Rip Crew

by Sebastian Rotella

Isabel sat down next to him at the table. On the laptop, they watched the video of Chiclet’s confession in Palenque.

  “Okay, that’s what he’s like under stress,” she said. “With preparation, how good a witness could he be?”

  “Look, he’s telling the truth. You can tell from the way it went down. He’s cooperating in good faith. But he’s an animal. No jury is gonna fall in love with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She pushed her thumb against her teeth. “The priority is finding those two women. If they’re still alive.”

  “It’s hard to imagine them hiding out for weeks in Mexico.”

  “I want to put out a lookout for them somehow. The problem is, we can’t trust the cops and we don’t want to tip off the bad guys…Here, have another cup.”

  He savored the sweet Cuban coffee. “Give me a couple days in Rio.”

  He showed her the evidence he’d retrieved from Chiclet. The phone numbers for the rip crew matched numbers called by Mario Covington, the missing U.S. border inspector.

  “That’s a direct connection right there,” Pescatore said. “You’ve got your cross-border linkage between the Tecate and San Diego shootings.”

  “We know a lot about what happened now. But not why.”

  “Yep. Even if you believe Chiclet’s theory that El T pulled some kind of bizarre hit on his own outfit.”

  Isabel swept back her hair. “You said you had a hunch about this El T?”

  “Athos did. He’s like a crime encyclopedia. The description reminds him of a suspect in some cartel killings a couple years ago. There was scuttlebutt about a hit man with a nickname like that. Former military. Not clear if Mexican or American, but a veteran.”

  “And?”

  “I got to thinking. Chiclet pronounces it ‘El T’—‘the T’ in English. Short for tiger or toro or something. But what if he heard it wrong? The guy’s ex-military, a serious badass. The alias in English could be the initials LT—slang for lieutenant. In Spanish you’d pronounce that ‘ele T,’ which sounds almost the same. Or it could stand for ‘El Teniente.’ The Lieutenant.”

  “It’s a thought,” she said.

  “Maybe you could get Chiclet with a sketch artist when he’s in custody.”

  “We will. Nice work, Valentine.”

  Pescatore stirred the sugar granules at the bottom of his cup. Although her praise thrilled him, he was uneasy. When they lived together, they had visited this apartment during vacations. He had memories of the place. Vivid memories. His relationship with Isabel had swung between hot and cold, love and war. Their Miami trips had been on the hot side.

  Rogue flashbacks harried him. Isabel walking in from the balcony, stunning in a black bikini, her slow smile making him a promise. Isabel’s arms and legs wrapped around him in the shower, water pounding down on them, her back against the wall. The two of them getting spontaneous on the couch a few feet from where he sat now.

  Enough, he thought. Get it under control. When was the last time you thought about Fatima, much less called her? Of course, she hasn’t called you either. Anyway, stop thinking nonsense about Isabel. No matter how close to her you feel. Or how good she looks right this minute.

  “Hey,” Isabel said.

  “Huh?”

  “I lost you.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking…about Athos and Porthos in Mexico.”

  “You trust them?”

  “Absolutely. Those guys’d take a bullet for me. And I’d take one for them. I’m worried about how long they have to wait, how we resolve that.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Isabel’s plan was to engineer a handoff. Chiclet would “surrender” to federal agents at the U.S. embassy in Mexico City. Athos and Porthos would fade away, erasing the tracks of Pescatore’s operation.

  “The timing depends on what you find in Rio,” Isabel said.

  “You’re gonna have to finesse some political dynamics on this, huh?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I gotta tell you, Isabel, this is kinda refreshing.”

  “What is?”

  “We’re in the middle of a wild caper. And for once, it’s not my fault.”

  Her smile was conspiratorial. “You’re right. It’s all mine.”

  “I’m not complaining. So, how’s Howard doing?”

  “Hasselhoff?”

  They laughed.

  “I haven’t seen him in a while,” she said. “How’s Fatima?”

  “No news. I guess we agree to disagree.”

  Isabel went to the refrigerator to get two bottles of water. He was aware of her perfume, the sculpted outline of her bare shoulders, the tight white jeans. He was all worked up in a jumble of euphoria, fatigue, and desire. He realized what was going on. He and Isabel were falling back into their old roles, handler and agent. Except better—no wariness, no manipulation. She was in charge, but they were partners.

  “Isabel,” he said. “Remember what you told me? About your job, the pressure from up high? I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Save your energy.” She handed him a bottle of water. “That’s a whole separate matter. At least no one’s shooting at me.”

  “I don’t want to get in your business but…can you tell me what’s going on?”

  She shrugged. “Look, it’s sensitive. Basically, I’m part of a group of supervisors and prosecutors working a case against a corporation. The executives, anyway. The original investigation was connected to Senator Ruiz Caballero, believe it or not.”

  “That tremendo hijo de puta.”

  She grinned. It was an expression he had picked up from her. “That tremendo hijo de puta.” She continued, “Back then, our American suspects slithered out of it. Now there are new leads, mostly related to the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act. But it’s hard to develop solid evidence connecting them to bribery in Mexico. And we’re getting pushback. The suspects have unlimited resources—lawyers, lobbyists, friends in Congress and the administration.”

  “Is it okay to tell me who they are? Your enemies are my enemies.”

  Arms folded, she studied him. Her expression was tender. Her big-eyed gaze lowered for a moment. He wondered if she was having the same memories, the same guilty stirrings, as he was.

  “The Blake Acquisitions Group,” she said. “Walt and Perry Blake. Have you heard of them?”

  “No.”

  “Well, forget the Ruiz Caballero cartel. These guys take hijo de puta to a whole new level.”

  Hours later, he went to the Miami airport for his overnight flight. Entering the terminal, he thought about calling Fatima. But it was three a.m. in Paris. He’d wait until Rio.

  His phone rang while he stood in line at the check-in counter. He fumbled for it. Fatima can’t sleep. Fatima’s thinking about me. She wants to talk. But it was a Mexican area code.

  A jovial Italianate voice.“Giovanotto.”

  “Padre Bartolomeo. How you doing?”

  The priest had heard news from Palenque. It regarded the abduction three days earlier of a Honduran smuggler known as Chiclet in a brazen raid on a diner. The three culprits were thought to be either police or gangsters.

  “Interesting,” Pescatore said. “Is that making some noise down there?”

  “This morning, our sources in the community say a convoy of vehicles arrived. A group of armed men in civilian clothes. They spent time in the Pakal-Na neighborhood by the train yards asking about what happened to Chiclet. The description could once again correspond to the security forces or mafiosi.”

  “It’s a fine line.”

  “The chief of the unit was an intimidating northerner. Possible military. A lieutenant, they said.”

  Pescatore took a step to the side. He cupped a hand over his mouth. “That was his rank? That was how he identified himself?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Did he have credentials?”

  “My understanding is that he was described as a lieutenant.”

  �
�This is kinda important, Father. Could it be an alias? El Teniente?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Did he have an accent?”

  “I do not have that level of detail, caro. I will inquire further, now that you have inspired me with the specificity of your questions.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Pescatore hung up. He dialed Isabel. His hunt had flushed out new prey. And they were acting a lot like hunters.

  Part II

  Chapter 6

  As the Amtrak Acela rounded a bend and the towers of Manhattan came into view, Méndez finished the article.

  He had written and rewritten, honing and trimming and tightening. In rhythm with the train, feeding off its energy, he tapped slow emphatic strokes.

  Instead of demonizing the police, the Left in the United States should focus on the true structural problem: the impunity of the elite. Bankers, financiers and corporate executives get away with predatory, destructive and criminal behavior. It recalls Steinbeck’s phrase about business in America: “a curious ritualized thievery.”

  As the secret Mexican report we have obtained indicates, the Blake Acquisitions Group allegedly embodies this culture of lawlessness and impunity. Finally, investigators in the United States and Mexico are trying to do something about it. Let’s hope the rule of law prevails. And that this is just the start. The time has come for “stop and frisk” on Wall Street.

  Period. Graf. Send.

  He reclined in the window seat. The morning light glinted off approaching skyscrapers. He reread the piece. After Karen in San Diego translated it into English, both versions would be ready to post on the website and send to Mexican and American newspapers, magazines, and websites that published his regular column.

  Méndez had been away from home for a week. His family was giving him grief. After seeing Isabel, he had visited editors in Washington, including friends with whom he had exchanged favors in the past. The editors had all rejected his proposal to collaborate on an investigative project. They were demoralized by budget cuts and didn’t have the resources or the attention span. The subject matter crossed turf lines: foreign, business, national. The Blakes were influential and litigious. The editors insinuated that Méndez was not the ideal harpooner for this whale hunt. In their view, his past as a police chief blurred the line between journalist and protagonist.

  In fact, Méndez realized that his law enforcement experience had changed him. Even as a reporter, he had felt instinctive solidarity with police officers—at least the honest cops, like Athos and Porthos. He shared their code of discretion, loyalty, and honor. His tour of newsrooms had reminded him that his appetite for the company of journalists—especially American ones—had diminished. In more ways than one, he was a man without a country.

  During the cab ride from Penn Station, he called Fred Weinstein, a human rights lawyer in Los Angeles who was his website’s pro bono adviser. Méndez had sent him a copy of the Spanish version of the column.

  “Licenciado Fred,” Méndez said. “How does it look?”

  “Fine, compañero, but I need to see the English version.”

  “It is being translated. Come on, your Spanish is excellent.”

  “My Spanish is only good enough to get me into trouble. I think you’re fine. You added the allegedlys, fixed the problematic language. They’ll squawk, but you’re fine.”

  “Thank you for troubling yourself with this.”

  “Remember, if you give interviews, stick to the wording of the story. Careful with off-the-cuff comments. Cite the document.”

  Méndez had been driven partly by developments. Over the weekend, he had learned that the Blakes had scheduled a press event for Wednesday in New York to promote the Mexican merger. He had decided to pull the trigger using the ammunition he had. And he would attend the press conference to assess the results.

  Mindful of his travel budget, he had asked Karen to find a bargain hotel. The place on Lexington Avenue in Midtown was musty, the carpets mangy, the wood chipped. It was nonetheless packed with Europeans. He remembered visiting New York for the first time in the 1980s, seeing drug dealers and chain snatchers prowl in daylight, the police all but hiding in their patrol cars. Today, it was as if someone had waved a wand over the metropolis. Tourists strolled at all hours, thronged Central Park, made excursions to Harlem. Unlike Latin American cities, the crime rate had plummeted in poor neighborhoods too. He wasn’t sure if New Yorkers—especially the chattering classes—appreciated what the police had achieved.

  The cramped, stuffy room overlooked a ledge full of bird droppings. Méndez turned up the air-conditioning, flopped onto the bed, and pulled the comforter over him. He needed a nap. He hadn’t stopped working since Saturday, when he had called the Secretary from Washington to inform him of his new plan. The Secretary took it in stride. He agreed to be quoted as an unnamed former national security official. He offered trenchant comments about the irony of Mexican intelligence sounding the alarm about the misdeeds of a U.S. corporation. Méndez had reached out again to Isabel, who relented and told him he could write that a senior U.S. official had confirmed the accuracy of the Mexican document. At the Justice Department, a spokesman gave him a tight-lipped “We neither confirm nor deny.”

  The resulting column was artfully constructed and rather brief. Its weight rested on his credibility, Isabel’s confirmation, and a key line in the document: “Contacts in the United States inform us that the latest federal investigations of the Blake Acquisitions Group have run into aggressive political interference.”

  On Tuesday afternoon, he had called and e-mailed the Blake Acquisitions Group asking for comment. No response.

  Drifting off, he thought, You’re about to find out who we are, cabrones…

  The ringtone of his cell phone—“Corazón Espinado” by Santana and Maná—woke him. Karen sounded excited and apprehensive.

  “A lot of reaction, Leo,” she said. “Everybody’s picking up the story or writing about it. AP, Bloomberg, Notimex.”

  With effort, he sat up. He had slept deeply.

  “Anything from the Blake Group?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The governments?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Senator Ruiz Caballero in Mexico City just said the story is ‘absolutely false.’ He says the intelligence report doesn’t exist.”

  He experienced a twinge of unease. Could the Secretary have fed him a bogus document? He shook it off. Isabel’s word was rock-solid.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Are you?”

  “No. But we are getting calls from Mexico questioning the story.”

  “Fine. Post the intelligence report.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes.”

  Refreshed, showered and changed, Méndez arrived at the hotel near Columbus Circle at four p.m. His reflection approached in the glass of the hotel entrance: a thin graying fifty-year-old with a lined face. His black shirt under the tan sports jacket was the last clean one in his suitcase. Méndez straightened, self-conscious about his habit of coiling forward as he walked. He felt calm. He had been in situations like this before, though never on foreign soil. And it was strange to see himself alone on the street. In Tijuana, he had almost never ventured outside without a driver, bodyguards, Athos and Porthos, his family. He was still getting used to operating solo. American-style.

  The hotel was a glass tower wrapped in a steel skeleton, a chilled and scented haven. The ballroom on the mezzanine was filling up. High windows showed the treetops of Central Park. Tables for investors and shareholders surrounded rows of chairs for the press. A giant screen stood by a stage. A voice called out to him in Spanish.

  “Do my eyes deceive me? Hey, Daniel, what are you doing in the lions’ den?”

  Fulgencio Ayala darted into his path and clapped a hand over his mouth in consternation.

  “A pleasure to see you, maestro.” Méndez’s tone was dry, but he felt relieved to run into someone who
spoke Spanish, even Ayala.

  “Likewise, Licenciado, likewise. You are looking wonderful. Though I am not sure how long that will last. What have you done, Leo? Híjole. You are a marvelous and delirious madman. Oh, the emotion, the excitement. My heart’s all aflutter.”

  As always, Ayala was breathless and jocular. As always, the rotund, bowlegged newsman looked natty, encased in a maroon double-breasted suit. Ayala was the New York correspondent for a Spanish-language television network. He had spent his career shuttling between jobs in newsrooms and in the press offices of Mexican companies and government agencies.

  Ayala took Méndez by the arm and walked him away from the stage. Glancing around conspiratorially, Ayala congratulated him.

  “You are the man of the hour,” he said. “You have put your rinky-dink nonprofit scam on the map. And the best way to culminate this glorious moment is to give me an exclusive interview.”

  Having known Ayala since they were rookie reporters in Tijuana, Méndez knew he couldn’t trust him. Yet he made Méndez laugh. He was a ball of energy. There was a kind of purity to his cynicism, his inability to take anyone or anything seriously.

  Méndez suggested they find seats.

  “Yes, yes, good idea, the vultures are circling.” Ayala wheeled, still gripping Méndez by the arm, and hurried him to the front. Méndez sat in an aisle seat. Ayala made a production of sliding his ample butt to the right, leaving an empty chair between them.

  “In case they start shooting at you.” He chortled. “Sorry. I know you are a fearless pistolero. But me, I am a poor wretch with three ex-wives and five children to support.”

  Five executives took seats at a table onstage, Perry Blake in the middle. Walter Blake was not present. Ayala whispered side-of-the-mouth commentary about the likely price and designer of Blake’s suit, the combined net worth of the Americans and Mexicans at the table. Méndez recognized one of the Mexicans—comb-over, withering stare, mega-mustache—as a crony of the Ruiz Caballeros: Jorge Monroy, the founder of Monroy Enterprises, where Ayala had once worked as a press adviser. Despite his antics, Ayala was plugged in on this story.