Pope remained unapologetic, knowing the president still needed him. “I see very little daylight between the two, Mr. President.”
“Have I made myself clear, or not?” the president wanted to know.
“You have, sir.”
That afternoon, Pope punched the security code into the keypad outside one of his private intelligence gathering rooms and entered to find his protégé, Midori Kagawa, sitting at a console with two other young Japanese American women whom he’d hired the year before to help with his ATRU operations. Ever since his time in Southeast Asia during the latter part of the Vietnam War, he’d had a certain affinity for Asian women.
“How are things in Switzerland, ladies?”
“Not good,” Midori said.
Pope stopped midstride, his good humor vanishing. “What’s happened?”
Midori looked up from the console. “Blickensderfer is still alive, and Jarvis Adler doesn’t respond to my communications.”
Pope set down his coffee cup. “Ladies, please give us a moment.”
The other two young woman got up from their chairs and left the room.
The door closed behind them, and Pope turned to Midori. “Are we exposed?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but it’s definitely an anomaly. I’m hacked into local traffic surveillance in Bern. Adler’s car is parked on the street across from Blickensderfer’s house, but Blickensderfer is still alive. I’ve just confirmed that he’s present at a fund-raising dinner where he’s scheduled to speak this evening. So either he got lucky and killed Adler himself, or we didn’t check back far enough, and he had private security inside the house. Either way, confidence is pretty high that Adler is dead.”
Pope pulled on his chin. “And Blickensderfer is acting as though nothing happened?”
“It appears so, yes.”
“Interesting. By now he must know that his back-channel message to me has fallen upon deaf ears.”
“I’d say that’s a safe assumption, but it’s only an assumption.”
Pope sucked his teeth. “Any word from Gil?”
She hesitated a fraction of a second. “No.”
“Then he must still be chasing around with Lena Deiss,” he remarked absentmindedly.
“What about Blickensderfer?”
“We’ll back off for a moment — give ourselves time to sort out what’s happened before risking another attempt. For now, get a message to Gil. Have him contact me direct.”
“Priority level?”
“Low.”
“So you’re not sending him back after Blickensderfer?”
Pope shook his head. “No. Gil has too many principles. In hindsight, it might have been a mistake to send him after Blickensderfer in the first place.”
Midori smiled. “You know what they say about the right tool for the right job.”
“Well …” Pope hesitated a moment. “Adler was the right tool for this job, and look how it’s apparently turned out.” He picked up his coffee and turned for the door. “Make sure you get that message to Gil.”
31
Crosswhite sat beside Mariana on a white leather sofa in the home of Antonio Castañeda, the head of all narcotics trafficking in northern Mexico. His cooperation the year before had been instrumental in preventing Chechen terrorists from using a stolen Russian suitcase nuke to destroy the city of San Diego. In exchange for his cooperation, both the Mexican and US governments had offered Castañeda an informal truce in the “war on drugs.” The terms of the truce had been simple: Castañeda agreed to cease all violence against civilians on both sides of the border, and both federal governments agreed to stop hunting him.
Since the truce, violence against civilians in the North had dropped off to almost nil, and Castañeda had consolidated all narcotics power north of Jalisco State. This meant that not a single kilo of drugs crossed the US border without his say-so. The American DEA continued to interdict his drug shipments at will, but Castañeda was no longer targeted for capture or prosecution.
A former GAFE (Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales) operator for Mexican Special Forces, Castañeda was a bug-eyed man in his late thirties with dark hair and a dark complexion. Enjoying tequila probably far too much for the good of his health, he was a legendary womanizer and took a particular enjoyment in torturing those who betrayed him.
He sat in a white leather chair, smiling at Mariana across the black lacquer coffee table, a glass of straight tequila in his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such an unexpected visit?” he asked her in Spanish.
Mariana had been the CIA’s contact and intermediary with Castañeda since the inception of their business dealings, and Castañeda made no secret of the fact that he desired her. Secretly, Mariana feared him a great deal, but she was always careful to keep her fears hidden.
“I’m afraid we have some disturbing news for you,” she replied.
He sipped his tequila. “I am listening.”
“By all indications,” she continued, “Lazaro Serrano will be elected president of Mexico this coming July, and we have good reason to believe that he will not honor the truce after he takes office.”
Castañeda continued to smile at her, his eyes almost perpetually glassed over from the tequila. “I understand why Serrano might pose political problems for the gringo government, but I have nothing to fear from him. Serrano is corrupt, yes, but all politicians are corrupt. The truce is good business for everyone. He will respect it.”
She girded herself. “Would you feel that way if I told you Lazaro Serrano is the real power behind the Ruvalcaba cartel?”
His smile vanished. “What are you talking about?”
As planned, Crosswhite edged forward on the sofa. “Hector Ruvalcaba doesn’t run the Ruvalcabas — Lazaro Serrano does. He organizes their protection and allows them an almost free hand in Mexico City. We also have confirmation that he was behind the assassination of Alice Downly a few days ago. Serrano hates the US. He wants another outbreak of violence on the border so he can eliminate you and consolidate all Mexican drug trafficking under his own tent. That will give him unprecedented power, putting him on par here in Mexico with Carlos Slim.” Carlos Slim Helú, a Mexican telecom mogul, was the wealthiest man in the world.
Castañeda sat pondering this alarming revelation. He had long known that the Ruvalcabas enjoyed protection from within the federal government, but there had never been any trouble between the Ruvalcabas and the Castañedas. “How sure is the CIA of this intelligence?”
“Ninety-nine percent,” Mariana answered without hesitation.
Castañeda sipped his tequila, displaying a calm he did not feel. “And the CIA has sent you to see me for what reason?”
Crosswhite sat back. “To ask your help in removing Serrano.”
The former GAFE operator glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Do you think I am crazy? Assassinating a Mexican president would guarantee my destruction.”
“Yes, but Serrano isn’t president yet,” Crosswhite said carefully. “We’ve got four months before that happens, so we need to eliminate him soon — before he becomes the de facto president.”
An ever-darkening shadow was crossing Castañeda’s brow. “The fact remains you intend to leave my mark on his assassination.”
“No, we don’t,” Mariana said.
“If we do it right,” Crosswhite pressed, “your name will never be mentioned. And I can guarantee it will be done right—personally guarantee it.”
“Oh? How can you make such a ‘personal’ guarantee?”