Cartel (17 page)

Benny sat sandwiched between Rodrigo and Scott as the old pickup truck bounced down Calle Lincoln toward the post office where they had been ambushed last night.

When they were close enough, Scott said, "Stop here."

"We're still ten blocks from the post office," Rodrigo said.

"We should walk the rest of the way."

Father Rodrigo stepped on the squeaky clutch and popped the shift lever on the steering column into neutral. The truck coasted to the curb. "I can take you to the border," the priest said. "It's no trouble."

"You've already done enough," Scott said. "More than enough."

"Whatever it is you're doing," Rodrigo said. "Whatever it is you're risking your lives for, will it change anything?"

Scott had to think about that for a moment. The reason he'd gotten into police work in the first place was a desire to make a difference. It didn't even matter how big or how small. He just wanted to make a difference. To leave the world a slightly better place than he'd found it. Four years as a Dallas cop and ten as a DEA agent had all but beaten that dream out of him.

America's so-called War on Drugs, which had been de-clared in 1971 when President Richard Nixon first used the phrase, and which had been lost on September 11, 2001, to make room for America's new war, the War on Terror, had been, at least from Scott's perspective, an unmitigated disas-ter. After spending hundreds of billions of dollars-maybe trillions, because who could really count that high?-and imprisoning millions of its own citizens, America was still awash in illegal drugs. In fact, more drugs were coming into the country today than ever before, and their price was cheaper.

Still...somewhere deep inside himself Scott could feel a tiny ember of that fire that used to burn so brightly.

Father Rodrigo, without knowing the specifics, was ask-ing if the video Scott had would change anything. So Scott looked the priest in the eye and said, "Yeah. It might." Then he opened the passenger door and stepped out of the truck.

Benny followed him onto the sidewalk. She clasped the bottom of the window with both hands as she closed the door. "Gracias, tío."

Scott reached in and shook Rodrigo's hand.

The priest smiled at them. "Vaya con Dios." Then he stomped the squeaking clutch, dropped the shift into first, and eased out into traffic.

Scott turned to Benny. "I've heard that before, vaya con Dios, but I forgot what it means."

"It means, go with God."

As Scott watched the truck bump and rattle its way down the street, he noticed that embossed on the rusted tail-gate was the word CHEVROLET.

They found a payphone a block away. Scott dug all the change out of his pocket.

"Those won't work," Benny said.

Scott looked down at the quarters, dimes and nickels in his hand.

She pulled a five-peso coin from her pocket and handed it to him. He shoved it into the coin slot and heard it click its way through the guts of the telephone.

"Who are you calling?" she asked.

"I have to get this video to someone who can help us."

"Who?"

Scott punched in the country code for the United States, a Texas area code, and a phone number. Then he glanced at Benny. "Someone I trust."

The line rang.

Glenn Peterson was walking up the steps of the building that housed the DEA Laredo Field Office when his cell phone rang. He pulled the phone from his suit pocket and checked the screen. The call wasn't from someone in his contacts, and he didn't recognize the number. He thought about letting it go to voicemail. The time on the screen showed he had just five minutes until his meeting with the SAC and the two suits from headquarters.

Funny, he thought, that he called them suits. He was an ASAC, which made him a suit too. He just didn't think of himself as one. A suit was a paper pusher, a chairborne ranger. Most of them had downsized their duty pistols and kept them in their briefcases. He carried his full-sized Glock .40 caliber on his hip. Where an agent carried it. And he was pretty sure he could still kick down a door if he needed to.

His phone rang again. He punched the ANSWER but-ton. "Peterson."

Scott Greene said, "I need to talk to you."

Peterson stopped just outside the glass doors. "So talk. How'd the meeting go with Benny Alvarez?"

"I need to talk to you in person."

"No can do, amigo," Peterson said. "I'm walking into a meeting with the SAC and two pricks from OPR who are here to tear you a new asshole." A pretty woman in a dark suit walked past him and frowned at his vulgarity.

"I found something," Greene said. "And I'm pretty sure it's the key to this whole thing."

"By whole thing you mean..."

"Everything."

Peterson trusted Greene and knew he was a top-notch agent. If he said he had found something, then he had found something pretty damned important. "What is it?"

"Not on the phone," Greene said.

"At least give me an idea."

"A video."

"Of what?"

"You can see it yourself when I bring it to you. But it's the reason four agents are dead and our only witness got snatched away from us."

"You're selling it pretty hard," Peterson said.

"It's enough to sink the government of Mexico. Maybe ours too."

"Must be some video."

"Subtitled with your three favorite letters: C-I-A."

Peterson took a deep breath. This was the last thing he needed six months before mandatory retirement put him on the beach permanently. But it was the job. The job he'd signed up to do, and, in fact, had taken an oath to do. Be-sides, he hated the fucking CIA. "I'm staying at the Radis-son. Room seven-eighteen. Give me two hours to wrap up with these ass-hats."

"See you then," Greene said. Then the line clicked dead.

Peterson walked across the brick apron between the top of the steps and the building. He stood next to a row of con-crete planters and scrolled through his telephone contacts. He tapped a number and pressed the phone to his ear. A few seconds later the line rang. The call was answered on the second ring. A man's voice said, "I'm walking into a meet-ing."

"Me too," Peterson said.

"Mine is with the attorney general."

"If I hadn't strapped you on my back like a rucksack and carried you through four years at the Naval Academy, you wouldn't have been a Marine, you wouldn't have won a Silver Star, and you wouldn't be a United States senator."

The man laughed. "You're right on all counts. But I still have to get to a meeting."

"I think one of my guys just found the smoking gun you're looking for."

There was a pause. Then the man said, "I'm listening."

"I haven't seen it yet," Peterson said, "but he's recov-ered a video. He says it's enough to take down the Mexican government. And maybe ours."

"Who is he?" the man asked.

"The new RAC in Laredo."

"Didn't you just lose three agents in Laredo?"

"There's a lot more to that story."

The man on the other end of the line was silent for a moment. Then he said, "When are you going to see what's on the video?"

"He's bringing it to me in a couple of hours."

"And you trust him?"

"He worked for me in New Orleans," Peterson said. "He's a good agent. He says he's got something big, I believe him."

"If it's good, will he testify in front of my committee?"

"Send him a subpoena."

"I don't want to be embarrassed by an agent taking the fifth over and over. Like those assholes at ATF and the IRS did."

"He's solid," Peterson said. "You ask him a direct ques-tion, he'll give you a direct answer. And it'll be the truth."

Another pause. Then the man on the other end of the line said, "All right. I'll give my staff a warning order in case your guy comes through with something good."

"I may need some cover on this," Peterson said. "I'm six months from pulling the pin and too old to start looking for a new career."

"There's always politics," the man said.

"I'd rather be a prostitute."

"Same thing," the man said with a laugh. Then he hung up.

Glenn Peterson stared at his phone. He was pretty sure he had just unleashed a shit storm.

"They're sitting on my truck," Scott said.

Benny looked confused. "Someone is sitting on your truck?"

They were at a table inside a corner café two blocks from Scott's truck, drinking strong Mexican coffee and eat-ing tortillas stuffed with scrambled eggs and sausage. Scott was looking out the window at a black Chevrolet Suburban parked three blocks on the other side of his truck.

"Not literally," Scott said. "I mean they're watching it."

Benny washed down a bite of food with a sip of coffee. "In this neighborhood, that SUV stands out like a...What's that expression about the jug of punch?"

"A turd in a punch bowl."

She nodded. "That's it, but I'm still not sure I under-stand exactly what that means."

Scott smiled. "You have to picture it. You have this bowl filled with delicious red punch, with lots of ice to keep it cool. Then you see this-"

Holding up a hand, Benny said, "You have another ex-pression that I do understand, too much information."

"What it really means," Scott said, "is that we have to find another way across the border."

A deep rumbling sound came from the street outside.

Benny sprang out of her chair and headed for the door. "I have an idea."

Scott rushed to catch up, leaving his coffee on the table but gobbling down the rest of his burrito on the way.

Outside, a city bus lumbered toward them, belching smoke from its exhaust pipe as it ground its way down the street from the direction of Scott's truck and the black Sub-urban. Timing her move so that the bus shielded them from the surveillance vehicle, Benny led Scott to the corner and raised her hand to flag down the bus. It lurched to a stop with a hiss of brakes and the door sprang open. Benny and Scott climbed up the steps and stood beside the driver. He was an overweight man in his forties with a bad complexion. Benny asked him something in Spanish, and as soon as he answered she turned to Scott. "It's ten pesos."

Scott pulled out his wallet. He had a single five dollar bill left. "That's all I have."

"It's plenty." She took the bill and held it out to the driver.

He looked at the five dollars but didn't take it. Then he said something in Spanish, but all Scott could make out was the word pesos. Apparently, he only took Mexican pesos, not U.S. dollars. As Benny argued with the driver, Scott looked down the length of the bus, past the dozen or so pas-sengers, and out through the grimy back windows. He could see his truck and the black Suburban. The Suburban hadn't moved.

Benny's raised voice drew Scott's attention. He turned just in time to see her shove the five dollar bill into the bus driver's hand. The driver grumbled but took the money. He offered her no change. They took the first available seats.

"What was all that about?" Scott whispered.

"That should have only cost about two dollars, but he claimed he couldn't make change for U.S. money. So it cost you the whole five. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"We still have to pay to walk across the bridge."

"How much does that cost?"

"To go north is ten pesos."

"How much is that in American money?"

"About seventy cents."

Scott dug thirty-five cents out of his pocket. "We're go-ing to be a little short."

"You have the video," Benny said. "You don't need me to go with you."

"You're the one who can identify-"

"Shh, don't say his name," Benny warned, glancing around nervously to see if anyone was listening to them.

"The man in the video," Scott said. "You know who he is."

"Now you know too."

"But my boss is going to want to talk to you."

"I have to get home to my daughter."

"You'll be back this afternoon."

"Will I have to give a statement?"

"Eventually, yes," Scott said. "We both will. But this is important. It's going to change things."

She stared past him out the window. "That's what I'm afraid of."

He held out the coins in his hand. "First we need to find another dollar and five cents."

Benny glanced up at the bus driver.

Scott was afraid she was going to pull her pistol and force the driver to give them three dollars in change or what-ever the equivalent amount was in pesos. "If I can find an ATM," he said, "I can get some money."

"They have ATMs at the bridge."

"Good, then we're all set." Scott looked at his watch. "We can be at the Radisson in forty-five minutes. I'll give the video to Glenn. We'll tell him what we know. Then this mess will be somebody else's problem."

She smiled at him. "You really think it's going to be that easy?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Things might happen like that in the United States," she said. "But this is Mexico."

For the duration of his stay in Laredo, Robert Stockwell, special agent in charge of DEA's Houston Division, had set up camp in Scott Greene's office. As the local resident agent in charge, Greene had the only private office. The rest of the agents worked in a cubicle farm down the hall.

Glenn Peterson sat in one of two wooden armchairs in front of Greene's desk. The office door was closed.

"I wanted to talk to you before OPR got here," Stock-well said. "I know you and Greene have a history."

"I was his group supervisor in New Orleans," Peterson said. "His first posting after the academy."

The SAC nodded impatiently. "You and I need to make sure we're on the same page."

"What page is that?"

"I don't think I need to tell you how bad this looks, es-pecially to headquarters."

"How bad it looks?" Peterson said. "We lost three agents."

"Exactly. And unless we manage the situation correctly, there could be significant blowback."

"Blowback from headquarters?"

The SAC leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. "Of course from headquarters. And beyond. This thing could land us in a Congressional hearing. That's why we need to make it clear right up front that Greene was acting on his own, without authority from the division, certainly without authority from headquarters, and that no one, no one, in his chain of command was aware that he was plan-ning to conduct an illegal operation in Mexico, in contraven-tion of Mexican law, United States law, and DEA policy."