Mexico way, p.15
Mexico Way, page 15
"You're a good man, Rico." Fausto slapped him on the shoulder. "You bring exactly what you're asked for. How long have we been doing business?"
"Thirty-seven months."
"You see? Precise. No evasions! No excuses!" Fausto dropped his arm to his visitor's waist, and steered him back inside the bunker. "Let's eat! I've been going all night."
A SIN employee in an apron—more like a butcher's apron than a cook's—wheeled in platters of filet Dijon on a steel trolley.
Sanchez ate steadily and rapidly, like a soldier who did not know when he would get his next meal. He was a burly man, dressed—like Fausto—in a loose-hanging leather coat. At SIN headquarters, they called him the Colonel. In fact, he had been a colonel once, in the U.S. Army, before a messy affair in Salvador. He had been bom and raised in the United States, but the blood of Mexico was in his veins, and he found Fausto García more simpatico, and a damn sight more generous, than any of his superiors in the American military. Running hot cars down to Mexico—always luxury models, always on special order—had been a profitable sideline since he had entered the private sector. There were never any headaches on the Mexican side. SIN took care of that.
"I have something for you," Fausto told him, between mouthfuls. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, thick and heavy as a knuckle-duster. It was solid gold, garnished with diamonds and rubies. It coiled into the shape of a dollar sign. Not in the best taste, but worth at least five thousand, wholesale.
Sanchez accepted it without expressing his thanks, as though accustomed to such tribute.
"I have your money. Don't worry about it," said Fausto. "I could have a lot more money for you—more than you're used to—if I'm right about something."
"Right about what?"
"Why don't you take off those fucking shades? I need to look you in the eyes."
"To tell if I'm lying?"
"To tell how much I can expect from you."
Sanchez shrugged, and removed his dark glasses. His eyes gave back Fausto's own reflection.
"I seem to recall," said Fausto, "that when we first met you told me you'd done some jobs for the CIA in Vietnam. Is that right?"
"Correct."
"What was the name of the Station Chief in Saigon?"
"Colgate."
"That's what I thought. Are you still in touch with him?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I might have something for you.,Something highly profitable, assuming you can get alongside this Colgate. He's involved in something in Mexico. Do you know how to reach him?"
"I don't need to."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Art Colgate is looking for me. He called my office in San Antonio just this week, when I was out of town."
Fausto jumped up and patted his guest's pitted cheeks. "My friend, you have a face only a mother could love! But you're perfect! Absolutely perfect! Together, we can fuck the whole world!"
ELEVEN
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1
President Butler paced the Oval Office, dressed in shirtsleeves and suspenders. The others in the room, all members of his kitchen cabinet, had also removed their jackets, in deference to the chief executive's insistence on informality in closed sessions. All of them were Texans, apart from Admiral Enright, who was doing a lot of the talking.
"The Ramírez resignation is a ploy," the National Security Adviser averred. "The new Minister of Government is a Ramírez stooge. The boss of the secret police— an old Ramírez crony—is still sitting pretty. Ramírez is calling the shots from off-stage. The situation remains unchanged."
"Not from where I sit," the Secretary of State spoke up. He was an old-money Houstonian, schooled in the East, pinstriped and lean as a whippet. He resented the admiral's efforts to take charge of Administration policy toward Mexico. "You're forgetting that the President elect gave me explicit assurances that he's going to clean up the government. I see no reason to disbelieve him. I think Mr. Paz is a man we can do business with. After he takes office, the Ramírez crowd will be out for good. That's the assessment of our Ambassador—and the CIA station—and I think we ought to listen to the opinions we pay them for."
He appealed to the President with his eyes.
Harry Butler said, "I'm here to listen to all opinions."
Phil Taylor, the Commissioner of Immigration, said, "We had a hundred thousand wetbacks, minimum, who came across the border last week."
Aaron Sturgiss, the White House Counselor, fussed with the long strands of hair that were plastered over his bald pate before adding, "We've had zero cooperation from the Mexicans on major drug cases, including the murder of the judge. A lot of the voters are fighting mad. It could be a big issue in the midterm elections."
The Energy Secretary, a native of Midland, Texas, chimed in, "As I see it, what it comes down to is oil. Since those ragheads shot the Saudi crown prince to avenge Saddam Hussein, consumers are paying fifty cents a gallon more at the pump, and they want to know what we're gonna do about it. Now we're looking at the potential of two million barrels a day, just south of Corpus. They could solve a lot of problems, assuming, of course, the area's in responsible hands."
The Chief of Staff avoided taking sides. He preferred to apply influence in less obvious ways, such as by screening visitors to the Oval Office and by controlling the flow of paper to the President's desk.
The Secretary of State spoke up again: "I think, Mr. President, that you ought to sit down with Paz. He's been asking for a meeting since the election."
"The election he stole," Admiral Enright interjected.
"He seems a reasonable guy. He went to Harvard, for Chrissake! A meeting would be common courtesy. And long-standing tradition."
"I wouldn't put too much faith in Paz," the National Security Adviser objected. "We have hard intelligence that he's sold out to Japan."
"That's extravagant." The Secretary of State picked lint off his trousers. "The Japanese have legitimate economic interests in Mexico. And they've treated the President-elect with more cordiality than we have."
"That's a nice way of putting it, Jim. I don't know whether I'm allowed to tell you this, but the NS A monitored some of Paz's luncheon conversations with the zaibatsu over in Tokyo. He's promised to sell them the farm. You can expect a lot more American voters out of work in Detroit, and in Silicon Valley."
"I'd need to see those transcripts," the Secretary said tersely. He was increasingly irritated by Admiral Enright's habit of pre-empting debate with some item of allegedly hot intelligence. "I do wish to say, Mr. President, that I take strong exception to any suggestion of precipitous action against Mexico. We are not dealing with a banana republic. And we risk jeopardizing our moral authority throughout the democratic world."
President Butler squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He said, "I agree with you, Jim. There won't be any precipitous action. But I remain open to all options."
"Including military options?" This was from Admiral Enright.
"I said all options. But I want it held tight. This goddamn town leaks like a worn-out boot. Each of you will be your own file clerk on this."
"Our contingency plans for a military insertion in Mexico are two years out of date," Admiral Enright observed. "I'd like your authorization to send some of our military people down there to do an update. Naturally, they'll be sheep-dipped."
"Sheep-dipped?" echoed the White House Counselor.
"They'll go in as civilians," Enright specified.
"Have we consulted the Joint Chiefs on this?" the Secretary of State demanded. "And why isn't the Secretary of Defense in on this meeting?"
"He's from Georgia," said Aaron Sturgiss. Nobody thought this was funny.
The President put up his hands. "We're a long way from any notion of using military force. You all know where I stand on this. I am not prepared to authorize U.S. military action, anywhere in the world, unless there is a clear and present danger to American lives."
2
A few hours later, over a lavish dinner at the Lion d'Or where he recounted this exchange, Admiral Enright remarked to Colgate, "Every President in modern American history has had to attend his blooding. It will be the same for Harry Butler."
"How's the President's mood?"
"He's cautious. He's doing everything by the numbers. I think he's going to sit down with Paz. He wants to be seen to be fair to all sides."
Over coffee and liqueurs, Colgate took pains to reassure the National Security Adviser that a plum job would be waiting for him at Global Assistance Services, Colgate's consulting firm in Arlington, when he retired from government service. "God knows, you deserve the chance to make some real money," Colgate told his guest. "I think it's a crying shame that a man of your caliber gives his body and soul for a piss-ant government salary and a goddamn parking space."
The remark about blooding lingered with Colgate. His paymasters had been momentarily stunned by the Ramírez resignation. Colgate flattered himself that this unexpected development had proved the success of his media operations, run out of a press office behind a discreet brass plaque on K Street. But Ramírez 's hasty departure had also undermined the grand design of creating the bogey of a Mexican Noriega.
"We see it like this," Halliwell said, calling from Houston. "We gotta move into the action mode. Do you read me, Cantwell?"
"Perfectly."
"I want a professional in charge. No more screw-ups."
"I have the perfect man. He'll cost you twenty thousand a month." He did not add, ten for me, ten for him.
"Jeez, Cantwell! You'll be able to buy me out!"
"I have other clients."
Halliwell grunted his assent, and Colgate called San Antonio.
"Hispanic-American Marketing."
"I'm trying to reach Mr. Sanchez."
"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Sanchez is still in Mexico. We expect him back any day now."
Colgate persisted. He finally ran down Rico Sanchez at his mistress's apartment two nights later.
"I may have something interesting for you. Want to make a little money for both of us?"
"Sure."
"This is sensitive, Rico. Why don't you fly up for the weekend?"
Sanchez did not hesitate, once Colgate said he would pay for the plane ticket. Colgate did not like Sanchez, but then he did not care much for most of the people he worked with. He had not misled Halliwell. He thought Rico Sanchez would be ideal for Safari. He was Mexican-American, which meant he could pass for a native down south. He knew more ways of killing than any human being Colgate had ever met. At Saigon Station, they had called him the Headhunter.
3
Rico Sanchez flew into Dulles Airport that Saturday; he found Colgate waiting with a stretch limo and a chauffeur. Colgate was a firm believer in symbols of rank and power. In the first years of Global Assistance, he had handed out silver medallions to favored clients and contractors, telling them that these were secret NSC badges I that gave the holder immunity from police arrest. Colgate had abandoned the practice when someone cautioned him that Ed Wilson, the convicted death merchant who had hired himself to Qaddafi, had tried a similar stunt, and that the comparison could be rather bad for business.
Sanchez looked uncomfortable in his suit, although his cowboy boots improved his height by a couple of inches, giving him something of an ego boost. His weathered skin matched the color of the maduro cigar he lit up in the car. He was a nondescript man, one you wouldn't notice in the street. But when he removed his aviator sunglasses, there was something restless and avid about the eyes.
Colgate opened up the bar in the back of the limo and the two men sipped scotch on the ride out toward Culpeper. Sanchez claimed he had been down in Mexico on routine business, arranging a shipment of refrigerators.
"Refrigerators?" Colgate laughed. "Jeez, you must be bored out of your skin. You getting enough action these days?"
"I never get enough." Sanchez's voracious sexual appetite was part of his legend. He was said to have drilled his way through the entire menage of the House of a Thousand Tits during two weeks' R & R in Bangkok, and Colgate did not wholly discount the story.
"You stick with me, buddy. I'll fix us a little action for tonight. If I remember correctly, you like them light, don't you?"
"What you get me up here for?" Hunger darted from Sanchez's eyes; Colgate wished he would replace his sunglasses.
"Later." Colgate nodded toward the chauffeur. "Tell me how you feel about the situation in Mexico. These killings. This guy Miliano Rojas."
"Miliano Rojas is a campesino. A poor dumb shit. The kind that always gets screwed."
"He seems to be building quite a following."
Sanchez shrugged. "I'm not interested in politics. I'm a technician."
"That's why I called you."
The limousine pulled off the Old Lee Highway and swept up a long, curving drive past ancient stands of oak to The Haven, a vast, modern brick house that appeared to be impersonating an English boarding school. Sanchez evinced total disinterest in his surroundings until he spotted a young whitetail buck and two does springing away across a distant field.
"Those deer on your place?"
"They sure are. I've got six hundred acres."
"I like killing deer."
Sanchez did not spare a second glance for Colgate's art collection, his boulle console tables, or the eighteenth-century sideboard that had been made for the Schuyler family in New York. He approved of the quadraphonic stereo system in the living room, and played loud music while they talked and continued their drinking.
"So what's the job?" Sanchez demanded.
"My principals are wealthy landowners in the north of Mexico," Colgate began carefully. "They are concerned about the present unrest in their country. They are obvious targets for kidnappers. Some of them are having trouble with squatters."
"Are these guys American, or Mexicans?"
"They're Mexican." Colgate saw no advantage in mentioning John Halliwell. If Sanchez knew the head of a major oil corporation was involved, he would start inflating his fee.
Sanchez blew smoke in Colgate's direction. "What area are we talking? Sonora? Chihuahua?"
"That general area."
"Hell, you don't need me. Those hacendados know how to take care of themselves. They've been shooting campesinos for generations."
"Let's say my principals feel the need to place their security on a more professional basis."
"I don't go around checking alarm systems, Art. You can go down to the FBI building and hire yourself a flat-foot off the street if that's all you need."
"I'm talking about something a little more ambitious. The mission will involve supplying state-of-the-art weaponry and equipment for a fighting force of say twenty thousand men. And training cadres and special units."
Sanchez stared at him. "That's enough to start a war! Or take over a country!"
Colgate said nothing.
"You'd better level with me, Art. Sonora, Chihuahua. That's dopers' territory. Don't get me wrong. I don't give a shit how many white boys—or black dudes—are frying their brains on crack. I just need to know what I'm getting into."
"Nothing to do with drugs. You have my word on that."
"So tell me. Is this a Company operation?"
It was the question Colgate had been waiting for, and welcomed. He was one of the rare people who habitually used the CIA as a cover. He spread his thumbs like propellers and said, "I'm not authorized to answer that question. You'll report to me. You'll be briefed on a need-to-know basis. You can take it or leave it."
"You haven't told me about the money."
'The money's good, Rico. Enough to support your bad habits. Ten thousand up front, ten thousand a month as long as the mission is operational. More if there are action requirements."
"It's the action requirements that interest me."
"We'll take this one step at a time, Rico. But I didn't pick you just to show Mexican boys how to punch holes in tin cans."
Colgate wheeled in the hookers after dinner. They were supplied by a discreet escort agency in Fairfax with whom Global Assistance had a charge account. Predictably, Sanchez gravitated toward the peroxide blonde who was stacked like an adolescent's wet dream, but he pulled the redhead into the bedroom with him as well. Later, the redhead demanded extra money, saying Sanchez had slapped her around to make her do a couple of things that were not in her standard repertoire. Sanchez was not always gentle with women.
Sanchez came out of the bedroom, his shirt flapping open over his broad chest. The girls looked scared, and demanded to be driven home.
Sanchez, however, was ready to party. "After I fuck, I like to kill something. And the other way around." He grabbed at the tall blonde's breasts, and she squealed. "You got a truck, right?" he said to Colgate. "Every farmer's got a truck. Even a fucking country squire like you."
Colgate allowed that he had an old Ford pickup, out in the barn.
"Tell you what we do," said Sanchez. "We get the truck, we get a spotlight—you have a spotlight, don't you?"
Colgate, indeed, had a new halogen model that could hurl a beam of light for two miles.
"Okay. We'll rig up the spotlight and go jack us some of those pretty whitetail deer."
Colgate protested dully that the deer season had not officially opened, and that jacking deer was illegal at any time of year, throughout the United States.
“You want me to risk my ass in Mexico," Sanchez said angrily, "and you're too gutless to go hunting some dumb animal on your own turf."
Colgate's Vietnamese butler, drawn by the shouting, came and stood in the doorway. He was a former Ranger, doggedly loyal to his master, and could kill with a pair of nunchaku sticks as reliably as with a gun.
"We're fine, Chu." Colgate waved him away. He had decided to humor Sanchez. The Mexican-American was ripped, and Colgate did not want him shooting his mouth off any more in front of the hookers. Besides, he considered Sanchez's unabated passion for blood sport a healthy symptom, at least so long as it was harnessed to his larger plan. Colgate agreed to go out in the truck; he insisted, however, that the girls be sent home.
