He pulled back from the edge and burst into a field of blinding white light, and felt incredibly clear-headed. His breathing slowed right down, calmed by the inner peace that bloomed from deep in his core, and he opened his eyes.
Magnificent.
He breathed in a big lungful of sea air and held it in for a long moment, relishing a newly awakened super-sensitivity to everything around him. The waves lapping against the shore, the crickets in the trees—he could even hear the crabs scuttling across the sand. And in his mind’s eye, he could now see things, ones he’d missed or hadn’t noticed, with exhilarating clarity.
The drug had worked like magic. Just as he knew it would. He’d been taught by the best, ever since his lifetime fascination with what ethnopharmacologists called the “sacred spirit medicine” had started in his early teens.
It was a fascination that had served him well.
For like all kids, Raoul Navarro grew up believing that magic existed. The difference was, he never stopped believing in it.
He grew up in Real de Catorce, a village of steep cobblestone streets and rundown Spanish colonial houses that sat perched on the side of a mountain in the one of the highest plateaus of Mexico. Built up and then abandoned after a silver-mining rush a century ago, Real’s saving grace was as the gateway to the Wirikuta desert, the Huichol Indians’ sacred peyote harvesting ground. It was a place where a penniless kid like Navarro could scrape together a few dollars by finding the elusive little peyote buttons that hid under mesquite bushes and selling them to primeros—tourists who were seeking their first peyote high. He wasn’t, however, content with just selling it. He was curious about what the peyote actually did, and he didn’t have to wait too long to find out. It wasn’t long after his thirteenth birthday that he was blindfolded by a Huichol shaman and led into the desert, and became a primero himself.
The experience was life-changing.
It taught him that the spirits were everywhere, watching his every move, and he decided he wanted to learn their ways.
He hung out with the shamans and taught himself to read, eventually devouring everything he could get his hands on, from the works of Carlos Castaneda to the writings of the great psychopharmacolo-gists and ethnobotanists. But as the real world proved to be a heartless, unforgiving place, he embraced the inevitable career option of so many of his peers and got sucked into the violent climb up the drug-trafficking totem pole—and found out he liked it. He didn’t only like it—he had a talent for it. And so, as his power and his wealth grew, he was able to indulge his fascination even more.
With his growing resources, he traveled across Mexico and then farther south, into the jungles and rainforests of Guatemala, Brazil, and Peru, where he befriended anthropologists and sought out isolated peoples that devoted as much time and energy to understanding the invisible realms of gods and spirits and the time-bending pathways to our pasts and futures as we devoted to figuring out the mysteries of global warming and nanotechnology.
Always seeking to open channels to new dimensions of consciousness and reach new heights of enlightenment, he spent a lot of time and money endearing himself to and worming his way into the trust of secretive tribal healers and shamans. Under their guidance, he experimented with all kinds of psychoactive substances and entheogens—mostly plant-derived concoctions that played a pivotal role in the religious practices of the tribal cultures he was exploring. He started with more easily accessible, local mind-altering substances like psilocybin mushrooms and Salvia divinorum, under the guidance of Mazatec shamans in the isolated cloud forests of the Sierra Mazateca, then he moved on to more obscure, and more intense, hallucinogens like ayahuasca, the vine of the soul; iboga, the sacred visionary root; borrachero; and others that few outsiders had ever been offered. He even went as far as Africa, venturing deep into Gabon and Cameroon to take part in Bwiti ngenza ceremonies, where he learned to communicate with his ancestral spirits. But he was starting out from a dark place. His soul was already enthralled by the violence it had tasted, and as these drugs altered his consciousness and gradually disintegrated his ego, he found himself venturing into the more sinister depths of his subconscious and finding things there that most people wouldn’t want to look at.
But then, Navarro wasn’t most people.
With each new experience, he was dragged further down by the demons that skulked in the abysses of his astral realms. But he couldn’t stop, and he grew more fascinated by the doors each journey opened up in his mind and by the psychospiritual epiphanies they triggered.
Epiphanies that sometimes went beyond the spiritual.
Epiphanies that helped him navigate dangerous real-world situations and rise among the ranks of narco kingpins with remarkable ease.
Epiphanies that earned him the nickname El Brujo.
The sorcerer.
And it was one of these epiphanies that had steered him onto a new course, a new sense of purpose. It was the root of what was now driving him on.
Navarro had long known that the game was changing. For anyone who took the time to notice, the drug world was constantly evolving. He knew that the current staple of the trade, cocaine, was on its way out. The future, he knew, was in a new type of experience, one that didn’t require cumbersome needles or flames or snorting, one that anyone could access by popping a pill that was no bigger than an aspirin. This was the great appeal of synthetic drugs and amphetamines, regardless of how destructive they were.
If Navarro was out to shape the future, nothing was going to stand in his way.
He emerged from his trip with his imagination and his powers of perception greatly enhanced. Observations and obscure details were shooting out of previously ignored corners in his mind and bursting into focus.
One of them rose above all the others.
He focused on it, cajoled and nurtured it until it shone with pleasing clarity.
He went inside and hit the shower, cleansing his body, allowing the water to wash away the sweat and usher him back into the world others called real. Then he dried himself off, slipped on his nightclothes, and checked Reilly’s file.
It was all there.
He picked up his phone and called Octavio Guerra. The man who supplied him with his bodyguards. The man who got him all the background information on the Americans that Navarro was interested in. The fixer who usually got him anything he needed. And although it was late, he knew Guerra would pick up his call at any time, day or night.
“The FBI agent, Reilly. His file says he has a woman, in New York. Tess Chaykin.” He paused, then told Guerra, “Find her.”
TUESDAY
29
It was under another impeccable blue sky that I drove to La Mesa to interview Karen Walker.
We arranged to see her there, at the local police department’s brand-new digs on University Avenue, since it was closer to the Eagles’ clubhouse and to where she lived. My thinking was that given what she’d just been through, it would be more courteous than to have her drive all the way out to Villaverde’s federal offices out by Montgomery Field. To her credit, she arrived on time, and although she looked shaken up and on edge, she seemed to be holding up reasonably well. She didn’t bring a lawyer with her either.
I greeted her along with Villaverde and Jesse Munro, who’d driven down from LA that morning. After I’d left him, Villaverde had called Corliss to fill him in on yesterday’s developments, and Corliss had offered to send Munro so we’d have direct access to DEA resources now that the investigation was ramping up. The four of us were in a conference room on the second floor, which I figured would be more conducive than one of the smaller, and windowless, interview rooms downstairs, where the club’s prospects were to be questioned.