Mexico Way, page 30
Salazar did not, but he had certain suspicions. They could be parlayed into big money-^to judge by Camacho's urgency—and perhaps a great deal more, but it was necessary to play this out carefully. Above all, he must not set a price too soon.
It occurred to Salazar that Sanchez might be dead, his body abandoned in a garbage bag at the side of a road or concealed in a shallow grave for coyotes to scratch at. It would be necessary to extract a serious advance, because the gringos might balk at paying for a dead man. Numbers drifted through Salazar's mind, ballooning into six figures.
The Mexican silently sipped some more Johnny
Walker, savoring the warmth of the good scotch as it glided down his throat, savoring as well the headiness of making the CIA wait on his pleasure.
2
Fausto García asked Kreeger to call on him at SIN headquarters. The tone of the invitation was coldly formal. Kreeger asked George Camacho to accompany him, so he would have a witness.
"You want me to wear a wire?" asked George.
"Things can't be that bad," said Kreeger, instantly doubting his own words. The tone of the cable traffic from Washington had bordered on the hysterical since he had reported that Ramírez was the man most likely to succeed as Mexican head of state. Yesterday, the Threat in Mexico had been seen as the Yellow Peril, in the persons of Paz Gallardo and his Japanese business friends. Today, it was a more familiar bogey: ruthless dictatorship with hints of ties to Cuba, in the unlovely shape of Ramírez .
"Anyway," Kreeger remarked, "Fausto will be happy to record everything we say. You can't pick lint off your suit in that office without being heard in stereo."
That morning, Fausto omitted the ritual abrazos, instead greeting his visitors with curt handshakes. He also did not offer drinks from the bar, or even coffee.
He said, "We have long been aware that an aggressive faction in the American government has been involved in a campaign to destabilize the Mexican political system. We know that the same elements who regarded our late President as an enemy are likely to turn, with even greater viciousness, on his successor."
"You refer, of course, to Fernando Ramírez ."
'That will be decided in accordance with the democratic process."
"I am delighted to hear it."
"I asked you here," Fausto proceeded, "to offer a few words of caution and advice. I would ask you to convey them to your Director, and to Admiral Enright in particular."
"I'm all ears."
"In the event of any further attempt by the American government to intervene in the domestic affairs of my country, we will feel obliged to make public certain information that could be highly damaging to your employers, and indeed to your President. We have assembled a quite lengthy dossier, documenting the illegal activities of agents of the CIA and the Pentagon on Mexican soil."
Fausto ran through some of the highlights, most of which were familiar to Kreeger. They included various trips to Mexico by Colgate—whom Fausto insisted on describing as a "notorious CIA operative, expert in psychological warfare and wet operations"—and by General Two Jacks Gilly.
"Fausto," Kreeger interjected, "you're coming out of left field. Haven't you forgotten who first told you about Colgate?"
"That could be interpreted in various ways," Fausto observed, with a smile that contained no warmth. "But I see that I have not succeeded in dramatizing my point, something I expect to be able to do within a matter of days. We are already in possession of incontrovertible evidence that the assassination of our President in my native city was the work of CIA operatives, in league with fascist conspirators in the north."
"This is madness!" Kreeger exploded. "Who the hell do you expect to believe that crap?"
"I think our Japanese friends might be very interested to learn the lengths to which your people will apparently go, Jim, to prevent an elected government from doing business with commercial rivals of the United States."
Kreeger thought for a moment about the nature— and the magnitude—of this threat. In essence, Fausto was threatening to spark a political war between the United States and Japan. It would, of course, generate an uproar from Congress and among the American media. Fausto's dossier would be believed by many, and maybe even by some people inside the intelligence community, who would simply refuse to accept the possibility that a "taco team" south of the border had outfoxed and out-maneuvered some of the most powerful men in Washington.
"I assume you are suggesting an alternative," said Kreeger, "to all this—embarrassment."
"We know each other very well, my friend. Nothing has truly changed between us. All I am asking is for understanding, for tolerance. Fernando is the best man we have. He is a man your President Butler can do business with. There is no need for further dramas."
"And you'll be here to keep an eye on President Ramírez . As Minister of Government."
"That would be his decision," said Fausto modestly. "The arrangement could only lead to closer cooperation between our services, Jim."
Kreeger gripped the arms of his chair. He said, as mildly as he could manage, "You won't get away with it."
"Get away with it? Get away with what? I did not invent the Safari Project, Jim. I did not employ Mr. Colgate and his mercenaries to terrorize civilians, including American citizens."
"What about Sanchez?" Kreeger hurled the name like a javelin.
"Sanchez." Fausto's eyes went vague. "It is a very common name. To whom do you refer? I believe there is even a book by one of your sociologists—The Children of Sanchez. Is that the Sanchez you mean?"
3
Despite his revulsion, despite his professional sympathy for a fellow chief of state, Harry Butler was relieved by the assassination of Mexico's head of state. He was confident that with the death of Paz Gallardo, the Safari Project would collapse. The opposition party was being blamed for the murder, and its populist leader, Miliano something—a heartthrob to young liberals in Harry Butler's party—was in jail. There were reports of mass arrests. If Raúl Carvajal was smart, he would jump over the border, or seek sanctuary on some tropical island, before the goon squads came after him. The Japan Scare that Admiral Enright was forever banging on about had also gone down the tubes.
President Butler could relax, and wait for the dust to settle.
And such was the policy he had determined to adopt. But then he received two phone calls.
The first was from his National Security Adviser.
"We just got word out of Mexico Station."
"I thought you said their reporting wasn't worth spit."
"For once, they may be on track. The next boss-man down in Mexico is going to be our pal Ramírez . He's a bona-fide Cuban agent. We've put together a file on him about three feet thick."
President Butler groaned. He was fed up with being asked to play God in Mexico, and he said so to Admiral Enright.
"May I say something, sir?"
"I'm listening."
"You remember that TV show on Ramírez , before he stepped down last summer?"
"Something about Mexico's Noriega, right?"
"'Right. If you sit by and let Ramírez take over the rackets, you'll be in for more flak than Bush had to face before he decided to take out Pineapple Face down in Panama. I'd like permission to go to an active phase on Operation Safety Net."
"I gotta think this over," President Butler said, alarmed at the speed with which events seemed to be moving.
"Don't take too long, sir. Ramírez has a way of offing anybody who disagrees with him. We drag our heels over this, and we'll find we've nobody left to greet us at the landing strip."
"I said I'll think about it," the President snarled.
The second call came late at night, when he had escaped the White House and the First Lady for some serious drinking down at his colonial retreat in Fauquier County. He kept changing the numbers of his personal lines, but the man he least wanted to hear from always seemed to be up to date.
"Comanche Moon," the man said when Harry Butler lifted the receiver. There were only five or six men left alive who had known Butler long enough—and well enough—to use the old signal. All of them were Texans, except this one.
The President did not speak.
"We are still in business," said the caller from Monterrey. "Did you hear me, Harry? There is a certain symmetry to what has happened. Almost like poetry. I prefer an enemy like Ramírez. A killer. He is more of a challenge. And he has many lives to answer for. There are many people in your country—in your government—who think as we do. We are on safari together, Harry. Nobody leaves until it is over. Do you hear me, Mr. President?"
"I hear you, you goddamn son of a bitch."
Harry Butler slammed down the receiver and proceeded to drink a whole fifth of scotch before he had stunned himself sufficiently to drop into bed. He dreamed of a tawny blonde who used her mouth like a milking machine. He woke with a cry that brought one of his bodyguards into the room, with his pistol out.
“Are you okay, Mr. President?"
"Yes," Butler replied after a moment to orient himself. He lied, of course—he was not all right.
It would not be seemly to ask for another drink. And how could he tell the Secret Service agent that he had roused from the dream because he had realized that the woman was servicing him inside a coffin?
4
Among the American reporters drawn to Mexico after the assassination was Gail Armstrong, who arrived there with a full-fledged production crew from her TV network. Eddie O'Brien spotted her in the lobby of the Maria Isabel, and told Kreeger she looked better without the pancake makeup she wore for the cameras.
"Why don't you ask her to dinner?" Kreeger suggested.
"Are you serious?"
"Why not? You're in the consular section, aren't you? Tell her we're concerned about a missing U.S. citizen called Rico Sanchez, who vanished the day Paz got shot."
Eddie waited for his boss to crack a smile. He didn't.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
O'Brien knew that Kreeger was frustrated. The days were slipping by, Ramírez and his advance men were buying up votes in the Congress, and still there were no leads on Sanchez. Kreeger was even thinking very seriously about leaking the fact that a lot of people wanted to talk to a former U.S. colonel named Sanchez. So far there had been no mention of Sanchez in the papers. Maybe Kreeger owed it to Joe Cicero to get the story out. Maybe that would help to flush Sanchez out of hiding, if he was still alive, or to flush out the truth, if he was not. This was not the way to do it, however.
Kreeger looked at Eddie and smiled. "Forget it. I just wanted to see how much you liked Gail Armstrong."
"I could like her enough."
Kreeger told Eddie to get over to the Station's observation post across the street from the Soviet Embassy and see who was calling on General Fomin. The bread-and-butter work of the station did not stop because Mexicans were shooting each other.
Eddie expressed mild disappointment. "I always wanted to turn an anchorwoman."
Kreeger, the professional, was not about to expose one of his best case officers to Gail Armstrong or anyone * else from the press. If a contact needed to be made, he! would handle it himself. Furthermore, it would be better if the story seemed to come from somewhere other than Mexico City. He needed to find a suitable channel.
Joel Stein gave it to him.
Along with the reporters came a crowd of visiting firemen, including two congressional delegations. Joel Stein, senior staffer for the Senate Intelligence Committee, came with one of them. Kreeger took his call, because he remembered what Stein had said to him after he had run the gauntlet Senator Pike had arranged for him at the closed hearing in Washington: "Anything I can do."
They lunched at Bellinghausen, at a table under a striped awning in the garden. Margaritas in tiny glasses: that tasted like daiquiris. Slabs of meat with little dishes: of green salsa.
Joel Stein had a pale, round face. His cheeks puffed out like a baby's when he dropped his chin. He had lost maybe thirty pounds since Kreeger had last seen him, but he moved like a larger man, in an envelope of fatty tis* sue. His lost dimensions were almost palpable, like an aura.
The Senate staffer wanted to know if Ramírez was going to become President, and if he was as bad as everyone said.
"He's dirty," Kreeger conceded.
"This thing with the Cubans, is it for real, or is it hype from the NSC?"
"What have you heard?"
Stein told him of a confidential briefing. Admiral Enright and a battery of experts. Maps and pointers. Electronic aids. Further proof that Ramírez for decades had been a friend and crony—some said even a business partner—of Fidel Castro and his bagmen. Plus there were new charges about drug connections.
"Some of it's true," Kreeger commented. "The Cuban thing, with Ramírez , goes pretty deep."
"Jonah Pike is riding his hobby horse again. He says the Agency's been protecting Ramírez and Fausto García the way it protected Noriega."
Kreeger complained that the Panama episode seemed to be burned into Washington's collective psyche. "Panama was a disaster. We had quiet options. We forgot how to use them."
"You're missing the point, Jim."
"Which is?"
"Noriega was, in some measure, the Agency's creation. Its Frankenstein monster. Have we done the same thing here?"
"Noriega never had a decent case handler."
"I'm talking about the shit and you're talking about the toilet paper."
Kreeger did not laugh, but he did not protest either. Stein's crack ran too close to questions that had been haunting him since Joe Cicero died. Quéstions about his relationship with Fausto.
"So how do we block Ramírez ?" Stein demanded.
"You know enough about the real world to understand that Uncle Sam does not make and break Mexican Presidents."
"I also understand that the fate of this country is in the hands of the United States."
"Now you sound like Admiral Enright."
"It's a direct quote. You know, I believe they really could send in the Eighty-second Airborne."
"The President isn't crazy. He won't let it happen."
"I'm not so sure."
"On what pretext?"
"American lives at risk. A felon in power. The damnedest thing is, I believe that in its present mood, Congress would back an invasion. It worked like a charm in Kuwait, to begin with, anyway. And Enright was pretty convincing on the Hill. And there are a lot of angry constituents out there."
"If a U.S. combat soldier takes one step across the line, you know what we'll accomplish? We'll turn Ramírez into a popular hero. We'll isolate the United States from the whole damn hemisphere. We'll give the Soviets a propaganda victory big enough to blow up NATO—if anything's left to blow up. And we'll watch the Eighty-second Airborne fly home in body bags."
"So what do we do?"
"We get smart. We look for quiet options."
Kreeger ordered a beer. Joel Stein stuck to the high-octane margaritas, so different from the Tex-Mex version.
"There's something I need you to do," Kreeger told the Senate staffer. Both men relished the irony of these words, crossing the table between old adversaries. In a low voice, Kreeger recounted Joe Cicero's tale of the man fleeing from the back door of the Alhóndiga, tossing in details from his own research on Rico Sanchez and his network. He concluded by saying something that surprised him, despite his resolve: "I don't mind if this gets into the newspapers."
5
Shelley felt like a caged animal. It seemed she could not even venture down the hall to the bathroom without running into an armed man. She told Raúl she needed to get away from the ranch, from the feeling of being under siege. He begged her to be patient, just for a few days, until the situation was clarified. He, of course, never explained what that meant.
Paco Carranza was encamped in the guest-house. The man made her nervous—and curious, arriving as he had with a large collection of pigskin suitcases. Late one night she had eavesdropped on an angry conversation between Carranza and Raúl; she heard talk of money and vengeance.
Carranza traveled with large sums in cash—only natural in his business. Shelley knew Raúl was loath to acknowledge it, but Carranza was one of the biggest trans-shippers of cocaine in Mexico, something which, if publicized, would be a major embarrassment to some of Raúl's American friends.
When Raúl was out of the house, Shelley stole a look inside his office safe. He had opened it a few times in her presence, in their free-and-easy early days, and she had listened to the tumblers roll, memorizing the combination. A businesslike precaution, she told herself, nothing more.
Today she found neat packages of hundreds and fifties. She did not need the practiced eye of a bank teller to guess that there were several million dollars in the safe. Was it drug money en route to a cooperative bank across the border, to be laundered beyond recognition by electronic transfers back and forth between New York, the Bahamas, the Isle of Man? Or money to buy more guns and men and politicians? Or was it simply there in case it was needed in a hurry, perhaps for a getaway?
She heard padding footsteps in the hall. She recognized them as belonging to Rodrigo, Raúl's answer to a pit bull. She had the safe sealed up tight and was lounging with the telephone, pretending to talk to her daughter in California, when Rodrigo stuck his lean face into the room.
Shelley tolerated captive status only until Raúl announced that he was going to Houston on urgent business.
"I'm coming too," she announced.
"I'm sorry. It's not possible."
"Then I'm going away by myself. You can't keep me chained up like a pet indefinitely. Besides, I won't stay here with that pig Carranza." She made up a story about how Carranza had propositioned her, pressing his leg between her thighs when she was alone in the stables.
