“Goddamn right, this is fucked up, we’re gonna catch hell,” Pescatore declared.
“Well, wait a minute now…” The CHP officer handed back Pescatore’s badge, but kept the license. He craned his neck to peer past Garrison at Pescatore, who made an imploring and terrified face. The officer seemed to realize that something was wrong; even if he thought Pescatore was drunk or deranged, that was a step in the right direction. He worried at his holster, fastening and unfastening it. Snap-snap. Snap-snap.
The officer asked Garrison: “Are you a supervisor with The Patrol?”
A murderous undercurrent built in Garrison’s voice. “I’m a supervisor. Sir.”
“This a U.S. government vehicle?”
“No sir, my personal vehicle.”
“Huh. Why’s he driving?”
“I’m directing the surveillance, sir.”
“You work smuggling out of Border Patrol sector HQ?”
“No sir, Imperial Beach station.”
“So they could verify-”
“Yeah absolutely, they could verify,” Pescatore exulted. The station would rush over a carload of supervisors when they heard about them badging the CHP and posing as antismuggling investigators. The day after the shooting on the beach, no less.
Garrison shouldered him aside again.
“Sir, we’ve got an operation going, couldn’t we just-”
“If you got an operation going, where’s your radios at?”
Pescatore did not want to look at Garrison in the silence that ensued. He noticed that the CHP officer’s nameplate said Boyd.
“I need to see your license and registration documents as well, sir,” Boyd said to Garrison, officious and determined.
“Sure, no problem,” Garrison said. He did not move. “About the radios, listen-”
“We’re gonna lose ’em, we’re gonna lose ’em!” Pescatore blurted, playing the loony all out. “This is fucked up!”
“Shut up, Valentine!” Garrison roared, sounding close to the edge.
Boyd took a fast light step backwards, his eyebrows jumping in alarm. His hand was planted on the butt of his pistol.
“I’m calling in,” Boyd said. “They’ll patch me through to Patrol communications, get this clarified right now.”
Garrison cursed under his breath. Pescatore began to see a drawback to his maneuvering: He had laid the groundwork for a confrontation between two frightened men with guns.
8
BY GOD, man, doesn’t anyone in this part of the world wear a suit and tie? I just saw the governor in Mexicali. He was wearing one of those abominable jackets like the baseball players, you know, with the leather sleeves? What a sight.”
The Secretary shook his head in a burlesque of despair. His suit was impeccable-pin-striped, three-piece. His tie was mustard-colored. A matching handkerchief poked up out of a breast pocket. A watch chain hung across his vest, an affectation acquired during an ambassadorship in Europe with which he had been rewarded years earlier for perilous government service. His long white fingers tapped a cigarette over an ashtray.
“Well, it’s a curious thing, Mr. Secretary,” Méndez said. “There was some interesting research done on that here at the university. Our scientists determined that wearing a tie constricts the flow of ideas to the brain. A very serious condition, we call it chilanguitis.”
The Secretary bent forward in silent laughter, holding up a hand as if asking for mercy. He seemed unfazed by the stuffiness of the cramped second-floor office that had been hurriedly cleared for their meeting. Aviation manuals were stacked on the desk behind the Secretary. A glass wall beyond the desk overlooked a private hangar.
Méndez was not in the mood for banter, not even poking fun at chilangos, natives of Mexico City. He wore the same leather jacket and jeans he had worn the day before at the prison. He was unshaven. His eyes were red from a night without sleep; he had replaced his contact lenses with glasses before coming to the airport. Méndez was not in the mood, but it was a rituaclass="underline" The Secretary liked him because Méndez was not one of the obsequious, humorless sycophants who infested the ministry. The Secretary prided himself on his sense of humor. And he expected Méndez to play the irreverent maverick.
“Very good, Méndez. Your wit prevails even when you are exhausted.”
Despite his nattiness, the Secretary’s pallor, pinched face and stooped posture reminded Méndez of a priest. The Secretary had no vices or pastimes other than clothes and books. He lived alone in a cavernous apartment full of bookshelves in a less-than-fashionable neighborhood of the capital. He had a reputation for integrity and bureaucratic infighting skills. As Araceli Aguirre never failed to point out, he was also a true-believing loyalist of the ruling party.
“I imagine you don’t have much time to read these days,” the Secretary said. “Have you read Castañeda’s new one? It’s about aging warriors of the left, like you. I must say it is excellent.”
Another ritual. The Secretary had utmost respect for writers and liked to talk about books. During the gilded exile of his diplomatic post, he had written erudite essays that were published by scholarly journals and, reportedly, plays that he kept to himself.
“I haven’t had a chance, Mr. Secretary. I’ve been trying to finish a book about the mafia judges in Sicily.”
“By God, man. That’s not exactly escapist fare. You should clear your head. Take refuge in a bit of Borges, I don’t know. Reread ‘El Quixote.’ How is your family?”
“They seem fine. My wife is treated well at the university, thanks to my friends there. It’s hard to tell how they are from this distance, of course.”
“Of course, that must be difficult.” The Secretary nodded primly.
Méndez handed the Secretary a manila envelope containing photos and a ten-page memo. Opening the envelope, the Secretary swiveled toward him in the chair. The office was so narrow that their knees almost touched.
“The report on the Colonel’s murder, sir.”
“No doubt that it was a murder?”
“None. The final pages review the larger investigation and lay out what we intend to do. The moment has arrived to act on our work of the past year. The Americans agree. Frankly, I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Why?” The Secretary extracted reading spectacles from a pocket.
“If we don’t act now, they will know we are frightened or unwilling. It would be dangerous after the events of last night.”
“I see.”
“This was an escalation. A provocation. By no means did the Ruiz Caballaros have to kill the Colonel the way they did. There were opportunities in the prison. But they waited, aided his escape, then orchestrated everything to be messy and spectacular. The finishing touch, the signature, was killing him at the border. Involving the Border Patrol, doing it under the noses of the Americans. Telling them, and us, that they can do what they want to whom they want.”
Although he was speed-reading the report in his lap, the Secretary was listening. His smile uncovered nicotine-stained teeth.
“You have always had a flair for interpreting the semiotics of organized crime. Even in your columns. I used to tell my intelligence analysts: Read everything Méndez writes.”
Méndez nodded his thanks. “Politically, it’s important to emphasize the American involvement. They will make big arrests of their own functionaries: Border Patrol, inspectors. Even DEA.”
“Good. The last thing the presidential palace wants to hear is more howling from the troglodytes in Washington about corrupt Mexicans. If we do nothing, they howl. If we attack our problems, instead of congratulating us they have new examples to howl about.”
“No, this will be about a dangerous criminal network that functions on both sides and is being confronted on both sides.”
The Secretary fingered an odd prow of black hair that jutted from the center of his receded hairline. He thumbed through the photos.