Do They Know I'm Running?: A Novel Page 16

  “Exactly. The full power of the American government brought to bear against … a bunch of guys.”

  “Mr. McIlvaine—”

  “Boy, if that doesn’t shiver Old Glory right up the flagpole, I don’t know what does.”

  Lattimore checked his watch. He was due to meet Happy back at his office in half an hour, review his most recent tapes, which were, by and large, not just boring and repetitive but worthless. “So you didn’t come all the way from Dallas just to show me an essentially meaningless one-page document.”

  “As I told you—”

  “You came to put me in my place.”

  “It’s no secret your bunch-of-guys cases haven’t fared too well. Snitch problems.”

  “Snitch problems are a given.”

  “The Liberty City trial’s a debacle. What is it now, two hung juries in a row?”

  “We got verdicts across the board in Fort Dix. The Toledo case came out okay.”

  “Sure, with two full years of video and audio. Two years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t have that kind of window here.”

  Lattimore felt himself recoil inwardly. The guy knew way too much.

  “Meanwhile,” McIlvaine added, “your bureau buddies went off chasing vegan bicyclists around Minneapolis trying to recruit snitches before the Republican National Convention. I’m sure that ended well. Is this the best we can do?”

  Depends on who you mean by we, Lattimore supposed. “This case was vetted before I moved on it.”

  “It makes us look like we’re making this crap up. We’re not. Hezbollah has camps in the Triple Border area. They know we’re watching, too, because some have fled east into the jungles of Brazil, or west into Iquique, Chile’s northern desert. Hezbollah’s also connected to Pablo Escobar’s old cronies who now run cocaine through a paramilitary organization in Medellin called the Office of Envigado. The money gets laundered by Lebanese businessmen in Bogotá and Caracas. They have sleepers operating out of Iranian embassies all over the region. They even have websites, no joke, for their presence in several countries, including El Salvador. There’s solid intelligence they’re surveilling U.S. and Israeli targets throughout the subcontinent. And it’s not just Hezbollah we’re tracking. It’s Hamas, the PLO. Given that this Samir Khalid Sadiq claims to be Palestinian, that’s relevant I’d say.”

  “I wouldn’t disagree. Look—”

  “These groups are trading guns for drugs with the Mexican and Colombian cartels. The markup on cocaine alone in the Middle East is obscene. A kilo of Mexican coke costs them $6,000. You can turn it around for $100,000 in Israel, $150,000 in Saudi Arabia. Imagine what that kind of money buys. You’re seeing a lot of meth over there now too, the jihadis use it to amp up for battle. That’s serious, all of it, especially compared to a bunch of guys.”

  At last the bead of sweat slithered down from his temple into the nettles of his beard. Lattimore felt an odd relief. Still, McIlvaine made no move to wipe it away.

  “We’re already losing faith with American Muslims, they think we’ve got spies planted in all their mosques. Imagine the intel we’re losing because they no longer trust us. Another half-baked terrorism case won’t help. And the more you lionize Mara Salvatrucha, the more attractive it looks to all the teenage losers needing something to buy into—”

  “Mr. McIlvaine—”

  “It’s self-fulfilling. Make them out as the next big deal, guess what they’ll become?”

  Lattimore found it strange that McIlvaine would play down a threat. In his experience, the private security outfits were more than eager to turn every crackhead lowlife with access to a gun into the next Che Guevara. It was, as McIlvaine would say, their business.

  “I’m not going to apologize,” Lattimore said, “for going after the people we’re targeting.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Making sure that Mr. Sadiq is who your informant claims he is? Crucial. But the idiots on this end, I mean, seriously. Linking them to terrorism?”

  Lattimore took a second to check his temper. “Maybe you should’ve spent a little more time in court back there. I can show you some of the 302s we’ve got, bring you up to speed.”

  “Given what little I heard, I don’t think the defense team would view that kindly.”

  “Little Brother and his rat-packers in there dragged a single mom out of her apartment on Shotwell last May, did it in front of her two little girls and just about everybody else in the neighborhood. It was a hot night, folks were out on their stoops, buying helado from the pushcart vendor. Kids, parents, grandparents. One of these Fogtown runts doused this young woman with lighter fluid as she begged for her life, one of the others struck a match. Take a second to imagine that, okay? The sound. The smell. Her two little girls right there. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they also shot her seven times. Not out of charity. They took out her legs, so she couldn’t run. They wanted her to lie there and burn, so everyone could watch. She’d identified one of Little Brother’s zukes as the bagman who, every Wednesday, came into her beauty salon to collect the week’s tax. We were building a case against the crew at the time. No surprise, things dried up pretty quick after that. This time we’ve named every third person in the neighborhood as a smokescreen, figuring they can’t kill them all. I sure hope we’re right. That’s terrorism too.”

  “You don’t need to phony up an Arab jihadi sneaking across the border to prosecute it, though, do you?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “Look, street crime is destabilizing, it drives off investment, sucks up public resources, development hits a wall—granted, okay? But street crime isn’t terrorism.”

  “To you, maybe.”

  “I’m not saying it isn’t a problem, Lattimore. I’m arguing the problem isn’t strategic.” Finally, he wiped the perspiration off his cheek. “People here in the States get the vapors reading the news reports and the embassies get swamped by delegations from home wringing their hands, begging something be done. It’s a waste of time. The maras, the salvatruchos, they don’t own isolated tracts of land where you can build an airstrip. They don’t have diplomatic immunity or connections to the military or go to the same clubs as the judges quashing warrants. The real problem is the cartels, the corruption. Real organized crime, the men with social or political connections, immune from prosecution.”

  “You saying Mara Salvatrucha’s not connected to the cartels?”

  “Right now? They’re humps, mules. They provide muscle and move freight.”

  “And people, don’t forget. They move people. Like the ones in this case, including a Palestinian we’re all hoping is who we think he is.”

  “They couldn’t move those folks without the blessing of the cartels. Running those routes on their own? Five years away at least. The cartels would skin them alive.”

  “Really? Five whole years. Well damn.”

  “I’d like—”

  “They’re sure as hell not five years away from running pot farmers off their land at gunpoint up in Mendocino and Humboldt counties. That’s happening right now.”

  “I’d like to get back to talking about terrorism. Islamic terrorism.”

  “How come I hear Salvadorans and Hondurans tell me, when they go back to visit family, every time it’s worse, the shakedowns, the muggings, the drug use, the killings.”

  “You’re thinking like a cop.”

  “Whoa. Imagine that.”

  “Guatemala’s got the best infrastructure in the region and it’s a testament to one thing. Drugs. You think the World Bank put up that money? Graft is a way of life down there. Christ, it’s a tradition, like cockfights and quinceañeras. But the maras don’t pose anywhere near the kind of organized-crime danger they’re routinely blamed for. Granted, once they’re a solid cog in the trade, looking up from the ground, they’re going to tell themselves they deserve better. They’re going to make their move, start fighting for control and I don’t mean a barrio here or there. That’s when it’s going to
get hairy. You think Mexico’s a mess? It’ll look like Mother’s Day in Fresno compared to what’s coming.”

  “All the more reason to jump now.”

  “With a trumped-up case?”

  “Mr. McIlvaine—”

  “I asked you to call me Andy.”

  The cushion hissed as Lattimore leaned forward. “All right. Andy.” A janitor poked his head in at the door, kicked the nearest wastebasket, left. “I’m not so sure we’re disagreeing here. Seeing the problem from different angles, maybe. But even if I wanted to back off this case, I couldn’t close it down completely. First, like I said, it’s generally agreed we have better control over Samir Sadiq’s movements working this operation than we would otherwise.”

  “I haven’t said word one about calling off that end of things.”

  “Second, the smugglers my CI has connections to have corrupted some border agents, we don’t know who they are just yet. The inspector general over at Homeland Security—”

  “Can run his own sting.”

  “Look—”

  “You’ve got politicians running campaign ads where terrorists slip merrily across the Rio Grande and make a beeline for the Alamo. Is this possible? Sure. And about as likely as a meteor hitting my cat. If the chuckleheads who’ve bought into your snitch’s scheme had one good functioning brain cell in their collective head, they’d know that. Which means a jury is less likely to see them as the menace you’re making them out to be than just plain stupid.”

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve what they get.”

  “These cases are backfiring, Lattimore. The whole counterterrorism effort looks ludicrous. If you’re going to cry wolf, you better have one to show for it.”

  It was startling, the change in his demeanor, the hardening around the edges of the eyes, the combative snap in his posture. And with it the slovenly shabbiness dissolved. Maybe the secretary was right, the Bannaret Group was real, but Lattimore wondered if the entire encounter wasn’t a charade, down to the documents the man had brought, the supposed translation. Time would tell. Maybe it was all just a way to throw him off the scent of some other problem lurking around the edges.

  “The men we’re investigating aren’t innocents,” he said. “Fools? Maybe. But they gladly jumped on board, even knowing they were involved—”

  “Imagine you’re a terrorist,” McIlvaine said, barely able to contain himself now. “You have an engineering degree, like Mohammed Atta, and you live in Munich. Are you going to schlep to Tijuana or try to swim the Rio Grande or starve in the desert for days with a pack of mojados who will hand you up in a heartbeat if they get caught? No. You have a legal passport and no criminal record, you’re not on any lists—that’s the kind of character a real terrorist cell will send here, okay? You’ll get a student visa to Canada, where you’ll rent a car, drive in comfort to some spot in the 450 miles of wilderness patrolled by four Mounties and simply walk or drive across the border. It’s that easy. Or maybe you’ll buy a skiff with an outboard and cross a few miles above Niagara Falls, where you’re as likely to get spotted as a cricket. Maybe you’ll just sign up with a Bavarian travel agency for a charter flight to Vegas with a pack of blue-hairs, play the slots, cruise the buffet at the Luxor, go to a drag show, then get on a bus and vanish.”

  “Or bribe a border agent and cross over at Douglas, or Laredo or Calexico or—”

  “In hock to a bunch of mareros? Too many things to go wrong. Too many idiots to pay off. It’s not the style of the networks we’re tracking. They’re used to outsmarting Mossad. They wouldn’t soil their hands with the likes of the hoons you’ve got your sights on here.”

  Maybe I’m missing something, Lattimore thought. He didn’t see the bad news in all this. He didn’t want to bring a real terrorist into the country, a phony one served just fine. Better, in fact. That was the point. And what the fuck was a hoon?

  “Look, all you’re saying, seems to me—”

  “What I’m saying is that by rigging up a case where you have a bunch of losers tricked into thinking they’re bringing a real terrorist into the country, you condition people to believe that this stuff is always jerry-rigged by us to make it look like we’re actually doing something about terrorism when we’re not. There is no threat. It’s prosecution for the sake of PR, soap opera for paranoids. Five years from now, when the problem’s real, who’s going to believe us?”

  AN HOUR LATER, AS LATTIMORE SAT IN A CONFERENCE ROOM REVIEWING with Happy the transcripts of his most recent tapes, he decided to pose the question that had been nagging him ever since he’d watched Andy McIlvaine disappear like a magician’s assistant behind the hushed brass doors of the elevator. Nothing seemed solid now. But the phrase that haunted him most, the one that kept circling again and again through his mind, was: You’re not on any lists. That was the man you had to worry about. Even if the Mukhabarat lead turned out to be a red herring and nothing else hinky cropped up, even if this Palestinian came up clean as a tadpole’s ass, that wouldn’t mean he wasn’t a danger. Quite the contrary.

  Tucking the last transcript back into its accordion file, he said, “This friend of yours, Mr. Sadiq. The guy whose heart you know so well. Saved your life, you say.” He glanced up, a brushback stare. “I don’t remember you telling me anything about him and Saddam’s Gestapo. Or were you just saving that up, a little gift for later.”

  A LOW-WATTAGE BULB SCREWED INTO A WALL SOCKET PROVIDED the only light in the gasolinera’s cramped back room, the smears left behind by greasy fingers projecting across the walls as faint blotches of shadow. A garrobo the size of a switchblade flicked the brown scaly quiver of its tail back and forth as it pondered how to cross the blurred lines. Remembering Sisco’s parting advice on the best way to finesse the checkpoints that lay ahead—keep smiling—Roque wondered if the wag of a lizard’s tail wasn’t a kind of smile.

  Lupe lay on the floor near the workbench, holding a slushy bag of ice to her face. For a pillow she used a plastic bag filled with underwear and a few blouses she’d bought that afternoon at a village market along the road. They’d also bought some ibuprofen and a cream with heparin; trust the local mamacitas, Roque thought, to know how to nurse a black eye.

  A few minutes earlier, Rafa, the service-station owner, had explained that in just a short while the coyote would arrive to take Samir and Tío Faustino overland into Guatemala. Lupe, being Salvadoran, could pass through with Roque in the car using just her ID. Central Americans, he explained, can travel freely across borders from Guatemala in the north to Costa Rica in the south. She doesn’t need to walk.

  Samir couldn’t believe that was the plan.—Look at the girl’s face! What do you think will happen at the checkpoint? They’ll question her, just because they can, just to fuck with her. Then what? He went on like that, voice rising higher with every phrase, as though pushing the words uphill. He knew his fate was tied to hers now and he hated her for it. But Rafa replied that his instructions were clear.

  Ever since, the Palestinian had hammered away at Lupe.

  —Let me tell you something: They will find your family if you try to run. You want them to die? Want me to tell you how it will happen?

  —You’ve made your point, Roque said, aware he was broadcasting his attraction by taking up her defense. She just lay there, eyes closed, ignoring them both. Tío Faustino wisely had gone outside and was now stretched out beneath the Corolla’s hood, working by flashlight as he tightened the belts.—Let her rest.

  Samir, as always, ignored him.—Whatever you’ve done, you must pay the price yourself.

  —Who says she did anything?

  Samir chuckled.—You’re a child. Maybe the same age as her, but you’re the child.

  —Stop, enough, my God. She rose up on one elbow, the bag of ice sliding off her face onto the floor with a damp thud. The battered eye remained dark with bruising, the purple skin glistening from the heparin cream. The swelling had gone down. Her lip looked normal too, except for a sca
b.—Take it somewhere else, you two. I want to sleep.

  Roque studied her face as she fumbled for her ice. He hoped this was the last of Lonely’s abuse, though who knew what damage a freak like that could inflict from a distance.

  —You want to sleep? Samir couldn’t help himself, couldn’t hold his tongue.—Let me tell you something. My wife’s brothers tried to save her, like our young friend here dreams of saving you, but what did they accomplish? Refugee camp, it’s a prison. And where can they go from there, back to Iraq? Palestinians have to register with the Ministry of the Interior every month, which is just signing up to be killed. Bodies get left out in the street, some with their facesburned away by acid, some with no hands. Just before I left, the Jaish al Mahdi stormed into this tiny radio station. All ten people who worked there, men and women both, were dragged out into the street and shot. I saw this happen with my own eyes. I watched those poor people, I knew their names, I saw them beg for their lives. So no, my wife, her brothers, they cannot return to Baghdad. And they cannot work in Syria, not legally. They’ve all but exhausted their savings. Fatima has to choose between medicine or food.

  He clutched his small cloth bag to his chest, rocking as he spoke.

  —Know what Fatima does for money? She fasts. Yes. She has an engineering degree—think about that, an Arab woman with an engineering degree—but she fasts. She does this for rich people, men and women who can’t be bothered to honor the traditions on their own. So they hire a surrogate, they hire my wife. They pay her $60 per month for a sick relative, a son who has strayed with an evil woman, a brother who has lost his business. Some just don’t want to observe the Ramadan fast, so they hire Fatima to do it for them. Sometimes Shatha, my daughter, she does the fasting, because her mother is too weak. Here, I will show you a picture.

  He dug into his bag, withdrew a photograph, held it out for her to take, but Lupe didn’t move. Finally, to save the man embarrassment, Roque reached out for it. It was a close-up, just the two of them, mother and child, faces filling the frame, hair unveiled, raven-black and long, both of them smiling, cheek to cheek—same dimples, same eyes, same lips. He couldn’t see much resemblance with the father, thought better of saying so. He tried to hand the picture back but Samir merely clutched his bag tighter.