Damage Control (23 page)

Venice wanted to hang up, to run away, but she didn’t. If the phones hadn’t been encrypted, this would be the time to break the connection, before the bad guys could trace it back. As it was, the phones and their signals were untraceable, and it therefore posed no harm for Venice to remain on the line.

“Who are you?” she asked. She winced at the tremor in her voice.

“That’s a stupid question,” a man said. “If you’ve been listening, then you know I’m the guy who just killed your friends. Have a nice day.”

The line went dead.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

B
y the time Captain Ernesto Palma arrived at the site of the massacre, all but one of the bodies had been pulled back up to the road. They were twisted and horribly burned, but he was able to recognize a couple of the faces. The stench in the morning heat nearly overwhelmed him. The others on the scene—a couple of local police officers plus the three soldiers he’d brought with him—stood silently, clearly waiting to see how he would react. Their silence somehow amplified the noise of the flies.

Despite the damage done by the fire, they’d obviously been shot. Each in the head, for sure, but in at least one case, he saw blood on a soldier’s shirt that indicated a back wound as well.

“It appears they were executed,” said Cayo Almanza, the police corporal who commanded the local authorities.

“Does it?” Palma asked.

“I believe so. Clearly they were shot in the backs of their heads.”

The erupted foreheads told him that much. “Execution is a loaded word, Corporal.”

“How else to explain it? They appear to have been shot and then shoved into the vehicle to cover up the murder.”

Palma knew that the corporal was wrong about the execution, yet he decided to let the misperception lie unchallenged. “As you say,” he said. It was a sentence he’d found to be useful over the years to leave people in a kind of limbo, wondering whether he’d just agreed or disagreed with what they’d said. Palma enjoyed keeping people on edge. Nervous people were easier to work with.

“I believe that this was the work of the American missionaries,” Almanza said.

On that, the corporal was almost certainly correct, but again Palma said nothing.

“The alternative would be that it is the work of the cartels.” For whatever reason, it seemed important to Almanza that he impress Palma. The idiot had no way of knowing that the work of the cartel and the work of the missionaries were one and the same. Even the missionaries didn’t know that.

While no one but their families would mourn the loss of the soldiers who had been killed in the past two days, the rising body count could begin to project weakness, and the perception of weakness could unnecessarily complicate everyone’s lives.

“Who found the bodies?” Palma asked.

“A businessman on his way over to Santo Miguel. His name is Emilio Madrigal. He was driving—”

“Is he still here?” Palma had no interest in hearing what had been told to someone else. He wanted to hear the details firsthand.

“Of course, Captain.” Almanza pointed back toward the road. “I knew that you would want to speak with him.” He started to lead the way, but Palma wasn’t quite ready.

“Sergeant Nazario?”

A young, handsome, and impossibly fit young man took a step closer. “Yes, Captain?”

“I believe that your comrades have been gawked at quite enough. There are disaster pouches in the back of the truck. See to it that the bodies are treated with respect.”

“Yes, sir.” Nazario turned to the remaining soldiers and set them to work.

Palma watched them for a few seconds, and then started for the road, grateful to have a reason to turn away from the carnage. Corporal Almanza led the way out of the jungle and across the road toward a rotund middle-aged man whose posture and pallid skin color spoke of profound illness or crippling fear. Under the circumstances, Palma favored the latter. The man sat on the ground near the edge of the jungle on the opposite side with his legs crossed, and his arms outstretched behind him to allow for his substantial girth.

“Mr. Madrigal!” Almanza called as they approached. “On your feet.”

That was easier said than done. Madrigal rolled to his side and then onto his knees in order to find his feet. By the time he’d arisen, Palma was only a few feet away. He offered his hand. “I am Captain Palma.”

“Emilio Madrigal.” His handshake was wet.

“Tell me,” Palma said.

Madrigal spoke quickly, as if anxious to free himself from the memory. “I was on my way to Santo Miguel. I am a manufacturer’s representative for auto parts, and I was on my way to pay a service call to several of the car dealers up there. When I turned that curve over there, I saw the smoke billowing up over the rise, so I stopped and looked. I saw the path that the vehicle had cut through the bushes, and then as I got closer to the edge, I saw that a car was on fire, and I thought I saw that people had been thrown clear of it.”

“Did you go down to check out the scene?” Almanza asked.

Palma gave him a harsh look. “Leave us, Corporal,” Palma said.

The policeman looked stunned.

Palma glared, waiting for Almanza to comply with his order. When he’d slunk away, Palma returned his attention to Madrigal. “You were saying?”

“Well, I was shocked. Not able to help—I am not a man who climbs steep slopes, if you know what I mean—I went back to my truck and I called the police.”

Palma studied the man. “I heard a report that you then drove away. Is that correct?”

His posture spoke of fear. “I won’t lie to you, Captain. I was very frightened. I saw buzzards starting to circle overhead. My heart is not as strong as it once was. Once I’d made the phone call to alert the police, I wanted to get away from here. Then within a few minutes, my dispatcher called and told me to come back here to wait for the police.”

Palma had a proven record of correctly judging people’s character during interrogations. Emilio Madrigal impressed him as a hard worker who had stumbled into a frightening scene.

“Did you give someone from the police your name and contact information?” Palma asked.

Madrigal nodded enthusiastically. He seemed to sense that he was about to be released. “Yes, sir. Three times, in fact.”

“Are you planning to travel in the next week or so?”

“Only within my territory for work. Driving range.”

Palma saw no reason to make him stay any longer. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Madrigal. You may go.”

The man looked like he might cry. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you very much.”

Palma started to return to the bodies when a new thought occurred to him. “Mr. Madrigal!” he called.

Madrigal turned.

“If you need to speak to me about this further, please give me a call.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and a pen from the pocket of his uniform blouse. He circled a number on the card. “This is my cell phone,” he said.

Madrigal took the card, but hesitantly. “Did I forget to tell you something, Captain?”

Palma offered a cold smile. “I hope not,” he said. “But only you can answer that question honestly.” He meant his words to be chilling, and it was obvious they’d had the desired effect.

“Certainly,” Madrigal said. He hesitated, looked back, and then returned to his red pickup truck.

As soon as Madrigal walked away, Almanza reappeared to fill the vacuum. He seemed at once excited and disappointed. “Alas, Captain, perhaps I was wrong.” He displayed a shell casing in his open palm. “The reports said that the missionaries were using five-five-six and seven-six-two millimeter ammunition. This casing is much smaller. In fact, I’ve never seen so small a bullet.”

Palma’s stomach twisted as he took the casing from the corporal and examined it more closely. This was the 4.6-millimeter ammunition that was the new favorite of the American Special Forces. What did that mean? What it
could
mean was that he—as well as Felix Hernandez—had been lied to. They’d both received specific assurances that the American government would not interfere.

“An interesting piece of evidence,” Palma said. “But it does not rule out the American missionaries.”

“So you believe they have many weapons?”

Palma nodded to the section of the jungle where the bodies were being cared for by Sergeant Nazario. “They have at least six rifles and six sidearms that they did not have before this incident happened.”

Almanza let that sink in silently. Something changed behind his eyes as it seemed to dawn on him for the first time that Palma knew more than he was sharing. “Do you know where these men came from?” he asked.

“They worked for me, Corporal. Of course I know.”

“I need to know as well,” Almanza said. “I need to know anything that will help in the investigation.”

Palma pursed his lips and made himself taller. “Actually, Corporal, you need to know what I decide to share with you. Nothing more.”

Almanza’s face reddened. “It is my job, not yours, to investigate crimes. I understand that these murdered men were in the Army—”

“You think too much of yourself, Corporal Almanza,” Palma interrupted. “Or perhaps you believe that I think too much of you. We both know that your job is to
pretend
to enforce laws, much as I
pretend
to serve our commander in chief. In reality, we all serve Felix Hernandez.”

The corporal’s face darkened still more. “That is not so!”

“It
is
so. I know it is so because you are still alive. Such cannot be said of so many men with badges who chose to fight the inevitable. You live to pretend, and you pretend so that you can live. We can say this out loud because there are no reporters here. The president himself pretends because he, too, has children and parents and siblings. He knows that one day he will no longer be president, and when he no longer has his security detail, he does not wish to be spirited off in the night to have his joints crushed and his private parts shredded.”

As Almanza listened, he lurched his head from side to side, worried that his men might hear.

“Do you think they are different, Corporal?” Palma went on. “Do you believe that anyone on any police force in Mexico wishes to see their families killed? These games of pretend in which we engage are the worst kept secrets in the whole country. We do it to allow the population to believe that the government is in control, but in their quiet moments, I’m sure that every citizen understands the reality.”

“I do not appreciate being lectured to like a schoolboy,” Almanza said.

“I’m sure that no one would. That’s why I’m urging you not to be as naïve as a schoolboy.” Palma said this in a way that he hoped would not sound patronizing. It made no sense to anger the man. “I will ask you this as a favor, then. Would you please be so kind as to allow me to conduct this investigation, and to stay out of my way while I do it?”

“What will I tell my superiors?”

Palma placed a hand on the corporal’s shoulder. “Tell them that you are acting at the request of Captain Ernesto Palma, and that Captain Ernesto Palma is working very closely with Felix Hernandez.” He gave Almanza a few seconds to absorb the full meaning of his words. “Once your superiors hear that, I think they will understand. Don’t you?”

Once the bodies of his men were properly bagged, Palma left them in the custody of Corporal Almanza, with very specific instructions to have them delivered to military authorities who would manage the details of notifying families. On the one hand, it felt like a waste of precious time to go through all the ceremonial rigmarole, but on the other, he understood the importance of such things to his men. Soldiers made many sacrifices in service to their country. Often, the only true respect they ever saw was that which came in death. Palma did not consider himself to be a sentimental man, but even he could understand the need for dignity.

Besides, so much time had already elapsed that an extra forty-five minutes would likely make no difference. Now that it was done, he and his soldiers were driving north. He didn’t yet know what the Americans’ plan was, but logic dictated that it included return to their country, and the only way to get there was to head north. By his estimation, the Americans had at most a five-hour head start.

Palma had alerted his forces along the coast to keep an eye on the marinas and the ports, but his instincts told him that the Americans would stay to the interior. That’s what he would do if he were in their position. Traveling by land left near infinite options for evasion. Once on the water, they would be exposed to too many interdiction assets, not the least of which would be the ones designed to keep them out of their own country, now that they were the subject of an international warrant.

Sergeant Nazario drove their Sandcat, and Palma could tell from his posture alone that the man was uncomfortable. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Sergeant,” Palma said.

The driver’s ears reddened. He hesitated.

“You may speak freely,” Palma said.

The sergeant settled himself with a deep breath. “Sir, the men are concerned about the killings.” He spoke softly, despite the noise from the engine, which would drown out any possibility of being heard by the soldiers in the back.

“I’m concerned about them, too,” Palma said.

“That’s not what I mean. Nothing has gone right in this mission. It has the feel of being cursed.”

Palma shot his driver a disgusted look. “Are you believing in ghosts and goblins now, Sergeant?”

Nazario laughed without humor. “Not me, sir. But some of the boys. Not ghosts and goblins perhaps, but you have to agree that the corpses are stacking up.”

Indeed they were. And Palma knew how susceptible soldiers could be to superstitious nonsense. The mere suggestion of a curse could make perceptions of bad luck become self-fulfilling.

“The killing of those soldiers was a terrible thing,” Palma said. “But the kidnappers? Their deaths speak of good luck, not bad.”

“I understand, sir. And I agree with you. But even the ambush went bad.”