She hesitated. “Why?”
“You may not ask me questions,” he said. He knew precisely the right tone to use, and saw its effect in her rigid reaction, as if he had slapped her. Mexico City’s culture of violence made intimidation easy for men like him. People were quick to believe that their luck had finally run out and that they had at last been caught up in the city’s notorious grotesquerie of crime.
“Who is he?” Mondragon repeated.
“Daniel Spota.”
“And…”
“He is the man seeing my sister Carleta.”
“How long has she been seeing him?”
“Off and on for maybe a year.”
“He lives here?”
“He lives in Bogota.”
“You’ve met him? Talked to him?”
“Three or four times.”
Mondragon regarded her a moment. Had she actually been around Ghazi Baida with his new face and not recognized something familiar about him? Had she really been duped? Or was she covering for him? Would she not recognize Mondragon, then? She would have no reason to. After all, Baida thought Mondragon was dead, so if she was indeed collaborating with him, she would have no reason to think of Mondragon. The old days were just that, old and gone, never to return. Ever.
“I need to talk to this Spota,” Mondragon said. “How can I get in touch with him?”
“I don’t know.” She paused. “He dates my sister when he is in the city. That’s all I know.” Another pause. “Really, I don’t know,” she protested.
“What is your sister’s address?”
Estele was looking at him, eyes wide. She swallowed. Mondragon could see her thinking, running through her options. If Estele was completely innocent, she would give this Spota over immediately if she could. If not, she would try to play this out in some elaborate way.
“I need to see Spota as soon as possible,” Mondragon said.
For once, the haughty Estele de Leon Pheres was bewildered, incapable of uttering a sentence.
“Ah, the Lebanese stick together, don’t they, Estele?”
Suddenly, even through her fear, her eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” Mondragon said. “I know all about the Lebanese. Are you going to help me?”
She gaped at him, unable to decide on her best course of action.
“I’m going to have my men come in here, take off your clothes, and take turns with you,” he said. “And then I’ll have them bring Carleta in here and take turns with her. And then I’ll have your little sister, Juana, brought in here. Ah! Yes, of course,” he said, noting her surprised reaction, “I know about her, too. And so many other things. Anyway, sooner or later one of you is going to tell me how I can find Senor… Spota.”
He stood up and started toward the door, skirting the edge of the light as she followed him with her eyes. Suddenly, she stood, too.
“Wait.” She was kneading her hands. “What-how do I know you will protect us?”
“Protect you?”
“You have to promise this can’t be traced back to me.”
He turned to her and took a step toward her. “I’m here to get information, Estele, not to offer protection, not to make promises. You have to give me what I want. Beyond that, I don’t give a shit what happens to you.”
She stared at him, appalled at his crude response and at the stark hopelessness of her situation.
He walked out of the room, leaving her standing under the bleak light, alone.
Chapter 40
Kevern didn’t waste any time moving on the information Bern had given him. First, he introduced Bern to the other three people in his unit. The whole tenor of the operation had changed on a dime, and now Bern needed to start feeling as if he could depend on these people, that he was tied to them, that he was no longer out there working alone.
Then Kevern immediately called Mondragon and told him to stand down. “Just hold off doing anything until I get in touch with you again,” Kevern said. “I’ll explain everything later.”
Kevern was pumped way past any operational high that he had ever experienced, except in a life-threatening situation. But he had his enthusiasm well under control. It wasn’t hard to do. Things weren’t rosy by any means. Bern’s account of the events of the last twelve hours revealed the best and the worst thing that could have happened. A defection by someone of Ghazi Baida’s stature would be the crowning achievement of a career. A huge, huge coup, one that would wash over a lot of past sins.
On the other hand, Susana’s disappearance was a potential disaster. If she was killed, the blowback could create a shit storm in any number of different directions. Baida’s defection would have to be judged in light of the loss of a highly trained clandestine operative. Somebody would have to pay for a loss like that.
In Kevern’s mind, however, Baida’s defection, if Kevern could pull it off, would wash away the other disasters, if they didn’t develop into anything monstrous. But if he couldn’t make it work, this was the end of his life. So, in for the bet, in for the pot: He decided not to call Richard Gordon about any of this. He would play it out a little way first, see where it was going, see what his chances were for redemption.
A lot would depend on the continuing success of the long-shot role of Paul Bern. Kevern had passed along to Gordon that Bern had successfully encountered Mazen Sabella and Ghazi Baida and was now waiting for a confirmation for a second meeting. Like Kevern, Gordon was stunned by Bern’s ballsy drive. Mondragon’s harebrained long shot had succeeded-so far.
But now Bern was going to have to keep it up, and it would be Kevern’s responsibility to keep him focused. Right now, he could tell that Bern was distracted, and he knew why.
He grabbed a soft drink from a Styrofoam cooler sitting on the floor by his desk, pulled a chair over in front of Bern, and sat down. Bern was still sitting in the chair they had given him when he rushed into the room. He had just about emptied his water bottle after almost an hour’s debriefing. Kevern knew that the stress of Bern’s situation had to be weighing heavily on him.
Jack Petersen had gone back down to his post in the building’s foyer, while Mattie and Lupe were busy with chores that Kevern had barked out to them earlier. Mattie was sitting at a makeshift table, poring over a computer screen, while Lupe was on the other side of the room, her back turned to them, talking into her cell phone, her voice a discreet murmur.
Kevern popped the top on the soft-drink can, tugged at the thighs of his pants, and took a sip, keeping his eyes on Bern. A soft groan that seemed to be squeezed out of him preceded his words.
“Look,” he said trying to sound like he was on top of this thing, “we may not know who’s got Susana, but we know she’s okay, because whoever’s got her wants something from us, and her continued good health is their ticket. There’s not a damn thing we can do about it until they contact us and tell us who they are and what it is they want. Then we can start working on a strategy.”
Kevern saw something shift in Bern’s face, an expression that reminded him of Jude when Jude thought he was about to get screwed, or slighted, or not be taken as seriously as he thought he should be. It was a look Kevern had always hated to see because it had meant that Jude was digging in. That he was circling his wagons around his team. .. his team of one. Jude had always thought that if he had to, he could fight-and win-every war by himself. When he hit that resolve, anything could happen. Kevern did not like seeing that look in the face of his twin brother.
“Go ahead,” Kevern said, “spit it out.”
“This will be over, sooner or later,” Bern said. “Don’t lie to me now, because I won’t forget it. And I don’t have anything to lose in this game.”
“Fair enough,” Kevern said. He understood. You didn’t spend a few days and nights with a woman like
