“You didn’t want to expose your brother,” Sonny said.
She shook her head. “The deal Emilio and I made was to expose anyone we found connected to the cartels. That’s the only way to rid the society of the evil. But after they killed my husband, I feared for my child. That fear was so deep, I couldn’t bear it. I could not expose my child to the fate my husband met. I ran.”
She paused, and Sonny waited until she spoke again.
“Tomorrow I will be at the services. Mariano will be buried here. No family, no friends have claimed him. The balloonists will bury him as one of their own, but they don’t know his past. The women he loved to have at his side have already moved on.”
“Then you go home.”
“Yes, then my husband, my son, and I return to our small Texas town and the satisfying life of teaching in a small college. I have grown to love that quiet life. One more chapter is closed.”
It was a sad story, Sonny thought. Alisandra was no more than forty, intelligent, gifted. The reality of Latin America had caught her in a web and made her pay. Now she spent her life in a small town in Texas and counted herself lucky.
“Why did they kill Mario?” Sonny asked.
She looked puzzled for a moment. “They wanted Mario out of the way. Do you know the name John Gilroy?”
The woman was full of surprises, Sonny thought. “Yes,” he stammered, “I know the name. Ex-CIA, supplied the Contras in Nica. Ran the right-wing group called Libertad.”
“Good. You’ve done your homework. During those fitful last days of the revolution, the Contras traded war supplies for drugs. Cocaine was channeled into this country with the blessings of some very important people in the government.”
“Through the CIA?”
Her nod was barely perceptible. “I believe Mariano, Mario Secco as you know him, was involved. Probably, he, John Gilroy, and the man you call Raven were hired to bring in the drugs. There are millions to be made in such a transaction, so my theory is Gilroy and Raven killed Mario Secco.”
“So now they split the profit only two ways,” Sonny said. Alisandra knew the business and what she said made sense.
“I knew men like Gilroy in Colombia,” she whispered. “Men with no morals and no compunction about killing. But from what you’ve told me, I would say Raven is the most dangerous player, and he seems intent on harming you.”
“Did you run into him during your research?”
“No. There was another contact. Does the name William Stone ring a bell?”
Yes, Sonny thought. William Stone was riding in the backseat of the helicopter that Stevens and Martinez had landed on the river sandbar!
“Big man in the CIA,” Sonny muttered.
“William Stone was in charge of CIA operations in Central America. What he reported to his superiors was one thing, what he did in Nicaragua was another.” She whispered, “The photograph I mentioned shows William Stone on the front steps of a cartel building in Bogota. He is standing beside a drug lord of the Medellín cartel. The Medellín drug lords were in power then. The photograph is of poor quality, shot with a telescopic lense, but—”
She reached into her purse and took out a small, yellow envelope.
“This has been my insurance,” she said. “The FBI has a copy, and they know I have the original. I came upon this photograph during my investigations. So both the FBI and the CIA have left me alone. Now, they no longer care. Some of the kings of the cartels have been caught, and the public is lulled, believing the problem is under control. They know the fear and concern I have for my son will keep me quiet. And now, except for Stone and Gilroy, even the players have changed. You have a new administration, a new era of diplomacy with Latin America. But people like Stone are still very powerful inside the CIA. They guard themselves. They can’t be reached.”
“How did Stone and Gilroy come together?”
“Stone recruited Gilroy to run the bogus operation. A small group of CIA operatives, trading arms for cocaine. At first they were motivated by their right-wing ideology. Then they saw there was a lot of money to be made in drugs. When the Nicaragua revolution was won and there were no Contras to supply, they went right on making money.”
“Bringing in dope.”
“Yes,” Alisandra replied. “They shifted their alliance to the newer Cali cartel and set up a supply line. They are protected at very high levels in the government. But Gilroy became a problem. He talked too much, so they retired him to your fair city. Mr. Stone, I assume, still flies in to see him from time to time. It remains a cozy relationship. The wars subsided in Central America, but these men had addicted a generation to drugs.”
“Addicted an entire country,” Sonny said.
Alisandra nodded. “In business terms, they created a market, and they could keep on supplying it. But Gilroy is too flashy, too loud. He likes to show off his wealth. I understand Stone’s connections in Washington don’t like Gilroy.”
Quite a story, Sonny thought. The elements were well known; what wasn’t known were the people behind the scenes. Alisandra Bustamante-Smith had dug up the facts, she named names in her file, and she had the photograph. But she feared for her child. Now she had told Sonny her story.
Sonny looked down at the envelope on the table.
“Open it,” she said.
Sonny picked it up and opened it.
“I’ve been carrying it with me for years.”
Sonny looked at the faded photo. On the steps of a building, near a very ornate door, stood two men looking out at him. One, broad shouldered and tall, was blond. Smiling. William Stone.
“You’re sure it’s Stone?”
“I’m sure,” she replied. “The man on the left is a Medellín operative. They are standing in front of a cartel building in Bogota. They were flying so high in those days, and they were so powerful, they became arrogant. They were dealing with heads of state, the military, and they thought their cartels were destined to rule Latin America.”
“They really thought—”
“Of course they did. They claimed to be fighting communism, but they were really in the process of taking over governments by buying officials high in the government. When key government figures wouldn’t deal with them, they created anarchy. Their plan was to step in and rule.”
Oh, Lord, Sonny thought, countries ruled not by elected representatives, but by drug lords. It made sense. Wild, but it made sense.
“But you need the photograph,” Sonny said.
She sighed and shook her head. “The photo wouldn’t stand up in court, and the negative was destroyed long ago. It was insurance for a while, but it no longer matters. The people have changed. Noriega is in jail. The country he ruled is run by the U.S. military, and the military responds to the CIA. Rule by the cartels is now falling into place. Our countries, our people, are dying. This is why I have told you what I know.” She shrugged sadly. “Now I must go.”
She rose and Sonny also stood.
“If you can get Mr. Stone or Mr. Gilroy, it will be a small revenge for the death of my husband. Gilroy has what you want to know, but,” she cautioned, “it is a very dangerous trail. Adiós, Señor Baca—” She caught herself. “Adiós, Sonny.”
She offered her hand and he took it.
“Gracias,” he said, and she smiled, turned, and quickly walked out of the coffee shop. She disappeared around the green palmetto plant by the door.
Sonny looked after her, then sat and looked at the photograph. He sipped the last of his now-cold coffee.
William Stone, he thought, a protector of our freedom, a top agent in the agency entrusted to care for democracy’s survival had traded drugs for arms, and when the revolutions in Salvador and Nicaragua ended, he went on trading.
Created a market, Alisandra had said. People with power and influence had created a market for cocaine. An old American tradition, the Yankee peddler. Create a market, any market, candy or cigarettes, and you create dependency. And the biggest dependency? Do
pe.
These modern-day peddlers dealt in poison. Stone had gone to Central America to do business, and he left his calling card. Right there on the photograph, he had left his smiling face.
Thousands of innocent people had been swallowed up by the wars that were waged in the jungles and in the streets of the small cities of Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala. Los desaparecidos were the legacy of political ideologies and of the fortunes to be made in the dope trade. Business as usual.
Sonny glanced out the window. Alisandra Bustamante-Smith passed by, a reflection of a soul who had seen too much, then she was gone.
She needed to see someone like Lorenza Villa, Sonny thought, to wash away the death images. Or else she would carry the shock of her husband’s death all her life. You could not give love if you carried the frightening images, Sonny had learned. And yet she had just given him the only lead he had.
“Damn,” he cursed, and felt pity for the woman.
He looked out again. On the sidewalks of the city, workers moved back and forth. It was a normal working day in downtown Alburquerque. Only a handful of people knew about the high-stakes game being played. Big operators dropping off a cargo of dope to be delivered into the country. It had to be a pure shipment, and it had to be big.
What did the local FBI office really know? Too many unanswered questions, Sonny thought, and Garcia’s boys weren’t even in the ball game.
He stared at the photograph. How in the hell did one get to someone as high up as William Stone?
16
John Gilroy lived in the Milagro Country Club, one of the most expensive subdivisions in the northeast quadrant of the city. The homes were expensive and palatial, extravagant. Here, under the looming presence of the Sandia Mountains, the rambling subdivision, which included a golf course, was surrounded by a winding stone wall that Sonny thought was built on the premise of the Great Wall of China: to keep out the hordes. The hordes were only welcomed if they came to tend gardens or clean houses, and they had to leave by nightfall.
Sonny had been in a Milagro home once, invited to a cocktail party during the recent mayoral campaign. He had just cracked the Gloria Dominic murder case, and for a few weeks he received a lot of invitations to strange places.
The middle-aged couple who invited him had just moved in from California, and they let Sonny know they thought the state was “so mystical.” Each week they traveled to Santa Fé to have a New Age healer swing a crystal over them, but, Sonny concluded, they knew little of the deeper spiritual world of the valley.
Ah, to each his own, Sonny thought as he got in his truck and headed toward the Heights. He needed to stake out Gilroy’s place, then follow the man. And he didn’t have much time.
He was sitting at a long stoplight on a street corner decorated with orange barrels. The traffic was moving very slowly so he used the opportunity to call Rita.
“Amor,” he greeted her.
“Don’t amor me!” she said angrily. “What the hell are you doing flying around with that woman! You could get killed!”
The news was out. People around the city had followed Sonny’s exploits with Madge Swenson on television.
“I should have told you, but I didn’t want to worry you,” he replied.
“Worry me? I’m worried now. We’re watching television and all of a sudden there you are! On a playa on the río with, with that woman hanging on you. Everybody’s calling. Your mother called. Where are you now?”
“On my way to Milagro—”
“Up north?”
“No, the country club.”
“What for?”
“I’ve got to see somebody.”
“Are you going by hot-air balloon?” Rita said sarcastically.
Yup, she is pissed off. Sonny shook his head. He should have told her.
“I need to learn more about a man named John Gilroy.”
“Elfego Francisco Baca, sometimes I wish you didn’t have to follow people.”
“That’s what my mamacita says.”
“I don’t want to be your mother, I want to be your wife. I don’t like you going up in a balloon with some blond. She’s nice-looking, and I don’t trust her motives.”
Sonny flinched. Rita’s intuition was right 99 percent of the time.
“You say you talked to my jefita. How is she?”
“She’s doing great. That woman is tough. A double bypass and she’s ready to go dancing. She asked why you hadn’t been by.”
“I have no excuse. I’m a sinvergüenza.”
“Amor, don’t say that. I told her about Diego and his familia. She knows you’re busy. There’s nothing to do. She’s fine.” Her voice took on a softer tone.
“How about la familia?”
“Everybody’s fine. I got Cristina to school this morning. She was excited. Marta stayed home to clean the house, and I took some food to don Eliseo’s to feed the men. Diego wasn’t there.”
“He’s okay,” Sonny explained. “He’s doing some legwork for me.”
“Legwork. I wonder what you guys mean when you say legwork. Balloons and blondes don’t mix,” she reminded him again. “Next she’ll have you drinking champagne up there.”
Sonny gulped. “Listen, I have to find Gilroy and stick to him. I don’t know—”
“You don’t know when you’ll be home. Okay, but call. You have a phone, use it. Y ten cuidado. I love you. I worry about you.”
“I love you, amor. And don’t worry. I will call.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Adiós. Un besito.” There was a soft smacking sound.
“Adiós. Un beso.” He answered her kiss with his, a loud smack into the phone. He glanced to the side to see the woman in a Camaro watching him. The woman smiled, a “how cute” smile. Sonny felt his face turn red.
“I do love you, cabrón” were Rita’s parting words.
“And I love you,” he said, clicking the phone to off and joining the flow of traffic easing away from the orange barrel grove. The city was growing like mad, and orange barrels had been designated the city flower.
He did love Rita, more than any woman. She was good for him, and she was the only woman, besides his mother, who worried about him. But right now he had to tail Gilroy, find out what the relationship of the man was to the battle over the Alburquerque skies.
He turned up the street that led into the Milagro Country Club. There was a guard at the gate. A car ahead of him slowed down and was waved through. Sonny stopped at the gate.
“Business?” the beefy guard asked him.
“Lawn work,” Sonny answered. He had no business decal on his truck, so he couldn’t even claim the self-respect of a plumber or electrician.
“Address?”
Sonny gave the only address he knew, Gilroy’s. The guard looked suspiciously at Sonny but waved him through.
John Gilroy’s home was a study in nouveau riche architecture: a three-story mansion with Greek Ionic pillars in a poor imitation of an old southern plantation. The monstrosity was framed against the blue Sandia Mountains. The wide lawn was as big as some of the baseball parks in the poorer districts of the city. On the wide driveway were parked two Mercedes sedans.
It fits, Sonny thought. Some think bigger, louder, and richer is better. Gilroy had become a pillar of the community, a leader in the country club. They didn’t know his fortune came from dope money.
Ah-ha, Sonny thought as he drove past the house, I’m not the only one interested in Gilroy.
A cable TV van was parked half a block from the Gilroy place, just about where Sonny had expected the FBI to have a stakeout. They had set up a couple of orange barrels and pretended to be busy at curbside. One tall, one short, Mutt and Jeff. But he didn’t recognize the agents; they weren’t Mike and Eddie. Did Gilroy know he was being watched? Sonny hoped that a nervous Gilroy was ready to make a move.
Sonny parked down the street. He could watch the house—and the FBI van—from here, but soone
r or later he would attract attention and have to move. If he loitered, someone was sure to report him.
He felt his stomach rumble. He had packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and coffee. He ate the sandwich and sipped coffee as he read through Gilroy’s file. About six feet, the man was big and chunky. Blond hair cut short. A determined jaw. The kind of man who learns to run over people while playing fullback in college.
Gilroy had done a stint at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He flunked and was recruited by the CIA. There his paper trail ended, only to resurface on the front pages of international newspapers when he was shot down over Nicaragua and taken prisoner by the Sandinistas. It had been a crippling blow to the clandestine CIA operation supplying the Contras.
Alisandra had connected Gilroy to the Medellín drug cartel, but her story was debunked in Washington. When the Sandinistas turned Gilroy back to the U.S. government, he was given a new identity and told to disappear. But he wasn’t the type to disappear.
The phone interrupted Sonny’s reading. It was Diego.
“Hey, hermano, I hear you got shot at. You okay?”
“Fine. Raven’s a bad shot.”
“Don’t get careless. Listen, you know the name Gilroy.”
“I’m sitting at his front door,” Sonny answered.
“So you’re ahead of me. My people know very little, but they do know the shipment hasn’t come in yet. This man Gilroy keeps his hands clean, but things are hot. He’s going to move the carga himself.”
“Where is it now?”
“Juárez.”
“Anything else?”
“It’s a big shipment.”
“How big?”
“Biggest one they ever tried. Millions!”
Sonny whistled. Damn. Enough carga to keep the country warm during the winter.
“Something else.”
“What?”
“It’s not just coke, also heroin. Quick jolts for anyone with a few bucks.”
“Heroin,” Sonny repeated. Everyone knew it was back, and being purchased by professionals with money. Soma holidays at the weekend retreat, something to take the stress out of the dog race.
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