The Sniper and the Wolf

22

It was midday as cartel boss Antonio Castañeda sat down across from agent Mariana Mederos at a street-side café in the tourist section of Puerto Vallarta where the local police had been told to regard Castañeda as nothing more than a harmless apparition. He had first met Mariana during the previous September, shortly after Chechen terrorists had detonated the Russian suitcase nuke in one of Castañeda’s tunnels running beneath the Mexican border with New Mexico. Castañeda may have been a ruthless drug lord, but even he wasn’t willing to allow the traffic of nuclear weapons on Mexican soil.

Realizing that the Chechen liaison had lied to him about the true nature of the shipment, Castañeda had him tortured, extracting all information about the remaining suitcase nuke before ordering his throat cut. The subsequent assistance that Castañeda provided to the CIA had been instrumental in averting a successful nuclear strike against the home port of the US Pacific Fleet in San Diego Bay. For this reason, both the CIA and the Mexican PFM (Policía Federal Ministerial) had since cultivated a tacit working relationship with the Castañeda cartel.

Castañeda had agreed to cease all violence against civilians and to provide any information he could regarding future Muslim terrorists attempting to operate in Mexico. In exchange, no direct action would be taken against Castañeda’s person by either government. Many of his drug shipments were still being interdicted at the border, but that didn’t really matter. He continued making millions, and the freedom from having to live as a fugitive more than made up for any such losses.

Castañeda looked at Mariana and smiled, his bulbous eyes protruding slightly. He said in Spanish, “It’s good to see you again, Señorita Mederos. You have more curves than I remember. Your new position in Langley must be treating you well.”

Mariana smiled dryly, aware that she’d gained a couple of pounds since being given her own office at headquarters along with a significant augmentation in salary. Castañeda’s remark, however, caused her to instantly resolve to resume her previous exercise regimen as soon as she returned to the States.

“I have no complaints,” she answered in the same language.

“Nor do I. You were shaped like a white woman before, but now you’re shaped like a Latina — as you should be.”

“We’re not here to discuss my anatomy.” Mariana was all too aware that Castañeda was a mujeriego — a womanizer — and a dangerous one at that.

He signaled the waiter and ordered himself a tequila on the rocks, taking the liberty to order Mariana a gin and tonic. “That is your drink, is it not?” His gaze was level, penetrating.

“A lot of people drink gin,” she replied with a smile, hiding her discomfort at his knowledge of her personal tastes and wondering what else he might know.

“So,” he said, satisfied to have her guessing, “why are we here? What does the CIA want from me now?”

She set a flash drive on the table. “Everything you’ll need is there. We have a traitor on our hands, and he’s taken refuge in Mexico City. It can’t look like the US government had anything to do with his… expulsion.”

“Su expulsión!” Castañeda said, chortling. “So now the CIA is hiring me to do their assassinations. Oh, the hypocrisy of life seems to have no limitations.”

“We’re not hiring you do anything. Your assistance in this matter is conditional upon your ongoing truce with the US government.”

“And with my own government?”

“The Mexican government is to know nothing about this,” she said, sitting back so the waiter could set her drink on the table, and then switching to English. “Your government asks for favors, mine asks for favors, and everyone gets along. There’s plenty of precedent for such an arrangement. And you’ve done a good job of holding up your end: violence is down, tourism is up, and everyone’s happy — so far.”

He lifted his drink. “La chingada DEA cerró uno de mis túneles la semana pasada.” The fucking DEA closed one of my tunnels last week.

She shrugged. “The truce protects you — not your tunnels and not your drugs.”

He tucked the flash drive into the pocket of his black guayabera shirt. “Do you dance, Mariana?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m back on a plane in two hours — but I do appreciate the drink.”