“You introduced us.”
“Seven years ago. And the man was as reliable as a Swiss watch until now.”
“Hmm. He was indeed. I do not hold it against you. He was honest, until he wasn’t. And he paid the ultimate price for his treachery,” Aranas said.
Mareli showed no emotion, but internally he was relieved. One never knew how the cartel chiefs would react, although Aranas was one of the most stable of the bunch. What the fuck had the idiot been into that he’d crossed the Don? It didn’t take a genius to understand that was suicide.
“So how can I help you today? How can I be of service?” Mareli asked, wondering what the drug lord wanted. He suspected he knew, but didn’t want to presume.
“Our arrangement is still working well — once the drugs hit the border, we’ve had minimal problems, which is good for everyone. I’m grateful for the protection, as always, even if I do think it comes at a steep price,” Aranas observed. The fifteen percent of the profit he paid Mareli’s group for safe passage into the U.S. and assistance with distribution always came up, but there was no negotiation. And in truth, it was worth it. In the old days, they could expect at least ten percent losses due to law enforcement and sometimes more. It netted out to be roughly the same, but there was peace of mind with Mareli. “I only wish our Mexican officials were as honest as you are. You do a deal with them, and then they stab you in the back as you’re getting up from the negotiating table. A pity, and unforeseeable, but it is what it is.”
“Our arrangement has survived the test of time,” Mareli agreed.
“Carlos’ untimely demise has put me in an uncomfortable situation. I need you to find me someone to replace him. Someone you can vouch for, who will be dependable. I think this year and next will be banner years in the arms trade for Mexico, and my demand is strong. I’m asking you to help me with this. I don’t like dealing with the freelancers that come and go. Yet another headache I can do without.”
Finally. The real reason for the summons. Aranas needed another conduit for weapons. Not unexpected, considering the conflict he was involved in, or the abrupt termination of his last vendor.
“I will ask for a recommendation. There might be an existing entity, or someone who wants to get into the business. We can take care of the supply issue on our end, but he’s largely on his own with the Mexican side. Let me talk to my people and see what we can come up with,” Mareli assured him. “Is this an urgent matter?”
“No, but I don’t want to wind up in a situation where I have to go into the open market when I’m having other difficulties. As you know, word travels fast, and if rumors of my group being unable to secure necessary arms were to circulate, it would embolden my enemies.”
“I see. I’ll make this a priority. You have nothing to worry about,” Mareli said, returning to his coffee.
They discussed the economics of the trade, and the shifting product mix — heroin was down with the worldwide glut since the U.S. had invaded Afghanistan and production was booming. Cocaine demand was down five percent, but methamphetamines were up fifteen. It was a volatile market, but one they understood innately.
Mareli provided more than simple protection. He was also instrumental in cementing the banking relations that allowed Aranas to launder his funds. He’d set up several companies in Panama to handle cash deposits moved through their casino operations and had interests in numerous banks in the region, as well as in Texas and Miami. It was a seamless mechanism, where the cash that didn’t hit Mexico would get deposited in his banks in the States, and the Mexican money moved to Panama. From there, it was scrubbed and could be converted into legitimate funds — for a ten percent fee, of course.
An hour after he arrived, their meeting was over, and Mareli sank into the soft leather of his Mercedes limousine’s rear seat with satisfaction. Once they were underway, he made a series of calls, arranging for his jet to be ready to take him to the U.S. that afternoon. He’d stop at his hotel for his passport and to close out the bill, and then be on his way.
The final call was to a U.S. number, using a different phone — with a state-of-the-art attachment that would scramble it with military-level encryption, rendering it indecipherable to eavesdroppers. The odds of a call being intercepted were remote, however it was protocol and, as such, not to be ignored.
The odd ring of the secure line in Virginia sounded, and after switching through a series of relays, a familiar voice answered.
“How did it go?” Kent Fredericks asked, sounding like he was two feet away.
“Good, good. It was as expected. He needs another gun runner.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t have put a bullet through the head of the last one,” Kent observed. His division in the CIA had gotten a report on the killing almost in real time.
“Apparently, our boy was playing both sides of the field. The man found out and took action.”
“I thought he was selling to everyone? What’s the big deal?” Kent asked.
“He double-crossed the wrong guy, is what happened. Now we need another reliable source. I’m hopping on the plane and will be there in time for dinner. You free?”
“For you? I’m always free. Pick you up at the airport?”
“You bet. I’ll fill you in on the rest when I get in.”
“10-4.”
Chapter 26
Ramirez stood with his hands on his hips, his dirty coveralls stained with mystery fluids, a cigarette twitching between his lips as he stared at a bank of red clay planters and debated his options with his assistant, Paolo.
“How the hell would I know what happened? Sometimes the damned things die. That’s how nature works. You live, you die,” he exclaimed, drawing a lung full of smoke.
“It looks like something killed them. Maybe pollution?” Paolo speculated.
“I doubt it was the smog. They’re Mexican plants. They were raised on this stuff,” Ramirez rasped, before succumbing to a phlegmy coughing fit for thirty seconds. When he was done, he dabbed his eyes and resumed smoking, with a wary glance at the offending cigarette.
“So what do we do?”
“We call someone, and they bring new ones. These have had it.”
Ramirez glared at the dead shrubs as though they’d committed suicide for the sole purpose of complicating his life. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. They were only two days away from the president’s speech, and the plants on either side of the east doors to the legislative meeting hall, at the top of the massive stairs leading up to the distinctive facade, with its huge mural depicting an eagle clutching a snake, had chosen this moment to give up the ghost. It wouldn’t do to have dead vegetation marring the entrance of the Mexican congress and spoiling the photo opportunity. Wouldn’t do at all.
That evening, workers appeared with hand trucks and dutifully hauled away the planters that housed the palms, replacing them with healthy new examples. One of the employees, in particular, seemed especially enthusiastic about the duty — no doubt because he was new and somewhat of a dimwit. The others griped about having to work late with no overtime pay, but he just smiled his idiotic grin and adjusted the flat-brimmed company baseball hat he’d been issued as he whistled, rolling the heavy planters up the ramp on the side of the stairs.
The workers’ supervisor approached once the crew chief had made a call, and the small group of laborers stood by the delivery truck as the boss inspected their work.
“This one is crooked,” he said, pointing to a planter on the right side of the door. The crew chief waved for the men, and two of them trotted up. “Straighten it out,” he ordered.
A few minutes later, the supervisor nodded, and the task was completed.
The men piled into the back of the truck, happy to finally be going home after another hard day of earning their living with their backs and their hands.
Cruz got the call the next morning as he was settling in behind his desk at headquarters.
“They found a bomb,” Briones annou
nced.
“Where are you? Who found a bomb, and where?”
“I’ll be right in. Give me two minutes,” Briones said and hung up.
Cruz fixed him with a curious stare when he sauntered in five minutes later, munching on a muffin. He took one of the seats at the meeting table and leaned back before speaking.
“Bad day for SenorEl Rey. The bomb dogs found his device this morning on a sweep of the building.”
“What? At the congress?” Cruz exclaimed. The president’s speech was that afternoon.
Briones nodded. “One of the planters by the mural, not thirty feet from where they were setting up the podium. It was buried in it, with a triggering device. Remote controlled. Enough Semtex to take out everything for a hundred yards. He’d wrapped it in ball bearings inside a protective plastic sheet to keep it from being damaged if they watered the plants. Clever. About the size of two footballs. It would have killed everyone on the platform.”
“The same basic approach as he used the last time,” Cruz mused.
“Yes. That’s what I was thinking. But thanks to a sedulous beagle, he’s been foiled,” Briones said with glee.
Cruz got up and poured himself a cup of coffee and then sat opposite Briones at the table.
“Doesn’t that seem kind of sloppy to you?” Cruz asked.
“Not necessarily. They were lucky to have found it. He probably figured it would be the typical lackadaisical approach, and nobody would notice. As it was, it took them three tries to figure it out. One of my buddies was on duty there doing backup security for the president’s advance detail, and he said the handler thought the dog was interested in the planter because he had to go.”
They both chuckled at that, and then Cruz became serious again.
“It just seems too easy. When have we ever dealt with anything related to El Rey where it was easy?”
“But it wasn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The odds favored him getting away with it. He might well have. It was just lucky that the dog was persistent, and that we put the president’s staff on high alert. Maybe if they hadn’t been, the bomb squad would have pulled the dog away and never thought twice about it. I think this was a victory for the good guys, sir,” Briones concluded.
“I hope so. But I’m skeptical. Nothing he’s ever done has made it easy for us,” Cruz said stubbornly. “No matter. Maybe you’re right. Today is a win.”
That afternoon, Cruz and Briones signed in and went through the security cordon around the congress site, where they watched the combined efforts of the soldiers and the president’s guard to sanitize the area. Cruz had to admit that the display of force presented an impressive deterrent. Still, Cruz and Briones were on alert, second-guessing every precaution and watching for any possible weaknesses in the security. They walked around the entire compound, noting that all the steps they would have taken, had been. The park across the way from where the president would issue his state of the union address had been closed to all but spectators who were being methodically searched, and the apartments beyond it were under watch. The freeway would be closed a few minutes before the president arrived, and kept closed for a half mile in each direction until it had concluded. Cruz had to concede that there seemed to be little chance for an assassin to try for the president, although he still had a nagging feeling that they’d gotten off too light.
He’d called the head of security and suggested that the president give his speech from the much easier to protect inner courtyard of the building, but had been shut down. Even when he’d pressed and pointed out that a motivated sniper could pick the president off if he was able to be accurate from over eight hundred yards, his advice had been greeted with disinterest. They’d found the bomb. That was that.
At precisely five p.m. the sound of the president’s arrival drowned out the sound of traffic and the crowd that was being held at bay by barricades. The presidential helicopter set down on the large yellow circle designated for it in the long rectangular parking lot at the southern side of the building. As the spinning blades slowed, the alert level of the sentries noticeably increased, and they shifted restlessly. Cruz watched as the door swung open and the plainclothes equivalent of the Secret Service got out of the aircraft, forming a loose protective half ring around the aircraft door, and then the president’s distinctive form stepped onto the asphalt. He waved at the crowd and the gathered media, then proceeded with his entourage up the steps to the building, where he was scheduled to move to the east side and give his speech in front of the huge stone mural that was the emblem of national pride.
Cruz scanned the surrounding buildings for any sign of danger, but spotted nothing. Snipers watched for anything unusual from their perch on the roof of the congress, their field of vision constantly moving, looking for telltales. The structures within range of a shooter had all been searched and cleared. Traffic had been diverted to streets that posed no possible problems. Even the metro trains had been paused during the scheduled time for the speech so they wouldn’t drown out the president’s words. Everything appeared to be under control.
The president moved to the podium and cleared his throat. The assembled dignitaries sat down in unison after a round of lackluster applause. Nobody was expecting anything groundbreaking from a head of state that had only been on the job a few short months, other than the inevitable retraction of the campaign promises he’d made to win the vote. It was almost an obligatory formality — the admission that things were more complicated than he’d thought when he’d been on the election trail, and that it would be foolish to make any hasty moves while things were in such a delicate state of flux, and so on. Every president was forced to abandon his pre-election commitments. It was a rite of passage. The only mildly interesting part would be whether he blamed fate, the opposition party, or the economy. Perhaps today would be all three.
In the end, not much changed but the name on the door. Everyone knew the game. It was the same everywhere.
El Rey watched the proceedings with interest. The security was close to comprehensive, unlike the customary routine he’d studied, no doubt due to the bomb that had been found. That had been a masterstroke of misdirection, well worth the two days of drudgery at the landscaping company as a flunky. The hardest part had actually been poisoning the existing plants so they would need to be replaced — the neighborhood wasn’t the best in town, and he’d had to do it at three in the morning, dodging the patrols of guards who kept the building free of graffiti and vandalism.
Part of him was annoyed that they’d found the bomb, and another was happy. His alternative plan was so much more innovative. Not that he wouldn’t have gladly pushed the button and terminated his target while making the speech. That would have been good. But in his experience few things worth doing were ever easy, and the truth was that it had always been likely that the congress bomb would be spotted, given the heightened threat awareness. Now that it had been neutralized, the hope was that everyone would breathe a sigh of relief, and underestimate him. Just a little.
He switched off the television and put his feet up on the sofa of his new digs. There was nothing more to see, unless he really felt like hearing a speech filled with lies and recriminations. He had better things to do.
With any luck, all the president’s men would relax and make his job easier.
If not, no matter.
The president was still as good as dead.
Chapter 27
As the sun dipped deeper into the horizon, heat waves rippled off the scorched earth, distorting geometry and creating an otherworldly impression of the whitewashed buildings. Eighteen-foot-high concrete walls enclosed the compound, with a twelve-foot-high chain link fence outside that, topped with gleaming razor wire. Guards sat in the turrets that jutted high above, watching the massive interior courtyard where prisoners roamed, some congregating in cliques at the farthest reaches. Duty at the prison was a plum posting due to the under-the-table payments virtually every guard saw from the car
tels to allow access for contraband, as well as to turn a blind eye when called upon.
The Nuevo Laredo Detention Center housed some of the most violent criminals in Mexico — every type of psychopathic killer and miscreant imaginable. Not surprisingly, a substantial portion of the prison population was cartel members, and it had long been rumored that the Los Zetas were the de facto operators of the place. Located just south of the Texas border in the troubled region of Tamaulipas, a state widely regarded as out of government control and under the rule of the cartels, the prison was considered to be a veritable vacation getaway for Los Zetas members sentenced to spend their lives there.
Los Zetas had originally started as the armed wing of the tremendously powerful Gulf cartel, when a group of thirty former Special Forces commandos and police deserted and took up employment with that syndicate. Over time, Los Zetas grew to dwarf the Gulf cartel, and after a split several years back became a feared rival, its power having eclipsed that of its parent. Los Zetas was notorious even by the ultra-violent and brutal cartel standards, and had earned a reputation as the most vicious criminal group in the world. That had been underscored countless times, with massacres a routine part of its operations.
In 2011, one hundred and ninety-three people were killed in what became infamous as the Tamaulipas massacre, and that same year, two hundred and forty-nine people were slaughtered in the Durango massacre. And the burgeoning organized crime syndicate’s operations were now international in scope, as illustrated by the slaughter of thirty in Guatemala, where the group had partnered with paramilitary groups for personnel and specialized weapons training.
Federal troops had been moved to the troubled Mexican border region in an effort to maintain control, but the violence continued, and over time intensified in ferocity. This ongoing state of war resulted in a high number of cartel casualties, placing strain on the Los Zetas organization for skilled hands, even as it simultaneously battled its adversary, the Sinaloa cartel. Over the last two years, it had succeeded in taking territory away from its enemy, but at a high cost. Concurrent wars with the Gulf cartel, Sinaloa and the Mexican military had taken their toll, and even as its power grew, Los Zetas began experiencing a manpower shortage. Unskilled labor in the form of deserting police and regular army troops swelled the ranks, but the specialized training offered to the marines and commando squads was prized. Due to the attrition, skilled soldiers who had the requisite experience had been in short supply of late. Even the most hardened and avaricious thought twice about taking the high paying, but lethal, duty.
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