by Mike Maden
“What happened to the Mayans, Ali? Do you know?”
“No.”
Victor rubbed his hairless chin. “Nobody knows for certain. The best guess is that the ancient Mayans did it to themselves. Perhaps they grew too fast? Or reached too far? Maybe they fought one enemy too many. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that they are gone.”
“And that is the real reason why you brought me out here.”
Victor laughed. “That obvious, eh? Well, you are right. With Castillo out of the picture, everything changes. Before, we fought turf wars with him over production in this country and distribution in the north. Spilled a lot of blood to defend territory or to expand. We had to fight for both ends of the transaction. But not now. We will soon control one hundred percent of the production, so we will double our profits. Maybe more, since we will now control supply and the demand up there is infinite. I guess you could say that the Americans have the noses and we have the coke.”
“That’s good news, is it not?”
“Yes, it is. I need you to wipe out the Maras in Tijuana and Juárez, but I can’t let you cross into the States right now. I can’t afford to piss the Americans off. Do you understand?” It wasn’t really a question.
Ali began to worry. He had his own plans for the Bravo men he was training that Victor was not aware of.
“What are you proposing?” Ali asked.
“Myers has satisfied herself with the syndicate’s blood. I don’t want to give her an excuse to kill me and my sons, too, like that idiot Castillo did.”
“Are you not worried that you will lose control of the distribution in the States?”
“Not as worried as I am about those Predators hunting me down. There will be time for that later.”
Ali saw the determination in Bravo’s searching eyes. The unassuming drug lord had little education yet he was smart enough and ruthless enough to build the second most powerful drug cartel in Latin America that, thanks to Myers, was now the most powerful. But Victor Bravo was still possessed by the habitual fear and wariness of a poor rural farmer so he was unable to fully appreciate the strategic opportunity that Ali had just handed to him. Ali knew there was no arguing with him or with the armed loyalists that surrounded him.
“I bow to your wisdom, jefe. I’m leaving for the training camp tonight. When the cycle is finished, I will take the men north and weed out the Maras as you have commanded. When that mission is accomplished, we will return to the training camp and wait for your instructions.”
“Excellent.” Bravo patted Ali on the back and nodded toward the pistol still in Ali’s hands. “I hope you enjoy your new toy.”
Ali flashed the golden weapon in his left hand. “With just one of these golden bullets, I can buy another wife.” He extended his free hand. They shook. Bravo held on.
“Just be careful where you point that gun, hermano. It may be made of gold like a whore’s necklace, but it is still dangerous.”
Ali smiled, nodded. “I understand, jefe.”
Ali carefully set the pistol back in its velvet-lined case and shut the lid, wondering how much damage a golden bullet would do to a high sloping forehead like Bravo’s.
26
Arlington, Virginia
Jackson secured permission from Early to bring Sergio Navarro into the loop. The young analyst had been the one to find the Facebook video that had cracked the Castillo case open, and he wanted to reward him with something far more valuable than just a commendation in his service jacket. Jackson knew that Navarro had a thriving Internet business on the side, providing his own proprietary search engine optimization (SEO) service for online vendors. The DEA could never hope to match the money that Navarro could earn in the private sector, but it could offer him something that a fat paycheck never could: the pride that comes with hunting down the bad guys. By bringing Navarro into the inner circle, Jackson was hoping to convince the brilliant young technician to stay in public service.
After César Castillo’s death, all of the SD cards found in the drug lord’s safe had been downloaded and transcribed. Unfortunately for Navarro, he was the one who had done the downloading and transcribing. It was practically a snuff film marathon: torture, beheadings, gang rapes, people set on fire, and, on rare occasions, a simple gunshot to the head of Castillo’s enemies by Castillo himself with his favorite jewel-encrusted silver pistol. Navarro felt filthy after watching each of the tapes and numb after finishing the last transcription.
Ironically, the very first video he watched was Pearce’s crudely shot phone video of Castillo’s death by nerve agent. Navarro hated it. It was medieval to execute a human being like that. But after watching the snuff tapes, Navarro became angry. He wished that Castillo had suffered more than he had. In fact, he watched Castillo’s death one last time to cleanse his psychic palate before he wrote up his executive summary.
The single most important piece of intelligence Navarro gleaned from the viewing came from the footage of the Marinas, burned alive in the tunnel with napalm. It had been shot by two men speaking Farsi.
Coronado, California
Pearce drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.
César Castillo was dead and that was all that mattered to Early—and by extension, to his boss—but Pearce hated loose ends. His CIA career began in the Clandestine Service Trainee Program where he was trained to be a Core Collector, i.e., a disciplined intelligence case officer. He’d been taught to run down every clue, every source, every suspicion. On Pearce’s first day at the Farm, the instructor had passed out a sharp, flat-sided object to each student in the classroom. It was a nail, the kind used to shoe horses. Pearce had only seen them before in books.
“For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,” the instructor had said, and she recited the entire proverb in her thick New Jersey accent. “But maybe that’s too literal for you postmodern, chaos-theory types. So I’ll put it to you another way. You want to keep the tornado from blowing your house down? Then you better go find the friggin’ butterfly and tear its wings off before it starts flappin’.”
Pearce not only couldn’t find the butterfly, he didn’t even know what the butterfly was.
The Feds still hadn’t figured out who had posted the original El Paso video to Facebook that implicated the Castillo twins. Pearce couldn’t stop thinking about the mystery. The working theory that it was a teenage kid at the wrong place at the right time wasn’t making much sense to Pearce anymore. An amateur wouldn’t be able to hide from Fed hackers this long.
Just as troubling for Pearce was Castillo’s last phone call. Who was it made to? Obviously someone connected to the bunker line, which suggested that it was someone connected to Castillo’s security. That probably meant one of the four security guards Pearce had just killed. That would make the most sense. But why was the line scrambled? That seemed like overkill. Maybe an enthusiastic salesman had convinced the paranoid drug lord to add an extra layer of security to the only line of communication out of the bunker in the event of an emergency—after all, he would have been under assault, by definition, so secure communications would make sense. So why didn’t the other end pick up?
If the person on the other end had just had their brains blown out—like one of the four bodyguards whom Pearce had taken down—that would be a pretty good reason. And that probably was the actual reason.
But then again, Castillo’s phone was connected to a satellite uplink. Maybe he was reaching out to someone off the island. Someone with enough power or resources to rescue him. Who would that be? A corrupt general? A cop? A politician? And why didn’t that person pick up?
Could it have been an Iranian? Pearce had read Navarro’s report. Native Farsi speakers had shot the massacre video—whatever that meant. The Iranian security agencies weren’t operating in Latin America as far as he knew, though Hezbollah had made recent inroads. Mercs? Maybe, but highly unlikely. If anything, hired guns would have been on the island with Castillo, not offshore in strategic reserve
.
Pearce’s options were limited. Ian was a brilliant IT analyst but even he had his limitations, and the Feds hadn’t solved the puzzle, either. There was one last hope. Pearce attached a couple of files to a secure e-mail expressing his concerns to Udi and Tamar and fired it off. They still had contacts in Mossad and the Israelis had the best hackers in the world.
Moscow, Russian Federation
President Titov was the one on the mat in a judo gi tossing his two-hundred-pound opponent around like a sack of potatoes, but Britnev was the one sweating. All he wanted right now was a cigarette, but the health-crazed president had forbidden smoking in the Kremlin. It would have been easier to smuggle in a missile launcher than a pack of Marlboros into the basement gym.
Britnev had conceived of the audacious plan that was now under way, and he was the point man in the field, so he was in the best position to observe things firsthand. It was only natural that he would be recalled to Moscow for a face-to-face meeting to discuss the latest developments with his boss, a famous micromanager and former KGB colonel.
“You’re certain about this?” Titov asked, his hands firmly gripping his opponent’s sleeve and collar. Titov was battling a thirty-year-old major in the Presidential Regiment of the FSB, the equivalent of the Russian secret service.
“I’m no metaphysician, Mr. President, but I’m as certain as one can be under the circumstances. In my opinion, the American invasion of Mexico can’t be too far off now.”
“Then we should move forward,” Titov said.
“There is still much to discuss,” Britnev said. He was a few years younger than Titov, but he didn’t feel like it as he watched his president manhandle the much-younger bull-necked security agent.
Titov grunted another kiai as he lifted the former Olympic judo champion up onto his hip, then flung him onto the mat in a lightning-quick throw. The major lay stunned on the mat for half a breath, but whether this was theatrics or not, Britnev wasn’t sure. Beating Titov in a judo match would be a career killer for the young agent, but Titov was truly in excellent shape. In either case, the major’s hesitation was just long enough for Titov to crash down on him and put him into a choking headlock. The Olympian pounded Titov’s back three times in submission and Titov released him. They both stood to their feet, faced each other, and bowed, ending the match. Titov laughed gregariously as he patted the major on his muscled back. “Maybe next time, Gregory.”
“Yes, sir. But I doubt it.” The major smiled sheepishly and strode away. He had the easy, loping gait of a world-class athlete. It seemed to Britnev that the younger man didn’t wear his humiliation well.
Titov picked up a folded towel from a bench and patted his sweating face with it as he approached Britnev, who noticed a slight limp in Titov’s stride.
“Let’s get some steam, Konstantin. I just had new eucalyptus panels installed. We’ll have a chance to talk further about this Mexico situation.”
Britnev forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. President. I could use a good steam.” Inwardly, he sighed. It was going to be a long time before he got that cigarette.
27
Mexico City, Mexico
It was five in the morning when Hernán’s chauffeur pulled out past the tall, bougainvillea-covered walls of his palatial estate in Lomas de Chapultepec, but it was a long drive across town to Tláhuac, one of the most impoverished barrios of Mexico City, a semirural enclave of muddy streets and urban sprawl on the far eastern side of the nation’s capital.
Hernán’s armored Land Rover sped along past Carlos Slim’s mansion just down the street from his own home, but the multibillionaire had a much larger estate, befitting his unimaginable wealth. No one missed the irony that the world’s richest human being lived so close to millions of people living in squalor within the same city limits. In fact, Hernán had used that line in his brother’s last campaign speech. Today was a chance to put a down payment on that veiled promise of structural reform. He just hoped that Antonio would arrive on time. Mexico’s working poor, despite the racist stereotypes of the yanquis, were the hardest-working people on the planet who, according to the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development, logged more hours per day in paid and unpaid labor than any other OECD citizen. As a point of personal pride, Hernán didn’t want his brother to show any disrespect to the people he was appearing to help today, but Antonio wasn’t known for being either prompt or an early riser.
Tláhuac, Mexico City
Hernán wasn’t easily impressed, but the fact that so many television and newspaper people were here in Tláhuac at this hour of the day so far from their downtown offices meant that Antonio’s press relations department had gone the extra mile. He could only imagine what bribes and/or threats were levied to generate this kind of media turnout. Catered breakfast in the press-only tent certainly didn’t hurt. No matter what country he had ever traveled to, Hernán found that nobody was more susceptible to the lure of free food than the media.
The locals had turned out in big numbers, too, in their freshly scrubbed cotton shirts and simple print dresses. It was a fabulous and enthusiastic crowd. Lucha Libre wrestling stars were in attendance, along with clowns, balloons, mariachi bands, and bags of candy for the kids. Today it was meant to feel more like a national holiday than a press conference. It was a time for celebration and his rock-star brother did what he did best, all smiles and polished delivery as he cut the ribbon on the new health clinic and school for the neighborhood.
The TV cameras and radio microphones had picked up all the good sound bites, including the one key question Hernán had planted with Octavia Lopez, the super-sexy news anchor of the most watched evening broadcast. Lopez was desperate to change her image from a busty former beauty queen to a serious journalist, and Hernán knew the planted question would please her immensely. He hoped so. Because tonight after the broadcast, in exchange for the favor, she was supposed to please him immensely at the little love nest he had set up near her apartment.
“Is it true, Mr. President, that this clinic was funded in part by Victor Bravo and his drug money?” Lopez asked.
Antonio scowled, as if she’d posed an unexpected “gotcha” question rather than a carefully pitched softball. He was, after all, a trained actor. Hernán had prepped him with a carefully crafted response.
“There is an old saying. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ People think they know who Victor Bravo is. I don’t. Not socially. Not politically. The state police tell me he’s never been convicted of any drug crimes; in fact, he’s never even been arrested or accused of any crimes at all. But that’s modern-day journalism for you, isn’t it? But here is what I do know: the enemy of Mexico is her poverty. And if Victor Bravo or any other person is willing to help my administration fight that battle, then he is a friend of Mexico’s, which means he is a friend of mine.”
On that last note, the mariachis erupted on cue with a patriotic tune and the people cheered as the president made his way through an adoring crowd toward his limousine. Antonio had delivered the riposte perfectly, as befit his previous profession. Hernán’s words in his brother’s mouth would be repeated a thousand times on radio and television over the course of the twenty-four-hour news cycle.
Surely that would be enough of a first kiss to let Victor Bravo know that the Barraza wedding bed was warm and friendly enough. All Bravo had to do was jump in and everybody would have a good time.
Peto, Mexico
Ali had set up the Bravo training camp deep in the heart of the Yucatán jungle a few miles outside the small town two years earlier, before he’d begun his security work under Castillo. Infiltrating not one but two Mexican drug cartels had been the most nerve-racking experience of Ali’s short but violent life, but it was worth it. Quds Force plans in Latin America hinged on the success of his mission, and the last phase of the mission was about to begin.
Ali had brought four trusted Quds commandos to carry out the primary training duties while he was earning Casti
llo’s trust and setting the trap to lure the Americans into battle. The training camp had already trained three previous cycles of Bravo recruits from around the country.
On the current training cycle, the recruits were locals, mostly poor young campesinos looking for something more than the chance to dig in the dirt for yams or corn on their own miserable little plots of land or, worse, breaking their backs for a few measly pesos a day on the big fincas of the international conglomerates getting fat on NAFTA-fueled contracts. A few could read, a few could write, but mostly they were Ali’s “little chestnuts”—small, brown, and hard, like the ones his grandfather grew in the Zagros Mountains. Ali genuinely liked them for their easy smiles and endless capacity for suffering. Because of his religious scruples, Ali refused to allow female recruits to integrate with the men, though several women had served Victor Bravo’s organization honorably and ruthlessly over the years.
Ali wished he had an imam with him. This could be a field ripe for harvest for Allah. The mission of the Quds Force was to export the revolution worldwide, and imams were essential to that mission. But Victor had his own strange, syncretistic faith and would have opposed Ali if he’d shown up on his doorstep with Muslim missionaries. But Ali was patient. He knew there would be opportunities for the spread of Islam soon enough.
For religious instruction at the training camp, Victor had recruited an aging American Jesuit priest who drummed pagan liberation theology into their illiterate skulls. Father Bob exchanged his liturgical services for an endless supply of filtered cigarettes and the occasional bag of premium weed. When Ali’s Quds Force commandos arrived to begin their training duties, Father Bob began preaching against “religious fundamentalism,” but within a week, he disappeared. Ali reported to Victor that the old priest had returned to New York to tend to an ailing relative. The truth was the American’s throat had been opened by a razor-sharp commando knife and the old infidel’s bones were rotting in the bottom of a nearby swamp.