The Mongolian Conspiracy

by Bernal, Rafael

“I didn’t know him. And the other?”

  “Also Mexican. A gunslinger from the north, from Baja. Roque Villegas Vargas or at least that’s the name he used.”

  “Not one of my acquaintances, either.”

  “Now they’re both dead.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Whatever you say, I don’t see what connection they could have had with our investigation. Unless you have something concrete?”

  “No, Colonel, I don’t. What puzzles me is, you’d just given me this assignment, and I’d only just started talking to the Chinese, and then those two show up and try to knock me out of the game. Maybe the Outer Mongolians plan to hire local talent instead of using imports.”

  “Who knows. Maybe they had it in for you for something else. A lot of people have it in for you, García.”

  “That’s true, Colonel, but I’m not too keen on coincidences like this.”

  “If you’d had a chance to ask them . . .”

  “Excuse me, Colonel, the gringo’s here. I’ll keep you posted.”

  He hung up and turned toward the entrance to Sanborns. A man had approached the cigarette counter and was waiting for the attendant. It was ten sharp. García started walking toward him. This gringo knows his trade. He’s not looking around, not even out of the corner of his eye. Like he’s only buying cigarettes. But I don’t like that he already saw me. Fucking gringo!

  The attendant went up to the gringo, a big smile on her face.

  “Lucky Strikes, please, Miss.”

  García slapped him on the back.

  “Hey . . . what you doing here, old pal?”

  “My friend García.”

  They exchanged a big hug, patting each other heartily on the back. These fucking gringos, ever since they found out we hug each other, damn if they don’t overdo it.

  “I think I’m being followed,” García said.

  The gringo didn’t decrease the width of his smile. The young lady behind the counter spoke to him curtly:

  “Your cigarettes, sir.”

  Graves extricated himself from the embrace, picked up the cigarettes, and paid. Then he turned to García. He was smiling like a man who’d just run into a very good friend he hadn’t seen in a long time — all enthusiasm and joy. The smile didn’t change one iota when he said, “I know. Me, too.”

  “What a pleasure to see you,” García said.

  The American was about forty years old, short and strong. This gringo’s got the muscles of a boxer and the face of a sonofabitch. Not a bad combination in a man who knows his trade, and it looks like this one does. And with those little gold-rimmed eyeglasses, that fedora, and his colorful belt, he looks like a travel agent. Fucking gringos! They’re always playing some part. Me, even if I wear that little hat and those glasses, I’d still look like what I am: a stiff factory. Even the cigarette broad was horrified that he was friends with me. She must think he’s a tourist and doesn’t understand these latinos, that he’s got no idea who he’s dealing with. Fucking broad! And she isn’t even much to look at.

  The gringo had taken him by the arm and was leading him into the restaurant.

  “You’ve already eaten breakfast, García, my friend? Come on, at least have a cup of coffee with me.”

  “Love to.”

  Few people were eating breakfast at that hour, so they found a table set a little apart and sat down. They were keeping a close eye on each other, the American with his tourist grin not losing his idiotic bliss for a single second. You can tell just by looking at his hands that this gringo does karate. He must know more tricks than an old fox. And with that little smile, I’ll bet he’s one of those guys who kills without even blinking. Has Marta woken up? Has she read my note? For all I know, she’s already gone, her little mission accomplished. She did as she was told and got me where they wanted me. Can’t say the same for the other two. That’s why they’re dead.

  Graves’s breakfast came — eggs and ham, toast and orange juice. García had a coffee. Fucking coffee! Tastes like dirty water, but that’s the way gringos like it. And then, they use cream instead of milk; you’d think they were eating chilaquiles.

  The American talked between bites, always smiling and pleasant:

  “We’ve already done some preliminary investigations, Mr. García, starting with you.”

  “And . . .”

  “No offense. It’s par for the course in our organization.”

  “What else have you been investigating?”

  “First off, all travelers arriving in Mexico from Asia, either through the United States or through Canada. We’ve already located most of them and eliminated them from the list. In fact, there are only five we haven’t yet located and four of them are suspicious. Two of them arrived together, by Canadian Pacific, directly from Hong Kong, and we’ve lost track of them here in Mexico. But their particulars don’t match those we got from our Russian colleagues. One is Chinese, but a Cuban citizen. The other is from the States, an adventurer who was in China and Indonesia, and was a pilot in the Korean War. One of our pilots, Mr. García.”

  “Looks like he outgrew his crate.”

  Graves stared at him, his smile fading from his lips.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s just an expression we use. What I mean is maybe that pilot isn’t so keen on helping you fight Communism anymore.”

  “Oh, now I get it. Exactly. We think he’s defected. But he still has his American passport, which makes it easy for him to travel, as long as he doesn’t enter the U.S. The Chinese man is using a Mexican passport, false, according to the authorities. Apparently in Asia he was using a Cuban passport. As you can see, we’ve made some headway in our investigations.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s not enough. Others could have come here via other routes. They could have come through the United States and changed passports there. It’s almost impossible, in such a short time, to have a fix on everybody who’s traveled from Asia to America. They also could have come through Europe. That’s why we reached the conclusion that the real investigation has to be carried out here in Mexico.”

  “Really, you don’t say.”

  “The American we haven’t located goes by the name of James P. Moran and the Chinaman is Xavier Liu. Maybe, given your contacts in the Chinese community, we’ll be able to find them.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We understand you were given your orders last night, and you’re only now getting started. Right?”

  “Right.”

  There was silence. This goddamned gringo already wants to start giving me orders. I don’t think I have to tell him everything. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And if I tell him about Marta, he’s going to want to investigate her, too. Fucking gringo. That’s right: the less said, the better.

  “We are supposed to meet our Russian colleague,” Graves said. “Those are the orders.”

  “Right.”

  “We’re supposed to cooperate with him on everything, but I don’t think that means we have to share everything. Don’t you agree, Mr. García? We can’t trust him completely, not after everything that’s happened.”

  “In this profession, you can’t trust anything or anybody.”

  Graves flashed his full tourist smile.

  “Well, there are some things you can trust. Like the FBI.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course. We’re all working on the same side of the curtain.”

  García kept staring at him. The gringo’s smile turned less touristy, colder.

  “Fact is,” García said, “I haven’t seen your credentials.”

  “True. Nor I yours.”

  “You’ve already investigated me. You should know me by now.”

  “Here.” Graves took out a metal badge and a card. García looked them over carefully.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, back to what we were talking about — our Russian

 
; colleague.”

  “He’s already been investigated, hasn’t he?”

  “It’s not so easy. Ivan Mikhailovich Laski took part in the Spanish Civil War. Later, his name turns up in Asia, Central Europe, and Latin America. He speaks many languages without an accent, and there are long periods of time when he disappears altogether. For example, we haven’t heard anything about him since 1960. He was in Cuba.”

  Graves spoke Spanish perfectly, without an accent. Fucking gringo! I bet the Russian’ll give me the same line about this fellow. They’ve got people to investigate everything. I think that’s all they do, investigate, and that’s why they couldn’t prevent what happened in Dallas. They were so busy investigating, they didn’t see that guy with his rifle. And now, if we keep spinning our wheels, the same thing’ll happen here while they’re still investigating everybody. Who knows what he knows about me. For all I know he knows what a chump I was with Marta and that’s why he’s laughing so much. She looked so lovely, sleeping there in my bed. I would have liked to take her to Chapultepec Park today. Fucking Outer Mongolia!

  “Based on our research, Mr. García, we have concluded that you have never been a Communist and that you once foiled a plot by Castro. That’s why we consider you trustworthy.”

  Trustworthy with a gun, trustworthy to kill. How many Christian souls has this gringo sent on their way?

  Graves stared intensely at him.

  “You are anti-Communist, aren’t you?”

  “Didn’t you just say you investigated me?”

  “But you are anti-Communist?”

  “I’m Mexican, and here in Mexico we have the freedom to be what the hell we want.”

  Fucking gringo! Why is it whenever you talk to one of them, you always end up making stupid speeches? Here we’re all free to be whatever we are — fucking assembly lines of dead bodies, second-rate stiffs. And there are other people out there, out in Outer Mongolia, people who have the freedom to churn out a load of first-rate dead people, proper corpses. Nothing better for that than Communists and anti-Communists. What if I tell him the truth? That I’m a hit man, a gunslinger, and that’s that. And I don’t give a damn what party the deceased belongs to. I even killed a priest once. Orders from General Marchena, back around ’29.

  Graves looked at him, his eyes steely, but with that same smile of a tourist, or maybe a used-car salesman.

  “I thought we were going to collaborate, Mr. García.”

  “We are.”

  “So, do we agree on the tactic we’ll use with our Russian colleague?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’ve told you everything we’ve done till now,” Graves sounded offended. “You have contacts in the Chinese community, but you haven’t told me anything.”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you actually have those contacts?”

  “I play poker with them.”

  “Great contact.”

  Yeah, real great, for loosing money like a chump. Maybe this gringo, with his chronic investigationitis can be useful. Fucking Chinamen! Liu must be looking for Marta. Unless they were the ones who sent her to get me to my place and keep me distracted.

  “There are indications that the Chinese know something, Graves.”

  “Really. That could be important.”

  “There’s a Chinaman named Wang, owner of a joint on Donceles Street, Café Canton. You wouldn’t be wasting your time if you investigated him.”

  “Why?”

  “They say he supports Mao. And that he’s organizing something.”

  Graves stood up and walked over to the telephone. Fucking FBI! All you got to do is mention Mao’s name and they run off to report and investigate. Not bad, though, working with them. Here I sit, nice and easy, handing them information for them to investigate. It’s like I’m the colonel. Maybe they’ll even turn up something about Wang that I can use later. Those Chinamen always have dough and Yuan doesn’t like him. There’s got to be something to it. Fucking Chinamen. This gringo seems to know his trade. Very professional, karate, the whole enchilada. Marta should be up by now? After we meet with the Russian, I’m going to go buy her a dress and a coat. But maybe not, not yet. Who knows, maybe she can already see what a chump I am. And maybe this gringo is finking on me to the colonel or even del Valle, telling them I’m not playing nice. And me, I still can’t figure out what Marta’s up to. And now that I’ve got the gringo following a scent, I’d better play it cool. First I’ll talk to the Russian, alone. For sure he’ll feed me the same line as this one. All of them so professional and Marta making a chump out of me.

  Graves returned and sat down:

  “We’ll have all the information we need in two hours. Where should we meet, Mr. García?”

  “Do you know La Ópera cantina on Cinco de Mayo?”

  “Sure do.”

  “At two?”

  “Good. So, we have an understanding, Mr. García. You and I make one group, and the Russian makes another, if you know what I mean. We don’t need to confide in him all our virgin experiences. Ha ha.”

  “No need to confide in anyone, Graves.”

  “I mean between you and me . . .”

  “I understood. At two at La Ópera.”

  García stood up. Graves remained seated, still smiling, his eyes hard. He has false teeth. For all I know he’ll pull a miniature gun out of one molar and a radio transmitter out of another, like in the movies they show on TV. Fucking gringos! Good thing I didn’t tell him anything about last night. I definitely smell a rat there. If Luciano Manrique, or whatever the hell the name of the one with the bat was, had really wanted to kill me, he would have packed a gun or, at least, a knife. As I see it, they just wanted to give me a scare. But they ended up getting it. No, I don’t think those guys were there to kill me. They were just delivering a message, letting me know they knew what I was up to. And if that’s the case, then one of those Chinamen sent them. Or sent Marta to set me up. That means they do know. Or they think I’m on one job when I’m really on another. Like those guys tailing me, very professionally, as if they really knew what’s what. Maybe they belong to the gringo or the Russian. Or the Chinese. At least these guys seem like they’ve got more know-how than the ones last night, who were complete and total morons.

  He arrived at Café Paris, sat at a table facing the door, and ordered an espresso. It was a quarter to twelve. A shoeshine boy polished his shoes until they were shining like mirrors. He read the morning paper. There’ll be something about the dead bodies in Últimas Noticias and El Gráfico. Another crime the police never manage to solve. But we’re playing pretty rough with the cops. Maybe the colonel will tell them something to tide them over. Fucking colonel! Don’t you go around killing people, García. So, why hire me? So I can submit six copies of a spiffed-up report? How many more are involved in this business, anyway? For all I know, I’ll end up knocking off one of his pals. Things can get ugly when there’s too much secrecy. I prefer the old-fashioned way any day. Take that one out. Knock off those guys, they’re causing trouble. None of this shit about Outer Mongolia or Hong Kong. And that del Valle, also too gullible and too friendly. That business of smiling all the time, it must be the latest fad. Like that gringo. But me with my scar, it doesn’t suit me, and anyway, only morons walk around laughing all the time. What’s to laugh about in this goddamned fucking life? So del Valle doesn’t like to talk to gunslingers. Who’s he going to get to make his stiffs for him? And who’d hire our fellow Mexicans for a job like that? I don’t think those two guys last night were martyrs for any Chinese Communist cause. Someone’s dealing out some dough. A whole lot of dough, because these things cost a pretty penny. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out who’s got it and where it is. A few extra pesos wouldn’t hurt. Hey, then I can spend them on Marta like a goddamn chump.

  At twelve sharp, a short thin man entered the café; he looked like a nobody and was wearing a thick brown wool coat, badly tailored. He sat at the bar and ordered a glass of milk.
García stood up and went over to him:

  “What’s up?”

  The man turned slowly, both hands resting on the bar. He had large blue eyes, surprisingly full of innocence.

  “García!”

  “What’re you up to, Laski, my friend?”

  “Having a glass of milk. At this time of day, my stomach starts acting up and milk settles it down.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I went to the doctor and he gave me a prescription. Take a look, García.”

  He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket that really did look like a doctor’s prescription, and at the bottom, written in a different hand: “Someone’s been tailing you since you left Sanborns.” García didn’t even twitch.

  “I think that medicine will be good for you, if you take it with a lot of milk. Me, I always drink coffee . . .”

  “Last night at Café Canton you were drinking beer and that can be bad for you, García, my friend, very bad.”

  “What, the beer or Café Canton?”

  “Both, as far as I could see.”

  “I, on the other hand, didn’t see you drinking your milk.”

  The Russian smiled beatifically. Then he said:

  “It does me good to go for a walk after I drink my milk. How about we take a turn down the Alameda?”

  “Let’s.”

  Along the way they barely spoke. This fucking Russian didn’t hug me like the gringo. I don’t know what kind of a gun he’s packing or what other arsenal he’s carrying around. He’s very clever, knows everything I’m up to. If I don’t watch out, they’ll start investigating the inside of my belly button. Fucking international conspiracy! But in this business, like in everything, you’ve got to stay alert — if you snooze you lose. Maybe that’s why we sleep so little. Or because of our faithful departed. That’s what the lay-sisters and the priests say, that our faithful departed don’t let us sleep. Or, like the corrido says: On my way through the graveyard / a dead man spoke to me; / hand me your skull, he cried / then alone I will not be. Fucking corrido! For all I know those Outer Mongolians worry about the same things. I wonder what Chinese skulls look like? Very smiling. And that Russian knowing about me and Marta. And now he’s acting all high and mighty with me.