Ghost Sniper

31

Crosswhite sat beside Mariana on a white leather sofa in the home of Antonio Castañeda, the head of all narcotics trafficking in northern Mexico. His cooperation the year before had been instrumental in preventing Chechen terrorists from using a stolen Russian suitcase nuke to destroy the city of San Diego. In exchange for his cooperation, both the Mexican and US governments had offered Castañeda an informal truce in the “war on drugs.” The terms of the truce had been simple: Castañeda agreed to cease all violence against civilians on both sides of the border, and both federal governments agreed to stop hunting him.

Since the truce, violence against civilians in the North had dropped off to almost nil, and Castañeda had consolidated all narcotics power north of Jalisco State. This meant that not a single kilo of drugs crossed the US border without his say-so. The American DEA continued to interdict his drug shipments at will, but Castañeda was no longer targeted for capture or prosecution.

A former GAFE (Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales) operator for Mexican Special Forces, Castañeda was a bug-eyed man in his late thirties with dark hair and a dark complexion. Enjoying tequila probably far too much for the good of his health, he was a legendary womanizer and took a particular enjoyment in torturing those who betrayed him.

He sat in a white leather chair, smiling at Mariana across the black lacquer coffee table, a glass of straight tequila in his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such an unexpected visit?” he asked her in Spanish.

Mariana had been the CIA’s contact and intermediary with Castañeda since the inception of their business dealings, and Castañeda made no secret of the fact that he desired her. Secretly, Mariana feared him a great deal, but she was always careful to keep her fears hidden.

“I’m afraid we have some disturbing news for you,” she replied.

He sipped his tequila. “I am listening.”

“By all indications,” she continued, “Lazaro Serrano will be elected president of Mexico this coming July, and we have good reason to believe that he will not honor the truce after he takes office.”

Castañeda continued to smile at her, his eyes almost perpetually glassed over from the tequila. “I understand why Serrano might pose political problems for the gringo government, but I have nothing to fear from him. Serrano is corrupt, yes, but all politicians are corrupt. The truce is good business for everyone. He will respect it.”

She girded herself. “Would you feel that way if I told you Lazaro Serrano is the real power behind the Ruvalcaba cartel?”

His smile vanished. “What are you talking about?”

As planned, Crosswhite edged forward on the sofa. “Hector Ruvalcaba doesn’t run the Ruvalcabas — Lazaro Serrano does. He organizes their protection and allows them an almost free hand in Mexico City. We also have confirmation that he was behind the assassination of Alice Downly a few days ago. Serrano hates the US. He wants another outbreak of violence on the border so he can eliminate you and consolidate all Mexican drug trafficking under his own tent. That will give him unprecedented power, putting him on par here in Mexico with Carlos Slim.” Carlos Slim Helú, a Mexican telecom mogul, was the wealthiest man in the world.

Castañeda sat pondering this alarming revelation. He had long known that the Ruvalcabas enjoyed protection from within the federal government, but there had never been any trouble between the Ruvalcabas and the Castañedas. “How sure is the CIA of this intelligence?”

“Ninety-nine percent,” Mariana answered without hesitation.

Castañeda sipped his tequila, displaying a calm he did not feel. “And the CIA has sent you to see me for what reason?”

Crosswhite sat back. “To ask your help in removing Serrano.”

The former GAFE operator glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Do you think I am crazy? Assassinating a Mexican president would guarantee my destruction.”

“Yes, but Serrano isn’t president yet,” Crosswhite said carefully. “We’ve got four months before that happens, so we need to eliminate him soon — before he becomes the de facto president.”

An ever-darkening shadow was crossing Castañeda’s brow. “The fact remains you intend to leave my mark on his assassination.”

“No, we don’t,” Mariana said.

“If we do it right,” Crosswhite pressed, “your name will never be mentioned. And I can guarantee it will be done right—personally guarantee it.”

“Oh? How can you make such a ‘personal’ guarantee?”

Crosswhite stared him in the eye. “Because I’m the guy who’s gonna pull the trigger.” He postured up on the sofa. “Look, the quake down in Mexico City has wiped out the CIA intelligence network for the foreseeable future. Tens of thousands are dead — maybe more — and that mounting body count will hold the world’s attention for the next ten days or so. All I need from you is—”

“This is Pope’s idea?”

Crosswhite shook his head, knowing that lying to Castañeda could prove deadly. “Pope has me working with the PFM to bring Serrano down legally, but I think it’s better to take advantage of the quake: to use the chaos as cover. Serrano is still an unknown politico in the eyes of the outside world. Why not kill an ugly baby in the crib before it starts walking and talking and making a name for itself?”

Castañeda switched his gaze to Mariana. “Why are you willing to act without first getting Pope’s consent?”

She saw clearly that Castañeda had grown suspicious. If he realized that she and Crosswhite had gone completely off the CIA reservation, he might have Crosswhite killed and take her for himself. Mariana and Crosswhite had discussed this forbidding possibility ahead of time and decided that, in the event the meeting took a bad turn, Crosswhite would kill her instantly and try to kill Castañeda before his guards could enter the room and shoot him dead.

Dominating the fear rising up in her gut, she gazed calmly back at the man she knew to be a butcher. “Because Pope is hedging his bets,” Mariana said easily. “He wants to be in position to call the shots along the border no matter who controls the North. And while I would never say that I completely trust you, Antonio, I do believe you’re much more reliable than either Lazaro Serrano or Hector Ruvalcaba.”

Castañeda chortled, remarking, “Más vale malo por conocido que bueno por conocer,” which translated roughly as, You prefer the bad guy you know to the good guy you don’t.”

She smiled. “Más o menos.” More or less.

“It appears, then, I have no real choice,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your man Pope respects the truce but shows me no loyalty. Whereas you, my beautiful Mariana, you understand the value of trust.”

“We have always been honest with each other,” she said, ignoring his flattery as usual. “And I think such a rapport is worth something, yes?”

He nodded, shifting back to Crosswhite. “Suppose Pope is angry with you for killing Serrano — or the PFM comes after you?”

“That will be my problem,” Crosswhite said. “As I’ve told you already, your name will never be mentioned.”

Castañeda sat mulling the circumstances, seeing clearly that foreigners were still using the tactic of divide and conquer to manipulate the destiny of Mexico — and seeing equally that he was in no better a position to alter that paradigm than any of his predecessors. At length, he picked up his glass, finished the tequila, and set the glass back down.

“Very well. How I can help rid my country of the dog Serrano?”