Текст книги "The Cartel"

Автор книги: Don Winslow

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 42 страниц)

He looks to Carling, who nods.

“What about Aguilar?” Keller asks. “Protection for him and his family.”

“The head of SEIDO,” McDonough says, “has ample reasons to confer with his counterparts here. If for some reason he were to decide not to return to Mexico, I’m sure something could be worked out.”

“We can’t have a Mexican intelligence officer shouting accusations across the border,” Carling says, “and give him citizenship.”

“But something could be worked out, couldn’t it, Susan?” McDonough asks tiredly.

“The alternative being,” Keller says, “that I personally drive Luis Aguilar across the border from Juárez and deposit him at the front door of The Washington Post, which would be happy to run an over-the-fold story about how this administration wouldn’t lift a finger to protect an honest prosecutor and his family. And I’ll be sure to spell your names correctly.”

McDonough looks at Taylor. “You’re right—he’s an asshole.”

Taylor shrugs.

Carling says, “I’m sure none of us wants to conduct foreign policy in the media. I didn’t mean to suggest that we wouldn’t welcome Mr. Aguilar into the country, only that we would want him to be discreet.”

“Good,” the director says. “Only question remaining—do we inform our Mexican counterparts of this operation now?”

“If we launch an operation on Mexican soil,” Carling says, “against a high-ranking Mexican official without informing them—indeed, getting their permission—there’s going to be diplomatic hell to pay.”

“What?” McDonough asks. “They’re going to turn the money down?”

“Possibly,” Carling answers. “It would insult their pride and they’d think that we don’t trust them.”

“We don’t,” Taylor says.

“That is exactly the kind of attitude—”

Keller cuts her off. “If we inform them now, the operation could be compromised.”

“A risk we have to take.”

“It’s not you taking the risk,” Keller says. “It’s Palacios and Aguilar. They and their families could be killed.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?” the White House rep asks.

“No,” Keller says. “I will not—repeat, not—send Palacios in with a wire if you give prior notice to the Mexicans, much less ask their permission.”

McDonough looks at the director. “Do you run your organization or does Keller?”

“As the agent in the field,” the director says, “Keller has the best knowledge of the situation and the people involved, and I trust his judgment and discretion.”

“Send in a different agent,” Carling says.

“Palacios would never cooperate with him,” Taylor says. “Anyway, we’re arguing over nothing—the Mexicans do know. The head of SEIDO is conducting the investigation, and we are merely cooperating as good neighbors. The burden of communicating with his superiors is on him, not us. There’s your out. If the Mexicans scream, point at Aguilar and look innocent.”

The quiet in the room indicates that a compromise has been reached. McDonough looks at his watch, then to Keller, and says, “You have your marching orders—get Palacios in a room with a wire.”

“But not for three days,” the White House rep says.

Keller gets it—in three days the Mérida Initiative becomes law.

State will be happy.

The White House will be happy.

DEA will be happy.

The Mexicans will be happy.

The arms manufacturers will be happy.

Adán Barrera will be happy, because he’ll have new weapons in his war against…well…just about everybody now.

Keller stands up. “Thank you for your time.”

He leaves the room.

“When this is over,” McDonough says, “fire that guy.”

“Go fuck yourself, Ed,” the director answers.

–

Keller takes a red-eye back to Mexico City.

He’s as grateful as he is surprised by the support that Taylor and the director gave him. But I shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks—both men are true believers in what they do, both care about the safety of their people. And both are going to stick up for their organization in a bureaucratic border skirmish.

It didn’t stop them from giving him holy hell after the meeting, but now they’re fully invested in the operation, making logistical plans to bring Palacios across the border, working with Immigration on the paperwork, setting up a satellite run to photograph Vera’s presence at the meeting with Palacios.

“We’ll start a forensic analysis on Vera’s finances,” the director said.

“Justice will shit,” Keller said. It will involve hacking computers, bank accounts, money transfers, real estate records.

“Let them shit,” the director said. “I’ll run it through NSA.”

They plan to take preventative measures as well—call undercovers back in, sanitize any intelligence packages ready to go to AFI, suspend or at least slow down any operations against the Sinaloa cartel.

“Do you need more agents on the ground there?” Taylor asked Keller. “Surveillance, backup, communications?”

“Communications, maybe,” Keller answered. “Otherwise, no. I don’t want any extraordinary activity that might tip Vera off.”

“Be careful,” Taylor reminded him, dropping him off at Departures at National. “Remember, there’s that five-million bounty on your head.”

“I thought it was two million,” Keller said.

“Barrera upped it,” Taylor answered. “However much we put on him, he matches it for you. Stay in touch.”

Keller had a rare late-night scotch to help him sleep, but it didn’t do much good. He dozed a little, but was wide awake well before the plane started its descent, as they say, into Mexico City.

It feels more like home now than D.C., even though he knows that the airport cops have probably noted his coming and going for the Tapias or Nacho Esparza, depending which side they’ve taken.

Aguilar is at the airport, seeing his family off.

“I’ll be there in a week,” he tells his daughters, who look sad and a little dubious about the trip. “Maybe less.”

“Why can’t you come now?”

“I have just a little work to wrap up,” Aguilar says. “Then I’ll be there. What do you think I’ll look like in a cowboy hat?”

“Why do we have to go to a ranch?”

“It’s more of a spa,” Lucinda says. “They have hot tubs, massages, yoga—you’re going to enjoy it.”

Her tone being more of a command than a prediction, the girls stop their objections and hug their father goodbye.

“A few days,” he tells Lucinda quietly. “A week at the most.”

“Be careful.”

“Of course.” He kisses her lightly on the lips and then watches his family go through security.

Keller stands off to the side and waits. On the drive back into the city, he says, “My bosses want Palacios to wire up.”

“On Gerardo?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s risky.”

Yes, it is, Keller thinks.

–

Palacios goes ballistic.

Yells, throws things at the wall, sits down, gets up, threatens to leave.

Aguilar remains perfectly calm. “You tell Gerardo you want to meet him. You express concern for your safety and ask him what he’s doing about it.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Palacios says. “He’ll suspect.”

“The second you get him on tape incriminating himself,” Aguilar says, “we’ll arrange transport for you and your family to the United States.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Cut him loose,” Keller says to Aguilar. “Who needs him?”

“You can’t leave me hanging now!”

“Then wear the wire,” Keller says.

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you!” Keller yells. “You’ve been sitting in these rooms for three goddamn weeks, giving us as little as possible! The fucking minimum. Well, the minimum isn’t good enough! I’ll go have a beer with Vera right now and tell him we have a new CI!”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me!” Keller says. “If you don’t wear this wire you are fucking worthless to me! And you know what worthless means? It means you’re not worth a ‘Q’ visa, you’re not worth a new identity, you’re not worth the house, the car, you’re not worth another one of my fucking sandwiches!”

He rips the food out of Palacios’s hand and throws it against the wall.

“I guess we can’t expect to come back to the Four Seasons,” Aguilar says, surveying the damage.

“Two days,” Keller says, calming down. “You set up your meeting with Vera, I’ll set up your entry into the States. You wear the wire, you get us what you need, you disappear until you testify.”

“You never said anything about testifying.”

“The wire is no good without your testimony,” Keller says. What did you think—you and Vera were going to be buddies anyway after this? You were going to bang girls together like the old days? Grow up.”

Palacios agrees to wear the wire.

“Business as usual,” Keller tells him. “Do everything you normally would, nothing out of the ordinary. Call me when you’ve set the meeting up.”

The rest of the day goes by like a muddy, slow-moving river. It’s well into night when Keller gets the call.

“Tomorrow at 6:30,” Palacios says.

“Where?”

“Gerardo has a little love nest he keeps in Polanco,” Palacios says. He gives Keller the address.

“We’ll meet at five,” Keller says. “Las Alcobas. We’ll wire you up there.”

“Do you think Gabriela would go for a farewell fuck?” Palacios asks.

“I doubt it.”

There’s a lot to get done. Aguilar arranges for SEIDO surveillance outside Vera’s condo to get pictures of the AFI chief coming and going. Then he goes to work on the exit plan—a SEIDO Learjet 25 will be standing by at the 1st Military Air Station at Mexico City International Airport. The flight plan will be filed to the 18th Military Airbase in Hermosillo, Sonora, for Aguilar to confer with SEIDO personnel there. In Hermosillo, they’ll change to an American DEA plane and fly to Biggs Army Airfield in El Paso. The DEA at EPIC will have arranged for the plane to clear American airspace and to pull into a classified hangar.

Palacios will be taken to EPIC, interviewed, and housed under heavy security at Fort Bliss.

Aguilar will join his family on vacation in Arizona and await developments. If Vera is arrested, Aguilar will return to Mexico to pursue the prosecution. If not, he’ll consider staying in the United States, where a position in a D.C. consulting firm has already been quietly arranged.

During the operation, Keller will remain in a surveillance position in a car two blocks removed from Vera’s condo, with remote audio sensor equipment allowing him to monitor the meeting.

He’ll call Taylor at EPIC as soon as Palacios exits.

Palacios will walk the two blocks from the condo, and, if he’s all clear, will get into an unmarked SEIDO vehicle and go out to the airport. If he’s not clear, he’ll walk to his own car, a late-model Cadillac, and his driver and bodyguard will take him.

That’s all if Palacios gets what they need on tape.

If he doesn’t, he’ll simply go home and set up another meet with Vera to try again.

–

The day, which promises to be endless, begins with Keller having a late breakfast.

With Gerardo Vera.

It’s part of the plan, to make Vera think that everything is as normal, keep him at ease. So Keller, feeling sleazy, sits with him at a sidewalk café out in Coyoacán. Keller is too edgy to be hungry, but he makes himself eat a large plate of pollo machaca. Vera goes for eggs Benedict and a Bloody Mary. He leans back in his chair, smiles at Keller, and says, “Big night tonight.”

Keller feels his stomach tighten. Does Gerardo know something? Is he probing? “Yeah?”

“This woman,” Vera says. “A famous beauty I’ve been seeing. Tonight I think I’m going to, as you say in the States, ‘close the deal.’ ”

“How famous?” Keller asks.

“A gentleman doesn’t name names,” Vera says. He grins and adds, “Quite famous, really. For her beauty and her…sexuality.”

He’s boyishly pleased. Keller feels almost guilty, aware of the old adage that every successful operation ends in a betrayal. And he does feel guilty, irrationally, looking across the table at the broad, smiling face of a man who’s thwarted every effort to get Barrera, who has taken tens of millions in cañonazos, a matón—a bully who held a young girl while his partner gouged out her eyes.

What the fuck do you feel guilty for? he asks himself.

“What about you?” Vera asks.

“What about me?”

“You have a woman?”

Keller shakes his head.

“You did, though, didn’t you?” Vera asks. “She was a doctor or something, right?”

Is that a threat? Keller wonders.

“How do you know about that?” he asks, keeping his voice level.

“It’s my business,” Vera answers, “to know about everything. No offense, Arturo, nothing personal.”

“Anyway, it’s over.”

“She left the city, as I recall.”

He knows where Marisol is, Keller thinks. And it is a threat. Keller has an impulse—deep, atavistic—to just stand up and shoot him in that broad forehead right now.

“It was you, right?” Vera’s asking now.

“Me who what?”

“You who told the Tapias about the Salvador Barrera deal,” Vera says casually. “I know it wasn’t me, and Luis is incapable of that sort of manipulation. So that leaves you.”

Keller doesn’t answer.

“No, congratulations,” Vera says. “If you’re going after Barrera, it was the perfect move. Split his organization in half, make people pick sides…Well done, mi amigo.”

What’s he doing? Keller wonders. Where’s he trying to go with this? Is he threatening, testing, checking out the water? Shit, maybe he wants to come in, make a deal.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keller says.

“Of course you don’t,” Vera says, still smiling. His lifts a finger to get the waiter’s attention and then points at his empty glass. “Where are they?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“The Tapias,” Vera says. “If you’re in touch with them, if you know where they are, now is the time to tell me.”

He’s working me the way you work an informant, Keller thinks. Shit, he’s working me the way I work an informant. “I’m not in touch with them and I don’t know where they are.”

The waiter sets down a fresh Bloody Mary. Vera ignores it and says, “I think it’s time for you to go home, Arturo. I think it’s time for you to leave Mexico and go home.”

Keller shakes his head. “Not until I get Barrera.”

The smile comes off Vera’s face and he says very seriously, “That is never going to happen. Listen to me, Arturo—that is never going to happen.”

Jesus Christ, Keller thinks, he’s doing everything but telling me that he’s on Barrera’s payroll.

Why?

Vera reaches out and lays his hand on top of Keller’s. In another culture it would be interpreted as a homosexual gesture. Here it’s a mark of strong friendship between two men.

“I respect you,” Vera says. “I admire you. But you are never going to bring down Barrera, and your life is in danger now. Things are on the move and I am asking you—no, I’m begging you—leave the country as soon as possible. Tonight. I’m trying to save your life, Arturo.”

And I’m trying to destroy yours, Keller thinks, the guilt coming back.

“Have a real drink with me,” Vera says. “We’ll toast to fighting the good fight. Then, if you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll have you arrested and deported. It’s for your own good.”

He orders two whiskeys and they drink to the good fight.

–

Keller goes back to the embassy and waits.

Eats a lunch that he can barely taste at his desk, leaves early, takes a walk through Parque México, and finally wanders over to the bar at Las Alcobas, where he nurses a beer before going up to Room 417.

Aguilar is already there with a Model G1416 body wire and a roll of medical tape.

Palacios is due in twenty minutes.

–

Chido Palacios sits at his usual table, sipping his usual espresso and watching women in their short summer dresses walk by.

They’re beautiful—sleek and stylish with long, tan legs fit from the gym, and he’s sorry that this is the last time he’ll have this particular pleasure, but he knows that there are sidewalk cafés in Scottsdale, and, if not there, in Paris, and that there are beautiful women everywhere.

He’s admiring a particularly stunning brunette when a man walks up to the fence, and, before the bodyguards can react, empties a .380 Cobra into his face and runs away.

The espresso spills on his lap as Palacios slumps in his chair, his dead eyes looking up at the blue sky, sightless.

–

Aguilar clicks the phone off.

“That was Vera,” he says. “Palacios is dead. They killed him.”

Things are on the move, Keller thinks.

They had started to worry when Palacios didn’t show at the hotel, didn’t answer his phone. Keller supposed that he was having second thoughts or had just decided to run on his own, but—

Gabriela didn’t show up either.

They were trying to track her down when Vera called.

“They’re already blaming the Tapias,” Aguilar says. “Same MO, same weapon.”

He gets up from the couch and carefully puts the recording equipment back in its case. “That’s it. It’s over.”

“Gabriela—”

“Was the leak,” Aguilar says.

“She’s either dead or on her way to a country with which we have no extradition arrangements. Face it, Arturo, they beat us. It’s over.”

He’s right, Keller thinks.

It is over.

For now.

“What are you going to do?” Keller asks.

“Go ride horses with my daughters,” Aguilar says. “Talk to my wife and decide what career I want next. I know it’s not this one.”

He picks up the case and walks out of the room.

–

Keller is walking down Presidente Masaryk when his phone rings.

“It wasn’t us.”

Yvette sounds urgent, almost frantic.

“Please, Arturo, meet me.”

–

Gerardo Vera opens the door of his condo to see Luis Aguilar standing there.

“How did you find me here?” Vera asks.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

–

They meet outside the Palacio de Cortés in Cuernavaca, one of the oldest structures in the Western world.

Cortés built it on the ruins of an Aztec temple.

“I thought you were out of the country,” Keller says.

“I was. Martín is. We didn’t kill Palacios.”

“I know,” Keller says. “Vera did.”

“I gave you the tape weeks ago,” Yvette says. “You haven’t done a thing with it.”

“Without Palacios, it’s worthless.”

“How can that be?” She’s agitated, scared. “They’ll never stop now. They’ll track us down and kill us.”

“If Martín wants to come in,” Keller says, “and testify, I can guarantee his safety. And yours.”

“And how many years in jail?” Yvette asks.

“A short time. Maybe none at all.”

“He’d have to testify against his brother,” Yvette says, “and he would never do that.”

“This only ends one other way, and you know that,” Keller says. “I can have you on a flight to the States tonight, Yvette. There are no charges against you there. Just tell us what we need to know and—”

“You’ll extradite me back to Mexico,” Yvette says. “I’m not going to Puente Grande, Arturo. I hoped you would help us.”

“I’m trying.”

She smiles bitterly. “They always win, don’t they?”

“Who?”

“The polo crowd.”

“They usually do.”

“Laura Amaro doesn’t know me anymore,” Yvette says. “None of them do. We thought we were them. We’re not, and they’ll never let us be.”

“Bring Martín in.”

Yvette stares at him. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You split Adán’s organization in half so you can destroy it one piece at a time. And you don’t care how many people get hurt, how many people get killed, as long as you get Adán. God save us from men of integrity.”

She walks away.

–

His phone rings.

“I have it.”

It’s Aguilar.

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Aguilar’s voice is tight and excited. “I have tape of Gerardo incriminating himself.”

“Luis, what did you do? What did you do?”

“Where are you?”

“Cuernavaca, headed back.”

“Come to the airport. Hurry.”

“Luis, what did you do?!”

“Just come. We can’t wait long.”

“Luis, go. Don’t wait for me. Just go.”

–

Keller drives 95 North back toward Mexico City.

The route takes him through El Tepozteco National Park, a winding road across the mountain, past lakes and meadows, now metallic in the moonlight.

What did you do, Luis? Keller asks himself. Then it hits him—Aguilar left the hotel room, miked himself up, and made the meeting with Vera himself. He must have solicited him, Vera agreed, and Aguilar got it on tape.

And he can testify to its authenticity.

But Vera is too smart to fall for that. He would have placated Aguilar to buy himself time to act.

But he’ll act.

Headlights flash in his rearview mirror and Keller sees a car coming up behind him.

Fast.

The car starts tailgating him, dangerous on this winding road. Then it flashes its lights—it wants to pass.

“Hold on a second,” Keller mumbles.

He finds a place to pull over and the car roars around him.

“Asshole,” Keller says.

But then the car gets directly in front of him and slows down. At first Keller thinks the driver is just trying to teach him a lesson, get back at him, but then another pair of headlights appears behind him.

It comes up fast and then gets right on his bumper.

They have him boxed in.

Keller tries to pass the front car, but it slides out into the oncoming lane and blocks him and then the little parade races through a chicane, with steep slopes on either side, which opens onto a straightaway.

The car in front slows down.

The car in back—a Jeep Wrangler—pulls into the passing lane and comes even with Keller. He throws himself down on the seat as the muzzle flashes crackle red and bullets shatter his window.

Keller cranks the wheel to the left and hits the Wrangler, which flies off the road and crashes into the opposite slope.

The car in front slides sideways, stops, and blocks the road.

The natural instinct is to hit the brakes, but the natural instinct is only going to get him killed. He can already see the gun barrels pointed at him.

Keller hits the gas.

He aims straight for the driver’s door.

The crash is horrific.

Keller’s face slams into the airbag and his neck snaps back.

Dizzy, he reaches into the console and grabs his Sig Sauer. His right arm is weak, tingling, and he can barely grip the handle. With his left hand, he unhooks his seat belt and then pushes the door handle down.

To his relief, the door opens and he gets out.

Blood gushes out of his broken nose.

He can see that the driver of the other car is dead, his neck snapped. The passenger is getting out on his side. Seeing Keller, he rests the barrel of his shotgun on the roof of the smoking car and aims.

Shouldn’t have taken the time.

Keller pops him twice in the head.

Then he staggers back to his car. His legs feel like water beneath him and he realizes that he’s bleeding.

He collapses on the hood.

–

Aguilar clicks off the phone.

Keller didn’t answer.

Where are you, Keller?

The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. “Sir? We’re cleared for takeoff. We only have a short window.”

Aguilar wants to tell him to wait. Hopefully, Keller will be there any moment. But the material he has in his case is too valuable to risk, and Vera could be on his way already.

“Go ahead,” Aguilar says, settling back into a thickly upholstered seat.

It feels odd, being alone in the cabin, which can hold ten passengers. He watches out the window as the plane taxis, then picks up speed and takes off. Looking down at the lights of the massive Mexico City metropolis, Aguilar can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever come home again.

–

Adán looks at his watch.

He hasn’t received the phone call he was expecting, the call to tell him that he would shortly have a body to view. There was a small risk entailed in coming to Mexico City, more from Tapias’s sicarios than from the police—but it’s worth it if he can look down at Keller’s corpse.

Art Keller.

Holier-than-thou.

Mr. Clean.

Incorruptible.

You have to hand it to him, Adán thinks as he looks across the coffee table at Magda. He almost had me, he almost drove straight through the gap in my defenses, a gap that it’s taken great effort to close up.

But it’s almost closed.

Chido Palacios, the last of the Izta Mafia, is dead, the news all over the television, which is already blaming Diego Tapia.

The rest will be taken care of soon.

And Keller, by this time, should be in hell.

He glances at his watch again and Magda notices. Then again, she notices everything, something he admires about her. She’s been a wonderful partner, maintaining relationships with the Colombians, assuring a smooth flow of cocaine, becoming wealthy and secure on her own.

“What?” Magda asks, seeing him look at her.

“Nothing.”

Other than her, Adán really has no friends.

Nacho is an adviser, but also a father-in-law and a partner as well as a potential rival. Adán isn’t afraid that Nacho would try to kill his own son-in-law, but Nacho definitely has his own agenda.

Adán can’t relax with him, ever really let his guard down.

Only with Magda can he do that, and the truth is now that he’d rather talk to her than fuck her, not that he can’t do both. He used to scoff at the old cliché about “the loneliness of command.” He doesn’t scoff now—he feels its truth. No one who doesn’t have to make the decisions that he has to make can understand.

To order the deaths of scores of people.

The fight for Juárez has been far bloodier than he expected.

Vicente Fuentes is just a figurehead—hiding in his lairs, maybe even in Texas—but La Línea has fought hard and so has La Azteca. The Juarenses are ferociously protective of their turf.

Then there’s the war with Diego.

A war that’s your own fault, a situation that you brutally mishandled, almost fumbling the entire protective machinery into Keller’s hands. But how could you have known that Martín Tapia taped his meetings with the Izta Mafia? How could you have known that Keller was working with the Tapias, maybe literally in bed with Yvette?

Stop giving yourself excuses—you should have known. It’s your business to know.

You woke up—hopefully—just in time.

He looks at his watch again.

So much killing on both sides, so unnecessary. And exactly what he didn’t need just as he was about to launch his campaign in Juárez. A needless distraction that saps resources away from the real battle. He has the resources to fight simultaneous wars against the Fuenteses, the Tapias, and the CDG with their Zeta mercenaries, but it stretches him thinner than he wants.

And he has bigger plans for Juárez, plans that go far beyond the city itself.

The Zetas are a problem.

The Zetas are going to be the problem. Of all his enemies, Heriberto Ochoa is the best of the lot—the smartest, the most ruthless, the most disciplined. He did the smart thing, siding with the Tapias. It was the right move. And he’s doing the right thing staying out of the fighting in Juárez. Adán sees his strategy—let Fuentes and me bleed each other, then make his play.

At the end of the day, Adán thinks, it’s going to come down to Ochoa and me.

Magda pours herself a glass of Moët, which he knows to have on ice for all their meetings. “You’re thinking about Keller.”

He shrugs. He’s thinking about a lot of things.

“They’ll call,” Magda reassures him. She distracts him by going over business—prices per kilo, transportation issues, personnel decisions. Their relationship, while still sexual, has been more that of friends and colleagues recently. He’s come more and more to rely on her advice, and she has new ideas to grow the business.

As for other men, Magda’s had a few lovers, but fewer than anyone, herself included, might have expected. While a few men find her wealth and power an aphrodisiac, a surprising number find it quite the opposite, and she doesn’t relish another night of coddling, as it were, another limp dick and assuring its owner that “it’s all right, it’s nice just to be close.”

It isn’t.

And she’s not ready to go in the other direction, to the pretty younger men—boys, really—who see her as a source of cash and gifts, holidays and expensive meals. They’re more than eager and able, and she has indulged once or twice, but she knows that her ego is far too healthy to accept the role of “cougar.”

Nor, she thinks, am I a “MILF,” lacking the “M” for “mother,” and she’s surprised that this is a source of increasing sadness. She wouldn’t have expected that and supposes it’s just some sort of biological thing, but she finds herself thinking about it, knowing that she’s approaching the now-or-never moment, and she’s increasingly pessimistic about meeting the right man to father her child.

For one thing, there’s so little time in her busy days.

“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Adán asks Magda.

“He’ll come.” Magda smiles serenely. “I told him it was business, but he probably thinks it’s more.”

Doubtless he does, Adán thinks, knowing his man.

It’s good to know a man’s strengths.

Better to know his weaknesses.

The volume on the television picks up, the shrill tone of breaking news, and both Adán and Magda turn to the screen.

A Learjet 25, on fire as it plummeted from the sky, crashed into the busy financial district of Las Lomas at the corner of Paseo de la Reforma and Anillo Periférico, barely a kilometer from Los Pinos. It smashed into an office building, killing six people as well as the pilot, copilot, and the sole passenger on board.

Adán takes no joy in it.

From all accounts, Luis Aguilar was a decent man.

With a wife and children.

He hears voices downstairs as the guards stop someone, then start to walk him up to the second-floor apartment.

“I told you,” Magda says.

The guard lets Gerardo Vera in.

He smiles at Magda, then his look turns to fear as he sees Adán sitting in the wingback chair.

“I didn’t expect—”

“No,” Adán says pleasantly. “You expected to have an assignation with my woman without my presence.”

“It was a business meeting.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Adán says, shaking his head. “It’s not why I wanted to see you. Palacios is dead, Aguilar is dead, Keller should be dead by now.”

“Then we’re in the clear,” Vera says.

“Not quite.”

Vera looks puzzled at first, and then Adán sees the comprehension come across his face. “You let things get out of hand, Gerardo. You’re compromised now.”

“I see.” Vera looks at the bottle of champagne. “May I?”

He pours himself a glass and then takes a long swallow. “It’s good. Very good. I won’t beg for my life.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“You know I have men just outside.”

“Actually, they just left.”

“We’ve come a long way, you and me,” Vera says. “You were a little shit selling blue jeans off the back of a truck in Tijuana, I was a cop walking a beat in a slum. We’ve done all right for ourselves.”

“We have.”

“So why stop now?”

“You just had your oldest friend killed,” Adán says, “and colluded in the death of your closest colleague. To be perfectly honest with you, Gerardo, I just can’t trust you.”

Magda stands up.

“Indulge me in one thing?” Vera asks. He leans over and puts his face close to her neck. “That’s a lovely scent. Men debate about the prettiest part of a woman. I say it’s the neck. Where it curves into the shoulder. Right here. Thank you.”