Mexico Way, page 33
Without warning, Sanchez's captor grabbed his right hand—the one with the pinkie ring—and sawed into it with a hunting knife. Sanchez squirmed violently as he was shoved flat on his face in the gravel, his wrists still bound behind his back. Through the entire ordeal, however, he did not cry out. He would never do that—not in front of these men.
"Salazar!" the American yelled. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Salazar kept sawing away. It took several slashes to completely sever the finger.
He heard the American grumbling. "Have you taken . leave of your senses, Salazar?" [
"It was Fausto García's order," said the comandante. ; "He requires proof that the job was done. He will have j it."
Jim Kreeger assisted Sanchez to his feet, and bound I
his own handkerchief around the last knuckle of Sanchez's right hand to staunch the bleeding.
"You should be grateful that Fausto did not ask for your head," Salazar said to the captive. "You are a dead man missing only a finger."
4
Kreeger drove up Route 57 all the way to Piedras Negras, stopping only once, at Monclova, for gasoline and for disinfectant and proper bandages for Rico Sanchez. There were a dozen roadblocks along the highway, manned by state and federal police and, at one point, by soldiers with armed vehicles. They saw the familiar first digits—333— of the SIN license plates on the car and waved it through.
Kreeger changed the plates at Piedras Negras. The Customs man on the U.S. side of the bridge looked at the Texas plates, and at Kreeger, and said, "Welcome home."
They took two rooms at the Alamo Hotel, on the outskirts of Eagle Pass. Kreeger drove back into town and purchased a camcorder, a VCR, and half a dozen blank video cassettes. For what he intended to do, video beat out audio every time. Besides, President Butler watched TV a lot. It was his mastery of the visual medium, after all, that had helped him win the election.
Kreeger was perfectly aware that what he was going to do was probably illegal, under the laws of the United States. The interrogation of a U.S. citizen, on U.S. soil, was not within the purview of the Central Intelligence Agency. He had given some thought to alternative options, but they were not very alluring. He could have turned Sanchez over to the Judiciales—sworn enemies of Fausto's service—or the Attorney General's office down in Mexico. But, judging by past experience, Sanchez would have disappeared without trace. Then again, he could have called in a U.S. agency with an interest in the matter. Perhaps the FBI, or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. But Sanchez was not under indictment in the United States, and time was of the essence.
Kreeger knew he was sticking his neck out, but the situation demanded decisive action. George Camacho was also putting his job on the line, and Kreeger had told him he would not forget. Beyond his connection with Comandante Salazar, George was the ideal man for the work at hand. He was a specialist in interrogation, and he knew Rico Sanchez.
As it turned out, they did not need to use any exotic techniques on Sanchez. The missing finger had accomplished more than several days of grilling.
'Til talk," said Sanchez in the motel room. "That is, when I know the deal."
"I don't have the authority to make any deals," Kreeger told him. It was the right answer. Sanchez had worked for the U.S. government long enough to know the rules.
"What I can do for you is this," Kreeger continued. "I can recommend to the higher-ups that the Agency should fit you out with a new identity, a safe haven, whatever. I can guarantee you your life, in any event. I guess you can pay your own bills."
"What's your recommendation worth?"
"It depends on how much you give. Tell you what. If you don't like the deal, we drive you back across the border and call up Fausto García. Or maybe Raúl Carvajal. Your call."
Sanchez thought it over.
George Camacho said, "I hear things rattling around in your head."
Sanchez said, "I want to relocate in Florida."
"Agreed," said Kreeger. "If I get approval. If you give me enough reason. It's doable, Rico, I promise you that. How about your family?"
"I don't need them. They don't need me."
"If you say so. Now, why don't you start by telling us about the first time you met Fausto García?"
Kreeger motioned to George, and he pressed the button of the camcorder. Naturally, it was Japanese-made.
Sanchez was a gifted storyteller, once he warmed up.
"I was doing a little cross-border business," he began.
"On whose account?"
"On my own account. I got my own company."
"When was this?"
"Three or four years back, after I left the Army. I was down in Coahuila, bringing in a couple of truckloads. TVs, VCRs. Nothing major."
"You're sure it wasn't drugs?"
"I don't need that shit. I don't hold with it."
"I'm glad to hear you sometimes draw the line. Go on."
"We got picked up. By SIN, not the Judiciales. It seemed to be a routine shakedown, but there was more. Fausto García turned up in person. He said we could do a lot of business together. Fausto said he had friends who needed to make deposits in U.S. banks. Big deposits. And I happened to know a few hungry bankers in Texas and south Florida. That's how it began."
"Laundering money for Fausto and his friends. Drug money?"
"I didn't ask where it came from."
"Where does Art Colgate come in?"
"That miserable prick." Sanchez laughed. "I remember when he first came to Saigon. Colgate wanted results. Quotas, body counts. You know how it worked. Colgate wanted to go one better. There was some adviser passing through, a Brit who was also a big wheel with the Nixon White House. He told how the British had gotten results in Malaya by putting a price on the heads of CT's—Communist Terrorists. That's the way people talked back then."
"I remember."
"So Colgate put out word he wanted their heads."
"And you killed Judge Renwick the same way."
"That wasn't my bag."
"You'll have to convince me."
"I don't know anything about that."
"I don't believe you." Kreeger's instinct told him that Sanchez was telling the truth, but he felt compelled to keep pushing. He owed it to his boyhood friend.
"You ought to ask Colgate," Sanchez said. "We were out hunting. It was the night he signed me on for this stunt. He said something about having a man killed, the way we used to do it for the Station in Nam."
The interview lasted more than six hours. By the end of it, Kreeger had proof that the Safari plotters had orchestrated the murder of U.S. citizens in Mexico, and that they had been able to co-opt key members of the Butler Administration. He also had proof that Fausto García had planted a mole—a mole who, by his own confession, had assassinated President Paz.
"You're going to look after me, right?" Sanchez demanded.
"I ought to bury you." Kreeger stared at the man with disgust. He still had one last question, a personal one. "Let's go back to Saigon. There was a woman at the Station. Blonde, quite attractive. Her name was Val. You must have run into her."
"No."
Sanchez's eyes clouded. For the first time in the conversation, Kreeger was quite sure he was lying.
Sanchez confirmed it when he added, "Ask Colgate. She was his fucking wife."
5
“Say the word"—George Camacho was talking; they had fed Sanchez enough sleeping pills to make sure he was out for a few hours. "I'll make the adjustment."
Kreeger hated that euphemism for killing; it smacked of Colgate.
"I promised I'd do my best to get him a deal." said Kreeger. “I generally keep my word."
"There are times I don't understand you at all," Camacho complained. "We've got the videotapes. What more can he give us? None of this is going to hold up in a U.S. court of law. You want the son of a bitch to retire in the Florida sun after all he's done?"
"No. But I want Art Colgate. And before I'm done, Sanchez is going to help me."
TWENTY-SIX
□ □ □
1
As expected, Fernando Ramírez was sworn in as Mexico's interim President. Protest rallies were dispersed by riot police and troops firing live bullets. The U.S. Secretary of State recalled Ambassador Childs for consultations, setting off rumors around the Embassy that he would not be coming back. There were scare reports in the Mexican press that U.S. military maneuvers being conducted in the deserts of New Mexico were camouflage for a projected invasion. In the U.S. Congress, Senator Pike called openly for a "surgical strike" to oust Ramírez and bring him to the United States for trial. After an attack on the U.S. consul in Guadalajara, Embassy staff were advised to send their families home on the earliest available flights.
The Washington Post came out with a front-page story on covert U.S. operations against Mexico, allegedly run from General Gilly's office at the Pentagon. The principal source of this story was Joel Stein, who had been following up Kreeger's leads in Washington. A testy White House spokesman refused comment. Admiral Enright counseled "accelerated action."
Late that night, President Butler sat on the Truman balcony at the executive mansion, staring off in the direction of the Washington Monument, much to the dismay of the Secret Service man on duty, who pointed out that the President was making himself vulnerable to a sniper with a high-powered rifle.
Actually, Harry Butler felt vulnerable to many things that night. In the Post report, he had read things none of his dose advisers on Mexico had told him. The men he had covered for in Houston and Monterrey were playing a rougher game than he had expected, and details were beginning to spill out. These were the same men—with independent support from Bill Enright and some of the Pentagon brass—who had been pushing for U.S. intervention. Harry Butler had had doubts all along, and now they were turning into certainties.
It was the President's habit, on nights when he could not sleep, to watch movies on the VCR in his private quarters. He had asked one of the Filipino servants to bring up an old favorite, a William Holden film. When the giant, high-definition TV screen came alive, the President was startled by a scene that certainly was not in the original cut. He saw himself sitting on the edge of a circular bed. He was buck-naked. Shelley Hayes was crouched between his knees. The camera angle left nothing to the imagination.
Caught between horror and fascination, Harry Butler stared at the screen, stunned by the realization of what he saw. Suddenly aware that his wife had walked in from the bedroom, the President grabbed for the remote —almost in time. Ann Travis Butler had caught only a fading glimpse of a woman's heart-shaped buttocks as she went down on a man whose face was hidden from view.
"You dirty son of a bitch," she shouted in fury, assuming that the President had been watching a porno flick. It would not have been the first time. She turned in fury and stormed from the room.
As soon as he was alone, Harry Butler ripped the tape from inside the shell of the video cassette and threw it on the fire. When he sent for the Filipino servant who had brought up the video, he was informed that the man had left the White House before the end of the shift, complaining of stomach pains.
No verbal message had come with the tape, but
Harry Butler did not doubt for a moment that the signal had come from Raúl—a reminder that he was on the hook. Now, because of a single, stupid lapse in Aspen, when he was bone-tired and lonely, they were pushing him toward a military adventure that, in his heart, he did not want.
The President did not like to be herded, although the political resurrection of Ramírez had made confrontation with Mexico almost unavoidable. In Florida, a belligerent Federal attorney was again urging the case for Ramírez 's indictment before a sympathetic grand jury. Harry Butler did not know where to turn.
2
At the CIA Station in Mexico City, Maury Atthowe, who despite Kreeger's efforts to minimize his role, had assumed the position of acting chief, seemed to be enjoying the crisis. He went about with an I-know-something-you-don't smirk on his face. He took personal calls from Washington. He made time for tennis with the Army and Navy attaches. He read files. He demanded to see Cl material that belonged to Lois Compton.
"You're not cleared for that," Lois told him.
"I can get any clearance I want. I can go to the Director on this."
"Then go. I'll need a written directive, and if you get one, I'm still going to fight it."
"Listen to me, Lois. I'm going to give you a word of advice. You're a damn good officer. You've earned a lot of respect. But signing on with a personality cult could bring on an early frost."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You're overcommitted to Kreeger. Jim is making a lot of mistakes. Frankly, I'd hate to see him pull you
down. You could wind up sorting papers at the Central Registry."
Lois left Atthowe's office with a drumming behind her temples.
She took Maury's threats seriously enough to know that she needed to get a warning to Jim. She was not privy to Kreeger's travel plans, although she knew he had gone to Texas. Maybe she could reach him at his parents' place, in the hill country behind Kerrville. If anyone at the Station knew how to reach him, it would be Eddie O'Brien.
She rode the elevator back down to the consular section. There were many telephone messages on her desk, mostly from scared U.S. citizens who wanted to know whether they should leave the country. One message, however, was from Shelley Hayes. She was back in town, and had left word she would wait at her hotel for Lois's call.
When Lois reached her, Shelley sounded edgy, maybe a little tight. She wanted Lois to meet her for dinner at her favorite place, Del Lago. Although it seemed to her an odd time for Raúl Carvajal's mistress to visit Mexico City, Lois agreed to meet her around nine-thirty.
Next, Lois sought out Eddie, asking him to join her for coffee. Together they strolled across the Reforma and took a booth at the VIPS restaurant on the edge of the Zona Rosa.
"Maury's an undersized prick," Eddie commented when she told him about her talk with Atthowe. "He doesn't know an operation from a hole in the ground. He only got this far by losing tennis games to the right partners."
Eddie did agree, however, that they needed to talk with Kreeger. "Jim called me at home this morning. He said he'll be at his parents' place tonight. Why don't we have dinner and make it a conference call?"
"Sorry. I've got a date."
"Who's the lucky guy?"
"Not that kind of date." It struck her that it might be useful to have Eddie around. He had a way with the ladies, and he was non threatening.
Lois proposed to Eddie that he show up at Del Lago. He could have a drink at the bar. If Shelley seemed in the right mood, they could bump into Eddie, as if by chance, and make it a threesome.
Eddie asked, "What's she really like?"
"She's not exactly your girl-next-door type. I doubt you'll find you have much in common."
"You'd be surprised. I've lived in some fairly exotic neighborhoods."
3
When Lois walked into Del Lago, the band was in full swing. Several couples were dancing to an old Roberto Carlos number. She found Shelley at their regular table, by the window, sipping a vodka martini.
Shelley got up and embraced her, swaying a little. "Before we talk—hell, before we eat—I want to see you down at least two of these." She held up her martini glass. "I don't like drinking alone."
Lois held up two fingers to the waiter. "But make them manhattans."
Shelley watched Lois drain the first of the manhattans before she spoke: "I want you to tell me the worst thing a man ever did to you."
"Well, after I broke up with my husband, there was this guy I met in L.A. He was a fitness freak. You know, weight lifting, gyms. He had these violent mood swings. Steroids, I guess. One time he started slapping me around."
"Bastard. What did you do?"
"I gave him this." Lois held up her clenched fist. "I come from a pretty tough neighborhood. Czechs on one block, Slovaks on the next. I generally know how to take care of myself."
"Good for you. How about the man?"
"I dislocated his jaw. The asshole sent me the hospital bill, if you can believe it."
"How about your father?"
"He was a decent man. Worked himself to death for his kids, I guess."
"Did you ever go with an older man?"
"How much older?"
"Old enough to be your father."
"I had a crush on one of my law professors. What are we doing here? Group therapy?"
"I've always gravitated to older men. I suppose it's my insecurity. I never seem to have time for men my own age."
"I don't see that age has much to do with it."
"Tell it to them." Shelley's eyes swept the candle-lit dining room. A number of well-heeled older men were sitting with women half their age. "Look at them! Those vampires! They imagine that young blood will give them back their youth! Doesn't it disgust you?"
"Actually, I think it's sort of funny. By the time a woman reaches her prime, a man is coasting downhill. Or should I say, pointing downhill? Mature women deserve younger lovers. We have so much more to teach them!"
They clinked glasses, and Shelley said, "Thank you for that."
"You never married?" Lois asked, after a pause.
"I was married for two years. To a homosexual. A friend. It was his suggestion. He thought my daughter should have a father's name on her birth certificate. Who knows? Maybe he wanted cover at that point in his life. He died a couple of years ago. One of life's victims."
"And the real father?"
"Not somebody I want to talk about." Shelley replied, looking away, out through the window.
Lois wondered how many tragedies there were in this woman's life, lurking behind the surface glamour. "You never wanted a real marriage?"
"No. I suppose I never trusted a man that far. Except once. And he was already married, of course."
