The Cartel (15 page)

That night, fifty heavily armed men, with Aguilar, Vera, and Keller, board a SEIDO plane, its flight plan logged for Jalisco. The men all passed polygraphs that afternoon, and Aguilar confiscates all their cell phones as they board.

When they’re ten minutes in the air, Aguilar orders a change of course, telling the pilots that they’re flying to Nayarit instead. He has personally located an airstrip in a defunct logging camp only eight kilometers from the
finca
.

The landing is rough but successful.

“Go radio silent,” Aguilar orders the pilots.

“We should report—”

“I said go radio silent,” Aguilar snaps. “Any transmissions you make will be monitored.”

The men deplane and begin the hike up to the
finca
in the dim light of predawn. Keller is reminded again of Mexico’s amazing diversity—from deserts to rain forests—as they head up the rough, wet terrain through thick green jungle.

Aguilar struggles in front of him. He’s not really an operational guy, Keller thinks, his tennis shoes more suitable to a walk in the park than a slog in the mud. But Aguilar keeps going and doesn’t complain.

The sun is fully up when they reach a plateau that has been cleared for grazing. A few curious cattle look at them as they deploy into a semicircle for the approach to the compound of houses that stand about three hundred yards away, through a low silver mist.

No lights glow from the windows. Is it possible, Keller wonders, that we’ve caught him sleeping?

“You will wait here,” Aguilar says to him. “I want Barrera alive.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

Men are getting ready, clicking clips into place, checking loads—one or two cross themselves and whisper prayers.

—

Adán steps out of the house and walks down to the broad, cleared grounds in front.

He and Diego arrived last night by car, having left Magda in the safe house in Sinaloa. He would have brought her with him, but he’s not sure how safe this meeting is going to be. And he’s annoyed that he had to arrive first—he knows that it’s Nacho showing that he’s not subservient.

Nacho arrives in a helicopter, and Adán has to wonder if it was a precaution or a deliberate act of noblesse oblige. Now Nacho emerges from the chopper flanked by bodyguards, like a president, looking cool and breezy in a linen suit. If Diego is the soldier of the Sinaloa cartel, Esparza is its diplomat. He strides over to Adán and his first words are, “We shouldn’t stay long.”

“I know you’re busy,” Adán answers.

The irony is apparently lost on Nacho, or he simply chooses to ignore it. “It’s good to see you, Adán.”

“Is it?” Adán asks.

Nacho smiles as if he doesn’t understand what Adán could possibly mean. “Of course.”

“Because I’ve been back for quite a while,” Adán says. “You could have had the pleasure of seeing me earlier.”

Unflustered, Nacho answers, “There’s a two-million-dollar reward on my head. I was concerned that if I walked into Puente Grande, I might never have left.”

“Funny, I had the same concern.”

“I delivered a million and a half reasons why you shouldn’t have had any concerns,” Nacho says.

“Then why all this pressure?” Adán asks. If Nacho delivered the right money to the right people, there shouldn’t
be
any.

“I could ask you the same question, Adanito,” Nacho answers. “
Why
all this pressure?”

Adán ignores the diminutive version of his name. “You’re worried that I’m a
soplón
? An informer?”

“I’m thinking that you did it before.”

“And you were the beneficiary,” Adán answers. “I didn’t hear any complaints then. Nacho, you were my uncle’s best friend and closest adviser, and then you were mine. There shouldn’t be tension or suspicion between us. I’ve given up nothing about you. We have to use the authorities as we can—no one is better at this than you—and any connections I have are your connections as well.”

“I hope you know that’s mutual, Adán.”

“I do,” Adán answers, “and I understand other concerns that you might have, so let me tell you what I’ve already told Diego. I have no ambition to be
patrón.
I understand that you have your own organization now. I only want to be, at most, the first among equals.”

Nacho opens his arms and they embrace.

“You know that I value you,” Adán says. “Your wisdom, your experience. I rely on you. Tell me what you want.”

“The Tijuana plaza,” Nacho whispers.

“It’s my sister’s,” Adán says.

“She can’t hold it,” Nacho answers. “And I want it for my son.”

Then Adán hears a tremendous roar in the sky.

—

Keller looks up to see a Mexican air force fighter fly directly over the ranch.

Low.

“God
damn
it!” Keller yells.

Lights come on in the
finca.

“Go!” Vera yells.

They rush forward.

Keller goes with him, Aguilar’s prohibition forgotten in the rush to get there before Barrera can get away. It’s still possible, Keller thinks as he runs across the pasture. There’s only one road out and we have it covered.

—

Adán looks up and sees a fighter jet zooming in low.

Nacho’s eyes widen. He pushes Adán away and runs back toward his helicopter. Stumbling on a rock, he falls and stains the knee of his linen slacks. A bodyguard picks him up and leads him into the chopper.

The rotors start.

Diego unslings his AK and looks for something to shoot at.

Adán sees men moving across the pasture toward him. He runs for the helicopter, which hovers just a couple of feet above the ground. Nacho looks out at Adán and then signals the pilot to take off.

“Nacho, please!”

“Let him in,” Esparza says.

One of his guards hauls Adán up, and Diego jumps in behind.

The helicopter takes off.

As it circles the
finca,
Adán sees the troopers moving in below. He isn’t sure—it must be his imagination—but for a second, he thinks he sees Art Keller. He leans across and, over the throb of the rotors, shouts to Nacho, “Tijuana is yours, if you can take it from Teo!”

—

Keller sees a helicopter come up from the mist.

It circles the compound once and then takes off in the other direction.

Barrera has slipped the noose again.

—

“That was deliberate!” Keller yells at Aguilar when they get back to the plane.

“It was an unfortunate mistake,” Aguilar answers. “It was supposed to be a high-level reconnaissance flight…”

An “unfortunate mistake,” my ass, Keller thinks. It was deliberate, the only way of warning Barrera that someone could think of.

But who?

—

Four federal agents are waiting when the helicopter lands at a ranch farther down in Nayarit.

Adán looks at Nacho. “I guess you’ll take Tijuana on your own. And the rest of it.”

“Come on,” Nacho says.

They get out of the helicopter and follow the agents into the house.

Four million dollars later, the helicopter takes off again, with Nacho Esparza, Diego Tapia, and Adán Barrera on board.

—

Keller has a cup of coffee in a Condesa café, and then does a little shopping at El Pendulo bookstore. He picks up an Elmer Mendoza novel, then walks along Avenida Amsterdam, which used to be part of the old racetrack, and stops in at Parilladas Bariloche for a reasonably inexpensive dinner of
papas con amor
and
arrachera.
Sitting there perusing the Mendoza, he knows that he’s the image of the lonely, middle-aged divorced man—reading alone at a table for one.

Maybe, Keller thinks, I’ve become too used to solitude.

Maybe I like it too much.

He finishes dinner and then walks over to the Parque México.

Barrera has gone radio silent—no calls, no e-mails, no sightings, not even any rumors.

The trail is cold and dead.

The next meeting of the Barrera Coordinating Committee has the feel of a postmortem. Keller looks at his colleagues and wonders which, if either of them, has been tipping off Barrera.

He’s also aware that he’s been told to keep his big mouth shut about it—Mexican law enforcement has its shiny new soul—and Art Keller is not going to besmirch it. And the truth is that he doesn’t have anything solid, just his suspicions.

And his gut feeling that both of these men are about to throw in the towel.

Aguilar is actually right when he points out to Keller that the search for Barrera is only one part of a multifaceted effort, and that neither SEIDO nor AFI can commit all their time and resources for what seems to be an increasingly quixotic quest.

Keller hears the subtext—we’re going to get you the hell out of here—and he’s too smart to hasten the process of his own demise by making noise about corruption.

“Let me tilt at one more windmill,” he says.

—

Keller and Vera watch from behind the one-way glass as Aguilar interviews Sondra Barrera.

She looks like hell, Keller thinks.

The Black Widow.

“You were present at the Christmas party in El Puente prison,” Aguilar says.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Sondra answers.

“Well, you were there,” Aguilar says. “We have witnesses.”

Sondra doesn’t respond.

“You were there with your son Salvador and other members of the family,” Aguilar says.

“I don’t know—”

“Where is Adán Barrera?”

Sondra laughs.

“Did I say something funny?” Aguilar asks.

“Do you think Adán would tell me where he is?” Sondra asks. “Do you think I would tell you if I knew?”

“
Do
you know?”

Sondra Barrera has no love for her brother-in-law, Keller knows, but she’s not going to give him up, even if she could. He’s her paycheck, her pension, her social security.

“My husband is dead,” Sondra says.

“I’m aware of that,” Aguilar answers. “What are you getting at?”

“That Adán has an instinct for survival,” Sondra says. “Other people die for
him.
You’ll never find him.”

“Is he in touch with your son, Salvador?”

“Leave my son alone.”

Keller sees the alarm in her eyes. Aguilar must have seen it, too, because he presses, “Tell me where Adán is and I won’t have to speak to your son.”

“He’s good,” Vera says to Keller. “Whatever else you can say about the persnickety bastard, you have to admit he’s good.”

“Please leave my son alone,” Sondra says, on the verge of tears.

“I wish I could.”

“You’re bastards, all of you.”

“You’re hardly in a morally superior position, Señora Barrera,” Aguilar says. “Do you know how many people your late husband killed?”

Sondra doesn’t answer.

“Would you like to know? Does it matter to you? No, I thought not.” He hands her his card. “This is my number. If Adán contacts you, I hope you will call me. And please have Salvador make an appointment. I don’t want to pick him up on campus and embarrass him.”

After Sondra and her lawyer leave, Aguilar comes into the room and sits with Keller and Vera. “Well, that was useful.”

“It was,” Keller says. “I know Sondra—she’ll panic.”

“Do we have a trace on her phones?” Vera asks.

“Of course,” Aguilar answers. “And her son’s.”

“Luis is getting into the game,” Vera says, getting up to leave.

“I’ve been in the game,” Aguilar answers.

But Vera is already out the door.

Aguilar turns to Keller and says defensively, “I’ve
been
in the game.”

—

Sondra calls a number in Culiacán.
“…they’re talking about obstruction charges.”

“They’re bluffing.”

“It’s not Adán’s voice,” Keller says.

“No,” Aguilar agrees.

“I will not go to prison. I will not have my son go to prison.”

“Relax. We’ll fix it.”

“What does that mean?” Keller asks.

“I don’t know,” Aguilar snaps.

“Call him.”

“That’s not necessary. We can take care of it.”

“He’s not leaving us hanging out there.”

“You know he wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Sondra—”

She hangs up.

“Who was she talking to?” Keller asks.

“Esparza?” Aguilar asks. “Tapia? I don’t know.”

But now they have the number she called, and it’s a simple matter of technology to tap its calls.

They sit through a long night. Finally the man in Culiacán, now code-named “Fixer,” makes a call to the 777 area code—Cuernavaca.
“Sondra’s panicking.”

“Tell her to calm down.”

“You don’t think I did? She wants us to talk to him.”

“To say what? Just fix it.”

“Obviously. If she gives us the time.”

“What can she tell them?”

“Who knows what she knows?”

“Silly bitch. What about the kid?”

“He’s his father’s son.”

“The man loves him.”

“Then we should tell him.”

Keller feels a jolt shoot through his body. The men on the phone call are about to contact Adán.

The next minutes are agony.

Aguilar orders an underling, “Get Vera in here.”

The AFI chief shows up twenty minutes later, disheveled, in a tracksuit and sweatshirt. “This had better be good. I’ve been seducing this woman for weeks.”

Aguilar briefed him.

They sit in silence, watching the phone monitor.

Hoping, praying.

Then it lights up.

“Cuernavaca” is on the phone.

“Jesus,” Vera says. “It’s 555—a Mexico City number. Barrera’s
here.
”

Here, Keller thinks, in Mexico City. He’s so goddamn smart, Barrera, he flies under the radar by getting under the radar’s shell. You have to hand it to the son of a bitch, it’s as clever as it is arrogant.

Classic Adán Barrera.