The Cartel (14 page)

The car comes to a stop in front of the house while other vehicles circle it like Indians in a bad western and then form a circle. The AFI troopers in their dark blue uniforms and baseball caps spill from the cars with American-made AR-15s and .45 pistols, bulletproof vests and heavy back combat boots.

With Vera in the lead, they storm the house.

Keller jumps out of the car and trots toward the back door. Aguilar keeps up with him, looking awkward with a .38 in his hand. Keller goes through the door, his Sig Sauer out in front of him.

It’s the kitchen, and a terrified cook raises his hands over his head.

“Where is Adán Barrera?!” Keller shouts. “Where is the
señor
?!”

“No sé.”

“But he was here, wasn’t he?” Keller presses. “When did he leave?”

“No sé.”

“Was a woman with him?” Aguilar asks.

“No sé.”

“What was her name,
‘no sé’
?” Vera walks in, pulls his pistol, and jams it against the cook’s cheek. “Do you know now?”

“He’s terrified,” Aguilar says. “Leave him alone.”

“I’ll put you and your whole family in jail,” Vera growls at the cook as he pushes him away.

“There is no criminal statute that I’m aware of that prohibits making black bean soup,” Aguilar says, looking at the stove. “What do you think—that Barrera told his cook where he was going?”

Keller goes through the house.

The bedrooms, the bathrooms, the sitting room, anywhere. He looks under beds, in closets. In one bedroom he thinks he smells the scent of expensive perfume. The AFI troopers rip up bathtubs and floor tiles, looking for tunnels.

There isn’t one.

They sweep the house for cell phones and computers and find nothing. Walking back to the vehicles, Aguilar mutters to Keller, “I told you so.”

As they drive back through the village, Keller sees that the troopers are going through each house, tossing the people out into the road, smashing windows and furniture.

He gets out of the car.

“I’ll burn this shithole to the ground!” Vera yells, his face flushed with fury.

The same mistakes, Keller thinks. Vietnam in the ’60s, Sinaloa in the ’70s, we make the same dumbass mistakes. No wonder these people shelter the narcos—Barrera builds schools and we wreck houses.

The troopers are lining people up against the stone wall of the little cemetery, dishing out slaps and kicks as they interrogate the villagers and demand to know where El Señor is.

Keller walks up to Vera. “Don’t do this.”

“Mind your own business.”

“This
is
my business.”

“They know where he is!”

“They know where he
was,
” Keller says softly. “This will do more harm than good.”

“They need to be taught a lesson.”

“Wrong lesson, Gerardo.” Keller walks over to the line of people, who look terrified and resentful, and asks, “Where is the family of Juan Cabray!?”

He sees a woman put her arms around her children and turn her face away. It has to be Cabray’s wife and kids. An elderly woman standing next to them looks down. He walks up to her, takes her by the elbow, and walks her away from the group. “Show me his grave, señora.”

The woman walks him to a new headstone of handsome granite, much better than a campesino could afford.

Juan Cabray’s name is carved into the stone.

“It’s beautiful,” Keller says. “It honors your son.”

The old woman says nothing.

“If El Señor was here,” Keller says, “shake your head.”

She stares at him for a moment and then shakes her head violently, as if refusing to answer.

“Last night?” Keller asks.

She shakes her head again.

“Do you know where he went?”

“No sé.”

“I’m going to handle you a little roughly,” Keller says. “I apologize but I know you understand.”

He takes her elbow, shoves her away from the grave and back to her family. The villagers lined up against the wall avoid his look. Keller walks back to Vera and Aguilar, who is arguing with his colleague to “stop this fruitless and illegal barbarity.”

“He was here last night,” Keller says. “You know that if you burn this village, every campesino in the Triangle will know about it within twenty-four hours and we’ll never get their cooperation.”

Vera stares at him for a long moment then snaps an order for his troopers to stand down.

Barrera slipped out of this one, Keller thinks. But at least they have a hot trail, and now Vera turns his energies to directing the hunt and ordering resources. Army patrols go out, local and state police, helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft go up, covering the roads.

But Keller knows that they aren’t going to find him. Not in the mountains of Durango, with its heavy brush, impassable roads, and hundreds of little villages that owe more loyalty to the local narcos than to a government far removed in Mexico City.

And Barrera owns the local and state police. They aren’t hunting him, they’re
guarding
him.

As they drive away from the village, Aguilar says, “Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“What you’re thinking—that Barrera was tipped off.”

“I guess I don’t have to.”

“For all you know,” Aguilar snaps, “it could have been someone from DEA.”

“Could have been.”

But it wasn’t, Keller thinks.

—

Adán got out just before they came.

He was at the house in Los Elijos when Diego sent word that the AFI was on the way. Now he’s tucked away in a new safe house across the state line in Sinaloa.

“Someone tipped them off,” Adán asks Diego. “Was it Nacho?”

Maybe he decided to turn the tables, cut a deal of his own.

“I don’t think so,” Diego says. “I can’t imagine it.”

“Then who was it?” Adán asks.

“I’m not sure it was anyone,” Diego says. “Listen, the government has brought someone in.”

“Who?”

Adán can’t believe the answer.

“Keller,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Diego says.

“In Mexico.”

Diego shrugs an assent.

“In what capacity?!” Adán asks, incredulous.

“There’s something called the ‘Barrera Coordinating Committee,’ ” Diego says, “and Keller is the North American adviser.”

It makes sense, Adán thinks. If you’re going to trap a jaguar, get the man who’s trapped a jaguar before. Still, the nerve of that man is outrageous, to come down to Mexico and stick his head in, as it were, the jaguar’s mouth.

And just like him.

Keller had once risked his own life saving Adán’s. It was back before Adán was even in the trade, but was caught up in an army sweep of the Sinaloa poppy fields. They beat the shit out of him, poured gasoline up his nose until he thought he was going to drown, then threatened to throw him out of a helicopter.

Keller stopped them.

That was a long time ago.

A lot of blood under the bridge since then.

“Kill him,” Adán says.

Diego nods.

“You can’t,” Magda says.

Those aren’t words Adán is used to hearing, and he turns around and asks, “Why not?”

“Isn’t there enough pressure on you already?”

Truly, the pressure has been as heavy as it was unexpected. After taking off from the prison, the helicopter flew just a few miles and dropped them off in a small village. They rested for a few hours, then left in a convoy. They’d been gone for just an hour when the army and police pulled in and burned every house in the village as a punishment and an example.

It didn’t do any good.

The government set up a “Barrera Hotline” that got a call every thirty seconds, none of them accurate, none of them from people who had actually seen him. Half the calls were “flak,” made by Diego’s people to create hundreds of false leads that the police had to waste time chasing down.

Diego even hired three Barrera lookalikes to wander the country and provoke more false leads.

For weeks Adán moved only by night, changing safe houses as often as he changed clothes. He dressed as a priest in Jalisco and as an AFI trooper in Nayarit. All the time, the pressure was brutal. Helicopters flew over their heads, they had to skirt army checkpoints, taking back roads that were little more than ruts.

Finally Adán had the brilliant idea to go to Los Elijos, where the campesinos, far from resenting him for killing Juan Cabray, welcomed him as a benefactor who had done Cabray honor and helped their village. Adán and Magda moved into the best house in town, small but comfortable.

No one in Los Elijos or the surrounding countryside breathed a word about El Señor and his woman being there. But the hunt continued, and the government brought in Art Keller, who came within a couple of hours of capturing them.

And now Magda is objecting to having Keller killed.

“You of all people should know,” she says, “what happens when a North American agent is killed in Mexico. Be patient and all this will die down, but kill this Keller person and the North Americans will never quit—they’ll force the government to keep after you. I’m not saying ‘no,’ I’m saying ‘not now.’ ”

He has to admit that she’s speaking wisdom. That smart son of a bitch Keller knows that he’s safer here in Mexico than he was in the States. Knows that if you stick your head far enough into the jaguar’s mouth, it can’t clamp its jaws shut.

“I won’t stay my hand forever,” Adán says.

Magda is smart enough to suppress a smile of victory, but Adán knows that she’s won, and in doing so, saved him from his rasher impulses.

Diego hadn’t even wanted to include her in the escape.

“It’s going to be hard enough to hide the most famous narco in the world,” he said. “The most famous narco in the world and a former beauty queen? Impossible.”

“I’m not leaving her in Puente,” Adán said.

“Then at least split with her,” Diego said. “Go separate ways.”

“No.”

“Dios mío, primo,”
Diego said, “are you in love?”

I don’t know, Adán thinks now, looking at Magda. I might be. I thought I was acquiring a beautiful, charming mistress, but I got a lot more—a confidante, an adviser, a truth-teller. So he asks her, “What should I do about Nacho?”

“Reach out,” she says. “Set up a meeting. Offer him something that he wants more than he fears the government.”

Nacho agrees to meet at a remote hilltop
finca
in the jungles of Nayarit.

—

They stay in the field.

Rather than return to Mexico City and start over, the “Committee” decides that Barrera couldn’t have gone far, so they return to the base at El Salto and try to develop more information.

The army and air force maintain radar scans for any unlogged flights. Roadblocks are set up. SEIDO monitors cell phone and computer traffic with assistance from EPIC.

This is critical.

A bird makes noise when flushed from the bush.

Keller knows that if you force a major narco to move, especially in a hurry, you also make him communicate. Arrangements have to be made, security set up, travel routes planned, the right people notified.

They have to scramble, they have to talk to each other. They try their best to mask it—using cell phones only once, using SAT phones, text, e-mails, routing phone calls through international Internet services, but the less time they have, the harder these things are to do.

Even a sophisticated operation like EPIC can’t keep track of every individual communication, can’t intercept every e-mail or listen in on every phone, but what those guys can do is monitor traffic volume.

They already identified certain hot spots—geographical areas and cell phone towers combined with websites and servers that they know the narcos use—and if something is happening, those areas light up with increased traffic.

Now one of those hot zones goes absolutely Christmas tree.

The scans show a dramatic increase in traffic from a tower associated with one of Nacho Esparza’s frequent hiding areas in Jalisco. Several of the calls, all made from different phones, go to a tower in Nayarit, in remote jungle mountains south of Sinaloa. Geographically, it makes sense. Nayarit is close, a short drive or flight from Durango.

The Esparza element makes sense, too. There have been rumors for months about possible tension between Barrera and Esparza—Nacho’s absence at the company Christmas party was noted—and that Esparza was concerned Barrera was still an American snitch. Nayarit lies between their respective bases in Sinaloa and Jalisco—could they be planning a summit meeting to clear the air?

Keller looks at a map of the area served by the cell phone tower and then coordinates it with Google Earth. There’s only one significant residence in the area, a
finca
of several buildings carved out of the rain forest on the top of a hill.

It’s a perfect place.

Aguilar keeps his SEIDO people in Mexico City working twenty-four/seven tracing the ownership of the property. They track it back through several individuals until they find out that it’s owned as a “hunting resort” by a investment firm in Guadalajara.

The firm is a holding company already under suspicion for laundering money for Nacho Esparza. Armed with that information, they get a tap on the phone coming from the
finca
.

INCOMING CALLER:
You have guests arriving.

RECIPIENT:
When?

INCOMING CALLER:
Two tonight. One tomorrow morning.

(Pause)

RECIPIENT:
Three men.

INCOMING CALLER:
You know who. And their people. No one else comes in or out. You understand?

(Call terminates)

Keller understands. “Three men—Barrera, Tapia, and Esparza?”

“It’s possible,” Aguilar says.

Vera is ecstatic. “We have him now. We
have
him.
Dios mío,
we might get all three of them.”