Rip Crew

by Sebastian Rotella

  The interviewer asked, gently, about the accusations of sexual assault by Abrihet Anbessa. A blood vessel flared in Blake’s brow beneath the upswept crest of hair.

  “I have sympathy for that lady. She’s had a hard life,” he said gravely. “I think she has serious psychological problems, and that’s sad. But her allegations are outrageous. I never touched her. She worked in this building, I’m told. Frankly, I don’t remember her. Lookit, she’s an illegal alien. She had a fraudulent Social Security number. She’s an identity thief. She got involved with bad people in Mexico and someone’s using her to tell these false, hurtful lies.”

  Méndez shook his head with grim relish. The man was smooth, no doubt about it. The tremor of wounded indignation in his voice was convincing. But you could tell he was rattled. Blake had never experienced attacks like this on multiple fronts. He was on unknown turf.

  The phone on the desk rang. Méndez stopped the video. He recognized the number.

  What do you know? Cardinal Richelieu on the landline.

  In the era of the Diogenes Group, the Secretary had often called Méndez from his home in Mexico City. There was always classical music playing in the background. Méndez heard “E lucevan le stelle,” the doomed Cavaradossi’s aria from the third act of Tosca.

  “It’s not every day I call you, eh, Leo?”

  “It must be a special occasion.”

  The sleepy rasp of his own voice surprised Méndez. He cleared his throat, remembering Renata’s words: Father, go like this: Hem-hem.

  “I must congratulate you. A remarkable story. Perhaps the best you have ever done.”

  You are ultimately congratulating yourself, Méndez thought. The twisted old wizard who waved his wand and set the whole thing in motion.

  “Thank you,” Méndez said. “And thank you for your help.”

  “An absolute pleasure.”

  The Secretary sounded ebullient. The political repercussions must have redounded in his favor. Méndez was surprised that the man was having this conversation with him on the phone. Either he felt very sure of himself or he was slipping in his old age.

  The Secretary wanted to share what he had heard in high places. The Blake Group’s merger was dead—too much opposition and scrutiny in Washington and Mexico City.

  “From what I hear, the documents that young woman pilfered are damaging. Expect casualties in Mexico. And in the Blake Group, executive level. Not that I will see the Blakes in prison in my lifetime.”

  Méndez frowned. He should have known the Secretary would use praise to set him up for a jab.

  “Why not?”

  “Too many buffers. Too many people in the chain of command to take the fall for them.”

  “The documents were in Perry Blake’s personal computer.”

  “I am not contesting the merits of the case, my dear Leo. I am merely passing along what the U.S. embassy has told well-placed friends. There will be a response against the company, there has to be. But when it comes to the Blakes themselves, their defenses are robust. Does that surprise you? Since when do American executives go to jail?”

  “We have a firsthand accusation of attempted rape.”

  “She’s an illegal immigrant. An African. Wait until his million-dollar lawyers have at her.”

  “She is credible and compelling.”

  “I believe the expression is ‘He said, she said.’”

  Méndez was starting to get angry.

  “Well, I think—”

  The doorbell rang. Méndez asked the Secretary to hold.

  Porthos was at the front door. He wore a black Toros de Tijuana baseball cap, a brown leather jacket, brown corduroys, and silver-toed cowboy boots. Méndez brought him in and told him to help himself to a cup of coffee and a muffin. Porthos declined the muffin. His hulking presence made the newsroom seem smaller. He leaned back against a desk and sipped coffee, grinning at the framed photo of the Diogenes Group on the wall.

  “I’m on the phone,” Méndez said apologetically. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  “Take your time, Licenciado.”

  Méndez picked up the phone, marveling at the way Porthos and Athos insisted on acting as if he were still their chief. If he protested, they looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “As to what you were saying,” Méndez said to the Secretary, “let me remind you that there is an Italian investigation as well. That creates pressure.”

  The Secretary chortled.

  “Do you know how long legal cases drag on in Italy? More than the Inferno, Purgatory and Paradise combined. Do you know how politicized their courts are? Surely you aren’t suggesting that the Italians will succeed in having the Blakes extradited.”

  “And the multiple murders? Perry Blake can’t wriggle out of that.”

  “Actually, that is where I note a weakness in your work.”

  The Secretary was warming to the challenge. Méndez heard him puff on a cigarette. He pictured him sitting in a study filled with books and smoke.

  “I had the opportunity to talk to a friend in the Mexican security forces,” the Secretary continued. “A senior operational friend. The federal police have taken over and reactivated the Tecate investigation, and they are working with the Americans now. My conclusion, based on what he said and what you wrote, is that the circumstances are suspicious. But making the direct link to Blake will be difficult.”

  Not only did the Secretary not seem to care about intercepts, Méndez was starting to think he wanted eavesdroppers to hear him. To show that he was still a power player, a spider spinning webs, retirement or no retirement.

  “Give the FBI a chance,” Méndez said. “This is their forte. Tracing money and communications, reconstructing movements. Once they get a case in their teeth, they don’t let go.”

  “Perhaps. I believe the crucial target is Robles, the, eh, pocho who was chief of the rip crew.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your thesis is that someone, let’s say the Blake security chief, transmitted the order to Robles. Logical, perhaps, but purely an unsubstantiated thesis at this point. Anyway, you will find this interesting. My friend said Robles had strong allies in police forces in the states of Baja California and Sonora. But his protection has come to an abrupt end.”

  “Really?” Méndez reached for a pen and notebook.

  “The word is: Get Robles. Soon. But not alive. The police and the criminal underworld are both hunting him. Particularly groups aligned with the Ruiz Caballero clan.”

  “The Blakes asked their Mexican cronies to bump him off.”

  “No need for a request. Everyone knows many interests will be served if the man is erased from the equation. Mexico is no longer a refuge for Vincent Robles. Consider him, as the Americans say, ‘a dead man walking.’”

  The Secretary affected a posh accent when he spoke English, sounding like a Mexican newscaster auditioning for the BBC.

  “He could try to make a deal here.”

  “He could. But my friend mentioned another thing. The police in Mexicali found a cadaver in the municipal dump. An American. They strongly believe it is the missing border inspector in the Tecate case. The one who let the smuggling van cross the border and who tipped off the rip crew.”

  Good God, this is a story, Méndez thought, scribbling notes.

  “Mario Covington,” he said.

  “The name I don’t know. There is evidence implicating Robles, which would automatically expose him to the death penalty in the United States for the murder of a federal official, even if the official was a criminal. But the crime was committed in Mexico, so it’s our jurisdiction. Complicated, eh? No matter how you look at it, Robles is doomed.”

  Santiago had said he would come to the office at noon. They could call federal contacts to try to confirm the story, though it sounded like the Mexicans hadn’t told the Americans about the corpse yet.

  Méndez saw Porthos glance at his watch.

  The soccer game, Méndez thought g
uiltily. He had forgotten.

  “Robles may be a highly trained soldier and a top-notch pistolero, but he has nowhere to run,” the Secretary said. “He’s the buffer, the key link to the masterminds. If they eliminate him, I don’t see a case.”

  “This is not just going to fade away,” Méndez said. “This is a high-profile case in the U.S. justice system.”

  “For some quaint reason that escapes me, you have fervent faith in that system. I fear you will be disillusioned.”

  Méndez told the Secretary he had an urgent appointment. He thanked him and ended the call. Rolling his eyes at Porthos, he grabbed his blazer. They hurried out to Porthos’s pickup truck.

  Méndez waved at the San Diego Police car parked outside his house. A tanned arm in a uniform shirt waved back. The police were still doing intermittent guard duty, but Méndez felt a lot safer now that the story had been published. His foes were out in the open, preemptively identified as suspects. Moreover, Athos, Porthos, Facundo and Pescatore were guarding him when he left the house. They had armed themselves from a north-of-the-border arsenal that Athos kept at his son’s home in Chula Vista.

  “That was the Secretary,” Méndez told Porthos. He filled him in on the latest from Mexico City. The big man whistled.

  “The news never stops,” Porthos said. “Listen, where is the game? The others are going to meet us there. They want to see Juan play. Then we can all drive downtown to meet with the detectives from New York.”

  “Great. It’s the Miramar area.” Méndez pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll tell Valentine.”

  Pescatore reported that he, Athos, and Facundo were close to the freeway and would be at the park soon. Méndez leaned back, watching the sun seep through the cloud cover. He felt groggy. Porthos put a Santana CD in the disc player—Amigos, a classic from 1976. Méndez recognized the acoustic guitar solo of “Gitano,” the first song on the second side of the record, back when sides and records existed. He tapped his foot as the percussion came in.

  They exited the freeway and headed northeast. The farther Méndez ventured from the coast and the border, the more uncertain he became. He directed Porthos onto a road along a row of subdivisions. They pulled into a walled housing tract, slowing for a speed bump.

  “The park isn’t far,” Méndez said. “I think we want to go to the right here…No, that’s not it. Keep going.”

  The lots were deep, and the houses large. There was a repetitiveness to the designs, a lot of blues and pastels. He saw lawn sprinklers, bicycles in driveways, American flags.

  Like a Spielberg set, or like The Truman Show, he thought. I couldn’t live here, but it looks pleasant and civilized and safe.

  Porthos leaned over the wheel, glancing down cross streets. He grumbled good-naturedly. “Tijuana is chaos, disorganized, the street numbers are meaningless. Americans complain, and they’re right. But San Diego is too organized, too orderly. Everything looks the same. I get lost up here.”

  “Let me check the map.”

  Méndez was peering at his phone when it rang. It was Pescatore.

  “We’re at the park, Leo,” he said, “but Juan’s game isn’t here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Méndez gestured at Porthos to pull over. The truck came to a stop.

  “No sign of your family,” Pescatore said. “Just one game, and they’re little kids. Kindergartners.”

  “Strange,” Méndez said. “Oh, wait. I remember. Juan’s summer league plays in the park. The game today is the school league.”

  Looking at his side mirror, Méndez noticed a blue car stop in the street a block behind them.

  “So where are we going?” Porthos asked, drumming the wheel. “Not the park?”

  “Sorry about that.” Méndez chuckled. “I think they’re playing at a school nearby.”

  “Leo, should we wait for you?” Pescatore asked.

  “No, hang on. I’ll give you the name of the school. We’ll meet there. Porthos, we should turn around and go back to the entrance of the subdivision.”

  He looked for the school on the map in his phone. Glancing at the mirror, he saw the blue car start up when they did. It followed as Porthos went around the block, left and left again. The blue car increased speed, gaining ground. A Buick Regal. Two occupants visible in front.

  On the phone, Pescatore said, “Leo, what’s the name of the school?”

  Méndez stared at the mirror, a cold sensation filling his gut. He unclicked his seat belt.

  “Porthos,” he said, “are you seeing these guys behind us?”

  The Regal accelerated fast, suddenly almost even with them. Méndez dropped the phone and drew his gun from his shoulder holster.

  “Yes, I…”

  As the truck entered the intersection, a white sedan hurtled out of the street on the left. Porthos cursed and swerved to the right. The sedan struck them a glancing blow, the truck rocking to a halt. The Regal swooped around on the right at an angle, brakes shrieking, boxing them in. Gunmen spilled from the sedan and the Regal.

  Méndez raised his gun with both hands. He aimed mechanically at a man in a backward baseball cap and oversize white T-shirt who appeared in the street in front of him. A man armed with a pistol and framed in the windshield like a villain in a video game.

  Méndez shot him through the windshield.

  Then everyone was shooting. His world erupted in a frenzy of noise and glass and smoke.

  An ambush. Car to car. I’ve been thinking about and preparing and planning for this for years. And it is happening. Now. Here. Not in Tijuana or Juárez or Acapulco. Here.

  The firefight shattered windows with dull crunching sounds. Méndez heard Porthos yell at him to get down. He saw Porthos’s gun arm swing back and forth. The gunfire was even louder than in Palazzo di Sabbia. Méndez kept firing. A substance like flying sand assaulted his eyes, ears, nose and mouth—the gunpowder spraying from their pistols along with ejected cartridges.

  “Sons of bitches, sons of bitches, sons of bitches!” Porthos roared.

  Bullets slammed into Méndez. His body jerked and shook. His gun jumped out of his hand and thudded to the floor. He tried to reach for the gun. His arm didn’t respond. It hung from his side, a useless and inanimate object. An impact in his neck punched him back against the headrest.

  Blood spattering off his chin, firing wildly, Porthos lunged to his right to shield Méndez with his body. Porthos snarled and grunted as rounds hit him. He screamed, “Get down, get down!”

  He grabbed Méndez by the collar, yanked him horizontally onto the seat, and jammed him down behind the dashboard.

  Méndez huddled on the floor. He was aware of Porthos writhing above him. The gunfire slowed and stopped. Porthos slumped heavily sideways onto the seat. A brawny protective arm descended onto Méndez’s back, pressing him down in a contorted position.

  Méndez discovered that he was covered in blood. He didn’t know how much of it was his blood and how much was Porthos’s. The realization wasn’t as hideous as it should have been. It was curiously abstract.

  In the sudden silence, Santana launched into the slow sweet overture of “Europa.”

  A wave of sleepiness descended over Méndez. A door closed in a room in his head, leaving only darkness. Like in Lampedusa when he’d collapsed. Like the way he’d slept last night. Blissful, overwhelming oblivion.

  New bursts of gunfire. A car, running feet, screams, commands. It all seemed far away…

  Sons of whores…Don’t move, maricón, I’ll blow your head off…Robles…Careful…Watch that one, Facundo…Sons of whores, fuck your mothers…Porthos…My God, they shot them to pieces…It’s bad…Abelardo…My God, look what they’ve done to them…Sons of whores, fuck your mothers…An ambulance…Licenciado. He’s alive…Facundo, help me…Easy…Ambulance…His neck…Leo…Can you hear me…

  I hear you, Athos. Can’t talk though. Strange sensation. Porthos is dead. No one survives that many bullets, not even Porthos…It’s my fault.
I befriended him, recruited him to the Diogenes Group, pulled him into this shit…I named him Porthos…My fault…

  Officer, Officer…What’s the gentleman’s name…Leo. He’s law enforcement…Mexican police…Calm down, Athos…Homeland Security…Easy now, sir…Move aside, please…Leo. Leo, my name is Leticia. I’m a paramedic. Can you hear me…Let’s lift him…One, two, three…Critical. Multiple gunshot wounds…On our way…Go, dude, haul ass…

  Sirens…lights…fast…Too late. I named him. I killed him…Dumas…Dumas killed Porthos. The Man in the Iron Mask. The grotto on the island. Porthos battles a swarm of enemies. The biggest and best of the Musketeers goes down fighting…Dumas cried after he wrote that scene…

  Faster, dude…vitals…pulse…oxygen…Leticia, he’s speaking Spanish. What did he say…He said he killed somebody…Dude, that crime scene. Never saw anything like it…Leo…Leo…

  Dumas died old and content, surrounded by his children…My children…I’ll miss the game. Juan will score a goal. I’ll miss it. He’ll think I slept in…Tell Juan we’re on our way. Estela, we’re on our way…Renata…mi niñita…

  Almost there, Leo…Just a couple of blocks…Stay with me, buddy.

  Dumas didn’t die young. Too much to do, too many books, too many battles…I keep telling you: Nobody dies before his time…Nadie muere en la víspera…Nadie muere en la víspera…Nadie muere en la víspera.

  Chapter 17

  Pescatore would never forget the moment he heard the ambush begin. The experience was too traumatic, impervious to time, like a recording he could not erase.

  During a convivial breakfast Saturday at a diner near the I-5 freeway, Athos had been unusually talkative. Facundo told war stories about his military service and operations for “the Institute,” as he called a certain branch of the Israeli government. The three of them were still savoring the thrill of a mission accomplished. They had spent several days briefing agents from the FBI and Homeland Security Investigations. Pescatore looked forward to talking to the NYPD detectives, who were negotiating with Perry Blake’s lawyers about interviewing him on Monday.