Myers stiffened. “All I know right now is that the Castillo boys are the prime suspects—the
The room sat in chastised silence until Jeffers finally spoke up. “Yes. Perfectly clear.”
“Then call Eddleston and get him over here ASAP, and let’s get Ambassador Romero on the line. I want this handled with kid gloves—but I want it handled now. And I don’t want the press involved. No point in putting more pressure on Barraza. I want to give him every possible leeway to pursue the matter in a way that makes sense for him. But we’re going to get to the bottom of this Castillo thing, one way or another.”
Myers stood up. So did everyone else.
The meeting was over. Everybody filed out except Jeffers. When the room was clear, Jeffers asked, “Greyhill’s going to be a problem, isn’t he?”
“The vice president has decades of experience in foreign affairs, which I value greatly. I think a goodwill tour of our G-8 allies by the vice president would be greatly beneficial to the nation, don’t you?” Myers said.
“The G-20 might be more… timely,” Jeffers offered, smiling. “You might want to toss in a few base closings and a couple of funerals while you’re at it.”
“Agreed. Please make the necessary arrangements. I’ll call Robert tonight with the good news. He always wanted to be somebody important.”
11
Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.
In his offices in Los Pinos, the Mexican White House, President Antonio Guillermo Barraza sat on one of the couches in an elegantly tailored suit. Tall and athletic, the president of Mexico had been a leading man in a number of Spanish-language films before turning to a career in politics. With strong endorsements from the business establishment and several state governors, the gifted speaker with an affable smile was quickly dubbed the “Ronald Reagan of Mexico” when he first announced his candidacy.
Sitting on the same couch was his brother, Hernan. Though five years younger than his movie-star sibling, Hernan appeared to be a decade older. Short, pudgy, and scarred with acne, the younger Barraza lacked all of the outward physical gifts the gods had bestowed upon his brother, but he possessed a brilliant mind hidden beneath his pathetic comb-over, far eclipsing the president’s limited intellect. While his older brother virtually fell into fame and fortune, Hernan battled his way through law school to become first in his class, then clawed his way to the top of his law firm, earning a well-deserved reputation as a ruthless and fearsome corporate litigator. This laid the groundwork for his ultimate ambition, politics, and over the last two decades Hernan had become Mexico’s most accomplished political operative. It was only in the last few years that the two brothers’ career paths came together.
On the couch opposite both of them sat the American ambassador to Mexico, Frank Romero. Ambassador Romero was a former pro golfer and heir to one of the largest private vineyards in Napa Valley. Romero had been the youngest lieutenant governor in California history and was a rising star in the Democratic party until he bucked his governor and endorsed Margaret Myers’s candidacy for president. But the gamble had paid off in spades, and Romero won the coveted ambassadorship to Mexico, a country he and his family knew intimately.
All three men held snifters of Casa Dragones, a premium sipping tequila, clear as the cut-crystal decanter it came in. Hernan sat motionless, studying the glass in his hands through the thick lenses of his Clark Kent glasses, as the other two men talked.
“A ‘discreet inquiry’? Is such a thing even possible anymore?” President Barraza joked.
“You can well imagine President Myers’s desire to bring this issue to a swift conclusion. If the Castillos are innocent, an inquiry shouldn’t be a problem,” Romero said.
“It seems to me, Frank, that the case you’ve presented is unpersuasive. My attorney general has gone over everything you sent. She agrees with me that there is no conclusive evidence linking the Castillos to the massacre.” President Barraza’s English was flawless, but he added in Spanish,
“Of course, Mr. President. We’re not accusing anybody of anything. But it’s precisely because we’re in the dark that we’re searching for any kind of lead we can find. All we’d like to do is to speak to Mr. Castillo and his two sons. Where’s the harm in that?” Romero took another sip of tequila.
“Cesar Castillo is a law-abiding citizen of Mexico. He also happens to be the CEO of Mexico’s largest agricultural combine—our number one supplier of fruits and vegetables to the American market. As a vertically integrated concern, his company also manufactures fertilizers and pesticides for their thousands of acres of productive land, but he exports those chemical products around the world as well. Insulting Mr. Castillo is like insulting Mexico itself, and he’s a very proud man. More important, he is a very private man. Personally, I’ve never met him. I don’t think he’s even appeared in public in over five years.”
“Forgive me, Mr. President, but it almost sounds like he’s in hiding. How is a legitimate businessman able to do business like that?”
President Barraza laughed. “The same way the American billionaire recluse Howard Hughes built his aviation empire, I suppose.”
“But if the man and his sons aren’t hiding anything, why not answer a few simple questions?” Romero asked.
“Because the very question itself is a veiled accusation and an implication of wrongdoing that is all the more damaging for the truly innocent. Right now, you say that you don’t know who the real killers are. So tell me, Frank, in the interest of resolving the issue, should I instruct our attorney general to question President Myers as to
“She would be angry and insulted, certainly. But that would be a ridiculous request. There’s no reason to suspect—”
President Barraza held up his hand. “No need to explain, Frank. I agree. But you get my point, don’t you? Rightly or wrongly, Cesar Castillo would feel as justified in his resentment as President Myers would in hers.”
The president rose and crossed over to the credenza, making a beeline for the bottle of Casa Dragones.
“I hope President Myers understands how completely sympathetic I am to her situation, both in regard to the death of her son, as well as the political difficulties she now faces. I hope that she can appreciate my difficulties as well.” Barraza flashed his million-watt smile.
“Unfortunately, Mr. President, there are members of our Congress who are very capable of stirring up trouble for both of our countries. The amnesty bill, the guest-worker program, the NAFTA renegotiation—all of these things that both of our governments want will be difficult if not impossible to achieve if your government is seen as the least bit hesitant to bring this case to a just and equitable conclusion.”
President Barraza hovered over Romero and refilled his glass.
“This really is a marvelous tequila. Sweet pear and citrus notes with a pepper finish. I’m going to have to buy a case,” Romero said.
“No need. I’ll have one sent over this afternoon.” The president crossed over to his brother and refilled his glass, then set the bottle down on the coffee table between them. He took his seat.
Hernan Barraza rolled the snifter between his stubby fingers, never lifting his eyes from it as he finally spoke. “My associates in the distillery business pray for the day you Americans make liquor illegal again—it would quadruple their profits.” He swirled the liquor in the glass and sniffed the aroma. “Cartels make drugs, but it’s your politicians who make the laws that make the cartels rich. The drug problem, as we all know, is a demand problem, not a supply problem. If you Americans had an insatiable lust for tomatoes, we wouldn’t be having this conversation today, and maybe we would have been spilling tomatillo sauce instead of blood all these years.”
Hernan finally looked up from his glass. He smiled at Romero with his sad eyes and a mouth full of small,
