The Cartel (60 page)

“And I told
you,
” the man says, “no one’s
asking
you. Give the money to charity if you don’t want it, but you’re taking it.”

Pablo’s next call is to a headless body hanging from its feet off the Bridge of Dreams with the
narcomensaje
reading
I, LORENZO FLORES, SERVED MY BOSS, THE DOG-FUCKER BARRERA
.

“ ‘Dog-fucker’?” Giorgio asks, trying to figure out his shot. “That’s a new one.”

“Zetas,” Pablo says.

“How do you know?”

“Decapitation. That’s their thing.”

The head turns up later at the Plaza del Periodista.

Mexico City

December 2009

Only Keller knows the identity of the informant code-named “María Fernanda.”

Through the miserable year of 2009, as violence and bloodshed spread through Mexico like an unstoppable virus, Keller stayed in the Mexico City bunker and, good as his word, focused on bringing down Diego Tapia.

Except you can’t kill what you can’t find.

It wasn’t from lack of trying.

No “search and avoid” missions with the FES. Orduña even has his own satellite surveillance system, purchased from the French and operated by the European Space Agency.

It couldn’t draw a bead on Tapia.

Neither could any of the American intelligence packages.

In regard to intelligence, Keller gets what he wants.

Taylor has seen to it.

“Let the word go forth from this time and place,” Taylor pronounced. “There is no secret unit operating in Mexico City, and it gets everything it needs from you. If Keller asks you for something, you don’t ask ‘why,’ you ask ‘when.’ If Keller wants a large pizza smothered with chocolate ice cream, French fries, and a cherry on top, you deliver it faster than Domino’s, no questions asked. You have any questions, come to me, but don’t have any questions. Are there any questions?”

There weren’t.

Keller knew that a lot of this came from the fact that the new administration in Washington has a distinctly “antiterrorist” bent. The rumor was that the White House has a “kill list” on top jihadists, and this strategy had carried over into the war on drugs.

It’s not so much that we’ve now defined the narcos as terrorists, Keller thought, but that there’s more of a psychological leak from the war on terror into the war on drugs. The battle against Al Qaeda has redefined what’s thinkable, permissible, and doable. Just as the war on terror has turned the functions of intelligence agencies into military action, the war on drugs has similarly militarized the police. CIA is running a drone and assassination program in South Asia; DEA is assisting the Mexican military in targeting top narcos for “arrests” that are often executions.

Mexico has formalized the militarization of the drug war; the U.S. is drifting in that direction.

Certainly, Keller thought,
my
war on drugs has changed over the years. It used to be all about busts and seizures, the perpetual cat-and-mouse game of getting the shit off the street, but now I barely think about the drugs themselves.

The actual trafficking is almost irrelevant.

I’m not a drug agent anymore, he reflected, I’m a hunter.

He came out of retirement to hunt Barrera—if he has to take down other narcos on the way to that, so be it. Mostly to stay on—however indirectly—Barrera’s trail. The other reason is that he likes and actually trusts Roberto Orduña. Still mourning Luis Aguilar’s death and enraged over Gerardo Vera’s betrayal, Keller didn’t want a close working relationship—never mind a friendship.

But that’s what he got—a friendship, of sorts, based on a common understanding.

Revenge.

It came over a late-night drinking session after a long day of unsuccessfully tracking Diego Tapia. Single-malt scotch, very expensive, lowered inhibitions and provoked revelations.

Keller learned that Orduña came from an immensely wealthy family (“The reason I’m impervious to bribery”), and that they have something in common.

A grudge.

Felipa Muñoz.

Nineteen, a model, and a cheerleader for the local Tijuana
fútbol
team, Felipa was apparently friendly with a young man who was somehow associated with the Tapias.

Her decapitated body was found dumped on the soccer field—the trunk in two black plastic bags, the head in another. Her feet had been smashed in and her fingers cut off—the usual torture for a
dedo,
a snitch—although the clumsy nature of the wounds indicated that it was done by amateurs, not professionals. The two men who did it—Felipa’s twenty-two-year-old “friend” and a forty-nine-year old associate—were arrested for speeding and the police found a video of the torture on their cell phone. They’d apparently heard that she was passing information along to a policeman and thought they’d kill her to garner favor with the bosses.

Felipa Muñoz was Orduña’s goddaughter.

He’d held her in his arms as an infant, committed her soul to God.

“I hate the narcos,” Orduña told Keller that night. “Tapia, Contreras, Ochoa, Barrera, all of them.”

They touched glasses.

It was personal, Keller got that.

Keller knew “personal,” so he started to trust Orduña.

Worked hard with him to bring down Diego Tapia.

At the end of the day, it came down to what it almost always comes down to.

A snitch.

—

The relationship, Keller thinks as he goes to meet María Fernanda at a movie theater in Mexico City, between an informant and “handler” is one of mutual seduction—if only in the basest of terms, because each is trying to fuck the other.

But it goes deeper than that.

You have to bring the informant in, convince him or her that your bed is warmer and safer than the one the informant is currently sleeping in. You have to be a friend, but not too friendly, you have to make promises, but none that you can’t deliver. You have to keep your informants safe, but not hesitate to put them in mortal danger. You have to show them that there’s a future beyond this, when you know that there probably isn’t.

At the same time, the informant is seducing you—showing you a little leg, a glimpse beneath an unbuttoned blouse, promising that there’s more. An informant is a great cock tease, knowing that her value is depleted as soon as she delivers all the goods. So she holds back, plays it coy, hard-to-get.

Keller makes his point very clear to María Fernanda as he sits behind the informant in the uncrowded matinee screening.

“Christmas is coming,” Keller says. “I want Diego on the table with my turkey.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Didn’t ask whether it was easy,” Keller says, “and I don’t care. You’ve been giving me appetizers—little snacks—and now I want to sit down and
eat.
”

“I’ve given you over fifty arrests.”

True enough, Keller thinks. Based on María Fernanda’s information, the FES have captured a slew of Tapia soldiers, along with weapons, cash, and drugs. It’s good, but makes it all the more urgent to get Diego, because every arrest shortens the informant’s shelf life, and now Keller makes exactly that point. “I wouldn’t want to be you when Diego figures out who you are. You need to put him away.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“I want Diego,” Keller says. He walks away and heads back to the office thinking that the best time to nab Diego Tapia is coming up.

Narcos take the holidays very seriously. The
peces gordos
have to throw elaborate parties or they lose face. And none of them can afford to lose face, not this year, with loyalties and alliances on the fence, waiting to be tipped to one side or the other. Diego will throw a party and “María Fernanda” goddamn well better invite me.

María calls two weeks later.

“Ahuatepec. 1158 Avenida Artista. Tonight.”

Keller puts up a photo of the address, a big house in a gated community outside Cuernavaca.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Orduña says when Keller relays the phone conversation to him. Diego has invited dozens of guests, and hired twenty of Mexico City’s highest-priced call girls and one of Mexico’s most renowned
norteño
musicians to play at the party.

“We don’t want a bloodbath,” Orduña says. They both know the political reality—it’s a far different thing to shoot up a wealthy suburb than some impoverished
colonia.
Maybe that’s why Diego feels safe.

“We know where he is now,” Keller said. “We can’t lose him again.”

Keller puts a call back in to María Fernanda.

Then sits back and watches the party from a distance.

—

Eddie hopes like hell it was goat.

Diego demanded that Eddie show up for his holiday party, and Eddie was all like “I’m busy” but Diego was like “Fuck that,
m’ijo,
you’re showing up.” So Eddie went and the usual crew was there—the bodyguards and some Zetas and the squadron of whores and they were all doing blow and then dinner was served.

Sitting around the table eating chili verde and Diego started talking about Manuel Esposito, this old Sinaloa cartel
sicario
—genuine tough guy stone-cold killer—who sided with the Barreras, and alone among the guests asked
Whatever happened to old Manuel
and Diego, he got this weird smile on his face and said, “Maybe you’re eating him.”

Everybody laughed, like, yeah, that’s real funny, but then Diego looked all serious and said, “No. Maybe you’re eating him.”

Eddie set his spoon down.

Diego said, “I mean, they say you should eat what you kill, don’t they? Besides, the flesh of a strong enemy makes you strong.”

Eddie thought he might blow chunks right there at the table. He didn’t eat any more chili, and probably Diego was kidding. But with Diego these days, who knows? And Eddie was pissed, because, well shit, did Diego just make him into a fucking
cannibal
?

That’s just not right.

That could mess with a guy’s head.

Turn him into a vegetarian.

Anyway, Eddie don’t have time for this crazy shit.

He’s got a business to run and he’s married again.

Yeah, okay, well,
sort
of married, seeing as how he never got divorced. But he found himself another Tex-Mex honey, the daughter of one of his big-time coke runners, so they got “married” in Acapulco by a priest who wasn’t anal about the paperwork and maybe wasn’t really a priest anyway.

Honeymooned right there in Acapulco and she got knocked up, like microwave pregnancy. So now there’s a kid on the way, so who has time for Diego’s crazy death-worshipping maybe-I’m-a-cannibal-maybe-not bullshit?

And then there are these command performances he has to make when Diego requests his presence at one of the many safe houses he has in the greater Mexico City metro area, which he refuses to leave.

The visits to Diego are risky, because the
federales
have a hard-on for him like a fence post, and they’re also a pain in the ass because El Jefe’s always busting Eddie’s balls about why he’s not killing more of Barrera’s people, “carrying more of his weight” in the war.

Well, in the first fucking place, it’s not my weight to carry, Eddie thinks. I didn’t start the war with El Señor, I only did what I was asked-slash-told and offed the nephew, and now
my
ass is on the line?
My
business?

Eddie don’t want no part in the war, either in Sinaloa or in Juárez, because what’s Juárez to him? He ain’t gonna get a piece of the plaza, even if they win, so fuck that. So he’s held back a little in the fighting—let his guys do a little here and there if they were eager to win their spurs, but that’s about it.

So every time he goes to see Diego, it comes up.

And Diego is motherfucking
crazy
when he does coke, which he does more of every day, it seems. Coke and booze and hookers and the Skinny Lady, and it’s getting stranger than strange.

The whole thing is jacked up, though. Killing cops. This is not what we used to do, this is not how we ran business. And this new stuff—the extortion, kidnappings, for Chrissakes—all this Zeta-type shit that Diego’s into now.

It’s not right.

It’s not right and it’s going to get us fucked up. And fucked up is something Eddie can’t afford right now. Yeah, he’s clearing over a hundred mil a year in coke sales north of the border, another twenty in Monterrey—it’s not a money issue, it’s a quality-of-life issue.

The DEA has put two million on his head, the Mexican government has matched it, and who knows which cop is on whose payroll anymore? It’s chaos out there, not to mention that the Barrera faction has him high on their to-do list for canceling young Sal’s reservation.

So he’s on the move, splitting time between condos and apartments in Acapulco and Monterrey. Not only does he have to manage business in both places, he has to keep his ass moving lest it get shot off.

It’s a hell of a party, though, Eddie has to admit now, looking down at the thousand-dollar blond head bobbing for apples on his lap. He’s never been a fan of
norteño
—Eddie’s taste runs more to Pearl Jam—but it is pretty cool to listen to a freaking Grammy winner sing “Chaparra de mi amor.” Kind of like when Johnny Fontane sang at Connie’s wedding in
One,
only better, because it comes with a blow job.

Even Diego’s in a good mood, walking among the guests playing Santa Claus, handing out expensive watches, jewelry, and envelopes of cash—the
aguinaldos
—the yearly bonuses. He’s also passing out raffle tickets with drawings later for cars and houses—this is how you keep the employees happy. And the women he brought in are fantastic, right out of Mexican
Playboy.
A little different from Barrera’s parties where wives but not mistresses were invited. Wives were
banned
from this shindig.

What happens in Ahuatepec, Eddie thinks, stays in Ahuatepec.

A good thing, too, because guys are fucking women right out there in the open, booze flowing like water, coke everywhere, tables loaded down with food (Eddie only hopes that the chicken in the fajitas is really chicken).