Jihad

CHAPTER 118

On his way over to interview the owner of the Mexico City restaurant where Kenan had apparently eaten during his first visit, a thug sidled up next to Charlie Dean and tried to steal his wallet. The would-be thief made the mistake of grabbing Dean’s arm and twisting it behind him; Dean promptly threw the man to the ground, then swung back in time to land a hay-maker on the jaw of an accomplice. The plainclothes Mexican detective accompanying Dean grabbed both, offering Dean a chance at “instant justice” as he called it: five minutes in the alley with each of them, and they’d call it even. Dean passed.

It was the highlight of his day. The restaurant owner didn’t remember Kenan, nor did any of the staff; they seemed so harried that Dean didn’t doubt they wouldn’t remember his face in five minutes. Everything the Mexican police knew about al-Qaeda came from reports Dean had read on the way down. Though the deputy chief in charge of terrorism matters was exceedingly polite, Dean could tell that looking for Kenan would have about the same priority for the overworked department as rescuing a cat stuck in a tree.

As for the CIA — the officer who was supposed to pick up Dean at the hotel got stuck in traffic and never showed up. Dean finally found his own ride to the embassy, where he got a half-hour lecture on the problems of dealing with the Mexican authorities from the deputy station chief.

The FBI agents assigned to the city to assist in terrorism investigations were more receptive — not to mention punctual — but they didn’t have much useful information either. Most of what they knew about related to guerilla groups and drug smugglers far outside the city; Kenan’s name and face drew shrugs. But at least they offered to take him to dinner.

“Try Veracruz tomorrow,” Telach told Dean when he checked in. “If we come up with anything for you to check out in the meantime, we’ll let you know.”