“That’s the guy. Or pretty close.”
Cruz groaned audibly, and then thanked Briones, asking him to close his door behind him when he left.
Cruz now had to consider the other item he’d been procrastinating dealing with. How El Rey had known. It was almost impossible to believe they had a leak in the department, but he had to proceed as though they did. Which meant he couldn’t trust Julio, Ignacio or Briones. His mind wanted to veer from the idea that any of them could be involved, especially Briones. He debated back and forth internally, and decided that Briones couldn’t be the leak. He’d been with Cruz for five years, and there had never been the slightest hint of anything untoward. No, if there had been a tip-off, it was either Julio or Nacho.
The problem was that Cruz had not the faintest idea how to vet either man conclusively, leaving him with the compromising prospect of having to exclude them from any more involvement in the investigation. That would permanently harm his relationship with them and deprive him of intelligence, but it was the only safe course.
Another knock interrupted him. He went to his door and opened it, and was presented with an x-ray sized envelope from Tomas.
Cruz returned to his desk and extracted the four drawings from the sheath and spread them out, holding Briones’ sketch next to each. The only one that was even close was from the church, and that was a stretch. Still, there was a similarity to the chin and the nose. Which told him that El Rey probably looked about like twenty percent of the younger males in Mexico.
Some days weren’t so good.
Chapter 11
Cruz welcomed his associates from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency into his office and closed the door. He’d worked closely with John Rode and Bill Stephens for years. While not exactly friends, the men had mutual respect for each other. John and Bill had been doing a thankless job for over a decade — trying to plug a cork into a fire hose of a product that gushed daily into the United States. They were world-weary, had seen a lifetime of disappointment, and knew they were fighting an unwinnable battle. The U.S. had been the largest consumer of illegal drugs for generations, and regardless of what steps were taken, it continued to be. Trying to stop that by terminating the supply was akin to the efforts to prevent alcohol consumption during Prohibition. That experiment had not gone well, and neither had the drug war.
John and Bill were in town for a panel discussion on law enforcement in the 21st Century at the Camino Real, and Cruz had convinced them to come by and check out his operation. They’d agreed, arriving at eleven on Monday morning to be given the nickel tour. After making appropriately complimentary noises, they’d retired to his office and settled comfortably in. Both Americans spoke fluent Spanish; they talked shop for a while, comparing notes and sharing war stories, and then Cruz got to the point of the meeting.
“What kind of contacts do you have with the Secret Service or the NSA?” Cruz tossed out.
“Why, you thinking about switching sides?” John quipped.
When the laughter subsided, Cruz said, “No, I just was wondering how to proceed with some potentially troubling news about an assassination attempt on your president.”
The atmosphere in the room dropped several degrees.
“What are you talking about?” Bill leaned towards Cruz, who now had both men’s full attention.
“It all started with a contract killer, a hit man, famous in Mexico for pulling off the impossible. He’s called El Rey in the tabloids…” Cruz went on to describe his investigation to date, including the theory about the G-20 being the likely assassination spot.
Aside from the frustrated buzz of a fly at the window, there was complete silence in the room. John was the first to break it. “I see your problem. Your security service won’t go to bat on the basis of an investigation, even if the circumstantial evidence is compelling,” he observed.
“That’s probably the same in your country. Nobody wants to stick their neck out and then be wrong, so it’s easier to do the safe thing than do the right thing…” Cruz said.
“Some things don’t change no matter which side of the border you’re on,” Bill agreed.
“My thinking is that maybe I can go in through the back door and lean on our relationship. Which is why I need to determine whether you know anyone with either agency who could help me out here.”
“My sister-in-law actually works at the NSA, so maybe that would be a decent place to start,” Bill said.
“You don’t have strong enough relationships with those agencies to get some face time?” Cruz inquired.
“It seems your relationship with your intelligence service is about like ours with the NSA. And we have zero contact with Secret Service. So…no help there. Although, I’d be happy to write this up as a formal report and pass it on. I just wouldn’t expect much, for the same reasons you encountered with your team,” Bill advised.
Cruz rose, went to the window and opened it to let the bluebottle escape into the heat of the day. He sighed and said, “This is so frustrating. I know I’m right, and yet I can’t get the attention of the agencies chartered with keeping our heads of state safe. It’s really unbelievable.”
“Welcome to government work,” Jim said.
Once the Americans were gone, Briones approached Cruz’s office, standing politely at the door until Cruz looked up from his paperwork and noticed him.
“Yes, Lieutenant. What is it?”
“We got a hit back from our office in Culiacan. They have someone in custody who claims he has information on El Rey. He’s willing to talk, but he wants to know what he can expect in return for cooperation,” Briones told him.
Cruz put down his pen. “What kind of information?”
“About his background. He said he could tell us a lot about where he came from, and that it’s verifiable.”
“What’s he charged with?” Cruz asked, thinking this was too good to be true.
“Burglary.”
“What? A lowlife thief knows all about El Rey? How likely does that sound to you?” Cruz scoffed.
“Not very. But then again, you wanted to hear about any and all leads, so I thought I’d run it by you,” Briones said, preparing to leave.
“Not so fast. What kind of burglary, do you know?” Cruz inquired.
“The usual. Breaking into houses, stealing valuables. Nothing violent.”
“I suppose it’s worth at least talking to him. Can we get him flown here?” Cruz asked.
“I already asked. They said if we’d pay for the tickets they’d send one of their men with the prisoner. They didn’t sound too interested in driving him here…”
“No, I wouldn’t think so.” Cruz thought about it. “Fine. Make it happen. Just don’t book them into first class.”
“There’s a flight out tomorrow morning,” Briones said. “Gets here at noon, and then a return flight at three. So they’ll only be on the ground for a few hours. Do you want me to line up a meeting room at the airport? Might be more practical than hauling them around town and having to deal with traffic issues. Last thing we need is for them to miss the plane back.”
“Sure. We can be back here in an hour or two.”
“He’ll want to know what we’re prepared to do for him — you have to address that. So what can we actually do?” Briones asked.
“Depends. I suppose we could always trade some favors and get the charges dropped, but it would have to be one hell of a story to get that card played. More likely, we can get a reduced sentence if he doesn’t have a ton of priors. Also depends on where he is in the system. If the prosecutor hasn’t gotten hold of him yet, it’s all internal to us and we can do whatever we want.”
“Let me get on the line and talk to Culiacan, and find all this out before we sit down with him.” Briones stopped, looking a little sheepish. “Sir, I just want you to know I’m sorry I let El Rey slip by me. I had this weird feeling there was something wrong, but I didn’t trust my gut…”
“Learn from that, Lie
utenant. Next time your instinct tells you something’s off, follow it; don’t shut it down. It could save your life. Now get out of here, and let’s get this robber a plane ride,” Cruz said, reluctantly returning his attention to the pile of documents.
“I’m on it. Oh, and maybe we should take the sketches — perhaps slip some placebo ones in as a control? He may be able to identify which is the real El Rey…” Briones suggested.
“Excellent idea. If he can, that would be the first real break we’ve had. I would say we’re about due for one.”
The following day, Cruz and Briones were waiting at the gate as the jet pulled up to the walkway. The first passengers off were their men — one of the perks of being a Federal was that you could command priority, and get it, from the airlines. The escort was a heavily muscled thirty-something-year old veteran of the force in one of the most dangerous and violent epicenters of the drug wars. He looked menacing and tough, which was probably an understatement. You didn’t survive years as a Federal in a battle zone by pretending to be a hard-case. Apart from Ciudad Juarez by the Texas border, there was no Mexican city more dangerous than Culiacan, home of the original Godfather, and the capital of not only Sinaloa, but of the Sinaloa cartel — the largest, most violent and influential of the narcotics trafficking gangs.
The prisoner was a skinny weasel of a man, and old — at least fifty-five — and looking like every day of it had been spent in poverty and hardship. He had the hunched shoulders and defeated gait of a man who’d been bludgeoned by life, and was running out the clock, trying to avoid any further suffering. His skin had the leathery look of an existence spent outdoors — the complexion of a day laborer, or a beggar. As he was escorted towards Briones and Cruz, his pronounced limp slowed him, as did the cuffs on his wrists.
The officer extended his hand in greeting, his face unsmiling and impassive.
“I’m Lieutenant Marquez. Nice to meet you both. Where are we headed?” he asked, after shaking their hands.
“We’ve got a conference room booked over in the old Mexicana club suite. Follow me,” Cruz instructed, moving swiftly to the main terminal area. The others followed, Briones lagging behind with the prisoner and Marquez.
They arrived at their destination, where an airport security man opened the suite and asked if they’d require anything else. Cruz inspected the room, which had a cooler with water and sodas and some sandwiches wrapped in cellophane. He shook his head. The group settled in around the conference table, and the captive put his gnarled, cuffed hands on the table — his cracked nails and hardened calluses further confirmation of a sustenance-level existence.
Marquez cleared his throat. “This is Rodrigo Moreno. He’s charged with burgling several homes in Culiacan, and was arrested four days ago. He was caught climbing out of a ground floor window with a stereo and a few items of jewelry. We put the question about El Rey to him, as we have to all detainees, and he indicated he had information he was willing to share.” Marquez sat back, his role finished until he had to walk the man back to the plane.
“Trade. I have information I want to trade,” Moreno said, his yellowed eyes darting from Briones to Cruz, lending him the appearance of a fox, or some other wild animal that lived by its wits in a harsh habitat.
“I’m Captain Cruz. I head up the cartel task force for Mexico City. I’m interested in hearing your information, and if it’s of value, I’m prepared to consider some sort of equitable exchange,” Cruz said. “But I won’t discuss any terms until you tell us what you know. I won’t cheat you, but I also don’t have a lot of time to negotiate. Either you talk and then I reward you, assuming your information isn’t complete bullshit, or you go rot in the Culiacan jail — one of the most lethal places in the country, if I’m not mistaken,” he added.
“That’s nothing compared to the streets,” Moreno commented.
“Maybe. But the question is do you want to spend the next few years there, or do you want to deal?”
“Obviously, I want to deal. But how do I know you won’t screw me?” Moreno asked.
“You’ll have to trust that I flew you here, at considerable expense, and am sitting in front of you instead of directing Mexico’s anti-cartel task force’s operations, to hear your account and act honorably if it vets out,” Cruz stated.
Moreno regarded him distrustfully. “Talk’s cheap. If I had a peso for every time someone told me they weren’t going to fuck me, and then did, I’d-”
Cruz pushed back from the table and stood. “Officer Marquez? It was a pleasure meeting you. Sorry to inconvenience you dragging this worthless shit halfway across the country. This meeting’s now over. Make sure your prisoner gets the full incarceration experience back in Culiacan,” Cruz instructed.
Moreno’s face crumbled, and he visibly deflated. He’d played his best hand and lost.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I accept your proposal. Please…”
Cruz fixed Moreno with a glare. “Let’s be very clear. You don’t dictate terms, or complain, or express anything but gratitude that someone as important as me is sitting here, prepared to entertain what is probably an easily debunked pack of lies — in which case, your jail time will make being gang raped in Calcutta seem like a trip to Rio for the Carnival. So here’s the deal. You talk. I listen. Then I decide what your story’s worth. There’s no other deal. You have five seconds to accept or reject it. Now you have four,” Cruz dictated.
“All right. Fine. I’ll take the deal. Sit down. Please. I promise it’ll be worth your time,” Moreno said.
“Fair enough. Start talking. And it better be good,” Cruz warned.
“Can I have some water?” Moreno asked, chastened from his brush with dismissal.
Marquez handed him a plastic bottle, after twisting the cap open. Moreno lifted it with his shackled hands and drank greedily before setting it, half empty, on the table between them.
“It all started in Tijuana about ten years ago.”
Nine Years Ago, Tijuana, Mexico
A large walled compound perched on a cliff face near the outskirts of the city, looking over the town below, which bustled with activity in the late morning sunlight. It resembled a small prison, with a dozen heavily-armed men clad in civilian clothes patrolling the perimeter. One of the largest homes in the notorious border city of over a million people, it was an imposing presence at the top of the access road.
A Cadillac Escalade pulled to the gates, and after a glance from the guards through the driver window, the reinforced iron grids rolled open. They had been designed to withstand anything other than a tank running through them. The Escalade eased to a stop in front of the main home’s entrance, where three men exited the vehicle. The SUV was heavily armored, a special order from a company in Dallas, Texas that built conveyances for heads of state and corporate bigwigs. It could survive a grenade blast, and gunfire would literally bounce off it. The window glass was a special polymer that could take armor piercing rounds without breaking, and the tires could go twenty miles after having been shot to pieces. All that protection didn’t come cheap — the vehicles cost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a pop.
The compound had three.
The men approached the front door and the youngest, tallest one, who stood between his two older companions, held his hands above his head while one of several armed men frisked him professionally and then scanned his body with an electronic surveillance wand designed to reveal any listening devices or recording apparatus. They were granted access to the house, and the man who’d frisked the new arrival motioned for them to follow him.
Domestic staff busily cleaned floors and windows as the procession made its way to the great room terrace, where the owner of the property, and one of the most infamous cartel chieftains in Mexico, sat in a white terrycloth bathrobe sipping espresso with a young woman a third his age, also in a bathrobe, though filling it out with considerably more style.
Felix Montanegro eyed the arrivals, then
leaned over and murmured something into his young companion’s tousled hair. She smiled, then obligingly rose and moved inside, her bare feet padding silently across the oversized Italian marble flooring. Montanegro gestured with his hand for the young man to sit, and snapped his fingers to the service staff, who waited at a discreet distance, out of earshot. One of the maids hurried off, rematerializing thirty seconds later with a cup of coffee for the guest. A gardener studiously trimmed ivy at one end of the terrace, taking care to stay well away from the small onyx table where the two men sat. The pair of tough-looking escorts moved inside the house, twenty feet from the terrace, where they could reach Montanegro in seconds if he needed them.
Montanegro regarded the young man and leaned back in his chair, withdrawing a cigarette from a gold case on the table. The maid scurried to his side and lit it for him. He appeared not to register her, continuing to study his guest’s face, which betrayed nothing.
“So you’re the miracle man who’s been achieving what everyone said couldn’t be done,” Montanegro started cordially.
The young man nodded, the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly turning up in a veiled smile.
“It’s impressive. Really impressive. I’ve never seen anything like it. I would have guessed it was impossible to fulfill the last three contracts without being killed yourself, but here you are…and without a scratch on you.” Montanegro flicked ash from his cigarette into a rectangular metal container adorned with highly-stylized skulls, commemorating the Mexican Day of the Dead, Dia De Los Muertos. He took a drag and continued, exhaling the smoke skyward.
“I wanted to meet you. I wanted to see the phantom who’s causing such a stir among the illustrious members of my group, as well as in the population of Tijuana. I understand the restaurants and cantinas are abuzz with talk of your exploits — of the man they call, ‘El Rey’.”
“What people gossip about is of no consequence. What matters are results,” the young man reasoned, speaking softly for the first time since he’d gotten into the Escalade.
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