Blood Tide Page 4

  “Your Patrón was a fine man, and a fine fisherman.”

  Pablo nodded. “It is good he left you his rods.”

  Senor Dumas intervened. “And extremely fortunate. The rods are among the few personal items that survived the fire.”

  “Fire?”

  “Yes. I mentioned that Don Geraldo was killed in a shootout with drug smugglers. They also destroyed his house with grenades. But the rods were in the fishing lodge by the lake. That’s why they were not damaged.”

  Chris hesitated. “Look, I feel bad about getting something when the rest of the family lost everything. I would rather the rods go to the estate.”

  “Don Geraldo had no children, and his wife died some years ago. His staff have been taken care of, so we want you to have what Don Geraldo wished.”

  He handed them over. Six priceless bamboo rods lovingly shaped by the sport’s first master craftsman. Chris took them, awed by the beauty and the history of a time where mass-produced was not even a concept, let alone a phrase.

  “I would like to visit his grave. To pay last respects.”

  Alejandro looked at Pablo, who nodded.

  “He is buried on the estancia. I will take you.”

  ...

  IT WAS A ninety-minute journey to the ranch, and the countryside turned from city sprawl to dusty chaparral and pine woodland. This was wild country, and Chris and Debra both understood why Don Geraldo vowed no narco thugs would take it from him.

  After driving up a long snaking hill, they descended into a valley and Pablo turned right.

  He stopped by the ruins of what was obviously once a grand hacienda. It looked like a shipwreck washed up on a deserted shore — charred supports sticking out like ribs surrounding a swathe of scorched earth.

  “This is the house where Don Geraldo made his last stand,” said Pablo. He described the battle, how Don Geraldo had strategically placed his weapons, until being driven out when grenades set the building on fire.

  He then took them to Don Geraldo’s grave. It was on a beautiful knoll, overlooking a forty-acre bass lake. A grave, marked with white stones and surrounded by flowering bush rue and chamise took pride of place, dominating the landscape like a throne. A four-foot-high headstone engraved with the names Geraldo and Juliana de Almeida, stood sentinel.

  A wooden cross had recently been hammed into the ground at the foot of the grave. On the horizontal beam was carved “Un hombre gran”. Underneath were the crudely carved initials of loyal staff.

  “I come here every week,” said Pablo. “Otherwise the narcos will desecrate the Patrón’s resting place.”

  “I am told the Don killed six. How many attacked?”

  “The police, who are too scared to do anything, say they don’t know. Even though I told then the Patrón had been threatened the day before by the CT. But the marines, the only soldiers who take on the narcos, said there were sixteen gunmen.”

  “Is anyone looking for these men? Will they be brought to justice?”

  Pablo shook his head. “In Baja, there is no justice. The CT rule.”

  “What is the CT?”

  “When Mexicans were dying in their thousands in what the Yanquis called the drug wars, the two most powerful cartels were the Sinaloa and the Cartel de Tijuana, with their equally bloodthirsty ally the Jalisco New Generation Cartel. The government and the Americans sided with the Sinaloa Cartel saying that they were the lesser of two evils. So the Sinaloans won Mexico.

  “But the Sinaloans are now squabbling among themselves in Baja. As a result, the CT has taken control. With Baja in their hands, they own all routes to California, perhaps the biggest drug market.”

  “Who ordered the death of your Patrón?”

  Pablo was silent, wondering if he should tell this stranger more. He then beckoned to Chris and Debra.

  “Come with me.”

  They walked back to Pablo’s car. He opened the boot and took out an immaculately kept .300 Winchester Magnum, its pale blonde mesquite stock buffed to perfection.

  “This is the Patrón’s last rifle. It was found near his body. There was one bullet left. I vowed on the soul of Don Geraldo that I will kill the man who ordered his death. With this rifle.”

  “What is his name?” It was the first time Debra spoke.

  “Pancho Guerra. The jefe of the Cartel de Tijuana. The CT.”

  “Maybe we can help,” said Chris.

  “How?”

  “I have some very resourceful friends.”

  Chapter Four

  “SO YOU WANT to avenge your friend’s death,” I said after Chris finished his story.

  Chris smiled. “No. I want you guys to do that. I’m a simple fishing guide.”

  That raised a chuckle, and Carl cut in, looking at me. “Jokes aside, we only want to have a look-around in Mexico. I know from your Unit records that you speak fluent Spanish, but even better, I will also have a surfing buddy. This could be what you call a working holiday, with more emphasis on the latter word.”

  “I’m in,” I said. “But I have to report back to the Unit in ten days. Will that be enough time?”

  “Don’t worry about it. If we find anything to go on, I’ll get you reassigned. The looming drug wars go right to the top. Even the White House wants Special Forces intervention.”

  I spent the next few days fishing from dawn to dusk, getting to love the fly-rod more than I ever thought I would. Carl was absent for most of the time, presumably speaking to Delta brass about our pending trip south of the border. Consequently, I had Chris and Nick as my exclusive guides, and nothing could buy better company or tuition. Sandra and Rachel spent most of the days with Debra, visiting the local health clinics she ran. But luckily for me, Caitlin shared her father’s love of rod and reel and often joined us. I think she even warmed a little when she realized I was not just a soldier, but a beach boy as well. A lot of New York girls disproportionately glamorize West Coast surfers, and I had no intention of disabusing her of that notion.

  Carl got the thumbs up from Delta for the mission, and asked Chris to tag along and introduce us to Alejandro Dumas. Nick volunteered to come as well. When asked in what capacity, he looked offended. “To carry the beers, of course.”

  That weekend Sandra drove us to Anvik Airport. Caitlin came too. I asked if I would see her again and she shrugged. But she did give me a kiss goodbye, although many would argue it was a desultory brush on my cheek. But hey, I take a win when I can.

  Chris watched with a wry smile. As we waited to board, he told me she was his daughter from his previous marriage.

  “Perhaps the only good thing that came out of it. But she barely spoke to me for about ten years as my ex-wife told her stuff that was not true. Well, not always. We’re only patching things up now, and thankfully she adores Debra. Like most people.”

  “Is Debra the next Mrs. Stone?” I asked, seeing he had brought the subject up.

  “I live in hope.”

  We flew to Fairbanks, caught another flight, landing at San Diego seven hours later. From there we hired a car and crossed the San Ysidro into Tijuana, which took nearly as long as the flight. It’s the busiest border post in the world. Over fifty million people stream across it a year and Chris remarked that all decided to do so on that day. It graphically indicated just how reliant the two countries are upon each other, both socially, culturally and economically. Mexicans born in the United States get automatic American birthright citizenship, and rich Tijuaneros make good use of that.

  Once we had settled into a motel in Baja Malibu, Carl phoned John Peters, an ex-Delta operator who now worked for the Drug Enforcement Administration, or DEA. John was before my time in the Unit, but he and Carl knew each other well. They had not spoken for almost two years, and after a lengthy catch-up reminiscing about missions and friends, some no longer present, Carl got to the point.

  “John, we’re now on speaker phone as I have some colleagues with me. Quick question — are you doing specific stuff on the Cart
el de Tijuana?”

  “Of course. We’re investigating all the cartels but you know I can’t answer specific questions. So why don’t you tell me what’s your interest, and I’ll take it from there?”

  Carl told him the information from Chris.

  “That’s interesting. Very interesting. I hadn’t heard about Don Geraldo, no doubt because the Mexican cops did not exactly cover themselves. But the DEA is certainly aware of the resurgence of the CT since losing the war with the Sinaloans. So let’s just say that the Baja area is within my orbit of interest. Intensely so. Can you bring your friend to Tijuana?”

  “We’re already here. Well, not quite TJ, but at Baja Malibu overlooking the ocean and wishing I had a board. Haven’t seen barrels like this for years.”

  “I’ll bring you one.”

  “Make it two. My buddy here also surfs.”

  “I’ve got your location tracked. Your motel is only forty minutes away. See you soon.”

  Good as his word, John Peters arrived within the hour with two surfboards. Short, squat and hirsute, he exuded raw physical power like a wolverine. Despite his lack of height, there was no doubt this was a man not to cross. At first glance he looked like an Israeli commando, but he could also easily pass for a Mexican. Which perhaps was the whole point.

  We took a seat while Chris outlined his meeting with Don Geraldo’s lawyer and Pablo Pérez. Peters’ interest visibly increased when Pancho Guerra’s name was mentioned.

  He turned to me. “Carl said there were two surfers. Are you the other?”

  I nodded.

  “Excellent. That’s something that’s been running through my mind for some time. Pancho Guerra’s son is an avid surfer. In summer he and his cocaine-snorting buddies ride Rosarito Beach, and Baja Malibu in winter. Which is soon. So you guys being here at this very beach is pure karma.”

  “What do you mean?” Carl asked.

  “I remember you boring me shitless with surfing stories of your days training with SEAL head-bangers. So, if you want to go surfing on a black ops missions this is your chance. One you won’t get again. I want you to ingratiate yourself with the Guerra crowd. They call themselves the hijos – which means ‘the sons’ in gringo-speak. They are the stinking-rich kids of the cartel royalty. And Guerra’s boy, Miguel, is the alpha hombre of the brat pack.”

  “Why would they want to surf with gringos?”

  “I’m sure they won’t. It’s your job to persuade them otherwise. But maybe you do have an ‘in’. Their favorite movie is Point Break — but not the re-make apology with bikes and cable cars and all that shit. The first one with Patrick Swayze where hardcore surfers wearing Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter clown-masks robbed banks to finance their lifestyle. They watch it all the time. You know it?”

  Carl nodded. “Great movie.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Has anyone told you that you look like Swayze?”

  “No.”

  “They should. Because you do. Except you’re more ripped.”

  “And Kelly?”

  He looks like a poor-man’s version of the other actor. Can’t remember his name.”

  “Keanu Reeves,” I said. I disliked my description but was eager to show that although the movie was made before I was born, I had seen it. My dad loved it as much as the hijos. He had in on DVD and still watched it every few months.

  “Yeah. Keanu, the undercover cop. That’s him. The hijos will love both of you.”

  …

  WHILE WE WERE talking to John Peters, Chris had been on the phone to Alejandro Dumas.

  “The lawyer is keen to meet us. He has a journalist in his office that he believes will be able to help. His office is in central TJ and he’s expecting us in an hour.”

  We jumped into John’s car and sped off. Dumas was waiting for us with a woman he introduced as Andrea Villa.

  She was tiny and skinny. She looked like she could do with a bulked-up protein meal, a haircut with sharp scissors, hot iron on her clothes and a good night’s sleep.

  Her looks didn’t deceive. As a journalist in Mexico, that’s exactly what she needed. I am no media expert, but I had been around long enough to understand that unlike America where hacks think speaking truth to power is an opinion piece on transgender toilets, in Mexico journalists die for their words.

  By way of introduction Dumas told us Andrea had been a star writer for the El Sol de Tijuana, the Tijuana Sun. After several of her friends were killed, the editor reluctantly decided to spike all stories on drug cartels. He was an exceptionally brave man, and only took the decision in an attempt to keep his people alive. Andrea then decided the problem was not with the news. It was with the bylines. She quit and went freelance, writing a blog under the pseudonym of Gustav Farques, a Spanish take on the English revolutionary Guy Fawkes who attempted to blow up England’s parliament in 1605. Andrea’s loathing of Mexico’s corrupt politicians was nearly as bitter as her hatred of the narco cartels.

  Andrea took over the conversation. The thrust of her blog was simple. She poked fun at the cartels, their macho pomposity, inflated egos, cynical ‘good deeds’ building stuff in deprived areas that cost them chump change, the depravity of the stinking rich hijos — all the while highlighting the terror of tyranny crippling the country.

  She explained she was following a time-honored tradition of pinpricking a rotten zeppelin with laughter. For example, she said the Klu Klux Klan was not brought down by legislation, but by ridicule. When comic books started poking fun at Grand Wizards sprouting dinosaur beliefs and creepy traditions such as sneaky handshakes, everyone started laughing. From that moment on, the game was up.

  She turned to us, swearing each one to secrecy. No one knew she was the legendary blogger that people read as avidly as Instagram or Twitter junkies. For those who had nothing more than hope, and even those who had lost hope, her blogs were a burning bush, the light to a promised land. The fact that people were laughing out loud was a bonus. The day a Gustav Farques blog appeared, there was no other talking point in Mexico.

  “What happens if the cartels find out you are Gustav Farques?” I asked.

  “They will kill me. In case of such an eventuality, I have written a blog that will only be published after my murder. Alejandro has it.”

  We were silent. This woman was insanely brave. Everyone in the room knew her death would not be painless. She would be tortured horribly by the cartels who took Mexican machismo to new levels. To be laughed at was to lose face. There was no greater insult. Even more so if the person generating that ridicule was a woman.

  “I am telling you this because Alejandro says it is for my own good. He wants me to meet some Yanquis that could help. In other words, if I have to get across the border quickly. That’s the only reason I am talking to you.”

  Nick stood. “Andrea … we are a phone call away. And if we don’t get to you in time, we will avenge any crimes. I promise.”

  She smiled. I could see she didn’t believe us.

  John Peters took over. “Alejandro, Andrea … to give some background, Carl is in Special Forces and he is one of the best operators around. Although, not as good as I was,” he added modestly.

  “He phoned me after being briefed by Chris on Don Geraldo, and when I heard that the Don’s last stand was immortalized by people on the ground, I figured we could use some of that street energy.”

  Senor Dumas shook his head. “The narcos are very sensitive about that. Anyone even mentioning Don Geraldo’s name is likely to die in a nasty way.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “I can tell you what — kill some narcos and say that was for Don Geraldo. That’s the only language they understand,” said Andrea.

  Peters hesitated. “Well … my government may not be too happy for American citizens to do that, and the last thing we want is to intensify the war between the Sinaloans and the Tijuana narcos. Open up a new front, in other words.”

  Andrea nodded. “I spoke partly in jest. Bitter
jest, but still not seriously. The problem is that no newspaper will publish stories about the cartels’ atrocities anymore. As I said, too many journalists have been killed for the sin of having a byline. That’s why the story of Don Geraldo’s last stand is not well known throughout Mexico.”

  John Peters looked at us, then turned to Andrea. “OK … but what if we slip someone undercover into the CT and feed information that can be published on the web anonymously? Stories of defiance, like Don Geraldo, that will show people that maybe the cartels are not omnipotent?”

  Andrea shook her head. “The problem is they are. Omnipotent, that is. No one can touch them. The central government supports the Sinaloans, the cops in Baja back the Cartel de Tijuana. Not because they are in a mutual adoration society, but because to have one gang in control means that the turf wars are, to some extent, limited. It’s a bargain with the devil in the most literal sense imaginable.”

  “OK, but what about if we start to control the narrative? Through Gustav Farques, for instance?”

  Andrea went quiet. “Maybe. But it can’t be Yanqui propaganda. It has to be the truth. Believe me, people here know a lie when they are told one, as they have been told so many. If you guarantee that, we might be able to work together.”

  “I guarantee it. Everything we pass onto you will be backed up with concrete proof,” said Peters.

  Andrea looked doubtful. Then shrugged. “OK, let’s try it. We will need to work out some sort of clandestine information conduit as I know the narcos already suspect me. They suspect all journalists. If I am seen speaking to Americans, it will be a death sentence.”

  Alejandro Dumas spoke. “Bring it to me. I will pass it on to Andrea.”

  Peters nodded. “Tell me, what do you know about the hijos?”

  “The narco kids? Satan’s spawn is about the kindest description. At least their parents concentrated on drugs only. The next generation is into human trafficking, prostitution, terrorism — you name it. The hijos are not only greedy, they are depraved, arrogant and think they are a law unto themselves. That’s because they are.”