From the trash bin, the watchful eye of the crow depicted on the stencil seemed to follow the artist’s movements as he lowered the gun to skin and started to draw.
Cruz had called a meeting with CISEN to inform them of his suspicions, but it wasn’t exactly going as planned. He’d dutifully driven to their headquarters and was escorted to a conference room, where he’d waited impatiently for half an hour before four men emerged from the large building’s cavernous depths. Nobody had apologized for being late, although they’d been polite enough, at least in the beginning.
The bonhomie had quickly degraded into an adversarial exchange that hadn’t gone anywhere good.
“Hmmm, yes, well, I see how you could draw that inference, but the problem is that you have not one iota of evidence to support your, hmm, intellectual leap,” the oldest of the men and the director of the agency, Armando Serrate, pointed out.
“I understand. But I’m telling you that standing in the room with the man…it wasn’t something he just tossed off. He was telling me, no, he was bragging, that he was going to kill the President and that there was nothing I could do to stop it. He didn’t seem to care whether I knew. That’s part of what makes me uncomfortable. He was convinced it would happen no matter what steps were taken because of the assassin involved. El Rey,” Cruz repeated.
“Yes. We heard you the first time. But all of this is purely guesswork on your part, gut feel, if you like, absent any proof. Would you agree with that?” Serrate’s right hand man, Guillermo Trudo, asked.
“I’m currently gathering evidence, gentlemen. But the man’s dying statement, coupled with the mention of El Rey, should give you all pause for concern,” Cruz fired back.
“Capitan Cruz, while I appreciate you coming to us with your, hmm, theories, I think we’re probably better equipped to gauge what should concern us than you are,” Serrate declared.
“You can’t discount this. We’re talking about a plot to assassinate the President, confirmed by a cartel chief,” Cruz insisted.
“Who are well known for their veracity, I’m sure. Look, you told us that this man, Santiago, died of a brain injury, correct? How do you know that his flight of fancy wasn’t an early sign of his brain malfunctioning? Or that he wasn’t simply lying in order to torment you, or so he’d appear to have some valuable information to bargain with?” Trudo reasoned.
“You weren’t there. You didn’t look into his eyes,” Cruz said, feeling lame even as he uttered the words. “I know how far-fetched this sounds, but the summit is only five weeks away so we don’t have a lot of time. I could use your help. You have resources I don’t. You can partner with the Americans, and use technology we don’t have, to pinpoint this man-”
“Yes, I’m quite sure the National Security Agency will be anxious to step in and assist the Mexican government with their domestic murder-for-hire problem,” Serrate offered, glancing at his associates in an openly skeptical manner. His tone softened. “You have a hard job, Cruz. We all do. If you get some concrete evidence that there’s a plot, you’re welcome back to present it to us, and we’ll be happy to hear it. But right now, you have nothing. You have a hunch, yes? And we don’t trade in hunches, hmm, when discussing our business with the Americans. They already think we’re a bunch of savages due to the drug violence — we don’t need to add superstitious fools to their list, you see?”
“So this is all about how you’re afraid it might look to your counterparts in the U.S.? Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? This isn’t my first week on the job, and-”
“Nor is it mine, Capitan. Do you have any idea how many false alarms or threats against the President’s life we field in any given month? No. You probably don’t. Let’s just say it’s a fair number, and that most are more solid than what you’ve brought.” Serrate pushed back his chair and prepared to terminate the meeting. “Thank you for coming, and stay in touch — keep us up to date on any progress, hmm, yes? We’ll take the El Rey matter under advisement and enact appropriate safeguards. Now, perhaps you can go back to solving the nation’s drug crisis, and we can return to our humble tasks…”
“You’re making a horrible mistake,” Cruz, furious, managed through clenched teeth.
“Noted, Capitan, noted. Now, if there isn’t anything else, Trudo here can show you the way out,” Serrate said.
“I know the way. I found my way in, didn’t I? Oh, and I hope you don’t mind if I contact the American Secret Service and alert them to my suspicions, all right? Perhaps they would be more receptive than you,” Cruz threw out as his final leverage.
“Well, Capitan, if you think that they’ll be any more courteous or receptive to your baseless suppositions and wild theories than we were, by all means, embarrass yourself further. But my advice is to wait until you have something besides emotion to contact them with, or you’re quite likely to be laughed out of the room, or treated like a slow child. I deal with them on a regular basis, and you can trust me when I tell you they won’t be nearly as gracious,” Serrate warned.
Cruz stalked out of the building, fuming at the treatment. He’d never been so humiliated in twenty-something years as a Federal. These arrogant pricks had acted as if his interrogation evaluation was toilet paper, unworthy of their time.
He started the Charger engine and sat staring at the wall of the building, thinking. He needed to come up with some evidence, and quickly, or nobody would take anything he said about El Rey seriously. The problem was that, if his hunch — okay, he’d concede they were correct on that — was right, by the time they got something solid it could be weeks from now, which would put them all at a tremendous disadvantage. Cruz knew that if a trained assassin was hell-bent on taking out a head of state, and was willing to die in the process, then it was practically impossible to stop him — he’d heard that again and again as a police officer, and later, as a detective. So the more preparation, the more of an edge they had.
But nobody was going to put any credence in his theories — certainly not if it meant humiliation if they were wrong. It was far more prudent for a bureaucrat to take a conservative stance, even if it meant endangering the President. Cruz wondered if they would have been so nonchalant if it had been their son or daughter who was in danger of being killed, but still…he was arguing a loser, until he had proof.
Maybe he would still go to the NSA or the Secret Service, but only once he’d done some more homework. In a way, Serrate had done him a favor. He had forced Cruz to build a real case if he was going to be taken seriously. Cruz had hoped to sidestep that process and fast-track some action, forgetting everything he knew about human nature and the way that the system worked. He couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice.
Swinging out of the parking area, he almost collided with a woman pushing a baby stroller, chatting on her cell phone. His brakes locked, causing his tires to screech to a stop, inches from the pair.
Shaken, he waved in apology. The woman gave him a look that could cut glass.
He needed to cool down. Being angry because his colleagues hadn’t embraced his ideas was a luxury he couldn’t afford. His strength lay in being analytical and thorough, not in being a cowboy. Serrate was right.
Cruz needed proof.
And he needed it now.
He stabbed a speed dial button on his cell phone as he pulled into traffic. Briones answered on the second ring.
“It didn’t go well,” Cruz reported.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. How should we proceed from here? Did they give you any guidance or suggestions?”
“Yes. We need to get something tangible. So it’s of paramount importance that the men working the streets understand they are to have virtually unlimited resources. If they need to offer money to curry favor or to get someone to talk, bring me the request. I don’t care what it takes, but we need to stir the pot and shake something loose. Pass that on to Roto and Brava. Tell them I want them to do whatever it takes. Use those exact words, Lieutenant,” Cruz emphasized.