The cartel’s soldiers jumped from the vehicles with assault rifles pointed and knees bent. Garza took a breath and opened the door.
“Stay here until I signal you,” Garza said. “Do not take action.”
Victor nodded.
Garza met Santiago Valdez in a clearing of cacti and sagebrush. He greeted the stoic cartel leader with an affable smile. Valdez stared at Garza behind his sunglasses, while a dozen soldiers carefully watched every move.
“It is a pleasure to do business with you again,” Garza said.
“This is a highly important shipment,” Santiago said. “It will be moved tonight.”
An order, not a question.
“Yes,” Garza said. “It will go tonight.”
“What time tonight?”
Now the guy was pushing too much and Garza needed him to back off without losing face. It was a creative dance which Garza had managed to perfect along the way. He scratched his left shoulder with his right hand. The signal.
“Now, Santiago,” Garza said. “The timing of this move is going to be determined by the actions of the American Border Patrol. There is never a set time.”
Valdez was about to argue that point when a conspicuous thumping sound emerged from the south. The cartel leader turned along with his soldiers. Garza didn’t bother.
Three Federale helicopters moved in formation toward the circle of vehicles.
Valdez scowled at Garza. “Is this some sort of trick?”
“No trick,” Garza said. “They are simply our protection.” Garza tapped his head twice and the three choppers split up and moved to the perimeter of the convoy, hovering low to the ground. A sense of authority had transcended from Valdez to Garza. Even Mexico’s largest cartel didn’t have the type of muscle Garza was putting on display.
Valdez seemed ready to refute the assassin’s influence, but the helicopter’s blades growled like a guard dog waiting to pounce.
“Maybe you can show me the package,” Garza said with an easy tone, not wanting to provoke any unnecessary hostility.
Valdez stood motionless. Garza knew this was another way of showing his control of the situation, no matter how juvenile it appeared. Finally, Valdez raised his hand and a panel truck left the formation and maneuvered around in the desert until it backed up into the circle, next to Garza. Two men jumped out of the truck and opened the back doors.
Two pallets were loaded full of packages of cocaine wrapped with the Zutons trademark wolf face on the top of each package. Garza figured the load to be around half a ton of product. Not a large shipment, but still a couple of hundred packages which needed to be handled. He waved to Victor and immediately his crew of eight men exited the delivery truck and formed a single line to move the merchandise from Valdez’s truck to theirs.
As Garza supervised the transfer, he stood by Valdez with his hands behind his back.
“We will have this to the safe house in Tucson before dawn,” Garza said, casually, letting the cartel leader know it was time for the payment.
Once again Valdez stood still a moment before turning to one of his soldiers and holding out his hand. The man handed him a manila envelope wrapped with a rubber band. Valdez gave the envelope to Garza, who slid it down the front of his trousers. He didn’t dare insult the man by inspecting the weight or size of the package. He knew it was all there.
“One day,” Valdez said, looking around at the helicopters looming in the background, “you will have to tell me how you wield such influence.”
Garza smiled. “Yes,” he lied. “One day.”
Chapter 24
Fisk sat next to the American Ambassador, Dennis Blake, with a plate of mini burritos on his lap. They were in a large meeting room backstage from the auditorium where the presidential debate would take place in a couple of hours. Nearly three hundred journalists from around the world would be there to document the historic event, but the Secret Service would not allow anyone in the room until Fisk gave the word.
“President Salcido is insisting on an endorsement,” Blake told him. “He feels he deserves it, after all he’s done fighting the cartels.”
Fisk nodded while finishing off a burrito. “Yes, he’s done more than any president before him and he deserves our support.”
Blake sat with his eyebrows raised. “And?”
Fisk gave Blake a paternal smile. “We have to look at the big picture, Dennis. We don’t want to pigeonhole ourselves should Salcido lose the election.”
Blake shook his head in frustration, while Fisk chewed another burrito and held out the paper plate. A moment later, one of the twelve Secret Service agents assigned to protect him surreptitiously took the plate from Fisk’s hand and tossed it in a nearby trash can.
“He will not lose the election,” Blake said, firmly.
“So you say,” Fisk said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “But the polls differ with you.”
“Is that why you requested a private meeting with Rodriguez?” Blake asked.
Fisk glanced at the buffet table to see what deserts they had on display. When he spotted a plate of sopapillas, he went to get one. Blake followed closely.
Fisk turned and squared up on the ambassador. “Look,” Fisk said, “I can’t discuss our entire foreign policy position in the few minutes we have before the meetings. If you would do me the great honor of introducing me to the two candidates, it would greatly enhance your importance to my trip here. Is that something you can do?”
Blake took a half-step back and almost bowed.
Fisk felt he was too strong on the man, just doing his job. “Hey, I’m sorry,” Fisk said. “It’s just I’m on a tight schedule and my stomach is growling. I can be real grumpy when I’m hungry.”
Blake’s face brightened, slightly. “Sure,” he said, gesturing to the buffet table. “Enjoy.”
The table was covered with a white linen tablecloth and two servers stood behind the buffet with their hands behind their back. They were the only people in the room who weren’t with the State Department, or Secret Service.
Fisk nibbled on a couple of pieces of broccoli, before placing a sopapilla on a plate. When he reached the front of the buffet, he noticed a large prime rib sitting under a heated lamp. He was going to ask for a slice, then saw a man in a suit with an earpiece standing next to the cutting board with a boning knife in his hand.
“You know how to cut that thing?” Fisk asked the Secret Service agent.
“I can try,” the man said, holding the blade like a weapon.
“No thanks,” Fisk said.
Just then, a partition slid open and two dark-skinned men with earpieces and military uniforms entered the room. The Secret Service circled the men and exchanged IDs along with handshakes and firm instructions. They pointed to a couple of tall-backed chairs where Fisk would be meeting with the candidates separately.
Fisk gestured to the head of his security team and the man allowed the media to gather along the opening to the room. A silk rope separated the two rooms. Fisk took a bite of his sopapilla, then tossed it away and approached the gaggle of reporters with a smile.
“Mr. Secretary, Mr. Secretary,” they yelled and shoved for position. Fisk held out his hands. “Please, stop pushing. I’ll answer all of your questions. I promise.”
This seemed to calm the crowd and they settled into a tight mass of cameras and microphones.
Fisk pointed to a Mexican reporter first.
“Mr. Secretary of State, who will the United States be endorsing for the election?” the man asked.
Fisk nodded cordially. “Yes, this is the question I keep getting asked and let me put it to rest right away. The United States will not be endorsing any one candidate. I am here to show support for the process. Our neighbors to the south deserve our support. Let’s face it, politicians will come and go, yet the Mexican people will still be here long after they are gone. It is these people who we will be supporting.”