W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07 (36 page)

“Take a look at this, Juan Carlos,” Castillo said, and handed him a copy of
El Diario de El Paso.
It was folded so that page 5 was exposed.

“What am I looking at?”

“What do you see?”

“A picture of some guy who laid a bunch of money on the Magoffin Home,” Pena said, then looked at Castillo. “Is that what you mean?”

“You didn’t recognize Félix Abrego?”

“I’ll be goddamned,” Pena said after a second look.

“The other guy is the FBI SAC in El Paso,” Castillo said. “The people who whacked the DEA agents and my friend Danny Salazar and kidnapped Colonel Ferris . . .”

“Your
friend
Danny Salazar?”

Castillo nodded. “We went back a long way.”

“So you were Special Forces, too? Not a military attaché?

“You said, ‘too,’ ” Castillo said, smiling. He shook his head, then asked, “How did you know Danny was Special Forces?”

“After we became friends, he told me.”

“You were friends?”

“Yeah. We were friends. Is that so hard to believe?”

Castillo hesitated a moment before saying, “Now that we’re now telling each other the truth, no.”

“Danny understood how things work here.”

“And how do they work here?”

“Like I told you the first time I was here, the bad guys are winning. Anybody who thinks the drug cartels can be defeated is a fool. The best that me and people like me—and the other three or four honest cops—can do is fuck them up from time to time. Danny and I hit it off right away, when I first met him . . .”

As Pena spoke, Castillo glanced at Max and thought:
How could I ever have doubted your infallible ability to judge human character?

“. . . and believed me when I told him how things are. After that, from time to time, I used to slip him information. Between us, we caused the bad guys to lose a lot of money.”

They locked eyes for a moment.

“One of the reasons I wanted you out of Dodge, Carlos—aside from keeping you alive—is that I didn’t want you getting in the way of my dealing with the guys who whacked him.”

Castillo’s eyes narrowed. “You know who the sonsofbitches are?”

Pena nodded. “The Zambada cartel. They used to be in our special forces. The cartel’s run by a really nasty guy named Joaquín Archivaldo. I was surprised that Joaquín was in on the whack/ kidnapping—he likes to keep his distance—but he was, and I think I know why. And so was his number two, another nasty guy by the name of Ismael Quintero.”

“How are you going to deal with them? More important, if you know who they are, why haven’t you locked them up?”

“Because if I did, they would escape within two weeks and then come after me with even more enthusiasm than they are coming after me now.”

“So how are you going to deal with them?”

“How do you think, Carlos? Just as soon as I can set it up so that somebody else gets the blame.”

When Castillo didn’t reply, Pena said, “Am I shocking you, Carlos?”

“He’s wondering what will happen to Colonel Ferris,” Svetlana put in, “after you eliminate these people.”

“That, too, sweetheart,” Castillo answered, “but also why Juan Carlos wants to take these people out.”

“Because Danny trusted me, and because he did, now he’s dead. Somehow Archivaldo found out what Danny and I had going—I may have done something stupid, or he just put two and two together—and decided to whack him. And once he decided to do that, he figured, ‘What the hell, I’ll try to get my old pal Félix out of Florence while I’m doing that. And then I will go after Juan Carlos Pena.’ I’m not going to let him get away with either one.”

Castillo exchanged glances with Svetlana.

“Tell him, Carlito,” she said.

“Tell me what, Red?” Pena asked.

“Everything,” Svetlana said. “Tell him everything, Carlito. Or I will.”

Castillo looked at her for a long moment.

“You have the floor, Podpolkovnik Alekseeva,” he said finally.

 

 

It took Svetlana about five minutes to tell Juan Carlos everything. At first there was a cynical expression on Pena’s face—“I recognize bullshit when I hear it”—but it changed as she spoke, and when she was finished, he nodded, as if in approval.

“Okay, Red,” he said. “I now believe you were an SVR colonel.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Which leaves us where?” Juan Carlos asked. “What do you want from me?”

“To make up your mind whether you’re going to help us or not,” she said.

“It looks like I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“I hope that’s because you think we’re right,” she said.

“As opposed to what?”

“Knowing your other option is you and your men being found as Carlito’s friend and the DEA agents were found, and having this man Joaquín Archivaldo try to figure out who did it.”

Pena looked between Castillo and Svetlana for a moment.

He said: “And because I’m willing to believe Red is ex-SVR, I guess I’m willing to believe she’s capable of doing exactly that. Where the hell did you find this woman, Carlos?”

“Actually, my brother and I found
him
,” Svetlana said, matter-of-factly. “It didn’t turn out the way we expected. We planned to eliminate him, and almost did.”

“What happened?”

“God showed us another path,” she said.

“Somehow I don’t think you’re being sarcastic,” Juan Carlos said.

“I’m not.”

“I’ll be damned,” Pena said. “I was beginning to think I was the only Christian left on earth except for the Pope.”

“There’s a few of us Christians left,” she said. “And I’m working on Carlito.”

“Good luck with that,” Pena said. “Which brings us back to my original question: Where are we?”

“As my heathen Carlito would put it, Juan Carlos, are you in or out?”

“You already know the answer to that, don’t you, Colonel?” Pena said.

Svetlana raised her voice and issued an order in Russian. One of the Spetsnaz popped to attention, saluted, and motioned to two of his men, who followed him as he trotted around the side of the house.

“He’s going to free your men,” she explained, “and bring them here. After you have explained the change in the situation, we’ll give them their weapons, and then Carlito will show you the helicopter and ask your suggestions vis-à-vis how it should be used.”

“What helicopter?” Juan Carlos asked.

“A Policía Federal Black Hawk,” Castillo said simply, and sipped his coffee as he watched Pena’s face change expression.

 

 

Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan pushed open the door and announced, “Mr. President, His Excellency Raul Vargas, ambassador of the United States of Mexico to the United States, and Secretary of State Natalie Cohen.”

President Clendennen rose from behind his desk and with a cordial smile and his hand extended walked toward Vargas—a tall, olive-skinned, elegantly dressed man with a carefully trimmed pencil-line mustache—and the secretary of State.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Ambassador,” he said.

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. President,” Vargas replied.

“Secretary Cohen tells me you’re carrying a letter for me?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. President,” Vargas said.

He took a business-size envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Ambassador, while I read what my friend Ramón has to say.”

He indicated one of the couches, turned to Clemens McCarthy, and ordered, “Get the ambassador some coffee, McCarthy.”

McCarthy in turn gestured more than a little imperiously to Mulligan, who in turn gestured, even more imperiously, to Special Agent Douglas.

“May I sit, Mr. President?” Secretary Cohen asked.

Clendennen waved in the general direction of the couch as he sat down at his desk but did not otherwise respond. The President then tore open the envelope, took out the letter it contained, and began to read it:

When Clendennen had finished reading the letter, he looked at Ambassador Vargas and started to say something.

The secretary of State, who had seen President Martinez’s letter, thought,
He’s about to lose control
.

“Mr. President,” Vargas spoke first, “there is something else—another message.”

“Really?” Clendennen asked coldly.

“Yes, sir. President Martinez thought it best under the circumstances that it be delivered privately and verbally, rather than commit it to paper.”

“Privately?” Clendennen asked, then said, “Madam Secretary, would you give us a moment in privacy?”

“Mr. President,” Vargas said, “Secretary Cohen is familiar with the contents of the message. President Martinez suggested that she be with me when I deliver it, to assure you of its accuracy.”

“Well, then, Mr. Ambassador, why don’t you deliver the message President Martinez doesn’t want committed to paper?”

“Yes, sir. Quote. I am sure you will understand that what I propose is the best I can do under the circumstances at this time. End quote.”

Cohen thought:
If he didn’t lose control a moment ago, he will now
.

He didn’t.

President Clendennen considered that calmly for a moment, and then politely asked, “Madam Secretary, is that the message you understand President Martinez wanted the ambassador to verbally deliver?”

“Yes, it is, Mr. President,” Cohen replied.

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “There’s no point in keeping you from the press of your duties any longer. Please be good enough to pass to President Martinez both my gratitude and my best wishes.”

“It will be my pleasure, Mr. President,” Vargas said.

“Madam Secretary,” Clendennen asked politely, “may I have a few minutes more of your time?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. President.”

The President waited until the door had closed behind Vargas, and then stood up, holding Martinez’s letter.

“Have you seen this fucking thing?” he asked furiously.

“Yes, sir, I have,” Cohen said.

“May I see it, Mr. President?” Clemens McCarthy asked.

The President threw it at him. McCarthy tried and failed to catch it in the air. It fell to the carpet in front of the President’s desk, and then floated out of sight under the left pedestal of the desk.

McCarthy got on his hands and knees and tried to retrieve it.

“That is not the letter I asked that sonofabitch to send me,” the President said.

“No, sir, it is not,” Cohen agreed.

“What happened to my letter? The one I wanted him to send me?”

“I delivered it to President Martinez, sir,” she said, “and told him what you were asking.”

“I told you to have Ambassador McCann do that,” the President said.

“Ambassador McCann thought it would be best if I went with him, and I agreed.”

She remembered exactly what McCann had said:
“I am not going to Martinez with that crazy letter. Is Clendennen out of his mind, thinking that he can push Martinez around like that? I’ll go with you, but that’s it. Otherwise, you can have my resignation.”

“And?” Clendennen pursued.

“President Martinez asked us to wait . . .”

“Mulligan,” Clemens McCarthy interrupted, “get me something so I can get this goddamn letter.”