The Execution

by Dick Wolf

  His face looked almost clownishly sad, but that was his manner. León was a man of broad expression.

  “But I never hated Mexico. My father made sure I would never follow his fate, and I did not. I built myself. But I was too ambitious at times. Too eager to meet with the wrong people. I had a bit of self-destruction about me. It seemed so remote, the violent source of the funds I was entrusted with moving and investing. I was willfully ignorant, I fully admit that.” He patted his knees, wanting to be done with his own story. “And so now I am trying to repay a debt.”

  “You do not seem to be suffering,” said Garza.

  “Not in the least. That offends you.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  León nodded.

  “Which cartel?” she asked.

  “The unofficial name was the Sonora Cartel, but these things change. People make pronouncements, naming this and that, but it is so fluid. I started low on the pole, I had my fingers in many pies. It was a different business thirty years ago, and yet very much the same. What knowledge I learned—I was always a good student—I have tried to put to good use here from the other side of the border.”

  Fisk said, “You are an informant?”

  “Bigger than that. I know informants. I still have several well-placed contacts in Mexico. I am an aggregator of information, Detective. I have assisted the Mexican government in curtailing the cartels’ activities, inasmuch as anyone can. The United States offered me this sanctuary in exchange for my offer of help in keeping such outrageous drug violence from drifting north, over its borders. And so I defected, though that is not the word that is used between friendly countries. To this end, I have been most helpful, I think. Until these past few days, that is.”

  Garza nodded. She seemed to be hanging on the man’s every word.

  “That is the language of Mexican crime now, is it not, Comandante? Atrocities. Meant to shock. It is terror.”

  “Chuparosa,” said Garza.

  Fisk felt she was uttering his name in order to watch León’s reaction. Fisk saw nothing in the man’s face to indicate anything out of the ordinary.

  “I have heard the name,” said León. “Whispered, most often. Friends speak of him as though he is not real.”

  “He is real,” said Garza.

  “And he is here? He brings you to New York?”

  Garza gave him a very brief summation of what she knew: nothing privileged, nothing revelatory. Fisk noticed a softening in her manner here, which confused him at first. Then he began to think it was a cultural thing, brought on by a conversation with this older, grandfatherly man.

  Fisk admitted that there was something impishly likable about León, his blarney and bluster. But he needed to know more.

  “He sounds like quite a gentleman,” said León. “Do you have a photograph, by any chance?”

  “No,” said Garza.

  “One wants to see the face of a man who could do such things, no?” León swiped at his mouth with his linen napkin, tossing it back upon the table. “Do you have any insight as to why he wants to bring down President Vargas? And perhaps die in the process? It seems so . . . extreme, no?”

  Garza was appropriately cagey with León. “He holds a grudge, I believe. He is wedded to the old ways, the old Mexico. The one you seem to know. This treaty could—I think—effect real change in our country.”

  León nodded, deep in thought. “You give me pause, Comandante. I wonder if it is wise for me to attend tonight.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I am not a coward. But I am certainly not a brave man either. How I would hate to miss it.”

  Fisk said, “Security is going to be incredibly tight. You can feel confident.”

  “But nothing is ever guaranteed, Detective Fisk. You know that as well as I. My position here is precarious. In fact, I rarely leave this home. By rarely, I mean no more than once a year. I am a paranoid man, and rightly so. The restaurant is my only commercial enterprise. I miss the tastes of home, you see. These dishes I used to have prepared here, we started serving at Ocampo. Have you read our Zagat review? I’ll have someone hand you a copy on your way out. Extraordinary Mexican seafood cuisine! Others scoffed when it opened. We have three stars from Michelin! I am sorry to brag, food is a weakness.” He patted his belly. “I live too well. Living well is addictive.”

  Fisk said, “So why is it that the president of Mexico chose your restaurant for his celebratory dinner?”

  “It should be obvious to you both by now,” said León. “Umberto Vargas got his start in politics as a prosecutor, after leaving academia, roughly around the time I repatriated here. He made his name going after organized crime and the cartels.” To Garza, he said, “You know that started him on his stunning trajectory toward the presidency. He has been an anticorruption, antidrug guy all the way. And I, in my own manner, have been of some help to him. Some prosecutions, I helped make possible. Even from afar. I was his secret weapon, in a sense . . . though I do not want to be thought of as taking too much credit. President Vargas is the one whose face is out there. He is a man of valor, of principles. I have been, so to speak, his counsel in the shadows. Not to overstate it, but we have become . . . I don’t know what you want to call it. Friends? Associates? Neither. Strange bedfellows, perhaps. I have been very, very useful to him, and for that I feel wonderful. I still love our country, Comandante. I love it like . . . like an ex-wife I once wronged, who is still raising my many, many children. President Vargas is . . . an expression of my penance. I supported his campaign in every way, including financially. I honestly believe that a man like him comes once a generation. Now is the time to do great things.”

  León grasped Garza’s hand for emphasis.

  “You must keep him well and safe. We cannot afford to let these forces of evil stop the progress we have made. This antitrafficking accord with the United States is the greatest attempt Mexico has made at stemming the tide of violence, corruption, and terror. This treaty is a great step forward. And, in many ways, I am its crux.”

  CHAPTER 57

  With their service pieces and phones returned to them, Fisk and Garza waited until they were outside León’s gate before speaking.

  “Okay,” said Fisk. “Now we know who he is.”

  “You don’t like him,” said Garza.

  “Not especially. He put on a happy face, but a guy who made who knows how many millions laundering blood money has an epiphany and gets a golden parachute into the United States to live off the taxpayers’ money in secret? He’s either a genius or a piece of shit.”

  “Or both,” said Garza. “I had a great-uncle like him. A rascal.”

  “What about your president, though? Secretly in bed with this guy.”

  “I don’t have to like it. It affects me not at all.”

  Fisk’s phone began vibrating. Three missed calls and a bunch of e-mails flooded in.

  “There must have been something blocking cell signals at León’s place,” said Fisk, checking the source of the calls. All three were from Dubin at Intel.

  “Shit.”

  “What?” she said.

  “That false alarm this morning. My boss is going to try to yank me off this.”

  Garza checked the time on her phone. “Vargas is scheduled to leave the consulate soon for the Independence Day celebration.”

  Fisk thought briefly about ignoring Dubin and continuing on with Garza. But he did not want to become a distraction. He wanted the Secret Service and Garza’s EMP men focused on the job at hand—protecting Vargas, stopping Chuparosa—exclusively.

  It would be an hour’s ride back to midtown, but Fisk chose to drop her off at the consulate first. Then he would check in with Dubin by phone.

  “One thing I think is clear,” said Fisk, as they neared the consulate.

  “What is that?” she said.

  “Unless you can find Chuparosa beforehand, Andrés León is a likely no-show at his own restaurant tonight. He seemed more concerned about the assassin than your
president.”

  “I think you are right.”

  “Hey,” he said, grasping her arm as she tried to hop out at the curb at Thirty-ninth Street and Park Avenue. “Be careful.”

  CHAPTER 58

  Fisk called Nicole instead of Dubin.

  “The Post already has pictures up online of you going after that photographer outside the Mexican consulate,” she told him, her voice low. “It says, HERO TERROR COP ON MEX PRESIDENT DETAIL. You knew you weren’t supposed to be there . . .”

  “Dubin been by?”

  “Back and forth from his office a dozen times, but he’s not talking to me. You need to come in.”

  Fisk said, “This thing is still live.” He was most worried now about getting inside the restaurant that night. The way things were going, Fisk himself would be on a No Fly, Detain On Sight list before then. “Tell him I got a flat tire,” Fisk said.

  Nicole said, “I am not telling him anything of the sort.”

  “Okay, then tell him he can fire me tomorrow at nine A.M., if he wants to. But not before.”

  “You have a sit-rep meeting scheduled with the United Nations security team regarding the General Assembly meeting.”

  Fisk heard a beep. He had another call coming in. Kiser from Rockaway.

  “Nicole, I’ll call you back.”

  “Wait, what am I really supposed to tell Dubin—”

  Fisk switched over, picking up Kiser’s call. “Nice job cracking down on the paparazzi,” said Kiser.

  “Thanks. What have you got?”

  “Three more bodies identified. All you need to know from that is that one was a coyote who went by the name Raoul. A trafficker of women, real piece of fried shit. That’s interesting because of the alert that went out under your name for that Mexican hooker.”

  Fisk nodded. “Silvia Volpi.”

  “Got a guy here saw her name in the news. You should talk to him.”

  CHAPTER 59

  The Celebración de El Grito de Independencia took place at a park in Woodside, Queens. The banner over the stage read ¡VIVA MEXICO! in the flag colors of green, white, and red. Women in traditional huipils, as well as dresses from Michoacán and Tabasco, the men in wide, red-rimmed sombreros and charro suits. Mariachi bands played throughout the crowd, and men threw down their hats and kicked up their heels in dance.

  All very clichéd, and yet, Garza thought to herself, all very wonderful just the same.

  EMP agents wearing less formal guayabera shirts filtered through the crowd undetected. Snipers were positioned on surrounding rooftops. Cameras at every entrance were capturing pictures of entrants and filtering them through facial recognition software.

  Garza sipped a Diet Coke through a straw, feeling very anxious but ready. She looked out from the wings of the small stage again, seeing past the families and couples enjoying the day, looking for anything that didn’t fit.

  She heard the footsteps of a group behind her, and she knew the president was near. She turned to see him following two EMP agents around the corner, his eyes on his speech. This stop was another chance to refine the remarks he was preparing to deliver at the formal treaty signing that night.

  When President Vargas looked up, he saw Garza and went to her. Garza relaxed, anticipating an apology for his being so short with her earlier.

  He said, “This needs to go off like clockwork. I must return to the hotel in time to shower and change and prepare.”

  Garza waited a beat before answering. “Yes, señor,” she said.

  Vargas nodded, stepping back. He was apparently unaware of the offense he had caused her earlier.

  Normally she would not have been so bold, so forward, as to speak out of place. But the new president’s manner grated on her. The lack of respect she felt from him was an affront.

  She said, “I do not believe Andrés León will be in attendance this evening.”

  The president looked at her with a very odd expression. It was as though he had not heard her correctly . . . and had heard every word she had said at the same time.

  He stepped forward, keeping his detail back with an impertinent wave of his hand.

  “What did you say?” he said.

  “Andrés León,” said Garza, unbowed. “Or whatever his name used to be.”

  Vargas squinted as though trying to guess at her intent in telling him this. “That information is extremely privileged. You should not know about him.”

  Now it was Garza’s turn to parse his words. “Why not, Señor Presidente?”

  He scowled at her use of the formal. “Because, Comandante, such knowledge is powerful and even dangerous. Who else knows? Tell me now.”

  Garza only told him because he would eventually find out anyway. “An NYPD Detective named Jeremy Fisk.”

  “The one you’ve been going around with these past few days.”

  Now she was not happy. “ ‘Going around with’?”

  Vargas got closer, ensuring that their conversation remained private. “If it were to be made public that I am in any way affiliated with a man like León, it would weaken my hand.”

  “Why is that?” she said.

  “That is none of your business, Comandante.”

  “Because he seems like a man eager to right his wrongs. You certainly have taken advantage of his largesse.”

  Vargas’s eyes flared. “This is very much a game of perception. When the right things are done in the wrong way, people revolt.”

  “The wrong way?” said Garza.

  The president made to end the conversation. “Some things are better left unstudied, Cecilia,” he said. “Some stones are better left unturned.”

  CHAPTER 60

  The 101st Precinct police station was a brick and limestone box occupying the entire corner at 16-12 Mott Avenue. The arched doorway was accented on both sides by green hanging lanterns featuring the old-school, slanted, stylized NYPD font reading 101ST.

  Fisk quickly found Kiser, who led him to an interview room. A young Vietnamese man in short sleeves and a home haircut sat at the table waiting for them. Near him, setting down and neatly folding a Vietnamese newspaper, was a more Americanized Asian wearing a white shirt and a maroon necktie.

  Kiser said, “Nam Thring is his name. This fellow is Jerry, a translator we use.”

  Jerry nodded.

  Kiser said, “Mr. Thring, uh, evidently has had a relationship with this Silvia Volpi. At least twice. He says she was very beautiful, very innocent. Second time he saw her, it was business as usual, except that on his way out she slipped him a folded piece of paper. Pressed it into his hand, clamping her hand over his mouth to tell him don’t say anything. She pushed his hand into his pocket to hide it there. Then watched him walk out of the room without a word.

  “He says he didn’t open the note until he got back to his home. It was a flyer for a car wash place, the kind people leave under doors and elasticized to door handles. There was writing in the margins, done in a small hand. It was all in Spanish. Mr. Thring does not speak Spanish, but knew a friend who did and brought the note to him. Mr. Thring thought it might be a mash note or something, I guess. Instead it was a plea for help.

  “It gave her full name, the Mexican city she was kidnapped from, the names and addresses of her parents. In it, she said she was being held captive by force, in total silence, unable to leave the building she was in. She said she did not know where she was, what town or city. She feared she was going to be traded or sold again. She asked him to go to the police.”

  Fisk exhaled. “Which he did not.”

  “Too scared,” said Kiser. “That’s his excuse. He didn’t do anything except throw away the note. He didn’t come here on his own. His friend, the one who translated the note from Spanish, turned him in. Recognized the girl’s name. Mr. Thring is also living in this country illegally.”

  Fisk looked at Jerry, the translator. He was a little too disgusted at Mr. Thring to look at him just yet. “How did he first meet her?”


  Jerry asked Thring in rapid-fire Vietnamese. Thring answered him slowly, eyes downcast.

  Jerry relayed, “An online advertisement for massages, on a Vietnamese site.”

  Kiser said, “Illegals advertising for illegals. That way nobody goes to the authorities.”

  Fisk said to Jerry, “I need an address. Right now. Where was she?”

  Thring answered back that he did not know.

  Fisk said, “A house? An apartment? You weren’t blindfolded. Describe!”

  Thring answered that it was in a part of the city he was unfamiliar with.

  Fisk said, “Jesus, you went there twice. He have GPS on his phone? The address in there?”

  Thring shook his head, unable to meet the eyes even of his translator.

  Fisk dug out his own phone. He went to Google Maps Street View. “Give me his address.”

  Fisk entered it. A tall apartment building in Kew Gardens, Queens.

  “Okay,” said Fisk, taking Jerry’s seat so Thring could see the display. “Turn right or left?”

  It went like that, painstakingly, and with many wrong turns. Block by block. Fisk learned the Vietnamese words for right, left, and straight.

  The display had him heading toward the Williamsburg end of Bushwick, just over the line from Queens into Brooklyn. A residential area gave way to a mostly industrial area on the other side of Flushing Avenue. Lightly traveled, no retail business. The neighborhood was still a decade away from loft conversions, coffee bars, and hipsters.