Mexico Way, page 32
"I am trying to establish a certain perspective. So we can discuss the Mexican problem within the correct focus."
"You mentioned service interests."
"You are pressing me a little. Very well, I accept. Let me come at it a different way. Mexico is a sympathetic environment for both our services. Do you agree?"
"It may be more sympathetic to you than to us."
"You are jesting, of course."
"If you say so."
"From our perspective, it would be most regrettable if the status quo in Mexico were disrupted."
Indeed, Kreeger thought. Mexico was the Soviets' favorite operating center, second only—if at all—to the United Nations. For that matter, if the Soviet Disunion vanished off the map, Mexico would continue to be the main espionage base for anyone who wanted to steal American secrets.
"We are well aware," Fomin said, "that there are powerful interests in Washington, and in Houston, who wish to change the rules of the game in Mexico. If they succeed, they may draw the United States into an irresponsible course of action that would profoundly damage our interests and, if I may say so, yours as well. Mexico, in this hemisphere, is like Vienna. Or Geneva. A neutral zone. It is our common interest, as professionals, to keep it this way."
"I assume you are about to make a proposition."
Fomin took an exaggerated time to light a cigarette, turning his shoulder to the wind. His hands were perfectly steady. He said, "I propose a friendly collaboration."
"I'm not entirely comfortable with that word."
"Then shall we say, a coordination of effort. You know, we still have some influence with the left in Mexico."
"You're talking about Miliano's movement."
"Not with Miliano Rojas. But there are other leaders. We can help to restrain certain elements on the left, to maintain a temperate government in Mexico."
"A temperate government under Fernando Ramírez ."
Fomin looked at him. "Ramírez will become President. It is not our doing. And Ramírez is not our property."
"Maybe you should talk to your Cuban friends."
"I would not call them such good friends. When history accelerates, there are people who cannot keep up. They become anachronisms."
Kreeger said, "Talk to me about Fernando."
They sat side by side on a stone bench. A eucalyptus tree threw a lattice of sun and shadow over the flagstones. The Russian spoke of his posting to New York, many years before. He had targeted a high-living Mexican diplomat called Ramírez , a man who had collected more unpaid parking tickets than anyone outside the Nigerian delegation. Fomin had asked his chief for a hunting license. The request was sent up to Moscow Center, and the reply had come back promptly: Hands off Ramírez . He belongs to los pur os, which in this context was a reference to Havana cigars rather than moral virtue.
Fomin talked of other encounters. Of a private party at a luxury villa, on Varadero Beach, near Havana, where the seafront was closed to ordinary swimmers and sun-bathers. Fidel and his brother Raúl had both been there. And Ramírez .
Fomin shook a cigarette from the pack and tapped the end against the back of his hand. He said, "But you know all this."
Kreeger said, "Where does this leave us?"
"I give you Ramírez . At least, the key to Ramírez ."
"Which is?"
"Ramírez had a father."
"I'm happy for him."
"Forgive me. Sometimes my English slips."
"I haven't noticed that yet."
"The father of Fernando Ramírez was born in the United States. In south Texas. I believe you are familiar with this region." Fomin paused. "Do you know what I have given you?"
Kreeger thought back to a tedious conference with Lois, poring over the fine print of the Mexican Constitution. He tried to summon up the image of the page that contained Article 82, the one dealing with the qualifications of a candidate for the presidency. He did not capture it all, but he captured enough. Both parents of a Mexican President had to have been born on Mexican soil. The requirement reflected the fear of foreign influence—especially from the north—that was comprehensible in the only country in the world that had a museum entirely devoted to the history of its various occupations, dismemberments, and defeats.
If Ramírez Senior had been born on the wrong side of the Rio Grande—in this connection, if no other, the American side—then Fernando was automatically disqualified from seeking or holding the presidency.
Kreeger said, "How do you know this?"
"Cubans can be rather indiscreet."
"Is there proof?"
"Texas is your territory, not mine. I imagine it would be easier for you to find records than for me."
"Texas is also a helluva big place. Do you have anything more specific?"
"A name and a date. Cotulla. The year was 1922."
Kreeger had driven through Cotulla. It was a dried-up railroad town, sixty miles north of the border.
"Why have you given me this?"
"I told you already. We have service interests in common. I give you Ramírez . You call off the dogs of war in Washington. We have more interesting games to play than these buffooneries."
Kreeger left the park five minutes after Fomin, his mood compounded by elation and nervous tension. Was Fomin sending him off on a wild goose chase? If Fomin had told him the truth, could he document it? Could he find out anything in time to avert a disaster?
The questions assailed him with fixed bayonets.
He did not mind that Karla had bought herself a chunky silver necklace, studded with turquoise, though the thing felt like it weighed a couple of pounds. She showed it to him when he rejoined her at Las Mañanitas. He was fully preoccupied with the most difficult question of all—whether to take the ball Fomin had tossed him and just run with it, up to Cotulla or wherever.
If he ran with it, what did he risk? Being out of town when the balloon went up. Making a fool of himself. Giving the Admiral—and the Director—the excuse they needed to kick him out. All of the above.
On the other hand, if he could prove that Ramírez Senior was born in the United States, he would be able to answer the question that had stumped him at the dinner with Nigel Yarrow. How do you blackmail a Mexican President?
And he could give the Butler Administration a better option than shooting itself in the gut over Mexico.
A quiet but very powerful option.
5
When Kreeger awoke on Sunday, his mind was fully resolved. He would mete out the things that needed to be done at headquarters between the people who could handle them, leaving as little room as possible for Maury Atthowe to foul up. He would send Director Wagoner a request for emergency leave, for family reasons. A re-; quest of this type had never been refused, in Kreeger's experience, and no doubt the Director would be glad, in any case, to have him out of the way.
He would file a report on his meeting with Fomin in the Station registry, to be kept under wraps until he gave further instructions.
He drove into the Embassy to send the ANTARCTICA message. He enclosed a note for Dorothy with the package. In their agreed code, he told her that he expected to be in Washington during the coming week, and would need her to set up a private visit with President Butler.
He was still in the communications room when George Camacho came in, his face flushed, his tie askew.
"I tried you at home," George reported.
"What's up?"
"I think we got him."
In his preoccupation with Fomin and the possible handle on Ramírez , Kreeger was momentarily at a loss.
"Sanchez," his liaison officer prodded him.
"Let's have it."
George Camacho gave it to him in a few terse sentences. He had suspected that Salazar had been stalling him, trying to puff the money. So George had resorted to a squeeze maneuver, making it clear to the SIN agent that unless he produced the goods, and quickly, there were ways of letting Fausto García know about his private dealings with the CIA. Salazar had become notably more efficient. Specifically, he had gleaned from his sister the information that her husband Abelardo was holed up in Matehuala, at a safe house. The sister was evidently a formidable woman; Abelardo had phoned to reassure her he was not with a mistress.
"I figure that Sanchez must be there." George concluded.
They studied a road map. Matehuala was several hundred miles north, on Highway 57, which ran all the way to Eagle Pass and, eventually, to San Antonio. Kreeger had once sped through the town with El Loco Quintero, en route to the hostage swap that had freed Donna Renwick. It was also on Kreeger's way home, if he decided to drive up to Texas instead of taking a plane. And he had already put in his request for a leave of absence.
"It never rains—" Kreeger began.
Camacho waited in vain for the rest.
Kreeger rapped out instructions. "Get some wheels. Get Salazar. We'll need him. Get him to bring some of those license plates Fausto's people use. We'll need some firepower."
George Camacho was grinning from ear to ear. He had joined the Agency for the action, before it went out of style. He had just been given his second youth.
TWENTY-FIVE
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1
Fifteen miles north of the Tropic of Cancer, Rico Sanchez slept with his ghosts, and with two flat-faced brown women provided by SIN. He did not ask the names of the women. He knew the names of his ghosts.
Sanchez was lodged in a four-room stucco house that turned its back on a dirt road. It was a typical SIN safe house, mostly used for drinking binges and shacking I up with whores. It was tended by taciturn Indian maids who asked no questions. Sanchez had been there since he shot President Paz, his constant companions men from the security detail that Fausto had selected for the President. They barbecued steaks over a bottled gas burner in the yard, emptied cases of beer and tequila and cheap Don Pedro brandy, and played the TV, day and night. One of the men was called Abelardo. The nail of the little finger on his left hand protruded an inch from the tip, lending him a slightly effeminate air. That fingernail told Sanchez a great deal about Abelardo. It told him that the man came from a poor family that had never risen above manual labor, or worse. Now he wore his fingernail as long as a Chinese tart to prove to the world that he had climbed above his own people, and would never sink back. Sanchez understood. He knew what it meant to be poor. He had seen his father, a Mexican refugee from the time of the civil war, used up in the cotton mills outside Corpus. He remembered the evenings when his family had sat down to rice without beans, or a meager fistful of tortillas.
One of the girls in bed with Sanchez fingered his Rolex. He felt it slipping down his wrist, and slapped her hand away. Then, on reflection, he pushed both the women out of bed, watching with rapidly increased interest as their buttocks jiggled when they reached for their clothes. Without preliminaries, he mounted one of them from behind, pushing her down on all fours, forcing her sphincter with hard, brutal strokes. She cried out in pain, but not as loudly as Sanchez when he came inside her. He felt as if molten lead was shooting through his urethra. It had been this way since he had picked up a low-grade venereal disease, resistant to penicillin. Because the pain was excruciating, it should have reduced his sexual appetite; instead, it seemed to have the reverse effect. Perhaps to compensate, Sanchez generally managed to ensure that he meted out as much pain as he experienced.
When he finally kicked the women out of the room, Sanchez drew back a corner of the heavy drapes, and stuck a finger between the slats of the Venetian blinds underneath. It was full daylight. How long had he been there? Ten days? Twelve? He had lost count.
There were bars on the outside of the windows, confirming what Sanchez had known since Fausto's men had brought him up here: He was a prisoner. He had been a fool to let them take his gun away, though any ballistics expert could prove that it had fired the shot that entered the President's brain. He looked at his callused hands, hard-grained as wood. These, too, were killing tools. If necessary, he would use them. The men watching TV outside his room were spoiled and sloppy. They would never be his match. He had been places none of them had dreamed. He had been tempered by fire. He carried the strength of the warriors he had killed, though they rebelled against him in nightmares. He had learned ancient skills in the highlands of Vietnam. He could make himself invisible. A Mexican ninja. Sanchez smiled at the phrase.
He was safe for now. He felt confident that Fausto would not abandon him, for the time being, at least. Fausto had proved this already—by killing the only witness who had seen him leave the Alhóndiga. His pact with Fausto dated back more than three years, long before Art Colgate had approached him with the Safari Project. They were two of a kind, Sanchez and Fausto; they would prosper together. Fausto had already paid him half a million dollars, held securely in a Miami bank. More had been promised.
Fausto telephoned every day, reassuring Sanchez that everything was proceeding according to plan. He inquired after Sanchez's creature comforts. He counseled patience. He affirmed his enduring friendship.
And Sanchez trusted him, though he was not a trusting man.
The choice of a safe house midway between the capital and the Texas border—and the nest of conspirators at Monterrey—suggested that Fausto had further uses for him.
If Sanchez's instinct told him to go, the men who were fondling the bought women in the outer room would not be able to stop him. He had survived the tunnels of Cu Chi. He had escaped the Vietcong. He was invisible.
2
Sanchez was shaving with a disposable razor when he heard one of the guards shout "Chinga!" and the TV set was switched off.
The shout, and the absence of the omnipresent blare from the TV, was so unusual that Sanchez rushed out of the bathroom, lather on his cheeks, to see what was going on.
The women had left. A guard was positioned by the door. Abelardo looked scared. His eyes flitted nervously from Sanchez to the darkened TV.
“Qué pasó?" Sanchez demanded. "Did you break a nail, pretty boy?"
He switched on the TV and caught the tail end of a news report on an American network.
He saw his own face, in an old black-and-white photograph. Army fatigues. Cropped hair. He had not changed very much. His hair was still black, but the skin had tightened over the bones.
The voice-over began in midsentence. "... known among GIs in Vietnam as the Headhunter. Sanchez carried out assassinations of Vietcong leaders, and is alleged to have trained right-wing Salvadoran death squads in similar methods. He is now being sought by authorities on both sides of the Mexican border in connection with the murder of President Paz."
The guard by the door opened his jacket, exposing the butt of the heavy pistol stuck in his waistband. Abelardo snatched up a pump shotgun, his hands shaking.
It dawned on Sanchez that he was no longer invisible.
The guard told him to sit down in the corner, and stationed himself next to the telephone.
They waited for the phone to ring.
3
There had still been no word from Fausto when a black LTD pulled up outside the house. Sanchez had never seen the blocky, dark-skinned man who walked into the living room, but he recognized him as immediate danger.
The guard addressed the stranger deferentially, calling him comandante. Abelardo appeared to be his relation, because the big man caught him up in a hearty abrazo.
Sanchez chose that moment to make his leap. From his squatting position, he pushed off the balls of his feet. He broke Abelardo's neck with a single, slicing blow, and grabbed for the shotgun with his free hand.
The comandante was faster than Sanchez had expected, however, and he had the advantage of weight. He i landed a hard right punch that broke Sanchez's nose, and dropped him to his knees. He jerked Sanchez's head back , by the hair and drove thick fingers into his throat on I either side of the windpipe, cutting off his air. Breathing hard, he swung his pistol by the barrel and slammed the butt down against Sanchez's skull.
When Sanchez came around, he was bound hand and foot with mean straps of rawhide that bit into his skin.
"Help me take him to the car," said the comandante.
The security man was edgy. He looked at the telephone, and muttered something about waiting for orders.
"I already have my orders," the comandante told him.
The phone rang. The comandante picked up the receiver and listened, speaking only just before hanging up. "Entendido," he said. "Understood."
He turned to the guard, saying with apparent satisfaction, "Time to feed la paloma." In the vocabulary of SIN, doves are always victims.
Sanchez was put in the trunk of the LTD, where a pair of small holes had been drilled in the metal for ventilation. He was driven for half an hour or more along smooth roads before the car made a sharp turn and bumped ' along a rutted, spine-jarring surface. Then the car wheezed to a halt. Sanchez heard the driver's door slam shut, then footsteps, diminishing to silence.
He brought his knees up to his chest and tried to force the trunk with his feet. The metal bulged outward, but the lock held.
The comandante came back and opened the trunk. He cut the cords around Sanchez's ankles and helped him out of the trunk.
Sanchez found himself in the parking lot next to a low, L-shaped building, a motel that obviously had not seen paying guests in a long time. The sign hung down at a crazy angle, letters missing. Dust swirled in front of boarded-up windows. A pair of buzzards tilted overhead.
Two men were standing next to a big American car. Neither looked Mexican, although one was Hispanic. An Argentine, maybe, or a Cuban. The other, solid and wide as a linebacker, could only be an American.
The comandante stood behind Sanchez while he tried to make out his situation. "You are going with these men," he spoke into Sanchez's ear.
"Who are they?"
"They will explain everything to you. You will explain everything to them, my friend."
