The Mongolian Conspiracy

by Bernal, Rafael

  Mr. del Valle’s face beamed with goodness. García recounted, in a duly abridged version, what had happened the night before and about the fifty-dollar bills. Del Valle was deep in thought.

  “This, Mr. García, does seem to indicate that there is some truth in the rumors.”

  “I think so, too, Mr. del Valle,” the colonel said.

  “But the evidence is only circumstantial, Colonel, only circumstantial, and, in a case as serious as this one, we must have proof. We have only one day left.”

  “We’re doing everything humanly possible, Mr. del Valle. Besides García’s investigation, we have doubled our surveillance on the borders, in hotels.”

  “The lives of two presidents are at stake, Colonel. I think we should arrest that Wang.”

  García spoke:

  “I think it’s better to leave him be and watch him. I don’t think he’s the one in charge, but he could lead us to the person who is.”

  “Your opinion, Colonel?”

  “García’s right. He’s already being watched, around the clock, without his knowledge.”

  Del Valle turned back to García. That perfect political smile had returned to his lips.

  “Congratulations, Mr. García. Needless to say, I deeply regret that you were put in a position where your life was in danger and you had to kill those two men. Killing is so repulsive.”

  “It was necessary, Mr. del Valle,” the colonel said.

  “Yes, yes, I understand. I’m not blaming anyone, I’m simply not used to this sort of thing , but to return to what I was saying before, I would like to congratulate you, Mr. García. In less than twenty-four hours you have given us enough information to confirm our suspicions. Excellent work, excellent.”

  García remained silent. His hat was on his lap, his eyes staring at nothing in particular.

  “As a result of your brilliant investigation, Mr. García, we can positively confirm that money from Communist China is being used to to carry out an assassination attempt in Mexico.”

  “It appears that way, Mr. del Valle,” said the colonel.

  “Such a large amount of money, as well as the immediate measures they took as soon as they found out Mr. García was conducting an investigation, show us that we are dealing with a serious threat. The very fact that they tried to kill Mr. García, a Mexican policeman, is proof, in my mind, that our suspicions have been confirmed, without a shadow of a doubt.”

  There was silence. The colonel was playing with his gold lighter. García kept staring at nothing. Damn! If we’re going to drum up international conspiracies every time somebody in Mexico wants to kill a cop, we’re really fucked. How about one for every time some thug wants to hurry me on my way . . . Damn right I smell a rat.

  Mr. del Valle continued:

  “Gentlemen, I think we can take as a certainty that there is a conspiracy, originating in Communist China, to assassinate the president of the United States of America during his visit to our country.”

  He looked at both of them to watch the effect of his words. The colonel kept playing with his lighter. García kept looking at nothing.

  “I don’t need to add, gentlemen, that this conspiracy not only threatens the life of the president of the United States, but also our president, and world peace.”

  He paused again. The colonel was still entertaining himself with his lighter, García with nothingness.

  “What is your opinion, Colonel?”

  “You have analyzed the situation correctly, Mr. del Valle.”

  “I believe so. And you, Mr. García?”

  “Maybe.”

  Del Valle,who had his congratulatory speech all prepared, was taken off guard. He was about to say something to García, but instead turned back to the colonel.

  “We must triple our precautions. Mr. President will not like being forced to ride in an armored car, but let’s not forget that such a vehicle should have been used in Dallas.”

  “I understand, Mr. del Valle.”

  “And even if we do resort to armored vehicles, which will be necessary if we fail to dismantle this conspiracy before the day after tomorrow, there remain several moments of serious danger. I’m thinking particularly of the unveiling of the statue in the park. Needless to say, we have searched all the surrounding buildings and have ordered security forces on all the balconies, but there is still danger . . .”

  “That’s true, Mr. del Valle,” the colonel said.

  His eyes were half closed, staring at the lighter twirling in his fingers. Mr. del Valle turned to García with a grave expression on his face:

  “In the meantime, Mr. García, you can see the importance, for all of us, for all Mexicans, of finding those Communist Chinese agents and liquidating them as soon as possible. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think the steps you’ve already taken are very important. What other measures are planned?”

  “Tonight, in a few minutes, I’m going to meet the Russian and the gringo at Café Canton.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “No. But it’s necessary. If these . . . these Chinamen are planning something, we have to draw them out.”

  Del Valle stood up. Now this guy is going to deliver a speech about our nation and our loyalty to its institutions. Fucking loyalty!

  “Mr. García, the matter is in your hands and, if you will allow me to say so, I admire your courage. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you are putting your own life in danger.”

  “It’s necessary, Mr. del Valle,” the colonel said.

  García stood up:

  “I have to go.”

  “I understand, I understand,” Mr. Del Valle said. “But before you leave here, Mr. García, I have to again express my admiration for your courage. These people, it seems, are quite serious, as the lamentable events of last night demonstrate.”

  “We’re serious, too,” the colonel said, standing up.

  Mr. del Valle walked up to García:

  “Mr. García, allow me to shake your hand. Our nation is proud of you. Your heroism, because that’s what it is, heroism, must remain a secret, but the nation and our president will find a way to show their gratitude. I wish you the very best of luck.”

  “Thanks. Anything else, Colonel?”

  “No. Good luck, García.”

  García walked out, but he could overhear Mr. del Valle’s next comment:

  “A crude man, like the great Centaurs of the North who made the Revolution . . .”

  Fucking Mr. Del Valle! Him and his independence day speeches. His mother is crude, the motherfucker. I’m just a professional gunslinger, a hit man on the payroll of the police. Why so many damn words? And if he wants me to whack those Chinamen, why doesn’t he just come out and say so. Fucking Chinamen! Anyway, I’ve got it in for Liu — the sonofabitch beat me to it. Yeah, me and Pancho Villa, the Centaurs of the North. Hey, I’m from Yurécuaro, Michoacán, son of La Charanda and father unknown. And if they don’t like it, they can all — absolutely all of them — go fuck their mothers. Fucking Charanda! And Marta there in my house, looking at me with my stupid mug. Her with all her kisses and hugs and me with my stupid mug. Maybe if instead of learning how to kill I’d learned how to give speeches, then I’d be like Rosendo del Valle. A dandy-ass. Or I’d end up like the professor, mooching booze for a living. And now our nation will be grateful. And what should I be grateful to our nation for? As my fellow countryman from Michoacán famously wrote: “If as a kid I went to school / and was a soldier when I grew / if as a husband she gave me horns / and then I died as was my due / What do I owe the sun / for having warmed my bones?”

  Neither Graves nor Laski was in Café Canton. Wang was working the cash register and four young Chinamen were standing behind the counter. Only one of them lifted his eyes to look at García; his face revealed no surprise. He simply edged over toward the cash register, as if he was just doing his job, spoke quickly to old man Wang, then disappeared in
to what seemed to be the kitchen. García sat down in one of the booths and ordered a beer. These fucking Chinamen are getting nervous. Seems a good idea to come here, just to see what they’ll do. Maybe even that restless soul from Sayula will show up. Fucking Mr. del Valle! “Killing is so repulsive.” But when he was governor of his state, he brought with him everybody under his wing. He had General Miraflores with him as his chief of operations. Next thing it’ll be Miraflores going on about how repulsive it is to kill. They’ve all become so damn upstanding. The Revolution turned government. Fuck the Revolution and fuck the fucking government!

  Laski appeared at the door. I almost didn’t see him coming. This fucking Russian seems to blend into other people and things. And now his eyes look even sadder than they did before.

  “Is Graves coming?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to order a glass of milk.”

  “Don’t they have milk in your country?”

  “Of course they do. In Russia we have everything, absolutely everything.”

  “There’s only one Russia.”

  “Naturally, Russia is . . .”

  “I was pulling your leg, Laski, my friend. What news have you got for me? Any new rumors from Outer Mongolia?”

  “Ha, ha, ha . . . You are formidable, Filiberto, truly formidable.”

  “I’m going to make a call before Graves gets here. Excuse me.”

  He got up and walked over to the telephone. Wang didn’t look up, but one of the young Chinamen was keeping a close eye on him, and the one who’d disappeared still hadn’t returned.

  They answered at La Ópera cantina, and in a few moments he was talking to the professor:

  “What happened?”

  “Everything went south, Cap’n. The gringa threw me out, she didn’t even let me finish the bottle of rum. She said she was having a party with you and that everything was going to work out. So, what about my three hundred pesos?”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  “So, what about it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “The gringa is sure you’re going there tonight, Cap’n.”

  “I just might.”

  “She’s pretty washed up.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  He hung up and returned to the table. Graves was already there, sitting across from the Russian. García sat down next to Graves.

  “You two already met?”

  “Yes,” said Graves, “many years ago.”

  “Unfortunately,” Laski said, “one cannot say that in all this time a true friendship has flourished between us.”

  Graves flashed his tourist smile:

  “Ivan Mikhailovich tried to kill me in Constantinople in ’57.”

  Ivan Mikhailovich’s eyes grew even sadder still:

  “A poorly planned job, very poorly planned. There was no time to make it foolproof.”

  The memory of his failure seemed to pain him deeply. Graves interrupted his sad reflections:

  “I haven’t been able to get the numbers of the bills. The Hong Kong Bank and, it seems, even the colony’s English authorities have been unwilling to cooperate.”

  The Russian smiled. He seemed gratified.

  “Allies and friends are not as friendly as they might seem,” he said.

  Graves paid no attention to the comment.

  “However, we are certain that the transaction was carried out. One of our agents in Kowloon confirms it.”

  “Did you doubt my informants, Graves, my friend?”

  “Yes, Ivan Mikhailovich. When the KGB gives us a present, we study it very carefully before accepting it . . .”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” the Russian said.

  “The Trojans sure should have,” said Graves. “The transaction was carried out nine days ago. The money was requested in fifty-dollar bills, American dollars, and was picked up by several men, some Chinese, some Western. If we insist, and we are going to insist, we can get the numbers, but not for a couple of weeks, at least . . .”

  “When it will already be too late,” García said.

  “Too late indeed. But everything must be known. Even if only to understand the extent of the conspiracy and round up all those involved.”

  “There are too many people involved for a job like this,” García said.

  “When the Chinese do something, they do it on a grand scale,” the Russian said. “Over there, everything is grand.”

  “But there are too many,” García insisted. “You only need two or three to plan an attack like this, at most.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Graves said.

  Laski was slowly sipping his milk. Graves, after his experience with the coffee, was drinking a beer, as was García.

  “For instance, it seems that all the Chinamen in this restaurant are involved,” García said. “It doesn’t make sense that waiters could organize an attack of that magnitude.”

  “Maybe we’re up a blind alley, Ivan Mikhailovich, my friend.”

  “I don’t know, Graves. We are investigating, that is all. You should have learned by now that in our profession investigations are conducted in order to reach an unknown truth. What that truth is doesn’t matter to us and, if we knew it beforehand, there’d be no reason to investigate.”

  “Only execute,” García said.

  “Precisely, Filiberto, only execute. But now our task is only to investigate, because the moment to execute has not yet arrived.”

  The fourth Chinaman returned from the kitchen to his place behind the counter. He exchanged a few words with Wang, then went back to his work. Not once did he look at the three men sitting in the booth.

  “Oh, and Filiberto,” Laski suddenly said, “I have of course given orders to stop surveillance on you, and on you, too, Graves, my friend.”

  “I did, too,” Graves said. “What Mr. García said is absolutely true. This was starting to look like a child’s game. That’s what I told my bosses. I told them that you, García, had pointed out our mistake. They were very impressed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are we going to do tonight?” Laski asked. “If it’s just a matter of getting together socially . . .”

  “The Chinese are worried, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  “They sure are,” Graves said. “It’s almost impossible to investigate anyone without them noticing. This afternoon in the warehouses there was a lot of activity. I’d like to investigate . . .”

  “They might do us the favor,” said García. “That’s why we’re here, just to see what these fellows do.”

  “They could be planning to kill us,” Laski said. “I’ve never liked to be the bait in the trap.”

  “Me, neither. But that’s what we are now, Ivan Mikhailovich.”

  “I agree with García. The best thing is to provoke them to make a move; there’s no time for anything else.”

  One of the Chinese men came out from behind the counter and over to the table. He was young and strong, with an expressionless face.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  García looked up and stared at him. The Chinamen didn’t look away.

  “We’re talking,” García said, in a harsh voice.

  The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders, walked over to the door, and leaned against it without taking his eyes off them. This Chinaman is looking for a thrashing, even actively requesting one. Maybe they want us out of here. They must want us out of here, but they can go to hell. And this gringo doesn’t stop smiling like a moron. And the Russian looks like he’s about to cry. Fucking Outer Mongolia! We’ve got to give these fucking Chinamen one more chance.

  “I’m going to the men’s room,” he said, standing up.

  He walked to the back of the restaurant, entered the restroom, and walked over to the urinal. Now’s the time, if they’re serious, they’ll come looking for me here and then we’ll see whose hide yields more whips, as they say. Just a matter of giving them time. Anyway,
time is what there’s lots of in this fucking

  life. And Marta fast asleep in my bed and me here acting like a chump. Now they’ll be able to say they caught me with my pants down.

  He heard the door open and people entering. He didn’t turn around to see who they were. Let them keep coming, very quietly, like ducks in a pond. As long as they don’t stick a knife in my back. Fucking knifes. Let them think they’ve got the upper hand . . .

  A voice said something quickly in Chinese. García turned, .45 in hand. There was a man on either side. One hit his wrist with an open chop and the gun fell to the floor. The other jumped him put him in a choke hold. At that moment, when he thought he was done for, the door swung open. It was Graves, without his glasses, entering like a whirlwind. He took one huge leap, and his feet landed on the back of the man squeezing García’s throat. The other man fell on him but a blow to his forehead forced him back, dazed. García, now free, finished him off with a punch in the face that smashed his nose. In the meantime, Graves had the other in a chokehold and had forced him onto his knees, his eyes popping out of his head and his face dripping sweat. Graves gave him a chop on his neck, right on his Adam’s apple. The man let out a muffled groan and collapsed onto the floor, his head falling into the urinal. The other, blood pouring out of his nose, opened the door and ran out. García picked up his gun and put it back in its holster after checking to make sure there was no damage. Graves was smiling, as always, as he put on his glasses.