by Don Winslow
“Then you make like you turn it off, but you don’t,” Hidalgo says.
Jesus.
“What if they confiscate phones before the meeting?”
“You’ve been in meetings like that?” Hidalgo asks. “Because I’d like to hear about those meetings.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then chill,” Hidalgo says. “Remember, we want names. Descriptions. If you take notes, we want those notes. If there are documents, we want copies of those documents.”
“I don’t know if I can get you those.”
“You’d better get us those,” Hidalgo says. “Your free ride on the merry-go-round is over, Chandler. You need to grab the fucking ring.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Do everything you normally do,” Hidalgo says. “Just be your normal asshole self. Don’t worry about saying anything incriminating because we’ll cut you a new deal anyway. One more thing, if there are more meetings, you make sure you’re included.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“Fuck if I know,” Hidalgo says. “Am I an investment banker? You got where you are by insinuating yourself upward, right? Make yourself necessary, essential. Kiss ass, suck cock, whatever.”
“How long do I have to keep doing this?” Claiborne asks.
“Until,” Hidalgo says.
“Until when?”
“Until we say stop,” Hidalgo says. After we’ve squeezed every last drop of juice out of you, he thinks, or until you give us someone bigger, whichever comes first.
But you’re a smart little fuck, you’ve figured that out already.
When a phone rings at four in the morning it’s usually bad news.
Keller rolls over and picks it up. “Keller.”
“I’ve always believed,” Mullen says, “it’s better to be lucky than good. Are you ready for this?”
“What?”
“We need linkage between Terra and the cartels, right?” Mullen says. “I think we just got it.”
That wakes Keller up. “Jesus. How?”
“My UC? Cirello?” Mullen says. “Darius Darnell just told him to provide security for the meeting at the Pierre.”
Keller waits in the office.
And uses the time to read commutation files. One is from a Florida inmate serving life for dealing fifty dollars’ worth of coke, but it was his third conviction. Another is a three-time loser sentenced to life without parole for selling a small amount of meth. The next one is a convict, a first offender named Arthur Jackson, who’s doing three life sentences for making a phone call to set up a low-level cocaine deal.
It goes on and on.
Bobby Cirello is living large.
What else would you call hanging out in the Pierre, he thinks, drinking a ten-dollar cup of coffee and munching on a twenty-buck cheese Danish while you check the suite for hidden microphones?
He’s looking tight—black Zegna suit, pearl-gray Battistoni shirt, red Gucci tie with matching pocket square, black Ferragamo shoes. Like his ya-ya used to say about some of the wiseguys who’d come in for the dollar breakfast special, “He has more money on his back than in his bank.”
Darnell told him to dress sharp.
This meeting is with bankers and real estate heavyweights and “special guests” up from Mexico, so he was told to look tight, keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut, make sure the suite is clean, and be a “presence,” letting the guests know that they’re safe and secure because one of New York’s finest is on the job.
“What’s your interest in this?” Cirello asked.
“What’s that to you?”
“Like to know what I’m walking into,” Cirello said.
“Need to know the meeting room ain’t wired,” Darnell said. “And our visitors need to know they’re meeting with serious people. Just go there, look like a cop.”
I’ll do my best, Cirello thinks now as he steps out into the hallway. “Special guests,” my aching ass. Real estate developers, bankers—just a higher level of dirtbag, as far as he’s concerned. The kind of people who kill people—like that poor kid Travis.
The elevator doors open and a man gets out. A real Brooks Brothers type, Cirello thinks, probably wears L.L.Bean on his weekends in Connecticut.
The guy looks shit scared.
“Chandler Claiborne?” the guy asks, like he’s not sure he knows his own name. “I’m here for the meeting.”
“You’re the first to arrive,” Cirello says.
“And you would be . . .”
“Security,” Cirello says. “Go on in. There’s coffee and things. I’m sure the rest will be here any minute.”
“Did you sweep the room?” Claiborne asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sweep the room,” Claiborne says. “You know, for bugs, that sort of thing.”
“Oh yeah, the room is totally swept.”
Jesus Christ.
Claiborne goes in.
The Mexicans, three of them, arrive about five minutes later. One looks to Cirello to be about fifty, the other two maybe in their mid- to late thirties. Expensively dressed, chilled out—these people are used to meetings where there’s security at the door.
“Mr. Claiborne is inside,” Cirello says.
The fiftyish guy says, “Then we’re all here. Please see that no one else comes in.”
“Yes, sir.”
They close the door behind them.
Cirello waits in the hallway for an hour and a half before they come out.
Keller gets the call.
“Claiborne’s out,” Hidalgo says.
“And?”
“He got it all,” Hidalgo says. “I’m sending you the audio file now.”
“How’s Claiborne?”
“Shaken,” Hidalgo says. He chuckles. “You know how UC work is.”
“Sit on him for a while,” Keller says. “Make sure he doesn’t go crying to his bosses to confess.”
“We’re having martinis as we speak,” Hidalgo says.
“Hugo? Good work.”
“Thanks, boss.”
There’s a lot to do.
Keller starts by listening to the audio file.
Most of it is mumbo jumbo to him, financial discussions that he doesn’t understand. What’s clear from the meeting, though, is that Claiborne is pressing the Mexicans for a quick decision on the loan, offering to “move up their position” on the syndicate pyramid, and reassuring them that Park Tower is a viable investment.
“Why has it lost money for nine years, then?” one of the Mexicans asks.
“A declining real estate market,” Claiborne says. “But that’s changing now. We’re moving into a seller’s market, and Park Tower will be a prime location.”
“Then why did Deutsche Bank pull out of the syndicate?”
“Some people have the guts to make money,” Claiborne says. “Others don’t. The question is, do you?”
“No, Chandler, the question is, how are you going to guarantee our money?”
“Haven’t we always?” Claiborne says. “When has Terra, or Berkeley for that matter, defaulted on you?”
“No, that’s true. But Terra is about to default now.”
“Which is why we’re here,” Claiborne says. “Look, let’s get real. We each have needs. We need cash, and you need to place some. We can help each other. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
Keller hits the pause button again. We need cash, and you need to place some. Does that indicate awareness of guilt? That they know the $285 million they’re seeking is drug money? He starts the file again and hears one of the Mexicans ask, “Why aren’t people from Terra here?”
“Well, I’m the syndicate broker.”
“That’s not an answer. Why should we invest hundreds of millions with people who won’t sit down with us?”
“This is just a preliminary meeting,” Claiborne says. “Just exploratory to ascertain your interest. If you want to sit down with Terra—”<
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“Not just with Terra. With Jason.”
“If I could tell him you’re on for the whole two-eighty-five—”
“The amount isn’t the problem. We’re concerned about the relationship.”
Claiborne says, “If we can come to a preliminary agreement here, I’m sure Jason would love to sit down with you.”
“With that understanding,” the Mexican says, “we’re willing to look at the numbers.”
Forty minutes of numbers ensue, as Keller prays, Push for the next meeting. Push for the next meeting. God must be listening, because the Mexican boss wraps up the session with “We’re willing to close. But only with Jason personally.”
“I’ll see if I can set that up for tomorrow,” Claiborne says. “Can I arrange some entertainment in the meantime?”
“That’s very kind, Chandler, but we can arrange our own entertainment.”
“Of course.”
The meeting ends. Goodbyes. Shuffling of shoes, closing of doors.
The next step is to ID the Mexican bankers, Keller thinks. He gets on the horn with Mullen.
“Two of my best people picked them up outside the Pierre,” Mullen says. “We have them under surveillance. They’re staying at the Peninsula. We’re working on getting the registration.”
“They’ll use false names anyway,” Keller says. “Did your guys get photos?”
“Yeah, but they’re not great,” Mullen says. “They didn’t want to get too close and spook them.”
“No, that’s right,” Keller says. “Send them anyway, we’ll run them. How about Cirello? Can he give us descriptions?”
“Got them already.”
Keller tells Mullen about tomorrow’s meeting with Jason Lerner. “Look, these guys aren’t virgins, they’ve been in bed with these people before. I’ll send you the audio file, you’ll hear it.”
“Can it get us a warrant?”
“I don’t know,” Keller says. “Depends on who ‘these people’ are.”
“We’ll send you the photos now.”
“To me directly. I’ll scramble for a warrant,” Keller says. “We’ll want it as evidence. We have to work Claiborne into pushing these guys into an admission of awareness. Hopefully Darnell will put Cirello on security again. Can he work the Darnell side?”
“He can’t push too hard.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to get him jammed up.” I already got one undercover killed, Keller thinks. Hugo’s dad. I don’t want another on my conscience. “Tell him to be careful. But if we can link Darnell to the money people . . .”
“Jesus Christ, huh, Art?”
“Yeah, talk to him, too.”
The photos come in a few minutes later.
Mullen was right, they’re not great. A little fuzzy, shot from across the street. Three men leaving the Pierre. Same three men checking into the Peninsula. Keller doesn’t recognize any of them.
He looks at the individual shots.
The one he labels “Mexican Banker 1” looks to be in his fifties—gray hair, gray goatee. About five ten.
“MB 2” is younger, late thirties or early forties, black hair, pushing six feet. “MB 3” is in his early thirties, Keller guesses.
He’d run them through the DEA database but there are people in the agency who are giving anything he does straight to Denton Howard.
Howard can’t know about this yet.
Maybe ever.
Keller calls Orduña in Mexico. “Can you run some photos for me?”
“You have better resources than I do.”
“But I can’t use them,” Keller says.
There’s a long silence. “¿Así es?”
So it’s like that?
“Así es,” Keller says.
I can’t trust my own people.
“Send them.”
“Can you put a rush on them?”
“You’re a pain in the ass, Art.”
“Famous for it,” Keller says. “Roberto, you know how you’re always bitching that the US doesn’t take responsibility for its ownership in the drug problem? This is me taking responsibility. At the highest level.”
“Is this you getting yourself in worse trouble?” Orduña asks. “Your days might be numbered.”
“That’s why I need it now.”
“There’s always a job for you here,” Orduña says.
Keller sends the photos and then waits three endless hours before Orduña calls back. “In ascending order, MB 3 is Fernando Obregón. He’s an investment banker with HBMX. MB 2 is Davido Carrancistas, a lending officer with the same bank. MB 1 is your winner—León Echeverría. He’s an independent player.”
“Name is familiar.”
“Actually, you have him in your database,” Orduña says. “Check your photo file on the Adán and Eva royal wedding. He was a guest. Same with Adán’s wake and funeral. We’ve had him under watch for years, decades. But . . . Arturo, I don’t know what you’re getting into up there, but here? Echeverría is connected, not just to Sinaloa, but to certain people very high up in Mexico City.”
As high as it gets, Orduña explains. Echeverría is a major contributor to PRI on all levels. He has business interests alongside the current administration, in fact, helps them with their own investments.
“He’s intocable,” Orduña says.
Untouchable.
Keller meets with Judge Antonelli in the bar of the Hay-Adams Hotel on Sixteenth Street, joining him in one of the red banquettes beneath an old caricature of Tip O’Neill.
“Why the spy versus spy, Art?” Antonelli asks. “We both have perfectly functional offices.”
“I need a warrant.”
“You have a battalion of lawyers to do that.”
Keller tells him who the warrant is on.
“You’re asking me to commit career suicide if they win,” Antonelli says.
“If they win, they’re going to replace you anyway.”
“Maybe not,” Antonelli says. “I might fly under the radar. Unless I do this. If I give you this warrant, it could get labeled a political witch hunt. An attempt to throw the election to the Democrats.”
“It’s not,” Keller says. He shows Antonelli some of the photos that Orduña sent—Echeverría dancing at Adán Barrera’s wedding, Echeverría at his wake, at the funeral. Echeverría with Elena Sánchez, with Iván Esparza, with Ricardo Núñez, Tito Ascensión, even a photo of a younger Echeverría with Rafael Caro.
“I’m assuming all these people are cartel figures,” Antonelli says.
“That’s right.”
“So what?”
“There’s enough here to justify reasonable suspicion of a crime,” Keller says.
“A bank lending money?”
“HBMX has been caught with its fingers in the cookie jar before,” Keller says. “In 2010, it funneled drug money through Wachovia Bank, in 2011 it was HSBC, 2012 it was Bank of America. These are all on judicial record. The banks concerned reached settlements with Justice and paid fines.”
“Why hasn’t Mexico prosecuted?”
“I guess because they’re no cleaner than us,” Keller says.
Antonelli drums his fingers on the table. “You have no clear connection between this meeting and drug traffickers.”
“A heroin trafficker named Darius Darnell arranged security for the meeting.”
“How do you know that?” Antonelli asks.
“Bill . . .”
“You’re asking me to lay my ass on the line here.”
“We have an undercover close to Darnell,” Keller says.
“Get me a sworn affidavit.”
“If that leaked,” Keller says, “it could get this guy killed.”
More drumming. “Can you put this person on the phone?”
It takes twenty minutes. Keller calls Mullen, he calls Cirello, Cirello calls Keller. Keller says, “Do not identify yourself. I’m about to hand the phone to a federal judge who is going to ask you some questions.”
“
Okay.”
Keller hands Antonelli the phone.
“This is Justice William Antonelli,” he says. “I need you to understand that this conversation has the same force and function as if you were appearing in my office and were under oath. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good,” Antonelli says. “Do you have a relationship with a Darius Darnell, and, if so, what is the nature of that relationship?”
“I work for him in my capacity as an undercover police officer,” Cirello says.
“To your direct knowledge,” Antonelli says, “is he involved in drug trafficking?”
“To my direct knowledge, Darnell traffics in heroin.”
“And do you perform security functions for him?”
“In my capacity as an undercover police officer,” Cirello says, “I do perform certain security functions for Darius Darnell.”
“And did Mr. Darnell ask you to provide security for a meeting at the Pierre Hotel between a representative of Terra Realty Trust and certain Mexican banking institutions?”
“He asked me two days ago,” Cirello says, “but he did not tell me who would be attending that meeting.”
“Did you later learn the identities of those individuals?”
“Yes, I did.”
“From Mr. Darnell?”
“No.”
“Is it your understanding,” Antonelli asks, “that this meeting was connected to Mr. Darnell’s drug trafficking?”
Keller holds his breath. This is the question. If Cirello answers that he doesn’t know—which is probably the accurate response—the warrant is most likely shot.
Then he hears Cirello say, “That’s my understanding.”
“Based on what?” Antonelli asks.
Keller hears Cirello lie. “He told me so.”
“Thank you.” Antonelli clicks off. “I don’t know.”
“Bill,” Keller says, “I need this warrant. I need you to do the right thing here.”
“If only it were that easy to know what the right thing is,” Antonelli says.
“You know what the right thing is,” Keller says.
“You did the right thing,” Mullen says.
Lying to a federal judge? Cirello thinks. Then again, it’s part of my bizarro world—the wrong thing is the right thing.
“You did the right thing,” Mullen repeats. “We got the warrant.”