Mexico Way, page 11
4
The Mexican government's theft of the presidential election set talking heads bobbing on American television, and sparked chain explosions from the border to the Isthmus. Along the Rio Grande, border crossings were blocked by bomb scares and lines of chanting protesters. An eighteen-wheeler was blown up on the bridge at Laredo, backing up traffic for twenty miles on either side. Down south, leftist unions closed down Pemex oil rigs and refineries, seized the city of Juchitan and proclaimed it a "liberated zone." In Mexico City, hundreds of thousands of angry demonstrators were converging on the Zocalo to demand justice for Batman.
Whenever foreign cameramen and news reporters were on the scene, the government played it studiously low-key. Different rules applied in the hinterland.
In the impoverished state of Hidalgo, northwest of the capital, peasants were marching under the white-and-red banners of the Movement for National Renovation. They started out from Pachuco. Their women and children walked with them. As they passed each village, their numbers increased. There were five or six thousand of them, straggling for a mile or more along Highway 57, halfway to the Altos Hornos steel mills on the outskirts of Mexico City, where they hoped that the union workers would join them. For a country tormented by machismo, there was a surprisingly large number of women in the front ranks of the column. The leaders were unknown outside their own district.
A big woman, part Otomi Indian, her broad features blackened by the sun, boomed to her neighbors, "We need a man with pants on, to defend us!"
A shriller woman's voice responded, "Miliano!"
Others took up the chorus. "Miliano! Miliano!"
Few, if any, of the marchers had ever laid eyes on this Miliano. He was not from their neighborhood. He lived among cotton-growers far to the north, in the Laguna district. He was not a national politician. He had never appeared on TV, in the commercials the government allowed the opposition to broadcast at strange hours of the night, sandwiched between dubbed American cartoons of the forties and fifties. For many of these marchers, Miliano was no less of a phantom than the Batman character, yet they chanted his name like a talisman.
"We need a man with huevos!"
"Miliano! Miliano!"
"We need a man of the people! A man like us!"
"MIL-I-ANO!"
They were still chanting when the shooting started. The state police had blocked the highway where the low hills, spiked by cactus scrub, provided natural cover on either side. The Rurales—a swaggering local militia— sighted their rifles between the bushes. They were reinforced by a few young thugs in black uniforms, members, of a government-funded goon squad whose members' called themselves Los Zorros. Rifles weren't good enough: for them. They sported Uzis and Mac-10s.
No independent observer was present to verify who) started the shooting. By the time it was over, however, ai third of the marchers were dead or wounded. The woman who had called for a man who wore pants had! thirty-seven bullets in her body. The vultures wheeled: and tilted overhead.
Without blood sacrifice, the Aztecs believed, the sun will not rise. Without martyrs, revolutions languish. With its reflexive brutality, the government was supplying the revolution with martyrs in droves.
But so far, outside the villages where their families mourned, they were nameless.
5
The janitor who unlocked the front doors of the San Antonio courthouse at 6 a.m. the next day swore at the trash that had been dumped on the steps overnight. In addition to the debris from the latest protest rally—soiled posters and leaflets, soda cans, and wine bottles—there were outsize garbage bags, one of them apparently stuffed full.
"Dirty motherfuckers." There, in the sight of the Alamo, it seemed like an act of sacrilege.
"Hey, Abe!" A policeman slowed his cruiser to a crawl. He was sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. "Guess that doper's pals had themselves a real ball."
"Nobody got no goddamn respect."
The janitor tried to move the bigger sack. He gasped at the weight of the thing. He flapped his hands in front of his face, against the swarm of flies that flew at his mouth and eyes.
What had they put in there? He tugged at the plastic ties, and they ripped away from the sack, exposing the contents.
"Oh, shit." He grabbed at his stomach, and staggered down the steps, in the wake of the cop car. "Hey!" He could not raise much volume, because he started retching, on an empty stomach. He doubled over, and a warm trickle of bile ran down his chin, spattering his pants and shoes.
The police cruiser made a circuit of the plaza.
"Hey, Abe! You sick or what?"
Wordless, the janitor pointed at the garbage sacks. He was not going to look any closer.
The larger bag contained a headless torso. The legs had been severed, above the knees, perhaps to make the body fit into its container. The butchery had not been done neatly. Each amputation had required several strokes, with an ax or a heavy knife. The forensic examiners entertained the theory that the cuts might have been inflicted while the victim was still alive.
The victim's hands were located in the second sack, together with his head.
The killers had sent a message.
Across Judge Renwick's forehead, they had carved the word venganza. Vengeance. On the judge's right cheek, they had incised the stylized head of a ram. It was one of the emblems of the Quintero drug family.
EIGHT
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1
Eddie O'Brien came into Kreeger's office with the news. "It's on CNN."
Kreeger stood motionless in front of the TV set. A reporter was interviewing the janitor who had found Judge Ren wick's body on the steps of his courthouse. The man broke down, and hid his face from the camera, when he began to describe the condition of the corpse.
The scene shifted to Washington, to a White House correspondent in front of the familiar facade of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
"High-level sources have told me that President Butler is heartbroken. He regarded Judge Ren wick as a close personal friend, and a man of rare courage in fighting the war on drugs. The drug-style execution appears to have been the work of Mexico's notorious Quintero drug family. The President is expected to call on the Mexican government for full cooperation in hunting down the killers."
Kreeger stared mutely at the screen. A new but familiar face appeared on the screen. Rough-grained, saddle-brown, fleshier than Kreeger remembered. It belonged to John Halliwell. He was announcing that he would pay a $100,000 bounty to anyone who brought the judge's killers to justice. A newly formed organization, the Mexican-American League for Decency, had already offered to match the reward.
"Mexican gangsters have killed one American too many," said Halliwell. "If the Mexican government is too crooked to deal with the druglords, it's up to patriotic citizens, on both sides of the border, to put things to rights."
The oilman was asked if he was not afraid that he was making himself a candidate for assassination.
"We're used to taking risks down here in Texas," he said with a broad smile. "It's time to kick ass."
Kreeger thought John Halliwell looked surprisingly happy as he promised to kick ass in Mexico. Maybe the judge's brutal murder was more than it seemed, more than mere revenge for the death of a Mexican doper in his jail cell.
Kreeger gave Eddie the files of several rightist leaders up north. "I've been hearing some funny rumors about a northern conspiracy. I want you to fly up to Monterrey and check these guys out."
Eddie looked disappointed when he saw the subjects were Mexicans. "Fausto's people must be all over these jokers." Eddie mimicked the motions of a wiretapper putting a headset over his ears.
"Get me something Fausto doesn't know."
"What am I looking for?"
"Foreign visitors. Drug tie-ins. Arms deliveries. And an inside source."
When Eddie had left, Kreeger phoned Fausto García at SIN headquarters and invited him to bring his wife over for dinner. It was time for a frank exchange with Fausto, and Kreeger intended to conduct it on his own turf. It was a fair bet that anything said in the secret policeman's own environment was recorded for posterity. And the highest bidder.
Fausto arrived at the Kreegers' house in a convoy of black LTDs. Bookends took up menacing postures along the sidewalk. Drover, Kreeger's Australian shepherd, barked at them from behind the wall. Fausto entered the house minus his wife, which meant that he had a date later on with one of his mistresses, or an appointment at the bunker in Campo Militar Numero Uno where he held intimate discussions with political prisoners.
Fausto wreathed Karla with embraces, and tried to slip her one of his little packages. They pushed it back and forth between them, like toddlers playing pat-a-cake, until Fausto laughingly conceded defeat. Either Fausto did not comprehend U.S. government restrictions on accepting gifts from foreigners, or he understood only too well, because he played this game every time he came to the Horseshoe Woods.
After dinner, the men sat in the courtyard, and Kreeger accepted one of the Mexican's Montecristo cigars. Light from the sconces behind them played on Fausto's diamond-studded Rolex, his gold bracelet, the silvery protozoa drifting down his Gucci tie.
"Worldly goods are no sin, my friend," Fausto told the station chief. "When the Indians invited me to New Delhi, I met a Parsi. A most enterprising businessman. He told me that, according to his religion, God created the material world as a joy for men, and a snare to entrap the devil. In itself, the material world is blessed. It is part of the eternal plan. Which includes drinking and fucking. But I embarrass you. You are not a faldista—a skirt-chaser —are you?"
"You never cease to amaze me, Fausto. Are you thinking of becoming a Zoroastrian?"
The Mexican chuckled. "Only if our next President fires me."
"Is there any danger of that?"
Fausto shrugged. "He's scared of Fernando." He was referring to his boss, Fernando Ramírez . "And Fernando handed him the election. That's the kind of present you are never forgiven for."
"You heard about Judge Renwick," Kreeger changed tack.
"I am sorry. He was your friend, wasn't he?"
"I'd be grateful for any leads you come up with. Off the record."
"It's not my department. This is a matter for the Attorney General."
"I understand that."
Fausto blew smoke toward the bougainvillea. Kreeger's dog lay with its head on his left shoe, watching the Mexican closely. "The Quinteros all have alibis," Fausto remarked.
"Naturally. Do you believe the Quinteros did it?"
"Who else? A life for a life. Biblical justice. It's obvious, isn't it?"
"I don't know. I've been getting some strange reports, involving some of your hotheads up north."
"Which ones?"
"Paco Carranza is one name."
Fausto blew out his cheeks, impersonating a bulbous fat man. "Carranza is nothing! I know when he farts, which is often!"
"He's mixed up with the drug cartels."
"Who knows? I told you before, Jim. Drugs are not a Mexican problem."
"Then there's the Monterrey crowd. Raúl's people."
"Raúl Carvajal?"
Kreeger nodded. He had tried various surnames withi the first name the judge had given him, and Carvajal! seemed to fit best. The Carvajals were a northern dynasty that had been warring with the central government for generations.
"Carvajal is a different animal," Fausto conceded, with grudging respect. "The hunting kind. Quick and dangerous. And with many gringo friends, I think. But his ideas are popular only with the business class in the north. He is no threat to us." Fausto watched Kreeger keenly, wondering why the CIA Station Chief was plying him with the names of rightist opponents of the regime.
Kreeger hesitated. He was about to break one of his own rules. It was not his practice to consult the Mexican secret police about U.S. citizens, especially former members of his own service. But he was angry and upset enough tonight to put aside his inhibitions.
"There are some Americans mixed up with this," he informed Fausto. "One of them is a former colleague of mine. Cantwell is one of his work-names. His real name is Arthur Colgate. I would be very interested in anything you might happen to hear about him."
Fausto took a leisurely sip from his brandy snifter. "I believe this is the first time you have volunteered the name of an American citizen. I am quite certain it is the first time you have brought me the name of a CIA agent —excuse me, a former CIA agent. This man must have done something very bad to you, Jim."
"We've had our problems."
"Colgate? He didn't serve in Mexico."
"No. He was in Saigon. Then Middle East division. Now he's a hired gun—or at least, a hired pen."
"What did he do to you, Jim? No, let me guess."
Kreeger began to feel slightly queasy. He had not drunk that much. At least, not yet. Was his nausea caused by renewed exposure to the Mexican capital, after a few days of clean air and clean ice cubes? Or perhaps by the sense that he had made a bad mistake by confiding in Fausto García?
"It was a woman," Fausto pronounced.
Damn you, thought Kreeger.
"I'm right!" crowed Fausto. "You're not the complete puritan! There was a woman!"
Kreeger puffed furiously on his cigar. But that was in another country, and besides, the woman is dead. Why not tell it all? Who remained to be hurt? Certainly not Val.
"You were down at Warrenton, weren't you?" he said to Fausto.
"Not me. You forget, Jim. You confine us third-worlders to cheap motels for our training courses. Your pretty white colonial houses are for people whose names don't end in a vowel."
"But you did take a CIA course in deception."
"I did."
"When was that? The late sixties?"
"I don't remember. I do remember a waitress. Honduran, flat-assed, but with tits like volcanoes. Very impressive on a small frame."
"I don't think I want to go on with this."
"Jim! I believe you're blushing! And I think it's altogether charming. I should tell Karla."
"You do, and I'll wring your goddamn neck."
Fausto seized the bottle and replenished their glasses. He was beginning to enjoy himself immensely. He had lived somewhat in awe of Kreeger—his physical presence, his skill and stamina, the immense power that he represented. He had finally located Kreeger's weak spot.
"You fucked her, didn't you?" Fausto lunged.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The woman you're going to tell me about."
Kreeger stood, his anger apparent. It was quickly dissipated, however, replaced by frustration.
"God knows," said Fausto, between drags on his double corona, "we Mexicans have our complexes. We most surely have complexes about sex. But never that it is wrong to indulge. On the contrary. The Mexican male —the macho—must be cock of the roost, even if it disgusts him. You must forgive my little lapses. Frankly, I am happy to discover your secret. There has been speculation. Karla is of course a lovely woman, but you have been married a long time."
"She's dead," Kreeger said dully. "It happened a long time ago. She was married to Colgate, but they broke up. She was a teacher."
"A teacher for the Agency?"
Kreeger folded his frame back into an armchair. "Her specialty was deception. I thought you might have come across her. That's why I asked. She used to tell the story of the assassination beetle."
“Ah yes, I remember. The assassination beetle mimics the mating signal of the female firefly. Homy males home in on the flashing lights, wanting to fuck. And they get devoured. It is the essence of deception—or rather, of provocation. The signal is real, but the results are not what you hoped for."
“So you did meet her."
“No, alas. I heard that story in bad Spanish, from a male translator who was reading from a spiral-bound manual. In my time, the Agency did not share its beddable women with third-worlders either. By the way, the whole course was a joke."
“It was?"
“What do you imagine men in seersucker suits can teach Latin Americans about deception? Or our Soviet friends, for that matter? We should be giving lectures to you. But you must forgive me. I have diverted you from your story. You were going to tell me what your Mr. Colgate—or is it Mr. Cantwell?—did to your woman."
“I don't know what he did," Kreeger said tersely. Now he was feeling decidedly unwell. “She disappeared. I could never get to the bottom of it. Look, I've been absurdly indiscreet."
“You've been personal, Jim. Me alegro mucho. Friends need to share personal things. It is the definition of friendship. So what do you want me to do about Mr. Colgate?"
“I would like you to keep me informed of anything you find out."
“It's done. But what do you think he might be doing in my country? How is he involved here? Do you think there is some connection with the judge?"
“That's what I intend to find out."
2
The men who had butchered Judge Renwick were sitting in the first-class compartment of a Cathay Pacific airliner, bound for Hong Kong. Both had been born in Cholon, the Chinese quarter of what was now called Ho Chi Minh City. The elder man was a former Vietnamese Ranger, who had carried out executions of suspected communist leaders for Art Colgate when he was Chief of Station in Saigon. Colgate had the names of scores of similar men, inscribed in his personal cipher in the little black-bound address book he always carried on his person. They were nearly all members or associates of the Saigon Society, Colgate's personal network of old Vietnam hands.
Colgate was sitting in a soft-lit reception area on the thirty-fourth floor of Hallow Petroleum, contemplating a picture of an offshore oil rig being kicked sideways by a hurricane.
Everything about him was gray: his Brooks Brothers suit, his Turnbull & Asser tie, his neatly barbered hair. Even his skin was just this side of mortuary gray. Art Colgate was a man who would not attract a second glance in the street, and he liked it that way.
