolla when they arrested him. A big mafioso like that. You’d think he’d a had some dignity.”
“He is not a big mafioso anymore,” Méndez said, arms folded.
“How you figure?”
“When you catch someone like Junior, all that is left is a shell. The power has already moved on to some other person.”
“Well that sucks.” Pescatore shook his head. “How come you bother, then, if it’s always too late?”
Méndez clapped him—rather paternally, Pescatore thought—on the shoulder. “A very good question. I suppose you chase them to
keep the power on the run.”
Méndez said he had to catch a flight to Northern California to see his family. Pescatore told him he hoped things went well.
“What will you do with yourself?” Méndez asked.
The answer came to him with sudden certainty. “Go back to the Border Patrol. If they’ll take me.”
“Really?” Méndez grinned wolfishly.
“Why not? It’s an honest living. Before, I felt like I belonged with the criminals. But then it was the other way around,
you know? So I want to give it another shot. For real, this time.”
“Good for you, then.”
“What about you, Licenciado? You going back to Tijuana?”
“Absolutely. I will pose as a journalist this time.”
“Well, you ever need me for anything, you just let me know…”
Looking over Méndez’s shoulder at the federal agents dispersing, Pescatore spotted Isabel Puente getting into her car. He
hesitated. Méndez followed his gaze.
“If I were you, muchacho,” Méndez said softly, “I would give it a try. At the border, anything can happen.”
Pescatore nodded, embarrassed. He quickly shook hands with Méndez, Athos and Porthos. They watched as he hurried to the black
Mazda. He went up to the passenger side and rapped gently on the glass.
After a moment, the window lowered halfway. Isabel looked out at him.
“Miss Puente,” Pescatore said. “Got a minute for me?”
He saw his reflection in her sunglasses. He stayed in his half crouch. The silence lengthened.
“I thought we might go someplace quiet,” Pescatore said. “Continue our conversation.”
She made him wait. When she spoke at last, her voice was husky and resigned.
“Am I under any obligation to let you into this vehicle?” she asked.
He grinned. “None whatsoever.”
Many thanks to:
Mike Connelly for aid above and beyond the call of duty.
My great editor, Asya Muchnick, for making it happen and for making it better; the people at Little, Brown and Mulholland
Books; and my agent, Bonnie Nadell.
Carmen for the lovely, lovely editing, and everything else.
Carlo and Sal, brilliant brother-editors.
Valeria, a star-in-the-making.
My parents for years of love, patience and support. And my parents-in-law, always near in our thoughts.
John Malkovich, Lianne Halfon and Russ Smith for the encouragement and effort.
Jim Shepard, still The Maestro; Bruce Springsteen, still The Boss; and Luis Alberto Urrea, who knows the turf.
The many men and women in law enforcement north and south of The Line who have given me their wisdom and trust.
The journalists of Latin America, especially my old friends in the Tijuana press corps, for their solidarity and courage.
S
EBASTIAN
R
OTELLA
is an author and award-winning senior reporter for ProPublica, an independent organization dedicated to investigative journalism.
He covers issues including international terrorism, organized crime, national security and immigration. Previously, he worked
for twenty-three years for the
Los Angeles Times,
serving as bureau chief in Paris and Buenos Aires and covering the Mexican border. He was a Pulitzer finalist for international
reporting in 2006. He is the author of
Twilight on the Line: Underworlds and Politics at the U.S.–Mexico Border
(Norton), which was named a New York Times Notable Book in 1998.
Twilight on the Line: Underworlds and Politics
at the U.S.-Mexico Border
Copyright © 2011 by Sebastian Rotella
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First eBook Edition: August 2011
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ISBN: 978-0-316-10530-9