Triple Crossing (37 page)

Champagne arrived. Junior proposed a toast.

“Partners and friends,” he said, tossing the hair out of his eyes with a flourish.

Khalid bowed, raised his goblet and responded: “Friends and partners.”

Khalid spoke impeccable Spanish with a refined accent from Spain, full of crisp
s
’s and lisping
z
’s. He said he had a villa on the Costa del Sol. Although Khalid was playing the generous host, it looked to Pescatore as
if Junior were trying to sell something that Khalid hadn’t yet bought. The older man’s left eye was disconcertingly out of
synch behind thick glasses, so it was hard to tell where he was looking or what he was thinking. Khalid reclined,
his movements deliberate, scrutinizing the young Mexican. Junior strained forward into his monologue, laughing raucously,
going off on tangents.

Pescatore caught bits and pieces. Junior crowed about how much money they were going to make, how lucky they were to have
teamed up. Khalid agreed. Khalid mentioned that Brazil had the fifth-biggest population and the eighth-largest economy in
the world. He said something about how fortunate he was to have relatives, and therefore trusted business partners, from Côte
d’Ivoire to Turkey to Australia.

“It all comes together right here at this table,” Junior declared. “This is the future we are making, Khalid. The crossroads
of the twenty-first century. Who can stop us?”

“You are young and strong and you want the world,” Khalid said, adjusting his glasses. “I admire that. No one can stop you
but yourself.”

Pescatore didn’t get a chance to hear Junior’s response because Khalid declared that the
rodízio
had begun. The
rodízio,
to Pescatore’s delight, turned out to be a hell of a meal. Waiters trooped in, slicing strips of lamb and veal and steak
off skewers, shoveling salads and breads and drinks onto the table nonstop. Pescatore pounded champagne and
caipirinhas,
a lime drink with a bittersweet punch. Soon everyone except Khalid was stuffed, drunk and boisterous.

The louder Junior got, the quieter Khalid got. He was practically murmuring, but it sounded like they were talking about Mexican
politics. Khalid wanted to meet someone personally. Junior said that would happen soon enough, but not to worry, he spoke
for his uncle. The candidate would appreciate a sign of commitment from Khalid and his associates, Junior said.

“Of course, of course,” Khalid said. “Which reminds me, we have to take care of Mr. Fong. He speaks for the most serious Chinese
interests in town. They feel neglected.”

Junior complained about people coming around with their
hands out. “It’s getting ridiculous. I’m supposed to be your guest.”

Khalid smiled expansively. He urged Junior to dig into the dessert tray, the specialty of the house.

On the way out of the hotel, Pescatore spotted the tourist couple and brawny driver from the Bird Park. They were near the
observatory platform, but they had their backs to the falls. They seemed more interested in the hotel. Both the guide and
the husband had cameras, and they snapped away as the convoy passed. Pescatore felt a twinge of hope and dread. There was
nothing unusual about seeing the tourists again: The Bird Park and the falls were the standard tourist attractions. On the
other hand, the tourists looked a bit too goofy to be true. Perhaps the U.S. feds, the Mexicans, or both had caught up to
Junior. Even if they really were undercover good guys, even if this meant the cavalry was coming, Pescatore wasn’t sure that
improved his chances of surviving—or staying jail-free. It would not help his case to be seen riding around fat and happy
like one of the boys. He would be asked why he had not tried to escape. The only response he could think of was: Escape to
where?

The convoy was within sight of the bridge to Ciudad del Este, mired in stop-and-go traffic, when they pulled over onto the
shoulder of the road. Buffalo hurried from one vehicle to another. Moze and Tchai conferred with him and yammered into phones.
Buffalo jogged through the traffic to the window of the car in which Pescatore sat.

“Aguas,”
Buffalo told them. “Be ready. Big problem. The Brazilian po-lice got a roadblock goin’ on the bridge.”

“I thought this border was wide open,” Pescatore said, his heart thumping. “I thought they didn’t do that.”

“Fuckin’ Abbas says they check papers once in a while, special operations, but they always tell him first. Nobody told him
shit today. Khalid’s tearing him a new one.”

Pescatore squinted at the bridge. Traffic was frozen in both
directions as far as he could see. There was a cluster of uniforms and police cars with whirling lights at the bridge entrance,
engulfed on both sides by lines of pedestrians.

“What do Moze and them say they’re lookin’ for?” Sniper said, his droopy eyelid open as wide as it would go.

“Us.”

A
LTHOUGH HE TOOK GRIM PLEASURE
in the hunt for Junior Ruiz Caballero, Méndez had all but abandoned hope of seeing him behind bars.

After Junior’s escape from Tijuana, Méndez had concluded that he had blown his best chance. He decided that the hands-on satisfaction
of capturing Mauro Fernández Rochetti was the most he could expect. Yet he had accepted the offer to continue the pursuit
into South America. Rather than lofty notions of justice, Méndez was driven now by a more basic impulse. Even if he couldn’t
catch Junior, he could hound him, haunt him, make his life miserable. Remember the Count of Monte Cristo, Méndez told himself:
Don’t underestimate the power of hate.

Méndez kept those sentiments to himself as he enjoyed the spectacle of Facundo the Russian making the rounds of his contacts.
Like a seedy Santa Claus, Facundo dispensed bribes to an assortment of police, prosecutors and notable citizens in the three
border cities. The cash came from the U.S. taxpayers by way of Isabel Puente. Nonetheless, Facundo’s methods made Puente nervous.

“It’s the only way, Miss Puente,” Facundo said. “Justice is expensive around here. How do you think the big corporations deal
with product piracy? It’s the biggest industry in town. They
have to pay the judges and the customs people, just like the pirates. Basic market economics.”

“I’m sorry to hear law enforcement is for sale around here,” Puente said.

“Oh, that’s not completely true,” Facundo boomed. “There are honest chiefs and prosecutors too. In their case it’s easy: I
simply tell them a bit about who Ruiz Caballero is and they are happy to help.”

Facundo’s voice strained over the
bandoneón
and strings wailing from his car radio. He steered carelessly, one-handed, half-turned in his seat. He crooned along with
the tango, which was about an Italian immigrant drowning his sorrows at the Buenos Aires waterfront. When the singer broke
into the refrain from “O Sole Mio,” sustaining it at full volume, Facundo matched him note for note, shaking his head fervently.

Méndez saw Porthos elbow Athos. Puente scrunched down behind her sunglasses. She had been quiet and pensive since she had
seen the photo of Pescatore a week before. And her rapport with Méndez hadn’t quite recovered from the Buenos Aires airport.
They were acting self-conscious, overly polite with each other.

“Marino, Marino, what a voice…,” Facundo murmured, wrenching the wheel just in time to avoid colliding with a yellow armored
car backing out of a driveway. “How does our city compare to Tijuana, Doctor, if I may ask a connoisseur of borders?”

“Impressive.” Méndez was still flinching from the anticipated impact. “It’s like Tijuana, alright. Also the Casbah, Hong Kong
and Tepito in Mexico City.”

“I’ve never seen so many Mercedeses,” Isabel said.

“Stolen, stolen, stolen,” Facundo clucked, gesturing at vehicles with his head. “Half the cars are stolen in Argentina or
Brazil. There was a time when thieves preferred Mercedeses. The president drives a stolen Mercedes. But these days minitrucks
are more popular, Jeeps, Suburbans, that kind of thing.”

Porthos chuckled. “Just like home, eh, Licenciado?”

Trailing them was a second Mercedes, carrying three of Facundo’s men. The crossing from Puerto Iguazú through Foz had taken
half an hour. The crossing of the bridge between Foz and Ciudad del Este had taken a full hour because of the swarm of Paraguayan
riot police and Brazilian military patrols. For the third day, the security forces were engaged in activities that Facundo
said were extremely rare: checking papers, stopping smugglers and confiscating contraband.

Downtown Ciudad del Este was a storm of humanity. In addition to commercial traffic and the vending stands that occupied every
free inch of sidewalk, idle smugglers were everywhere: napping by their bales, squatting forlornly at the riverfront. Hundreds
of demonstrators milled in the streets near the border crossing. The marchers carried Paraguayan and Brazilian flags. Their
picket signs denounced the crackdown and demanded that they be allowed to earn a living. Protesters tossed firecrackers from
the beds of pickup trucks, blasted music from boom boxes and chanted through bullhorns.

“What a sight,” Facundo said, admiring the results of his handiwork. “What an upside-down world. Crooks defending their right
to break the law.”

“Who are all the demonstrators?” Puente asked. “Smugglers?”

“And taxi drivers, money changers, vendors, shopkeepers. Anybody who makes a living connected to smuggling.”

“This should give Khalid the idea that Junior is bad for business,” Méndez said.

“I think so. Forty thousand people cross that bridge every day. Whenever the Brazilians decided to check papers, it’s a guaranteed
mess. That’s why they don’t do it often.”

The Brazilian immigration sweep at the border bridge had been their first breakthrough. The roadblock netted hundreds of illegal
immigrants, a good many of them entrepreneurs commuting from homes in Foz to their stores in Ciudad del Este.
After visits from Facundo, the Brazilian Army garrison had deployed patrols to harass the backpack smugglers as well.

Facundo’s operatives reported that Junior, who was on the Brazilian side of the bridge when the roadblock began, had retreated
to Khalid’s mansion in Foz. Khalid had provided a helicopter that flew Junior and his crew back to the hotel in Ciudad del
Este. Paraguay was their best refuge.

“That’s fine,” Facundo said. “Right now we just want to keep them off-balance, stir up confusion.”

“This fellow we are going to see can help?”

“Munir? He runs the chamber of commerce. A very important crook. That’s where he lives, that new building just there. He works
a few doors down.”

The ten-story tower at the end of the block was still wreathed in construction dust. Gaudy arches and columns flanked the
entrance. A guard in paramilitary attire sat in a sentry box beneath a sign that announced the grand opening of the Al-Andalus
apartment complex. The windows on the lower floors were covered by metal shutters, giving the place an uninhabited look that
contrasted even more with its surroundings. The rest of the street was a row of storefronts with names like Aleppo, Faisal
and Mokhtar: cell phone shops, groceries, a green-shingled
halal
butcher shop with Arabic script in the window.

There was activity outside the butcher shop. Young Arab men congregated in front. They were lean and stern. A few wore skullcaps,
beards,
kaffiyehs
around their necks. Mendez watched them exchange kisses on cheeks, press their hands to hearts, their air of idle menace
melting into affectionate smiles. They filed into the doorway of the butcher shop, pausing deferentially to greet a long-bearded,
wrinkled man in a
dishdasha
who sat in the shade, barely awake.

“The
shabab,
” Facundo muttered as he backed into a parking spot. “There’s a little mosque on the second floor. A prayer room, anyway.
I can assure you they don’t preach tolerance and
brotherhood up there. In fact, they raise money and recruit for the training camps.”

“Which camps?” Puente asked.

“Wherever there are camps. Depends on their inclination. Lebanon. Iran. Pakistan. Perhaps Venezuela, but I have heard that
at the level of comments, not hard intelligence. There are more Shiites here, but they get along with the Sunnis. They are
united against the common enemy. That is to say, you and me. Especially me.”

Facundo killed the engine. He observed the Arabs, drinking in details with professional relish. He waited until the sidewalk
had cleared, the last men helping the bearded codger fold up his chair and shuffle inside. Finally, shaking his head as if
coming out of a trance, Facundo turned to Méndez. Facundo smiled crookedly.

“Listen, Dr. Méndez, Miss Puente. I will not be talkative. I make the introduction, I turn Munir over to you and that’s it.”

“Why?” Puente asked as they got out.

Facundo pulled a briefcase from the trunk and slammed the lid. “We, eh, have conflicting opinions on a number of political
questions.”

A hoarse cry greeted them from the rear of the store. “The Zionist dog! And his friends. Come in, come in.”

In Tijuana, Méndez had seen many shops like Chez Munir. A classic border store. The goods lining the high shelves had no discernible
organization or presentation: liquor bottles next to vacuum cleaners next to Barbie dolls next to alarm clocks. Dust motes
floated in sunlight that was chopped in rows by the burglar bars in the front window. Children could be heard playing somewhere.

Munir received them at the end of the center aisle. He sat precariously on a stool behind a little three-legged table covered
with plastic coffee cups, a plate of cookies and cell phones. He did not get up; he had one leg thrust out at an angle that
sug
gested it was of little use to him. His small round belly protruded in a striped short-sleeved shirt. His wire-rimmed glasses
adorned a bulbous face with a chiseled nose. His white-gray hair stood and fluttered in the breeze of a fan, giving him the
wind-tossed aspect of a broken-down pirate at the helm. Mouth-breathing asthmatically, he ordered a young woman in a head
scarf behind the cash register to bring coffee.