After an hour and some help from his contacts, the gringo had managed to find three ranches in the Gulf region registered as El Zacatal. The first was in Veracruz and belonged to a well-known leader of the CTM, the Confederation of Mexican Workers, named Ranulfo Higuera. The second was in the middle of Tamaulipas. It was on the small side and belonged to a Dr. Luis Blanco. The third was less than seventy miles northeast of La Eternidad, near Ciudad Miel and far from any major roads. The title was held by a man named Óscar García Osorio.
“That’s the one,” said Treviño. “That was El Tiburón’s father.”
The consul located the ranch on the map.
“It’s in one of the most dangerous parts of the state, right where two powerful organizations are fighting for control of the highway. It won’t be easy to get in there.”
“Who said anything about going in?”
“Please, Treviño,” said Mrs. De León from the doorway. “Go get her.”
“Cecilia,” the consul erupted. “We don’t even know that Cristina’s there. We have to check out the lead. Right now, it’s just a possibility.”
“I’m begging you …”
“And besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to show up at that ranch without studying the area first,” added the detective.
“Treviño’s right,” said the gringo. “Before sending anyone in there, we need to do some reconnaissance. Find out how to get to the ranch safely, how many guards there are, how many guys they’ve got inside, if there’s an electric fence, surveillance cameras, alarms, and so on. And how to get in and out without running into a checkpoint.”
“Exactly,” said the detective.
“I could get us a satellite image of the area, and some useful information about the armed groups around the highways over there,” added the gringo. It always surprised the detective how plugged in Williams could be, when he wanted to be.
At nine o’clock, after they’d been offered coffee and sandwiches—the first food Treviño had touched all day—the consul opened his computer and showed them what looked like a green cloud on the screen.
“There’s a lot of activity during the day, but they’re not planting anything. I bet no one out there’s doing any farming.”
“How many people are we talking about?” asked the detective.
“According to my sources, around two hundred.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Treviño.
“Looks like there’s a fence around the whole ranch,” said the consul, pointing at the satellite image. It wasn’t easy to see what he was talking about. “And then there are two more rings of fencing on the inside. It’s all mountains over there. The nearest river is about thirty miles north, and from there you’d have to drive in on dirt roads. There’s only half a dozen buildings inside, but they’re big. They’ve got heavy security at the entrance, and freight trucks are always coming and going.”
“Getting there probably won’t be easy, either,” said Treviño. “I imagine there’s a fake checkpoint every fifteen minutes along those highways.”
Williams looked at his notes. “There are fake checkpoints on every highway in the state, especially after dark. It’s just the details that change, depending on where we’re talking about. The weapons, for example. Los Viejos, mostly to the west of Ciudad Miel, have assault rifles, Spectre submachine guns, and a whole range of nine-millimeters and rocket launchers, the same ones the elite forces of the Mexican army use. You can pick those up at any gun shop in Arizona. On this side of the state, Los Nuevos have M16 rifles, hand grenades, Kalashnikovs. They get them from former guerrillas from Colombia and Central America. Former Kaibiles who’ve set up shop in the area training assassins. We’re talking about guys who would eat a live dog without batting an eye.”
Treviño latched on to the most important point.
“So, you have informants inside Los Nuevos.”
The gringo turned beet red, realizing his indiscretion.
“Why didn’t you say so before? You could have saved us some valuable time.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Mr. De León.
“My informant’s identity is classified,” the consul said, defensively. “I couldn’t endanger—”
“And have you asked this informant whether they took the girl? Or would you prefer that I risk my life so you don’t have to inquire?”
The consul’s embarrassment was written all over his face.
“I don’t decide when we talk. He contacts me when he can. He’s under constant surveillance.”
“I’m sure.”
“I can’t tell you anything about this informant or any of the others. It would put their lives at risk.”
“Treviño,” said Mr. De León. “It’s been two days, and no one’s called. Go. Please. I can pay you more if that’s the issue. But I’m begging you: go and negotiate on my behalf. Even if they’ve already killed her, we still want her back. Please,” he insisted. “Go. Mr. Williams will go with you.”
“I’m, uh, afraid I can’t. I can’t get the United States government involved in direct dealings with criminal elements.”
“I expected no less of you,” said the detective with half a smile.
“I’ll double my offer” —Mr. De León sat down facing him—“and I’ll go with you.”
“Absolutely not,” interrupted the consul. “It’ll turn into a kidnapping right there on the spot. If they happen not to have your daughter, do you really think they’ll let you walk out of there? Send a representative instead, someone who’s not a family member or a close friend.”
De León hadn’t taken his eyes off the detective.
“You can handle the negotiation?”
Treviño stood and walked over to the window. The sky was gray, completely overcast. “What’s happening with my brother’s green card?”
“Things are moving along. He goes in to normalize his status in three days,” said the consul, and he held up a legal document bearing the official seal of the United States. Treviño looked it over and studied the consul’s face.
“All right,” he said.
The clock was striking eleven by the time they finished reviewing the information they’d collected.
“Take my private plane to Ciudad Miel and rent a car there to get out to the ranch,” said the businessman. The plan was that Treviño would go to where Los Nuevos had their training grounds, get in touch with El Tiburón, and offer him a ransom for Cristina. “Make him an offer he won’t want to refuse.”
“The airport’s out of the question,” advised the gringo. “They just tightened security a few hours ago. There’s a squad car at the entrance, and three officers are stationed in the area. One of them is the Block, who knows Treviño. He’d never get past them.”
The ex-cop took a long drag on his cigarette. Then he calmly studied the maps. “If I take the highway, it’ll be three hours heading north and then another hour, hour and a half, along dirt roads. How old is this intel?”
“From early this month. It’s the most recent we have.”
Treviño shook his head and grumbled, “Give me a minute.”
Then he made two phone calls that unsettled all present. First, he dialed the operator and asked for the number for Babydollz in Ciudad Miel. Treviño copied the information carefully and, after confirming the number out loud with the operator, hung up and dialed.
“Mr. Ramiro, please.”
Ignoring the horrified expression on the consul’s face, he launched in as soon as someone picked up.
“Ramiro, I was your karate student … It’s me, cabrón. Treviño. Is this a secure line? Yeah, I know you can’t talk. I’ll be quick.
I asked about you and they said you’d left the force … That’s what I figured. Look, I need you to help me out with some intel on El Zacatel … Yeah, I know how things are. That’s why I’m calling you and not someone else. It’s for a job. Find out everything you can, but be careful. You want to make, I don’t know, twenty thousand pesos?” Treviño glanced
at the magnate, who gestured that the sum was fine. “Good. Deal. I’m counting on your discretion. I’ll give you a call at this number when I’m nearby.”
He hung up.
“A contact?”
“The only one I have around there,” the detective explained. “I should get going. But first I need to see Cristina’s room.”
Mr. De León accompanied him to the foot of the spiral staircase and, once they reached the second floor, to a bedroom at the end of the hall. He opened the wooden door. As soon as he turned on the light, something moved on the bed. Treviño thought his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw a woman with long blond hair emerge from among the pillows, but it wasn’t Cristina. It was her mother. She was wearing white cotton pajamas. She rubbed her eyes.
“Ceci, go back to your room,” the businessman said.
“I was dreaming that Cristina had been taken by crocodiles. One of them stood up on two legs and said that I was never going to see her again.”
“You should take a pill.”
“I’ve already taken two. Can I help you?” she said, turning to the detective.
“I want to take a look at Cristina’s personal effects.”
The woman sat up and closed her robe.
“She didn’t keep a diary. My daughter never wrote so much as two words back-to-back, unless it was to sign a receipt. And all her recent photos are on the phone she took with her that night.”
“Did she have a computer?”
“She left it at boarding school in Switzerland.”
Cristina had only a few books, and all of them were from school. In contrast, her movies and music filled two small bookshelves. The closet, the door to which was ajar, was almost as long as the room.
Treviño took two steps forward and looked at the photos on the wall: Cristina and her friends at school, Cristina living it up in different countries, skiing through some snow-covered landscape, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower or Big Ben, dancing at different clubs, sunbathing on the beach in La Eternidad. The Perkins boy appeared in half the pictures. In others, Cristina was surrounded by handsome, well-dressed admirers she showed off like trophies, a mischievous smile on her face. She was young but already knew the effect her beauty had on men: in every photo, they looked as if they were standing in the presence of a queen. Treviño noticed the confidence of her pose: the long, inviting neck that looked like it belonged in an old painting.
Just then, something on the bed caught his eye: a little French flag, the kind you’d buy in a souvenir shop. Treviño cracked half a smile and walked out of the room.
When he returned to the library, which had been turned into intelligence headquarters, the consul immediately called him over.
“There’s a few faces you should commit to memory if you’re going in there.”
The consul opened a different file on his computer and over the next few minutes went through pictures of around two dozen individuals with him. Most were between twenty and forty, most had a military buzz cut, and some had facial hair. At one point, Treviño stopped him and pointed to the photo of a man in a black hat with a shaved head and a thick mustache.
“Who’s that?”
The consul explained that the man was known as El Coronel de los Muertos, the Colonel of the Dead, though no one could confirm he’d ever actually held the rank of colonel or that he’d been a member of the armed forces at all.
“He’s a key player. A strategist in their inner circle.”
“I had a run-in with this guy once, when I was still a cop. Asshole was raising hell on the beach in La Eternidad. He’d had too much to drink and disrespected two ladies, friends who were out with Officer Cornelio and me. We got into a scuffle, but he was pretty out of it, and I knocked him down. His guys were about to come after me, but he stopped them. ‘Fair and square,’ he said. When he stood up, though, he glared at me and said that next time it would be me on the ground.”
“Are you sure?” asked the gringo. Treviño nodded.
“His voice is like gravel. I still remember it,” said the detective, not mentioning that his first thought when he heard it was that it seemed like the voice of someone who held human life in low regard.
The consul shook his head.
“He’s one of their main guys now. He runs the operation that collects protection money from the small business owners in La Eternidad. He makes the competition disappear or puts their bodies on display in the streets. You might not run into him, but get the hell out of there if you do.”
“Good advice,” said the detective, offering him half a smile. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Another thing: guys working for Los Viejos recently dug a new mass grave out by the Las Cabañas ranch, around Nueva Esperanza. They’re taking their rivals out there to bury them. If Cristina’s not at the ranch, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go out there.” The gringo noticed that the detective was glaring at him and added, “This is the most complete information I have. Oh, also: a couple of miles toward the border as you leave Ciudad Miel, you’ll see a checkpoint manned by Los Nuevos. They wear military uniforms and drive military vehicles, but they’re not military. They stop all the buses that go by and haul off the young women and able-bodied men. People have reported it to the state of Tamaulipas, but no one’s willing to look into it. They say the travelers are just paranoid and are making things up. Try to steer clear.”
“And the ranch itself? Were you able to find out anything useful? Any word from your contact?”
The consul took a sip of his coffee.
“There are usually around ten guards stationed at the main entrance facing Ciudad Miel. All well trained, former military.”
When the consul finished his briefing, a silence fell over the room. Treviño served himself another cup of coffee and looked at the magnate.
“Remember, we signed a contract: you take care of my family if I don’t make it back.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. De León replied, but Treviño didn’t seem convinced.
“We don’t have much time,” said Williams. “You should head out as soon as possible. Maybe they’ll let you through at the airport if we offer the police officers a bribe.”
“We’ll go by land,” said the detective. “It’s the best way. Margarito’s looking for me here, but he can’t do anything to me once we’re out of the city. We’ll take a car.”
“Take one of the Lobos.”
“I’d prefer the white car.”
“The Maverick?” Mr. De León seemed surprised.
“Definitely,” the detective insisted. “With all those checkpoints out there, we run the risk of losing the truck. Both Los Viejos and Los Nuevos love those things. No one will look twice at an old clunker, though. We’ll take that one.”
“It’s a good little car,” the magnate smiled. “It’s never let me down. Take these two with you,” he said, gesturing toward Moreno and the Bus.
“No way,” said Williams. “Three armed men will draw a lot of attention out on those highways.”
“The Bus can come,” said the detective without missing a beat. “The courage he’s shown throughout this investigation is exactly what I’ll need.”
The idea didn’t seem to appeal to the bodyguard, who stood there slack jawed.
“Under the circumstances, especially with that surveillance team out there, we should create a diversion.” The detective turned to the consul. “We’ll need two other cars to leave right when we do.”
“All right,” said Mr. De León with a gesture toward Moreno, who stepped out to start the preparations. Treviño looked at the Bus.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Give me an hour. I have to run home for some clothes.”
The detective looked at him skeptically, but eventually nodded.
“Treviño,” said the businessman, calling him over with a wave of his hand. “Come out to the terrace with me. I’d like to have a word with you.”
The det
ective stood, stretched, and followed Mr. De León outside. Relieved, the gringo stood, as well.
Once they were outside Mr. De León said, quietly, “I’ll give you another million if you bring her back alive. And if everything goes well, I’d like you to come work with me when this is over.”
“Thank you, but I’m just fine where I am.” Treviño thought about his wife.
“The invitation stands. Let me offer you a few words of advice about the negotiations.”
Almost two hours later, the Bus opened the library door holding a little backpack that looked like a toy in his massive hand and a plastic bag of gorditas with extra sauce, by the look of what was slushing around in the bottom. The detective looked at his watch: three thirty in the morning. Mr. De León walked up to the Bus and said, “Don’t leave Treviño’s side, even for a minute, and do exactly as he says. He’s in charge, and you’re there to take care of him. I’m holding you responsible if anything happens to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Treviño. Find my daughter. Report back as soon as you get to Ciudad Miel.”
The detective nodded and turned toward the Maverick.
“Good luck,” said the consul. “If anyone can get out there and back, it’s you two.”
“Asshole,” said the detective, under his breath.
“Thanks a lot, pinche Treviño. Really appreciate the invitation.” The Bus started the car and bit into his first gordita.
12
The ’74 Maverick was warming up when one of the De León family’s cooks ran toward them waving her arms. The gardener was with her.
“Mister,” he said. “Please help us find our daughter. They say you’re going to look for Cristina. Find my little girl, too.”
The detective looked at the couple. The cook handed him a photo of a dark-skinned girl who looked around twelve years old. She was wearing a public school uniform.
“She was playing in the park with her friends. They came and took them all. Put them in a white truck. María Pérez López is her name. She was about to turn fifteen. Two months we’ve been looking for her.”
“We can pay you with our car,” the gardener added, pointing to a broken-down Nissan flatbed next to the servants’ quarters.
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