The Last Line (34 page)

A misstep … but not a serious one. Barrón had not mentioned the name Morales. He
had
reacted at Teller's mention of “the Skull,” however. Were the two names the same man?

“We know about Calavera, of course,” Teller told him. “What I meant was, who exactly is he in the organization?”

A shrug. “One of El Chapo's lieutenants.”

“Is he as high ranking as, say, Hector Gallardo?”

“No. I don't think so. It's … hard to tell, sometimes. People move up in favor … people move down. Calavera's star, it is in the ascendency right now.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because he was the one who was approached by Pasha. And it was his idea to rent the Russian submarine.”

“Pasha?”

“The Iranian. That was his code name. I forget his real name.”

“So what are the Iranians doing in Mexico, Enrico?”

“I don't know.”

“Ah! Wrong answer,” Procario said. “Sounds like you're going for a swim.”

“No! I swear I don't know! There was some sort of top secret plan, something brought in by the Iranians, but that was all Escalante and Guzmán! Pasha, he came to Guzmán with this idea he called ‘Operation Shah Mat,' okay?”

“Shah Mat?” Teller asked.

“Yeah. Don't know what that means. But to make it work, the Iranians wanted us to set up a truce between the damned Zetas and Sinaloa. Escalante—he had connections with both groups, so he set it up. That way, the Zetas wouldn't screw up the operation with us, and vice versa, you know? And Agustín Morales, he had the idea for using the submarine.”

“And where is the submarine going?” Procario asked.

“I … I don't know.”

“Damn! Wrong answer
again,
” Teller said. He looked at Procario. “I'll go talk to the pilot.”

“We
know
what's on board that submarine,” Procario said. “Do you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Look, there was a … a shipment of some kind coming in on a cargo ship! I don't know what it was. No one told me!”

“Uh-huh,” Teller said. “And I suppose you don't know where the sub was going?”

Again Teller caught a look behind Barrón's eyes, calculating, evasive. “No. We … we often use submarines to move merchandise to
el norte
. Florida … the Gulf Coast…”

“I see.” Teller decided to try a different tactic. Clearly, while Barrón was trying to bargain with the two INSCOM officers, he was still far more terrified of his own people than he was of them.

That gave Teller something with which he could work.

Torture was not an efficient way to get information out of a prisoner, not when he would say anything, anything at all, to make the pain stop. Even if Teller had been inclined to use rough treatment on Barrón—and he was not—there were so many ways that the use of torture could backfire. The issue was still extremely sensitive; waterboarding—bringing suspected Muslim terrorists close to drowning in order to get them to reveal details of terror plots against the United States—had been banned by President Obama. When a prisoner knew something of vital importance to his captors … if that information might save thousands or lives … or millions …
was torture ever justified?

Teller didn't think it was. Sometimes, though, during a tough interrogation, it was useful to create the impression that torture
was
an option. The trouble was that most of America's enemies knew by now that American law forbade the use of any form of physical torture, and that most American interrogators wouldn't dare use it.

There might still be one threat Teller and Procario could use.

He clapped Barrón on the shoulder. “Okay, amigo, I'll tell you what. We're going to let you go.”

Procario looked up at him, startled. “What the hell?”

“No, I mean it. There are some things you're just not going to tell us. We understand that. As soon as we get to Eglin, we'll put you on a private plane to take you straight back to Mexico.”

Barrón's eyes narrowed. “What's the catch?”

“No catch at all. We'll just let CISEN know how very helpful you've been in our investigation—Miguel de la Cruz in particular. You know … so they can protect you.”

Procario saw immediately what Teller was doing. “That's good. We could also pass the word to the
federales.
Oh, and Juan Escalante, too.”

“Sure,” Teller said. “He'll pass the word both to Guzmán and to the Zetas. I imagine they'll be
real
interested in knowing that you're back in the country.”

“Sounds good,” Procario added. “We'll arrange to transfer you directly to CISEN officers. So they can arrange for you to be in protective custody.”

“¡Hijo de puta!”
The words were a shrill, panic-stricken scream. Barrón's eyes bulged in his face as he broke into a cold sweat.

“Now, now,” Procario said gently. “Language. There are ladies present.”

“
You bastards!
I won't survive for one hour!”

“Oh, I don't know about that, amigo,” Teller said. “I've seen the handiwork of some of your former friends. That young couple strung up from a bridge in Nuevo Laredo? And then there was a CIA agent named Henrico Garcia. Looked to me like they kept him alive for a
long
time after they started working on him.”

“Hey, how about Garcia?” Procario asked. “That was your boss's work, wasn't it? Morales? Or did you help?”

Teller nodded. “You
do
know that sending Garcia's head back to Langley was tantamount to declaring war on the CIA, don't you?”

“That wasn't me! It was Morales!”

“Yeah, we know all about Agustín Morales,” Teller said. “He came to work for us, but it turned out he was doubling. Betrayed Garcia, who was also working for us. Who was it who tortured that poor guy to death, huh? Your boss Morales? Were you in on that? Or did they bring in a special interrogator?”

“You know, I think you
were
there when they cut Garcia up,” Procario said. “You wouldn't be this scared if you hadn't seen it yourself. Maybe you even helped.”

“No! No! I had nothing to do with …
please!
You can't do this thing!”

Teller tsk-tsked loudly. “There you go again, Enrico, telling us what we can and can't do. Bad habit.”

“Just how long do you think they'll keep you alive, Enrico?” Procario added. “While they're working on you, I mean, taking you apart one small piece at a time. I imagine it will be at least a few days. A week, maybe?”

“Longer,” Teller said.

“I think so. Will you still be alive when they slice off your genitals and sew them into your mouth?”

“Oh, I think we can count on that, Frank,” Teller said, his tone casually conversational.

“Yeah, if they're careful, he won't even bleed to death. Especially if they use a hot iron to cauterize the wound.”

“Hell, he'll probably still have his eyes at that point, so he can watch what they're doing. Betcha they save the eyes for the very last—”

“Stop it! Stop it!
¡Por el amor de Dios!
” He was sobbing now, pulling and wrenching desperately against the plastic strip around his wrists. “I don't know where the submarine is going, I
swear
I don't, but I heard Morales talking to Escalante about a couple of
norteamericano
cities burning soon, and that it was going to be Aztlán's Fourth of July!”

Teller studied Barrón's contorted features, then exchanged a nod with Procario. Barrón had broken, and it looked genuine. “What cities?” Teller demanded.

“No! You gotta promise me you're not going to let those people get hold of me!”

“Tell you what,” Procario said. “Tell us everything you know—and I mean
everything
—and we'll turn you over to the U.S. Marshals Service in Florida. You'll stay with them for a while, someplace cozy and safe. If we find out you've been dealing straight with us, we'll put in a good word for you, let them know you cooperated with us.”

“If they decide to prosecute,” Teller said, “you'll end up in prison, but you know what? Even Supermax is better than what'll be waiting for you back home if we spread the word that you helped us. If we find out you've lied about
anything,
we send you straight back to Mexico, and we make sure that Sinaloa and Los Zetas both know
exactly
how much you told us. Me and Frank here will be running a pool, taking bets on how long you stay alive and in one piece.”

“Yeah, your friends back there,” Procario said, “they don't really seem to be the kind to forgive and forget, y'know?”

“So,” Teller added, “let's start with two stolen nuclear weapons on board a Russian submarine. We want to know exactly what time they left Belize, and we want to know where they're headed.”

“And after that,” Procario said, “you can tell us everything you know about Aztlán.”

“I don't know where they're going,” Barrón said. Tears streamed down his face. “I
swear
I don't know.”

“Lo sé,”
a woman's voice said from a seat behind them. Maria Perez spoke only broken English, but she'd been listening in—and evidently she'd understood. “I know. Juan, he tell me.”

Teller turned in his seat to look at her. She was wearing a robe and fuzzy slippers given to her by the woman living with Antonio Vicente, covering her flimsy nightgown. Her face was drawn and haggard. Dominique was sitting next to her.

“What did he tell you, Señorita Perez?”

“Que Irán tiene dos bombas—bombas atómicas—por dos ciudades en los Estados Unidos.”

That Iran has two atomic bombs for two U.S. cities. Teller felt a cold chill at this, the first independent verification that there really were two nukes out there. Even Castro, the merchant sailor off the
Zapoteca,
had thought the cases containing the weapons had held precursor chemicals for drugs.

“¿Que ciudades, Maria?”
What cities?

“New York
y … y
Washington.”

“Why are you telling us this, Maria?” Procario asked.

“We've been talking together back here,” Dominique said. “She's telling the truth.”

“Yes, but—”

“
Trust
me. She's telling the truth.”

Procario arched an eyebrow at Teller. “Girl talk?”

“If Jackie thinks she's telling it straight, I trust her,” Teller said. He looked at Perez and switched to Spanish. He wanted to be certain she understood. “Maria, did Escalante ever tell you why?”

“Only that it would be …
como fuegos artificiales.
How you say? Like fireworks. Like fireworks to mark the birth of a new nation,” Perez said. “Aztlán.”

Teller reached for his phone.

This stuff couldn't wait until they landed at Eglin.

PRESS ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

1105 HOURS, EDT

“Mr. President!”

“Yes. In the front.”

“Tom Kellogg,
Arizona Republic.
Is it true that yesterday you told the secretary general of the United Nations that you have not ruled out compliance with UN demands that a popular referendum be held on independence for several southwestern states, including Arizona?”

“I don't know how you got that story, Tom. My conversation with Mr. Hernandez
was
private. What I told him, however, is that it is this administration's solemn goal to resolve the situation in the Southwest peacefully, fairly, and democratically. You, yes.”

“Marlene Connelly, CNN. Mr. President, there has been talk of actual civil war in the Southwest, and there are rumors that you have authorized additional active-duty military forces to join National Guard troops already in the region. How do you respond to that?”

“Marlene, let me be perfectly clear about this. There is no chance of these disturbances spreading to become civil war. What we are faced with here is criminal gangs engaged in rioting and looting, aided and abetted by drug-trafficking cartels from across the border with Mexico. National Guard and active-duty troops have been dispatched to the region in order to keep the peace. And we
will
keep the peace, ladies and gentlemen, I promise you.”

Randolph Preston watched the president from the wings, along with several assistants and secretaries, together with the ubiquitous Secret Service. He had to admit that the president was doing a good job of keeping the lid on things. Just one week had passed since the first demonstrations and riots in Los Angeles, and things out there had exploded far more quickly than anyone could have imagined. By this time tomorrow,
everything
would be different.

He glanced at his watch. A busy day today. Another few minutes of this, and in another four hours he was meeting with that Iranian agent at a particular bench out on the Mall.

Tonight, he flew to San Francisco.

Because things were going to begin happening very quickly now.

Very quickly indeed.

 

Chapter Eighteen

CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

1425 HOURS, EDT

21 APRIL

Teller still felt a bit travel dazed. From Mexico City to Eglin Air Force base in two hours, a quick stopover for refueling, then north to Ronald Reagan National Airport, with a helicopter flight for the final eight miles from there to the CIA headquarters facility at Langley. He was tired, dirty, and hungry—he hadn't eaten since late afternoon yesterday, and he was not in the best of moods. Wentworth and the Agency suits didn't sound particularly pleased by the intelligence they'd developed after taking off from BJI, and he had the terrible feeling that they were going to choose not to believe their story.